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Authors: Elspeth Huxley
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my aunt you came. Everything’s all right at present, Wendtland. I can give her a message, if you like.”
Wendtland relaxed, and nodded his head. “AcA, so. That is best, perhaps. I another day will come.
Tell her, please….”
Vachell could feel the eyes of both men watching him for a sign. He pulled out his cigarette pack, extracted one slowly, and felt for a match, keeping a poker-player’s face. It was Wendtland who decided to take the risk. He gave a stiff little bow, and said: “Ich bedaure lebhaft uber den Tot von Herr Munson zu horenV
SB 69
There was a slight pause. Vachell did not look up, but felt Corcoran’s eyes on his face. Then Corcoran said:
“Die Angelegenheit ist ganz in Ordnung. Die Witwe hat bekommen die Sache welche She zu haben wunschen.”
There was no pause this time. Wendtland answered quickly: “She muss dieselbe heute his zum Rechtsanwalt in der Stadt bringen. Ich werde den Artikel von dort nehmen. Unter keinen Umst’anden muss man denselben hier f indent
“Ich werde ihr die Mitteilung erteilen^ Corcoran said.
Wendtland clicked his heels again, bowed, and held out his hand. His expression was unquestionably a smirk.
“Goodbye, Herr Captain,” he said. “I will not your patient disturb. I rejoice to see the care which to the bereaved is given. Like your so famous London police, the Chania police do not sleep.”
“Aufwiedersehen,^ Vachell said. He was gratified to see a cloud of alarm pass swiftly over Wendtland’s face, but he was afraid the accent wouldn’t do. That was the only phrase of German he knew. “I have a feeling, Herr Wendtland, that we shall meet again.”
“That I hope, Herr Captain.” His pink face was wreathed in smiles as he climbed into the drivingseat, and he waved enthusiastically as the car swung out of sight around the livingroom hut.
“Taking no risks, I see,” Corcoran observed. He was smiling — a pleasant, spontaneous sort of grin.
70
“You had no right to do that, of course. But I can’t say I blame you. Wendtland does get one’s back up a bit.”
“Thanks,” Vachell said dryly. Corcoran was right; he had no authority. Mrs Munson would get the message, whatever it was. He glanced at his wristwatch and did a mental calculation. Wendtland must have passed the doctor on the road. News had a way of leaking out quickly, but even so it was barely possible that the story of Munson’s death should already be current in Karuna. And Wendtland, he recollected, lived at over an hour’s journey from the town.
“You called Wendtland from Karuna when you went to notify the police,” he observed, more as a statement than a question.
“Preposterous,” Corcoran retorted, but without any heat. “Why on earth should I do that?”
“Just to cement a very old friendship.”
It took a lot of patient questioning to get Munson’s last movements straightened out. His personal boy was a young native called Mwogi with an intelligent face, and teeth filed into needlepoints after the custom of his tribe. Vachell felt inclined to trust the boy’s word, because when asked why he worked for such a bad master he grinned and replied: “There is so much land that I can keep all my goats here without trouble. Also, I can keep the goats of my sister’s son and my father’s brother’s son’s halfbrother; and also many cattle die, so that we often get meat.”
71
Mwogi himself had brewed the tea that he had taken to his master. No one else had come near it, or handled the packet at all, he said. The cup, as Vachell expected, had already been washed up and put away. Mrs Munson issued a pound once every two months, Mwogi explained, for early morning tea; it had to last out the time. The packet was about half full. Vachell took charge of it, and Mwogi remarked:
“The mistress will be very, very angry when she hears that you have taken away her tea.”
Munson had woken as usual and poured the tea while Mwogi drew the curtains and took his master’s
Wendtland relaxed, and nodded his head. “AcA, so. That is best, perhaps. I another day will come.
Tell her, please….”
Vachell could feel the eyes of both men watching him for a sign. He pulled out his cigarette pack, extracted one slowly, and felt for a match, keeping a poker-player’s face. It was Wendtland who decided to take the risk. He gave a stiff little bow, and said: “Ich bedaure lebhaft uber den Tot von Herr Munson zu horenV
SB 69
There was a slight pause. Vachell did not look up, but felt Corcoran’s eyes on his face. Then Corcoran said:
“Die Angelegenheit ist ganz in Ordnung. Die Witwe hat bekommen die Sache welche She zu haben wunschen.”
There was no pause this time. Wendtland answered quickly: “She muss dieselbe heute his zum Rechtsanwalt in der Stadt bringen. Ich werde den Artikel von dort nehmen. Unter keinen Umst’anden muss man denselben hier f indent
“Ich werde ihr die Mitteilung erteilen^ Corcoran said.
Wendtland clicked his heels again, bowed, and held out his hand. His expression was unquestionably a smirk.
“Goodbye, Herr Captain,” he said. “I will not your patient disturb. I rejoice to see the care which to the bereaved is given. Like your so famous London police, the Chania police do not sleep.”
“Aufwiedersehen,^ Vachell said. He was gratified to see a cloud of alarm pass swiftly over Wendtland’s face, but he was afraid the accent wouldn’t do. That was the only phrase of German he knew. “I have a feeling, Herr Wendtland, that we shall meet again.”
“That I hope, Herr Captain.” His pink face was wreathed in smiles as he climbed into the drivingseat, and he waved enthusiastically as the car swung out of sight around the livingroom hut.
“Taking no risks, I see,” Corcoran observed. He was smiling — a pleasant, spontaneous sort of grin.
70
“You had no right to do that, of course. But I can’t say I blame you. Wendtland does get one’s back up a bit.”
“Thanks,” Vachell said dryly. Corcoran was right; he had no authority. Mrs Munson would get the message, whatever it was. He glanced at his wristwatch and did a mental calculation. Wendtland must have passed the doctor on the road. News had a way of leaking out quickly, but even so it was barely possible that the story of Munson’s death should already be current in Karuna. And Wendtland, he recollected, lived at over an hour’s journey from the town.
“You called Wendtland from Karuna when you went to notify the police,” he observed, more as a statement than a question.
“Preposterous,” Corcoran retorted, but without any heat. “Why on earth should I do that?”
“Just to cement a very old friendship.”
It took a lot of patient questioning to get Munson’s last movements straightened out. His personal boy was a young native called Mwogi with an intelligent face, and teeth filed into needlepoints after the custom of his tribe. Vachell felt inclined to trust the boy’s word, because when asked why he worked for such a bad master he grinned and replied: “There is so much land that I can keep all my goats here without trouble. Also, I can keep the goats of my sister’s son and my father’s brother’s son’s halfbrother; and also many cattle die, so that we often get meat.”
71
Mwogi himself had brewed the tea that he had taken to his master. No one else had come near it, or handled the packet at all, he said. The cup, as Vachell expected, had already been washed up and put away. Mrs Munson issued a pound once every two months, Mwogi explained, for early morning tea; it had to last out the time. The packet was about half full. Vachell took charge of it, and Mwogi remarked:
“The mistress will be very, very angry when she hears that you have taken away her tea.”
Munson had woken as usual and poured the tea while Mwogi drew the curtains and took his master’s
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