Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 2

Nairobi Friday morning

          Short, rotund Major Ulysses Cole, 10th Battalion, 62nd Regiment of Foot, he of the florid red muttonchops, wasn’t fond of the unstructured lives of civilians, and he carried an especial dislike for Captain Clinton Monroe of the Kestrel.
          Captain! What a joke!
          A man who had disgraced himself in action wasn’t supposed to forge a new life and be a success. No, he corrected himself, he wasn’t able to be successful, because if he was, he wouldn't have been drummed out in disgrace. He was doing something illegal, of that he was certain, and it vexed him further that he had never been able to ferret out what it was. No matter. He had less than two months left on this posting, and Monroe and his band of pirates would become his replacement’s problem.
          One could then imagine his irritation when he rounded the corner to the front of the garrison’s administration building to see that very band of pirates loitering in front of the door. Rolling his eyes as he steeled himself, he approached the group of three, Monroe, his slip of a female pilot, and that uncouth American, who he was sure handled their dirty work.
          “Good morning, Major,” Monroe said, striding toward him with purpose. “We were hoping you’d be coming in this morning.”
          “I come in every morning,” Cole retorted. “If you need to see me about something, do what we civilized people do, and book an appointment.”
          “Ah, well, Major, we just saw Sergeant Crowley at the desk, and he told us your calendar is clear until ten. We don’t need much of your time. We just have a quick question.”
          Cole weighed his distaste of conducting business in the street like a common peddler against his distaste for the idea of inviting this band of hooligans into his office for what could well turn into a lengthy conversation.
          “Very well, what do you need to know?”
          “As you may be aware, Major, our young Doctor Ellsworth left our employ recently to open a shop here in Nairobi.”
          “I’d heard something of the sort. Smart boy, getting away from you lot.”
          “Here!” the pilot Hobbs lodged a mild protest as the American raised an eyebrow at him, the first indication that he’d been listening at all.
          “It’s no secret that you’d have corrupted him beyond redemption, Miss Hobbs. Now, what is your question, please. My calendar may be clear, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have work to do.”
          “Quite, Major,” Monroe said. “We learned last night that he was severely beaten and his shop ransacked, and that your surgeon accompanied him to the hospital in Mombasa.”
          “Yes, our medical officer considered it to be imperative. What of it? Sounds as though we’ve aided him admirably.”
          “No doubt of that, Major. We’ve come to ask what progress is being made toward apprehending the criminal. Or criminals.”
          “Well, I shouldn’t imagine there’s any.”
          “You’re joking!” Hobbs snapped.
          “What is it, exactly, you think I should be doing, Miss Hobbs? There were no witnesses, and certainly no one standing by to take photographs. We have no victim’s statement, no description of the attacker, no information whatsoever. If we had any of those things, we’d be acting on them.”
          “So he’s going to walk free?” Hobbs asked. “That’s completely unacceptable!”
          “Miss Hobbs,” the major explained patiently, “what do you suggest I do? Unless his assailant left us a note, we have no clue who it might have been. Who would you have me arrest? Who should I even question? What you ask is impossible. Unless and until your friend is prepared to make a statement, we have nothing on which to base an investigation at all, not so much as a starting point. Can you understand that?”
          Hobbs drew a deep sigh, and displayed a frustrated pout.
          “I understand,” she said, “but I don’t like it.”
          “Nor do I,” Cole said. “I don’t like it when this sort of thing happens to subjects of the Crown who are supposed to be under my protection. It looks bad for everyone concerned, and certainly does nothing to spur investment, I’m sure. But this is a case where we have run up against a brick wall. There is nothing further we can do at this time.”
          “Yes,” Monroe said, “yes, there is. There was one person who witnessed this attack from close quarters. You two get back to the ship. Tell Bakari to raise steam and get ready to fly. I’ll be right there.”
          “I take it, Captain, you’re going to Mombasa?”
          “That is correct.”
          “Well, if you could hold off for an hour, I have some surveyors who need a ride. You’d get your regular stipend, of course.”
          “All right, Major, but one hour only, and then we’re going. Same orders, Patty, but less urgency. One way or the other, we’re in the air by nine-thirty.”
          “I’ll send them straight around,” Cole said, but Monroe and his people were already bustling off down the sidewalk without so much as a fare-thee-well.
          Pirates, Cole confirmed to himself. No grace, no manners, no sense of propriety whatsoever. Forty-one more days of this, and I’ll be clear of this hell hole forever!

Zanzibar 10:00 AM

          The man looked up from the papers on his desk at the soft knock at his door. His first action was to adjust the metal mask that covered the lower part of his face, and extended upward to hold a lens over his left eye. Only when he was sure it was in place did he speak.
          “Come.”
          The door opened, and a woman leaned in, young enough to be attractive, old enough to be experienced, dressed in simple office attire.
          “Mr. Mutala is here, Herr Reinhard.”
          “Excellent. Show him in.”
          His voice carried a guttural central European accent that combined with the grid in the mask to give it an other-worldly quality. As the woman departed to fetch his visitor, he rose and turned to the second story window overlooking a broad harbor dotted with dhows, some tied to the long wharf to the north, and many colorful boats drawn up on the white sand. Fishermen and housewives dickered over prices at the gunwales as the air shimmered with heat. Not even noon, and the mercury had already passed the ninety mark.
          Damn this blasted climate! Unfit for man or beast.
          He turned back as the door opened to admit Mutala.
          A mongrel from the melting pots of the Swahili Coast, a first look at Mutala inspired neither fear nor respect; more like a desire to laugh. He was small, barely five and a half feet, and wiry. He had African features, an Arab complexion, and dressed in a caricature of western style. American cowboy boots, denims, a white Indian shirt with a black cloth vest, and an English bowler hat brought the eye irresistibly to him. Only on second inspection was one likely to notice the huge knife, virtually a sword, hanging down his right leg, handle mostly concealed by the vest, and the holster, angled for a cross-draw, on his left. Wiry African hair puffed out below his hat, and he affected a trim, divided mustache, like a second pair of eyebrows below his nose.
          “You sent for me, boss,” the odd little man said, as if reminding the masked man of something he had forgotten.
          “Sit down, Mutala. Cigar?”
          He indicated an ornate silver box on the desk. Mutala opened it as he sat, pocketed a half dozen cigars, and lit one with one of the matches provided. Reinhard’s one exposed eye glared briefly as if he might express some irritation, but it passed quickly. He sat down across the desk, looking down at the little man even when seated.
          “I have a little problem, Mutala, that needs looking into.”
          “I assumed as much, boss. What is it?”
          “I’m expecting a package, a small bundle of papers, nothing remarkable. It was supposed to be delivered to a Doctor Farnsworth, a dentist in Nairobi who occasionally brokers information for the organization, two days ago. I had arranged for a couple of couriers to pick it up and send it along to me here. The package has not arrived, and now I hear disturbing stories of an English subject, a doctor with a similar name, having been beaten in his own shop, and I can’t help but wonder whether the two things are connected.”
          “And you want me to sort it out.”
          “Could you? I hate to take you away from your duties here, but this could be of some importance.”
          “Not at all. I could stand a trip to Nairobi. It will be a relief to get out of this heat.”
          This surprised Reinhard, as he had never seen Mutala with a single drop of sweat on him.
          “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days. I just need you to check on those couriers and explain to them that I do not appreciate their tomfoolery, pick up the package if it’s still there, and get back here. Might as well get the details on that Englishman while you’re there. If it’s related, of course.”
          “Of course. I will be back before anyone realizes I have gone.”
          “Don’t rush, Mutala. Take the time to resolve all the issues, and take whatever action you deem necessary. There’s no sense making the trip twice.”
          “Indeed not. Do not worry, boss. I will keep you advised of whatever I find.”
          “Oh, I never worry when you’re on the job, Mutala. Have a safe trip.”

Mombasa 9:00 PM

          Dinner had been excellent. It had been a long day, and Jinx would have liked to relax, but duty called. She finished buttoning her soft flannel blouse, leaving the top throat button undone. She considered her reflection in the hotel room mirror, and satisfied with the result, pulled her straight brown hair back into a ponytail, securing it with a slip-knotted leather thong. Lifting the false bottom of her trunk, she considered her gun belt with its cut-down Winchester carbine, “cut-down” being a relative term, the resultant weapon hanging from waist to knee when worn. She decided against it. It wouldn’t hang right on her flaring, calf-length skirt, and besides, it would attract a bit too much attention for her needs tonight. Not that the very presence of a young woman wouldn’t attract attention, but there was nothing to be done about that.
          Propping her left foot on the bed, she slid her kris into the sheath sewn into the lining of her boot. She then took a black velvet choker from her dresser and held it up. At the front, a delicate cameo accentuated the femininity of the wearer. From the rear clasp hung a thin cord, easy to snap, and to the bottom of this she attached her balisong, the Filipino folding knife with which she was dangerously proficient. Letting the knife slip down inside her shirt to hang between her shoulder blades, she fastened the elegant piece at the nape of her neck. She looked again in the mirror.
          Perfect.
          Settling her wide-brimmed stockman’s hat with its leopard-print band atop the finished product, she winked at her reflection, locked the door behind her, and headed down the stairs to the lobby.
          “Which way to the Wezi Robo?” she asked the desk clerk in her odd, almost-English accent.
          “The Wezi Robo?” he repeated, not believing he had heard her correctly. “You cannot possibly go there, young miss!”
          “I not only can,” she replied, “I must. Which way, please?”
          “Missy, this cannot be,” the man restated. He was old, most likely with an adventurous life behind him, and obviously kind. What he might think of the imperials he kept to himself, but this was one helpless young woman, and his concern for her was genuine. “The Wezi Robo is where the worst criminals of the coast make their homes. The police are afraid to enter there. Even the redcoats, when they must go in, go a hundred strong. I implore you, Missy, do not go there!”
          “I appreciate your concern, Nuru, and if I could avoid it, I would, but it is necessary.”
          “Then go at least in daylight, Missy. Many of those there will be sleeping.”
          “Including, I’m afraid, the one I must do business with. Directions, please?”
          The man called Nuru drew a deep sigh, and in that sound resigned himself to sending the nice young woman to her fate.
          “You go straight out the door, walk two blocks to the Sleeping Rhino pub, turn left there and walk past where the street lights end. That is Wezi Robo. I would implore you to take a cab, but I know of none that will enter there after dark. Missy, please, what business could be worth your life?”
          “I must speak with Shangazi Ramla.”
          The man's eyes and mouth opened into three wide “O”s.
          “Then surely, I am the last civilized person who will lay eyes on you! Pray for death, Miss Jenkins, for that is the best fate you can hope for now.”

Mombasa 9:15 PM

          The street lights didn’t actually end where Nuru had told her they would, they had simply been disabled. Whether by tools, vandalism, or gunfire, the gas lamps had been rendered inoperative, and she walked through a sea of darkness lit only by random lamps within dwellings and iniquitous dens. She felt eyes in the darkness following her, appraising her, gauging her likely skills. Yes, for no woman in her right mind would wander these streets in the dark. It only followed that she must have powerful uchawi at her disposal. That mystique would only protect her for so long, of course, and when it ended, it was surprisingly civil.
          “Are you lost, m’sichana?”
          The question came from a tall young African man who almost appeared, rather than stepped into her path. He had a scar on his face, accentuated by his condescending smirk, and wore European work clothes he had obviously salvaged from trash bins.
          “Not at all,” she said, feeling the two blades close to her skin, zeroing in on targets for her reinforced boots.
          “You must be. Where are you going on so dark a night, little girl?”
          He leered at her, a cat toying with a mouse, his mind on what lay beneath her skirt.
          Not what you think, sonny! she thought.
          “I go to an appointment with Shangazi Ramla. Is this her street?”
          “Shangazi Ramla? You?” His predatory smile faded just a bit. “That cannot be!”
          “How else would I know her? Why else would I be here?”
          He considered the consequences of interfering with a client of Shangazi Ramla’s. He stepped forward, and turned to face the same direction as she, draping an arm around her shoulders as he did.
          “You go up those stairs,” he said, pointing across the street. “Knock at the third door. If you are expected, she will answer.”
          “Thank you,” she said with a pleasant smile, producing an English shilling from a hidden pocket and handing it to him. Followed by his amused stare, she ascended the stairs.
          Third door. His directions matched those she had been given before she left Perth, and she knocked in the two-two pattern she had been instructed. The door opened a crack, and she was examined by a single eye in a black face from a foot above her head.
          “You are the Jinx?” a deep male voice asked quietly.
          “A Jinx is only a Jinx if the recipient believes it,” she replied.
          The door opened wide, and a huge African pulled her in by her shoulder, looking quickly around, then closing the door.
          “You were not followed?”
          “Not that I observed. Got plenty of attention, though. A woman alone stands out like a forest fire in this quarter.”
          “Yes,” the man agreed. “This way.”
          He led her down a dark hallway to what had likely been a bedroom before it was converted. He directed her through a bead curtain with a gesture, and she was in the room with a small African woman of advanced age and wizened countenance.
          “Sit down, child,” the woman told her in a time-roughened voice. She slid into the chair on the opposite side of the small round table, in the center of which was a lamp consisting of a wick in a pan floating on oil, the only light in the room.
          “How was your journey?”
          “Tolerable.”
          “That is good. Your employer speaks highly of you, at least his messenger does. Tell me, please, your full name.”
          “Abigail Rufina Jenkins.”
          “And you fit the description. Not to mention that no one, especially a young woman, would come here without a very good reason.”
          The woman reached below the table and picked up a battered leather wallet, and laid it on the table within Jinx’s reach.
          “That is what you have come for. I hope it proves worth what your employer paid for it.”
          Jinx opened the wallet and ran her eyes over the address, and the few scribbled notes on the top paper inside. She closed it and slipped it into her skirt’s front pocket.
          “This information is accurate?”
          “A man paid for it with his life. Whether it leads you where you hope it will, I have no idea, but it is the item contracted for.”
          “How much?”
          “It has been purchased by your employer for a most generous amount, as I am sure you are aware.”
          “It has been so suggested.”
          “Then our business is concluded. Bora ya bahati na wewe, child, the best of good fortune attend you. You can find your way back?”
          “Of course.”
          “Then I must bid you go. The evening is early, and other visitors await.”

Mombasa 9:30 PM

          A block from the woman’s parlor she met her erstwhile benefactor again, leaning against a darkened lamppost, waiting for her.
          “Were you able to conclude your business with Shangazi Ramla?” the young man asked.
          “Yes. Your directions were most helpful.”
          “That is good. Then no one will miss you.”
          He looked to the side and gave a nod. Her gaze snapped reflexively in that direction to take in another thug rushing toward her, arms outstretched to wrap her up. Her legs were longer, and he met the heel of her boot driving into the center of his chest. With a whoosh!, his breath left him, and he crumpled to the sidewalk. As she looked back toward the first man, a third she hadn’t seen landed on her back, driving her forward and down. Throwing her legs to the left, she pushed hard, unable to prevent her fall, but rolling them over so that she landed mostly on top. She snapped her head backward, into his face, and as his arms loosened their grip, she got her left leg up, seized her kris, and drove it hard into his thigh. With a scream, he released her, and she rolled to her feet to face the leader, who was rushing to secure her. The look on his face as he found himself facing a dangerous warrior full of fight instead of a terrified victim was worth gold.
          She blocked his right forearm, put her other hand on his left shoulder, and head-butted the bridge of his nose. He recoiled with a cry, bending over, then tried to backhand her by surprise with his left. He missed badly, but the balisong, out and unfolded by now, didn’t, slicing into the meat of his left forearm. He continued around with an even louder cry, clutching his arm to his stomach. She looked quickly at the other two, writhing on the sidewalk, fight gone from them, then turned back to the leader.
          “Devil!” he spat. “Who in all the hells are you?”
          “They call me Jinx,” she said. “Here’s a little something to remember me by.”
          She slipped the point of the butterfly knife into his nostril and flicked it outward, slicing his nose to the septum as he cried out again and grabbed his face.
          “I don’t expect to see you again,” she said, “but if I do, I won’t be so gentle next time. Better get that seen to.”
          She yanked her kris from his partner’s thigh, its wavy blade causing him to scream in renewed agony in its retreat, and disappeared into the night.

Mombasa 9:35 PM

          About the same time Jinx was cleaning her knife, a carriage rolled up in front of the Seaview Hotel, a mid-grade establishment easily visible from the passenger docks on the Mombasa waterfront. As the coachman climbed down and walked around to the rear rack to unload a considerable amount of baggage, the door opened, and a big, stocky man in blue work pants and a plaid shirt stepped down. He reached back up to take a woman by the waist, easily lifting her down to the sidewalk.
          She was a shimmering vision in maroon satin, her black hair coifed and curled, hanging down behind a stylish hat tipped rakishly forward. Her hourglass figure was obviously enhanced by bustle and corset, but she was equally beautiful in her own right. She gave her closed parasol an elegant twirl, and brought it down to lean on it as a man would a cane.
          “Thank you, Benjamin,” she said.
          “My pleasure, Miss Jubal.”
          A second man emerged from the carriage and stood taking in the surroundings before stepping down. This man had the sharp features of a hunting raptor with piercing brown eyes and a swarthy complexion. Satisfied, he stepped to the sidewalk. He wore black trousers and traveling jacket, a soft white shirt, and a black hat with a low crown and flat brim. His sole affectation was the simple, blunt spurs on his elegant black western boots. A short ponytail of shiny black hair hung over his collar.
          “We still goin’ to Australia, Miss Jubal?” Benjamin asked.
          “That’s the plan,” the woman said, revealing just a hint of the American south in her background.
          “Why’d we get off the boat, then?” he asked.
          The woman allowed herself a small smile at that.
          “Because the boat is going back to Capetown, Benjamin. We catch a different boat to Australia three weeks hence. Since we have to wait around here anyway, we may as well see whether anyone here has seen him.”
          “Ain’t nobody gonna have seen him around here if he’s in Australia.”
          “Christ, Crenshaw,” ponytail said, “you’re about a thick bastard.”
          “You ain’t exactly a ravin’ genius yourself, Two-Fives,” Crenshaw snarled.
          “I don’t have to be a genius, farm-boy, just smart enough to listen to Miss Jubilee. She’ll find him. All we have to do is take him.”
          “Damned ignorant half-breed never says more than three words at a time,” Crenshaw muttered. “How’s anybody s’posed to think he’s got any sense?”
          “Now, boys,” the woman admonished, “let’s save all that vitriol for our quarry. He could be here, Benjamin, it’s possible.”
          “I thought you said he was in Australia.”
          “Probably. We’re just following a trail of clues, and the trail leads through here. Now, he got off that boat just like we did, and he may have looked around here and thought, ‘this is a good place for a man to hide. Who’s going to look on the back side of the world?’ Even if he just stopped here, someone may know where he was headed. We have plenty of time to ask.”
          “He’s really dangerous, ain’t he?”
          “Charlie Bender is a man, just like you and me,” Two-Fives interjected. “If I can’t get him on the draw, you’ll get him with the rifle. He ain’t no skinwalker or nothin’.”
          “You boys don’t think about shooting him anywhere but the legs,” Jubilee warned. “He might be a devil in a showdown, but we didn’t come to Africa to make a paltry thousand dollars. Remember, we know all about him, and he don’t even know we’re looking for him, so I want you two canvassing the local watering holes during our layover.”
          “See there?” Two-Fives asked Crenshaw. "Just listen to Miss Jubilee."
          “I’m going to arrange some rooms for us,” she continued. “You boys may as well get started, and you’d best take one of these.”
          She removed a folded paper from her handbag and handed it to Two-Fives.
          “Don’t be obvious, but if the situation arises, just casually mention that we’d like to talk with him. Don’t let on like on there’s going to be any trouble. If anyone asks, he’s inherited some money, and his solicitor is trying to get in touch with him. And, boys. No trouble. We don’t want to be restricted because the law is watching us.”
          “Don’t worry, Miss Jubilee, I know what’s required.”
          He opened the paper to reveal a well-drawn lithograph above a banner proclaiming the man depicted to be:

Wanted. $1,000 Dead. $25,000 alive.

          A list of details followed in fine print.
          “Better get this off of here if we don’t want people to get the right idea.”
          He folded the poster above the reward banner, ran his tongue along the crease, and carefully tore the reward notice away from a near-photographic representation of David Smith.