The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ from his immaculate ducks, and mounted the steps that led to the stoep.

      “How do?” said the visitor. “My name is Tackle — George Tackle.” He smiled, as though to say more was an insult to his hearer’s intelligence.

      Sanders bowed, a little ceremoniously for him. He felt that his visitor expected this.

      “I’m out on a commission,” the Hon. George went on. “As you’ve doubtless heard, my governor is the proprietor of the Courier and Echo, and so he thought I’d better go out and see the thing for myself. I’ve no doubt the whole thing is exaggerated—”

      “Hold hard,” said Sanders, a light dawning on him. “I gather that you are a sort of correspondent of a newspaper?”

      “Exactly.”

      “That you have come to inquire into—”

      “Treatment of natives, and all that,” said the Hon. George easily.

      “And what is wrong with the treatment of the native?” asked Sanders sweetly.

      The hon. gentleman made an indefinite gesture.

      “You know — things in newspapers — missionaries,” he said rapidly, being somewhat embarrassed by the realization that the man, if any, responsible for the outrages was standing before him.

      “I never read the newspapers,” said Sanders, “and—”

      “Of course,” interrupted rhe Hon. George eagerly, “we can make it all right as far as you are concerned.”

      “Oh, thank you!” Sanders’ gratitude was a little overdone, but he held out his hand. “Well, I wish you luck — let me know how you get on.”

      The Hon. George Tackle was frankly nonplussed. “But excuse me,” he said, “where — how — Hang it all, where am I to put up?”

      “Here?”

      “Yes — dash it, my kit is on shore! I thought—”

      “You thought I’d put you up?”

      “Well, I did think—”

      “That I’d fall on your neck and welcome you?”

      “Not exactly, but—”

      “Well,” said Sanders, carefully folding his napkin, “I’m not so glad to see you as all that.”

      “I suppose not,” said the Hon. George, bridling.

      “Because you’re a responsibility — I hate extra responsibility. You can pitch your tent just wherever you like — but I cannot offer you the hospitality you desire.”

      “I shall report this matter to the Administrator,” said the Hon. George ominously.

      “You may report it to my grandmother’s maiden aunt,” said Sanders politely.

      Half an hour later he saw the Hon. George rejoin the ship that brought him to Isisi Bassaro, and chuckled. George would go straight to the Administrator, and would receive a reception beside which a Sahara storm would be zephyrs of Araby.

      At the same time Sanders was a little puzzled, and not a little hurt. There never had been a question of atrocities in his district, and he was puzzled to account for the rumours that had brought the “commissioner” on his tour of investigation — could it be a distorted account of Olari’s punishment?

      “Go quickly to the ship, taking a book to the lord who has just gone from here,” was his command to a servant, and proceeded to scribble a note: “I am afraid,” he wrote, “I was rather rude to you — not understanding what the devil you were driving at. An overwhelming curiosity directs me to invite you to share my bungalow until such time as you are ready to conduct your investigation.”

      The Hon. George read this with a self-satisfied smirk.

      “The way to treat these fellows,” he said to the Elder Dempster captain, “is to show ’em you’ll stand no nonsense. I thought he’d climb down.” The Elder Dempster captain, who knew Sanders by repute, smiled discreetly, but said nothing. Once more the special correspondent’s mountain of baggage was embarked in the surf boat, and the Hon. George waved a farewell to his friends on the steamer.

      The Elder Dempster skipper, leaning over the side of his bridge, watched the surf boat rising and falling in the swell.

      “There goes a man who’s looking for trouble,” he said, “and I wouldn’t take a half-share of the trouble he’s going to find for five hundred of the best. Is that blessed anchor up yet, Mr Simmons? Half ahead — set her due west, Mr What’s-your-name.”

      It was something of a triumph for the Hon. George. There were ten uniformed policemen awaiting him on the smooth beach to handle his baggage, and Sanders came down to his garden gate to meet him.

      “The fact of it is—” began Sanders awkwardly; but the magnanimous George raised his hand.

      “Let bygones,” he said, “be bygones.”

      Sanders was unaccountably annoyed by this generous display. Still more so was he when the correspondent refused to reopen the question of atrocities.

      “As your guest,” said George solemnly, “I feel that it would be better for all concerned if I pursued an independent investigation. I shall endeavour as far as possible, to put myself in your place, to consider all extenuating circumstances—”

      “Oh, have a gin-swizzle!” said Sanders rudely and impatiently; “you make me tired.”

      “Look here,” he said later, “I will only ask you two questions. Where are these atrocities supposed to have taken place?”

      “In the district of Lukati,” said the Hon. George.

      “Olari,” thought Sanders. “Who was the victim?” he asked.

      “There were several,” said the correspondent, and produced his notebook. “You understand that I’d really much rather not discuss the matter with you, but, since you insist,” he read, “Efembi of Wastambo.”

      “Oh!” said Sanders, and his eyebrows rose.

      “Kabindo of Machembi.”

      “Oh, lord!” said Sanders.

      The Hon. George read six other cases, and with everyone a line was wiped from Sanders’ forehead.

      When the recital was finished the Commissioner said slowly— “I can make a statement to you which will save you a great deal of unnecessary trouble.”

      “I would rather you didn’t,” said George, in his best judicial manner.

      “Very good,” said Sanders; and went away whistling to order dinner.

      Over the meal he put it to the correspondent: “There, are a number of СКАЧАТЬ