didn’t like the insinuation in his voice. “Someone planted that blowgun in my room.”
Kantana shrugged, seemingly no longer interested in the topic. “I also have corroborating information that you and Monsieur Bertrand became very close friends during your voyage on the Congo Queen. Do you deny that you spent much time together?”
More incriminating information, this time from Betty’s mouth, which didn’t surprise Dana in the slightest. She was surprised about Millicent’s betrayal, though. So much for the support of her fellow tourists.
“Louis and I spent time together,” she answered finally, “but he was with Father Theroux much more often. Why don’t you question him?”
“As I mentioned, I intend to,” Kantana said coolly “But of course that is my business, the concern of the authorities. Now I ask again, could it be possible that there was a romance of some kind between you and Bertrand? Something that might have caused you to quarrel with him—”
“And to kill him? No, Sergeant. No! The idea is absurd. And you said yourself that you needed a motive—”
“Motive, means and opportunity,” Kantana said, quoting his own earlier remarks. “The latter two, we have established, have we not?”
“No, I—”
“Of course, you had both the means,” he said, touching the blowgun, “and the opportunity. You knew Louis was alone by the river, and you could have approached without alarming him. And of course, you were the last person to be seen with the victim.” He heaved a satisfied sigh. “Further, I now realize that you are an expert on the Mgembe, who have made the blowgun into an art form.”
He settled back comfortably, crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to respond.
That’s when Dana realized that she was caught up in a nightmare too horrible for her to contemplate. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. “You believe I’m guilty,” she blurted out.
He didn’t respond. His face was expressionless.
She suddenly realized was was happening. Kantana was going to arrest her!
Dana struggled to keep her voice calm. “I demand to talk to a lawyer.”
He almost chuckled. “There is no lawyer in Porte Ivoire, mademoiselle.”
“Then I demand my phone call. Surely, even here, an accused person gets at least one call. I want to talk to the American Embassy in Brazzaville.”
“This is not the United States, Mademoiselle. French law is somewhat different from yours. And as much as I would like to oblige you with a phone call, there are no phones in Porte Ivoire.”
“Then use the shortwave radio on the boat,” Dana demanded.
“I shall do this much for you,” Kantana said in noxious tones. “After I interview Father Theroux, I shall send him to talk with you in jail—”
“Jail? No!” Dana was on her feet. “You can’t do that. You can’t put me in jail—not on circumstantial evidence. You’re insane. You’re—”
She saw his face then. Cold, hard, implacable.
“I’m not guilty of this horrible crime,” she said. “I’m not guilty!”
He sat watching wordlessly.
“Why don’t you look where the guilt really lies.” She leaned forward, her hands on his desk, and spoke carefully with all the confidence she could muster. “It belongs on Alex Jourdan.”
As soon as Dana made that statement, she realized her total belief in it. His obnoxious behavior last night had sent her rushing into Louis’s arms—almost as if the whole meeting had been arranged—by Alex. And today, he’d been watchful, mysterious, not just dangerous, but possibly deadly. She’d been suspicious from the beginning. Now she knew why.
“Listen to me,” she demanded. “Alex and Louis were on the outs. Something had gone wrong between them. Everyone knew that. And I overheard them just last night, arguing about a deal of some kind. I heard them!”
“And did anyone else hear this argument, mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know. But everyone was aware of the bad blood between Alex and Louis. You can’t deny that,” she said firmly.
Kantana didn’t flinch. “I, as everyone else, knew of the bad blood between the two men. As for the recent argument, which you say that you overheard, Alex told me that he had warned Bertrand to stay away from you, Mademoiselle. It is unfortunate, is it not, that Bertrand did not listen to the warning?”
The edges of the room grew fuzzy, and Kantana and his aide faded in and out of focus. She wasn’t going to faint, but Dana thought she might be sick. She grasped the arms of the chair and sank into it, her head reeling.
“Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said slowly. “I’m a tourist, a college professor. I’ve never been arrested, never even gotten a traffic ticket.” She looked at Kantana pleadingly. “People like me don’t commit murder!”
Kantana shook his head sadly. “All kinds of people commit murder, mademoiselle.”
Dana couldn’t think of a response. She sat immobile before him as Kantana rose slowly and spoke to her in soft tones.
“And now, mademoiselle, I shall ask my aide to escort you to our local jail. There, we shall do all in our power to make you comfortable.”
* * *
STRANGELY, no one was around when the American was taken away. But I was watching. I suspect that everyone was watching.
Dana’s being with Louis that night had been a stroke of luck, and hiding the blowgun in her room had been an impulsive but brilliant decision. It put all the focus on her and away from the real reason behind his murder.
She’d been easy for me to set up. She knew no one; she had no connections. Justice moved slowly in the Congo, and someday she might be found innocent. But by then it wouldn’t matter. My game would be over.
Chapter Three
Alex was settled comfortably in his favorite rattan chair on the veranda, drinking a beer, contemplating the river and wondering what the hell he was going to do about his life. He didn’t look up when Maurice Longongo appeared; instead, he balanced the chair on its two back legs as was his habit and propped his foot against the porch rail.
“I hear they’ve made an arrest,” Longongo said in his precise voice.
Alex didn’t respond immediately, but that didn’t seem to bother the government official, who persisted. “The American is in jail even as we speak.”
“We’re not speaking, Longongo. You’re speaking,” Alex clarified.
“In any case, the woman is in jail.”
“Kantana thinks he has evidence,” Alex said brusquely, trying to cut off further conversation.
Longongo wasn’t discouraged. He perched on a chair beside Alex. “She hardly knew Bertrand.”
Alex shrugged.
“I cannot fathom a motive,” Longongo persisted.
“Who can figure women out? I sure as hell can’t. If I were you, I’d leave it alone. Let the policeman do his work.”
Longongo’s eyes narrowed cunningly as he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “It seems a coincidence, doesn’t it, that so many of us on the Queen were also at the Egyptian’s party in Brazzaville?”
Alex took a final swig of his beer and tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can. “Were you?” he said, barely stifling a yawn.
“Yes.