A Beautiful Place to Die (22 page)

“Maybe Lieutenant Lapping will be here tomorrow when they send you back with the package,” Emmanuel went on. “Or maybe he’ll be here the next day. I can’t make any promises.”

The messenger looked around the small-town police station like a doctor inspecting a plague house. He didn’t want to set out before dawn and travel across the country only to be turned back again and again.

“Only Lieutenant Lapping can sign it out?”

“With identification,” Emmanuel emphasized.

“Okay.” The messenger pretended to give the idea serious thought even as he pulled his motorcycle gloves on in preparation for the trip back to the city. “Is the post office close by?”

“Down the street,” Emmanuel said. “I’ll take you over and get Miss Byrd to sign the envelope into the police box.”

13

I
T WAS
12:15
in the afternoon when Emmanuel parked the Packard on the beachside strip in Lorenzo Marques. The calm waters of Delagoa Bay lapped the sand and seagulls wheeled overhead. Tourists of every skin color strolled along the promenade, the women dressed in bright cotton dresses, the men in casual drill shorts and open-necked shirts.

Emmanuel took a deep breath of the fresh salt air. It felt good to stand in the sun and know that the Security Branch and the Pretorius brothers were in another country. He crossed the wide avenue to the ocean. The tide was in. Fishermen cast nets into the water and low-slung Arab-style dhows skimmed the horizon line. To the south stood a long wooden jetty with boats moored alongside.

A group of red-faced anglers loaded a wide trawler with supplies for an offshore fishing safari. The jetty was the obvious place to find a paid guide to take him to the photo studio.

“Hot samosas, ice cream…” Vendors called out their wares as he strolled along the beachside. A sallow-faced street performer amused a group of tourists by throwing peanuts into the air for a monkey tethered to a fraying rope. At the entrance to the jetty, homemade placards advertising island visits and fishing charters crowded together. One sign stood out. It advertised Saint Lucia Island. A sleek wooden sailboat, a hymn to expensive old-fashioned craftsmanship, was tied up behind the sign.
Saint Lucia Lady
was written along the sailboat’s stern.

“Baas…senhor…mister…”

A group of dark-skinned boys waited for the opportunity to shake the change loose from the pockets of visiting tourists. A spindly-legged youth ran over to him.

“Prawns, beer, peri-peri chicken? Whatever the baas wants, I will get it,” the youth said. The last part of the sentence was accompanied by a vaudeville wink and a smile that revealed two missing front teeth. The boy was about seven years old and already familiar with white men in search of illicit pleasure.

Emmanuel fished the name of the photo studio from his pocket and read it out loud. Chances were the worldly little guide with the stick legs couldn’t read or write. The street was his classroom.

“Carlos Fernandez Photography Studio. You know this place?”

The boy said, “I know all the places in Lorenzo Marques. I will take you for only fifty pence, baas.”

Emmanuel handed twenty-five pence to the boy. “Half now, the other half when we reach the studio. Okay?”

“Come.” The boy waved him along the seaside strip and past an array of ice cream vendors, grilled-corn sellers and trinket peddlers. The streets pulsed with life and Emmanuel relaxed for the first time since finding Captain Pretorius floating in the river.

They moved across a wide avenue bordered by flame trees and straggly jacarandas and then navigated the edges of an open-air market selling fresh fruit and fish. Further on, the little guide took a left, then a quick right before stopping in front of a nondescript building without a street number or business name to identify it. The front window display, an old-fashioned light box camera, positioned against a dusty, blue velvet drop curtain, gave the only indication of the building’s purpose.

Emmanuel handed his guide the balance of his payment and pushed the door to the photo studio open. A corpulent Portuguese man sporting an oily black toupee and a half-dozen gold necklaces around his tire-wide neck sat behind the low wooden counter. He smiled and showed a mouth full of gold and silver fillings.

“How can I help?” The greasy fat man sounded as if his windpipe were lined with loose gravel.

“I’m here to collect for Willem Pretorius,” Emmanuel said. “He’s been detained and can’t make this month’s pickup.”

The man stroked the quivering folds of his neck and pretended to think. “Pretorius? I don’t recall that name.”

“This is Fernandez Photo Studio, isn’t it?” Emmanuel kept cool and kept pushing.

“Of course. But I still do not recall the man you are collecting for.”

“He’s big, with a broken nose and short blond hair.”

The man who Emmanuel assumed was Fernandez moved to stroke the gold chains hanging around his neck. The green silk shirt he wore was unbuttoned low enough to display his ample cleavage. “No.” He shook his head. “I have no memory of this man.”

“Perhaps someone else who works here does remember. It’s not worth my life to return to South Africa without his order and this is the address he gave me.”

“Ahmed,” the Portuguese bullfrog called with a loud croak. “Ahmed!”

A wiry, dark-haired man with nervous seal pup eyes darted out of a back room and hovered close to Mr. Fernandez. He looked to be a mix of Arab and black African and wore a white lab coat; he smelled of chemicals and sweat. A crocheted skullcap was attached to his head with four oversize hair clips.

“Ahmed. This gentleman is looking for an order for a…” Fernandez paused dramatically and looked to Emmanuel for help.

“Willem Pretorius. Big man with a broken nose.” Emmanuel repeated the description for Ahmed, whose attention bounced from one object in the room to another without settling on anything in particular.

“Mr. Fernandez?” Ahmed tapped his boss on the shoulder with yellow-stained fingers and waited patiently for recognition.

Fernandez maneuvered his bulk counterclockwise and stared at his assistant. “Answer this gentleman’s query so that he can be assured that he is in the wrong place.”

“The samosas. Rose has delivered the samosas and coffee. They are still hot.”

The fat man, animated by the promise of fried food and caffeine, heaved his weight out of the chair and struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry we have not been able to help you locate your friend’s order but now we are closing the studio in honor of my saint’s day. Ahmed, show the gentleman to the door and lock up behind him.”

“Of course, Mr. Fernandez.” The lab assistant scuttled to the front door and swung it open with a flourish. “This way, please.”

Emmanuel reviewed his options and found the only one open to him was to leave and return when the abundant Mr. Fernandez was fed and rested. As he stepped through the doorway, Ahmed leaned closer.

“You must go for a swim and then have an ice cream.” The assistant spoke in a loud stage whisper. “At five o’clock you must go to the Lisbon café. I will be there at that time also.”

“Five o’clock, the Lisbon café?”

“Yes. If I am late you may wish to order the fish curry. It is very good.”

The door shut behind him and Emmanuel saw his little guide waiting farther up the street. The boy ran to his side.

“I need to buy a pair of bathers,” Emmanuel said. “You know a place?”

“Of course,” the boy replied. “But first I will take you to a place to exchange your money. I will get the best rate for you, baas. Then I will take you to get the bathers. At this shop I will get the best price for you.”

“Okay,” Emmanuel said. “Can you get me to the Lisbon café at five o’clock sharp?”

“Yes. I can do this for the baas,” the guide said. “When you are there, you must have the fish curry. It is the best in Lorenzo Marques.”

The assistant from the photo studio slipped into the café and performed a quick check of the patrons. He clutched a slim leather satchel in his arms. Emmanuel lifted his hand in greeting and Ahmed made his way over to the table.

“Mr. Curious White Man.” The assistant sat down next to him and angled his chair to face the door. “I, Ahmed Said, have decided that I must talk to you.”

“About?”

“The photos, of course.” The assistant removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his forehead. He was sweating a river. “But first, I think you must buy me a drink. Double whiskey, if you please.”

Emmanuel nodded at the knitted skullcap covering Ahmed’s glossy head. “I thought drinking was against your religion.”

“It is,” Ahmed replied without rancor. “But I am a very bad Muslim. Which is why I have come to talk to you about this policeman’s photos. I will tell you all I know as soon as my throat is not so dry.”

“Double whiskey and a strong coffee.” Emmanuel gave the order to a passing waiter, then turned back to his informant. “How do you know the man I was asking about was a policeman?”

“Please. What else could he have been? Even his khaki shorts had a pleat down the front, just like a uniform.”

“You always so observant of the clients who come into the studio?”

“Only the ones who ask for me by name. They are the ones willing to pay Mr. Fernandez for my extra-special service.”

Emmanuel paid the waiter and paused until he’d moved to another table.

“Developing pornographic photos?”

“Art photographs,” Ahmed corrected him with a smile. “The client must specifically ask for Ahmed to develop art photos or we do not touch the film.”

“The policeman knew what to ask for?”

“Certainly.” Ahmed worked the whiskey tumbler with spinster-like sips. “At first I thought he might be spying on us, trying to get evidence to shut us down, so I said I wasn’t taking in any more art photos.”

“Then?”

“He was cool, that one. Most men are sweating like I am now, afraid they’ll be caught red-handed, but not him. He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Don’t worry, these are for my own personal use.’”

Emmanuel swallowed a mouthful of tar-black coffee. “And were they ‘personal use’ photos?”

“Oh, yes.” The assistant’s dark eyes lit up. “And very good ones, too. None of the usual images of women licking penises like lollipops or being done from behind like a cow. These were very…unusual.”

“Two girls?” Emmanuel ventured a guess.

“No.” Ahmed checked his watch, then drained his glass in one gulp. “I see that kind of thing every day. These photos are not like the others, but I promised myself that I would not tell you too much. You must see them for yourself.”

“You have copies?” Emmanuel sat up. This was more than he could have hoped for. The bastard who’d knocked him cold wouldn’t be the only one with access to the evidence.

“That is why I’m here.” Ahmed sighed. “I am a bad Muslim who is about to marry a good Muslim woman. Much as it pains me, I must cleanse myself of the filth I have gathered over the years.”

“You have the photos with you?”

Ahmed stood up abruptly. “No. They are in the safe at the photo studio. You must break in and steal them in ten minutes.”

“What?”

“Mr. Fernandez is cheap,” Ahmed explained. “The night watchman comes on duty one hour after the studio has closed. That gives you one hour to go in, get the photos, and leave Lorenzo Marques before the police are alerted.”

Emmanuel couldn’t believe his ears. “I have to steal the photos? I thought they belonged to you.”

“They do.” Ahmed checked his watch again. “We must get moving. I will explain on the way.”

The buzz in the café increased as a large group of sunburned tourists came in for an early dinner of cheap wine and prawns. Breaking and entering was as much a crime here as it was back in South Africa, and Ahmed was not the ideal accomplice; his shirt and jacket were soaked through with sweat and they hadn’t even set the wheels in motion yet.

“What makes you think I’m willing to break the law to get the photos?”

“You’ve come all the way to Mozambique. Something tells me you would not like to go home empty-handed. Now, please. We must hurry. I promise I will explain on the way.”

“You have between here and the photo studio to convince me,” Emmanuel said, and followed Ahmed into the sunset.

Outside, the air smelled of charcoal fires and the ocean. The pink-and brown-skinned beach crowd surged along the sidewalk in search of spicy food and holiday trinkets. In the crush, Ahmed caught hold of Emmanuel’s sleeve and led him into the middle of the moving traffic.

“It’s faster this way,” Ahmed shouted over the blast of horns that accompanied their reckless scramble past car bumpers and smoking exhausts. He appeared not to notice the screeching tires or the irate driver yelling at them in Portuguese. For the second time Emmanuel questioned the wisdom of going anywhere with a backsliding Muslim pornographer.

“Tell me more about the photos,” Emmanuel said once they’d cleared the sweating asphalt and stepped onto the opposite side of the boulevard. “Did the policeman come once a month to pick them up?”

They turned into a laneway flanked by African women selling carved animals and shell jewelry. A skinny black girl held out a fat wooden hippo for their inspection. Ahmed waved her away and they continued to move at a clip toward the photo studio.

“He came twice only, in January and again in March. Each time with one roll of film.”

“You sure?”

Ahmed stopped to catch his breath and mop the deluge of sweat from his face and neck. “I told you. I always remember my special clients. He came twice only.”

“Is it the same woman on both rolls?” If the du Toit girls weren’t starring, then who was?

“Who said it was a woman?” Ahmed gave an evil giggle and squeezed himself into a tight alley running between two turista hotels with painted wooden shutters and breezy “ship to shore” curtains at the windows. Emmanuel didn’t make it into the narrow corridor. Shock held him prisoner.

“The photos are of a man?” he asked bluntly. Maybe Louis, with his blond hair and girlish mouth, really was his father’s son. How could you keep a secret like that in Jacob’s Rest? Almost impossible, but the captain had already proved his ability to keep parts of himself hidden from public view.

Ahmed waved him in with a grin. “Who said it was a man?”

“What does that mean? It has to be one of the two.”

“Does it?” The assistant laughed, clearly enjoying the game. “You cannot imagine the things I see in my work. It is for this very reason that I myself can never own a pet.”

Emmanuel smiled at the lab assistant. Against his better judgment, he’d taken a liking to Mad Ahmed.

“Not even a chicken?” Emmanuel asked when they set off again. “Surely some things are sacred, even in your line of work.”

“Hmm…” Ahmed gave the subject serious thought. “You are right. I have seen eggs in unnatural places, but never the chicken itself. My new wife and I will have chickens, thanks to you, chickens, and maybe some grasshoppers. Yes, that’s what we’ll do.”