“Had a few moments free,” Moi announced. “Thought we’d get together on this knifing thing.” He eased himself into the empty chair, lightly tugged up his pants to spare their crease, then languidly crossed one long leg over the other, knee atop knee. “Suicide, of course. No doubt of it at all, eh?”
Andrew sat back against his chair. “And what of the wallet?”
Moi shrugged easily. “Who knows? Chap probably hid the thing all the time, whenever he was traveling. Creature of habit, eh? Did it without even thinking about it. Automatic.”
“And he flew all the way here from the United States to commit suicide?”
Another comfortable shrug. “There are stranger things in heaven and earth than you’ve dreamt of in your philosophy, Yorick.”
Andrew frowned, puzzled.
“Look here, sergeant,” said Moi with great reasonableness. “I just spoke with Murmajee. He’s convinced that suicide was possible, if not probable. Tech Unit says the only prints on the knife were Quentin’s. And you’ve seen all the reports. Chap arrived on the seven thirty flight from Nairobi, went directly to the hotel. Had dinner alone, talked to no one, went off alone to his room. Next thing we know, he’s skewered. What else could it be but suicide?”
“Perhaps he met someone in Nairobi—”
“ ’Fraid not,” said Moi. “Nairobi police had a go at that. Same thing there. Arrived at three in the afternoon, day before yesterday. Spent the night in his hotel room. Came down next day for breakfast and lunch, went back to his room afterward, both times. Checked out at five, caught a taxi for the airport. Met no one, talked to no one.” Moi brushed a bit of lint from his pants. “And look, suppose he had. Suppose he made some enemy in Nairobi. How’d this other chap get here in time to poke him? Seven thirty plane was the only one in yesterday. And he didn’t come in with him — you’ve checked the passengers, right?”
Andrew nodded. Six tourists, four of them from Holland, two from Germany. A local European family: the Hendersons, mother, father, daughter, son, returning from a visit to the capital. Two local nurses returning from some medical conference. None of these had a motive, none had any apparent connection to the deceased, all had an alibi.
“There it is, then,” Moi said. “Suicide. Plain as the nose on your face.”
“Why the return trip ticket?”
Another shrug. “Used to be a requirement for entry into the country.”
Back in the sixties and seventies, when the government tried to halt the flood of hippies. “Yes,” Andrew said, “but no longer.”
“Chap didn’t know that, obviously.”
“Perhaps. I still find it puzzling that the man would come here to kill himself. A journey of some thousands of miles, only to commit suicide?”
“Puzzling, yes, fair enough, but perhaps he’d simply gone off the beam. Eh? Happens, you know. Chap lived alone in the States — just got that from the police in Atlanta. No family, no close friends. Retired. Spent most of his time brooding, probably. Nursing old wounds. Just snapped suddenly. Went bonkers, eh? Decided to go out in style. Bought the knife, bought the air ticket, came here, had a good meal or two, then stuck himself. Simple.”
The man lying on that bed had not struck Andrew as the sort to brood. Superbly fit for his age, for any age, and trained in a sophisticated martial art. Highly trained, judging by those calluses. A man who, confronted with a problem, would deal with it directly, forcefully.
Long spatulate fingers stroking his goatee, Moi studied Andrew. “Look here, Mbutu. You’re not going to go running around town asking more questions, are you?”
Andrew frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve done it often enough before, haven’t you. Taken a case that’s as good as wrapped up, and worried it, poked at it, sniffed around till you came up with some outrageous, contrary solution. Turned out to be right a fair amount of the time, I admit that. All very clever, of course, credit where credit is due, but I don’t mind telling you it’s made the C.I.D. look like nincompoops.”
Andrew resisted the temptation to point out that certain individuals within the C.I.D. could contrive to look like nincompoops without any help whatever.
Brow furrowed, immensely serious, Moi said, “I mean, criminal investigations, man, that’s our job, isn’t it? So suppose we just take it as given, you and I, that this one is solved, eh? What d’you say? A little esprit de corps. Harmony in the ranks and all that.”
“What of the knife?”
Moi sat back, sighing. “What about the knife?”
“A switchblade. An uncommon weapon here. Illegal.”
Moi held out his hand. “Well, there you are, eh? He brought it with him. Everyone’s got them in the States. Boy Scouts, housewives, babes in the cradle.”
“If he brought it with him, why was it not noticed at customs, and confiscated?”
“What, rolled up in a pair of knickers? How on earth would they spot it?”
“It would have shown on the fluoroscopes.”
Moi smiled his celebrated Lestrade-trouncing smile and held up his long index finger. “Not if he checked his bag. They don’t fluoroscope checked baggage, you see.”
Sherlock Moi, Master of the Obvious.
Andrew said, “There were no baggage claim tickets among his effects.”
“Good Lord, man, he threw them away. Who keeps the bloody things?” Moi shook his head, sighed theatrically, made his face go from exasperated to earnest, and said, “Look. Sergeant Mbutu. Andrew. Let’s be reasonable about it. This was a suicide, plain and simple. Even if it were something else, which I tell you is impossible, we’ve virtually no way of proving it. I know the chief’s got a lot of respect for your opinion. As well he should, of course. And I know he’ll ask you for your feelings. I’d like to close this case out so we can get on with police business.” What was this case, Andrew wondered, if not police business? “Man to man now,” said Moi, “can’t you just let it go?”
Regretfully, Andrew admitted to himself that for perhaps the first time since Andrew had known him, Moi might be right. There was, as he’d said, no way of proving this anything but a suicide.
Andrew nodded. “Very well.”
Moi’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You mean it?”
Andrew nodded. “So long as no new evidence appears.”
“Oh, it won’t, it won’t. Not a chance of it.” He stood up, smoothed down his pants, and, grinning happily, held out his hand to Andrew. “Good man. Glad we had this little chat. Enjoyed it. If I can ever do you a good turn, you let me know. One hand washes the other, eh? Ha ha.”
“Andrew? Andrew.”
Reluctantly, Andrew opened his eyes. Mary lay beside him, her elbow propped against the bed, her face peering down at his. Mary’s face was an object upon which he had gazed for years with fondness and gratitude, and frequently with amazement at its beauty; but at the moment, given a choice, he would have preferred the interior of his eyelids. “Uh,” he said.
Mary said, “There’s someone at the door.”
“Uh,” he said. He turned to look at the clock on the night-stand. Two o’clock. “Impossible,” he breathed, and closed his eyes.
“Andrew,” she said, and gently shook his shoulder.
This time Andrew heard it: a firm insistent rapping at the front door.
He opened his eyes.
“You see?” said Mary.
“Uh,” he said. With a prolonged, pained expiration, sigh and groan combined, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. His head flopped forward, threatening to topple off his neck, roll down his chest, go bouncing like a soccer ball across the floor.