Mr Essanjee let the blanket drop.
“A thermantidote. Very popular in my own country. The wind blows the rotating fan, which in turn casts a stronger breeze onto the tattie — which you will have observed has been soaked in cold water—ergo a cool moist breeze penetrates the intolerably dry and hot room. Most efficient.” Mr Essanjee wiped his damp hands on his linen jacket. “The Essanjee Thermantidote. This is my own improved version. Patent pending.” He smiled broadly at Temple. “The S. and G. Thermantidote.” He sketched an ‘S’ and a ‘G’ in the air with his finger. “You follow? I am Gulam Hoosan Essanjee. My machine is the S and G—”
“Yes, yes,” Temple said, feeling faint. “I see.”
“My brother controls the agency in Mombasa. If you’re interested?”
“But what happens if there’s no breeze to rotate the fan? Like today.”
“Ah yes. I regret an exterior breeze is essential. But the drip of the water from the tattie has, I find, a cooling effect of its own. No?” He sat down at his empty desk. “Now, my dear Mr Smith, what can I do for you?”
Temple explained about the loss of his farm, while Mr Essanjee sat nodding his oiled head. He presented von Bishop’s affidavit and said he was claiming for the loss of various goods. Mr Essanjee went to a wooden filing cabinet and extracted a copy of Temple’s policy. He hummed and hawed, tapping his fingernails on the desk.
“Yes,” Mr Essanjee said. “There seems to be no problem. We shall regard it as theft.”
Temple couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh. Well, that’s excellent.”
“‘We aim to please.’ Is this not what they say in your country? I see here it says you are a citizen of the USA.”
“Indeed it is, and indeed I am.” Temple felt full of irrational affection for this plump little man.
“Reimbursement shall be effected as soon as we receive our assessor’s report.”
“Oh,” Temple said. “An assessor’s report.” He stroked his moustache.
“Of course,” said Mr Essanjee, touching his own with the little fingers of each hand. “Simply procedure. It’s not a question of doubting you, Mr Smith. But you can hardly expect us to take the word,” he held up von Bishop’s affidavit, “of our sworn enemy.”
“You’re right, I suppose,” Temple said. “But my farm is now occupied by this same enemy. It is, as you might say, behind enemy lines.”
“Alas,” Mr Essanjee spread his damp palms. “This war; it causes endless inconveniences.”
Temple had a mad idea. “At least I think it’s behind enemy lines. Von Bishop might just have taken what he wanted and left. Supposing the enemy have withdrawn. Would your assessor be prepared to come with me? Who is your assessor, by the way?”
Mr Essanjee bowed his head. “It is I. We are very short-staffed at the moment. The international situation, you understand.”
“Would you come?” Temple asked.
“Naturally,” Mr Essanjee said suavely. “At the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. we aim to please.”
3: 30 August 1914, Voi, British East Africa
“Don’t you think you’re going a bit far?” Wheech-Browning said two days later. He was sitting in a dilapidated cane chair outside his tent in Voi. The slightest move he made set up a filthy screeching noise.
“I mean, good God, there is meant to be a war on, you know. You can’t just swan up to Heinrich Hun and say, ‘Look here, old chap, any chance of a cease-fire while we carry out an insurance assessment?’”
“Normally,” Temple said patiently, “I’d agree.” He paused while Wheech-Browning noisily shifted his weight. “But I know von Bishop. He was practically a next-door neighbour. He’s British too.”
“Was British,” Wheech-Browning corrected fiercely. “Damned bloody traitor.”
“He’s a farmer. He’d understand, I’m sure. If, that is, he’s there. For all I know the place may be deserted. After all, Mr Essanjee and I aren’t soldiers. We won’t be there long. Mr Essanjee says it’s only a formality.”
“Precisely,” Mr Essanjee confirmed. “A mere formality.” He was standing behind Temple, dressed in an immaculate white drill suit with matching solar topee.
“Well, I don’t know,” Wheech-Browning said, standing up. “I mean we are meant to be at daggers drawn…Mind you, there hasn’t been a shot fired in this area since my old bearer got it in the neck.” He paused, cocked his head to one side and smiled. “Got it in the neck. Not bad.” He paced up and down. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ve got these volunteer chaps with motorbikes: East African Mechanical Transport Corps. I take one out and drive up the road to Taveta once in a while. Bit of scouting.” Wheech-Browning had been seconded to a battalion of the KAR as an intelligence officer. “If all three of us tootled off up the road, I could drop you two off a few miles away. You might even do a bit of spying while you’re about it.”
“Sure we will,” Temple said.
“Capital,” echoed Mr Essanjee. “Capital.”
“Right,” Wheech-Browning said. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
♦
The motorbike was a Clyno 6 h.p. with a side-car. Wheech-Browning drove, Temple rode pillion while Mr Essanjee sat in the side-car with Wheech-Browning’s rifle. All three of them wore goggles. Dawn was breaking and the air was quite cool.
Mr Essanjee had tied a silk muffler round his throat. His white suit seemed to glow eerily in the bluey light. They stopped at the KAR lines at Bura where Wheech-Browning informed a sleeping picket where they were going. Then they motored off along the caravan trail, bumping along at fifteen miles an hour across the flat scrubby desert that separated them from Taveta. Soon the rising sun picked out the snowy top of Mount Kilimanjaro, towering out of the shadowy foothills up ahead. They drove on across the plain beneath a placid gulf of sky, the tiny sputtering of the engine breaking the silence, towards the beautiful mountain, watching the sun creep down its side.
“Splendid view,” Wheech-Browning shouted.
They had to stop after half an hour to allow Mr Essanjee to be sick. He said he found the motion of the side-car most unpleasant. Wheech-Browning and Temple waited patiently, warmed now by the sun rising in the sky, while Mr Essanjee retched and spat fastidiously a few yards off the road, leaning over at an angle to avoid besmirching his spotless suit. He and Temple changed places which seemed to solve the problem. Temple’s weight in the side-car, Wheech-Browning observed, cut their speed down considerably.
They stopped after a couple of hours while Wheech-Browning consulted the map and tried to plot their position. Temple peered over his shoulder. The caravan track was a dotted black line across a perfectly white unmarked piece of paper. Wheech-Browning pretended to scrutinize the surrounding countryside for landmarks.
“Not the most efficient map in the world,” he said with a nervous laugh. Temple, who reminded them that he’d been travelling the Voi-Taveta road for the last four years, said that he thought they were about five miles from the Lumi River bridge. Salaita hill, a smooth mound that rose a couple of hundred feet out of the flat scrub, was a mile or so ahead. Before they reached the hill they should come across a rough path that led to Smithville and Lake Jipe.
“Good,” Wheech-Browning said, taking a swig from his water bottle. “Let’s make a move.” He offered the bottle to Mr Essanjee, who politely declined. “You see,” Wheech-Browning said. “It’s like I told you, not a squarehead in sight. Probably find your farm’s deserted.”