Sam came quickly enough, wiping his hands on the seat of his khaki shorts. His red shirt was unbuttoned all the way down the front, revealing the hard muscles of his chest. He could be fifteen or fifty. He had the youthful gaiety of a boy of fifteen and the cunning of a grandfather.
‘Is she gone?’
‘Who, sah?’
‘Come on, Sam! You saw her.’
Sam smiled cunningly. He had that ideal quality of a bachelor’s houseboy: a complete and thorough knowledge of the women with whom his master associated. Their names, their addresses, their real cousins and false cousins, their moods. . . . Not only did he know how to deliver a letter to a prospective mistress without embarrassing her, but he could also read faces and guess the innermost thoughts of the lady’s heart. And these unique qualities covered up his other faults and rescued him from the bane of unemployment.
He scratched his head. ‘I am in the kitchen, washing plates. I don’t see anyone, sah!’
‘I believe you, Sam.’
‘I’m sorry, sah.’
‘Okay!’
Sam hesitated a moment.
‘Coffee or tea, sah?’
‘Coffee, and make it black.’
Sam took the percolator from the table in the corner and went out of the room. Sango could hear him asking the two street women who lived next door whether they had seen anyone leave his master’s room and pass along the corridor.
Sango sighed. ‘Shan’t be bothered about her any more. A funny girl. She’s the one in dire need of something. But rather than ask for it, she’ll bluff and put on a mystery act, expecting you to go down on your knees and beg her. And if you don’t, then you’re hard-hearted. That’s life. That’s women all over. Yes, I’ve begged and coaxed . . . when I’m in need. But this morning? No, I must be good.’
He pulled his chair closer to the table and settled down to writing his report:
Popular opinion does not incline favourably towards this verdict of suicide. During the investigations it seemed as if a foregone conclusion had been arrived at. The prosecution tried to prove its theory of suicide. And it appeared as if the learned judge co-operated with them. I ask, what had the judge to fear? Why did he suppress – or gloss over as if in haste – all the evidence which tended to create the faintest suspicion of doubt as to what really happened?
That a gun lay beside the body of the managing director has been firmly established. That it bore his fingerprints is beyond question, and that he was in financial difficulties (as his books show). But do all these necessarily add up to suicide?
The West African Sensation can now reveal a phase of Mr. Trobski’s private life unknown to the police. Mr. Trobski came to West Africa in the war years when Government was looking for just such a man . . .
•
He chewed his pencil. Should he throw this bombshell on the city? Yes, in all fairness he must. Too often had murderers been left to go scot-free.
There comes the dreaded city noise, Amusa. You live with it so you don’t notice it any more. Sounds of buses, hawkers, locomotives, the grinding of brakes, the clanging of church and school bells. . . . The city was awakening.
When Sango first moved into Twenty Molomo, the faintest noise would bring him racing to the street. And he would get there to find the crowd pressing on the central characters. Once he had seen a husband dragging his wife by her hair because – he had never found out why. All the answers he got were in Yoruba and Sango did not speak the language. Now the scenes had lost their novelty, and whatever he missed he could always pick up at the barber’s shop.
The noise grew louder. Something was happening. This noise had a hysterical urgency that frightened Sango. Even the cars were checking and now the yelling was rising above the hum of the engines. He decided to remain where he was and finish his report.
He heard the sound of running feet along the corridor. There was a rude and demanding knock.
‘Mr Sango! Sango, are you in?’
A slippered foot peeped into the room, then a gilt-edged fez cap with golden tassels. Lajide was chewing the end of a cigarette and puckering up his big chocolate-brown face to avoid the fumes getting into his eyes.
‘Come here, please.’ He beckoned.
How that one-inch of ash remained at the end of his cigarette without dropping off fascinated and annoyed Sango. He got up from his report reluctantly.
‘Anything wrong, sir? Haven’t I paid my rent? You are the landlord, but you’ve never spoken to me so early in the morning. There must be something nasty . . . anyway I’ve switched off all lights before going to bed, so it can’t be the electricity bill.’
‘I just want you to see something for yourself; because of next time.’