Текст книги "Leopard Hunts in Darkness"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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On the long drive back to the airstrip at Tuti Mission, he sat beside the driver and took no part in the conversation of Peter and Sally' Anne in the seat behind him.

Only now did he realize how much store he had set on buying Rholands, and he was bitterly angry with Ashe Levy who had refused his qupport and with Henry Pickering who had not tried hard' enough and his damned Loans Committee who couI& not see the ends of their own noses.

Sally-Anne insisted on stopping once again at the mission schoolhouse to renew her acquaintance with Sarah, the Matabele teacher.

This time Sarah was prepared and offered her visitors tea. In no mood for pleasantries, Craig found a seat on the low veranda wall well separated from the others, and began scheming without real optimism how he might circumvent Henry Pickering's refusal.

Sarah came to him demurely with an enamel mug of tea

07 on a carved wooden tray. As she offered it, her back was turned to Peter Fungabera.

"When the man-eating crocodile knows the hunter is searching for him, he buries himself in the mud at the bottom of the deepest pool," she spoke softly in Sindebele, "and when the leopard hunts, he hunts in darkness." Startled, Craig looked into her face. Her eyes were no longer downcast, and there was a fierce and angry glow in their dark depd-is.

"Fungabera's puppies must have been noisy," she went on just as softly, "they could not feed while you were here.

They would have been hungry. Did you hear them, Kuphela?" she asked, and this time Craig started with surprise. Sarah had used the name that Comrade Lookout had given him. How had she known that? What did she mean by Fungabera's puppies?

Before Craig could reply, Peter Fungabera looked up and saw Craig's face. He rose to his feet easily but swiftly, and crossed the veranda to Sarah's side. Immediately the black girl dropped her gaze from Craig's face, bobbed a little curtsey and retired with the empty tray.

"Do not let your disappointment depress you too much, Craig. Do come and join us." Peter placed a friendly hand on Craig's shoulder.

On the short drive from the mission station to the airstrip Sally-Anne suddenly leaned forward and touched Craig's shoulder.

"I have been thinking, Craig. This place you call Zambezi Waters can only be about half an hour's flying time from here. I found the Chizarira river on the map.

We could make a small detour and fly over it on the way home."

"No point. "Craig shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked, and he passed her the sheet of notepaper with Pickering's message.

"Oh, I am so sorry." It was genuine, Craig realized, and her concern comforted him a little.

J would like to see the area," Peter Fungabera cut in suddenly, and when Craig shook his head again, his voice hardened. "We will go there," he said with finality, and Craig shrugged his indifference.

Craig and Sally-Anne pored over her map. "The pools should be here, where this stream joins the main river course And she worked swiftly with callipers and her wind-deflection computer.

"Okay," she said. "Twenty-two minutes" flying time with this wind." While they flew, and Sally-Anne studied the terrain and compared it to her map, Craig brooded over the Matabele girl's words. "Fungabera's puppies." Somehow it sounded menacing, and her use of the name "Kuphela" troubled him even more. There was only one explanation: she was in touch with, and was probably a member of, the group of dissident guerrillas. What had she meant by the leopard and crocodile. allegory and Fungabera's puppies?

And whatever it was, just how unbiased and reliable would she be if she were a guerrilla sympathizer?

"There is the river, said Sally' Anne as she eased the throttle closed and began a shallow descending turn towards the glint of waters through the forest-tops.

She flew very low alog the river-bank, and despite the thick cloak of vegetation, picked out herds of game animals, even once', with a squeal of glee, the great rocklike hulk of a black rhinoceros in the ebony d-rickets.

Then suddenly she pointed ahead. "Look at that! In a loop of the river, there was a strip of open land hedged in with tall riverine trees, where the grass had been grazed likea lawn by the zebra herds who were already raising dust as they galloped away in panic from the approaching aircraft.

on a carved wooden tray. As she offered it, her back was turned to Peter Fungabera.

"When the man-eating crocodile knows the hunter is searching for him, he buries himself in the mud at the bottom of the deepest pool," she spoke softly in Sindebele, and when the leopard hunts, he hunts in darkness." Startled, Craig looked into her face. Her eyes were no longer downcast, and there was a fierce and angry glow in their dark depths.

"Fungabera's puppies must have been noisy," she went on just as softly, "they could not feed while you were here.

They would have been hungry. Did you hear them, Kuphela?" she asked, and this time Craig started with surprise. Sarah had used the name that Comrade Lookout had given him. How had she known that? What did she mean by Fungabera's puppies?

Before Craig could reply, Peter Fungabera looked up and saw Craig's face. He rose to his feet easily but swiftly, and crossed the veranda to Sarah's side. Immediately the black girl dropped her gaze from Craig's face, bobbed a little curtsey and retired with the empty tray.

"Do not let your disappointment depress you too much, Craig. Do come and join us." Peter placed a friendly hand on Craig's shoulder.

On the short drive from the mission station to the airstrip Sally-Anne suddenly leaned forward and touched Craig's shoulder.

41 have been thinking, Craig. This place you call Zambezi Waters can only be about half an hour's flying time from here. I found the Chizarira river on the map.

We could make a small detour and fly over it on the way home."

"No point. "Craig shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked, and he passed her the sheet of notepaper with Pickering's message.

4A

"Oh, I am so sorry." It was genuine, Craig realized, and her concern comforted him a little.

"I would like to see the area," Peter Fungabera cut in suddenly, and when Craig shook his head again, his voice hardened. "We will go there," he said with finality, and Craig shrugged his indifference.

Craig and Sally-Anne pored over her map. "The pools should be here, where this stream joins the main river course And she worked swiftly with callipers and her wind-deflection computer.

"Okay," she said. "Twenty-two minutes" flying time with this wind." While they flew, and Sally-Anne studied the terrain and compared it to her map, Craig brooded over the Matabele girl's words. Tungabera's puppies." Somehow it sounded menacing, and her use of the name "Kuphela" troubled him even more. There was only one explanation: she was in touch with, and was probably a member of, the group of dissident guerrillas. What had she meant by the leopard and crocodile Oegory, and Fungabera's puppies?

And whatever it was, just how unbiased and reliable would she be if she were a guerrilla sympathizer?

"There is the river," said Sally' Anne as she eased the throttle closed and began a shallow descending turn towards the glint of waters through the forest-tops.

She flew very low aloig the river-bank, and despite the thick cloak of vegetation, picked out herds of game animals, even once with a squeal of glee, the great rocklike hulk of a black rhinoceros in the ebony thickets.

Then suddenly she pointed ahead. "Look at thad" In a loop of the river, there was a strip of open land hedged in with tall riverine trees, where the grass had been grazed likea lawn by the zebra herds who were already raising dust as they galloped away in panic from the approaching aircraft.

"I bet I could get down there," Sally-Anne said and pulled on the flaps, slowing the Cessna and lowering the nose to give herself better forward vision. Then she let down the landing-gear.

She made a series of slow passes over the open ground, each lower than the previous one, until at the fourth pass her wheels were only two or three feet above the ground and they could see each individual hoof print of the zebra in the dusty earth.

"Firm and clear" she said, and on the next pass touched down, and immediately applied maximum safe braking that pulled the aircraft to a dead stop in less than a hundred and fifty paces.

"Bird lady," Craig grinned at her and she smiled at the compliment.

They left the aircraft and set off across the plain towards the forest wall, passed through it along a game trail and came out on a rocky bluff above the river.

The scene was a perfect African cameo. White sandbanks and water-polished rock glittering like reptiles" scales, trailing branches decked with weaver birds" nests over deep green water, tall trees with white serpentine roots crawling over the rocks and beyond that, open forest.

"It's beautiful," said Sally-Anne, and wandered off with her camera.

"This would be a good site for one of your camps," Peter Fungabera pointed at the great lumpy heaps of elephant dung on the white sandbank below them.

"Grandstand view."

"Yes, it would have been," Peter agreed. "It seems too "A good to pass up at that price. There must be millions of profit in it."

"For a good African socialist, you talk likea filthy capitalist," Craig told him morosely.

Peter chuckled and said, "They do say that socialism is the ideal philosophy just as long as you have capitalists to pay for it." Craig looked up sharply, and for the first time saw the glitter of good old western European avarice in Peter Fungabera's eyes. Both of them were silent, watching Sally Anne in the river-bed, as she made compositions of tree and rock and sky and photographed them.

"Craig." Peter had obviously reached a decision. "If I could arrange the collateral the World Bank requires, I would expect a commission in Rholands shares."

"I guess you would be entitled to it." Craig felt the embers of his dead hopes flicker, and at that moment Sally Anne called, "It's getting late and we have two and a half hours' flying to Harare." Back at New Sarum air force base Peter Fungabera shook hands with both of them.

"I hope your pictures turn out fine," he said to Sally, Anne, and to Craig, "You will be at the Monomatapa? I will contact you there within the next three days." He climbed into the army jeep that was waiting for them, nodded to his driver, and saluted them with his swagger-stick as he drove away.

"Have you got a car?" Craig asked Sally-Anne, and when she shook her head, "I can't promise to drive as well as you fly will you take a chaRce?" She had an aparpent in an old block in the avenues opposite Government House. He dropped her at the entrance.

"How about dinner?" he asked.

"I've got a lot of work to do, Craig."

"Quick dinner, promise peace offering. I'll have you home by ten." He crossed his heart theatrically, and she relented.

"Okay, seven o'clock here," she agreed, and he watched the way she climbed the steps before he started the Volkswagen. Her stride was businesslike and brisk, but her backside in the blue jeans was totally frivolous.

Sally-Anne suggested a steakhouse where she was greeted like royalty by the huge, bearded proprietor, and where the beef was simply the best Craig had ever tasted, thick and juicy and tender. They drank a Cabernet from the Cape of Good Hope and from a stilted beginning their conversation eased as Craig drew her out.

"It was fine just as long as I was a mere technical assistant at Kodak, but when I started being invited on expeditions as official photographer and then giving my own exhibitions, he just couldn't take it," she told him, "first man ever to be jealous of a Nikon."

"How long were you married?"

"Two years."

"No children?"

"Thank God, no." She ate like she walked, quickly, neatly and efficiently, yet with a sensuous streak of pleasure, and when she was finished she looked at her gold Rolex.

"You promised ten o'clock," she said, and despite his protestations, scrupulously divided the bill in half and paid her share.

When he parked outside the apartment, she looked at him seriously for a moment before she asked, "Coffee?"

"With the greatest of pleasure." He started to open the door, but she stopped him.

"Right from the start, let's get it straight," she said. "The coffee is instant Nescaf6 and that's all. No gymnastics nothing else, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed.

"Let's go." Her apartment was furnished with a portable tape recorder, canvas covered cushions and a single camp-bed on which her sleeping-bag was neatly rolled. Apart from the cushions, the floor was bare but polished, and the walls were papered with her photographs. He wandered around studying them while she made the coffee in the kitchenette.

"If you want the bathroom, it's through there," she called. "Just be careful." It was more darkroom than ablution, with a light-proof black nylon zip-up tent over the shower cabinet and jars of chemicals and packets of photographic paper where in any other feminine bathroom there would have been scents and soaps.

They lolled on the cushions, drank the coffee, played Beethoven's Fifth on the tape, and talked of Africa. Once or twice she made passing reference to his book, showing that she had read it with attention.

"I've got an early start tomorrow-" at last she reached across and took the empty mug out of his hand. "Good night, Craig."

"When can I see you again?"

"I'm not sure, I'm flying up into the highlands early tomorrow. I don't know how long." Then she saw his expression and relented. "I'll call you at the Mono when I get back, if you like?"

"I

like."

"Craig, I'm beginning to like you as a friend, perhaps, but I'm not looking for romance. I'm still hurting just as long as we understand that," she told him as they shook hands at the door of the apartment.

Despite her denial, Craig felt absurdly pleased with himself as he drove back to the Monomatapa. At this stage he did not care to analyse too deeply his feelings for her, nor to define his intentions towards her. It was merely a pleasant change not to have another celebrity boffer trying to add his name to her personal scoreboard.

Her powerful physical attraction for him was made more poignant by her reluctance, and he respected her talents and accomplishments and was in total sympathy with her love of Africa and her compassion for its peoples.

"That's enough for now," he told himself as he parked the Volkswagen.

The assistant manager met him in the hotel lobby, wrin ing his hands with anguish, and led him through to his office.

"Mr. Mellow, I have had a visit from the police special branch while you were out. I had to open your deposit box for them, and let them into your room."

"God damn it, are they allowed to do that?" Craig was outraged.

"You don't understand, here they can do whatever they like," the assistant manager hurried on. "They removed nothing from the box, Mr. Mellow I can assure you of that."

"Nevertheless, I'd like to check it," Craig demanded grimly.

He thumbed through his travellers" cheques and they tallied. His return air-ticket was intact, as was his passport but they had been through the "survival kit" that Henry Pickering had provided. The gilt field assessor's identification badge was loose in its leather cover.

Ino could order a search like this?" he asked the assistant manager as they relocked the box.

"Only someone pretty high up."

"Tungata Zebiwe," he thought bitterly. "You vicious, nosy bastard how you must have changed." raig took his report of his visit to Tuti Rehabilitation Centre for Henry Pickering up to the embassy, and Morgan Oxford accepted it and offered him coffee.

J might be here a longer time than I thought," Craig told him, 'and I just can't work in an hotel room."

"Apartments are hell to find," Morgan shrugged. "I'll see what I can do." He phoned him the next day. "Craig, one of our girls is going home on a month's vacation. She is a fan of yours, and she will sub-let her flat for six hundred dollars. She leaves tomorrow." The apartment was a bed-sitter, but it was comfortable and airy. There was a broad table that would do as a writing, desk Craig set a pile of blank Typer bond paper in the centre of it with a brick as a paper-weight, his Concise Oxford Dictionary beside that and said aloud: "Back in business." He had almost forgotten how quickly the hours could pass in never-never land, and in the deep pure joy of watching the finished sheets of paper pile up at the far end of the table.

Morgan Oxford phoned him twice during the next few days, each time to invite him to diplomatic parties, and each time Craig refused, and finally unplugged the telephone. When he relented on the fourth day and plugged the extension in again6, the telephone rang almost immediately.

"Mr. Mellow." Itwas an African voice. "We have had great difficulty finding you. Hold on, please, for General Fungabera." "Craig, it's Peter." The familiar heavy accent and charm.

"Can we meet this afternoon? Three o'clock? I will send a driver." Peter Fungabera's private residence was fifteen miles out of town on the hills overlooking Lake Macillwane. The house had originally been built in the 1920s by a rich remittance man, black sheep younger son of an English aircraft manufacturer. It was surrounded firstly by wide verandas and white fretwork eaves and then by five acres of lawns and flowering trees.

A bodyguard of Third Brigade troopers in full battle dress checked Craig and his driver carefully at the gate before allowing them up to the main house. When Craig climbed the front steps, Peter Fungabera. was waiting for him at the top. He was dressed in white cotton slacks and a crimson short-sleeved silk shirt, which looked magnificent against his velvety black skin. With a friendly arm around Craig's shoulders, he led him down the veranda to where a small group was seated.

"Craig, may I introduce Mr. Musharewa, governor of the Land Bank of Zimbabwe. This is Mr. Kapwepwe, his assistant, and this is Mr. Cohen, my attorney. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Craig Mellow, the famous author."

They shook hands. "A drink, Craig? We are drinking Bloody Marys."

"That will do very well, Peter." A servant in a flowing white kanza, reminiscent of colonial days, brought Craig his drink and when he left, Peter Fungabera said simply, "The Land Bank of Zimbabwe has agreed to stand as your personal surety for a loan of five million dollars from the World Bank or its associate bank in New York." Craig gaped at him.

"Your connection with the World Bank is not a particularly closely guarded secret, you know. Henry Pickering is well known to us too Peter smiled, and went on quickly.

"Of course, there are certain conditions and stipulations, but I don't think they will be prohibitive." He turned to his white attorney.

"You have the documents, Izzy? Good, will you give Mr. Mellow a copy, and then read through them for us, please."

VP

Isadore Cohen adjusted his spectacles, squared up the thick pile of documents on the table in front of him and began.

"Firstly, this is a land purchase approval," he said.

"Authority for Craig Mellow, a British subject and a citizen of Zimbabwe, to purchase a controlling interest in the land-owning private company, known as Rholands (Pry) Ltd. The approval is signed by the state president and countersigned by the minister of agriculture." Craig thought of Tungata Zebiwe's promise to quash that approval and then he remembered that the minister of agriculture was Peter Fungabera's brother-in-law. He glanced across at the general, but he was listening intently to his lawyer's recitation.

As he came to each document in the pile, Isadore Cohen read through it carefully, not omitting even the preamble, and pausing at the end of each paragraph for questions and explanations.

Craig was so excited that he had difficulty sitting still and keeping his expression and voice level and businesslike. The momentary panic he had felt at Peter's sudden mention of the World Bank was forgotten and he felt like whooping and dancing up and down the veranda: Rholands was his, King's Lynn was his, Queen's Lynn was his, and Zambezi Waters was his.

Even in his excitation there was one paragraph that rang with a hollow note with Isadore Cohen read it out.

"What the hell doe that mean enemy of the state and the people of Zimbabuk?" he demanded.

"It's a standard clause in all our do cum ntation," Isadore Cohen placated him, "merely an expression of patriotic sentiment. The Land Bank is a government institution. If the borrower were to engage in treasonable activity and was declared an enemy of the state and people, the Land Bank would be obliged to repudiate all its obligations to the guilty party."

lit

"Is that legal?" Craig was dubious, and when the lawyer reassured him, he went on, "Do you think the lending bank will accept that?" "They have done so already on other contracts of surety," the bank governor told him. "As Mr. Cohen says, it's a standard clause."

"After all, Craig," Peter Fungabera smiled, "you aren't intending to lead an armed revolution to overthrow our government, are you?" Craig returned his smile weakly. "Well, okay, if the American lending bank will accept that, then I suppose it must be kosher." The reading took almost an hour, and then Governor Musharewa signed all the copies, and both his assistant and Peter Fungabera witnessed his signature. Then it was Craig's turn to sign and again the witnesses followed him, and finally Isadore Cohen impressed his seal of Commissioner of Oaths on each document.

"That's it, gentlemen. Signed, sealed and delivered."

"It only remains to see if Henry Pickering will be satisfied." 40h, did I forget to mention it?" Peter Fungabera grinned wickedly. "Governor Kapwepwe spoke to Pickering yesterday afternoon, 10 a.m. New York time. The money will be available to you just as soon as the surety is in his hands." He nodded to the hovering house servant. "Now you can bring the champagne." They toasted each other, the Land Bank, the World Bank, and Rholands Company, and only when the second bottle was empty did the two black bankers take reluctant leave.

As their limousine went down the drive, Peter Fungabera took Craig's arm. "And now we can discuss my raising fee. Mr. Cohen has the papers." Craig read them, and felt the blood drain from his face.

"Ten per cent," he gasped. "Ten per cent of the paid, up shares of Rholands."

"We really must change that name." Peter Fungabera frowned. "As you see, Mr. Cohen will hold the shares as my nominee. It might save embarrassment later." Craig pretended to re-read the contract, while he tried to muster a protest. The two men watched him in silence.

Ten per cent was robbery, but where else could Craig go?

Isadore Cohen slowly unscrewed the cap of his pen and handed it to Craig.

"I think you will find a cabinet minister and an army commander a most useful sleeping partner in this enterprise," he said, and Craig accepted the pen.

"There is only one copy." Craig still hesitated.

"We only need one copy," Peter was still smiling, "and I will keep it." Craig nodded.

There would be no proof of the transaction, shares held by a nominee, no documentation except in Peter Fungabera's hands. In a dispute it would be Craig's word against that of a senior minister but he wanted Rholands. More than anything in his life, Craig wanted Rholands.

He dashed his signature across the foot of the contract and on the other side of the table the two men relaxed visibly and Peter Fungabera called for a third bottle of champagne.

p to now; "Craig had needed only a pen and a pile of paper, and time had been his to squander or use as the fancy led him.

Suddenly, he was faced with the enormous responsibility of ownership and time telescoped in upon him. There was so much to do and so little time to do it that he felt crippled with indecision, appalled by his own audacity, and despairing of his own organizational skills.

He wanted comfort and encouragement, and he thought immediately of Sally-Anne. He drove around to her apartment, but the windows were closed, the mail overflowed her box, and there was no answer to his knock.

He returned to the bed-sitter, sat at his table and pulled a blank sheet from the pile and headed it, "Work to be done," and stared at it.

He remembered what a girl had once said of him. "You have only done one thing well in your life. "And writing a book was a far cry from getting a multi-million, dollar ranching company back on its feet. He felt panic rising within him and crushed it back. His was a ranching family he had been raised with the ammoniac al smell of cow dung in his nostrils, and had learned to judge beef on the hoof when he was small enough to perch up on Bawu's saddle, pommel likea sparrow on a fence pole.

"I can do it he told himself fiercely, and began to work on his list. He wrote: 1) Ring Jock Daniels. Accept offer to purchase Rholands.

2) Fly to New York.

a) World Bank meeting.

b) Open checking account and deposit funds.

C) Sell Bawu.

3) Fly ZUrich.

a) Sign share purchase.

b) Arrange payment to sellers.

His panic began to subside. He picked up the telephone and dialled British Airways. They could get him out on the Friday flight to London, and then Concorde to New York.

He caught Jock Daniels in his office. "Where the hell you been?" He could hear Jock had made a good start on the evening's drinking.

"Jock, congratulations you have just made yourself twenty, five grand commission," Craig told him and enjoyed the stunned silence.

Craig's list began to stretch out, ran into a dozen pages: 39) Find out if Okky van Renshurg is still in the country.

Okky had been the mechanic on King's Lynn for twenty years. Craig's grandfather had boasted that Okky could strip down a John Deere tractor and build up a Cadillac and two Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds from the spare parts.

Craig needed him.

Craig laid down his pen, and smiled at his memory of the old man. "We are coming home, Bawu," he said aloud.

He looked at his watch and it was ten o'clock, but he knew he would not be able to sleep.

He put on a light sweater and went out to walk the night streets, and an hour later he was standing outside Sally-Anne's apartment. His feet had made their own way, it seemed.

He felt a little tingle of excitement. Her window was open and her light burning.

"Who is it?" Her voice was muffled.

"It's me, Craig. "There was a long silence.

"It's nearly midnight."

"It's only just eleven and I have something to tell you."

"Oh, okay door * unlocked." She was in her' dark-room. He could hear the splash of chemicals.

"I'll be five minutes, she called. "Do you know how to make coffeeP When she came out, she was dressed in a sloppy cable knit jersey that hung to her knees and her hair was loose on her shoulders. He had never seen it like that, and he stared.

"This had better be good," she warned him, fists on her hips.

"I've got Rholands "he said, and it was her turn to stare.

"Who or what is Rholands?"

"The company that owns Zambezi Waters. I own it. It's mine. Zambezi Waters is mine. Is that good enough?" She started to come to him, her arms rising to embrace him, and he mirrored the movement, and instantly she caught herself and stopped, forcing him to do the same.

They were two paces apart.

"That's marvelous news, Craig. I am so happy for you.

How did it happen? I thought it was all off."

"Peter Fungabera arranged a surety for a loan of five million dollars."

"My God. Five million. You're borrowing five million?

How much is the interest on five million?" He had not wanted to think about that. It showed on his face, and she was immediately contrite.

"I'm sorry. That was insolent. I'm truly happy for you.

We must celebrate-"Quickly she moved away from him.

In the cabinet in the kitchenette, she found a bottle of Glenlivet whisky with an inch left in the bottom and added it to the steaming coffee.

"Here's success to Zambezi Waters," she saluted him with the mug. "Now first tell me all about it and then I've got news for you also." Until after midnight he elaborated his plans for her: the development of the twin ranches in the south, the rebuilding of the homestead and the restocking with blood cattle, but mostly he dwelt upon his plans for Zambezi Waters and its wildlife, knowing that that was where her interest would centre.

"I was thinking I'd need a woman's touch in planning and laying out the camps, not just any woman, but one with an artistic flair and a knowledge and love of the African bush."

"Craig, if that is meant to describe me, I'm on a grant from the World Wildlife Trust, and I owe them all my time."

"It wouldn't take up much time," he protested, "just a consultancy. You could fly up for a day whenever you could fit it in." He saw her weaken. "And then, of course, once the camps were running, I'd want you to give a series of lectures and slide, shows of your photographs for the guests– I and he saw that he had touched the right key.

Likeany artist, she relished an opportunity to exhibit her work.

"I'm not making any promises," she told him sternly, but they both knew she would do it, and Craig felt his new burden of responsibility tighten appreciably.

"You said you had news for me," he reminded her at last, grateful for the chance to draw the evening out further.

But he was not prepared for her sudden change to deadly seriousness.

"Yes, I've got news," she paused, seemed to gather herself, and then went on, "I have picked up the spoor of the master poacher"

"My God! The bastard who wiped out those herds of jumbo? That is real news. Where? How?"

"You know that I have been up in the eastern highlands for the last ten days. What I didn't tell you is that I am running a leopard study in the mountains for the Wildlife Trust. I have people working for me in most of the jeopardy areas of the forest.

AVe are counting and mapping the ties of the recording their litters and kills, trying territo cats to estimate the effect of the new human influx on them a that sort of thing which me to one o my men.