Nick Carter - Rhodesia

The skin didn't have to be black. The stories had been woven about red, yellow, brown — and white. The situation is easy to set up, Nick knew, because all men carry the two basic explosives within themselves — fear and guilt. The fear is the easiest to see. You've got your precarious blue- or white-collar job, your bills, your worries, taxes, overwork, and boring or despised future. They are competition, tax-eaters, who crowd the labor offices, mob the schools, roam the streets ready for violence, mug you in the alley. They probably don't know God, like you do, either.

The guilt is more insidious. Every man has once or a thousand times rolled round in his brain perversion, masturbation, rape, murder, theft, incest, corruption, brutality, knavery", debauchery, and having a third martini, cheating his income tax report a little, or telling the cop he was only doing fifty-five when it was over seventy.

You know you don't-won't-can't do these things. You're good. But they! My God! (They really don't love Him either.) They do all of them all the time and — well, anyway, some of them every chance they get.

Nick paused on a corner, watching the people. A pair of girls, lovely in flouncy cottons and sun hats, smiled at him. He smiled back, and kept it turned on for a homely girl who came along behind them. She beamed and blushed. He took a cab to the office of Rhodesian Railways.

Stash Foster followed him, guiding his driver by watching Nick's cab. "I'm just seeing the town. Please turn right... now up that way."

Strangely enough, a third cab was in the weird procession, its passenger using no subterfuge on his driver. He told him, "Follow number 268 there and don't lose him." He was following Nick.

Because the journey was short, and Stash's cab moved erratically, not steadily on Nick's tail, the man in the third cab didn't notice it. At the railroad office Stash let his cab go on by. The third man got out, paid off his driver, and followed Nick right into the building. He caught up with Nick as the AXEman strode through a long, cool, covered passageway. "Mr. Grant?"

Nick turned and recognized the law. He sometimes thought that professional criminals were right when they claimed they could "smell a plainclothesman." There was an aura, a subtle emanation. This one was tall, slim, an athlete. A serious type about forty.

"That's right," Nick answered.

He was shown a leather case with an ID card and a badge. "George Barnes. Rhodesian Security Forces."

Nick grinned. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it."

The quip fell flat as a beer from last night's party left open by mistake. Barnes said, "Leftenant Sandeman asked me to speak with you. He gave me your description and I saw you on Garden Avenue."

Nick wondered how long Barnes had followed him. "That was nice of Sandeman. Did he think I'd get lost?"

Barnes still did not smile, his clean-cut face stayed grave. He had the accent of north-country England, but spoke his words round and rolling-clear. "You remember seeing Leftenant Sandeman and his party?"

"Yes, indeed. He was helpful when I had a flat."

"Oh?" Evidently Sandeman had not had time to fill in all details. "Well — evidently after he aided you he ran into trouble. His patrol was in the bush about ten miles beyond van Prez's farm when they came under fire. Four of his men were killed."

Nick dropped his half-smile. "I'm sorry. News like that is never pleasant."

"Would you please tell me exactly whom you saw at van Prez's?"

Nick rubbed his broad chin. "Let's see — there was Pieter van Prez himself. A well-weathered old-timer who looks like one of our western ranchers. A real one, who worked at it. About sixty, I guess. He wore..."

"We know van Prez," Barnes prodded. "Who else?"

"Well, there were a couple of white men around there and a white woman and I guess about four or five black men. Although I might have seen the same black men coming and going because they sort of look alike — you know."

Nick, gazing reflectively at a point above Barnes's head, saw suspicion cross the man's face, linger, then fade to resignation.

"You don't remember any names?"

"No. It wasn't that formal a call."

Nick waited for him to bring up Booty. He didn't. Perhaps Sandeman had forgotten her name, dismissed her as unimportant, or Barnes was holding back for his own reasons or to question her separately.

Barnes switched his approach. "How do you like Rhodesia?"

"Fascinating. Except I'm surprised at the ambushing of that patrol. Bandits?"

"No, politics, as I imagine you know very well. But thank you for sparing my feelings. How did you know it was an ambush?"

"I didn't. It's pretty obvious, or perhaps I connected up your mentioning in the bush."

They came to a rank of telephones. Nick said, "Will you excuse me? I want to make a call."

"Certainly. Who do you want to see in these buildings?"

"Roger Tillbourne."

"Roggie? I know him well. Make your call and I'll show you his office."

Nick called Meikles and had Booty paged. If the Rhodesian police could bug the call this fast they were ahead of AXE, which he doubted. When she answered he told her briefly about George Barnes's questions and explained that he had only admitted meeting van Prez. Booty thanked him, adding, "I'll see you in Victoria Falls, darling."

"I hope so, sweet. Have a good time and play it cool."

If Barnes was suspicious of the call, he did not let it show. They found Roger Tillbourne, an operating director of Rhodesian Railways, in a high-ceilinged office that looked like a movie set for a picture about Jay Gould. There was a lot of beautiful oiled wood, the smell of wax, heavy furniture, and three magnificent models of locomotives, each on its own table about a yard long.

Barnes introduced Nick to Tillbourne, a short, thin, quick-moving man in a black suit who looked as if he turned in a terrific day's work.

"I got your name from the Railway Age library in New York," Nick said. "I intend to write an article to go with the pictures I'll take of your railways. Especially your Beyer-Garratt engines."

Nick did not miss the look that passed between Barnes and Tillbourne. It seemed to say, Maybe, or maybe not — every unwanted rascal seems to think he can cover up anything by posing as a journalist.

"I'm flattered," Tillbourne said, but he didn't sound it "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, I don't want you to do anything, just tell me where I can photograph one of the German-built Union class 2–2–2 plus 2–6–2 with the swinging front water tank. We've nothing like them in the States, you know, and I don't suppose you'll go on using them for long."

A pleased, slightly glassy look spread over Tillbourne's earnest features. "Yes. A most interesting engine." He opened a drawer in his giant desk, produced a photo. "Here is a picture we took. Almost a builder's photo. No life to it but excellent detail."

Nick studied it and nodded admiringly. "Beautiful brute. This is a wonderful shot..."

"You may have it. We made several prints. If you use it, credit Rhodesian Railways. Did you notice the model on that first table?"

"Yes." Nick turned and looked at the gleaming little locomotive and put love in his glance. "Another Garratt. The GM class with four cylinders. The most powerful engine in the world to operate on sixty-pound rail."

"Right! What would you say if I told you we still have one in service?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

Tillbourne beamed. Nick looked astonished and delighted. He tried desperately to remember how many of the unique locomotives there were listed. He could not.

George Barnes sighed and handed Nick a card. "I see you two will get along. Mr. Grant — if you remember anything about your trip to van Prez that might help Leftenant Sandeman or me, will you give me a ring?"