[Magazine 1966-­08] - The Cat and Mouse Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 1

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The Cat and Mouse Affair

By Dennis Lynds

August 1966

Volume 2, Issue 1

Act I: Who Shoots Last, Shoots Best

Act II: Go, Bid the Soldiers Shoot!

Act III: Coup, Coup, Who's Got the Coup?

Act IV: Where are the Rebels of Yesteryear?

ACT I: WHO SHOOTS LAST, SHOOTS BEST

ONE

There was a fog that night over San Pablo.

San Pablo is the capital city of Zambala, the new island nation off the northeast coast of South America.

The former British colony has been free for some years. Free and proud of its stable and progressive government under the leadership of its liberation-hero and premier, Malcolm Martinez Roy—M. M. Roy, the Lion of Zambala!

San Pablo is an old pirate city, built in an area of lowland swamps. Its deep, sheltered harbor is one of the finest in the world. The long, curving waterfront road is lined with piers on the waterside and the old buildings of the pirate city on the landside. The waterfront is an area of tourist shops, restaurants good and bad, and hotels both old and new.

One of the oldest hotels is The Morgan House. It is back from the water, just off Front Street. It is a quiet hotel, frequented now largely by sailors and their women friends.

Its tavern is a noted tourist site, a place where the tourists can see some life-in-the-raw at a minimum risk. No tourists actually stay at The Morgan House—that is life a little too raw. The rooms on the second, third and fourth floors of the old building are cheap and used only by sailors, furtive men with no visible occupations, and the transients of the tropics.

This night, because of the thick and evil-smelling fog, the tavern was empty of all but a few silent sailors. By midnight the tavern was as silent as a tomb. Only the distant horns of the buoys, the far-off bells, the faint lap-lap of the water against the piers, could be heard in the tavern, where a last few sailors drank themselves to sleep.

Shots tore the fog and the silence, just after midnight.

Shots from the second floor of The Morgan House.

The owner of the hotel, one Nathan Bedford, did not go to investigate. He knew violence too well. He immediately picked up his telephone and called for the police. Then he stationed himself at a particular corner of the bar.

From this spot, and only from this spot, Bedford had a clear view of the front stairs and of the back stairs. They were the only two ways out of the hotel.

As Bedford watched and waited, he held a large, heavy pistol in his hand out of sight beneath the bar.

But no one came down the stairs.

When the police arrived, no one had come down the stairs.

Bedford nodded to the stairs, raised two fingers to indicate the second floor. There were four policemen. Three constables and a sergeant, all dressed in the khaki shirts and shorts, with the black Sam Brown belts, the military caps and high socks made so familiar throughout the world by the British. The large chevrons of the sergeant seemed to bristle.

"Shots, Nathan?"

"Two. No one has come down, Sergeant."

"Someday we will have to close you down," the sergeant said.

With that, the sergeant led two of his men up the front stairs. The third policeman remained on guard at the foot of the rear stairs. The sergeant and his men, covering each other, went from room to room on the second floor.

They found the dead man in room 202.

The sergeant looked at the dead man on the floor, then at the man standing in the center of the room with his pistol still in his hand.

"Good evening, sergeant," the man said.

He was a tall man, broad and athletic. His jet-black hair was cropped short, and he wore a simple white linen suit. But his face was a face the sergeant stared at. A face the sergeant knew only too well. The sergeant blinked, began to stammer.

"Sir! I—"

The tall man smiled. "I have touched nothing, Sergeant. All remains as it was. You will note the pistol in the dead man's hand. It has been fired once. Luckily, I came armed and am a better shot."

"Yes—Yessir!" the sergeant stammered.

"Get hold of yourself, Sergeant. You have your duty to do. Take my weapon and call your superiors at once."

The sergeant nodded, took the pistol from the tall man, and barked an order to one of his men to call the inspector. Then he turned and saluted the tall man.

"If Your Excellency will be seated," the sergeant said, "Inspector Tembo will be here immediately."

The tall man, M.M. Roy, Premier of Zambala, sat down and lit a long cigarette.

Some hours later, dawn beginning to break over the port city of San Pablo, the fog blown away on the dawn wind, Inspector James Tembo completed his interrogation of the premier at the central police station of the city.

Tembo rubbed a gaunt chin as he closed his book.

"That should do it, Your Excellency. The dead man has been identified as Pandit Tavvi, a known leader of the Stengali. You say you went to that room to meet with the Stengali?"

The premier nodded. "I did, Inspector. Foolish, perhaps, to go alone. But I will try almost anything to bring the Stengali back into the main stream of Zambalan life. You know that has always been my cherished policy. The continued terrorist opposition of the Stengali is a frightful scar on our country. We must all work together. Zamyatta has accepted the role of peaceful opposition. Why not the Stengali?"

Tembo scratched his chin. The inspector was a small, bright man with quick eyes. "Not, I fear, as long as Max Steng lives. I have met him. He is a man of absolutely rigid principle, and he opposes you."

The premier began to pace. "I know! That is why I went. They said that Steng would be there. We were friends once. But I should have known better. Only Tavvi was there. Luckily I do not appear to have lost my touch with the pistol."

"No," Tembo said. "Tavvi was a professional assassin, too."

"I was very foolish."

Tembo rubbed his thin chin. "It seems that your security chief was more foolish."

The premier turned to face Tembo. "Mura Khan? What—"

"He was killed less than ten minutes after you killed Tavvi, Your Excellency," Tembo said. "Shot on the street. My men have a Stengali in jail. He was found at the scene. He denies the killing, of course, but we know he is a Stengali."

Premier Roy paced the office. "I was wrong then. They must be destroyed. But it must be justice, not a political act."

The premier faced Tembo. "Well, are you going to charge me?"

"Charge you, sir?"

"Inspector, I have killed a man! There must be a full investigation. No man is above the law in Zambala! You will charge me. I will post proper bail. I will suspend myself from office until exonerated. Deputy Premier Gomez will act in my place."

"But sir, it is obviously self-defense."

"An inquiry is required, is it not? Then there will be an inquiry. I want the same treatment you will give that Stengali suspected of killing Mura Khan. Further, since we seem to be dealing with a series of assassinations by the Stengali, I will recommend to Gomez that he form an international tribunal to oversee the investigation. I will have him appoint Carlos Ramirez as chairman!"

Tembo seemed excited. "Your Excellency, this will be good for Zambala. No one above the law! And Carlos Ramirez! Our greatest man and greatest poet! May I also suggest Martin O'Hara?"

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