reach camp until half an hour later, for Chris announced that she had to clean out the jets. She crouched on a wing and went to work on the
engine, the hot midday sun beating down on her bare head and causing her thick, windblown hair to gleam like honey. Vachell waited for her, strolling around in the biting heat, his thoughts
veering between elephants, jewel thefts, and the involved personal relationships between the principals of the safari. Being a white hunter, he
decided, wasn’t all gravy from any point of view.
Chris finished her job on the plane and stood for a moment wiping her hands on a wad of cotton
waste and looking down at him, curiously.
“Have you done a lot of hunting?” she asked.
Vachell’s heart sank. Now it’s coming, he
thought. He tried to sound offhand.
“Fair amount,” he said.
“Had much to do with elephants?”
“Sure, I did some elephant control for the
59
Tanganyika Govenment.”
Chris threw the cotton waste into the Hawk’s
cockpit, jumped lightly off the wing, and walked over to the car. Vachell followed, carrying the two rifles.
“The Tanganyika elephants,” she remarked,
“must be very queer in their habits.”
“What do you mean, queer? I once saw a bull
that had red lacquered toenails, but that was in Billy Rose’s circus in New York. These were standard models.”
“I thought perhaps they all walked backwards,”
Chris said.
Vachell gulped, and it seemed as though the
earth had quaked beneath him. He stood still, engulfed in a wave of dismay. He felt as small as a lost field-mouse in a desert.
Chris threw back her head and laughed uproariously.
Vachell’s usually impassive face turned
pink. He could think of no retort. He felt his mouth go dry and his palms moist with an unexpected wave of anger, and at the same time he
noticed that when Chris laughed her rather solemn face looked as young and carefree as a seventeenyear-old’s “I’m
sorry,” she gasped, “but it was funny. You
mistook a waterbuck calf for a lioness, you walked downwind into a rhino that you thought was a anthill, and you spoored those elephants backwards.
It’s a bit unconventional for a white hunter, you must admit.”
60
“I admit everything,” Vachell said, climbing into the car. “I was a dope, I guess, to think I’d ever get by. I’m a policeman.”
“In disguise,” Chris said, letting in the clutch, “but without false whiskers. Another illusion gone. Now I’ll test my detective skill. You’re here to investigate the theft of Lady Baradale’s jewels.”
Vachell felt a slight shock of surprise. “How did you know?” he asked.
Chris laughed again. “For three weeks Lady
Baradale appears at dinner every night glittering like a Christmas tree with priceless gems — lovely ones, some of them I must say, even if they did look ridiculous on safari. One night she appears without them. The following morning Danny
rushes off mysteriously to Marula, and turns up again on the next day but one with a new white hunter that I’ve never even heard of, who has the original habit of tracking elephants backwards. It isn’t very difficult.”
“You’re a smart girl,” Vachell said, “and very observant.”
They parked the car and found de Mare and
Catchpole in the messtent, drinking gimlets. The lion hunt was just over and Catchpole was celebrating a new triumph.
“Come and drink with me to the great Danny!”
he invited, waving a gin bottle in the air. “I asked him for a beautiful lion with a proud, flowing mane and he found me one — but a beautiful beast, with the flowingest mane you ever saw. And 61
now his pride and beauty are no more. Let us drink to the destructive element in man!”
Vachell and Chris congratulated him suitably
and toasted his success.
“We were lucky,” de Mare said. “We found last night’s kill and beat two or three gulleys down the river. My gun-bearer spotted the lion slinking out of the bottom of one of them.
engine, the hot midday sun beating down on her bare head and causing her thick, windblown hair to gleam like honey. Vachell waited for her, strolling around in the biting heat, his thoughts
veering between elephants, jewel thefts, and the involved personal relationships between the principals of the safari. Being a white hunter, he
decided, wasn’t all gravy from any point of view.
Chris finished her job on the plane and stood for a moment wiping her hands on a wad of cotton
waste and looking down at him, curiously.
“Have you done a lot of hunting?” she asked.
Vachell’s heart sank. Now it’s coming, he
thought. He tried to sound offhand.
“Fair amount,” he said.
“Had much to do with elephants?”
“Sure, I did some elephant control for the
59
Tanganyika Govenment.”
Chris threw the cotton waste into the Hawk’s
cockpit, jumped lightly off the wing, and walked over to the car. Vachell followed, carrying the two rifles.
“The Tanganyika elephants,” she remarked,
“must be very queer in their habits.”
“What do you mean, queer? I once saw a bull
that had red lacquered toenails, but that was in Billy Rose’s circus in New York. These were standard models.”
“I thought perhaps they all walked backwards,”
Chris said.
Vachell gulped, and it seemed as though the
earth had quaked beneath him. He stood still, engulfed in a wave of dismay. He felt as small as a lost field-mouse in a desert.
Chris threw back her head and laughed uproariously.
Vachell’s usually impassive face turned
pink. He could think of no retort. He felt his mouth go dry and his palms moist with an unexpected wave of anger, and at the same time he
noticed that when Chris laughed her rather solemn face looked as young and carefree as a seventeenyear-old’s “I’m
sorry,” she gasped, “but it was funny. You
mistook a waterbuck calf for a lioness, you walked downwind into a rhino that you thought was a anthill, and you spoored those elephants backwards.
It’s a bit unconventional for a white hunter, you must admit.”
60
“I admit everything,” Vachell said, climbing into the car. “I was a dope, I guess, to think I’d ever get by. I’m a policeman.”
“In disguise,” Chris said, letting in the clutch, “but without false whiskers. Another illusion gone. Now I’ll test my detective skill. You’re here to investigate the theft of Lady Baradale’s jewels.”
Vachell felt a slight shock of surprise. “How did you know?” he asked.
Chris laughed again. “For three weeks Lady
Baradale appears at dinner every night glittering like a Christmas tree with priceless gems — lovely ones, some of them I must say, even if they did look ridiculous on safari. One night she appears without them. The following morning Danny
rushes off mysteriously to Marula, and turns up again on the next day but one with a new white hunter that I’ve never even heard of, who has the original habit of tracking elephants backwards. It isn’t very difficult.”
“You’re a smart girl,” Vachell said, “and very observant.”
They parked the car and found de Mare and
Catchpole in the messtent, drinking gimlets. The lion hunt was just over and Catchpole was celebrating a new triumph.
“Come and drink with me to the great Danny!”
he invited, waving a gin bottle in the air. “I asked him for a beautiful lion with a proud, flowing mane and he found me one — but a beautiful beast, with the flowingest mane you ever saw. And 61
now his pride and beauty are no more. Let us drink to the destructive element in man!”
Vachell and Chris congratulated him suitably
and toasted his success.
“We were lucky,” de Mare said. “We found last night’s kill and beat two or three gulleys down the river. My gun-bearer spotted the lion slinking out of the bottom of one of them.
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