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Tall, Dark And Deadly
Madeline Harper
He Was Tall, Dark and Deadly…The minute Dana Baldwin laid eyes on the devastatingly handsome Alex Jourdan, she knew she was in trouble. Though she tried to avoid him–and his sizzling touch–when she was framed for murder and thrown into a backward Congo prison, Alex was the only one who dared to come to her rescue.And She Was His Prey…Little did she know that Alex needed her more than she did him. And as long as he could keep that secret from her, Alex had her just where he wanted her. Besides, it was only for a little while…at least that's what his head told him. His heart–his body–told him something different.



Tall, Dark and Deadly
Madeline Harper


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Bonnie, Debra and Connie, intrepid guides on the journey into new and unexplored territory.
Porte Ivoire, the Lomawl River and the Bonsuko Swamp are entirely fictional. However, Pygmy tribes like the Mgembe still survive in Central Africa and their depiction is based upon first-person accounts of travelers and explorers. “The Congo” in this book refers to the People’s Republic of Congo. The former Belgian Congo is now known as Zaire.

CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dana Baldwin—Craving adventure, she signs up for an exotic river cruise and finds herself in the middle of a murder plot.
Alex Jourdan—The handsome and enigmatic Frenchman offers to break Dana out of jail, but she can’t believe what he wants in return.
Louis Bertrand—Suave, sophisticated and world-weary, he is on a mission of deception.
Millicent Kittredge—The British expatriate is an expert guide, but this is the first time one of her tours has ended with murder.
Betty Weston—Alex’s ex-lover has her own reasons for warning Dana about the charismatic Frenchman.
Mac McQuire—Is it coincidence or cunning that sets the Irish tracker onto the trail of Alex and Dana?
Yassif Al-Aram—Brooding and belligerent, he seems to be Betty’s new lover, but he’s keeping a vital secret from them all.
Maurice Longongo—The meek civil servant is Alex’s longtime enemy with a dangerous agenda of his own.
Jean-Luc Kantana—Investigating the murder of a tourist, the ambitious police sergeant follows his leads directly to Dana.
Father Theroux—When the help he promises never materializes, Dana knows that even the good priest believes she’s guilty.

Contents
Prologue (#ud04b2587-e42c-539e-a459-11782e51c663)
Chapter One (#u935bd254-6875-5942-9921-3fdbde418866)
Chapter Two (#u7025cd3b-567e-551b-8999-bc69e20070b0)
Chapter Three (#u2e0bcbdd-71c3-54cd-bd15-b742cc41f6d9)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
Brazzaville. City of half a million in the African Congo. Its waterfront is always busy; government complexes rise above streets crowded with local markets where merchants will sell anything to the customer willing to pay. Sometimes legally, often not. A melting pot of Congolese, French colonials and expatriates from all over the world, Brazzaville is the place to stake a claim in oil, timber, coffee, diamonds or gold.
An elegant chateau on the edge of the city almost hidden by lush tropical plants that creep around the building, climb its walls and insinuate into its most secret places. Laughter. The pop of corks and flow of wine, the strains of a string quartet. Above it all, in a darkened room, a wooden box lined with purple velvet is opened, revealing its contents. A gloved hand reaches in and removes the prize.

Chapter One
Alex Jourdan leaned back in an old rattan chair on the veranda of his hotel and surveyed the river. The Congo Queen was a day late. After five years in Porte Ivoire, Alex wasn’t surprised. No doubt the steamer left Brazzaville on schedule, but by the time it hit the far reaches of the Congo River anything could have happened.
He balanced the chair on its two back legs and propped his feet on the porch rail, his routine at this time of day, and one he was getting pretty tired of. He had an ache for something else, something far from Porte Ivoire, far from Brazzaville, and he didn’t even know what it was.
“Damn,” he swore aloud as he swatted at a mosquito. He was having trouble getting rid of the hotel, but there was another possibility on the horizon. If it worked, he’d be out of here. But would that be enough? The nagging ache persisted, but before he could respond to it, a familiar sound drifted toward him. It was the steamer, downriver, approaching port. The middle of the afternoon was a hell of a time for tourists to arrive, but he wasn’t complaining. It meant a night at his hotel for at least a handful of passengers. And if he was any judge, from the sound of the Congo Queen’s engine, they might be around for more than one night.
Alex took a long, cold sip of beer and watched the Congo Queen limp into port. Same scene, different day. And yet that unexplainable something persisted inside of him.
The old boat docked, and Alex watched as the passengers disembarked. Louis Bertrand was first. Alex meant to watch the Frenchman carefully, but his eyes moved inadvertently to the woman behind him.
Louis stopped, turned and offered his hand to her. Alex’s eyes narrowed with interest. Louis always knew how to find a good-looking woman, even on a decrepit old scow like the Queen a couple of thousand miles up the Congo.
When Louis stepped aside and the woman disembarked, Alex caught his breath. The Frenchman had found himself one hell of a good-looking female. Blond hair, shining in the sun, pulled back from her face. She was tall and athletic-looking but with rounded breasts and curving hips under her pale violet shirt and beige shorts. And nice long legs. He liked leggy blondes. So he watched her, and he was somehow relieved to see that as soon as Louis helped her off, he moved away. Only polite, not attached, Alex realized.
As she stopped at the wharf to wait for her luggage, Alex tore his eyes away to check out the rest of the guests.
Millicent Kittredge, a frequent visitor at the hotel and leader of innumerable tours of the river, moved along the dock giving orders to the waiting porters. She often recommended tourists to Alex’s hotel. For a price. Well, that was okay. Whatever it took.
Millicent was followed by Father Theroux, Porte Ivoire’s mission priest. Alex let his eyes drift along the dock until he sighted the blonde again. He got a sensual pleasure from resting his gaze on her cool beauty. The ache inside seemed to dissipate as he drank in her long, lean form.
Reluctantly, he went back to his survey of the other passengers on the debarking plank. Suddenly he sat up straighter and planted his feet on the porch floor. Betty Weston! Now, that was a surprise. He hadn’t seen her since...well, for a long time. And she wasn’t alone. A muscular young man walked down the plank beside her. Alex smiled knowingly. Betty wouldn’t be without the companionship of a man for long.
The last passenger off the boat was another familiar face, whom Alex glanced at briefly. Maurice Longongo was a minor government official and major pain in the ass. He was probably checking up again on some imagined violation of an obsolete law that he suspected Alex of breaking at the Stanley Hotel. Frowning, Alex looked at the man again, trying to read his body language. Trouble with the government was to be avoided, especially now.
Alex unwound himself and got up. As he descended the veranda steps and strolled toward the dock to meet the passengers, soon to be guests at his hotel, his pace was leisurely and his demeanor casual. His eyes were on the blonde. She looked hot but not frazzled and perspiring like the others. In fact she seemed to glisten in the midday sun.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Millicent bearing down on him like a locomotive. He stepped under the shade of a palm tree and waited. Millicent wore a large straw hat, and her stocky form was encased in what Alex called the Colonial costume, khaki safari jacket and trousers.
He leaned forward as she approached and gave her a kiss, knocking her hat slightly askew. “I see you’re still dressing the part, Millie.”
“Good for business,” she replied in her crisp British tones. “The tourists expect it, but Lord, it’s hot! We’re going to be with you a little longer than expected,” she added. “I’m told that the engine is totally out of commission this time, and the captain has to radio Brazzaville for a part.”
Alex grinned. Bad news for the passengers was good news for his pocketbook. Besides, he could use the extra time for his own purposes. Concealing his thoughts, he said, “It amazes me that people still book passage on that old tub.”
“Ambience,” Millie replied. “Tourists want to experience the real Africa.”
The other passengers began to straggle along the path toward the hotel. “Who’s the blonde?”
“I thought you’d notice her,” Millicent said with a knowing look in her pale blue eyes. “Her name’s Dana Baldwin. She’s an American. A professor.”
He looked past Millicent to the dock. The woman was having trouble with her luggage, and Louis was there to give assistance.
“How did you get away so fast, Millicent? All the other passengers seem to be stuck down there searching for their baggage.”
“You haven’t noticed in the past, Alex? I have a deal with the captain and his crew. They locate my things for the porters.”
“Of course. How stupid of me,” he said with a laugh. “I should have known you’d have an angle. Now about the blonde. What’s her name...Dana? How’d she get hooked up with your tour?”
“On a whim. She was spending the summer at some kind of language institute in Tangiers. She’s fascinated with this region of the Congo and has an obsession with the Pygmies. I told her, of course, that we weren’t trekking inland, only doing the river cruise. No Pygmies at all. Just hippos, chimps, the odd leopard on the bank and, of course, my wonderful birds.”
“Of course,” Alex said, mimicking Millicent’s speech. An expatriate British citizen, she’d turned her love of nature into a business and was an avid bird-watcher.
“Dana was determined to come along. Said she had a real need to see the area.”
“Hmm.” Alex was watching Dana at the wharf and wondering about her.
Millie removed her hat and fanned herself rapidly. “Forget it, Alex. She’s just an overzealous language teacher with no hidden agenda.”
“Maybe, but you know my philosophy, Millicent. People have only two reasons for traveling to this part of Africa, and that woman is no exception. Either she’s running toward something...or away from it.”
“You’re far too cynical,” Millie chastised.
“Porte Ivoire will do that to a person.”
“Why don’t you get out?”
“You know why, Millie. I can’t find a buyer for this damned hotel.”
“But you have other irons in the fire, don’t you, Alex, other schemes and deals?” Behind thick glasses, her blue eyes were inquisitive.
“Here come the guests,” Alex said, ignoring her question. “Time to play the gracious host.”
Alex and Millicent watched the commotion at the dock as Father Theroux, surrounded by a phalanx of villagers, turned in the opposite direction, toward his mission, while the others trudged toward the hotel.
Moments later, Betty Weston swept by, eyes cold, head high. “My usual room, Alex?”
“Check with the desk clerk, Betty. You’re first in line so you can have any room you want.” The muscular young man with her shot Alex a dirty look and followed after Betty.
Millie raised her eyebrows. “Cold shoulder, eh?”
“Icy, I’d say. I wonder why the hell she’s here.”
“Free-lance journalists are always on the lookout for a story,” Millie told him. “I ran into her in Brazzaville. Told her I had some magazine contacts in London eager to buy pieces about wildlife along the river. I assume the boyfriend, Yassif, is for recreational purposes.”
“And to put me in my place.”
“Did she succeed?” Millicent asked.
Alex laughed. “I’m just relieved that she has someone to occupy her time.” He was still watching the wharf. “Wonder what’s keeping Louis and the American?”
“Be patient, dear boy.” Millicent started to turn toward the hotel, but Alex stopped her. “Stay and introduce me, Millie. And nicely.”
“If you insist.” Millicent stepped off the path into the shade of the trees. “But let me remind you that it’s too late for ‘nice.’ She’s heard all about you. Remember that we’ve all been together for days on the boat. The talk—”
“Gossip, Millicent.”
“Talk, Alex. You can’t spend years behaving badly and not expect stories to get around. Your reputation precedes you.”
* * *
DANA FELT comfortable with Louis. He smelled of French cigarettes and spicy after-shave. A good twenty years older than she but barely taller, he was attractive in a sophisticated, slightly dissipated way—a world-weary man. She’d misplaced a bag; he found it for her. Over her protests, he tipped her porter. Then he took her arm, and they headed up the path toward the hotel. She stopped for a moment, shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and took a long look at the building that was their destination.
“So that’s the Stanley Hotel.” It was constructed of old brick, faded and mellow, surrounded by a two-story veranda. Charming from the distance, the building looked more and more rickety as they approached. The paint was peeling, the roof sagged and a tangle of vines displaced the mortar between the bricks.
Louis gave a little chuckle. “Not exactly a four-star establishment, eh?”
She was about to respond when someone else did.
“What the hell would you know about four-star hotels, Louis?”
A tall man had stepped out of the shadow of the palm trees and blocked their path. Millicent was standing beside him, but Dana scarcely noticed. She was lost in the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, cool eyes that met hers with a look of long and thorough appraisal. Dana tried to look away, but it wasn’t possible. Her eyes were locked on his.
She heard Millicent’s voice. “Dana, this is Alex Jourdan. Our host. Alex, meet Dana Baldwin, one of our tour members not yet initiated into the ways of Porte Ivoire.” Millicent gave an amused little twist to her smile.
Dana could feel Alex’s energy reach out to her, and the sultry African sun grew even hotter under his speculative gaze. Dana had to tilt her head to meet Alex’s green eyes; he had to be half a foot taller than her own five feet eight inches. He wore a faded blue T-shirt that molded the muscles of his arms and chest like a second skin. His cutoffs were frayed, his sandals scuffed, but the casual look didn’t hide his animal magnetism.
His full and sensual mouth curved in a half smile. His thick, dark brown hair grazed the neck of his shirt. Dana registered subliminally that he needed a haircut. What he didn’t need was one more ounce of virility. Sensuality simmered in the midday heat.
Dark, handsome, dangerous. Those were the words that came to her mind and wouldn’t go away.
“Bienvenu. Welcome to Porte Ivoire and to the Stanley Hotel,” he said at last in a voice that was deep and husky with a trace of French accent. Only a hint, enough to make it both memorable and sexy as hell. She’d heard a great deal on the boat about women who’d fallen under Alex Jourdan’s spell. Now she understood.
“I hope you enjoy your stay,” he added when she didn’t reply.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for a response. Dana finally managed to include the hotel in her gaze while not quite tearing it away from Alex. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll enjoy every moment.” God, she thought, every moment! Why did she say that?
“The moments could turn to days,” Millicent reminded her. “If that engine doesn’t get repaired.”
Alex didn’t seem to be listening. “How do you like my hotel?”
“It’s very—interesting,” Dana managed to say.
Alex laughed, a deep, rich sound. “I think of the old building as a grand lady past her prime, a little tawdry but with quite a past. A lady with many secrets.” His smile intimated that he might be willing to share those secrets with Dana. “Let me take that for you.” He reached for the bag she had slung over her shoulder.
“That’s all right, I—”
It was too late. His hand was on her arm, insinuating upward and under the strap of the bag, which he slipped off her shoulder. “I’ll get you checked in.”
Louis spoke up. “Ignoring your old ami, eh, Alex? Well, in the company of one so lovely, that is understandable.”
Dana saw Alex’s eyes flicker quickly to Louis and then back to her. “I didn’t expect you to turn up, Bertrand,” he said coolly.
“But you know how much I love the river, and I needed a respite from the heat and crowds of Brazzaville. I had delightful company aboard the steamer. As for this young lady, you will be interested, as I certainly was, to learn that she shares my fascination with the Mgembe. The Pygmies, you know.”
Alex gave Louis a long look and shrugged. “To each his own, Bertrand. And now, ladies...” He bowed slightly. “If you’ll come into the lobby with me. Oh, and you, too, Bertrand,” he added as an afterthought.
“You have one more guest,” Louis reminded him. “Monsieur Longongo is still loading down the porters with his bags. He cannot manage to travel light.”
Alex glanced at the little man just leaving the dock. “Maybe by the time he gets here, all my rooms will be booked.” With that, he slung Dana’s bag over his shoulder and led the way into the hotel.
* * *
DANA opened the door, stepped into her room and into a scene out of an old movie. Crossing on mahogany plank floors, she dropped her bag onto a simple iron bedstead painted white with a bright colored spread. Overhead a slow-moving ceiling fan circulated the humid air.
Admittedly, the flowered wallpaper was peeling a little, the throw rugs faded, the bedspread worn. But that was part of the charm. As Alex had said, the hotel was a little past its prime but still grand.
She closed the door, almost expecting a director to shout, “Cut.” A slight smile spread over her face. If she was acting out a role in an old movie, she was also thinking about the film’s hero, a handsome hotelier with a wicked reputation. She crossed the room and pushed open the French doors to the upper-level veranda. The Congo River lay before her, curving like a huge serpent, slithering into the depths of the tropical rain forest.
Her own private movie was interrupted when Betty Weston stepped onto the veranda next door. “At least the hotel has a nice view,” the redhead said grudgingly.
“All this is new to me,” Dana admitted, “and very exciting.”
Betty faced her, leaning back against the railing. “Yes, you are rather a novice.” Her brown eyes were hard and glittering. “I saw you with him.”
“Him?”
“Alex, of course. I thought you’d heard enough about him on the boat.”
“I try not to listen to gossip,” Dana responded.
Betty snorted with disgust. “You won’t have to worry about gossip if we’re here long enough. You’ll find out for yourself what a cold and ruthless man he is—”
Dana was speechless at the angry words.
“Oh, he’s interested in you,” Betty went on. “He always likes new women, but in the long run, he’s after one of two things. Sex or money. So remember to lock your door—and hide your valuables.”
The knock on Dana’s door was a welcome sound. Without hesitation, she made her apologies to Betty and left the veranda. Millicent was waiting at her door.
“Oh, there you are, dear. I’ve come to take you shopping.”
“But we just got here, Millicent. I haven’t even unpacked or had a chance to rest—”
“Rest, on your first day in Porte Ivoire? Ridiculous! You have to see the native quarter and go to the market. They’re just opening up again after the midday break. You won’t believe the beautiful fabrics. I know a little shop—”
Dana started to respond, but Millicent was on a roll. “Rest!” she repeated. “I’m sixty-three. Did you know that? And I can go all day. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” Dana responded.
“Then you can probably keep up with me.”
“You bet I can,” Dana promised. “Let’s go shopping.”
* * *
DANA WISHED she could take back those words a dozen times during their shopping trip. Most of the villagers and half the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside seemed to be crowded into the Port Ivoire bazaar.
Shoppers called back and forth and children chased one another among the thatched-roof shops that sold everything from live chickens to intricately carved figurines. The scents of cooking meat and stewing spices wafted on the air, mingled with the cacophony of half a dozen different dialects. The market was loud and frenetic, hot and dusty. And overhead the relentless sun beat down.
The heat wasn’t all that got to Dana; so did Millicent’s relentless advice and cheerful instructions.
“No, no, dear. Not that pottery. You can buy it much more cheaply at another shop,” she whispered, drawing Dana away from a display of brightly painted pots. “Besides, this is not nearly as special as the carvings. And of course the cloth. And, oh, I know a wonderful shop where you can buy jewelry, authentic pieces, hand set—”
Dana asserted herself. “I’m not buying, I’m just looking, Millie. And I’m sure I’ll get around to all the shops eventually.”
Millicent sighed. “Of course. I forget what it’s like to come here for the first time. But when it’s time to buy, let me be your adviser, dear, so you won’t be taken advantage of.” She wagged a warning finger.
“Thanks, Millie. I will.” Dana stepped out of the sun into the doorway of a corner shop, hoping for a hint of breeze. There was none. She mopped at the dampness on her forehead with a tissue. “I’m a little overwhelmed by all this activity—and heat,” Dana admitted. “But I don’t want to hold you back, Millie.”
“Well...” Millie adjusted her hat to better shade her face. “I am anxious to visit a friend at the other side of the bazaar. She sells the most fabulous handwoven rugs. I’m taking a few back to Brazzaville on consignment. You’d love—”
Dana laughed at Millie’s energy and enthusiasm. “I’m sure I would, but I’m not going to carry rugs back on the plane. Go ahead, see your friend. I’ll wander around on this side of the market. It’s a little shadier,” she added.
“Are you sure, dear?” Millie asked solicitously.
“I’m sure. I’ll look around for a little while and then go back to the hotel.” Dana could tell she was cramping Millie’s energetic style. “Go on. It’s okay.”
“Such a dear girl,” Millie said. “Now be careful what you eat around here or you might end up with toasted grub worms.” Millie chuckled at her humor.
“I’m going to browse, not eat,” Dana called after her. “And I’m not buying anything.”
* * *
BACK AT THE HOTEL, Dana looked at her purchases. Why, when she’d only meant to browse, had she invested in yards of bright colored cloth, a carved leopard and a huge straw hat? She’d have plenty of time later to explore the markets at her leisure, maybe find some real bargains on items she actually wanted. Oh, well, she decided, her purchases were interesting.
She tossed everything on a chair, kicked off her shoes and flopped onto her bed. As the fan whirred hypnotically, the sounds of the river seemed to recede and float away on the hot, moist air. Dana closed her eyes.
She forgot about Millicent, her shopping trip, the useless purchases...and she thought about Alex. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t stop herself. Behind closed eyes, she envisioned his face, imagined his voice, even felt his touch on her shoulder.
Betty was right. She’d heard about him on the boat coming upriver—and she had listened to the gossip; there was no denying that. Louis had told her about himself and Alex, that they’d been great friends until they’d argued violently over a woman. Louis also hinted that Millicent and Alex had some sort of deal going; he paid her a percentage for each guest she steered to his hotel. Even with engine trouble, the Congo Queen’s captain somehow managed to make it as far as the Stanley Hotel.
What had Millicent said about Alex? As Dana tried to remember, his face drifted in and out of her mind’s eye again. She tried to hold onto Millicent’s words, but his face kept smiling down at her suggestively.
Then she remembered. Millicent’s accusations involved smuggling. Diamonds? Gold? She wasn’t sure. But there was no doubt that Alex Jourdan had a reputation for walking a little outside the law.
And what about Betty? Dana thought of her bizarre encounter with the journalist. Never had she seen a woman so bitter over a failed affair, and everyone on the boat seemed to be sure there’d been one between Alex and Betty. More gossip, which Dana had tried unsuccessfully to avoid.
Now she put it out of her mind but couldn’t dismiss him so easily. Even as she felt herself drifting away on a soft wave of sleep, his face was still there. Then through the haze of drowsiness, she heard his voice again, but this time he was talking to someone. It sounded like Louis. They were arguing. Outside? On the veranda? In the hallway?
The voices seemed real, not imaginary, not dreamlike. They were raised in anger. She tried to concentrate on their words. She caught one. Pygmy. Something about the Pygmies... Everything went fuzzy in her mind, but Dana hung on, listening. They were arguing about—what? An elephant or elephants? Then she heard her name. Or thought she did.
Dana tried to hold onto consciousness, but she kept falling, falling. And then she slept.
* * *
SHE MADE IT to dinner that night with the conversation still ringing in her ears. And when she observed the two men seated at opposite ends of a long table, not speaking, their eyes rarely meeting, Dana decided the conversation hadn’t been a dream. But she chose to sit at their table anyway, rather than join Betty and Yassif or Mr. Longongo, who dined alone, or the captain and his crew, who shared another table.
Dana sat down beside Father Theroux. Apparently, he often dined at the hotel. Tonight he joined Millicent in trying to keep up a lively conversation while Alex and Louis silently glowered. As for Dana, she had her own agenda. Pygmies. And elephants. That’s what Alex and Louis had been arguing about, and she was determined to get it out in the open. Curiosity guiding her, Dana directed her questions to the priest, a willing participant.
Louis seemed disinterested, more concerned about his bottle of wine than conversation, while Alex lounged back in his chair and observed the room. He’d obviously just bathed. His skin gleamed, and drops of water still sparkled in his hair. He’d changed into a clean, crisp white shirt of gauzy material that draped across the muscles of his shoulders and chest. His rolled-up sleeves revealed the strength of his lower arms, and the white shirt set off his tan and green eyes. Dana had to force her attention away from Alex’s physical attributes and back to the priest.
“Yes, it is true that I have lived all my life in the Congo,” Theroux said in answer to a question, “but I have seen the Pygmy only a few times. And never has one member of the Mgembe tribe been converted to Catholicism.” His dark eyes glowed sadly. “It would gladden my heart if such would happen, but—” He shrugged his thin shoulders.
“Maybe someday,” Dana said.
Millicent spoke up. “I’m appalled that the Mgembe still hunt elephant, which is an endangered species. Everyone knows that.”
Conveniently, Millicent had switched from Pygmies to elephants, almost as if she’d been guided by Dana. “Is that true?” Dana asked. “Do they still hunt?”
“Elephants are protected,” the priest said, “but the Pygmies obey no rules except their own. Who knows what they do, hidden away in the rain forest.”
Alex suddenly leaned forward, his gaze on Dana. For an instant she thought there was suspicion in his eyes. Or was it just curiosity, like her own? “Why are you so interested in the Pygmies?” he asked. “Most of the world has never heard of the Mgembe.”
“I inherited my interest from my father, Phillip Baldwin. He was in the Congo years ago and began a study that I would like to complete. If only I could get to the Pygmies...”
“Not much chance of that,” Alex said dismissively. But if he paid little attention to her goals, he paid plenty to her, surveying her with his potent gaze.
“It’s true that not many people know about the Mgembe,” Dana agreed. “Except for Monsieur Bertrand.” She smiled at Louis, who was pouring himself another glass of wine.
“Louis is a wonder, isn’t he?” Alex commented. “So eager to share his knowledge, especially if the questioner is young and pretty.”
Dana felt herself flush, and to cover, she turned on Alex. “Louis was only being polite by answering my questions.”
Millicent, who’d watched the byplay speculatively, directed her remark to Alex. “You and Louis used to be such good friends, I hate to see you on the outs.”
Louis rose from his chair. “Alex is not an easy man for one to remain friends with, madame. If you will excuse me...” Wineglass in hand, he headed for the veranda.
“I’ll see after him,” Father Theroux offered.
“Coffee?” Alex asked the women without skipping a beat, as if nothing had happened. “Perhaps in the garden...”
Millicent spoke for both of them. “That would be delightful. And a little cognac, too, Alex, dear.”
But Millicent didn’t make it to the garden. Mr. Longongo cornered her, and as Dana passed by his table, she heard a snatch of his long, involved questions about a partial refund of his tour fee since the boat had broken down. He reminded Dana of a ferret with sharp little features and darting black eyes. There was something creepy about the man, she decided as she drifted into the garden alone.
The air was sweet with the fragrance of jungle flowers and, as always, the dark mysterious scent of the mighty Congo. Dana wrapped her arms around herself and took a deep breath, throwing back her head, breathing the rich, heady scent of the jungle air. The moon rode low in the sky, huge, round, so close she felt she could touch it. Despite the delays and problems, the petty arguments of the others, she felt wonderful.
She was in Africa! A stone’s throw from the Congo, and even if she never saw her first Pygmy, this was already the adventure of her life. She closed her eyes and inhaled pure excitement.
She didn’t hear the footsteps approaching on the sandy path, and when a hand touched her shoulder, Dana jumped, startled. “Don’t be afraid,” a voice told her, in a tone so soft and low that it heightened her fear rather than dispelling it. She started to move away, toward the hotel, and then she recognized him.
The vague shadowy figure in the moonlight was Alex. “I decided to skip the coffee,” he told her. “My cognac is excellent. French. A hundred years old and saved for special guests.” He handed her a glass.
“Thanks.” For an instant his long fingers curled around hers. He was so near that she could smell the scent of his tangy after-shave and hear the even flow of his breathing. There was something dark and compelling about him that made her nervous even as it attracted her. She didn’t know how to behave around him, and she certainly had no idea what he would do next.
She took a step away from him and raised the glass to her lips. A warm glow began in the pit of her stomach and spread upward, but she couldn’t relax. Not when Alex was still too damn close to her, not when her heart refused to slow down.
She wanted him to move away. The blatant sexuality that emanated from him made her uncomfortable. He seemed so damned sure of himself, as if she was his for the asking, as if she’d arranged a romantic rendezvous in the garden especially for him. To cover her nervousness, she took another sip from her glass.
“Like it?” His voice was as smooth and rich as the cognac, and she was afraid that it could have the same power over her.
“Yes, it’s wonderful. But now—” She handed Alex the glass and attempted to step around him.
Holding her with his his eyes, he let both glasses slip from his grasp and drop onto the sandy path. She looked down at them, startled. Then he encircled her waist with his hands and pulled her close. “You’re not running away from me, are you, Dana?” The strength that she’d feared in his voice had become a power of intimacy—and danger.
“No, of course not,” she lied. “I just want to get away from, I mean get out of, the night air. It’s...” Her voice trailed off and she realized she didn’t want to get away at all, not when she saw Alex so clearly in the moonlight, his lips parted in a smile to reveal even white teeth that gleamed against his tanned skin. Hungry light glowed deep in his green eyes. Dana shivered, and she didn’t know why. Was it excitement—or fear?
He still held her, easily now, with one hand lingering on her waist, the other at the small of her back. The warmth from his body reached out and caressed her. She felt an urge to touch his face, run her fingers across his cheek and chin. But she willed her hands to stay at her sides. Alex Jourdan was trouble.
He looked at her with a knowing, intimate smile as if he’d read her thoughts. “I’ve been waiting for you, Dana.” His breath was warm against her face.
“What do you mean by waiting?” Her voice sounded breathy, surprised, not like her at all. And her heart—why couldn’t she control its erratic pounding?
“Waiting for a long-legged blonde to come into my life. Now you’re here, and I’m glad.”
He slid his hand from her waist upward along her back, beneath the fabric of her blouse. His touch was sensual, practiced, erotic. And her skin tingled wherever he touched her.
Alarm bells went off inside Dana’s head even while her body responded. Alex Jourdan was handsome and exciting, and there was a part of her that wanted to know him, that desired to be swept away by his dark, romantic power.
But the other side of her was more careful, even wary. He was a man with a disreputable past, a womanizer and, according to the gossip, a probable cheat if not a possible crook. He was certainly a stranger, not someone to be alone with in the dark night.
Dana struggled to get her voice under control. “I didn’t come here for a romantic fling.” Even as she made the statement, she realized how uptight and foolish she sounded.
To make her seem even more ridiculous, he repeated the words. “A romantic fling?” His voice was amused. “I never suggested that, Professor. But since you mention it, just why did you come to Porte Ivoire?”
To find you. The thought blazed across her mind even while she fought to keep from saying it aloud. The intensity of it frightened her. And when his eyes met hers in a long look, she was held by what she saw there. Recognition. Acceptance. Desire. For an instant in the moonlight his face was serious, almost brooding, and she was overcome again by an irresistible urge to touch his face, draw his mouth down on hers.
Instead, she took a deep breath and shoved against his chest with both hands. “Let me go, Alex. If you don’t I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he teased. “You don’t seem like a violent woman.”
“I’m not,” she snapped. “But I might become one. Now let me go.”
He took one step backward, shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed at her, a sardonic smile playing around his lips. He appeared more amused than perturbed by her reaction. “You have even more fire than I imagined, Dana Baldwin. I like that. Cool on the outside, hot and—”
Dana turned and walked away with his words echoing in her head. Her legs were shaky, and her hands were damp with perspiration. Dammit, she was doing just what he’d said. She was running. Fleeing from him and herself. She was confused by her reaction to Alex and the emotions he unleashed. She hadn’t handled the situation well at all, and she vowed to be more in charge next time they met. Or to stay away from him. That was the best way, she decided as she hurried up the steps, across the veranda—and straight into Louis Bertrand.

Chapter Two
“Chérie, slow down. You will hurt yourself.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, drawing in the night air in huge gulps. “I’m a little...” She struggled for words.
“Agitée?” He looked over her shoulder toward the shadowy form in the garden. “Alex. I should have known. You must forgive him. He does not stop to think. For Alex, to make love is as natural as to breathe.”
“Make love? No, he just made a pass, he didn’t—”
Louis chuckled softly. “In French ‘make love’ can be no more than to touch or even suggest. It is all lovemaking in our language. And when a beautiful woman appears...”
“I think there’s a compliment there somewhere,” she managed, “but he’s so damned arrogant—”
“On this we agree.” Louis took her arm. “Shall we walk by the river and cool off? There’s a delightful breeze, and I assure you I’m quite sober now. And unlike my rude friend, I shall make no passes.”
Dana hesitated, but Louis held her firmly by the elbow and kept the conversation going. “You see, the problem with Alex is that he is only one half French. His mother was American, and he spent many years in the States. This is not to say anything negative about your country,” he added graciously, “but over there he lost something of the French savoir faire women so much admire.”
“He’s lacking something. You’re right about that,” Dana muttered. “Manners, to begin with.”
“Indeed,” Louis replied. “He does not have an abundance of manners. Also, he can be quite ruthless when he has to be. But enough talk of Alex. He is only an innkeeper in an outpost far from civilization. Instead, let us speak of the Pygmies, which we both find so fascinating.”
“I thought perhaps you had lost interest in the subject.”
“And why is that, my dear?”
“Well, at dinner—”
“Oh, yes. I avoided conversation,” he admitted.
“So did Alex.”
“Hmm.” Louis stopped. “May I smoke?”
“Of course.”
He lit a narrow black cigarillo and inhaled deeply. “We both avoided conversation at the table tonight, Alex and I,” Louis said. “The reasons for this are very complicated.”
Dana waited, wondering if he would mention the other conversation, the one she’d heard—or thought she’d heard—as she dozed off in her room.
“But I will not bother you with this,” he said.
“Please, it’s all right.”
“No, no,” he insisted. “There are more important subjects for us to talk about.”
Before she could respond, they were interrupted by the approach of another couple coming toward them along the path. Betty and Yassif.
They stepped aside. “Lovely evening, is it not?” Louis asked pleasantly.
Betty nodded, but Yassif only scowled.
“Pleasant fellow,” Louis joked when they were out of earshot.
“I wonder what she sees in him,” Dana began before realizing the naïveté of the question.
They stopped at a crumbling wall near the riverbank. Thick green vegetation crept toward them, seemingly overwhelming everything in its path. A hazy mist enveloped the night and magnified the great silence that surrounded them. It was both fascinating and eerie.
“About the Pygmies. You wish to travel even farther into the mysterious jungle in search of them,” Louis said.
“Yes, I do. Now I have the perfect opportunity, since we’re going to be stuck here for a while. I realize you’re reluctant to take me to them, but maybe there’s someone you could recommend.”
“There are no guides in this village, but perhaps some miles upstream.” Louis puffed silently and stared out into the blackness. “A man named McQuire once took me deep into the rain forest.”
“McQuire,” Dana repeated. “An Englishman?”
“Irishman, I believe. He has been a guide for over thirty years. Of course, I don’t know if he is still alive.” Louis shrugged elegantly. “As I have told you, the jungle is a dangerous place.”
“I understand that,” Dana said impatiently, “but maybe I could see the fringes, at least. What’s the point of being in the Congo if I can’t have an adventure or two?”
Louis looked amused “Indeed, what is the point of life...without an adventure or two? And nowhere is there more possibility for excitement than here on the banks of the Congo. A thousand miles of brown ribbon cutting through a carpet of green, and on the river time means nothing. We live for the day.”
“How romantic,” Dana said.
“When a Frenchman speaks of the Congo, it is always romantic,” Louis replied with a smile.
“There’s just one problem.”
“And what is that, dear Dana?”
“The mosquitoes!” They were buzzing around her head. She slapped at them ineffectually. “They’re driving me crazy. I’m afraid I’ll have to go inside.”
“I understand, although they seem to avoid me,” Louis said with a soft laugh. “Perhaps it is the smoke from my cigarillo. Meanwhile, remember your antimalaria pills, a must here in Africa.”
“I will, but for now—”
“Yes, go to your mosquito netting,” Louis said, “and as for me, I shall stay here a while longer and smoke.”
“Then good night,” Dana said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe we can find that McQuire fellow.”
“Maybe,” Louis said softly. “Au revoir, chérie.”
He watched her walk away, enjoying the soft flow of her dress as it caressed her hips and the bounce of her hair on her shoulders. He’d found Dana lovely from the first moment, and it was no wonder that Alex felt the same. Alex, Louis thought, so precipitative and aggressive. Not the kind of man to let well enough alone.
Louis took a last drag on his cigarillo and drew the thick, pungent smoke deep into his lungs. Was there anything more pleasant, he wondered, than standing near the world’s most magnificent river, replete with good food and wine, as he watched the delicate movement of a beautiful woman walking through the night?
If there was, Louis couldn’t imagine.
He sighed deeply, turned toward the river and never noticed the barely perceptible movement of the high grass on the hillside. Nor did he hear the soft, deadly sound that followed. He only felt the sting, like that of a night insect, in the soft tissue of his neck. The pain came an instant later, causing him to grasp his throat with both hands, as he choked for breath.
Suddenly he knew—he understood! But it was too late. Louis sank to his knees, fell forward, hitting his head on the stone wall, and then crumpled to the ground and lay still.
* * *
“THIS IS NOT a good way to begin a day. Not good at all,” Police Sergeant Jean Luc Kantana confided dourly to Alex. “To be awakened at three in the morning to the news that crew members returning to the Congo Queen stumbled over a dead body. And then to discover it is the body of Louis Bertrand—”
Alex stared straight ahead, his face set like granite. His thoughts were dark, as they had been since the moment news had come to him that Louis’s body had been found. But he wasn’t about to console Kantana. The policeman wasn’t his problem.
“I’m not pleased myself to learn that my old friend is dead and the Stanley has been taken over by gendarmes.”
“All proper protocol will be observed, my friend,” Kantana assured. “We will, of course, question Porte Ivoire locals, but my instincts tell me...” The sergeant’s words faded as he looked around the hotel lobby where Alex had gathered the guests.
“You think the killer is in this group?” Alex regarded Kantana curiously. “Why would you suspect that?” He’d known Kantana for five years and hoped he could use that friendship to find out what was on the policeman’s mind.
Kantana answered obliquely. “Most murders in Porte Ivoire are easily solved. Two men fight in a bar over a woman. A woman knifes her philandering husband. This, I believe, is different from the usual local crime.”
“Louis was killed with a dart from a blowgun, Jean Luc. I would suggest that’s a local weapon.”
“Such paraphernalia can be purchased up and down the Congo by any of your guests. Or by you.” His smile was cool. “Everyone is a suspect, Alex. The death of a foreigner must be carefully investigated. And now, I must get to work.”
He stepped away from Alex and addressed the room. “Mesdames and messieurs. It is time to begin. Mademoiselle Baldwin, shall we start with you?”
Dana had struggled to control her shock, but her hands shook noticeably as she raised her coffee cup to her lips. “I was with him by the river,” she said softly, almost to herself. “We were talking, making plans—”
She broke off, aware of everyone’s eyes on her. Kantana’s were alert and probing, but his dark, handsome face revealed nothing.
“Plans?” His voice was deceptively soft and gentle.
Dana attempted to explain. “Tentative plans to find a guide to take me into Pygmy territory. We talked about going together. Maybe...” Her voice trailed off.
“I see.” Kantana nodded solemnly. “You have knowledge of the Mgembe?”
The room was still, the only sound a gentle whirring of the overhead fan. Alex leaned against the arched doorway of the lobby, his lanky body perfectly relaxed, one hand in his pocket. He’d passed up coffee and was sipping a cognac and watching Kantana, not Dana. Everyone else’s eyes seemed to be focused on her.
On a rattan love seat beside the door, Betty and Yassif sat side by side, staring at her, Betty’s face sharp and unfriendly, Yassif’s sleepy-eyed and sullen. Huddled quietly in a corner, Maurice Longongo watched her with his ferret eyes. Dana felt herself shiver involuntarily. Even Millicent, who had stopped her bustle to refill coffee cups, watched and waited.
“The Mgembe?” Kantana repeated.
“I was interested in them. Everyone knew that.” Her gaze took in the whole room. “But Louis seemed to be the most knowledgeable, and certainly he was the most helpful.”
Kantana scribbled on a pad. “Now Mademoiselle Baldwin, tell me please, at what time did you walk with Monsieur Bertrand by the river?”
“After dinner. I’m not sure.”
“Immediately after dinner?” Kantana pressed.
“No, I—” Dana hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention her encounter with Alex in the garden. She glanced quickly at him, but his eyes were still on the policeman.
“About ten o’clock,” Betty said with authority. “Yassif and I were returning to the hotel and saw them heading toward the river. I guess we’re witnesses.”
Dana shot her a surprised look. Witnesses?
Kantana made a careful note. “And how long did you remain with him?”
“Not long. The mosquitoes drove me away.” Dana remembered her farewell to Louis, the sound of his soft au revoir floating on the hot night air, and her eyes filled with tears. “Maybe if I’d stayed with him, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Millicent crossed to Dana’s chair and patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. No one blames you for what happened to poor Louis.”
Maybe not, but Dana felt as if all of them, even Millicent, were skeptical. “He was your friend, too, Millicent.”
“Yes, he was, for many years,” she replied.
“I’m so sorry,” Dana offered.
“It’s not your fault.”
There it was again, the release from blame that was somehow damning.
“Why would anyone want to kill Louis?” Dana asked. “He was so sweet and gentle.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Betty snapped. “He was also involved in all sorts of sordid little deals. Louis was no angel despite the fact that he stuck like a leech to Father Theroux on the trip.”
That was true, Dana remembered. He’d seemed devoted to the elderly man. The wine merchant and the village priest—an unlikely pairing.
“Dear Lord, one of us needs to tell Father Theroux about Louis,” Millicent said.
“I’m sure he knows,” Alex replied laconically. “News travels fast in Porte Ivoire. Especially bad news.”
“The priest will be told—and questioned,” Kantana said coolly, dismissing the subject and moving on to continue his interrogation of Dana. “Did anyone notice you returning to the hotel?”
“I don’t think so.” She looked around the room hopefully, but no one spoke up. “I used the side steps to the second-floor veranda. Then I went directly to my room and to bed.”
Kantana wrote on his pad and then one by one asked each of the other guests their whereabouts from ten o’clock until the body was found. He listened carefully to the responses.
“So,” he said as he completed the rounds, “each of you was alone in your bedroom—”
“Yassif and I were together,” Betty announced, reaching for her lover’s hand. “Some of us have nothing to worry about. We have alibis.”
“Some of us have been known to lie.” That was Alex. His remark caused Betty’s face to redden. She opened her mouth to reply and then thought better of it.
Kantana continued without missing a beat. “With the exception of Mademoiselle Weston and Monsieur Al-Aram, who were together—so they say—and my friend Alex, who was in his office.”
“I often stay up late,” came Alex’s response.
Kantana got to his feet. “Now I must ask your further indulgence. At this time we will search your rooms.”
Millicent reacted immediately. “Search our rooms? Surely, you joke, Sergeant. Why in the world? The man was killed with a blow dart. Obviously by someone right here in Porte Ivoire—”
Kantana’s reply was as smooth as silk. “So it would seem, as you say, considering the murder weapon. But we have reasons to look elsewhere.”
“Why?” Millicent shot back.
“We found a passport and a wallet filled with cash on the body. What does that mean to you?” he asked the room in general.
Longongo responded, speaking for the first time that morning in his high nasal voice with his impeccable clipped syllables. “It negates the prime motive, perhaps the only one, for murder by a local person, namely robbery. Which means one of us must have another motive. What would that be?”
“I do not know yet,” Kantana admitted, “but I expect to uncover the motive along with the means and the opportunity. And when all three come together, I shall have my killer.”
He snapped his notebook shut, and Dana shivered again. She’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt when the clerk awakened her. Now, in the cool of dawn, she needed something warmer.
“If I could go to my room for a moment first—” she said to Kantana.
“No, mademoiselle. That would defeat our purpose.”
“I don’t understand. I just need to get something warm to put on—”
“Nothing will be removed until after our search.” His voice had a sharp edge.
Once again, she was made to feel guilty. And just because she was cold.
“Each of you will remain here until the search is completed.” With a slight bow, he turned and went out, followed by his aide.
* * *
THE MORNING seemed interminable. The hotel cooks prepared and set out breakfast, but no one seemed to have much of an appetite. Dana picked at a bowl of fruit, and everyone else did, too. Most of them drank innumerable cups of coffee, including Alex, who had switched from cognac.
When Kantana came downstairs from his search of the guests’ rooms, he commandeered Alex’s office to interview the guests—or suspects, as Dana had begun to think of herself and the others. She tried to give the word a sardonic twist in her mind because it was ridiculous, of course, to think any of them might have murdered Louis Bertrand, but she was still nervous.
Someone had murdered him, and Kantana seemed convinced that it wasn’t a citizen of Porte Ivoire but one of the guests in the Stanley Hotel, or Alex himself, or even Father Theroux.
Slowly they went into the office one by one. First Longongo and then Millicent completed their interviews and returned to their rooms. Yassif was next.
Dana waited silently while Alex disappeared into the kitchen, apparently to communicate with his staff, and Betty paced nervously up and down, glancing at the closed door.
“Don’t worry,” Dana assured her, “Yassif is a big boy. He can answer his own questions.”
Betty puffed out her cheeks and then fell down onto the love seat. “It’s just that he doesn’t speak English very well. His French is worse.”
“Kantana is very patient,” Dana said, wondering suddenly why she should be attempting to pacify Betty, of all people.
“I’m also concerned because our relationship is so new. I’m a little overprotective of Yassif.”
Dana couldn’t find anything encouraging to say about that. She really didn’t want to talk about Betty’s romance with the surly Yassif.
But Betty did. “We met at a party in Brazzaville just before the trip upriver.”
“Did Millicent introduce you?” Dana was curious about that.
Betty bristled. “Yassif and Millicent? Of course not, he’d never be seen with someone like her.”
“I saw them together on the Congo Queen, several times.” A little perverse of her to mention that, Dana realized, but she couldn’t resist.
“And I saw you talk with Louis. Yet you and he weren’t friends, or so you say.” Betty raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
“Give it a rest, Betty.” That was Alex, appearing at the doorway. “You’re not going to get a story out of this.”
“That’s what you’re after?” Dana asked, confronting Betty. “You want to write about Louis’s death!”
She shrugged. “Why not? A good juicy murder is certainly more interesting than a piece about wildlife of the Congo.”
Dana couldn’t control her disgust. Betty was thinking about this whole horrible episode as a magazine story and had no feelings at all for poor Louis, dead less than twelve hours. Dana mentally took off the gloves. Betty wasn’t going to get any sympathy from her.
Apparently, no one would get sympathy from Alex, who leaned against the lobby doorway, his face unreadable. Dana avoided his eyes, but Betty glared angrily at him. Then she was called by Kantana, and Dana was left alone with Alex.
She felt awkward and uncomfortable around him, with the remembrance of their scene in the garden fresh in her mind. But there was something else going on that she couldn’t put her finger on. He seemed to be studying her intently, as if he was sizing her up. Could he possibly think she was involved in Louis’s death?
Deciding that the best defense was a strong offense, she asked, “Did you go directly to your office last night after you left me in the garden?”
“Playing detective, Dana?”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” she replied. Which was true. She was curious about Alex and where he’d been while she and Louis were by the river. He easily could have followed them.
Alex strolled to the buffet table and poured a cup of coffee. “I’ll answer your question because I have nothing to hide—unlike some of the guests.” His smile was ingenuous. “After our rendezvous in the garden where you obviously misunderstood my overtures of friendship—”
Dana gritted her teeth at his cynical misrepresentation of the episode.
“—I went to my office, spurned and saddened, to bury myself in work.” His eyes sparkled with humor as he watched her surprised reaction. “Good story, isn’t it? In fact, I don’t have an alibi, but neither do you. And you were the last to see Louis alive,” he added softly.
Dana quickly defended herself. “But you were the one who argued with him.”
Before Alex could respond, the office door opened and Betty emerged. The supercilious look on the redhead’s face caused Dana’s heart to sink; it was a look that bore her no goodwill.
An aide ushered Dana into Alex’s office to face the sergeant. Her knees were shaky, and her heart was pounding like a drum. For no reason! She had nothing to be afraid of.
Kantana sat behind Alex’s desk looking solemn and official. The tall, sullen-looking officer dressed in khaki stood behind Kantana staring straight ahead. The sergeant gestured to a straight-backed chair. Dana sank onto it, wiping her damp palms against her shorts. What more could he ask her? What more could she tell him? The silence became ominous and oppressive. And when Kantana finally spoke to her, she jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?
Dana leaned forward to look at what he held in his hand. She recognized it immediately, a long wooden tube, intricately carved. She recalled pictures in her father’s notes, descriptions of an ancient weapon still used by the Pygmies. What Kantana held in his hand was a blowgun.
“I know what it is, but I’ve never seen that one before.”
“Ah, yes.” Kantana put down the weapon and carefully touched his fingertips together, forming a kind of tent with his elegant hands. He leaned back in his chair and spoke in a low voice. “Then how, mademoiselle, do you explain its presence in your room?”
Dana couldn’t believe the question. “You couldn’t have found that in my room. I’ve never seen it in my life!”
“But it was found in your room, mademoiselle.”
“No. There’s been a mistake. That isn’t mine. Someone else left it in the room, maybe a previous guest—”
“No,” the sergeant said crisply. “I have interviewed the maid on your floor. She cleaned the room thoroughly before you moved in. There was nothing, certainly not a weapon. No blowgun.”
Dana was totally confused. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Sergeant. Are you trying to say that this blowgun, which you claim was found in my room, was the weapon that killed Louis?”
“I cannot positively say that. But here are the facts. A dart from a blowgun killed Monsieur Bertrand. Such a gun was found in your room. And you deny any knowledge of it.”
“I certainly do!” Dana’s confusion had turned to anger. “Your accusation is absurd. I hardly knew Louis Bertrand and had no reason to kill him, certainly not with a blowgun. I’ve never touched such a weapon, never even seen one. As far as I’m concerned, this interview is over.”
She started to get to her feet, only to be stopped by a quick move from the aide, whom Kantana controlled with a nod of his head.
“This is...ludicrous,” Dana insisted, even as she sat back down, adding defiantly, “you’re accusing the wrong person, and you’re going to be very sorry.”
He raised skeptical eyebrows. “Oh, do you think so? I show you further evidence, mademoiselle.” He placed a stack of notebooks and papers on the desk. “Detailed notes on the Pygmies. It would seem that you came very well prepared.”
Dana’s anger was replaced by a deep dread. “Those are my father’s notes. He knew about the Pygmies, not I.”
“But you brought them with you,” Kantana said smoothly.
“That was my choice.” She felt suddenly invaded, and she refused to put up with it.
“Not if murder was the result. Now tell me, why did you bring the notes with you?”
Dana chose her words carefully. “I am a language teacher, a professor specializing in rare and exotic tongues. For that reason, my father’s work with the Mgembe interested me. When I had a chance to travel a route he’d taken years before, naturally, I jumped at the opportunity.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “There’s nothing illegal about that.”
“Certainly not,” Kantana agreed. “But it is interesting, to say the least, that both you and Monsieur Bertrand shared a fascination with the Mgembe, that you carried with you notebooks filled with information on the Pygmies, and that he was killed in a way that they are known to murder.” He held up the weapon.
“I didn’t have a blowgun—either that one or any other!” she cried adamantly. “We’ve just arrived here. Where would I have found one?” She knew the answer to that question even before it was out of her mouth.
“In the market. When you went shopping with Mademoiselle Kittredge. She tells me that you were not together throughout that trip.”
“Well, no, we weren’t. I was tired and—” Dana realized that the overly friendly Millicent had passed on information that could seem incriminating. “But I didn’t buy a blowgun then or ever. Even if I had, how do you suggest I poisoned the tip?”
“The poison is also readily available, alas,” he replied with apparent sadness.
“And of course, I know exactly how to administer it,” she said sarcastically.
Kantana placed his hand on top of her father’s notebooks. “It is all here, easy for a clever woman to understand. Indeed, you are a clever woman.”
Dana didn’t like the insinuation in his voice. “Someone planted that blowgun in my room.”
Kantana shrugged, seemingly no longer interested in the topic. “I also have corroborating information that you and Monsieur Bertrand became very close friends during your voyage on the Congo Queen. Do you deny that you spent much time together?”
More incriminating information, this time from Betty’s mouth, which didn’t surprise Dana in the slightest. She was surprised about Millicent’s betrayal, though. So much for the support of her fellow tourists.
“Louis and I spent time together,” she answered finally, “but he was with Father Theroux much more often. Why don’t you question him?”
“As I mentioned, I intend to,” Kantana said coolly “But of course that is my business, the concern of the authorities. Now I ask again, could it be possible that there was a romance of some kind between you and Bertrand? Something that might have caused you to quarrel with him—”
“And to kill him? No, Sergeant. No! The idea is absurd. And you said yourself that you needed a motive—”
“Motive, means and opportunity,” Kantana said, quoting his own earlier remarks. “The latter two, we have established, have we not?”
“No, I—”
“Of course, you had both the means,” he said, touching the blowgun, “and the opportunity. You knew Louis was alone by the river, and you could have approached without alarming him. And of course, you were the last person to be seen with the victim.” He heaved a satisfied sigh. “Further, I now realize that you are an expert on the Mgembe, who have made the blowgun into an art form.”
He settled back comfortably, crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her to respond.
That’s when Dana realized that she was caught up in a nightmare too horrible for her to contemplate. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. “You believe I’m guilty,” she blurted out.
He didn’t respond. His face was expressionless.
She suddenly realized was was happening. Kantana was going to arrest her!
Dana struggled to keep her voice calm. “I demand to talk to a lawyer.”
He almost chuckled. “There is no lawyer in Porte Ivoire, mademoiselle.”
“Then I demand my phone call. Surely, even here, an accused person gets at least one call. I want to talk to the American Embassy in Brazzaville.”
“This is not the United States, Mademoiselle. French law is somewhat different from yours. And as much as I would like to oblige you with a phone call, there are no phones in Porte Ivoire.”
“Then use the shortwave radio on the boat,” Dana demanded.
“I shall do this much for you,” Kantana said in noxious tones. “After I interview Father Theroux, I shall send him to talk with you in jail—”
“Jail? No!” Dana was on her feet. “You can’t do that. You can’t put me in jail—not on circumstantial evidence. You’re insane. You’re—”
She saw his face then. Cold, hard, implacable.
“I’m not guilty of this horrible crime,” she said. “I’m not guilty!”
He sat watching wordlessly.
“Why don’t you look where the guilt really lies.” She leaned forward, her hands on his desk, and spoke carefully with all the confidence she could muster. “It belongs on Alex Jourdan.”
As soon as Dana made that statement, she realized her total belief in it. His obnoxious behavior last night had sent her rushing into Louis’s arms—almost as if the whole meeting had been arranged—by Alex. And today, he’d been watchful, mysterious, not just dangerous, but possibly deadly. She’d been suspicious from the beginning. Now she knew why.
“Listen to me,” she demanded. “Alex and Louis were on the outs. Something had gone wrong between them. Everyone knew that. And I overheard them just last night, arguing about a deal of some kind. I heard them!”
“And did anyone else hear this argument, mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know. But everyone was aware of the bad blood between Alex and Louis. You can’t deny that,” she said firmly.
Kantana didn’t flinch. “I, as everyone else, knew of the bad blood between the two men. As for the recent argument, which you say that you overheard, Alex told me that he had warned Bertrand to stay away from you, Mademoiselle. It is unfortunate, is it not, that Bertrand did not listen to the warning?”
The edges of the room grew fuzzy, and Kantana and his aide faded in and out of focus. She wasn’t going to faint, but Dana thought she might be sick. She grasped the arms of the chair and sank into it, her head reeling.
“Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said slowly. “I’m a tourist, a college professor. I’ve never been arrested, never even gotten a traffic ticket.” She looked at Kantana pleadingly. “People like me don’t commit murder!”
Kantana shook his head sadly. “All kinds of people commit murder, mademoiselle.”
Dana couldn’t think of a response. She sat immobile before him as Kantana rose slowly and spoke to her in soft tones.
“And now, mademoiselle, I shall ask my aide to escort you to our local jail. There, we shall do all in our power to make you comfortable.”
* * *
STRANGELY, no one was around when the American was taken away. But I was watching. I suspect that everyone was watching.
Dana’s being with Louis that night had been a stroke of luck, and hiding the blowgun in her room had been an impulsive but brilliant decision. It put all the focus on her and away from the real reason behind his murder.
She’d been easy for me to set up. She knew no one; she had no connections. Justice moved slowly in the Congo, and someday she might be found innocent. But by then it wouldn’t matter. My game would be over.

Chapter Three
Alex was settled comfortably in his favorite rattan chair on the veranda, drinking a beer, contemplating the river and wondering what the hell he was going to do about his life. He didn’t look up when Maurice Longongo appeared; instead, he balanced the chair on its two back legs as was his habit and propped his foot against the porch rail.
“I hear they’ve made an arrest,” Longongo said in his precise voice.
Alex didn’t respond immediately, but that didn’t seem to bother the government official, who persisted. “The American is in jail even as we speak.”
“We’re not speaking, Longongo. You’re speaking,” Alex clarified.
“In any case, the woman is in jail.”
“Kantana thinks he has evidence,” Alex said brusquely, trying to cut off further conversation.
Longongo wasn’t discouraged. He perched on a chair beside Alex. “She hardly knew Bertrand.”
Alex shrugged.
“I cannot fathom a motive,” Longongo persisted.
“Who can figure women out? I sure as hell can’t. If I were you, I’d leave it alone. Let the policeman do his work.”
Longongo’s eyes narrowed cunningly as he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “It seems a coincidence, doesn’t it, that so many of us on the Queen were also at the Egyptian’s party in Brazzaville?”
Alex took a final swig of his beer and tossed the bottle into a nearby trash can. “Were you?” he said, barely stifling a yawn.
“Yes. A most elegant party at a large estate outside the city. I was there as a government representative, of course. Poor Louis was there also, as a merchant. I believe he supplied the wine through one of his contacts. Miss Kittredge and Miss Weston and her companion were guests, as well. Then we all turned up as passengers on the Queen. And now here we all are in Porte Ivoire.”
“Life is filled with strange coincidences, Longongo. Like the American woman’s knowledge of the Mgembe.” Alex got to his feet. “However, I’m tired of hearing about Louis and about the woman. What I need is another beer.”
He stepped into the hotel bar, leaving Longongo sitting alone in the hot afternoon sun.
* * *
THERE WERE TWO cells in the Port Ivoire jail. Only one of them was occupied. Dana sat on the side of a rickety cot, still stunned, unbelieving, almost paralyzed with fury. How dare they! She stood up and paced the eight-by-eight-foot space. The jail, and her abysmal cell, could have been a symbol for all the deterioration of Porte Ivoire.
She knew something about the town from her reading, even more from her trip into the marketplace yesterday. And she’d seen the rest on her incredible journey today from the hotel to the jail under a police escort that consisted of one ridiculous aide to Kantana and the sergeant himself.
She sat back down. What a place to be incarcerated! Once the town had been a major trading post on the Congo, shipping out ivory for the craftsmen of the East and Europe, and animals for the zoos of the world. International laws and changing mores had put an end to that, and as an environmentalist, Dana was glad of it.
But the result was a town sliding into lassitude, a place on the verge of extinction. It lay somnambulant on the bank of the river, its buildings rotting, worn down by tropical heat and humidity, its population gradually drifting away to larger cities downriver, its market the last gasp of enterprise.
The jail to which she’d been so summarily whisked away was testament to the town’s failure. A pitiful concrete block building, it stood on a dusty side street in the most neglected section of the town, Kantana’s office in front, the two cells behind. In her cell were a cot, basin and chamber pot. There was one window, about four feet off the ground, its bars rusted but still strong enough to keep her inside. Through the window, vines and bushes pushed against the jail as if the jungle were hungry to reclaim what had once belonged to it.
Not surprisingly, there was no screen across the window, and insects buzzed freely in and out, making their homes in the crevices of the walls. Soon it would be dark, and the mosquitoes would begin their invasion. It seemed absurd that she was even worried about the mosquitoes, but she could be sure they would come. She could only speculate on what else to look forward to.
Her first hope had been centered on Father Theroux. She’d expected his visit from the moment she landed in the cell, and it had finally come after more than two hours. He brought food and prayers but little in the way of encouragement.
“You know I shall do whatever possible,” he said, standing uneasily by the door.
“Then please intervene with Kantana for me. Your word will carry weight with him.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that is not the case, my child.” The priest fixed his gaze on the scene out the window as if he didn’t want to meet her eyes. “I have known Jean Luc for many years, and he has always been a very decisive, even stubborn man. Not in the least likely to change his mind.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dana snapped. “Sorry.” She didn’t want to offend him so she chose her next words more carefully. “But as an officer of the law, he has to pay attention to evidence and testimony—”
“And I imagine he would profess to have done just that. The blowgun was in your room.”
Dana’s heart plummeted at the finality of Father Theroux’s hard words spoken in such a gentle tone. “I’m innocent, Father!”
“Of course, you are, my dear. But Jean Luc can only act on the evidence at hand.”
“Then he has to look again. And again!”
“Yes, of course.” The priest hesitantly assured her, “I’ll speak to him.”
“Thank you, Father.” She leaned against the cell wall. As if the priest’s mild words would change the sergeant’s mind or convince him to reopen the investigation.
“Jean Luc is an intelligent man,” Theroux said, further discouraging her, “who usually knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, he doesn’t know this time. Unless he’s framing me on purpose,” Dana shot back. She stood up straight and looked at the priest with narrowed eyes, a spark of hope flaming momentarily. “Maybe he’s part of the setup. Maybe he’s framing me to...to protect himself! He could have killed Louis as easily as anyone else!”
“Oh, no.” The priest shook his head in distress. “Jean Luc is totally honorable. I can’t imagine—”
“Well, I can,” Dana interrupted. “The law isn’t above corruption. When I get a lawyer, I’m going to have him investigate Kantana, who is just as likely to be guilty as I.”
Father Theroux’s smile was gentle. “We are all guilty of many things, in many ways,” he said profoundly. “And now, before I leave, let us pray that the Lord will rid us of our unfounded guilt...”
“And punish those on whom the guilt is not unfounded,” Dana added.
The priest opened one eye and looked at her forgivingly as Dana closed her eyes and prayed.
He left her with a crock of cooked chicken, a Bible and some information that stunned her. Louis was to be buried in Porte Ivoire—and Alex Jourdan was paying for the funeral!
* * *
DANA WASN’T HUNGRY but forced herself to eat the chicken and rice. It was all Father Theroux left; certainly no hope. So she ate the food. It was either that or fight the roaches and ants for it later in the evening. She had just finished when she heard a familiar voice echoing in the hall.
“This place is disgustingly dirty! Someone needs to get in here with a mop and scrub brush.”
Dana caught a glimpse of Sergeant Kantana making a quick escape into his office and out of Millicent’s way as she breezed by, her face red from the heat and her gray hair standing out in tufts around her face. To Dana she looked like an angel of mercy. A lot more decisive than the good Father.
“Oh, Millie, thank heavens you’re here. Did you get through to the American Embassy in Brazzaville? I asked Father Theroux to remind you, but who knows where his head was when he left here. So what happened? Did you talk to them, did you—”
“Calm yourself, Dana. Take a deep breath and slow down. Getting overwrought won’t help anything,” Millicent ordered.
“Overwrought? You’re damned right, I’m overwrought. Look around! I’m in jail, Millicent, in case you haven’t noticed. Sergeant Kantana has taken all my money and my passport, and I’m being held for murder. Murder, Millicent! It’s enough to make anyone overwrought. Besides which, Father Theroux offered me no encouragement whatsoever.”
“He can be somewhat ineffectual,” Millicent agreed.
“Ineffectual? He mouthed accusations that came straight from the sergeant.”
“Like?”
“Like a blowgun was found in my room. I’m not a complete idiot, Millicent.”
“No, indeed, you’re not.”
“And only a fool would kill someone and then keep the murder weapon in her room. I would have thrown it in the river, for God’s sake.”
“Of course,” Millicent agreed. “And as for your supposed love affair with Louis on board the Queen—”
“There was nothing between me and Louis. I was probably less friendly to him than anyone—except Alex.” Dana leaned her forehead against the bars of her cell. “To make things more confusing, Father Theroux tells me Alex has offered to pay the funeral expenses.”
“Well, obviously, in this heat, the body can’t be returned to Brazzaville.”
“That’s not the point, Millicent. The point is, he’s paying—Alex, who was supposedly Louis’s enemy.” Dana covered her face with her hands. “This is so awful. I can’t even believe the man is dead, much less that I’m accused of killing him! It’s like a terrible nightmare.”
Millicent patted Dana’s hand that grasped the cell bar. “I’m sure things will work out once I get through to the American Embassy,” she said soothingly.
“You haven’t reached them yet?” Dana was dismayed.
“The radio is down on the Congo Queen. Just temporary, I’m sure.”
Dana beat her fists ineffectually against the bars. “What kind of a place is this? No phones, no lawyers, no working radios...”
“It’s the Congo, dear. That’s just the way things are. And you must accept it—at least for a while.”
Dana gave her a hard look. “Not on your life. I’m going to fight like crazy, Millie, and I need your help.”
“You’ll have it, I guarantee. After all, I’m the leader of this tour, and I feel responsible. For everyone,” she added quickly. “Are they treating you well?”
Dana gave a bitter laugh. “Look around. I’m sharing a cell with half the insect life of Central Africa. I’m locked in a space eight feet square with no running water. I’ve only been here a couple of hours, but I can assure you that I’m not being treated well.”
Millicent pushed a bundle through the bars. “I brought you some fresh clothes.”
“Thanks,” Dana said, taking the clothes and tossing them on the cot. She suddenly lost her spunk and felt the tears building. Slowly, they trickled down her cheeks.
“We’ll think of something,” Millicent assured her. “I’ll talk to Kantana.”
“Please,” Dana begged. “Ask him to let me out. Father Theroux says I can come to the mission until the investigation is over. I won’t try to escape,” she said a little pitifully.
“I’m sure you won’t.”
“And when you get through to the embassy, have someone call my brothers in Colorado. Kurt and Andy will fly right over. Do you have something to write on? I’ll give you their numbers.”
Millicent produced a pencil and notebook, and Dana wrote down the information. She had no doubt they’d drop everything and come to Africa as soon as they heard about her plight. Dana and her brothers had become even closer after the death of their parents. Nothing would keep them from helping her.
“Now, what else?” Millicent asked sympathetically. “Father Theroux brought you dinner...”
“Yes, and promises my next meal. Well, I don’t intend to be in here that long.”
“And I’m sure you won’t, my dear.” Millicent offered another pat.
“Meanwhile, Betty has a real hook for her story—’Murder in the Congo, America teacher arrested.’ I can just see it—”
“That slut,” Millicent said emphatically.
Dana did a double take, not believing her ears. Admittedly, Millicent was an outspoken woman, but Dana never had heard such a remark from the Englishwoman’s lips.
“That’s just what she is,” Millicent reinforced.
“I thought you liked her. You invited her on the cruise—”
Millicent waved a dismissive hand. “I ran into her at a party and felt a momentary empathy because she was out of work.”
“Well, she’s working now,” Dana said sarcastically. “Just keep her away from me. I can’t be responsible for what I might do.”
“Admittedly, I made a mistake bringing her on the tour. Her behavior with Yassif has been disgusting.”
Again, Dana was surprised at the emotion in Millicent’s voice. “Hardly to be compared with murder,” she snapped.
Millicent’s eyes brightened behind her thick glasses. “Do you think Betty—”
“No,” Dana said firmly. “There’s only one viable suspect, and that’s Alex.”
Millicent was thoughtful. “I’ve known Alex for a long time, and I understand what he’s capable of. A little larceny here and there, lying when it suits him, womanizing, it goes without saying. But murder—”
Dana felt a burst of anger. “I don’t believe this! No one wants to admit that Alex could be guilty—not you, not Father Theroux, certainly not Kantana. In spite of the fact that the man’s practically a criminal. Whereas everyone immediately assumes I’m guilty when I’m the least likely person in the world to commit murder.”
“But you, my dear girl, are a stranger here.” Millicent’s response, meant to be kind, sent cold chills down Dana’s spine. “The rest of us know one another, our capabilities as well as our frailties, while you are an unknown element. Of course, you’d be an obvious suspect.”
Dana felt sick. She was a stranger in a far-off land—with no one to stand up for her, no one to take her side. “You will help me, won’t you?” she asked in a shaky voice.
Millicent’s voice was strong and reassuring. “Of course. I’ll get on it right now. I’ll keep after that captain until he gets the radio working.”
“Thank you.” Dana couldn’t keep the tremble out of her voice.
* * *
NIGHT FELL over Porte Ivoire like a thick, heavy cloak. Strangely, as I’d noticed often, the darkness didn’t muffle sound; noises seemed to intensify. The beating wings of a raptor swooping down on its prey; the rustle of a night animal in dry grass; the rumble of laughter from the waterfront. It had been that way the night Louis died. All the sounds magnified. I remember distinctly the whisper of the dart. The sharp intake of Louis’s breath. The sound of his body falling across the path.
Too bad he had to die. He had such a love for life, for fine wine and good food. And women. Most of them fell for his world-weary, French dilettante line. Few women knew what Louis was really like or what he was up to.
* * *
DANA PUT ON the clean slacks and shirt Millicent brought and tried not to be intimidated by the darkness that was creeping into her cell. It was hard to ignore when the animals outside increased their frantic calling. And the shadows lengthened...her heartbeat accelerated.
It was the rapid beating of her heart that told Dana she was in trouble; getting through the night was going to be hell, and she wasn’t sure she was prepared for it.
Kantana made a last visit before leaving for home and dinner. Victor, his aide, was left in charge. And that was not comforting, particularly when he came to the office door every few minutes and looked down the hall at her. After the third time, she crawled onto her bed in the corner of the cell, out of his view.
The black night was illuminated by a single bulb swaying in the hall, casting its crazy shadows on Dana.
I could die here, she thought.
And the only thing that could prevent her death would be action on Dana’s part. She needed a plan of some kind. But what? She had no money, no passport. She couldn’t even bribe her jailer!
Dana drew her legs to her chest and tried to make herself into a little ball. Tried to disappear. She was too tired to think and too scared to sleep. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She felt alone and very sorry for herself.
Against her will, she dozed off. Voices awoke her, two men speaking French in whispers. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. It seemed like déjà vu, that conversation, so similar to what she heard—or thought she heard—between Alex and Louis that fateful night.
Then it was quiet, and she heard only the noises of the night, those terrifying sounds that kept her on edge, huddled on the bed, ready for anything.
“I wonder how many stars Louis would have given this place?”
The voice came from the window, and at the sound of it, Dana bolted to her feet. “Who is it?” she cried. Then she saw his face, briefly, as the bulb cast a quick illumination on the cell window.
“Alex Jourdan! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Keep your voice down,” he ordered, “so Victor doesn’t hear you. Wait until he turns the tape recorder on. There...” he said as the music wafted from the jail office.
Dana listened for a moment to the sound of jazz. “You brought him a tape recorder?”
“Sure. He loves jazz. I brought him some beer, too. that’ll help him pass the hours while he guards his dangerous prisoner.”
Dana shot him a long, hate-filled look. “Are you crazy?”
“I needed to talk with you. The jazz and the beer will give me that chance, keep him occupied while you and I make a deal.”
“A deal? You are insane! There’s no way I’m dealing with Louis’s murderer. Now get away from the window or I’ll scream for Victor.”
“No, you won’t,” Alex said calmly. “You’ll listen to what I have to say because, lady, I’m your only hope.”
“Then God pity me,” Dana said flatly, “if I have to depend on the likes of you.” She moved into the corner and climbed onto her bed, as far away from him as she could get. Even though he was on the other side of the bars, she felt safer away from the window.
“You don’t have to depend on me,” he said, “but I think you’ll want to when you hear what I can do.”
“And just what is that?” Dana asked.
“I can break you out of this place,” he answered in a hoarse whisper.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied loudly.
“Be quiet or I’ll never get a chance to show you. I can get you out of here now. Tonight. We can cross the border into Zaire and then fly to Kenya. You can go to the American Embassy, get a new passport and be out of this part of the world before Jean Luc gets organized enough to put together a chase. You can be free, Dana.”
Free. The word sounded wonderful, but there was no way freedom would come from Alex Jourdan. There was no way she could trust him.
“Come here, Dana. I don’t want to shout. Come here so I can tell you what I have in mind.”
Curiosity got the best of her. Whatever he had to say, listening to him would be preferable to cowering uselessly. She went to the window. When she was within two feet of him, she stopped.
“Come closer,” he urged.
“No, this is good enough.”
“What I have to say is for no ears but yours. If you don’t come close, I can’t speak.”
Warily, she approached. She was obviously the crazy one for even talking to him. Their encounter in the garden the night before, the perplexing mixture of emotions it aroused in her, was all too immediate. She didn’t just remember those feelings; she felt them. Attraction. Excitement. Anger. And danger; it had been there in the garden, and it was here in the jail.
But she’d already taken the first step toward him. She took another. His face was in shadow, but she could make out his features in the dim light. The look in his eyes was dark and intense, and the seductive whisper of his voice drew her on.
“I can help you, Dana.”
She kept her voice low. “You don’t strike me as the altruistic type. There must be something in this for you.”
He flashed a smile, and she caught a glimpse of his even, white teeth. “No, I’m not altruistic. Let’s put it this way. I’m meeting a mutual need. But I can’t explain unless I can see you. Step a little closer, into the moonlight.”

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