Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

“Yes,” said Kobari, putting his hands in his pockets before they had an opportunity to betray him again. “With Bwana Draper. He was in the Special Air Services in England.”

“Ah.” Andrew was momentarily entertained by an image of Kobari bounding about the room, hands chopping, feet flailing, a deadly Oriental dervish whirling into a blur.

His entertainment was short lived, however. For just then a hubbub at the door of the hotel suite announced that the Technical Unit had arrived with their cameras and measuring tapes and fingerprint powders.

At five o’clock that afternoon, just as Andrew finished typing up his last report of the day, Cadet Inspector Moi of the C.I.D. sauntered around the partition that separated Andrew’s cubicle from Sergeant Oto’s. Moi’s pastel jumpsuit was today of a hue that Andrew decided was most probably cerise. The jumpsuits were an affectation which, like the plummy B.B.C. accent and the precisely trimmed goatee, Moi had acquired during his exchange year at London’s Scotland Yard. He had also acquired, no one quite knew how, the notion that he was a cunning sleuth.

“Had a few moments free,” Moi announced. “Thought we’d get together on this knifing thing.” He eased himself into the empty chair, lightly tugged up his pants to spare their crease, then languidly crossed one long leg over the other, knee atop knee. “Suicide, of course. No doubt of it at all, eh?”

Andrew sat back against his chair. “And what of the wallet?”

Moi shrugged easily. “Who knows? Chap probably hid the thing all the time, whenever he was traveling. Creature of habit, eh? Did it without even thinking about it. Automatic.”

“And he flew all the way here from the United States to commit suicide?”

Another comfortable shrug. “There are stranger things in heaven and earth than you’ve dreamt of in your philosophy, Yorick.”

Andrew frowned, puzzled.

“Look here, sergeant,” said Moi with great reasonableness. “I just spoke with Murmajee. He’s convinced that suicide was possible, if not probable. Tech Unit says the only prints on the knife were Quentin’s. And you’ve seen all the reports. Chap arrived on the seven thirty flight from Nairobi, went directly to the hotel. Had dinner alone, talked to no one, went off alone to his room. Next thing we know, he’s skewered. What else could it be but suicide?”

“Perhaps he met someone in Nairobi—”

“ ’Fraid not,” said Moi. “Nairobi police had a go at that. Same thing there. Arrived at three in the afternoon, day before yesterday. Spent the night in his hotel room. Came down next day for breakfast and lunch, went back to his room afterward, both times. Checked out at five, caught a taxi for the airport. Met no one, talked to no one.” Moi brushed a bit of lint from his pants. “And look, suppose he had. Suppose he made some enemy in Nairobi. How’d this other chap get here in time to poke him? Seven thirty plane was the only one in yesterday. And he didn’t come in with him — you’ve checked the passengers, right?”

Andrew nodded. Six tourists, four of them from Holland, two from Germany. A local European family: the Hendersons, mother, father, daughter, son, returning from a visit to the capital. Two local nurses returning from some medical conference. None of these had a motive, none had any apparent connection to the deceased, all had an alibi.

“There it is, then,” Moi said. “Suicide. Plain as the nose on your face.”

“Why the return trip ticket?”

Another shrug. “Used to be a requirement for entry into the country.”

Back in the sixties and seventies, when the government tried to halt the flood of hippies. “Yes,” Andrew said, “but no longer.”

“Chap didn’t know that, obviously.”

“Perhaps. I still find it puzzling that the man would come here to kill himself. A journey of some thousands of miles, only to commit suicide?”

“Puzzling, yes, fair enough, but perhaps he’d simply gone off the beam. Eh? Happens, you know. Chap lived alone in the States — just got that from the police in Atlanta. No family, no close friends. Retired. Spent most of his time brooding, probably. Nursing old wounds. Just snapped suddenly. Went bonkers, eh? Decided to go out in style. Bought the knife, bought the air ticket, came here, had a good meal or two, then stuck himself. Simple.”

The man lying on that bed had not struck Andrew as the sort to brood. Superbly fit for his age, for any age, and trained in a sophisticated martial art. Highly trained, judging by those calluses. A man who, confronted with a problem, would deal with it directly, forcefully.

Long spatulate fingers stroking his goatee, Moi studied Andrew. “Look here, Mbutu. You’re not going to go running around town asking more questions, are you?”

Andrew frowned. “How do you mean?”