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

Holding the library book, Andrew knocked at the front door. He waited for quite some time. No one came. He knocked again. Waited.

At last he turned away and followed the sandy path round the house and into the small enclosed back yard. Wearing the same clothes he had worn earlier, his hands in his lap, his shoulders slumped, the old man sat beneath the blossom-laden trellis, staring off at the wall of rosebush. The light was thinner now, the colors faded, the roses diminished. Soon the sun would set.

The old man sensed Andrew’s presence, for he looked up, squinted, then nodded once, expressionless. He looked off again at his roses.

Andrew said, “May I sit down, m’zee?”

“Yes.” Indifferently, without a glance.

Andrew sat, putting the book in his lap. For a moment he said nothing. In the trees somewhere a bird squawked, low and shrill.

Finally Andrew said, “Your granddaughter has confessed to the murder of Robert Atlee.”

“Yes,” said the old man.

“She was walking, she says, along the beach in front of the Sinbad when he approached her. They spoke. He asked her to his room. She went. He told her who he was. He was bragging, she says. He told her that he and Mayani had separated, Mayani leaving the gold with him. That he had taken the gold into the south and finally escaped, by freighter, to the United States. He told her he had wanted to see Africa one more time.”

The old man had not looked at him, had not moved. He might have been sitting alone, there in the lengthening velvet shadows of his garden.

“And then,” said Andrew, “he attempted to assault her. A powerful man, he subdued her easily. He removed his clothes. As he approached, she saw the knife on the nightstand, grabbed it, and used it. Then she left.”

The old man said nothing.

Andrew said, “None of this is true, m’zee.”

The old man frowned. He turned to Andrew.

Andrew said, “I spoke today with Elizabeth Harrambee, the matron at Uhuru Hospital. She was a nurse here during The Troubles. It was she who told Ronald Nu, thirty years ago, about seeing Mayani near your house. She knew not only Mayani, she knew Robert Atlee. Two days ago, she was on the same plane from the capital. She recognized him.”

Eyes blank, the old man watched Andrew.

Andrew said, “After I spoke with her today, m’zee, she came here. She was seen doing so — I made inquiries.”

Nothing from the old man.

“Your granddaughter is a nurse. It was as a nurse that she spent her exchange year in Sweden. Previous to that, she worked at Uhuru Hospital. I know this, m’zee, for I examined their records before coming here. I believe that she became friendly with Matron Harrambee.”

Only the blank watchful stare.

Andrew shifted slightly in his chair. “M’zee, everyone knows that you are the only person left alive in all the Township who had any connection to Robert Atlee and Mayani. I believe that when the matron saw Robert Atlee on the airplane, she notified your granddaughter. Out of friendship, perhaps. Perhaps out of a sense of guilt for what she had done before.”

Still nothing.

Andrew looked down at the ragged grass, darkening now as light seeped from the sky. He looked up. “M’zee, so far as the police and the ministry are concerned, this case is closed. The gold is gone, Robert Atlee is dead, your granddaughter has confessed.”

The old man watched.

Andrew took a deep breath and let it slowly out. “I would like to agree with this,” he said.

Without moving, his face still without expression, the old man spoke. “What will happen to her? To Joanna?”

Andrew shrugged. “It is her word against the word of a dead man. He was a hero, yes, but the story of taking the gold will tarnish the legend. She removed her fingerprints from the knife and placed Atlee’s on it. Not good, but she claims she was in panic. She is a local woman, and well-respected, and she confessed voluntarily. I expect that her story will be believed. At the very worst, manslaughter. Perhaps a year or two of jail. At the very worst. More likely, a suspended sentence. Assuming there is even a trial.”

The old man nodded. He smiled. “Thank you, sergeant.” He blinked once, twice, then turned to look off at his roses.

Andrew said, “Was it a fight? Between Robert Atlee and Mayani?”

The old man said nothing.

“I know Mayani was here after the highjacking, m’zee. Elizabeth Harrambee saw him. And by your own account, Mayani told you that Ronald Nu tried to recruit him into the secret faction within the G.S.U. This took place, you said, only two weeks before his father and sister were murdered, on June 21,1953.”

Andrew tapped the book on his lap. “This is a history of The Troubles, m’zee. Your name is often mentioned. Your principles, your opposition to violence. In June of 1953, you made a public statement about the murders of Joseph and Rebecca Mayani. But you made it, m’zee, in Dar Es Salaam, in Tanzania. You spent the entire month of June in Tanzania, with the African Teachers’ Union.”

The old man said nothing.