Death in Zanzibar by M. M. Kaye Page A

directing a scowl at Mr Dowling’s unconscious back. ‘I never forget a face. Probably in the papers, being sentenced for libel and defamation, if you ask me. It’ll come back to me. I know the type. All charm and good humour, and thoroughly untrustworthy. Only out for what they can get. No better than confidence tricksters. In fact that’s probably what he is! We’ve only his own word for it that he’s a feature writer — whatever that is!’
    Miss Bates sniffed again, expressively. ‘You know,’ she confided, ‘Gussie’s a good sort, and she’s got plenty of brains in her head. But there are times when you’d never suspect it. Look at the way she’s letting that reporter pump her about Tyson. Anyone could see that he’s up to no good. If he’s not a crook, then he’s after an article — preferably one with a lot of dirty linen involved. Newspapers are a menace. Garbage — that’s all they’re interested in. Garbage and Murder.’
    Murder!  … Yes, murder was only something that you read about in a newspaper. It wasn’t real. People one knew died; but they were never murdered …
    Dany had tea on the hotel verandah, still in the company of Augusta Bingham and Millicent Bates, and the Press, as represented by Larry Dowling. Larry had issued an unexpectedly diffident invitation, which she had been about to refuse when the sight of Lash Holden had made her change her mind. For Lash was also taking afternoon tea on the verandah — with Amalfi Gordon. He was wearing a grey suit and showed no signs of a hangover, and Amalfi was looking soft and sweet and appealingly lovely in something that had undoubtedly run someone into three figures in a cheque book, and whose simplicity of line made every other woman within range look (and feel) like a back number of Home Chat.
    There was no sign of the Marchese Eduardo di Chiago, and Amalfi was talking earnestly and inaudibly, with an expression on her lovely face that admirably combined a sweetly sorrowing archangel and a child begging forgiveness for some minor peccadillo.
    Lash was looking a little sulky, but at the same time bedazzled, and Dany wondered if the Marchese had been sent off on some errand that would keep him out of the way for an hour or two and allow Mrs Gordon to eat her cake and have it. The anxieties of the afternoon, together with the murder of Mr Honeywood and half a dozen pressing and unpleasant problems, retired abruptly from the forefront of her mind, to be replaced by indignation on the score of the predatory Mrs Gordon and the spinelessness of that gullible, besotted and hypnotized rabbit, Mr Lashmer J. Holden, Jnr.
    What can he see in her! thought Dany indignantly. And instantly realized just exactly what he saw in her. Amalfi Gordon appeared to have everything.
    Well she isn’t going to have Lash! decided Dany fiercely, and sat down in a chair from which she could keep an eye upon that feckless and intransigent young man without appearing to do so.
    Lash did not become aware of her for at least twenty minutes, but when he did, he reacted promptly; though in a manner that could hardly be termed gratifying. Suddenly catching sight of her, he remained for a moment transfixed, as though he could hardly believe his eyes, and then rising abruptly and excusing himself to Amalfi, he came quickly towards her, threading his way between the intervening tea-drinkers on the crowded verandah.
    â€˜I’ve been looking for you, Miss Kitchell,’ said Lash ominously. ‘There are several things that need your attention, and I’d be glad if you’d deal with them immediately. And another time, just let me know when you intend to take the afternoon off.’
    Dany bit her lip and blushed painfully, but fortified by a sense of humour, and even more by the spectacle of the golden Mrs Gordon left abandoned at the far end of the verandah, she rose