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  Tall, Dark and Deadly

  Madeline Harper

  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

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  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.