That Night in Lagos Read Free

perched on the bench up front with the driver and the two were conversing softly in a language that was alien to my ears. I in turn conversed with the Inspector just as softly.
    “Sir,” I whispered, “how long has the assistant been in your employ?”
    Inspector Jones tugged at the high collar of his starched uniform. “A few months, I believe. All in all, a steady enough chap for a native.”
    “And the driver?”
    “About the same. Why do you ask?”
    I re-positioned my walking stick, preparing to transform it into a weapon. “A few months as in close to three?”
    “Indeed,” my companion replied stiffly. “What of it?”
    I reflected on the coincidence. Prof Runal had launched the Brownie smuggling investigation just over three months prior to my visit and almost immediately had identified Lagos as one of several possible hubs. There were few phenomena that could set me on edge as much as a coincidence could. That and a badly made pot of tea. At least a coincidence is forgivable but neither should be ignored.
    “A steady chap he may be,” I replied, “but I suspect we won’t be driven to the constabulary.”
    “Rubbish,” Inspector Jones scoffed. “This, madam, is precisely why women are heartily encouraged to content themselves with such professions as are consistent with their delicate constitutions and sensitive nerves. They certainly shouldn’t be gallivanting about in an arena that requires clear and unbiased thought, a steady hand and a stout heart.”
    I snorted at his ludicrous statement. “My constitution is decidedly not delicate, and my only sensitive nerves are the ones associated with my olfactory senses. I heartily encourage you, sir, to loosen your weapons and prepare yourself.”
    “And I encourage you to restrain your imagination,” the uninventive man retorted through gritted teeth.
    Before we could continue encouraging each other thus, the assistant swiveled on the bench. His eyes wouldn’t fully meet ours as he said in a subdued tone, “Mr. Inspector Jones sir, we must make a detour. Because of roadwork.”
    Inspector Jones attempted to formulate an adequate response beyond an initial curse while the horse sped up. The carriage veered sharply off the main thoroughfare and into a quiet and shadowy alley. Ahead of us, the Obayifo stood waiting. As I prepared to jump from the carriage, I glanced at the alley’s entrance. Three burly Africans blocked the way.
    We were neatly and efficiently ensnared.

    At this point, I realized with some dismay that Inspector Jones was armed with nothing more than a rubber bludgeon. I rapidly mulled over his predicament as the Obayifo stalked toward us and my companion fumbled to release the club from his belt. The sachet of powdered cinnamon that I always stored in my skirt pocket was a wondrous weapon against ants and other creepy crawly insects but would have little effect on a vampire. I contemplated lending the Inspector a knife from my walking stick and that was as far as my contemplations were allowed to proceed before being rudely interrupted.
    “Be at peace,” the Obayifo commanded in a sonorous voice, his eyes fixed on Inspector Jones. The foolish man, having glanced up at the speaker, slumped into his seat, his face slack.
    “The only people at peace are dead,” I said while giving the Inspector a sharp and thoroughly satisfying kick to the shins, which had the added benefit of breaking the spell.
    That done and having deduced that both the driver and the assistant were in on the plot, I felt no remorse at delivering a mighty thump to the back of the driver’s head with the metal fist atop my stick. The man behaved as any would, and conveniently collapsed across the bench.
    Both Inspector Jones and his assistant were much amazed that I could deliver anything more potent than a curtsy but I didn’t dither about, for the Obayifo was loping toward us.
    “Get on with it,” I ordered Inspector Jones as I swung my stick at the