Armless O'Neil, on the other hand, came by his meanness honestly.

  The clerk, who was not exactly white—he appeared to be of Middle Eastern ancestry—shook his head. “None a’ my business what color anybody is. He pay the bill, he have a room, same as you gentlemans.”

  The man looked at Armless. “And this one here, walking with him. No pride in his own race, I guess.”

  “Look, Mister,” said O'Neil, stopping in front of the loudmouth's chair, “I don't know where you think you are, but this ain't no place for you to be trying to throw your weight around with that kind of talk.” His tone was not amiable, nor was it entirely hostile. It was a warning. A more-or-less friendly warning—to begin with. A wise man would interpret it correctly and step back from a pointless confrontation.

  This was not a wise man. And he was drunk on top of that. He evidently thought he was on safe ground provoking O'Neil and Davis, since he apparently had friends enough to outnumber them two to one. However, his three companions—seated nearby on a swaybacked sofa and a rickety wooden chair—didn't seem eager to create a scene. The two on the sofa held a whispered conversation in what sounded like German or Dutch. The third man, the one on the chair, had an air of aloofness. He watched the other three with obvious distaste. His face was hard, his eyes flinty. If any of these men were actually dangerous, Armless decided, he was the one.

  “Are you sticking up for this boy?” said the drunken lout. Paul Davis scowled, but held his tongue.

  “Who the hell are you?” Armless asked flatly.

  The man got to his feet and said, “My name is O.E. Parker. Colonel O.E. Parker of Birmingham, Alabama, in the U.S.A.” He said this as though it were something grand and impressive. Armless was unmoved. It did pinpoint the man's accent, though.

  Armless saw Paul tense up. He wondered how many such confrontations the young reporter had had to endure in his homeland.

  “You might not have noticed it,” Armless continued, “but you're in Africa now. Black men outnumber whites here by a considerable margin.”

  “They do now,” drawled the old man. “But things change.”

  One of the men on the couch stood up and moved close to Parker. “Don't be a fool,” he whispered. “We're here to meet the envoy from Baindada. He's late as it is, and you are too drunk. We don't need any more trouble. This is not one of your lunch counters in Alabama. You need to be discreet.”

  Armless glanced at Paul Davis. The young man didn't appear to have heard any of that. Probably looking around for that girl.

  “I don't need anyone telling me what to do,” said the belligerent Southerner. “Wherever you are in the world, the same standards ought to be in force. That's what we're working for.” He turned back to O'Neil. “A white man, even one as scruffy as you are, shouldn't have truck with a nigra.”

  “To hell with you,” growled O'Neil.

  Parker's bloodshot eyes went wide and he took a swing at Armless. It was a pretty pitiful effort. Even if the blow had connected, it wouldn't have made a dent. But Armless had stepped out of the way, and as the man swung, he caught his arm. He spun the old coot around twice and propelled him back toward the chair. The man landed on his backside on the cushion with a grunt.

  Armless would never know what might have transpired next. The front door of the hotel slammed open with a bang, and a quartet of gendarmes stomped into the lobby. One of them blew a whistle and another one spoke:

  “Your attention! There has been a murder on the street. Everyone in this building must submit to questioning.”

  There was a confused babble of voices from the patrons in the lobby.

  “There has been a murder,” the gendarme repeated. “We will speak with all of your guests now.” He waved a hand at the staircase, and two of the uniformed men headed that way. They mounted the stairs and ascended to the second floor.

  The clerk just shrugged.

  All the patrons upstairs were rousted out of their rooms and herded into the main lobby. None of them looked happy about it. Especially the girl. She was trembling so badly, Armless could detect it from across the room. When the police departed, they took her and a few of the others back to headquarters for further interrogation. Among these were the “Colonel,” who seemed to have sobered up a little, and his companions. They made their displeasure plain, but did not resist. Armless couldn't help but notice that when the girl was escorted down, she was minus her handbag.

  Something about the girl bothered Armless. After seeing Davis to his room, he came back down and asked the clerk what room she was staying in. The information cost him five francs. He went back up, picked the lock, and tossed the room.

  There was a single suitcase, open on the bed. It was full of feminine clothes and underthings. He picked gingerly through them, but found nothing. There weren't very many hiding places in the dinky “suite.”

  What would I do, he asked himself, if I wanted to hide something, I was in a hurry, and I was in an unfamiliar place? He let his gaze wander, and his mind with it. Both of them stopped at the little window.

  Of course! He ran down the stairs, out the front door, and around the corner of the building. Standing back, he determined which window corresponded to the room he had just tossed, and went to the wall beneath it. There was a broken wooden crate there, pushed up against the building, and a large, rusty metal can half full of rubbish. O'Neil peered into the can, then reached in with his hook and extracted a small handbag.

  Bingo.

  Transferring his prize to his right hand, he went back into the hotel and up to his room, keeping an eye peeled for observers.

  He locked the door and sat down on the bed, next to a small table. Switching on the lamp, he placed the handbag on the table and opened the clasp. He found three very interesting objects inside. When he had finished a brief examination of the objects, he let out a low whistle. He returned everything to the bag, fastened it, and stuffed it into a voluminous trouser pocket. He doused the lamp, unlocked the door and slipped out, heading down the hall to Paul Dunbar Davis' room.

  He rapped on the door with the edge of his hook. Davis opened it, and looked surprised.

  “Well, Paul,” Armless said with a disconcerting grin on his face, “it looks like you just hired a guide after all!”

  ***

  Inside Davis' room, with the door securely locked, Armless extracted the reticule from his pocket and held it before the young man's face.

  “Look at what I found.”

  “Uh... that's a woman's purse, isn't it?”

  “It sure is, and a very sweet one, too.”

  Davis blinked a few times, then said, “Well, if that's the kind of thing you like, more power to you. It's none of my business.”

  Armless laughed. “It ain't the purse that's sweet, it's the contents. Have a seat. “ Armless dropped into an old wooden chair, while Davis perched himself on the edge of the bed.

  O'Neil placed the handbag on his lap and snapped it open. He reached inside, in the exaggeratedly dramatic manner of a stage magician about to produce a rabbit from a hat. But what he extracted was not a rabbit. It was a very small pistol.

  “This,” Armless said, “is a two shot Derringer. It contains one bullet and one empty cartridge.”

  He set it down on the wooden table and reached into the bag again. This time, he came out with a folded sheet of blue notepaper. This he unfolded and handed to Davis without comment.

  The reporter studied it for a few moments and said, “This looks like a hand-drawn map.”

  “It is,” Armless confirmed. “Take a closer look. Up by the top right hand corner. Read the name that's written beside that X mark.”

  Paul moved closer to the lamp and squinted at the paper. “It's kind of hard to... Hey! Oh my God! It... It says Baindada!”

  “Right. First time I ever heard of it. Apart from you, I mean. Anyhow, you may not recognize any of the landmarks pictured on there, so I'll tell you that the X is not too far from here, to the northwest. A day's travel, give or take a few hours. I never heard of that valley that's marked on there where the X is, but I'd like to go have a look.”

  Davis closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and said, “This is awfully convenient. I've known you barely two hours, and at the beginning of that time you scoffed at my story. Now you come up with this. You're not playing a joke or trying to set up a swindle, are you?”

  Armless shook his head, not at all offended. He knew that if their roles were reversed, his reaction would have been the same. “I can see why you'd think that,” he said. “This town is full of con men, swindlers and thieves. Actually, the fact that you aren't from here is the main reason I'm showing this to you. This looks interesting, and I want to look into it. I don't want to do it all by myself, though. Now, I don't know if I can trust you—but that puts you ahead of everybody else I might talk to. I know I can't trust any of them. Sit tight, now—I saved the best for last.”

  Armless dipped his hand into the bag once more. This time he produced a small blue envelope. With a wink and a theatrical flourish, he dumped its contents onto the table.

  Diamonds. Three of them. They were rough, but it was obvious they could be cut into near-perfect gems. And if there were more where these came from...

  Davis whistled.

  “That was my reaction, too,” Armless said.

  “Where did you get all of this?”

  Armless related the sequence of events that led up to him finding the purse.

  “Well,” said Davis when the story was told, “that is one hell of a coincidence, I'd say.”

  “I would too. Be a shame not to take advantage of it, don't you think?”

  ***

  They left shortly after dawn the next morning.

  A mile or so outside of Brazzaville, they stopped at a mangy-looking trading post. The establishment might have seen better days, but not within living memory.

  The place was owned and operated by a Scotsman of indeterminate age and uncertain proclivities, who was rumored to have a remarkably shady past, even for this part of Africa. He had left his real name behind when he came here for whatever reasons he had. He was crotchety and sour, a small, scruffy man who seemed always in need of a bath. Locals called him the Terrier.

  Armless banged on the door until a voice from inside cursed him and told him to hold his water.

  The old man who opened the door seemed not at all pleased to see his visitor.

  “Oh God, it's you,” he said dully. “Whatever you want, it isn't here, you Irish jackass. I'm not even here. You're dreaming. Go dream elsewhere.”

  “Don't be rude, MacDuff,” Armless said. “I'm a paying customer. We want provisions. And information.”

  “Well, provisions I've got, if you've got money. As for information, you can go...”

  “Where is Baindada?”

  “Huh? Bain-who? There ain't no such of a place.”

  “I think there is. And if that's the case, then you have heard of it.”

  The old man sighed. “If I tell you what I know, will you go away? I don't know much.”

  “Sure, just lay it out. What is Baindada? A village?”

  “No-o-o. It's not a place at all. It's a people. You know, a tribe. Supposedly. There are all these stories you hear about lost tribes. Mythical peoples, that kind of thing. The Baindada are one of these. There is supposed to be some connection with one of the Lost Tribes of Israel, I think. That shows up in about half these stories, you know.”

  “Well, where does this legendary tribe legendarily live?”

  “That, I cannot say, because I don't know. I don't pay that close attention to native tales or gossip from German vagabonds.”

  “What German vagabonds? When?”

  “I don't know. Last year or the year before. Who can tell the time out here? They were tramps of some sort. They asked about it. I told them everything I knew, which was nothing. And now I have told you. That exhausts my supply of knowledge. No, put away your wallet. I tell you I have nothing more, even for money.”

  Armless thought the Terrier knew more than he was letting on, but decided there was nothing to be gained by pursuing it. He and Davis bought a few provisions—mostly bottled water—and continued on their way.

  ***

  Their journey was uneventful. They stayed next to the Congo River until they got past Stanley Pool. There, they crossed the river and headed west into Belgian Congo. The rain was still holding off, but it was muggy. The air seemed to cling to the skin like a wet shroud. There was no relief from it. They trekked through the rainforest on ill-kept dirt roads, O'Neil keeping constant vigil for any indigenous threats. Darkness had fallen by the time they located the entrance to the valley.

  “Well,” said Armless, shaking the map, “that much is true at least. Here's a valley. I didn't know this existed. It's not on any survey map I've ever seen.”

  It was quite shallow, and they had no trouble making their way down the wooded slope. There was a wide dirt trail winding its way down through the trees, but O'Neil was leery of it, so they remained back behind the tree line, staying parallel with the road as they picked their way along.

  “Something about that road strikes me as strange,” Armless explained. “It looks like it's been used a lot, and very recently, too. Trucks and heavy equipment, judging by those tracks. I've never heard of any diamond mines in this particular area, but that really don't mean anything. I haven't heard of ninety percent of what goes on out here.”

  It was dark when they saw the first signs of human habitation, other than the road itself. A thin ribbon of smoke from a fire and the sound of tom-toms. Armless listened closely to the drums. They were often used for long-distance communication by the natives, using an elaborate percussion language with which he had a passing familiarity. But these drums conveyed no such information. They were more like random gibberish.

  Soon they were within sight of a large clearing. This must be the very bottom of the valley, Armless decided. He couldn't see very much from inside the tree line, so he ventured out into the center of the dirt road for a better look.

  Ten seconds later, he became aware of a presence behind him. Turning his head, he saw a blur of motion. He just barely had time to duck before something heavy whistled through the air where his head had just been. Disoriented, Armless tried to level his revolver at the indistinct figure that had crept up behind him. Before he could draw a bead, he felt a sharp pain in his hand, and his gun went flying.

  It was a Senegalese mercenary; one Armless thought he had seen before. The huge man stood there, hefting the short, thick club with which he had tried to brain O'Neil, before using it to disarm him. O’Neil realized that even though his hand hurt like the devil, it was not broken. That was a relief, as he did not relish the thought of traipsing around the Dark Continent for his remaining years with two hooks.

  The mercenary snarled and lunged at O'Neil, swinging the short club. Armless hadn't seen where his pistol had gone, so this would have to be done the hard way. His fingers were too sore for an ordinary punch, so O'Neil gave the Senegalese a terrific blow to the underside of the jaw with the heel of his hand. This produced a loud crack and a muffled screech. Armless jumped backward as the big man fell to his hands and knees, gagging and spitting blood. And not just blood—there was also a handful of teeth and about half an inch of tongue. Armless winced. He could empathize with the man's pain, but it did not arouse any active compassion in him. He knew the mercenary had just been rendered doubly dangerous.

  “Sorry about this,” he rumbled as he advanced on the wounded man. “I know you're just doing what you were paid to do. But it's either you or me.” His pistol was nowhere to be seen, but that was fine with him. He didn't want to risk a shot this close to the village. He would use the one weapon that was always at the ready—his metal hook.

  His aim was to put it through the man's throat, quickly and cleanly. He did not savor murder, nor did he play games with it. He crept up to the distracted Senegalese and was pulling his arm back for the death blow when he got a surprise. The man's head jerked up abruptly and he spat a mouthful of blood and teeth into Armless' face. Blinded, O’Neil staggered back. He felt the mercenary grab the base of the hook and twist. It scraped against his skin, but didn't come loose. He hit the man in the mouth with his open palm.

  This only served to enrage the wounded man. He knocked Armless to the ground and fell upon him, raining blows down on his head. Then the flurry of fists abruptly stopped. The big man rolled off of Armless and onto the dirt road, an expression of astonishment on his face.

  Paul Dunbar Davis stood over the body, staring at the blood-streaked knife in his hand as though he had no idea what it was or what he had just done with it.

  Armless patted him on the back. “Come on, buck up,” he said. “I know it's rough to take in, but you did what you had to do. You saved my life. Your own, too, probably.”

  Davis gave him an empty look, nodded, and dropped the knife on the ground. Armless picked it up, wiped it clean, and put it in his belt. Then he dragged the body of the Senegalese off into the undergrowth and covered it up.

  They went back into the foliage beneath the great trees and made their silent way toward the spot where the road entered the village proper.

  ***

  “I say we stake the place out for a while,” Armless said. They made themselves as comfortable as they could under the circumstances, taking up a position behind some concealing scrub, where they could observe the village square without being seen.