The Old Enemy by Henry Porter (read with me .TXT) 📕

up at the head of an elephant; next to it the heads of a rhinoceros, a hippo and a buffalo, each with its mouth agape, eyes replaced with lifeless glass. ‘You killed all these?’ he said.

‘Yep, every last one of them.’

‘And the leopard?’ said the Bird, turning to the wall on the left, where the big cat posed on a branch.

Gaspar nodded. He had his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, partly to seem taller but also from excitement and pride. ‘The elephant, rhino and buffalo were all nailed with the Nitro Express.’

‘Were they charging you?’ asked the Bird with a deadly cool.

‘No, General, they were not. But they were close. I was in some peril.’

The Bird looked round silently. His eyes fell on a stuffed crocodile at the far end of the charnel house. Its mouth was open to accommodate a bottle of Glenmorangie whisky on a small silver platter.

Samson saw that he could stand it no more. ‘Perhaps we should look at the gun,’ he said.

A wooden case had been laid on the table with three sizes of ammunition lined up in front. Gaspar opened it reverentially and out fluttered the bill of sale from more than a century before and details of the weapon’s ownership since. Gaspar handed them to the Bird, who passed them to Samson. ‘My friend here will examine these. He’s the expert. He’s one of the best shots in Europe, though is far too modest to say so.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Gaspar. This was the first time he had really acknowledged Samson.

Gaspar picked up the gunstock and barrels and snapped them together, then fitted the forend to the underside of the two barrels. He hefted it, broke it open to reveal the twin chambers and handed it to the Bird. He selected the largest bullet, which was over three inches long. ‘With this gun, I recommend this 450 Nitro Express black powder cartridge, which propels a .458-inch-diameter 480 grain bullet to a muzzle velocity 2,150 feet per second.’

The Bird nodded as though he knew what the hell Gaspar was talking about, examined the workmanship and engraving and looked down the chambers. He gave it back to Gaspar.

‘As a matter of fact,’ continued Gaspar, ‘I had quite a bit of fun in Africa showing this weapon to a friend of mine who doubted its destructive power. There was this baboon out on the savannah. I loaded one of these babies into the breach, took aim at said baboon and fired, and, well, there wasn’t a lot left of that ugly old monkey.’ He stopped. ‘Lemonade, gentlemen? Where’s my lemonade? Where’s Hector with my goddamn lemonade?’ He went to the door and yelled.

A small Hispanic man bearing a tray appeared with a flurry of apologies, set it down and poured the lemonade. He handed a glass to Samson and Gaspar but missed the Bird’s hand and the lemonade spilled on to the green baize of the tabletop. In his rush to mop up the spilled liquid, Hector knocked over the bullets that had been carefully ranked by size by Gaspar and they clattered on to the floor.

‘My fault,’ said the Bird, stooping to pick them up. ‘Entirely my fault. Must be the thrill of seeing this beautiful gun.’ Samson saw him palm two of the bullets and wondered what he planned to do with them. But his attention went to Gaspar, who had put the rifle down and was looking furiously at Hector. ‘You can leave,’ said Gaspar. ‘Take your money at the end of the week and do not come back. Just leave!’

‘But it was my fault,’ said the Bird.

Gaspar shook his head. Hector left. ‘Okay, so let’s go and try her out. You want to shoot the gun, right?’ He slapped his forehead. ‘You brought the deposit money, should you wish to buy this beauty. Twenty thou was what we agreed.’

‘Mr Malek has the money.’

‘You want to see it now?’ asked Samson. ‘I can easily go and get it.’

‘You left twenty grand in the car? Jeez!’

‘You have good security,’ said Samson.

‘Maybe you should go and get it. Meet us out back. It will be obvious to you. Take the path between the buildings, Mr Malek.’ Gaspar mispronounced the name May-lek. That he was a racist prick and treated him like the help did not bother Samson in the least. He needed to look around. He left by the front door and retrieved two bundles of hundred-dollar bills in a transparent envelope from the locked glove compartment of the car, divided them and put them in his inside pockets. He saw he had messages, one of which was from Zillah Dee. ‘Meet tonight or tomorrow?’ Samson replied, ‘Tonight.’

He locked the door and took the path between the buildings to the service area at the back, which formed a kind of alley. His behind resting on the strata of rock that jutted from the ground, left by the builders as an interesting effect, Hector was smoking and looking absolutely desperate.

Samson stopped by him. ‘I’m so sorry about that.’

Hector looked up. He didn’t bother to conceal that he’d been crying. He shook his head and tried to pull himself together. Samson placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It was completely unfair.’

‘Thank you, sir. It is my daughter. She needs treatment for cancer. I had this job and one at the store to pay for it. Now I have just one job and that doesn’t pay well.’

Samson stepped back. ‘I’ll give you money.’ He opened his jacket to reveal one of the wads of cash. ‘I just have to show Gaspar I’ve got it with me. If you meet me here later, it’s yours.’ Hector didn’t know what to say. ‘But I wonder if there’s something you can do for me.’

Hector nodded, now open to any hope.

‘I’m an investigator, and I need to prove something about Mr Gaspar’s wife. Can you get me something with her DNA on it? A comb, a hairbrush or a