Page 66 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Road Kill

“All right. I’m your man. Let’s go.” We were in the car and
starting to roll out of the gate before I thought to ask: “Where to?”
“Harry Hofbrauer’s house. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes. About half a kilometer past Lon Durer’s place, off the
Route de Nyofolo. What kind of party is this?”
She glanced at me sideways. “You don’t know about the weekly
poker game at Harry’s house?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, it’s basically boys’ night out in Falidougou. Harry and
Frank sort of sponsor this get-together most week-ends when they
are in town. It looks like a collegiate male-bonding exercise to an
outsider. The other participants are older PCV’s and younger NGO
and USAID types; the only real qualification is a need to escape from
Jolibana temporarily into a cozy late-adolescent miasma of beer and
gambling and talking tough. They sit around Harry’s dining room
table bare-chested or in their undershirts, smoking cigars and
sweating like pigs while they play. And one or two girls always show
up as well, PCV’s who are attracted to that scene or who are involved
with one of the men. They usually stay in the kitchen making a big
pot of spaghetti. If I were a Jolibanan sociologist and my subject
were American rituals, I’d be hiding under the table making notes;
I’m not, so I don’t attend.”
“Oh.” It didn’t sound like my cup of tea, either. “But tonight
you’ll make an exception, eh?”
“Yes, indeed. All the principals in the case will be there; the game
started about four o’clock, so they ought to be well-juiced and
uninhibited by now—I hope.”
I guided my Renault past the Palais des Fonctionnaires and
circumnavigated the traffic circle into the Route de Nyofolo. The rain
had not returned since the night Sally Furth died, and the humidity
was oppressive. I waited for Labelle to reveal her strategy for the
evening, but she needed prodding.
“Just who are these principals?”
Miss Gramercy hesitated before answering. “I won’t tell you
everything I know, because you might spoil my plans. But it should
be plain as day to you that Ferris Canby and Bonnie Banks are in the
clear; they could not possibly have traveled from Peace Corps
headquarters to Durer’s house, stolen his Land Rover, and

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