The Kenyan Expedition Read online

  “We made it,” Haida said with a grin. She stopped the Land Rover in front of the columned porch. A moment later, a large lady rushed out the front door. She was wearing a lacy cream dress, and a fancy hat covered her flyaway wisps of gray hair.

  “JOHN! JOHN!” the woman shouted, her cheeks flushed bright pink. “You cannot spend so long away from home at your age! I was worried to death!”

  She put on a pair of glasses, looked at the four-by-four in confusion, and only then noticed Agatha, Dash, and the others.

  “You aren’t my John,” she mumbled, confused.

  “I should say not,” replied Agatha, jumping down from the Land Rover. “Actually, to be honest, we’re trying to find him, too.”

  “Are you friends of John’s, dear children?” she asked in a trembling voice.

  “I should say not,” Dash muttered, echoing Agatha. Fortunately, the elderly woman didn’t hear him.

  As they’d learned from their research, the slightly dazed woman was named Cordelia, and she was John McDuff’s wife. As soon as she spied Watson, she scooped him up in her arms and cuddled him to her chest, scratching him behind his ears and cooing endearments. The cat seemed to appreciate this, and started to purr.

  “What an adorable kittums! You will be my guests, ladies and gentlemen! Any friend of my John is most welcome,” Cordelia said happily, not even waiting for introductions. “I’ll ask the cook to prepare you a delicious lunch!” She led them inside the grand villa.

  Someone less observant than Agatha would have realized instantly that this was the home of an experienced hunter. There were animal skins and trophy heads everywhere, though some of the specimens looked a bit musty. Polished hardwoods and pure white curtains were the dominant colors in every room. In the dining room, the group was invited to sit at a large teak table as the villa’s staff carried in a selection of old-school British lunch dishes like steak and kidney pie, roast grouse, and smoked eel.

  “Umm . . . your trophy collection is . . . really something,” stammered Dash to break the silence. Chandler reached for a Cornish meat pasty.

  Mrs. McDuff dabbed her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief. “Hunting was my dear John’s greatest pleasure,” she moaned, wiping away a tear.

  It was the perfect opening to steer the conversation to the topic on all their minds.

  “Why are you crying, Madam?” asked Patrick Lemonde. “Has something unpleasant happened to Mr. McDuff?”

  “My John disappeared a week ago! And I can imagine why!” The group listened eagerly, waiting for more. In response, she pulled a small bottle out of her pocket and rattled the pills inside it. “He has a heart condition, my poor husband,” she cried in despair. “He shouldn’t be tiring himself out in this beastly hot sun. But knowing him, he’s gone off on some reckless hunting expedition, as he used to do with his old chums from the Most Honorable Society of British Gentlemen!”

  Agatha shot a knowing look at her companions. Cordelia let out a long sigh, with Watson still clutched in her arms, and a cup of tea in her trembling hand. Agatha inhaled sharply. The scent was exactly the same as the Ceylon blend they had found in the tin box.

  That makes perfect sense, but how do we proceed with the investigation? thought the girl. She hadn’t expected Cordelia to have no idea where her husband was.

  As Agatha tapped the tip of her nose, lost in thought, Cordelia McDuff continued her story. She told them how she’d begged her husband to give up his hunting safaris and dedicate himself to the tobacco plantation. After much hesitation, John had agreed just to please her and hung up his hunting rifle for good. Everything had gone smoothly until a few weeks ago, when he received a strange letter. Ever since then, he had been agitated and impatient with her. Cordelia had come across him polishing his old double-barreled shotgun. Then later that night, he had disappeared with three trusted assistants, taking the jeep and a cargo truck from the plantation.

  “I’m certain he’s gone off on some wild expedition.” She let out a deep sigh. “But he’s not a young man anymore. His reflexes aren’t what they once were, and his vision is poor. And on top of everything else, he forgot his heart medication. If he goes without it for too long, he might die!”

  A flash of cleverness lit up Agatha’s eyes. “We can bring him his heart pills, Mrs. McDuff,” she reassured her with a warm smile. “But we’d like to see the strange letter you mentioned. That might help us to find him faster.”

  Chandler and Dash raised their eyebrows in recognition of this brilliant strategy. Haida smiled, while Patrick Lemonde looked unsettled.

  Cordelia put down her teacup and led them through the halls of the villa to a heavy door with a pair of spiraling antelope horns mounted above it.

  “This is my husband’s office. I don’t know where he put the letter. I looked on his desk, but to no avail. In any case, if he kept it, it must be in here,” she said.

  Dash was the first across the threshold, where he found himself facing a lifelike stuffed lion crouched on the rug. It had massive paws, razor-sharp claws, and a mane the color of flames. As soon as the boy set foot in McDuff’s office, the beast jumped to its feet and opened its jaws in a fearsome ROARRR!

  “ARRRRRGH!” yelled Dash, stumbling backward, smack into Chandler’s large form.

  “Don’t worry, young man,” Cordelia exclaimed with a chuckle. “That’s Elwood, my husband’s pet lion. We raised him from a cub. He’s old and completely harmless . . . but he’s a fantastic guard. Gave you a scare, eh?”

  “Y-you . . . you could say that,” stuttered Dash as the old woman petted the majestic king of the jungle on the nose. Even Watson looked impressed.

  John McDuff’s office was sun-filled and bright, with a wide baobab table and wicker club chairs. A magnificent collection of antique spears and other African weapons decorated the walls.

  A leather writing pad, ink pot, and fountain pen lay on the desk, along with a paperweight made from a wildebeest hoof and an assortment of letters.

  “Try checking his mail,” said Cordelia, handing Chandler the pile of pages. “Perhaps I missed something. I get so muddled.”

  The Mistery House butler took the papers politely, then passed them to Dash.

  While the young detective carefully studied each envelope, Agatha started searching the room.

  “Nothing interesting here,” mumbled Dash after he’d sorted through all the pages. “Business correspondence and bills. We’re back to square one!”

  “Don’t worry,” Agatha calmed him, holding up a small slip of paper. “The mysterious letter was hidden behind this carved shield!”

  It wasn’t a full letter, but a brief telegram which read:

  TRANSPORT FOR WHITE GIRAFFE ORGANIZED STOP FERRY BRIGHT STAR LEAVES MOMBASA AT 19:15 TUESDAY APRIL 28 STOP PAYMENT ON RECEIPT STOP SIGNED PRINCE H.F.S.

  “Prince H.F.S.?” asked Patrick Lemonde.

  “Ferry Bright Star?” echoed Haida.

  “White giraffe?” cried Cordelia McDuff, more worried than ever.

  “It’s perfectly clear,” said Agatha. “This Prince H.F.S. hired John McDuff to capture Hwanka the giraffe, and they’ll ship him out from Mombasa tonight!”

  “I was right, he went hunting!” groaned Cordelia. “I beg you, please, take the pills to my husband before he gets onto that ferry!”

  “We will, but there’s not much time,” said Chandler, eyeing the clock. “No matter how fast Haida drives, we can’t get to Mombasa by sundown.”

  Cordelia McDuff smiled enigmatically. “Come with me, my dears.”

  She escorted them outside the villa to an unused tobacco shed. Inside, they found a vintage biplane painted yellow, with a wooden propeller and two seats in the fuselage. The canvas wings were dusty and the wheels of the landing gear looked a bit flat, but all in all it looked ready for takeoff.

  “Dash, Watson, a
nd I can squeeze into the passenger seats,” Agatha evaluated. “Chandler can fly it, since he’s the one with a pilot’s license.”

  “Um, one of the ones,” Haida said with a grin. “I fly skydiver clients around all the time.”

  “And what about me?” frowned Patrick Lemonde, looking anxious.

  “No worries,” Haida soothed him. “Chandler can fly it. My Land Rover may not be as fast as a plane, but if we get started right now, we can meet them in Mombasa by dawn!”

  Haida Mistery gave Chandler some final directions before she and Patrick Lemonde drove off at top speed, disappearing into the plantation’s green fields.

  It was two in the afternoon when they dragged the old yellow biplane out of the shed.

  Cordelia McDuff watched the whole operation, continuously repeating how worried she was about her poor husband. Taking off, however, was no simple task.

  “Want me to start the propeller?” Dash grinned as Chandler checked the controls. “Piece of cake!”

  “Are you sure you can do it by yourself?” Agatha was doubtful.

  “Sure thing!” Dash replied, reaching out to grab the large wooden propeller on the nose of the plane. “Watch my moves!”

  The young detective signaled Chandler to get ready, then took a deep breath and pushed down on a propeller blade with all his strength. He hadn’t realized it would be so heavy, nor did he know it was spring-loaded. The kickback sent him head over heels in the air. Cordelia squealed and the assembled workers burst out laughing.

  It took Chandler’s steely muscles to spin the propeller. Finally the engine sputtered to life and the biplane rolled across the estate’s wide lawn, ready for takeoff.

  The biplane banked at low altitude, circling back over Mrs. McDuff, who waved her handkerchief at them. “Don’t forget to give John his medicine!” they heard her shriek.

  Chandler straightened the joystick and the plane flew due east, toward the beaches of Mombasa.

  Squeezed into the passenger seat, Agatha and Dash watched as the landscape became smaller and smaller. Even Watson leaned over to gaze at the great herds of migrating animals crossing the savanna.

  Seen from above, Kenya was an endless succession of colors: grass-green valleys and red earth, plateaus ascending to peaks, silvery lakes, and patches of lush vegetation stretching for miles. The shadowy peaks of the mountains stretched up into cotton-wool clouds, and a waterfall cascaded down to a rushing stream below.

  The view was magnificent.

  Agatha and Dash couldn’t contain their excitement. Even Chandler, who was usually perfectly stone-faced, found his eyes bulging with awe behind his aviation goggles.

  “Dash, we should get back to work,” Agatha said after half an hour. She had to shout into her cousin’s ear to be heard above the noisy engine.

  “What work?” asked the young detective.

  “We need to figure out Prince H.F.S.’s identity,” Agatha replied quickly. “He’s the true villain behind the giraffe’s disappearance.”

  A sly expression crossed Dash’s face. “Got anything in your memory drawers?” he asked. “Do you know any royals in any country with those initials?”

  “I’ve got one idea,” said Agatha. “But I’ll need the EyeNet to confirm it.”

  “Sure, it should work fine up here. Just give me a second . . . it’s a bit cramped,” said Dash.

  While he worked his hand under his seat belt and into his pocket to grab the device, Agatha continued to search her prodigious memory. “Ships that sail from Mombasa travel through the Indian Ocean, often toward the Arabian Peninsula . . . The closest countries are Yemen and the Sultanate of Oman, which form the lower part of the peninsula. If memory serves, Yemen is a republic, and Oman is a monarchy.” She paused when she noticed Dash looking confused. “Are you even listening to me?” she asked. “Monarchy? Prince?”

  “Oh . . . right!” Dash grinned widely. “But what do I need to look up on the EyeNet?”

  Agatha clasped her hands together, concentrating hard. “I may be mistaken, but I think the Sultanate of Oman uses honorific titles for the governors of each of its regions,” she said. “Check to see if there’s a regional prince with the initials H.F.S.”

  Dash didn’t need to be told twice. He logged onto the Eye International archives and entered the new information. He was shocked to get a result immediately.

  “Here it is!” he exclaimed in triumph. “Prince Husam Fadil Sayad!”

  “Got him!” said Agatha with a smile, petting Watson’s cool fur. He had climbed into her lap, taking refuge from the cold air at the bottom of the fuselage. “But what connection is there between Husam Fadil Sayad and our white giraffe?” the girl asked. “We’ll need to prove there’s a motive in order to catch him!”

  Dash scanned through biographical files. A few minutes later, he showed Agatha the motive they needed to make their case.

  “‘A vast private zoo,’” she read. “‘His palace garden, constructed in the middle of the desert, houses many unique specimens of mammals and reptiles, including some species that are nearly extinct in the wild.’” They looked at each other. It all fit together.

  “But it’s going to be hard to incriminate him.” Dash sounded disheartened. “A lot of these documents mention lawsuits brought against him by the World Wildlife Fund and Greenpeace, but they haven’t succeeded in freeing the animals.”

  Agatha nodded. “Let’s stick with one animal, for the moment,” she suggested. “We need to focus on keeping Hwanka off that ferry and bringing him back to the Masai. We’ll worry about the rest later!”

  For the next few minutes, Dash concentrated on researching the Bright Star. It was a merchant vessel that shuttled back and forth weekly between Kenya and the Sultanate of Oman, transporting hundreds of shipping containers.

  Agatha scrawled their discoveries in her notebook, tore out the page, and reached her arm across to the biplane’s cockpit to show it to Chandler. It was the only way they could communicate, since the engine noise made it impossible to hear him.

  The butler nodded, looking troubled. Then he scrawled a reply and passed the page back. It read:

  LOSING FUEL. MAY NEED TO MAKE EMERGENCY LANDING.

  With all the problems they already faced, this was the last thing they needed!

  Agatha leaned her head out, noting a small leak in the fuel tank that dispersed a fine mist of droplets into the air. Why hadn’t anyone noticed this sooner?

  They sat in stunned silence, holding their breath. Then, as the blue line of the coast appeared ahead, the biplane suddenly started to lose altitude. The wings trembled and waved. A sharp whistling filled their ears. The airplane began to tilt downward.

  “Will we be able to land on the beach?” Dash looked terrified.

  Agatha frantically searched the coastline, trying to find a stretch of empty sand for their landing. “If we come in too close, we’ll hit those palm trees. If we go too far, we’ll end up in the sea!” she replied. “Pass me the binoculars!”

  After a quick scan, she picked out a wide stretch of treeless beach, which she pointed out to Chandler.

  Tense minutes followed.

  The biplane’s engine cut out and only its wings kept them aloft. They felt a plunging, roller-coaster sensation, but Chandler’s skilled maneuvers maintained the plane’s balance. Their landing was very noisy as the wheels hit the beach, bouncing over the sand and zigzagging between deck chairs, beach umbrellas, and small tables.

  When they finally came to a stop, the three Londoners staggered out of the plane, brushing sand from their clothes. Watson stared at a crowd of stunned onlookers. Luckily, no one had been hurt. One tourist had filmed the whole thing on his smartphone.

  The beachgoers who’d witnessed the skilled landing clapped loudly under the blinding sun.

  Dash threw his arms up like a rock star, but Aga
tha pulled at his sleeve. “Let’s go!” she said firmly. “There’s no time to lose!”

  “The docks are a long way away, Miss,” observed the butler, squinting down the coast at the distant city of Mombasa.

  “We’ll take a motorboat!” exclaimed Agatha.

  They sprinted toward the short pier, where there was a cluster of “beach boys”—young men who crowded the Mombasa beaches, offering to take tourists on boat trips. The trio approached one boy who ushered them onto his boat, and within moments, they were speeding across the calm turquoise sea.

  It was already seven o’clock and their hopes were stretching thin. Agatha and Dash stood at the bow, checking the coastline. Chandler looked on as the boy drove the boat at top speed.

  When they reached the docks, they got a nasty surprise.

  “The Bright Star has left its moorings!” cried Dash. “We’ve lost our giraffe for good!”

  “No, we haven’t,” said Agatha firmly. “There’s still a chance.”

  The others stared at her, bewildered.

  “We’ll catch the ferry!” she said.

  The huge ferry moved at snail’s pace, so the speedboat caught up with it before it reached international waters. The detectives pulled up alongside its thirty-foot-high side. How could they possibly get up onto a deck that high?

  “We need a long rope and a grappling hook!” Dash shouted, turning to Chandler.

  “Well, I don’t happen to have one in my pocket,” the butler said dryly.

  “Then we need a flare!” Dash insisted.

  Chandler rummaged through the boat’s toolbox, then threw his arms up in surrender.

  “I have an idea,” Agatha added, nervously biting her lip. “But we’ll need to be quick!”

  She directed their guide to speed up and position the boat directly in front of the ferry, but to maintain a safe distance. Then she asked Dash to place a phone call via the EyeNet.

  “Will they take the bait?” her cousin asked.