Free Binstead's Safari by Rachel Ingalls Page B

usual tall stories, some of them, he sensed, originally not from East Africa at all, but from South Africa. The men around him seemed prepared to pull his leg indefinitely without becoming openly unpleasant about it. He played along, acting the good sport. Then he told a story himself, which he simply lifted straight from the Journal of American Folklore. It was such a hit that the company decided to give up making fun of him. He heard again what Jack had told him back in London—that gangs like the Leopard Men were just criminals, although since the fifties one could also find thatthey might claim some kind of political position. And, the claim having been made, it would therefore probably be true.
    He drank quite a lot. The men spoke of the German nurse and he mentioned that he’d been there—well, not there, but in the back seat and had been told everything by Carpenter. What he’d like to know, he said, was what had happened in the first accident: the one where the lion was on the roof and the man might have been thrown out by the rest of the passengers.
    There was a short silence. Three of the others exchanged glances. One of them, named Wilson, said, “Yes, we’ve been wondering about that. But at this stage, it’s only speculation.”
    â€œAnd after that, I guess it’s sub judice ,” Stan said. They laughed for a long time, as though he were really one of the boys. Shortly after that, he excused himself from the group.
    He walked carefully down the step into the next room, asked a uniformed houseboy how to get to the bathroom, and eventually found it. Just before he reached the sink, he had the sensation of pulling away from himself, as if he were nearly ready to pass out.
    He splashed some cold water on his face and thought: It’s because of this morning. I hadn’t intended to drink much. And better stop now.
    They had been at the party for an hour and three-quarters . He made up his mind to get Millie and go on back to the hotel.
    A waiter sidled up to him as he was wandering from room to room, trying to find her, and asked if he could help.
    â€œLooking for my wife. Time to go home. We’ve got to leave early tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat does the lady look like?”
    Stan described Millie’s hair and dress. The man left his side. Not long afterwards, Millie appeared at the other end of the room.
    â€œHow are you doing?” she asked.
    â€œPlastered and ready to go home.”
    â€œAll right. Let’s find the Armstrongs.”
    â€œAdvantage of a New England wife. You may be drunk as a coot, but you thank your hostess.” And she would take time the next morning, even in the middle of their departure, to send a note. His parents were devoted to her, so was his sister. They all thought he probably treated her badly in some way they didn’t know about. Which he did, of course.
    â€œLovely evening,” Millie said to Rita Armstrong. “It’s been so nice to meet you.” Stan pumped the colonel’s hand, thinking: He looks a lot more pickled than I feel, so at least I’m not the only one.
    Later that night, Millie heard someone cough. She thought the sound had come from outside. She went to the window and drew back the curtain. The street was still, empty. Then she noticed a shadow near the double line of trees, between the black shapes of trunks and leaves. It moved to the side. He walked out into the open, looking up. He lifted his arms, reaching out to her.
    She blew kisses, which she hadn’t done since Christmas vacation in her childhood when she used to leave her grandparents at the station.
    He held both hands to his heart and made a quick movement outwards, as if throwing something up to her.

They started out so early that it was still dark.
    They started out so early that it was still dark. And cold. The air was as clear as it would have been right up in themountains. Stan hardly spoke. He had a slight