02.02.2012
My darling Binta,
My love for you grows in leaps and bounds. The fire of myaffection for you burns so bright. I cannot help thinking of howlucky we are to find such love.
I will see you tonight my darling.
Yours forever,
A.J.
Thesecond letter read:
13.02.2012
Binta,
Please, you must terminate the pregnancy. Stop being difficult andpig-headed. You have to consider my position, and the impact of this pregnancy onmy reputation if it becomes public knowledge.
Please use the =N=50,000.00 I gave you to terminate itimmediately. Delay is dangerous. Keeping the pregnancy is totallyout of the question. I will see you tonight to hear the good newsthat you have done it.
A.J
13.02.2012! That was theday that girl had committed suicide when I was last at the Lodge.The date was easy to remember, because she had been found the dayafter she died; the morning of Valentine's Day! But I thought hername was Fati? Something was fishy here. I shifted my gaze back tomy table. Also on it, was a lab test result showing that Binta wastwo months pregnant. It was from the same medical laboratory, whereI had directed Philip.
Icounted the money after removing the green rubber band. It wasexactly fifty thousand Naira in fifty Nairadenominations.
Who was A.J? Maria haddefinitely known who A.J was. Binta and Fati were probably the samegirl. And it was possible that she had remained obstinate byrefusing to abort the pregnancy, so A.J had killed her when hevisited her that night. And we had thought it was suicide. Allalong, we had thought that she had hung herself in her room. Hadshe instead been hanged? But the girl had left a suicidenote!What if the letterbeen written by the killer, to make it look like suicide? Whateverthe case, the first step now was to find out who A.Jwas.
My mindimmediately went to Ayuba. His full name was Ayuba Baba Jogodo. Hecould be A.B.J or just A.J. Maria had mentioned his name in herhypothetical story. He had been here when the girl was hanged. Hehad his position and status as a married man to protect. And he wasdefinitely making enough money to give =N=50,000.00 to agirl.
The spare keys to all the roomswere also in his possession, so he had access to her room, even when she was sleeping atnight. It was all so simple. All I had to do now was confirm thatthe handwriting on the letters was his.
I lockedmy door and went downstairs. The policemen were still hangingaround, watching everyone and everything with eagle eyes. I went tothe bar, behind which I knew Ayuba kept his records. His wife wasthe one there.
“Good day, Amina.” I said,taking a stool.
“Good day, Mr. Simpson,” shereplied, without her usual warmth.
“I hope this murder won’t affectbusiness here?” I asked.
“Ah,it will,” shereplied. “So many policemen around. We will probably have to closethe Lodge. People will be afraid to stay here,now.”
“Terrible,’ I said, tapping myfingers on the bar top and thinking quickly. “Amina, is it possiblefor me to see the names of the guests who were here the last time Icame? There is a name I am trying to remember, but I just can’tseem to recall it.”
“Of course,” she said and wentover to where Ayuba kept the books. She brought the worn registerto me.
As she watched me, Iquicklyopened theregister to the date of my last visit to the Lodge. All the nameswere there, including that of Fati Madu. But I was in for asurprise. The handwriting in the letters I had taken from Maria'sroom, did not match the one in the register! They were bothextremely different. Ayuba's writing was bold and slanted to the left. The handwriting on theletters, was in a faint hand and slanted to the right. Or could itbe that Ayuba had two different handwritings? One for business, theother for romance?
“That poor girl,” saidAmina.
“Which poor girl?” Iasked.
“That Fati Madu girl who killedherself. Her name is just below yours.”
“Oh, yes,” I said and indeed hername was below mine on the register. The funny thing was that Icould not even remember the girl’s face. I found that strangebecause I am pretty good at remembering names and faces. I toldAmina that I could not remember what the girl lookedlike.
“I think I remember her givingme one of her photographs,” said Amina, thoughtfully. “Let mecheck,” she said, as she left the bar and went inside through theback door. She soon came back with a picture. “Yes, she did,” shesaid, handing it to me.
FatiMadu had been a beautiful girl. I wondered why I had not noticedher. She looked happy in the picture.
“The morningof the day she died, I remember she had spilled salt on the table.I warned her it would bring misfortune. You spill salt and you geta bad day. It brings disarray and even death. It is like finding abat in the house. I also told her the best way to avoid bad luck wasto take a pinch ofthe salt with her right hand and throw it over her leftshoulder. Iguess she did not,” said Amina. I was staring quietly at the picture she gave me; I wasn't aboutto encourage her superstition.
“Can I have this for a shortwhile?” I asked. She looked surprised at the request.
“Yes, you can,” she said, but Icould see that she was wondering what I wanted to do with it. I haddecided to make some enquiries with the picture. I got off thestool and headed for the main door.
“And where do you think you aregoing?” asked one of the plain-clothes policemen sitting in thelounge. In my haste to crack the case, I had completely forgottenabout them.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m on my wayout.”
“Nobodyisleaving this Lodge,” he said. He was a burly fellow, who was about myheight. His face was mean, his eyes as hard as granite. His voicesounded like rumbling thunder. He did not look like someone to messwith.
“I have a private matter that Ihave to attend to,” I explained to him. “It is
