Zu Pfeiffer pinched a cigar tip, lighted it meticulously and considered the roster.
“Sergeant, this man—what’s the animal’s name? Kalomato—has his son surrendered himself?”
“No, Excellence. The man says that he has fled the country.”
“Where does he come from?”
“The neighbourhood, Excellence.”
“That means that his son is with the rebels?”
“Probably not, Excellence. He is very young, they say.”
“That does not matter. Sequester all the chief’s property. If he won’t give it up let the askaris deal with him. If that doesn’t work, have him shot.”
“Excellence!”
For such obstinate cases zu Pfeiffer had fallen upon the custom of serving two purposes by handing over the victim to the mercies of his askaris which whetted their sadistic appetites and usually secured the desired revelation of the whereabouts of the hidden ivory or other goods under the torture of the burning feet, and divers other ingenious methods. Of late this practice had proved so satisfactory that the mere threat was usually sufficient.