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THE GUMDROP AFFAIR
Ralph E. Hayes
The Gumdrop Affair was not much of a name for such an important assignment, but then the Department never had
taken Addison Barnaby seriously.
It all started while secret agent Barnaby was stationed in Africa. Late one night he received a mysterious package.
Inside was a coded message and a small, white paper bag filled with gumdrops. Barnaby started to eat one, but he
decided to decode the message first. He was glad he did.
The message said that the gumdrops were sugar-coated lumps of a new jelly explosive. Barnaby was to take the
gumdrops that is, the explosives to a contact man who would deliver them into the right hands. The contact's name
was Brian Thompson, an agent who had spent most of his life in Africa and had made his living as a wild-game hunter
and guide.
The next morning Barnaby took a taxi to the hotel where the contact man was staying. As Barnaby rode along,
he thought about how the Department always sent him to out-of-the-way places. He knew why, of course. He was over
forty and getting fat and bald. He had never been a cold-blooded secret agent, probably because he liked people
too much. Even though the Department insisted that he always carry a gun, he would never think of killing anyone.
Lately, in fact, he had begun to carry his .38 unloaded just to be sure he would not shoot somebody by mistake.
Barnaby liked to think he made up for his lack of killer instinct by being dedicated to his work. On every assignment
he always spent extra time learning about the country and the customs of its people. And what he learned often
helped him get the job done without the use of anything more violent than judo.
Barnaby's thoughts were interrupted by the taxi's arrival at the small African hotel. In the lobby Barnaby went
up to the desk and asked for Brian Thompson's room.
"Room 315, sir," the girl said.
"Ahsante," said Barnaby, thanking the girl in Swahili. As he headed for the elevator, he
carefully patted his coat pocket to make sure the small, white paper bag was there. No, he had not forgotten the
sugarcoated explosives. He got off the elevator on the third floor and walked to Room 315. He checked his gun to
be sure it was empty; then he knocked and waited. The door opened and a tall man said, "Yes?"
"I'm Addison Barnaby."
The man looked him up and down. "Is this some kind of a joke?"
Barnaby frowned. Nobody ever took him for a secret agent. "The password is kwaheri," he said
patiently.
"Oh, yes, so it is," the man said. "I'm Thompson. Come in, come in."
Barnaby stepped into the room, and the African hunter quickly shut the door and locked it. "I'm sorry,"
he said. "I had expected a--"
"Larger man?" Barnaby smiled.
"Well, yes."
"Everybody does."
"You don't look like a secret agent," Thompson said. "In fact, you remind me very much of a barber
that I used to know."
Barnaby did not mind the put-down. "Everybody looks like somebody else," he said. "What is the
answer to the password, if you please?"
"Oh. Sorry. Hatari."
It was the right answer.
Barnaby pulled the white bag out of his pocket and handed it to the man. "It's all there," Barnaby
said.
"Fine," said Thompson, looking in the bag. "Ngiri."
Barnaby looked up in shocked surprise. The man had just said "wart hog" in Swahili. Why would he say
that-- unless he didn't really know the African language very well?
Meanwhile, Thompson had taken the bag and placed it on a little table near the bed. "Will you have coffee
with me?" he asked.
"No, thanks, I just had breakfast," Barnaby said. "I did mean to ask you about your life as a
hunter, though. It must have been an interesting way to make a living."
"It was." The man sat on the bed, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. "Even now I miss the
lions and rhinos and herds of water buffalo."
"Yes, yes," Barnaby said, nodding his head. But he thought to himself, Water buffalo? They're
found in Asia, not Africa. A real hunter wouldn't make such a mistake.
Barnaby watched the other man smoke and glanced at the bag of explosives that was just a few inches away.
"Yes, I miss the tenting and the fresh air," Thompson was saying. He took another puff from the cigarette,
and now Barnaby saw that he was wearing an elephant-tail bracelet on his right wrist.
"I see you have an elephant-tail bracelet," Barnaby said.
The man looked at his wrist. "Yes. Killed the poor devil. Stalked him for five hours. Two hundred pounds
of ivory in his tusks."
"The bracelet is very nice," Barnaby said. But again Barnaby thought, A hunter wouldn't wear the
bracelet on his right wrist if he'd killed the elephant. He'd wear it on his left wrist. The bracelet is worn on
the right wrist only by tourists who don't know any better.
Quickly Barnaby pulled out his gun and aimed it at Thompson. Thompson's eyes narrowed, and he threw his cigarette
into an ashtray near the bag of explosives. "What's the matter with you?" he asked.
"Nothing. It's you," said Barnaby. "You're not Thompson."
The man looked at the gun. "How did you know?"
"Never mind," said Barnaby. "Just step away from that table." He wanted to get the explosives
back, and then he would deal with Thompson.
"All right." The man moved away slowly; then he dived at Barnaby, hitting him hard and throwing him
to the floor. When they had both struggled to their feet, Thompson had the gun.
"Sorry, Barnaby," he said. "I don't like to kill another agent, but this time it's necessary."
He squeezed the trigger, but the gun just clicked harmlessly. He squeezed again. Another click.
"It's not loaded," said Barnaby.
"Not loaded?" the man said. He shook his head and frowned. Then he jumped at Barnaby and swung the
pistol at him, but Barnaby grabbed the man's hand. The next moment the man who called himself Thompson flew through
the air and sprawled on the floor, groaning.
"Sorry to have to do that," Barnaby said. He leaned down and handcuffed the man's left arm to the
bed. Then he went to the table, put the bag of explosives in his pocket, and started to leave.
The man on the floor tried to sit up. "Hold everything, Barnaby," he said. "I'm really a Department
man. We're on the same side. Let me show you."
Was this some kind of trick? Barnaby didn't move. The handcuffed man took a long time fumbling through the things
in his billfold. Finally he pulled out a small card. "Look at this."
It was an ordinary-looking card, but Barnaby could see that it carried the special serial number that the Department
used for emergency identification.
"Good heavens!" Barnaby said.
The other man smiled. "Every once in a while, as you know, the Department tests its secret agents for loyalty,
courage, and ability. You just passed."
"But you tried to kill me with my own gun," Barnaby said.
"No. I aimed over your left shoulder."
"I see. Well, I'm sorry about having to use judo on you," said Barnaby. He unlocked the handcuffs,
and the other man held out his hand.
"Frank Guthrie," he said. "It's a real pleasure, Barnaby."
Barnaby shook his hand, and they both grinned. "That barber bit was just part of the test," Guthrie
said. "To make you believe the whole act."
"Don't apologize," Barnaby said. "I do look like a barber." He pulled the paper bag out
of his pocket, looked inside curiously, then glanced up at Guthrie.
"Do you mean "
"Yes," Guthrie admitted.
Barnaby took a soft, sugary lump out of the bag and popped it into his mouth. He bit down on it. It was lemon,
and delicious.
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