Wilbur Smith - Gold Mine

by Gold Mine(Lit)

  The Delange brothers had driven almost 1,500 feet in two weeks. At this rate they would hit the Big Dipper seven weeks from now, then even the theft of gold would pale into insignificance.

  At the time that Rod Ironsides was composing himself for sleep, Big King was taking a little wine with his business associate and tribal brother Philemon N'gabai, alias Crooked Leg.

  They sat facing each other in a pair of dilapidated cane chairs with a lantern and a gallon jug of Jeripigo set between them. The bad stench of the abandoned workings did little to bring out the bouquet of the wine, which was of small concern to either man, for they were drinking not for taste but for effect.

  Crooked Leg refilled the cheap glass tumbler that Big King preferred, and as the wine glug-glugged from the jar he continued "his attack on the character and moral fibre of Jose Almeida, the Portuguese.

  "For many months now I have had it in my heart to speak to you of these matters," he told Big King, "but I have waited until I could set a deadfall for the man. He is like a lion that preys upon our herds, we hear him roar in the night and in the dawn we see his spoor in the earth about the carcasses of our animals, but we cannot meet him face to face." Big King enjoyed listening to the oratory of Crooked Leg and while he listened he drank the Jeripigo as though it were water, and Crooked Leg kept refilling the tumbler for him. "In counsel with myself I spoke thus: "Philemon N'gabai, it is not enough that thou should suspect this white man. It is necessary also that you see with your own eyes that he is eating your substance"."

  "How, Crooked Leg?" Big King's voice was thickening, the level of the jug had fallen steadily and now showed less than half. "Tell me how we shall take this man." Big King showed a fist the size of a bunch of bananas. "I will..

  "No, Big King. "Crooked Leg was scandalized. "You must not hurt the man. How then would we sell our gold? We must prove he is cheating us and show him we know it.

  Then we will proceed as ever, but he will give us full measure in the future." Big King thought about that for some time, then at last he sighed regretfully. "You are right, Crooked Leg. Still, I would have liked to..." He showed that fist again, and Crooked Leg went on hurriedly.

  "Therefore, I have sent to my brother who drives a delivery van for SA Scale Company in Johannesburg, and he has taken from his Company a carefully measured weight of eight ounces." Crooked Leg produced the cylindrical metal weight from his pocket and handed it to Big King who examined it with interest. "Tonight, after the Portuguese has weighed the gold you take to him, you will say, "Now, my friend, please weigh this for me on your scale," and you will watch to see that his scale reads the correct number. Each time in the future he will weigh this on his scale before we sell our gold."

  "Haul" Big King chuckled. "You are a crafty one, Crooked Leg.

  Big King's eyes were smoky and blood-shot. The Jeripigo was a raw rough fortified wine, and he had drunk very nearly a gallon of it. He sat opposite the Portuguese storekeeper in the back room behind the concession store, and watched while he poured the gold dust into the pan of the jeweller's scale. It made a yellow pyramid that shone dully in the light from the single bare bulb above their heads.

  "One hundred and twenty-three ounces." Almeida looked up at Big King for confirmation, a strand of greasy black hair hung onto his forehead.

  His face was pale from lack of sun so that the blue stubble of beard was in heavy contrast.

  "That is right," Big King nodded. He could taste the liquor fumes in the back of his throat, and they were as strong as his distaste for the man who sat opposite him. He belched.

  Almeida removed the pan from the scale and carefully poured the dust back into the screw-top bottle.

  "I will get the money." He half rose from his chair.

  "Wait!" said Big King, and the Portuguese looked at him in mild surprise.

  Big King took the weight from the pocket of his jacket.

  He placed it on the desk, "Weigh at on your scale," he said in Almeida's eyes flicked down to the weight, and then back to Big King's face. He sank back into. his seat, and pushed the strand of hair off his forehead. He began to speak, but his voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

  "Why? Is there something wrong?" Suddenly he was aware of the size of the man opposite him. He could smell the liquor on his breath, "Weigh it!" Big King's voice was flat, without rancour.

  His face was expressionless, but the smoky red glare of his eyes was murderous.

  Suddenly Almeida was afraid, deadly, coldly afraid. He could guess what would happen once the error in his balance was disclosed.

  "Very well," he said, and his voice was forced and off key.

  The pistol was in the drawer beside his right knee. It was loaded, with a cartridg under the hammer. The safety, catch was on, but that would only delay him an instant. He knew it would not be necessary to fire, once he had the weapon in his hand he would have control of the situation again.

  If he did have to fire, the calibre was.45 and the heavy slug would stop even a giant like this Bantu. Self-defence, he was working it out feverishly. A burglar, I surprised him and he attacked. Self-defence.

  It would work. They'd believe it.

  But how to get the pistol? Try and sneak it out of the drawer, or make a grab for it?

  There was a desk between them, it would take a few seconds for the Bantu to realize what he was doing, a few more for him to get around the desk. He would have plenty of time.

  He snatched the handle of the drawer, and it flew open.

  His fingernails scrabbled against the woodwork as he clawed for the big black U.S. Navy automatic, and with a surge of triumph his hand closed over the butt.

  Big King came over the top of the desk like a black avalanche. The scale and the jar of gold dust were swept aside to clatter and shatter against the floor.

  Still seated in his chair, with the pistol in his hand, Almeida was borne over backwards with Big King on top of him. Many years before, Big King had worked with a safari outfit in Portuguese East Africa, and he had seen the effect of gunshot wounds in the flesh of dead animals.

  In the instant that he had recognized the weapon in Almeida's hand, he had been as afraid as the Portuguese.

  Fear had triggered the speed of his reaction, it was responsible for the savagery of his attack as he lay over the struggling body of the Portuguese He had Almeida's pistol hand held by the wrist and he was shaking it to force him to drop the firearm. With his right hand he had the Portuguese by the throat, and instinctively he was applying the full strength of his arms to both grips. He felt something break under his right hand, cracking like the kernel of a nut, and his fingers were suddenly without strength, and the gun skittered across the floor to come up against the far wall with a thump.

  Only then did Big King begin to regain the sanity that fear had scattered. Suddenly he realized that the Portuguese was lying quietly under him. He released his grip and scrambled to his knees. The Portuguese was dead. His neck was twisted away from his shoulders at an impossible angle.

  His eyes were wide and surprised, and a smear of blood issued from one nostril over his upper lip.

  Big King backed away towards the door, his gaze fixed in horror on the sprawling corpse. When he reached the door, he hesitated, fighting down the urge to run. He subdued it, and went back to kneel beside the desk. First he picked up the controversial cylindrical weight and placed it in his pocket, then he began sweeping up the scattered gold dust and the shattered fragments of the screw-topped container.

  He placed them into separate envelopes that he found among the papers on the desk. Ten minutes later he slipped out through the back door of the concession store, into the night.

  At the time Big King was hurrying back towards the mine hostel, Rod Ironsides thrashed restlessly in a bed in which the sheets were already bunched and damp with sweat. He was imprisoned in his own fantasy, locked in a nightmare from which he could not break away.

  The nightmare was infinite and green, quiver
ing, unearthly, translucent. He knew it was held back only by a transparent barrier of glass. He cowered before it, and he knew it was icy cold, he could see light shining through it, and he was deadly afraid.

  Suddenly there was a crack in the glass wall, a hairline crack, and through it oozed a single drop. A large, pear shaped drop, as perfect as though it had been painted by Tretchikoff. It glittered like a gemstone.

  It was the most terrifying thing that Rod had ever seen in his life. He cried out in his sleep, trying to warn them, but the crack starred further, and the drop slid down the glass, to be followed by another and another. Suddenly a jagged slab of glass exploded out of the wall, and Rod screamed as the water burst through, in a frothing jet.

  With a roar the entire glass wall collapsed, and a mountain high wave of green water hissed down upon him, carrying a white plume of spray at its crest.

  He awoke sitting upright in his bed, a cry of horror on his lips and his body bathed in sweat. It took minutes for him to steady the wild racing of his heart. Then he went through to the bathroom. He ran a glass of water and held it up to the light. "Water. It's there!" he muttered. "I know it's there!" He drank from the tumbler.

  Standing naked, with his sweat drying cold on his body, the tumbler held to his lips, the idea came to him. He had never heard of anyone trying it before, but then nobody he knew would be crazy enough to drive into a death trap like the Big Dipper.

  "I'll drill and charge a matt of explosive into the hanging wall of the drive. I'll get the Delange boys on to it right away. Then at any time I choose I can blast the whole bloody roof in and seal off the tunnel." Rod was surprised at the strength of the relief that flooded over him. He knew then how it had been worrying him. He went back to the bedroom and straightened out his bedclothes. However, sleep would not come easily to him. His imagination was overheated, and a series of events and ideas kept playing through his mind, until abruptly he was presented with the image of Terry Steyner.

  He had not seen her for almost two weeks, not since their meeting just after Manfred Steyner's return from Europe.

  He had spoken to her twice on the telephone, hasty, confused conversations that left him feeling dissatisfied. He was increasingly aware that he was missing her. His one attempt to find solace elsewhere had been a miserable failure. He had lost interest halfway through the approach manoeuvres and had returned the young lady to the bosom of her family at the unheard-of hour of eleven o'clock on a Saturday night.

  Only the unremitting demands of his new job had prevented him from slipping away to Johannesburg and taking a risk.

  "You know, Ironsides, you'd better start bracing up a little, don't lose your head over this woman. Remember our vow Never Again!" He punched the pillow into shape and settled into it.

  Terry lay quietly, waiting for it. It was after one o'clock in the morning. It was one of those nights. He would come soon now. As never before she was filled with dread. A cold slimy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Yet she had been fortunate. He had not been near her since his return from Paris. Over two weeks, but it could not last. Tonight.

  She heard the sound of the car coming up the drive and she felt physically ill. I can't do it, she decided, not any more, not ever again. It wasn't meant to be like this, I know that now. It's not dirty and furtive and horrible, it's like... like... it's the way Rod makes it.

  She heard him in his bedroom, suddenly she sat up in bed. She felt desperate, hunted.

  The door of her room opened softly.

  "Manfred?"she asked sharply.

  "It's me. Don't worry." He came briskly towards her bed, a dark impersonal- shape and he was undoing the cord of his dressing-gown.

  "Manfred," Terry blurted. "I'm early this month, I'm sorry." He stopped. She saw his hands fall back to his sides, and he stood completely still.

  "Oh!" he said at last, and she heard him shuffle his feet into the thick pile of the carpet. "I just came to tell you," he hesitated, seeking an excuse for his visit, "that... that I'll be going away for five days. Leaving on Friday. I have to go to Durban and Cape Town."

  "I'll pack for you," she said.

  "What? Oh, yes thank you." He shuffled his feet again.

  "Well, then." He hesitated, then stooped quickly and brushed her cheek with his lips. "Good night, Theresa."

  "Good night, Manfred." Five days. She lay alone in the darkness and gloated. Five whole days alone with Rod.

  Inspector Hannes Grobbelaar of the detective South African Criminal Investigation Department sat on the edge of the office chair with his hat tipped onto the back of his head and spoke into the telephone, which he held in a handkerchief-covered hand.

  He was a tall man with a long sad face and a mournful looking mustache that was streaked with grey.

  "Gold buying," he said into the receiver, and then in reply to the obvious question, "There's gold dust spilled all over the place and a jeweller's scale, and a.45 automatic with a full magazine and the safety-catch still on, dead mans prints on it." He listened. "Ja.

  Ja.

  All right, ja. Broken neck, looks like." Inspector Grobbelaar swivelled his chair and looked down at the corpse that lay on the floor beside him. "Bit of blood on his lip, but nothing else." One of the finger-print men came to the desk and Grobbelaar stood up to give him room to work, the receiver still held to his ear.

  "Prints?" he asked in disgust. "There are finger prints on everything, we have isolated at least forty separate sets so far." He listened a few seconds. "No, we will get him, all right. It must be a Bantu mine worker and we have got all the finger prints of the men from outside the Republic. It's just a matter of checking them all out and then questioning.

  Ja, we'll have him within a month, that's for sure! I'll be back at John Vorster Square about five o'clock, just as soon as we finish up here." He hung up the receiver, and stood looking down at the murdered man.

  "Ugly bastard," said Sergeant Hugo beside him. "Asked for it, buying gold. It's as bad as diamonds." He drew attention to the large envelope he carried in his hand. "I've got a whole lot of glass fragments. Looks like the container the gold was in. The murderer tried to clean up, but he didn't make a very good job. These were under the desk."

  "Prints?"

  "Only one piece big enough. It's got a smeary print on it.

  Might be of use."

  "Good," Grobbelaar nodded. "Get cracking on that, then." There was a feminine wail from somewhere in the interior of the building, and Hugo grimaced.

  "There she starts again. Hell, I thought she'd exhausted herself Bloody Portuguese women are the end."

  "You should hear. them having a baby," grunted Grobbelaar.

  "Where did you hear one?"

  "There was one in the ward next door to my old girl at the maternity home. She nearly brought the bloody roof down." Grobbelaar's mustache took on a more melancholy droop as he thought about the work that lay ahead. Hours, days, weeks of questioning and checking and cross-checking, with a succession of sullen and uncooperative suspects.

  He sighed and jerked a thumb at the corpse. "All right, we've finished with him. Tell the butcher boys to come and fetch him.

  It had taken Rod almost two days to design his drop blast matt. The angle and depth of the shot holes were carefully placed to achieve maximum disruption of the hanging wall. In addition he had decided to drill and charge the side walls of the drive with charges timed to explode after the hanging wall had collapsed. This would kick in on the rubble filling the tunnel and jam it solid.

  Rod was fully aware of the power of water under pressures of 2,000 pounds per square inch and more and he had decided it was necessary to block at least 300 feet of the tunnel.

  His matt blast was designed to do so, and yet he knew that this would not seal off the water completely. It would, however, reduce the flow sufficiently to allow cementation crews to get in and plug the drive solid.

  The Delange brothers did not share Rod's enthusiasm for the project.

&nbs
p; "Hey man, that's going to take three or four days to drill and charge," Johnny protested when Rod showed him his carefully drawn plan.

  "Like hell it will," Rod growled at him. "I want it done properly. It will take at least a week." "You said ultra-fast. You didn't say nothing about drilling the hanging wall with more holes than a cheese!" "Well, I'm saying it now," Rod told him grimly. "And I'm also saying that you will drill, but you won't charge the holes until I come down and make sure that you've gone in as deep as I want them." He didn't trust either Johnny or Davy to spend time drilling in twenty feet, when he could go in six feet, charge up and nobody would know the difference. Not until it was too late.

  Davy Delange spoke for the first time.