by Wilbur Smith
The uniformed chauffeur stood away from the Rolls, leaving its two occupants in privacy. They sat on the back seat with an angora wool travelling rug spread over their knees. On the folding table in front of them was a silver Thermos of coffee, shell-thin porcelain cups, and a plate of ham sandwiches.
The fat man was eating steadily, washing each mouthful down with coffee. The little bald-headed man was not eating, instead he puffed quickly and nervously at his cigarette and looked out of the window at the horses. The grooms were walking the horses in circles, nostrils streaming in the morning chill, blankets flapping. The jockeys stood looking up at the trainer. They wore hard caps and polo necked jerseys.
All of them carried whips. The trainer was speaking urgently, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat.
"It's a very fine service," said the little man. "I particularly enjoyed the stop in Rio. My first visit there." The fat man grunted He was annoyed. They shouldn't have sent this agent out. It was a mark of suspicion, distrust, and it would seriously hamper his market operation.
The conference between trainer and jockeys had ended.
The diminutive riders scattered to their mounts, and the trainer came towards the Rolls.
"Good morning, sir." He spoke through the open window, and the fat man grunted again.
"I'm giving him a full run," the trainer went on. "Emerald Isle will make pace for him to the five, Pater Noster will take over and push him to the mile, I've Tiger Shark to pace him for the run in." "Very well."
"Perhaps you'd like to keep time, sir." The trainer proffered a stop-watch, and the fat man seemed to recover his urbanity and charm.
"Thank you, Henry." He smiled. "He looks good, I'll say that." The trainer was pleased by the condescension.
"Oh! He's red-hot! By Saturday I'll have him sharpened down to razor edge." He stood back from the window. "I'll get them off, then." He walked away.
"You have a message for me?" asked the fat man.
of course." The other wriggled his mustache like a rabbit's whiskers.
It was an annoying habit. "I didn't fly all this way out here to watch a couple of mokes trotting around a race-track."
"Would you like to give me the message?" The fat man hid his affront.
What the agent had called a moke was some of the finest horseflesh in Africa.
"They want to know about this gas explosion."
"Nothing." The fat man dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
"A flash explosion. Killed a few men. No damage to the workings.
Negligence on the part of the miner in charge."
"Will it affect our plans?"
"Not one iota." The two horses had jumped away from the start, shoulder to shoulder, with the wreaths of mist swirling in their wake.
The glossy bay horse on the rails ran with an easy floating action while the grey plunged along beside it.
"My principals are very concerned."
"Well, they have no need to be," snapped the fat man. "I tell you it makes no difference."
"Was the explosion due to an error of judgement on the part of this man "No." The fat man shook his head. "It was negligence of the miner in charge. He should have detected the gas."
"Pity." The bald man shook his head regretfully. "We had hoped it was a flaw in the Ironsides character." The grey horse was tiring, while the bay ran on smoothly, drawing away from him. From the side rail a third horse came in to replace the grey, and ran shoulder to shoulder with the bay.
"Why should the character of Ironsides concern you?" "We have heard disturbing reports. This is no pawn to be moved at will. He is taking the job of General Manager by the throat. Already our sources indicate that he has reduced running costs on the Sander Ditch by a scarcely believable two percent. He seems to be tireless, inventive, - a man, in short, to reckon with."
"Well and good," the fat man conceded. "But I still fail to see why your principals are alarmed. Do they expect that this man will hold back the flood waters by the sheer force of his personality?" The second pacemaker was faltering, but still the big bay ran on alone. A far figure in the mist, passing the mile post, joined at last by the third pacemaker.
"I know nothing about horses," said the bald man watching the two flying forms. "But I've just seen that one," he pointed with his cigarette at the far-off bay. "I've just seen him run the guts out of the other two. One after the other he has broken their heads and left them staggering along behind him. We would call him an imponderable, one who cannot be judged "by normal standards." He puffed at his cigarette before going on. "There are men like that also, imponderable. It seems to us that Ironsides is one of them, and we don't like it. We don't like them on the opposing team. It is just possible that he could upset the entire operation, not, as you put it, by sheer force of personality, but by suddenly doing the unexpected, by behaving in a manner for which we have not allowed." Both men fell silent watching the galloping horses come round the last bend and hit the straight.
"Watch this. "The fat man spoke softly, and as though in response to his words the big bay lengthened his stride, reaching out, driving strongly away from the other horse.
His head was going like a hammer, twin jets of steam shot from wide flaring nostrils, and thrown turf and dirt flew from his hooves. Five lengths clear of the following horse he went slashing past the finish line and the fat man clicked his stop watch.
He scrutinized the dial of the watch anxiously and then chuckled like a healthy baby.
"And he wasn't really being extended!" He rapped on the window beside him, and immediately the uniformed chauffeur opened the driving door and slid in behind the wheel.
(To my office," instructed the fat man, "and close the partition."
When the sound-proof glass panel had slid closed between driver and passengers, the fat man turned to his guest.
"And so, my friend " you consider Ironsides to be an imponderable.
What do you want me to do about him?"
"Get rid of him."
"Do you mean what I think you mean?" The fat man lifted an eyebrow.
"No. Nothing that drastic." The bald head bobbed agitatedly. "You have been reading too much James Bond. Simply arrange it that Ironsides is far away and well occupied when the drive holes through the Big Dipper Dyke, otherwise there is an excellent chance that he will do something to frustrate our good intentions." "I think we can arrange that," said the fat man and helped himself to another ham sandwich.
As he had promised, Manfred caught the Friday evening flight for Cape Town. On the Saturday night Rod and Terry took a wild chance on not being recognized and spent the evening at the Kyalami Ranch Hotel.
They danced and dined in the Africa Room, but were on their way back to the apartment before midnight.
In the dawn a playful slap with the rolled-up Sunday papers which Rod delivered to Terry's naked posterior as she slept triggered off a noisy brawl in which a picture was knocked off the wall by a flying pillow, a coffee table overturned and the shrieking and laughter reached such a pitch that it called down a storm of indignant thumping from the apartment above them.
Terry made a defiant gesture at the ceiling, but they both subsided gasping with laughter back onto the bed to indulge in activity every bit as strenuous if not nearly so noisy.
Later, much later, they collected Melanie and once again spent the Sunday at & stud farm on the Vaal. Melanie actually rode a horse, a traumatic experience which bade fair to alter her whole existence.
After lunch they launched the speedboat from the boat house on the bank of the river and water-skied down as far as the barrage, Terry and Rod taking turns at the wheel and on the skis. It occurred to Rod that Terry Steyger looked good in a white bikini. It was dark before Rod delivered his sleeping daughter to her mother.
"Who is this Terry that Melanie talks about all the time?" demanded Patti; she was still sulking about Rod's promotion. Patti had a memory like a tax collector.
"Te
rry?" Rod feigned surprise. "I thought you knew." And he left Patti glaring after him as he went back down the stairs.
Terry was curled up in the leather bucket seat of the Maserati, just the tip of her nose protruding from the voluminous fur coat she wore.
"I love your daughter, Mr. Ironsides," she murmured.
"It would appear that the feeling is reciprocated." Rod drove slowly towards the Hillbrow ridge, and Terry's hand came out of the wide fur sleeve and lay on his knee.
"Wouldn't it be nice if we had a daughter of our own one day?"
"Wouldn't it," Rod agreed dutifully, and then found to his intense amazement that he really meant it.
He was still investigating this remarkable phenomenon as he parked the Maserati in the basement garage of his apartment and went round to open Terry's door.
Manfred Steyner watched Terry climb out of the Maserati and lift her face towards Rodney Ironsides. Ironsides stooped over her and kissed her, then he slammed and locked the door of the Maserati, and arm in arm the two of them crossed to the elevator.
"Peterson Investigations always delivers the goods," said the man at the wheel of the black Ford parked in the shadows of the garage. "We will give them half an hour to get settled in comfortably, then we will go up and knock on the door of his apartment." Manfred Steyner sat very still and unblinking on the seat beside the private detective. He had arrived back in Johannesburg three hours previously in answer to the summons from the investigation bureau.
"You will leave me here. Drive the Ford out and park at the corner of Clarendon Circle. Wait for me there," said Manfred.
"Hey? Aren't you going to... ?" The detective was taken aback.
"Do as I tell you." Manfred's voice stung like thrown vitriol, but the detective persisted.
"You will need evidence for the court, you need me as a witness "Get out," Manfred snapped, and opening the door of the Ford he climbed out and closed the door behind him. The detective hesitated a moment longer, then started the engine and drove out of the garage leaving Manfred alone.
Manfred moved slowly towards the big shiny sports car.
From his pocket he took a gold-plated pen-knife and opened the large blade.
He had recognized that the car was of special significance to the man.
It was the only form of retaliation he could make at the moment. Until Rodney Ironsides completed the drive on the Big Dipper Dyke, he could not confront him nor Theresa Steyner. He could not let them know he even suspected them.
Such human emotions as love and hate and jealousy Manfred Steyner seldom experienced, except in their mildest manifestations. Theresa Hirschfeld he had never loved, as he had never loved any woman. He had married her for her wealth and station in life. The emotion that gripped him was neither hatred-nor jealousy. It was affront. He was affronted that these two insignificant persons should conspire to cheat him.
He would not rush in blindly now with threats of physical violence and divorce. No, he would administer an anonymous punishment that would hurt the man deeply.
This would be part payment. Later, when he had served his purpose, Manfred would crush him as coldly as though he were stepping on an ant.
As for the woman, he was aware of a mild relief. Her irresponsible behaviour had placed her completely at his mercy, both legally and morally. As soon as the strike beyond the Big Dipper had made him financially secure and independent, he could throw her aside. She would have served her purpose admirably.
The journey which he had interrupted by this hurried return to Johannesburg was connected with the purchase of Sander Ditch shares.
He was touring the major centres arranging with various firms of stock brokers that on a given date they would commence to purchase every available scrap of Sander Ditch script.
As soon as he had completed this business he would tell the private detective to drive him out to Jan Smuts Airport, where he had a reservation on the night plane to Durban where he would continue his preparations.
It had all worked out very well, he thought, as he slipped the knife blade through the rubber buffer of the triangular side window of the Maserati. With a quick twist he lifted the window catch, and pushed the window open. He reached through and turned the door handle.
The door clicked open and Manfred climbed into the driver's seat.
The blade of the pen-knife was razor sharp. He started on the passenger seat and then the driver's seat, ripping the leather upholstery to shreds before moving to the back seat and repeating the process there. He slid the panel that concealed the tray of tools each in their separate foam rubber padded compartment, and selected a tyre lever.
With this he smashed all the dials on the dashboard, broken glass tinkling and falling to the carpeted floor. With the point of the tyre lever he dug into the rosewood panelling and tore out a section, splintering and cracking the woodwork into complete ruin.
He climbed out of the Maserati and struck the windshield with the tyre lever. The glass starred. He rained blows on it, unable to shatter it but reducing it to a sagging opaque sheet.
Then he dropped the tyre lever and groped for his penknife again. On his knees he slashed at the front offside tyre. The rubber was tougher than he had allowed.
Annoyed, he slashed again. The knife turned in his hand, the blade folding against the blow. It sliced the ball of his thumb, a deep stinging cut. Manfred came to his feet with a cry! clutching his injured thumb. Blood spurted from the wound.
"Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" Manfred gasped, horrified by his own blood.
As he staggered wildly from the basement garage, he was wrapping a handkerchief around his thumb.
He reached the waiting Ford, hauled the door open and fell into the front seat beside the detective.
"A doctor! For God's sake, get me to a doctor. I'm badly hurt.
Quickly! Drive quickly! "Terry's husband is due back in town today, Rod thought, as he sat down at his desk. It was not a thought that gave him strength to work through a day he knew would be filled with hectic activity.
The quarterly reports were due at Head Office tomorrow morning. In consequence the entire administration was in its usual last-minute panic. Already there was a mob in the waiting-room outside his office that Lily Jordan would soon need a stock whip to control. At three o'clock he was due at a consultants" meeting at Head Office, but before that he wanted to go underground to check the drop-blast matt that Johnny Delange had now completed and charged up.
The phone went as Lily led in his first visitor, a tall, thin, sorrowful-looking man with a droopy mustache.
"Mr. Ironsides?" said the voice on the phone.
"Yes."
"Porters Motors here. I've got an estimate on the repairs to your "How much?" Rod crossed his fingers.
"Twelve hundred rand."
"Wow!" Rod gasped.
"Do you want us to go ahead?"
"No, I'll have to contact my insurance company first. I'll call you."
He hung up. That act of unaccountable vandalism still irked him terribly. He realized that he would be reduced to the Company Volkswagen for a further indefinite period.
He turned his attention to his visitor.
"Detective Inspector Grobbelaar," the tall man introduced himself.
"I am investigating officer in the murder of Joss Almeida, the concession store proprietor on this mine." They shook hands.
