by Wilbur Smith
Hettie sat up and let the sheet fall to her waist. Her breasts were big and white, and damp with perspiration. She looked down on his naked chest and arm muscles approvingly.
"Gee, you're built nicely."
"So are you," Dennis smiled up at her.
"You're different from the other chaps I've gone out with," Hettie told him. "You speak so nicely like a gentleman, you know." Before Dennis Langley could decide on a suitable reply, the front door bell shrilled, the sound of it echoing through the house. Dennis shot into an upright position with a fearful expression on his face.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"It's probably the butcher delivering the meat."
"It may be my wife!" Dennis cautioned her. "Don't answer it."
"Of course I've got to answer it, silly." Hettie threw back the sheet, and rose in her white and golden glory to find her dressing-gown. The sight was enough to momentarily quiet Dennis Langley's misgivings, but as she belted her gown and hid it from view he urged her again.
"Be careful! Make sure it's not her before you open the door."
Hettie opened the front door and immediately drew her gown more closely around her with one hand, while the other she tried to pat her hair into a semblance of order.
"Hello," she breathed.
The tall young man in the doorway was really rather dreamy. He wore a dark business suit and carried an expensive leather briefcase.
"Mrs. Delange?" he enquired. He had a nice soft dreamy voice.
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Delange." Hettie fluttered her eyelashes.
"Won't you come in?" She led him through to the lounge, and she was pleasantly aware of his eyes on the opening of her gown.
"What can I do for you? "she asked archly.
"I am your local representative of the Sanlam Insurance Company, Mrs. Delange. I have come to express my company's condolences on your recent sad bereavement. I would have called sooner, but I did not wish to intrude on your sorrow."
"Oh!" Hettie dropped her eyes, immediately adopting the role of the widow.
"However, we hope we can bring a little light to disperse the darkness that surrounds you. You may know that your husband was a policy-holder with our Company?" Hettie shook her head, but watched with interest while the visitor opened his briefcase.
"Yes, he was. Two months ago he took out a straight life policy with double indemnity. The Policy was ceded to You." The insurance man extracted a sheaf of papers from his case. "I have here my company's cheque in "settlement of all claims under the policy. If you will just sign for it, please." How much?"Hettie abandoned the role of the bereaved.
"With the double indemnity, the cheque is for forty eight thousand rand." Hettie's eyes flew wide with delight. "Gee!" she gasped.
"That's fabulous!" Hurry's original intentions had expanded considerably. Instead of a plaque on the cement plug at 66 level, the monument to Big King had become a life-sized statue in bronze. He sited it on the lawns in front of the Adminstrative offices of the Sander Ditch on a base of black marble.
It was effective. The artist had captured a sense of urgency, of vibrant power. The inscription was simple, just the name of the man "King Nkulu" and the date of his death.
Hurry attended the unveiling in person, even though he hated ceremonies and avoided them whenever possible. In the front row of guests facing him his granddaughter sat beside Doctor Stander and his very new blonde wife. She winked at him and Hurry.frowned lovingly back at her.
From the seat beside Hurry, young Ironsides stood up to introduce the Chairman. Hurry noted the expression on his granddaughter's face as she transferred all her attention to the tall young man with both his arms encased in plaster of Paris and supported by slings.
"Perhaps I should have fired him, after all," thought Hurry. "He is going to cut one out of my herd." Hurry glanced sideways at his General Manager, and decided with resignation, "Too late." Then he went on to cheer himself. "Anyway he looks like good breeding stock."
His line of thought switched again. "Better start making arrangements to transfer him up to Head Office. He will need a lot of grooming and polishing." Without thinking he fished a powerful-looking cigar in his breast pocket. He had it halfway to his mouth When he caught Terry's scandalized glare. Silently her lips formed the words: "Your doctor!" Guiltily Hurry Hirschfeld stuffed the cigar back into his pocket.
The End
FB2 document info
Document ID: 3f541e2e-bc33-4819-bbde-87f28ff45d0b
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 8.4.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Wilbur Smith
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