by Desmond Cory
The ground underfoot seemed to be getting slightly softer, as though some coarse sub-soil had replaced the solid rock; and the river banks to their right were noticeably wider apart. It was running more slowly here than lower down, though still fast enough to bubble and froth over an occasional cataract; but it was shallower, and clear enough for the slimy brown rocks of its bed to be clearly visible. Vegetation was growing again on its banks; there were lush patches of fern and of feathery grass, and moss grew in the crevices between the boulders. There was a damp fertility about the air that had been lacking since Johnny and Madrid had left the Ubangi; not the fecund dampness of the jungle, but something fresher and more spring-like. Some of the taller outcrops of grass had been beaten and shredded to ribbons by the dust-storm; they raised their torn stems pathetically, but at their feet clustered fresh offshoots of green. As they moved on, a few surviving flowers brought touches of colour to the low ground; pink littonia and ipomoea, purple and mauve dissotis. They mounted steadily towards the great cup of land that marked the end of the valley, and the river beside them grew shallower and wider still.
They could see trees masking the lower slopes of the hills on the far side of the basin; not big trees, not tall trees, but trees for all that; and patches of green sward running between them. Johnny paused long enough to moisten his lips with a water-bottle, and said, “I think we’re almost there.”
“The lakes?”
“Yes. Those trees can’t grow without water. And there’s grass there, too.”
“We’ll see when we get to the top of this ridge.”
Johnny looked up at the sky, where the angle of the sun was changing from morning to afternoon; replaced his water-bottle, and started forward again. The ridge of the basin was no more than a mile ahead; as they approached, the righthand bank of the river moved unexpectedly away from them, while the left-hand bank remained parallel to their course. The water was still perceptibly flowing, but not strongly enough to disturb the reeds that grew out of it; the bottom was still clearly visible. Then, abruptly, it disappeared; and the water showed no movement at all. They had reached the watershed.
The lake – for such it now was – twisted away to the right, out of view behind the spur of a hill; as they followed it round, it gradually became visible, yard by yard, seeming to broaden and fall back to the distance with every step they took, until it seemed impossible that it could expand any further. Yet it always did; it became huge, gigantic, a vast smooth stretch of water, its surface dotted with wildfowl and great clumps of floating weed. The trees surrounded it in gradually increasing depth, advancing to dip their boughs in the water, then retreating rapidly to the shoulders of the hills that guarded the lake from all sides. Johnny and Madrid splashed through a rivulet that came trickling down from the west to join the main body of water, mounted a slight rise and stood staring on the summit.
“It’s uncanny,” said Madrid. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s damned big,” said Johnny.
“D’you suppose there are many more of them?”
“There may be hundreds, for all I can tell. But I should say this one is the biggest, because it must be the lowest; all the others must drain into it. Ten miles long, would you say?”
“Easily.”
“Yes. And heavens knows how broad – three times that, at least.” Johnny surveyed the long green stretches of sedge that clothed the low-lying banks of the lake. “By the way – have you noticed that hut over there?”
12
THEY APPROACHED it circumspectly. It lay on the verge of the mass of trees, not a hundred yards from the lake; a squat building of roughly-fashioned logs, overgrown with trailing creepers. “It must be father’s,” said Madrid. “No native would build a hut like that.”
Johnny put a hand on her elbow, to restrain her excitement. “Maybe he built it,” he said, “but it doesn’t look as if he’s living there now. It looks deserted to me.”
“You can’t tell. Not at this distance. Fedora, I believe we’ve really found him.”
Madrid’s impatience and Johnny’s caution found their compromise at a pace of four miles an hour and a circuitous approach down the sheltered side of a barrier of rocks. Madrid’s eyes were focused intently on the hut; it was Johnny who made the discovery.
“Stop,” he said, pulling her to a halt. “Look. What’s that?”
Whatever it was, it lay about fifty yards away, huddled on the bare ground. They stared at it for perhaps five seconds. Then Madrid gave a little cry and threw herself angrily against his restraining arm.
“It’s Otto. Oh God, it’s Otto.”
“Keep still,” said Johnny, struggling with her. “Wait here, I tell you. Wait until I call you.”
He handed the rifle to her; eased the Colt in its holster and then walked slowly forwards. Madrid saw him stop by the sprawling figure on the ground, hesitate a moment, then stoop down to examine it. She raised her hand and chewed nervously at her finger.
Johnny saw a bush-shirt that had been stripped to tatters of ragged cloth. A torso lacerated with a great raw rash and arms to which the skin clung only in shreds. A face almost obliterated by the fierce rasp of whirling sand, with the white bone of the skull showing through the flesh of the forehead. He stood up again, resisting a desire to vomit; he now knew what happened to a human being caught in the full strength of a haboob; blown down, choked, and eaten away by the abrasive force of the dust.
He returned, rather white about the lips, to Madrid. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s van Kuyp.”
“Van Kuyp?”
“Or rather, it was van Kuyp. It doesn’t look like anything very much now. Don’t go near it, whatever you do. I – I think I’ll sit down for a moment.”
He perched himself on a buttress of rock, and took another long drink of water. This was over the ration, but he felt that he needed it.
“Poor chap,” he said. “He wasn’t two hundred yards from the hut when it caught him. It’s not a death I’d wish on anybody.”
“He looks pretty bad, I suppose?”
“He looks awful.”
“It seems incredible, though – doesn’t it? Look at the birds on the lake. And the reeds – and the flowers over there. It didn’t even take the leaves off the trees.”
“The trees protect each other,” said Johnny grimly. “If he could have reached the forest, he might have been all right. But apparently he couldn’t.”
“No. So it killed him, just like that. We human beings are … pretty frail objects, when you come to think of it.”
“Come on,” said Johnny, who did not want Madrid’s thoughts to turn towards her brother again. “Come on. Let’s take a look at this hut.”
He looked back at the bloody bundle on the ground, as they moved off again. Van Kuyp had come a long way to die; he had travelled over a thousand miles, and had ended two hundred yards short of his eventual destination. It had been a tough journey for him; and the end had been tough, too. But Africa had finally beaten him.
Johnny squinted forwards at the hut, standing now directly in front of him, its door half-open to the rays of the sun, its frameless windows dark square holes in its walls. It looked completely derelict; and doubt entered Johnny’s mind. Perhaps this was not their destination; perhaps the search would have to go on for another day, another two days, three days or more, through the green forests that surrounded the lakes and over the crests of the Mountains of the Sun. But then perhaps even at that moment Huysmans was watching them from inside …
The hut preserved some traces of yesterday’s storm; specks of fine sand had been driven into the crevices of the logs where lichen sprouted, and a fine film of dust was visible on the earth floor just inside the threshold. They halted outside that half-open door, peering into the dimness beyond, yet reluctant to investigate further.
“Huysmans,” said Johnny. “… Huysmans?” There was no reply.
He went up to the door and threw his weight against it; it swung
open awkwardly, with a loud groan, sending puffs of dust drifting into the air. The Colt appeared in Johnny’s hand as though by magic; stepping cautiously, he passed through the door and into the ramshackle hut.
It was derelict, all right. The floor of hard earth was covered with uniform depth of humus, and the creepers outside had sent hairy green tendrils downwards through the roof; some small animal scuttled wildly for shelter. In the centre of the room was a roughly-carpentered table, warped and split and coated with a deposit of dust; in one corner was a heavy leather chest with a raised lid, mildewed to greenness and with its metal parts thickly rusted. A chair had collapsed into component parts of strangely twisted wood; parts of the roof had fallen in, and enormous spiders walked across the rafters. The air smelt strongly of corruption and decay.
The skeleton lay on the floor not very far from the window, a quarter buried under the accumulation of dirt; its bones were bleached to an incredible whiteness. Johnny cast a swift glance backwards to Madrid; but she had followed him inside, and had already seen it. They looked at the relic together, in a heavy silence.
“Do you suppose …” said Madrid heavily, then stopped. “Yes. I suppose it must be.”
“I’m rather afraid it is,” said Johnny, and went forward; taking care to interpose his body between Madrid and what lay on the floor. He stooped down, and for a few seconds his fingers probed at the rotting earth that shrouded the bones.
“… Did your father wear a signet ring?”
“Yes.”
“With a … It’s rusted rather badly. It looks like a sword and a cross?”
Madrid did not reply. Johnny returned, holding out his hand towards her. “I expect you’d like to have it,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go outside for a bit.”
But Madrid shook her head and leaned against the wall.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t feel … what I suppose I ought to feel. They’re just bones, aren’t they? They don’t connect at all.”
“That’s much the best way to look at it,” said Johnny.
“What … Can you tell what happened to him?”
“The skull’s fractured,” said Johnny briefly. “It looks as though he fell, and hit his head on the wall.”
He still stood between the girl and the skeleton, and he was ready to stop her if she tried to move past him. He had not told the exact truth. For Huysman’s skull had not been merely fractured, but had been shattered to splinters by a blow of pulverising force … And certain nightmarish thoughts were stirring at the back of Johnny’s mind. He was watching the open door intently, for the first sign of a moving shadow. For the first sign of anything.
“We’ve come a long way to look at a handful of bones,” said the girl, in a voice with a ragged edge. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He knew Africa too well.”
“He’s dead all right,” said Johnny.
“Yes.” Madrid looked down at the ring. “This is his. There can’t be any mistake.”
“Stay here,” said Johnny. “Right where you are. I’m going to take a look round.”
He pushed a toe distastefully into the mass of debris behind the door, the rotting remains of what might once have been a curtain, and walked over towards the trunk. He lifted the lid a little farther, and peered inside; a stench of decaying fabrics rose to greet him, and he took a pace backwards to avoid it. Then he turned and ran a finger over the dust on the table … paused and stared. A faint rectangular patch was visible, a patch on the surface where no dust had apparently settled.
He bent down to look closely at the floor, then turned quickly and strode back to Madrid.
“Someone’s been here.”
“What?”
“Someone got here before us. Your brother, I suppose. He’s left footprints over there, and he’s taken something off the table.”
“Unless it was van Kuyp.”
“Eh?” Strangely enough, this had not occurred to Johnny. “I suppose it might have been. He could have come and gone.”
“He could have, but he didn’t,” said Schneider.
Johnny whirled round, and stared at the tangle of creeper masking the far corner of the room, where the angle of the window radiated no light at all. Schneider had been there all the time.
“Otto,” said Madrid, half-choking as she spoke. She took a step forward, came hard up against Johnny’s outstretched arm. “… Stay where you are, Maddy,” said Schneider.
He moved a couple of paces nearer, into the light; the barrel of the heavy Mannlicher remained aligned with Johnny’s chest. “Take your pistol, Fedora,” he said, “and drop it on the floor. Don’t make any mistakes, either. You keep up against the wall, Maddy, and don’t move until I tell you.”
“… Take it out very slowly, Fedora. Very slowly.”
“… Now drop it. Drop it in front of you.”
“… That’s right. Now get back there with Madrid, where I can see you.”
Fedora walked backwards to the wall. Schneider advanced; stretched out the toe of his boot and flicked the Colt into the soft rubble behind the leather chest.
“Van Kuyp never got here,” he said conversationally. “He was coming; I saw him coming. I was waiting at the window with my rifle; I had him covered just as I’ve got you covered now, Fedora. I was waiting to fire. Then … p’ffft.” He made an explanatory gesture with his left hand which, however, did not cause the barrel of the Mannlicher to deviate more than a hundredth of an inch. “Quite a breeze, wasn’t it? I wonder how you got through.”
“Otto,” said Madrid urgently. “Listen. Fedora’s not—”
“No. You be quiet, Maddy. You should have left this side of things to me, as we arranged.”
“Fedora’s not what he said he was. He’s not a German agent at all. And … father’s dead, anyway.”
“So what?”
“So … Well, why the gun?”
Schneider smiled, not at all unpleasantly. “Look,” he said. “I know perfectly well that Fedora isn’t a Nazi. I always knew it – for a very good reason. But whatever he is, he happens to be after something which I want, which I’ve got, and which I intend to keep.”
“What are you talking about, Otto,” said Madrid, now with less puzzlement than anger. Fedora, who had said nothing as yet, rubbed his back thoughtfully against the wall and went on saying nothing.
“Father’s report, my dear. The report of his metallurgical survey of these very impressive mountains. That’s what Fedora really wants – but I happen to want it, too.” His left hand left the rifle barrel and tapped his pocket significantly; the muzzle of the Mannlicher still showed no inclination to waver.
“Well, tear it up. Throw it away. Burn it or do something with it. Fedora won’t—”
“I don’t think,” said Johnny mildly, “you’ve quite grasped the implications of one of your brother’s remarks, my dear.”
“And have you?” asked Schneider, his smile broadening slightly and taking on a certain fixed anxiety.
“I think so. I’ve heard things about your earlier career,” said Johnny. “And it did occur to me to wonder why you spent so much of your time in South America. One way or another, I didn’t really expect you to believe my story.”
“Then why did you pretend to be a German agent?”
“I thought it might make you show your hand,” said Johnny. “Try to kill me, for instance, or something equally silly.”
“Well, well,” said Schneider. “That’s interesting. Because that’s exactly what I now propose to attempt.”
He stepped sideways towards the window, for no apparent reason. Johnny, who had been watching him closely, guessed that Schneider did not want the light shining directly on his face; it showed too clearly the line of sweat beneath the brim of his hat and the uncertainty in his eyes. Schneider was talking in the conventional tones of light persiflage, but he was not relishing the position a bit; he was screwing up his courage almost visibly.
“Have you ever killed a man befo
re?” asked Johnny.
Schneider now had his back to the glare of sunlight, and his automatic smile was almost invisible. “No,” he said. “I’m going to learn how it’s done.”
“It’s not easy, you know,” said Johnny. “Not as easy as shooting a buffalo. You have to have—”
“But Otto,” said Madrid, interrupting him in a voice pitched several tones higher than usual. “You’re not … You’re not one of these people?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Schneider shortly. “Of course I am. I always have been. And believe me, I shall be a greater power in the Fourth Reich than father ever was in the Third.”
“But—”
“Shut up. I know what your views are, and they don’t interest me at all. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll forget all your pacifist nonsense and come in with me on the deal. Otherwise,” he paused for a second to lick his lips, “otherwise you can go in with Fedora. I don’t care.”
“You won’t find it all that difficult,” Johnny assured him. “The first one is always the hardest.”
“You’re scared, Fedora, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Johnny. And he spoke the truth. For the first time, the muzzle of the rifle wobbled infinitesimally.
“Why the hell didn’t Snort kill you?” demanded Schneider savagely. “He got rid of Raikes all right. Did he turn yellow or something – without me watching him?”
“He turned dead. Very dead.”
“Everybody’s dead,” said Madrid, speaking very fast and without pausing to take in breath. “Snort’s dead and Raven’s dead and Banfield’s dead and van Kuyp’s dead and Raikes’ is dead and Demetrius is dead and we three killed them all. And now, and now – Fedora and I are dead. Isn’t it funny?”
