The green button operated the TV monitor at the end of his bed, putting him in direct contact with one of his secretaries.
Max Kahlenberg came awake and touched the red button. The window drapes swung open and he viewed the sky, seeing the scurrying clouds and he decided rain couldn’t be far off. He switched on the defused light concealed behind the headboard and thumbed the red button. He shifted himself higher in the bed as the hatch at his side slid up and a tray containing a silver coffee pot, a jug of milk, a container of sugar and a cup and saucer slid within his reach and the hatch closed.
Lying in the enormous bed, Max Kahlenberg looked like a handsome movie star. His head was completely shaved. He had wide set, blue-grey eyes, a well-shaped nose and a big, humourless mouth with a thin upper lip. He always slept naked, and as he hoisted himself up, he revealed a deeply tanned, magnificently developed torso.
He drank his coffee, lit a cigarette and then pressed the green button that connected him with one of his secretaries. The TV screen lit up and he saw Miah, an Indian girl, who did the early morning shift, reach for a pencil and pad. He regarded her with pleasure. He liked beautiful women, and made a point only of employing women who pleased his eyes. The girl, her thin dark face classically beautiful, her big eyes looking directly at him although she couldn’t see him, said, “Good morning, sir.”
Kahlenberg studied her, then said, “Good morning, Miah. Has the mail arrived?”
“It is being sorted now, sir.”
“I’ll be ready to dictate in an hour. Have your breakfast,” and he snapped off the set. He then pressed the black button which would fill his bath and lowered the bed to floor level. He threw off the sheet covering him.
At that moment Kahlenberg turned from a fine looking, handsome athlete into a grotesque freak. No one except his mother and his doctor had ever seen his legs. They had never grown from the time he had been born. In comparison to his well developed torso, they were two ghastly looking appendages, perfectly formed, unable to support his weight and which he loathed with a bitterness and revulsion that not only completely spoilt his life but had made him dangerously mentally disturbed.
No one was ever allowed into his bedroom while he was in it himself. It was only when he was dressed and in his chair which had a snap-on cover over his legs that he felt safe from prying eyes.
He hoisted himself into the chair and ran it into the vast bathroom.
An hour later, he emerged, bathed and shaved and having had a thorough work-out in the well-equipped gymnasium that led off the bathroom. He wrapped the lower part of his body in a cotton loin cloth, put on a white open neck shirt, snapped the cover over the chair and steered the chair into the long corridor that led to his office.
Coming towards him was a fully grown cheetah. This was Hindenburg, Kahlenberg’s constant companion. He stopped the chair and waited for the big cat to approach him. He rubbed the thick fur while the cat made a deep, throaty sound, then with a final pat, Kahlenberg sent the chair on its way, with Hindenburg following behind, and reaching a pair of double doors which opened automatically, he propelled himself into the room.
Kahlenberg’s office was vast with a window that ran the length of the view side of the room.
From his big desk, he had an uninterrupted view of his lawns, the banks of flowers, the distant jungle, the undulating grass covered hills dotted by the scattered rondavels of his Zulus to the Drakensberg Range.
His mail was on his desk marked with various coloured stickers, donating its priority.
Before going to bed, he had made notes of various affairs that needed attention. He pressed the green button on his desk and when the TV monitor lit up and he saw Miah seated at her desk, he began to dictate.
An hour later, he had finished the previous day’s notes. “That is all, Miah. Is Ho-Lu there?”
“She is waiting now, sir.”
“I’ll be ready for her in half an hour,” and he switched off the set.
He went rapidly through the mail of some fifty letters, made quick decisions that would add to his already vast fortune, then lit up the monitor screen again.
This time a flower-like Vietnamese girl was at the desk, patiently waiting. He greeted her and began dictating.
By 10.00 hrs. he had cleared his desk. He sat for some moments, relaxing, his fingers caressing Hindenburg’s head, then he flicked down a switch on the intercom and said, “Come in, please.”
There was a moment’s delay, then a tap sounded on the door which swung open.
Guilo Tak, Kahlenberg’s personal assistant came in, shut the door and approached the desk.
Guilo Tak was a tall, thin man with a mop of jet black hair that emphasized his cadaverous complexion. His black eyes were sunk deep and burned feverishly in his skull-like face. Born of an Italian mother and a Czech father, he had shown astonishing talent for figures at an early age. He had obtained a job in a Swiss bank and quickly proved himself a financial genius. When Kahlenberg had asked one of the directors of the bank if he knew of a man suitable to be his P.A., the director had no hesitation in recommending Tak.
Kahlenberg found him not only a financial genius but utterly ruthless, utterly efficient and utterly loyal. For some considerable time, Kahlenberg had been hiring expert art thieves to supply his museum. Considerable organization and discussions were needed and Kahlenberg begrudged the time. He had hesitated whether to hand these machinations over to Tak, and finally decided after some eighteen months, that Tak could be trusted. Tak was now not only in charge of the museum, but also handled Kahlenberg’s portfolio, often making suggestions and pointing to opportunities which Kahlenberg with his other occupations might have missed.
“Good morning, sir,” Tak said with a stiff little bow.
“Sit down,” Kahlenberg said, resting his elbows on his desk and staring at Tak, thinking what an extraordinary looking man this was. “Any news of the Borgia ring affair?”
“Yes, sir. The three thieves concerned arrived at the Rand International hotel a few minutes ago. Fennel arrived the day before yesterday. He came from Paris. A garage owner, Sam Jefferson, has been buying their equipment. I have a list of it here if you wish to see it. I have also photographs of these people taken as they arrived at the airport.” He paused to give Kahlenberg a quick glance before laying a large envelope he had brought with him on the desk. “You may find the woman attractive.”
Kahlenberg glanced at the blown-up photographs of the three men and laid them on the blotter but he sat for some moments studying Gaye’s photograph. Then he glanced up. “What do you know about her?”
“All their dossiers are in the envelope, sir.”
“Thank you, Tak. I’ll see you later.”
When Tak had gone, Kahlenberg picked up Gaye’s photograph and again studied it for several minutes, then he opened a drawer and put the photograph away. He read the four dossiers, studied the list of equipment, read that the camp was situated near Mainville and a helicopter had arrived there the previous day. He put all the papers back into the envelope and locked it away. He sat staring with hooded eyes down at his blotter for a long time, then with a slight nod of satisfaction at the decision he had reached, he set his chair in motion and snapping his fingers at Hindenburg, he propelled himself out into the garden and along the broad path for a half hour’s break. The big cat wandered by his side.
Back at his desk at 11.00 hrs., Kahlenberg dealt until lunch time with more papers that had arrived. He lunched on a smoked trout with horseradish sauce and a coffee, then returning to his office, sent for Tak again.
“How much did I pay for the Borgia ring?” he asked.
“Sixty thousand dollars. Mercial paid a quarter of a million. We got it very cheaply. Now Mercial is paying Shalik half a million to recover it. Absurd, but without it, his Borgia collection is spoilt.”
“I am inclined to let him have it back,” Kahlenberg said, staring at Tak who said nothing. He knew by now the way Kahlenberg’s mind worked. “
It might be amusing, but it wouldn’t do to let these four have it without working for it, would it?”
Tak inclined his head and continued to wait.
“So why not let them arrive here? As you say the woman is attractive. It will be interesting to see if Fennel who is supposed to be such an expert can break into the museum. Let us encourage them. I can leave the details to you.”
“You want them to walk away with the ring, sir?”
“We will make their entrance easy and their exit difficult, but if they can get it off the estate, then I think they would be entitled to keep it, but only if they can get it off the estate.” Kahlenberg’s eyes searched Tak’s face. “You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So we let them in and make it difficult for them to get out. If anything should happen to them, I suppose the crocodiles would welcome extra food.”
Tak’s eyes narrowed.
“Is it your wish something should happen to them, sir?”
“Well, it would be awkward if they got into the museum and then got away to talk. We wouldn’t want Interpol here making inquiries. The Vatican was particularly incensed at losing the bust of Jupiter. How that rogue ever got it out of the Vatican has always puzzled me. No, it wouldn’t do for Interpol to know the museum is below ground.”
“But there was some suggestion, sir, that you were returning the ring to Mercial.”
“Yes… I will return the ring but not his operators.”
Tak didn’t follow this, but he waited.
“Our Zulus would welcome a manhunt for a change, I think?”
“They can be relied on, sir.”
“Yes… they are very close still to the savage. That may not be necessary, of course. Our enterprising four could get lost. Still, let them be alerted. Arrange some sort of reward and insist on proof.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I must admit such a hunt would amuse me.” Kahlenberg’s thinlipped mouth tightened. “When they have been hunted down and the ring returned to me, I will mail it to Mercial.” He rubbed his jaw as he stared at Tak. “We mustn’t make a mistake. It would be dangerous if even one of them got away. What chances do you think
they have against a hundred of my Zulus and the jungle?”
Tak considered the problem, then shook his head.
“No chance at all, sir.”
“That’s what I think.” Kahlenberg paused, thinking of the photograph locked in his desk. “Pity about the woman.”
Tak got to his feet.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“Yes… let me have the Borgia ring.”
When Tak had gone, Kahlenberg flicked down a switch on the intercom and said, “Send Kemosa to me.”
A few minutes later an old, bent Bantu, wearing immaculate white drill came into the office. Kemosa had served Kahlenberg’s father and was now in charge of the native staff, ruling them with a rod of iron. He stood before Kahlenberg, waiting.
“Is the old witch doctor still on the estate?” Kahlenberg asked. “Yes, master.”
“I never see him. I thought he was dead.”
Kemosa said nothing.
“My father told me this man has great experience with poisons,” Kahlenberg went on. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, master.”
“Go to him and say I want a slow working poison that will kill a man in twelve hours. Do you think he could supply a poison like that?”
Kemosa nodded.
“Very well. I want it by tomorrow morning. See he is suitably rewarded.”
“Yes, master.” Kemosa inclined his head and went away.
Kahlenberg pulled a legal document towards him and began to study it. A few minutes later Tak came in carrying a small glass box in which, set on a blue velvet support, was the Caesar Borgia ring.
“Leave it with me,” Kahlenberg said without looking up. Tak placed the box on the desk and withdrew.
After reading the document and laying it down, Kahlenberg picked up the glass box and leaning back in his chair, he slid off the lid and took out the ring.
He took from a drawer a watchmaker’s glass and screwed it into his eye. He spent some moments examining the ring before he found the minute sliding trap, covered by a diamond that gave access to the tiny reservoir that held the poison.
They left the Rand International hotel a little after 08.00 hrs. and headed for Harrismith on the N.16 highway.
They were all wearing bush shirts, shorts, knee stockings, stout soled shoes and bush hats around which was a band of cheetah skin. The men all eyed Gaye as she climbed into the front seat of the Land Rover. The outfit set off her figure and suited her. Again Fennel felt a stab of frustrated desire go through him.
Ken Jones took the wheel and Garry and Fennel sat on the rear bench seat. It was a tight squeeze for the four of them and their equipment. Each had brought along a rucksack containing their personal essentials and these were piled on the rear seat between the two men.
The sky was grey and the atmosphere was close and steamy and they were glad when they had left the city and had got on to the open road.
“This is going to be a pretty dull run,” Ken said. “Two hundred kilometres to Harrismith, then we turn off the National road and head down for Bergville. We’ll get to Mainville for lunch, pick up our guide and then we have thirty kilometres through jungle to the camp. That’ll be fun: we’re certain to see some game.”
“Who’s looking after the chopper?” Garry asked, leaning forward. “You haven’t just left it in the jungle, have you?”
Ken laughed.
“I hired four Bantus to guard it. I know them… they’re okay. It only arrived yesterday. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Gaye said she was glad to leave Johannesburg.
“I didn’t like it.”
“I don’t know anyone who does,” Ken returned. “But you’d like Cape Town and go crazy about Durban.”
The three chatted together as the Land Rover ate up the miles. Garry noticed that Fennel was sullenly silent. He sat forward with his heavy bag of tools between his feet and his little eyes continually eyeing Gaye’s back and the view he could get of the side of her face.
Every so often they came upon a series of beehive shaped huts where they could see the Bantus moving aimlessly about, and tiny boys guarding lean, depressed looking cattle and herds of goats.
Gaye asked a stream of questions which Ken answered. Fennel paid no attention to the chatter. All he could think of was to get Gaye alone. He was confident, once he did get her alone, she would submit to him. He had no interest in black people and he wished Ken would stop yakking.
It was after 14.00 hrs. when they drove into Mainville’s town centre that consisted of an untidy square, shaded by magnificent flamboyant trees in full flower. To the left of the square was the post office. Next to it was a native store and across the way was a shop run by a Dutchman who seemed to sell everything from a pair of boots to a bottle of cough mixture. The Bantus, sitting under the trees, watched then curiously, and two or three of them waved languidly to Ken who waved back.
“You seem to be a known character around here,” Gaye said.
“Oh, sure. I get around. I like these guys and they remember me.” Ken drove around the square and headed for a large dilapidated garage. He drove straight in.
Two Bantus came over and shook hands with him as he left the Land Rover. Ken spoke to them in Afrikaans and they nodded, beaming.
“Okay, folks,” he said turning to the others. “We can leave it all here and go to the hotel for lunch. I could eat a buffalo.”
“You mean they won’t steal any of this stuff?” Fennel asked.
Ken regarded him, his mouth tightening.
“They’re friends of mine… so they won’t steal any of the stuff.”
Fennel climbed down from the Land Rover.
“Well, if you’re sure about that.”
The other three walked out into the blinding sunshin
e. Since leaving Johannesburg the sun had come out and it was hot.
The hotel was plain but decent and Ken got a good welcome from a fat, sweating Indian who beamed at the other three.
“Seen Themba?” Ken asked as they walked into the big diningroom.
“Yes, Mr. Jones. He’s around. Said he would be here in half an hour.”
They all had a good chicken curry lunch, washed down with beer. From their table, they could see across the square to the garage and Fennel kept looking suspiciously at the garage.
“They’re not stealing anything! Ken said sharply. He had become exasperated by Fennel’s suspicion. “Can’t you enjoy your lunch, for God’s sake?
Fennel squinted at him.
The stuff in that tool bag is worth a lot of lolly,” he said. It’s taken me years to collect. Some of those tools I’ve made myself. I’m making sure no goddamn blackie steals it.”
Seeing Ken’s face flush with anger, Gaye broke in to ask about the hotel. The tension eased a little, then Ken got to his feet.
“I’ll fix the bill, then go look for Themba.”
“Is he our guide?” Gaye asked.
“That’s right.”
“And another black friend of his,” Fennel said with a sneer.
Ken hesitated, then walked away.
Garry said, “Wouldn’t it be an idea if you tried to be pleasant for a change? Right now, you act as if you have a boil on your ass.”
Fennel glowered at him.
“I act the way I like, and no one stops me!”
“Plenty of time to squabble when the job’s done,” Gaye said quietly. “Be nice, Mr. Fennel.”
He glowered at her, got up and walked out of the restaurant. Gaye and Garry paused to congratulate the fat Indian on his curry, and then followed Fennel across the square to the garage.
“He’s sweet, isn’t he?” Gaye said softly.
“He’s a fat slob. If he goes on like this, he’ll get a poke in his snout!”
“Remember what Armo said… he’s dangerous.”
Garry scowled.
“So am I. It bothers me that Ken has to travel with him.”
But he was less bothered when he saw a tall, magnificently built Bantu, wearing bush clothes with a bush hat pinned up Australian fashion on one side, shaking hands with Ken.
Vulture Is a Patient Bird Page 10
