Smiling Willie and the Tiger

by John Harris

  Police, for God’s sake! Fish’s heart sank.

  Just inside the door hanging on a hook was a riding crop Poll used on the Kaffirs when they were lazy and he gave a sudden grin.

  ‘Put the lights out,’ he ordered.

  As the kitchen and passage lamps were extinguished with the hurricane lamp in the yard the whole of the rear of the hotel was plunged into darkness. There was an immediate shout from Kiewiet Lane.

  ‘Sarge!’

  The waiting police were clearly expecting something to happen and, going outside to the now pitch-black yard, Fish unfastened the reins of the three ponies from the hitching post. As he wrenched their heads round to face Kiewiet Lane, he could already hear boots crunching on the stones and he brought the crop down savagely across their rumps. ‘Yaah!’

  As the horses leapt away from him, kicking up the dust, he heard boots running.

  ‘Here they come!’ A policeman’s voice came through the darkness. ‘Stop ’em!’

  There was a flash and the crack of a shot and the bullet hit the side of the hotel and whined off into the darkness, then he heard the horses blundering down the lane towards the street.

  ‘Stop the bastards!’ The darkness was filled with excited yells. ‘They’ve got into Nieuwoudt Street and they’ll be heading for Jo’burg.’

  As the horses’ hooves and the following boots thudded off into the darkness, he moved cautiously forward. Three police ponies were still tied in the shadows of the soda water manufactory and, hitching up his trousers and making sure the tablecloth was secure, he released one of them and, mounting quickly, rode quietly through the thick dust down the lane. Instead of continuing into Nieuwoudt Street, however, he turned right into the Kaffir shanties of Bella Vista.

  As he picked his way among the huts, he could see fires burning here and there and a few black men arguing. The Kaffirs were celebrating Christmas in their own way and one of them was singing an Afrikaner hymn in a deep bass voice. No one stopped him.

  An elderly Basuto, wrapped in his blanket, stood with his back to the warm northerly breeze.

  ‘Which way’s the Jo’burg road?’ Fish demanded.

  The Basuto pointed between the huts. ‘Daar, Baas.’

  ‘And the Standerton road?’

  The Basuto swung and pointed in the other direction. ‘Daar.’

  Fish tossed him a shilling and turned the horse’s head towards Standerton. If the police thought he was heading for Johannesburg it was obviously a good idea to go to Standerton.

  Inside Number Twelve, Berkeley was frowning at the contents of the men’s pockets spread out on the red plush cloth. He had heard the shot outside and, assuming it was one of his men putting the wind up some drunken digger, decided he could safely leave it to his sub-inspectors and sergeants.

  He turned to the women. ‘All right, ladies,’ he said. ‘Please take your hair down. Miss Buiderkamp, if necessary, you will get them to undress. We’ll wait outside.’

  He was thoughtful as they moved into the corridor, and beginning to be a little worried. It had been a big setback seeing no diamonds on the table.

  Southey spoke harshly. ‘I think you’re a bloody fool, Inspector,’ he said. ‘You’d better let us go.’ He’d noticed that there was no sign in the corridor of the waiter who’d removed the tablecloth and he, too, was beginning to grow a little worried.

  Inside the dark cupboard just along the corridor, Josias was worried, too. He didn’t know who his companions were or what they were up to, and his chief concern was with remaining still. Willie and the Tiger were worried also. They had no idea what was going on in the corridor but they could hear voices which seemed to indicate a search was still going on, and since it was still going on, they had both reached the same conclusion – that the diamonds had not yet been found.

  It put them on edge a little. No one had thought yet of opening the cupboard and this led to the feeling that somehow no one had thought to question Fish. And if no one had questioned Fish, this meant that he had probably escaped. And if Fish had escaped and the diamonds had not yet turned up, it seemed more than likely that he had escaped with the diamonds. It wasn’t a very hard conclusion to reach and the Tiger had already started to console himself with the thought of the bag of chips he’d hidden under the water butt at the house at Paradise. At least, he decided, he’d still got that.

  Downstairs, Captain Mace was also growing worried. He was still carefully studying the faces of the men parading past him. So far, though he had recognised a few with surprise, he hadn’t seen the ones he was seeking. Berkeley’s men were going through the place with remarkable thoroughness, however, and men were appearing from under the bar, from the lavatories and from behind curtains, some of them with women.

  He was in no hurry, though, and there were plenty more to come, and Berkeley’s plans had sealed up every exit. He was almost shivering with excitement and nervousness when one of the men from the back of the hotel burst through the front door. There was something in the look on his face – a mixture of rage and anxiety – that sent his heart with a thud to the pit of his stomach. He guessed at once that something terrible had happened.

  The man paused in the hall, searching for Berkeley, then went bolting upstairs. Berkeley was still outside Number Twelve. Inside, Miss Nellie Osterkamp was down to a pair of drawers trimmed with blue ribbon and not much else, and the woman detective was going through every item of her expensive clothing with a fine-tooth comb. She knew all the places where diamonds could be hidden and was just working her hands round the edge of Miss Osterkamp’s corset when Berkeley knocked.

  She paused long enough to put her head out of the door and shake it then she slammed it again in Berkeley’s face. Berkeley’s brows went down in a scowl, and it was at that moment, just when his morale was beginning to sag, that the man from the back of the hotel turned the corner from the stairs.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘The bastards got away!’

  Berkeley’s head jerked up. ‘Which bastards?’

  ‘Some bastards, sir! We saw their horses coming for us in the dark. Three of ’em! They didn’t stop and we had to jump! We went after ’em, sir, but the bloody ’orses hadn’t got riders! We caught ’em in Nieuwoudt Street!’

  ‘You bloody idiots,’ Berkeley said, not very interested because if three men had escaped they must be Mace’s three and no concern of his. ‘They went through Bella Vista and on to the Jo’burg road.’

  He was half-inclined to let the incident pass, but then he suddenly had an uneasy feeling that somehow it was involved with the diamonds he hadn’t yet found. In a sudden panic, he hurled himself along the corridor and almost fell down the stairs to where the crowd assembled in the hall and concert room were still passing in a steady line before Capatin Mace.

  ‘The bastards got away,’ he snapped.

  ‘Which bastards?’ Mace turned quickly.

  ‘Well I’ve got my bastards. So they must by your bastards. One of my chaps says there were three of ’em.’

  ‘Three!’ Mace’s knees almost gave way beneath him and he suddenly felt half-witted. ‘You’re sure there were three?’

  Growing more and more alarmed as he thought about the missing diamonds, Berkeley was already whirling round like a cyclone in a barrel engaged in rounding up a party to send off in pursuit, and he threw the answer over his shoulder. ‘That’s what I’ve been told. They went through Bella Vista to the Jo’burg road.’

  Mace could have spat at him. He knew the missing three men were his three and instinctively he guessed where Berkeley’s diamonds were.

  Blundering blindly through the crowd, he grabbed the first horse he saw and swinging it round, headed into Kiewiet Lane. As he drew rein among the shanties of Bella Vista somewhere in the darkness he heard hoofbeats and guessed it was Berkeley’s hurriedly organised posse in pursuit up the Jo’burg road.

  At the fork of the road, an old Basuto was standing in his blanket.

  ‘Horsemen?’ Mace
asked. ‘Which way, boy?’

  The Kaffir seemed puzzled. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing. ‘To Johannesburg, Baas.’

  Mace was on the point of kicking the horse into a canter when the Basuto’s voice stopped him.

  ‘Other horse go that way, Baas.’

  He was pointing to Standerton now and Mace reined in.

  ‘Policemen?’

  The Basuto shook his head, ‘No, Baas. Policemen go that way. This way not policemen.’

  His heart leaping, Mace tossed him a florin for his trouble. In addition to all his other blunders, Berkeley had sent his men off towards Johannesburg when his quarry was heading for Standerton. They were intending to catch the train for the Cape. Any fool could see that. The old Basuto appeared to be in some doubt whether there were one or several but Mace was untroubled by such details. Kaffirs were notoriously bad at counting.

  He swung his horse towards Standerton and clapped his heels to its flanks as though the Zulu hordes of Cetewayo had appeared on the horizon.

  When Willie pushed his head cautiously out of the broom cupboard the corridor was empty but he could still hear indignant female voices from inside Number Twelve.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ he said. ‘I reckon we’d better go, too.’

  They tiptoed down the back stairs, scrubbing off the last of the makeup with butter from the tray Josias had brought out, as they went, then they tossed aside the aprons and gloves and peered in the direction of the back door.

  Just inside the back entrance the kitchen staff was still huddled. Willie tossed them a shilling.

  ‘Baas Fish?’ he asked, and one of the dishwashers jerked an arm.

  ‘Well, he got away,’ Willie said.

  Heading down Kiewiet Lane to the front of the building, they realised that Nieuwoudt Street was full of policemen. There was a Black Maria there with a constable holding the horses’ heads, and a crowd of men watching in the glow from the lights on Poll’s stoep. The end of the lane was blocked by a sergeant and two men staring towards the front of the hotel. Doing a brisk about-turn and creeping in the shadows back down the lane, they ran into the two police horses still tethered to the hitching rail under the overhanging roof of the soda-water manufactory. They untied them quickly.

  The old Basuto was still waiting at the fork of the Johannesburg and the Standerton roads. He had come to the conclusion that he was on to a good thing.

  ‘Horses, Baas?’ he asked.

  Willie reined in and looked at the Tiger.

  ‘Which horses?’ he asked.

  ‘Plenty horses. Go Johannesburg, Baas. All together. Very fast. Other horses go Standerton.’ The Basuto grinned and turned, pointing along the Standerton road.

  It didn’t take much working out. Someone had chosen the wrong route and it wasn’t very hard to find out who.

  ‘Which way first horse go?’ Willie asked.

  The Kaffir pointed to Standerton.

  ‘By God, that’s Dolly!’ Willie tossed the gleeful old man a florin and they dug their heels into the horses’ flanks and headed at full speed into the northerly breeze.

  It took Southey all of half an hour to get away from Berkeley. The woman detective from Johannesburg finally appeared downstairs, looking hot and disgusted, followed by three ruffled and highly indignant girls.

  ‘To the bloody skin,’ Miss Osterkamp said loudly to Southey. ‘Right to the skin.’

  Berkeley was listening to the woman detective’s report. It was very simple. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  It confirmed Berkeley’s gloomiest thoughts. The diamonds had somehow been smuggled out. But he was still puzzled to make out how. There’d been no dogs to swallow them, no food to stuff them into. Not even any unexplored bosoms.

  Southey was quick to take advantage of his setback. ‘You’ve no right to detain us here,’ he said loudly and Berkeley directed a stare of pure hatred at him. He knew there had been diamonds. He knew Southey had had them and he knew they had got away from him. But Southey was right. It seemed to be time to beat a retreat.

  ‘You’re free to go,’ he said sourly.

  Outside in the hot night air, Southey’s footsteps quickened abruptly and his face reddened with fury. He had lost a small fortune in diamonds and the only thing he knew about them was that some bloody Kaffir waiter had them in a tablecloth somewhere. He grabbed the first horse he saw and, heading round the town, skirted Bella Vista to the junction of the Johannesburg and Standerton roads. The old Basuto was still waiting hopefully.

  ‘Horses, Baas?’ he asked.

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  ‘Policemen go Johannesburg, Baas. Other fellers go Standerton.’

  Ex-Paymaster Southey thought quickly. He might not have been very good at looking after other people’s money but he had never been slow to look after his own. It seemed a good idea that he should go to Standerton, too.

  He tossed the delighted Basuto a half-sovereign and clapped his heels to his horse.

  Berkeley was still frowning heavily, trying to work out where the diamonds had gone to. Then it dawned on him. It hit him between the eyes like a blow from a fist.

  ‘The waiter!’ he said aloud.

  Immediately, he swung round and rushed outside. The Black Maria was still waiting but the men standing alongside were beginning to look bored. There hadn’t been much business beyond a couple of argumentative drunks. He snatched at the reins of the nearest mount and swung himself to the saddle.

  ‘You three!’ he said to the nearest group of policemen. ‘With me!’

  The old Basuto was still waiting at the road junction. He was prepared now to stay there till dawn.

  ‘That way, Baas,’ he said, indicating the Johannesburg road. ‘Policemen go that way.’

  Berkeley was just wrenching his horse’s head round when the Basuto pointed down the Standerton road.

  ‘All others go Standerton, Baas.’

  ‘What others?’ Berkeley reined in again, hauling his horse up on its hind legs.

  ‘Other white baases go that way, Baas. Only policemen go Johannesburg.’

  ‘The bloody fools!’ Berkeley snorted. ‘They’ve set off up the wrong road!’

  The old Basuto stepped forward, his hand outstretched, but Berkeley stared down at him over the ears of his plunging mount.

  ‘Get out of the way, you old fool,’ he roared and, as the Basuto leapt back, he and his men went pounding off towards Standerton.

  Seven

  As he waited near a bend of the Standerton road, the small enthusiasm Instant had managed to stir up in Wooden’s muddy mind had long since evaporated. He was bored by this time and was hoping someone would come along so he could shoot him.

  It was Christmas Eve, he kept thinking, and he ought by this time to have drunk himself senseless. He ought to have been in Cape Town on his way home to England, chasing some screaming coloured bit around one of the Bree Street shebeens. He ought to have been anywhere, he decided sourly, except on the Standerton road with his horse tied to a tree behind him, waiting for something to happen that wouldn’t.

  ‘We’ll be ’ere ’alf tomorrow, too,’ he announced heavily. ‘You see. What a shocking way to spend Christmas.’

  Nobody answered and he allowed his ill temper to run on. ‘Sittin’ out ’ere,’ he said. ‘Waitin’ to get our froats cut by shocking Bores.’

  ‘War’s over, Corporal,’ one of the other men said. ‘They’re not cutting throats any more.’

  ‘Don’t you be so shocking sure,’ Wooden said. ‘Them Bores are a spiteful lot.’

  There was an uneasy murmuring round him that did his heart good. He enjoyed uproar, confusion and dismay, and certainly there had been cases of drunken British soldiers caught down dark alleys and whipped with sjamboks by bitter ex-Commandos. He warmed to his theme.

  ‘They never caught that shocking De Wet, did they?’ he said. ‘He swore revenge, too. Said ’e’d never knuckle under to no shocking British.’

  The men with him
eyed each other uncertainly, and Wooden went on heavily. ‘I know this,’ he said. ‘If some shocker comes along that there road, I’m going to let him shocking ’ave it.’

  ‘The Sergeant said to stop ’em not shoot ’em.’

  Wooden glared into the darkness. Reiterating his instructions, Instant had headed for a clump of eucalyptus trees on the bend of the road to Winifred, vanishing behind a group of rocks that obscured the view south.

  ‘He said we could shoot ’em if we ’ad to, din’t he?’ he growled. ‘Well, if any shocker comes near this post, I’ll shoot first and argue after.’

  Less than three hundred yards down the dusty road, Fish was just reining his horse to a walk, and, waiting in the shadow of the clump of eucalyptus trees, Sergeant Instant heard the sudden change of pace. The horse was coming from the south and, with the warm wind blowing the other way, he hadn’t heard it at first. Now he listened, lifting himself up from his crouching position.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he said, cocking his head. ‘Here they come then.’

  He had almost come to the conclusion that the night was going to be a quiet one and he struck a match to glance at his watch. The bastards had left it late but they still had time to catch the train at Standerton.

  He frowned, realising the approaching rider had slowed down, and began to wonder if he had become suspicious. Then he realised he could still hear the horse’s hooves and in the darkness he heard the horse snort and the jingle of a bit. He spat on his hands, clutched his horse’s reins and reached for his rifle.

  The rider was almost opposite him now, but just when he was prepared for the challenge to come from Wooden’s position a little further on, the approaching horse stopped. Instant sank back into the shadows, frowning. Only one! It required caution.

  Fish was sitting in the saddle, grinning to himself. He was well clear of Winifred now with no sign of pursuit, and it seemed to be a good opportunity to get rid of the tablecloth. He could hardly ride into Standerton with it hanging from his belt.