The Fabulous Valley

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘No offence, no offence,’ Darkie muttered, but he gave an ill-concealed wink towards Ginger.

  ‘Obviously we must have a guide,’ Henry declared firmly. It was a constant irritation to him that his daughter had insisted upon accompanying him on the trip, but since she was paying her own share of the expenses he could not very well object.

  ‘That’s so,’ Philbeach agreed; ‘but now that we’ve reached the jumping-off place there must be someone here who knows roughly where the Valley is supposed to lie and has talked with the old man’s guide. If we could only find this “someone” it might be worth our while making a trek into the interior on the off-chance that we’d strike lucky.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Ginger leaned forward across the table. ‘We visit all the native kraals hereabout, eh?—we find someone who can help us for certain if we spend a little time like that.’

  ‘A little time is right,’ Philbeach nodded his large head; ‘it’ll mean two or three weeks’ steady grinding work but I don’t doubt we’ll raise somebody who can tell us something before we’ve done.’

  Sarie’s air of innocent stupidity had taken the others in so completely that they were talking freely before her and now she listened to this conversation with dismay. The one thing which Sandy had dreaded seemed about to happen. Philbeach and his friends—this striking-looking girl, and her morose father, were on the point of exciting the entire countryside by a house-to-house inquiry about a legendary diamond mine. By the time they did set off up country, half the population of Koranna Land would be hastening in their tracks and the Union police taking a lively interest in the proceedings. It was up to her to stop that if she could.

  Having rapidly evolved a plan, she went into the backroom after dinner and asked the telephone exchange to get her a Johannesburg number. Some twenty minutes later, her call came through. She had a meaningless chat with one of her best girl friends and, returning to the stoep, informed the Longs that she had just been talking to her mother.

  Then she told them she had consulted her about their difficulties and that Mrs. Orkney had proved most helpful. She remembered that the bushman guide who had accompanied John Thomas Long came from King George’s Falls, a hundred miles from Upington down the Orange River; and quite neat a white settlement called Kakamas.

  Patricia was overjoyed and wanted to act on this information immediately. She pressed Sarie to join them on their expedition, but Sarie kept up her part of a girl whose one idea was to return to the gaiety of Johannesburg as soon as possible.

  Philbeach called to their landlord, who came out and joined them on the stoep, and asked him in Afrikaans for particulars about the journey to King George’s Falls.

  The man was a little surprised that, having declared their intention of setting off to hunt in the interior, they should now have decided to turn south again to see the Falls. He told them, however, that they should certainly not miss it since it was the most wonderful sight for many hundred miles around, if not in all South Africa. The great flood of the Orange River poured over the cataract into a vast basin no less than four hundred and fifty feet below, which provided a spectacle only to be rivalled by the great falls at Lake Victoria, and Niagara in America. They should proceed back to Upington in their out-span, he suggested, and from there they could get the narrow-gauge railway down to Kakamas from which the great falls were only some ten miles’ distant.

  Asked what sort of accommodation they would be likely to get in Kakamas the landlord said that he did not know if there was an hotel, but the place was a notable colony for poor whites, founded by the Dutch Reformed Church on the fertile banks of the Orange; so there would be plenty of people only too willing to take them in for the sake of a small payment.

  When Philbeach translated for the benefit of Patricia and her father, Henry said:

  ‘Well, that sounds all right, so we’d better set out again first thing to-morrow, but what does he mean by poor white?’

  ‘It’s easy to see that you haven’t been here long,’ Philbeach laughed. ‘Poor whites are one of the biggest problems of this country. You see, the old Boer farmers all lived like patriachs and when they died they had the habit of splitting up their property into equal parts for all their sons and, like the Bible folk, there was generally plenty of them to split up amongst. That was all right, of course, in the early days, when some old Dutch had a farm of fifty thousand acres with slave labour into the bargain, but if you get a system like that going on for three or four generations it ends up with the heirs getting a mealie patch apiece, and that’s not enough for any man to live on. Most of them have no schooling so they sell their bit to a brother that’s got more guts, and drift into the towns, hoping to get some sort of job. Unfortunately, the type of work the poor white is capable of can be done better and cheaper by niggers, so they form a class apart as unemployable and unemployed.’

  ‘But what happens to these poor people?’ Patricia asked.

  ‘God knows,’ the big man shrugged his shoulders. ‘They drift about the country, a curse to everyone and a thorn in the side of the Government. Sometimes they do a hand’s turn for a week or two with farmers who are getting in their crops, or a little casual labour in the mines. Other times they wash the up-country river beds for alluvial or do a bit of prospecting on their own, but there are said to be over a million of them and, since they’re becoming a menace to the country, the powers that be are trying to get them settled back on the land like at this place Kakamas that we’re going to.’

  Sarie, delighted with the success of her stratagem, praised Patricia for her courage in persisting in roughing it with the men. Giving the first address that she could think of in Johannesburg, she pressed the whole party to come and visit her mother and herself when they returned there then, still chortling with inward mirth, went up to bed.

  In the morning she came out to wave them farewell as the slow-moving oxen set off down the short village street. Then, since Michael and his party had still failed to put in an appearance, she decided to visit her brother and Sandy at their camp.

  When she told them her news they roared with laughter at the thought of Roger Philbeach, alias Philip Wisdon, with his two friends and the Longs, trekking southward again to Upington on a complete fool’s errand, but their amusement was considerably subdued when Cornelius pointed out that Kieviet had been duly run to earth, and found to be lying several feet under it. Their principal hope in that direction had been completely shattered. What were they to do now?

  They also agreed that it would be madness to attempt to find the place of the Great Glitter unless they could trace one of the guides who had been on the expedition ten years before or could follow one of the other parties in their plane. However, when Michael and his party did arrive with their leopard skin they might be more fortunate than the Longs, so Sarie, Sandy and Cornelius decided to wait for a few days before attempting to search out a native guide on their own.

  In the days that followed, the three continued to lead the simple life. A nearby pool of clear fresh water some fifty feet in circumference, from which a narrow outlet gave on to the Molopo River, provided excellent bathing. Afterwards, they sat or lay upon the hot rocks, sunning their bodies to a more golden brown while they smoked and laughed and chipped one another. The two men did a little mild shooting in order that they might not encroach unduly upon their tinned stores, and old Willem, under Sarie’s supervision, produced some of her specialities for their evening meals.

  On the second night after their departure for King George’s Falls, the Longs’ out-span crawled back into Upington. Henry was already heartily sick of this primitive and wearisome mode of travel and Patricia was a little sore from the long hours in the saddle to which, much as she enjoyed riding, she was unaccustomed. Both were glad to see again the small town with its three comfortable hotels.

  Patricia had an additional reason for her pleasure since she believed that her father had left a message for Michael in Upington, asking him to wait
there until they sent back a runner from Zwart Modder with the result of their inquiries for Kieviet.

  Her face, tanned now after these long days of exposure to the sun, had a happy glow as she handed over the little roan to one of the native boys and ran up the steps of the Gordonia. She was confident that even if he were out at the moment she would be seeing Michael’s snub nose and freckled face again in an hour or so.

  The pseudo Mr. Wisdon watched her enter the hotel. Dismounting from his horse, he winked at Henry. ‘Trouble for you, my boy, if Pat discovers why her young man hasn’t turned up!’

  Henry shrugged as he brushed the dust from his neat dark coat. ‘How can she? Michael’s party could only have arrived at Postmasberg four nights ago and even if they are getting suspicious now it will take them a couple of days to come on here. If you remember, we counted on that telegram delaying them at least a week.’

  ‘Still, say they’ve rumbled us and are here already—what do you mean to do?’

  ‘You can leave me to deal with my own daughter,’ Henry replied gruffly. ‘She came here against my wish and she will have to do as she is told if she wants to go any farther. I only concealed the fact that you were Philbeach from her to spare her feelings. I told you long ago that is she found out about the knobkerrie I should give her the choice of going home or accepting the situation.’

  The big man nodded and followed Henry into the hotel. He had been delighted with the result of his stratagem for sidetracking the Bennetts but he was now a little afraid that they might have come on to Upington sooner than he expected. If Patricia and Michael got together again he would have all the trouble of separating the parties once more, for he was quite determined that if Darkie, Ginger and himself did set off into the Kalahari only the Longs should go with them. He was convinced that old Henry had a pretty useful packet tucked away in England and if they failed to find the Valley there were ways in which he could be made to cough up a nice hunk of it. Keep him on a short ration of water out there in the desert until he signed half a dozen cheques, then Darkie and Ginger could do the necessary while he saw to clearing them and getting the cash out to the Union. If he could collect another £5,000 from Henry in addition to the £5,000 he had inherited from John, the total would provide a sufficient income for him to settle down quietly, and Philbeach realised that he was not getting any younger. Besides, there was the girl. Roger Philip Wisdon Philbeach had been the traces of powder on Michael’s lapels that night in the Carlton after she had been up to Aasvoglerkop. He wanted some of that powder himself. ‘Her own cousin, too!’ he found himself thinking, and curiously enough he was a little shocked.

  To Patricia’s intense disappointment Michael was not staying at the Gordonia nor could the people in the office tell her anything about him. Weary after her long day, sbe undressed and enjoyed the luxury of a warm bath, where she lay for some little time thinking the matter over. Philbeach and her father only shrugged their shoulders when she commented at dinner on how extraordinary it was that the others had not yet reached Upington, so afterwards she excused herself on the plea of tiredness, but instead of going straight up to bed, she slipped out of the side door, bent upon inquiring at the other two hotels in case Michael had gone to one of them through some misunderstanding.

  She walked quickly down the street and turned into the entrance of the Imperial. The first thing that caught her eye was Michael seated on the veranda—a long cool drink in his hand—talking to his two half-brothers. Forgetful for the moment of everything except that she had guessed aright and found him, she ran up the steps and cried cheerfully:

  ‘Michael! So you are here, after all !’

  He rose a little stiffly. He had liked her—believed in her—yes, damn it, loved her, but she had tricked him. On every mile of the long journey from Postmasberg the Bennetts had pointed out the various ways she had fooled him. Firstly, she had weedled the name of Kieviet out of him. Secondly, he had told her old John’s jumping-off place—Zwart Modder—and she had not told him a damn’ thing in return. She had been the first to suggest that her own party should go on ahead, and finally it was she who had sent the telegram. He could hear Ernest’s Cockney witticisms at his expense ringing in his ears still, and forty times in the last two days he could cheerfully have strangled the Bennett brothers. As she came up to the table they regarded her curiously but left it for him to speak.

  ‘Yes, we’re here,’ he said, without the flicker of a smile. ‘I suppose you imagined that we were still kicking our heels in Postmasberg?’

  ‘Postmasberg! Why, where’s that?’ she exclaimed a little nervously. She was disconcerted and upset by the complete change in him.

  ‘Oh, you ought to know. It’s that rotten little dorp you sent us to.’ He stared at her, a hurt look in his dark eyes.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she gasped.

  ‘Do you mean that you didn’t send us a telegram telling us to go to Postmasberg and wait for you there?’ George asked, his voice full of sarcastic unbelief.

  ‘No! How absurd! Why should I do that?’ Patricia was almost on the point of tears. She was disappointed and entirely at a loss to account for this unsympathetic reception.

  ‘It was signed in your name, anyhow,’ Michael declared coldly, ‘and the reason’s pretty obvious. You meant to shanghai us there, so that you could get ahead of us again in spite of the arrangement that we fixed up.’

  ‘No! No!’ she assured him. It was gradually dawning on her that Wisdon must have used her name to deceive the others. ‘I didn’t, honestly … I didn’t even know that you’d had a telegram…. It… Why … It must have been that man that father took on before we left England. We went up to Zwart Modder four days ago. They told me a message had been left for you to wait here until we sent a runner to tell you what luck we’d had there with the necklace.’

  Ernest’s quick eyes were fixed steadily on Patricia’s face and, feeling quite certain that she was not lying, he endeavoured to bridge the misunderstanding which obviously lay between them. ‘Come on, now. Let’s be reasonable,’ he said, pulling his collar from under the big Adam’s apple with a characteristic gesture. ‘Young Pat’s been led up the garden path, I reckon, and if that’s so we’ve got no quarrel with her.’

  ‘No, none whatever,’ Michael agreed a trifle more amiably, relieved that there was a possibility they had misjudged her. ‘But will you tell us what has been going on during these days that we have been delayed.’

  ‘Of course, I will. I have no idea what game Wisdon is playing. I can only suppose that he didn’t mean it when he agreed that we should join forces. We’ve been up to Zwart Modder and found Kieviet, or rather we’ve found out that he died three months ago, so that hope is gone.’

  ‘Well, if you’re being honest,’ George cut in, ‘it would be interesting if you’d tell us what new plans you’ve made now.’

  ‘Of course I’m being honest,’ Patricia protested. ‘I can only tell you everything I know. When we arrived at Zwart Modder we had an awful stroke of luck. There was a Miss Aileen Orkney staying at the hotel and, seeing the resemblance of the name to the one in Uncle John’s Will, I got hold of her at once. It turned out that she is the daughter of the original Aileen Orkney. She’s a stupid, empty-headed sort of girl but she was most awfully sympathetic when she heard Kieviet was dead and that we had had all our trouble for nothing. She telephoned to her mother in Johannesburg and landed be information for us that the boy, who was the only other survivor of the party besides N’hluzili and Uncle John, lived at King George’s Falls. We are going down to see if we can find him to-morrow.’ She paused suddenly—was it possible that they still didn’t believe her? Surely Michael would know she was telling the truth—it was like a nightmare to see the disbelief in his eyes. She stammered out—‘Ive told you everything. I don’t care what you do!’

  As Michael listened his mouth drew down into an angry sullen curve. Here she was, with this glib explanation, trying to draw another red herring across
the trail.

  ‘Thank you for nothing!’ he exclaimed rudely. He was bitter in his disappointment and only thinking of hurting her as much as she had hurt him. ‘We’re not quite fools enough to be taken in by you twice. You seem to forget that we met Mrs. Orkney in Johannesburg and happen to know that she never had a daughter!’

  16

  The Leopard Skin Kaross of Ombulike the Hottentot

  Three days later the Bennett party arrived at Zwart Modder. In spite of the purchase of a nice little cob in Upington, Michael did not enjoy the journey. He was in the depths of despair about his break with Patricia, and the Bennetts had added to his distress by warning him not to let his affair with her become too serious because not only was she his first cousin but her parents had been first cousins too. He had not known that before but now, even if he could patch up their quarrel, which he was anxious to do, it put all prospect of marriage out of the question.

  The Bennetts, too, were distinctly sobered by their first taste of journeying in a springless wagon which progressed in a series of jolts and was drawn by a long span of sixteen slowmoving oxen, but as neither of them could ride there was no alternative.

  To supervise their out-span they had engaged a tall, looselimbed Kaffir boy, who spoke a little English, and two Sesutos, one of whom could cook after a fashion. The other, the voor-trekker, walked in front of the oxen, cracking his whip.

  Johnnie, the head boy, duly delivered his passengers, who kept him and his two underlings in a perpetual cackle of laughter, at the tin-roofed shanty which served for a hotel at Zwart Modder.

  The place was two full days’ journey from Upington and, having had to spend the day following their interview with Patricia in securing their equipment, it was not until five days after the Longs had left that they arrived at the tiny dorp on the banks of the Molopo.

  The Van Niekerk party had now been at Zwart Modder for nine days and, Michael’s party having failed to put in an appearance, they had decided, only that afternoon, that Sarie should leave the inn to join them in the camp and that they would now set about trying to find a guide on their own.