by Wilbur Smith
What did I have to do with it? Your daughter, choked Dicky, after what he did to your daughter. My daughter? The huge voice subsided to something that was close to a whisper, but was too cold and intense.
It was a fiercer sound than the roar that preceded it. He molested my daughter? Oh God no, General, Dicky moaned weakly. No employee of ours would raise a finger to Miss Storm. What happened? Tell me exactly. He was insolent to your daughter, I thought you knew? Insolent? What did he say? He told her she did not conduct herself like a lady. She must have told you? Dicky gulped, and the General's fearsome expression melted. He looked stunned and bemused. Good God. He said that to Storm? What else? He told her to use the word "please" when giving orders. Dicky couldn't meet the man's eyes and he lowered his head. I'm sorry, sir. There was a strangled growling sound from the General, and Dicky stepped back quickly, ready to defend himself.
It took him seconds to realize that the General was struggling with his mirth, gales of laughter that shook his chest and when at last he let it corner he threw back his head and opened his mouth wide.
Weak with relief, Dicky essayed a restrained and cautious chuckle, in sympathy with the General. It's not funny, man, roared Sean Courtney, and instantly Dicky scowled. You are much to blame, how can you condemn a man on the whim of a child? It took Dicky a moment to realize that the child in question was the gorgeous, head-strong, darling of Natal society. I understood that the order came from you, I stammered Dicky. From me! The laughter stopped abruptly, and the General mopped at his eyes. You thought I would smash a man because he was man enough to stand up to my daughter's tantrums? You thought that of me? Yes, said Dicky miserably, and then quickly, No, and then hopelessly, I didn't know, sir. Sean Courtney took an envelope from his inside pocket, and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. Anders believed, as you did, that I was responsible for his dismissal? he asked soberly now. Yes, sir. He did. Can you contact him? Will you see him again? Dicky hesitated, and then steeled himself and took a breath. I promised him his job back at the end of the month, after we had gone through the motions of dismissal, General.
Like you, I didn't think the crime deserved the punishment. And Sean Courtney looked at him with a new light in his eye, and a grin lifting the corner of his mouth and one
eyebrow. When you see Mark Anders again, tell him of our conversation, and give him this envelope. Dicky took the envelope, and as the General turned away, he heard him mutter darkly, And now for Mademoiselle Storm. Dicky Lancome felt a comradely pang of sympathy for that young lady.
It was almost noon on a Saturday morning and Ronald Pye sat in the back seat of the limousine, stiffly as an undertaker in his hearse, and his expression was as lugubrious. He wore a three-piece suit of dark grey cloth and a high starched collar with stiff wings; gold-rimmed spectacles glittered on his thin beaky nose.
The chauffeur swung off the main Ladyburg road into the long straight avenue that led up to the glistening white buildings of Great Longwood on the lower slopes of the escarpment. The avenue was lined with Cycads that were at least two hundred years old, thick-stemmed palm-like plants each with a golden fruit the size of hogshead, like a monstrous pine cone, nestled in the centre of the graceful fronds. Dirk Courtney's gardeners had scoured the countryside for a hundred miles in each direction to find them, and had lifted them, matched them for size and replanted them here.
The driveway had been smoothed and watered to keep down the dust, and parked in front of the house were twenty or thirty expensive motor cars. Wait for me, said Ronald Pye. I won't be long, and as he alighted, he glanced up at the elegant facade. It was an exact copy of the historic home of Simon van der Stel, the first Governor of the Cape of Good Hope, which still stood at Constantia. Dir Courtney had his architects measure and copy faithfully every room, every arch and gable. The cost must have been forbidding.
In the hall, Ronny Pye paused and looked about him impatiently, for there was nobody to welcome him, although he had been specifically invited, perhaps summoned was a better word, for noon.
The house was alive; there were women's voices and the tinkling bells of their laughter from deep in the interior, while closer at hand the deeper growl of men punctuated by bursts of harsh laughter and voices raised to that reckless, raucous pitch induced by heavy drinking.
The house smelled of perfume and cigar smoke and stale alcohol, and Ronny Pye saw empty crystal glasses standing carelessly on the priceless rosewood hall table, leaving rings of damp on the polished surface, and an abandoned pair of pearly rose women's silk carni-knickers were draped suggestively over the door handle that led to the drawingroom.
While he still hesitated, the door across the hall opened and a young woman entered. She had the dazed, detached air of a sleep-walker, gliding silently into the room on neatly slippered feet. Ronny Pye saw that she was a young girl, not much more than a child, although her cosmetics had run and smeared. Dark rings of mascara gave her a haunted consumptive look, and her lipstick was spread so that her mouth looked like a bruised and overblown rose.
Except for the slippers on her small feet, she was stark naked and her breasts were immature and tender, with pale unformed nipples, and snarled dishevelled tresses of pale blonde hair hung on to her shoulders.
Still with slow, drugged movements, she took the knickers from the door handle, and stepped into them. As she pulled them to her waist she saw Ronny Pye standing by the main door, and she grinned at him, a lo sided depraved whore's smile on the smeared and inflamed lips. Another one? All right, come along then, love. She took a step in his direction, tottered suddenly and turned away to grab at the table for support, the painted doll's face suddenly white and translucent as alabaster, then slowly she doubled over and vomited on the thick silken expanse of woven Quin carpet.
With an exclamation of disgust, Ronny Pye turned away, and crossed to the doors that led into the drawing-room.
Nobody looked up as he entered, although there were twenty people or more in the room. They were gathered intently about a solid round gaming-table of ebony with ivory and mosaic inlay. The tabletop was scattered with poker chips, brightly coloured ivory counters, and four men sat at the table, each holding a fan of cards to his chest, watching the figure at the head of the table. The tension crackled in the room like static electricity.
He was not surprised to see that one of the men at the table was his brother-in-law. He knew that Dennis Petersen regularly attended the soirees at Great Longwood, and he thought briefly of his pliant dutiful sister and wondered if she knew. The man has drawn us all in, Ronny thought bitterly, glancing at Dennis and noticing his bleary, inflamed eyes, the nervous drawn white face. At least I have withstood this, this final filthy degradation. Whatever other evils he has led me into, I have kept this little shred of my self respect. Well, gentlemen, I have bad news to impart, I'm afraid, Dirk Courtney smiled urbanely. The ladies are with me, and he spread his cards face up on the green baize. The four queens in their fanciful costume stared up with wooden expressions, and the other players peered at them for a moment, and then one at a time, with expressions of disgust, discarded their own hands.
Dennis Petersen was the last to concede defeat, and his face was stricken, his hand shook. And then with a sound that was almost a sob, he let his cards flutter from his fingers, pushed back his chair and blundered towards the door.
Halfway there, he stopped suddenly as he recognized the gaunt forbidding figure of his brother-in-law. He stared at him for a moment, the lips still trembling, blinking his bloodshot eyes; then he shook his head as though doubting his senses. You here? Oh yes, Dirk called from the table where he was gathering and stacking the ivory chips. Did I forget to mention that I had invited Ronald? Forgive me, he told the other players, I will be back in a short while. He stood from the table, brushed away the clinging hands of one of the women, and came to take the elbows of Ronald Pye and his brother-in-law in a friendly grip, and to guide them out of the drawing-room, down the long flagged
passage to his study.
Even at midday, the room was cool and dark, thick stone walls and heavy velvet drapes, dark wooden panelling and deep Persian and Oriental carpeting, sombre smoky-looking oil paintings on the panelling, one of which Ronald Pye knew was a Reynolds, and another a Turner, heavy chunky furniture, with coverings of chocolate-coloured leather, it was a room which always depressed Ronald Pye. He always thought of it as the centre of the web in which he and his family had slowly entangled themselves.
Dennis Petersen slumped into one of the leather chairs, and after a moment's hesitation, Ronald Pye took the one facing him and sat there stiffly, disapprovingly.
Dirk Courtney splashed single malt whisky into the glasses that were set out on a silver tray on the corner of the big mahogany desk, and made a silent offer to Ronald Pye, who shook his head primly.
instead, he carried a glass of the glowing amber liquor to Dennis who accepted it with trembling hands, gulped a mouthful and then blurted thickly, Why did you do it, Dirk? You promised that nobody would know I was here, and you invited-'he glanced across at the grim countenance of his brother-in-law.
Dirk chuckled. I always keep my promises, just as long as it pays me to do so. He lifted his own glass. But between the three of us there should be no secrets. Let's drink to that. When Dirk lowered his glass, Ronald Pye asked, Why did you invite me here today? We have a number of problems to discuss, the first of which is dear Dennis here. As a poker player, he makes a fine blacksmith. How much? Ronald Pye asked quietly. Tell him, Dennis, Dirk invited him, and they waited while he studied the remaining liquor in his glass.
Well? said Ronald Pye again. Don't be shy, Dennis, the old cocky diamond, Dirk encouraged him. Dennis mumbled a figure without looking up.
Ronald Pye shifted his weight in the leather chair, and his mouth quivered. It's a gambling debt. We repudiate itShall I ask one or two of the young ladies who are my guests here to go down and give your sister a first-hand account of some of the other little tricks Dennis has been up to? Did you know that Dennis likes to have them kneel over-'Dirk, you wouldn't, bleated Dennis. You're not going to do that- and he sank his face into his hands. You will have a cheque tomorrow, said Ronald Pye softly. Thank you, Ronny, it really is a pleasure to do business with you. Is that all? Oh no, Dirk gritmed at him. By no means. He carried the crystal decanter across to Dennis and recharged his glass. We have another little money matter to discuss.
He filled his own glass with whisky and held it to the light.
Bank business, he said, but Ronny Pye cut in swiftly. I think you should know that I am about to retire from the Bank. I have received an offer for my remaining shares, I am negotiating for a vineyard down in the Cape. I will be leaving Ladyburg and taking my family with me. No, Dirk shook his head, smiling lightly. You and I are together for ever. We have a bond that is unbreakable.
I want you with me always, somebody I can trust, perhaps the only person in the world I can trust. We share so many secrets, old friend. Including murder. They both froze at the word, and slowly colour drained from Ronald Pye's face. John Anders and his boy, Dirk reminded them, and they both broke in together. The boy got away-'He's still alive. Not for much longer, Dirk assured them. My man is on the way to him now. This time tomorrow there will be no further trouble from him. You can't do it, Dennis Petersen shook his head vehemently. Why, in God's name? Let it be. Ronald Pye was begging now, suddenly all the stiffness going out of his bearing. Let the boy alone, we have enough-No. He has not left us alone, Dirk explained reasonably. He has been actively gathering information on all of us and all our activities. By a stroke of fortune I have learned where he is and he is alone, in a lonely place They were silent now, and while he waited for them to think it out, Dirk flicked the stub of his cheroot on to the fireplace and lit another. What more do you want from us, now? Ronald asked at last. Ah, so at last we can discuss the matter in a businesslike fashion? Dirk propped himself on the edge of the desk and picked up an antique duelling pistol that he used as a paper weight. He spun in on his finger as he talked. I am short of liquid funds for the expansion programme that I began five years ago. There has been a decline in sugar prices, a reduction in the Bank's investment flow, but you know all this, of course. Ronald Pye nodded cautiously. We have already agreed to adapt the land purchases to our cash flow, for the next few years at least. We will be patient. I am not a patient man, Ronny. We are short two hundred thousand a year over the next three years. We have agreed to cut down, Ronald Pye went on, but Dirk was not listening. He twirled the pistol, aimed at the eye of the portrait above the fireplace and snapped the hammer on the empty cap. Two hundred thousand a year for three years is six hundred thousands of sterling, Dirk mused aloud, and lowered the pistol. Which is by chance exactly the amount paid by me to you for your shares, some ten years ago. No, said Ronald Pye, with an edge of panic in his voice. That's mine, that's my personal capital, it has nothing to do with the Bank. You've done very nicely with it too, Dirk congratulated him. Those Crown Deep shares did you proud, an excellent buy. By my latest calculations, your personal net worth is not much less than eight hundred thousand. In trust for my family, my daughter and my grandchildren, said Ronny, his voice edged with desperation.
I need that money now, Dirk spoke reasonably. What about your own personal resources? Ronald Pye demanded desperately. Stretched to their limit, my dear Ronald, all of it invested in land and sugar. You could borrow on-job, but why should I borrow from strangers, when a dear and trusted friend will make the loan to the Ladyburg Farmers Bank. What finer security than that offered by that venerable institution? A loan, dear Ronald, merely a loan. No. Ronald Pye came to his feet. That money is not mine. it belongs to my family. He turned to his brotherin-law. Come. I will take you home. Smiling that charming, sparkling smile, Dirk aimed the duelling pistol between Dennis Petersen's eyes. Stay where you are, Dennis, he said, and snapped the hammer again. It's all right, said Ronald Pye to Dennis. We can break away now. If you stick with me. Ronald was panting a little, and sweating like a runner. If he accuses us of murder, he accuses himself also. We can prove that we were not the planners, not the ones who gave the orders. I think he is bluffing. It's a chance we will have to take to be rid of him. He turned to face Dirk now, and there was the steel of defiance in his eyes. To be rid of this monster.
Let him do his worst, and he damns himself as much as he does us. How well conceived a notion! Dirk laughed delightedly. And I do really believe that you are foolish enough to mean what you say. Come, Dennis. Let him do his worst. Without another glance at either of them, Ronald Pye stalked to the door. Which of your grandchildren do you cherish most, Ronny, Natalie or Victoria? Dirk asked, still laughing.
Or, I imagine, it's the little boy, what's his name? Damn!
I should know the brat's name, I am his godfather. He chuckled again, then snapped his fingers as he remembered. Damn me, of course, Ronald, like his granddaddy.
Little Ronald. Ronald Pye had turned at the door and was staring across the room at him. Dirk grinned back at him, as though at some delicious joke. Little Ronald, he grinned, and aimed the pistol at an imaginary figure in the centre of the open carpet, a diminutive figure it seemed, no higher than a man's knee. Good bye, little Ronald, he murmured, and clicked the hammer. Goodbye, little Natalie. He swung the pistol to another invisible figure and snapped the action. Goodbye, little Victoria. The pistol clicked again, the metallic sound shockingly loud in the silent room. You wouldn't- Dennis voice was strangled, you ouldn't-I need the money very badly, Dirk told him. But you wouldn't do that-'You keep telling me what I wouldn't do. Since when have you been such a ffne judge of my behaviour? Not the children? pleaded Dennis.
I've done it before, Dirk pointed out. Yes, but not children, not little children. Ronald Pye stood at the door still. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last few seconds, his shoulders had sagged and his face was grey and deeply lined, the flesh seemed to have fallen in around his eyes, sagging i
nto loose folds. Before you leave, Ronny, let me tell you a story you have been desperate to hear for twelve years. I know you have spent much time and money trying to find out already. Return to your chair, please. Listen to my story and then you are free to go, if you still want to do so. Ronald Pye's hand fell away from the door handle, and he shambled back and dropped into the leather chair as though his limbs did not belong to him.
Dirk filled a spare glass with whisky and placed it on the arm of his chair, within easy reach, and Ronny did not protest.
It's the story of how a nineteen-year-old boy made himself a million pounds in cash, and used it to buy a bank.
When you have heard it, I want you to ask yourself if there is anything that boy would not do. Dirk stood up and began to pace up and down the thick carpeting between their chairs like a caged feline animal, lithe and graceful, but sinister also, and cruel; and he began to speak in that soft purring voice that wove a hypnotic web about them, and their heads swung to follow his regular measured pacing. Shall we call the boy Dirk, it's a good name, a tough name for a lad who was thrown out by a tyrannical father and set out to get the things he wanted his own way, a boy who learned quickly and was frightened of nothing, a boy who by his nineteenth birthday was first mate of a beatenup old coal-burning tramp steamer running dubious cargos to the bad spots of the Orient. A boy who could run a ship single-handed and whip work out of a crew of niggers with a rope end, while the skipper wallowed in gin in his cabin. He paused beside the desk, refilled his glass with whisky and asked his audience, Does the story grip you so far? You are drunk, said Ronald Pye. I am never drunk, Dirk contradicted him, and resumed his pacing.
