Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  Cartwright looked around at his captors. There were six of them, including the two who had waylaid him, but his training in character judgement enabled him to pick out the leader almost immediately, a tall, powerfully built man with a dense black beard curling out from under his cloth face-mask, and above the mask a pair of strangely pale eyes, like those of one of the big predatory cats. His fear turned to real terror when he looked into those yellow eyes, for he sensed that there was no compassion in them.

  ‘Open the vault,’ the man said. His English was heavily accented.

  ‘I don’t have the key,’ Cartwright said, and the man with yellow eyes seized Mary Cartwright by the wrist and forced her to her knees.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Cartwright blustered, and the man placed the muzzle of his pistol to Mary’s temple.

  ‘My wife is going to have a baby,’ Cartwright said.

  ‘Then you will want to spare her any further unpleasantness.’

  ‘Open it for them, Peter. Let them have it. It’s not our money,’ Mary screamed. ‘It’s the bank’s. Give it to them.’ And she began to urinate in little spurts that soaked through the skirts of her dressing-gown.

  Cartwright went to the green Chatwood steel door of the vault and drew his watch chain from his fob pocket with the key dangling on the end of it. Anger and humiliation seethed in him as he tumbled the combination and turned the key. He stood back while De Kok came forward to do the same. Then, while all their attention was on the vault door as it swung open, he glanced across at his desk. He kept the pistol in the top right-hand drawer. It was a .455 service Webley and there was always a round under the hammer. By now his outrage at the treatment of his wife outweighed his terror.

  ‘Get the money!’ the leader with the pale eyes ordered and three of the robbers, carrying canvas kit bags, hurried into the vault.

  ‘My wife,’ Cartwright said, ‘I must see to her.’ Nobody interfered as he lifted her to her feet and helped her to the desk. Tenderly he settled her into the chair, keeping up a flow of reassurance that covered the soft scrape as he opened the drawer.

  He lifted the pistol and slipped it into the pocket of his masonic apron.

  Then he backed away, leaving his wife at the desk. He had both hands raised to shoulder level in an attitude of surrender as he rejoined De Kok against the far wall. Both women were out of the line of his fire, but he waited until the three robbers re-emerged from the vault, each of them lugging a kitbag stuffed with wads of banknotes. Again all attention was on those bulging canvas bags, and Cartwright reached into the pocket of his white leather apron, brought out the pistol and his first shot crashed across the room in a long spurt of blue gunsmoke. He kept firing as the Luger bullets smashed into his body, and he was flung back against the wall. He fired until the hammer of the Webley snapped down on a spent cartridge, but his last bullet had gone into the concrete floor between his feet, and he was dead as he slumped down the bullet-pocked wall and huddled at the foot of it, with his blood puddling under him.

  SHOOT-OUT AT RAND BANK

  TWO DEAD

  ROBBERY LINKED TO OB

  The letters OB caught Sarah Stander’s eye on the placard outside the news-stand. She went in and bought candy for the children, as she always did, and then, as an apparent afterthought, she took a copy of the newspaper.

  She crossed to the park and while the two toddlers romped on the lawn and she absently rocked the pram with her foot to keep the baby quiet, she read the front-page article avidly.

  Mr Peter Cartwright, the manager of a bank in Fordsburg, was last night shot dead while attempting to prevent a robbery at the bank’s premises. One of the robbers was also shot dead, while a second man was seriously wounded and taken into custody by the police.

  First estimates are that the four remaining robbers fled with cash in excess of £100,000.

  A police spokesman said this morning that preliminary interrogation of the wounded robber had established definite involvement by members of the Ossewa Brandwag in the outrage.

  The Minister of the Interior, Colonel Blaine Malcomess, announced from his office in the House of Parliament in Cape Town that he had ordered an enquiry into the subversive activities of the OB and that any member of the public with information to offer should contact the nearest police station or telephone the following numbers: Johannesburg 78114, Cape Town 42444. The minister gave the assurance that all information would be treated in the strictest confidence.

  She sat for almost an hour, trying to reach a decision, torn between loyalty to her family and her patriotic duty to her own people. She was confused, terribly confused. Was it right to blow up trains and rob banks and kill innocent people in the name of freedom and justice? Would she be a traitoress if she tried to save her husband and her babies? And what about those other innocents who were certain to die if Manfred De La Rey were allowed to continue? She could readily imagine the strife and chaos that would result if the entire country were to be plunged into civil war. She looked at the newspaper again and memorized the telephone number.

  She stood up, called the children and wheeled the pram across the road. As she reached the far sidewalk and started towards the post office, she noticed old Mr Oberholster, the postmaster, watching her from the window of his office. She knew that he was one of them, she had seen him in OB uniform when he came to the cottage to pick Roelf up for one of their meetings.

  Immediately she felt panicky with guilt. All telephone calls went through the post office exchange. Oberholster might easily listen in on her conversation, or the operator might recognize her voice. She turned away and pushed the pram down towards the butcher as though that had originally been her intention. She bought two pounds of pork chops, Roelf’s favourite dinner, and hurried back to the cottage, eager to be off the street, to be alone so she could think.

  As she let herself into the kitchen she heard men’s voices in the front room that Roelf used as a study. He was back early from the university today, and then her pulse quickened as she heard Manfred’s voice. She felt guilty and disloyal that he could still have that effect upon her. Manfred had not been to the cottage for almost three weeks, and she realized that she had missed him and thought about him almost every day with feelings that oscillated from bitter hatred and resentment to tremulous physical arousal.

  She began to prepare dinner for Roelf and the children, but the men’s voices carried quite clearly from the front room. Occasionally Sarah paused to listen, and once she heard Manie say, ‘While I was in Jo’burg—’ So he had been in Johannesburg. The bank robbery had taken place the night before last – time enough since then for him to come down by road or on the mail train. She thought about the two men who had been killed. She had read in the paper that the bank manager had a pregnant wife and two small children. She wondered how the woman felt now, with her husband gone, and three little ones to care for.

  Then she was distracted by the men’s voices again, and she paused to listen. What she heard filled her with foreboding.

  ‘Where will this thing end?’ she brooded. ‘Oh I wish they would stop. I wish Manie would go away and leave us alone—’ But the thought of that filled her with a sense of hopelessness.

  Shasa flew down alone from the Witwatersrand in the Rapide and landed at Youngsfield after dark. He drove directly from the airfield to Blaine’s home in Newlands Avenue.

  Tara opened the door to him, her face lighting when she realized it was him. ‘Oh, darling, I missed you!’ They kissed rapturously until Blaine’s voice made them start apart.

  ‘Look here, Shasa, I don’t like to interrupt anything important, but when you can spare a moment I’d like to hear your report.’

  Tara was blushing furiously. ‘Daddy, you were spying on us!’

  ‘Public display, my dear. No spying necessary. Come along, Shasa.’ He led the way to his study and waved Shasa to a chair.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘I’d like a ginger ale, sir.’

  ‘How
are the mighty fallen!’ Blaine poured a little of his hoarded whisky for himself and handed Shasa the ginger ale. ‘Now what is it that you couldn’t talk about on the telephone?’

  ‘We just might have had a bit of luck at last, sir.’ On Blaine’s orders Shasa had flown up to Johannesburg as soon as the Fordsburg bank robbery had been linked to the Ossewa Brandwag. He had been at Marshall Square, the headquarters of the CID, while the captured bank robber was being interrogated. ‘As you know, the fellow is an official on the Crown Mines. Thys Lourens is his name, and sure enough he was on our list of known OB members. Not one of the big fish, however, but quite a formidable-looking chap, although I’d expect him to be a bit of a boozer. I told the police inspector that you wanted answers—’

  ‘No rough stuff.’ Blaine frowned.

  ‘No, sir. It wasn’t necessary. Lourens wasn’t as tough as he looked. We only had to point out that the penalty for armed robbery and accessory to murder was the gallows, but that we were prepared to do a deal and he started to gush. I gave you most of what he told us when I telephoned you this morning.’

  ‘Yes. Go on.’

  ‘Then he gave us the names of the other men involved in the robbery, that is, three of them. We were able to make the arrests before I left Johannesburg. However, the leader of the gang was a man he had only met three days before the robbery. He did not know his name, or where we could find him.’

  ‘Did he give you a description?’

  ‘Yes. Big man, black hair and beard, crooked nose, scar over one eye – a pretty detailed description, but he gave us something else which may be vital.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A code name. The leader is known only as Die Wit Swaard, the White Sword, and they were ordered to co-operate with him from the very top level of the stormjagters.’

  ‘White Sword,’ Blaine mused. ‘Sounds like something out of Boy’s Own Paper.’

  ‘Unfortunately not so childish,’ Shasa went on. ‘I impressed upon the inspector in charge that the code name and the description must be withheld until he had orders from you personally.’

  ‘Good.’ Blaine sipped his drink, pleased that his trust in Shasa Courtney had been so soon vindicated. ‘White Sword – I wonder if this is the trigger we have been looking for, the catalyst that has at last brought the OB to the point of action.’

  ‘It could very well be, sir. All the arrested members of the gang are obviously very much in awe of the man. He was clearly the force behind the entire thing, and he has disappeared completely. There is no trace of the missing money – incidentally, we have established that it is over one hundred and twenty-seven thousand pounds.’

  ‘A tidy sum,’ Blaine murmured, ‘and we must presume that it has gone into the war chest of the OB, probably along with the gelignite from the railway hijacking.’

  ‘As far as this code name goes, sir, I would like to suggest that we continue to keep it from the press and everybody not directly concerned with the investigation.’

  ‘I agree. However, let me hear your reasons – see if they are the same as mine.’

  ‘Firstly, we don’t want to alert the quarry. We don’t want him to know that we are on his track.’

  Blaine nodded. ‘Quite so.’

  ‘The other reason is that it will confirm the reliability of any informant who uses the code name.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ Blaine frowned.

  ‘Your appeal to the public for assistance has resulted in a flood of telephone calls, but unfortunately most of them are bogus. If we let the code name become general knowledge, they’ll all be using it.’

  ‘I see. Use of the code name will establish the callers’ credentials.’

  ‘That’s it, sir.’

  ‘All right then, we’ll keep it under the hat for the time being. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Not at present.’

  ‘Then let me tell you what has happened here while you were away. I have met the prime minister and we have decided to declare the OB a political organization. All civil servants, including the police and the army, will be obliged to resign their membership immediately.’

  ‘That won’t alter their sympathies,’ Shasa pointed out.

  ‘Of course not,’ Blaine agreed. ‘We will still have something like forty or fifty per cent of the country against us and for Nazi Germany.’

  ‘It can’t go on like this, sir. You and the Ou Baas will have to force a showdown.’

  ‘Yes, we know that. As soon as our investigations are complete, as soon as we have a pretty comprehensive list of the ringleaders, we will swoop.’

  ‘Arrest them?’ Shasa was startled.

  ‘Yes. They will be interned for the duration of the war as enemies of the state.’

  Shasa whistled softly. ‘Pretty drastic, sir. That could lead to real trouble.’

  ‘That is why we have to scoop them all up in the net at one time – we cannot afford to miss any of them.’ Blaine stood up. ‘I can see you are exhausted, Shasa, and I am sure there are a few things that Mademoiselle Tara has to say to you. I’ll expect you at my office at eight-thirty sharp tomorrow morning.’ They moved to the study door and Blaine added as an afterthought, ‘By the way, your grandfather, Sir Garry, arrived at Weltevreden this morning.’

  ‘He has come down for his birthday,’ Shasa smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing him. I hope you and Field Marshal Smuts will be coming to the birthday picnic as usual.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world!’ Blaine opened the study door, and across the lobby Tara was hovering innocently, pretending to be selecting a book from the shelves in the library.

  Blaine grinned, ‘Tara, you let Shasa get some sleep tonight, do you hear me? I refuse to work with a zombie tomorrow.’

  The meeting in Blaine’s office the following morning lasted longer than either of them expected, and later moved down the passageway to the prime minister’s office where Field Marshal Smuts personally questioned Shasa. His questions were so searching that Shasa felt drained by the effort of keeping pace with the Ou Baas’ mercurial mind. He escaped with relief, Smuts’s admonition following him.

  ‘We want this fellow “White Sword” whoever he is, and we want him before he can do any more damage. Get that message across to everybody involved.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I want those lists on my desk before the weekend. We must have these fellows locked up and out of harm’s way.’

  It was mid-morning before Shasa arrived at CID headquarters and parked the Jaguar in the reserved bay that had been set aside for him.

  The special operations room had been set up in one of the extensive basement areas. There was a constable on duty at the door and Shasa signed the register. Entry was restricted to persons on the list. Many of the police force were known OB members, or sympathizers. Inspector Louis Nel had chosen his team with extreme care.

  He was a balding, taciturn man whose age and job classification had prevented him from volunteering for overseas military service, a fact that he bitterly resented. However, Shasa had soon discovered that he was an easy man to like and respect, though a difficult one to please. They had quickly established a working rapport.

  Nel was in his shirt-sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he talked into the telephone, but he covered the mouthpiece and summoned Shasa with an imperious wave.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I was going to send out a search party,’ he reprimanded him. ‘Sit down. I want to talk to you.’

  Shasa perched on the corner of his desk while the inspector continued his telephone call, and he stared through the window into the busy operations room. Inspector Nel had been allocated eight detectives and a bevy of female stenographers. The room was full of cigarette smoke and the clatter of typewriters as they worked. One of the other telephones on the inspector’s desk rang, and he glanced up at Shasa. ‘Take that – damned switchboard keeps putting everything through to me.’

  Shasa picked up the
receiver. ‘Good morning, this is CID headquarters. May I help you?’ he said, and when there was silence, he repeated it in Afrikaans.

  ‘Hello, I want to talk to somebody—’ the caller was a woman, a young woman and very agitated, she was speaking Afrikaans, and her voice was breathless and uncertain. ‘In the paper they said you wanted to know about the Ossewa Brandwag. I want to talk to somebody.’

  ‘My name is Courtney,’ Shasa said in Afrikaans. ‘Squadron-Leader Courtney. I am grateful that you want to assist the police. You can tell me everything.’ He tried to make his voice warm and reassuring. He could sense that the woman was afraid, perhaps on the point of changing her mind and ringing off. ‘Take your time. I’m here to listen to you.’

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Would you like to give me your name?’

  ‘No! I won’t tell you—’

  He realized his mistake. ‘That’s perfectly all right. You don’t have to give your name,’ he told her quickly, and there was a long silence. He could hear her breathing.

  ‘Take your time,’ he repeated gently. ‘You just tell me what you want to.’

  ‘They are stealing the guns.’ The woman’s voice sank to a whisper.

  ‘Can you tell me what guns?’ Shasa asked carefully.

  ‘From the gun factory in Pretoria, the railway workshop.’ Shasa sat up straighter and held the telephone receiver with both hands. Almost all the military arms and munitions manufacture was being undertaken in the railway workshops in Pretoria. It was the only establishment with the heavy equipment, highspeed lathes and steam presses, capable of turning out barrels and blocks for rifles and machine-guns. The cartridge cases for the munitions were being stamped out at the Pretoria Mint, but they were despatched to the railway workshops for final processing.

  ‘What you are saying is important,’ he told her carefully. ‘Can you tell me how they are stealing the guns?’

  ‘They are putting scrap iron in the cases, and stealing the guns,’ the woman whispered.