‘Oh, Lord preserve us,’ Dicky breathed, his guilty conscience delivering a heavy jolt into his belly. ‘General Courtney,’ and he let the ear-piece of the telephone drop and dangle on its cord, while he slid forward stealthily from his chair and crawled into shelter below his desk, knees drawn up to his chin.
He could imagine exactly why General Courtney was calling. He had come to discuss the insult to his daughter in person, and Dicky Lancome had heard enough about the General’s temper to want to avoid joining this discussion.
Now he listened like a night animal for the stalk of the leopard, cocking his head for the sound of further footsteps and bating his breath to a shallow cautious trickle, in order not to disclose his hiding-place.
The ear-piece of the telephone still dangled on its cord, and now it emitted the high-pitched distorted voice of an irate female. Without leaving the cover of the desk, he reached out to try and muffle the ear-piece, but it dangled tantalizing inches beyond his fingertips.
‘Dicky Lancome, I know you are there,’ squawked the tinny voice, and Dick wriggled forward another inch.
A hand, in size not unlike that of a bull gorilla, entered Dicky’s field of vision, closed on the ear-piece, and placed it in Dicky’s outstretched fingers.
‘Please allow me,’ said a deep gravelly voice from somewhere above the desk.
‘Thank you, sir,’ whispered Dicky, trying not to draw too much attention to himself even at this stage. For want of anything better to do, he listened respectfully to the ear-piece.
‘It is no good pretending not to be listening,’ said the female voice. ‘I know all about you and that blonde hussy—’
‘I expect you need this,’ said the deep voice from on high, and the hand passed the mouthpiece of the telephone down into his hiding-place.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Dicky whispered again, uncertain as to which emotion dominated him at that moment, humiliation or trepidation. He cleared his throat and spoke into the telephone.
‘Darling, I have to go now,’ he croaked. ‘I have an extremely important client in the shop.’ He hoped that the touch of flattery might sweeten the coming encounter. He broke the connection and crawled out unwillingly on his hands and knees.
‘General Courtney!’ He dusted himself down and smoothed his hair, assembled his dignity and salesman’s smile. ‘We are honoured.’
‘I hope I did not interrupt you in anything important?’ Only the sapphire twinkle in the heavily browed eyes betrayed the General’s amusement.
‘By no means,’ Dicky assured him, ‘I was—’ he looked around wildly for inspiration, ‘I was merely meditating.’
‘Ah!’ Sean Courtney nodded. ‘That explains it.’
‘How can I be of service to you, General?’ Dicky went on hurriedly.
‘I wanted to find out about a young salesman of yours – Mark Anders.’ Dicky’s heart was struck by black frost again.
‘Don’t worry, General, I fired him myself,’ Dicky blurted out. ‘But I tore a terrible strip off him first. You can be sure of that.’ He saw the General’s dark beetling brows come together and the forehead crease like an eroded desert landscape, and Dicky nearly panicked. ‘He won’t get another job in this town, count on it, General. I have put the word out – the black mark – he’s properly queered around here, he is.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, man?’ the General rumbled, like an uneasy volcano.
‘One word from you, sir, was enough.’ Dicky found that the palms of his hands were cold and slippery with sweat.
‘From me?’ The rumble rose to a roar and Dicky felt like a peasant, looking fearfully up the slopes of Vesuvius. ‘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 come, 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,’ 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 a 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 façade. 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. Dirk 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 cami-knickers were draped suggestively over the door handle that led to the drawing-room.
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 lopsided 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 Qum 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 soirées 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, me 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 it.’
‘Shall 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 grinned 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 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 it 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.’