‘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—’
‘Oh, 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 brother-in-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. ‘Goodbye, 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 wouldn’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 fine 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 into 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.
‘We will call the steamer L’Oiseau de Nuit — “The Bird of Night”, though, in all truth, it’s an unlikely name for a stinking old cow of a boat. Her skipper was Le Doux – the sweet one — again a mild misnomer,’ and Dirk chuckled reminiscently, and sipped at his glass. ‘This merry crew discharged a midnight cargo in the Yellow River late in the summer of ’09 and next day put into the port of Liang Su for a more legitimate return cargo of tea and silks.
‘From the roadstead, they could see that the outskirts of the town was in flames, and they could hear the crackle of small arms fire. The basin was empty of shipping, just a few sampans and one or two small junks, and the fear-crazed population of the city was crowding the wharf, screaming for a berth to safety.
‘Hundreds of them plunged into the basin and swam out to where “The Bird of Night” was hovering. The mate let two of them come aboard and then turned the hoses on the others, driving them off, while he learned what was happening.’ Dirk paused, remembering how the pressure of the solid jets of water had driven the swimmers under the filthy yellow surface of the basin, and how the others had wailed and tried to swim back. He grinned and roused himself. ‘The Communist war-lord, Han Wang, was attacking the port and had promised the rich merchants an amusing death in the bamboo cages. Now the mate knew just how rich the merchants of Liang Su really were. After consulting the captain, the mate brought “The Bird of Night” alongside the wharf, clearing it of the peasant scum with steam hoses and a few pistol shots, and he led an armed party of lascars into the city to the guild house where the Chinese tea merchants were gathered, paralysed with terror and already resigned to their fate. Another whisky, Ronny?’
Ronald Pye shook his head, his eyes had not left Dirk’s face since the tale began, and now Dirk smiled at him.
‘The mate set the passage money so high that only the very richest could afford to pay it, two thousand sovereign a head – but still ninety-six of them came aboard “The Bird of Night”, each staggering under the load of his possessions. Even the children carried their own weight, boxes and bales and sacks – and while we are on the subject of children, there were forty-eight of them in the party, all boys of course, for no sane Chinaman would waste two thousand pounds on a girl child. The little boys ranged from babes to striplings, some of them of an age with your little Ronald.’ Dirk paused to let it register, then, ‘It was a close run, for as the last of them came aboard, the mate cast off from the wharf and Han Wang’s bandits burst out of the city and hacked and bayoneted their way on to the wharf. Their rifle-fire spattered the upper works, and swept “The Bird of Night’s” decks, sending her newly boarded passengers screaming down into the empty holds, but she made a clear run of it out of the river and by dark was pushing out into a quiet tropical sea.
‘Le Doux, the captain, could not believe his fortune – almost tw
o hundred thousand sovereigns in gold, in four tea chests in his cabin, and he promised young Dirk a thousand for himself. But Dirk knew the value of his captain’s promises. Nevertheless, he suggested a further avenue of profit.
‘Old Le Doux had been a hard man before the drink got to him. He had run slaves out of Africa, opium out of India, but he was soft now, and he was horrified by what his young mate suggested. He blasphemed by praying to God and he wept. “Les pauvres petits,” he slobbered, and poured gin down his throat until after midnight he collapsed into that stupor that Dirk knew would last for forty-eight hours.
‘The mate went up on to the bridge and sounded the ship’s siren, shouting to his passengers that there was a government gunboat overtaking them, and driving them from the open deck back into the holds. They went like sheep, clutching their possessions. The mate and his lascars battened down the hatches, closing ’em up tight and solid. Can you guess the rest of it?’ he asked. ‘A guinea for the correct solution.’
Ronald Pye licked his dry grey lips, and shook his head.
‘No?’ Dirk teased him. ‘The easiest guinea you ever missed – why, it was simple. The mate opened the seacocks and flooded the holds.’ He watched them curiously, anticipating their reactions. Neither of his listeners could speak, and as Dirk went on, there was a small change in his telling of it. He no longer spoke in the third person. Now it was ‘we’ and ‘I’.
‘Of course, we couldn’t flood to the top, even in that low sea she might have foundered, and rolled on her back. There must have been a small airspace under the hatch, and they held the children up there. I could hear them through the four-inch timbers of the hatch. For almost half an hour they kept up their howling and screaming until the air went bad and the roll and slosh of the water got them, and when at last it was all over and we opened the hatches, we found that they had tom the woodwork of the underside of the covers with their fingers, ripped and splintered it like a cage full of monkeys.’
Dirk turned to the empty chair nearest the fireplace and sank into it. He swilled the whisky in his right hand and then swallowed it. He threw the crystal glass into the empty fireplace and it exploded into diamond fragments. They were all silent, staring at the glass splinters.
‘Why?’ whispered Dennis huskily at last. ‘In God’s name, why did you kill them?’
Dirk did not look at him, he was lost in the past, reliving a high tide in his life. Then he roused himself and went on, ‘We pumped out the hold, and I had the lascars carry all the sodden sacks and bales and boxes up into the saloon. God, Ronny, you should have been there. It was a sight to drive a man like you mad with greed. I piled it all up on the saloon table. It was a treasure that had taken fifty cunning men a lifetime to accumulate. There was gold in coin and bar, diamonds like the end of your thumb, rubies to choke a camel, emeralds – well, the merchants of Liang Su were some of the richest in China. Together with the passage money, the loot came to just over a million in sterling—’
‘And the captain, Le Doux, his share?’ Ronald Pye asked; even in his horror his accountant’s mind was working.
‘The captain?’ Dirk shook his head and smiled that light, boyish smile. ‘Poor Le Doux, he must have fallen overboard that night. Drunk as he was, he would not have been able to swim — and the sharks were bad out there in the China Sea. God knows that with the water full of dead Chinese, there was enough to attract them. No, there was only one share, not counting a token to the lascars. Two hundred pounds for each of them was a fortune beyond their wildest dreams of avarice. That left a million pounds for a night’s work. A million before the age of twenty.’
‘That’s the most terrible story I’ve ever heard.’ Ronald Pye’s voice shook like the hand that raised the glass to his lips.
‘Remember it when next you have naughty thoughts of leaving Ladyburg,’ Dirk counselled him, and leaned across to pat his shoulder. ‘We are comrades – unto death,’ he said.
For Mark the allotted days were running out swiftly. Soon he must leave the valley and return to the world of men, and a quiet desperation came over him. He had searched the south bank and the steep ground above it, now he crossed to the north bank and started there all over again.
Here, for the first time, he had warning that he was not the only human being in the valley. The first day he came across a line of snares laid along the game trails that led down to drinking-places on the river. The wire used was the same as that he had found on the gangrened leg of the crippled impala doe, eighteen-gauge galvanized mild steel wire, probably cut from some unsuspecting farmer’s fence.
Mark found sixteen snares that day and tore each out, bundled the wire and hurled it into one of the deeper pools of the river.
Two days later, he came across a log deadfall, so cunningly devised and so skilfully set that it had crushed a full-grown otter. Mark used a branch to lever the log clear and drew out the carcass. He stroked the soft, lustrous chocolate fur and felt again the stirring of his anger. Quite unreasonably, he was developing a strange proprietary feeling for the animals of this valley, and a growing hatred for anyone who hunted or molested them.
Now his attention was divided almost equally between his search for his grandfather’s grave and for further signs of the illegal trapper. Yet it was almost another week before he had direct sign of the mysterious hunter.
He was crossing the river each morning in the dawn to work the north bank. It might have been easier to abandon the camp under the fig trees, but sentiment kept him there. It was the old man’s camp, their old camp together, and in any case he enjoyed the daily crossing and the journey through the swampland formed in the crotch of the two rivers. Although it was only the very edge of this watery world that he moved through, yet he recognized it as the very heart of this wilderness, an endless well of precious water and even more precious life, the last secure refuge of so many creatures of the valley.
He found daily evidence of the big game on the muddy paths through the towering stands of reed and papyrus, which closed overhead to form a cool gloomy tunnel of living green stems. There were Cape buffalo, and twice he heard them crashing away through the papyrus without a glimpse of them. There were hippopotamus and crocodile but they spent the days deep in the dark reed-fringed lakelets and mysterious lily-covered pools. At night he often woke and huddled in his blanket to listen to their harsh grunting bellows resounding through the swampland.
One noonday, sitting on a low promontory of rocky wooded ground that thrust into the swamp, he watched a white rhinoceros bring its calf out of the sheltering reeds to feed on the edge of the bush.
She was a huge old female, her pale grey hide scarred and scratched, folded and wrinkled over the massive prehistoric body that weighed at least four tons, and she fussed over the calf anxiously, guiding it with her long slightly curved nose horn; the calf was hornless and fat as a piglet. Watching the pair, Mark realized suddenly how deeply this place had touched his life, and the possessive love he was developing for it was reaffirmed.
Here he lived as though he was the first man in all the earth, and it touched some deep atavistic need in his spirit. It was on that same day that he came upon recent signs of the other human presence beyond Chaka’s Gate.
He was following one of the faint game paths that skirted another ridge, one of those that joined the main run of ground into the slopes of the escarpment, when he came upon the spoor.
It was barefooted, the flat-arched and broad soles of feet that had never been constricted by leather footwear. Mark went down on his knees to examine it carefully. Too big for a woman, he knew at once.
The stride told him the man was tall. The gait was slightly toe-in and the weight was carried on the ball of the foot, the way an athlete walks. There was no scuff or drag of toe on the forward swing, a high lift and a controlled transfer of weight – a strong, quick, alert man, moving fast and silently.
The spoor was so fresh that at the damp patch where the man had paused to urinate, the butte
rflies still fluttered in a brilliant cloud for the moisture and salt. Mark was very close behind him, and he felt the hunter’s thrill as, without hesitation, he picked up and started to run the spoor.
He was closing quickly. The man he was following was unaware. He had paused to cut a green twig from a wild loquat branch, probably to use as a tooth pick, and the shavings were still wet and bleeding.
Then there was the place where the man had paused, turned back on his own spoor a single pace, paused again, almost certainly to listen, then turned abruptly off the path; within ten more paces the spoor ended, as though the man had launched into flight, or been lifted into the sky by a fiery chariot. His disappearance was almost magical, and though Mark worked for another hour, casting and circling, he found no further sign.
He sat down and lit a cigarette, and found he was sweaty and disgruntled. Although he had used all his bushcraft to come up with his quarry, he had been made to look like an infant. The man had become aware of Mark following, probably from a thousand yards off, and he had jinked and covered his spoor, throwing the pursuit with such casual ease that it was a positive insult.
As he sat, Mark felt his ill-humour harden and become positive hard anger.
‘I’ll get you yet,’ he promised the mysterious stranger aloud, and it did not even occur to him what he might do, if he ever did come up with his quarry. All that he knew was that he had been challenged, and he had taken up the challenge.
The man had the cunning of — Mark sought for a simile, a properly disparaging simile – and then grinned as he found a suitable one. The man had the cunning of a jackal, but he was Zulu so Mark used the Zulu word ‘Pungushe’.
‘I’ll be watching for you, Pungushe. I’ll catch you yet, little jackal.’
His mood improved with the insult, and as he crushed out his cigarette, he found himself anticipating the contest of bush skills between himself and Pungushe.