Colton Banyon Mysteries 1-3: Colton Banyon Mysteries (Colton Banyon Mystery Book 20)

by Gerald J Kubicki

  “Where are you staying?” she inquired as they stood close together. “I hope I’ll see you while you’re here.”

  “With my business contact,” he responded vaguely. Then he added, “I’ll be very busy.”

  “Who is your contact? Maybe I know him.”

  “I doubt it,” he replied evasively. “Who’s meeting you?”

  “A friend,” she responded insincerely.

  The strong bond of trust between them had seemed to disintegrate in a few seconds, and they were once more just strangers on a ship. Wesley wore a red scarf as instructed. He eyeballed the large crowd carefully. He soon noticed a man waving at him. As he turned toward Anna, he was stunned to see an empty space at the rail. She was gone and hadn’t even said good-bye. Who is she really? he wondered. Will I ever see her again? Do I want to see her again? He decided the answer to the last question was yes.

  Chapter Twelve

  As he disembarked, there was a tall, rail-thin man standing at the foot of the gangway. Once again, the smells and sounds of a port city assaulted his senses.

  “Professor Wayne, I presume?” The man’s black suit and starched shirt gave him away. “I’m Harold, the butler.”

  Wesley presented him with his overnight bag, but kept his satchel. Harold, the butler, bowed then motioned for Wesley to follow him. The crowd seemed to part as they headed away from the dock. As they reached the road, a horse-drawn carriage pulled up. Wesley’s trunk was already strapped to the back.

  “After you, sir,” Harold said.

  He wasn’t the talkative kind. His eyes didn’t venture away from the road ahead. Wesley decided to act like a person who was excited to be in Africa. “So, where are we heading?”

  “You have accommodations at the newly built ‘Highlands Country Home,’” he spoke as if Wesley knew the place.

  “It sounds lovely,” Wesley quickly responded.

  “Sir Herbert Baker, probably the greatest architect to ever grace the shores of South Africa, built the mansion for Judge Searle. He is my charge. I work for him. I am to deliver you to the mansion and ready you a room. Someone will contact you there this evening. That is all that I know.”

  “Oh, good,” replied Wesley sarcastically. “I’ve been looking forward to getting out for a walk and learning more about this remarkable land. I have plans go visit a specific church,” he added. “When will I be free to explore?”

  “These are my only instructions.”

  Wesley now realized there was no more information to be gained from the butler. His mind drifted to thoughts about the enchanting Anna. Why did she leave so abruptly? Will I see her on the streets here? How will I ever contact her? He did know where she was headed—Germany. His train of thought was broken as the carriage passed through two gates and rolled up to an immense home. The front was covered in ivy, with huge stone pillars protecting an oversized door. A small black boy in a red uniform stood near the door. As Wesley stepped from the carriage, the boy came to attention and lugged open the two massive oak doors.

  “Welcome to Highlands” he spoke with a British accent. As soon as Wesley entered, the doors closed behind him, leaving him in a circular marble entranceway. Halls led off in three directions, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Wesley didn’t know what to do, so he just stood there. His survival instinct was on high alert. Someone was watching him. But from where? There wasn’t a person in sight.

  Suddenly, a panel slid open on the wall between two hallways. Harold stepped out and was followed by a tough looking man in leather britches. The man looked like he ate raw meat for breakfast. He was tall, but shorter than Wesley, and he had the body of a water buffalo. His hands were scarred and gnarled, Wesley assumed from fighting. The leathery light-brown skin also spoke of much time outside.

  “This is Jan. He will take your bags to your accommodations,” said Harold. “He will also instruct you on the next steps.” Harold motioned for the brute to pick up the trunk. Wesley noticed that Harold did not seem to like Jan, but rather tolerated him.

  “Follow,” Jan said in a very rough voice.

  When they reached the second floor via the large circular stone stairway, Jan pointed to a room. “Be there at five o’clock tonight.” He then continued down the hall for seven more doors. The seventh door was open, and a beautiful suite could be seen inside.

  Wesley stepped through the opening and into a haunt of the rich. The suite was actually four rooms plus a bathroom. It occupied a corner of the mansion and had a balcony running the length of the rooms. Large, all glass, French doors decorated one side, with sheer white curtains blowing in the breeze. There were two bedrooms, a dining area, and a large living room with leather furniture and many trophies on the walls. Wesley stood in awe as he recognized a bevy of exotic animal heads staring at him. It was at that moment that he heard the click of a lock on the door. Jan had carried his trunk to a bedroom and had left without another word. He had then locked the door from the outside. Wesley wasn’t going for a walk in the near future.

  After taking time to freshen up, Wesley went out on the balcony and thought he would take in some of the vistas of this strange new land. As soon as he approached the railing, he saw Jan standing on the road right in front of his suite. They are watching me very carefully. Was this normal for the society? He casually waved to Jan, who abruptly looked away. Not a friendly bunch. What am I to do now? He decided to take a bath, but first he would sample some of the gin that he noticed on the small bar in the living room. Fresh ice sat in a bucket nearby. It was very inviting. He made himself a drink and settled into a large, black leather chair. After two large sips he started to feel very strange. Everything spun, his eyelids were heavy, and his last conscious thought was that maybe the drink was drugged. He slumped in the chair and dropped his drink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two men had been watching Wesley through the eyes of a trophy lion on the far sidewall. They were the same people who had planted the drugged gin in the room. Their job was to search all of Wesley’s things to determine if he was who he said he was. If he was an imposter, they were to eliminate him. The men were not detectives. They were Boers. They worked for “The Major.” That was his name, The Major. The Major was the head of the Society of WSA, and the men were well paid Dutch mercenaries who did his bidding and, at times, foul play.

  They entered the room through another false panel in the sidewall and began searching through the steamer trunk. They also went through Wesley’s satchel, but failed to notice the hidden compartment. Finally, they went through his clothes, as he lay slumped in the chair. They were very meticulous and rolled Wesley over to frisk him. They were looking for weapons and anything that seemed out of place. The Major wanted to know everything about Professor Wayne. The documents the professor carried were carefully scrutinized. In the end, they were satisfied. Replacing everything back in its original position, they left the room.

  ***

  Almost four hours later, Wesley awoke to the sound of the door locking. Harold, the butler, stuck his head in and said, “I don’t know how this door became locked. My instructions are to tell you that it’s four-thirty. You are due for a conference at five o’clock sharp. Please dress for dinner.” The door closed, but with no sound of a lock turning this time.

  Wesley sat up quickly and felt the throb of a bad headache. For a minute, he couldn’t remember where he was, but he soon recognized his surroundings. He looked down to see the drink spilled on the floor, and he remembered making it. But something wasn’t right. A realization hit him suddenly as he noticed that one shoe was untied. The hairs on his neck were at full attention now. My God, he thought. I’ve been searched. A small shudder coursed through his body. His first impulse was to bolt from the chair and see what had been taken from his possessions, but he remained calm and gave the appearance of being confused. Actually, his mind was working furiously to decide his next move. He was sure they would be watching him to see if he rushed to check his thi
ngs. Did they set him up to see if he had any hidden items, or were they just crude at searching? Did they find his hidden compartment? If they had, was he soon to be murdered? How could he check his stash without them seeing? Have they taken the diamond? Wesley was genuinely scared, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He decided on a bold strategy.

  “If you’ve taken anything, I expect it will be returned,” he announced to the empty room. If they were watching, they would hear his admonishment. “I’m going to take a bath now. The bathroom is this way.” He pointed to the room and began striding in that direction, detouring only to claim clean underwear from his still-packed trunk. He didn’t know if they had a spy hole in the bath, but he decided that they might.

  As he soaked in the large tub, he pondered his situation. If they had found the diamond, this was likely his last bath. The Boers could be at his door right now. The only reason they would let him live longer was to allow him to meet the leader. There would be torture, interrogation, and then he would go missing. Not good. He also rationalized that if he bolted from the building, they would catch him easily. This was their town. He knew no one. His only option appeared to be brazen and complain about the search. He was Professor Wayne and had done a great service for the cause. They needed him; the letter made that clear. Only he could explain the history and powers of the diamond. That was why they invited him. The warm bathwater soothed his body and mind. Wesley began to return to rational thinking, even though he was afraid for his life. They are probably nothing more than paranoid maniacs, he concluded. He needed to check his secret compartment, but not before his meeting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At five o’clock, he was ready. He had developed a strategy to check his secret compartment and he would use Harold, the butler. He reasoned that Harold was not part of the group—he had seen it in his eyes. But first he must survive the meeting. Wesley went to the door of his suite and turned the handle. It opened. This is a good sign, he thought. Traveling down the hall, he counted seven doors and knocked. Jan opened the door, providing nothing but a semi-toothless grin. Wesley, with satchel in hand, bravely paraded into the room. It was another suite, just like his rooms. Seated in the middle of the living room was a man right out of a Kipling novel. He was dressed in all white, with many decorations adorning his tunic. His hair was silver, and large muttonchops made his face appear to be elliptical rather than round. He wore a monocle in his left eye. It was on a petite chain that draped his neck. The mustache was too large for the face and was twirled at the ends. The eyes were intense and bloodshot. A drinker, Wesley decided.

  The man rose from the couch as Wesley approached. The man was no taller than five-eight, but he tried to look taller. Two other men were in the room and were clearly bodyguards for the leader. Wesley produced his hand first and waited for the man to inspect it before he returned the gesture.

  “My name is The Major,” the short man said.

  The handshake was limp and moist. Wesley already had a bad taste in his mouth about this man. As he awaited the next move, Wesley eyed the henchmen. Neither man appeared to be ready to make an attempt to grab him. Another good sign, he thought.

  “Well, for heaven sakes, take a seat,” The Major said in the voice of a boy. He then proceeded to speak unrecognizable words, “Gauf, wat, zoo,” and started to cough. It was a low-in-the-throat cough that seemed to progress higher. It continued for more than a minute.

  “Thank you,” Wesley replied.

  “What is your drink?” The Major impatiently demanded as if he himself needed a drink.

  “I didn’t catch your accent,” replied Wesley with a tilt of his head.

  “I’m actually Welsh,” The Major replied.

  “I’ll skip the drink this time. It makes me sleepy.”

  “Gin you me,” the short man cheerfully announced as he waved his hand like hailing a taxi. One of the henchmen went and poured him a drink.

  “I want my derringer back,” Wesley boldly spoke.

  “Yes, of course,” replied The Major. “My men are sometimes too thorough. Can’t trust anyone, you know. I will have it returned to your room immediately.” He snapped his fingers and Jan left the room.

  “Why search my belongings, Major?” Wesley looked directly into his eyes as he spoke. “Have I not done enough for the cause? I’m also prepared to do more, but now wonder if I’ve booked onto the right ship.”

  “My name is The Major and I do apologize. Take my word as an officer and a gentleman.”

  “Why are these men here? They’re Dutch Boers. I thought that they hated the British.”

  “Well, yes, you see, it is like this…ah…secrecy. These men have no allegiance. They work for money. A rather lot of it, I’m afraid. I can’t trust some of my, ah…countrymen. We’re a long way from the crown, you know.”

  “Where are your army members?”

  “Well, you see…ah…they’re not invited.”

  “So, you’re not really a major?”

  “I’m a major in the Society of WSA,” came the deadpan reply. Wesley could see the man was deathly serious.

  “What wars did you fight in to earn your rank?” Wesley cautiously asked.

  “I fight only in the wars I choose,” The Major replied.

  “What qualifies you to run the society?”

  “I was Cecil Rhodes’s majordomo.” The Major said it like it qualified him. “He entrusted me with the funds and charged me with the task of returning England to its rightful place in the sun.”

  Wesley knew a majordomo was someone who managed the house for the wealthy. The major was an upscale butler with no experience in war or fighting. His only qualification was providing the money for the society, and he was probably skimming from the fund.

  “And how are you going about this…change?”

  “Ah, I see you have some doubts about my ability to lead,” he announced. “Cecil was a hard man, a determined man, often misunderstood. I follow his footsteps completely and without reservation. I know what he knew. I know how he accomplished many of his goals. I am relentless in the pursuit of our mutual goals. We have started a new revolution in South Africa. We intend to push out all who do not suit us. We even have a slogan, ‘Apartheid;’ it means ‘apart’ in South African.” As soon as he said apartheid, the henchman in the corner raised his fist and shouted, “Apartheid!”

  “We will evict, forcibly if necessary, all who do not fit our criteria…for South Africa.” Wesley made no reaction. Now he was sure that The Major was a fanatic and a lunatic.

  “Have you had any success?” he inquired.

  The Major was ready for this question and simply tossed a current newspaper to him. It landed, with the headline facing Wesley. “Read it,” he ordered.

  The lead story was about a small village on the outskirts of Cape Town. All the inhabitants had suddenly disappeared. No trace was found of the forty-five blacks of the village, but one word was painted on every house there. The word was “Apartheid.” The authorities believed the blacks had simply returned to the bush. A white professor of black study for the University of South Africa was quoted. He said, “Historically, when faced with hard decisions, the black primitive would run and hide. This seems to be the case with these natives.” The local constable had visited the village the day before, according to the article, and had requested that all men in the village register with the census bureau. The next day the villagers were gone. The article further speculated that the villagers themselves had scribbled the word on the houses, meaning they did not want to be part of the civilized white society and had returned to the jungle.

  Wesley now knew two more things: first, that The Major was definitely committed, and second, that he controlled the newspaper, just as Cecil Rhodes had years before. He decided The Major was indeed a dangerous man.

  “I take it these people will never be seen again, correct?”

  “You may assume that. There are many dangerous things in the jungle,” The Major
replied. “My private army…the army of the Society of WSA…has assured me they can’t be found. They have been disappeared.”

  “How many men are under your command?”

  “We are currently small, in an army sense, but we are growing. This is why we need your help, Professor. I intend to develop the strongest army in the modern world. I need to show the world our strength. Once I control the powers of the occult, many will join the cause. Tomorrow we will have our first ceremony of the diamond occult under my command. It is now part of the rituals of our society. I have added the ceremony. You see, we have always used diamonds in our ceremonies, all the way back to Celtic days, but the diamond you secured for Cecil last year is special. I’ve read the letter you enclosed with the diamond; it appears to have unworldly…ah…powers. Regrettably, the man you met in Constantinople, the one you educated with the powers of the diamond, has mysteriously died before passing on his knowledge. So we decided to bring you inside our society in order to pass the information directly to me. During the ceremony, I will use the diamond to gain its powers and will become the master of it and our destiny.

  “I see,” Wesley managed to say.

  “You do support our cause, don’t you?” The Major had moved to the edge of his seat, and his henchman became tense.

  Wesley didn’t flinch. “Apartheid,” he announced as he stood and raised his arm.

  “Good, now tell me about the diamond.”

  Sensing a trap, Wesley chose the only avenue open to him. “That letter was written over a year ago. I have learned much more about the diamond. Why don’t you tell me what you know and I will add my new findings,” he replied.