"You are wonderful," he said. "Will you marry me?"
"I've already answered that question, Doctor Stander." And she kissed him again.
Hettie Delange was in a turmoil.
It had started with the phone call that had roused Johnny from their bed. He had said something about trouble at the shaft as he pulled on his clothes, but she had come only briefly awake and then drifted off again as Johnny hurried out into the night.
He had come in hours later and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees and his head bowed.
"What's wrong, man," she had snapped at him. "Come to bed. Don't just sit there."
"Davy's dead." His voice had been listless.
There was a. moment's shock that had convulsed the muscles of her belly, and brought her fully awake. Then, immediately, she had felt a swift cleansing rush of relief.
He was dead. It was as easy as that! All day she had worried. She had been stupid to let it happen. just that moment of weakness, that self-indulgent slip and she had been dreading the consequences all that day. She had imagined Davy trailing after her with puppy eyes, trying to touch her, making it so obvious that even Johnny would see it. She had enjoyed it but just the once was enough.
She wanted no repeat performance and certainly no complications to follow the original deed.
Now it was all taken care of. He was dead.
"Are you sure?" she had asked anxiously, and Johnny heard the tone as concern.
"I saw him!" Johnny had shuddered, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Gee, that's terrible." Hettie had remembered her role, and sat up and put her arms about Johnny. "That's terrible for you." She had not slept again that night. Somehow the thought of Davy going directly from her to his violent death was exciting. It was like in the movies, or a book, or something. Like he was an airman and he had been shot down, and she was his girl. Perhaps she was pregnant and all alone in the world, and she would have to go to Buckingham Palace and get his medal for him. And the Queen would say... The fantasies had played out in her mind until the dawn, with Johnny tossing and muttering beside her.
She woke him when it was first light in the room.
"How was he?" she asked softly. "What did he look like, Johnny?"
Johnny shuddered again, and then he started to tell her.
His voice was husky, and the sentences broken and disconnected. When he stumbled into silence, Hettie found herself trembling with excitement.
"How terrible," she kept repeating. "Oh, how awful!" And she pressed against him. After a while Johnny made love to her, and for Hettie it was better than she had ever known it to be.
All that morning there were phone calls, and four of her friends came over to drink coffee with her. A reporter and photographer from the Johannesburg Star called and asked questions. Hettie was the centre of attraction, and again and again she repeated the story with all its grisly details.
After lunch Johnny came home with a little dark-haired man in a charcoal suit and black Italian shoes, with a matching black briefcase.
"Hettie, this is Mr. Boart. He was Davy's lawyer. He's got something to tell you."
"Mrs. Delange. May I convey to you my sincere condolences in the tragic bereavement you and your husband have suffered."
"Yes, it's terrible, isn't it?" Hettie was apprehensive. Had Davy told this lawyer about them? Had this man come to make trouble?
"Your brother-in-law made a will of which I am the executor. Your brother-in-law was a wealthy man. His estate is in excess of fifty thousand rand." Boart paused portentously. "And you and your husband are the sole beneficiaries." Hettie looked dubiously from Boart to "I don't, what's that mean? Beneficiary?"
"It means that you and your husband share the estate between you."
"I get half of fifty thousand rand?" Hettie asked in delighted disbelief.
"That's right."
"Gee," exulted Hettie. "That's fabulous!" She could hardly wait for Johnny and the lawyer to go before she phoned her friends again. All four of them returned to drink more coffee, to thrill again and to envy Hettie the glamour and excitement of it.
"Twenty-five thousand," they kept repeating the sum with relish.
"Hell, man, he must really have liked you a lot, Hettie," one of the girls commented with heavy emphasis, and Hettie lowered her eyes and contrived to look bereft and mysterious.
Johnny came home after six, unsteady on his feet and reeking of liquor.
Reluctantly Hettie's four friends left to rejoin their waiting families, and almost immediately after that a big white sport car pulled up in the driveway and Hettie's day of triumph was complete.
Not one of her friends had ever had the General Manager of the Sander Ditch Gold Mining Company call at their home.
She had the front door open the instant the doorbell rang. Her greeting had been shamelessly plagiarized from a period movie that had recently played at the local cinema.
"Mr. Ironsides, how good of you to come." When she led Rod through into the over-furnished lounge, Johnny looked up but did not get to his feet.
"Hello, Johnny," said Rod. "I have come to tell you that I'm sorry about Davy, and to.
"Don't give me that bull dust, Tin Ribs," said Johnny Delange.
"Johnny," gasped Hettie, you can't talk to Mr. Ironsides like that."
And she turned to Rod, laying a hand on his sleeve. "He doesn't mean it, Mr. Ironsides. He has been drinking."
"Get out of here," said Johnny. "Get into the bloody kitchen where you belong."
"Johnny!"
"Get out!" roared Johnny, rising from his chair, and Hettie fled from the room.
Johnny lurched across to the chrome and glass liquor cabinet that filled one corner. He sloshed whisky into two glasses and handed one to Rod.
"God speed to my brother," he said.
"To Davy Delange, one of the best rock hounds on the Kitchenerville field," said Rod, and tossed the drink back in one gulp.
"The best!" Johnny corrected him, and emptied his own glass. He gasped at the sting of the whisky, then leaned forward to speak into Rod's face.
"You've come to find out if I'm going to finish your bloody drive for you, or if I'm going to quit. Davy didn't mean nothing to you and I don't mean nothing to you.
Only one thing worrying you you want to know about your bloody drive."
Johnny refilled his glass. "Well, hear this, friend, and hear it well.
Johnny Delange don't quit.
That drive ate my brother but I'll beat the bastard, so you have nothing to worry about. You go home and get a good night's sleep, because Johnny Delange will be on shift and breaking rock tomorrow morning first thing."
A Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce was parked amongst the trees in the misty morning. Ahead was the practice track with the white-painted railings curving away towards the willow-lined river. The mist was heavier along the river and the grass was very green against it.
The uniformed chauffeur stood away from the Rolls, leaving its two occupants in privacy. They sat on the back seat with an angora wool travelling rug spread over their knees. On the folding table in front of them was a silver Thermos of coffee, shell-thin porcelain cups, and a plate of ham sandwiches.
The fat man was eating steadily, washing each mouthful down with coffee. The little bald-headed man was not eating, instead he puffed quickly and nervously at his cigarette and looked out of the window at the horses. The grooms were walking the horses in circles, nostrils streaming in the morning chill, blankets flapping. The jockeys stood looking up at the trainer. They wore hard caps and polo necked jerseys.
All of them carried whips. The trainer was speaking urgently, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat.
"It's a very fine service," said the little man. "I particularly enjoyed the stop in Rio. My first visit there." The fat man grunted He was annoyed. They shouldn't have sent this agent out. It was a mark of suspicion, distrust, and it would serio
usly hamper his market operation.
The conference between trainer and jockeys had ended.
The diminutive riders scattered to their mounts, and the trainer came towards the Rolls.
"Good morning, sir." He spoke through the open window, and the fat man grunted again.
"I'm giving him a full run," the trainer went on. "Emerald Isle will make pace for him to the five, Pater Noster will take over and push him to the mile, I've Tiger Shark to pace him for the run in." "Very well."
"Perhaps you'd like to keep time, sir." The trainer proffered a stop-watch, and the fat man seemed to recover his urbanity and charm.
"Thank you, Henry." He smiled. "He looks good, I'll say that." The trainer was pleased by the condescension.
"Oh! He's red-hot! By Saturday I'll have him sharpened down to razor edge." He stood back from the window. "I'll get them off, then." He walked away.
"You have a message for me?" asked the fat man.
of course." The other wriggled his mustache like a rabbit's whiskers.
It was an annoying habit. "I didn't fly all this way out here to watch a couple of mokes trotting around a race-track."
"Would you like to give me the message?" The fat man hid his affront.
What the agent had called a moke was some of the finest horseflesh in Africa.
"They want to know about this gas explosion."
"Nothing." The fat man dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
"A flash explosion. Killed a few men. No damage to the workings.
Negligence on the part of the miner in charge."
"Will it affect our plans?"
"Not one iota." The two horses had jumped away from the start, shoulder to shoulder, with the wreaths of mist swirling in their wake.
The glossy bay horse on the rails ran with an easy floating action while the grey plunged along beside it.
"My principals are very concerned."
"Well, they have no need to be," snapped the fat man. "I tell you it makes no difference."
"Was the explosion due to an error of judgement on the part of this man "No." The fat man shook his head. "It was negligence of the miner in charge. He should have detected the gas."
"Pity." The bald man shook his head regretfully. "We had hoped it was a flaw in the Ironsides character." The grey horse was tiring, while the bay ran on smoothly, drawing away from him. From the side rail a third horse came in to replace the grey, and ran shoulder to shoulder with the bay.
"Why should the character of Ironsides concern you?" "We have heard disturbing reports. This is no pawn to be moved at will. He is taking the job of General Manager by the throat. Already our sources indicate that he has reduced running costs on the Sander Ditch by a scarcely believable two percent. He seems to be tireless, inventive, - a man, in short, to reckon with."
"Well and good," the fat man conceded. "But I still fail to see why your principals are alarmed. Do they expect that this man will hold back the flood waters by the sheer force of his personality?" The second pacemaker was faltering, but still the big bay ran on alone. A far figure in the mist, passing the mile post, joined at last by the third pacemaker.
"I know nothing about horses," said the bald man watching the two flying forms. "But I've just seen that one," he pointed with his cigarette at the far-off bay. "I've just seen him run the guts out of the other two. One after the other he has broken their heads and left them staggering along behind him. We would call him an imponderable, one who cannot be judged "by normal standards." He puffed at his cigarette before going on. "There are men like that also, imponderable. It seems to us that Ironsides is one of them, and we don't like it. We don't like them on the opposing team. It is just possible that he could upset the entire operation, not, as you put it, by sheer force of personality, but by suddenly doing the unexpected, by behaving in a manner for which we have not allowed." Both men fell silent watching the galloping horses come round the last bend and hit the straight.
"Watch this. "The fat man spoke softly, and as though in response to his words the big bay lengthened his stride, reaching out, driving strongly away from the other horse.
His head was going like a hammer, twin jets of steam shot from wide flaring nostrils, and thrown turf and dirt flew from his hooves. Five lengths clear of the following horse he went slashing past the finish line and the fat man clicked his stop watch.
He scrutinized the dial of the watch anxiously and then chuckled like a healthy baby.
"And he wasn't really being extended!" He rapped on the window beside him, and immediately the uniformed chauffeur opened the driving door and slid in behind the wheel.
(To my office," instructed the fat man, "and close the partition."
When the sound-proof glass panel had slid closed between driver and passengers, the fat man turned to his guest.
"And so, my friend " you consider Ironsides to be an imponderable.
What do you want me to do about him?"
"Get rid of him."
"Do you mean what I think you mean?" The fat man lifted an eyebrow.
"No. Nothing that drastic." The bald head bobbed agitatedly. "You have been reading too much James Bond. Simply arrange it that Ironsides is far away and well occupied when the drive holes through the Big Dipper Dyke, otherwise there is an excellent chance that he will do something to frustrate our good intentions." "I think we can arrange that," said the fat man and helped himself to another ham sandwich.
As he had promised, Manfred caught the Friday evening flight for Cape Town. On the Saturday night Rod and Terry took a wild chance on not being recognized and spent the evening at the Kyalami Ranch Hotel.
They danced and dined in the Africa Room, but were on their way back to the apartment before midnight.
In the dawn a playful slap with the rolled-up Sunday papers which Rod delivered to Terry's naked posterior as she slept triggered off a noisy brawl in which a picture was knocked off the wall by a flying pillow, a coffee table overturned and the shrieking and laughter reached such a pitch that it called down a storm of indignant thumping from the apartment above them.
Terry made a defiant gesture at the ceiling, but they both subsided gasping with laughter back onto the bed to indulge in activity every bit as strenuous if not nearly so noisy.
Later, much later, they collected Melanie and once again spent the Sunday at & stud farm on the Vaal. Melanie actually rode a horse, a traumatic experience which bade fair to alter her whole existence.
After lunch they launched the speedboat from the boat house on the bank of the river and water-skied down as far as the barrage, Terry and Rod taking turns at the wheel and on the skis. It occurred to Rod that Terry Steyger looked good in a white bikini. It was dark before Rod delivered his sleeping daughter to her mother.
"Who is this Terry that Melanie talks about all the time?" demanded Patti; she was still sulking about Rod's promotion. Patti had a memory like a tax collector.
"Terry?" Rod feigned surprise. "I thought you knew." And he left Patti glaring after him as he went back down the stairs.
Terry was curled up in the leather bucket seat of the Maserati, just the tip of her nose protruding from the voluminous fur coat she wore.
"I love your daughter, Mr. Ironsides," she murmured.
"It would appear that the feeling is reciprocated." Rod drove slowly towards the Hillbrow ridge, and Terry's hand came out of the wide fur sleeve and lay on his knee.
"Wouldn't it be nice if we had a daughter of our own one day?"
"Wouldn't it," Rod agreed dutifully, and then found to his intense amazement that he really meant it.
He was still investigating this remarkable phenomenon as he parked the Maserati in the basement garage of his apartment and went round to open Terry's door.
Manfred Steyner watched Terry climb out of the Maserati and lift her face towards Rodney Ironsides. Ironsides stooped over her and kissed her, then he slammed and locked the door of the Maserati, and arm in arm the two of the
m crossed to the elevator.
"Peterson Investigations always delivers the goods," said the man at the wheel of the black Ford parked in the shadows of the garage. "We will give them half an hour to get settled in comfortably, then we will go up and knock on the door of his apartment." Manfred Steyner sat very still and unblinking on the seat beside the private detective. He had arrived back in Johannesburg three hours previously in answer to the summons from the investigation bureau.
Wilbur Smith - Gold Mine Page 19