by John Harris
Winifred wasn’t known for its culture and the man singing ‘Let Me Like a Soldier Fall’, the harmonising group from Brandewyn and the Winifred Volunteer Band had to make up in noise what they lacked in skill. But the audience lapped it up and, as the champagne corks were going in volleys in the long intervals between the acts, it wasn’t hard to see why.
A glance at the programme showed Willie that the minstrels were due to go on towards the end of the programme, which meant they would not be on-stage at the moment when things started to happen upstairs. This was a very satisfactory arrangement because if anyone stopped to ask questions they would be already blacked up and adequate subjects for suspicion.
Fish and the Tiger, disguised with aprons and white gloves, were sweating in the broom cupboard under the stairs outside Number Twelve on the second landing. It had not been difficult to put on their make-up in one of the cabinets particuliers because none of them was due to be occupied until after the drinking had finished. Willie’s apron, gloves and hat were with them.
After watching a trombone soloist making elephantine noises from the stage for a while, Willie slipped up to the candlelit second floor to make sure that Josias and the other two waiters were on their toes and, after the preliminary skirmishing round the drinks, he was on hand to make sure that the plates went in without dirty fingermarks on them before returning downstairs to check the back door. The bowl of lard was safely tucked under the stoep.
Three horses belonging to customers who had come into town via Bella Vista, where the Kaffirs lived, were tied up near the back door, and as he stood near them, glancing at the open gate that led into Kiewiet Lane, he noticed that although he could hear the din from the billiard room and the bar, there were no windows on that end of the hotel and, except for a single hurricane lamp that was hung on a nail just outside the door every night by one of Poll’s kitchen servants, the yard was in darkness.
When he went upstairs again, Josias was still serving the food but the two Indians were already clearing away dishes. He hovered around for a while, sipping champagne, his heart thumping. Josias seemed nervous and ill-at-ease and he decided it was the importance of the occasion that was worrying him.
After a while, Poll appeared. She looked hot and there were beads of moisture on her make-up. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked. ‘There’s a bunch of jaaps in from Standerton and I think they’re out to pick a fight. I’m keeping Joby around to go for the police in case they’re needed. I’d like them handy.’
They were much handier than Poll realised.
At that very moment they were taking up their places. The night was dark and, moving by the back streets, they were breaking up into little groups, standing in dark shop doorways and down alleys, moving on Kaffirs squatting within reach of the hotel where they might pick up a tip leading home some drunken white man. They were at the end of Steyn Street and both ends of Nieuwoudt Street. They were in the doorway of Nel’s Emporium, in the Cold Storage Company’s yard, and behind the livery stable – all places where they could keep an eye on the front of the hotel. They were taking up positions in the alley leading to the station and by the soda-water manufactory in the little lane that led round the back of Poll’s to the shanties of Bella Vista and on to the Johannesburg road. There had been a time when the soda-water manufactory had been important because in those days soda water had been the only safe drink and, at times, even the only thing available to wash with, and the manufactory sheds were big and dark, with a large stoep over the lane where they could tether their horses in safety out of sight.
Berkeley stood beneath the overhanging iron roof, staring at Poll’s as he placed his men.
‘Whose are those ponies?’ he demanded, indicating the three horses tied up outside the kitchen.
‘Customers, sir.’ The sergeant whose job it was to watch the lane clicked to attention. ‘I’ve checked.’
‘Keep an eye on them.’ Berkeley glanced round. It was dark in the lane and hard to see, but it wouldn’t be difficult to hear a horse leaving the hotel. ‘If they escape, go straight after them. Horses handy?’
‘Right here, sir.’
‘Right. Stand no nonsense. Fire if you must. These men of Mace’s might be dangerous.’
Leaving the sergeant to sweat it out, Berkeley moved round to the front of the hotel again, where the yellow glow of the lights and the gleam of coloured Chinese lanterns shone through the leaves and lit up the speckled boles of the pepper trees. The woman detective from Johannesburg was standing in the doorway of Nel’s Emporium now with Mace.
‘All set,’ Berkeley said. ‘How about your people?’
‘All placed,’ Mace said. ‘With orders to stop anyone who approaches and to shoot if they refuse.’
Berkeley gave a wide grin. ‘We’ve had the first warning from the waiter. They’re in.’ He jerked a hand. ‘All we want now is the exact moment when the stuff’s on the table. He’ll open the window up there. Should be any time now.’
Five
Inside Number Twelve, the table had been cleared of food and crockery and the crumbs swept clear. Only the brandy glasses remained on the table and Josias had noticed that the men had pushed their chairs together. It was time to give the signal.
He was just about to open the window overlooking Nieuwoudt Street when a voice from inside Number Twelve called him and he decided to leave it for another minute or two. As he opened the door and slipped inside, Willie, who was unobtrusively sipping a glass of champagne at the waiter’s table in the corridor, slipped along to the broom cupboard and turned the key.
‘Now,’ he said.
The Indian waiters were engaged in stacking crockery when their arms were grabbed from behind and they were thrust into the pantry, too surprised to protest. The key clicked in the lock. They didn’t even manage to take a look at their attackers.
As Willie began to daub grease-paint on his face, the Tiger sidled up to him. He gestured towards Fish who was watching the stairs.
‘His gun’s not empty,’ he hissed. ‘I saw him loading it.’
Willie shrugged. ‘Don’t matter,’ he said. ‘Couln’t hit a bull in a passage. He’s shortsighted. I saw him reading The Diamond Fields Advertiser with a magnifying glass.’
A broad smile stretched across the Tiger’s face. ‘Honest?’
‘Honest. He’s got a pair of specs he bought at Nel’s Emporium that he don’t let anyone see.’ Willie turned and gestured. ‘Put out some of these candles. Make the place a bit darker. And hurry. Josias’ll be out in a minute.’
Across the street, Inspector Berkeley looked at his watch. ‘What’s happened to that bloody Josias?’ he said irritably. ‘They must have finished eating by this time.’ He glanced at Mace who had a revolver strapped to his waist under his jacket and was shivering with excitement. ‘There’s going to be a bit of scandal flying round Winifred after this night’s work,’ he went on with a grin. ‘I reckon the congregations’ll be a bit thin for the Christmas morning services.’
Mace wished to God he’d stop chattering. All he wanted were his victims. Nothing else. No medals. No promotions. No rewards. Only the satisfaction of paying off a few old scores. It had become a hope that had hovered on the horizon for so long it was like the Holy Grail.
Berkeley was fishing his watch out again. ‘I’ll give him five more minutes,’ he said, ’and then I’m going in anyway. You ready?’
Mace nodded speechlessly and Berkeley lifted his eyes to the brightly lit building opposite. They could hear the noise of singing and the tinny clank of a piano.
‘Where’s that bloody Josias?’ he said between his teeth.
Josias was beginning to grow nervous at the delay. As he collected glasses, butter, cheese and biscuits inside Number Twelve an argument was taking place about drink. Three men wearing dress suits, with the marks of women’s powder on their shoulders and sleeves, were leaning across the table under the candelabra, their eyes fixed on the glittering gems in the middle of the
white cloth.
‘Make it cham,’ one of them said finally, without taking his eyes off the diamonds. ‘And make it cold.’
Josias nodded and, collecting the empty brandy glasses, headed for the door. As he pushed it to behind him in the corridor, he noticed that several of the candles on the landing had gone out and his two assistants seemed to be busy with their heads in the dumb waiter. He put down the tray to give the signal but as he turned to go along the corridor he heard someone behind him and found himself bustled into the open broom cupboard and the door was slammed behind him and the key turned.
In the corridor outside Fish, in shirt-sleeves, apron and made-up bow tie, was still watching the stairs and Willie was making the last adjustments to his disguise as the Tiger, his sandy lashes blinking in the middle of his make-up, adjusted his voluminous apron. The night before he had said his prayers earnestly. ‘God bless my dear father and mother, brothers and sisters and Pansy, and make me a good man – and, dear Lord, let us for once pull this one off.’
‘Look like a cow in a nightgown,’ Willie said gaily. Things were going so smoothly he was in high spirits. The Tiger was somewhat less sanguine and his heart was skidding about under his shirt like aspic on a hot plate. Willie handed him a tray of glasses and two bottles of champagne. ‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘Put ’em on the side table as though you’re going to pour. Then open the door and Poser’ll appear with the gun.’
The Tiger nodded and Willie turned to Fish at the other end of the corridor.
‘You ready?’ he called.
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s it like at the front? We’ve got to get around there quick when it’s over.’
Fish opened the window and stuck his head out. ‘Clear,’ he said.
Berkeley was just snapping the lid of his gold hunter to as the black face appeared.
‘That’s it,’ he announced. ‘We’re going in.’
As Willie swung open the door of Number Twelve, the Tiger swept inside. But before the door could be closed behind him, he had swept completely round in a smooth circle and come straight out again. There was a brief glimpse of lifted faces inside, then Willie hastily closed the door.
‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered.
The Tiger put down the tray. His hand was shaking so much the glasses chinked noisily.
‘He’s in there!’ he bleated.
‘Who’s in there?’
‘The paymaster!’
‘What paymaster?’
‘Our paymaster! The one we took the money from! He’s sitting at this end of the table with a bag of diamonds in front of him!’
Willie cocked his head. There was something familiar about the hectoring tones inside Number Twelve.
‘Mendel’s in there, too,’ the Tiger choked. ‘Large as life and twice as nasty! One of ’em’s bound to recognise me!’
Willie’s bright blue eyes were wide in his black face. ‘Oh, my!’ he said in awed tones.
Fish appeared and Willie explained. There was a second of silence as they stared at each other, then Fish clicked his fingers.
‘Gimme the tray,’ he said. ‘Mendel don’t know me and the paymaster didn’t see my face.’
The lounging Kaffirs in front of Poll’s had looked up in surprise as they saw the body of uniformed men, followed by a clattering Black Maria, emerge from the darkness into Nieuwoudt Street. As Berkeley paused in the middle of the road, moving his hands in peremptory gestures, groups of policemen took up their positions outside the window of Poll’s Hotel and a half-drunk man standing on the stoep with a whisky and split stared at the operation, his eyes goggling, before coming to life with a start. As he wrenched open the door and vanished inside, Berkeley jerked his hand. ‘The bastard’s giving the alarm,’ he said. ‘Come on!’
As they clattered up the front steps, more policemen appeared and spread out along the stoep and Mace headed after Berkeley through the door, closely followed by the woman from Johannesburg.
The warning had already sounded and as they appeared inside men were on their feet and heading for the doors.
‘Don’t move!’ Berkeley roared. ‘Any man who tries to escape is in danger of being shot!’
Only one man decided to take a chance and the sound as he was tripped up and walloped with a rifle-butt was heard throughout the room. The music in the billiard room had stopped and in the bright gaslit hall, filled with the blue haze of tobacco smoke, Mace could see hard-faced women standing wide-eyed by the bar, and men in their best suits edging towards the back door. One of the waiters tried to sidle towards the stairs but a sergeant tripped him and sent him flying back the way he had come with a kick.
‘My men have this place surrounded,’ Berkeley said. ‘I don’t advise trouble.’
Poll appeared, bearing down on him through the tables, her bosom forward like a ship in full sail.
‘This is a nice how-d’ye-do, Inspector,’ she said. ‘What’s the idea?’
Berkeley grinned. ‘I have reason to believe that British deserters are hiding here tonight,’ he said. ‘To say nothing of a little business going on, on the floor above.’
Poll coloured, then she turned on her heel and headed for the stairs. Berkeley put a hand on her arm.
‘Not this time, Poll,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you at last. Allowing your premises to be used for illicit diamond buying’s a criminal offence.’
The Tiger had been puzzled by the music stopping in the concert room and the sudden squeals of the girls. Berkeley’s voice had not come clearly to him over the uproar and he had waited to see what was going on. As the silence had fallen, he had assumed that what he’d heard was the announcement for the commencement of the magician’s act and that the silence was the beginning of one of his tricks. Just as he turned away, however, he spotted Berkeley’s uniform and then Mace, and, from past experience of his presence, he not unnaturally jumped to the conclusion that the raid had been set up for their special benefit. He bolted at full speed along the corridor.
‘Police!’ His voice came in a thin shriek. ‘It’s the police! And that feller Mace!’
Willie didn’t hesitate. ‘Time we left,’ he said. ‘We’ll use the back door.’
‘Suppose it’s guarded?’
‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ Willie said and they hurriedly joined Josias in the dark broom cupboard.
Inside Number Twelve the diamonds were spread across the table and Fish was just setting out the glasses on the side table when they heard the tramp of boots outside.
Southey jumped to his feet, his chair scraping back. His moustache was less military these days and his stomach noticeably larger, and with his fancy waistcoat and gold albert he looked prosperous but no better-tempered. ‘The police!’ he said harshly.
He was still standing with dropped jaw when Fish moved. His mind had been occupied for some time with the diamonds on the table, not merely on what to do next, but how to claim the lot for himself – and since it was already whirring like oiled wheels a decision clicked into place immediately.
Even as the door burst open he had taken the four corners of the tablecloth and calmly doubled them inwards, and as the triumphant Berkeley stamped forward, he lifted the tablecloth complete with the diamonds and the leather bags and was just backing away from the table.
Berkeley stared round the candlelit room. The table, spread with a red plush underlay, was empty and he decided he had arrived a moment too soon. But it didn’t matter, Everybody was there. It was only a question of finding the stuff. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘I have a warrant to search this place. I have reason to believe there may be illicit diamonds on the premises.’
Southey glanced gratefully at Fish who was standing, black-faced and quiet, in the shadows just inside the door, clutching the tablecloth to his chest.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ he blustered. ‘It’s just a private party for a few of my friends. I’m here from Kimberley because it’s Christmas.’ He jerked a hand at the ot
her men and the wide-eyed women. ‘This is Mr Detweiler and that’s Mr Mendel and Miss Osterkamp…’
Berkeley ignored him. ‘Up against the wall, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘You too, ladies.’
Fish coughed and Berkeley glanced round to see the dark face of a waiter – his waiter, be believed – in the shadows holding a tablecloth apparently full of crumbs.
‘Get going, you,’ he said.
Six
His heart thumping, Fish headed towards the back stairs as they’d planned. Something had obviously gone wrong and somehow a police raid had been set up on Poll’s for the precise moment when they’d arranged to make their getaway. The corridor appeared to be empty and, assuming that Willie and the Tiger had already been whipped away, he realised he was on his own. That big deal he had hoped for all his life by a miracle had come off!
His blackened face split in a grin. He had seen Southey’s diamonds and he knew there was enough in the tablecloth to keep him in comfort for a long time. There was no need even to risk his neck going back to Chichester Junction for the buried money. All he had to do was get away.
At the back door, a group of tethered ponies were standing in the glow of the single hurricane lamp and near them the kitchen staff were chattering, their black faces excited, surrounding the spot where Willie had hidden the lard. Putting his head inside the empty kitchen, he saw a block of butter melting to grease in the warm night and, checking the tablecloth for holes, he tied it in a knot, hitched the ends inside his belt and scooped up a handful. Rubbing it on his face and working quickly he scrubbed at the make-up, then he wrenched off his white gloves and used the apron to wipe off the butter.
Heading for the back door again, he appeared boldly among the agitated Kaffirs, intending to slip down Kiewiet Lane to the front of the hotel as they’d planned. But then he saw a match flare in the darkness down the alley as though someone were lighting a cigarette.