Master of the Game motg-1

by Sidney Sheldon

  Tentatively, Jamie reached down and held out a finger. The infant grabbed it with both hands and squeezed tightly. He's as strong as a bull, Jamie thought. At that moment, a strained look came over the infant's face, and Jamie could smell a sour odor.

  "Mrs. Talley!"

  She leaped up in bed, filled with alarm. "What—what is it?"

  'The baby needs attention. Do I have to do everything around here?"

  And Jamie McGregor stalked out of the room.

  "David, do you know anything about babies?"

  "In what respect, sir?" David Blackwell asked.

  "Well, you know. What they like to play with, things like that."

  The young American said, "I think when they're very young they enjoy rattles, Mr. McGregor."

  "Pick up a dozen," Jamie ordered.

  "Yes, sir."

  No unnecessary questions. Jamie liked that. David Blackwell was going to go far.

  That evening when Jamie arrived home with a small brown package, Mrs. Talley said, "I want to apologize for last night, Mr. McGregor. I don't know how I could have slept through it. The baby must have been screaming something terrible for you to have heard it all the way in your room."

  "Don't worry about it," Jamie said generously. "As long as one of us heard it." He handed her the package. "Give this to it.

  Some rattles for him to play with. Can't be much fun for him to be a prisoner in that crib all day."

  "Oh, he's not a prisoner, sir. I take him out."

  "Where do you take him?"

  "Just in the garden, where I can keep an eye on him."

  Jamie frowned. "He didn't look well to me last night."

  "He didn't?"

  "No. His color's not good. It wouldn't do for him to get sick before his mother picks him up."

  "Oh, no, sir."

  "Perhaps I'd better have another look at him."

  "Yes, sir. Shall I bring him in here?"

  "Do that, Mrs. Talley."

  "Right away, Mr. McGregor."

  She was back in a few minutes with little Jamie in her arms. The baby was clutching a blue rattle. "His color looks fine to me."

  "Well, I could have been wrong. Give him to me."

  Carefully, she held the baby out and Jamie took his son in his arms for the first time. The feeling that swept over him took him completely by surprise. It was as though he had been longing for this moment, living for this moment, without ever knowing it. This was his flesh and blood he was holding in his arms—his son, Jamie McGregor, Jr. What was the point of building an empire, a dynasty, of having diamonds and gold and railroads if you had no one to pass them on to? What a bloody fool I've been! Jamie thought. It had never occurred to him until now what was missing. He had been too blinded by bis hatred. Looking down into the tiny face, a hardness somewhere deep in the core of him vanished.

  "Move Jamie's crib into my bedroom, Mrs. Talley."

  Three days later when Margaret appeared at the front door of Jamie's house, Mrs. Talley said, "Mr. McGregor is away at his office, Miss van der Merwe, but he asked me to send for him when you came for the baby. He wishes to speak with you."

  Margaret waited in the living room, holding little Jamie in her arms. She had missed him terribly. Several times during the week she had almost lost her resolve and rushed back to Klip-drift, afraid that something might have happened to the baby, that he might have become ill or had an accident. But she had forced herself to stay away, and her plan had worked. Jamie wanted to talk to her! Everything was going to be wonderful. The three of them would be together now.

  The moment Jamie walked into the living room, Margaret felt again the familiar rush of emotion. Oh, God, she thought, I love him so much.

  "Hello, Maggie."

  She smiled, a warm, happy smile. "Hello, Jamie."

  "I want my son."

  Margaret's heart sang. "Of course you want your son, Jamie. I never doubted it."

  "I'll see to it that he's brought up properly. He'll have every advantage I can give him and, naturally, I'll see that you're taken care of."

  Margaret looked at him in confusion. "I—I don't understand."

  "I said I want my son."

  "I thought—I mean—you and I—"

  "No. It's only the boy I want."

  Margaret was filled with a sudden outrage. "I see. Well, I'll not let you take him away from me."

  Jamie studied her a moment. "Very well. We'll work out a compromise. You can stay on here with Jamie. You can be his—his governess." He saw the look on her face. "What do you want?"

  "I want my son to have a name," she said fiercely. "His father's name."

  "All right. I'll adopt him."

  Margaret looked at him scornfully. "Adopt my baby? Oh, no. You will not have my son. I feel sorry for you. The great Jamie McGregor. With all your money and power, you have nothing. You're a thing of pity,"

  And Jamie stood there watching as Margaret turned and walked out of the house, carrying his son in her arms.

  The following morning, Margaret made preparations to leave for America.

  "Running away won't solve anything," Mrs. Owens argued.

  "I'm not running away. I'm going someplace where my baby and I can have a new life."

  She could no longer subject herself and her baby to the humiliation Jamie McGregor offered them.

  "When will you leave?"

  "As soon as possible. We'll take a coach to Worcester and the train from there to Cape Town. I've saved enough to get us to New York."

  'That's a long way to go."

  "It will be worth it. They call America the land of opportunity, don't they? That's all we need."

  Jamie had always prided himself on being a man who remained calm under pressure. Now he went around yelling at everyone in sight. His office was in a constant uproar. Nothing anyone did pleased him. He roared and complained about everything, unable to control himself. He had not slept in three nights. He kept thinking about the conversation with Margaret. Damn her! He should have known she would try to push him into marriage. Tricky, just like her father. He had mishandled the negotiations. He had told her he would take care of her, but he had not been specific. Of course. Money! He should have offered her money. A thousand pounds—ten thousand pounds— more.

  "I have a delicate task for you," he told David Blackwell.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I want you to talk to Miss van der Merwe. Tell her I'm offering her twenty thousand pounds. She'll know what I want in exchange." Jamie wrote out a check. He had long ago learned the lure of money in hand. "Give this to her."

  "Right, sir." And David Blackwell was gone.

  He returned fifteen minutes later and handed the check back to his employer. It had been torn in half. Jamie could feel his face getting red. 'Thank you, David. That will be all"

  So Margaret was holding out for more money. Very well. He would give it to her. But this time he would handle it himself.

  Late that afternoon, Jamie McGregor went to Mrs. Owens's boardinghouse. "I want to see Miss van der Merwe," Jamie said.

  'I'm afraid that's not possible," Mrs. Owens informed him. "She's on her way to America."

  Jamie felt as though he had been hit in the stomach. "She can't be! When did she leave?"

  "She and her son took the noon coach to Worcester."

  The train sitting at the station in Worcester was filled to capacity, the seats and aisles crowded with noisy travelers on their way to Cape Town. There were merchants and their wives, salesmen, prospectors, kaffirs and soldiers and sailors reporting back for duty. Most of them were riding a train for the first time and there was a festive atmosphere among the passengers. Margaret had been able to get a seat near a window, where Jamie would not be crushed by the crowd. She sat there holding her baby close to her, oblivious to those around her, thinking about the new life that lay ahead of them. It would not be easy. Wherever she went, she would be an unmarried woman with a child, an offense to society. But she would find a w
ay to make sure her son had his chance at a decent life. She heard the conductor call, "All aboard!"

  She looked up, and Jamie was standing there. "Collect your things," he ordered. "You're getting off the train."

  He still thinks he can buy me, Margaret thought. "How much are you offering this time?"

  Jamie looked down at his son, peacefully asleep in Margaret's arms. "I'm offering you marriage."

  They were married three days later in a brief, private ceremony. The only witness was David Blackwell.

  During the wedding ceremony, Jamie McGregor was filled with mixed emotions. He was a man who had grown used to controlling and manipulating others, and this time it was he who had been manipulated. He glanced at Margaret. Standing next to him, she looked almost beautiful. He remembered her passion and abandon, but it was only a memory, nothing more, without heat or emotion. He had used Margaret as an instrument of vengeance, and she had produced his heir.

  The minister was saying, "I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

  Jamie leaned forward and briefly touched his lips to Margaret's cheek.

  "Let's go home," Jamie said. His son was waiting for him.

  When they returned to the house, Jamie showed Margaret to a bedroom in one of the wings.

  "This is your bedroom," Jamie informed her.

  "I see."

  'I'll hire another housekeeper and put Mrs. Talley in charge

  of Jamie. If there's anything you require, tell David Blackwell." Margaret felt as though he had struck her. He was treating her like a servant. But that was not important. My son has a name. That is enough for me.

  Jamie did not return home for dinner. Margaret waited for him, then finally dined alone. That night she lay awake in her bed, aware of every sound in the house. At four o'clock in the morning, she finally fell asleep. Her last thought was to wonder which of the women at Madam Agnes's he had chosen.

  If Margaret's relationship with Jamie was unchanged since their marriage, her relationship with the townspeople of Klip-drift underwent a miraculous transformation. Overnight, Margaret went from being an outcast to becoming Klipdrift's social arbiter. Most of the people in town depended for their living in one way or another on Jamie McGregor and Kruger-Brent, Ltd. They decided that if Margaret van der Merwe was good enough for Jamie McGregor, she was good enough for them. Now when Margaret took little Jamie for an outing, she was met with smiles and cheery greetings. Invitations poured in. She was invited to teas, charity luncheons and dinners and urged to head civic committees. When she dressed her hair in a different way, dozens of women in town instantly followed suit. She bought a new yellow dress, and yellow dresses were suddenly popular. Margaret handled their fawning in the same manner she had handled their hostility—with quiet dignity.

  Jamie came home only to spend time with his son. His attitude toward Margaret remained distant and polite. Each morning at breakfast she played the role of happy wife for the servants' benefit, despite the cool indifference of the man sitting across the table from her. But when Jamie had gone and she could escape to her room, she would be drenched in perspiration. She hated herself. Where was her pride? Because Margaret knew she still loved Jamie. I'll always love him, she thought. God help me.

  Jamie was in Cape Town on a three-day business trip. As he came out of the Royal Hotel, a liveried black driver said, "Carriage, sir?"

  "No," Jamie said. "I'll walk."

  "Banda thought you might like to ride."

  Jamie stopped and looked sharply at the man. "Banda?"

  "Yes, Mr. McGregor."

  Jamie got into the carriage. The driver flicked his whip and they started off. Jamie sat back in his seat, thinking of Banda, his courage, his friendship. He had tried many times to find him in the last two years, with no success. Now he was on his way to meet his friend.

  The driver turned the carriage toward the waterfront, and Jamie knew instantly where they were going. Fifteen minutes later the carriage stopped in front of the deserted warehouse where Jamie and Banda had once planned their adventure into the Namib. What reckless young fools we were, Jamie thought. He stepped out of the carriage and approached the warehouse. Banda was waiting for him. He looked exactly the same, except that now he was neatly dressed in a suit and shirt and tie.

  They stood there, silently grinning at each other, then they embraced.

  "You look prosperous," Jamie smiled.

  Banda nodded. "I've not done badly. I bought that farm we talked about. I have a wife and two sons, and I raise wheat and ostriches."

  "Ostriches?"

  'Their feathers bring in lots of money."

  "Ah. I want to meet your family, Banda."

  Jamie thought of his own family in Scotland, and of how much he missed them. He had been away from home for four years.

  "I've been trying to find you."

  'I've been busy, Jamie." Banda moved closer. "I had to see you to give you a warning. There's going to be trouble for you."

  Jamie studied him. "What kind of trouble?"

  "The man in charge of the Namib field—Hans Zimmerman—he's bad. The workers hate him. They're talking about walking out. If they do, your guards will try to stop them and there will be a riot."

  Jamie never took his eyes from Banda's face.

  "Do you remember I once mentioned a man to you—John Tengo Javabu?"

  "Yes. He's a political leader. I've been reading about him. He's been stirring up a donderstorm."

  "I'm one of his followers."

  Jamie nodded. "I see. I'll do what has to be done," Jamie promised.

  "Good. You've become a powerful man, Jamie. I'm glad."

  "Thank you, Banda."

  "And you have a fine-looking son."

  Jamie could not conceal his surprise. "How do you know that?"

  "I like to keep track of my friends." Banda rose to his feet. "I have a meeting to go to, Jamie. I'll tell them things will be straightened out at the Namib."

  "Yes. I'll attend to it." He followed the large black man to the door. "When will I see you again?"

  Banda smiled. "I'll be around. You can't get rid of me that easily."

  And Banda was gone.

  When Jamie returned to Klipdrift, he sent for young David Blackwell. "Has there been any trouble at the Namib field, David?"

  "No, Mr. McGregor." He hesitated. "But I have heard rumors that there might be."

  'The supervisor there is Hans Zimmerman. Find out if he's mistreating the workers. If he is, put a stop to it. I want you to go up there yourself."

  "I'll leave in the morning."

  When David arrived at the diamond field at the Namib, he spent two hours quietly talking to the guards and the workers.

  What he heard filled him with a cold fury. When he had learned what he wanted to know, he went to see Hans Zimmerman.

  Hans Zimmerman was a goliath of a man. He weighed three hundred pounds and was six feet, six inches tall. He had a sweaty, porcine face and red-veined eyes, and was one of the most unattractive men David Blackwell had ever seen. He was also one of the most efficient supervisors employed by Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He was seated at a desk in his small office, dwarfing the room, when David walked in.

  Zimmerman rose and shook David's hand. "Pleasure to see you, Mr. Blackwell. You should have told me you was comin'."

  David was sure that word of his arrival had already reached Zimmerman.

  "Whiskey?"

  "No, thank you."

  Zimmerman leaned back in his chair and grinned. "What can I do for you? Ain't we diggin' up enough diamonds to suit the boss?"

  Both men knew that the diamond production at the Namib was excellent. "I get more work out of my kaffirs than anyone else in the company," was Zimmerman's boast.

  "We've been getting some complaints about conditions here," David said.

  The smile faded from Zimmerman's face. "What kind of complaints?"

  "That the men here are being treated badly and—"

 
Zimmerman leaped to his feet, moving with surprising agility. His face was flushed with anger. "These ain't men. These are kaffirs. You people sit on your asses at headquarters and—"

  "Listen to me," David said. "There's no—"

  "You listen to me! I produce more fuckin' diamonds than anybody else in the company, and you know why? Because I put the fear of God into these bastards."

  "At our other mines," David said, "we're paying fifty-nine shillings a month and keep. You're paying your workers only fifty shillings a month."

  "You complainin' 'cause I made a better deal for you? The only thing that counts is profit."

  "Jamie McGregor doesn't agree," David replied. "Raise their wages."

  Zimmerman said sullenly, "Right. It's the boss's money."

  "I hear there's a lot of whipping going on."

  Zimmerman snorted. "Christ, you can't hurt a native, mister. Their hides are so thick they don't even feel the goddamned whip. It just scares them."

  "Then you've scared three workers to death, Mr. Zimmerman."

  Zimmerman shrugged. "There's plenty more where they came from."

  He's a bloody animal, David thought. And a dangerous one. He looked up at the huge supervisor. "If there's any more trouble here, you're going to be replaced." He rose to his feet. "You'll start treating your men like human beings. The punishments are to stop immediately. I've inspected their living quarters. They're pigsties. Clean them up."

  Hans Zimmerman was glaring at him, fighting to control his temper. "Anything else?" he finally managed to say.

  "Yes. 'I'll be back here in three months. If I don't like what I see, you can find yourself a job with another company. Good day." David turned and walked out.