by John Creasey
The two stewards were younger men than Bradshaw, attentive and pleasant; one of the three stewardesses reminded Roger slightly of Faith Soames.
After breakfast, he tried to think only of the problem ahead. He did not know Nightingale well, but knew him for a strong-willed individual with a one-track mind, or what Soames believed was a one-track mind, for his job. Roger made himself go over everything that had happened and the reports he had read, checking and rechecking, until he felt sure that he knew all the salient points, and was not likely to need to refresh himself with his papers. Once convinced of that, he was able to relax enough to study the passenger’s booklet, in which were details of the countries they were flying over, the names of tribes, the kinds of wild animals, and the minerals being mined. Kilimanjaro stood out among the mountains of Kenya, the most breath-taking sight they had seen since Switzerland.
The steward and the stewardesses kept pointing out places of interest in the browny-yellow countryside. For the most part it was broken by ranges of hills, wild and desolate, and twice crossed by great rivers.
There was a stirring of excitement when someone exclaimed, “Look, Kariba!”
Suddenly everyone was craning his neck to look out of the tiny windows.
The stewardess who looked like Faith stopped by Roger, and his middle-aged neighbour.
“You’ll soon get a good view of it,” she said.
On the north side there was a great sheet of water where the river was dammed, on the south only a trickle. The great wall of the dam was so massive that it was almost as impressive as the Zambesi itself.
Then suddenly, the dam was behind them, and scrub-covered countryside stretched out below, horizon to horizon, trees with tiny leaves that seemed to be only brown or yellow, or the stripped branches of bushes, here and there a huge baobab tree jutting out with its rock-like trunk and its pathetic, stunted limbs.
The middle-aged man said suddenly, “There’s the Limpopo. Now we won’t be long. Sluggish-looking stretch of mud, isn’t it?”
Very soon they were flying over the hills of Northern Transvaal, seeing mine dumps dotted about everywhere. ‘Gold, copper, platinum, and uranium among others,’ said the booklet.
Soon they could see Pretoria with its wide streets and tall modern buildings and the stark solidness of the Voortrekker Monument, memorial to the pioneers who had opened up this great land in their search for freedom from British domination. Almost at once the skyscrapers of Johannesburg appeared, and beyond there seemed yellow hills, the slag heaps of the goldmines, drab and unromantic from the air.
All these things Roger had learned in his youth, and had read about countless times. He had refreshed his memory about most of them on the aircraft, and everything he saw seemed to have its special interest and significance.
“Fasten your belts, please.” The stewardesses called out, then checked each belt. The light showed outside the cockpit, and the ‘No Smoking’ order was flashed on. Routine. Roger saw the flat ground as it appeared to rise up to meet the aircraft, had a familiar moment of anxiety, then felt the gentle bump, another and another; and they were down.
The stewardess who had been so solicitous came up.
“You’re to go off first, Mr West. I hope you enjoyed your journey.”
“Very much,” said Roger. He got out of his seat and smiled at her. “Thanks largely to you.”
She looked pleased. The pilot came hurrying from the door which had been closed most of the flight, and reached the head of the steps just behind Roger.
“Glad to have met you, Superintendent – always good to have celebrities aboard.”
Roger chuckled as he shook hands.
“I don’t know what the blarney is about, but thanks.”
He started down the steps and saw two men moving towards him from a dark-blue Chevrolet with a coloured chauffeur standing by it. Both were in a pale brown uniform which looked as if it were made of linen or drill; he thought at first that they were soldiers, then remembered that the South African police wore uniforms like this.
They drew up, and the elder of the two, in his fifties, shook hands.
“Superintendent West?”
“Yes.”
“I am Colonel Wiess. This is Captain Standish. We are very glad to make your acquaintance and grateful that you have come so promptly.”
Both men had powerful handshakes. Wiess spoke rather like du Toit, but with a harder voice; Standish had an ordinary English voice with a slight twang in it; he had a broad, very tanned face and his blue eyes had the bright clarity of periwinkles. Wiess was rather more florid, rather more fleshy.
Wiess was saying, “We have heard much about you, of course, even before this investigation. We hope you will call on us for anything you need while you are in South Africa.”
“I certainly will,” said Roger.
They whisked him through Customs. A boy wearing a khaki shirt and khaki shorts carried his two bags, and would have taken his briefcase had he not held on to it. His first impression was of a vast, vivid blue sky, and of a heat which seemed to strike at him. The shade of the Customs house had been welcome. Now he stepped out of that shade into the open air outside the shed, and walked towards the car only a short distance away. The driver stood at attention, smart in a closed-neck jacket and a topee, which was a cross between khaki and grey. He opened the doors. The officers got in the back, where there was plenty of room for all three. The driver drove off smoothly.
“We are at the Jan Smuts International Airport,” Wiess said. “It serves both Johannesburg, to the south, and Pretoria, to the north. We shall be in Pretoria in about half an hour.”
At some crossroads, a Bantu constable on point duty held up a low-lying red sports car to allow them to pass. Only as they turned to the right, away from the sports car, did Roger see the driver.
It was Faith Soames.
16
REMINDER
Roger saw Faith smiling, as if she was mocking him; and then she disappeared. Wiess looked at him questioningly, and Standish, who had been on the side near the girl, raised one eyebrow, as if to say, ‘We have a ladies’ man.’ Neither South African spoke. A few cars and some trucks passed them. Perhaps it was because there were so many Jamaicans in London, but the fact that there were so many dark skins here was hardly noticeable.
“If you will tell us what you would like to do first,” Wiess said, “we will arrange it. Let me say at once that we placed James Nightingale under arrest with the greatest reluctance and only when we were sure that the evidence was very strong. We do not wish to arouse the antagonism of any section of the British Press for the sake of it.”
“I know what you mean,” said Roger. “Did you see the girl in the red Jaguar?”
“No,” said Wiess.
“Yes,” said Standish.
“She’s here from The Globe,” Roger told them. “I saw her in London the evening before last, so she must have caught a plane that night. The Globe isn’t losing much time.”
He told them more about Faith and more about Nightingale, and added, “If Soames is sure that this is a justifiable charge, he won’t try to be spiteful. All he wants is what we want – the truth.”
He felt almost pompous as he uttered the words, but neither of the others appeared to notice it.
“How much hotter does it get?” he enquired.
“This is not what we consider a hot day,” said Wiess. “And when you are a little more used to it I do not believe that you will find it unpleasant. You were going to tell me what you would like to do first.”
Roger thought, ‘He’s not going to waste any time, either.’ He had a feeling that Standish was watching him more critically than Wiess was. It would be easy to say he would like a general picture of the situation first, but probably better if he had a specific request. H
e could see Nightingale almost at once, and let Wiess have a copy of all the details of the Klemm-McKay plan. They were both waiting on him.
“I’d like a thorough briefing on the case against Nightingale, and then I’d like to see him. If he’s involved in the smuggling, we can get a lead through him, if he isn’t we have to try and find out what’s been happening. He may have some information that would help us.”
“If you can believe what he says,” said Standish.
“You don’t believe him, do you?”
“No,” said Standish.
“Captain Standish does not want to allow the benefit of the doubt,” said Wiess. “I think we have to accept the possibility that Nightingale is innocent of any major crime although undoubtedly guilty of breaking some of our laws.”
“Using a false passport would get him in trouble at any frontier,” Roger said. “Who’s in charge of the case against him?”
“I am, under Colonel Wiess,” answered Standish.
“And I am in charge of investigations into the diamond smuggling,” Wiess said. “I am sure you are right, you should deal with Nightingale first, and we should go on from there. Superintendent, would you prefer to be the private guest of a senior officer, or would you prefer to be in a hotel?”
“A hotel, I think,” Roger said, half apologetically.
Standish gave a twisted kind of smile. Roger wished that he had taken to the man, and wondered if Standish had any bee in his bonnet or had any sense of grievance against the Yard. There was certainly something in his manner which Roger did not like.
“We have provisionally reserved a suite for you at the New Pretoria Hotel,” said Wiess. “It is close to our new police headquarters, and convenient for the centre of the city. We have arranged for you to be able to call on a secretary, and if you need personal assistants Captain Standish will arrange whatever is necessary. Will you forgive me if I ask one favour?”
“Of course,” Roger said mechanically.
“Our ways and our methods are not always the same as yours, and I will be grateful if you do not take any course of action without first consulting Captain Standish or me. It is not that I believe you would do so without good reason, but it could give rise to misunderstanding and it could also cause delays and possibly cause harm.”
Wiess was looking straight at Roger as he spoke, matter-of-fact in manner and yet obviously determined that he should be taken seriously.
“Colonel,” Roger said with equal bluntness, “I shan’t throw my weight about.”
Before Wiess could comment or Standish react in any way, there was a red flash on the road, and the scarlet Jaguar passed them on the wide dual carriageway; it must have been travelling at ninety miles an hour. Faith was driving with that kind of self-confidence given to few women, but when given, as effective as any man’s. She disappeared round a curve.
Soon they were in the outskirts of the city, driving along a tree-lined road with good class houses on either side. They passed a number of garages and beneath an underpass; then they seemed to be in the middle of a bustling, thriving metropolis.
Five minutes later, Roger was in his hotel.
The manager was present to receive the party. Three white-clad boys stood in attendance. Signing in was quite a ceremony. There were a few formal words of welcome, and then they went up in a lift which might have been in the hotel of any American city. The place was streamlined and ultramodern, the passages very wide, and the muted strains of piped music made a pleasant background of sound. The manager unlocked the door of Number 505, near the lift, and led the way into a large room furnished in contemporary style, with grey Venetian blinds at the enormously wide window. There were two telephones, two desks, all the comfort he could imagine – there was even a dictaphone.
“I shall leave a sergeant downstairs and he will bring you to police headquarters whenever you are ready. We shall have Nightingale there,” Wiess added. “If you require anything, please ring the bell or telephone.”
“Anything,” Standish echoed, and there seemed to be a suggestive note in his voice.
They went out; and almost as soon as the door closed there was a tap at it. A boy whose dark face and arms showed jet black against his snow-white jacket and short trousers, stood there holding a tea-tray.
“For you, baas,” he said, and smiled almost enough to split his face in two.
“That’s just what I wanted,” Roger said. “Put it on the table.”
There was a long coffee table by the window.
“Can you pull up those blinds?”
“Sure thing, baas.” The boy went across and drew them up without effort, locked them by pulling the cord diagonally away from the top, then moved away. “I am your special room-boy, baas. Anything you want, just send for me. I will be in the passage, always ready.”
“What’s your name?” asked Roger.
“Percival, baas.”
Percival went out, closing the door quietly. Roger looked out on to the wide street. Opposite there was another high, modern building with the word Volksbank on it, and some magnificent statuary of animals at the massive front steps. The rest of the buildings in sight seemed old-fashioned. The pavements were crowded, but motor traffic was not very dense.
Roger turned away and opened the file which Wiess had given him about Nightingale, poured out tea, and began to read and to drink. He had been there for five minutes, already half forgetting the journey, when there was another tap at the door.
He called, “Come in.”
Once again it was Percival, still beaming all over his face, perhaps more nervous than he appeared to be. He carried a silver dish with half a dozen cream eclairs on it, brought them in swinging a silver handle, and declared, “I’m very sorry, baas, I forgot the very nice cakes.”
He put them down, backed away and went out.
Roger finished his first cup of tea, looked at the tempting cakes, and then noticed a small envelope underneath one of them. He picked this up. It was plain, probably a goodwill message from the police or the hotel, he imagined, and opened it. Inside was a single fold of paper, and on it a single question:
‘Who do the cakes remind you of?’
So Faith Soames was in the hotel, already casting her spell over the staff.
Roger had a shave and a shower, changed into a lightweight pale brown suit which he had worn when he had been to Australia in the summer, and felt fresh and ready to tackle even Standish and Nightingale when he went out. Percival had already taken out the tray. No one had called him, although he would not have been surprised to have a call from the newspapers. He moved slowly into the carpeted stealth of the passages, and pressed the bell for the lift. It was automatic, but a boy in a puce-coloured uniform and wearing a white fez-type cap was in attendance; he also wore enormous white gloves. In the foyer, a Bantu police sergeant in starch-stiffened uniform, buttoned up jacket and topee like the driver’s, came towards him and saluted.
“I am Sergeant Horo, sir. You wish to visit the police headquarters now?”
“Yes, please.”
“You go by car, sir, or you walk?”
“I’ll walk,” decided Roger.
They left the hotel, waited by some traffic lights with a crowd of white people and coloured people who seemed as oblivious of one another as in any crowd, and went across on the green, passed rows of parked cars and windows crammed with goods, turned a corner and then another corner and came upon the police headquarters, a long, low modern building. Police were on duty outside, as they would be at the Yard. The reception office had obviously been warned to expect him, and Horo led the way up one flight of stairs and then along to a room with Colonel Wiess printed in black on the door.
The sergeant tapped, turned the handle, stood aside, saluted, and announced, “Superintendent West, Colonel.”
; Wiess was alone, and Roger had the impression that he was more preoccupied than he had been in the car. He shrugged his preoccupation off, however, pointed to a chair, and said, “I have read your report closely, Superintendent, and there is nothing about it with which I disagree. You make me feel almost hopeful of reaching a solution before long. Before you see Nightingale, I would like to make a few remarks.”
“Of course,” Roger said.
“There is some apparent connection between Mr Van der Lunn’s movements and Nightingale’s, and it is clear that you do not regard them as coincidental. I confess I hope they are, but I agree that they may not be. Mr Van der Lunn has the confidence of the Government, and I find it almost impossible to believe that he would act at any time contrary to the Government’s interest. I should perhaps say the country’s interest. Have you any reason to believe that I am wrong?”
“Not yet,” Roger said. “I don’t know how big the job is, but I can’t see a man in Van der Lunn’s position finding it worth it.”
“I am glad you feel like that,” said Wiess. “It is not possible to value the amount involved for certain. It is a large sum, but not large by Van der Lunn’s standards.”
“How large?” enquired Roger.
“We have been asked forty-one times for proof that packets of diamonds shipped from this country actually left. In each case, we can offer proof that the diamonds were inspected visually by our Customs officers. The average value of each packet was twenty thousand rands.”
Startled, Roger said, “Twenty thousand rands equals ten thousand pounds sterling. That’s a lot of money.”
“It is indeed.” After a pause, Wiess went on, “Now that you have studied the reports on Nightingale – are you satisfied with what followed?”