Eager to be pleasant, to make up for his earlier ill humour, as Randall worked, Joe asked, ‘How’s married life treating you? Sure surprised most of the people around here, running off and eloping as you did.’
Without looking up, Randall replied, ‘We didn’t want a big fussy wedding, that’s why we decided to go away.’ He wiped his hands on the cloth. ‘You know, I think you might have flooded the carby. The petrol has had time to settle. Try the motor now.’
After a couple of backfires, the Rolls’s six-cylinder engine turned over and purred into life. ‘Well done, Randall. Thanks.’ Joe yelled to be heard over the noise. He was pleased with himself. Little did Randall know it, but he’d had a moment of inspiration and put on a forlorn, confused act, and Drovers Way’s owner had fallen for it and helped him out. It felt good to fool Randall McLean. Wait till he told his old man! They’d have a good laugh about it. Putting the motor into gear, he pulled out onto the road without bothering to look to see if there was any approaching traffic, and took off towards the north and Blinman.
Randall flicked his hat back off his forehead and shook his head despairingly as he watched Joe—who thought he owned the road—drive with little regard to people crossing the street, or other vehicles. The way he drove—wild and undisciplined—the man would have a serious accident one day, and Randall wasn’t the only person who thought so.
Still, one piece of good news had come out of helping Joe. Randall sincerely hoped that Beth would be happy in her marriage and her new country. That she had found someone she could be content with was justification for him having broken their engagement. And maybe Bill would now end his vendetta against him. He shrugged as he thought that. Maybe…
Recalling that he’d come into town to talk to Byron Ellis about Walpole’s intention to put a weir on the Boolcunda, he turned on his heel and headed towards Byron’s office.
‘So Walpole can do what he likes with the creek, is that what you’re telling me?’ Randall’s tone showed his frustration as he sat across the desk staring at Byron.
‘As I understand the law, so long as he doesn’t completely stop the flow of water in the creek, yes. At present there’s no legislation that prevents him from doing it,’ Byron admitted.
‘Then there damned well should be. Walpole’s a cold-hearted bastard who doesn’t care a fig about other property owners. If some of the properties downriver get less than they’re getting now from the creek, they could be finished.’
‘What about you? What is Drovers going to do?’
‘I’ve bought a tractor with a huge shovel-type bulldozer attachment. I’m going to build several earth dams around the property, where the catchment’s reasonable, and hope that winter rains fill them up,’ Randall said. ‘Then, anyone else who wants to borrow the tractor to do the same on their land is welcome to it.’
‘How many dams are you proposing to build?’
‘Five or six. Jim, Mike and I will be working flat out to get them dug through summer and into autumn.’
Byron fingered his neatly trimmed beard, smoothing the bristles. ‘And doing it while Bill’s in Britain. A clever move.’
Randall grinned. So he wasn’t the only one who thought Bill Walpole’s aggressiveness and scheming was directed at trying to force him off Drovers Way, though he’d never talked about it as such to anyone other than Amy, her father and the men on Drovers.
‘Now that you’re a married man, you must bring Amy over to our house for dinner one night.’
‘Thanks, I will. Amy and Harriet can work out when.’ Randall stood up. ‘Got to go, work to do.’
Byron stood and reached forward to shake Randall’s hand. ‘Me too. Thanks for coming in. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more positive information.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Byron. Drovers and I have every intention of surviving,’ were Randall’s parting words as he left the solicitor’s office.
After the Geraldine docked and the cargo was offloaded, Abe paid the crew with a handsome bonus for each man, then left the ship and caught a taxi to his home in Suva. During his time on board, Danny had become fond of Abe, and he was becoming increasingly worried about the old man. Abe didn’t look at all well, and Danny had argued with him, not for the first time, about seeing his doctor as soon as they reached land. Abe had declined, saying all he wanted to do was to settle the cargo’s accounts, pay the men, then go home and rest. Rest was all he needed, the grey-haired captain insisted, but deep inside Danny a sense of foreboding was building that the Geraldine had completed her last voyage, because Abe wouldn’t be well enough to skipper the next one, which was scheduled to leave port in five or six days.
Once the crew had taken their leave, Danny sat on his bunk and counted the money he’d been saving for months. Still not enough. Having sailed with Abe for some time, he knew that Abe had, over more than twenty years, developed a sound business, trading around the smaller islands of the South Pacific, bringing necessities and a few luxuries to far-flung tea, coconut and rubber plantations, as well as to native villages. He was a tough businessman and would insist on a fair price being paid for the Geraldine. Danny didn’t have a problem with that; his problem was how to get the money to buy the lugger and to give Abe an income on which he could comfortably retire.
He stuffed his hoard back into the drawstring bag and hid it under a loose floorboard beneath his bunk. There were only two ways he could get the thousands of pounds he needed: through a bank loan or by sitting in on a high-stakes poker game and winning the pot. He didn’t have high hopes about the bank granting him a loan, but he was prepared to give it a try.
As expected, the Fijian branch of Barclays Bank didn’t take Danny’s application for a loan seriously, the assistant manager telling him that he simply didn’t have sufficient credentials for the bank to take the risk. Outside the bank, standing under an awning out of the sun’s burning rays, Danny contemplated his options. He now had to give serious consideration to the poker game plan. The Geraldine’s cook, Ming, an inveterate gambler, had told him of a regular game at Lee Fong’s Bar on the far side of the dock area. Danny knew it to be a rough-and-tumble place with a brothel and an opium den at the back, which was where Fong made his real money. Did he have a chance…?
He decided to visit Fong’s after dark, to get a feel for the place and the people who frequented it.
Minutes after Danny, a reformed smoker, walked into Fong’s Bar for the third time that week, the haze of cigarette smoke stung his eyes and throat, and the near-overwhelming smell of stale beer, spirits and sweat almost made him gag. The combination of odours was something his sensitive nostrils, accustomed to fresh, salty air, would never get used to. Last night he’d taken a little of his money and had what he considered a practice game of poker, ending the night a little better off than when he’d started. Tonight, though, he intended to join the players at a table at the far end of the bar, the one the regulars called ‘the professionals’ game’, and play with all the skill Ming had tried to teach him during several months at sea.
He’d been keeping his eye on one player in particular. The man appeared to be there every night. He was a skinny, rat-faced man with a dark, drooping moustache and a limp cigarette that hung permanently from the side of his mouth. Danny had worked out that this man, whose name was Croft, was as mean as he looked, and he was the one who most concerned Danny. The man won so regularly that Danny’s gut told him Croft was a cheat. He’d come to suspect that because when it was Croft’s turn to deal, he dealt himself cards from the bottom of the deck, but did it so skilfully that the other players hadn’t cottoned on to it. Croft’s life wouldn’t be worth a damn if they did.
Danny waited for one of the seats at the table to become vacant. Then, a beer in one hand, he came and stood behind it, indicating his intention to join the game.
A burly seaman with tattoos on both arms and his chest acknowledged him when the game they were playing ended. ‘New blood, eh? Sit down, man, and show us the c
olour of your money. I’m Eddie,’ then he pointed to the man on his left, ‘that’s Bill,’ his head jerked to the Asian on his right, ‘that’s Wu and, last but not least, next to you is Croft.’
Danny sat in the vacant chair and briefly pulled out his wad of notes, then stuffed them back into his shirt pocket. They knew he had serious money. ‘I’m Danny.’
Croft was all business. ‘Let’s play.’ He reached for the deck but Eddie was too quick for him and took it out of his grasp.
‘You know it’s customary for the new man to deal the first round, Croft.’
Eddie pushed the deck of cards towards Danny, who fingered the deck. Some of the cards’ edges were curled, a couple had tiny nicks. He didn’t like that. ‘I reckon we could do with a new deck.’
All the men except Croft smiled. Danny had passed the first test. He wasn’t a rank amateur.
‘Sure. Why not?’ Eddie said agreeably, and signalled one of the waitresses to bring a new deck from behind the bar.
The first few rounds went slowly. Danny was cautious as he tried to get the feel of the other players, their strengths, their weaknesses. He kept his hands on his thighs between games to disguise the nervousness building inside him. It would be a fatal mistake to let any of the other players see how important it was for him to win the pot, which was building nicely as the night went on. In the current game Bill was first to fold. He threw up his hands in disgust and, muttering to himself, took his empty glass and headed for the bar.
‘What you do, Danny? I no see you round here before,’ Wu asked in thickly accented English.
Danny didn’t want to give out too much information about himself, just in case…‘I’m first mate on an island trading vessel. We don’t stay in port for long.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Eddie said with a nod as he discarded two cards and indicated that he wanted two more. ‘My ship sails on the morning tide for Peru—that’s a long ocean stretch.’
Danny watched Eddie’s features show momentary displeasure as he checked the cards he’d received. He glanced at his own hand: two pairs, queens and tens. Not a great hand but probably better than Eddie’s. His gaze swept to Wu, whose features were inscrutable. The Asian, from Hong Kong—so he’d learned during sporadic bursts of conversation around the table—was a canny player. And Croft. He obviously believed himself to be the supreme professional, and was seemingly unruffled by the fact that he’d dropped four cards and had Wu deal him four more. Was it a bold move or a stupid one, giving away the fact that he held nothing of note? Still, as Danny watched Croft rearrange his cards in a specific order there was always the chance that he’d picked up a winning hand.
Danny stared at the pot in the middle of the table. It was an untidy pile of notes, mostly British pounds. He tried to figure out how much was there—a couple of thousand, maybe. He needed more, but to win big he also needed a better hand, so he folded. Croft won the game and dragged the money towards himself. Danny tried to ignore the trickle of sweat running down his spine, a fact not entirely due to the steamy atmosphere in the bar. He concentrated on keeping his features impassive and downed the remains of his now disgustingly warm beer.
It was Croft’s turn to deal and Danny watched the man’s hands closely. He was very good and it appeared as if he dealt a fair hand to each player, but Danny still didn’t trust him. Eddie folded early in the game but remained at the table to watch the game and the pot grow. Wu challenged boldly, forcing Croft and Danny to up the ante. Danny knew his wad of notes was getting smaller, but he resisted the temptation to wipe the sweat forming on his upper lip. Wu tapped for two cards, then discarded two, which Croft swept to the bottom of the pack. Danny studied the Asian’s features closely. Just a slight flicker of the eyelids, nothing more, which could mean anything. This time Croft pushed all the money he’d won previously to the middle of the table and challenged them to call him.
After a few seconds’ hesitation Wu shook his head, and put his cards face down on the table. Croft was determined to win the pot and was sweating profusely in the bar’s muggy atmosphere. He dealt himself two fresh cards and his mouth twisted in the semblance of a smile as he rearranged his hand.
Danny’s watchful gaze had seen the switch. Croft had dealt himself cards from the bottom of the deck, but no one else seemed aware of it. His mouth was so dry it was hard to swallow and his outrage at the man’s audaciousness made the blood pound heavily through his veins. He stared at his hand. Was it strong enough to win the pot? With a full house of three queens and two aces he had a bloody good hand, normally a winning hand. If only he knew what cards Croft had dealt himself! Danny knew this was the moment when he had to decide, to fold or to call…
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Danny pulled the remaining wad of notes out of his shirt pocket and added them to the pot. ‘I’ll see you and call you. Show me what you’ve got.’
‘Read it and weep, sailor boy,’ Croft said confidently. He turned his cards face up and placed them on the table.
Danny swallowed hard. A royal flush in spades. Awww…shit! But then instinct made him look at Wu and see, uncharacteristically, surprise on the Asian’s face. It only took a second or two to work out why. Croft had dealt himself the cards Wu had discarded from the bottom of the deck, which, luckily, had given him the royal flush. The man was, as Danny had suspected all along, a cheat!
Croft began dragging the pot of pound notes towards his side of the table until Danny’s large hand came down hard on the other man’s. ‘I don’t think so. You cheated, Croft.’ He glanced at Wu for corroboration. ‘Didn’t he?’
Wu was silent for perhaps five seconds or so, then he nodded. ‘Yes. I discarded a three and four of spades, and somehow they got into Croft’s hand when they should have remained at the bottom of the deck.’
Croft’s gaze narrowed on the Asian, and his skin colour, already pasty, paled. ‘You’re a liar, Wu. You and Danny are in this together. You’ve made a pact to share the pot, haven’t you?’
‘Not true.’ Wu’s reply was simple. ‘I never met Danny before tonight and his hand—a full house—is the winning hand. The pot belongs to him.’
Eddie, who’d watched the drama unfold, took charge. He stared coldly at Croft and said with quiet menace, ‘You know what we do to cheats.’ He pulled a mother-of-pearl-handled flick-knife out of his trouser pocket and placed it on the table. ‘You’ve got about twenty seconds to get out of here in one piece.’
Croft’s expression showed that he took Eddie’s threat seriously. Glaring furiously at Danny, he said in a low voice, ‘You’ll keep.’ Then he got up hastily from the table and threaded his way out of the smoke-filled bar.
Eddie watched Danny gather the money and begin to stuff it into his shirt and trouser pockets. ‘If I were you I’d get out of here. With those winnings you’re a target for several unscrupulous types who hang around the bar looking for ways to make easy money.’
‘I understand.’ Danny put his hand out and shook hands with Eddie and then Wu. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Wu. This is a night I won’t forget.’
Eddie laughed. ‘Neither will Croft. Watch out for him. I’ve heard that he doesn’t like to lose.’
Danny stood and gave Eddie a casual salute. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ Then he walked quickly from the bar.
Aboard the Geraldine Danny counted his winnings and hid them under the bunk. He still wasn’t sure whether the money was enough to satisfy Abe, but he’d call at the cottage in the morning and make an offer on the lugger. And then, mentally and physically exhausted from the tension of the game, Danny lay on the bunk and fell asleep…
Danny woke to a warm dawn with morning light streaming through the porthole. He had a wash, changed his clothes and made himself a quick breakfast in the galley—not that there was much to eat there—Ming was a good cook and almost all the provisions had been used during the voyage.
From under his bunk Danny took the bulging drawstring bag that held his money, strapped it
under his belt for safekeeping and made his way off the lugger and towards Abe’s cottage, which wasn’t far from the port. Lots of people—tradesmen, merchants and natives—were out and about, attempting to beat the coming heat by getting their work done early. He stopped to buy two bananas from a vendor to fill the empty space in his stomach, and munched on them as he walked. He felt pretty happy with himself. Last night’s win had been nothing short of miraculous; things could have ended quite differently if he hadn’t challenged Croft. For once, luck had gone his way, and he was going to take advantage of it. An image of Randall suddenly danced into his mind. He reckoned his brother would be impressed with his ability to forge a place for himself in the world. Danny was also feeling a little more confident than last night that what he had in his bag would be enough to satisfy Abe.
Abe Hennin’s cottage was different from most of the other dwellings in the street. Dutch by birth, Abe had built the whitewashed stone cottage, with its stained timber windows and grass-thatched roof, to resemble the cottage he’d grown up in north of Rotterdam. He had joked to Danny that the only differences were his parents’ white picket fence and the tulips growing in their window boxes. Free-roaming hens from a neighbour’s yard and two or three piglets scuttled out of Danny’s way as he walked up the path and knocked on the glass-panelled door.
It took a while for the door to open, and when it did Danny’s eyes widened in surprise at the young girl who stood there. She was tall, had a nice figure, and was fair-skinned with a mop of ginger curls. Her features were set in serious lines.
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