Blue Fire

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  She seated herself in a place of sunny warmth at one end of the bench. Doves cooed hopefully at her feet and a squirrel chattered his indignation when he found she had nothing for him. In the serenity of these gardens the rocky face of the mountain was hidden and she realized that sometimes its ever-present mass could be a little oppressive.

  John Cornish clasped long, rather bony hands, interlacing the fingers loosely and staring off into the distance of Rhodes’s hinterland. Susan waited for him to begin.

  “Everything goes back to diamonds,” he said at last. “Diamonds and their effect upon men. Niklaas van Pelt went to prison because he was convicted of stealing diamonds.”

  This seemed to be in contradiction to what Dirk had told her and she frowned. “Do you mean the big diamond that disappeared? The one they call the Kimberley Royal?”

  “The bad luck stone?” he said. “No, not the Kimberley. That’s another story, though I have my own idea of what may have happened to that particular stone. The cache found in the van Pelt house in Johannesburg was of much smaller diamonds—though still gem stones.”

  “Found in the van Pelt house?” Susan repeated, not quite believing.

  “That’s right. I’d been invalided out of the war.” He patted his right leg, outstretched before him. “And I was working for a Johannesburg paper. I was given an assignment to do a piece about diamond smuggling. Always a popular subject in South Africa. I took it seriously and I was keen on doing a good job. In the course of my nosing about I came hot on a trail that I followed long enough to turn over to the authorities. The details are unimportant, but the search ended with Niklaas van Pelt.”

  A muscle had tightened in the rugged line of his jaw and she sensed how merciless this man might be as an enemy. In dismayed silence she waited for him to continue.

  “My own father had died a few years before. Perhaps you don’t know that Niklaas van Pelt was my father’s close friend. My mother was American and she wanted to get home as soon as the war was over. I went with her when the time came, and stayed on in the States. But at this time I was fairly close to Mr. van Pelt. His son Paul had been my good friend and I was still broken up over his death in action. So you can see that I would not have unlocked this Pandora’s box intentionally, knowing the van Pelts would be involved. Before I realized what might happen I’d cracked it wide open and the matter was out of my hands.”

  “Did they actually prove that Mr. van Pelt had taken the stones?” Susan asked, increasingly disturbed by what she was hearing.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Cornish said. “When he knew the jig was up he confessed the whole thing. He had been on the receiving end, though he would not name any accomplices. So the other, or others, got away free. He was given a three-year sentence and I found myself covering the story for my paper.”

  “But doesn’t Niklaas van Pelt know this was something you couldn’t help?” she asked. “Why should he still be angry with you and refuse to see you after all this time?”

  “I suppose I could have quit my job. But I chose not to. I can’t blame him for being resentful.”

  “Yet you don’t believe he also took the Kimberley diamond? Why not?”

  “While I don’t believe he took it, I think it was a jolly good thing the big stone’s disappearance was kept quiet at the time and the friend who had trusted him with it kept the whole thing under cover. His trust seems to have been justified because when Niklaas van Pelt got out of prison he made himself a poor man by paying back every cent of the market value of that stone. He had to build up a new life for himself on borrowed money.”

  Susan listened in increasing bewilderment. “But how could the same man who paid off the debt of that big stone have been guilty of stealing the other diamonds? The two things don’t fit together.”

  “That,” said John Cornish, “is exactly what has haunted me for all these years. That’s the thing that has brought me to the writing of this book, brought me back to South Africa. But I can’t clear it up unless old Niklaas himself is now willing to tell the story.”

  She was beginning to understand, and something of the animosity she had felt toward John Cornish was fading. Surely Dirk did not know all these things. He was protecting her father mistakenly.

  “It must have taken a great deal of courage for Mr. van Pelt to begin all over again,” she said. “He must have lost the trust of a great many people.”

  “But not all,” Cornish told her. “There’s a curious thing about this matter of diamonds in South Africa. You have to remember that the country isn’t very old. No older, really, than Manhattan, which the Dutch were settling at the same time they moved into the Cape. Even that three hundred years belongs more to Cape Town than to Johannesburg and Kimberley. Jo’burg was a sprawling mining town just seventy years ago, and Kimberley is only a few years older. In those early days there was a lot of smuggling going on and people got a bit casual about it. Even now there are some who regard it as a minor crime, not quite so reprehensible as stealing a man’s ox. I suspect the color of romance hangs about the whole thing, a little like the romantic notions of America’s lawless western days. The diamond people, naturally, take a dimmer view since too much leakage of diamonds out of the monopoly would send the world price down. Still, sentences are not so heavy as they once were, and a man may live them down. Niklaas van Pelt has done that to some extent. Though the stamp of disgrace is still there because of the high position he held, and never to be quite overlooked.”

  “But there’s such a discrepancy between being honor-bound over the big stone, and holding a cache of smaller stones in his own home. Haven’t you any idea of the answer?”

  The man beside her leaned over and picked up a pebble from the path, tossing it lightly in his palm as if he weighed the decision of whether or not to speak his thoughts. Then he dropped the stone and turned to her.

  “There was a woman in the case. A pretty, rather frivolous American woman.”

  Susan stiffened. She folded her hands about the leather straps of camera and handbag to keep them quiet. She must say nothing, do nothing to stop him at this point, though something uneasy and fearful was wakening in her.

  “Go on,” she said softly.

  “This woman was a good deal younger than Niklaas—she was his second wife. I believe she was stranded here after some sort of concert tour failed, and she went to work for De Beers.”

  “De Beers!” Susan could not help the exclamation. Claire had said she’d worked for some time in South Africa but she had never mentioned that it was for De Beers.

  “Yes; that’s where Niklaas met her. He was still connected with the company at that point, but he retired a bit later to give all his time to government matters. He wanted to run for Parliament and he became active in the government after his marriage. The woman—her name was Claire—had found herself a wealthy and distinguished husband. From then on she proceeded to ruin him.”

  “What do you mean?” Susan asked more sharply than she meant to.

  John Cornish gave her a slow, searching look. “Perhaps I’m saying too much? For all I know, your husband may have thought very highly of the American woman who married Niklaas.”

  “I want to hear it all,” Susan insisted, holding tightly to the leather straps.

  “There’s not much more. I suspect that it was Claire who had managed to smuggle out that little cache of diamonds into her own possession. Perhaps there were even more that she had disposed of from time to time. She must have held onto the remainder after her marriage.”

  “If this is true, why wouldn’t she admit it when Niklaas was arrested? Why wouldn’t she tell the truth and save her husband from going to jail?”

  “So that she might go to jail in his stead?” Cornish raised a dark eyebrow quizzically. “It appears that she wasn’t that sort of woman. It would also seem that Niklaas was a gentleman and would not betray her.”

  Susan let go of camera and handbag and faced him angrily. “I don’t believe a
word of what you’re saying! It’s all the wildest speculation! I should think it would be a horrible thing to release such a story after all these years and disgrace someone who can’t speak for herself.”

  Cornish remained relaxed in the face of her indignation, though it must have puzzled him a little. “Oh, I intend to let her speak for herself. When I get as much of the story as possible out of Niklaas, I’ll go back to the States and find her. I believe she’s still living in Chicago. Of course she would be safe enough from prosecution by this time, even if she is guilty.”

  Susan had stood all she could. “At least she’s safe from such a visit!” she cried. “You can’t hurt her now—she’s out of your reach.”

  He merely stared at her, and she rushed on, her words tumbling out almost incoherently.

  “You might as well know the truth! Claire van Pelt was my mother. She died only a little while ago. And I won’t let you touch her memory with your miserable, made-up suspicions!”

  She was so angry she was close to tears and it was all she could manage to blink them back. John Cornish regarded her in dismay for a moment. Then the guard he had lowered a little seemed to slip coldly into place again.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you by telling you things you didn’t know. But you asked for this. After all, it was hardly fair to hide your identity at the same time that you were questioning me.”

  She had no interest in what he regarded as fair. “I can see now why neither my father nor Dirk wanted me to know about all this. They didn’t want me to be hurt by such lies. It was better for me not to know.”

  He answered her without emotion. “If your mother was innocent, then that would be enough to protect her. She needn’t have run away. In any event, it’s better for you to know the truth. This isn’t something you could hide from, or be protected from, forever. Not here in Cape Town.”

  She thrust back her anger as best she could. It was necessary to convince him that he was wrong—wickedly wrong.

  “My mother was never a thief. She liked to be happy, and perhaps she was a little bit spoiled because everyone loved her and gave her what she wanted. Besides—what could she have done with illegal diamonds in her possession? How could she have disposed of them?”

  “Sometime you might ask your husband to tell you about I.D.B.,” Cornish said.

  She knew there was no way of convincing him. Not now. And she could bear no more. Abruptly she stood up, scattering a flock of doves, but before she could turn away, he rose and caught her elbow firmly but lightly in his clasp.

  “Wait,” he said and there was a note of command in his voice that halted her in spite of her longing to get away. “You were right about one thing. I don’t know the truth of this matter yet. I am only speculating. But neither can you be sure of the truth. It may be a painful choice either way. But less painful to the dead than to the living.”

  She saw his face through swimming tears, stern and merciless. “I don’t care about the living!” she cried, and hated the way her voice choked. “My father means nothing to me. But I still love my mother. I was closer to her than anyone else was, and I know what she was like.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said relentlessly, “the truth is something to be respected for itself, without regard to one’s own emotional involvement or whether one believes this thing or that. If I’m wrong, why not prove me wrong?”

  She drew her elbow from his grasp as if she found his touch repugnant. “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know very well what I mean,” he said, and his eyes held hers, though now he did not touch her.

  This was a man who would never give up. She understood that clearly now and she began to feel a little frightened.

  “What do you want me to do?” she demanded. “What do you expect of me?”

  A smile touched his mouth and there was unexpected kindness in it. “I will leave that to you. Good morning, Mrs. Hohenfield.” He touched the brim of his hat and walked away through the gardens.

  She watched him go, noting the slight limp with which he moved, the erect carriage of his shoulders. And she detested him with all her heart. His very walking away so abruptly was an affront. It should have been Susan Hohenfield who had walked away and left him, spurning his ridiculous story. Still shaken, she turned in the opposite direction and began to walk toward home.

  8

  Not even the long brisk climb back to the Aerie Assuaged her anger. She continued to feel keyed up and distraught, yet impatient with her own unreliable emotions.

  Cornish, she reminded herself, was merely a journalist after a good story. His suspicions were not to be considered. He had not known Claire as she had. He could not realize how incapable of harm her mother had been.

  In an attempt to quiet her thoughts, she went into the darkroom as soon as she reached home and shut herself in to develop the strip of pictures she had taken. Working in the quiet little room by the faint light of one red bulb had a calming effect upon her nerves. Here she could be busy with her hands, give her attention to the handling of her materials, and hold all thought in abeyance. It was a treatment she had used more than once in Chicago when things had gone badly at the paper.

  By the time the film had been attached to a clip and hung up to dry she felt a little better, and was even able to eat the lunch that Willi served her. In the afternoon she returned to the darkroom to print the pictures from her strip of film, trying to keep herself interested in the mechanical work before her. But now as her hands busied themselves she began to think of her father as she had seen him at the time of their interview. An old man who had never allowed himself to be swayed by emotion. An intelligent and thoughtful man, perhaps, but a cold one, who had lost all touch with the warmth and excitement of living.

  Why had Claire run away? The question she was holding off flashed through her mind. Why had she not stayed to support her husband in his time of trouble?

  Claire’s story had always been that Niklaas had done some wicked thing for which he deserved imprisonment. She could never forgive him, she said, or ever again trust him. She had given all her efforts to getting her daughter away from South Africa so that she should not suffer for her father’s sins. These, surely, were not the actions of a woman who was to blame for her husband’s imprisonment.

  Nevertheless, whether Susan liked it or not, John Cornish had set squarely in front of her a problem she must eventually face. The darkroom had given her a respite, only a postponement. When she finished with her prints, the problem was still there where he had placed it. Regardless of how Dirk might feel about this last encounter with Cornish, she would have to tell him about it, set the whole story before him, and ask his advice. She could not endure this turmoil and doubting alone.

  Having come to a decision, she grew eager to talk to Dirk, and the afternoon passed slowly. She did not broach the subject immediately at dinner, however, but held to other topics through the meal. Dirk had spent the day in the store, where some difficulty had arisen, and he was tired and faintly absent-minded.

  Not until they were in the living room after dinner, with a cheery coal fire in the grate, did she tell him of her meeting with John Cornish that morning. At her first words his attention was arrested but, though she saw his mouth tighten, she went on, straight through to the end, trying to make it as fair a story as possible, giving Cornish credit for the purpose he claimed—an attempt to learn the truth. But her voice broke a little when she came to the part about her mother.

  Dirk’s manner softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have been told so cruelly. There were always rumors, of course. But I think you needn’t worry about them. At least this should bring home to you the reasons why I’ve wanted nothing to do with Cornish. There’s no reason for Uncle Niklaas to be tried twice. Cornish is a man bent on stirring up old troubles. Perhaps more trouble than you dream is possible.”

  “Trouble for whom?” she asked.

  “Let me worry about that. Just let these sl
eeping dogs lie.”

  Puzzled though she was by his words, her thoughts turned back to Claire.

  “You don’t believe my mother was a thief, do you?” she asked directly.

  Dirk came to sit beside her and took her left hand into his own, turning it so that light struck the pink diamond.

  “Listen to me, Susan. Listen for once with your mind instead of your emotions. Perhaps the best thing for everyone concerned would be for you to recall whatever you can about the Kimberley Royal. If that mystery could be cleared up, it would help your father. It might even help to dispel any lingering suspicions against your mother. And, in part, it would answer John Cornish.”

  This persistent notion that she had something to remember was too much. Impatiently she pulled her hand from his grasp with a jerk that sent it backward against a heavy bronze bookend on the table beside her. The unintentional knock bruised her knuckles and the pink stone clinked against the bronze.

  Dirk caught her hand and turned it so that he could examine the ring. “Take care,” he warned, and ran his thumb over the diamond. “I’d hate to see you injure my lucky stone.”

  Her impatience, her bafflement increased. “Considering that diamonds are supposed to be the hardest of all stones, I’m not likely to hurt it with a tap like that,” she said crossly.

  He laughed at her indignation and let her hand go. “Don’t be too sure. Diamonds are brittle stones. That’s the way they shape them, you know—by tapping them along the lines of cleavage. Sometimes good stones are ruined in the process, though it’s true it has to be a pretty sharp blow. Anyway, do remember that I’ve given my luck into your hands—so be careful with it.”

  There was an amused note in his voice as if he laughed at himself, but Susan’s attention was still upon the issue that had irritated her.

  “It’s silly to expect me to remember something when there really isn’t anything for me to remember.”

  “How can you be sure? What about the dream you had the other night?” he reminded her. “Have you ever thought there might be a reason behind it?”