The Fabulous Valley

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘How do we run for age?’ he inquired.

  ‘I’m thirty-five,’ volunteered Sandy.

  ‘Well, it’s age before honesty, then,’ Ernest grinned, ‘because I’m thirty-eight,’ but, having taken his paper, he proved no more fortunate than his brother.

  Sandy followed and landed the knobkerrie. Only the necklace of skulls now remained, with Michael and Patricia to draw.

  ‘I’m twenty-four,’ said Michael, ‘but you can have first pick if you like.’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ she smiled. ‘You beat me by a year.’

  But although Michael drew first it was Patricia to whom the gruesome-looking necklace fell.

  The interest in the draw having subsided, Mr. Bullett gave his dry little cough again. ‘I should be glad if you would resume your seats for a moment,’ he said, ‘because there is one other thing that I wish to say to you.’

  They fell silent at once, eager to hear if the lawyer had any other clues to offer. He regarded them steadily and then his parched face broke, for the first time, into the semblance of a smile.

  ‘From the remarks which I have heard I feel that I am entitled to assume that certain of you are already contemplating a journey to Africa in search of this place which is mentioned in my late client’s letter. In the circumstances, therefore, as your family solicitor, I think it is my duty to give you a very solemn warning.

  ‘The dangers and difficulties set forth in the letter are, of course, no part of my business, but there is a legal aspect to the matter, with which it is only right that I should acquaint you, before you incur any expense in regard to this undertaking. The fact that my late client discovered this exceptionally prolific diamond field gives him no legal right to dispose of it to anybody.

  ‘His action in selling or exporting these diamonds without a licence, and his failure to report his discovery to the Government, rendered him liable to prosecution and very serious penalties. In fact, I have little doubt that he would have been sentenced to a long term of imprisonment if he had been caught. Should any of you, therefore, decide to go on this expedition your first duty will be to apply, in the proper quarter, for a prospector’s licence, which I am given to understand can only be obtained in these days with considerable difficulty. Then, should your efforts to find the Valley prove successful you must report the matter immediately to the South African authorities, and under no circumstances should you remove any stones from it other than those necessary to prove your discovery.’

  ‘Oh, come on now,’ complained Ernest. ‘Finding’s keeping’s—I always do say,’ but Sandy shook his head.

  ‘No, Mr. Bullett is perfectly right. I know enough about South African law to assure you of that.’

  ‘Well, but what happens then?’ inquired George. ‘Surely the Government doesn’t pinch the lot off us if we go to all the expense of finding the place.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Bullett replied gravely. ‘From mines working in Cape Province they take forty per cent of the profits and from those on the Transvaal sixty per cent, but of course you would not be allowed to mine the entire Valley.’

  ‘Why?’ shot out Henry Long gruffly.

  ‘Because the Law is, that when a new diamond field is discovered public notices of it must be given and a date fixed, some time in advance, for its official opening. Diggers from all parts of the country flock into the district, and on the day arranged each man lines up at a spot about a mile away with a peg in his hand. At a given signal the whole crowd, sometimes numbering several thousand people, moves off at a run, and races for the new ground; each one pegging his claim as near the place of the original discovery as possible.’

  ‘That’s right, and the big diamond interests hire all the crack runners in the Union to enter the race for them—so they get all the best claims,’ Sandy added.

  ‘Well, what happens to Poor Phil Garlic, I’d like to know?’ inquired Ernest with a crestfallen look.

  ‘I take it that you refer to the original discoverer?’ the lawyer replied dryly. ‘He does not go entirely unrewarded, for he is allowed a certain number of claims and those become his legal property.’

  ‘Then we might not do so badly after all if the ground is thick with the stuff, like the letter says,’ observed George.

  ‘That is so if you can persuade the Government to declare the district open as a diamond field, but there you come up against the almost insurmountable difficulty which makes me stress this warning to you. Even if you can get your prospector’s licence; even if, by patient investigation, you can find the persons to whom these strange clues, left by my late client, will have a meaning; even if you survive the journey through the wilderness and return with actual proof of your discovery, it is beyond the bounds of all reasonable probability that the South African Government will grant you a digger’s licence and allow you to mine the place at all.’

  ‘Why?’ exclaimed Michael.

  ‘Because the diamond industry in South Africa is very heavily protected. The price of diamonds has fallen in an alarming manner these last few years, and since the Government derive a considerable portion of their revenue from them, it is to their interest that prices should be maintained. I am quite certain that at the present time, and possibly for some years to come, they would not countenance the opening up of a new source which might cause the flooding of the diamond market.’

  George mopped his semi-bald perspiring scalp. ‘This doesn’t seem too good to me,’ he said ruefully to Ernest. ‘It looks as though I’ll be helping the passengers to have a jolly time on that cruise after all.’

  But Michael grinned broadly. ‘What’s to stop us really following in Uncle John’s footsteps?’ he asked. ‘Why shouldn’t we find this place, fill our pockets with as much stuff as we can carry and chance getting out of the country just as he did?’

  ‘Young man,’ Bullett held up his shrivelled hand quickly, ‘I must beg you not to make any such suggestions in this office. Moreover, I sincerely trust that you will put any such thought out of your mind. The difficulties of even locating this place on such slender evidence are apparent. The dangers and hardships of reaching it are fully set forth in your late uncle’s letter. To add to these the risk of almost certain arrest and a long sentence of imprisonment would make the project absolute madness.’

  ‘To Hell with that!’ said Michael, standing up, ‘I’m going to chance it.’

  4

  Certain Inquiries and an Unpleasant Surprise

  ‘Michael!’ Gertrude placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘You will do no such thing!’

  ‘But why, Mother? If we can only find this place there’s a fortune for us. It’s the chance of a lifetime.’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten that my brother’s malicious humour caused him to leave us practically no evidence on which to find it,’ cut in his uncle acidly, ‘and after what Bullett has told us about the South African laws you’d be very stupid to waste your mother’s money going out there on such a wild goose chase.’

  Patricia’s face dropped woefully at her father’s words. ‘Do you mean that you’re not going out after all?’ she murmured.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Henry Long’s voice was decisive. ‘Bullet is right. In the present state of the diamond market the Government would never allow us to open up a new mine and I have no intention of being sent to prison for I.D.B.’

  ‘It would be Diamond Smuggling, not I.D.B.,’ remarked Sandy quietly, ‘but the penalties of both are much the same, and the South African police are hot as mustard, so it’s a pretty nasty risk.’

  Mr. Bullet coughed again. ‘Really,’ he protested, ‘I must ask you to refrain from discussing the pros and cons of what amounts to a very serious breach of the law, in my office.’ ‘Fair’s fair, I always do say,’ agreed Ernest, ‘and we ought not to wag our chins about it here. Can’t we make a move to some place where we can “have one”—and talk it out?’

  ‘Too late, old boy,’ remarked George, after a quick look at a heavy gold wa
tch, ‘but why shouldn’t we all meet tonight for a bite together somewhere? By then we’ll have had time to think the whole thing over.’

  ‘Fine,’ cried Michael enthusiastically, while Sandy agreed with a casual nod.

  ‘What about you, Henry?’ The elder Bennett looked doubtfully at his uncle. ‘Dinner’s on me if you and your girl care to join us.’

  The older man shook his head. ‘Thank you—no. As we are not joining you on this wild goose chase, we should only interrupt your deliberations.’

  George Bennett turned to the others: ‘Let’s make it Simpson’s in the Strand, seven-thirty sharp, downstairs, eh?’ There was a murmur of agreement and, collecting their hats and mackintoshes, they all took leave of the lawyer, with the exception of Henry Long and his daughter.

  ‘I shall want a copy of that Will, Bullett,’ said Henry directly the door had closed upon the others.

  ‘Certainly,’ the lawyer nodded. ‘Where is it, now? Young McDiamid had it in his hands only a moment ago. Ah! Here it is. Shall I post the copy on to you to-morrow?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d like to have the names and addresses of the beneficiaries right away—their latest addresses of course, for I don’t doubt most of them have moved since John last heard of them.’

  ‘True, a number of them have, but I fear professional etiquette forbids my disclosing their present addresses. However, I should be happy to forward any letters from you, addressed to them care of myself at this office.’

  ‘I see.’ Henry did not seek to disguise his disappointment. ‘Then let me have the old addresses to go on with.’

  ‘Certainly. I will get my clerk to type them out for you.’

  Ten minutes later Henry and his daughter had also taken leave of the lawyer and were hurrying out through the rain to his five-year-old Buick.

  Unnoticed by them, Sandy McDiamid stood in the shadow of a nearby archway. Immediately he had watched them drive off, he ran swiftly back though the downpour, and up the stairs to the offices of Bullett, Bullett, Leggett and Bullett again.

  Mr. Bullett’s smile deepened a little as he listened to Sandy’s request, which was precisely similar to that which had just been made by Henry Long. He refused in the same terms and added dryly: ‘I assume that you will not require the addresses given in the Will, since I fancy I saw you making some notes from it when the others were here.’

  Sandy grinned. ‘That’s right, so if you can’t give me any further information I won’t trouble you any more for the moment.’

  He had already studied his pencilled list and decided that Lucy Benton, of 72 Mearton Mansions, Handel Street, Bloomsbury, being the nearest, should be his first call. Hailing a passing taxi when he reached the entrance to Gray’s Inn, he drove there at once.

  A girl in a Japanese silk kimono received him in the narrow hallway of her flat. The colour of her corn-ripe curls obviously owed more to the efforts of her hairdresser than to nature.

  ‘My!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who is this Lucy Benton, anyway? I’ve never heard of ’er.’

  Sandy realised at once that the girl was one of those fleeting occupants common to small flats in certain quarters of London. The place had probably sheltered a hundred such, since the tenancy of Lucy Benton ‘last heard of by Uncle John in 1920’.

  ‘You poor dear! You are wet!’ exclaimed the golden-headed lady with arch sympathy. ‘Won’t you come in for a moment and I’ll get the maid to make you a nice cup o’ tea.’

  As she spoke she allowed the kimono to slip open, revealing a well-rounded length of silk-stockinged leg with a few inches of pink-fleshed thigh above it.

  Sandy thanked her politely and declined the offer, but begged the use of her telephone. In a few moments he was through to Messrs. Burgoyne, the biggest importers of South African wines in London with whom, as a vineyard proprietor, he sometimes had dealings. They promptly supplied him with the address of Rithen, Ruthern and Co.

  The tenant of 72 Mearton Mansions accepted his renewed thanks and watched him go with regret, leaning from her doorway to call after him cheerfully: ‘If you’re ever lonely—come up an’ see me some time,’ as he ran down the narrow stone stairway of the block.

  ‘320a Oxford Street,’ Sandy called to the driver, as he jumped back into his waiting taxi. While it swished through the muddy London streets, grey with damp mist on this January afternoon, he heartily wished that he was back in his own Sunny South Africa where summer would be turning to autumn and the flowers a glory in the garden of his home.

  On his way to Rithen, Rutherm’s he considered his list again, as he thought it most important to learn all he could of Uncle John’s past through the various beneficiaries in the Will. Such data might aid him considerably as to the right quarter in which to produce the knobkerrie. Sandy had already made up his mind to chance the danger of the journey into the Kalahari and if necessary arrest as well, in the hope of getting away with a fortune on his return to South Africa.

  The taxi set him down at the Wine Merchants in Oxford Street, and the manager informed him at once that the fortunate Roger Philbeach had left their employment only a week before on receipt of an advance out of his legacy.

  Sandy’s face fell when he learned that the man lived out at Wembley, but apparently Philbeach had left a special request that if any South Africans or members of the Long family inquired for him, his firm should get in touch with him at once.

  The manager obligingly put through a telephone call. Philbeach was in, and agreed to come up to his old firm’s office in order to meet Sandy there at a little before six.

  Out in the street once more, Sandy crossed the road to the Tube Station and procured a ticket for Whitechapel; the only other beneficiary who had a London address being Israel Rubenstein.

  Arrived in the East End, he had some difficulty in finding 299 Old Montague Street. No taxis were available, the rain descended in a steady downpour and here, in the East End, London seemed greyer and gloomier than ever with the early darkness of the winter night close at hand.

  At last he found the number and discovered it to be a small pawnbroker’s shop. To his joy he noted that the name of Rubenstein was still prominently displayed below three large golden balls smeared with dirt and grime.

  Inside, a young Jew with eyes like a gazelle, set in a face pitted with smallpox, peered at him from a trap-hatch set in a high corner.

  Sandy duly made his inquiry and the young man smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. ‘Yes, yes,’ he nodded, ‘it is my uncle that you want. Come in, please sir, come in,’ and he swung open a door in the counter which led to a back office.

  An elderly, bespectacled Jew rose from a desk as Sandy entered and drew forward a chair. ‘Be seated, please. Vot can I do for you?’

  ‘You have recently received a legacy, I believe, from my uncle, John Thomas Long,’ Sandy opened frankly; ‘five thousand pounds, I think, and I’ve called to ask you if you will be good enough to tell me what you can of your acquaintance with him.’

  The Jew pursed his thick lips for a moment, then nodded solemnly. ‘Your uncle vos a very unusual man. Vot can I tell you about him—I do not know. Only that like many others, in the ordinary course of my pusiness many years before the new laws came in, he came to me for a little accommodation. It vos for to make his furs’ journey to South Africa, I think. I obliged him on not very good security, and later he repay me all that he owe me. Years pass; I see him again after the Var. Again he vants a little accommodation to go to South Africa. Vunce more I oblige him, and again in time I see my money back. He passes from my mind, for I have much pusiness which is always difficult. Then I hear quite suddenly from a lawyer that he has left me five thousand pound. Never before have I been so fortunate when I have made a little accommodation to a client. May his heirs do honour to him, and may his soul rest in the bosom of Abraham.’

  Sandy nodded silently as the old Jew ceased on a note of deep religious feeling. Then he held out the knobkerrie which he had been carrying under his arm.
‘You’ve never seen this thing before, I suppose?’

  Mr. Rubenstein slowly shook his head.

  There was obviously no information of importance to be gathered here. Uncle John’s whimsical humour had led him, in the plenitude of his wealth, to remember the man who had financed him on dubious security for his journey to the country where he had eventually made his fortune.

  Having thanked Mr. Israel Rubenstein for his courtesy, Sandy left the shop, and as it was now a quarter past five, he hurried through the dark and dreary streets back to the Underground station, a little nervous that he might be too late to catch Mr. Roger Philbeach, sometime lieutenant of the 46 1st Brigade, R.F.A., before Rithen, Ruthern’s shut at six.

  He was fortunate, however, and found Philbeach there when he arrived. He proved to be a big, hearty, red-faced fellow, getting on for fifty years of age. His expanse of face was so large that his little black eyes were almost buried in rolls of fat. Sandy stated his business and the wine merchant’s traveller gave a sudden roar of laughter.

  ‘Well, well, so you’re old John’s nephew, are you? I’m delighted to meet you, delighted! He was a great scout, was old John, and fancy his leaving me five thousand, too! The sportsman! I never knew anyone before to have such luck as that.’

  ‘You knew him in the War, I suppose?’ Sandy hazarded.

  ‘Rather,’ the other boomed. ‘We shared a hut, we shared a dug-out, and we shared every bottle we could lay our hands on, too. But let’s get out of this. Come along to some place where we can talk quietly and have a drink. Look here! you doing anything to-night? If not, come and dine with me. I’ll give you the finest dinner we can buy in London and delighted to do it. We’ll kill a magnum apiece to the memory of old John Thomas Long.’

  ‘I’d love to any other evening but I’m afraid I’m fixed for to-night,’ Sandy told him.

  ‘Never mind.’ With a cheerful ‘good night’ to his manager, Philbeach led the way out of the shop and haile taxi.

  ‘How are you off for time?’ he asked as the cab drew up.