Diamond Hunters Part 17

" - There is one diamond amongst them. He called it "The Big Blue". Benedict says it's worth a million,-" Tracey was not sure she believed it. It was the enormity of the treachery and deceit that she could not accept.

"- The Italian, the Captain, be careful of him. He works for Benedict. The other one also - Hugo - they are all in it.

Warn Johnny." Benedict! Weak, spoiled Benedict, the playboy, the spendthrift. Could he have planned and carried this through?

A gust of wind hit the car from the side, taking her unawares, pushing the Mercedes off the tar on to the gravel.

Tracey fought to hold the skid. Dust and gravel roared out in a cloud from under the wheels. Then she was back on the road, hurtling northwards.

"Warn Johnny! Warn Johnny!" Benedict van der Byl sat in his father's chair, in his father's house, and he was alone. His loneliness ate deep into the fibres of his whole being. Before him on the stinkwood desk stood a crystal gla.s.s and a decanter.

The brandy was no comfort, its warmth in his throat and belly seemed only to accentuate the icy cold of his loneliness. His fantasy showed him as a hollow man. He thought of himself as a husk, filled only with the cold of melancholia.

He looked about the room with its dark panelled woodwork and he smelled the musty dead smell. He wondered how many times his father had sat in this chair alone and lonely. Lonely and afraid as the cancer ate him alive.

He stood up and moved listlessly about the room, touching the furniture as if he were trying to communicate with the man who had lived and died here. He moved across and stood in front of the curtained windows. The rug was new. It replaced the other that they had been unable to clean.

"The Old Man had the right idea." He spoke aloud, his voice sounding strange in his own ears.

Then on an impulse he crossed quickly to the cupboard that flanked the ma.s.sive stone fireplace, and tried the door.

It was locked.

Without pa.s.sion he stood back and kicked in the panel.

The wood splintered and he kicked again, smashing the door from its hinges.

The oblong leather case was on the top shelf, and he took it down and carried it to the desk. He sprang the catches and laid back the lid.

He lifted out the blue metalled double barrels of the Purdy Royal, and the gun oil was greasy on his hands.

"Jacobus Isaac van der Byu He read aloud the name in gold inlay set into the steel among the engraved pheasants and gundogs.

He smiled then.

"The old devil." He shook his head smiling as though at some private joke, and began slowly to a.s.semble the shotgun. He weighed it in his hands, feeling the sweet pure balance of the weapon.

"The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d made his own decisions." And still smiling he carried the gun across to the new carpet. He placed it b.u.t.t down between his feet with the barrels pointed at the ceiling and leaning slowly forward he opened his mouth and placed the muzzles between his lips, then reaching farther down he placed a thumb on each trigger and pushed them simultaneously.

Click! Click!

The firing pins fell on the empty chambers, and Benedict straightened up and wiped the taste of gun oil from his lips.

He grinned again.

"That's the way he did it. Both barrels in the back of the throat. What a cure for tonsilitis!" he chuckled, and glanced across at the shattered cupboard door. The square packets of cartridges were on the second shelf.

He tucked the gun under his arm and went to the cupboard again, moving more purposefully now. He s.n.a.t.c.hed down a packet of SSG and broke it open. Suddenly his hands were shaking and the fat red cartridges spilled on to the floor. He stooped and picked up two of them.

With mounting excitement and dread he broke open the shotgun and slipped the cartridges into the blank eyes of the breeches. They slid home against the seating with a solid double thunk, and he hurried back to the spot in front of the window.

His eyes were bright and his breathing quick as he pushed the safety catch on to "Fire" and placed the b.u.t.t between his feet once more.

He took the muzzles in his mouth again, in an obscene Soul kiss and reached down for the triggers. They were cold and oily. He caressed them lightly, feeling the fine grooving in the curves Of metal, thrilling to the touch and feel of them as he had never thrilled to the feel of a woman's body.

Then abruptly he stood up again. He was gasping for breath.

Unsteadily he carried the weapon back to the desk and laid it on the dark polished wood.

As he poured brandy into the crystal gla.s.s his eyes were fastened with perverse fascination on the beautiful glistening weapon.

The steam had fogged the mirrored walls of the bathroom, so her image was dewed and misty. Ruby Lance dried herself slowly with one of the thick fluffy towels. She was in no hurry; she wanted Tracey to have a start of at least four hours on her journey to Cartridge Bay.

With a deep narcissistic pleasure she noticed in the mirrors how her whole body glowed with soft pink highlights from the hot waters of the bath.

Wrapping herself in the towel she went through into the dressing-room and picking up one of the silver-backed brushes began stroking it through her hair, moving across to the open wardrobe to select a dress for the occasion. It must be something special, perhaps the unworn full-length Louis Feraud of daffodil satin.

Still undecided she went back to seat herself at the dressing-table and began the complicated ritual of applying her make-up. She worked with meticulous care until at last she smiled at her reflection with satisfaction.

She dropped the towel, went back to the wardrobe, and stood slim and naked before it. Pouting slightly with concentration she decided against the Feraud. Then suddenly she smiled, and reached for Benedict's mink.

She wrapped herself in the pale cloud of fur, fluffing up the collar to frame her face. It was perfect. just the fur and a pair of golden slippers, pale gold, a perfect match for her hair.

Now suddenly she was eager to go. She ran from the house to where her car was parked in the driveway.

She switched off the headlights as she turned into the driveway that curved up to where the old house crouched on the top of Wynberg Hill. The whisper of the engine was un.o.btrusive and blended with the whimper of the night breeze in the chestnut trees that flanked the driveway.

She parked in the courtyard, and saw that Benedict's Rolls was still in the garage and a light burned in the window of the study, a yellow oblong behind the curtains.

The front door was open. Her skippered feet made no sound along the gloomy pa.s.sages, and when she tried the door to the study it swung open readily. She stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. She stood with her back to the dark panelled wood. A single shaded lamp lit the room dimly.

Benedict sat behind the desk. The room was heavy with the smell of cigar smoke and brandy fumes. He had been drinking. His face was flushed, and the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt was undone. On the desk in front of him lay a shotgun.

Ruby was surprised at the presence of the weapon, it disconcerted her and the words she had prepared were forgotten.

Benedict looked up at her. His eyes were slightly unfocused and he blinked slowly. Then he grinned; it twisted his mouth and his voice when he spoke was slurred.

"So you've come back." Instantly her hatred returned in full flood. But she kept her face impa.s.sive. "Yes," she agreed. "I've come back."

"Come here." He swivelled his chair to the side of the desk. Ruby did not move, she leaned back against the door.

"Come here." Benedict's voice was stronger now, and suddenly Ruby smiled and obeyed.

She stood in front of him, huddled in the fur.

"Kneel down," commanded Benedict, and she hesitated.

"Down!" his voice crackled. "Down, d.a.m.n you!" Ruby sank to her knees in front of him, and he straightened up in the chair. She knelt in front of him in the att.i.tude of submission, with her head forward so the golden hair hung like a curtain over her face.

"Say it," he gloated. "Ask me to forgive you." Slowly she lifted her face and looked up at him. She spoke softly.

"Tracey left for Cartridge Bay at five-thirty this evening, Benedict's expression changed.

"She has a start of four hours - she is half-way there already."

He stared at her with his lips parting, soft and red and slack.

"She is going to Johnny," Ruby went on. "She knows about the thing in Kingfisher. She knows about the big blue diamond." He began to shake his head in disbelief.

"By dawn tomorrow Johnny will know also. So you see, my darling, you have lost again - haven't you? You can never beat him, can you, Benedict? Can you, my darling?" Her voice was rising, ringing with triumph.

"You?"he croaked. "You?" And she laughed, nodding her head in agreement, unable to speak through her laughter.

Benedict lunged clumsily out of the chair, his hands going for her throat. She went over backwards with him on top of her. Her laughter died gurgling in her throat.

They rolled together on the floor. Benedict's hands locked on her neck, his voice rising in a scream of fury and despair. Her long legs kicking and thrashing, clawing at his face and hands, she fought him with the strength of a cornered animal.

They rolled back suddenly and Benedict's head struck the solid leg of the desk with a crack that jarred his whole body. His grip on her throat loosened and she tore herself free with fresh breath hissing into her open mouth. She rolled away from him and in one fluid movement gained her feet, reeling back from him with the front of the mink torn open and her hair tangled across her face.

Benedict dragged himself up the desk on to his knees.

He was still screaming, a high keening note without form or coherence, as Ruby spun away from him and stumbled to the door.

Blinded by her own hair, fighting for strangled breath, she fumbled for the door handle with her back turned to him.

Benedict reached up and lifted the shotgun off the desk.

Still kneeling beside the desk he held the weapon across his hip.

The recoil was a liquid pulsing jolt in his hands and the muzzle blast was thunderous in the confines of the room. the long yellow flame lighting the scene like a photographer's flash-bulb.

The heavy charge caught Ruby in the small of her back.

At that range there was- no spread of shot and it went through spine and pelvis in a solid shattering ball. It tore out through the front of her belly, spinning her sideways along the wall. She slid down into a sitting position, facing him with the mink flared open about her.

On his knees Benedict swung the gun to follow her fall and he fired the second barrel; again the brief thunder and flame of the muzzle blast flashed across the room.

At even closer range than the first charge it struck her full in her beautiful golden face.

Benedict stood in the garage with his forehead pressed against the cold metal of the Rolls-Royce. The shotgun was still in his hands, and his pockets were full with cartridges that he had picked up from the floor before leaving the study.

He was shivering violently, like a man in high fever.

"No!" he moaned to himself, repeating the single negative over an dover again, leaning against the big car.

Abruptly he gagged, remembering the carnage he had created. Then he retched, still leaning against the Rolls, bringing up the brandy mingled with his horror.

It left him pale and weak, but steadier. Through the open window he threw the gun on to the back seat of the Rolls, and climbed shakily into the driver's seat.

He sat there bowed over the steering wheel, and now his instinct of self-preservation took hold of him.

It seemed to him there was but one avenue of escape still open to him. Wild Goose had the range to take him across an ocean - South America perhaps, and there was money in Switzerland.

He started the Rolls and reversed out of the garage, the spin of tyres against concrete burning blue smoke into the beams of the headlights.

The Mercedes crawled through the thick sand, the headlights probing ineffectually into the bright orange fog of dust that whipped endlessly over the track ahead. The hot gritty wind buffeted the car, rocking it on its suspension.

Tracey sat forward in the driver's seat peering ahead through eyes that felt raw and swollen with fatigue and mica dust.

From the main road to the coast this jeep track was the only land access to Cartridge Bay. It was a hundred miles of tortuous trail, made up of deep sandy ruts and broken stone where it crossed one of the many rocky ridges.

The radiator of the Mercedes was boiling furiously, overheating in the searing wind and the slogging low-gear grind through thick sand.

In places Tracey followed the track only by driving through gaps in the stunted knee-high growth of desert bush. Every few minutes a tumbleweed, driven by the wind, would bowl across the track like a frightened furry animal.

At times she was sure she had missed a turning and was now grinding aimlessly out into the desert, then rea.s.suringly the twin ruts would show up in the lights ahead of her.

Once she did drive off the road, and immediately the Mercedes came to a gentle standstill with its rear wheels spinning helplessly in the soft sand. She had to climb out of the cab and, with her bare hands, scoop away the sand from behind the wheels and stuff bundles of turnbieweed into the depressions to give the wheels purchase. She almost wept with relief when the Mercedes pulled back sluggishly on to the trail again.

The slow dawn broke through the dust clouds and Tracey switched off the headlights and drove on until suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, she reached Cartridge Bay. The depot buildings loomed suddenly before her, and she left the Mercedes and ran to the living quarters. The foreman opened the door to her insistent hammering, and stared at her in astonishment before ushering her in. Tracey cut off his questions with her own.

"Where is Wild Goose?"

"She took Mr. Lance out to Kinesher, but she's back now lying at the jetty."

"Hugo Kramer - the Captain?"

"He's aboard, holed up in his cabin."

"Thanks." Tracey left him, pushed the door open against the wind and ran out into the storm.

Wild Goose lay at her moorings, secured by heavy lines to the bollards, but fidgeting and fretting at the push of the wind. There was a gangplank laid to her deck, and lights showed at her portholes. Tracey went aboard.

Hugo Kramer came to the doorway of his cabin in a suit of rumpled striped pyjamas. Tracey pushed past him.

"You took Lance out to Kingfisher?" she accused him, her voice sharp and anxious.

"Yes."

"You idiot, didn't you realize there was something up?

Good G.o.d, why otherwise would he fly in through this weather?"

Hugo stared at her, and instinctively she knew that what Ruby had told her was true.

"I don't know what you're talking about,"he blurted.

"You'll know all right when we are all sitting behind bars we'll have fifteen long years to think about it. Lance has tumbled to it, you fool, I've got to stop him. Take me out to Kingfisher." He was confused - and afraid.