Dicky's heart was struck by black frost again. Don't worry, General, I fired him myself, Dicky blurted out. But I tore a terrible strip off him first. You can be sure of that. He saw the General's dark beetling brows come together and the forehead crease like an eroded desert landscape, and Dicky nearly panicked. He won't get another job in this town, count on it, General. I have put the word out, the black mark, He's properly queered around here, he is. What on earth are you talking about, man? the General rumbled, like an uneasy volcano. One word from you, sir, was enough. Dicky found that the palms of his hands were cold and slippery with sweat. From me? The rumble rose to a roar and Dicky felt like a peasant, looking fearfully up the slopes of Vesuvius.
What did I have to do with it? Your daughter, choked Dicky, after what he did to your daughter. My daughter? The huge voice subsided to something that was close to a whisper, but was too cold and intense.
It was a fiercer sound than the roar that preceded it. He molested my daughter? Oh God no, General, Dicky moaned weakly. No employee of ours would raise a finger to Miss Storm. What happened? Tell me exactly. He was insolent to your daughter, I thought you knew? Insolent? What did he say? He told her she did not conduct herself like a lady. She must have told you? Dicky gulped, and the General's fearsome expression melted. He looked stunned and bemused. Good God. He said that to Storm? What else? He told her to use the word 'please' when giving orders. Dicky couldn't meet the man's eyes and he lowered his head. I'm sorry, sir. There was a strangled growling sound from the General, and Dicky stepped back quickly, ready to defend himself.
It took him seconds to realize that the General was struggling with his mirth, gales of laughter that shook his chest and when at last he let it corner he threw back his head and opened his mouth wide.
Weak with relief, Dicky essayed a restrained and cautious chuckle, in sympathy with the General. It's not funny, man, roared Sean Courtney, and instantly Dicky scowled. You are much to blame, how can you condemn a man on the whim of a child? It took Dicky a moment to realize that the child in question was the gorgeous, head-strong, darling of Natal society. I understood that the order came from you, I stammered Dicky. From me! The laughter stopped abruptly, and the General mopped at his eyes. You thought I would smash a man because he was man enough to stand up to my daughter's tantrums? You thought that of me? Yes, said Dicky miserably, and then quickly, No, and then hopelessly, I didn't know, sir. Sean Courtney took an envelope from his inside pocket, and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. Anders believed, as you did, that I was responsible for his dismissal? he asked soberly now. Yes, sir. He did. Can you contact him? Will you see him again? Dicky hesitated, and then steeled himself and took a breath. I promised him his job back at the end of the month, after we had gone through the motions of dismissal, General.
Like you, I didn't think the crime deserved the punishment. And Sean Courtney looked at him with a new light in his eye, and a grin lifting the corner of his mouth and one
eyebrow. When you see Mark Anders again, tell him of our conversation, and give him this envelope. Dicky took the envelope, and as the General turned away, he heard him mutter darkly, And now for Mademoiselle Storm. Dicky Lancome felt a comradely pang of sympathy for that young lady.
It was almost noon on a Saturday morning and Ronald Pye sat in the back seat of the limousine, stiffly as an undertaker in his hearse, and his expression was as lugubrious. He wore a three-piece suit of dark grey cloth and a high starched collar with stiff wings; gold-rimmed spectacles glittered on his thin beaky nose.
The chauffeur swung off the main Ladyburg road into the long straight avenue that led up to the glistening white buildings of Great Longwood on the lower slopes of the escarpment. The avenue was lined with Cycads that were at least two hundred years old, thick-stemmed palm-like plants each with a golden fruit the size of hogshead, like a monstrous pine cone, nestled in the centre of the graceful fronds. Dirk Courtney's gardeners had scoured the countryside for a hundred miles in each direction to find them, and had lifted them, matched them for size and replanted them here.
The driveway had been smoothed and watered to keep down the dust, and parked in front of the house were twenty or thirty expensive motor cars. Wait for me, said Ronald Pye. I won't be long, and as he alighted, he glanced up at the elegant facade. It was an exact copy of the historic home of Simon van der Stel, the first Governor of the Cape of Good Hope, which still stood at Constantia. Dir Courtney had his architects measure and copy faithfully every room, every arch and gable. The cost must have been forbidding.
In the hall, Ronny Pye paused and looked about him impatiently, for there was nobody to welcome him, although he had been specifically invited, perhaps summoned was a better word, for noon.
The house was alive; there were women's voices and the tinkling bells of their laughter from deep in the interior, while closer at hand the deeper growl of men punctuated by bursts of harsh laughter and voices raised to that reckless, raucous pitch induced by heavy drinking.
The house smelled of perfume and cigar smoke and stale alcohol, and Ronny Pye saw empty crystal glasses standing carelessly on the priceless rosewood hall table, leaving rings of damp on the polished surface, and an abandoned pair of pearly rose women's silk carni-knickers were draped suggestively over the door handle that led to the drawingroom.
While he still hesitated, the door across the hall opened and a young woman entered. She had the dazed, detached air of a sleep-walker, gliding silently into the room on neatly slippered feet. Ronny Pye saw that she was a young girl, not much more than a child, although her cosmetics had run and smeared. Dark rings of mascara gave her a haunted consumptive look, and her lipstick was spread so that her mouth looked like a bruised and overblown rose.
Except for the slippers on her small feet, she was stark naked and her breasts were immature and tender, with pale unformed nipples, and snarled dishevelled tresses of pale blonde hair hung on to her shoulders.
Still with slow, drugged movements, she took the knickers from the door handle, and stepped into them. As she pulled them to her waist she saw Ronny Pye standing by the main door, and she grinned at him, a lo sided depraved whore's smile on the smeared and inflamed lips. Another one? All right, come along then, love. She took a step in his direction, tottered suddenly and turned away to grab at the table for support, the painted doll's face suddenly white and translucent as alabaster, then slowly she doubled over and vomited on the thick silken expanse of woven Quin carpet.
With an exclamation of disgust, Ronny Pye turned away, and crossed to the doors that led into the drawing- room.
Nobody looked up as he entered, although there were twenty people or more in the room. They were gathered intently about a solid round gaming-table of ebony with ivory and mosaic inlay. The tabletop was scattered with poker chips, brightly coloured ivory counters, and four men sat at the table, each holding a fan of cards to his chest, watching the figure at the head of the table. The tension crackled in the room like static electricity.
He was not surprised to see that one of the men at the table was his brother-in-law. He knew that Dennis Petersen regularly attended the soirees at Great Longwood, and he thought briefly of his pliant dutiful sister and wondered if she knew. The man has drawn us all in, Ronny thought bitterly, glancing at Dennis and noticing his bleary, inflamed eyes, the nervous drawn white face. At least I have withstood this, this final filthy degradation. Whatever other evils he has led me into, I have kept this little shred of my self respect. Well, gentlemen, I have bad
