son.' on his way through the gates of the hostel big king stopped to chat with the guards. these men had the right to search over any person entering or leaving the hostel.
particularly they were concerned with preventing either women disguised as men or bottles of spirits entering the premises both of which' tended to have a disruptive effect on the communities and as an afterthought they were also instructed to look out for stolen property entering or leaving. big king had to ensure that none of them would ever, under any circumstances, take it into his head to search big king.
while he stood at the gates, the last glow of the sunset faded and the lights began to come on across the valley.
the clusters of red aerial warning lights atop the head gears the massed yellow squares of the hotels, the strings of street lamps and the isolated pinpricks of the residential areas up on the ridge.
when it was truly dark, big king left the guards and sauntered down the main road, until a bend in the road took him out of their sight. then big king left the road and started up the slope. he moved like a night animal, swiftly and with certainty of the path he followed.
he passed the ranch-type split-levels of the line management officials with their wide lawns and swimming-pools, pausing only once when a dog yapped nearby, then moving on again until he was into the broken rock and rank grass of the upper ridge; he crossed the skyline and started down the far side until he made out the grass-covered mound of rubble in the moonlight. he slowed and moved cautiously forward until he found the rusty barbed wire fence that guarded the entrance. he vaulted it easily and went on into the black mouth of the tunnel.
fifty years before, a long-defunct mining company had suspected the existence of a gold reef in this area and had driven prospecting adits into the side of the ridge, exhausting its funds in the process, and finally abandoning the network of tunnels in despair.
big king paused long enough to draw an electric torch from his pocket before going on into the tunnel, flashing the beam ahead of him.
soon the air stank of bats and their wings swished about his head.
unperturbed, big king went on deeper and deeper into the side of the hill, taking a turning and fork in the tunnel without hesitation. at last there was a faint glow of yellow light ahead and big king switched off his torch.
'crooked leg!' he called, his voice bounced and boomed along the tunnel. there was no reply.
'it is i, big king!' he shouted again, and immediately a shadow detached itself from the side-wall and limped towards him, sheathing a wicked-looking knife as it came.
'all is ready.' the little cripple came to greet him.
'come, i have it here.' crooked leg had earned his limp and his nickname in a rockfall a dozen years ago. now he owned and operated the concession photographic studio on the mine property, a flourishing enterprise, for dearly the bantu love their own image on film. not, however, as profitable as his nocturnal activities in the abandoned workings beyond the ridge.
he led big king into a small rock chamber lit by a suspended hurricane lantern. mingled with the bat stench was the acrid reek of sulphuric acid in high concentration.
on a wooden trestle table that occupied most of the chamber were earthenware jars, heavy glass bowls, polythene bags, and a variety of shoddy and very obviously second-hand laboratory equipment. in a clear space amongst all this clutter stood a large screw-topped bottle.
the bottle was filled with a dirty yellow powder.
'ha!' big king exclaimed his pleasure. 'plenty!'
'yes. it has been a good week,' crooked leg agreed.
big king picked up the bottle, marvelling once again at the unbelievable weight of it. this was not pure gold, for crooked leg's acid reduction methods were crude, but it was at least sixteen carats fine.
the bottle represented the week's collection of fines and concentrates by men like joseph m'kati from a dozen vulnerable points along the line of production; in some cases carried out from the company reduction works itself under the noses of the heavily armed guards.
all the men involved in this surreptitious milking off of the company's gold were shangaans. there was only one man in whom was vested sufficient authority and prestige to prevent the greed and hostility which gold breeds from destroying the whole operation. that was the shangaan induna. there was only one man with the physical presence and necessary command of the portuguese language to negotiate the disposal of the gold. that was big king.
big king placed the bottle in his pocket. the weight pulled his clothing out of shape.
'run like a gazelle, crooked leg.' he turned back in to the dark tunnel.
'hunt like a leopard, king nkulu,' chuckled the little cripple, as he disappeared into the moving shadows.
packet of boxer tobacco,' said big king. the eyes of jose almeida, the portuguese owner of the mine concession store and the local roadhouse, narrowed slightly. he took down the yellow four-ounce packet from the shelves and handed it across the counter, accepted big king's payment and counted the change into his palm.
he watched as the giant bantu wandered down between the loaded shelves and racks of merchandise to disappear through the front door of the store into the night.
'take charge,' he muttered in portuguese to his plump little wife with her silky dark mustache, and she nodded in understanding, moving into jose's place in front of the cash register. joss went through into his storerooms and living quarters behind the store.
big king was waiting in the shadows. when the back door opened he slipped through and joss closed the door behind him. jose led him through into a cubicle of an office, and from a cupboard he took down a jeweller's balance. under big king's watchful eye he began to weigh the gold.
jose almeida purchased the gold from the unofficial outlet of each of the five major mines on the kitchenerville field, paying five rands an ounce and selling again for sixteen. he justified the large profit margin he allowed himself by the fact that mere possession of unregistered gold was a criminal offence in south africa, punishable by up to five years' imprisonment.
almeida was a man in his middle thirties with lank black hair that he continually pushed back from his forehead, bright brown inquisitive eyes and dirty fingernails.
despite his grubby and well-worn clothing and unkempt hairstyle, he was a man of substance.
he had been able to pay in cash the 40,000 rand demanded by the company for the monopoly concession to trade on the mine property. he had, therefore, an exclusive clientele of 12,000 well-paid bantu, and had recovered his 40,000 during his first year of trading. he did not really need to run the risk of illicit gold buying, but gold is strange material. it infects most men who touch it with a reckless greed.
'two hundred and sixteen ounces,' said jose. his scale was set to record a twenty percent error in jose's favour.
'one thousand and eighty rand,' agreed big king in portuguese, and jose went to the big green safe in the corner.
terry steyner entered the
'grape and gable' bar of the president hotel at 1.14 p.m. precisely, and as hurry hirsclifeld stood to greet her he reflected that fourteen minutes was hardly late at all for a beautiful woman. terry's grandmother would have considered herself to be early if she was only that late.
'you're late,' growled hurry. no sense in letting her get away with it unscathed.
'and you are a big, cuddly, growly, lovable old bear, said terry and kissed him on the tip of his nose before he could duck. hurry sat down quickly scowling thunderously with pleasure. he decided he didn't give a good damn if marais and hardy, who further down the bar were listening and trying to cover their grins, repeated the incident to the entire membership of the rand club.
'good day, mrs. steyner.' the scarlet-jacketed barman smiled his greeting. 'can i mix you a manhattan?'
'don't tempt me, thomas. i'm on a diet. i'll just have a glass of soda water.'
'diet,' snorted hurry. 'you're skinny enough as it is.
give her a manhattan, thomas, and put a cherry in it.
never was a hirschfeld woman that looked like a boy, and you'll not be the first of them.' as an afterthought, he added: 'i've ordered your lunch also, you'll not starve yourself in my company.' 'you are a shocker, pops,' said terry fondly.
'now, young lady, let's hear what you've been up to since i last saw you.' they talked together as friends, very dear and trusted friends.
the affection they felt for each other went beyond the natural duty of their blood tie. there was a kinship of the spirit as well as the flesh. they sat close, heads together, watching each other's face as they talked, completely lost in the pleasure of each other's company, the murmur of their voices interrupted by a tinkling burst of laughter or a deep chuckle.
they were so absorbed that peter, the headwaiter, came through from the transvaal room to find them.
'mr. hirschfeld, the chef is in tears.'
'good lord.' hurry looked at the antique clock above the bar. 'it's almost two o'clock. why didn't someone tell me?' the oysters had been flown up from mossel bay that morning, and
