heartily. 'Let's get your bags in the Land Rover and go up to the house. I bet Mr. van Breda could use a drink also.' And he winked at Rod.
The lodge had thatch and rough-hewn timber roofing, stone-flagged floors covered with cured animal skins and Kelim rugs. There was a walk-in fireplace flanked by gun racks on which were displayed fifty fine examples of the gunsmith's art. The furniture was massive and masculine, leather-cushioned and low. The Spanish plaster walls were hung with trophies, horned heads and native weapons.
A vast wooden staircase led up to the bedrooms that opened off the gallery above the main room. The bedrooms were air-conditioned, and after they had got rid of Hans and his fat wife, Rod and Terry tested the bed to see if it was suitable.
An hour and a half later the bed had been judged eminently satisfactory, and as they went down to pass further judgement on the gargantuan lunch that fat Mrs. Hans had spread for them, Terry remarked, 'Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Ironsides, that there are parts of your anatomy other than your flanks which are ferrous in character?' Then she giggled and added softly, 'And thank the Lord for that. ' Lunch was an exhausting experience and Terry pointed out that there wasait'de sense in going out before four o'clock as the game would still be in thick cover avoiding the midday heat, so they went back upstairs.
After four o'clock Rod selected a.375 magnum Holland and Holland rifle from the rack, filled a cartridge belt with ammunition from one of the drawers, and they went out to the Land Rover.
'How big is this place?' Rod asked as he turned the Land Rover away from the gardens and took the track out into the virgin bush.
'You can drive for twenty miles in any direction and it's all ours.
Over there our boundary runs against the Kruger National Park,' Terry answered.
They drove along the banks of the river, skirting sandbanks on which grew fluffy-headed reeds. The water ran fast between glistening black rocks, then spread into slow lazy pools.
They saw a dozen varieties of big game, stopping every few hundred yards to watch some lovely animal.
'Pops obviously doesn't allow shooting here,' Rod remarked, as a kudu bull with long spiral horns and trumpet-shaped ears studied them with big wet eyes from a range of thirty feet. 'The game is as tame as domestic cattle.'
'Only family are allowed to shoot,' Terry agreed. 'You qualify as family, however.' Rod shook his head. 'It would be murder.' Rod indicated the kudu. 'That old fellow would eat out of your hand.'
'I'm glad you feel like that,' Terry said, and they drove on slowly.
The evening was not cool enough to warrant a log fire in the cavernous fireplace of the lodge. They lit one anyway because Rod decided it would be pleasant to sit in front of a big, leaping fire, drink whisky and hold the girl you love.
When Inspector Grobbelaar lowered his teacup, there was a white scum of cream on the tips of 'his mustache. He licked it off carefully, and looked across at Sergeant Hugo.
'Who have we got next?' he asked.
Hugo consulted his notebook.
'Philemon N'gabai.' He read out the name, and Grobbelaar sighed.
'Number forty-eight, only sixteen more.' The single smeary fingerprint on the fragment of glass from the gold container had been examined by the fingerprint department. They had provided a list of sixty-four names any one of which might be the owner of that print. Each of them had to be interrogated, it was a lengthy and so far unrewarding labour.
'What do we know about friend Philemon?' Grobbelaar asked.
'He is approximately forty years old. A Shangaan from Mozambique.
Height 5' 7,' , weight 146 lb. Crippled right leg. Two previous convictions. 1956: 60 days for bicycle theft. 1962: 90 days for stealing a camera from a parked car,' Hugo read from the file.
'At one hundred and forty-six pounds I don't see him breaking many necks. But send him in, let's talk to him,' Grobbelaar suggested and ducked his mustache in the tea cup again. Hugo nodded to the African Sergeant and he opened the door to admit Crooked Leg and his escort of an African constable.
They advanced to the desk at which the two detectives sat in their shirt sleeves. No one spoke. The two interrogators subjected him to a calculated and silent scrutiny to set him at as great a disadvantage as possible.
'Grobbelaar prided himself on being able to sniff out a guilty conscience at fifty paces, and Philemon N'gabai reeked of guilt. He could not stand still, he was sweating heavily, and his eyes darted from floor to ceiling. He was guilty as hell, but not necessarily of murder. Grobbelaar did not feel the slightest confidence as he shook his head sorrowfully and asked, 'Why did you do it, Philemon? We have found the marks of your hand on the gold bottle.' The effect on Crooked Leg was instantaneous and dramatic. His lips parted and began to tremble, saliva dripped onto his chin. His eyes for the first time fixed on Grobbelaar's face, wide and staring.
'Hello! Hello!' Grobbelaar thought, straightening in his chair, coming completely alert. He sensed Hugo's quickening interest beside him.
'You know what they do to people who kill, Philemon?
They take them away to...' Grobbelaar did not have an opportunity to finish.
With a howl Crooked Leg darted for the door. His crippled gait was deceptive, he was fast as a ferret. He had the door open before the Bantu Sergeant collared him and dragged him gibbering and struggling back into the room.
'The gold, but not the man! I did not kill the Portuguese, he babbled, and Grobbelaar and Hugo exchanged glances.
'Pay dirt!' Hugo exclaimed with deep satisfaction.
'Bull's eye!' agreed Grobbelaar, and smiled, a rare and fleeting occurrence.
'You see it has a little light that comes on to show you where the keyhole is,' said the salesman pointing to the ignition switch on the dashboard.
'Ooh! Johnny, see that!' Hettie gushed, but Johnny Delange had his head under the bonnet of the big glossy Ford Mustang.
'Why don't you sit in her?' the salesman suggested. He was very cute really, Hattie decided, with dreamy eyes and the most fabulous sideburns.
'Ooh! Yes, I'd love to.' She manoeuvred her bottom into the leather bucket seat of the sports car. Her skirt pulled up, and the salesman's dreamy eyes followed the hem all the way.
'Can you adjust the seat?'. Hettie asked, innocently looking up at him.
'Here, I'll show you.' He leaned into the interior of the Mustang and reached across Hettie's lap. His hand brushed over her thigh, and Hettie pretended not to notice his touch. He smelled of Old Spice after-shave lotion.
'That's better! Hettie murmured, and wriggled into a more comfortable position, contriving to make the movement provocative and revealing.
The salesman was encouraged, he lingered with his wrist just touching a sleek thigh.
'What's the compression ratio on this model?' Johnny Delange demanded as he emerged from the engine, and the salesman straightened up quickly and hurried to join him.
An hour later Johnny signed the purchase contract, and both he and Hettie shook the salesman's hand.
'Let me give you my card,' the salesman insisted, but Johnny had returned to his new toy, and Hettie took the cardboard business card.
'Call me if you need anything, anything at all,' said the salesman with heavy significance.
'Dennis Langley. Sales Manager,' Hettie read out aloud.
'My! You're very young to be Sales Manager.'
'Not all that young!' 'I'll bet,' Hettie murmured, and her eyes were suddenly bold. She ran the tip of a pink tongue over her lips. 'I won't lose it,' she promised, and,' placing the card in her handbag, walked to the Mustang, leaving him with a tantalizing promise and a memory of swaying hips and clicking heels.
They raced the new Mustang as far as Potchefstroom; Hettie encouraging Johnny to overtake slower vehicles with inches to spare for oncoming traffic. With horn blaring he tore over blind rises, forking ringed fingers at the protesting toots of other drivers. They had the speedometer registering 120 mph on the return run, and it was dark as they pulled into the driveway and Johnny hit the brakes hard to avoid running into the back of a big black Daimler that was parked outside their front door.
'Jesus,' gasped Johnny. 'That's Doctor Steyner's bus!'
'Who is Doctor Steyner?'Hettie demanded.
'Hell, he's one of the big shots from Head Office.'
'You're kidding!' Hettie challenged him.
'Truth!' Johnny affirmed. 'One of the real big shots.'
'Bigger than Mr. Ironsides?' The General Manager of the Sander Ditch was as high up the social ladder as Hettie had ever looked.
'Tin Ribs is chicken feed compared to this joker. Just look at his bus, it's five times better than Tin Ribs's clapped-out oldmasserati.
'Gee!' Hettie could follow the logic of this line of argument. 'What' he want with us?'
'I don't know,' Johnny admitted with a twinge of
