Satisfied at last he set the sealed can on the table, while he went to where his jacket hung on the door. From the inside pocket he pulled out a manilla envelope, then from the envelope he drew a printed, colour-screened label. He came back to the bench and meticulously pasted the label around the can. On the label was a highly glamorized artist’s conception of a leaping pilchard, making it look like a Scottish salmon.
Pilchards in Tomato Sauce.” Hugo read the label aloud, as he leaned back to admire his work. “A product of South West Africa.” He smiled with satisfaction and began packing his equipment away.
How much?” The foreman of the fish pump called across the narrowing gap between Wild Goose and the jetty.
“About fifty tons,” Hugo shouted back. “Then the norther chased us home.”
“Ja. None of the boats stayed out.” The foreman watched his gang secure the mooring ropes, and swing the hose of the vacuum-pump over Wild Goose’s hold to begin pumping out her pilchards.
“Take over, Oscar.” Hugo picked up his jacket an 1 cap.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” He jumped down on to the jetty and strode down towards the canning factory with its awesome stink of pilchard oil. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, one finger hooked through the tag.
He went down an alley between the boiler rooms and the fish-drying plant, across a wide yard where the bags of fish meal were piled to the height of a double-storey building. He turned in through the double doors of the cavernous warehouse filled to roof height with cardboard cartons, each stencilled with the words: 1 gross cans.
Consign to: Pilchards in tomato sauce.
Vee Dee Bee Agencies Ltd.
32, Bermondsey Street, London, S.E. I He went into the cubicle that served the warehouse k storeman as an office.
“Hello, Hugo. Good trip?” The storeman was Hugo’s brotherin-law.
“Fifty ton.” Hugo hung his coat casually on the hook behind the door. “I’ve got to take a leak,” he said, and went to the latrine across the floor of the warehouse.
He came back, and drank a cup of tea with his brotherin-law. Then he stood and said, “Jeannie will he waiting.”
“Give her my love.”
“She don’t need yours. She’s going to get plenty of mine!” Hugo winked, and took his coat from the hook. It was lighter now, the can was gone from the pocket.
He went through the main gates of the harbour, exchanging a casual greeting with the customs officer, and went to the battered early model convertible in the car park.
He kissed the girl at the driving-wheel, threw his coat on the back seat and climbed in over the door.
“You drive,” he told her, grinning. “I want both hands free.” She squeaked and pulled his hand out of her skirts.
“Can’t you wait till we get home?”
“I’ve been at sea for five days and I’m hungry as hell.”
“You’re a caution, you are.” She laughed at him and started the car.
This was Sergio Caporetti, the man Johnny had chosen to captain
Kinesher. He was a round man, the same shape as a snowman. He filled the doorway of Johnny’s office, and his great belly bulging into the room ahead of him. His face was round also, like a baby’s - but the beautiful dark Italian eyes fringed with thick lashes like a girl’s.
“Come in, Sergio,“Johnny greeted him. “Nice to see you.” The
Italian crossed the room deceptively quickly, and Johnny’s hand was completely engulfed by the enormous hairy paw.
“So, at last we are ready,” Sergio grunted. “Three months I sit on bum - do nothing. Look at me - ” He slapped his belly with a sound like a pistol shot.” - fat! No good.”
“Well, not quite ready.” Johnny qualified the statement.
He was flying Sergio and his crew over to England well ahead of time. He wanted the big Italian to have plenty of opportunity to study and get to know the revolutionary new equipment with which Kingfisher was fitted. Then when the vessel was ready for sea, Sergio would sail her out to Africa.
“Sit down, Sergio. Let’s go over the crew list-” When Sergio left an hour later, Johnny went as far as the lift with him.
“If you have any problems phone me, Sergio.”
“Si.” Sergio shook hands. “Don’t worry - Caporetti is in charge. All is well.” On his way back Johnny stopped at the reception desk.
“Is Mrs. Hartford in today?” he asked one of the little receptionists, and both of them replied in chorus like Tweedledum and
Tweedledee.
“No, Mr. Lance.”
“Has she phoned to say where she is?”
“No, Mr. Lance.” Tracey had disappeared. Five days now there had been no sign of her, her new office was deserted and unused.
Johnny was worried and angry. He was worried that she had gone on another hinge, and he was angry because he missed her.
He was scowling ferociously as he went back into his office.
“Goodness me.” Lettie Pienaar stood beside his desk with a batch of mail in her hand. “We do look happy. Here’s something to cheer you.” She handed him a postcard with a colour picture of the Eiffel
Tower. It was the first word from Ruby since she had left. Johnny read it quickly.
“Paris - ” he said, ” - is fun, it seems.” He tossed the card on to the desk and plunged back into the day’s work.
He worked late, stopped at a steakhouse to eat, then drove back to the silent house in Bishopscourt.
The crunch of tyres on the gravel drive and headlights flashing across the bedroom wall woke him.
He sat up in bed as the front-doorbell began a series of urgent peals and he switched on the bedside light. Two o’clock - Christ!
He pulled a dressing-gown over his nudity and tottered down the passage, switching on lights as he went. The doorbell kept ringing.
He turned the front door key. The door flew open and Tracey came in like a strong wind, clutching a briefcase to her chest.
“Where the hell have you been?” Johnny was suddenly fully awake, angry and relieved.
“Johnny! Johnny!” She was dancing with excitement, incoherent, her cheeks flaming and eyes shining. “I’ve got them - at least, it, both of them.”
“Where have you been?” Johnny was not to be so easily sidetracked, and with an obvious effort Tracey brought her excitement under control, but she was still smiling and gave the impression of humming like an electric motor.
“Come.” She took his hand and dragged him into the lounge. “Get yourself a large whisky and sit down,” she ordered, imperious as a queen.
“I don’t want a whisky, and I don’t-” “You’ll need one,” she , and went to the open liquor cabinet, poured a massive whisky into a crystal glass, squirted soda into it, and brought it back to Johnny.
“Tracey, what the hell is going on?”
“Please, Johnny. It’s so wonderful, don’t spoil it for me.
just sit there, please!” Johnny sank reluctantly into the chair, and Tracey slipped the catch on her briefcase and drew out a sheaf of documents. She stood in the centre of the floor, and took up the pose of a Victorian actress.
“This she explained, is a translation from the original Cerman of a proclamation by Governor in Council dated 3rd May 1899 and issued at Windhoek. I will leave out the preamble and go straight to the meat.” She cleared her throatand began reading: “In consideration of the sum of 10,000 marks which is hereby paid and received, the rights to mine, win, recover, collect or carry away all metals, whether base or precious, stones whether base, semiprecious or precious, minerals, guano, vegetation and other substances organic or inorganic for a period of Nine
