Hundred and Ninety-Nine years is granted to Messrs
Farben, Hendryck and Mosenthal S. A Guano Merchants of 14
Bergenstrasse, Windhoek, in respect of a circular area ten kilometres in radius whose centre shall be a point situated at the highest elevation of the island lying on latitude 23” 15” South and longitude
15” 12” East.” Tracey paused and looked at Johnny. He was frozen, stony-faced, staring at her with all his attention. She went on quickly, gabbling it out.
“All the old German mineral concessions and rights were ratified by the Union Parliament when the Union of South Africa took over the mandate after the Great War.” He nodded, unable to speak. Tracey’s smile kept breaking out.
“That concession still has all the force of law behind it.
The grant of any subsequent rights is invalid, and although the original grant was mainly for the recovery of guano yet it covers precious stones also.” Again Johnny nodded, and Tracey put the document at the bottom of the sheaf of papers in her hand.
“The concession Company, Farben, Hendryck and Mosenthal S. A is still in existence. The Company’s only remaining as set, apart from any long-forgotten concessions, is an old building at 14 Bergenstrasse, Windhoek.” Tracey seemed to change the subject suddenly.
“You asked me where I have been, Johnny. Well I’ve been to
Windhoek, an dover most of the worst roads in South West Africa.
The Farben, Hendryck and Mosenthal Company is owned by the brothers Hendryck, a couple of Karakul fur farmers. They are a pair of horrible old men, and when I saw them slitting the throats of those poor little Persian lambs just to prevent the fur uncurling, well-” Tracey paused, and gulped. “Well, I didn’t explain to them about the concession. I just offered to buy the Company, and they asked twenty thousand and I said “sign”, and they signed and I left them chuckling with glee. They thought they’d been terribly clever. There! It’s all yours!” Tracey handed the Agreement to Johnny and while he read it she went on.
“I made the Agreement in the name of Van Der Byl Diamonds, I
signed it - as a Director - I hope you don’t mind.”
“Christ!” Johnny took a long deep swallow of whisky, then set the glass down and stood up.
“Mind?” he repeated. “You bring me the concession to Thunderbolt and Suicide - and ask me if I mind.” He reached for her and eagerly she went to him.
“Tracey, you’re wonderful.” They hugged each other ecstatically, and Johnny swung her off her feet. Without either of them planning it they were suddenly lying, still in each other’s arms, on the couch.
Then they were kissing, and the laughter dwindled into small murmurs and incoherent sounds.
Tracey pulled away from him at last, and slipped off the couch.
She stood in the centre of the floor. Her breathing was ragged. Her hair was a dark tangle.
“Whoa! That’s enough.”
“Tracey.” He started up from the couch, wild for her, but she held him at the full stretch of her arms, her hands flat on his chest, backing away in front of him.
“No, Johnny, no!” She shook her head urgently. “Listen to me.” He stopped. The wild look faded from his eyes.
“Look, Johnny, God knows I’m no saint, but - well, I don’t want us to - well, not on a couch in some other woman’s house. That’s not how
I want it to be.” Benedict eased the big honey-coloured Bentley out of the traffic stream that clogged Bermondsey Street and turned into the gates of the warehouse. He parked beside the loading bay and climbed out.
As he pulled off his gloves, he glanced along the bank.
Mountains of goods were stacked ready for distribution.
Cases of Cape wine and spirits, canned fruit in brown cartons, canned fish, forty-gallon drums of fish oil, bundles of raw hides stiff as boards, and cases of indefinable goods all of it the produce of
Southern Africa.
Vee Dee Bee Agencies had grown out of all recognition in the ten years since Benedict had launched it.
Benedict climbed the steps to the bank three at a time, and strode down between the towering stacks of goods that reached up into the murk of the high ceiling. He walked with the assurance of a man on his own ground, the skirts of his overcoat swirling about his knees, broad-shouldered and tall. The storemen and porters greeted him deferentially as he passed, and when he entered the main office there was a stirring and whispering among the ranks of typists as though a wind had blown through a forest.
The Managing Director hurried out of his office to greet Benedict and usher him in.
“How: are you, Mr. van der Byl? There’s tea coming now.” And he stood behind Benedict to take his coat.
The meeting lasted half an hour, Benedict reading through the weekly sales and cost reports, querying an item here, remarking on a figure with pleasure or displeasure as it deserved. Many people watching him work would have been startled. This was not the indolent playboy they thought they knew, this was a hard-eyed businessman coldly and unemotionally milking the maximum profit from his enterprise.
There would have been others who wondered where Benedict had found the capital to finance a business of this magnitude, especially if they had known that he owned the premises, and that Vee Dee Bee Agencies was by no means his only stake in the world of business. He had not received money from his father - the Old Man had not believed Benedict capable of successfully negotiating the purchase of a pound of butter.
The meeting ended, and Benedict stood up and shrugged on his overcoat, while his Managing Director went to the grey steel safe in the corner, tumbled the combination and swung the heavy door open.
“The shipment arrived yesterday,” he explained as he reached into the safe and brought out the can. “On the SS Loch Elsinore from Walvis
Bay.” He handed the can to Benedict, who examined it briefly, smiling a little at the painting of the leaping fish and the lettering Pilchards in Tomato Sauce”.
“Thank you.” He slipped the can into his briefcase, and the
Managing Director walked with him back to the Bentley.
Benedict left the Bentley in a garage in Broadwick Street, and walked through the jostle of Soho until he reached the grimy brick building behind the square. He pressed the bell opposite the card that read Aaron Cohen, Manufacturing jeweller, and when the door opened he climbed the stairs to the top and fourth floor.
Again he rang, and after a while an eye peeped at him through the peephole - but the door opened almost immediately.
“Hello, Mr. van der Byl. Come in! Come in!” The young doorman welcomed him in and locked the door behind him. “Papa is expecting you!” he went on as they both looked up at the eye of the closed-circuit TV camera above the wrought-iron grille that barred the passage.
Whoever was viewing the screen was satisfied, for there was an electrical buzz and the grille swung open. The doorman led Benedict down the passage.
“You know the way. Papa is in his office.” Benedict was in a shabby little reception room, with a threadbare carpet and a pair of chairs that looked like Ministry of Works rejects. He turned to the right-hand door and went through it into a long room that clearly occupied most of the top floor of the building.
Along one side of the room ran a narrow bench, to which were bolted twenty small lathes. Each machine ran off a belt from a central drive below the bench. The man tending the machines wore a white dust jacket, and he grinned at Benedict. “Hello, Mr. van der Byl, Papa is expecting you.” But Benedict delayed a moment to watch the operation of the saws. In the jaws of each lathe was set a diamond, and spinning against the diamond was a circular blade of phosphor bronze. As
Benedict watched, the man turned back to the task of spreading a fine paste of olive oil and diamond dust on to the cutting edge of each blade - for it was not the bronze that cut. Only a diamond will cut a diamond.
“Some nice stones, Larry,” Benedict remarked, and Larry Cohen nodded.
“All of them between four and five carats.” Benedict leaned close and examined one of the diamonds.
The line of the cut was marked with Indian ink on the stone.
Benedict knew what heart-searching and discussion, what examination and drawing upon the rich storehouses of experience had preceded the positioning of that ink line. It might take two days to saw through each
