At midday it rained. For the past two hours, swollen, black clouds had slowly built up, darkening the sky and blotting out the burning sun. The heat, by the placidly flowing stream, had become more and more oppressive. Then abruptly the rain came as if the sky had opened, releasing a deluge of warm water that soaked the three to the skin in seconds. So heavy was the rain, they were blinded by the water smashing down on them and were enveloped in steaming mist.
Catching hold of Gaye’s hand, Garry ran into the jungle and paused under the cover of a vast baobab tree, its thick foliage offering a leaky shelter.
Cursing and muttering, Fennel joined them. They squatted down, their backs against the tree and stared at the now raging river in silence.
None of them had spoken for four hours. The shock of Ken’s horrible end had reduced them to a numbed silence. Although they hadn’t known him for long, they had all liked him for there had been nothing to dislike about him. What shocked them more than anything was the swiftness and the way of his going.
Gaye was sure that the terrible scene was now indelibly printed on her mind. Ken’s terrified expression, his wild scream as the crocodile’s teeth had crunched down on his leg and the brief sight of the evil, scaly snout were the ingredients of future nightmares.
Garry too had been violently shocked, but he was mentally much more resilient than either Gaye or Fennel. When he had seen Ken disappear and had seen the blood on the foaming water, he knew there was nothing he could do to help him. His duty to the others and himself was to keep moving, for he knew they dare not waste a moment, ever aware of Kahlenberg’s threat that if caught, they would be impaled, and he had enough imagination to know such a death would be far more horrible than Ken’s death. So catching hold of Gaye’s hand, ignoring her hysterical sobbing, he dragged her away from the scene and back into the jungle. He kept moving until finally she steadied herself, stopped sobbing and continued with him, walking like a zombie.
Perhaps of the three of them, Fennel was the most affected. He had come to admire Ken. The episode with the Land Rover on the narrow track had enormously impressed him. He knew he hadn’t the guts to have done such a thing. Ken’s coolness when he was dangling at the end of the cable had completely wiped out Fennel’s hostility. Ken’s death now left him viciously angry, and in a brooding, homicidal state of mind. Why hadn’t this sonofabitch Edwards gone into the stream first? He and his whore weren’t worth a tenth of what Ken had been worth. He looked at them out of the corners of his small glittering eyes. Garry had his arm around Gaye and Fennel felt a hot, furious rush of blood to his head. Well, I’ll fix them, he thought. No one shoves me around as that bitch did without paying for it.
Garry was speaking quietly to Gaye.
“This rain’s lucky. It’ll wash out our tracks. This was the one thing I was praying for. They can’t track us after this storm.”
Gaye clutched his hand. She was still too shocked to speak.
After some ten minutes, the rain began to slacken.
“We must get on,” Garry said, getting to his feet. We’ve got to cross the river.” He turned to Fennel. “Think we could build a raft?”
“I’ve thrown my goddamn tool kit away,” Fennel told him, “How the hell can we build a raft without tools?”
Garry walked to the edge of the river. The opposite bank was thick with high grass and shrubs. Were more crocodiles lurking on the bank, hidden from sight, waiting for them? After what had happened to Ken, he decided the risk was too great to attempt a crossing. He decided to push on down the river in the hope that they would come to a clearing where crocodiles couldn’t conceal themselves.
“Before we go further, let’s eat,” he said, and opening Ken’s rucksack, he produced a can of stewed beef. “We’ll split this between the three of us.”
“I’m not hungry… I don’t want any,” Gaye said listlessly.
“You’ve got to eat!” Garry said sharply. Now, come on.”
“No… leave me alone.”
Garry looked closely at her. Her white drawn face, her eyes that had become sunken, began to worry him.
“Are you all right?”
“I have a headache. The thought of food makes me feel ill… just leave me alone.”
Was it shock? he asked himself. Or was she ill? He flinched at the thought. To fall sick now would be a disaster.
The meal finished, the two men got to their feet. Garry went over to Gaye and touched her lightly on her shoulder. She opened her eyes, and again he felt a pang of alarm at the heavy, dull look in her eyes. She dragged herself to her feet.
“You’re not ill, Gaye?” he asked.
“No.”
“Come on!” Fennel barked. “I want to get going if you don’t!”
Garry walked by Gaye’s side. She moved listlessly and had lost the spring in her step. He took her arm.
“Don’t fuss!” She tried to pull away. “I’m all right. It’s just this awful headache.”
He kept hold of her and walked on, but they weren’t making the speed they had made earlier on.
“Keep moving for God’s sake!” Fennel barked suddenly. “What the hell are you two loitering for?”
Gaye made an effort and quickened her pace. They kept on, but after a couple of kilometres, she again began to lag and Garry found he had to force her on. He was seriously worried now. She seemed to be walking in her sleep, dragging one foot after the other.
“You’re feeling rotten, aren’t you?” he said at last. “What is it?”
“My head feels as if it is going to burst… I suppose it’s the sun.”
“Let’s rest for a moment.”
“No… I’ll manage. Just don’t fuss.”
Another three kilometres brought them to a place Garry was hoping to find. The jungle fell away, either side of the river mud flats with no cover spread out before them.
“This is where we cross,” Garry said. He eyed the swift moving river. “Do you think you can manage, Gaye?”
“Yes, if you keep near me.”
Fennel came to the edge of the bank and surveyed the water suspiciously.
“Are you going first?” he asked Garry.
“Don’t get excited… it’s safe enough and it’s not far across,” Garry said curtly. He led Gaye to some shade. “Sit down. I want to find a branch of a tree to get our stuff over dry.”
She sank down as Garry went off into the jungle.
Fennel eyed her, thinking all the glamour had gone out of her now.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded, standing over her.
She put her head in her hands.
“Leave me alone.”
“Are you sick?”
“I have a headache… leave me alone.”
The sunlight reflected on the diamonds of the Borgia ring, making them sparkle. Fennel eyed the ring.
“You better give me the ring to carry. I don’t want it lost. Come on, give it to me!”
“No!”
Garry came out of the jungle dragging a long branch covered with foliage behind him.
Muttering under his breath, Fennel moved away from Gaye.
It took Garry very few minutes to tie the rucksacks and their shoes to the branch.
“Let’s go,” he said to Gaye. “Hang on to the branch. I’ll push it over.”
Uneasily, Fennel watched them enter the water. He looked up and down the opposite bank, expecting to see a crocodile appear, but saw nothing. They were across in a few minutes, and his eyes narrowed when he saw Gaye had collapsed on the mud bank and lay face down. He entered the water and swam fast and in panic to the other side.
Garry had turned Gaye and was kneeling over her, looking anxiously down at her white face. She seemed unconscious. Water streaming from him, Fennel came up.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded roughly.
“She’s ill.” Garry picked up the unconscious girl and carried her across the mud flat into the shade of a tree. He laid her down on a carpet of rotting leaves. “Get the rucksacks and the shoes,” he went on.
Fennel did as he was told, put on his shoes and came back to where Garry was anxiously watching Gaye.
“I guess she’s picked up some bug,” Fennel said indifferently. “Well come on, Edwards, let’s go. Those black bastards may be right behind us.”
“Look around and see if you can find two straight branches. We could make a stretcher with our shirts.”
Fennel stared at him.
“You out of your head? Do you imagine I’m going to help carry that bitch through this goddamn jungle and in this heat when those blacks are racing after us? You carry her if you want to, but I’m not.”
Garry looked up at him, his face hardening.
“Are you saying we should leave her here?”
“Why not? What’s she to us? You’re wasting time. Leave her and get going.”
Garry stood up.
“You go. I’m staying with her. Go on… get out!”
Fennel licked his lips as he stared at Garry.
“I want the compass and the ring,” he said softly.
“You get neither! Get out!”
For a man of his bulk, Fennel could move very quickly. His fist flashed out as he jumped forward, but Garry was expecting just this move. He ducked under the fist and hooked Fennel to the jaw: a crushing punch that flattened Fennel.
“I said get out!” Garry snapped.
Fennel had landed on his back, his arms flung wide. His groping fingers closed on a rock, half-hidden in the grass. He gripped it and with a violent movement, hurled it at Garry. The rock smashed against the side of Garry’s head and he went down as if he had been pole-axed.
His jaw throbbing, Fennel struggled to his feet. He approached Garry cautiously and bent over him. Satisfied that Garry was unconscious, Fennel slipped his fingers into Garry’s shirt pocket and found the compass. He crossed over to where Gaye was lying. Catching hold of her right wrist, he pulled the Borgia ring off her thumb. As he did so, she opened her eyes and seeing his face close to hers, she struck at him with her left hand.
It was such a feeble blow Fennel scarcely felt it. He grinned viciously.
“Good-bye, baby,” he said, bending over her. “I hope you suffer. I’m taking the compass and the ring. You two will never get out of here alive. If you had been nice to me, I would have been nice to you. You asked for it and you’re getting it.” He stood up. “If the Zulus don’t find you, the vultures will. So long, and have a wonderful time while it lasts.”
Gaye closed her eyes. He doubted if she had understood half what he had said, but it gave him a lot of satisfaction to have said it.
He picked up the rucksack containing the last of the food and the water bottle, checked the compass for his bearing, then set off fast into the dark steamy heat of the jungle.
Garry stirred and opened his eyes. A shadow passed over his face, then another. He looked up at the tree. He could see through the foliage, heavy grey clouds moving sluggishly westward. Then he saw two vultures settling heavily on the topmost branch of the tree, bearing it down under their combined weight. Their bald, obscene looking heads, the cruel, hooked beaks and their hunched shoulders sent a chill of fear through him.
His head throbbed and when he touched the side of his face, he felt encrusted blood. He was still dazed, but after resting a few minutes, his mind began to clear. His hand went to his shirt pocket and he found the compass gone. He struggled to his feet and went unsteadily over to where Gaye was lying. She now looked flushed and her forehead was covered with beads of sweat. She seemed to be either sleeping or unconscious. He looked at her right hand. It was no surprise to see the ring was missing.
He squatted down beside her and considered his position. He had possibly fifteen kilometres of jungle swamp ahead of him before he reached the boundary exit. He glanced towards the rucksacks and saw the rucksack containing the food was also missing. Without food or water, he couldn’t hope to last long. His watch told him it was i6.00 hrs. The Zulus had been searching for them now for nine hours. Had the rain washed out their tracks? If it hadn’t, he could expect the Zulus to appear any time now.
Had he been alone, he would have gone off at once in the hope of overtaking Fennel, but he couldn’t leave Gaye.
He looked down at her. Maybe Fennel had been right about her picking up a bug. She looked very ill and was obviously running a high temperature. As he watched her she slowly opened her eyes. It took her a few moments to get him into focus, then she frowned, moving as if in pain.
“You’re hurt,” she said huskily.
“It’s all right.” He took her hot hand in his. “Don’t worry about that.”
“He’s taken the compass and the ring.”
“I know. Take it easy. Don’t worry about anything.”
The sudden crashing of branches overhead startled them and both looked up. One of the vultures had dropped from the upper branch to a lower one and was stretching its mangy neck, peering down at them.
Getting to his feet, Garry picked up the blood-stained rock and heaved it up into the tree. The rock whistled by the vulture. It flew off with a great flapping of wings and rustling of leaves.
“It knows I am dying,” Gaye said, her voice breaking. “Garry! I’m so frightened.”
“You’re not dying! You’ve caught a bug of some sort. In a day or so, you’ll be fine.”
She looked at him, and his heart sank at the fear and hopelessness he saw in her eyes.
“There’s nothing you can do for me,” she said. “Leave me. You must think of yourself, Garry. It won’t be long for me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s as if something is creeping up inside me, killing me piecemeal. My feet are so cold, yet the rest of me burns.”
Garry felt her naked feet. They were ice cold.
“Of course I’m not leaving you. Are you thirsty?”
“No. I have no feeling in my throat.” She closed her eyes, shivering. “You must go, Garry. If they caught you…”
It dawned on him then that she could be dying. With her by his side, the attempt to get through the jungle wouldn’t have daunted him, but realizing he might have to do it alone sent a prickle of panic through him.
“Do you believe in God?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
He hesitated.
“For both of us this is really the time to believe, isn’t it?”
“You’re going to be all right.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
There was a sudden disturbance in the tree above them as the vultures settled again.
She caught hold of his hand.
“You really mean you are going to stay with me?”
“Yes, darling. I’m staying.”
“Thank you, Garry, you’re sweet. I won’t keep you long.” She looked up at the vultures who were looking down at her. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“You won’t be able to bury me. You can’t dig with your bare hands, darling, can you? Put me in the river, please. I don’t mind the crocodiles, but the vultures…”
“It’s not coming to that. You rest now. By tomorrow, you’ll be fine.”
“Promise, Garry.”
“All right, I promise, but…”
She interrupted him.
“You were right when you told me not to pin everything on money. If money hadn’t meant so much to me I wouldn’t be here now. Garry, have you a piece of paper and a pen? I want to make my will.”
“Now, look, Gaye, you’ve got to stop being morbid.”
She began to cry helplessly.
“Garry… please… you don’t know what an effort it is even to talk. I hurt so inside. Please let me make my will.”
He went to his rucksack and found a notebook and a biro.
“I must do it myself,” she said. “The manager of the Swiss bank knows my handwriting. Prop me up, Garry.”
As he raised her and supported her, she caught her breath in a sobbing moan of pain. It took her a long time to write the letter, but finally it was done.
“Everything I have, Garry darling, is for you. There’s over $100,000 in securities in my numbered account in Bern. Go and see Dr. Kirst. He’s the director there. Tell him what has happened… tell him everything and especially tell him about Kahlenberg’s museum. He’ll know what to do and keep you clear. Give him this will and he will arrange everything for you.”
“All right… you’re going to be all right, Gaye. Rest now,” and Garry kissed her.
Three hours later, as the sun, a red burning ball in the sky, sank behind the trees, Gaye drifted out of life into death. With the deadly scratch she hadn’t noticed, the Borgia ring claimed yet another victim.
Fennel had been walking fast now for the past two hours. From time to time, swamp land had made him take a wide detour, wasting time and energy. Once he had floundered up to his knees in stinking wet mud when the ground had given under his feet. He had had a desperate struggle to extricate himself: a struggle that left him exhausted.
The silence in the jungle, the loneliness and the heat all bothered him but he kept reassuring himself that he couldn’t now be far from the boundary exit and then his troubles would be over.
He kept thinking of the triumphant moment when he would walk into Shalik’s office and tell him he had the ring. If Shalik imagined he was going to get the ring for nine thousand dollars, he was in for a surprise. Fennel had already made up his mind he wouldn’t part with the ring unless Shalik paid him the full amount the other three and he would have shared… thirty-six thousand dollars. With any luck, in another four or five days, he would be back in London. He would collect the money and leave immediately for Nice. He was due a damn good vacation after this caper, he told himself. When he was tired of Nice, he would hire a yacht, find some bird and do a cruise along the Med., stopping in at the harbours along the coast for a meal and a look around: an ideal vacation and safe from Moroni.
He had now dismissed Gaye and Garry from his mind, never doubting he had seen the last of them. The stupid, stuck-up bitch had asked for trouble. No bird ever turned him down without regretting it. He wished Ken were with him. He frowned as he thought of the way Ken had died. With Ken, he would have felt much more sure of himself. Now, the sun was going down and the jungle was getting unpleasantly dark. He decided it was time to stop for the night. He hurried forward, looking for a clearing where he could get off the narrow track. After some searching, he found what he was looking for: a patch of coarse grass, clear of shrubs with a tree under which he could shelter if it rained.
He put down his rucksack and paused to wonder if he dare light a fire. He decided the risk was negligible and set about gathering sticks and kindling. When he had collected a large heap by the tree, he got the fire going, then sat down, his back resting against the tree. He was hungry and he opened the rucksack and took stock. There were three cans of stewed steak, two cans of beans and a can of steak pie. Nodding his satisfaction, he opened the can of steak pie. When he had finished the meal, he lit a cigarette, threw more sticks on the fire and relaxed.
Now he was sitting still, he became aware of the noises in the jungle: soft, disturbing and distracting sounds: leaves rustled, some animal growled faintly in the distance: Fennel wondered if it were a leopard. In the trees he could hear a sudden chatter of hidden monkeys start up and immediately cease. Some big birds flapped overhead.
He finished his cigarette, added more still 4 to the fire and stretched out. The dampness had penetrated his clothes and he wondered if he would sleep. He closed his eyes. Immediately, the distracting sounds of the jungle became amplified and alarming. He sat up, his eyes searching beyond the light of the fire into the outer darkness.
Suppose the Zulus had spotted the fire and were creeping up on him? he thought.
They hammer a skewer into your lower intestine, Kahlenberg had said.
Fennel felt cold sweat break out on his face.
He had been crazy to have lit the fire. It could be spotted from a long distance away by the sharp-eyed savages. He grabbed up a big stick and scattered the fire. Then getting to his feet, he stamped out the burning embers until the sparks had died in the wet grass. Then it was even worse because the darkness descended on him like a hot, smothering, black cloak. He groped for the tree, sat down, resting his back against it and peered fearfully forward, but now it was as if he were blind. He could see nothing.
He remained like that for more than an hour, listening and starting with every sound. But finally he began to nod to sleep. He was suddenly too exhausted to care.
How long he slept, he didn’t know, but he woke with a start, his heart racing. He was sure he was no longer alone. His built-in instinct for danger had sounded an emergency alarm in his mind. He groped in the darkness and found the thick stick with which he had scattered the fire. He gripped it while he listened.
Quite close… not more than five metres from him, there was a distinct sound of something moving through the carpet of leaves. He had his flashlight by him and picking it up, his racing heart half suffocating him, he pointed the torch in the direction of the sound, then pressed the button.
The powerful beam lit up a big crouching animal that Fennel recognized by its fox-like head and its filthy fawn and black spotted fur to be a fully grown dog hyena.
He had only a brief glimpse of the animal before it disappeared into the thicket on the far side of the track, but that glimpse was enough to bring Fennel to his feet, panic stricken.
He remembered a conversation he had had with Ken while they were in the Land Rover on the first easy leg of the journey to Kahlenberg’s estate.
“I get along with all the animals out here except the hyena,” Ken had said. “He is a filthy brute. Not many people know this scavenger has the most powerful teeth and jaws of any animal. He can crack the thigh of a domestic cow the way you crack a nut. Besides being dangerous, he is an abject coward. He seldom moves except by night, and he will go miles following a scent and has infinite patience to wait to catch his prey unawares.”
With his eyes bolting out of his head, his hand shaking, Fennel played the beam of the flashlight into the thicket. For a brief moment he saw the animal glaring at him, then vanish.
He has infinite patience to wait to catch his prey unawares.
Fennel knew there was no further sleep for him that night, and he looked at his wristwatch. The time was 03.00 hrs. Another hour before it began to get light and he could move. Not daring to waste the battery, he turned off the flashlight. Sitting down, he leaned against the tree and listened.
From out of the darkness came a horrifying, maniacal laugh that chilled his blood and raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. The horrible, indescribably frightening sound was repeated… the howl of a starving hyena.
Fennel longed for Ken’s company. He even longed for Garry’s company. Sitting in total darkness, knowing the stinking beast might be creeping slowly on its mangy belly, his powerful jaws slavering, towards him, he remained motionless, tense and straining to hear the slightest sound. He remained like that, his body aching for sleep, his mind feverish with panic for the next hour.
Whenever he dozed off, the howl of the hyena brought him awake and cursing. If only he had the Springfield or even an assigai, he thought, but he had nothing with which to defend himself except the thick stick which he was sure would be useless if the beast sprang at him.
When dawn finally came, Fennel was almost a wreck. His legs were stiff and his muscles ached. His body cried out for rest. He dragged himself upright, picked up his rucksack, and after assuring himself there was no sign of the hyena, he set off along the jungle track, again heading south. Although he forced himself along, his speed had slowed and he wasn’t covering the ground as he had the previous day. He wished he knew how much further he had to go before he reached the boundary exit. The jungle was as dense as it had been yesterday and showed no sign of clearing. He walked for two hours, then decided to rest and eat. Sitting on a fallen tree, he opened a can of beans and ate them slowly, then he took a small drink from the water bottle. He smoked a cigarette, reluctant to move, but he knew he was dangerously wasting time. With an effort he got to his feet and set off again. Having walked for some five kilometres, he paused to check the compass. From the reading, he realized with dismay that he was now walking south-west instead of due south. The track had been curving slightly, taking him away from his direction and he hadn’t noticed it.
Cursing, he fixed his bearing and saw that to move in the right direction, he would have to leave the path and force his way through the thick, evil smelling undergrowth. He hesitated, remembering what Ken had said about snakes.
It would be a hell of a thing, he thought, to have got this far and then to get bitten by a snake. Gripping his stick, he moved into the long, matted grass, feeling the sharp blades of the grass scratching at his bare legs. The sun was coming up, and already the heat was oppressive. The .going was deadly slow now, ,and sweat began to stream off him as he slashed his way through the grass and tangled undergrowth with his stick, cursing aloud. Ahead of him, after a kilometre of exhausting struggle, he saw a wide open plain and he gasped with relief. He broke through to it, but almost immediately, his feet sank up to his ankles in wet, clinging mud and he backed away, returning to the undergrowth. The plain he had imagined would be so easy to cross was nothing more than a dangerous swamp. He was now forced to go around the swamp, making an exhausting detour, feeling his strength slowly ebbing from him as he struggled on in the breathless heat.
He now began to wonder if he would ever get out of this hellish place. He would have to rest again, he told himself. That was the trouble. He was worn out after a sleepless night. Maybe if he could sleep for three or four hours, he would get back his strength which he had always taken for granted and relied on.
It was a risk, he thought, but a risk that had to be taken if he was to conserve his strength for the last lap through the swamp. He remembered Ken had said hyenas only hunted at night. The beast was probably miles away by now. He would have to find somewhere to hide before he dare have the sleep his body was aching for. He dragged himself on until he saw a big, fallen tree some way from the track and surrounded by shrubs. This seemed as good a place as any, and when he reached it he found the ground on the far side of the trunk reasonably dry. Thankfully, he lay down. He made a pillow of his rucksack, placed the rucksack of food near at hand and the thick stick by his side. He lowered his head on the rucksack, stretched out and in a few moments, he was asleep.
He hadn’t been sleeping for more than a few minutes when out of the jungle came the hyena. It sniffed the ground, paused, then cocked its head on one side as it eyed the fallen tree. Making a silent, wide detour, it slunk around to the other side of the tree where Fennel was sleeping.
The hyena hadn’t eaten for two days and it was half mad with hunger, but although there was a meal before it for the taking, it was too cowardly as yet to attack. It sank down, its muzzle resting on its paws and stared with gleaming red eyes at the sleeping man.
Unhappily for Fennel, he was so exhausted, he slept the sleep of the dead, neither making a sound nor moving. After half an hour of watching the hyena finally convinced itself that there was no danger for a hit and run attack.
It hunched its hind legs, lifted itself and struck.
Fennel was awakened by such intense pain that he was screaming out as he opened his eyes. He half started up, but the pain raging in his legs absorbed all his strength and he fell back, his fists pounding the sides of his head as the rising pain drove him frantic. Looking down, he was horrified to see that where his right calf had been there was now only a mess of blood and splintered bone. He could even see the white of his shin bone where the fleshy part of his calf had been ripped away.
Sobbing and moaning, he looked frantically around and he saw the hyena some ten metres from him, its muzzle bloodstained as it chewed the lump of flesh.
Blood was pouring from the terrible wound and Fennel realized if someone didn’t come to his help at once, he would be dead in a few minutes. Already faintness was gripping him. Gathering his remaining strength, he yelled, “Help!” at the top of his voice.
The shout echoed through the jungle. Startled, the hyena dashed into the undergrowth and released its horrible laughing howl.
Fennel tried to shout again, but only succeeded in making a croaking sound that carried no distance. The agony raving through his body brought unconsciousness near. The blood pouring from his wound attracted a swarm of flies which were now excitedly buzzing around the fast growing pool of blood.
Fennel was now too weak to do anything but lie flat, shuddering and moaning with pain. He could see outlined against the grey clouds, a number of vultures circling overhead. He watched them drop into a nearby tree one by one and peer down at him speculatively.
He didn’t see the hyena creeping on its belly towards him. He was only aware of it when he felt a sudden rush, smelt decay as the beast pounced on him, then a blinding pain as the sharp, powerful jaws and teeth bit through the top of his shorts and disembowelled him.
Ngomane, a magnificently built Zulu, had once worked on the Kahlenberg estate, but there had been woman trouble and he had been dismissed.
Before his dismissal, Ngomane had been one of the forty guards patrolling the jungle on the look-out for unwelcomed visitors and poachers. He knew the jungle as he knew the back of his hand and after his dismissal, he pondered how he could earn a living. He decided that as there were many crocodiles on Kahlenberg’s estate and as he knew where to find them and as the other guards were sympathetic about his dismissal, it would be safe and profitable, from time to time, to kill a few of the reptiles and sell their skins to the white storekeeper in Mainville who never asked questions and paid well.
Ngomane was trotting silently along the jungle track, having just entered from the south boundary and was heading for the river, when he heard Fennel’s frantic cry for help. He stopped abruptly, fingering his ancient rifle, looking uneasily in the direction of the sound. Then curiosity getting the better of caution, he moved into the jungle and in a few moments he had found what was left of Fennel.
Garry walked slowly along the river bank, keeping in the shade where possible, his eyes searching the ground before him for snakes and signs of hidden crocodiles.
He had decided that without a compass it would be inviting disaster to attempt to reach the boundary exit through the jungle. He remembered that the relief map in Kahlenberg’s office had shown that after the river had passed the boundary of the estate, it continued on for some twenty kilometres to pass through a small town. Although he would be faced with a walk at least twice as long as the direct south route through the jungle, he knew if he could keep going, he could not lose his way and with any luck would not encounter swamp land and be forced to make exhausting detours.
On the other hand he exposed himself to attack from crocodiles and he could be more easily spotted if the Zulus had got this far up the river. But weighing the pros and cons, he finally opted for the river route.
He was feeling depressed and weary. He had committed Gaye’s body to the river and had watched it float away into the darkness. He had hated the task, but he had no tool to dig a grave. Having seen her on her way, he had gone into the jungle and laid down. He had slept badly, dreaming of her and had started his walk soon after 05.00 hrs.
He had been walking now for four hours, not moving quickly, but steadily, carefully pacing himself to conserve his strength. He was hungry and thirsty. From time to time, he moistened his lips with the foul river water, but refrained from drinking it. He had four packs of cigarettes in his rucksack, and by continually smoking, he took the edge off his hunger and kept the mosquitoes at bay.
As he walked, he wondered how far Fennel had got by now. By the time he himself reached Mainville — if he ever reached it — Fennel would be on his way to Johannesburg. Garry was sure Fennel would immediately fly to London, hand over the ring, collect his share and then disappear. Garry wondered if Shalik would pay him his share once Shalik had the ring: he probably wouldn’t. It didn’t matter, Garry told himself. Thanks to Gaye, he was now worth $100,000. With such sum, he could take the course in electronics and then buy himself a partnership. But first he had to get back to England.
He rested at midday for an hour and then continued on. By dusk, he had covered twenty-five kilometres. By keeping to the river, the walk, except for the gnawing pangs of hunger and a raging thirst, had been far less arduous than if he had taken to the jungle, but he knew he had at least another thirty kilometres to face the following morning and he, like Fennel, began to wonder if he would make it.
He moved into the jungle when it became too dark to see where he was going and laid down under a tree and slept. He woke soon after 05.00 hrs. as the sun was beginning to rise. Going down to the edge of the river, he scooped the brown dirty water over his face and head and moistened his lips without swallowing. The temptation was great, but he resisted it, sure that the water could contain a host of deadly bacteria.
He started off, keeping his pace steady, heading for an elbow bend in the river, and wondering what he would find around the corner. With luck, he told himself, he could be at the exit of the estate.
It took him an hour to reach the bend and to get a clear view of the river which was now wide and straight. As he paused to examine both banks of the river, he suddenly stiffened. Could that be a boat pulled up on the mud flat some sixty metres ahead of him or was it a fallen tree?
He started forward, peering into the half light, and in a few minutes, he decided that it was a flat bottom canoe.
His hunger and thirst forgotten, his heart pounding, he broke into a stumbling run. He reached the canoe and then stopped abruptly.
Lying in the bottom of the canoe was a dead Zulu. By his side were two rucksacks which Garry recognized as belonging to Ken and Fennel and more welcome still, Ken’s water bottle.
On the Zulu’s forefinger of his right hand, flashing in the sunlight, was the Caesar Borgia ring.
As soon as Garry had cleared the customs at London Airport, he hurried to a telephone box and dialled Toni’s number. The time was 10.25 hrs. and he was pretty sure she would be still sleeping. After the bell had rung for some minutes, he heard a click, then a sleepy voice said, “Miss White is away.”
Knowing she was about to hang up, Garry shouted, “Toni! It’s me!”
There was a pause, then Toni, now very much awake, released a squeal of excitement. “Garry! Is that really you, darling?”
“Yes. I’ve just got in from Jo’burg.”
“And you’re calling me? Oh, darling! So she isn’t so marvellous after all?”
“Don’t let’s talk about her.” Garry’s voice went down a note. “Listen, Toni, how are you fixed? I’m flying to Bern tomorrow morning and I want you to come with me.”
“Bern? Where’s Bern?”
“It’s in Switzerland. Didn’t you learn anything at school?”
“I learned to make love. Who cares where Bern is anyway? You want me to come with you? Why, darling, of course! I’d go with you to Vierwaldstattersee if you wanted me to.”
“That’s nice. Where’s that?”
She giggled.
“It’s in Switzerland too. How long will we be staying?”
“A day or so, then I thought we would go down to Capri for two weeks and really live it up. You know where Capri is, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. I’d love to, Garry, but I simply can’t. I have to
work. I can manage three days, but not two weeks.”
“Wives shouldn’t work, Toni.”
There was silence. He could hear her breathing over the line and he imagined her kneeling on the bed in her shortie nightdress, her big blue eyes very round and astonished, and he grinned.
“Did you say wives shouldn’t work?” she asked, her voice husky.
“That’s what the man said.”
“But I’m not married, Garry.”
“You soon will be. See you in two hours from now,” and he hurriedly hung up.
He piled his luggage into a taxi and told the driver to take him to the Royal Towers Hotel.
Arriving at the hotel, he had his luggage put in the baggage room and then asked the hall porter to call Shalik’s suite and announce him.
There was a brief delay, then the hall porter told him to go up.
Arriving at the suite, he tapped and entered the outer room. A blonde girl sat at the desk, busily typing. She surveyed him as she paused in her work and got to her feet. Dressed in black, she was tall and willowy and exactly the type of girl Garry went out of his way to avoid: hard, shrewd, intelligent and very efficient.
“Mr. Edwards?”
“Correct.”
“Mr. Shalik will see you now.” She opened the door to Shalik’s office and motioned him forward as if she were shooing in a nervous chicken.
Garry smiled at her more from force of habit than to be friendly. He need not have bothered. She wasn’t looking at him and her indifference irritated him.
He found Shalik sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar, his plump hands resting on the blotter.
As Garry walked towards him, he said, “Good morning, Mr. Edwards. Have you the ring?”
“Yes, I have it.” Garry sat down in the lounging chair opposite Shalik. He crossed his long legs and regarded Shalik.
“You have? My congratulations. I take it the other three will be coming to join us in a moment or so?”
Garry shook his head.
“No, they won’t be coming to join us.”
Shalik frowned.
“But surely they want their fee?
“They won’t be coming and they won’t be collecting their fee.”
Shalik sat back, studied the end of his cigar, then looked hard at Garry.
“And why not, Mr. Edwards?”
“Because they are dead.”
Shalik stiffened and his eyes narrowed.
“Are you telling me Miss Desmond is dead?
“Yes, and so are the other two.”
Shalik made an impatient movement which conveyed he wasn’t interested in the other two.
“But what happened?”
“She caught a bug… lots of dangerous bugs in the jungle, and she died.”
Shalik got to his feet and walked over to the window, turning his back to Garry. The news shocked him. He disliked strangers knowing that he was capable of being shocked.
After a few moments, he turned and asked, “How do I know you are telling me the truth, Mr. Edwards? How did the other two die?”
“Jones was eaten by a crocodile. I don’t know what happened to Fennel. He was probably killed by a Zulu. I found the Zulu dead with Fennel’s rucksack and the ring. Fennel had stolen the ring and my compass and left Gaye and me to find our way out of the jungle. I succeeded: Gaye didn’t.”
“Are you quite sure she is dead?”
“I’m sure.”
Shalik sat down. He wiped his damp hands on his handkerchief. He had an important assignment involving a million dollars lined up for Gaye when she returned. Now, what was he to do? He felt a bitter rage seize him. He would have to start another long and difficult search for a woman to replace her, and in the meantime, the assignment would fall through.
“And the ring?” he said, controlling his rage.
Garry took a matchbox from his pocket and pushed it across the desk to Shalik who picked it up, shook the ring out on to the blotter and regarded it. Well, at least, this assignment hadn’t failed. He was suddenly very pleased with himself. By using his brains and these four people as his pawns, he had made half a million dollars within the space of a few days.
He examined the ring closely, then nodded his satisfaction. As he put the ring down, he said, “I am sure the operation wasn’t easy, Mr. Edwards. I am very pleased. In fairness to you, I will double your fee. Let me see… it was nine thousand dollars. I will make it eighteen thousand. Is that satisfactory to you?”
Garry shook his head.
“Nine is enough,” he said curtly. “The less I have of your money, the cleaner I will feel.”
Shalik’s eyes snapped, but he shrugged. He opened his desk drawer and took out a long envelope which he tossed across the desk.
Garry picked up the envelope. He didn’t bother to check the contents. Putting the envelope in his breast pocket, he got up and walked to the door.
“Mr. Edwards…”
Garry paused.
“What is it?
“I would be glad if you would dictate a full report of what happened during the operation. I would like to have all the details. My secretary will supply you with a tape-recorder.”
“What do you want it for… to give to the police?” Garry said. “You have the ring… that’s all you’re getting from me,” and he went out, walked past the blonde secretary without looking at her and hurried to the elevator, his one thought now being to get back to Toni.
Shalik stared at the closed door, thought for a moment, then shrugged. Perhaps after all, it was better not to know too much about what happened, he decided. Pity about Gaye. He knew she had no relations. There would be no awkward questions asked. She had come into his life, served a useful purpose, and now she had gone. It was a nuisance, but no woman was irreplaceable.
He picked up the ring and examined it. Holding it in his left hand, he reached for his telephone and dialled a number.
The diamonds were nice, he thought and ran his forefinger over the cluster, then started as something of needle sharpness cut his finger. He dropped the ring, frowning, and conveyed his bleeding finger to his mouth.
So the Borgia ring still scratched, he thought. The poison, of course, would have long dried up: after all the ring was nearly four hundred years old. He looked at his finger. Quite a nasty scratch. He continued to suck his finger as he listened to the burr-burr-burr of the telephone bell, thinking how pleased his client would be to get the ring back.
The End