Walking away down Oakley Street for the King’s Head and a snack lunch, Shaw and Debonnair exchanged wondering glances. Debbie said, “My God, Esmonde, what a popsie — and what a crazy, mixed-up kid, poor girl! Good background, I think, but she certainly does lead her own life — and how!”
“Yes… funny how they can change, isn’t it? But — try putting yourself in her place.”
“Oh, I know! Sorry if I sounded catty. You can’t lead other people’s lives for them, and that’s a fact, though there’s plenty of busybodies trying to.” She wrinkled her nose attractively. “Let me know in good time if ever you see me starting to become an old cow, Esmonde.” They walked on in companionable silence for a few yards, then she said, “Esmonde, you looked as if you’d sat on a pin when she first mentioned Sam Wiley. Do you know the gentleman?”
“Not personally — yet. But I’ve a nodding acquaintance with another gent by the name of Esamba.”
“Who?”
“Esamba, Deb. I’ve read about him. This morning. It’s just my turn of mind, I suppose. Esamba’s one of the Dark Gods — he’s the One Who Blows Out The Light Behind Men’s Eyes.”
She stared at him. “You mean kills them?”
“Not necessarily, I gather. Sends them blind first, anyway.”
“Oh, Esmonde!” She gave one of her deep, gurgling chuckles. “This is Oakley Street, S.W.3, and there’s a London Transport bus, and there’s a bobby by the traffic lights — see? This is dear old London — wake up! You don’t really believe all that voodoo nonsense, do you?”
“I don’t know,” he said echoing Jiddle. “I honestly don’t know. There are so many things we don’t know, can’t know, for all our scientific progress — and so much I can’t tell you anyway, my dear. But I assure you I haven’t suddenly gone off my head.”
She said comfortably, taking his arm as they crossed the road, “Well, that’s nice to know, anyway. By the way, what are we going to do after we’ve eaten?”
“I’ve got a phone call to make to Carberry, put him in the picture in case that girl rings him or the Old Man starts asking him questions.”
“Anything else?”
She was looking up into his face and smiling, but there was a hint of anxiety behind that smile. He asked, “For Carberry? Yes, there is. I want a membership card as soon as possible for the Ship’s Biscuit club in Camden Town.”
“Mean you’re going there?”
“I am — and to-night at that. Remember, it’s Thursday today. But before I go, we’ll dine somewhere, you and I, Deb.”
“Two meals out in one day? Sounds as though you don’t expect to have the chance again for some time, doesn’t it?” He grinned and squeezed her arm, but he didn’t say any more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That same afternoon word had reached the Bluebolt control-station in Nogolia’s Naka Valley that the bodies of two white men had been found, horribly mutilated, on the Jinda-Manalati road not far from the tribal village of Zambi. In the north of Nogolia a white woman, wife of an executive of the Nogolia Copper Mining Corporation, had been raped by six Africans and then butchered. Her husband had almost stumbled on the body himself when he arrived home and had gone practically out of his mind when he realized what had happened. Reprisals had been made by a group of angry white copper workers, who had gone out in force and beaten up crowds of (probably innocent) Africans, one of whom had since died. This had led to counter-reprisals and a general riot in which a number of Africans and Europeans had been killed and several policemen seriously injured by stones, broken bottles, and sticks. The riot had been put down, but the situation was still on a knife-edge.
When Julian Hartog got this news he sat very still at his desk for nearly a minute, his eyes blazing oddly in his dark face. Then he got up, went over to a cupboard, and took down a half-empty bottle of whisky. He took two big gulps, neat from the bottle, and shut the cupboard again. Then, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he went over to the window and he stood there a long while, just looking out at the rain and the jungle and the grotesque antennae of the mast which rose above the control-room’s glass-domed roof. There was still a peculiar glitter in his eyes, and a vein throbbed tightly in his left temple. He was beginning to feel that he couldn’t take much more of this, that something must snap before long, that he must act even before those blackmailing bastards who were behind the current troubles were ready for him, act before things were taken out of his hands and the station was overwhelmed by the march of events… a moment later he began walking up and down, walking with those long, loping strides, wolf-like, lean and hungry and predatory.
That was how Stephen Geisler found him. Hartog stopped in his stride as Geisler came in. He asked, “I suppose you’ve heard, Steve?”
“The killings?” Geisler too was showing the strain now. “Sure.”
Hartog’s eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, glared at him. He said, “So that’s all you’ve got to say. Listen, Steve.” He went across to the Navy man, stood towering above him, shoulders hunched, hands rammed into the pockets of khaki slacks. He said, “One of these days, some one’s going to act for those that won’t act in time.” His eyes narrowed and he drew back his lips until they made two thin, bloodless lines, a curiously animal-like snarl. “You ever stopped to think just what we could do if we took things into our own hands — you and I, Steve?”
Geisler’s ruddy face paled a little, but he didn’t answer. Hartog went on harshly, “I told you the other day. I might find something out. If I do there’s going to be trouble, I can tell you.” He glowered down at Stephen Geisler. “I’ve been doing a little bit of… well, let’s call it homework, in my own time—”
Geisler cut in, his tone suddenly steely. “I don’t know what you mean, Julian, but I can make a guess, maybe. And I’ll tell you this: don’t go sticking your neck out. That’s not our job. Leave it to the politicians. This is a Navy outfit and we just obey orders.”
Hartog stared at him, his lips curling scornfully. Then he burst into a peal of laughter — bitter, mocking laughter. He said, “Ah, nuts, Steve. You just don’t know what you’re saying. It’s no good talking to you.” He went out of the door, slamming it hard behind him.
Breathing fast, he walked across the station compound, mouth working a little, and got into a parked Land Rover. He backed the vehicle out and drove down to the gates, halted, and nodded tight-lipped at the petty officer of the naval guard. The big steel-barred gates were swung open for him and he drove on through.
Driving viciously, he headed south-westward along the Jinda road. After some fifteen minutes he pulled the Land Rover off the roadway to the left and drove into the scrub. He stopped the engine, leaving the vehicle well hidden. Then he walked on into thick jungle, along an overgrown track.
After a while, forcing his way through, he came to some old mine workings which had been started some years before as an extension of a small tin-mine which had itself been abandoned when the seam had run out. Pulling aside the vegetation which concealed the entrance to a tunnel cut into the old working-face, Hartog edged into darkness. Once inside he switched a torch on and walked ahead down the long, danksmelling tunnel until he came to a widened section where a single-track, small-gauge railway began. Pulling down a red-painted power switch high up on the tunnel wall, he clambered on to a small electric trolley and moved a lever.
Slowly at first, and then with increasing momentum, the trolley took him along the old mine workings on well-greased rails, and some while later he saw the pinpoint of daylight ahead, where the tunnel ended in the main mine, the disused one which was not so very far from Zambi village.