What you are saying is important, he told her carefully.
Can you tell me how they are stealing the guns? They are putting scrap iron in the cases, and stealing the guns, the woman whispered.
Can you tell me who is doing this, please? Do you know who is responsible? I don't know the people in the workshop, but the one who is in charge. I know who he is., We must know his name, Shasa told her persuasively, but she was silent. He could sense that she was struggling with herself, and that if he pushed her now he would lose her.
Do you want to tell me who he is? he asked. Just take your time. His name, the woman hesitated, was silent a moment longer, and then she blurted out, they call him wit Swaard White Sword. Shasa felt his skin crawl as though it were infested with vermin, and his heart seemed to check, miss a beat, then race away wildly.
What did you say? White Sword, his name is White Sword, the woman repeated and there was a crackle and click as the connection was broken.
Hello! Hello! Shasa shouted into the receiver. Are you there? Don't hang up! But the hiss of static on the empty line mocked him.
Shasa stood beside Blaine Malcomess desk while he made the call to the commissioner of police at Marshall Square in Johannesburg.
As soon as you have the search warrant you are to close the workshops. No one allowed to enter or leave. I have already spoken to the military commander of the Transvaal.
He and his quartermaster-general will give you full cooperation. I want you to begin the search right away, open all the weapons cases in the stores and check every item against the factory production sheets. I will be flying up, leaving immediately. Please have a police car meet me at Roberts Heights airfield at, he glanced at Shasa for a time, five o'clock this evening. In the meantime, I want you to impress utter secrecy on all your men involved in the search. One other thing, Commissioner, please select only men who you are satisfied are not members of any subversive organizations, particularly the Ossewa Brandwag. Shasa drove them out to Youngsfield in the Jaguar and as they parked behind the hangar Blaine unfolded his long legs and climbed out of the sports car.
Well, at least the most gruelling part of the journey is over with, he remarked.
There was a police inspector waiting for them on the hard stand below the Roberts Heights control tower as Shasa taxied the Rapide in and cut the engines. He came forward to meet them as Blaine and Shasa came down the landing steps.
How is the investigation going? Blaine demanded immediately after they had shaken hands. What have you found so far? Nothing, Minister. The inspector shook his head. We have checked over six hundred cases of rifles. it's a timeconsuming job. But so far everything seems to be in order. How many cases in the stores? Nine hundred and eighty., So you have checked over half. Blaine shook his head.
Let's go and have a look anyway., He settled his hat on his head and buttoned his overcoat to the neck for there was a cold wind sweeping across the airstrip, bringing memories of the snows of the Drakensberg mountains, and the highveld grass was bleached silvery by the frosts of late winter. He and Shasa climbed into the back seat of the black police Packard and neither of them spoke on the short journey into the centre of Pretoria.
At the gates to the railway workshops there was a double guard of police and military personnel. They checked the occupants of the Packard carefully, not visibly impressed by Blaine's status.
The chief inspector in charge of the investigation was in the office of the workshop manager and his report had little to add to what they already knew. They had so far been unable to find any irregularity in the production or packaging of weapons.
Give me the tour, Blaine ordered grimly, and the entire party, Blaine, Shasa, the chief inspector and the workshop manager, went out on to the main production floor.
Workshop, was hardly a correct description of the large factory that they entered. Originally built to service and repair the rolling stock of the state-owned railway, it had been expanded and modernized until it was capable of building its own locomotives from scratch. Now the long production line along which they picked their way was turning out armoured cars for the desert war in North Africa.
The working of the factory had not been halted by the police investigation and the cavernous sheds roofed with
corrugated iron echoed to the thunder of the steam presses and the cacophony of the lathes and turret head drills.
How many men do you employ? Blaine had to shout to make himself heard in the uproar.
Almost three thousand altogether, we are working three shifts now. Wartime production. The manager took them through to the furthest building.
This is where we turn out the small arms, he shouted.
Or rather the metal parts. Barrel and blocks. The woodwork is manufactured by outside contractors. Show us the finished articles and the packing, Blaine ordered. That's where the trouble is, if there is trouble. After assembly and checking, the completed rifles, British Long Service No 4 Mark 1 in .303 calibre, were greased and wrapped in yellow grease-proof paper, then packed in the long WD green wooden cases, ten rifles to a case. Finally the cases were loaded onto steel pallets and trundled through to the despatch stores.
When they entered the despatch area there were a dozen uniformed police constables working with at least fifty factory employees in blue overalls. Each case was being taken down from the tall stacks and opened by one of the constables, then the wrapped rifles were taken out and counted, repacked and the case lids relocked.
The checked cases were being stacked at the far end of the storehouse, and Shasa saw immediately that only about fifty cases remained to be opened and inspected.
The chief storekeeper hurried across from his desk and challenged Blaine indignantly. I don't know who you are but if you are the bloody fool who ordered this, you need your arse kicked. We have lost a day's production. There is a goods train at the siding and a convoy waiting in Durban harbour to take these weapons to our boys up north. Shasa left the group and went across to watch the working constables. 'No luck? he asked one of them.
We're wasting our time, the man grunted without looking up, and Shasa silently reviled himself. A day's war production lost because of him, it was a dire responsibility and his sense of despondency increased as he stood and watched the remaining cases opened, checked and resealed.
The constables assembled at the door of the stores and the overalled factory employees went out through the tall sliding doors to resume their posts on the production line.
The police inspector came back to where they stood in a small disconsolate group.
Nothing, Minister. I'm sorry. We had to do it, Blaine said, glancing at Shasa. Nobody is to blame. Too bloody true somebody is to blame, the chief storeman broke in truculently. Now that you've had your fun, can I get on with loading the rest of the shipment? Shasa stared at him. There was something about the man's behaviour that set off a little warning tingle down his spine, the blustering defensive manner, the shiftiness of his gaze.
Of course, he thought. If there was a switch, this is where it would take place, and this fellow would be in it to his neck. His mind was starting to slough off the inertia of disappointment and anti-climax.
All right, Blaine agreed. It was a wild-goose chase. You can get on with your work. Hold on, sir, Shasa intervened quietly, and he turned back to the storeman. How many railway trucks have you loaded already? There it was again, the shift of the man's eyes, the slight hesitation. He was going to lie. Then he glanced involuntarily at the sheaf of papers in the clipboard that lay on his desk beside the doors that led out onto the loading bays.