that Shermaine had not spoken since her initial greeting to Boussier.
He glanced at her now and she smiled at him. I like a woman who knows
when to keep her mouth shut.
Boussier swung the door of the safe open and carried a small wooden case
across to the desk.
"There," he said.
Bruce examined it. Eighteen inches long, nine deep and twelve
wide. He lifted it experimentally.
"About twenty pounds weight," he decided. "The lid is sealed."
"Yes," agreed Boussier, touching the four wax imprints.
"Good," Bruce nodded. "I don't want to draw unnecessary attention to it
by placing a guard upon it."
"No, I agree." Bruce studied the case a few seconds longer and then he
asked: "What is the value of these stones?" Boussier shrugged. "Possibly
five hundred million francs." And Bruce was impressed; half a million
sterling. Worth
stealing, worth killing for.
"I suggest, monsieur, that you secrete this case in your luggage.
In your blankets, say. I doubt there will be any danger of theft until
we reach Msapa Junction. A thief will have no avenue of escape. Once we
reach Msapa junction I will make other arrangements for its safety."
"Very well, Captain." Bruce stood up and glanced at his watch. "Seven
o'clock, as near as dammit. I will leave you and see to the guard on the
causeway. Please make sure that your people are ready to entrain before
dawn tomorrow morning."
"Of course." Bruce looked at Shermaine and she stood up quickly.
Bruce held the door open for her and was just about to follow her when a
thought struck him.
"That mission station - St. Augustine's, is it? I suppose it's deserted
now?"
"No, it's not." Boussier looked a little shamefaced.
"Father Ignatius is still there, and of course the patients at the
hospital."
"Thanks for telling me." Bruce was bitter.
"I'm sorry, Captain. It slipped my mind, there are so many things to
think of."
"Do you know the road out to the mission?" he snapped at
Shermaine. She should have told him.
"Yes, Bruce."
"Well, perhaps you'd be good enough to direct me."
"Of course." She also looked guilty.
Bruce slammed the door of Boussier's office and strode off towards the
hotel with Shermaine trotting to keep pace with him. You can't rely on
anyone, he thought, not anybody!
And then he saw Ruffy coming up from the station, looking like a big
bear in the dusk. With a few exceptions, Bruce corrected himself
"Sergeant Major."
"Hello, boss."
"This General Moses is closer to us than we reckoned.
He's reported two hundred kilometres north of here on the Senwati road."
Ruffy whistled through his teeth. "Are you going to take off now, Boss?"
"No, I want a machine-gun post on this end of the causeway.
If they come we can hold them there long enough to get away. I want you
to take command."
"I'll see to it now."
"I'm going out to the mission - there's a white priest there. Lieutenant
Haig is in command while I'm away."
"Okay, boss."
"I'm sorry, Bruce. I should have told you." Shermaine sat small and
repentant at her end of the Ranchero.
"Don't worry about it," said Bruce, not meaning it.
"We have tried to make Father Ignatius come in to town.
Martin has spoken to him many times, but he refuses to move."
Bruce did not answer. He took the car down on to the causeway, driving
carefully. There were shreds of mist lifting out of the swamp and
drifting across the concrete ramp.
Small insects, bright as tracer in the headlights, zoomed in to squash
against the windscreen. The froggy chorus from the swamp honked
and clinked and boomed deafeningly.
"I have apologized," she murmured.
"Yes, I heard you," said Bruce. "You don't have to do it again."
She was silent, and then: "Are you always so bad-tempered?" she asked in
English.
"Always," snapped Bruce, "is one of the words which should be eliminated
from the language."
"Since it has not been, I will continue to use it. You haven't answered
my question: are you always so bad-tempered?"
"I just don't like balls-ups."
"What is balls-up, please?"
"What has just happened: a mistake, a situation precipitated by
inefficiency, or by somebody not using his head."
"You never make balls-up, Bruce?"
"It is not a polite expression, Shermaine. Young ladies of your
refinement do not use it." Bruce changed into French.
"You never make mistakes?" she corrected herself Bruce did not answer.
That's quite funny, he thought - never make mistakes! Bruce
Curry, the original balls-up.
Shermaine held one hand across her middle and sat up straight.
"Bonaparte," she said. "Cold, silent, efficient."
"I didn't say that-" Bruce started to defend himself.
Then in the glow from the dash light he saw her impish expression and he
could not stop himself; he had to grin.
"All right, I'm acting like a child." "You would like a cigarette?" she
asked.
"Yes, please." She lit it and passed it to him.
"You do not like-" she hesitated, "mistakes. Is there anything you do
like?"
"Many things," said Bruce.
"Tell me some." They bumped off the end of the causeway and Bruce
accelerated up the far bank.
"I like being on a mountain when the wind blows, and the taste of the
sea. I like Sinatra, crayfish thertnidor, the weight and balance of a
Purdey Royal, and the sound of a little girl's laughter. I like the
first draw of a cigarette lit from a wood fire, the scent of jasmine,
the feel of silk; I also enjoy sleeping late in the morning, and the
thrill of forking a queen with my knight. Shadows on the floor of a
forest please me. And, of course, money. But especially I like women who
do not ask too many questions."
"Is that all?"
"No, but it's a start."
"And apart from - mistakes, what are the things you do not like."
"Women who ask too many questions," and he saw her smile.
"Selfishness except my own, turnip soup, politics, blond pubic hairs,
Scotch whisky, classical music and hangovers."
"I'm sure that is not
all."
"No, not nearly."
"You are very sensual. All these things are of the senses."
"Agreed."
"You do not mention other people. Why?"
"Is this the turn-off to the mission?"
"Yes, go slowly, the road is bad.
Why do you not mention your relationship to other people?"
"Why do you ask so many questions? Perhaps I'll tell you some day." She
was silent
a while and then softly: "And what do you want from life - just those
things you have spoken of? Is that all you want?"
"No. Not even them.
I want nothing, expect nothing; that way I cannot be disappointed."
Suddenly she was angry. "You not only act like a child, you talk like
one."
"Another thing I don't like: criticism."
"You are young. You have brains, good looks-"
"Thank you, that's better." and you are a fool." :That's not so good.
But don't fret about it." I won't, don't worry," she flamed at him. "You
can-" she searched for something devastating. "You can go jump out of