The Talisman (38 page)

No sooner had they entered when George Windsor arrived. He gave Alex a look, and behind him came two girls dressed in evening clothes to serve the drinks. There was no sign of Johnny Mask.

‘Where the hell is he?’

Johnny waltzed in and apologized for being late but he had been busy. Alex could see he had already been drinking. Johnny stared hard at Alex and moved to his table, put an arm round him. ‘Hey, Alex, you son of a bitch, how ya doin’? Jesus, truck run over yer face or what? Never would’ve known ya.’ Then he pulled Alex to one side and whispered, ‘You playin’ with these wops?’

Alex assured him he was, then smiled and nudged Johnny and said after all he was an accountant now, and had made a few bob. Johnny seemed satisfied, and Alex caught the gleam in his eye as the Greeks dug deep in their pockets and laid thick wads of notes on the table. Alex joined them, and the girls moved around the table with drinks.

New packs of cards were ready on the table. Alex took his seat and, like the Greeks, took out a wad of money. Johnny perched on a bar stool, poured himself a Scotch, and watched the seal on a pack of cards being broken and the game begin.

Alex was up by two thousand, the men hardly speaking except to bid, and Johnny’s fingers began to itch. The phone rang and Arnie answered, then looked across to the table. ‘Call for you, Alex, important, sorry.’

As he passed Johnny, Alex spoke to him out of the side of his mouth. ‘I thought these guys were supposed to be sharp, I’m creamin’ them.’

The game went quiet, the men covered their cards. Alex swore into the phone, looked back at the table, then slammed the phone down.

‘I got problems, I got to walk – I’m sorry about this.’

The Greeks argued among themselves, and Johnny moved to the table.

‘No need to break the game, I’ll take his place if you agree. Alex, what you say?’

Alex put it to the men and they refused, saying they would need to see the colour of Johnny Mask’s cash. They knew about him, about the markers, and they were not interested. They wanted his money on the table.

Johnny swore and went to the till, sprang it open. It was cleaned out. As planned, Alex took Johnny aside and told him to get the papers from the safe in the office. He could put his share of the club up as a stake, and Alex would lend him cash in return. ‘It’s just between you an’ me, Johnny, up to you. It’s your choice, only I got to go.’

Johnny signed his half share of the club to Alex, and was handed twenty thousand pounds.

Alex walked out of the club as the game proceeded. He gave Arnie a look, and George walked with Alex to the exit. ‘Gawd almighty, he fell for it, he’s off his rocker.’

One hour later, Johnny was five thousand up, flushed and drinking steadily. He was playing well, and he was beginning to raise the bidding higher and higher. The Greeks won, lost, won, lost, making sure that Johnny believed he was on a winning streak. They had been playing for over two hours when the game began to move into really high stakes. The stakes were being pushed up by Johnny himself. He started the bidding on one hand at five thousand . . . Slowly the tables turned on him. The Greeks were good, and although Arnie watched closely he couldn’t see how they were doing it. He would never play a game in one of their joints, that was for sure. They were wiping Johnny out, hand by hand. As Johnny began to panic, he doubled up his betting to try to recoup his losses.

At midnight Alex returned. Johnny looked exhausted, his collar undone, sweating, and stubble darkened his sweating cheeks. He seemed hardly to notice Alex’s arrival, he was dealing, and his cash, once stacked so high in front of him, was down to about two or three thousand at most.

‘He’s lost every hand for the past hour, couple more big pots and he’s finished.’

‘Okay, I’ll go five and another two on top to see you.’

‘Fucking hell, shit . . . Shit!’

Johnny swiped at the table and the cards tumbled on to the floor. Arnie went immediately and gathered them up, replaced them with a new deck.

Three o’clock and Johnny was cleaned out. He walked away from the table, running his hands through his hair. ‘Give us one for the road, Arnie old son.’

Arnie placed a double Scotch in front of him and he knocked it back, then gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘You know, my Dad, he was a gyppo. He thought he had the luck, he gambled all his life. He died in a Salvation Army hostel . . . Any of you lot know where I can find the nearest one?’

You had to admire the way Johnny straightened his tie and turned with a flashing smile to Alex. ‘Tell Dora, will ya? Tell her I finally did it.’

Alex paid off the Greeks and gave them the two whores as a present. Then he paid Arnie and leaned on the bar, looking around. ‘You know the first thing I’m gonna do? Get some new tablecloths, this place looks like a dive.’

They both turned as Dora entered, her mink coat slung over her shoulder. Alex gave Arnie a look which told him to disappear and he murmured, ‘Okay, boss.’

Dora heard him, and cocked her head to one side. Alex tossed the papers to her and she caught them, laughing. ‘So you did it? How much do I owe you?’

Alex walked over to the table, which was still stacked with the cards and the cash. ‘Twenty-five grand . . .’

She thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. ‘You’re not serious . . . What the hell do you take me for?’

Alex handed over the papers Johnny had signed. ‘Look at the papers, darlin’, I am serious. Johnny signed the club over to me – all legal, just as we agreed.’

‘You bastard . . . you dirty bastard! You thievin’ git!’

Alex sighed and told her she could choose – either give him the money or accept him as her new partner.

‘I need that money, you know I do. I got wages to pay on Friday, all the girls, the barmen, the booze . . .’

Alex handed her the briefcase. ‘Well then, it’s simple, isn’t it – partner?’

Dora knew he had beaten her, but then she looked on the bright side. Maybe it would be a good thing to have a man around. And, if Alex were true to his word, she wouldn’t be the loser, far from it. She began to look at Alex in a different light.

‘Will you do one thing for me, then, Alex? For God’s sake get yourself a decent suit.’

Alex drew back his head and laughed. It took her by surprise – it was an infectious, bubbling laugh.

‘You know, I thought your brother was a bastard, but I reckon you’re one step ahead of him.’

The smile disappeared, and Alex’s face froze. ‘If ever, ever, he walks into this place, no matter what hour of the day or night, you call me . . .’

He frightened her. ‘He owe you, like Johnny did?’

Alex snapped the briefcase shut and wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Yeah, he owes me.’

At Johannesburg Airport, Edward slipped in among the throngs of travellers as they left the terminal, ending up at Richard’s side. ‘Richard . . .? You on flight 054?’

Richard turned, puzzled for a moment, then recognized Edward. ‘Good God, it’s Stubbs, isn’t it? Well, hello there! How are you doing?’ They walked into the brilliant sunshine outside the terminal.

‘I’m hoping for a job at De Veer’s mining laboratories.’

As he looked round for his father, Richard said he might be able to help out as he was employed in their valuation department at Hatton Garden. He spotted his father’s old Bentley as BB tooted and waved. Edward had polished the car himself, and it gleamed.

‘Pop, this is Edward Stubbs, remember him?’

BB gave Edward a non-committal look and shook his hand. He had to hand it to BB, he carried it off brilliantly, even seemed to get a kick out of it. Richard threw his case into the back of the Bentley. ‘I say, can we give you a lift, Edward?’

‘Actually, I have to book into a hotel, not got things arranged as yet.’

With a look to his son, BB waved his cigar and said surely they could put the young chap up for a few days. Edward saw Richard hesitate, but then he smiled and gestured for Edward to climb aboard.

Richard was very much ‘on top’ and wanted to flaunt his affluence to Edward, insisting they dine out together that evening at one of the best hotels. Edward murmured that he was a little short of cash, and Richard waved this aside. BB gave Edward a covert look as they entered the house.

While they were dining at the Fairmount Hotel, Richard rose from the table as two grey-haired men in dark suits approached them. They shook hands as Richard introduced his father, then as an afterthought he introduced Edward. The two men were in top executive positions at De Veer’s, and Richard almost grovelled at their feet to persuade them to join their table. BB surpassed himself. ‘You shouldn’t miss this opportunity. This young friend of my son’s has just stepped off the plane from London. He was at Cambridge – firsts in every subject and honours in Geology and Petrology . . . looking for work. If I had my day again I wouldn’t let this chap go . . .’

Mr Johnson took stock of the handsome young man, and leaned forward. ‘How long have you been in South Africa?’

Edward flushed and looked down, acting the shy student. ‘I just arrived, I was on the same plane as Richard, actually.’

Johnson nodded, then turned to Richard. ‘Bring this young chap along with you on Thursday, be interested to hear what he has to say for himself. Nice to meet you, Mr Stubbs, BB . . . until Thursday then, Richard. Thanks for the drink.’

Richard waited until the two men had threaded their way through the restaurant before he looked angrily at his father. ‘I only just got my own foot in the door, Pop, I don’t want to push my luck. Maybe another time, Edward, all right?’

BB rose from the table as Richard, obviously still angry, held Edward’s arm. ‘I don’t want to sound hard, Edward, but the old man does go on a bit. It’s taken me a lot of hard work to get this far in the company, and Pop’s not exactly got a snow-white reputation.’

BB turned to his son, his face flushed. ‘I heard that, and you’ll take young Edward here with you. Always give a chap a leg-up, Dickie, you never know when you might pass them on the way down – and I should know. Right, let’s get me to bed.’

‘Mr Johnson, there’s a gentleman here to see you, says his name’s Stubbs.’

Edward took the phone from the receptionist. ‘Edward Stubbs, sir, met you with Richard Van der Burge at the Fairmount Hotel the other night . . . Yes, yes, well I’m here in reception right now.’

Mr Johnson was waiting at the lift as Edward stepped out. ‘I have to go over to the labs this morning, you busy later?’

Edward grinned and said he was more than free, and they walked into the office.

Richard made no attempt to mention Edward. He had had long talks with the marketing board, and they discussed the new sales brochures they were about to print, spending considerable time looking over the new designs. The diamonds had been given more commercial-sounding names: ‘Brilliant’, ‘Marquise’, ‘Pear’. Richard was beginning to get a headache, but he tried to appear interested in the conversation. They went on to the problems they had been having with the Central Selling Organization getting their shipments on time.

Fascinated, Edward listened as Johnson explained the Central Selling Organization, or CSO. With such an attentive audience he held forth in great detail. ‘Our principles are very straightforward. As we, the CSO, handle the major proportion of world sales, we can best maintain an adequate supply of diamonds to the cutting centres at stable prices . . . If you look at this map, Edward, it’ll give you some idea just how many mines are producing quality merchandise.’

Johnson pointed to a wall map and picked up a pen, gesturing to each country as he spoke. ‘The Belgian Congo, Tanganyika, Bechuanaland, Basutoland, Namibia, Sierra Leone, Ghana . . . all from Africa, we here in South Africa are among the many. Co-operative marketing depends not only on the ability of the CSO to sell diamonds, as with your young friend Richard, but also on its financial strength to cover stocks. Whenever production of particular sizes exceeds demand, then these categories can be carried in reserve until the market needs them, therefore keeping some kind of equality . . . excuse me.’

Edward jumped as Johnson barked on his intercom, then switched it off and checked his watch. ‘Look, you want to have lunch? Show you not only the laboratories but some of the cutting experts of the world are in town today, would you like to meet them . . .?’

Richard was amazed to see Edward being guided through the canteen by one of the Great White Chiefs, and ushered into one of the private dining rooms. Edward gave Richard a slight smile and followed Johnson.

The food was good, and served by waitresses wearing pretty pink caps. Johnson introduced Edward to the others, and they discussed in detail a programme they were setting up. A white-haired gentleman seated himself opposite Edward, next to Johnson.

‘You the young chap with the glowing degrees from Cambridge? Who was your professor, not Emmott by any chance?’

Edward was ‘in’, and he smiled. They talked for a long time, at the end of which the man shook Edward’s hand and said, ‘Call me Ernest.’ His love of diamonds was obvious, and he kept Edward fascinated with his descriptions of the two main methods used for mining diamonds, ‘pipe’ and ‘alluvial’.

Time and time again Edward tried to interrupt Ernest but, like Johnson, once he got started on his precious diamonds he was unstoppable. Just as he was about to launch into the alluvial mining process, Edward managed to interrupt.

‘It’s quite extraordinary, sir, I was making vast progress in the testing of above-ground materials to avoid the time it takes to pinpoint the exact location of the central mine. Stones, I know, can be carried miles on river beds, and the miners work backwards to trace the source . . . But what if, by using chemicals on the layers of earth at surface level, one could detect, and be almost one hundred per cent sure, that there would be diamonds or gold seven or eight hundred feet below . . . ?’

Johnson did not like to break in on the conversation, as the chairman was obviously enthralled by the young student. Sir Ernest Lieberson tweaked his moustache as he listened to Edward’s theories, which he found interesting, to say the least – especially when Edward took Emmott’s notes and copies of his final papers from his briefcase.