The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur - Страница 124

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"So what are you going to do with yourself this time?" "Well, I was trained as an armouRer when I did my national service, and there is an armourer's berth open in the police. The way I see it, I'm going to be called up again anyway, so I might as well beat them to it and enlist." "The police," Jonathan mused, "that does have the virtue of being one of the few things you haven't tried yet. Get me another drink." While Craig poured gin and tonic, Jonathan put on his fiercest expression to cover his embarrassment and growled, "Look here, boy, if you are really short, I'll bend the rule this once, and lend you a few dollars to tide you over. Strictly a loan though." "That's very decent of you, BaWu, but a rule is a rule." "I make "em, I break "em," Jonathan glared at him. "How much do you need?" "You know those old books you wanted?" Craig murmured, as he put the old man's glass back in front of him, and an expression of intense cunning came into Jonathan's eyes which he tried in vain to conceal.

"What books? "His innocence was loaded. "Those old journals." "Oh, those!" And despite himself Jonathan glanced at the bookshelves beside his desk upon which were displayed his collection of family journals.

They stretched back over a hundred years, from the arrival of his grandfather, Zouga Ballantyne, in Africa in 1860 up to the death of Jonathan's father, Sir Ralph Ballantyne, in 1929, but the sequence was broken by a few missing years, three volumes which had come down on Craig's side of the family, through old Harry Mellow, who had been Sir Ralph's partner and dearest friend.

For some perverse reason that Craig could not even understand himself, he had up until now resisted all the old man's blandishments and attempts to get his hands on them. It was probably because they were the one small lever he had on Jonathan that he had held out since they had come into his possession on his twenty-first birthday, the only item of any value in the inheritance from his long-dead father.

"Yes, those," Craig nodded. "I thought I might let you have them." "You must be hard pressed." The old man tried not to let his glee shine through.

"Even more than usual," Craig admitted. "You waste,-" "Okay, Bawu.

We've been down that road before," Craig stopped him hurriedly. "Do you want them?" "How much? "Jonathan demanded suspiciously. "Last time you offered me a thousand each." "I must have been soft." "Since then there has been a hundred per cent inflation-2 Jonathan loved to haggle.

It enhanced his image of himself as hard and ruthless. Craig reckoned he was worth ten million. He owned King's Lynn and four other ranches.

He owned the Harkness Mine which after eighty years in production was still producing 50,000 ounces of gold a year, and he had assets outside this beleaguered country, prudently stashed away over the years in Johannesburg, London and New York. Ten million was probably conservative, Craig realized, and set himself to bargain as hard as the old man.

At last they reached a figure with Jonathan grumbling, "They're worth half of that." "There are two other conditions, Bawu. "And immediately Jonathan was suspicious again.

"Number one, you leave them to me in your will, the whole set, Zouga Ballantyne's and Sir Ralph's journals, all of them." "Roland and Douglas-" "They are going to get King's Lynn and the Harkness and all the rest that's what you told me." "Damn right," he growled. "They won't blow it all out the window like you would." "They can have it," Craig grinned easily. "They are Ballantynes as you say, but I want the journals." "What is your second condition? "Jonathan demanded. "I want access to them now." "What do you mean?" "I want to be able to read and study any of them whenever I want to." "What the hell, Craig, you have never given a damn about them before. I doubt you have even read the three you own." "I've glanced through them," Craig admitted "shamefacedly.

"And now?" "I was up at Kharni Mission this morning, in the old cemetery. There is a grave there, Victoria Mellow." Jonathan nodded.

"Aunty Vicky, Harry's wife, go on." "I had this strange feeling as I was standing there. Almost as though she was calling to me." Craig plucked at the thick forelock over his eyes and could not look at his grandfather. "And suddenly I wanted to find out more about her, and the others." They were both silent for a while, and then Jonathan nodded.

"All right, my boy, I accept your conditions. Both sets will be yours one day, and until then you can read them whenever you wish to."

Jonathan had seldom been so pleased with a bargain. He had completed his sets after thirty years, and if the boy was serious about reading them, he had found a good home for them. The Lord knew, neither Douglas nor Roland was interested, and in the meantime perhaps the journals might draw Craig back to King's Lynn more often. He wrote out the cheque and signed it with a flourish, while Craig went out to the Land-Rover and dug the three leather-bound manuscripts from the bottom of his kit bag

"I suppose you will spend it all on that boat," Jonathan accused as he came in from the veranda.

"Some of it," Craig admitted. He placed the books in front of the old man.

"You are a dreamer." Jonathan slid the cheque across the desk.

"Sometimes I prefer dreams to reality." Craig scrutinized the figures briefly, then buttoned the pink cheque into his top pocket.

"That's your trouble," said Jonathan.

"Bawu, if you start lecturing me, I'm going to head straight back to town." Jonathan held up both hands in capitulation. "All right," he chuckled. "Your old room is the way you left it, if you want to use it." "I have an appointment with the police recruiting officer on Monday, but I'll stay the weekend, if that's okay?" "I'll ring Trevor this evening and fix the interview." Trevor Pennington was the assistant commissioner of police. Jonathan believed in starting at the top.

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