Geoffrey Jenkins - The River of Diamonds

He looked at me keenly. 'You mean Mount Brukkaros?'

I nodded. 'That's it… I didn't think many people knew. The Institution had a solar research station right on top of that ruddy extinct volcano for years. It's a superb site — I've seen 100 miles from the summit on a clear day. Anyway, they couldn't find anyone to man it any longer. There were some instruments and equipment to bring down. It sounded interesting to me. It was.'

It was he who jerked us back into the present. 'So is sea-bed prospecting, Mr Tregard. You didn't come here to tell me your life story.'

'No.' I replied slowly. I sugared the pill the best I could. 'The Mazy Zed organization is big, Mr Shelborne. There is room for a man like you. Rhennin and I saw your enthusiasm in court. Rhennin wants you… would like you… in our project.'

The lamp shadowed the lower part of his face as he leaned forward. I was aware only of the power and anger of his eyes. 'At a price, not so?'

I had known it wouldn't be easy. This wasn't a charlatan looking for pickings. I felt cheap and softened the offer which I had jibbed at making in the first place. 'We could use your services, your knowledge, your drive. We have very big problems before we bring up the first diamond from the sea-bed. We would like you to join us.'

'Come, come, Mr Tregard, while I hold the sea-bed rights?'

'Not hold them, cede them. As Caldwell ceded them to you. Except our price is not a wagon load of stores and a case of brandy. It is five thousand pounds.'

'Five thousand pounds for what the Judge said was a potential of millions?'

The sneer gave an edge to his voice. I became angry — angry with myself really, I told myself afterwards — in the face of this stand.

'Listen, Shelborne, you won't bring up a single pay-load of diamonds and you know it. For thirty years you've done damn-all. Here's your chance to come in with a big, progressive organization.'

'No.'

'I am authorized to go up to ten thousand pounds.'

'Not for fifty thousand pounds.'

His curt rejection stung me. I might have guessed he couldn't be bought. My tongue ran away with me: 'What did you do with Caldwell, Shelborne? Why were you so shaken to see his daughter in court today?'

The lamp etched the lines in his face. His eyes blazed. 'Leave her out of it,' he said thickly, 'you can't…'

'… right an old injustice, can you?'

'What do you mean?'

My next words were thrown out as a taunt. I suppose his vehement reaction must have been an unconscious aftermath of Shardelow's needling him in court; I think that it was at that moment that I formed my first suspicion of Shelborne.

'Only you and God know what happened to Caldwell.'

'Only — me — and — God!'

I might have been alone, he was so withdrawn. Then he burst out savagely: 'In the desert, Tregard, strange things happen to men. They dream dreams…' He stopped short and then went on quietly. 'What happens about the girl?'

I shrugged. 'Shardelow said we regard both your applications as one. We'll fight you both.'

'No, I mean, are you approaching her — like me?'

'What the hell for? Yours is the original document. The fight's on, it seems — at your choosing. The girl comes second. She catches it anyway.'

He said, very quietly, 'And her mother?'

'Mother? What has she got to do with it?'

'She said she's had a stroke — you know what that means: she'll die.'

'Don't drag that sort of sentimental stuff into this, Shelborne. You know bloody well that if you wanted to help her, you need never have produced your document and the cession which Caldwell is supposed to have made you.'

The strange green eyes, rather widely set, stared at me, almost hypnotically. 'If you win — and the girl's mother dies — won't you offer her a job? She'll be penniless.'

'Why should we?'

'She's a diamond sorter. Good ones are hard to come by these days. She could be very useful to the Mazy Zed…'

I was uncomfortable, angry at myself, at Rhennin and the whole set-up. 'And if you win, I presume you'll offer her a job dropping dredges and greasy buoys?'

He didn't rise. 'Mine has been a long search, Tregard. I know what I am after and how far I have progressed.'

He said it so sincerely that I regretted my anger and sarcasm.

'That means you'll go back to Mercury — I'll come and look you up on my survey.'

He didn't relax. 'Mercury has an evil name on the coast, you know.'

'I'll come and see for myself.'

'Its reputation began at the very beginning, when the American explorer Captain Ben Morrell discovered it: he found half a million seals dead there. Mass suicide.'

I laughed, but there was something deep, sinister, about the way he spoke. Was it an indirect threat at me?

'So I must be scared off by an unexplained phenomenon which happened 140 years ago?'

'Not scared, but warned. Shortly after I took over as headman, millions of sea-birds died — equally mysteriously.'

'I expect it was some epidemic.'

He didn't seem to hear me 'In my time on Mercury several men have died — without reason. It is a very dangerous coast, Tregard, and there are many wrecks. Some of those men have died horribly.'

A ripple of fear ran through me at the way he spoke, and it triggered a retort:

'Did you murder Caldwell, Shelborne?'

For a split second the fine tracery of veins stood out against his forehead. If he rushes me, don't hit him too hard, he's old, I told myself. Just hard enough…

There was no need. Shelborne was on his feet and the gun was pointing at me. It was long, old-fashioned, and the light struck back from the beautiful engraving and inlay work on the barrel. I recognized it — the father of the modern Luger, a 7.65 mm Borchardt, first of the automatics. I knew that inside was a magazine with eight rounds. It was a superb collector's piece — and a killer's weapon.

Shelborne's thumb, moving as if of its own accord, patted the toggle. His hand was rock-steady. I'd have to risk the first shot. I'd be able to jump him before the second got me — the long heavy breechblock had to be activated by a relatively low-powered bullet before the next round came up from the magazine — and the next round would certainly kill me. But I hadn't got the modern Luger's mamba-quick repeat strike to deal with. Again the old centrefire cartridge wouldn't have the certainty of a modern rimfire. He might be using modern Mauser-types of the same calibre, though; in which case…

Shelborne must have seen it in my face. 'Don't…' he snarled.

I kicked the stay of the collapsible table and dived under it. I heard simultaneously the crash of the shot and the thud of the bullet into the thick planking top. I rocketed out at a crouch and grabbed his legs in a flying tackle. The second shot went into the coach roof above our heads. Time-lag — not Mauser. Completely off-balance, he tried for a moment to use the two-and-a-half-pound pistol to club me, but we went reeling against the side. His head struck the wood and he went limp.

I pulled myself clear and picked up the Borchardt. Keeping an eye on Shelborne, who was breathing heavily, I examined it. The Luger ancestry was clear in the delicate balance and long, tapering barrel. The toggle and breechblock were longer and heavier than in its modern counterpart — that is what had saved my life. But its beauty lay not only in its functionalism but in the engraving and gold and platinum inlay work on the butt and barrel. Even the crescent-shaped recoil-spring housing at the back was chased. I turned it over on to its right side. The cover-plate for the frame was circled by a thin line of gold engraving enclosing a masterfully executed Sperrgebiet gemsbok, looking almost like a unicorn.

But it was the lettering cut deep into the metal, which riveted my eyes.