The River of Diamonds Page 2

  I was glad to get back to the realities of the courtroom. When the Judge had taken his seat Shardelow rose: 'Touching the validity of the German document, my lord…' There was a stir on the far side of the court, near where the girl sat. A big, pleasant, red-faced man, conspicuous in white bush-jacket, white shorts and pipeclayed shoes, was beckoning urgently to the court orderly. The orderly rose uncertainly. The Judge held up his hand to silence Shardelow.

  'Watch this!' Rhennin whispered.

  The big man seemed unaware of the ominous silence and the eyes turned upon him. He gave the orderly a note, who handed it to the Judge.

  'What is your locus standi?' he snapped.

  The newcomer looked nonplussed. 'I beg your pardon, my lord?'

  'Who are you and what do you want? I will not have the proceedings of my court interrupted in this way…'

  The white-clad man was very sure of himself. 'I am Colonel Duvenhage. I am in charge of security at Oranjemund.'

  'I see. And that, you think, gives you the privilege of breaking into these proceedings?'

  'It might.'

  Mr Justice de Villiers was more icy still. 'Do I take it that you suspect someone in this court of smuggling diamonds?'

  'Not as yet, my lord.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Duvenhage looked across at Shelborne. 'I wish to ask this gentleman a few questions. I want to know how he comes to be inside the security zone without having passed through any of the security checkpoints. I want to know where he comes from. I would like to search him.'

  The Judge said tersely, 'You may put your questions through the court. You can search him at your leisure.'

  Duvenhage smiled. 'A formality, my lord, to which you and your party were also subjected, you will remember, when you landed: X-rays. Frisking has been out of date for quite a while at Oranjemund.'

  The Judge turned to Shelborne. 'Answer the questions.' Shardelow grinned to himself. Duvenhage had done more to discredit Shelborne in the fudge's eyes than half an hour of hostile cross-examination could have done.

  One could see what was going on in his legal mind: if Shelborne were inside the security zone illegally, it would be easy to imply that there was also something shady about his prospecting concession.

  Shelborne said, 'I came from the sea. In a twenty-ton cutter.'

  'Nonsense,' snapped Duvenhage. 'The mouth of the river is not navigable. Everything is behind the barbed wire. There are police posts everywhere…'

  'My cutter is anchored in Anvil Creek. I saw a road nearby and thumbed a lift in a lorry. I got off at this courtroom.'

  Duvenhage paled under his tan. 'My God…!'

  'This is a court of law, Colonel Duvenhage. Restrain your language.'

  'Anvil Creek!' he exclaimed. 'I don't know any Anvil Creek

  Shelborne smiled. 'Perhaps not, Colonel. It's probably got a new name since Caldwell and I discovered it.'

  Duvenhage wiped the sweat off his hands with a handkerchief. He appealed to the fudge. 'My lord, it is simply not possible for any boat to negotiate the breakers and sandbars at the mouth and get right through to Oranjemund's doorstep, so to speak. No boat could survive…'

  'Apparently it has been done, Colonel Duvenhage. Earlier this court heard that Mr Shelborne was a master mariner — in sail. It appears that he has not understated his qualifications.'

  'But it cannot be done…'

  The Judge cut him short. 'You also asked where Mr Shelborne came from. I trust we are in for no more surprises.'

  'I sailed from Mercury Island.'

  'Mercury!' exclaimed Duvenhage. 'Why, that's over 200 miles up the coast from here… in a twenty-ton cutter? Where is your crew…?'

  'I have no crew. I sail single-handed.'

  The Judge said: 'Mr Shelborne, to sum up: you sailed 200 miles or more from Mercury Island to the mouth of the Orange River, entered it by a feat of seamanship which leaves some doubts in Colonel Duvenhage's mind about the impregnability of his security arrangements, and your cutter is now lying at anchor close to the town in a creek which you found many years ago?'

  That is correct.'

  'What were you doing at Mercury Island?'

  'I am the headman, my lord.'

  It was my turn to be surprised. Shelborne was obviously an educated man, a prospector and a master mariner, the island headmen were bucko mate types. They had to be to supervise the gangs of coloured guano scrapers. I knew vaguely that Mercury was one of a dozen or so guano islands off the Sperrgebiet coast which are run under government supervision for fertilizer collecting. Then I remembered that Mercury had a bad reputation, even among those God-forsaken islands, and that the only way to get guano workers there was to offer them a special bonus.

  Shelborne was addressing the Judge: '… the islands are run as sailing ships, my lord. The tradition began with the great guano rush of the last century when the crews of the.hundreds of sailing ships which gathered there took their jargon ashore. We call a kitchen a galley, a wardrobe a slop-chest; our time is reckoned in ships' watches, not in hours…'

  'Any further questions, Colonel Duvenhage?'

  Duvenhage darted a glance, half admiration, half puzzlement, at the man in the witness-box.

  'All I can say is that the last time a man tried to navigate the river mouth was eighty years ago. He used a canvas boat. They never found his body.'

  The Judge dismissed Duvenhage and nodded to Shardelow to resume. 'Mr Shelborne… or should I say Captain?… I have studied this so-called deed of cession. I accept as genuine the German Imperial Seal. I see it is countersigned by Dr Heinrich Goering — who was he?'

  'Formerly Reichskommissiondr for Luderitzland — what is today the Sperrgebiet. He' conquered it for Germany. He was the father of Hermann Goering, head of the Luftwaffe in the Second World War.'

  'Thank you. Now to the actual deed of cession…'

  Shelborne gripped the edge of the witness-box. He kept an even voice. He was making a great effort to control himself. 'Yes?'

  'It is signed by Frederick William Caldwell and Frederick Shelborne, Strandloper's Water, 13 February 1930.'

  'Yes.'

  'You ask us to accept that the late Mr Caldwell ceded this right to you in return for — what exactly?'

  'A wagonload of stores, a case of Cape brandy, and two sixty-four-gallon hogsheads of water.'

  Shardelow tapped his teeth with his pencil. He gestured through the window towards the big man-made dune flanking the diamond recovery plant.

  'What would you say was the annual value of diamonds taken at Oranjemund?'

  Shelborne was obviously surprised at the oblique query. 'I can't say — many millions, of course.'

  'If I said eighteen million pounds, you would accept that?'

  'Yes.'

  'You feel that the shoreline deposits of diamonds similar to those found at Oranjemund must continue under the sea; that in other words, since there are diamonds in terraces along the beach, it is logical to suppose that those terraces do not simply end where the breakers begin, but extend under the waves?'

  'Important technical considerations…'

  'Answer the question, Mr Shelborne! Do you believe that there are diamonds under the sea?'

  Shelborne seemed reluctant to answer. Why? The cardinal point of the hearing was the assumption that the diamond terraces on the coast were also to be found on the sea-bed. Rhennin was staking a million dollars on it.

  Shelborne remained cagey. 'Do you mean, are there diamond fields similar to the Oranjemund terraces, or are you referring to a different type of deposit…?'

  Shardelow sensed that, he was on to something. 'I mean diamonds, Mr Shelborne. Diamonds in any shape or form. Diamonds under the sea.'

  Shelborne seemed to relax. 'Yes.'

  'Thank you. Assuming that there are sea-bed diamonds, then, would you consider their value to approximate to that of shore diamonds?'

  'It could be; but…'

  'It could be. Therefore, you
sold a wagonload of stores, a case of brandy and two casks of water to Caldwell for the equivalent of many million pounds?'

  'It wasn't in those terms…'

  'I'm sure it wasn't, Mr Shelborne. No one in his senses would sell a wagonload of stores for millions of pounds.' He proceeded at once. 'Do you always write such a neat hand?'

  'What do you mean?'

  Shardelow handed the document up to the Judge. 'Please notice the two signatures. The one, Frederick William Caldwell, is a scrawl. The other, Frederick Shelborne, is in neat, scholarly italics. Perhaps, Mr Shelborne, you would sign your name on this piece of paper…'

  'With pleasure.'

  He wrote rapidly. Shardelow gave it a quick glance and passed it to Rhennin. I saw the beautiful italic writing — like printing almost, it was so fine.

  Shardelow shrugged. His effort to discredit Shelborne's signature had failed. It could have been blown into a major point, but clearly he had another shot in his locker. He said, 'My lord, I shall accept that the two signatures were not written by the same hand.'

  The Judge said, 'I think we should establish the exact position of Strandloper's Water. Mr Shelborne..?'

  'About half-way up the Sperrgebiet coastline is a place called Meob Bay. Strandloper's Water is near it.'

  'Inland — in the desert?'

  'Yes. It is not marked on maps. They say, "unsurveyed, shifting sands".'

  'How near Meob?'

  Shelborne hesitated. 'Between where and Meob?' repeated the Judge.

  It wasn't meant as a trap, but it served that purpose for Shardelow.

  'About half-way between Meob and Mercury Island.'

  Shardelow leaned forward and rapped out, 'And Mercury Island is where you are headman, is it not, Mr Shelborne?'

  'Yes.'

  Shardelow said, 'My lord, in view of the curious parallels which have come to light, I think it would profit the court to learn the exact circumstances of Mr Shelborne's parting with the late Mr Caldwell. The two comrades sat down at Strandloper's Water and Caldwell signed over his rights to a fortune greater than he could ever have hoped to find in the desert…'

  The Judge looked intently at the tall man. The top of his bald head was beaded with sweat.

  'You are, on your own admission, the last person to have seen Caldwell alive.'

  2

  Death of a Legend

  The tape-recorder whirred. It was the only sound in the room. It still holds that long silence. Then Shelborne squared his shoulders, as if this had been the moment he had been waiting for. The length of his neck was accentuated by the size of his head. There was no disproportion, but one sensed the physical and mental power of the man.

  He said, That is correct. On 13 February 1930.'

  He gripped the front of the witness-box when Shardelow began. The eyes of the courtroom were upon him.

  'Mr Shelborne, why were you at Strandloper's Water?'

  'As I said previously, Caldwell and I were on an expedition to try to find the Hottentots' Paradise.'

  'You still believe in this so-called treasure trove?'

  'No.' '

  'No? Yet you set out…'

  Shelborne's voice was deep, sure. 'Until diamonds were found in the Sperrgebiet the Namib desert was shunned, unknown. Prospectors then touched on the fringes, but even today it is largely unexplored. The desert became a mirror for men's greed. Upon it they projected their dreams. They said, the remoter the desert, the richer the strike. The diamond legend requires to be woven round something intangible, something wildly improbable and inaccessible, for it exists in the mind alone. The Namib has all the necessary qualities. The treasure trove existed in Caldwell's mind.'

  'Yet you went with him.'

  'We hired an old fishing-boat at Walvis Bay. There is what passes for a landing-beach. A couple of the mule-team were drowned. We pushed inland. The going was cruel. At Strandloper's Water I became convinced that it was madness to go on. But Caldwell was determined. I returned to the boat.'

  'If Caldwell had not chosen so opportunely to buy your stores, what would you have done with them?'

  'Taken them back to the boat, I suppose.'

  'And left your comrade to die?'

  'Of course not.'

  'Could you have re-embarked the mules and wagon?'

  'No. They were both expendable. We intended to shoot the mules and eat them, and to abandon the wagon later on.'

  'But rather than take the risk, you abandoned your partner and friend with them, and in gratitude he signed away his undersea prospecting rights to the entire diamond coast?'

  'Yes.'

  'And he carried the document on his person? That was most considerate of Mr Caldwell.'

  'He had it with him.'

  'A document with a potential of millions? Surely a bank safe was the place for it?'

  'He carried it.'

  'What else?'

  'A rifle, water-bottle, blankets — that sort of thing.'

  'Nothing to prospect with? Come, come, Mr Shelborne!'

  'We had a small portable trommel, or jig, a hammer, and some chemicals.'

  'Than at Strandloper's Water you turned back because you funked it?'

  A deep flush spread across Shelborne's face and neck and the veins knotted in his forehead, but he kept himself under control.

  'I didn't funk it. I considered it inadvisable and hazardous in the extreme to continue.'

  'Yet other notorious deserts like the Takla Makan and the Atacama held no such terrors for you?'

  'The Namib is the worst…'

  'Yes, yes. We have your unsupported assertion for that. When you considered it — I quote you — inadvisable to continue, in what terms did you put it to your partner that you were backing out — after you had planned it together for years?'

  'Strandloper's Water is a sort of dry flat pan; ahead were the barchan dunes — they're the type which shift all the time. The mules could never have made it…'

  'But you were fully prepared to trade them away, knowing that?'

  'Caldwell was as well able to assess the risks as I was.'

  'What did you say to him?'

  'We had a discussion… an argument. I reckoned the boat would still be there because the wind was wrong…'

  'Most peculiar, Mr Shelborne. What if the boat had gone? Your bridges both in front and behind you were burned.'

  'Yes.'

  'For a man of your intrepidity, and a collector of deserts to boot, you seem to have taken more chances than a greenhorn.'

  'There are always risks in the desert.'

  'Now — you had an argument. Whose idea was the bargain?'

  'I don't remember.'

  'No, I don't suppose you do. Was Caldwell fit when you parted?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Simply, was he in good health, unhurt?'

  Shelborne ran his tongue round his dry lips. 'Yes.'

  'How did you finally separate?'

  The young woman leaned forward, rapt.

  'I wished him good luck and started for the coast.'

  'Was it morning or afternoon?'

  'Early morning.'

  'Caldwell said nothing? He was still angry with you about your defection?'

  'I did not say he was angry. He said, "Good luck to you, Shelley, perhaps my luck will change now".'

  'You did not wait to see how far the mule-team went before it stuck?'

  'No.'

  'You had driven your bargain and were satisfied?'

  Shelborne did not reply. Shardelow threw down his pencil with a clatter.

  'Thus, then, died the diamond legend of our time.'

  'I always hoped he would come back. No one knows where he died, or how.'.

  Shardelow was easy, smooth. 'Is it not strange how mankind refuses to believe when one of its heroes vanishes: Lawrence of Arabia, Kitchener?' His words whipped across the court like a straight left. 'Perhaps Caldwell did not die, Mr Shelborne?'

  'He is dead. Caldwell is dead.'
/>
  'Why are you so sure? Perhaps you saw him die?'

  Shelborne was silent for a moment. He said steadily, 'I have told you how I left him.'

  'Yes. You left him to die.'

  'No. He elected to go on — against my judgement. That is all.'

  'It was a shabby end to a great life, was it not?'

  The tall man did not reply.

  Shardelow went on. 'His signature — was it always shaky like this?'

  'What do you mean…?'

  'Yours is precise — it might have been written at your desk — but his… was he ill that his hand should shake so?'