The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur (чтение книг txt) 📗
"When?" he asked at last. "Yesterday." "When did you leave Bulawayo, Ralph?" "What has that got to do with it?" Ralph demanded.
"The telegraph lines they were cut, you know, deliberately. In four places." "Extraordinary, who would have done a thing like that?"
"I don't even dare to ask." Jordan shook his head. "And on second thoughts, I don't want to know when you left Bulawayo, or whether or not Papa sold his stock as suddenly as you did yours." "Come on, Jordan, I'll take you to lunch at the club. A bottle of bubbly will console you for belonging to a family of rogues and for working for another." The Kimberley Club had a most undistinguished la ode Since its foundation, it had been enlarged twice, and the additions were glaringly apparent, unbaked Kimberley brick abutting upon galvanized iron and finally fired redbrick. The iron roof was unpainted, but there were strange little touches of pretension, the white picket fence, the front door glazed in Venetian glass.
Until a man had become a member, he could not consider himself truly to have arrived in South Africa. Membership was so prized that Barney Barnato, who despite his millions had been steadfastly blackballed, was finally tempted to sell out his diamond holdings to Mr. Rhodes only after he had been promised the coveted membership as part of the deal. Even then, with the pen in his hand, Barnato had hesitated over signing the contract.
"How do I know they still won't chuck me out again, as soon as I've signed?" "My dear fellow, we will make you a life governor," Mr. Rhodes assured him, offering the final plum that was irresistible to the little slum-born Cockney.
On his first night as a member of the club, Barnato strode up to the long bar dressed like a theatrical impresario, and ordered a round of drinks for all, then flashed a magnificent ten-carat blue-white diamond ring on his third finger.
"What do you gents think of that, hey?" One of the members studied it for a" moment, and remarked, "Clashes awfully with the colour of your fingernails, old boy." Then ignoring the proffered drink, he sauntered through to the billiard room, and everybody except Barney Barnato and the barman trooped out after him. It was that kind of club.
Ralph's and Jordan's own membership had been assured as soon as they came of age. For not only was their father a founder member and a life governor, but he was also a holder of the Queen's commission and a gentleman. These things counted at the Kimberley Club ahead of vulgar wealth. The porter greeted the brothers by name, and put their cards up on the "in" board. The barman behind the long bar poured Jordan a pink gin and Indian tonic, without being ordered, though he turned to Ralph apologetically.
"We don't see you often enough, Mr. Ralph. Is it still Glenlivet whisky, sir, water and no ice?" In the dining-room they both ordered from the carving trolley, juicy young lamb, with the subtle taste of the Karroo herbs on which it had barely been weaned, served with parsleyed baby new potatoes. Jordan declined the champagne that Ralph suggested.
"I am a working man," he smiled, "my tastes are simpler than yours, something like Chliteau Margaux "73 would suit me better." The twenty-year-old claret cost four times more than any champagne on the wine list.
"By GodV said Ralph ruefully. "Under that urban veneer, you are a true Ballantyne, after all." "And you must be neck-deep in filthy lucre after that timely sale. It's my brotherly duty to help you get rid of it." "Fire sale price," Ralph demurred, but nodded in appreciation of the claret. They ate in contented silence for a few minutes, then Ralph picked up his glass.
"What does Mr. Rhodes think of the coal deposits that Harry and I pegged?" he asked mildly, pretending to study the ruby lights in the wine, but watching his brother's reaction.
He saw the corners of Jordan's mouth quiver with surprise, saw his eyes flare with some other emotion which he could not read before it was masked, then Jordan lifted a pink morsel of the lamb on the silver fork, chewed it fastidiously and swallowed before he asked. "Coal?"
"Yes, coal. Ralph agreed. "Harry Mellow and I pegged a huge deposit of high-grade coal in northern Matabeleland haven't you seen the filing yet? Hasn't the Board approved the register? You must know about it, Jordan." "What a fine wine this is." Jordan inhaled the bouquet. "A big, spicy perfume." "Oh, of course, the telegraph line has been down.
You haven't received it yet?" "Ralph, I happen to know through my spies," Jordan said carefully, and Ralph leaned closer to him, "that the club secretary has just received a twenty-pound Stilton front Fortnum's. It should be perfect after the voyage." "Jordan." Ralph stared at him, but Jordan would not look up.
"You know I can't say anything," he whispered miserably, so instead they ate the Stilton on water biscuits and accompanied it with a port from the cask that was not listed on the wine card, its existence known only to the privileged members.
At last Jordan took the gold hunter from his fob pocket.
"I should be getting back, Mr. Rhodes and I are leaving for London at noon tomorrow. There is a great deal to do before we go." However, as they stepped out of the front door of the club, Ralph took his brother's elbow firmly and steered him into De Beers Road, lulling him with a flow of family gossip until they were opposite a pretty redbrick cottage almost hidden by dog roses, its diamond-paned windows curtained with frilled lace, and its demure little sign on the gate. "French dressmakers. Haute Couture. Continental Seamstresses. Specialities for individual tastes." Before Jordan had realized what his brother was about, Ralph had lifted the latch of the gate and was leading him down the walk. Ralph felt that on top of good food and wine, the company of one of the young ladies whom Diamond Lil chose with such taste and care to ornament Rose Cottage could not fail to soften and relax the tongue of even such A loyal servant as Jordan into indiscreet comment on his master's affairs.
Jordan took one pace beyond the gate, before he pulled back from Ralph's grasp with unnecessary violence.
"Where are you going?" he demanded. He had gone as pale as though a mamba had crossed the path at his feet. "Do you know what this place is?" "Yes, I do," Ralph nodded. "It's the only whorehouse I know of where a doctor checks the goods on offer at least once a week."
