Indecent Exposure by Tom Sharpe Read Free Book Online Page A

all was well in the world in spite of everything. The kernel of servility which was Kommandant van Heerden’s innermost self and which no amount of his own authority could ever erase quivered ecstatically within him as the group passed him without so much as a glance to indicate that they were aware of his existence. It was precisely this self-absorption to the point where it transcended self and became something immutable and absolute, a Godlike self-sufficiency, that Kommandant van Heerden had always hoped to find in the English. And here it was before him in the Piemburg Golf Club in the shape of four middle-aged men and women whose inane chatter was proof positive that there was, in spite of wars, disasters, and imminent revolution, nothing serious to worry about. The Kommandant particularly admired the elegance with which the leader of the foursome, a florid man in his fifties, clicked his fingers for the black caddie before walking over to the first tee.
    “How absolutely priceless,” shrieked one of the ladies about nothing in particular as they followed.
    “I’ve always said Boy was a glutton for punishment,” said the florid man as they passed out of earshot. The Kommandant stared after them before hurrying in to the bar to consult the barman.
    “Call themselves the Dornford Yates Club,” the barman told him. “Don’t ask me why. Anyway they dress up and talk la-di-da in memory of some firm called Bury & Co which went bust some years back. Red-faced fellow is Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon. He’s the one they call Bury. The plump lady is his missus. The other bloke’s Major Bloxham. Call him Boy, of all things, and he must be forty-eight if he’s a day. I don’t know who the thin woman is.”
    “Do they live near here?” the Kommandant asked. He didn’t approve of the barman’s rather off-hand attitude to his betters but he desperately wanted to hear more about the foursome.
    “The Colonel’s got a place up near the Piltdown Hotel but they seem to spend most of their time on a farm in the Underville district. It’s got a queer name like White Woman or something. I’ve heard they have some pretty queer goings-on up there, too.”
    The Kommandant ordered another brandy and took it out to his table on the terrace to wait for the party to return. Presently he was joined by the barman who stood in the doorway looking bored.
    “Has the Colonel been a member here long?” the Kommandant asked.
    “A couple of years,” the barman said, “since they all came down from Rhodesia or Kenya or somewhere. Seem to have plenty of spending money too.”
    Aware that the man was looking at him rather curiously, the Kommandant finished his drink and strolled over to inspect the vintage Rolls-Royce.
    “1925 Silver Ghost,” said the barman who had followed him over. “Nice condition.”
    The Kommandant grunted. He was beginning to tire of the barman’s company. He moved round the other side of the car, only to find the barman at his elbow.
    “You after them for something?” the man asked conspiratorially.
    “What the hell makes you think that?” the Kommandant asked.
    “Just wondered,” said the barman, and with some remark about a nod being as good as a wink which the Kommandant didn’t understand, the man went back into the Clubhouse. Left to himself, the Kommandant finished his inspection of the car and was just turning away when he caught sight of something on the back seat that stopped him in his tracks. It was a book and from its back cover there stared impassively the portrait of a man. High cheek bones, slightly hooded eyelids, impeccably straight nose and a trimmed moustache, the face looked past the Kommandant into a bright and assured future. Peering through the window, Kommandant van Heerden gazed at the portrait and as he gazed knew with a certainty that passed all understanding that he was on the brink of a new phase of discovery in his search for the heart of an English gentleman. There before