River of Death

CHAPTER ONE

The cabin of the thirty-seater aircraft was battered, scruffy, unclean and more than a little noisome, which pretty accurately reflected the general appearance of the passengers who would never have made it to the ranks of the international jet-set. Two of them could have been classified as exceptions or at least as being different from the others although neither of them would have made the jet-set division either, lacking, as they did, the pseudo-aristocratic veneer of your true wealthy and idle layabout. One, who called himself Edward Hiller — in this remote area of southern Brazil it was considered poor form to go by your own given name — was around thirty-five, thick-set, fair-haired, hard-faced, obviously European or American and dressed in tan bush-drills. He seemed to spend most of his time in moodily examining the scenery, which, in truth, was hardly worth the examining, inasmuch as it duplicated tens of thousands of square miles in that virtually unknown part of the world: all that was to be seen was an Amazonian tributary meandering its way through the endless green of the rain forest of the Planalto de Mato Grosso. The second exception — again because he seemed not unacquainted with the basic principles of hygiene — claimed to be called Serrano, was dressed in a reasonably off-white suit, was about the same age as Hiller, slender, black haired, black moustached, swarthy and could have been Mexican. He wasn't examining the scenery: he was examining Hiller, and closely at that.

'We are about to land at Romono.' The loudspeaker was scratchy, tinny and the words almost indistinguishable.

'Please fasten seat-belts.'

The plane banked, lost altitude rapidly and made its approach directly above and along the line of the river. Several hundred feet below the flight-path a small, open out-board motor-boat was making its slow way upstream.

This craft — on closer inspection a very dilapidated craft indeed — had three occupants. The largest of the three, one John Hamilton, was tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully built and about forty years of age. He had keen brown eyes, but that was about the only identifiable feature of his face as he was uncommonly dirty, dishevelled and unshaven, giving the impression that he had recently endured some harrowing ordeal, an impression heightened by the fact that his filthy clothes were torn and his face, neck and shoulders were liberally blood-stained. Comparatively, his two companions were presentable. They were lean, wiry and at least ten years yoiinger than Hamilton. Clearly of Latin stock, their olive-tinged faces were lively, humorous and intelligent and they looked so much alike that they could have been identical twins, which they were. For reasons best known to themselves they liked to be known as Ramon and Navarro. They considered Hamilton — whose given name was, oddly enough, Hamilton — with critical and speculative eyes.

Ramon said: 'You look bad.'

Navarro nodded his agreement. 'Anyone can see he's been through a lot. But do you think he looks bad enough?'

'Perhaps not,' Ramon said judicially. 'A soupcon, perhaps. A little touch here, a little touch there.' He leaned forward and proceeded to widen some of the already existing rents in Hamilton's clothing. Navarro stooped, touched some small animal lying on the floorboards, brought up a bloodied hand and added a few more artistically decorative crimson touches to Hamilton's face, neck and chest then leaned back to examine his handiwork critically. He appeared more than satisfied with the result of his creative handiwork.

'My God!' He shook his head in sorrowful admiration. 'You really have had it rough, Mr Hamilton.'

The faded, peeling sign on the airport building — hardly more than a shack — read: 'Welcome to Romono International Airport' which was, in its own way, a tribute to the blind optimism of the person who had authorised it or the courage of the man who had painted it as no 'international' plane had ever landed or ever would land there, not only because no-one in his right senses would ever voluntarily come from abroad to visit Romono in the first place but primarily because the single grass runway was so short that no aircraft designed later than the forty-year-old DC3 could possibly hope to land there.

The aircraft that had been making the downriver approach landed and managed, not without some difficulty, to stop just short of the ramshackle terminal. The passengers disembarked and made for the waiting airport bus that was to take them into town.

Serrano kept a prudent ten passengers behind Hiller but was less fortunate when they boarded the bus. He found himself four seats ahead of Hiller and therefore was in no position to observe him any more. Hiller was now observing Serrano, very thoughtfully.

Hamilton's boat was now closing in on the river bank. Hamilton said: 'However humble, there's no place like home.'

Using the word 'humble' Hamilton was guilty of a grave understatement. Romono was, quite simply, a jungle slum and an outstandingly malodorous example of the genre. On the left bank of the aptly named Rio da Morte, it stood partly on a filled-in, miasmic swamp, partly in a clearing that had been painfully hacked out from a forest and jungle that pressed in menacingly on every side, anxious to reclaim its own. The town looked as if it might contain perhaps three thousand inhabitants: probably there were double that number as three or four persons to a room represented the accommodation norm of Romono. A typically sleazy end-of-the-line — only there was no line — frontier town, it was squalid, decaying and singularly unprepossessing, a maze of narrow, haphazardly criss-crossing alleys — by no stretch of the imagination could they have been called streets — with the buildings ranging from dilapidated wooden shacks through wine-shops, gambling dens and bordellos to a large and largely false-fronted hotel rejoicing, according to a garish blue neon sign, in the name of the OTEL DE ARIS, some misfortune having clearly overtaken the missing capitals H and P.

The waterfront was splendidly in keeping with the town. It was difficult to say where the river bank began for almost all of it was lined with house-boats — there had to be some name for those floating monstrosities — relying for their construction almost entirely on tar paper. Between the house-boats were piles of driftwood, oil cans, bottles, garbage, sewage and great swarms of flies. The stench was overwhelming. Hygiene, had it ever come to Romono, had gratefully abandoned it a long time ago.

The three men reached the bank, disembarked and tied up the boat. Hamilton said: 'When you're ready, take off for Brasilia. I'll join you in the Imperial.'

Navarro said: 'Draw your marble bath, my lord? Lay out your best tuxedo?'

'Something 'like that. Three suites, the best. After all, we're not paying for it.'

'Who is?'

'Mr Smith. He doesn't know it yet, of course, but he'll pay.'

Ramon said curiously: 'You know this Mr Smith? Met him, I mean?'

'No.'

'Then might it not be wise to wait for the invitation first?'

'No reason to wait. Invitation's guaranteed. Our friend must be nearly out of his mind by now.'

'You're being downright cruel to that poor Mr Hiller,' Navarro said reproachfully. 'He must have gone out of his mind during the three days we stayed with your Muscia Indian friends.'

'Not him. He's sure he knows he knows. When you get to the Imperial keep close to a phone and away from your usual dives.'

Ramon looked hurt. 'There are no dives in our fair capital, Mr Hamilton.'

'You'll soon put that right.' Hamilton left them and made his way in the gathering dusk through winding, ill-lit alleyways until he had passed clear through the town and emerged on its western perimeter. Here, on the outskirts of the town and on the very edge of the forest and jungle, stood what had once passed for a log cabin but was now no more than a hut and even at that, one would have thought, a hut scarcely fit for animal far less human habitation: the grass- and weed-covered walls leaned in at crazy angles, the door was badly warped and the single window had hardly an unbroken pane of glass left in it. Hamilton, not without some difficulty, managed to wrench open the creaking door and passed inside.

He located and lit a guttering oil lamp which gave off light and smoke in about equal proportions. From what little could be seen from the fitful yellow illumination, the interior of the hut was a faithful complement of the exterior. The hut was very sparsely furnished with the bare essentials for existence — a dilapidated bed, a couple of bentwood chairs in no better condition than the bed, a warped deal table with two drawers, some shelving and a cooker with some traces of the original black enamel showing under the almost total covering of brown rust. On the face of it, Hamilton didn't care too much for the sybaritic life.

He sat wearily on the bed which, predictably, sagged and creaked in an alarmingly disconcerting fashion. He reached under the bed, came up with a bottle of some undetermined liquid, drank deeply from the neck and set the bottle down somewhat unsteadily on the table.

Hamilton was not unobserved. A figure had appeared just outside the window and was peering inside from a prudent distance, a probably unnecessary precaution. It is more difficult to see from a lighted area to a darkened one than the other way round and the windows were so filthy that it was difficult to see through them anyway. The watcher's face was indistinct, but the identity of the man not hard to guess: Serrano was probably the only man in Romono who wore a suit, far less an off-white one. Serrano was smiling, a smile composed of an odd mixture of amusement, satisfaction and contempt.

Hamilton extracted two leather pouches from the torn remains of his buttoned pockets and poured the contents of one of them into the palm of his hand, staring in rapt admiration at the handful of rough-cut diamonds which he let trickle on to the table. With an unsteady hand he fortified himself with another drink then opened the other pouch and emptied the contents on the table. They were coins, glittering golden coins; all told there must have been at least fifty of them.

Gold, it is said, has attracted men from the beginning of recorded time. It unquestionably attracted Serrano. Seemingly oblivious of the possibility of discovery he had moved closer to the window, so close, indeed, that a keen-eyed and observant person inside the hut might well have seen the pale blur of his face. But Hamilton was being neither keen-eyed nor observant: he just stared in apparent fascination at the treasure before him. So did Serrano. The amusement and contempt had disappeared from his face, the unblinking eyes seemed huge in his face and his tongue licked his lips almost continuously.

Hamilton took a camera from his rucksack, removed a cassette of exposed film, examined it closely for a moment and, in doing so, dislodged two diamonds which fell and rolled under the table, apparently unobserved. He put the cassette on a shelf beside some other cassettes and cheap camera equipment then turned his attention to the coins again. He picked one up and examined it carefully, almost as if seeing it for the first time.

The coin, indisputably gold, did not appear to be of any South American origin — the likeness of the engraved head was unmistakably of classical Greek or Latin origin. He looked at the obverse side: the characters, clear and unblemished, were unmistakably Greek. Hamilton sighed, lowered some more of the rapidly diminishing contents of the bottle, returned the coins to the pouch, paused as if in thought, shook some coins into his hand, put them in a trouser pocket, put the pouch into one of his buttoned shirt pockets, returned the diamonds to their pouch and his other buttoned pocket, had a last drink, turned out the oil lamp and left. He made no attempt to lock the door for the sufficient reason that, even with the door as fully closed as it would go, there was still a two-inch gap between the key bolt and door jamb. Although it was by now almost dark he did not appear to require any light to see where he was going: within a minute he vanished into the shanty-town maze of corrugated iron and tar-paper shacks which formed the salubrious suburbs of Romono.

Serrano waited a prudent five minutes, then entered, a small flashlight in his hand. He lit the oil lamp placing it on a shelf where it could not be seen directly from the outside then, using his flashlight, located the fallen diamonds under the table and placed them on the tabletop. He crossed to the shelves, took the cassette which Hamilton had placed there, replaced it with another from the pile of cassettes and had just put the cassette on the table beside the diamonds when he became suddenly and uncomfortably conscious of the fact that he was not alone. He whirled around and found himself staring into the muzzle of a gun expertly and unwaveringly held in Hiller's hand.

'Well, well,' Hiller said genially. 'A collector, I see. Your name?'

'Serrano.' Serrano didn't look any too happy. 'Why are you pointing that gun at me?'

'Calling cards you can't get in Romono, so I use this instead. Are you carrying a gun, Serrano?'

'No.'

'If you are and I find it I'm going to kill you.' Hiller was still geniality itself. 'Are you carrying a gun, Serrano?'

Serrano reached slowly for an inside pocket. Hiller said: 'The classic way, of course, my friend. Finger and thumb on the gun barrel then gently on the table.'

Serrano carefully, as directed, produced a small snubnosed automatic and laid it on the table. Hiller advanced and pocketed it, along with the diamonds and the cassette.

'You've been following me all day,' Hiller said consideringly. 'For hours before we boarded that plane. And I saw you the previous day and the day before that. In fact, I've seen you quite a few times in the past weeks. You really should get yourself another suit, Serrano, a shadower in a white suit is no shadower at all.' His tone changed in a fashion that Serrano clearly didn't care much for. ' Why are you following me, Serrano?'

'It's not you I'm after,' Serrano said. 'We're both interested in the same man.'

Hiller lifted his gun a perceptible inch. If he'd lifted it only one millimetre it would have carried sufficient significance for Serrano who was in an increasingly apprehensive state of mind. 'I'm not sure,' Hiller said, 'that I like being followed around.'

'Jesus!' Serrano's apprehension had become very marked indeed. 'You'd kill a man for a thing like that?'

'What are vermin to me?' Hiller said carelessly. 'But you can stop knocking your knees together. I've no intention of killing you — at least, not yet. I wouldn't kill a man just for following me around. But I wouldn't draw the line at shattering a" kneecap so that you couldn't totter around after me for a few months to come.'

'I won't talk to anyone,' Serrano said fervently. 'I swear to God I won't.'

'Aha! That's interesting. If you were going to talk who would you talk to, Serrano?'

'Nobody. Nobody. Who would I talk to? That was just a manner of speaking.'

'Was it now? But if you were to talk, what would you tell them?'

'What could I tell them? All I know — well, I don't know, but I'm pretty sure — is that Hamilton is into something big. Gold, diamonds, something like that — he's found a cache somewhere. I know that you're on his track, Mr Hiller. That's why I am following you.'

'You know my name. How come?'

'You're a pretty important man around these parts, Mr Hiller.' Serrano was trying to be ingratiating but he wasn't very good at it. A sudden thought appeared to occur to him for he brightened and said: 'Seeing we're both after the same man, Mr Hiller, we could be partners.'

'Partners!'

'I can help you, Mr Hiller.' Serrano was eagerness itself but whether from the prospect of partnership or the understandable desire not to be crippled by Hiller it was difficult to say. 'I can help you. I swear I can.'

'A terrified rat will swear to anything.'

'I can prove what I say.' Serrano seemed to have regained a measure of confidence. 'I can take you to within five miles of the Lost City.'

Hiller's initial reaction was one of astonishment and suspicion.

'What do you know about it?' He paused and recovered himself. 'Well, I suppose everybody's heard about the Lost City. Hamilton's always shooting off his mouth about it.'

'Mebbe so. Mebbe so.' Serrano, sensing the change in the atmosphere, was almost relaxed now. 'But how many have followed him four times to within a few miles of it?' If Serrano had been at the gambling table he'd have leaned back in his chair, his trump card played.

Hiller had become very interested indeed, even to the extent of lowering, then pocketing, his own gun.

'You have a rough idea where it is?'

'Rough?' Immediate danger past, Serrano invested himself with an air very close to benign superiority. 'Close is more like it. Very close.'

'Then if you've come all that close why don't you go looking for it yourself?'

'Look for it myself!' Serrano looked almost shocked. 'Mr Hiller, you must be out of your mind. You don't understand what you're talking about. Have you any idea what the Indian tribes in the area are like?'

'Pacified, according to the Indian Protection Service.'

'Pacified?' Serrano gave a contemptuous laugh. 'Pacified? There isn't enough money in the country to make those desk-bound pansies leave those lovely air-conditioned offices in Brasilia and go see for themselves. They're terrified, just plain terrified. Even their field-agents — and there are some pretty tough cookies among them — are terrified and won't go near the area. Well, four of them did go there once some years back, but none of them ever returned. And if they're terrified, Mr Hiller, I'm terrified too.'

'That creates quite a problem.' Not surprisingly, Hiller had become quite thoughtful. 'An approach problem. What's so special about those bloodthirsty people? There are many tribes who don't care all that much for people from the outside, what you and I would regard as other civilised people.' Apparently Hiller saw nothing incongruous in categorising himself and Serrano as 'civilised'.

'Special? I'll tell you what's special about them. They're the most savage tribes in the Mato Grosso. Correction. They're the most savage tribes in the whole of South America. Not one of them have moved out of the Stone Age so far. In fact, they must be a damned sight worse than the Stone Age people. If the Stone Age people had been like them they'd have wiped each other out — when those tribes up there have nothing better to do, they just go around massacring each other — to keep their hand in, I suppose — and there would have been no human left on this planet today.

'There are three tribes up there, Mr Hiller. First, there are the Chapates. God knows they're bad enough, but all they do is use their blowpipes, pump a few curare-tipped poison darts into you and leave you lying there. Almost civilised, you might say. The Horenas are a bit different. They use darts that only knock you unconscious; then you're dragged back to their village and tortured to death — this, I understand, can take a day or two — then they cut off your head and shrink it. But when it comes to sheer savagery, the Muscias are the pick of the bunch — I don't think any white man has ever seen them. But one or two of the outside Indians who have met them and survived say that they're cannibals and if they see what they regard as being a particularly appetising meal they dump him alive into boiling water. Something like lobsters, you know. Go looking for a lost city surrounded by all those monsters? Why don't you go looking? I can point you in the right direction. Me, I only like cooking pots from the outside.'

'Well, maybe I'll have to do a little more thinking on that one.' Absently, almost, he handed Serrano back his gun. Hiller was no mean psychologist when it came to gauging the extent of a man's cupidity. Hiller said: 'Where do you live?'

'A room in the Hotel de Paris.'

'If you saw me in the bar there?'

'I've never seen you before in my life.'

An unbiased guide-book to the better taverns of South America would have had some difficulty in finding the space to list the bar of the Hotel de Paris, Romono, in its pages. The bar was not a thing of beauty. The indeterminately coloured paint, what little there was of it, was peeling and blistered, the splintered wooden floor was blackened and filthy and the rough-cut softwood bar bore the imprint of the passage of time. A thousand spilt drinks, a thousand stubbed-out cigars. It was not a place for the fastidious.

The clientele, fortunately, were not of an overly fastidious nature. Exclusively male and dressed for the most part in scarecrow's clothing, they were rough, uncouth, ill-favoured and hard-drinking. Especially hard-drinking. As many customers as possible — and there were many — pushed up to the bar and consumed huge quantities of what could only be described as rot-gut whisky. There were a scattering of bentwood chairs and rickety tables, largely unoccupied. The citizens of Romono were mostly vertical drinkers. Among the currently vertical were both Hiller and Serrano, separated from each other by a prudent distance.

In such surroundings, then, the entrance of 'Hamilton did not provoke the horror-stricken reaction that it would have in the plusher caravanserais of Brasilia or Rio. Even so, his appearance was sufficient to cause a marked drop in the conversational level. With his tangled hair, a week's growth of matted and bloodied beard, and ripped and blood-stained shirt he looked as if he had just returned from the scene of a successfully if messily executed triple murder. His expression — as was indeed customary with him — lacked anything in the way of encouragement towards social chitchat. He ignored the stares and although the crowd before the bar was at least four deep a path opened magically before him. In Romono, such a path always opened for John Hamilton, a man very obviously held, and for a variety of good reasons, in considerable respect by his fellow citizens.

A large, very fat barman, the boss of the four men serving non-stop behind the bar, hurried forward towards Hamilton. His egg-bald pate gleamed in the light: inevitably, he was known as Curly.

'Mr Hamilton!'

'Whisky.'

'God's name, Mr Hamilton. What happened?'

'You deaf?'

'Right away, Mr Hamilton.'

Curly reached under the bar, produced a special bottle and poured a generous measure. That Hamilton should be thus privileged apparently aroused no resentment among the onlookers, not so much because of their innate courtesy, of which they had none, but because Hamilton had demonstrated in the past his reaction to those who interfered in what he regarded as his own private business: he'd only had to do it once, but once had been enough.

Curly's plump, genial face was alive with curiosity as were those of the bystanders. But Hamilton was not a man to share confidences as everyone was well aware. He tossed two Greek coins on to the bar. Hiller, who was standing close by, observed this and his face grew very still indeed. His face was not the only one to assume sudden immobility.

'Bank's shut,' Hamilton said. 'Those do?'

Curly picked up the two shining coins and examined them with an air of unfeigned reverence.

'Will those do? Will those do! Yes, Mr Hamilton, I think those will do. Gold! Pure gold! This is going to buy you an awful lot of Scotch, Mr Hamilton, an awful lot. One of those I'm going to keep for myself. Yes, sir. The other I'll take and have valued in the bank tomorrow.'

'Up to you,' Hamilton said indifferently.

Curly examined the coins more closely and said: 'Greek, aren't they?'

'Looks like,' Hamilton said with the same indifference. He drank some of his Scotch and looked at Curly with a speculative eye. 'You wouldn't, of course, be dreaming of asking me if I went all the way to Greece to get those?'

'Certainly not,' Curly said hastily. 'Certainly not. Will I — will I get the doctor, Mr Hamilton?'

'Thanks. But it's not my blood.'

'How many of them? Who did this to you — I mean, who did you do it to?'

'Just two. Horenas. Same again.'

Although most people at the bar were still looking at Hamilton or the coins, the hubbub of conversation was slowly resuming. Hitler, glass in hand, elbowed his purposeful way towards Hamilton who regarded Hiller's approach with his customary lack of enthusiasm.

Hiller said: 'I hope you'll excuse me. I don't want to intrude, Hamilton. I understand that after tangling with head-hunters a man would like some peace and quiet. But what I'd like to say to you is important. Believe me. Could I have a word?'

'About what?' Hamilton's tone was less than encouraging. 'And I don't like discussing business — I assume it is business — with a dozen pairs of ears hanging on to every word we say.'

Hiller looked around. Inevitably, their conversation was attracting attention. Hamilton paused for a moment, as if in thought, then picked up his bottle, jerked his head and led the way to the corner table most remote from the bar. Hamilton, as always, looked aggressive and forbidding and his tone matched his expression.

'Out with it,' he said, 'and no shilly-shallying.'

Hiller took no offence. 'Suits me. That's the.way I like it, the only way to do business. I'll lay it on the line. It's my belief you've found this Lost City of yours. 1 know a man who'd pay you a six-figure fee to take him there. That straight enough for you?'

'If you throw away that rot-gut rubbish you have there I'll give you some decent Scotch.' Hiller did as requested and Hamilton topped up both glasses. Hiller was clearly aware that Hamilton was less interested in dispensing hospitality than in having time to think and from the just perceptibly slurred note in Hamilton's voice it could well have been that he could be taking just slightly longer than normal to think quickly and clearly.

'Well, I'll say this,' Hamilton said, 'you don't beat about the bush. Who says I've found the Lost City?'

'Nobody. How could they? No-one knows where you go when you leave Romono — except maybe those two young side-kicks of yours.' Hiller smiled thinly. 'They don't look like the type that would talk too much.'

'Side-kicks?'

'Oh, come off it, Hamilton. The twins. Everybody in Romono knows them. But it would be my guess that you would be the only person to know the exact location. So, okay, I'm only going on a hunch — and a couple of brand new golden coins that may be a thousand years old, two thousand. Just supposing.'

'Supposing what?'

'Supposing you'd found it, of course.'

'Cruzeiros?'

Hiller kept his face impassive, a rather remarkable feat in view of the wave of elation that had just swept through him. When a man talks money it means that he is prepared to dicker, to make a deal, and Hamilton had the means to bargain. Hamilton had his quid pro quo and that could mean only one thing — he knew where the Lost City was. He had his fish hooked, Hiller thought exultantly: now all he had to do was gaff and land him. That might well take time, Hiller knew, but he had every confidence in himself: he rather fancied his prowess as a fisherman.

'U.S. dollars,' Hiller said.

Hamilton thought this over for a few moments then said: 'An attractive proposition. Very attractive. But I don't accept propositions from strangers. You see, Hiller, I don't know you, what you are, what you do, and how come you are empowered to make this proposition.'

'A con man, possibly?'

'Possibly.'

'Oh, come. We've had a drink a dozen times in_: the past months. Strangers? Hardly. We all know why you've been searching those damned forests for the past four months and other huge stretches of the Amazon and Parana basins for the past four years. For the fabled Lost City of the Mato Grosso — if that is indeed where it is — for the golden people who lived there — who may still live there — most of all for the fabled man who found it. Huston. Dr Hannibal Huston. The famous explorer who vanished into the forests all those many years ago and was never seen again.'

'You talk in cliches,' Hamilton said.

Hiller smiled. 'What newspaperman doesn't?'

'Newspaperman?'

'Yes.'

'Odd. I'd have put you down for something else.'

Hiller laughed. 'A con? A convict on the lamp-Nothing so romantic, I'm afraid.' He leaned forward, suddenly serious. 'Listen. As I said, we all know why you're out here — no offence, Hamilton, but goodness knows you've told everyone often enough — although why I don't know — I'd have thought you'd have kept it secret from everybody.'

'Three good reasons, my friend. In the first place, there has to be some reason to account for my presence here. Secondly, anybody will tell you that I know the Mato Grosso better than any white man and no one would dream of following me where I go. Finally, the more people who know what I'm after the greater the likelihood that some person, some time and in some place will drop a hint or a clue that could be invaluable to me.'

'I was under the impression that you didn't require hints or clues any longer.'

'That's as maybe. Just you go ahead and form any impressions you like.'

'Well, all right. So. Ninety-nine per cent of the people laugh at your wild notions, as they call them — though God knows there's not a man in Romono would dare say it to your face. But I belong to the one per cent. I believe you. I further believe that your search is over and that the dream has come true. I'd like to share in a dream, I'd like to help a man, my employer, make his dream come true.'

'I'm deeply moved,' Hamilton said sardonically. 'I'm sorry — well, no, Pm not really — but something gives here that I just can't figure. And besides, Hiller, you are an unknown quantity.'

'Is the McCormick-Mackenzie International?'

'Is it what?'

'Unknown,'

'Of course not. One of the biggest multinational companies in the Americas. Probably the usual bunch of crooks using the usual screen of a battery of similarly crooked international lawyers to bend the laws any which way that suits them.'

Hiller took a deep breath, manfully restraining himself. 'Because I'm in the position of asking a favour of you, Hamilton, I won't take exception to that. In point of fact the record of McCormick-Mackenzie is impeccable. They have never been investigated, far less impeached on any count.'

'Smart lawyers. Like I said.'

'You can be glad that Joshua Smith is not here to hear you say that.'

Hamilton was unimpressed. 'He the owner?'

'Yes. And the Chairman and Managing Director.'

'The multi-millionaire industrialist? If we're' talking about the same man?'

'We are.'

'And the owner of the largest newspaper and' magazine chain in the Americas. Well, well, well.' He broke off and stared at Hiller. 'So that's why you —'

'Exactly.'

'So. He's your boss, a newspaper magnate. And you're one of his newspapermen, and a pretty senior one at that, 1 would guess — I mean, he wouldn't send out a cub reporter on a story like this. Very well. Your connections, your credentials' established. But I still don't see — '

'What don't you see?'

'This man. Joshua Smith. A multi-millionaire. A bulti-millionaire. Anyway, as rich as Croesus. What's left on earth for him that he doesn't already have? What more can a man like that want?' Hamilton took a long pull at his whisky. 'In short, what's in it for him?'

'You are a suspicious bastard, aren't you, Hamilton? Money? Of course not. Are you in it for the money? Of course not. A man like you could make money anywhere. No, and again no. Like you — and, if I may say, a little bit like myself- he's a man with a dream, a dream that's become an obsession. I don't know which fascinates him the more, the Huston case or the Lost City, although I don't suppose you can really separate the two. I mean, you can't have the one without the other.' He paused and smiled, almost dreamily. 'And what a story for his publishing empire.'

'And that, I take it, is your part of the dream?'

'What else?'

Hamilton considered, using some more Scotch to help him with his consideration. 'Mustn't rush things, mustn't rush things. A man needs time to think about these things.'

'Of course. How much time?'

'Two hours?'

'Sure. My place. The Negresco.' Hiller looked around him and gave a mock shudder which could almost have been real. 'It's almost as good as it is here.'

Hamilton drained his glass, rose, picked up his bottle, nodded and left. No-one could have accused him of being under the weather but his gait didn't appear to be quite as steady as it might have been. Hiller looked around until he located. Serrano who had been looking straight at him. Hiller glanced after the departing Hamilton, looked back at Serrano and nodded almost imperceptibly. Serrano did the same in return and disappeared after Hamilton.

Romono had not yet got around to, and was unlikely ever to get around to, street-lighting with the result that the alleyways, in the occasional absence of saloons and bordellos fronting on them, tended to be very poorly lit. Hamilton, all trace of his unsteady gait vanished, strode briskly along, clearly unbothered by the fitful or non-existent, lighting. He rounded a corner, carried on a few yards, stopped suddenly and turned into a narrow and almost totally dark alleyway. He didn't go farj into the alley — not more than two feet. He poked his head cautiously out from his narrow niche and' peered back along the way he had just come.

He saw no more than he had expected to see. Serrano had just come into view. Serrano, it was clear, wasn't out for any leisurely evening stroll. He was walking so quickly that he was almost running. Hamilton shrank back into the shadows. He no longer had to depend on his hearing. Serrano was wearing steel-tipped shoes which no doubt he found indispensable for the subtler intricacies of unarmed combat. On a still night Serrano could have been heard a hundred yards away.

Hamilton, no more than another shadow in his shadowy place of concealment, listened to the rapidly approaching footsteps. Serrano, almost running now, looked neither to right nor to left but just peered anxiously ahead in quest of his' suddenly and mysteriously vanished quarry. He, was still peering anxiously ahead when he passed-the alleyway entrance. Hamilton, a shadow' detaching itself from the deeper shadow behind, stepped out swiftly and in silence brought his, locked hands down on the base of Serrano's neck. He caught the already unconscious man before he could strike the ground and dragged him into the dark concealment. From Serrano's breast pocket' he removed a well-filled wallet, extracted a gratifying wad of cruzeiro notes, pocketed them, dropped the empty wallet on top of Serrano's prone form and continued on his way, this time-without a backward glance. He had no doubt that' Serrano had been on his own.

Back in his tumbledown hut, the guttering oil lamp lit, Hamilton sat on his cot and pondered the reason for his being shadowed. That Serrano had acted under Hiller's instructions he did not for a moment doubt. He did not think that Serrano had intended to waylay or attack him for he could not doubt that Hiller was almost desperately anxious to have his services and an injured Hamilton would be the last thing he would want on his hands. Nor could robbery have been a motive — although they may well have seen the bulges of the two pouches 'in his shirt pockets — and Hamilton had been well aware that Serrano had been watching him through the hut window — comparatively petty theft would not have interested Hiller; what he was after was the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow and only he, Hamilton, knew where that rainbow ended.

That Hiller and his boss Smith had dreams Hamilton did not for a moment doubt: what he did doubt, and profoundly, was Killer's version of those dreams.

Hiller had wanted to find out if he had been going to contact his two young assistants or other unknown parties. Perhaps he thought that Hamilton might lead him to a larger and worthwhile cache of gold and diamonds. Perhaps he thought Hamilton had gone to make some mysterious phone call. Perhaps anything. On balance, Hamilton thought, it was just because Hiller was of a highly suspicious nature and just wanted to know what, if anything, Hamilton was up to. There could be no other explanation and it seemed pointless to waste further time and thought on it.

Hamilton poured himself a small drink — the nondescript bottle did in fact contain an excellent Highland malt which his friend Curly had obtained for him — and topped 'it up with some mineral water: the Romono water supply was an excellent specific for those who wished to be laid low with dysentery, cholera, and a variety of other unpleasant tropical diseases.

Hamilton smiled to himself. When Serrano came to and reported his woes to his master, neither he nor Hiller would be in any doubt as to the identity of the assailant responsible for the sore and stiff neck from which Serrano would assuredly be suffering. If nothing else, Hamilton mused, it would teach them to be rather more circumspect and respectful in their future dealings with him. Hamilton had no doubt whatsoever that he would be meeting Serrano — officially — in the very near' future and would thereafter be seeing quite a deal of him.

Hamilton took a sip of his drink, dropped to his' knees, ran his hand over the floor under the table, found nothing and smiled in satisfaction. He crossed to the shelving, picked up a solitary cassette, examined it carefully and smiled in even, wider satisfaction. He drained his glass, turned out the light and headed back into town.

In his room in the Hotel Negresco — the famous hotel in Nice would have cringed at the thought that such a hovel should bear the same name — , Hiller was making — or trying to make — a telephone call, his face bearing the unmistakable expression of long-suffering impatience that characterized any person so foolhardy as to try to phone out of Romono. But at long last his patience was rewarded and his face lit up.

'Aha!' he said. His voice, understandably, had a note almost of triumph in it. 'At last, at last! Mr Smith, if you please.'