The Green Hell Treasure

10

“One nice thing about this rambling wreck,” Wilson said genially, “is that it makes me feel at home. It’s about the same age and general state of decrepitude as my own back in Rio.” For a change he was driving the old camper, in the direction of Brighton, with Da Silva leaning back comfortably at his side, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the warm night breeze wafting in through the open windows. Wilson’s voice became a trifle nostalgic. “I really do wonder if it’s stopped raining yet in Rio.”

Da Silva considered his companion curiously.

“Why? I thought you were happy here. I was picturing you asking for a transfer. You like the climate, you’re getting used to the rum, and while we haven’t had time for girls, there certainly doesn’t seem to be any lack of them.” A thought struck him. “Or have you heard a weather report and discovered it also rains in Barbados?”

“Not between December and May,” Wilson said with the firmness of conviction. “And as for the girls,” he added coldly, “it isn’t that we haven’t had time for them, it’s just that you insist on wasting it on less important things, like conferences with policemen, and things like that. Fortunately, I find better things to occupy myself with.” He sighed and came back to his subject. “As for Barbados, well, it’s lovely, but somehow I miss Rio. I miss my apartment and its view and wondering if the maid will show up and if so in what state of euphoria. I miss the smells. I miss that feeling of triumph one gets in crossing the street without being run over — usually by someone going the wrong direction in the wrong lane in a car he doesn’t know how to drive. I miss the awful food. I even miss the noise at the Santos Dumont restaurant. But I think most of all I miss doing a day’s work.”

“What?”

Wilson could imagine the utter look of incredulity on his friend’s face. “Don’t say it, Zé. Your attitude on the work habits of the U.S. Embassy is a matter of record. If you prefer, I’ll say I miss doing half a day’s work.”

“That’s much closer,” Da Silva said, only partially mollified. He suddenly grinned at the other. “You mean, you’ve come to the conclusion that half a loaf is better than a full loaf?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that being cooped up all day with someone who makes bad puns wasn’t in my contract when I joined Interpol,” Wilson said stiffly. “But, yes, if you want to put it that way. This sitting and waiting for something to happen is all right for a while, but it’s been more than two weeks and I’ve about had it.”

Da Silva became serious. He flipped his cigarette out the open window of the car and turned, staring at Wilson behind the wheel.

“Something’s happening. The trouble is we don’t know what it is. Or where it’s happening. I just hope nothing’s happening to Diana.” He turned back to stare out over the ocean. The thin rim of a new moon low in the sky tipped a distant cloud with a faint touch of gray. “Inspector Storrs may have been right when he said he didn’t think Diana was in any immediate danger, but it’s been almost twenty-four hours, and that isn’t immediate. No sign of her, or of McNeil...”

“What about the shack McNeil’s staying at? Who owns it?”

“If you’d stick around these conferences you hate so much, you’d know. It’s owned by some big reality company, together with about ninety percent of the beach property around here. Eventually they plan on putting up another tourist hotel. Their records on the shack are a joke; actually, they don’t even consider it rentable and are only waiting until their financing goes through to tear it down, together with the fishing dock and anything else in the way, and get started on construction. Sometime next year, they figure.”

“But somebody must have rented it.”

“Somebody obviously did. McNeil didn’t just come home and find it by accident. The girl at the real estate office in Bathsheba doesn’t remember what the renter looked like, other than his being ragged, but she does remember that he put down forty biwi for two months’ rent. She couldn’t see any reason not to take it; the place had been abandoned for years.”

“Did he sign anything?”

“He did — the standard tenant’s form. With a great big X.” Da Silva smiled grimly. “Anyway, I doubt if that was the banker. It would be much smarter for him to give someone ten biwi to go in and handle the deal — some sugar worker or fisherman he meets in a bar or on the dock. If we wait until we identify this character we keep calling the banker through the rental of that shack, then I’ve got a hunch you’ll be greatly delayed before you get another chance to be run over in Rio.”

“I’ll try to manage,” Wilson said philosophically. “What about the passenger lists from the planes?”

“Well,” Da Silva said, remembering, “McNeil flew Varig flight 479 on April twelfth, Recife to Port-of-Spain. Then he had about an hour or so wait for his connection, which was to Avianca flight 622 from Port-of-Spain to Barbados, landing at Seewell late the same afternoon. We’ve asked both airlines for lists of passengers including the Varig passengers disembarking in Recife, and the Avianca passengers disembarking at Port-of-Spain. Just in case somebody thought to leave a package for McNeil to pick up, and then get off the flight. It might be dangerous, but you have to admit it would be cute.”

“For my money it would be more than either dangerous or cute on the Avianca flight,” Wilson said dryly. He negotiated a curve in the coral road and settled back. “It would be downright foolhardy. Varig could have been late, or even cancelled; McNeil might have been transferred to a different plane by the Interpol men in Trinidad and the package eventually found by some cleaning woman in Rome or someplace. A hundred things could go wrong. I vote we scratch that one.”

“Scratched. I agree,” Da Silva said. He lighted another cigarette and tossed the match away. “I think if the money was passed to McNeil on the flight — and it seems by far the most logical place to do it — it would have to be passed on Varig flight 479 somewhere between Recife and Port-of-Spain.”

“Any intermediate stops on that flight?”

“None.”

“And when will you have the lists?”

“Sometime tomorrow, with luck. They’ll be telexed from Rio Grande de Sul for Varig, and from Bogotá for Avianca. God knows why it should take so long to dig something out of a file, but that’s what they say.” He yawned and stretched slightly in the cramped seat. The lights of Brighton were approaching. “Drive down to the beach — let’s see if Jamison has anything to report.”

“And then I’ll buy you a drink at the famous Badger Inn,” Wilson said. “You haven’t seen it, have you? Very picturesque, even if the wine list isn’t the longest in the world. And there’s still an hour before closing.”

“If you insist,” Da Silva said politely, and leaned back.

They turned into the rutted lane and bounced unevenly over the dunes, turning again at the shore and following their headlights over the rippled sand to the dark open sedan parked patiently down the beach. Da Silva climbed down while Wilson waited, the old car hiccuping gently beneath him, the headlights dimming of their own accord without the full cooperation of a racing generator to sustain them. Wilson’s patience was starting to wane at the time his friend was taking when Da Silva appeared from the gloom. He climbed into the car and closed the door, turning to Wilson. There was a note of deep satisfaction in his voice, as well as a tone of great relief.

“Diana’s been found.”

“What?”

“That’s right. I was speaking to Storrs on the radio when he interrupted and asked me to wait, and when he got back on the road she’d been picked up on a lonely road near a place called Farley Hill. Some planter on his way home from Speightstown after a late evening saw her lying on the edge of the road. He picked her up and took her back to Speightstown; the closest doctor’s there — and also the closest police. They called it in just a few minutes ago.”

“Anything on who grabbed her? Or why?”

“Nothing yet, of course.”

“And how is she?”

Da Silva stared at him in surprise.

“That’s a rather odd sequence of questions: First, who grabbed her and why; and second, how is she? I admire devotion to duty in a policeman, but a little humanity wouldn’t hurt.”

“Sorry,” Wilson said contritely.

“All right. Anyway, she’ll be all right. Shock, exhaustion — that’s about it, according to the report. They say she wasn’t too coherent. She’s being given a mild sedative and then the police will drive her home. I doubt if we can ask her any questions tonight, but we’ll stop by anyway.” He bent forward, looking at his watch in the dim light of the dashboard. “She ought to be home in about an hour, I’d say.”

“Good,” Wilson said. He put the car into motion and swung it about on the wide beach, the wheels spitting sand. Da Silva was bumped against the door frame. Wilson shifted gears. “That gives us just about until closing time to wait it out in the Badger.”

Da Silva frowned in the darkness, his jaw tightening.

“You know, Wilson,” he said slowly, “sometimes you’re a hard-to-understand son of a bitch.”

“But only sometimes,” Wilson said. “Look, Zé — what would be gained by rushing up to her house and sitting there for an hour? We might as well relax.”

He pulled over the dunes and out of sight of the police car with Da Silva silent beside him. Behind them Constable Jamison sighed. He had a good idea of the destination of the two men and wished he were able to join them in their vigil at the Badger — a cool beer would go nicely at the moment. However, duty first; he returned to his fruitless contemplation of the darkened house on the shore. Suddenly he sat erect, twisting swiftly in his seat to see if the two Interpol men were still within sight or hailing distance. They were not; the camper had disappeared. He turned back to his study of the house, his hand automatically reaching for the microphone, pressing the button.

“Headquarters? Headquarters?”

“Headquarters here.” The voice was disembodied, echoing hollowly and metallically from the car speakers.

“Constable Jamison here. In Brighton. Keeping an eye on McNeil’s place, you know.”

“Yes?”

“A light just went on inside. I think our boy is back.” He hesitated a moment. “Do I pick the mon up? I’ve a copy of the warrant with me, but I heard Miss Cogswell was found...”

“One moment.” There was a pause; when the voice came back it was as expressionless as before, tinny as a robot. “Inspector Storrs will have a word with you...”

The inspector’s soft voice came on. “Jamison? Are you sure it’s McNeil in the shack?”

“No, sir, but I can go up and find out. The lantern’s on, but there’s a rag of a curtain across the window. Maybe—” He paused. “It’s McNeil, sir. He just came out on the porch. He’s walking this way...”

There was a pause; when the inspector spoke, his voice was quiet.

“If he went for the stones he didn’t get them or he wouldn’t be back — not to the shack.” He seemed to be talking to himself. His voice livened as he addressed himself more directly to the constable. “No, don’t pick him up. Right now the warrant is ineffective in any event; we don’t have a case for touching him. But keep on him. Openly. Who’s with you on the watch?”

“Just Pierce, sir.”

“Well, we may have to give up his cover. No matter; we can always replace. Same drill as before Miss Cogswell was taken. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have to sign off and get cracking if I’m to follow him.”

“Right. Then get cracking.”

The radio switch was depressed, the microphone returned to its hook on the dash even as the motor was started and the headlamps turned on. McNeil was starting to climb the dunes as Jamison pulled up behind him. The large man was marching over the sand slowly, wearily, aware of the car slowly trailing him but really not interested. They had naught on him; if they had they would have picked him up when he showed the lamp. And if Diana got loose she must be home by now and the police aware of it. Maybe he could get to see her later, and let the domned constable sit outside for all he cared, wondering what was going on in the inside! In any event he’d had nothing to do with her being taken, and he knew it and she knew it, whether the coppers knew it as yet or not.

He came to the top of the dune and started down the other side, crossing the main road to the Badger Inn, pushing through the heavy door. Jamison pulled to the curb across the way and turned off the ignition, watching as Pierce walked quickly down the lane beside the building, taking up his stance at the rear of the inn. Jamison slid his tongue over his dry lips, picturing Da Silva, Wilson, and now even McNeil partaking of the pub’s hospitality. Although he did not realize it, his thoughts were echoing those of the tough, thin warden at Bordeirinho, as well as those of a host of law enforcement people before him down through the ages: Which one of us, he was thinking morosely, is really the warder and which one the prisoner?

McNeil was not so much tired as disgusted. Everything had turned out poorly: the fiasco at Green Hell Island, the loss of the jewels, if they were recoverable at all, and if so, how; Tommy and his idiocy in snatching Diana. Well, he thought with a certain amount of savage satisfaction, one thing is domned sure — Tommy won’t be snatching anyone else in a hurry. The truth!

His trip back had sobered him up considerably, and also rested him. He had returned walking along the beach, his bare toes splashing in the curls of the tiny wavelets rippling up the smooth sand, taking to the water to swim only when necessary — once to pass a small community of fishing huts that ran from the main road down to the ocean’s edge, and then not again until he had entered the water some hundred yards from his shack, entering the sluiceway and emerging beneath the hut. He had not been surprised to find the hatch removed from the hole leading to the room above; obviously the coppers would have been here and searched, and just as obviously they would have taken pains to leave evidence that they had done so. He had climbed in, exchanged his swimming trunks for trousers, pulled on a shirt, put on his socks and shoes, and prepared to leave the shack for the inn.

He should have taken a bottle of rum from Tommy’s, but he hadn’t and that was that, but rum he needed badly. Rum might give him an idea as to a possible solution to his problem; or at least it might ease the feeling he had that fate had made him its plaything. One thing was sure; if it did nothing else it would slake his thirst, and the long hike home had built it to formidable size.

He came into the large bar room of the pub and let the heavy carved door swing shut behind him. His eyes scanned the room automatically: an unhappy bartender back of the bar, forced to work double shift; a cane cutter down at the end of the bar nursing a mug of beer and muttering into it drunkenly, probably imprecations he wished he could direct to his field foreman instead of the flat ale before him; a pair in one of the booths drinking what looked like rum. What were they doing here? Strangers the two of them, one a mulatto or an Indian, the other white. Ugly bostards the both. He turned back to the bar, rapping on it loudly with a thick knuckle.

“Rum!”

The bartender brought the bottle over, pouring a glass full, turning. McNeil put out a hand.

“Leave the bottle.”

The bartender shrugged, put the bottle down, and walked away. McNeil took the drink in one swallow, poured a second and allowed it to stand. The two men he saw in the mirror were watching him somberly. What right did the miserable bostards have to eye him like that, anyway? Never saw the ugly sods before and hoped he’d never see them again. He took his eyes from the mirror, looking down at his glass, swirling the liquid slightly and watching the oily surface break up, dipping and swaying. He smiled at it a moment and upended the glass, taking the rum down in one gulp.

And, of course, the miracle he had been expecting from the rum instantly came to pass. As he had known it would, as he had indeed known it would! Others could have their macumba or their voodoo — rum did nicely for him. He almost chortled. My word! Whatever had made him think the problem of getting the gems off Green Hell Island was even difficult, let alone impossible? The solution was so simple it was enough to make a mon giggle. Somebody had to go and get them and then hand them over to him, that was all. Not Tommy, of course — never that cheating bostard — but somebody. The question now, of course, was who — but rum having solved the major portion of the problem, there was little reason to suppose it wouldn’t resolve the minor ones as well.

He poured his glass full, drank it, and was about to pour another when he became aware that the bartender was standing before him, a stubborn look on his fat face. McNeil scowled at him fiercely.

“Well, and what’s that mewling ugly look supposed to stand for?”

“You’ve drunk half the bottle, and we haven’t seen any money as yet,” the bartender said, and swallowed. He was well aware that McNeil was a dangerous man to cross; he hadn’t seen the fight the other night, but it was still the talk of the pub and would be for months — maybe years. On the other hand, he was equally aware that the daily inventory indulged in by his eagle-eyed employer would most certainly turn up a missing bottle of rum unaccounted for with biwis in the till. What was a mon to do?

“Is that it, now?” McNeil said, and laughed. “Is that your only problem, you poor little mon? Well, here’s your miserable brass and be domned to you! Any other pub in this village and you’d see the last of me and that’s the fact! Ugly bostard pub!”

He reached for his wallet and then paused, a statue. He had forgotten he’d been had; he’d forgotten to get more money at Tommy’s! He was flat! The bartender, understanding, finally assumed a role in the frozen tableau, but it was merely to stand and look forlorn: Now that his worst fears were obviously realized he had no idea what to do next. Then, in time, he recalled the constable that was always about, no matter where McNeil went. Jamison was bound to be outside in that sedan of his, but could he make it from behind the bar and past the big man to the door before the other woke up and caught him?

Fortunately, he was saved the problem of making the horrendous decision. A polite voice spoke from the booth along the wall. Wilson was smiling at him, reaching into his pocket.

“Don’t worry about it, bartender. I’ll be only too glad to pay the gentleman’s tab.”

McNeil came out of his trance, turning to stare suspiciously. He had that look on his face that indicated eventual forced acceptance, dislike compounded with the unfortunate inevitability of being the other’s guest. Gratitude had never been a major word in the large man’s lexicon, and besides, why was the little mon doing it, eh? Still, with that domned constable outside he could well spend twenty-four hours in the jug for beating the bill — or even more if he tried to resist arrest — and he hadn’t the time to spare. Why hadn’t he thought of getting money at Tommy’s? Well, that was water over the dam. He swallowed, trying to find the words to accept the offer without appearing under obligation, when he happened to note the wallet from which Wilson was dragging money. Across the table in the booth, Captain Da Silva was watching the scene unfold with twinkling eyes.

McNeil’s eyes widened in shock. It took a second or two for the full truth to strike him, and then it was as if he had also been struck with a bucket of ice water, clearing his brain, replacing the heady rum fumes first with outrage and then with pure hate.

“Hey! That’s my purse!”

“I beg your pardon?” Wilson looked at him with curiosity, pausing in his act of extracting the money.

McNeil clenched his jaw and reached for the wallet, intending to recover it before he took the little purse-snatching bostard by the ears and broke every bone in his thieving body; but Wilson instantly drew it out of range. There was something in the graceful gesture reminiscent of a torero baiting a bull. Da Silva grinned.

McNeil first took a deep breath and then sneered. He stationed himself squarely where neither man could possibly escape.

“Oh, it’s to be cute, is it? Well, suppose I teach you some manners the same time I teach you not to dip purses, eh? You like to come out here where I can get my hands on you, or do I reach in there and snatch you up like a chicken? My word!”

“Ah, me!” Wilson sounded sad about the whole affair. He started to come to his feet when Da Silva reached across the table, pushing him back into his seat.

“If you don’t mind,” he said politely, “you had the pleasure of lifting the man’s wallet; let me have the pleasure of guaranteeing that he doesn’t get it back. Share and share alike, you know. Besides, he’d only spend it on rum.”

The complete effrontery of this confession momentarily held McNeil silenced, but only momentarily. With a bellow like a bull he started to grab at the wallet, still held loosely in Wilson’s hand. Da Silva slapped the outstretched hand smartly. His eyes came up coldly.

“Speaking of bad manners,” he said chidingly, “my friend and I are having a discussion. We are deciding which of us is to tear off your ears and stuff them into your pocket. In lieu of your wallet, I might mention. So please be polite enough not to interrupt. Do you mind?” He turned his attention back to Wilson.

McNeil stared and then burst out laughing. One thing was certain, neither of the strangers could get past him and escape, and when they were done with their farce — obviously intended to distract him and allow them to get past him — he would pick up his wallet and then take the two of them apart.

“Be my guest, mon,” he said, “but if it’ll ease things, why not let me take the two of you at once?”

“You’re interrupting again,” Da Silva said coldly, and turned to Wilson. “A coin, I’d suggest, as being the fairest way. Heads or tails. Do you have one?”

“I really don’t know.” Wilson unsnapped a small side pocket of the strange wallet and nodded. “Ah, yes. Here’s one. All right: I’ll flip, you call.”

McNeil watched the charade, his smile now gone, his hate returning, warming him, preparing him for the fight he knew would soon be coming. The two of them would obviously rush him together, in one move, and if they were armed or not, it wouldn’t save them. Nothing would save them! Not only stealing his purse but trying to put him down, as well. Let them have their bloody fun; they’d be laughing through broken teeth in a very few moments.

The bartender stood hesitant, not knowing what to do. One solution never occurred to him, and that was to call Constable Jamison. No matter what the outcome of the argument he knew he would get paid, so why interfere? He moved a shade down the bar to be in a position for a better view. The cane cutter was totally unaware of any argument; he tossed a coin on the bar and staggered into the street.

Wilson flipped the coin, caught it, and covered it instantly.

“Heads,” Da Silva said.

Wilson removed his hand from the coin and sighed.

“You’re just lucky.”

“It runs in the family,” Da Silva said modestly, and smiled pleasantly up at McNeil. “It’s my honor. Be happy. My small friend here is a lot tougher than he looks. Judo and things, you know.”

“Don’t fash yourself,” McNeil said. “He’ll have his turn, my word! And just hand over that purse before you even start getting up. I get your plan. While I’m thrashing you, your pal takes off with it, is that the drill?”

“Is that your only worry?” Da Silva sounded surprised. “Of course you can have it, friend. I’ll take it off you later, so that’s no great problem.”

He reached over, picking the billfold from Wilson’s fingers, tossing it to the far side of the room. McNeil turned with the gesture, moving swiftly, pouncing on it and coming erect, twisting, all in one movement. To his. surprise, the two men had not taken advantage of their ploy in order to make a getaway, as he had expected. Instead, Wilson was carefully pouring himself a drink, preparatory to leaning back and enjoying the show; Da Silva was facing him calmly in the center of the room.

“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I know it’s not polite to throw things, but I hate being sucker-punched while I’m standing up.” McNeil stared at him. Da Silva’s voice took on a touch of concern. “You did want to fight, didn’t you? Because if you didn’t, I’ll have to ask you to give back the wallet. After all, my partner stole it from you fair and square.”

McNeil smiled, a grim humorless smile. Trying to needle him, eh? Trying to get him to lose his temper and be careless, eh? Not William Trelawney McNeil, mon. What a lesson this pockmarked bostard with the thick mustache was about to learn, my word! He went into a slight crouch, measuring his opponent carefully. Tall and slim, probably heavier than he looked, and probably tough enough, too, the ugly bostard! But not as tough as Bill McNeil, and that was the important point. He moved forward, fingers curved to grab or form fists as required, shuffling lightly. His eyes never left the other’s face. Once he got his arms around that wise chap, he’d break him like a twig!

Da Silva backed away, well aware of the other’s power, and then suddenly feinted with one hand. McNeil. had been waiting; he grabbed the outstretched arm and pulled, turning, flinging Da Silva against the bar, moving in quickly to take advantage, but the mustached man wasn’t there. He had wheeled away in the same motion, hitting out sharply as he did, catching McNeil a ringing slap on the ear. The two circled each other again, each a bit more cautious this time, each beginning to pant a bit. Suddenly Da Silva moved in again, this time contrary to McNeil’s expectations; a sharp slap on the face and he was out of reach again, his Indian-like face stony, his black eyes fixed on the other.

McNeil fought down the first blinding anger that swept him, knowing the importance of not losing his head. That ugly mulatto bostard was slapping him, slapping him! Slapping him like a sma’ one, not even closing his fist. He took a shuddering breath, bringing himself under control. Well, he’d teach him when this was over; he’d break those domned fingers one by one. The taunting hand wavered temptingly before him and then moved in as swift as a striking snake to slap again, but this time McNeil made no move to avoid it. He took the slap and chopped down viciously, catching the other on the forearm with the side of his hand. Da Silva stepped back sharply, his one hand falling uselessly to his side, the other coming up automatically.

McNeil grinned in savage joy and moved in for the kill; a ringing slap on the ear and Da Silva was away, watching him steadily, no sign on his face to indicate the pain in his arm. McNeil took a deep breath and paused a moment, then began edging closer, trying to work his injured opponent into a corner where his moves would be limited. The hand snaked out again; McNeil took the slap in favor of gaining position, but when he looked up again Da Silva was back in the open, waiting.

There was only one thing for it, McNeil thought, and made a feint. That punishing hand moved out swiftly as always, but this time McNeil reacted differently. He took the slap but fell as he did so, going to his two outstretched hands, twisting in the same movement, peering over his shoulder, his thick leg shooting out as if discharged from a cannon, aimed at the face above. Only the face somehow wasn’t there when his leg reached its full extension. Instead of the satisfying and battle-ending thud of his foot against that hated pockmarked head, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach as a shoe was driven viciously into his solar plexus, knocking the wind from him, putting him flat on the floor. He started to push himself to his knees, gagging; an expertly placed kick alongside his jaw knocked him over on his back, fighting for air, dazing him further. One final boot in the side slid him against the bar, out of the battle. The bartender gazed at the new pub-champion with awestricken eyes.

Da Silva reached down, picking the wallet from McNeil’s pocket, coming to his feet, staring down at the beaten man.

“My word!” he said, imitating McNeil’s favorite phrase. “Trying capoeira on a Brazilian! How stupid can you be?”

McNeil fought to sit up and then collapsed again. He lay on the floor, fighting for breath, his topaz eyes filled with hate as he looked up into black eyes as cold as any he had ever seen. He tried to speak and finally managed a harsh whisper.

“I get you for this, mon,” he said painfully, struggling to get the words out. “I get you for this, it’s the last thing I do on this earth, you ugly bostard. My word!”

“I’ll be around whenever you feel like trying it. We’re in a camper about a mile down the beach toward Bathsheba. I’d hate to have you miss us.” He smiled. “You don’t find suckers like you used to, you know.”

McNeil glared at him with hate. Da Silva drew a note from the billfold and placed it on the bar.

“Take out our drinks and the ones he had.”

The bartender picked up the bill and moved toward the cash drawer. Wilson called him back. He had come from the booth and was standing beside Da Silva. He looked at the waiting bartender.

“Take out for the full bottle of rum the man ordered,” he said, and turned to his friend. “It’s the least we can do, don’t you think? After all, the poor man doesn’t look too strong. And it is his money...”