The Green Hell Treasure

11

The falling-apart camper was hidden in a thick stand of tamarind trees a short distance north of the path leading to Diana’s aunt’s house; the main road and the bit of shoulder where the perimetral bus normally stopped were barely visible in the darkness, but the headlamps of any car approaching and stopping to discharge a passenger would clearly be visible. Da Silva and Wilson were inside the car, waiting; Wilson was patient, but Da Silva was markedly less so. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match out the window.

“I still don’t see your point in insisting that we wait,” he said almost grumblingly. “What do we gain? I’d like to get up there and find out what happened to Diana, and what she can tell us about last night, or about McNeil and his plans.”

“Relax,” Wilson said soothingly. “I didn’t argue when you put on that football match with McNeil, did I? No — I went along like a good little boy, even if it meant seeing you nearly get your head handed to you. And do you know why?”

“Let me guess. Because you had an idea of what I was doing?”

“Exactly. If we can keep Mr. McNeil off balance, he may just make a major mistake. He’s very bright when he doesn’t lose his temper, but you felt — and I tend to agree — that when he sees red he seems the type to jump on his horse and ride off in all directions.”

“Good,” Da Silva said sourly. “So now that we’ve explained why I did what I did, will you please explain why we’re doing what we’re doing? Namely, just sitting here and waiting.”

“We are sitting here and waiting,” Wilson explained in the tone one uses in the first grade, “because McNeil is going to come here. It may take him a short while if he bums a ride, or a long while if he has to walk, but he’ll be here. And we do not wish to be talking to Miss Cogswell when he does. It doesn’t serve any great purpose to have him find us hob-nobbing with his girlfriend — and us perfect strangers — just after you tried to drop-kick him over the bar.”

“I know, but the chances are he won’t even come. If our great hypothesis means anything, he went off before she was snatched. He probably doesn’t even know she’s missing.”

Wilson almost snorted.

“McNeil must have gotten in a few on your head that I didn’t see! He walks into an inn where Diana works nights, sees she isn’t there, but the day bartender is on duty instead, and doesn’t think anything of it? Good Lord!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Da Silva said, and crushed out his cigarette.

“I’m always right,” Wilson said modestly. He looked over at Da Silva’s profile in the darkness. “Incidentally, speaking of rights, how’s yours? Your arm, I mean.”

“Sore,” Da Silva said shortly. He flexed his fingers and frowned. “It’s a lucky thing my muscles were tensed for slapping him, and an even luckier thing he didn’t have much room to chop down, or he’d have definitely broken it, if he didn’t tear it off all together.”

“Well,” Wilson said, “you’re the one who insisted on handling it. If you’d have left it to me—”

“If I’d have left it to you, we’d probably be filling in your next-of-kin forms.” Da Silva glanced over at the smaller man and smiled. “You’re tough and nobody denies it, and using straight judo or karate I think you could probably take him — if you didn’t make any mistakes, of course—”

“I never make mistakes,” Wilson said virtuously.

“—but capoeira is a sport you’re not acquainted with,” Da Silva went on evenly, completely disregarding the interruption, “and if you don’t know it and you’re up against somebody that does, you can really have your head handed to you — or to somebody else, rather. The first one to catch it.”

“So I start taking capoeira lessons the day I get back,” Wilson said. “I have a great fondness for my head.” He glanced at his watch and yawned. “I know our boy is coming, but I wish he’d do it soon so we can finish up our chores and get some rest tonight.”

“Amen.”

“In spades.” Wilson reached into his pocket, brought out his cigarettes and took one, offering the pack to Da Silva. “Incidentally, I’m afraid we’ll have to clean up this case in a hurry.”

“I’ve certainly no objection,” Da Silva said equably, and held a match for them both. He shook it out. “But why the auxiliary intransitive verb of predication?”

Wilson stared at him in amazement. “The what?”

“I said, why the word ‘must’?”

“Oh, showing off, eh? Well, if you want the tragic facts,” Wilson said, puffing away, “this is my last pack of PX cigarettes, and from now on we’ll have to depend on the local product...”

McNeil came out of the Badger Inn, the last customer, and stood a moment, looking up and down the road. Behind him there was the sound of the latch being put up, and a moment later the light behind the curtained window went out, followed in an incredibly short time by the sight of the bartender wheeling down the lane beside the pub on his. bicycle. He turned into the main road and was soon lost in the darkness. McNeil sighed. The road was deserted, the village was deserted; the world, it seemed, was deserted. A few lamps burned in a few huts, but their very existence seemed to increase, rather than decrease, the desolation.

The big man raised a hand to his swollen and discolored jaw, winced at the pain, and walked over to the police car. The pungent odor of rum went with him, preceding him and trailing behind. He leaned on the door of the open sedan, breathing into Jamison’s face.

“Constable Jamison, I presume. I hear you’re under orders to trail me everywhere I go. Well, how about a slight favor, eh, mon?”

Jamison stared at him suspiciously. It was the first time words had passed between them, and the constable wasn’t sure but what it was against regulations. The big man was also drunk as a lord, and looked as if he had taken a bad fall inside the Badger.

“What favor, McNeil?”

“Ah, you know my name, eh? Well, just a ride to my girl’s house up Queensland way. I’ll be getting along there anyway, you know, and you’ll be rolling along right back of me, so what’s the odds? Can’t watch a mon better than when he’s right under your beak, can you? My word!” He saw the unconscious glance Jamison threw toward the inn, and laughed. “Oh, your little mon from the chandler’s shop, the one doesn’t know a bitt from a pail of bait, he can come, too. Plenty of room. And when we get there, he can set up house in the back same as usual, while you keep an eye on the front. Standard drill. I’ve no objection. What say, mon?”

Jamison had reddened at the mention of Pierce, but he turned his head to stare straight ahead, partially because it was the way he saw his duty, but mainly to avoid the stale odor, of rum on McNeil’s breath.

“Can’t be done.”

“Sure it can be done! Of course it can be done. All you have to do is do it, mon.” McNeil leaned closer in confidence. Jamison tried to stop breathing. “Look, Constable — my girl’s had a tough night; I’m sure you’ve heard. I have to see her, and I haven’t a bloody farthing to my name — not a sou.”

“Against regulations.”

“What, to ride in this heap? Taxpayer’s wagon, isn’t it? Anyway, if I put a brick through a window, I’m sure I could ride in it fast enough.” He saw the look on the other’s face and grinned. “I’m joking, mon. A ride like that would be in the wrong direction. Come on.”

“I said, no.”

McNeil sighed. It simply proved that politeness was a complete waste of time; what he really should do was to slap this stupid copper unconscious and take the domned car, and the devil with them all! Still, why borrow trouble without need? The worst of the refusal would be another long hike, his second of the night. Then, in the distance, he saw the lights of the yellow bus approaching around a curve. He bent back into the sedan.

“Look, mon, don’t be cruel. It’s not your nature. If you won’t give me a lift, the least you can do is loan me the price of the fare on the bus, eh? That can’t be against your precious regulations, can it? Of course not! What say, eh?”

Constable Jamison sighed and reached into his pocket. He handed over a coin, and then put out his hand, detaining the man. He reached into his blouse and brought out a packet, also handing it over.

“If you’re visiting your girl, you’d best use these. They’re mints...”

“Mints?” McNeil licked his lips and nodded, smiling. “I gather I need them at that. Thanks, mate.”

Constable Jamison watched as the big man walked unsteadily out into the road and flagged down the yellow bus. He had to admit that it really didn’t make much sense to pay out good money — and from his pocket, too — just for transportation when the police car was, indeed, going to the same destination. Still, it was also true that Regulation 14-C Paragraph 2 Section 6 (or was it 7?) covering the Use of Police Vehicles, clearly stated that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES were they to be used for personal or unofficial business. Still, couldn’t it be called official business in this case? Jamison frowned. It was all very confusing. He tooted his horn lightly, waited while Pierce trotted down the alley and climbed into the car, and then took off, following the jouncing omnibus toward Queensland.

McNeil descended at the small lane as scheduled. From their hiding place in the grove Da Silva and Wilson watched as the big man crossed the road before the bus, disregarding the possible consequences, and disappeared into the darkness. A wedge of light eventually showed him in silhouette; then the door to the house was closed. Jamison pulled up in that instant; the shadow of Pierce could be discerned descending and moving up the hill to take his belated position behind the house.

“See? I told you,” Wilson said smugly, and settled back to wait, a silent Da Silva at his side.

In the house Diana’s Aunt Margaret silently closed the door behind McNeil. She was an old woman, a wizened, wrinkled mulatta wrapped in a shawl over her floor-length dress, despite the heat of the night. She tilted her head in the direction of the girl’s room without saying a word, and shuffled off toward her own. McNeil walked on tiptoe down the narrow bare corridor, trying to make as little noise as necessary, peering into the room at the end. Diana Cogswell was propped up in bed, a lamp beside her throwing its light across the thin sheet that covered her, outlining the fullness of her figure; her hands lay still before her. Her face remained in shadow. She looked up.

“Bill! I—”

“I know all about it, honey. You don’t have to talk about it.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his injured jaw turned away from her, and reached over and took one of her hands in his. It felt cold. “How do you feel?”

“I’m all right. It’s just—” She paused, staring dully down at her hand locked in his. “Oh, Bill! If you’d have done all the things you promised when you promised them, we’d have been out of here and nothing like this would have happened.”

“I know, honey.” McNeil took a deep breath. “I went after those stones last night.”

Her eyes came up swiftly. “You got them!”

“No.” He turned away a moment and then turned back. “I hid them on a place called Green Hell Island. Do you know it?”

“I remember it faintly. It’s the closest, isn’t it? One of the Abandoned group?”

“Yes, but the domned place isn’t abandoned now, my word!” His voice was bitter. “I was there last night and today. They’ve made it into a leper place, you know...” The girl said nothing, waiting. McNeil took a deep breath. “I found out by pure accident, or I might have got off the boat and really been in trouble. This way I didn’t touch one, or even touch anything they touched.” And if Tommy was lying about not catching it from their breathing on me, he thought, maybe I still didn’t catch it. Maybe the breeze was offshore and I breathed on them.

Diana withdrew her hand; her voice chilled perceptibly.

“So you didn’t get them. If they exist at all. And we’re right back where we were last night.”

“They exist, honey. After what happened to you, you should believe it. And I know how to get them, my word!” He turned to face her more squarely.

“You do? How? If you’re afraid to go, and won’t tell anyone else?” She looked up and then gasped. “Bill! What happened to your face?”

“This?” His hand came up and stroked the bruise gently. There was a grim smile on his lips, but his yellowish eyes were deadly. “A blessing, that’s what it’ll turn out to be, you’ll see.”

“But, how—?”

“Two chaps, one held a gun on me and the other took advantage to give me the boot. Three times!” He took a deep breath, remembering. “One a big pockmarked ugly bostard mulatto with a thick soup-strainer; the other a white mon, the little bostard that dipped my purse.” He didn’t notice the tenseness that suddenly crossed the girl’s face; he was looking at the wall without seeing it, seeing instead the beautiful details of his revenge for the beating he had taken. When he turned back to her, she looked as before, waiting. He stared into her eyes.

“But they’ll be the sorriest chaps you ever saw, honey. Because they’re going to get those stones for me from the island.” He didn’t wait for any comment from the girl but bent toward her, his eyes holding hers, sparkling at the brilliance of his idea. “They’ve a camper on the beach, down Bathsheba direction in sight of Brighton dock if the big bostard is to be believed, and I think he was giving the straight on that. He was looking for trouble, and I’d have given him his fill and to spare, except this way we use him to do our chores and laugh in his bloody ugly face when he’s done.”

Diana didn’t seem to understand; she frowned at him.

“And how do we get them to pick up the stones for us? And how do they get to Green Hell Island, even if we ever do? And how do we get the stones away from them once they’ve got them?”

“Look, honey — they’re just the thieving type would go for a story about picking up some loot, especially if it was fed them by you. They’re crooks, that’s their bloody business, I tell you! And they’re strangers, probably don’t know about the lepers or anything. And with your looks giving them the gen? Jam on toast, my word!” He smiled at her and then became serious again. “As for getting there, I’ll have the boat at the end of the pier before dawn.”

“Coppers behind you and all?”

“Coppers behind me and all.” It was said flatly.

Diana didn’t pursue the subject. “And after they pick them up?”

He grinned again. “After that, you let me worry about it, honey. We’ll be off and gone, and the two of the ugly bostards will still be there on the islands. Lepers, the both of them.”

Diana frowned. “Why lepers? They have boats running there for supplies, I imagine. They’ll be off on the first one.”

“So let them, but just being on that island will make them lepers. They say not, but I know better.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Diana looked up. Her voice was steady and quiet.

“And where are the stones on the island?”

He became serious, leaning forward.

“You’ll be with them, of course, because I don’t even know if either of the ugly sods ever saw a boat before. The charts are in the roundhouse. You can’t miss the island; just hold two degrees north of due east. About fifty miles; you’ll raise sight of it fifteen miles short of it, if it’s clear. You’ll come up on it and you’ll see a hill, a cliff like, looks like a big wave about to break; it’s got a rock overhang, see? It’s the highest hill on the island, the one farthest south of the three that are there, and there’s a cove nearly under it where you tie up.”

He waited until this much had been absorbed before going on.

“Now, about halfway up the hill, they’ll see a small cave. Opening bigger on top than on the bottom, about five feet high, five feet wide. Brush in front but not enough to hide it, or there wasn’t fifteen years ago. Between the cave and the coves there used to be a stand of palm, then a swamp, and. then another stand of trees leading up the cliff, but what them lepers did on the island I can’t say.”

“And in the cave?” Her voice was expressionless.

“Inside, at the end — it’s maybe fifteen feet deep, no deeper — there’s a ledge and it looks like it’s all stone, but it’s just rock slabs I laid in clay. And behind it—” He looked at her.

“Fifty miles, two degrees north of east, southernmost hill, halfway up a cave bigger top than bottom, package behind rocks at far end.” She nodded.

“And the chaps are in that camper on the beach, remember?”

“I remember.” Her eyes came up to his face, warm at last. “And you?”

“Don’t worry about me, honey. I’ll be about, when the time comes.” He looked at the clock ticking quietly away on the nightstand. “It’s late. I’ve got to go. Turn off your lamp and get some sleep, honey. I’ll let myself out.”

“All right, Bill.” Diana looked at him with a smile. He bent down and pressed a kiss on her lips, even while his hand moved over to turn off the light switch. She expected to feel his hands on her in the dark but instead felt the bedsprings rise as he withdrew his weight from them, coming to his feet. “Good night, Bill.”

“Good night, honey.”

She heard his steps going down the bare corridor, could picture his hand groping along the wall, and then there was the sound of the front door opening and closing. She smiled to herself contentedly. So at long last Mr. William T. McNeil had revealed the secret of his hiding place. Tomorrow she would look up Da Silva and Wilson — early, before they were gone from the beach — and tell them the whole story. Fifteen years, and she was the one to take credit for digging out the secret. Well, tomorrow would be another big day, even as today had been. She closed her eyes, preparing to rest, the smile still on her lips.

Wilson yawned and stared at the radium dial of his watch. -His eyes went up the hill to the house on top; it had been darkened for several minutes now, but McNeil had still not appeared. The sedan still waited patiently at the foot of the rise.

“Do you suppose he plans to stay the night?”

“I hope not.”

“I’m sure you hope not,” Wilson said. “For several good reasons. Still, what would they be doing in a house with all the lights out?” He answered himself. “Of course, they might be holding a seance.”

“They could be.” Da Silva didn’t sound amused. He glanced at his watch and frowned. “He should have been down here long ago.”

“If, as I said, he isn’t spending the night. Maybe they have a spare room. After all, his own shack was pretty messed up when we left it, as I recall.”

Da Silva was deep in thought; he finally came to a decision, putting his hand on the door handle preparatory to getting out of the car when he saw a dim figure stumbling down the hill in the direction of the road.

“About time!”

“Except I have a cold feeling that was Pierce,” Wilson said — in an odd voice. He climbed down from the car followed instantly by Da Silva; the two men trotted toward the police sedan. Pierce was leaning wearily against the side of the car. Jamison looked up in surprise to see the two men.

“Captain Da Silva. Mr. Wilson.” He looked about. “Were you here?”

Da Silva dismissed the question. “What happened?”

Pierce straightened up a bit, looking abashed.

“He came out of the house after the lights went out, and he walks up to me bold as brass and he says, ‘Hey, chandler’s clerk, we going down to the same place, might as well go down together, eh, mon? You ain’t too proud to walk with me, are you?’ I didn’t answer him, but” — he stared at the ground — “I guess I must have turned, because he hit me, and the next thing I know—” His voice trailed off.

Da Silva stared up the hill. Jamison shook his head.

“Five minutes or more, sir — he could be anywhere. Lucky Pierce has a hard head; he could have been out an hour.” He looked at Pierce sternly. “You maybe got me in a lot of trouble, mon. He was my responsibility. That’s the second time we lost him.” He sighed. “Well, have to call it in, I expect.” He reached for the microphone dispiritedly as Da Silva turned abruptly in the direction of the house on the hill; they both paused as the radio suddenly spoke.

“Jamison?” The voice was that of Inspector Storrs. Nobody sleeps anymore, Wilson thought, and moved closer to the car.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you?”

“Queensland, sir. Down below Miss Cogswell’s house.”

“You followed McNeil there?”

“Yes, sir. Only—”

“Do you know where Captain Da Silva parks his camper on the beach?”

“Yes, sir. Only Captain Da Silva is here with me right now, sir.”

“He is? Good. Lucky. Captain? Storrs here. I think we have McNeil right where we want him.” The four men in and around the sedan looked at each other, but nobody interrupted. “We found out who his partner was. The banker.”

“This is me, Inspector. How did you find out?”

“The telex passenger list from Varig finally came in, Captain. There was one—”

“At this hour?” Da Silva frowned at the speaker.

“It was sent by Varig at eight this evening, and it laid in the communications room until now because it was addressed to you, Captain. If I hadn’t stopped by there to check before going home, it would have been there until tomorrow. At any rate, there was one name on it that I recognized from a long time ago. Glencannon. Thomas Glencannon. Do you remember?”

Da Silva wrinkled his brow, trying to recall it. “No, sir.”

Wilson interrupted. “This is Mr. Wilson, Inspector. Glencannon was the Scottish engineer of the SS Porto Alegre at the time of the robbery, wasn’t he? The one that talked the deck officer into letting McNeil and others come aboard?”

Da Silva stared at him with raised eyebrows. Wilson winked at him.

“That’s right, Mr. Wilson. I gather you must have read the transcript. At any rate, it struck us as quite a coincidence to find him on the passenger list from Recife to Port-of-Spain that day, so we started to check further. Although many people aren’t aware of it, foreigners who rent houses on the island are registered automatically with the police through the real estate agencies; it isn’t true of hotels, although some nationalities are still required to fill out a passport form even there.” The satisfaction in his soft voice was evident even through the inadequacies of the radio speakers. “In any event, Mr. Glencannon came to Barbados three months ago, and rented a house in the northern part of the island. Then, on April tenth he left Barbados for Recife, and returned on the same plane as McNeil as far as Trinidad. He came back a day later from there — apparently didn’t want to get off with police all around who might just remember his connection with the case, even fifteen years later. I don’t think there can be the slightest doubt but what he was the one who planned the affair from the beginning, using the ship’s librarian to get the gang together.”

Da Silva moved closer to the microphone. “Do you think he was also responsible for the kidnapping of Miss Cogswell? That was our hypothesis, remember?”

“I’m sure of it. We just came back from his place, bringing him along. The property has a barn on it that sounds like the place Miss Cogswell was held; and the location is right for the time she says she walked before collapsing and the place she was found. Between the Portland junction and Cherry Tree Hill.”

“Good,” Da Silva said, pleased. “Maybe we’re finally getting someplace.”

“I think we are. So let’s stop playing games with the mon,” Inspector Storrs said briskly. “Jamison, get Pierce and pick up McNeil right now. And bring him in to headquarters in Bridgetown.”

There were several pregnant moments of silence; Constable Jamison finally began clearing his throat when Wilson took pity on the two men and moved to the microphone.

“That’s the problem, Inspector,” he said, his Midwest American accent identifying him. “You see, he got away...”

“What?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Again?”

“Yes, sir.” The others were watching Wilson, the two Bajan policemen owlishly, Da Silva with a slight twinkle in his eye. Wilson returned to his story, bending the truth a trifle. “He came out of the house in an unexpected manner—”

“An unexpected manner? What’s that?”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, he got behind Pierce and knocked him out before Pierce could do anything, or make an outcry of any sort. It’s unfortunate, sir...”

“It certainly is.” The inspector’s voice promised that it would be unfortunate for somebody. “Well, I think you and Captain Da Silva should come down here as soon as possible. And Jamison, you too; with Pierce. We’ll have to start an island search again...”

Da Silva leaned forward. “I was planning on seeing Miss Cogswell to find out what happened when she was kidnapped, and what McNeil just said to her—”

“It can wait until morning,” the inspector said. “She’s tired, and let her rest. I have what happened to her on paper.” There was a moment’s silence while Da Silva sighed hopelessly, looking up toward the darkened house. When the inspector spoke again, he also sounded a trifle hopeless. “Twice,” he said. “To lose the man twice...”

Constable Jamison tried to look on the bright side.

“Anyway, Inspector,” he said in a placating manner, “what would we possibly hold the mon for? Miss Cogswell is home safe and sound, and even if you have this Glencannon chap for the kidnapping, sir, on what charge could we possibly hold McNeil?”

When the inspector came back on, his voice was cold as ice.

“I was thinking of a matter of murder,” he said quietly. “We brought Mr. Glencannon back with us, but we brought him back with a pitchfork stuck through his stomach...”