The Green Hell Treasure

12

The loud, insistent rapping on the door finally penetrated Wilson’s fogged brain; he tried to bury his head beneath the pillow, but escape in this fashion was impossible. The banging shook the small camper, and the closer one got to the bedsprings the worse the vibration. With a sigh he rolled over and sat up, staring blearily at the watch on his wrist. Six o’clock? What maniac was going around banging on camper doors at six in the morning, when he and Da Silva hadn’t gotten to bed until after three? Well, he just hoped it was McNeil, that was all; he was in just the proper mood to settle with that character once and for all! He yawned deeply and stretched, trying to wake up, to bring some sense of proportion into his fuzzy brain, and then reluctantly reached for his trousers.

The rapping did not abate during Wilson’s pause for recovery from his fogginess. The nondescript man glared resentfully across the camper at the other cot while he zipped himself up; Da Silva, dead to the world, sprawled out, his feet overhanging the edge of the midget cot by a good foot. And how can you sleep through all this racket? Wilson thought sourly. Why should you have had the good fortune to either be born deaf or to have an affinity for unconsciousness that saves you having to answer the door at moments like this? What about all the nonsense that a good policeman springs up widely alert at the sound of a mouse biting into soft cheese? He sighed, suddenly aware that the rapping had not ceased at all during his cerebrations. He got to his feet and staggered sleepily to the door, peering through the locked screen, his eyes squinting against the brilliance of the early morning sun reflected from water and sand.

“Well, well,” he said, and yawned again. “Why didn’t you sing out?”

“I did,” Diana said tartly, “for about ten minutes before I started rapping. It certainly took long enough to wake you.”

“It doesn’t take so long when I get some sleep first,” Wilson explained, and unlatched the door, swinging it wide. A tin can that had been perched above it clattered to the floor, making them both jump. Wilson pushed it aside with his foot, grinning. “Not new, and I doubt in this case it would have been very effective. That was there in case Mr. McNeil decided to pay us a visit without an invitation last night. He seems to dislike us, for some unknown reason.”

“I know all about it.” Diana came in and looked down at Da Silva. Wilson’s grin widened; he tossed a sheet over the sleeping man.

“He’s not as alert as I am.”

“Well, alert or not, you’ll have to wake him.”

“Let him sleep at least until we find out the reason for this bright and early call,” Wilson suggested calmly. “I don’t remember leaving one at the desk.”

Diana Cogswell’s jaw tightened a bit dangerously.

“Do you know, Mr. Wilson, that I have a strong feeling that before this case is over, one of these days we’re very apt to have a fight?”

“If that’s a challenge,” Wilson said, “then I have the choice of weapons and method of combat. I choose bare-handed wrestling.” He grinned. “If I might coin a phrase — and it came to me like that — I should like to say that you look exceptionally beautiful when you get angry.”

“Then I’d look exceptionally beautiful most of the time if I had to work with you very often.” She turned, staring down at Da Silva. “Now, do you wake him or do I? With the water bucket?”

Two dark eyes opened very suddenly, staring up into hers from the bed.

“Just because you’re angry with Wilson is no reason to take it out on me.” Da Silva slid up in bed, pulling the sheet with him modestly. He stared at the girl gravely. “Water bucket! I’ll have you know we have to go miles to get it refilled with fresh water.”

“What he means,” Wilson said, explaining, “is that a much more economical method would be to keep striking him smartly on the soles of the feet. With something unbreakable, of course.”

“You’ve been awake all the time!”

“Well, it really is difficult to sleep with a good fight going on.” Da Silva smiled at the girl. “I might say you look very well after that terrible ordeal.”

“It wasn’t a terrible ordeal, and I never said it was.” Diana Cogswell sniffed. “I’ve been in much worse places. The idiot handcuffed me with my hands behind me and took away the ladder of the barn loft. I don’t know what made the little mon think that would keep me for very long. I merely sat down and pulled my arms around my legs so that my wrists and the cuffs were in front of me; then I simply looked for one of the wooden posts that had to be there to hold up the loft. And managed to slide down it to the floor. It wasn’t anything at all.”

“You mean, you think even I could do it? With practice?” Wilson asked curiously.

Da Silva frowned at the nondescript American and hastily interposed a question to prevent the renewal of hostilities promised by the look on Diana Cogswell’s face.

“But I thought — I mean, the way you were found, Diana. Lying down, unconscious—”

“I was sitting down, not lying down. And I certainly wasn’t unconscious. They really love to build these things up, don’t they? My slippers weren’t made for climbing down hills and my feet hurt. The slippers were ruined and I kept stepping on rocks, so I sat down to rest and this car came along. That’s all there was to it.”

Wilson stared at Da Silva resentfully. “You see? And you wanted to give up our visit to the Badger!”

Da Silva disregarded him, speaking to the girl quietly.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad it wasn’t any worse. Sit down, Diana. I’m sure you have a good reason for being here this early in the morning, and I’d also like to know what McNeil had to say last night.”

Diana sat down on Wilson’s unmade bed and looked from one to the other.

“If Mr. Wilson’s jokes are all finished,” she said, barely able to keep her triumph from showing, “then I’ll be happy to tell you. Last night Mr. Bill McNeil told me where the jewels are.”

Da Silva stared; even Wilson looked respectful.

“That’s right,” she said, and smiled brightly at the two of them.

“And where are they?”

“On an island called Green Hell Island. They—”

“But” — Da Silva frowned — “we flew over it, and the pilot told me that was the one place we could be sure McNeil would never hide them because there was a leper colony there.”

“There is today,” Diana said, agreeing, “but there wasn’t fifteen years ago. The pilot must have been rather young, I should judge; he probably doesn’t even remember when they put the sanatorium there.”

“And whereabouts on the island are they?” It was Wilson, returning to the important part of the report.

Diana Cogswell leaned forward a bit, speaking to Da Silva.

“There’s a cliff, a hill, on the southernmost end of the island; he said one can’t miss it. It’s shaped like a breaking wave with a rock overhang. About halfway up the face of it is a cave, probably covered with some brush but not hidden; he said the opening is unique in that it’s wider at the top than at the bottom. It’s about fifteen feet deep, and at the end the wall looks like ledge, but it’s merely rocks he set into clay. And behind that fake ledge is the package of stones.” She looked proud of herself.

“He went there, then,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “He was probably hidden in one of the coves when we flew over.” He looked up. “So why didn’t he get them when he was there?”

“For the same reason your pilot was sure he hadn’t hidden them there,” Diana said quietly. “Because he has all the old superstitious notions about leprosy that so many people have. The mon is frightened to death of the thought of the disease. He thinks if a leper even breathes on you, you automatically get it, or if you walk on land he’s walked on; and then you start getting big ugly sores right away, and your fingers and toes fall off, and things like that.” She shook her head. “It’s utter nonsense, but not to him. Nothing in this world, no matter how valuable, would ever get Bill McNeil to set foot on that island.”

“So he wants you to get them?” It was Wilson again.

“Heavens, no!” She smiled at him. “Bill McNeil’s grown quite fond of me at this point; he has, you know. He certainly wouldn’t want me to get the disease. I might just give it to him.”

“Then, who?”

“Who?” Her smile widened. “Why, you two gentlemen, of course. He thinks you’re crooks and that you’d go for any story of getting your hands on a dishonest biwi, especially if I were the one to tell you the story. Mr. Wilson is right; he doesn’t like you at all. So what better way to get back at you than seeing to it that you get leprosy? Bill McNeil couldn’t think of a more fitting revenge for someone he hates. And he hates the two of you.”

Da Silva swung his feet over the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet with him, bunching it in his lap. He ran a large hand through his black tousled hair and looked up, frowning.

“I don’t get it,” he said flatly. “Suppose we did everything he wants us to do; go to the island, get the stones, so what? Leprosy or not? How would it benefit him? Sure, he’d get his revenge, as he sees it, but he’d still lose the package. I’m sure he must have something more in mind.” He looked at the girl. “What else did he say, Diana?”

Diana Cogswell took a deep breath before answering; both men automatically looked at that lovely bust and then, a bit reluctantly, back to her face.

“He said he’d see to it there would be a powerboat at the end of the Brighton pier this morning; charts for getting to the island are in the cabin, and he explained to me how to get there. He knows I can handle a boat; we discussed sailing and powerboats more than once at the bar. Anyway, the island is two degrees north of true east, he said; a fifty-mile run. He wanted me to run the boat because he didn’t know if either of you two could do it.”

“But he didn’t want you to get off the boat, I imagine.”

“He didn’t say, but I assume not.”

“And what about him?”

“I asked him, and he said he’d be around when the time came. And that’s all he said.”

“So why don’t we take a seaplane there?” Wilson asked. “And leave Mr. McNeil’s too-convenient powerboat tied up to the Brighton dock from now until it falls apart?”

Da Silva shook his head decisively.

“No. You’re forgetting that at this point we not only want the stones, but that there’s an all-points out for McNeil on a murder charge.”

“Murder?” Diana stared at him, her eyes widening.

“Yes. He’s wanted for killing the little man who stuck you up in that loft.” He frowned, thinking, and then looked up. “No. We follow the plan he laid out, and play it by ear. After all, we wanted him to make a move, and this is it. Now the only way we can find out what he has in mind is to go through with it with no variations.”

“All right, I agree,” Wilson said. “But I do suggest one small variation. I suggest we leave Diana behind. Whatever his plan is, or whatever happens, there’s almost sure to be some danger, and there’s no point in putting her in needless jeopardy. I can handle any powerboat and navigate, too. That’s no problem.”

“Not on your life!” Diana Cogswell came to her feet instantly, her black eyes flashing in anger. Her usually soft island voice hardened. “I happen to be a peace officer, too, you know. And if I say so myself, I’m the only one who’s done anything on this case at all, so far. Mon, mon! Now that it’s coming to a conclusion — on information I got, not either of you two — you think you can leave me out of it, eh? All the credit to the gents, and the ladies go stand in the corner, is that it? I think not!” She swung about, glaring from one to the other. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know that I need either one of you at all. I couldn’t care less about Bill McNeil’s idea of revenge. Whatever he has in mind, he’ll be about. And I can pick up the stones and I can pick up Mr. Bill McNeil, too, as far as that’s concerned! You’d think I was never in on an arrest! My word!”

“All right, all right!” Da Silva said, and grinned at the outburst. “You can come along. Satisfied?”

“Well, it’s mighty sweet of you, mon! I suppose you’ll be expecting me to do the cooking!” She glared at him, far from mollified.

“Not quite,” Da Silva said, and then paused, thinking. “We’ll have to get in touch with Storrs and let him know what we’re doing.”

“I’ll do it while you two are getting some clothes on,” Diana said. “I’ll meet you at the dock.”

“Yes, Mother,” Da Silva said meekly, and reached for his trousers.

The powerboat could not be mistaken; it was the only boat of any stature tied to the pier. The fishing boats had already scattered for the day and were tiny white flash-marks against the blue of the horizon; only a few dinghies rose and fell on the pulsing sea, their loose painters tied to the slippery moss-covered posts of the dock. Da Silva jumped down and helped Diana aboard; Wilson came last, carrying a small overnight bag. He set it down and reached for the line holding the boat to the pier, but Da Silva held up his hand abruptly.

“Hold it — not so fast. If McNeil said he’d be around when the time came, it has to mean one of two things: that he’s on this boat now — which I admit is rather doubtful — or he’ll be on another boat in the neighborhood of that cove, waiting for us to come back from the cave with the stones.”

Wilson bent and opened the small overnight bag. He glanced about, saw nobody within sight, and brought out three revolvers, handing one to Da Silva, tucking one into his waistband, and then looking at Diana with a frown, as if wondering where she might accommodate hers. She smiled and took it, placing it on the small ledge holding the binnacle and the instruments. Wilson straightened up and looked at Da Silva.

“And since we’re armed, just how does Mr. McNeil plan on getting the stones away from us and leaving us on the island?” he demanded. “Using hypnosis?”

“I don’t know.” Da Silva slipped his revolver into his pocket and then brought it out again, holding it. “But I’m sure he has some idea. Before we cast off, let’s take a look around.”

He took on the task of investigating the small roundhouse, peering under the bunks, opening the lockers there, and even opening the doors beneath the chart table, revealing tiny cubbyholes filled with rolled-up maps. He checked the tiny space beneath the small galley and the sink, looked into the head; with a sigh he went back on deck. He watched as Wilson lifted the tarpaulin from the dinghy davited aft, and then pulled it tight again, looping the cord about the thole pins. Wilson walked over and raised the hatches that covered the inboard engines, although it was obvious there was no room in the shallow wells for anything other than the eight-cylinder marine power-plants, crowding the space with their V-shaped beauty. He dropped the hatch covers and secured them, coming to his feet, tucking his revolver back into his belt.

“If he’s in there, he’s hiding inside one of the cylinders.”

“And if he’s in the cabin, he’s hiding in a gasoline tin.” The reference reminded him. “How are we for fuel, by the way?”

“Plenty,” Wilson assured him. “Even for those thirsty monsters.” He grinned. “McNeil didn’t leave much to chance, I have to give him that. I gather he’d feel poorly if we got ourselves stranded halfway to the island, or something like that.”

“I have an even stronger feeling that he’d hate to be stranded himself, once he gave us the old heave-ho on Green Hell Island,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “All right, you’re the captain. Shall we be on our way?”

Diana had been watching silently. She stepped forward and pressed the self-starter buttons; the first engine ground a moment and then caught, followed almost instantly by the second. Water spurted in sudden gouts, bubbling loudly behind, rocking the boat in place. Wilson untied the rope holding them to the pier and stepped down into the boat; Diana let the tide move them clear of the dock and then slowly eased the throttle forward, swinging the wheel. The needle of the compass came about slowly, as if pushing through molasses. The tall girl waited until it reached eighty-eight degrees, between east-by-north and true east on the compass, and held the wheel steady there. Wilson reopened the engine hatches and listened appreciatively to the steady rumble, checked their oil level, and closed the hatches, coming to his feet and facing the prow, letting the wind whip through his hair.

Da Silva had disappeared into the cabin; he reappeared with ham sandwiches. “A woman’s work is never done,” he said with a grin, and handed them around.

Diana smiled at him. With the wind blowing her long hair back, and molding her blouse tightly against her firm, full breasts, with the sun glinting from her straight, strong profile, she was truly beautiful, Da Silva thought appreciatively. What the Brazilians would call a gorgeous morena. She looked like one of the figureheads mounted on the stemhead of some ancient barque, leaning into the wind, making the vessel travel by leading it fearlessly into the mysteries of the unknown sea. Da Silva sighed and turned to look around him, chewing his sandwich. Behind, the island of Barbados was visible almost in its entirety, with its low hills forming a figure similar to a sleeping giant. To the north of them the fishing fleet was closer, but still scattered, bobbing on the sea. Ahead the waves were empty, low and soft; the sun was rising, throwing heat. He turned to look at the girl again.

“How long a run?”

Diana glanced at the instruments. “A few hours. Why? Would you like to lie down and take a nap?”

“Maybe on the way back. This is too much fun.”

Da Silva turned to enjoy the loveliness of the day. It reminded him of yachting with friends in Guanabara Bay, heading for Paqueta — an island, now that he thought about it, not too dissimilar from their goal. Except for sharks; the lack of them wasn’t anything to be held against Paqueta, in his opinion.

Wilson finished his sandwich, lit a cigarette, and came over from his position near the rail. “I’ll take it,” he said to the girl, and put his hand on one of the wheel spokes. “You eat your sandwich.”

“All right.” Diana picked up her sandwich and gun and disappeared into the cabin; when she returned she had fashioned a wide belt from what looked like a pillowcase, pinned behind. Her gun was tucked into it securely; it looked like a pirate sash. She smiled at the two men. “Not exactly regulation holster design,” she said, “but I suppose there are several things about this trip that aren’t regulation.”

“Like, is this trip necessary?” Wilson grinned and paid attention to his task.

The sea rushed past them, foaming alongside and leaving a broad wake behind; the sun rose higher and higher. When at last Barbados had disappeared completely, the complete desolation of open sea could be felt. It was with relief that they finally could note, rising slowly above the waves, the faint outline of the island, increasing in size and clarity by the minute. Da Silva looked at his watch in surprise; Diana noted the gesture and smiled.

“It’s farther away than it looks,” she said. “Distance is deceptive at sea, especially in the Caribbean, where the air is so clear. We’re still a long way off.”

She was proven quite correct; it was nearly forty minutes before they were standing off the island, with the wave-shaped cliff above them and the cove they were seeking before them. Wilson had eased the throttles back until they were almost at the mercy of the waves breaking on shore; he increased their tempo enough to give him control and slowly maneuvered the boat into the gap beneath the spreading branches of the overhanging trees. The sudden shade made the cove seem extraordinarily dark after the brilliant light of the ocean and the glaring sun. Wilson brought the throttle back to neutral and let the boat drift into shore; it eased itself against one of the trees whose roots were locked beneath the water, bumped gently, and then swung slowly about, the starboard rail pressed tightly against a further stand of trees and brush. Diana tied the boat to the nearest tree and stepped back.

Wilson cut the engines. In the abrupt silence the shadowed cove suddenly seemed eerie, slightly frightening. Even the birds seemed to have suspended their activity momentarily in favor of impressing these interlopers with the full extent of their unwarranted intrusion. Almost as if they had practiced the motion in unison, the three withdrew their guns and held them prepared for any eventuality. They stared about as their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, looking at the forest on one side of the boat, and up into the leafy branches as if expecting to see McNeil poised there, ready to drop on them. Wilson finally broke the spell by tucking his gun back into his belt.

“They should hire this place out to anyone making voodoo movies,” he said. He walked to the taffrail and peered down into the water. Shadowy shapes could be faintly seen just beneath the surface. “Or to the Seaquarium for anyone who likes sharks.” He came back and looked at Da Silva. “All right, boss, we’re here. How now, brown cow?”

Da Silva laughed and put his gun away.

“A good question. I imagine that two of us go for the package and one stands guard here.” He studied the thin stretch of beach on the leeside of the boat, and the wall of forest beyond it. “The only problem is who goes and who stays?”

“You and Mr. Wilson go, of course,” Diana said. She smiled in an embarrassed manner. “I know I said I don’t believe all the superstitions about leprosy, and I don’t—”

“Only you’d prefer not to test them, is that it?” Wilson grinned.

Diana Cogswell’s smile disappeared. “We also agreed to follow McNeil’s plan, and that was what he had in mind.”

“We agreed to follow his plan,” Wilson said, “but there are limits. His plan included things like getting the stones from us and leaving us behind to face a fate worse than death. I don’t mind the fate worse than death — I imagine the sanatorium here must have some form of radio communication with Barbados and we could be picked up easily enough. But I don’t care for losing the stones after all the time we put into this thing.” He looked at her calmly. “I admit I don’t know what he has in mind, but it has to be something, and I don’t like to leave a girl alone on a boat if there’s the faintest possibility that McNeil may be in the area. He’s a nasty man.”

Diana Cogswell frowned at him.

“My dear Mr. Wilson, I have excellent hearing, and if he comes anywhere near here in a boat of any kind, including a canoe, I’ll hear him. And I’m positive he isn’t on the island. He just wouldn’t put a foot there, that’s all — not under any circumstances. Besides, even if Bill McNeil does show up, I’m quite capable of handling the situation. I’ll sit myself down in the door of the cabin where I’ll be protected on three sides; and the first thing that moves, without calling out loud and clear, is going to get shot. And accurately. Because, whether you believe it or not, I probably have a better rating on the police pistol range than either of you two.”

Da Silva smiled at her anger.

“You probably do at that. All right — we’ll go along with Mr. McNeil, at least until we have a chance not to go along with him anymore. Let’s just hope he’s not as smart as we are.”

“Which would really be downgrading the man’s intelligence,” Wilson said. “I’ll go along with the hope, though.” He walked to the prow, looked down, and then jumped to the sand. Da Silva followed him. The girl waved to them briefly; then she disappeared around the corner of the roundhouse, her gun in hand, her eye checking the cartridges in the revolver. Da Silva looked after her admiringly.

“What a woman!” he said. “What a wife she’ll make some man someday.”

“If he doesn’t look like a target on the police pistol range,” Wilson said dryly, and led the way up the slope of the beach and into the woods.