The Green Hell Treasure

13

It was murky in the shaded woods, and slightly damp; the tall grass that interspersed the overhanging fronds of wild, untended banana plants and large breadfruit trees was slippery, almost waxen; it whipped at the men as they pushed through. Da Silva wished he had been able to bring a machete, but there had been no time to get one. He took the lead, his gun tucked away, his eyes straining to pierce the thickets for some sign of an end to the forest. And then open space was upon them without warning; they were in a wide glade, open to the blue sky and the sun, with soft turf beneath. Beyond it there appeared to be a low stand of weeds in what seemed from a distance to be a swamp; closer inspection indicated that it was a large, cultivated rice field, terraced to mount the hill. The colony had utilized the swamp, rather than draining it. The two men paused to rest a moment and then pushed on, skirting the top of the highest of the rice paddies. There was no one in sight.

Their path led them higher and higher along the lower slope of the oddly shaped mountain; in the open the sun was beginning to heat the slippery shale that seemed to make up the hill. The cliff before them blocked off any breeze; sweat poured from their faces, blinding them at times, itching. They kept on an angular course, mounting higher and higher as they cut across the face of the slope, slipping every now and then on the loose rock, and grasping roots or some fortunate outcropping of more solid stone to keep themselves from sliding ignominiously down to end up in the paddy below. Da Silva paused, scratching his cheek, looking up. The cave was easily visible, clearly identified by its opening, but still a long distance away and seemingly impossible to reach. He spoke over his shoulder.

“We should have brought rope. And pitons.”

Wilson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared up. He snorted.

“Pitons in this shale? Never. And about all we could do with a rope would be to hang ourselves. What we should have brought is a helicopter.” He frowned up at the wall of rock, which seemed steeper the higher they went. “I wonder how McNeil ever got there in the first place?”

“I imagine this whole slope was roots and trees at one time; when the swamp down below was cleared, the ones above probably kept sliding down. The roots couldn’t go very deep in this stuff.” Da Silva studied the terrain and then glanced back at Wilson. “There seems to be some sort of ledge about ten feet up. If you stand on my shoulders...”

“I suppose that’s as good as anything. I’ll be damned if I’ll turn back at this point.” Wilson waited while Da Silva crouched; he placed one foot on the big man’s shoulder and helped as the other straightened up, placing his palms flat against the face of the cliff and pressing downward with all his strength, taking some of the load from the straining man below him. He reached over his head, groping.

“Hold it. Not that you’re going anywhere...” His hand felt back and forth. “I know what you mean by the ledge; it’s about a foot deep here. But I need something... Wait. I think I’ve got it. A root, I hope. Hang on while I tug on it and see if it’ll take my weight.”

There was a faint cry from below, carried to them on the still air. Da Silva turned his head; Wilson above him clutched madly.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Somebody down below called out. I just turned my head.”

“Well, don’t turn your head! Let me do the sightseeing, eh? You scared the hell out of me.” He glanced over his shoulder, the sweat running down his face. “Three people down there with big straw hats. I don’t know what they’re selling, but they’ll have to wait.” He reached up again and found the handhold he had been seeking. “I’ve got something. Put your hands under my feet and lift me slowly. Slowly! This isn’t the shotput, you know! There!”

He pulled himself up carefully, got one knee on the narrow ledge, turned enough to come to his feet without falling, and looked down at Da Silva’s upturned face.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to hold down the fort. You can look around all you want now. I can reach the cave from here, and I can’t get you up here.” He scratched at his sweaty face. “Don’t go away.”

He turned slowly, facing the cliff, edging his way along the ledge. His hands examined helping holds and accepted or discarded them according to their worth; his feet shuffled slowly along, testing each step of the way. The unpleasant thought suddenly came to him that while the inaccessibility of the cave probably rendered it worthless as a home for wild animals, or even snakes, it still might well serve as an aerie for some large bird, and the thought of being attacked — or even critically examined — by some giant winged creature this far up in the air, was not a pleasant one. He put it away as being nonproductive and kept edging along the face of the cliff. And then the mouth of the dark cave was suddenly just above him, within reach.

He stared upwards into the dark cavern; there seemed to be no means of getting from where he was up to and into that opening, so close and yet so far away. His hand went up and probed the unseen floor of the cave as far as he could reach; it appeared exceptionally smooth. There was nothing to get hold of. His disappointment must have showed in the set of his shoulders because he heard Da Silva call out.

“Hold it there. I’ll try to get below you and push you up.”

Wilson glanced down, shaking his head.

“No chance. You stay where you are. Eventually I’m going to need to get down, and you’re my ladder. If you’re sticking head-first in a rice paddy, you’ll be small help.” He withdrew his hand from its barren exploration of the cave floor and used it to feel about on the wall before him. His fingers encountered a small niche about hip-high, a minor niche in the cliff, but one that satisfied him. “I think I can do it. Patience, patience...”

His hand dug at the small opening, slowly loosening small layers of shale, carrying them slowly to one side and dropping them; he could hear them clatter down the slope below him. The hole deepened; when he considered it sufficiently deep, he tested it by placing his knee into it and raising himself slowly, pressing himself tightly against the face of the cliff as his other foot was forced to relinquish its purchase on the ledge. His head rose slowly above the cave entrance; it was empty of bird or animal, but in the dimness he did see a jagged rock sticking out of one wall within reach. His fingers found it and locked themselves about it; he pulled and found himself lying on his stomach inside the cave, his feet dangling over space outside, his breath coming in great gasps of relief.

He sat up and crawled to the mouth of the opening, staring down. About the edge of the rice paddies a large group of men had formed, all in wide-brimmed straw hats, silently watching the drama being played out above them. Da Silva grinned up at him. Wilson put his forefinger to his thumb in a gesture of success, grinned back, and disappeared into the cave. He returned to the entrance in what Da Silva later claimed was an hour, but which was actually about five minutes, wiping the blade of his pocketknife on his trousers, folding it against his leg, and putting it away in a pocket. His other hand carried a package the size of a large book. He sat down in the cave opening, legs dangling, and proceeded to start stripping the stiff plastic from it. Da Silva yelled.

“Hey! I’m hanging on here by my eyebrows! That can wait!”

“Who knows?” Wilson looked down at him. “Maybe fifteen people hid packages here. I’ll admit it’s doubtful, but I’m the cautious type. Because I don’t want to go through this Pearl White bit again just because I later find I dug out the wrong one and we’ve got somebody’s lunch instead.” He removed the cover from the small box, studied the contents a moment, and nodded as he replaced the cover and rewrapped the box. “No — he must have left his lunch someplace else. This is the stuff.”

“Then let’s move.”

“Right.” Wilson came to his feet. He knotted the plastic tightly, half-removed his belt and slipped it through the knot, replacing the belt through its loops so that the package was firmly fixed in the small of his back. He placed the pistol that had been there in his hip pocket and looked down at Da Silva. “Incidentally, we have quite an audience. A pity we couldn’t charge admission. And for your information, the view from here is lovely...”

“Will you come on down!”

“I can see the sanatorium from here. Not a bad-looking layout. I think we ought to stop in and see the director and say hello. It’s the only polite thing to do. We probably won’t be back in a hurry.”

“You won’t be back, because if you don’t come on down, you’ll still be here for a long time,” Da Silva said darkly. “Either you come now or I go down alone. And you can stay.”

“I can always go back and look for that lunchbox—” Da Silva made a move. Wilson hastily turned on his stomach and dropped his legs into the void below, his foot groping for the ledge. “My God, I’ve never seen such an impatient person...!”

“Sorry about this, honey,” McNeil said apologetically, “but the mon won’t believe you didn’t call out with a good reason unless it’s open on the face of it you couldn’t, don’t you see.”

Diana Cogswell sat on the deck in the opening to the roundhouse. Her hands were firmly bound behind her back; her lovely face was expressionless. McNeil had taken her pistol and tossed it on one of the cots; the other cot had been folded back against the bulkhead revealing the opening to the between-decks lazaret. McNeil took a clean handkerchief and bound it tightly around her mouth, giving the appearance of gagging her without being too uncomfortable.

“There,” he said, studying his handiwork. “That ought to sell the ugly bostards. Once we get our mitts on the package, honey, we’re off and away and domned to the two of them stuck here for life.” He licked his lips, thinking about it, and then held up his hand. He turned his head, listening. “What’s that?”

The sound he had heard was a faint crashing in the distance, a body pushing its way through heavy brush. He picked up his rifle and stood back of the girl; he considered the position a bit, and then shook his head.

“No. You get on your feet and step forward a bit; I’ll stay here in the hatchway. I want him to see you clearly.” The girl stepped forward and stopped. McNeil nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good, honey. Get ready...”

The sound of the movement through the reeds increased; there was the final sound of the tearing of cloth, a faint curse, and then silence as footsteps crossed the sand. There was a hail.

“Diana!”

“That one’s the little thieving bostard,” McNeil muttered and tensed himself, the rifle raised and ready.

“Diana?”

There was hesitation in Wilson’s voice. McNeil shoved the girl to the fore, the rifle held steady in her back. He looked over her shoulder to the man on the narrow sand beach, staring up at the boat. Wilson frowned at the sight of the large black man with the gun.

“How the devil did you get here?”

“Don’t worry about it, mon.” McNeil stared about suspiciously, and instantly brought his eyes back to the man on shore. His gun nudged the girl; she winced involuntarily. McNeil frowned. “And where’s your ugly bostard half-breed partner?”

“We got separated.”

“Yeah? And where’s the package, then?”

“He has it.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” McNeil considered a moment and then grinned as a thought came to him. “Turn around.”

“What?” Wilson sounded puzzled.

“I said turn around!” The deep voice became menacing. “Or else the girl gets it!”

Wilson looked at him curiously. “The way I hear it, she’s your girlfriend, not mine. Why on earth should it bother me if she gets it three or four times?”

Diana’s eyes opened wider at this statement. McNeil sneered.

“Or you get it then. Is that better, mon? My word!” The rifle moved slightly, clearing the girl’s back to train itself on Wilson while still keeping her within the area of danger. McNeil’s yellowish eyes narrowed. “Now, turn around!”

“A far more effective argument,” Wilson agreed sadly, and turned. The package, knotted to his belt, dangled in plain sight. To Wilson it seemed as the albatross must have seemed to the ancient mariner.

“I had to hang it there myself when I put it up in the cave,” McNeil said, and grinned. The grin disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “Now, untie it, mon. And quick!”

“My pants will fall down...”

The rifle was raised slightly. “You getting past being funny, mon. Untie it, and now! And no tricky moves, you hear?”

“I hear.” Wilson sighed and unbuckled his belt, drawing it free of the knotted plastic wrapping, letting the package fall to the sand, then replacing his belt carefully through the loops and buckling it. He picked up the package and hefted it in his hand thoughtfully. McNeil brought the rifle up a bit.

“Throw it up here! And quickly, mon!”

“If you insist,” Wilson said, his tone robbing him of any responsibility for the act, and tossed the package toward the boat.

It sailed through the air, away from McNeil, landing near the taffrail of the ship, skidding into the scupper there. The big black man grinned to think the little thieving Yank bostard would think he could be drawn from the protection of the girl so easily, but his eyes followed the flight and landing of the package greedily nonetheless. It was a fatal lack of several seconds of his attention, and payment was extracted instantly. A second voice called out, suddenly, sharply.

“Diana! Drop!”

The girl’s feet went from beneath her instantly; she slumped like a dropped sack of flour. There was an immediate report of a revolver shot and McNeil was flung against the corner of the hatchway, his rifle falling to the deck, his hand clutching his wounded shoulder. His large eyes looked down at the girl reproachfully, and then came up.

They widened in horror. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest the sight before him, but no words would come; just animal sounds. He stumbled back toward the lee rail, holding his unwounded arm up as if to ward off the terrifying apparition in the wide-brimmed straw hat rising slowly over the starboard side of the ship, the hooked fingers scrabbling for purchase on the polished rail.

“No, no, no!” It came out finally in a hoarse whisper, increasing in crescendo as the man in the wide-brimmed hat, his face completely shadowed, clambered slowly and stiffly over the railing and stood on deck. The figure paused a moment and then began to advance slowly across the deck, its movement a sort of lurching followed by a recovery; the taloned fingers rose slowly in the air, held out toward McNeil as if seeking an embrace. McNeil retreated, stumbling, until his back was pressed tightly against the low railing. Both hands were raised now to protect him, the pain in his shoulder forgotten; there was the trace of foam at the corners of his mouth; his eyes were mad in their insane fright.

“No. No. No.” He screamed. “No!”

He tried to lean farther back from those probing, seeking fingers; his weight shifted. He twisted to escape, but there was nothing to be done. With a hoarse cry that was more a growl than a shriek, he fell over the railing into the cove, striking out instinctively and madly for the shore. But he had taken less than four strokes before there was a boiling of the water; dorsal fins like tiny sailboats swerved in his direction. The first strike was a thud almost audible both on the boat and ashore, where Wilson stood watching, his face a trifle pale and expressionless. There was one brief moment when a clutched hand rose from the water as if in supplication, and then the second strike came, followed by the third. The water bubbled with reddish foam, and then slowly settled to calmness again. The dorsal fins retreated; the waves of the disturbance translated themselves into widening circles from the scene of the struggle, coming to the sand beach in little wavelets, rocking the boat slightly as they washed its hull.

Both Da Silva and Diana stood at the railing, staring down gravely. The wide-brimmed straw hat had been pushed back on the tall Brazilian’s forehead; his black curly hair peeked out in front. He sighed and turned away from sight of the lagoon, starting to untie the girl. Wilson dropped to the deck. He walked to the taffrail scupper, retrieved the package, and placed it on the instrument ledge; this done he moved to the railing, gazing down into the calm waters, noting the faint shadows sliding beneath the surface. He turned to face Da Silva, studying the almost-Indian features a moment, and then spoke quietly.

“You know, Zé,” he said slowly, “sometimes — to repeat a phrase I seem to remember from someplace — you’re a hard-to-understand son of a bitch.” He gestured with his head toward the waters of the cove. “That was rather nasty, you know.”

“The world is full of nasty people,” Da Silva said quietly, and took the cord from about Diana’s wrist. “He was one of them...”

Green Hell Island lay behind them. The wave-shaped mountain stood clear against the blue of the sky, the palm-fringed cove beneath it was a darker smudge against the light-green vegetation that shared the water’s edge with the yellowish sand of the narrow beaches. Ahead of them the mid-afternoon sun worked its way across the sky, heading for the horizon and the endless chore of lighting lands farther to the west. Wilson, at the wheel, yawned mightily.

Diana Cogswell came to stand beside him, smiling at him in friendly style. “I’ll take over, if you wish.”

“That’s a great idea,” Wilson agreed. He handed over the wheel, stretched, and grinned at the girl as she took up a seamanlike stance behind the spokes, moving them slightly to bring the boat more exactly on course. “You know,” he said reproachfully, remembering, “we still haven’t had that fight you promised me, and here this case is just about over.”

“You mean the bare-handed wrestling match?” She laughed. “It wouldn’t be fair. You’re too tired.”

“Excuses, excuses!” He yawned and smiled at her. “In that case I’ll go in and take a nap. You stay here and try to dream up a new alibi once I’m rested and my old virile self again.”

Da Silva had wandered over from the railing and was listening. He smiled at both of them.

“I’ll join you. That is, if we can get the cot back in place over that lazaret our pal used to hide in.”

Diana Cogswell’s smile faded. “I’m sorry about that. He came up behind me so quietly—”

“Don’t apologize. All’s well that ends well.”

“To coin a phrase,” Wilson said. “Anyway, we promise to leave it out of our mutual report if you promise not to wake us any earlier than necessary,” he added, and winked at her. He moved into the cabin, followed by Da Silva. They managed to get the cot back on its feet over the lazaret opening, and the carpet kicked more or less into place. Wilson dropped down on the bunk and leaned back, luxuriating in its comfort. “Ah! This is good! Call me October eighth.”

“God, you’ve got a memory!” Da Silva said. He smiled across the cabin. “I know it was the Marx Brothers, but I forget the picture. How old are you, anyway?”

“Nineteen. My granddaddy told me all about it,” Wilson said, and closed his eyes. He opened them for a brief moment. “If it bothers you, call me October ninth.”

“If I’m awake by then.” The mustached, pockmarked Brazilian took Diana’s pistol from the cot and placed it on the chart table, out of the way. He lay down, stretching out his tall frame. “Man, this is the life!” He pulled himself up on an elbow, looking curiously over at Wilson. “I wonder if we could borrow this tub to go back to Brazil? In a crisis, I wonder if we might even rent it?”

“I wonder if you could stop jabbering so I could get some sleep?” Wilson muttered grumpily. He buried his head farther into his pillow. “Pretend it’s also a crisis.”

“I’ll try.”

Da Silva closed his eyes, allowing the even swaying of the deep-plumbed boat to relax him. Across the narrow aisle separating the two bunks Wilson was already breathing heavily, his mouth slightly open, his arm jammed beneath his pillow, bringing it in closer contact to his head. The even rumble of the twin marine engines was soporific in the heavy afternoon heat. A fly, buzzing from one head to the other, decided that neither offered too much hope for the future; it attempted to check on the third member of the crew on deck, and was swept helplessly to sea on the strong breeze.

The third member of the crew turned momentarily to watch Green Hell Island slowly disappear into the ocean over her shoulder, then brought her attention to the west again. The sea before her was empty; the lifting waves raised themselves sacrificially to be sliced by the dipping prow. She smiled and locked the wheel. She padded silently to the roundhouse and paused in the doorway, listening intently. A faint snore came from the bunk on her right; slight inhaling from her left. She advanced a bit farther into the cabin, her eyes searching; then she saw what she had been looking for. Her revolver had been put aside carelessly on the inclined chart table; it lay atop a straight edge, nudging a draftsman’s compass. She paused studying the two inert forms on the bunks and then moved quietly down the carpeted aisle, taking up her revolver and checking its contents. A full complement of cartridges winked up at her, reflected in the dim light of the cabin. She eased the revolver closed and gripped it, turning.

Both men were breathing evenly, deeply. She smiled faintly and raised the gun, then paused as if making up her mind. She nodded, as if in unconscious agreement with her own judgment, and moved to Da Silva’s side. The revolver was brought to his temple; her finger tightened perceptibly on the trigger. And suddenly she found her hand captured, the pistol averted, while two black eyes stared into hers reproachfully.

“That’s not nice,” he said softly. “You weren’t to wake us before it was necessary.”

For a brief moment Diana stared at him, her eyes wide with shock; then her quick brain woke up. She twisted, slashing down with the edge of her free hand. Da Silva grimaced in pain, his grip upon her loosening. She jerked her hand free, coming to her feet swiftly, stepping back and leveling her revolver at him.

“That wasn’t very nice, either,” Da Silva said, disappointed. “That was my sore arm.”

“You won’t worry about that very long,” she said in a low, taut voice, and turned slightly to make sure she was in a position to handle Wilson as well, should he wake and try to interfere. The pistol moved from one to the other with professional competence.

Wilson opened his eyes and yawned.

“Noise, noise! Is there no peace anywhere?” He looked across at Da Silva. “Will you please take that thing away from her so I can get some rest?” He saw the look on the other’s face and shook his head in simulated disgust. “Zé, for heaven’s sake! You don’t think I’d give a headstrong young lady like that a pistol that would fire, do you?”

Diana Cogswell’s jaw tightened dangerously; she stepped back another step and raised the pistol expertly, bringing it to bear on Wilson, pulling the trigger. The small nondescript man on the bunk watched in amusement as her eyes widened; the only result of her effort was a dull slapping sound.

“Revolvers need firing pins,” he explained. “Certainly you must have noticed that when you were racking up those fantastic scores on the pistol range. Well, that gun doesn’t have one.”

He came off the bed with an easy movement that surprised her. She raised the gun to use it as a club, and suddenly found her arm painfully twisted behind her, followed in a moment by the other. A pair of handcuffs were snapped about her wrists, but the stanchion upholding the cabin’s roof was between them. Wilson yawned and climbed back into his bunk.

“I’m afraid you’ll have trouble getting out of that.” He looked over at Da Silva. “Now may I please get some rest?”

“No,” Da Silva said. “You just got through incapacitating our crew. You are now elected, of course. You should be out there on deck steering, or tacking sightings, or something, shouldn’t you?”

There was a moment’s silence. Wilson swung his feet over the edge of his bunk, sitting up. He ran his hand through his thin hair and sighed despairingly as he came to his feet.

“While I’m taking those capoeira lessons,” he said, “you’re going to be taking lessons in navigation and allied subjects. That’s a must.” He started to leave the cabin, paying no attention to the girl staring at him with hatred in her large black eyes; then he turned back for a moment, looking at Da Silva. “Incidentally, I’ve had my suspicions of our Diana, here, for a long, long time. I had a feeling she was in this business for more than an Interpol agent’s paltry salary. But when did you suddenly see the light?”

“Me?” Da Silva looked at him evenly. “It started to strike me roughly about the time that I heard from Inspector Storrs that the banker — Mr. Thomas Glencannon, and you’ll notice I remember his name now — met his untimely end.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Da Silva said slowly. “I had the pleasure of tangling with Mr. McNeil once, as you recall, and one thing I can definitely assure you: He didn’t need a pitchfork to resolve his problems. And if Glencannon had tried to take a pitchfork to him, the chances are McNeil would have taken it and made the other man eat it — but he’d never use it to kill him.” He looked at the girl, his face expressionless. “That was another thing you did, Diana, that wasn’t very nice. I don’t know what we’ll ever do with you...”