The Green Hell Treasure

5

Captain Da Silva pulled his old rented camper into Ainsley Street in upper Bridgetown, straining to see the house numbers painted in white on the pink walls in the weak reflection of the automobile’s headlights. On the other side of the car, Wilson performed a similar service, wishing they had thought to come equipped with a flashlight, at the very least. Suddenly he caught a glimpse.

“There,” he said, and pointed.

Da Silva nodded, braked, and swung the wheel, turning into the crushed stone driveway. He followed it to the rear of the sprawling house, pulling into a semicircle to end up under a rear porte-cochere where a small light burned. The two men climbed down, Da Silva stretching to relieve the strain of night driving from his tired muscles. Wilson glanced about appreciatively, taking in the long, low house and the carefully cultivated grounds.

“Very nice,” he said. There was a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “One of the disadvantages of Rio, of course, is that the only place one can live is in an apartment. The house is getting to be like the horse — practically extinct.” He considered his statement a moment. “Actually, you know, counting the Jockey Club, the Hípica, and the polo ponies at Gavea and Itanhangá, there are almost certainly more horses than houses in Rio. Not counting the ones pulling wagons, even.”

Da Silva reached for the old-fashioned pull-bell set beneath the ornately carved door beneath the entrance way.

“Don’t knock apartment living,” he said with a smile. “Try to look at the bright side. Think of having to cut the grass and trim the bushes; think of mortgages. Think of termites.”

“One of the things I assiduously avoid thinking about,” Wilson said coldly, “is termites. Mortgages, rarely. Exotic dancers, occasionally. Raquel Welch constantly. But termites?”

He paused as the door swung back. A tall handsome black man dressed comfortably in sharply pressed slacks, a pullover and sandals was smiling at them. He was thin, gaunt, aristocratic-looking; there was more than a touch of gray at his temples. He came forward, crunching on the coral gravel to meet them, holding out one hand to Wilson, putting his other hand on Da Silva’s shoulder.

“Hello, Captain. Mr. Wilson, it’s good to see you again. I’m glad you finally had a chance to visit my home.” He led them inside, closing the door behind him, mounting several steps to a large living room. “Frankly, I didn’t want to meet in my office for several reasons — McNeil might just have friends who might see you. And, of course, I’d had enough of a police station for one day, anyway. Sometimes I wish I’d chosen crime as a profession. It must lead to much simpler decisions.” He smiled. “And, too, we ban liquor at headquarters. A reasonable rule, I suppose, but a bit hard to bear after five o’clock.”

He led them through the living room onto an open screened porch. From the vantage point of the house’s height above the city, they could see the twinkling lights of downtown Bridgetown flickering through the leaves of the stand of trees protecting the house from the onslaught of tropical storms. Crickets chirped in the tall bushes that formed a friendly barrier between the house and its neighbor. The rich sensual fragrance of frangipani filled the warm night air. Chief Inspector Storrs waved a hand toward the bamboo bar in one corner of the porch.

“Can I offer you gentlemen anything?”

“Let me,” Wilson said, and walked over to the bar, assuming a stance behind it. “I’m getting to be an expert in Bajan pubs.” He leaned on his palms professionally, bending forward, a solicitous look on his face. “Well, gents? Beer or rum?”

“The beer’s in the kitchen—” the inspector began.

“I was only joking,” Wilson said hastily, and bent to inspect the stock. He rose, beaming, looking at Da Silva. “Would you stand still for some brandy? Say — Remy Martin?”

“If I have to be deprived,” Da Silva said philosophically, “let it be with Remy Martin.”

Wilson poured a glass expertly and turned to their host, an inquiring look on his face. The inspector shook his head, pointing to a tall glass on the coffee table beside him. He waited until Wilson had served Da Silva, poured himself a drink, and had come around the bar to settle himself on one of the tall bar stools.

“Here’s luck,” he said.

They drank; the inspector returned his glass to the coffee table. His black eyes came up to study first one of his guests and then the other.

“Well, gentlemen, exactly where are we?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Da Silva finally answered.

“We should be getting some action fairly soon,” he said thoughtfully. “Possibly in a day or so at the latest. The fact is that at the moment McNeil is broke. Unless he had some extra money hidden in his shack on the beach, which I doubt. He doesn’t look the type to trust the local population not to break in and help themselves.”

“Broke?” Inspector Storrs’ eyebrows rose.

Da Silva grinned. “I don’t know if I ever fully explained all of our friend Wilson’s talents, but among them is picking pockets. You notice I stay a safe distance away from him myself. Well, I thought it was time to start a little fire under McNeil, so I asked Wilson to pick his pocket today at the bar — the Badger Inn, that is—”

“You picked his pocket? Without being caught?”

“Really nothing,” Wilson said modestly. “Actually, his mind was a mile away.”

“But that was only step number one,” Da Silva said, picking up the conversation. “The second step was for Diana to give the poor man a hard time for always being broke, promising her the moon and never getting around to deliver. Which I imagine she is doing just about now.” He glanced at his watch.

“You want him to move after the stones right away?”

Da Silva frowned. “That was one thing, of course — if it were possible. But another question came up. You see, I thought when we relieved Mr. McNeil of his wallet, we’d temporarily deprive him of a few dollars, and give Diana an excuse to take off on him, once he couldn’t even pay for his beer. However—”

He reached into his pocket and handed over a new leather billfold. The inspector opened it, removing the thick stack of bills and beginning to count them. The other two men remained quiet, watching, waiting for the tall black policeman to finish.

“It’s the reason I asked you to meet with us tonight,” Da Silva went on. “It struck me that wasn’t a small piece of change for a man to be carrying whose earning capacity for the past fifteen years has been zero.” He saw the question in the inspector’s eyes and answered it. “No,” he said gently. “We don’t pay our prisoners. Room and board; that’s the lot.”

“Almost eight hundred biwi...” Inspector Storrs frowned and placed the money to one side, looking at Da Silva. “Where the devil could he have gotten it?”

“Exactly my question,” Da Silva said soberly. “He certainly didn’t leave Brazil with more than his plane ticket and about five dollars at most — I think that’s what they send them out into the world with. And in any event, he couldn’t have bought Exchange Currency in Brazil: I doubt if the cambios carry them, and besides he was taken directly from the penetentiary to the plane at Recife, put aboard, and watched until the plane took off.” He drank his brandy and put his glass aside, staring at Storrs. “Who met him when he got here?”

“Nobody. Other than the police, of course.”

“Who saw to his transfer from one plane to the other in Trinidad?” Wilson asked.

Da Silva shook his head. “Interpol. He didn’t even go through customs. Nor speak with a soul there.” He looked back at the inspector. “Where did he go when he first got here?”

“Directly to Brighton. He took the bus at the airport.” Inspector Storrs seemed to read the other’s mind. “No. We had a man on the bus, in uniform. Just to let McNeil know.” He shrugged. “I had assumed he must have accumulated some wages in prison...”

“Not in Bordeirinho,” Da Silva said flatly. He crushed out his cigarette. “None of us are very bright, I’m afraid. We should have wondered a long time ago where he got his money. Or at least I should have, because I knew he left prison without any.” He frowned at the black police inspector across from him. “How sure are you that his surveillance has been complete during the week he’s been back?”

“I thought I was sure until now,” Storrs replied in a worried tone. “Now, of course, I’m not so positive. We have a uniformed constable on duty at all times watching him quite openly, in a car. We have a man in plainclothes also watching fairly obviously, handling the rear of any building he enters. And we have also placed — at least for the time being — a man in the village — a clerk at the chandler’s — who is there in case McNeil takes any trips where a car wouldn’t be able to follow. Pierce is his name, and he’s one of our best trackers.”

“And you’re sure McNeil hasn’t left the village?”

“No place he hasn’t been followed. He’s been to Miss Cogswell’s house — her aunt’s house, that is — and to the movies in Bathsheba—”

“To the movies?” Da Silva frowned.

“He sat next to Pierce,” Inspector Storrs said dryly. “With Miss Cogswell on the other side.”

Da Silva came to his feet, striding the room. The inspector gestured toward the bar; the tall Brazilian detective accepted the offer, moving behind the bar, refilling his glass, but instead of drinking it he placed it on the counter and frowned at it. Finally he looked up.

“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt somebody in the area is getting money to him, or at least got some to him once at least. And if he’s broke, he’s going to have to try to contact this — well, this banker of his, let’s call him.”

“Unless he goes directly for the stones right now.”

Da Silva considered it a moment and then shook his head.

“I doubt it. He’d still need some cash to operate. And he’s planning on taking Diana with him, and up until tonight, at least, he’s made no mention of a sudden trip to her. It’s always been ‘in a little while’.” He sipped his drink, thinking. His eyes came up to the inspector’s face. “Can you get in touch with your men in Brighton?”

“Of course. There’s a radio in the car.”

He studied Da Silva’s face a moment and nodded, then reached for a telephone on the endtable beside him; apparently it was a direct line to headquarters because he was answered instantly. He gave instructions into the phone a moment and then cupped the receiver.

“They’re hooking me up to Jamison in the car. He’s the night constable who takes over from Wexford, the day man.”

There was a pause of several seconds as the connection was made, then the faint buzz of a voice could be heard from the receiver. The inspector leaned forward.

“Jamison? Inspector Storrs here. Where are you?” He listened a moment and then looked up. “He’s just outside McNeil’s shack. McNeil went in several hours ago and is still inside. He can hear his radio.” He turned back to the phone. “Where was he before he went home?” He listened and then reported to the waiting men on the porch. “He says McNeil came stamping out of the Badger looking as if he ate a bad oyster, charged down to the beach and started throwing rocks into the sea — Jamison says he was acting as if he had to get something out of his system. Then—”

“Diana’s needle,” Wilson surmised.

“Right,” Da Silva agreed. “Well, we’ll stop by her place after we leave here and have her bring us up to date.”

“Right,” the inspector said. “In any event, McNeil went along the beach to his shack. It’s got some sort of a porch on it and he sat there a while and then went inside, turned up the lantern and started the radio. It’s a transistor, I imagine; no electricity out there.”

“I see.” Da Silva nodded. “What about the other two men?”

“Just a second.” Inspector Storrs returned to the telephone; information was traded. The receiver was cupped once again. “Jamison says the plainclothesman went off duty when McNeil went into the shack, but Pierce is lying up on the dunes above the place to the north. He has the back and the side away from Jamison covered. McNeil won’t be moving from that house without being seen.” He turned back to the phone. “Jamison? We think there’s a good chance McNeil is just lying doggo at the moment, that he might well try to slip out of there later tonight, or even anytime up to early in the morning. Don’t take any naps, hear? And keep your eyes open. What? That’s right.” He hung up and turned to Da Silva. “Well, I suppose all we can do is wait.”

“We can do a bit more than that,” Wilson said thoughtfully. “We can try to find out who he rented that shack from, or who rented it for him. That might be interesting.”

Da Silva nodded. “It might even be more interesting to see the passenger lists on the planes he took from Recife to Port-of-Spain and from Port-of-Spain here. Somebody slipped him money, and that sounds like a clever place to do it. Leave it in the washroom, for example, just before he used it.”

Wilson lit a cigarette and grinned.

“It’s a pity Diana wasn’t working for Varig that day, instead of already being established as a barmaid at the Badger. She might have seen something.” He shook his head. “Bad planning...”

In the dimness of the moonless night the huge black figure in its black swimming trunks merged with the tall shadowless palms around the unlit cottage. He took a step closer to the building, then one more, and then froze as his foot inadvertently stepped on a branch. Inside the building a lamp was switched on and almost as quickly switched off again. The sound of a door could be heard softly opening and closing. There was the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. From the darkness of the porch a voice spoke softly.

“Talk up, mon, and talk up quick or you’re dead whoever you are.”

“It’s me. McNeil.” It was little more than a whisper, scarcely audible across the tiny glade.

“McNeil? Billy?” The other man’s voice was raised; he lowered it instantly. “What are you doing here, mon? I—” There was a sudden pause. “Don’t move mister, if you know what’s good for you. Let’s just see—” The porch light was turned on and instantly turned off again. The voice was tense. “Billy! What are you doing here, mon? Come on up here. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“I wasn’t followed.”

The big man made his way to the porch and seated himself on a lower step. Above him he could hear the click as the rifle was uncocked and set aside, followed by the creak of a chair as a body was lowered into it. The man on the porch was silent for several seconds; when he spoke he sounded as if he were barely concealing anger.

“I don’t like it, Billy; I don’t like it a bit. Mon, mon! How would it have been if they had spotted you tonight, eh? And followed you? They remember me, too, and don’t you forget it — and then the fat would have been in the fire for fair! All for a needless chance. We agreed no meeting until you were ready to go, next month. I don’t like playing games, Billy.”

“I’m not playing games.” The big man’s voice was flat. “I’m not waiting a month or a week or a day. I’m going tonight.”

“Tonight?” The other man was shocked. “You’re daft, Bill McNeil, that’s what you are. I haven’t even figured out how to get the scuba gear, let alone actually buy it. I don’t want to be seen in Bridgetown, certainly not just after you come home. And—”

“I’ll do without the scuba gear. Is the boat where it’s been?”

“It is, but it’s too far to swim without gear. And if you took the dinghy, you might just be seen or heard. Besides, it’s not fully provisioned yet.”

“I can swim it, I tell you. My word! One mile! There’s no moon tonight, and I’m off tonight. Does it have enough petrol?”

“There’s petrol.”

“There’s rum, too, I’ll bet!”

“There’s rum.” There was a brief pause. “Why the big rush? We agreed to wait another month, at least until some of the heat was off, or until—”

“The heat won’t be off me for a month or a year or another fifteen years more!” McNeil said savagely. “The heat ain’t never going to be off as long as I stick around this place!”

“Keep your voice down! And of course the heat will be off. Don’t be a damned fool, mon.” The man on the porch tried to inject some reason into the discussion. “They aren’t going to keep two coppers and a radio car tied up forever in a crossroads like Brighton, mon. It’s ridiculous. They don’t have the staff of Scotland Yard, you know.”

“It’s more than two men and a radio car. They have a plainclothes chap makes himself seen often enough — and they also have a clerk in the chandler’s place you can smell copper five miles away.” McNeil laughed shortly and grimly. “Fifteen years and they think I can’t smell copper?” The laugh disappeared, replaced by implacable determination. “Anyway, there’s no sense arguing. I go tonight.”

“I tell you it’s a mistake. Wait the month, Billy. You’ve plenty of money—”

“And that’s another thing,” McNeil said quietly. “I’ll need some more when I get back.”

“More? More money? I gave you nearly a thousand biwi a week ago — what happened to it?”

“Happened to it?” McNeil shrugged. “I got robbed.” His deep voice suddenly hardened in anger. “Some bostard dipped my purse! I ever get him it’s the last purse he dips, my word!”

There was silence except for the heavy breathing of the man on the lower step. When the other spoke from the porch his voice was expressionless.

“Robbed. Of almost all the cash we had. We? Me! You’re a bloody fool, Bill McNeil. If you’d have told me where you put the bloody stuff before they packed you away in quod I’d have had all the time in the world to peddle the stones about and at proper prices, too. And have a nice stack of cash waiting for you when you got out, anyplace you wanted to pick it up in the world. But no! You know your trouble, Billy? You don’t trust a soul.”

“That’s really touching; you’ll have me in tears soon. Well, I don’t trust you, and that’s the bloody truth,” McNeil said flatly. “You’d have been halfway round the world long since, and probably dead or broke or both by now, if I’d ever been fool enough to tell you. You know damned well I’ll see you get your share, same as I’d have given the other chaps their share if they’d made it out.” He sneered. “Just the same as I know I’d never see a groat if I’d blabbed to you. Mon, you have to be crazy to think I spent fifteen years in that hellhole just for the pleasure of it!”

“I didn’t think you did. It’s just — well, there just isn’t that much money left, is all.”

“Then all the more reason to move now,” McNeil said coldly, and came to his feet.

“I still like to stick with plans. It’s what made the job work the first time. I don’t like it. And, worse yet, I don’t understand it. I’m sure it isn’t because somebody dipped your purse. Fifteen years and now suddenly you can’t wait another month.” The man on the porch nodded to himself as he saw light. “Mon, mon! A girl, eh?”

McNeil swung about, staring upward in the blackness.

“Yes, a girl! She works at the Badger.” His voice was savage. “And what’s it to you? You were free these last fifteen years; you sure didn’t lack for girls! Well, I wasn’t free, and that’s the fact! My word! Anyway, what’s it your bloody business? You’ll get your cut plus the money you’ve put up, and what more do you want? And I’m off this place and her with me, and you can take your share and go to the Devil for all I care!” He brought himself under control with an effort, lowering his voice. “Well, I’m off. I’ll be back tomorrow night, late. Have some cash ready for me. We’ll split and that’ll be that.”

“You know, Billy,” the man on the porch said slowly, “I have a feeling I’d feel better about the whole affair if I was to go along with you. Not that I don’t trust you, you understand...”

“Well, you can trust me or not, but I go alone. We’ve been through that on the plane, and there’s an end to it! Just see you have some money for me tomorrow night. Hear?”

“All right, but try and make sure somebody doesn’t pinch your packet of jewelry out of your pocket before you get back...” He seemed to suddenly realize he might have gone a bit far with anyone of McNeil’s size and temperament. He changed the subject. “Be careful. I still wish you had scuba gear.”

“Afraid I’ll drown? Well, I won’t. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Late.”

The man above came to his feet. He cleared his throat. “And if you’re not?”

There was a long pregnant pause as if McNeil were wondering whether to lose his temper at the other’s question. Then he chuckled.

“I won’t cheat you, mon. If I’m not back I won’t be coming back. And it won’t be my fault. My word!”

“And where will that leave me?”

The chuckle grew. “Same place I been for the past fifteen years, mon. Up the creek...”

The chuckle faded as McNeil stepped into the darkness; a moment and he had disappeared as silently as he had appeared. The man on the porch seated himself once again in the creaking chair, thinking. A few moments later he chuckled himself and came to his feet. He walked into the house and flicked on the light, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. Plenty of time. Because it had just occurred to him that there was a very good way to insure the good faith of his co-conspirator...