The Green Hell Treasure

6

The sea was warm, comfortable as a woman’s arms, soft as her hair; the sky was moonless but clear, the bowl of stars overhead swinging rhythmically with each powerful stroke of his thick arms. The horizon was black before him; behind him a few rare twinkles of light in some huts: a sick man or a crying child, for fishermen rise early in Brighton and cherish their rest. Far down the beach a glow where the lights of the cluster of hotels at Bathsheba lit the night. Midnight there was just another hour in the tourist lounges and the open-air bars beside spot-lit swimming pools, and not a very late hour at that; rest was a thing to be avoided as long as possible by the visitors on vacation.

McNeil swam a sidestroke, his head resting on the sea as on a pillow, his powerful legs scissoring regularly, his long arms pulling the water past him effortlessly, pleasurably. There was a sensual feeling to swimming in the almost viscous warmth; he had not realized how much he had missed the sea while in prison. It was not just the caress of the water on his skin; it was the complete freedom of it, he thought, the dependence upon his own strength and skill to stay afloat, alive, and on the vastness and mystery of the arena of the sea. In prison it had taken strength and skill to stay alive, but there certainly had been no joy in it. And tonight, of course, there was the fact that at the end of the journey lay a goal waiting to be attained for more than fifteen years. And then, after that, Diana: warmer than the ocean, more beautiful than the star-studded sky, more fiery than the phosphorescence that flashed from time to time as some dolphin or bonito broke the smooth surface to disappear again, slipping silently back into the depths.

He paused to tread water, wiping the drops from his face, breathing deeply, studying the land behind him and then turning to peer forward in the darkness toward the invisible horizon. The boat should become apparent soon; the flasher on the buoy to the north, anchored short yards off the rocky Plymouth Point, was now visible about the spit of land, roughly where he had calculated it would be when he reached his destination. He leaned back in the water a moment, enjoying it, floating on his back, the salt taste a bracing, enlivening, satisfying tang on his tongue; then he rolled over and continued swimming.

The boat loomed before him suddenly, rocking slightly, phosphorescence along its waterline outlining the hull. He swam about it slowly, feeling for the Jacob’s ladder, finding it in the darkness at last. He reached up, pulling himself to the bottom wooden rung, and then climbed the few rungs to the railing, rolling over it to fall lightly on his hands and knees on the warm deck and then letting himself sit and finally to fall back, his arms out-thrust, spread-eagled, watching the stars swing back and forth above his head, the warm breeze drying his skin. How long had it been since he had been in a boat? A long, long time — not since he had hidden the stones. And the others who had waited for him to return to Brighton that night — all gone! Michaels, Kerrigan, Corbett... Grand lads, and could they play the drums! But it didn’t really seem like fifteen years now; those tedious, endless days in Bordeirinho had suddenly slipped away, lost in the warmth of the familiar salt water, the smooth remembered feeling of a pegged deck beneath him, in the feeling of joy and freedom, of living and adventure. The others were all gone — all but the man on the porch — and the years could not be called back, but he was here, and the jewelry was where he had hidden it fifteen years before, never discovered by the many searchers. He laughed aloud in pure enjoyment, well aware that the breeze would blow the sound to sea as it would the later sound of the engines, safe in the distance he was from shore, then sat erect in one lithe movement, twisted, and came lightly to his feet. There was still a distance to go and work to be done.

The engines started instantly under the goading of the self-starter; the twin exhausts behind him burbled lightly, the promise of power implied in their even throb. He threw the lever sending power to the anchor-winch and waited, hearing the cable scrape through the haweshole, waiting for the slight bump as the anchor touched the hull, and instantly pulled the lever to its neutral position. The boat, freed from the coral sea-bed, swung with the slight tide, turning, drifting. McNeil increased the engine speed, taking the wheel firmly, turning the boat in a wide curve to an easterly direction, feeling the powerful thrust beneath him as he accelerated. Above him the stars glittered, the only things alive in his newly rediscovered universe; he put the polestar over his left shoulder, holding it there, grinning at the feel of the wind in his face. In a short time Barbados would disappear completely against the horizon behind him and he could safely light the lamp over the compass bowl for any corrections to his course. Danger of being seen by any passing vessel was slight; the waters to the immediate east of Barbados were on no shipping lanes — they were as isolated as any in the Atlantic.

The boat bucked through the light wash of the ocean evenly, sweetly, cutting the low waves almost contemptuously. It was a good boat, and he did not push the engines more than necessary; there was ample time before dawn, time and to spare. And where he also had not liked to rush the schedule, now that he was on his way he was resolved that unnecessary lack of patience would be avoided, all possible risks guarded against. He waited a full half hour before switching on the lamp, and then was pleased to find he had to correct less than a degree, a temporary correction until he could lay his course on the chart inside, but one he was sure would be very close.

He locked the wheel and walked inside the small roundhouse with its two bunks, the small galley and head, and the chart table before the keel bulkhead. The lantern there was lit, his course calculated for the time he had run from the speed and time, and laid out. The line alongside the triangle continued through the heart of his target. He grinned to think he had lost none of his seamanship in prison, happy with the accuracy of the course as augering well for his mission. He turned down the lamp above the chart table and lit a second one on the wall over one of the bunks. He smiled as he twisted latches and pulled on the bunk; as he knew it would, it unfolded out of the way revealing a rug whose cut edge fit so neatly with the balance of the carpeting as to be almost invisible. The rug was pulled to one side; the sunken ring revealed in the cabin decking was pulled back. He reached beneath the floor in the cavern exposed, taking a flashlight from a clip there, pushing the switch, swinging it about. The hidden lazaret, remembered from other long past days, was still as dry and snug as the day the boat had been built. He grinned, checked it again, and replaced the hinged door and the rug, dropped the bunk back in place over the secret entrance, and padded to the galley. The safety cans of gasoline were there, and tins of oil. Several bottles of rum shared one shelf in the lockers with the remains of a sausage. He took the sausage, bit into’ it with his strong teeth, munching as he returned to the wheel. The wind blew from behind him, whipping his hair. He unlatched the wheel and took control of the boat once again, running his free hand in contentment over the smooth spokes, eating the sausage in large bites. The rum would have gone well, but that would have to wait. Afterward, yes. Afterward a bottle of the stuff for sure! My word!

Four hours until first light; he would be at his destination well before that. If necessary he could rev the engines to twice their speed, be there in less than two, but why? Let the engines enjoy themselves, too. There would still be ample time for a good nap before climbing to the cave and regaining the stones; then all day to enjoy their sole possession before returning to Barbados and the split. And then to pick up Diana and be off. It was less than a night’s run to St. Vincents, far less, and in St. Vincents there was a chap with a private seaplane, a chap who could and would keep his mouth shut.

He leaned on the spoked wheel, taking comfort from it, listening in pleasure to the throaty rumble of the twin engines thrusting water behind the unseen screws, his lungs taking in deep draughts of the warm, salt-tinged air; then he threw back his head and began to swing, first the Carnival songs of the islands, but then the modinhas of the northeast of Brazil, music made to be sung at sea...

The yellow bus rumbled northward toward Queensland, the small town in St. Joseph parish where Diana Cogswell lived with her widowed aunt. It rocked along in the sultry night, its ancient engine laboring as the road rose along the slopes of Chalky Mount, moving inland from the sea. The girl sat at an open window of the nearly deserted bus, tired from her day’s work, staring out into the night but seeing little except the light from the bus itself keeping pace on the crushed coral of the highway shoulder. She had expected Da Silva possibly to stop in the Badger, but the fact that he didn’t wasn’t highly important. Probably having a good time in Bridgetown, which was what she would be doing if she could.

She smiled faintly as she recalled the scene with McNeil early in the evening. Her instructions were to badger — a good word! — McNeil on his delays in going for the gems; well, she had done that rather well, if she said so herself. Whoever pinched the chap’s wallet had helped of course; it should have been Wilson, but apparently he hadn’t made it. Still, someone had accommodated. Well, what was wrong with a bit of luck? Anyone can use it, she thought, and smiled to herself again. Why just everyone else? Why not me?

The bus slowed for a curve; she recognized the pressure against her arm on the sill, looked up to find herself approaching her destination, and came to her feet. She made her way to the front of the bus, handing the driver a coin, waiting for the vehicle to pull off the highway at her accustomed stop. The brake was applied gently; the door swung open. She stepped down and watched the friendly lights of the bus swing back to the road and drive off, making the night even blacker with its absence. Ah, well, she thought, if William Trelawney McNeil gets a move on, maybe I can be out of here in a short while. Barmaids spend too much time on their feet. With a sigh she crossed the highway and started to make her way up the incline leading to her aunt’s house in the small cluster of cottages on top of the hill.

A car was parked on the corner of the small path; it was as far as any could go up the hill. In the darkness the interior was impossible to see. For a moment she wondered if possibly Bill McNeil had come back to apologize, bringing a constable in a different car with him, but then she dismissed the thought. Probably lovers, she surmised, and shrugged, marching past the shadowed car and up the hill.

The car door was opened so silently that for a moment the sound did not register; when it did it was too late. A hand went over her shoulder, clamping itself over her mouth even as a gun was jabbed into her back, freezing her before she could make any protective move. The gun was withdrawn as was the hand from her mouth, but she was well aware that the muzzle remained inches from her back. One of the troubles with self-defense, she thought bitterly, is that your opponent doesn’t always stand where he should!

“Stay right that way,” said a voice, soft but still threatening. “Let’s not speak. Nor make the slightest noise either. Not a whimper, eh? Real quiet, eh, Miss. Good. That way nobody’ll get hurt.”

She forced herself to keep her voice low. “What do you want?”

“Lots of time to discuss that, Miss. Oh, it isn’t your shape, Miss, if that’s your fret. And let’s not talk at all, eh, woman? That way everybody’ll be happier.”

Diana remained still, her weariness forgotten, her brain functioning once again. It certainly wasn’t Billy McNeil speaking to her in that low voice. Then who? And why?

“Put your hands behind you, Miss.”

A thief after her money? She carried no purse, just a few coins in a handkerchief tucked into her blouse. But nobody would use a car and a gun to rob an island woman returning home from work — not even on payday, and that wasn’t until two days off and everyone on the island knew it. Then what? The voice hardened.

“Your hands, Miss. I said, behind your back. Don’t make me angry, for your own sake!”

There was the click of handcuffs; a moment later she felt a cloth wrapped over her eyes, blinding her, and then the pull of a knot being drawn tight. A hand on her arm led her the few steps back to the car; she felt herself prodded forward and managed to stumble into the car, twisting herself into the seat despite the awkwardness of having her hands manacled behind her. The door was closed quietly; a moment later there was the sound of the other door closing and the car started up, its engine racing.

“Not far, Miss.”

“What’s this all about, mon?” Diana used her broadest island accent; she was well aware that her costume was standard for the job she held. How could anyone be knowledgeable of the fact that she wasn’t a barmaid? “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, that’s what you’ve gone and done. I’m just the barmaid down at the Badger in Brighton. I’ve no money, if you’re thinking that.”

“I know that, Miss.”

The car had been backing up into the highway, now it turned and started forward; a few moments later it swung in what seemed to be a complete circle. For a while the girl attempted to judge their direction or their speed, but quickly lost any idea. The turns might well have been made to confuse her; in a short while she couldn’t even tell if they were heading north or south. She kept quiet. There wasn’t much point in speaking: She really had nothing to say. All she could do was to wait and eventually discover the reason for her kidnapping. The car decelerated and then stopped.

“Here we are, Miss. Watch your step getting down. That’s it. Now, watch the first step — that’s right.” There was the sound of a door being swung back, and then the strong odor of fresh hay. The rough boards of a barn were beneath her slippered feet. “There’s a ladder here, Miss — leads to a loft. It’ll be a bit tricky, but I’ll help from behind.”

The help consisted of a small hand pushed firmly against the small of her back. She climbed slowly, furious with herself. She should have been able to take the man when he first pulled the gun on her; if her reflexes had been up to par she would have, she was sure. Her shoulder, which had been maintaining contact with the edge of the ladder, suddenly encountered space; she fell forward and crawled to the last rung, pulling herself away from the danger of the edge.

“It shouldn’t be all that uncomfortable,” the soft voice said. “Plenty of soft hay. And it isn’t for very long. Just until tomorrow night. Late, probably, but that can’t be helped.” She could hear him move to the ladder. “And better stay back from the edge,” the soft voice warned. “It’s a bit of a fall from here.”

“Wait—”

“Yes?”

“There’s no reason for you to hold me like this,” she said, her mind racing, finally making sense of the business. “You must be the mon my Billy said he was workin’ with, the mon puttin’ up the cash.” Her voice became severe. “You’re making a bad mistake handling me this way, you know. My Billy won’t be half annoyed with you. He’s got a temper. My word!”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but I don’t much give three hoots in hell what Billy McNeil likes or doesn’t like, just so long as I get—”

There was a sudden pause, an indrawn breath. When the man spoke again, his voice was tight.

“You’re lying, woman! Bill McNeil never told you about me! I know Bill, and while he may be a fool for a skirt, he isn’t a bloody fool! Just who are you, anyway?”

“You know who I am! I’m the barmaid nights at the Badger, and I’m also Billy’s girl. And he—”

“And he never told you the things you say he told you! And now that I think about it, wouldn’t a pub be just the smart place to plant a copper, and a woman copper would be just the ticket to nab someone like Bill! A girl with your figure just a barmaid, indeed!” There was a moment’s silence; when the man spoke again, his voice contained the hint of a chuckle. “Old Billy McNeil should be damned glad I decided to protect my investment and pick you up when I did. You say he’s got a temper? Oh, he has that, Miss, he has that! And I’m afraid you’re very apt to find it out the hard way...”

Diana made her voice hard. “You’re daft, mon! We’re to split three ways! Now take these cuffs off, you hear?”

“We’re to split three ways, are we?” He chuckled again, and she could hear his voice come up the ladder followed by the sound of the ladder being removed. “Well, Miss, personally I doubt it.”

And I doubt it too, she thought, and lay back against a bale of hay, hearing the door of the barn dragged shut.

“A lovely island,” Wilson said appreciatively, leaning back in the passenger seat of the camper as Da Silva drove. “And that Remy Martin was fine. Not that I have anything against the island rum,” he added hastily. “It’s just that variety is the spice of life.”

“I don’t notice you drinking the local beer for variety.”

“There are limits, sir,” Wilson said stiffly. He looked out at the blackness of the ocean. “It’s also nice to have dry weather two days in a row. I wonder if it’s still raining in Rio?”

“Probably.”

Wilson stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch. “My Lord! It’s a longer drive back than I thought. The pub’ll be closed by the time we get there.”

“Still thinking of liquor, eh?”

“I was thinking about your meeting with the stately Miss Cogswell,” Wilson said coldly. “At which point we find out exactly what transpired between her and Mr. William T. McNeil earlier this evening.”

“We’ll stop by her aunt’s house,” Da Silva said. “Actually, I prefer to talk to her there.”

“A reasonable preference,” Wilson conceded. “She might well be preparing for bed, and a conference with Miss Cogswell in a sheer nightgown is something I can understand your enjoying.”

“You are so right,” Da Silva said, and grinned.

They drove in silence along the shore road, the cooling breeze from the sea pleasant after the heat of the day. Their headlights picked out the cluster of stone storefronts that comprised Brighton, and the dark, unlit façade of the Badger Inn. They swept on through, heading north toward Queensland, Da Silva humming lightly to himself, Wilson leaning forward, fighting sleep. The road of white coral twisted ahead of them under the probing of the headlights. A curve and they began mounting the slopes of Chalky Mount.

“Ah!” Da Silva said, viewing the empty lane. “At least McNeil didn’t decide to come and apologize after we left the inspector’s place. Or if he did, Constable Jamison is in for a bad time.”

“You’re just glad McNeil isn’t here because basically you’re jealous,” Wilson said, and yawned.

“I’m just glad McNeil isn’t here because we’d have to wait to get our business done, and you obviously need your rest. You keep that yawning up and you’ll have me doing it.”

He pulled on the emergency brake and switched off the lights and ignition, staring up the hill toward Diana’s house, noting the light on the porch. He opened the door and climbed down.

“Take a nap while I’m gone,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask a man as tired as you to climb all that distance.”

“You just saved yourself a refusal,” Wilson said, and leaned back, closing his eyes. It seemed to him that he hadn’t even had time to settle down before he heard the car door slam and the engine start with a muffled roar. He sat up to protest the racket and then was flung sideways against the door of the car as Da Silva gunned the car backward, shifted, and headed back toward Brighton.

“Hey!” Wilson rubbed his arm. “Did she slap your face? What’s the matter with you?”

“Diana isn’t there,” Da Silva said tightly, his eyes fixed on the road, his foot stabbing the accelerator. “She never got home. Her aunt’s worried and so am I!”

“But where—?”

“That’s a damned good question!”

He clamped his mouth closed, concentrating on his driving. The road spun beneath them, trees and dunes and occasional huts lighting up and instantly falling behind in the night. Brighton finally appeared once again; Da Silva slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel, skidding into the rutted trail leading over the dunes to the beach, spurting sand as he jammed on the gas again. He swung onto the rippled beach, tramping on the accelerator, bouncing roughly over the uneven surface, and then clamped on the brakes, skidding to a swaying halt beside the police sedan. Da Silva was out of the car in one motion, moving to Jamison’s side.

“Is McNeil inside?”

“Yes, sir. Has been for” — Jamison checked his watch — “it would be close onto four hours by now. Ever since he first went in. Just as I told the Chief Inspector, sir.”

Wilson, now wide awake, had joined the two. “Is he alone?”

“Alone?” Jamison seemed puzzled. “Yes, sir. Why?”

“Miss Cogswell is missing,” Da Silva said flatly.

“Missing?”

“The pub’s closed and she never got home.” Da Silva frowned and then looked up. “Can you call ahead? I want to have someone stop the bus up the line and find out if she caught it, and if so where she got off. And give me your flashlight. I’m going to visit Mr. McNeil.”

“But he couldn’t have had anything to do with it, sir. I saw him when he left the pub and Miss Cogswell was still inside working.”

“Look, Constable, if Miss Cogswell is missing, McNeil knows something about it, and I’m going to find out what. Now let me have your flashlight and get on that radio!”

He took the proffered light and tramped toward the house with Wilson at his side. Neither man gave a thought to the necessity of maintaining a cover as far as the big McNeil was concerned; their only thought was for the girl’s safety. Da Silva led the way up the porch, pounding on the door roughly. There was no answer.

He pounded the panel again. “McNeil!”

There was still no answer. With an oath he put his shoulder to the door, ramming it hard, snapping the lock and bursting into the shack, prepared for instant battle, but there was no response to his entrance. He swept the flashlight about the room.

“He’s gone!”

With a scowl on his swarthy features he marched into the only other room the shack boasted; Wilson could hear a door slam and then Da Silva was back.

“He’s gone.”

Wilson shook his head sardonically. “Some surveillance!”

“I’m not so sure. Storrs said they had good men on the stake-out and he knows what he’s talking about. There has to be some other way out of here.” He swept the light about again, concentrating the beam on the small cot in one corner. Trousers were folded there, a pullover shirt and underwear on top of it; socks and shoes were on the floor beside a wooden crate that served as a sort of endtable. “Of course!” He looked at Wilson. “He left here in swimming trunks. Look for a trap door of sorts.”

Wilson bent over the floor, studying it in the light of the flashlight beam. “Ah!” He squatted down, prying at an almost invisible crack. A square panel came up, revealing blackness. “Let me have the light.” He played it back and forth about the narrow space and then came to his feet.

“There’s a sluiceway there; I imagine it’s full at high tide. It’s still deep enough right now for a man to swim out to sea and not be seen from shore. We should have remembered that a lot of these places did a land office business in smuggling during the old days and even as recently as our famous and delightful experiment with Prohibition.”

Da Silva took the flashlight back and stared at the hole in the floor. When he spoke, he sounded more thoughtful than upset.

“One thing is sure: He didn’t take Diana out through that channel. If he had anything to do with her kidnapping — and we know he was angry about something when he left the inn, and it may have been more than just her riding him about the stones — then he must have arranged to meet her someplace.” He sighed. “Well, we’re not getting any further standing around here.”

He tramped from the house, walking to the car, leaning in to speak to Jamison.

“Well? Any luck with the bus?”

“It’s gone through North Point up in St. Lucy’s, sir. They’ve sent a car after it from there. They ought to catch up with it before long and call back.”

“Good. Let me have the microphone. Switch it to head-quarters.”

Jamison’s black face was puzzled. “But what about McNeil, sir?”

“He went for a dip in the ocean.” He pressed a button on the side of the microphone. “Hello? This is Captain Da Silva. Of Interpol. That’s right. I’m calling from Constable Jamison’s car in Brighton. Tie me into Inspector Storrs’ telephone at his home, will you please? Thank you. I’ll wait.”

“And just what are you going to tell the inspector when you get him?” Wilson asked.

“I’m in no position to tell anyone anything,” Da Silva said bitterly. “From now on I’m just asking. And humbly, too...”