The Green Hell Treasure

7

It was the insistent sound of the low-flying plane that woke McNeil. He came to consciousness instantly, a prison-learned trait, one moment in dreamless sleep, the next wide awake, alert, all senses straining for the reason for his awakening. He listened carefully to the low throbbing hum from the sky above and then rolled from his bunk, padding barefooted to the deck, searching the sky through the thick cover of the tree branches and fronds that screened the small cove and the powerboat from any view above. At the moment the plane was not visible, but the sound of its engine remained, echoing from the far side of the small island. Certainly no passenger plane, but one much smaller. He waited patiently, calmly, secure in his knowledge that his boat was invisible. There was a shadow across his face; he frowned thoughtfully through the leaves at the small monoplane coming into view. It circled above him lazily, easily recognizable, one of the two police seaplanes from Barbados, familiar sights along the beaches of the island.

The big black man’s frown deepened. He had known all along that his failure to appear from the shack on the beach that day might — in fact almost inevitably would — lead to investigation and eventually to a search once his absence was encountered. It was impossible to think that that Constable Jamison — or Wexford, rather, by day — would sit patiently in his car all day without wondering why his quarry did not appear. But that the discovery and the start of the hunt would, or even could have proceeded so quickly, was odd. That was disturbing.

He glanced at the chronometer — only two hours past first light, and not only had an air search been instituted, but it had even reached this tiny point in the huge wilderness of the Atlantic east of Barbados — deserted wastelands of water if ever there were. It was puzzling. It was worse than puzzling: It was frightening. The plane could, of course, be searching for someone else — a chartered fishing boat with tourists, perhaps, long overdue at the Oistins Yacht Basin; or it even might be some student pilot on the police force fattening his flying log with free time, but McNeil was positive neither was the case. He was the object of the search and he knew it. He would be a fool not to know it, and he hadn’t gotten to within a half hour’s hike of a fortune in gems by being a fool.

His jaw tightened as he watched the small plane through the leafy cover that hid him from sight. Should the searchers in the plane not be satisfied with their scrutiny from the air, should they decide to investigate more thoroughly, to descend, land on the ocean and taxi slowly around the island searching under the overhanging boughs, his hiding place would be discovered very rapidly. And then he would be in serious trouble. Not that they could arrest him for anything, or even hold him — they had no basis for that — but he would have led the police to the place where the jewels had lain hidden all these years, and his fifteen years in a Brazilian penitenciário would have gone for naught. And the lives of his friends. For with enough men — or even enough tourists flocking to the island once the story made the headlines — it would only be a matter of time before the cave would be located, searched, and the stones discovered.

Well, he thought savagely, glaring at the circling plane, we didn’t put in fifteen years in that filho de mãe prisão de Bordeirinho just to hand over the jewels like that at this late date, my word! He padded back to the cabin and knelt, raising the bunk to disclose the hidden lazaret, flashing the flashlight about and then reaching far, drawing forth a high-powered rifle and a box of ammunition. He paused a moment and then reached in again, bringing out a revolver, checking it with an abrupt thrust of his thumb, noting the cartridge caps and then tucking the weapon into the waistband of his swimming trunks. If he could get in a lucky shot at the plane once they were in the water and limited in speed, maybe he could hit their fuel tank and even blow them up before they could radio their position.

It was an impossible dream and he knew it, and even wondered if his panic of the moment was distorting his judgment. The chances were he wouldn’t even be able to hit the bouncing plane at all, let alone seriously damage it; and they were probably on the radio at that moment, describing the scene beneath them, getting instructions to descend, land, and search more thoroughly. Still, McNeil thought decisively, angrily, I’m not leaving here without the stones! What did I tell that mon on the stoop of the house? If I don’t come back, I don’t come back, and that’s the way of it! Up the creek the two of us! For without the stones, there’ll be no Diana, and without either the stones or Diana, what’s the odds? My word!

He came back on deck, jacking ammunition into the rifle, twisting the high-powered scope into an approximation of the proper distance, his mind as cold as ice now that confrontation seemed inevitable. He knew automatically just where he would stand, just at what point he would bring the telescopic lens to bear on the wing-tanks of the plane, hoping for luck. He trotted back of the small roundhouse, the rifle heavy in his hand but comforting in its weight. He squatted down, resting the gun butt on the deck, the box of extra ammunition at hand, and then looked up, frowning. The drone of the plane was diminishing; it had stopped its aimless circling but instead of lowering toward the smooth sea it had banked sharply and was now disappearing to the south, swaying a bit as it recovered from the steep change of direction, dwindling in size, the sound of its motor gone long before the small plane itself was finally out of sight.

McNeil frowned in surprise and suspicion. What kind of a search was that? Or was it possibly just a ruse to bring him out of hiding, with the police planning on returning later? It must have been obvious to the men in the plane that there were a dozen coves invisible beneath the branches, yet there they were, disappearing, a dot in the bright morning sky, and now even that gone. Well, if they wanted to lure him out and then come back, he could wait as long as they could and probably a lot longer; he wasn’t squandering gasoline at an exorbitant rate. And if he had to stay where he was until nearly dark, he could do that, too. There would still be plenty of daylight left to get to the cave and back to the boat. And he hadn’t planned on returning to Brighton before late at night in any event.

He went back to the cabin and placed the rifle against one of the bunks within easy range should he hear the plane again. The revolver was tossed onto the chart table. One advantage of the stillness of the island was that no plane or boat could possibly approach without giving warning. He searched the locker beneath the galley for more food and discovered some hard tack and packaged ham. The rum would have helped it go down, but he knew this was no time for drinking. He took the hard tack and ham with him and went back on deck. He squatted on the leeside of the roundhouse, gnawing at the saltless biscuit, chewing the meat, his eyes still studying the sky where the small seaplane had disappeared.

What kind of a search had that been, anyway? It didn’t make sense, and William Trelawney McNeil was suspicious of all things that didn’t make sense...

When the disappearance of McNeil from the seaside shack had first been discovered and reported, the decision had been made to meet at the office of Chief Inspector Storrs at Police Headquarters in Bridgetown and to use it as a base from which to operate. The bus and the driver that had carried Diana Cogswell from Brighton to Queensland had been located, the man questioned. Yes, the woman had got down at the lane that led to the top of the hill just the other side of Chalky Mount — the Brighton side. No, there hadn’t been a soul to meet her, not that the driver recalled. No, mon — sir — the woman didn’t seem upset or nothing, just a bit weary, like she’d been working hard, but she did work hard. The driver had stopped to take the parch from his throat at times, and she was always rushing about. She worked the nights, you know, and that was the busy time, what with the boats in and the sugar gang thirsty after a day in the sun... No sir, she didn’t say a word, just paid her fare and stepped down to the roach. He hadn’t noticed her face so he couldn’t tell what her expression was, but she hadn’t said anything. Same as usual, same as every night he had carried her.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Wilson said when the driver had been dismissed. He was sitting on the low couch that covered one wall of the inspector’s office, frowning at the floor; now his eyes came up somberly. “McNeil leaves the bar in a huff, and the chances are that it was because of Diana’s needling him. Now, would he really have gotten so angry at her that he waits until she’s through work, then leaves his shack — taking a dangerous chance of being spotted someplace — just for revenge? At this time? Why? And if he picked her up, where would he take her?” He thought a moment. “Unless he suddenly decided that she was a police agent, which seems farfetched.”

“More than farfetched,” Da Silva said. “Where would he discover this? All alone in his shack, eh?” He shook his head. “The normal thing for him to do would be to push up his timetable and go for the stones at once. It’s what we figured he’d do, and what I think he probably did.”

Wilson looked at him. “Taking the girl with him?”

Inspector Storrs took part in the discussion. “You gentlemen seem to be overlooking the fact that McNeil left the shack without any clothes — nothing except swimming trunks. And we’re not even sure he had those. I doubt if he could run about the island naked for very long without somebody noticing. Or did he meet somebody with clothes?”

“The banker,” Wilson said suddenly.

“Except we’ve just decided that McNeil left the shack practically on the spur of the moment. At least there’s every indication he did exactly what we wanted him to — push up his timetable. So how could he have contacted his banker, as you call him, to arrange for clothing?”

“Unless the arrangements were made a long time ago,” Wilson said. “His banker seems to have arranged everything else fairly well. Suppose he cached clothes for McNeil somewhere along the beach where they could be picked up whenever McNeil felt the time was ripe to go for the stones? And tonight was the night?”

“No,” the inspector said flatly. He was seated at his desk, twiddling a pencil. He tossed it aside. “No. Anyone might come onto the clothing at any time along the beach — or anywhere else — no matter how well they were hidden. Some tourists looking for rocks; some small boys playing pirate. It would be taking a chance; it would be very sloppy planning. And I doubt if their plans have many loopholes in them by now; certainly not one as large as that.”

He paused, reaching for the pencil again unconsciously. The others waited.

“If you want my opinion, gentlemen,” he continued evenly, “what McNeil did was to swim out to a boat that was waiting for him, probably anchored a good distance from shore. I have never believed he hid the stones on Barbados, anyway. As I said about the clothes, they might well have been found, especially in fifteen years. This is the most densely populated island in the Caribbean per square mile, gentlemen. There are no wild places left here; almost every inch is cultivated. And with hotels going up — as they were fifteen years ago as well — a lot of beach coves have been filled in, a lot of rock caves excavated. McNeil knew this when he was faced with hiding the stones.”

Da Silva resumed his pacing. He paused, frowning at the floor, then looked up.

“If he swam out to a boat, would he come back to shore to pick up the girl? Even if there were clothes on the boat, would he take the chance of coming back to land — say by dinghy — and anchoring this extremely important transportation on a lonely spot of beach where it might be stolen? Again it sounds as if that would be bad planning. Remember that where Diana was picked up is a good half-mile from the beach; the road curves inland near Chalky Mount. Besides,” he added with a faint smile, “the normal thing for a man to do in McNeil’s circumstances would be to go get the loot, come back and lay it at his lady love’s feet, and say, ‘See? You thought I was talking through my hat, eh? Well, what do you say now?’ That sort of thing.”

“True,” Wilson agreed, and then frowned. “Except that would mean that there’s no connection between McNeil’s disappearance and Diana’s. Which further means—”

“Which further means that she was picked up by somebody else,” Da Silva said flatly. “By this fellow we keep calling the banker, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Nor would I,” Wilson said, suddenly convinced. “Undoubtedly to guarantee that McNeil didn’t skip without giving him his cut.”

“Then McNeil must have stopped there to tell the banker that tonight was the night,” Da Silva said. “The man wouldn’t kidnap a girl a month ahead of schedule.”

“Not if he had any sense,” Wilson agreed with a grin. “Her food bill alone would take the profit out of the operation. She’s a big girl with a healthy appetite.”

“Unless he kidnapped her because he found out she was a police agent.”

“I don’t believe so.” It was Inspector Storrs. He looked up calmly. “Look, gentlemen, we’ve developed a hypothesis; it holds the maximum probabilities under the circumstances and facts as we know them. A policeman cannot ask for more as a basis of beginning a case.”

Wilson looked at him. “You mean we might be wrong, but at least we’ll be wrong with the odds?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. To operate any other way would be to dilute our energy. So let us see where we stand: Our theory is that McNeil is somewhere at sea in a boat, on his way to pick up the jewels. Due to a lack of foresight on my part, he is not being followed. The girl, Diana Cogswell, is being held a prisoner by an unknown man we call — for lack of more positive identification — the banker.” He paused. “Can we infer more? We can. We can infer that for the time being, at least, the girl’s position is that of a hostage, and as such she is in no immediate danger. I realize that statistics in kidnapping cases in the States might refute this statement, but in this case I honestly believe she is in no danger. The man has nothing to gain by harming her, and would face the wrath of McNeil if he did so. I doubt if he would want to face that wrath. He merely wants his thieves’ share.”

Da Silva nodded. “I agree. So?”

“So we continue our search for the girl, of course, here on Barbados—”

“And wait for McNeil to show up,” Wilson asked, “hoping we’re someplace in the neighborhood when and where he decides to land?”

“I should say not.” Storrs came to his feet and walked to a large map mounted on one wall of the office. Da Silva moved over; Wilson struggled up from the cushioned depths of the sofa to join them. The map was of the Windward Islands, with Barbados a small triangular land mass off by itself to the east. The inspector picked up a pointer and swept it around the island of Barbados. “Now let’s see where he might go by sea...”

Wilson frowned at the large expanse of green surrounding the islands, with contour lines weaving about marking ocean depths.

“It looks awfully big,” he said. “The ocean, I mean, not the island. And mighty empty.”

“It’s big,” the inspector admitted, “but far from as empty as it looks. On a small map this size they don’t show all the tiny islands and atolls that are around, small peaks of underwater ranges that are part of the same mountain chain as most of the Caribbean islands, many of them deserted; but they’re all on the sea charts, of course. As I said, we’ve often thought that McNeil hid the jewels on one of them. He certainly had ample time before we picked him up. But it would have been impossible to search them all, or even a small part of them. However, we do have a bit of an advantage...”

Da Silva looked at him. “Such as?”

Inspector Storrs smiled.

“Well, if our hypothesis is correct — and I say ‘if’ — then quite obviously McNeil has no idea the girl is missing and therefore has no idea that anyone, like her aunt for example, might report it and get the police interested in him, since everyone knew he was very attracted to her. He therefore has no reason at all to think we are looking for him. He would expect us to discover his absence around noon tomorrow, when he normally comes out of his shack and heads to the pub.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Right now it is two o’clock in the morning, which means we have ten hours headstart over anything he might expect. That’s quite an advantage.”

“That’s true. But only if we can use it,” Da Silva pointed out.

“Oh, we’ll use it. Or at least a good part of it,” the black police inspector assured him, and laid down his pointer, resuming his seat. “You see, a second advantage we have is that one can see a great deal of ocean from an airplane, and small boats very far from shore are quite rare, even fishing boats.”

“Of course he can see the plane just as far,” Wilson said.

“I remember what one of your American boxers — Joe Louis — once said about one of his opponents,” the inspector remarked, a twinkle in his eye. “The same is true of a small boat at sea. He can run, but he can’t hide.”

Da Silva nodded. “How soon can a plane take off?”

The inspector glanced at his wristwatch.

“First light should be sometime between four fifteen and four thirty. In a little over two hours. I’ll have our two police seaplanes gassed up and their pilots ready to take off by then. The plane taking the eastern course can leave a little earlier, of course — even before light. He’ll be flying into the sun and from his altitude he’ll have enough light to begin his part of the search. And I’ll have a trained observer on each plane with the pilot, of course; between the two they can scan a lot of sea.”

Da Silva took a deep breath, coming to a decision.

“I’ll go as the observer on the first plane that takes off.”

“You?” Wilson stared at him in honest amazement. “Going flying in a small plane? And volunteering, yet?” He turned to the inspector. “How are your police planes fixed up for liquid refreshment?”

The swarthy, mustached Brazilian was not amused.

“Yes, me,” he said shortly. “I don’t like flying, it’s true. But no matter how good our hypothesis is, there’s still the possibility that the girl is with McNeil, and I’m still responsible for anyone assigned to me, whether they asked for the assignment or not. Besides,” he added coldly, “the fact is that we came down here to follow McNeil and find the jewels, and that’s precisely what I’m suggesting. And I’d also like to finish up and get back home to Rio.”

“You must have heard that it finally stopped raining there,” Wilson said, and sighed sadly. “All right. I can take a hint. I go as observer in the other teensy-weensy plane. I know...”