The Green Hell Treasure

8

The pilot of Da Silva’s plane was a young lad whose shining black face glinted with good humor, a rare thing, Da Silva thought, for anyone wakened at that hour, especially for the purpose of taking an airplane off the ground — or, as in this case, off the water. However, being a young man who loved flying for the sheer fun of it, Da Silva suspected — almost as much as he himself disliked it — any hour was probably all right with him.

The pilot clamped his headphones in place, pulled one halfway off one ear to permit him to hear things not transmitted by radio, tightened his seatbelt to his satisfaction, and turned to his companion in the twin-seated cockpit.

“Coffee behind you, sir.”

Da Silva turned and frowned in surprise at the bottle clamped in the wall bracket.

“I thought that was the fire extinguisher.”

The pilot laughed, flashing white teeth.

“That is the fire extinguisher, mon. I mean, sir. Don’t drink it — we might just need it. Coffee’s in the thermos on the ledge behind you. Sandwiches, too, for later.”

“Oh.” The Brazilian detective twisted, glanced down, and then turned back. “I’ll let it go for the time being.” What he meant was that he wasn’t sure his stomach was up to food of any sort at that hour, or in that situation. For the tenth time since his brave offer he wondered at his temerity. Temerity? Idiocy — in insisting upon accompanying the plane. From the inside it looked even more fragile than from the outside; a trussed frame of thin pipes he was sure he could easily bend by hand, covered with paper-thin sheet metal and held in place by rivets far too small, he was sure, for their job. He tried to smile at the pilot. “Maybe I’ll have some coffee later.”

“Whenever you want, sir.”

The pilot glanced at his wristwatch, spoke a few words into the microphone pivoted from his helmet, and pressed the plane’s self-starter. The single radial engine, sounding as if it also resented having to work at that hour, slowly ground the propellor about several times. There was a sudden puff of smoke, sweeping about the windscreen, and the engine caught with a roar and then settled down to a quiet grumbling. The pilot waggled the flaps and tail controls to make sure all cables were running free, thrust the throttle forward slowly, and angled away from the small bobbing pier. He looked over his shoulder.

“All set, sir?” He glanced down. “Seatbelt tight?”

“All set,” Da Silva said grimly, and clamped his jaw tight.

The roar of the engine returned, increasing as the throttle was pressed steadily forward; the sound within the small cabin was suddenly intensified by the bouncing of the wing-floats and the prow of the fuselage as the small plane leaned down, slapping against the small choppy waves of the cove; then they were airborne and the land was dropping away behind them, lost in the early morning darkness. Da Silva tried to make out the figures of the inspector and Wilson beside the second plane next to the pier, but it was impossible. The pilot banked sharply; Da Silva swallowed convulsively, bringing his attention back to the cockpit, and reached for the hand-hold bar set a bit to one side and slightly above the narrow door. The pilot leaned in his direction, shouting something lost in the noise of the engine and the vibration of the plane. Da Silva stared at him.

“What?”

The young pilot gave up the attempt and pointed to his earphones and then to a set bracketed on the ceiling above his passenger’s head. The swarthy detective understood; he slipped them on and twisted the microphone in place before his mouth. The noise of the plane was instantly and miraculously muffled, replaced by the soft island voice of the pilot.

“Can you hear me, sir?”

“Yes, thank God! This is a lot better.”

“Just talk quietly into the mike, sir. She’s a good pick-up.” He paused to reach over his head, twisting a handle, trimming the plane, then returned to his guest. “I was saying before, lean with her, mon, when I bank. Be part of her. That way you won’t have to hold on so tight.”

Da Silva looked at the earnest black face watching him, and nodded. He was unable to think of anything to say. It was easy for the young man to say “lean with her” in that soft sing-song tone, but every natural instinct was to fight that sickening tilt with every tool available, to maintain verticality regardless of the position of the plane. Still, he thought, the pilot should know best; at least he seemed to be comfortable. He tentatively relaxed his grip on the metal bar, but kept his hand close for immediate succor if needed. And I’ll bet my fingerprints are embedded in that steel bar for posterity, he thought with a slightly ashamed grin, and suddenly felt more relaxed. He was even able to look from the window, expanding his view beyond the tiny limits of the cockpit.

The sunrise was beautiful from that altitude, the red ball drawing itself from the dark ocean, soft and large, tinging the low-lying clouds with color. Beneath them, in contrast, the sea was a ruffled green fabric, pointing up the variety tinting the horizon. It is lovely, Da Silva thought, and was aware that he was actually beginning to enjoy himself and the flight. The soft voice of the pilot in his ear suddenly took his attention.

“Yes?”

“When you’re looking for the boat, don’t try to look straight ahead, sir. Never search into the sun; it’s a waste of time. To start with, you can’t see much; and later on it’ll just be too strong. Hurt your eyes, my word!” He smiled. “I’ll start taking north and south courses very soon, now. I’ll take them about five miles apart and run maybe fifteen, twenty miles each way. When it gets lighter, we can go higher and widen the view.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Yes, sir. Now, when we’re flying a north course, you just try to look straight down; I’ll be looking away from the sun and I’ll have a wider scan. On the south runs, the other way around. And just concentrate on a small part of the sea at any one time, sir; don’t try to cover it all. Especially not in front or in back. The plane’ll do that for us.”

“Right.”

Da Silva turned, pressing his face to the small window, feeling its chill at this altitude, staring down at the sea. He suddenly realized the accuracy of Wilson’s observation: The sea was not only vast, but despite Inspector Storrs’ comment, it looked awfully empty. Not a freighter, not a passenger liner, not a fishing boat in sight. Nothing. Not even, he thought grimly, a speedboat with a man and woman in it, or even a man alone. He spoke into the microphone without removing his gaze from the ocean below.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Jeremy Cluett, sir. Everyone calls me Jerry — except the inspector, of course.”

“What’s he call you?”

“Sergeant, sir.” The voice was respectful but could not help showing justifiable pride. “I think I prefer it.” His tone of voice changed. “Why, sir? Did you see anything?”

“No, Sergeant. I was just wondering, is all.” Da Silva frowned down at the sea. “There doesn’t seem to be any islands out this way; I was wondering why we were searching this stretch of the sea. He wouldn’t just go for a joy ride, I don’t believe.”

“No, sir.” The pilot reached up, retrimming the ship, and then returned to his conversation. “It’s true there aren’t many islands out this way, this far east of Barbados; it’s pretty empty sea out here. But there are a few. Actually, we should be seeing one group fairly soon, now.”

“Group?”

“Yes, sir. They’re called the Abandoned Islands. They were first discovered by the Danes, way back, but they never tried to settle them. Too small, I guess; not much reason to, especially not back in those days. Anyway, they never did.” He made a slight correction in his course and then continued. “There are three of them, about fifteen miles apart. And a lot different, one from the other.”

“How far away are they?”

“Well, sir, they’re about ninety kilometers dead east of Barbados — fifty-four miles. But the north-south courses we’re flying, of course, we aren’t flying for them. But we’ll be raising them soon.”

Da Silva nodded and looked down, and then had to refrain forcibly from grabbing ignominiously for the hold-bar as the pilot put the plane into a sharp bank of one hundred and eighty degrees, heading on his opposite course. He looked over at his passenger and grinned.

“Sorry, sir. I should have warned you.”

“That’s all right.”

The tall mustached Brazilian suddenly found he could even smile in return. He looked down at the seascape below; there was nothing there but water. The sun seemed to have risen an incredible distance in the short time since they had taken off from the police pier in Bridgetown; it had lost its brilliant orange hue and was now becoming whiter, brighter, smaller. He was aware that the pilot had pulled slowly back on the stick and that they were rising, allowing for a greater field of vision. They leveled off; he suddenly found himself hungry. He twisted in his seat, reaching for the sandwiches, taking one and munching on it as he returned to his scanning of the sea below. He realized with a start his bad manners and turned to offer the pilot some of the food; the young man was speaking into the microphone. For one frightening moment Da Silva thought something had gone wrong with his hearing; then he saw the pilot push a switch beside him and the soft voice was back in his ear again.

“I was just talking to shore, sir. The other plane is out St. Vincents way, but they haven’t sighted anything either. I told them we were just about at the Abandoneds now.” He saw Da Silva’s gesture toward the sandwich in his hand, properly interpreted it, and shook his head. He pointed, instead, and then banked the plane sharply. From nowhere, it seemed, the jagged peaks of a tiny volcanic rock reached up at them from the sea, almost at their altitude, frightening in its sudden appearance. The pilot banked away from the peak, dropping lower, circling the small island, watching the rugged coast closely. From his side Da Silva had a view of the sheer cliffs of the peak, and the poor vegetation that clung to the black lava-pitted sides of the mountain. The pilot did a high bank, reversing his direction, allowing Da Silva the view to sea. A fine sand beach rimmed the sharp rocks, ill-affording hope of concealment; the trees were sparse, ill-nourished on the sandy soil. The pilot made one final tour of the coastline of the small rock and then pulled back on the stick, rising, banking toward a second island barely visible in the distance.

“Well, he isn’t here, that’s sure, sir.”

“What do they call that place?”

“This one? Barren Island. You can see why, sir.”

“And the one we’re heading for?”

“They call it Green Hell Island, sir. It’s deep along the coastline, narrow beach, lots of drops right into the sea. Seems to be a mating place for sharks, sir. Something about it attracts them. They come here in the thousands. McNeil won’t be here, but it is a lovely island, that it is, and while we’re here I thought you’d enjoy seeing it. Have to pass it getting to the last of the group in any event, sir.”

Da Silva frowned across the cockpit.

“Why wouldn’t he be here? If it’s deep along the coast he could tie up without difficulty; he wouldn’t have to get in the water to get ashore. And sharks don’t come up on land after you — or at least they don’t in Brazil...”

The pilot had switched to the shore channel, apparently in response to a flasher on his set, and was speaking into the microphone without Da Silva being able to hear. His hand remained firm on the stick, moving it as needed; his eyes kept track of their course perfectly. The small island came closer, its hills and narrow beaches in sharp contrast to the desolate rock they had just left. Here palm and banana plants seemed to cover a large portion of the island, running down the steep slopes to end in the sea, either abruptly or just stopping short to fringe a thin stretch of white beach. The pilot banked to keep his position over the island and flicked a switch. His voice returned to Da Silva.

“Told them we’d finished with Barren Island and were on our way. Nothing from the westerly plane.” He glanced down over his shoulder in admiration. “A beautiful island, eh, sir? Small, but lovely.”

“It is.” Da Silva raised his eyes from the thick vegetation beneath them. “It makes me think of some of our islands off Rio de Janeiro.” He looked over at the sergeant flying the plane. “I asked you before — though you were talking and couldn’t hear me — why wouldn’t he be on this island? Why should the sharks bother him if he comes in close enough to land by boat? He could practically walk ashore.” He turned, looking down over his shoulder, studying the lush verdure crowding the edge of the ocean. “It certainly looks ideal for hiding a boat.”

“Oh, it is that, mon. I mean, sir. Perfect for hiding a boat or anything else. And it isn’t the sharks that would keep the chap away either. It’s something I’m sure he’d think a lot worse.”

“Oh?” Da Silva stared at him. “What?”

The pilot grinned and told him. “He’s an ignorant man, sir. Uneducated — not like us today.”

Da Silva nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, of course. Well, not much sense in wasting time here. Let’s go take a look at the last one. What’s that one called?”

“Split-Rock Island, sir. You’ll see why when we get there.”

The plane was expertly banked, Da Silva now leaning with it and feeling part of it. They flew off to the south, toward a third island whose peak was barely visible in the distance. Below them, startled and wondering at the unexpected departure of the small police plane, William Trelawney McNeil frowned in disbelief at the plane dwindling in the distance.

It was a bit after three by the chronometer when McNeil finally decided the plane was not going to return under any circumstances. Why, he had no idea, nor was he happy about not knowing, but it would be getting on in the day for the small craft, and he was sure it was gone for good. He had spent the day half-dozing in the shade of the roundhouse, reliving the day when he placed the stones in the cave on the deserted island, recalling each step of the path so as to properly retrace it with the least waste of time. It would be even more overgrown by now, but the machete in the lazaret would handle the tangled vines.

But first, the package. He remembered taking the haul from beneath his steel drum, back in the rowboat, wrapping it in his kerchief, and later in Brighton putting it in the flat box. Then it had been wrapped in plastic and bound tightly with fish-line, good gut. If it had to be dropped overboard on the way to the island, it would float, at least for a while; the entrapped air would see to that. But it hadn’t had to be dropped overboard; it reached the island in fine shape. By this same boat, as a matter of fact, and there had been ample food aboard, too, and drink, and he had used them both freely. For a moment his thoughts went from his memories to the sausage he had consumed the night before; he wished there were more aboard.

He recalled anchoring in the same cove he was in now; both the cove and the island had been discovered on a fishing trip when they had served as a haven in a sudden storm. The mountain cave had been found simply by constantly seeking an elevation above the forest and the swamp. He remembered that march well, first the forest, which petered out in a small glade, and then the swamp, without the high boots he had thought to provide for this time, with the ticks eating away at his ankles, and the constant fear of snakes. It was a case more of wading than walking, the thick reeds high above one’s head, the insects enough to drive a man mad. And then, finally, the end of the swamp, the staggering up onto firm ground, with the thick stands of trees closing in to block off the sun, and the bush leading to the foot of the mountain and even climbing the cliffs a short way, their exposed roots and tendrils affording welcome hand-holds in the climb to the cave.

And in the cave, at the very end of it, that niche scooped out of the clay and then so cleverly walled in again, hiding the package. The plastic would protect against the dampness, and if it didn’t? What matter! Gems don’t rot, diamonds don’t spoil in the tropical humidity. And had anyone ever discovered where he had hidden the stuff? Well, they hadn’t, and that was the fact, my word! The package was still there, simply waiting to be picked up.

He smiled and came to his feet, yawning, stretching, bringing himself back to full awareness. Time to go! He walked back inside the small cabin, the deck now burning the soles of his feet where the strong rays of the sun had found it through the thicket above. First he placed the rifle in the lazaret as no longer being necessary, replacing it with a razor-edged machete taken with its scabbard from the dry amidships. Then he brought back the made-up bunk to its original position, hiding the panel, straightening the rug. He pulled on trousers and the boots he had been clever enough to bring along this time, drew a long-sleeved shirt over his head for protection against the insects rather than the sun, and tucked the revolver into his waistband. He glanced about the small cabin, checking to make sure he had forgotten nothing required for his short trip, and then froze.

There was a sharp knock on the side of the boat! For a second he wondered if perhaps one of the schools of sharks had inadvertently bumped the hull, but he knew this was fantasy as soon as he thought it. The knock was repeated; a voice called out.

“Ho!”

The island was occupied! He stood unmoving, his mind churning. It certainly hadn’t been the plane returning from Barbados or another boat approaching by sea; he would have heard those. No — after centuries someone had come to what he had long since considered his own personal, private island, protected both by the voracious sharks as well as by his inalienable rights. But right now someone was on the island! His jaw tightened; he took the revolver from his belt. Well, that wouldn’t be any great problem! Not now, not after all the years, and the lives lost — not when he was this close!

“Ho! Anybody on board?”

He took a deep breath and went on deck, shoving the gun into his pocket, one large hand covering it. The afternoon sun was lowering, striking him in the eyes, half-blinding him. He moved to the shore side of the boat, looking down at his visitors, and then released his grip on his gun. To think he had almost panicked! This really should be no great problem.

Two men in ragged field-working clothes stood there, one of them in the act of banging on the railing again with his free hand. Their feet were bare and dirty; broad-brimmed straw hats hid their faces completely in shadow. The one banging on the railing carried a hoe in his free hand; the other had a rake dragging on the ground beside him. Neither one was armed. McNeil looked down at them quietly. So somebody had finally decided to try to scrape a living off the island; God alone knew why! Anyone had to be insane to pick a spot surrounded by sharks, miles away from the shipping lanes, and very difficult to sustain with supplies. But had they found the stones? He chuckled. Would anyone finding a fortune in gems remain here, eking out a bare existence from the soil, wearing these rags? No, the stones were still here and still available.

“Well, hello,” he said pleasantly. Just stopping by, he thought, or I got lost, or — even better — temporary difficulty with the boat; that should do nicely for an excuse. And at first light a brief trip through the forest and the swamp. He smiled to himself. Who knows? After all, a couple of farmers — maybe they’ve drained the swamp or even cleared the forest? It would be a big help...

“Don’t see many strangers here,” the second man said. His voice was harsh, rasping, difficult to understand; he sounded as if air were escaping from somewhere. The wide straw hat was tilted forward against the setting sun, so that even with his head tipped back to see, his face remained invisible.

“Bostard of an engine,” McNeil explained easily, waving his hand. He smiled. “Did me dirt, but I’ll get her fixed up in no time, my word. I may have to ask your hospitality for the night, but that shouldn’t be any great problem, should it, mon?”

There was a moment’s pause as the two men considered this request. McNeil frowned; standard hospitality required that their answer be automatic in the islands. At last the first man spoke up. He was still leaning on the rail with one hand, the hoe over his shoulder; his face was also in shadow.

“That would have to be up to the doctor, I’m afraid.”

“Doctor?” McNeil’s frown deepened. Doctor? Doctors were educated; doctors didn’t live on abandoned islands in the middle of nowhere! What would a doctor be doing on Green Hell Island? And besides, he suddenly thought, doctors aren’t as easily fooled as poor bostards like these. “What doctor?”

“The doctor...” The man seemed puzzled, as if not understanding what was so difficult about comprehending his simple answer.

“Damn it, mon, I said, what doctor?” McNeil glared at them, leaning over the railing. “You tell me, now, before I lose my temper and come down there and get it out of you, you hear? My word!”

The man leaning on the boat seemed stunned by the sudden inexplicable hostility. He withdrew his hand from the boat’s railing and stepped back. McNeil’s eyes had become accustomed to the light; for the first time he saw that the man dragging the rake was an old man, bent with years of toil. He also saw the large clawlike hand of the man who had stepped away from the side of the boat, and the lionlike features beneath the hat. The other removed his hat to wipe his brow, the reason for the difficulty in breathing and speaking becoming apparent: Where his nose should have been was a gaping hole. McNeil fell back in terror from the gruesome sights.

“Good God! What is this place?”

The old man with the rake started to answer, but his crippled friend saved him the agony of speech.

“It’s a sanatorium for Hansen’s disease,” he said sadly, slowly. “A leprosarium...”