The green hell treasure, p.14
The Green Hell Treasure, page 14
McNeil stared at him quietly, stubbornly.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I didn’t get the dommed disease. Maybe the newspapers were right back then, and it’s straight the way you say. But I’m not setting foot on that island ever again, and that’s the fact. I’m not, you know!”
“Then I’ll go myself.” Tommy instantly recognized the argument he knew he would face and quickly moved to correct his error, leaning forward, his voice as ingenuous as he could make it, honeylike in its sincerity. “Ah, Billy, you can tell me where the stuff is on the island and just how to get there. You can, you know. You can trust me.”
There was the briefest of glances from the seated man. His voice was dry. “Can I, now?”
“You can, you know. Of course you can, mon! I’ll get my gear together, and extra petrol and all if needed, and be ready in—”
“You’ll go down and free Diana and take her home right this minute, that’s what you’ll do!” McNeil said suddenly in a harsh voice. He slammed his fist viciously on the porch to emphasize his point, not feeling any pain. (Wasn’t that one of the symptoms he’d heard about—not feeling anything in the hands and feet? Tommy swore he couldn’t possibly have caught the disease, but did Tommy really know? Tomorrow would undoubtedly tell; if he hadn’t developed large open sores …) He stretched his hand for the rum bottle. “First you get the girl home, and then we’ll talk about it. And even so, don’t touch her, do you hear? Call it just for luck.”
“Right, Billy.” Tommy came to his feet with alacrity, sensing victory. McNeil would finally tell him where the stuff was—all because of the establishment of the sanatorium on the island. What a break! Thank God the big man was as ignorant as he was vicious. “Just as you say, Billy boy! I’ll have her home in a jiffy and right as rain. And then you’ll tell me—” He sensed the look on the other man’s face even without seeing it in the darkness, just in the way the outstretched hand suddenly froze with the rum bottle in it. “We’ll talk about it then, Billy boy,” he said hastily. “We’ll talk about it then.”
He stepped around the seated man and trotted down the steps, walking quickly down the path in the direction of the barn, familiar with the route even in the blackness. McNeil leaned back, one elbow on the porch, his legs stretched down the steps, and uncorked the bottle of rum. He took a deep drink and brought the bottle down, holding it in his hand, trying to feel some of the euphoria, or at least elation, that much rum should have given him, but memory of his encounter with the two lepers on the island twisted his stomach with cold dread. Why in hell had he ever picked Green Hell Island? Why not either of the other two in the group, or even one of the lower atolls to the north or the west? Or why hadn’t he even just hidden the stuff right here in Barbados? There still had to be plenty of spots around Gun Hill or Cole’s Cave that hadn’t been disturbed in the years since the robbery.
He took another drink of rum. Could Tommy really get the stones without getting infected with leprosy? And was it even possible that the stones themselves might be carriers—after all, they had been on the island with the diseased men for ten years, even if walled up. Well, Tommy didn’t think there was anything to it, but could Tommy be trusted? Ah, that was the rub, you see? If he had thought Tommy trustworthy fifteen years before, how different it would all be today! But he hadn’t thought Tommy scrupulous then, so why should he think so now? A leopard doesn’t change his spots.
He became aware of the stumbling steps of the other man coming back from the direction of the barn at a half-run, shuffling quickly to avoid collision with one of the many obstacles, calling to him in a startled half-whisper.
“Billy!”
“What?”
“She’s gone, Billy; she’s gone!”
“What!”
“She’s gone, I tell you! She was in the loft and the ladder taken away—”
McNeil came to his feet, putting the rum bottle aside. Trustworthy, eh? Either Tommy had made up the whole story in the first place, or the little bostard was trying to pull something clever now. McNeil walked down the steps and then paused, reeling slightly, suddenly feeling the accumulation of all the rum, his head swimming. He reached out and grasped the other man by the hand. Tommy screamed.
“Billy, that’s my hurt mitt!”
“Is it, now!” McNeil said coldly. He started down the path toward the barn, staggering slightly, dragging the other along with him, whimpering. “Let’s go down and look for Diana together, eh? And if we don’t find her, maybe I can help you remember where she is, eh? Or if you ever even had her. Maybe I can jog your memory, eh? One way or the other?”
10
“One nice thing about this rambling wreck,” Wilson said genially, “is that it makes me feel at home. It’s about the same age and general state of decrepitude as my own back in Rio.” For a change he was driving the old camper, in the direction of Brighton, with Da Silva leaning back comfortably at his side, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the warm night breeze wafting in through the open windows. Wilson’s voice became a trifle nostalgic. “I really do wonder if it’s stopped raining yet in Rio.”
Da Silva considered his companion curiously.
“Why? I thought you were happy here. I was picturing you asking for a transfer. You like the climate, you’re getting used to the rum, and while we haven’t had time for girls, there certainly doesn’t seem to be any lack of them.” A thought struck him. “Or have you heard a weather report and discovered it also rains in Barbados?”
“Not between December and May,” Wilson said with the firmness of conviction. “And as for the girls,” he added coldly, “it isn’t that we haven’t had time for them, it’s just that you insist on wasting it on less important things, like conferences with policemen, and things like that. Fortunately, I find better things to occupy myself with.” He sighed and came back to his subject. “As for Barbados, well, it’s lovely, but somehow I miss Rio. I miss my apartment and its view and wondering if the maid will show up and if so in what state of euphoria. I miss the smells. I miss that feeling of triumph one gets in crossing the street without being run over—usually by someone going the wrong direction in the wrong lane in a car he doesn’t know how to drive. I miss the awful food. I even miss the noise at the Santos Dumont restaurant. But I think most of all I miss doing a day’s work.”
“What?”
Wilson could imagine the utter look of incredulity on his friend’s face. “Don’t say it, Zé. Your attitude on the work habits of the U.S. Embassy is a matter of record. If you prefer, I’ll say I miss doing half a day’s work.”
“That’s much closer,” Da Silva said, only partially mollified. He suddenly grinned at the other. “You mean, you’ve come to the conclusion that half a loaf is better than a full loaf?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion that being cooped up all day with someone who makes bad puns wasn’t in my contract when I joined Interpol,” Wilson said stiffly. “But, yes, if you want to put it that way. This sitting and waiting for something to happen is all right for a while, but it’s been more than two weeks and I’ve about had it.”
Da Silva became serious. He flipped his cigarette out the open window of the car and turned, staring at Wilson behind the wheel.
“Something’s happening. The trouble is we don’t know what it is. Or where it’s happening. I just hope nothing’s happening to Diana.” He turned back to stare out over the ocean. The thin rim of a new moon low in the sky tipped a distant cloud with a faint touch of gray. “Inspector Storrs may have been right when he said he didn’t think Diana was in any immediate danger, but it’s been almost twenty-four hours, and that isn’t immediate. No sign of her, or of McNeil …”
“What about the shack McNeil’s staying at? Who owns it?”
“If you’d stick around these conferences you hate so much, you’d know. It’s owned by some big reality company, together with about ninety percent of the beach property around here. Eventually they plan on putting up another tourist hotel. Their records on the shack are a joke; actually, they don’t even consider it rentable and are only waiting until their financing goes through to tear it down, together with the fishing dock and anything else in the way, and get started on construction. Sometime next year, they figure.”
“But somebody must have rented it.”
“Somebody obviously did. McNeil didn’t just come home and find it by accident. The girl at the real estate office in Bathsheba doesn’t remember what the renter looked like, other than his being ragged, but she does remember that he put down forty biwi for two months’ rent. She couldn’t see any reason not to take it; the place had been abandoned for years.”
“Did he sign anything?”
“He did—the standard tenant’s form. With a great big X.” Da Silva smiled grimly. “Anyway, I doubt if that was the banker. It would be much smarter for him to give someone ten biwi to go in and handle the deal—some sugar worker or fisherman he meets in a bar or on the dock. If we wait until we identify this character we keep calling the banker through the rental of that shack, then I’ve got a hunch you’ll be greatly delayed before you get another chance to be run over in Rio.”
“I’ll try to manage,” Wilson said philosophically. “What about the passenger lists from the planes?”
“Well,” Da Silva said, remembering, “McNeil flew Varig flight 479 on April twelfth, Recife to Port-of-Spain. Then he had about an hour or so wait for his connection, which was to Avianca flight 622 from Port-of-Spain to Barbados, landing at Seewell late the same afternoon. We’ve asked both airlines for lists of passengers including the Varig passengers disembarking in Recife, and the Avianca passengers disembarking at Port-of-Spain. Just in case somebody thought to leave a package for McNeil to pick up, and then get off the flight. It might be dangerous, but you have to admit it would be cute.”
“For my money it would be more than either dangerous or cute on the Avianca flight,” Wilson said dryly. He negotiated a curve in the coral road and settled back. “It would be downright foolhardy. Varig could have been late, or even cancelled; McNeil might have been transferred to a different plane by the Interpol men in Trinidad and the package eventually found by some cleaning woman in Rome or someplace. A hundred things could go wrong. I vote we scratch that one.”
“Scratched. I agree,” Da Silva said. He lighted another cigarette and tossed the match away. “I think if the money was passed to McNeil on the flight—and it seems by far the most logical place to do it—it would have to be passed on Varig flight 479 somewhere between Recife and Port-of-Spain.”
“Any intermediate stops on that flight?”
“None.”
“And when will you have the lists?”
“Sometime tomorrow, with luck. They’ll be telexed from Rio Grande de Sul for Varig, and from Bogotá for Avianca. God knows why it should take so long to dig something out of a file, but that’s what they say.” He yawned and stretched slightly in the cramped seat. The lights of Brighton were approaching. “Drive down to the beach—let’s see if Jamison has anything to report.”
“And then I’ll buy you a drink at the famous Badger Inn,” Wilson said. “You haven’t seen it, have you? Very picturesque, even if the wine list isn’t the longest in the world. And there’s still an hour before closing.”
“If you insist,” Da Silva said politely, and leaned back.
They turned into the rutted lane and bounced unevenly over the dunes, turning again at the shore and following their headlights over the rippled sand to the dark open sedan parked patiently down the beach. Da Silva climbed down while Wilson waited, the old car hiccuping gently beneath him, the headlights dimming of their own accord without the full cooperation of a racing generator to sustain them. Wilson’s patience was starting to wane at the time his friend was taking when Da Silva appeared from the gloom. He climbed into the car and closed the door, turning to Wilson. There was a note of deep satisfaction in his voice, as well as a tone of great relief.
“Diana’s been found.”
“What?”
“That’s right. I was speaking to Storrs on the radio when he interrupted and asked me to wait, and when he got back on the road she’d been picked up on a lonely road near a place called Farley Hill. Some planter on his way home from Speightstown after a late evening saw her lying on the edge of the road. He picked her up and took her back to Speightstown; the closest doctor’s there—and also the closest police. They called it in just a few minutes ago.”
“Anything on who grabbed her? Or why?”
“Nothing yet, of course.”
“And how is she?”
Da Silva stared at him in surprise.
“That’s a rather odd sequence of questions: First, who grabbed her and why; and second, how is she? I admire devotion to duty in a policeman, but a little humanity wouldn’t hurt.”
“Sorry,” Wilson said contritely.
“All right. Anyway, she’ll be all right. Shock, exhaustion—that’s about it, according to the report. They say she wasn’t too coherent. She’s being given a mild sedative and then the police will drive her home. I doubt if we can ask her any questions tonight, but we’ll stop by anyway.” He bent forward, looking at his watch in the dim light of the dashboard. “She ought to be home in about an hour, I’d say.”
“Good,” Wilson said. He put the car into motion and swung it about on the wide beach, the wheels spitting sand. Da Silva was bumped against the door frame. Wilson shifted gears. “That gives us just about until closing time to wait it out in the Badger.”
Da Silva frowned in the darkness, his jaw tightening.
“You know, Wilson,” he said slowly, “sometimes you’re a hard-to-understand son of a bitch.”
“But only sometimes,” Wilson said. “Look, Zé—what would be gained by rushing up to her house and sitting there for an hour? We might as well relax.”
He pulled over the dunes and out of sight of the police car with Da Silva silent beside him. Behind them Constable Jamison sighed. He had a good idea of the destination of the two men and wished he were able to join them in their vigil at the Badger—a cool beer would go nicely at the moment. However, duty first; he returned to his fruitless contemplation of the darkened house on the shore. Suddenly he sat erect, twisting swiftly in his seat to see if the two Interpol men were still within sight or hailing distance. They were not; the camper had disappeared. He turned back to his study of the house, his hand automatically reaching for the microphone, pressing the button.
“Headquarters? Headquarters?”
“Headquarters here.” The voice was disembodied, echoing hollowly and metallically from the car speakers.
“Constable Jamison here. In Brighton. Keeping an eye on McNeil’s place, you know.”
“Yes?”
“A light just went on inside. I think our boy is back.” He hesitated a moment. “Do I pick the mon up? I’ve a copy of the warrant with me, but I heard Miss Cogswell was found …”
“One moment.” There was a pause; when the voice came back it was as expressionless as before, tinny as a robot. “Inspector Storrs will have a word with you …”
The inspector’s soft voice came on. “Jamison? Are you sure it’s McNeil in the shack?”
“No, sir, but I can go up and find out. The lantern’s on, but there’s a rag of a curtain across the window. Maybe—” He paused. “It’s McNeil, sir. He just came out on the porch. He’s walking this way …”
There was a pause; when the inspector spoke, his voice was quiet.
“If he went for the stones he didn’t get them or he wouldn’t be back—not to the shack.” He seemed to be talking to himself. His voice livened as he addressed himself more directly to the constable. “No, don’t pick him up. Right now the warrant is ineffective in any event; we don’t have a case for touching him. But keep on him. Openly. Who’s with you on the watch?”
“Just Pierce, sir.”
“Well, we may have to give up his cover. No matter; we can always replace. Same drill as before Miss Cogswell was taken. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have to sign off and get cracking if I’m to follow him.”
“Right. Then get cracking.”
The radio switch was depressed, the microphone returned to its hook on the dash even as the motor was started and the headlamps turned on. McNeil was starting to climb the dunes as Jamison pulled up behind him. The large man was marching over the sand slowly, wearily, aware of the car slowly trailing him but really not interested. They had naught on him; if they had they would have picked him up when he showed the lamp. And if Diana got loose she must be home by now and the police aware of it. Maybe he could get to see her later, and let the domned constable sit outside for all he cared, wondering what was going on in the inside! In any event he’d had nothing to do with her being taken, and he knew it and she knew it, whether the coppers knew it as yet or not.
He came to the top of the dune and started down the other side, crossing the main road to the Badger Inn, pushing through the heavy door. Jamison pulled to the curb across the way and turned off the ignition, watching as Pierce walked quickly down the lane beside the building, taking up his stance at the rear of the inn. Jamison slid his tongue over his dry lips, picturing Da Silva, Wilson, and now even McNeil partaking of the pub’s hospitality. Although he did not realize it, his thoughts were echoing those of the tough, thin warden at Bordeirinho, as well as those of a host of law enforcement people before him down through the ages: Which one of us, he was thinking morosely, is really the warder and which one the prisoner?
McNeil was not so much tired as disgusted. Everything had turned out poorly: the fiasco at Green Hell Island, the loss of the jewels, if they were recoverable at all, and if so, how; Tommy and his idiocy in snatching Diana. Well, he thought with a certain amount of savage satisfaction, one thing is domned sure—Tommy won’t be snatching anyone else in a hurry. The truth!
