Robert L. Fish

The Green Hell Treasure

This book is dedicated

with total admiration

to the most important friend and helper

the mystery writer ever had:

WILLIAM A. P. WHITE

known to his millions of friends

and fans as

TONY BOUCHER

1

Pre-Lenten Carnival in Bridgetown, Barbados, easternmost of the Lesser Antilles, with the SS Porto Alegre of Brazilian registry anchored out in the wide roadstead, swaying slightly in the wash of a lesser draft Panamanian freighter seeking a berth closer to land. Evening coming on with tropical swiftness, a smattering of stars beginning to pierce the velvet fabric of the sky, and the majority of the crew and passengers of the cruise ship already ashore by lighter, chaperoned by cruise director and directoress and intent upon escape, enjoying the heady sensation of distant places, the rich warmth of the Caribbean night, the gay costumes, the dancing in the streets, the hysteria — not the mad abandon of Rio de Janeiro, but still Carnival — the rum drinks thrust upon one from all sides, the beautiful women — again not Rio, but still...

Orange-red sun sinking fast in the west, a huge balloon being tugged from somewhere below the edge of the world into the darkening ocean; one expected a hiss as it went under, a sudden jetting of steam, but instead it merely flooded the ruffled surface with a shimmering carpet of gold from the ship to the horizon. Bridgetown proper on the ship’s starboard side to the east, lights beginning to flicker from the city poles planted before the low concrete-block warehouses at water’s edge, from Trafalgar Square visible behind a battery of fishing trawlers and yachts rocking at dockside before Nelson’s monument, their kerosene lanterns swinging on gimbals beside cabin hatchways or high on swaying crosstrees, brighter lights from the white buildings along Broad Street with their own generators, or from the verandaed homes hiding behind the thick stands of flamboyant and tamarind and casuarina trees on the low rolling slopes of the city. And the faint sound of raised voices chanting in the distance and music coming rhythmically over the choppy waves to the anchored ship.

A sound at the foot of the gangplank angled steeply down the side of the Porto Alegre, hugging the steel plates as if for protection, leading from the promenade deck to the small attached floating platform used to transfer passengers or crew to the lighter whenever it deigned to arrive, a dubious thing during Carnival. A call from below in a deep voice.

“Hey, mon! Up on deck!”

The deck officer stared down the shadowed side of the vessel, a sheer cliff pierced by portholes, seeing the bobbing rowboat at the foot of the gangplank and the four men half-standing, balancing themselves expertly, steel drums of various sizes dangling from their necks by frayed ropes, the lights from the cabin portholes beginning to strengthen in the darkening night, washing the water of the roadstead green-yellow against the black of the shadows.

“Yes?” The deck officer, together with most of the upper echelon of the ship’s personnel, spoke what he considered fair English. It was essential; a large portion of the cruise passengers each trip were from the United States.

“Oh, mon! How you like some real island steel drum up there on that deck, eh, mon? Good music, sir. The best.” A hand over the heart, not wavering in the slightest despite the bouncing of the small boat. A wide smile. His three companions silent, watching. “Believe me, sir. My word!”

The deck officer grinned down at the histrionics beneath him and then shook his head. He was young, neat in his almost-new uniform, his naval cap with its braid cocked nonchalantly over a nautical crew cut, and he knew the book from cover to cover. Except, of course, the proper angle for a young officer to wear his cap. But the captain was ashore with all the rest.

“Regretful, boys. Can’t be had.”

“Oh, mon! Good music, sir!” There was the slightest touch of reproval in the deep voice, sorrow that the young deck officer should be so bound by rules, especially during Carnival when everybody knew there were no rules. Particularly, one would have thought, a Brazilian. “Best music on the island of Barbados, sir. My word on it.”

The deck officer fought down a grin. “Yet against the regras, I fear me. Não pode ser. I regret.”

At the young officer’s side the assistant chief engineer, a Scot not much older than the deck officer, but ages older in experience. Fear of rules — together with most other fears — was something he had lost in His Majesty’s Navy, being in the water several times in the course of his service, once for six hours before being picked up. Not as far back as one might think; these things can happen when you go before the mast as oiler’s assistant at the age of fourteen, but still better than the Lochgelly coal mines. He had seen service in the ships of at least five nations since then, never staying too long on any one. He had volunteered to stay aboard tonight in favor of the Brazilian members of the engine-room staff going ashore; Carnival meant a lot to them.

He glanced calmly at the young deck officer at his side, not too well acquainted with him, bit down on the thin black cigar he had become accustomed to when cigarettes were hard to come by at home, and squirted smoke past stained teeth, speaking around the edge of the Havana. It was not the best Havana, but it had been rolled in Cuba. Like me, once, he thought with a sour inward smile, and spoke up.

“Ah, mon, let the buggers come up!” he said dispassionately. “What’s the odds? It’s Carnival — a big thing in these islands. Almost as big as it is down Rio way.” He removed the cigar, contemplated it a moment, licked a recalcitrant leaf back into place, checked his handiwork for relative permanence, and replaced it in his mouth. He clamped his teeth on it, prepared once again for speech. “They won’t steal the ruddy boilers on this tub,” he said sardonically, “and it wouldn’t hurt a hell of a lot if they did.”

This was mostly rhetoric; the Porto Alegre was less than ten years out of the builder’s slip and had excellent boilers. In any event the deck officer understood only about half of his companion’s plea, but he did get the general drift.

“Come on, Scotty. You know the rules.” He spoke in Portuguese.

In the darkness below, the four waited quietly, bouncing on the choppy waves. One hand of the largest of the four was now gripping the rope that served as a fragile railing for the rolling dock at the foot of the angled ladder; his attitude was one of anticipation, sensing rather than actually hearing the discussion above, wisely allowing the white man to argue for them. Across the roadstead a rusted freighter swung at anchor; from the taffrail a man in a greasy apron watched the performance even as he dumped garbage into the sea.

“I know the rules,” the engineer said, returning to English, and smiled grimly out into the darkness. “Too bloody well I know the rules. Made to be broke, the whole frigging lot.”

“Eu não posso. I can’t not.”

“Damn it, mon, of course you can do it. You’re the deck officer at the moment, aren’t you?” He snorted. “A couple of youngsters banging around the deck on some tin drums for a couple of minutes trying to pick up some change. What the bleedin’ hell! If they was provisioners from Cave, Shepherd, with a couple of cases of decent brandy for the old man,” he added significantly, “they’d be aboard fast enough. If we had to send a gang to carry them, drums and all!”

The uniformed officer at his side grinned.

“’Ta bom. All right, Scotty. Do not have an attack of the heart over it.” He moved to the section of railing that had been removed from the promenade deck, allowing access to the unstable gangway, leaning over, raising his voice, speaking slowly to clarify his enunciation. “All right, chicos. You can aboard.” He strengthened his voice, making it stern, trying to sound older than his years and fairly proud of his success. At his side the blue eyes of the Scotsman twinkled. “But no begging off from — I mean, no begging off — the passengers. Are you understood?”

“Right, mon. We don’t beg.” It was the large man who had been in the prow of the rowboat, the spokesman, the obvious leader. The one with the deep voice whose intonations seemed to be calculated but never offensive. “No begging. Hear that, chaps? That’s a rule! Only music. Real island steel drum!”

They scampered up the gangplank, released, the last one holding the dipping rowboat as his companions spurned it with easy grace in favor of the angled steps, and then casually tying the boat to a pipe stanchion of the heaving platform with enough slack to prevent their transportation from swamping in the wash of a passing vessel. The cook on the freighter across the roadstead shrugged, spat over the taffrail for luck, and went back inside to a companionway leading below. In the growing darkness the gulls screamed and dove for the refuse he had strewn.

The four from the rowboat made it to the promenade deck, the first arrivals standing to one side to allow their leader to be the first to appear on deck and take charge. Their steel drums hung from their necks like forgotten albatrosses. The head man came up the steps silently and swiftly, stepping on deck; the others followed quietly, forming a small circle about him. The deck officer was surprised to see they weren’t as young or as small as they had appeared from the height of the towering deck. Actually, while they weren’t young, they weren’t very old either — in their early twenties, he supposed, not much younger than himself, and they looked much tougher. Heavy ropy muscles bulged the short legs of the tight pants that came halfway up the thick calves; open-throated shirts loose and colorful, billowing sleeves wrist-tight completed the scant costumes. Unlike many ashore they had eschewed the broad-brimmed seaman’s hat native to Barbados; they were bareheaded. Their large feet, also bare, slapped on the pegged planks of the deck, still warm from the heat of the afternoon. The deck officer had a brief moment of trepidation, a wonder if he had made a mistake, but this feeling disappeared once the four had pulled their wrapped mallets from their tight waistbands and begun to play.

For they could play steel drums! How they could play! They could really play! And with their black faces as frozen as ice, large eyes wandering only from their instruments to the face of the big man, their leader. Slowly the music seemed to even relax them, to remove whatever tension they had been under; they began to bend to the sound of it, holding their drums closer as if to ingest the music from them, asking the drums to be kind, to be good, as if they were independent of the men playing them. Their bodies now began to move, to react, amazed at the sounds they themselves were producing, wrists loosening, fingers fluttering, wrapped sticks flashing from side to side as if without volition. It was surprising, incredible, the muted sweetness of the music they could draw from the crudely hammered cut-down oil drums. Intricate harmony complemented the various themes, threading through the vibrant thrumming, each player picking his proper range and part without any visible sign from another.

They played the music of the islands, music of Carnival evoked ages before in distant lands for different purposes, added to, embellished in the islands — music to drink rum by, to kill by, to beat a woman by, or to make love to her by, music to forget or remember by — happier times, more exciting times, or sadder times, times when one would have been better off stepping in front of the perimetral bus or swimming out to meet a shark halfway — or facing a husband because it would have been worth it.

The ship across the roadstead now bristled with men at the rail listening avidly; even the cook had returned and was watching, a cigarette between his lips, pasted there. On the Porto Alegre a voice called from the swimming pool area at the end of the promenade deck — an American accent, one of a group there who had either elected to stay aboard for the evening, or were planning on catching the lighter ashore after dinner, assuming it showed up on schedule, or at all.

“You! Boy!”

“Mon?”

No pause in the pulsing beat of the music, merely a slight diminution in volume through which the raised voices could carry.

“How about bringing that entertainment down this way, eh?”

“Right, mon. Right now, sir. A pleasure.”

Volume back up again, raised by all four equally and at the same time, again with no apparent sign from anyone in the group. Well trained as well as skillful. They bobbed their heads in unison at the deck officer and the engineer and started to move down the deck.

“Remember what I told,” the deck officer said in a low voice. “No begging. I am too serious.”

“No begging, mon. I mean, sir. My word on it.”

It was the large man, the leader, his white teeth flashing in the growing dimness of the evening. Colored lights suddenly sprang into being along the windowed saloon wall, hanging in loops, the bulbs like beads, casting blues and yellows and greens and reds over the deserted deckchairs. Beneath them the leader of the group seemed to loom even larger, his shadow leading the shadows of his companions down the deck toward the pool. He paused to turn, studying the deck officer, grinning almost childishly.

“Maybe tips, though, sir? They force them to us, like, mon?”

The deck officer turned to the engineer with a faint frown of nonunderstanding.

“Tips?”

“Gorjetas.” The engineer didn’t know too much Portuguese, but gorjetas was a word you learned quickly in Brazil or you didn’t eat, at least not in restaurants.

The deck officer sighed helplessly in face of that wide hopeful grin. “No begging, but all right, I guess. Tips.” He watched the four move toward the swimming pool.

“The old man won’t hang you,” the Scottish engineer said dryly, and removed his cigar to spit in the ocean. He was careful to direct it well away from the small craft rising and falling rhythmically at the end of the ship’s ladder.

“You mean he won’t hang you,” said the deck officer in Portuguese, and grinned.

The steel-drum band played their tantalizing music all around the promenade deck, pausing for the group at the pool, and later for another group of people on the lee side of the ship, staring somberly at the last fan-shaped shafts of light sent up by the dying sunset to fringe the low-lying clouds on the horizon with crimsons and purples. They were an elderly group, lying back in their deckchairs as if determined to avoid the pleasures of Carnival — or even the sight or sound of it ashore — at any cost. The Americans sitting about the pool had been noisy, but they had tipped generously. The group on the lee side of the ship had not tipped at all. The four steel-drum players honored their promise not to beg.

They carried their soft throbbing beat through the main saloon, their bare toes sinking luxuriously into the thick, rich carpeting. They danced as they played now, short mincing steps first to one side, then to the other, their lithe bodies swaying in accompaniment, sleeves billowing, eyes rolling in ecstasy exaggerated or real. They played and danced past the surprised bartender idly shining glasses at the curved, deserted bar — normally crowded at this cocktail hour but empty this Carnival night — past the abandoned bandstand, piano closed and locked, bass fiddle tilted drunkenly against the wall as if sleeping standing up, with the polished parquet of the oval dance floor cool beneath their feet. They played past the door to the ship’s library, also locked, and the empty card room, back on carpet once again, then through the wide glass doors to the area before the ship’s shop, closed in port by law, their bare feet enjoying cold linoleum now. They twisted and pranced and quietly pounded their rippling rhythm down the broad staircase to the main deck and the purser’s square, empty except for an assistant purser sitting behind the desk, reading a novel in lieu of something more exciting to do. There are always martyrs among the crew when a ship is in port, at least one from the purser’s staff.

He looked up at their sound and smiled happily as they came down the last few steps and spread themselves fan-shaped before his counter. He came to his feet, dog-earing the book, laying it aside, grinning. English he had to perfection; he was a descendant of one of those American families that had migrated to Brazil after the Civil War, completely bilingual, and happy with Carnival even if he could not participate in it tonight. The following day in Guadeloupe he would be off duty, although in all honesty the French really didn’t have a clue as to what Carnival was all about.

“Hey, hey! Entertainment, eh?”

“Entertainment, yessir, mon. Real island music.”

“Very, very good.” The purser’s assistant grinned. “Very good. As good steel drum as I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you, sir, mon.”

The leader smiled back at him widely, teeth brilliant, and stopped playing abruptly. He reached behind him with one fluid motion, tucking his wrapped mallet sticks down into his waistband at the small of his back. The other three drummers, however, continued their throbbing music, spreading out in almost military precision without missing a note, one remounting the carpeted steps to the bend in the staircase where he could observe anyone descending, each of the other two taking a stance at the discharge end of the lee and starboard corridors leading tiltingly to the staterooms of the main deck.

The assistant purser suddenly didn’t like the look of things. He may have spoken English as if he had been born and bred in Savannah, but he was a Brazilian with five generations behind him, and he knew trouble when he saw it. And this was trouble. The fixed smile on the big black man’s face was too humorless; there was sudden tension in the other three, although no sign of it appeared in their music. The assistant purser studied them all a moment, his eyes moving from one to the other, his smile gone, wiped away by the circumstances; then he reached for the telephone on the counter beside him. His hand froze in midair as he found himself staring into the black circle of a revolver muzzle. Copper tips winked brightly in the light from the chambers visible on either side. Where the weapon had come from that suddenly the purser could not imagine. He attempted coolness, the shocked righteousness of the innocent bystander.

“Hey! What is this?”

“This? This is a gun, mon. You never seen a gun?”

“You know what I mean. You can’t get away with pulling a gun. What’s this business all about?”

“Entertainment, mon.” The big black man shrugged, his eyes flat. “Like we both agreed. Just entertainment. Only you providing it this time. And let’s keep our hands flat down on that countertop, like, eh, mon? Like you was holding down a couple of hole-cards in seven card stud poker, eh? That’s the ticket, mon. You gamble? Draw poker, stud poker? Good games.” The deep voice chilled convincingly. “Only don’t gamble now, mon. My word!”

The steel drum was whisked from his neck in one smooth motion, the pistol never wavering from the purser’s startled face during the exercise. The big man bent slowly, his hand firm with the gun, his eyes steady on the other, tilting his drum against the counter almost lovingly. He straightened up.

“Now let’s go visit the ship’s safe, eh, mon? What you say?”

“The safe?”

The young man swallowed, staring about the small square with its elevator doors closed and the pointer frozen someplace above, with its corridors covered and its stairway watched. The area echoed softly and insanely with a throbbing Carnival tune, expertly played by the silent three. The small square also echoed with loneliness and hopelessness. His eyes came back from their tour of desperation to the black face smiling at him through thick red lips, but the eyes facing him were not smiling. They were chips of black obsidian set in yellow topaz.

“The safe, remember, mon? And don’t make me ask you again. My word!”

The purser swallowed. A poor chance, but still he had to try. Otherwise it would be impossible to face the eventual inquiry. He wet his lips and shook his head, trying to sound confident.

“The safe? You made a mistake. You’re in the wrong place. All we handle is the ship’s mail, and messages, and the keys to the cabins and things like that. The ship’s safe is in the captain’s quarters next to the bridge. Where you can’t—”

“Mon! I said to you: don’t gamble!”

The thick muscular hand with the revolver snaked forward; the pistol was raised and raked heavily across the suddenly ashen face on the other side of the desk. The front sight was edged, a poor job of tumble-finishing at the factory or filed sharp since, possibly just for this purpose. It left a sharp cut across one cheek, gouged a deeper groove where it struck the bridge of the nose, skipped a bit of flesh, and then cut again. Blood began to well rapidly from the cuts, running down the purser’s face, gathering on his chin, dripping onto the countertop and his white summer uniform jacket. He started to reach for a handkerchief to staunch the flow but instead changed his mind, putting his hand back on the desk, letting it remain where it had been, pressing it tightly against the smooth formica top. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily against the pain and then opened them, staring dully at the cold face and veiled eyes before him. The music played on without change in tempo or style, throbbing softly. The big man spoke, his velvet voice blending in with the music of the drums, almost taking its rhythm, its sing-song cadence from them.

“Mon, mon!” The tone was chiding. “Your momma never teach you what happen to little boys don’t never tell the truth? I’m sure she must have. You just forget, eh, mon?”

The young purser remained quiet, his eyes trapped. The cuts on his face hurt; the blood running down his thin cheeks itched. The white teeth of his assailant flashed.

“Well, now, mon — you don’t want to tell me, then supposing I tell you? It isn’t in the room behind you, because that door leads to the head. And that gangway over to the side leads to your boss’ stateroom. And off that stateroom to larboard is his office. And in that office I truly figure we going to find that ship’s safe you just went and lost. And you know what, mon?” He paused as if truly waiting for an answer; the purser remained quiet. “I tell you. If that safe isn’t open — and I don’t really expect it is — then you are going to open that safe for us. Because if you don’t, I’m going to kill you, mon. My word! I mean it and you know I mean it. But I don’t aim to kill you quick. Oh, no! First I’m going to wipe this gun back and forth across your face until you wish I’d give it up and pull that trigger.” His soft voice became even softer, more chilling. “Now, we wouldn’t want nothing like that to happen, would we? Of course not!”

He was behind the counter in one move before the purser could raise a hand. The gun was steady as rock, jammed into the young man’s kidneys. The big man pleasured at the involuntary wincing and pushed the gun harder than necessary.

“When you lift them hands off the countertop, you just lift them real easy, like, eh? And we’ll be going along now. Somebody comes down them steps won’t help, believe me. Just more people gets hurt, is all. There’s a gun strapped under every one of them other drums, believe me. And this gun I have here carries lot of bullets, you know. Just like in those cowboy movies on television, you know? Bullets? Bullets all day long, all night long. Never stop, never load. I’m telling you, that’s the truth, mon. My word!”

His large hand reached out, grabbing the young man by the back of the collar, jerking him, twisting cruelly, swinging him about, almost throwing him through the door into the small corridor, dragging him down it. There was the sharp sound of a door being closed, the click of a latch sliding in place. The remaining three members of the band kept up their rhythms, their quick hands drumming the wrapped batons automatically, going from one song to the next with no spoken communication, no hesitation to determine who took the melody and who the two levels of harmony. Nor did any face turn from its assigned duty of watching the stairway and passageways; each man kept his eyes where they belonged, their faces immobile, intent, graven, all the light laughter and the mincing clowning of the upper deck put aside as one would shed a garment inappropriate for the occasion, replacing it with the proper one.

To nervous men the wait might have seemed to consume hours; these men were not nervous. To these men it seemed exactly what it was — three minutes plus a few seconds — time for two songs, well rehearsed, and a portion of a third; the time calculated. There was the sound of the latch again, the sound of a door opening and closing, and their big leader was back. A glance about satisfied him that all was well; he picked up his drum, slung it about his neck, retrieved his mallets from the small of his back. He tapped the top of the drum experimentally a few seconds, locating the place in the song the others were playing, thrummed the proper sections of the drum-top quietly at first, and then joined in fully, turning toward the steps.

“Entertainment all finished, chaps,” he said soberly. “Let’s go.”

One of the others inadvertently glanced in the direction of the purser’s stateroom and office. No muscle moved in the big man’s face for a moment; his very solemnity seemed to express his reprimand for this rare breech in discipline. Then suddenly he grinned widely, as if the success of the venture allowed for a slight relaxation.

“No worry, chaps. We climb no scaffolds to hang for nobody. Do we? We don’t, my word! He’ll live to gamble again, no fear — stud poker, draw poker. Take a while is all, I’m afraid. Take a while for his friends to get used to his face, too. Pity. Good-looking chap. Or was...” His grin widened. “Good bone structure, but bad skin. Tore like my poor da’s pants...”

They formed up again, almost as if in drill, going up the carpeted steps to be joined by the one stationed there, moving no faster, no slower, smiles re-forming on their faces, stiff at first but slowly thawing to reality, eyes beginning to roll again, feet beginning to shuffle to this side and that as they moved from step to step, rhythm keeping time for them, with them, a part of them and the drums, the throbbing music echoing up and down the steep stairwell. The door to the promenade deck was swung open and held by the muscular buttocks of the leader, while the others stepped across the high sill, grinning foolishly, childishly. The music never broke beat for a second. The heavy door, released, swung shut behind them, sucked into place obediently by an air cylinder. The four did their shuffling dance to the ship’s ladder, mallets flashing. The young officer was still at his station, still accompanied by the Scottish engineer, whose teeth were still locked on the black cigar. The deck officer smiled at the four in his most friendly fashion and summoned his very best English.

“We heard of you all the way. You sounded most excellent, I do say. Did you have a good night? In tops, that is?”

“Tips,” said the Scottish engineer.

“Tips, then.” The deck officer shrugged off the unneeded correction.

“Not bad, mon. I mean, sir. Not bad at all, considering the few people aboard.” One black hand continued to beat out music, selecting the dented sections of the drum-top unerringly, while the other hand slapped against a pants pocket. There was the jingle of coins. “Could have been worse, mon. Sir. It usually is; then it’s disaster.”

“Yes.” The deck officer tried to look as if he understood.

“Want to thank you, sir.”

This was clear. The young officer smiled. “Don’t thank me. Your thank you should be owed to Scotty, here.”

“Then I thank him.”

The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun, although there hadn’t appeared to be a signal of any sort. The silence still seemed to carry the faint echo of the pulsing music on the night breeze. There was a hail; the men on the freighter across the roadstead were calling, but their words were lost in the distance and the wind, which was beginning to pick up. Their arms substituted, waving, indicating their desire for the band to visit them next.

“Business is good tonight, eh?” said the engineer.

“Never better, mon.”

A flash of white teeth from each and the four started down the shaky ladder, one hand of each sliding down the rope railing, the other hand pressed against the surface of the ship’s plates, damp with the mist beginning to rise from the warm water. Their drums hung limp, as if exhausted by the pounding they had taken. The first man down leaped into the boat, unslung his drum, and dragged at the rope, pulling the rowboat closer to the bobbing platform for his companions. One by one they stepped down, taking off their instruments, placing them carefully in the bottom of the boat. The second and third to enter sat down side by side at the oars and unshipped them, waiting. The large man who was their leader stepped in last, gave a reverse tug to the rope holding them to the stanchion and stood in the prow, balancing himself easily in the heaving boat as the knot ran free. A. wave of his large hand in the general direction of the upper deck of the Porto Allegre and, their small boat rising and falling on the choppy waves, the four had disappeared into the dark night.

“Well, you were right, my friend,” the deck officer conceded generously, reverting to Portuguese, partially because he was far more fluent in it, but also to a large extent because he didn’t want to concede too much to the Scottish engineer. Engineers were basically people who, if you gave them an inch, usually ended up wanting a yard. “No harm at all.” He frowned in recollection. “Odd, though, how only the large preto spoke. The others didn’t say a word.”

“Eh?” said the engineer.

The deck officer took pity on him and gave him of his fluent English.

“I said, all went good, don’t you know? But how strange that only the big one talked. What?”

“Maybe they’re mutes,” the engineer suggested dryly, and added, “the world would be a better bloody place if more people followed their example.”

“Yes,” said the deck officer, who hadn’t understood enough to comment more intelligently. He frowned and went back to Portuguese. “I wonder why we don’t have steel bands in Rio? They’d be great for a Carnival band.” He stared across the span of water separating them from the rusty freighter. “And there’s another funny thing. They’re not going over to that ship that was calling them. I thought they were.”

This was sufficiently understood.

“They’d be bloody fools if they did,” said the Scottish engineer philosophically, speaking around the stub of his black cigar. “They made a day’s pay on board — let them enjoy it. When they need more they can always play again.” He thought a moment. “It’s what everyone’d do if they only had the brains.”

He took the smoldering stub of cigar from his mouth, stared at it a moment without seeing it, and then brought his thoughts back to consider its length. Too small; he flung it into the water, watching it fall. After that he was silent. Without his cigar in his mouth he found it hard to converse; besides, at the moment he hadn’t anything to say.

2

Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between Interpol and the Brazilian police, smiled pleasantly at his usual waiter and carefully examined both the label and the cork of the bottle of cognac being held out for his inspection. In this naughty world, as he had had reason to learn in his long experience, labels can be duplicated and corks re-used, horrible though the thought of such malfeasance might be. Satisfied that he had taken as much reasonable precaution as any man could be expected to take, he submitted the offering to the ultimate test: taste. Satisfied, he relieved the waiter of the burden of the bottle, filling both his own glass and that of his companion, and then leaned back to enjoy it. The waiter, having completed his mission, disappeared to other tasks, aware that it would be at least half an hour before he would be required to bring menus to, the two men at the table.

Captain Da Silva — Zé to his friends, and unspeakable things to his enemies — was a tall, athletic-looking man in his late thirties, with a swarthy pockmarked face and a thick mustache that, combined with his curly black hair, gave him more the appearance of a brigand from the interior — or the appearance of one of his tougher customers — than that of a captain of police. His high cheekbones gave him an almost Indian appearance; his smile, when he was pleased about something, could take years from his age, a flash of white even teeth against his almost copper skin, a crinkling of humor lines at the corners of his large black eyes. On the other hand, an angry frown on that rugged pockmarked face was one that was known, respected, and feared not only by the Rio underworld, but also by any subordinate who did not perform to the high standards Captain Da Silva set both for himself and for those who worked for him. It was rare, however, that a person working for the captain did not perform to the standard. Under those circumstances he did not work for the captain very long.

Across the table his companion smiled at the examination of the cognac bottle, accepted his glass, and grinned over the rim as he sipped it and set it down.

“You’ve got a laboratory,” he said. “Why not run it through a complete analysis? Or I could probably get it done for you through the Embassy. One of these days the contrabandistas in Rio are going to come up with the taste of Reserva San Juan as well as the proper color. Then you’re going to be lost.”

“As long as they don’t fool around too much with the proof,” Da Silva said with a grin. “And, of course, the price.” He raised his glass in a gesture of a toast. “Here’s luck.”

“Luck.”

The man across from Da Silva was quite the opposite of the flamboyant captain. Wilson was a man of medium size, with light sandy hair and pale gray eyes, of indeterminate age, nondescript in the extreme. He was the type of person who could be — and usually was — passed daily upon the street and never remembered, a man whose very clothing seemed to be selected to compliment the picture of his subdued personality. Yet this standard uniformity was no accident. It had been carefully cultivated over the years, as Da Silva well knew, and it served Wilson excellently in his job. Ostensibly he held the position of Security Officer at the American Embassy in Rio de Janeiro, a job that not even the State Department could have properly defined, assuming they had ever wished to do so. On the surface he was the whipping boy for American tourists caught in their own thoughtlessness or folly, the locator of lost passports, and quite often the re-uniter of sailor and ship, wife and husband, suitcase and owner.

Wilson’s position at the American Embassy, however, was actually far more important. Like Da Silva, he was a member of Interpol, and also played a vital role in a number of his government’s activities which were less publicized but often more far-reaching. Among Embassy personnel only the Ambassador was fully aware of Wilson’s true responsibilities. Even the Political Officer — representing the CIA — did not know his colleague’s true status — which was precisely how the State Department had conceived and promulgated the job. Among the very few people aware of Wilson’s true position was Captain Da Silva; as a result the two had had more than their share of adventures together, and the swarthy Brazilian would rather have had the colorless, nondescript Wilson at his side in times of trouble than any other man he knew.

As they did quite often when both of them found themselves in Rio and free at the same time, they were having lunch at the upper-level restaurant at the Santos Dumont Airport on the edge of Guanabara Bay, the airport for national traffic, a neat block of land jutting out, manmade, in the shadow of Sugar Loaf, just a short walk from downtown Rio and the American Embassy on the Avenida Presidente Wilson, and even closer to Da Silva’s office just a few blocks away in the Rua Dom Manuel. Still, even walking a few blocks was not Captain Da Silva’s idea of proper locomotion, because otherwise why had pioneer inventors such as Duryea and Ford — or De Soto or La Salle for that matter — been born? His red Jaguar had brought him to the airport terminal and even now was parked illegally before the main entrance, well guarded by a patrolman, not so much to prevent some newly recruited traffic officer from ticketing it or having it towed away, as to prevent the removal of a carburetor, if not the car itself, by someone less official. Daylight has never served as too great a deterrent to knavery in that most beautiful of all cities.

Wilson drank, refilled his glass, and returned his friend’s hospitality by lighting a cigarette and shoving the pack across the table. They were American cigarettes, as they would be.

“The advantages of PX privileges,” he said lightly, “although I get the feeling sometimes that some of our more famous brand names are being rolled by hand somewhere up in São Paulo. On a farm.”

He smiled and leaned back comfortably. Da Silva was in his shirtsleeves as was his custom, his jacket hanging on his chair behind him; Wilson, more the conformist, retained both jacket and tie. The two relaxed, listening to the muffled sounds from the ground floor beneath the open balcony of the restaurant, from the impatient lines before the ticket windows, hearing the clatter of dishes and the chatter of animated conversation from all sides, and also the occasional deafening roar of an airplane engine warming up for takeoff just beyond the wide windows open for the breeze from the bay.

Da Silva winced unconsciously at the sound of the airplanes; Wilson drew on his cigarette and frowned, studying his friend’s face with curiosity.

“Was that a cringe I saw? From you? I thought your main argument for eating here every day was that nothing pleased you as much as seeing planes taking off every two minutes without your being aboard. Have you changed?”

Da Silva took a sip of the Reserva San Juan, so rarely available in Rio, rolled it around in his mouth a moment to savor the full bouquet, swallowed with appreciation, and looked up.

“Unfortunately, no,” he said with a faintly rueful smile. “If you were half the detective you’re supposed to be, you would have analyzed the situation instantly. Quite obviously the cringe was because very soon I shall be watching a plane take off, and — poor me — I’ll be watching it from the inside.”

Wilson’s curiosity deepened.

“Where are you off to? And when? And why?”

“Barbados. It’s an island in the Caribbean.”

“And has been for a long time,” Wilson agreed. “Now for question number two: when?”

Da Silva puffed on his cigarette and then crushed it out in the ashtray. His gesture was somewhat like that of a man who has just refused a bandage for his eyes, preferring to face the firing squad fearlessly. He shrugged.

“When? Too soon. Tonight, to be exact.”

“And the big one: why? Vacation?”

“You know better than that,” Da Silva said with pretended sternness. “Did you ever see a bright, healthy man like me take an airplane to go anywhere for pleasure?” He shook his head suspiciously. “You’re merely trying to worm information out of a police officer in the pursuit of his duty.”

“Now you’re getting the idea,” Wilson said approvingly. “And having an awful time doing it, too.”

“I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“I don’t bore easily. Anyway, I never knew that to stop you in the past,” Wilson said, and grinned. His grin faded. “Unless, of course, the matter is classified.”

“It isn’t classified.”

Da Silva paused, suddenly serious. He stared across the runways to the dark waters of the bay, with the tiny white blocks of apartments in Niterói on the far side standing out starkly against the mountains topped by threatening black storm clouds. Always when I have to fly! he thought morosely and sighed, bringing his attention back to the restaurant and his companion.

“Well,” he said slowly, “it all started a long time ago — fifteen years ago, to be exact. I was all of twenty-four years old, two years out of the University with a degree in criminology — whatever that was worth — a shock to my family, I might mention. The rest of the clan always went in for either law or medicine, the lawyers in order to enter politics, and the doctors in order to raise cattle or grow coffee. Don’t ask me the connection — I’ve never known it. Maybe to sit up with a sick calf...”

He lit another cigarette from Wilson’s pack and tossed the match aside.

“At any rate,” he went on, “there I was, as proud as a grandee to be a great big real live first-grade detective, collaring kids for stealing hubcaps, and occasionally making a big splash by dragging in some character, who — by fabulous deduction — we calculated to be a brute because we caught him beating up his girlfriend—”

Wilson nodded sagely. “I know what you mean.”

“Good. Anyway this case came along and they instantly chose me for the assignment because I was bright, intelligent, hard-working, handsome, clever, analytical, logical, and — did I forget anything? Oh, yes, of course: modest.” He stared calmly across the table, challenging Wilson to find fault with any of his qualifications.

“And you were also the only one in the entire detective bureau at the time with a complete command of the English language,” Wilson suggested shrewdly.

“Well, yes — there was that minor factor,” Da Silva admitted, “but let’s not dwell on unimportant matters. The salient point is that they wisely picked me out and sent me on my way. I might mention that in those days the biggest plane they had flying was a DC-6, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. And that only got you as far as Port-of-Spain in Trinidad, by way of every potholed, bumpy runway between here and there. Something like six or seven stops, as I recall, but it could have been sixteen or seventeen just as well. And then from Port-of-Spain you made it to Bridgetown in Barbados in a tico-tico — a single-engine affair with floats, that came down for gas roughly every five minutes. I’m convinced it was that trip that put me off flying and airplanes for life. I personally can’t even see what birds see in it. If I was a bird, I’d walk. Or crawl. It seems a shame the Wright brothers couldn’t have stuck with bicycles—”

“I hate to interrupt, but you were saying?”

“I was saying that when I finally got to Bridgetown, I climbed down from that monster, stinking of castor oil — which doesn’t help the appetite — and I kissed the very ground—”

“You climbed down from a seaplane and kissed the ground?” Wilson stared at him. “How far down did you have to swim to do it?”

“You know what I mean.” Da Silva pointed to the bottle. “Have a drink. Apparently it’s the only way to occupy your mouth other than talking. And then push it over.”

“Sorry.”

“Apologies, apologies! Where was I? Yes — Bridgetown, Barbados. Well, it seems that a ship — a Brazilian cruise ship named the SS Porto Alegre — was in Bridgetown at the time of Carnival, anchored out in the roadstead. In those days they hadn’t built the deepwater harbor they have there now, nor the docks that run into shore; ships had to anchor out, and lighters ferried passengers and even cargo back and forth. At any rate, this particular night nearly all the passengers and crew were ashore raising general hell, and along came a rowboat with four men in it, and held up the ship.”

Wilson stared at him, his amazement this time genuine. “Held up a ship? A big oceanliner? Four men?”

“You’ve been paying attention,” Da Silva said approvingly, and put out his cigarette, immediately reaching over to borrow another.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. Boy Scout honor. Four men in a rowboat held up the ship and took roughly half a million dollars in gems in the haul. It’s the truth. Most of the passengers hadn’t wanted to wear their jewels ashore, and they didn’t want to leave them lying around their cabins — for which I certainly don’t blame them — so they left them in the ship’s safe. A logical move, on the surface, but in this particular case a rather bad mistake as it turned out.”

“But, how—”

“You will keep interrupting, won’t you? As I said, it was Carnival, and everybody and his grandmother — possibly that’s the wrong word, say companion, instead — was ashore. And these four came up in a rowboat with steel drums and managed to talk the deck officer into letting them come aboard to entertain the few people who were still on the ship. To pick up some loose change in tips, he thought; at the inquiry he was a bit vague about how they managed to convince him, because it was a breach of the rules, of course. But they did and he let them come aboard, and they played their way all over the place — playing very well, everyone said — but they ended up in the purser’s square. Three of them kept up the music, but the fourth — who was the boss, it seems — put a gun on the assistant purser who was on duty. The purser was a youngster, and he tried to tell this fellow the safe was in the captain’s quarters, but he didn’t get very far with that bit of nonsense. The boss man worked him over with a rough gunsight until he opened the safe. The boss man then cleaned out the safe, knocked our boy out, but only after he’s worked him over a bit more — maybe for luck—”

“A nice lad.”

“One of nature’s finest. Anyway, the four of them played their drums back to the promenade deck, said good night to the deck officer and an engineer who was there with him, all as polite as you could wish, climbed into their chariot — pardon me, rowboat — and” — he made a horizontal cutting motion with one hand — “zoop! Off into the wild blue yonder.”

“Any description?”

“None.”

“You mean nobody could give a decent description? It doesn’t make sense.” Wilson frowned and then nodded as one possible solution came to him. “You said it was Carnival. Were they wearing masks?”

“They were indeed. I hate to say this,” Da Silva said slowly, seriously, “especially about Brazilians — because both the deck officer and the youngster from the purser’s staff who got worked over were Brazilians — but according to the testimony we got at the inquiry from those two, not to mention at least twelve passengers, six Americans, three Brazilians, and an assorted bag for the other three, plus this engineer who was with the deck officer, those four were wearing the most impenetrable masks in the world. Impossible for a blind man to see through. They were wearing their own faces.” He raised a hand almost wearily, as if to ward off words. “Oh, everyone put it in different language at the inquiry, but what it amounted to when you sorted it out was that all ‘natives’ look alike, whatever they meant by ‘native.’”

He shrugged, poured himself another drink, but didn’t drink it at once. His eyes stared out of the window at the deepening blackness building up over the mountains to the east while his fingers unconsciously moved the glass in little circles on the white tablecloth. A sudden puff of wind brought a light sprinkle of rain through the open windows; waiters hurried to close them, muffling the sound of the aircraft on the runways. Da Silva suddenly upended his glass, crushed out his cigarette, and put out his hand.

“Let me have another.”

Wilson dutifully pushed the package across the table, waiting silently for Da Silva’s mood to pass. The swarthy man lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and tossed the spent match toward the ashtray.

“Well,” he said in reminiscence, “it was quite an inquiry. I was in charge. It took some of the passengers and even a few of the crew a while to realize that a Brazilian ship is Brazilian national territory wherever it is — I’m speaking of the non-Brazilians, of course — but eventually we got that cleared away and got down to business. I learned a lot of useless things; at the time I thought it was unusual in an investigation, but I’ve learned better since. We learned, for example, that the ages of those four drum players was somewhere between twenty and fifty — depending to a large extent on the age of the person being interviewed. We also learned that they could play their instruments with remarkable skill, which, in the islands, I was informed, is like describing someone in Brazil as playing good football—”

“Soccer,” Wilson interrupted.

“Soccer in your country. Football in every civilized nation on earth. However, I’m not in the mood to argue. Let’s say it’s like looking for a teen-ager in the States who plays guitar. Satisfied? All right. Oh, yes — there was one other bit of evidence of major importance that came to light at the inquiry. The deck officer was enough of a seaman to notice that when they tied their rowboat to the gangplank, they used a running hitch of some sort, because when the big man who ran the gang gave it a tug in the opposite direction, the knot ran free. Apparently, according to Webster, that’s the definition of a hitch. I didn’t know it before, and even after all these years I’m still not sure I believe it now.” He sighed heavily. “Anyway, that apparently made them sailors, since who but a sailor would know anything about hitches? Except, possibly, Boy Scouts, and I sincerely doubted we were dealing with Boy Scouts.”

“A reasonable conclusion.”

“Thank you.”

“However — you were about to say — good sailors in the islands being about as rare as chess players in Russia, that information also proved to be of momentous help to you.”

“Correct.” Da Silva nodded. “So there we were. We took down over a hundred thousand words in shorthand at the inquiry — more than enough for a bad novel — every word anyone remembered anyone else saying, including themselves. Quite a performance...”

“No fingerprints on or about the safe?”

“All neatly wiped off. As a matter of fact, the youngster watched him do it. The advantages, you see, of our improved means of communication; anyone with a TV set or the price of a movie now automatically wipes all knobs after using.”

Wilson stared at him and then shook his head almost in admiration.

“Not a bad evening’s work. Half a million dollars...”

Da Silva smiled at him sardonically. He crushed out his cigarette and reached for the brandy, filling his glass. He raised it, looking at Wilson over the rim.

“Really not all that much when you think about it in this day and age,” he said. “Just about enough to keep your Department of Defense going for — what? Thirty seconds? A minute?”

“About a minute and a half, if you want to be accurate,” Wilson said, and smiled. “Of course that’s on the basis of an eight-hour day, which few in Defense work — except, of course, the soldiers in the field. But in getting other people’s money, the Pentagon, you want to remember, are professionals. This half a million isn’t a bad amount for a few rank amateurs to put into their pockets and get clean away.”

Da Silva paused in his act of drinking and then finished his glass. He set his glass down and stared at his friend in surprise.

“Get away? Who said they got away?” He shook his head in amazement at Wilson’s lack of faith. “What a thought! I told you I was in charge of the case, didn’t I?”

“What did they do? Talk in their sleep? Walk into a police station and confess?”

“They did neither. They disappeared after leaving a bad taste in the mouth of the deck officer and a chopped-up face and a sore skull — plus a certain loss of faith in the kindness of his fellow humans — for the purser. The Scottish engineer was more philosophical, at least. To him the loss was only money — and not his, at that.”

“Then, how—”

“What they did leave,” Da Silva said, his tone conversational, “was a lesson to all people who talk too much. You might try to learn from them. The big boss man not only knew where the safe was, he even knew where the toilet was, and the purser’s cabin and his office and everything. That’s quite a bit of knowledge regarding a ship that hadn’t even been in Bridgetown before. That was his big mistake. With that gun and that edged front sight he could have gotten the boy to admit that the safe was in the purser’s office, and gotten him to open it, too. But he had to prove he already had the information.” Da Silva shook his head. “He talked too much, and he said things you just don’t pick up in idle conversation in a waterfront bar, certainly not within twenty-four hours of a ship’s arrival in port.”

Wilson nodded agreement.

“So you figured he hadn’t gotten it from a Ouija board, but that someone in the classroom had been helping him with his homework, and that was cheating. Which you frown on.”

“With reason,” Da Silva said virtuously. “Cheaters never prosper.”

“A Barbadian in the crew.”

“I think I’ll recommend to your Ambassador a well-deserved pay-raise for you,” Da Silva said, and nodded his head. “A rare occasion, but you are right. Except, of course, that the people there prefer to be called Bajans instead of Barbadians.”

“A steward.”

Da Silva frowned at the tablecloth and then looked up.

“I don’t know if that would qualify as a correct answer or not. He was the ship’s librarian, a clever lad, but he doubled as a bar steward every now and then, so I’ll let it go. There were three Bajans in the crew: one in the kitchen, one in the deck crew, and this ship’s librarian. There was — and still is, as a matter of fact — a sergeant of police in Bridgetown named Storrs, except he’s the Chief Inspector there now; he handled the questioning of these people, and he did a beautiful job.”

“A confession?”

“No, the man never confessed, but he was one of the two who had been ashore the previous night when the ship came in. He also came from a small town in St. Joseph parish called Brighton, near Bathsheba. The other one who had been ashore came from Holetown. Storrs did a check of the two towns and found that in Brighton our four pals were not only well known for their steel-drum playing, but also for a few of their nastier habits. They were picked up with no great effort, and a week later they were extradited to Brazil.”

“Just the four? What happened to the librarian?”

Da Silva sighed. “God knows. He managed to get out of the local jail in Bridgetown where he was being held; Storrs took better precautions with the others.”

“And they ended up where?”

“Recife. It was the port of call of the ship they were returned in — they deserved being flown back, but it wasn’t so common in those days,” he added almost sadly.

“And you mention this matter today because it is exactly fifteen years since it happened, so this judge gave them fifteen years in the penetentiary.”

“You are so right.” Da Silva smiled at him. “And that, my friend — in case you ever decide to put aside your meager efforts at detection and turn to writing my biography — was the beginning of my meteoric rise to fame and fortune.”

Wilson nodded, his mind on his own thoughts rather than on his friend’s banter. He looked up.

“And — since parole from a Brazilian penetentiary is an almost unknown thing for real bad boys — real bad boys that do not come from well-known families — they served every day of the sentence.”

“Not quite.” Da Silva’s light tone disappeared. He shook his head slowly. “Only one of them is going to be released. The big man; the boss of the gang. His name is William Trelawney McNeil, a common enough name in Barbados. Or Trinidad, or Montsarrat, or the other formerly British islands. Most of the names there are either English or Scottish. Taken from the slave owner originally, of course.”

“And the other three?”

Da Silva turned his head, staring once again at the black clouds sweeping in from the east to cover the bay. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, touched in a way with sadness, as if he were relating a personal failure of some kind.

“They didn’t make it.” He sighed. “Prison reform is something that Brazil isn’t alone in needing, but I must admit this isn’t the best place to be jailed. Actually, I suppose McNeil deserves an award of some sort; fifteen years in one of our penetentiaries must be damned near the record. The first of the others to go died of dysentery about ten years ago. Then another one talked back to a guard. The guard claimed he had a homemade knife. Maybe he did. Anyway, it never was found. Well, he left the prison hospital with a sheet over his face. That was eight years ago. The third one went to solitary confinement — four, five years ago. He was lucky enough to be able to pry a leg loose from his cot.” His eyes came back to Wilson’s face, unemotional now, almost Indian in their stoism. “He used it to stab himself to death. No easy task, I might mention.”

“But McNeil, apparently, kept his nose clean.”

“As a whistle. Seldom an argument with anyone, guard or prisoner. No trouble at all, except once when he slugged a prison doctor and wound up in solitary for a few weeks. But that was his only infraction, which is something in fifteen years. He kept pretty much to himself, even after he picked up Portuguese, which was fairly soon, since of course it was the only language spoken. He didn’t even pay too much attention to his old gang. No special friends; in fact, no friends at all. Spoke when spoken to, and politely, too. Did his work, ate his slop, and never squawked about it. No cup-rattling on the bars such as American movies love to depict. A model prisoner.” He sighed. “I guess he wanted to live and he did. And in two weeks he walks out of the pen at Bordeirinho. It’s about ten miles or so out of Recife on the road to Jabatão.”

Wilson studied the face of his friend a moment with curiosity.

“And you’re going to Barbados to be on hand to meet him when he gets there, because you can’t wait for your next airplane ride.”

“If you’re guessing,” Da Silva said disdainfully, “you’re cold.”

“Then you’re going there to meet him just to buy him a drink for old time’s sake.”

“If anything, you’re getting colder.” Da Silva shook his head. “He doesn’t know me. I never saw the man in person in my life. I turned over all the evidence I had, together with the confessions Storrs finally got from the four of them, to the Public Prosecutor at Recife. I wasn’t even at the trial; something else more important was on the fire at the time. However, the purser’s assistant and the deck officer were there, and they recognized them in the line-up at the Recife police headquarters, native or no native.”

He raised his hand to attract the attention of their waiter.

“We’d better have lunch. I hate to break the Brazilian tradition of taking three hours for a meal — not to mention the American Embassy custom — but I’ve got a deskful of work to clear up before tonight, and I want to be sure to leave myself ample time to get properly stoned before I get aboard the plane. Otherwise they’ll have to drag me on, fighting and screaming, and that’s bad for the public image of a brave, fearless police officer.”

Their waiter appeared almost instantly. Despite his other clients he had been keeping an eye on their table at all times, for Captain Da Silva and his American friend were two of his favorite customers. They drank the best cognac — when available — and tipped well. He placed a menu before each man and immediately stepped back out of earshot. He had no intention of even looking as if he might be eavesdropping on a captain of police.

“Then you’re going to Barbados to make sure McNeil really gets off the plane and doesn’t stay on it and return to Brazil where he might end up in Rio de Janeiro and add to the steel-drum population here. Which, while not extensive, is large enough; especially those who go around holding up cruise ships.”

Da Silva grinned. “You’ll never qualify for that raise that way.”

Wilson stared at him. “Now, don’t tell me you’re going there in hopes of McNeil managing to contact that librarian who escaped? So you can finally bring an oldtime fugitive to justice?”

“I’m afraid the chances are that that old-time fugitive ended up with his throat cut a long time ago,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “It’s a guess, but I have a feeling he didn’t last too long after he broke out. He didn’t confess, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean those four who got sent up ever believed that.”

“And how did they get their hands on him when they were behind bars?” Wilson asked sarcastically. “Voodoo?”

“Relatives, I imagine. Much more effective.”

Wilson relapsed into silence. Da Silva’s black eyes began to twinkle as he watched Wilson tackle the problem seriously. He could picture the wheels turning in the other’s very adequate brain; he was well aware of the American’s ability. Then the nondescript man suddenly sat erect, his eyes widening as the gears finally meshed. He opened his mouth in surprise, held it open a moment in silent wonder, and then burst into loud laughter. There was a momentary break in the clatter about them as people stared; he dropped his laugh to a chuckle but failed to subdue it completely.

“There’s only one other reason for your going to Barbados, then,” he said, “only one possible reason, and as an old friend I hate to mention it—”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You’re not going there to meet him at all. On the contrary — since he doesn’t know you. You’re going there to follow him.” His eyes crinkled; the chuckle returned. “Through your brilliance — or your luck plus the brilliance of this Inspector Storrs — you managed to round up your four crooks. But you never did find the jewels!”

“Amazing,” Da Silva murmured, as if honestly surprised at this remarkable coincidence. “Those were almost exactly the words my superior officer used when I got back from my tour de force. As a matter of fact, he used it as a shabby excuse not to immediately promote me to head up the department, too.”

“You never found the jewels!”

Da Silva looked across the table with feigned hurt.

“I don’t think it’s very polite to rub it in,” he said stiffly, and hid his smile by turning to wave the waiter to their table...

3

The warden’s office at the Penitenciário de Bordeirinho was no better furnished than was necessary for the fulfillment of its principal function — which was to accept the delivery of prisoners from the Sheriff of Recife (giving, of course, the proper number of receipts), maintain them through that portion of their sentences which they managed to survive, and then to arrange as expeditious a burial for them as possible (sending, of course, all records back to Recife to be stored in the archives). The burial, however, was no worse than most nonprisoners in that area of Brazil received, which was — at best — a cheap unpainted casket and the minimum of earth in breadth, depth, and width.

It was not that the penitentiary at Bordeirinho was any worse than the one at São José dos Campos, for example; or even any worse than some of its counterparts in places like Arkansas, or Florida, or Berlin, or Prague — it was simply that it was no better. Funds for the free were scarce enough in northeast Brazil; funds for the incarcerated were often considered an unwarranted waste. And funds for the dead, of course, were funds taken from the living — the living quite often being prison officials.

Nor did the furnishings of the dingy warden’s office consist of more than the bare necessities: two scratched and listing file cabinets, a cupboard unopened in years, a battered desk with the minimum of paper on it to mar the uniformity of its layer of dust, three chairs — one solid and upholstered for the warden, the other two hard and unstable for visitors — a clock on the wall with filigreed hands and chipped Roman numerals that expressed its age, a filthy sink in one corner with a streaked mirror above it, and in another corner a small table covered with a cracked patterned plastic cloth and holding the implements for the making of coffee, a vital adjunct to even the most unkempt office in Brazil. From the open barred windows the wide stone-paved yard could be inspected, with the three two-story concrete cellblocks completing the quadrangle. Tiny windows peeked down at the inhospitable pavement beneath turreted machine-gun towers set above the cellblock corners and connected with barbed wire.

The prisoner being ushered into the office had a faint smile of amusement on his heavy, black features. Age had taken little toll of William Trelawney McNeil; true, the lines in his face were a bit deeper, and there was the faintest touch of gray at the temples of his kinky hair, but his years in prison had taken nothing from the broadness of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, or the muscles that still bulged under the thin prison uniform. Work on a rock pile has that advantage, at least; it builds muscle tone.

He took the accustomed stance of a prisoner before the warden, his manacled hands clasped before him, his wide shoulders thrown back, his yellowish eyes staring straight ahead, looking over the warden’s head at a calendar that continued to show a month long since past. Still, in prison it really didn’t matter. The guard who had accompanied the prisoner stood back against the wall, hitching his side-gun to a more comfortable position, watching the proceedings with bored eyes. The warden, a string-bean of a man with a hard face and a straggling yellowish mustache, dressed in cotton drill with an open-throated shirt, looked up.

“McNeil.”

“Yes, sir.”

The warden picked up a pencil and drummed it. He glanced over his shoulder a moment and instantly looked back at his desk. He seemed a trifle uncomfortable, a bit irritated, an unusual feeling for him and one he obviously disliked. It was apparent that his actions at the moment had been dictated by superiors, that whatever he was about to say he had been told to say. The prisoner kept a frozen countenance, staring somberly at the calendar, but within he was grinning. The warden came back to his task.

“McNeil. You get out of here in two weeks. You’ve done your fifteen years—”

He paused. It suddenly occurred to the warden that he and McNeil had both been prisoners: He had come to the penitentiary just about that time. For some reason the thought angered him, as if it were somehow at least partially McNeil’s fault. The prisoner remained quiet, respectful on the surface, the smile of contempt held back, as if he could read the other’s mind. The warden tossed the pencil aside and began his speech again.

“McNeil. You’ve been a good prisoner, considering all things. One session in solitary for hitting that doctor, and I still don’t know why—” He paused as if awaiting an answer. McNeil remained silent, rigidly at attention. The warden shrugged. “At any rate, you’re still guilty as hell of the crime you are convinced of. I’ve been instructed to advise you not to get any idea that your fifteen years in prison have paid in any way for the stuff you stole. They still aren’t yours. Do you understand that?”

“I understand what you’re saying, sir.”

The foreign language, learned well over the years, still had not removed the deep softness from the big man’s voice; he sounded as if he were speaking in his native island tongue, merely translated to Portuguese.

“Well, just don’t forget it,” the warden said flatly. “I just want to tell you the stones aren’t yours. I was also told to tell you that wherever you go from the time you leave here, you’re going to be followed and watched. Constantly. You’ll never set hands on those stones.”

The big man never shifted his glance from the calendar on the wall. “Yes, sir.”

“And this is for myself,” the warden added. “If you get picked up anymore, you’ll spend time in somebody else’s jail, not mine. And just be happy about it, McNeil. Because if they left it up to me, you’d tell where those stones are, and you’d tell in a hurry.” He waited for an answer, received none, and glanced over his shoulder again. “That’s all, McNeil. You can go.”

The armed guard pushed himself erect and walked forward, placing a hand on the big man’s arm, but McNeil shrugged it off, postponing his leave-taking for a moment. The guard hesitated and then waited, his hand dropping to the butt of his revolver, looking at the warden for instructions. For the first time the prisoner showed expression: He grinned broadly.

“Before I leave, warden, what do you want me to do?”

“What?”

“I asked, what do you want me to do? Sing? Dance? Tell funny stories?”

The tiny eyes across from him narrowed dangerously.

“What are you talking about?”

The big man’s eyes dropped from their inspection of the calendar, twinkling down at the warden. He spread his feet a bit taking an at-ease stance.

“Ain’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re on camera, warden? Sing? Dance? Tell funny stories?” He gestured with his head in the direction of the sink. “Who’s back of the mirror today, warden?”

“There’s nothing back of that mirror except plaster wall.” The warden reddened; then his mouth turned down, a sign of his anger. “And I told you before. You can go.”

“Yes, sir.” McNeil brought himself back to attention and turned, moving ahead of the guard to the door. He paused as the guard reached around him to open it, then spoke over his shoulder. His tone was friendly. “But I’d get a new two-way mirror, warden. That one’s beginning to wear, sir. Especially a man lights a cigarette back of it. And especially you keep looking over your shoulder at it every five minutes, sir.”

He brought his face back to a non-committal expression and walked through the door. The guard swung it closed. The warden came to his feet and marched to the mirror, glowering into it.

“Fool!” he said in disgust and anger. “Idiot! Lighting a cigarette!”

He refused to consider any possible blame of his own because of his inadvertent study of the corner sink. He had never been in favor of the mirror in the first place; when both he and it had been new at Bordeirinho, he never knew but what somebody might not be studying him. And anyway, long before two-way mirrors had been invented he had gotten what information he had required from prisoners and saw no reason why the old ways were still not the best ways. He shook his head again and returned to his desk, slumping into his chair, wiping sweat from his forehead, waiting for the stupid idiot behind the mirror to come into his office with his film and tape. And, of course, his damned cigarettes...

Rather than abate, the storm in Rio de Janeiro had intensified with the day, and now, at eleven o’clock at night, it struck at the city with renewed force. Da Silva, quite naturally, had checked the airport, convinced that certainly all planes would be grounded; instead the voice that answered subtly suggested, without using the words, that only a cretin thought a bit of rain kept airlines from flying.

It might not keep airplanes from flying, he thought sourly as he bumped through the night in his cab, but it certainly played hell with driving. Rain drummed on the cab roof with machine-gun violence, as if the drops drilling down from the black sky actually entertained hopes of getting through the rusting steel and attacking the driver and his passenger. The sound within the cab was deafening; the rain, sweeping in sheets, occasionally veered to beat wildly against the streaming windows. The windshield wipers flashed madly left and right in a vain attempt to maintain some small degree of clarity; the taxi driver hunched forward, squinting fiercely, driving more by instinct than by vision, his foot held tautly, ready in an instant to move from accelerator to brake, his brain wisely refusing to picture the result if he ever had to do so.

It was sticky hot in the humid enclosed space. Da Silva leaned back against the worn upholstery of the rear seat glumly, his attaché case on his lap, his suitcase rigidly held on the seat beside him, more for his own stability in the swaying car than for the protection of his luggage. Through the blurred windows recognition of the area through which they were passing was difficult, but he estimated from the roughness of the road that they had to be somewhere in the vicinity of the warehouses along the docks. Substantiation came as they bumped over the crossing at the Ponte dos Marinheiros with the bright lights of the bus depot a white blotch in the rain that disappeared behind them as quickly as it had appeared, leaving them once again at the mercy of the frail headlights.

The Avenida Brasil was deserted, a rarity at any time, storms included; the cab-driver, no fool, did not allow this unusual situation to reduce his concentration in the least, nor did he permit it to induce him to increase his speed on the rain-drenched highway. He patiently crept along, past the cemetery, past the black factory fronts, the occasional dimly lit botequims, with a hunched figure now and then peering from beneath the waterfall of an awning, awaiting a chance to make a mad dash for home. A traffic light, barely seen, a sharp curve, and he welcomed at long last the lights glowing faintly on the bridge to the Ilha do Governador, and then the even greater cluster of lights at Galeão International Airport.

The driver pulled to the curb, nerves slowly unwinding, relieved and slightly amazed to have made the perilous trip without accident, flat tire, or failing engine. Even the windshield wipers had cooperated. He accepted his fare with a calm bob of his head, took the generous tip equally calmly, well aware that he had earned every cruizeiro, and equally aware that he intended to wait out the torrential rain in the nearest bar before attempting to return to the city, with or without a fare. In his considered opinion anyone who drove on a night like this had to be as crazy as anyone who flew.

His passenger would have been the last to disagree with him. The large mustached detective watched a skycap approach holding a huge umbrella over the cab door — a rather useless gesture against the wind and the slanting sheets of rain. Still, it was the thought that counted, Da Silva had to admit with an inner smile, and felt better for it. He made the series of leaps necessary to reach the protection of the terminal lobby with his attaché casé firmly in hand, followed by a skycap who had long since given up all thoughts of dryness and who now squished hopelessly after him carrying his bag. The captain paused to fold the useless umbrella and set it aside, and made his way to the Varig counter, glancing about the lobby as he did so, as if seeking someone.

Flight 916 from Buenos Aires to Miami by way of Rio, Recife, Belem, and Port-of-Spain, was not only flying despite the storm, but was scheduled to arrive and depart on time. A regrettable situation, the captain thought, leaving very little time for necessary personal fueling for the flight. He was quite confident that had the night been clear and the winds calm, the plane would have been mysteriously delayed several hours somewhere back along the line. It seemed to be the way planes were where he was concerned.

He took the receipt for his bag, his seat check, and walked to the front of the terminal once again, staring toward the bridge leading to the city. No cab appeared to be approaching. With a sigh he glanced at his watch again, shook his head disconsolately, and mounted the broad steps to the second floor bar-restaurante, pushing through the swinging glass doors to face an empty room, the expanse of white tablecloths making the barren room appear quite antiseptic. One expected doctors, but only a waiter was present, leaning indolently against the cash register behind the bar reading the Jornal de Esportes. The large mustached man seated himself, his attaché case held on his lap, and ordered the best brandy in the house, well aware that the best in this particular restaurant was far from the best. Still, it was obviously better than facing the takeoff on an empty stomach, something all experienced travelers had assured him was inviting disaster. He swallowed the drink quickly, shuddering at its pungency, and ordered another, staring at the doorway as he did so as if willing someone to appear there.

A sudden raucous screech from the wallspeaker almost caused him to spill his drink, although the waiter engrossed in the newspaper across from him didn’t move a muscle. Either deaf or plucky, Da Silva decided. The volume on the loudspeaker was adjusted and the announcement repeated more intelligibly. Flight 916 was coming in to land, and would passengers be so kind as to present themselves for embarkation. Da Silva upended his glass and tossed money on the counter. He studied his watch for the fourth time and glowered at the message it gave him. Apparently the storm had prevented his expected companion from joining him. He only hoped they could meet in Port-of-Spain; possibly he could arrange a cable from the plane. With a shrug at a fate seemingly determined to thwart him at every turn, he descended the staircase and made his way to the loading area at the rear of the terminal.

On the edge of the tarmac, skycaps stood with umbrellas, awaiting the few passengers who were boarding; two officers and two stewardesses also stood and waited, staring equably out at the torrents of rain washing down. Apparently the crew changed in Rio, Da Silva thought, and envied those who were disembarking here. There was a sudden flash in the sky as the incoming plane turned on its landing lights; twin beacons cut through the pelting rain, outlining the glistening needles, misting the black field with blotches of light. A Caravelle lowered itself gracefully toward the field, its turbines suddenly audible over the beat of the storm as it swept past the terminal, touching down in a sheet of spray.

Da Silva glanced at his watch for the last time and shrugged. There seemed no doubt but that he was going to make the trip alone. He stared back at the empty lobby; shutters were being raised over the Varig counter, the only one displaying any activity at all. There was no evidence of anyone hurrying to join the flight at the last moment. Damn! he thought, and turned his attention back to the Caravelle. The tail doorway had been lowered; a moment later several officers and stewardesses appeared in the square of light, hesitated a moment, and then hurried across the field from the plane under the protection of umbrellas. They waved briefly at the new crew and disappeared inside the building. No passengers descended. There was a momentary pause; then the new crew dashed for the plane. A moment later he felt an umbrella being thrust into his hand and he was also hurrying across the slippery concrete. One of the new stewardesses relieved him of the umbrella, and he climbed the steep steps under the protection of the high tail to find a warm, dry, congenial atmosphere with soft music playing a popular samba. Much better, he thought approvingly, and made his way forward toward his seat. Now, if the plane just stayed on the ground and didn’t attempt to take off, everything would be fine.

He waited until a second stewardess had seated him, then fastened his seatbelt and tried to peer through the small window to see if the person he was expecting had made it to the airport in time, but the rain beating against the double glass made sight impossible. There was finally the slam of a door behind him and the whine of a reactor starting up, followed in seconds by the other reactor. He clenched his attaché case tightly, awaiting the first motion of the dreaded trip, and then felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned with a slightly curious smile; the smile held for a moment and then faded, replaced by a frown.

“Well, well!” he said expressionlessly. “One more good reason not to patronize the airlines. The things you run into! What in the devil are you doing here?”

“Come, come!” Wilson said chidingly, wiping the rain from his face. “What kind of hospitality is this? I change all my plans this afternoon, dash home madly to pack, make it to the airport with about one second to spare, almost break my neck to get here all because you so evidently wanted me to join you on this case — and this is the thanks I get?” He dropped into the seat next to Da Silva and fastened his seatbelt.

“Because I wanted you to join me on the case?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Wilson said. “Don’t pretend you weren’t expecting me. That long story at lunch today was merely for the purpose of tantalizing me, of whetting my appetite. Which,” he added, wishing to be honest, “it did.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I trotted right back to the office and checked up on that little matter of the good ship Porto Alegre — which I’m sure you knew I’d do — and what do you think?”

“I think you have a great imagination.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said, and smiled. “But I wasn’t fishing for compliments. What I meant was that I discovered certain facts which you failed to give me at lunch.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact that the majority of the jewelry stolen that fateful evening belonged to American nationals.”

“Of course it did,” Da Silva said dryly. “I didn’t even think it needed mentioning. Brazilian women buy jewels to wear, not to keep in ship’s safes.”

“If you say so,” Wilson said equably. “Anyway, I also learned that the loss was covered, almost in its entirety, by American insurance companies. Naturally, when I pointed these facts out to the Ambassador, he agreed instantly that the matter was of grave interest to the American government.” He spread his hands. “Hence my presence. Q.E.D.”

“Quixotic, Erroneous, and — probably — Drunk.”

“I’d be more apt to call it Quite Excellent Dedication — to Duty, that is, if we need another ‘D’,” Wilson began.

He paused because his companion was paying him no attention. The plane had taxied to the end of the runway and was now prepared to take off. There was an increased whine from the reactors as the instruments were checked, the great sleek plane straining at the leash; then they were off into that wall of darkness, bumping roughly on the runway, swaying slightly in the heavy cross wind as they gathered speed. Suddenly the trembling stopped: They were airborne. The pilot responded to this triumph over gravity by tilting the nose of the plane almost vertical. Da Silva swallowed, counted to ten, and opened his eyes. To his amazement he was not only still alive, but in the short time since takeoff they had traversed the thick rainclouds and were lifting through deep black-blue skies beneath a quarter moon with the lights of Rio only the faintest glow beneath the swirling clouds below. The light over their heads went out; he loosened his seatbelt without removing it, pressed the button for the stewardess, and lit a cigarette a bit shakily.

“May we get back to business?” Wilson asked politely.

“If I ever stop smoking — which I sincerely hope to do one of these days, because it’s a nasty, filthy habit, and bad for the health as well,” Da Silva said feverishly, “it’ll have to be the day I stop flying.”

“Or the day I lose PX privileges, more likely,” Wilson commented. “Anyway, as I was saying — to get back to the slight matter of the SS Porto Alegre — this is not only an American case as well as a Brazilian one, it also happens to be an Interpol one. Which also explains why I’m here. As you well knew I would be.”

“Yes, you’re here.” Da Silva sighed. “I don’t suppose—”

He paused as the stewardess answered his ring. When Reserva San Juan had been ordered — available on a flight originating in Buenos Aires — he leaned back in silence until the stewardess had lowered the trays from the seats before them and placed their glasses on them. Wilson looked at him.

“You were saying?”

“I was saying, I don’t suppose in your research this afternoon you happened to uncover the fact that the rainy season in Rio by coincidence corresponds to the dry season in Barbados, did you?”

“You’re being insulting,” Wilson said sternly, and grinned. “I always knew it...”

Da Silva picked up his glass and shook his head wonderingly.

“Your record for misunderstanding, I’m happy to report, is still intact. I didn’t want you on the case, believe me. However.” He sipped and turned to the man beside him. “Well, since you’re here, and apparently here officially, you might as well be useful. What else did you dig up this afternoon?”

“Not a thing,” Wilson said, leaning back and studying the ceiling. He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought I’d done a good day’s work in just getting travel money out of the embassy fiscal officer before he shoved off for his daily cocktail party. Anyway, since you’ve been on the case longer than I have — by fifteen years — I’ll defer to your judgment. Although,” he added pleasantly, “it did strike me — since you claim not to have wanted me along — that if one plans on trailing a man, it is generally conceded that two are better at it than one. Which you would know if you ever studied your Police Manual. Or even Agatha Christie.”

“True,” Da Silva admitted. “It helps, of course, if those doing the trailing know what the man they are trailing looks like. Or sounds like.” He pulled his attaché case around in his lap, snapping it open, reaching inside to pick up an envelope. “Here are some recent pictures of Mr. William Trelawney McNeil.”

“Good,” Wilson said. He took them, studying them. “How recent?”

“They were taken today. About the time we were having lunch, or a little earlier, if the clock on the wall there is accurate, which I doubt. They were developed and flown down from Recife late this afternoon.” The brandy was relaxing him, as was the conversation; the smoothness of the flight was also helpful to his mood. He smiled. “I didn’t think anyone would be interested in fifteen-year-old mug shots of the man, but if you want them I can cable for them from Port-of-Spain.”

Wilson shook his head absently, even as he moved one picture behind the other. Da Silva, watching, was well aware that the smaller man was carefully memorizing every feature of the prisoner he was studying. Wilson marked the proud tilt of the large black head, the neatness of the close prison cut of the kinky hair, the musculature of the well-kept body. He nodded and handed them back.

“Well,” he said, “he certainly didn’t let himself get run down in prison. He looks as tough as they come, and not afraid of God, Devil, or Da Silva.”

“He doesn’t know me yet,” Da Silva said, and grinned. His grin disappeared. “Oh, he’s tough, all right.”

“What did you say about sound?”

Da Silva handed him a pair of earphones from his attaché case; Wilson slipped them on and watched as Da Silva slid a casette into a small battery-operated tape-recorder. There were several moments of silence and then the conversation.

“‘McNeil.’”

“‘Yes, sir.’”

A long pause and then: “‘McNeil. You get out of here in two weeks. You’ve done your fifteen years—’”

The tape ran on. Wilson listened to the end of the casette, and when it began to repeat itself he reached over, switched off the set, and removed the earphones. He watched as Da Silva stowed the gear away in the attaché case; his voice was curious when he spoke.

“What’s this business about him slugging a doctor?”

Da Silva shrugged. “All I know is that it was his only infraction. It was during a typhoid epidemic, which unfortunately isn’t a very uncommon event here. The doctor wanted to give him an injection and he popped the doctor in the nose.”

“But, why?” A thought came. “Maybe he doesn’t like needles.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like doctors,” Da Silva observed. “At any rate, he pulled down two weeks in solitary for it. But otherwise he was a good boy, just like the tape says.”

“The tape also says he’ll be followed constantly. Is the tape being honest about that?”

“As honest as tapes can be.”

Wilson thought a bit and then nodded.

“I think it’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “He’d expect to be followed, anyway. So if somebody is doing it openly and obviously, then we — you and me — follow him from in front. Is that it?”

“More or less.”

“You never got any hint in all his years in prison where he might have put the stuff?”

“None.” Da Silva sipped his brandy and set the glass down, twisting it idly on the formica of the tray. “And it wasn’t for lack of trying. We didn’t put hot needles under his fingernails — not that I think it would have done one much good — but Storrs questioned all four of them rather thoroughly, and it didn’t get him anyplace. In prison their cells were bugged for a very long time with no results whatsoever.” He frowned in memory. “As a matter of fact, they even took motion pictures of the four of them in the exercise yard with a telephoto lens and had expert lip-readers study them, but no dice. At no time did any one of them refer either to the robbery, or the jewels, or anything else even remotely helpful.”

“How about the ship’s librarian?”

“Not a word.”

“What did they talk about?”

Da Silva stared at him with lifted eyebrows.

“What do you think they talked about? What would you talk about if you were in prison for fifteen years?”

“Girls.”

Da Silva nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what they talked about.”

Wilson finished his brandy and snubbed out his cigarette. He frowned at the empty glass, thinking. Da Silva respected his thoughts, remaining silent. At last Wilson looked up.

“Fifteen years in prison... The first thing McNeil is going to be interested in, as we’re both agreed, is girls. It would be very helpful if we had a girl working with us. Someone from Interpol. Someone he might spill his little heart out to.” He grinned. “Because I hope you don’t expect me to put on a wig and play the part.”

Da Silva smiled back at him.

“McNeil’s been in prison fifteen years; it may have affected his brain, but his eyes are all right.” His smile became mischievous. “Your idea isn’t a bad one—”

“Thank you.”

“—even if it isn’t original.” Da Silva reached into a pocket of his attaché case and brought out another envelope. “Here. Try this one on for size.”

Wilson slid a pair of photographs from the envelope. His eyes widened at sight of the one on top. The picture was of a girl, chocolate in color with wavy black hair reaching her shoulders, a deep dimple in one cheek, brilliant teeth against the mahogany tone of her skin, and twinkling black eyes. He whistled lightly between his teeth.

“Wow! Where did you find her?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but turned to the second. This one gave a view of her figure in an evening gown, standing straight and winking provocatively into the camera; her ample cleavage almost caused Wilson to forget to check the face to make sure it was the same girl. It was. He envied the photographer. Da Silva reached over and removed the pictures gently, putting them away. Wilson took a deep breath.

“My Lord, she’s lovely! Who is she?”

“Stop drooling,” Da Silva said sternly. “Remember your good old Ohio upbringing. Also your blood pressure.” He snapped the attaché case closed. “Her name is Diana Cogswell. She was born in Barbados, educated there through Queen’s College for girls, after which she took a job in England.”

“And she’s in Interpol?”

“She is. And she’s going to work with me — with us, now, I suppose — on this case. She asked for the assignment, since she knows Barbados, and when they sent me her record — and her pictures — I certainly had no objections.”

“I can see why not!”

“I said, stop drooling!” Da Silva smiled at him. “Now do you believe me when I said I honestly wasn’t trying to induce you to help me on this case today at lunch?”

“I believe you. I’d be crazy not to.” Wilson grinned. “By the way, where and when do we meet this dish?”

Da Silva’s smile faded. Unconsciously he looked at his watch.

“In Trinidad, I hope. She was scheduled to meet me at the airport in Rio; we were supposed to take the plane together. But she didn’t show. She was coming in from Lima on a flight leaving there this morning, but either she missed her flight from there, or the storm held her up back in Rio. Maybe she couldn’t get a cab from town.” He shrugged. “We’ll try to have the pilot cable back to my office and see if we can’t arrange to meet her in Port-of-Spain. We’ll wait for her there.”

“Forever, if necessary,” Wilson said fervently, raising a hand with his empty glass in it for the stewardess’ attention. Da Silva aided this effort by ringing the bell.

“Let’s hope it won’t be quite that long,” he said. “I’d like her to be well established in Barbados with a good cover before Mr. William Trelawney McNeil is returned to his native heath.” Da Silva watched the stewardess refill his glass, nodded to her pleasantly in thanks, and raised his glass in a slight gesture of a toast once she had left. “Well, here’s to Mr. McNeil’s eyesight. If Miss Diana Cogswell doesn’t have him eating out of her hand in a week, he has to be blind.”

Wilson had lowered his glass and was staring thoughtfully down the aisle.

“I’m not so sure,” he said slowly.

“Eh?”

“I said, I’m not so sure. I think,” Wilson said, coming to a conclusion with a twinkle in his eye, “that Miss Cogswell met you at the plane at Galeão on schedule, and I think she’s had us — if not eating — at least drinking out of her hand for the past hour or so. So how blind does that make us?”

Da Silva frowned at him a moment uncomprehendingly and then looked down the aisle. Their stewardess was watching them with just the faintest smile on her pretty dark brown face. Da Silva looked at Wilson a moment, reddened in embarrassment, and then swallowed his drink hastily.

“Blind is no word for it,” he said, and looked shamefacedly at his seat companion, aware of the scrutiny from down the aisle. “Well,” he said, “don’t just sit there, Wilson! Hide me!”

4

“Moonlighting?” Da Silva asked politely.

“Believe me,” Wilson said earnestly, understandingly, “nobody knows better than Zé or myself how difficult it is to make ends meet on the paltry salaries doled out by Interpol to its vassals — but a stewardess? I should have thought there’d be more money in exotic dancing. Or even piloting the plane, if you must fly. Although,” he added in an attempt at fairness, “I’ve never tried either of them, myself.”

The three were seated at a window-seat table on the upper-floor lounge of the famous upside-down Trinidad Hilton. Beneath their window the Savannah Race Track stood empty at this hour of noon, twin rows of palm trees guarding the bare asphalt of the gigantic parking lot; beyond, the green of the city ran smoothly down the slopes to the distant ocean. At their side the buzz of the crowded bar occupied by every major race in the world; conversation in a dozen languages flashed back and forth over the heads of the busy bartenders in their sunken pit, sunken so they would not impede the view.

Diana Cogswell looked from one man to the other and sipped her whiskey sour. She placed her glass back on the table, reached down to fish a handkerchief from her bag on the floor beside her, and patted her lips.

“To tell the truth,” she said, “I like to size people up a bit before I start working with them. At least when I can.” Her voice was soft and the slightest bit husky. Sexy, Da Silva thought — and it would be a wonder if it weren’t. He brought his eyes back from her low-cut gown to her face; she noticed the change in direction and bit back a smile. “I also prefer to study them when they’re not aware of it. It’s amazing what one can learn about a person.”

Wilson grinned at her; his grin disappeared as his cigarettes slid from the table, jogged by his elbow. He reached down, gathering them in, bringing them back to the table.

“I was about to say, ‘What conclusions did you come to about Zé?’ but I won’t for two reasons.” He came to his feet apologetically. “For one, I have an errand to run. And for the second, I’d just as soon not hear your answer. I hate to see a grown man embarrassed.”

Da Silva’s eyes twinkled as the nondescript man left the room.

“You can still answer,” he said.

“I—” She stopped.

“Let me help you out,” he said, his eyes on the door through which Wilson had passed. “You found out that Captain Da Silva doesn’t particularly care about flying, and also that he’s not the most observant man in the world as far as stewardesses are concerned.” He glanced at her lovely profile and shook his head in wonderment at himself. “I’ve no excuse for that last one. Absolutely none. It must have been too much storm. Or too much Reserva San Juan.”

“I wasn’t all that unimpressed,” Diana said softly, and smiled at him. “You can handle your Reserva San Juan, at least; you don’t pinch, and I did see that you obviously came well prepared for your assignment with pictures and tapes of your man.” She forced herself to sound very businesslike. “Well, Captain, you’re the boss. What are your ideas?”

“My first idea is let’s finish our drinks,” Da Silva protested. He raised his glass, winked at her, finished his drink, and set it down. “There, that’s better. All right, down to work if you insist.” He looked curious. “My ideas about what?”

“For getting McNeil—” She stopped abruptly; her tiny jaw started to tighten, and then relaxed. “You’re joking with me, Captain. I don’t think it’s particularly a joking matter.”

“You almost got angry,” Da Silva pointed out. “I also like to learn things about people I work with, and it’s amazing how much one can learn when the other person loses his — or her — temper. However—”

“However, I didn’t lose it,” Diana said sweetly.

“But you came close,” Da Silva said, laughingly. He paused as Wilson returned and unobtrusively seated himself. He bent to tie his shoelace and then straightened up. “We were discussing our plans,” Da Silva explained.

“Oh?”

“Yes, such as they are.” He turned to the girl, shrugging. “Well, to be serious for a change, my plan really isn’t much of a mystery. As soon as I saw your picture, I said to myself — ‘If Diana Cogswell doesn’t have McNeil eating out of her hand in a week, he’s got to be blind!’”

“Actually,” Wilson said, “you said it to me.”

“I knew I said it to somebody — I was sure I hadn’t heard it just anywhere.” Having put the smaller man in his place, Da Silva returned to the girl. “Anyway, basically that’s the plan.”

“I see.” Diana nodded, not at all surprised by the plan. It had been, after all, what she had expected when she had requested the assignment. Her dark eyes came up. “And you?”

“Me? I’ll be around someplace if the action gets rough. Or if you need me for something. I have my own ideas of a cover, and what little I can contribute, but there’s no need to go into all that at this early date.”

The girl tilted her head toward Wilson.

“And what about him?”

“Well,” Da Silva said thoughtfully, “in all honesty, my original scheme was for him to stay home in Rio and not get underfoot at all. However,” he added in a kindly tone, “since he’s here he might as well stay. He’s been useful in the past for minor errands, and we might manage a use for him in this affair. He exhibits surprising talents at times, you know. Not often, but occasionally.”

“Thank you muchly,” Wilson murmured.

“That’s perfectly all right,” Da Silva said magnanimously.

Diana Cogswell frowned. “And just how do I go about meeting this McNeil man?”

“Well—” Da Silva began, but Wilson cut in smoothly.

“I do believe Miss Cogswell is getting her revenge for your not having noticed her on the plane,” he said. “A woman scorned is a joy forever, or something along those lines—”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Wilson?”

“I’m merely saying, ma’am, that you have a plan well worked out. Let me see if I can guess it...” He frowned at the table and then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Now just suppose that you had an aunt living in St. Andrew parish, Miss Cogswell — an Aunt Margaret, for example — and suppose the thought occurred to you that this McNeil would be going back to Brighton when he gets back to Barbados — it’s a natural thing for the man to do. And it’s not too far from your Aunt Margaret’s, where you plan to stay. Now, I don’t imagine there’s a lot to do in a small fishing village like Brighton, so I’d judge the social life, such as it is, must center about the pub. Now if I were you, Miss Cogswell, I’d get in touch with the local police through Interpol, and have them arrange me a job at one of them. How? Possibly by offering the present barmaid a better proposition in a big town like Bridgetown, and making it worth her while, thereby leaving the job open.”

The girl was staring at him with open mouth. She noticed him looking at her, and closed it suddenly. Wilson smiled at her in friendly fashion.

“Oh, yes,” he went on, struck by a second thought. “I’d say the Badger would be the pub to start at. It was named for Nelson’s first command, incidentally — they seem to have a thing for Nelson in Barbados. My guess is it’s the largest pub in Brighton—”

“The only one,” Diana said.

“Then all the more reason. You shouldn’t have any trouble on an age basis, being twenty-nine, although I’m sure the custom at the pub will never believe it...”

Da Silva’s black eyes twinkled.

“You see?” he said. “I told you he had his talents, didn’t I?” He turned to Wilson reproachfully. “I don’t think it was very gentlemanly to mention the lady’s age, though.”

“But how—”

She glanced down at her bag; she lifted it decisively into her lap and opened it, checking the contents carefully. She lifted out her wallet, riffled through it, dug about until she had found an envelope in a zippered pocket, checked it, and then returned everything to its proper place.

“No. Everything is here and it hasn’t been touched—”

“Everything is there now,” Da Silva said evenly, “but I’m afraid it really has been touched. I’m sure you’ve noticed how unnoticeable our friend here is. I watched him bend over, extract your wallet and papers, and just a minute ago I saw him just as carefully return them. If he had disturbed anything in the process, he would have lost his merit-badge for pocket-picking. Or pick-pocketing, if you prefer.” He nodded. “It’s the reason he’s never had to turn to exotic dancing or piloting a plane to augment his income. I’m surprised you never heard of him. In the inner circle of Interpol he’s widely known as Wilson the Dip.”

Diana Cogswell stared at the two men, as her fingers clenched her bag tightly. She looked as if she were seriously considering losing her temper, whether it revealed things about her or not. The two men waited patiently for her decision. At last she merely sighed.

“All right,” she said quietly. “I’ve been put in my place. I’ll try to be more careful if I decide to try and fool you two geniuses again. It’s true. The police in Bridgetown arranged the whole thing. I work evenings at the Badger. All I can eat for supper, plus forty biwi a week.”

“Biwi?”

“It stands for British West Indies. The banks call it E.C. — Exchange Currency. It comes to about twenty dollars.”

Wilson smiled at her, a friendly smile.

“I imagine that Varig pays better, but on top of our meager stipend as intrepid police agents, anything is better than nothing.” His smile faded as he thought a moment. “This aunt of yours — does she have any idea you’re connected with Interpol?”

“Heavens, no!” Diana shook her head. “She merely thinks I couldn’t make it abroad and had to come home to eat humble pie. It’s far from unusual in the islands.”

“But will you be free to come and go?” Da Silva asked.

“Of course. My aunt’s an old lady, a widow. She has her little cottage, and she has a slight income from renting out my uncle’s old fishing boat. And besides,” she added a bit archly, “I am grown up, you know.”

Wilson bit back the obvious reply, turning to Da Silva.

“I hate to be argumentative, but just suppose McNeil doesn’t go to Brighton.” He raised his hand. “I know I said he probably would, but just suppose he doesn’t? Or just suppose he really is crazy, and doesn’t fall for Diana. What then?”

Da Silva looked at him steadily. “Then, quite obviously, we dream up something else. If he doesn’t go to Brighton, he’ll go someplace else, and that someplace else will have a pub. If he doesn’t go for Diana” — he shrugged — “then maybe we’ll have to find someone else. I can’t picture it, though.”

Wilson considered a moment and nodded.

“All right. So we’ve got Diana meeting McNeil and McNeil falling for her like a ton of bricks. With her help, of course. What then, brown hen?”

“Then,” Da Silva said quietly, “she simply needles him for always being broke. That’s all.”

The other two considered this for several moments; then Wilson nodded.

“Which could well drive him to go for the stuff, only with us on his tail. Yes, it could work, I suppose.” His gray eyes came up. “You also mentioned something about a cover for yourself. Any concrete ideas along those lines?”

“Not exactly,” Da Silva said, and smiled. He snapped his fingers for a waiter, placed an order for a repeat of their drinks, and leaned back, watching as the white-coated figure moved toward the crowded bar. “It just occurred to me that I really shouldn’t need one, not with you two both hard at work...”

The rickety yellow coastwise buses from Bridgetown have a route that carries them around the fifty-odd mile perimeter of the island, through Holetown and Speightstown — called Spiketown by its inhabitants for some reason lost in history — then around the northern surf of St. Lucy parish at North Point, down past Brighton and Bathsheba on the east and eventually back to Bridgetown by way of Seewell Airport and the lovely southern beaches. Duplicate buses are making the same rounds at the same time in the opposite direction, and their meeting places can be almost anywhere, depending upon how many passengers decide to stop for errands or to eat at how many places how many times, or other variables of a similar nature.

Visitors to the island of Barbados seldom if ever use this means of transportation; it is primarily meant for the delivery and pick-up of the maids and porters who service the luxury hotels that have sprung up along the wide, beautiful, formerly virgin beaches. It is also used on occasion by sugar plantation workers who are away from home for some reason, as well as by those people who prefer the anonymity of the bus to the more public view which would be almost inevitable should one travel by private car or taxi.

(The buses are also available on a rental basis for funerals, but their tendency to be late has given them a bad name. People who are perfectly willing to wait hours for the yellow vehicles themselves, somehow resent having their dead friends and relatives inconvenienced by a delay of even minutes.)

The drivers of the yellow buses are so familiar with their unvarying route that many people claim they often drive in their sleep; certainly their eyes remain half closed at all times, possibly against the glare of the sun or quite possibly against the monotony of the trip, and it is true that their feet seem to find the brakes automatically and their weathered hands reach out for the fare oftimes before the passenger is even sure he wishes to descend at that point. Nor do they ever pay the slightest attention to the passenger when at last he decides in their favor.

It must be said in fairness, however, that the small passenger who dropped from the bus at Brighton that late afternoon three weeks after Da Silva, Wilson and Diana Cogswell had met at the Trinidad Hilton in Port-of-Spain, was so unnoticeable in appearance that even had the driver chosen to study him (assuming the driver to have been awake) it is doubtful that he could have furnished a useful description later, other than the fact that the man was white, and white men were in the distinct minority of the buslines’ passengers.

The little man watched the bus pull from the dusty shoulder back onto the glaring pavement, and then turned to study his surroundings. The town of Brighton didn’t seem to be of a size even to merit mention on a map. It consisted of one section of the main road with a row of stone buildings on one side, aged by wind and rain, with a cluster of huts haphazardly taking up the space for several hundred yards behind them and running spottily in ever-lessening numbers down the road to disappear into a stand of giant palms. The stone buildings seemed to have been there forever; the commercial signs above their doors had long since lost any relationship to the business being conducted within. A shabby lean-to of driftwood and hammered gasoline tins used the last building on the street for support, displaying fruits and vegetables offered on the tops of wooden crates, and attracting the attention, seemingly, only of sand flies. The proprietor, if he existed, had small fear of thievery, for he was not in sight. Of people, the only one to be seen was a uniformed policeman in an old but highly polished open sedan, parked up the street from the bus stop, and now watching the small man with curious eyes.

The little man did not allow the inspection to bother him. He continued his inventory of the town’s few attributes. He saw the ship’s chandler next to the confectionery, with the hardware and a grocer’s below, separated by a storefront that was boarded up. Only one building stood apart, separated from the others by a narrow lane, and also, it appeared, by a full century in time. It was a two-story building, squat and characterless, which might have been transported red brick by red brick and reconstructed, complete with original grime, from any English coastal town from Gravesend to Tynemouth, to serve the thirsts of the small community. Above the door with its leaded glass panels a battered wooden sign hung, depicting what the artist undoubtedly considered a badger. The artist, the small man noted in passing, had been quite wrong.

The shacks that made up the bulk of the village in area, if not in construction, were of mud with thatched roofs, newer by far than the stone monstrosities they seemed to huddle about as if for protection, but also far less stable. Fishing nets hung from many of the paneless windows, draped over poles, spread for drying. Across the road a series of sand dunes hid actual sight of the ocean, but a dual track beaten through the tall sparse grass indicated the location of the dock and the fishing boats, now undoubtedly tied up for the evening. The sun was low in the cloudless sky, sinking over Mount Hillaby, but the air still retained the heat of the day.

Wilson sighed, wiped his brow, hitched up his ragged ex-white trousers, and padded across the road to the inn, his worn tennis shoes raising little puffs of dust. He tried to appear nonchalant about the constant inspection he was receiving from the constable in the car, straightening his scrubby jacket in a gesture indicating he had as much right to enter an inn as anyone else.

He pushed through the heavy doors into a welcome coolness, abetted by the yeasty aroma of beer, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and his ears to the noise. The bar was filled with fishermen, slaking a thirst built up through working a long day in the sun; others crowded the benches and booths that filled the opposite wall. Wilson stood a moment, studying the group, and finally found McNeil leaning quietly on the bar somewhere in the middle of the noisy gang about him, speaking with nobody, paying no attention to the crowd of men laughing, pounding each other on the backs, comparing catches. Wilson shouldered himself through the men, pushing up to the bar. The bartender, a stout mulatto, his face shining with sweat, came to stand before him.

“Beer or rum?”

“Rum. Make it a double.”

A glass was slid before him; rum gurgled from a bottle. Wilson started to raise it to his lips and then saw the bartender still waiting before him. Strangers, he realized, were rare in the village, and seldom came with established credit ratings. Without putting the glass down, he fished money from his pocket with his free hand and tossed it on the bar. The bartender took it and walked away.

In the mirror behind the bar Wilson picked his image out of the mob, studied it a moment, and smiled faintly. Even had he not been a stranger it would have been small wonder had the bartender suspected his ability to pay. He hadn’t shaved for four days, and it had taken him many hours to fray his shirt collar and the cuffs of the cheap suit-jacket he wore. I ought to be thankful he served me at all, he thought, money or not, and downed his drink. It was strong, but much smoother than he had expected: not Reserva San Juan cognac, but on the other hand, not Brazilian pinga either. He dug out another coin and rapped on the bar with it, attracting the attention of the bartender, glancing at the clock on the wall even as he waited for his glass to be refilled. Even adding the ten minutes all bar clocks are set ahead throughout the world, he didn’t have too much time. The bus hadn’t exactly broken all speed records on its journey from Bridgetown. He raised his glass, drinking, his eyes casually studying McNeil in the mirror. The big black man at his side had his head bent, his thoughts obviously far away; his mug of beer had lost its head. Time to go to work, Wilson thought, and tapped the bar with his glass. The bartender came back, bottle poised.

“One more, mon?”

“No thanks.” Wilson gestured with his head. “The head? I mean, the gents?”

“I know what you mean, mon. In the back.”

The bartender moved away to serve his other customers. Wilson backed his way through the noisy bunch, accidentally jostling McNeil as he forced his way back. The big man didn’t even bother to respond to the murmured apology, continuing to stare at the bar, his mind far away. It’s really unfair, Wilson thought; he isn’t even paying attention. He walked to the back door and let himself through it, not greatly surprised to find himself outside. The Gents and Ladies were housed in a separate building, and the man loitering quite obviously at the end of the lane had to be someone the police had put there to watch the rear exit of the inn.

With a smile Wilson turned and walked down the lane beside the weathered brick building. He calmly crossed the road before the constable’s car, marching along the shoulder in the direction he had been going by bus. Let the constable think he had merely paused on his way for a glass of beer, although he was quite aware that the constable, while undoubtedly sizing him up, was also under strict orders to keep McNeil under his eagle eye — and not some stranger, no matter how ragged his appearance nor how unusual his means of exit from an inn.

Wilson was also fully conscious, as he walked along, of the pressure of McNeil’s wallet in his own pocket, and the possibility of a sudden outcry behind him which would force him to take to his heels over the dunes and save himself from the big man as best he could. It occurred to him that while the rewards of pocket-picking undoubtedly were both ample and relatively easily come by, the suspense of waiting to slip up and be caught were a bit nerve-wracking, and that by and large he would hate to make his living that way. He grinned as he trod the road’s shoulder: What were his alternatives? He couldn’t pilot a plane, and with his legs he’d starve to death as an exotic dancer.

He heard the sound of a motor behind him, the labored grinding of an old car; he turned raising his thumb. It was an ancient camper; not to his amazement the driver put on his brakes, drawing to one side of the road. Wilson climbed in; the car moved slowly ahead. Behind them the constable returned to watching the door of the inn with stoic patience. Whether the ragged stranger deserved interrogation or not would soon be the problem of the next parish, not his.

In the car Da Silva glanced at Wilson over his shoulder.

“How did it go?”

“Like clubbing carp in a rain barrel.” Wilson patted his pocket. “I left him his wristwatch, his underwear, and the fillings in his teeth.”

“I consider that very sweet of you,” Da Silva said. He pulled the camper a bit to one side of the road to allow ample passage for the yellow bus that was approaching from the opposite direction, and then got back into the center of his lane once it had passed. “Do me a favor, though, will you?”

“Anything.”

“Move away from me a bit more, will you? The money in my billfold is a gift from the Brazilian Government, and as such it has sentimental value...”

The yellow bus that Da Silva had passed stopped before the Badger Inn to allow Diana Cogswell to descend. The girl, scarcely recognizable as the svelte creature of her photographs or the beautifully gowned and coifed young lady who had had drinks with Da Silva and Wilson in Port-of-Spain, was still undoubtedly very attractive; no change of attire or hair style could conceal the perfection of her dark brown features, the loveliness of her strong body with its long legs, straight back, and full bosom. She watched the bus pull away and then opened the door to the inn. The harried bartender heaved a sigh of relief as she bent to pass beneath the counter, coming up beside him.

“You’re late.”

“Bus was late, mon. Blame her, not me.”

The bartender didn’t bother to answer. He removed his apron, ducked under the counter and came up puffing, reaching for his jacket on a hook next to the mirror in the same motion.

“See you tomorrow.”

She nodded, watched him close the door behind him, then opened a cabinet door beneath the shelf of bottles under the mirror, stowing away her scarf and her handkerchief with her money wrapped in it, island style. She turned, moving gracefully toward McNeil, disregarding the hammering of glasses requesting her attention. She leaned over the bar, her blouse gaping, speaking softly.

“Hello, Bill.”

He had watched her entrance, his face showing animation for the first time that day. He smiled at her and reached out, taking her hand in his.

“Hello, Diana, sweet.”

“Your beer is flat, honey. Let me get you another. Or would you rather rum?”

“Rum, I think, now you’re here.” He released her hand and shook his head admiringly. “You know something, sweet? You get prettier every day. Every day!”

The other customers were getting restive, impatient. Not only was the man occupying the barmaid’s time a newcomer to town — one week, no more — but he was an ex-convict, fifteen years in a Brazilian jail, with a policeman on his heels day and night, a disgrace to the village. My word! But whether he was a newcomer or not, a jailbird or not — these weren’t the questions. The fact was that pub custom the world over demanded that attention from a barmaid be parceled out equally — and not just in service, but in smiles and jokes as well. Everybody knew that, or should. My word! One of the fishermen closest to the pair, young and handsome himself, leaned over the bar to impart this basic knowledge to these obviously uninformed persons.

“Look, sweetheart, more than one fish in this here ocean. We did a hard day on the boats, not loafing like some I could mention. Lots of us here anxious for a touch of grog.” His hand reached out, touching the girl’s cheek. “And a bright smile with it wouldn’t go amiss, neither.”

The fisherman suddenly found himself grasped, lifted bodily, and flung through the crowd, bouncing off the startled bystanders. He tripped and fell ignominiously, and then came to his feet instantly, his eyes narrowed, a fish-gutting knife suddenly in his hand with a gesture few had seen. The girl half-screamed.

“Bill!”

“Don’t you worry, honey.”

McNeil chuckled and shoved his way to the center of the room. A large circle instantly formed around the two men; those along the wall and in the booths stood on chairs and benches to get a better view. The fisherman in the center of the ring stood alert; the muscles of his opponent didn’t impress him at all. He had a razor-sharp knife and much practice in its use. And he knew he was thinner, younger, and faster than the other. With the knife it should be no problem. Still, to make the first move and miss could be disastrous; the big man looked mean and tough, and also not without experience. No, let him make the first move and blunder into death.

McNeil moved about the other slowly, flat-footedly, arms half-extended, fingers flexed; the fisherman pivoted on the balls of his feet in the center of the room, always facing the big man, the knife a constant threat, never wavering. The crowd held its breath. The knife was held waist-high, edge up, point slightly depressed. McNeil recognized the professionalism of the stance, but the death’s-head grin on his big black face never wavered.

Then, swift as a snake, he shot one of his huge arms forward and instantly retracted it. The fisherman had been expecting such a move, awaiting it; his response was equally swift, the knife slashing out expertly, and being brought back to the ready in almost the same motion. But the armed fisherman was not prepared for the result of his sudden riposte. He knew well that he had not touched the other, yet the big man was falling to the floor. The man with the knife hesitated a fraction of a second, confused; the time lost was his undoing. McNeil landed on his hands and twisted at the same time, shooting a leg up like a piston. It caught the other man under the jaw, knocking him sprawling and unconscious against one of the booths. He lay there, his arm flung wide, the knife drooping from it.

Utter silence, the silence of disbelief, had fallen on the bar. McNeil pivoted easily, rising to his feet. He walked over, smiling grimly at his fallen opponent, and then brutally kicked him alongside the jaw. There was a gasp from the crowd; he paid it no attention. He bent and picked up the knife, jabbed it deep into the oaken floor, and bent it until the blade snapped. This time the gasp was louder, somehow even more outraged; a fish-gutting knife cost the equivalent of two day’s earnings. McNeil tucked the useless weapon in the belt of the unconscious man and straightened up, facing the silent group.

“It’s fifteen years since I’ve been around here, and I guess everybody’s new, or you were all too young, or maybe everybody just forgot me. Well, now you’ll remember.” He looked down at the man on the floor; blood was running from his cheek where he had been kicked the second time. “One of the things you learn in a Brazilian quod,” he said coldly. “They call it capoeira. He’ll live. We don’t swing for no man, my word!” His eyes came up, challenging. “Now, anyone else here want to argue about the service I get here?”

The men remained still, frozen. He pushed his way back to the bar, the crowd parting easily before him. The girl was staring at him wide-eyed. He smiled at her.

“I’ll take that rum now, honey.”

She turned slowly to reach for a bottle. There was the beginning of a shuffling as the men came alive again. Three of them raised the unconscious man and carried him out the front door; most of the others followed. Several still had mugs of beer on the bar; they swallowed them hurriedly and left, their yellowish eyes veiled, their black faces expressionless. The girl poured the drink and put the bottle back on the shelf. When she turned, his smile had changed to a wide grin.

“Like that little exhibition, honey?”

“You didn’t have to kick him when he was through,” she said quietly.

“That breaks the mon’s spirit, honey. The truth. I don’t kick him, he gets another knife and comes after me tonight down at the shack when I’m asleep. This way he feels that lump on his jaw and thinks twice. Then he forgets all about it. You see?”

“And you drove all the custom away, too.” The girl’s voice was stubborn. “The boss’ll want to know where all the money is, come tomorrow.”

“Money?” McNeil laughed, his deep bass booming. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about money, sweet. I told you that before. Anyway, tonight I’ll drink enough to put the bloody till even. My word! Why, all those poor trash fishermen did was nurse a mug of ale all night. You call that custom? I’ll show you custom. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old thirst and the means to satisfy it, too!”

He laughed and slapped at the pocket where he kept his wallet. His laugh froze a moment and then disappeared; his grin swiftly changed to a scowl. He patted the pocket once again and then the rest of his pockets. His face became murderous.

“Somebody dipped my purse!”

He turned, scanning the arena of his combat, then bent to peer under the benches, but he had not dropped his wallet during the scuffle and he knew it. Some ugly bostard had swiped it, and if he ever got his hands on the bostard, there’d be an end to one purse-snatcher, my word! But who? He frowned, trying to remember anyone touching him, but he couldn’t. Oh, yes; there had been one chap jostled his shoulder getting away from the bar, but he was positive that one hadn’t brushed against the pocket. He ceased his fruitless search of the floor and came back to the bar, his face screwed up in anger, to find the girl had brought the rum bottle back from the shelf and was carefully pouring his drink back into it.

“Hey!” McNeil’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “What’s the idea, sweet?”

Diana calmly finished her task, corked the bottle and returned it to the shelf beneath the mirror. She turned, wiping her hands on a towel, looking at him evenly.

“The idea, Bill, my lad,” she said quietly, “is that you’ve been having me on with your tall tales long enough. Somebody dipped your purse! And if he did, I pity the lad for the little he’ll find in it! And if he did, who would it be? One of the lads who was in here tonight? Don’t make me laugh!”

“I tell you somebody dipped my purse! As for that damned drink of rum—”

“As for that drink of rum, my lad, I’m not paying for it out of my money, and don’t you even dream it.”

“But, damn it, Diana, sweet—”

“And forget that ‘sweet’ business, too. You’ve been telling me lots of things ever since you got back, about how you were going to pick up that fortune someplace and then the two of us would be off and away and all. But anytime a girl asks you ‘when?’ then it’s always ‘in a little while.’ And now this bit about somebody stealing your purse! Well, if they did they probably hurried up the day you’ll have to come down off your high horse and get yourself a job on the fishing boats like the other lads, the ones you call trash. And you can forget about me when you do. Because I’m not aiming to do the cooking and cleaning and washing and raising a dozen brats for some Bajan comes home smelling of fish every night!”

He tried to reach across the bar to grasp her arm, but she stepped back, continuing in an even, expressionless voice.

“And another thing: I’m not waiting forever for something I’m beginning to seriously doubt, and I mean it, my lad. I took this job temporary, and I mean it to be temporary. You and your ‘in a little while’ nonsense! Well, a little while is a long time with you, Bill McNeil. Too long a time for me.”

“You saying I lied to you, honey?” The big man’s voice had dropped; its very quietness made it sound more dangerous. “You saying Bill McNeil’s just some big-mouth telling tales to impress a pretty girl? Like I need to lie to get a pretty girl?”

She remained silent, watching him.

“You saying I didn’t get my purse snatched? That I said so for a bloody drink of rum? And that I didn’t have more money in it than all the fishermen in this hole all put together? You saying that?”

The door of the pub opened; several sugar-plantation workers came in, their straw hats pushed to the back of their heads. They came to the bar, leaning on it. Diana moved over to them. McNeil stared at her a moment and then wheeled from the bar, striding fiercely to the door, flinging it open abruptly and disappearing into the night. There was the sound of a car being started as the constable openly began to follow.

Diana stared at the closed door a moment, a faint smile on her face, then turned to the new customers, repeating the standard litany of the Badger Inn.

“Well, boys, what’ll it be? Beer or rum?”

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...

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...”

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...”

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...”

9

There can be no doubt that there was a great deal of luck connected with McNeil’s terrified flight in utter panic from Green Hell Island. A warrant had been issued that morning for his apprehension for questioning in regard to the mysterious disappearance of Diana Cogswell, and had he immediately fled back to Barbados — as he thought he was doing in the first blinding explosion of unbearable dread — he most certainly would have been picked up in the late afternoon light, for the planes were still patrolling, new pilots and observers now manning the operation, and police boats still covered a good portion of the shoreline cutting back and forth before the beaches, hotels, and docks.

But fortune was on the side of the large black man in several ways. He vaguely remembered screaming hysterically at the men on shore, and then rushing to jam down on the self-starter and throttle without even realizing he was still tied to the large palm bending over the cove. Only his automatic gesture in mooring the boat with a hitch rather than a knot prevented utter disaster; as the engines caught with a roar the rope jerked sharply in protest but then trailed free, dipping into the water, nosed at by curious sharks as he swung the wheel and sped from the small inlet. He might well have torn the eyebolt-tackle from the prow, might even have ripped the hull, possibly even to a point of foundering, but he did not. However, he wasn’t even aware of the near-miss; his mind had blanked itself mercifully from the horror of the island and the two souls staring sadly after him.

A second bit of fortune — and the one that saved him from placing himself in the hands of the police — was that he was a good hour’s run from the island before he came out of his coma-like state enough to notice he was frozen to the wheel with the sun at his back over the taffrail, heading senselessly out into the wide and empty Atlantic, with the waves a deeper, more perilous green and the swells becoming threatening rollers. Without even thinking, he put the wheel over, placing the lowering orange ball in the middle of the low roundhouse. He locked the wheel and staggered into the cabin.

He stared at himself in the small mirror over the galley sink, as if expecting to already see the horrible evidence of that terrifying encounter: skin hard and cracking, seamed, nose eaten away, ears gone. He had been with lepers; he had spoken to them! They had practically breathed in his face, infecting him, contaminating him! A sudden additional frightening thought came; they had touched the boat! He spat into the sink as if to rid himself of the germs, staring into the mirror at his dulled yellowish eyes, wondering at the curse that had been laid upon him, and then left the cabin, picking up a bottle of rum and a holystone from the locker, carrying them on deck. The rum was splashed over the place where the clawed hand had slapped against the rail; the holystone applied on top of the damp surface with an almost-frenzied zeal, his large trembling hands taking care not to touch the surface itself. When the air had dried the railing, he returned to the galley for a second flask to repeat the performance, and then the third and last. Only when the final bottle was bobbing lightly away from the boat, hiding itself between the waves, did he suddenly wish he had swallowed some of it. Or all of it. There might have been some peace in the sweet stupor the rum contained along with its tartness. He stared stupidly down at the holystone still clenched in his hand and then flung it from him as far as he could.

He went back to the wheel and took command of the boat once again, reducing its mad speed, calculating the little time of daylight remaining, but all in a daze as something that had to be done, although he couldn’t be sure just why. His hand moved the wheel without conscious volition; only a tiny portion of his mind attacked the problem of the boat’s position while the balance attempted to evaluate the full enormity of the tragedy. For the first time in his memory a situation had arisen beyond his control — beyond anyone’s control. The stones were lost beyond recovery, and his fifteen years in prison had, indeed, been for naught. Fifteen years and the lives of good men — all for what? Bits of shiny glass, colored chips of rock, baubles. Oh, they could buy many things, my word, but they couldn’t buy back the fifteen years in prison or the lives of the dead men.

Night had fallen with tropical swiftness; he had not even noticed the evaporation of the light. The stars lifted and lowered above him as the boat rolled lightly through the blackness, its twin exhausts attempting to be comforting with their steady rumbling, their efforts wasted on the thinking man. What a sad joke the entire affair had become, eh, Billy my boy? If that bostard on the porch, that Tommy, could have been trusted, it all could have been saved; if he could have been trusted, the mon might actually have been waiting for him on one of the other islands with a stack of cash on his release from prison. But he couldn’t be trusted, and that was the fact. And besides, who could have calculated that some maniac would decide to put a leper colony on his island? Nobody, that’s who. The whole bloody thing was a farce. My word!

He forced his mind away from the terrible thought, trying to concentrate on the approaching shoreline and the hills faintly visible under the sliver of moon. Lights had appeared there, tiny pinpricks in the dark curtain of the night. He found the flashing buoy off Plymouth Point and automatically pulled the throttle back, letting the boat rock in the wash of the sea, then leaned forward, pushing the winch lever, feeling the boat heel slightly as the anchor slowly paid out, seeking bottom. He felt it grab and hold, the boat swinging in an arc. He turned off the ignition and slipped over the side, feeling the sharp bite of the salt water on his lip where he had bitten it without knowing.

He was unaware until he had taken several strokes that he still retained his clothing, and the revolver was still tucked in his pocket, sagging, weighing him down. He paused, treading water, neither surprised nor angry at his own forgetfulness — everything seemed to be out of his hands now — and calmly removed first the boots, then the trousers, and finally his shirt. The shoes and trousers sank instantly; the shirt floated a while behind him, the sleeves waving languidly in the gloom. Then he put his head down and slowly began to stroke for the beach.

The small house beyond the fringe of trees was dim, but a faint light glowed this time behind a drawn curtain over an open window. And this time the big black man made no attempt at silence or secrecy, tramping toward it across the glade, calling out loudly.

“Tommy!”

The curtain was brushed aside urgently; a voice whispered through the screened opening.

“Billy, is that you? You bloody fool, keep your voice down!”

The curtain dropped; a moment later the door to the porch had opened and closed. Tommy glared down through the darkness at the faint shadow of the man below him. McNeil came closer, breathing deeply. The walk inland from the shore, plus the stiff climb to the house, had not been sufficient to dry his wet swimming trunks, but he was unaware of their clamminess against his skin. He was tired, his breathing painful; he was surprised that the swim and the hike had enervated him to such an extent, but at least it had driven the worst of the demons from his brain, if only for the moment. He climbed the steps slowly, his calves aching (Had he, then, really contracted the disease? Was this the first symptom?) — and slumped on the top step. He began to speak, and then found he had to pause to clear his throat. (Did it affect the vocal cords so quickly?)

“Rum.”

“Keep your voice down, mon!” Tommy stared at the other, calculating. McNeil undoubtedly had picked up the gems, he thought; not much question of that. Only success could have drained the big man’s energy to that extent; failure never had. And three bottles of rum aboard with which to celebrate. A mistake, those three bottles, but what the devil! “So you got them, eh?” It was impossible to keep the elation from his voice. “Good-o, Billy boy!”

“Rum!”

“Billy, for Christ’s sake, keep your voice down!”

“I said—!”

McNeil glared upwards in the darkness savagely. On top of everything else he had suffered that day, was he going to have trouble with Tommy now? My word!

“All right!” The intent whisper contained a touch of disgust; he disappeared into the house to return in moments with a bottle. He handed it down. “Here’s your bloody rum, but you sound as if you’ve had your share and more, already.”

McNeil didn’t bother to answer. He grasped the bottle, twisted the cork loose and tossed it aside, upending the bottle, gulping eagerly. He paused for breath and raised it again, quaffing deeply. Tommy glared down at him.

“Well, you needn’t drink it all, mon.”

McNeil swallowed again and then paused, frowning, his gullet locked against the fiery liquid as a thought came to him. Don’t drink it all? He lowered the bottle.

“Don’t worry,” he said huskily. “I won’t.”

He raised the bottle again, chuckling to himself. Drink it all? The idea made him choke on the rum, coughing. Never would he drink it all, never fear! If he had the disease, let Tommy suffer with him. Who had dreamed up the scheme in the first place, and hadn’t spent one single solitary day at the rock pile while the rest of them — God rest their souls — hadn’t had it that easy. Drink it all? No chance. My word! He caught his breath and handed the bottle up.

“Here, mon. Be my guest.”

The other man took the bottle, started to raise it to his lips, and then paused.

“Well, here’s to you, Billy boy, and a good job done. Here’s to a fair split, too...”

“Drink.”

“I’ll drink. Here’s to a good idea, if I say so myself, neatly handled — even if unfortunately delayed by a few years in quod. And here’s to an end to a lack of trust, too. Here’s to—”

“Drink!”

McNeil was beginning to come to his feet unsteadily. Tommy frowned in uncertainty and hurriedly drank. There had been precious little left in the bottle, was all he could say. He started to toss it away, empty, and then thought of the noise. Instead, he bent and placed it carefully on the porch.

“Good-o,” he said, straightening up. “Enough of celebration, eh, Billy? The coppers are thick as fleas tonight. Let’s split the stuff and be on our way, eh, mon?” His voice tried to remain calm but could not conceal his anxiety. “Where are the stones? Let’s see them.”

“I don’t have them.”

There was a moment’s silence. When the standing man spoke again, his voice was quiet but deadly. One hand had gone surreptitiously to his pocket.

“Don’t joke with me, Billy.”

“I’m not joking, mon.” The rum was hot in his blood, wild in his brain. For one moment he wondered if the disease also reduced one’s ability to drink, but put the thought aside in favor of the more delectable one: Tommy had just told him not to joke, and here he had just played the best joke of his life. On Tommy. He couldn’t help himself; he began to laugh. “I’m not joking, mon. My word!”

“You’re drunk, you sot! Where is the package?”

McNeil brayed with laughter. Drunk, was he? Well, that he was, and he’d be the last to argue.

“The package is where it always was and where it’ll stay until doomsday, mon. The truth!”

“I said, don’t joke with me, Billy.” Tommy stared down coldly. “D’you think I hadn’t figured you’d try to pull a trick like this? Mon, don’t be daft! But you’ll cough up my share, fair and square, don’t worry, because I took out a bit of insurance, you might say. Either you forgot the nonsense or you can kiss the girl good-bye.” Tommy stepped back a step, his hand tight in his pocket. “Only you’ll never see her to kiss her good-bye, hear? And this is a gun I’ve got here, Billy boy, so don’t be thinking of tricks.”

“Girl?” McNeil shook his head, the rum fumes fogging his brain. “What girl?”

“Your precious barmaid, that’s who!”

“Mon, what are you talking about?”

“You are drunk, you sot! I’m talking about your girlfriend, your Miss Diana Cogswell, ex-barmaid at the Badger Inn. That’s who I’m talking about. Now do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Diana? What about her?”

“Try to listen and try to understand, Billy boy. I said I’ve got your precious Miss Diana Cogswell stashed where you’ll never find her, and you’ll split those stones, or you’ll never—”

He would never have imagined that McNeil in his drunken state could ever have moved so quickly. One moment the big man was slumped on the top step of the porch, arms dangling almost idiotically, and the next he was up and on him long before he could begin to untangle the revolver in his pocket. A large hand clamped itself over the gun, squeezing viciously. Tommy screamed.

“Billy! You’re breaking my hand! Let go! Let go!”

“Ease your hand out, mon.” The drunkenness seemed to have disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as it had come. McNeil swung behind the smaller man, one thick arm locked about the scraggly neck, the other hand still squeezing the pocket with the pistol. “Ease your hand out without the gun or I’ll tear it off. My word!”

“I can’t with you squeezing my hand! You’re breaking it, Billy! Let go!”

“One trick and your neck snaps. Believe me.” McNeil eased the pressure slightly; the empty hand of the smaller man emerged from the pocket, crushed and bleeding, already beginning to swell. McNeil reached into the pocket, taking the gun, tucking it into the waistband of his swimming trunks. He swung the other man about, grasping him by the shoulders, shaking him like a toy doll. “All right, now, Tommy. Let’s talk. What were you saying about the girl?”

A bit of bravery — or it may have been desperation — hardened Tommy’s voice. He grasped the wrist above his wounded hand, pressing tightly, trying to abate the pain.

“I have her where you won’t find her. And pushing me around won’t help...”

“Now, won’t it though!” McNeil said viciously. “Let’s try!”

He took the small man and began to shake him, then shook him harder and harder again. Tommy’s neck snapped back and forth, his teeth chattered, smashing against each other. He tried to clamp his jaw; it did no good. His wounded hand bounced painfully, snapping with each shake. He tried to speak.

“Billy, for God’s sake!”

“Where’s the girl?”

“I’ll tell you! I’ll talk!” The shaking stopped abruptly; Tommy shook his head, his ears ringing, trying to clear his brain. Despite his pain and his fear a touch of malice came into his voice. “And I’ll tell you something else. She’s no barmaid. Anyone with half an eye could have seen that. She’s a copper, Billy — a lousy plant. Put there in the Badger just for you to fall for and spill the beans to.”

The big hands tightened on the smaller man’s shoulders, preparatory to resuming their punishment. Tommy spoke hurriedly.

“She’s in the barn. But she’s still a police plant, Billy. She is, you know.”

“You’re daft!” McNeil dismissed the statement without discussion. “If you harmed her in any way, I’ll kill you, you know. My word! If they hang me for it.”

“I didn’t touch her. She’s perfectly all right.” His head was feeling better, but his hand still pained him considerably. There was pleading in his voice. “Billy, won’t you listen? She’s a copper, mon! Use your skull — wouldn’t it be a perfect place to spot one? And a woman, at that? And you with fifteen years without a woman? Besides,” he added, suddenly remembering, “she knew about me, and I’m sure you never mentioned me to her.”

McNeil paid no attention to the statement; his grip on the other’s shoulders tightened again.

“Is that why you said the place is swarming with coppers tonight? Because she’s missing?” He flung the other from him in disgust; there was a grunt in the darkness as the smaller man slammed against the wall. McNeil glowered at him. “You bloody fool! And with them sure to be knowing I’m gone, you’ve put me in a fine bloody mess! They’ll think I had a hand in it!” He frowned. “Where did you pick her up?”

“At the foot of the hill before her place. Last night. She didn’t see me, not a glimpse of my face.” The note of pleading intensified. “Billy, for God’s sake, listen to me. She’s a copper, I tell you. Why else would they put it on the radio, and why else would the coppers be out like mosquitoes, eh?”

“She’s no copper.”

“I tell you she is! She—”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.” There were several minutes silence. “All right. You take her back to where you found her. Drop her off near her house. And I’ll know tomorrow if you hurt her. If you did, there’s no place on earth you’ll be able to hide.”

A horrible thought suddenly came to him: He had leprosy and like a fool had passed it on to Tommy! Now how could the other even free the girl without infecting her himself?

“And don’t touch her, do you hear? Let her get into the auto herself. Don’t put a finger on her, even to lend a hand. Do you hear?”

“But why?”

“Because I say so.”

“And when I come back?” Cupidity had returned to Tommy’s voice. “Do we split the stones then?”

McNeil looked at him and shook his head in disbelief.

“Mon, Tommy, but you’re a fool! I told you I don’t have the stones and don’t know how to get them. Are you hard of hearing? If I had the bloody things and wanted to cheat you, would I be coming here? Not even knowing you had the girl, or anything? Use your noodle!”

“You’d have come here in time.”

“But I didn’t come here in time. I came right away. Didn’t I?”

Tommy thought a moment and then nodded slowly, sadly.

“You did.” His eyes came up; he sounded aggrieved. “Why didn’t you get them? Weren’t they there?”

McNeil slumped down on the top step again. “You say the girl’s all right for now?”

“She’s fine.”

“Then get some rum and I’ll tell you.”

“All right.” Tommy disappeared into the house, hurrying. His hand still pained, but it seemed to pain less. He came back with a bottle and handed it down, seating himself in the creaking chair. McNeil drank deeply and handed the bottle back; Tommy took a short drink, recorked the bottle, and set it aside. He leaned forward. “Well? Weren’t they there?”

“I don’t know, but I imagine they were.”

“Then why didn’t you get them? Mon, don’t make me drag it out of you word by word!”

“Because it was Green Hell Island, that’s where I hid them. And I didn’t even get off the bloody boat.”

“Green Hell Island?” Tommy stared at him. “You hid them there? But they went and built a sanatorium there, I heard. Over five hundred men on the island, I hear. Hansen’s disease, it was for, they said. They must have built it a good ten years, now.”

“I know.” McNeil paused. When he spoke at last, his voice was expressionless; he stared up somberly, looking at the faint shadow of the other’s face. “I think I’m almost sure to have caught leprosy, Tommy. And now so do you, you see, because you drank from the same bottle...”

“Leprosy?” Tommy stared at him. “You say you didn’t even get off the boat? Then how the devil could you have gotten leprosy?”

“There were two men — lepers. Christ, you should have seen them!” McNeil shook his head. His deep voice was despondent, remembering. “One of them had a hoe and the other had a rake, I think. Anyway, they must have been coming in from the fields, or something. They came by the cove where I was tied up. One of them touched the boat rail. Both of them breathed on me...”

“Did you handle either one of them rough? Or drink from the same bottle, or anything like that?”

“Christ, no!” McNeil shuddered at the thought. “But I tell you the whole place is full of leprosy. It has to be. And these two — you should have seen them. I talked to them; they breathed on me. And one of them even touched the rail. I scrubbed it down good with holystone and rum, and threw everything away, but he touched it. And they both of them breathed on me...”

Tommy let out his pent-up breath and leaned back in his chair, relieved.

“Mon, you had me frightened there for a moment! You don’t pick up leprosy that easy, believe me. Don’t you know anything? Leprosy is one of the least contagious diseases in the world. Mon, there was a lot of opposition from a lot of ignorant people when that sanatorium was put on that island; the folks here in Barbados were afraid the wee little bugs might jump the fifty-odd miles, or come flying over on a good onshore wind like Mother Carey’s chicks. I remember clear; I was passing through at the time. The newspapers were full of it, you know — articles like fleas — trying to get the straight of it through people’s skulls.”

“And what’s the straight of it?” McNeil asked dully. He continued to stare at the step below him, not seeing it. “Do they know what the straight of it is?”

“Of course they know what the straight of it is, mon! You have to have physical contact with a leper, and on one of his sores, too. And for a long time. And then only in some cases. I’m not saying,” Tommy added, unable to stop himself, “but what if you’d have shook one of them with his spit flying in your face, the way you shook me, but what in five years or so you might not have come up with something unpleasant; but just catch it because you both breathed the same air? Or because some poor bloke puts his crippled mitt on the rail of the boat? Don’t be daft!”

“Daft, eh? My word.” McNeil looked up. “You know why I’m still alive, Tommy? Because I was daft, you’d call it.” He paused a moment and then continued. “Let me tell you something: Down in that Brazilian hellhole of a prison, they had a typhoid epidemic once. They had some medic around punching arms with needles, to save you, they said. Well, they’re a civilized nation, you see; needles and doctors and all that, just spreading the bugs, and I wasn’t having any part of it. But you don’t get away from the needles that easy, my word! So I slogged him.”

“Who?”

“The doctor, mon!” Despite his depression, McNeil smiled faintly. “Got me two weeks in solitary, which was my aim, you see?”

“A fortnight in the dungeon was your aim? And you’re not daft?”

“Am I, though! For fourteen days I had neither food nor drink — nor contact with the bloody sick either. It wasn’t easy, but I came out whole, which is more than I can say for those suffered the doctor. Eighty-four dead, and over a hundred sweating their guts out over the head, and never the same — but me?” His predicament suddenly came back to him. “Well... Anyway, up until today...”

“There’s nothing to it, I tell you, Billy! A hand on a rail...”

“You didn’t see that hand,” McNeil said stubbornly. “I did. It looked more a claw than a mitt.”

“I don’t care if it looked like Captain Hook’s beauty, Billy boy. Don’t scare me like that.” Tommy leaned forward, his aching hand forgotten for the moment, his voice enthusiastic. “Look, Billy! Now that you’ve finally let loose of the precious name of the island, we can go back there tonight yet, and still pick the stuff up first thing in the morning. There’s still ample time before light, and more than ample petrol aboard. What say?”

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!

His trip back had sobered him up considerably, and also rested him. He had returned walking along the beach, his bare toes splashing in the curls of the tiny wavelets rippling up the smooth sand, taking to the water to swim only when necessary — once to pass a small community of fishing huts that ran from the main road down to the ocean’s edge, and then not again until he had entered the water some hundred yards from his shack, entering the sluiceway and emerging beneath the hut. He had not been surprised to find the hatch removed from the hole leading to the room above; obviously the coppers would have been here and searched, and just as obviously they would have taken pains to leave evidence that they had done so. He had climbed in, exchanged his swimming trunks for trousers, pulled on a shirt, put on his socks and shoes, and prepared to leave the shack for the inn.

He should have taken a bottle of rum from Tommy’s, but he hadn’t and that was that, but rum he needed badly. Rum might give him an idea as to a possible solution to his problem; or at least it might ease the feeling he had that fate had made him its plaything. One thing was sure; if it did nothing else it would slake his thirst, and the long hike home had built it to formidable size.

He came into the large bar room of the pub and let the heavy carved door swing shut behind him. His eyes scanned the room automatically: an unhappy bartender back of the bar, forced to work double shift; a cane cutter down at the end of the bar nursing a mug of beer and muttering into it drunkenly, probably imprecations he wished he could direct to his field foreman instead of the flat ale before him; a pair in one of the booths drinking what looked like rum. What were they doing here? Strangers the two of them, one a mulatto or an Indian, the other white. Ugly bostards the both. He turned back to the bar, rapping on it loudly with a thick knuckle.

“Rum!”

The bartender brought the bottle over, pouring a glass full, turning. McNeil put out a hand.

“Leave the bottle.”

The bartender shrugged, put the bottle down, and walked away. McNeil took the drink in one swallow, poured a second and allowed it to stand. The two men he saw in the mirror were watching him somberly. What right did the miserable bostards have to eye him like that, anyway? Never saw the ugly sods before and hoped he’d never see them again. He took his eyes from the mirror, looking down at his glass, swirling the liquid slightly and watching the oily surface break up, dipping and swaying. He smiled at it a moment and upended the glass, taking the rum down in one gulp.

And, of course, the miracle he had been expecting from the rum instantly came to pass. As he had known it would, as he had indeed known it would! Others could have their macumba or their voodoo — rum did nicely for him. He almost chortled. My word! Whatever had made him think the problem of getting the gems off Green Hell Island was even difficult, let alone impossible? The solution was so simple it was enough to make a mon giggle. Somebody had to go and get them and then hand them over to him, that was all. Not Tommy, of course — never that cheating bostard — but somebody. The question now, of course, was who — but rum having solved the major portion of the problem, there was little reason to suppose it wouldn’t resolve the minor ones as well.

He poured his glass full, drank it, and was about to pour another when he became aware that the bartender was standing before him, a stubborn look on his fat face. McNeil scowled at him fiercely.

“Well, and what’s that mewling ugly look supposed to stand for?”

“You’ve drunk half the bottle, and we haven’t seen any money as yet,” the bartender said, and swallowed. He was well aware that McNeil was a dangerous man to cross; he hadn’t seen the fight the other night, but it was still the talk of the pub and would be for months — maybe years. On the other hand, he was equally aware that the daily inventory indulged in by his eagle-eyed employer would most certainly turn up a missing bottle of rum unaccounted for with biwis in the till. What was a mon to do?

“Is that it, now?” McNeil said, and laughed. “Is that your only problem, you poor little mon? Well, here’s your miserable brass and be domned to you! Any other pub in this village and you’d see the last of me and that’s the fact! Ugly bostard pub!”

He reached for his wallet and then paused, a statue. He had forgotten he’d been had; he’d forgotten to get more money at Tommy’s! He was flat! The bartender, understanding, finally assumed a role in the frozen tableau, but it was merely to stand and look forlorn: Now that his worst fears were obviously realized he had no idea what to do next. Then, in time, he recalled the constable that was always about, no matter where McNeil went. Jamison was bound to be outside in that sedan of his, but could he make it from behind the bar and past the big man to the door before the other woke up and caught him?

Fortunately, he was saved the problem of making the horrendous decision. A polite voice spoke from the booth along the wall. Wilson was smiling at him, reaching into his pocket.

“Don’t worry about it, bartender. I’ll be only too glad to pay the gentleman’s tab.”

McNeil came out of his trance, turning to stare suspiciously. He had that look on his face that indicated eventual forced acceptance, dislike compounded with the unfortunate inevitability of being the other’s guest. Gratitude had never been a major word in the large man’s lexicon, and besides, why was the little mon doing it, eh? Still, with that domned constable outside he could well spend twenty-four hours in the jug for beating the bill — or even more if he tried to resist arrest — and he hadn’t the time to spare. Why hadn’t he thought of getting money at Tommy’s? Well, that was water over the dam. He swallowed, trying to find the words to accept the offer without appearing under obligation, when he happened to note the wallet from which Wilson was dragging money. Across the table in the booth, Captain Da Silva was watching the scene unfold with twinkling eyes.

McNeil’s eyes widened in shock. It took a second or two for the full truth to strike him, and then it was as if he had also been struck with a bucket of ice water, clearing his brain, replacing the heady rum fumes first with outrage and then with pure hate.

“Hey! That’s my purse!”

“I beg your pardon?” Wilson looked at him with curiosity, pausing in his act of extracting the money.

McNeil clenched his jaw and reached for the wallet, intending to recover it before he took the little purse-snatching bostard by the ears and broke every bone in his thieving body; but Wilson instantly drew it out of range. There was something in the graceful gesture reminiscent of a torero baiting a bull. Da Silva grinned.

McNeil first took a deep breath and then sneered. He stationed himself squarely where neither man could possibly escape.

“Oh, it’s to be cute, is it? Well, suppose I teach you some manners the same time I teach you not to dip purses, eh? You like to come out here where I can get my hands on you, or do I reach in there and snatch you up like a chicken? My word!”

“Ah, me!” Wilson sounded sad about the whole affair. He started to come to his feet when Da Silva reached across the table, pushing him back into his seat.

“If you don’t mind,” he said politely, “you had the pleasure of lifting the man’s wallet; let me have the pleasure of guaranteeing that he doesn’t get it back. Share and share alike, you know. Besides, he’d only spend it on rum.”

The complete effrontery of this confession momentarily held McNeil silenced, but only momentarily. With a bellow like a bull he started to grab at the wallet, still held loosely in Wilson’s hand. Da Silva slapped the outstretched hand smartly. His eyes came up coldly.

“Speaking of bad manners,” he said chidingly, “my friend and I are having a discussion. We are deciding which of us is to tear off your ears and stuff them into your pocket. In lieu of your wallet, I might mention. So please be polite enough not to interrupt. Do you mind?” He turned his attention back to Wilson.

McNeil stared and then burst out laughing. One thing was certain, neither of the strangers could get past him and escape, and when they were done with their farce — obviously intended to distract him and allow them to get past him — he would pick up his wallet and then take the two of them apart.

“Be my guest, mon,” he said, “but if it’ll ease things, why not let me take the two of you at once?”

“You’re interrupting again,” Da Silva said coldly, and turned to Wilson. “A coin, I’d suggest, as being the fairest way. Heads or tails. Do you have one?”

“I really don’t know.” Wilson unsnapped a small side pocket of the strange wallet and nodded. “Ah, yes. Here’s one. All right: I’ll flip, you call.”

McNeil watched the charade, his smile now gone, his hate returning, warming him, preparing him for the fight he knew would soon be coming. The two of them would obviously rush him together, in one move, and if they were armed or not, it wouldn’t save them. Nothing would save them! Not only stealing his purse but trying to put him down, as well. Let them have their bloody fun; they’d be laughing through broken teeth in a very few moments.

The bartender stood hesitant, not knowing what to do. One solution never occurred to him, and that was to call Constable Jamison. No matter what the outcome of the argument he knew he would get paid, so why interfere? He moved a shade down the bar to be in a position for a better view. The cane cutter was totally unaware of any argument; he tossed a coin on the bar and staggered into the street.

Wilson flipped the coin, caught it, and covered it instantly.

“Heads,” Da Silva said.

Wilson removed his hand from the coin and sighed.

“You’re just lucky.”

“It runs in the family,” Da Silva said modestly, and smiled pleasantly up at McNeil. “It’s my honor. Be happy. My small friend here is a lot tougher than he looks. Judo and things, you know.”

“Don’t fash yourself,” McNeil said. “He’ll have his turn, my word! And just hand over that purse before you even start getting up. I get your plan. While I’m thrashing you, your pal takes off with it, is that the drill?”

“Is that your only worry?” Da Silva sounded surprised. “Of course you can have it, friend. I’ll take it off you later, so that’s no great problem.”

He reached over, picking the billfold from Wilson’s fingers, tossing it to the far side of the room. McNeil turned with the gesture, moving swiftly, pouncing on it and coming erect, twisting, all in one movement. To his. surprise, the two men had not taken advantage of their ploy in order to make a getaway, as he had expected. Instead, Wilson was carefully pouring himself a drink, preparatory to leaning back and enjoying the show; Da Silva was facing him calmly in the center of the room.

“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I know it’s not polite to throw things, but I hate being sucker-punched while I’m standing up.” McNeil stared at him. Da Silva’s voice took on a touch of concern. “You did want to fight, didn’t you? Because if you didn’t, I’ll have to ask you to give back the wallet. After all, my partner stole it from you fair and square.”

McNeil smiled, a grim humorless smile. Trying to needle him, eh? Trying to get him to lose his temper and be careless, eh? Not William Trelawney McNeil, mon. What a lesson this pockmarked bostard with the thick mustache was about to learn, my word! He went into a slight crouch, measuring his opponent carefully. Tall and slim, probably heavier than he looked, and probably tough enough, too, the ugly bostard! But not as tough as Bill McNeil, and that was the important point. He moved forward, fingers curved to grab or form fists as required, shuffling lightly. His eyes never left the other’s face. Once he got his arms around that wise chap, he’d break him like a twig!

Da Silva backed away, well aware of the other’s power, and then suddenly feinted with one hand. McNeil. had been waiting; he grabbed the outstretched arm and pulled, turning, flinging Da Silva against the bar, moving in quickly to take advantage, but the mustached man wasn’t there. He had wheeled away in the same motion, hitting out sharply as he did, catching McNeil a ringing slap on the ear. The two circled each other again, each a bit more cautious this time, each beginning to pant a bit. Suddenly Da Silva moved in again, this time contrary to McNeil’s expectations; a sharp slap on the face and he was out of reach again, his Indian-like face stony, his black eyes fixed on the other.

McNeil fought down the first blinding anger that swept him, knowing the importance of not losing his head. That ugly mulatto bostard was slapping him, slapping him! Slapping him like a sma’ one, not even closing his fist. He took a shuddering breath, bringing himself under control. Well, he’d teach him when this was over; he’d break those domned fingers one by one. The taunting hand wavered temptingly before him and then moved in as swift as a striking snake to slap again, but this time McNeil made no move to avoid it. He took the slap and chopped down viciously, catching the other on the forearm with the side of his hand. Da Silva stepped back sharply, his one hand falling uselessly to his side, the other coming up automatically.

McNeil grinned in savage joy and moved in for the kill; a ringing slap on the ear and Da Silva was away, watching him steadily, no sign on his face to indicate the pain in his arm. McNeil took a deep breath and paused a moment, then began edging closer, trying to work his injured opponent into a corner where his moves would be limited. The hand snaked out again; McNeil took the slap in favor of gaining position, but when he looked up again Da Silva was back in the open, waiting.

There was only one thing for it, McNeil thought, and made a feint. That punishing hand moved out swiftly as always, but this time McNeil reacted differently. He took the slap but fell as he did so, going to his two outstretched hands, twisting in the same movement, peering over his shoulder, his thick leg shooting out as if discharged from a cannon, aimed at the face above. Only the face somehow wasn’t there when his leg reached its full extension. Instead of the satisfying and battle-ending thud of his foot against that hated pockmarked head, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach as a shoe was driven viciously into his solar plexus, knocking the wind from him, putting him flat on the floor. He started to push himself to his knees, gagging; an expertly placed kick alongside his jaw knocked him over on his back, fighting for air, dazing him further. One final boot in the side slid him against the bar, out of the battle. The bartender gazed at the new pub-champion with awestricken eyes.

Da Silva reached down, picking the wallet from McNeil’s pocket, coming to his feet, staring down at the beaten man.

“My word!” he said, imitating McNeil’s favorite phrase. “Trying capoeira on a Brazilian! How stupid can you be?”

McNeil fought to sit up and then collapsed again. He lay on the floor, fighting for breath, his topaz eyes filled with hate as he looked up into black eyes as cold as any he had ever seen. He tried to speak and finally managed a harsh whisper.

“I get you for this, mon,” he said painfully, struggling to get the words out. “I get you for this, it’s the last thing I do on this earth, you ugly bostard. My word!”

“I’ll be around whenever you feel like trying it. We’re in a camper about a mile down the beach toward Bathsheba. I’d hate to have you miss us.” He smiled. “You don’t find suckers like you used to, you know.”

McNeil glared at him with hate. Da Silva drew a note from the billfold and placed it on the bar.

“Take out our drinks and the ones he had.”

The bartender picked up the bill and moved toward the cash drawer. Wilson called him back. He had come from the booth and was standing beside Da Silva. He looked at the waiting bartender.

“Take out for the full bottle of rum the man ordered,” he said, and turned to his friend. “It’s the least we can do, don’t you think? After all, the poor man doesn’t look too strong. And it is his money...”

11

The falling-apart camper was hidden in a thick stand of tamarind trees a short distance north of the path leading to Diana’s aunt’s house; the main road and the bit of shoulder where the perimetral bus normally stopped were barely visible in the darkness, but the headlamps of any car approaching and stopping to discharge a passenger would clearly be visible. Da Silva and Wilson were inside the car, waiting; Wilson was patient, but Da Silva was markedly less so. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match out the window.

“I still don’t see your point in insisting that we wait,” he said almost grumblingly. “What do we gain? I’d like to get up there and find out what happened to Diana, and what she can tell us about last night, or about McNeil and his plans.”

“Relax,” Wilson said soothingly. “I didn’t argue when you put on that football match with McNeil, did I? No — I went along like a good little boy, even if it meant seeing you nearly get your head handed to you. And do you know why?”

“Let me guess. Because you had an idea of what I was doing?”

“Exactly. If we can keep Mr. McNeil off balance, he may just make a major mistake. He’s very bright when he doesn’t lose his temper, but you felt — and I tend to agree — that when he sees red he seems the type to jump on his horse and ride off in all directions.”

“Good,” Da Silva said sourly. “So now that we’ve explained why I did what I did, will you please explain why we’re doing what we’re doing? Namely, just sitting here and waiting.”

“We are sitting here and waiting,” Wilson explained in the tone one uses in the first grade, “because McNeil is going to come here. It may take him a short while if he bums a ride, or a long while if he has to walk, but he’ll be here. And we do not wish to be talking to Miss Cogswell when he does. It doesn’t serve any great purpose to have him find us hob-nobbing with his girlfriend — and us perfect strangers — just after you tried to drop-kick him over the bar.”

“I know, but the chances are he won’t even come. If our great hypothesis means anything, he went off before she was snatched. He probably doesn’t even know she’s missing.”

Wilson almost snorted.

“McNeil must have gotten in a few on your head that I didn’t see! He walks into an inn where Diana works nights, sees she isn’t there, but the day bartender is on duty instead, and doesn’t think anything of it? Good Lord!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Da Silva said, and crushed out his cigarette.

“I’m always right,” Wilson said modestly. He looked over at Da Silva’s profile in the darkness. “Incidentally, speaking of rights, how’s yours? Your arm, I mean.”

“Sore,” Da Silva said shortly. He flexed his fingers and frowned. “It’s a lucky thing my muscles were tensed for slapping him, and an even luckier thing he didn’t have much room to chop down, or he’d have definitely broken it, if he didn’t tear it off all together.”

“Well,” Wilson said, “you’re the one who insisted on handling it. If you’d have left it to me—”

“If I’d have left it to you, we’d probably be filling in your next-of-kin forms.” Da Silva glanced over at the smaller man and smiled. “You’re tough and nobody denies it, and using straight judo or karate I think you could probably take him — if you didn’t make any mistakes, of course—”

“I never make mistakes,” Wilson said virtuously.

“—but capoeira is a sport you’re not acquainted with,” Da Silva went on evenly, completely disregarding the interruption, “and if you don’t know it and you’re up against somebody that does, you can really have your head handed to you — or to somebody else, rather. The first one to catch it.”

“So I start taking capoeira lessons the day I get back,” Wilson said. “I have a great fondness for my head.” He glanced at his watch and yawned. “I know our boy is coming, but I wish he’d do it soon so we can finish up our chores and get some rest tonight.”

“Amen.”

“In spades.” Wilson reached into his pocket, brought out his cigarettes and took one, offering the pack to Da Silva. “Incidentally, I’m afraid we’ll have to clean up this case in a hurry.”

“I’ve certainly no objection,” Da Silva said equably, and held a match for them both. He shook it out. “But why the auxiliary intransitive verb of predication?”

Wilson stared at him in amazement. “The what?”

“I said, why the word ‘must’?”

“Oh, showing off, eh? Well, if you want the tragic facts,” Wilson said, puffing away, “this is my last pack of PX cigarettes, and from now on we’ll have to depend on the local product...”

McNeil came out of the Badger Inn, the last customer, and stood a moment, looking up and down the road. Behind him there was the sound of the latch being put up, and a moment later the light behind the curtained window went out, followed in an incredibly short time by the sight of the bartender wheeling down the lane beside the pub on his. bicycle. He turned into the main road and was soon lost in the darkness. McNeil sighed. The road was deserted, the village was deserted; the world, it seemed, was deserted. A few lamps burned in a few huts, but their very existence seemed to increase, rather than decrease, the desolation.

The big man raised a hand to his swollen and discolored jaw, winced at the pain, and walked over to the police car. The pungent odor of rum went with him, preceding him and trailing behind. He leaned on the door of the open sedan, breathing into Jamison’s face.

“Constable Jamison, I presume. I hear you’re under orders to trail me everywhere I go. Well, how about a slight favor, eh, mon?”

Jamison stared at him suspiciously. It was the first time words had passed between them, and the constable wasn’t sure but what it was against regulations. The big man was also drunk as a lord, and looked as if he had taken a bad fall inside the Badger.

“What favor, McNeil?”

“Ah, you know my name, eh? Well, just a ride to my girl’s house up Queensland way. I’ll be getting along there anyway, you know, and you’ll be rolling along right back of me, so what’s the odds? Can’t watch a mon better than when he’s right under your beak, can you? My word!” He saw the unconscious glance Jamison threw toward the inn, and laughed. “Oh, your little mon from the chandler’s shop, the one doesn’t know a bitt from a pail of bait, he can come, too. Plenty of room. And when we get there, he can set up house in the back same as usual, while you keep an eye on the front. Standard drill. I’ve no objection. What say, mon?”

Jamison had reddened at the mention of Pierce, but he turned his head to stare straight ahead, partially because it was the way he saw his duty, but mainly to avoid the stale odor, of rum on McNeil’s breath.

“Can’t be done.”

“Sure it can be done! Of course it can be done. All you have to do is do it, mon.” McNeil leaned closer in confidence. Jamison tried to stop breathing. “Look, Constable — my girl’s had a tough night; I’m sure you’ve heard. I have to see her, and I haven’t a bloody farthing to my name — not a sou.”

“Against regulations.”

“What, to ride in this heap? Taxpayer’s wagon, isn’t it? Anyway, if I put a brick through a window, I’m sure I could ride in it fast enough.” He saw the look on the other’s face and grinned. “I’m joking, mon. A ride like that would be in the wrong direction. Come on.”

“I said, no.”

McNeil sighed. It simply proved that politeness was a complete waste of time; what he really should do was to slap this stupid copper unconscious and take the domned car, and the devil with them all! Still, why borrow trouble without need? The worst of the refusal would be another long hike, his second of the night. Then, in the distance, he saw the lights of the yellow bus approaching around a curve. He bent back into the sedan.

“Look, mon, don’t be cruel. It’s not your nature. If you won’t give me a lift, the least you can do is loan me the price of the fare on the bus, eh? That can’t be against your precious regulations, can it? Of course not! What say, eh?”

Constable Jamison sighed and reached into his pocket. He handed over a coin, and then put out his hand, detaining the man. He reached into his blouse and brought out a packet, also handing it over.

“If you’re visiting your girl, you’d best use these. They’re mints...”

“Mints?” McNeil licked his lips and nodded, smiling. “I gather I need them at that. Thanks, mate.”

Constable Jamison watched as the big man walked unsteadily out into the road and flagged down the yellow bus. He had to admit that it really didn’t make much sense to pay out good money — and from his pocket, too — just for transportation when the police car was, indeed, going to the same destination. Still, it was also true that Regulation 14-C Paragraph 2 Section 6 (or was it 7?) covering the Use of Police Vehicles, clearly stated that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES were they to be used for personal or unofficial business. Still, couldn’t it be called official business in this case? Jamison frowned. It was all very confusing. He tooted his horn lightly, waited while Pierce trotted down the alley and climbed into the car, and then took off, following the jouncing omnibus toward Queensland.

McNeil descended at the small lane as scheduled. From their hiding place in the grove Da Silva and Wilson watched as the big man crossed the road before the bus, disregarding the possible consequences, and disappeared into the darkness. A wedge of light eventually showed him in silhouette; then the door to the house was closed. Jamison pulled up in that instant; the shadow of Pierce could be discerned descending and moving up the hill to take his belated position behind the house.

“See? I told you,” Wilson said smugly, and settled back to wait, a silent Da Silva at his side.

In the house Diana’s Aunt Margaret silently closed the door behind McNeil. She was an old woman, a wizened, wrinkled mulatta wrapped in a shawl over her floor-length dress, despite the heat of the night. She tilted her head in the direction of the girl’s room without saying a word, and shuffled off toward her own. McNeil walked on tiptoe down the narrow bare corridor, trying to make as little noise as necessary, peering into the room at the end. Diana Cogswell was propped up in bed, a lamp beside her throwing its light across the thin sheet that covered her, outlining the fullness of her figure; her hands lay still before her. Her face remained in shadow. She looked up.

“Bill! I—”

“I know all about it, honey. You don’t have to talk about it.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his injured jaw turned away from her, and reached over and took one of her hands in his. It felt cold. “How do you feel?”

“I’m all right. It’s just—” She paused, staring dully down at her hand locked in his. “Oh, Bill! If you’d have done all the things you promised when you promised them, we’d have been out of here and nothing like this would have happened.”

“I know, honey.” McNeil took a deep breath. “I went after those stones last night.”

Her eyes came up swiftly. “You got them!”

“No.” He turned away a moment and then turned back. “I hid them on a place called Green Hell Island. Do you know it?”

“I remember it faintly. It’s the closest, isn’t it? One of the Abandoned group?”

“Yes, but the domned place isn’t abandoned now, my word!” His voice was bitter. “I was there last night and today. They’ve made it into a leper place, you know...” The girl said nothing, waiting. McNeil took a deep breath. “I found out by pure accident, or I might have got off the boat and really been in trouble. This way I didn’t touch one, or even touch anything they touched.” And if Tommy was lying about not catching it from their breathing on me, he thought, maybe I still didn’t catch it. Maybe the breeze was offshore and I breathed on them.

Diana withdrew her hand; her voice chilled perceptibly.

“So you didn’t get them. If they exist at all. And we’re right back where we were last night.”

“They exist, honey. After what happened to you, you should believe it. And I know how to get them, my word!” He turned to face her more squarely.

“You do? How? If you’re afraid to go, and won’t tell anyone else?” She looked up and then gasped. “Bill! What happened to your face?”

“This?” His hand came up and stroked the bruise gently. There was a grim smile on his lips, but his yellowish eyes were deadly. “A blessing, that’s what it’ll turn out to be, you’ll see.”

“But, how—?”

“Two chaps, one held a gun on me and the other took advantage to give me the boot. Three times!” He took a deep breath, remembering. “One a big pockmarked ugly bostard mulatto with a thick soup-strainer; the other a white mon, the little bostard that dipped my purse.” He didn’t notice the tenseness that suddenly crossed the girl’s face; he was looking at the wall without seeing it, seeing instead the beautiful details of his revenge for the beating he had taken. When he turned back to her, she looked as before, waiting. He stared into her eyes.

“But they’ll be the sorriest chaps you ever saw, honey. Because they’re going to get those stones for me from the island.” He didn’t wait for any comment from the girl but bent toward her, his eyes holding hers, sparkling at the brilliance of his idea. “They’ve a camper on the beach, down Bathsheba direction in sight of Brighton dock if the big bostard is to be believed, and I think he was giving the straight on that. He was looking for trouble, and I’d have given him his fill and to spare, except this way we use him to do our chores and laugh in his bloody ugly face when he’s done.”

Diana didn’t seem to understand; she frowned at him.

“And how do we get them to pick up the stones for us? And how do they get to Green Hell Island, even if we ever do? And how do we get the stones away from them once they’ve got them?”

“Look, honey — they’re just the thieving type would go for a story about picking up some loot, especially if it was fed them by you. They’re crooks, that’s their bloody business, I tell you! And they’re strangers, probably don’t know about the lepers or anything. And with your looks giving them the gen? Jam on toast, my word!” He smiled at her and then became serious again. “As for getting there, I’ll have the boat at the end of the pier before dawn.”

“Coppers behind you and all?”

“Coppers behind me and all.” It was said flatly.

Diana didn’t pursue the subject. “And after they pick them up?”

He grinned again. “After that, you let me worry about it, honey. We’ll be off and gone, and the two of the ugly bostards will still be there on the islands. Lepers, the both of them.”

Diana frowned. “Why lepers? They have boats running there for supplies, I imagine. They’ll be off on the first one.”

“So let them, but just being on that island will make them lepers. They say not, but I know better.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Diana looked up. Her voice was steady and quiet.

“And where are the stones on the island?”

He became serious, leaning forward.

“You’ll be with them, of course, because I don’t even know if either of the ugly sods ever saw a boat before. The charts are in the roundhouse. You can’t miss the island; just hold two degrees north of due east. About fifty miles; you’ll raise sight of it fifteen miles short of it, if it’s clear. You’ll come up on it and you’ll see a hill, a cliff like, looks like a big wave about to break; it’s got a rock overhang, see? It’s the highest hill on the island, the one farthest south of the three that are there, and there’s a cove nearly under it where you tie up.”

He waited until this much had been absorbed before going on.

“Now, about halfway up the hill, they’ll see a small cave. Opening bigger on top than on the bottom, about five feet high, five feet wide. Brush in front but not enough to hide it, or there wasn’t fifteen years ago. Between the cave and the coves there used to be a stand of palm, then a swamp, and. then another stand of trees leading up the cliff, but what them lepers did on the island I can’t say.”

“And in the cave?” Her voice was expressionless.

“Inside, at the end — it’s maybe fifteen feet deep, no deeper — there’s a ledge and it looks like it’s all stone, but it’s just rock slabs I laid in clay. And behind it—” He looked at her.

“Fifty miles, two degrees north of east, southernmost hill, halfway up a cave bigger top than bottom, package behind rocks at far end.” She nodded.

“And the chaps are in that camper on the beach, remember?”

“I remember.” Her eyes came up to his face, warm at last. “And you?”

“Don’t worry about me, honey. I’ll be about, when the time comes.” He looked at the clock ticking quietly away on the nightstand. “It’s late. I’ve got to go. Turn off your lamp and get some sleep, honey. I’ll let myself out.”

“All right, Bill.” Diana looked at him with a smile. He bent down and pressed a kiss on her lips, even while his hand moved over to turn off the light switch. She expected to feel his hands on her in the dark but instead felt the bedsprings rise as he withdrew his weight from them, coming to his feet. “Good night, Bill.”

“Good night, honey.”

She heard his steps going down the bare corridor, could picture his hand groping along the wall, and then there was the sound of the front door opening and closing. She smiled to herself contentedly. So at long last Mr. William T. McNeil had revealed the secret of his hiding place. Tomorrow she would look up Da Silva and Wilson — early, before they were gone from the beach — and tell them the whole story. Fifteen years, and she was the one to take credit for digging out the secret. Well, tomorrow would be another big day, even as today had been. She closed her eyes, preparing to rest, the smile still on her lips.

Wilson yawned and stared at the radium dial of his watch. -His eyes went up the hill to the house on top; it had been darkened for several minutes now, but McNeil had still not appeared. The sedan still waited patiently at the foot of the rise.

“Do you suppose he plans to stay the night?”

“I hope not.”

“I’m sure you hope not,” Wilson said. “For several good reasons. Still, what would they be doing in a house with all the lights out?” He answered himself. “Of course, they might be holding a seance.”

“They could be.” Da Silva didn’t sound amused. He glanced at his watch and frowned. “He should have been down here long ago.”

“If, as I said, he isn’t spending the night. Maybe they have a spare room. After all, his own shack was pretty messed up when we left it, as I recall.”

Da Silva was deep in thought; he finally came to a decision, putting his hand on the door handle preparatory to getting out of the car when he saw a dim figure stumbling down the hill in the direction of the road.

“About time!”

“Except I have a cold feeling that was Pierce,” Wilson said — in an odd voice. He climbed down from the car followed instantly by Da Silva; the two men trotted toward the police sedan. Pierce was leaning wearily against the side of the car. Jamison looked up in surprise to see the two men.

“Captain Da Silva. Mr. Wilson.” He looked about. “Were you here?”

Da Silva dismissed the question. “What happened?”

Pierce straightened up a bit, looking abashed.

“He came out of the house after the lights went out, and he walks up to me bold as brass and he says, ‘Hey, chandler’s clerk, we going down to the same place, might as well go down together, eh, mon? You ain’t too proud to walk with me, are you?’ I didn’t answer him, but” — he stared at the ground — “I guess I must have turned, because he hit me, and the next thing I know—” His voice trailed off.

Da Silva stared up the hill. Jamison shook his head.

“Five minutes or more, sir — he could be anywhere. Lucky Pierce has a hard head; he could have been out an hour.” He looked at Pierce sternly. “You maybe got me in a lot of trouble, mon. He was my responsibility. That’s the second time we lost him.” He sighed. “Well, have to call it in, I expect.” He reached for the microphone dispiritedly as Da Silva turned abruptly in the direction of the house on the hill; they both paused as the radio suddenly spoke.

“Jamison?” The voice was that of Inspector Storrs. Nobody sleeps anymore, Wilson thought, and moved closer to the car.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you?”

“Queensland, sir. Down below Miss Cogswell’s house.”

“You followed McNeil there?”

“Yes, sir. Only—”

“Do you know where Captain Da Silva parks his camper on the beach?”

“Yes, sir. Only Captain Da Silva is here with me right now, sir.”

“He is? Good. Lucky. Captain? Storrs here. I think we have McNeil right where we want him.” The four men in and around the sedan looked at each other, but nobody interrupted. “We found out who his partner was. The banker.”

“This is me, Inspector. How did you find out?”

“The telex passenger list from Varig finally came in, Captain. There was one—”

“At this hour?” Da Silva frowned at the speaker.

“It was sent by Varig at eight this evening, and it laid in the communications room until now because it was addressed to you, Captain. If I hadn’t stopped by there to check before going home, it would have been there until tomorrow. At any rate, there was one name on it that I recognized from a long time ago. Glencannon. Thomas Glencannon. Do you remember?”

Da Silva wrinkled his brow, trying to recall it. “No, sir.”

Wilson interrupted. “This is Mr. Wilson, Inspector. Glencannon was the Scottish engineer of the SS Porto Alegre at the time of the robbery, wasn’t he? The one that talked the deck officer into letting McNeil and others come aboard?”

Da Silva stared at him with raised eyebrows. Wilson winked at him.

“That’s right, Mr. Wilson. I gather you must have read the transcript. At any rate, it struck us as quite a coincidence to find him on the passenger list from Recife to Port-of-Spain that day, so we started to check further. Although many people aren’t aware of it, foreigners who rent houses on the island are registered automatically with the police through the real estate agencies; it isn’t true of hotels, although some nationalities are still required to fill out a passport form even there.” The satisfaction in his soft voice was evident even through the inadequacies of the radio speakers. “In any event, Mr. Glencannon came to Barbados three months ago, and rented a house in the northern part of the island. Then, on April tenth he left Barbados for Recife, and returned on the same plane as McNeil as far as Trinidad. He came back a day later from there — apparently didn’t want to get off with police all around who might just remember his connection with the case, even fifteen years later. I don’t think there can be the slightest doubt but what he was the one who planned the affair from the beginning, using the ship’s librarian to get the gang together.”

Da Silva moved closer to the microphone. “Do you think he was also responsible for the kidnapping of Miss Cogswell? That was our hypothesis, remember?”

“I’m sure of it. We just came back from his place, bringing him along. The property has a barn on it that sounds like the place Miss Cogswell was held; and the location is right for the time she says she walked before collapsing and the place she was found. Between the Portland junction and Cherry Tree Hill.”

“Good,” Da Silva said, pleased. “Maybe we’re finally getting someplace.”

“I think we are. So let’s stop playing games with the mon,” Inspector Storrs said briskly. “Jamison, get Pierce and pick up McNeil right now. And bring him in to headquarters in Bridgetown.”

There were several pregnant moments of silence; Constable Jamison finally began clearing his throat when Wilson took pity on the two men and moved to the microphone.

“That’s the problem, Inspector,” he said, his Midwest American accent identifying him. “You see, he got away...”

“What?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Again?”

“Yes, sir.” The others were watching Wilson, the two Bajan policemen owlishly, Da Silva with a slight twinkle in his eye. Wilson returned to his story, bending the truth a trifle. “He came out of the house in an unexpected manner—”

“An unexpected manner? What’s that?”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, he got behind Pierce and knocked him out before Pierce could do anything, or make an outcry of any sort. It’s unfortunate, sir...”

“It certainly is.” The inspector’s voice promised that it would be unfortunate for somebody. “Well, I think you and Captain Da Silva should come down here as soon as possible. And Jamison, you too; with Pierce. We’ll have to start an island search again...”

Da Silva leaned forward. “I was planning on seeing Miss Cogswell to find out what happened when she was kidnapped, and what McNeil just said to her—”

“It can wait until morning,” the inspector said. “She’s tired, and let her rest. I have what happened to her on paper.” There was a moment’s silence while Da Silva sighed hopelessly, looking up toward the darkened house. When the inspector spoke again, he also sounded a trifle hopeless. “Twice,” he said. “To lose the man twice...”

Constable Jamison tried to look on the bright side.

“Anyway, Inspector,” he said in a placating manner, “what would we possibly hold the mon for? Miss Cogswell is home safe and sound, and even if you have this Glencannon chap for the kidnapping, sir, on what charge could we possibly hold McNeil?”

When the inspector came back on, his voice was cold as ice.

“I was thinking of a matter of murder,” he said quietly. “We brought Mr. Glencannon back with us, but we brought him back with a pitchfork stuck through his stomach...”

12

The loud, insistent rapping on the door finally penetrated Wilson’s fogged brain; he tried to bury his head beneath the pillow, but escape in this fashion was impossible. The banging shook the small camper, and the closer one got to the bedsprings the worse the vibration. With a sigh he rolled over and sat up, staring blearily at the watch on his wrist. Six o’clock? What maniac was going around banging on camper doors at six in the morning, when he and Da Silva hadn’t gotten to bed until after three? Well, he just hoped it was McNeil, that was all; he was in just the proper mood to settle with that character once and for all! He yawned deeply and stretched, trying to wake up, to bring some sense of proportion into his fuzzy brain, and then reluctantly reached for his trousers.

The rapping did not abate during Wilson’s pause for recovery from his fogginess. The nondescript man glared resentfully across the camper at the other cot while he zipped himself up; Da Silva, dead to the world, sprawled out, his feet overhanging the edge of the midget cot by a good foot. And how can you sleep through all this racket? Wilson thought sourly. Why should you have had the good fortune to either be born deaf or to have an affinity for unconsciousness that saves you having to answer the door at moments like this? What about all the nonsense that a good policeman springs up widely alert at the sound of a mouse biting into soft cheese? He sighed, suddenly aware that the rapping had not ceased at all during his cerebrations. He got to his feet and staggered sleepily to the door, peering through the locked screen, his eyes squinting against the brilliance of the early morning sun reflected from water and sand.

“Well, well,” he said, and yawned again. “Why didn’t you sing out?”

“I did,” Diana said tartly, “for about ten minutes before I started rapping. It certainly took long enough to wake you.”

“It doesn’t take so long when I get some sleep first,” Wilson explained, and unlatched the door, swinging it wide. A tin can that had been perched above it clattered to the floor, making them both jump. Wilson pushed it aside with his foot, grinning. “Not new, and I doubt in this case it would have been very effective. That was there in case Mr. McNeil decided to pay us a visit without an invitation last night. He seems to dislike us, for some unknown reason.”

“I know all about it.” Diana came in and looked down at Da Silva. Wilson’s grin widened; he tossed a sheet over the sleeping man.

“He’s not as alert as I am.”

“Well, alert or not, you’ll have to wake him.”

“Let him sleep at least until we find out the reason for this bright and early call,” Wilson suggested calmly. “I don’t remember leaving one at the desk.”

Diana Cogswell’s jaw tightened a bit dangerously.

“Do you know, Mr. Wilson, that I have a strong feeling that before this case is over, one of these days we’re very apt to have a fight?”

“If that’s a challenge,” Wilson said, “then I have the choice of weapons and method of combat. I choose bare-handed wrestling.” He grinned. “If I might coin a phrase — and it came to me like that — I should like to say that you look exceptionally beautiful when you get angry.”

“Then I’d look exceptionally beautiful most of the time if I had to work with you very often.” She turned, staring down at Da Silva. “Now, do you wake him or do I? With the water bucket?”

Two dark eyes opened very suddenly, staring up into hers from the bed.

“Just because you’re angry with Wilson is no reason to take it out on me.” Da Silva slid up in bed, pulling the sheet with him modestly. He stared at the girl gravely. “Water bucket! I’ll have you know we have to go miles to get it refilled with fresh water.”

“What he means,” Wilson said, explaining, “is that a much more economical method would be to keep striking him smartly on the soles of the feet. With something unbreakable, of course.”

“You’ve been awake all the time!”

“Well, it really is difficult to sleep with a good fight going on.” Da Silva smiled at the girl. “I might say you look very well after that terrible ordeal.”

“It wasn’t a terrible ordeal, and I never said it was.” Diana Cogswell sniffed. “I’ve been in much worse places. The idiot handcuffed me with my hands behind me and took away the ladder of the barn loft. I don’t know what made the little mon think that would keep me for very long. I merely sat down and pulled my arms around my legs so that my wrists and the cuffs were in front of me; then I simply looked for one of the wooden posts that had to be there to hold up the loft. And managed to slide down it to the floor. It wasn’t anything at all.”

“You mean, you think even I could do it? With practice?” Wilson asked curiously.

Da Silva frowned at the nondescript American and hastily interposed a question to prevent the renewal of hostilities promised by the look on Diana Cogswell’s face.

“But I thought — I mean, the way you were found, Diana. Lying down, unconscious—”

“I was sitting down, not lying down. And I certainly wasn’t unconscious. They really love to build these things up, don’t they? My slippers weren’t made for climbing down hills and my feet hurt. The slippers were ruined and I kept stepping on rocks, so I sat down to rest and this car came along. That’s all there was to it.”

Wilson stared at Da Silva resentfully. “You see? And you wanted to give up our visit to the Badger!”

Da Silva disregarded him, speaking to the girl quietly.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad it wasn’t any worse. Sit down, Diana. I’m sure you have a good reason for being here this early in the morning, and I’d also like to know what McNeil had to say last night.”

Diana sat down on Wilson’s unmade bed and looked from one to the other.

“If Mr. Wilson’s jokes are all finished,” she said, barely able to keep her triumph from showing, “then I’ll be happy to tell you. Last night Mr. Bill McNeil told me where the jewels are.”

Da Silva stared; even Wilson looked respectful.

“That’s right,” she said, and smiled brightly at the two of them.

“And where are they?”

“On an island called Green Hell Island. They—”

“But” — Da Silva frowned — “we flew over it, and the pilot told me that was the one place we could be sure McNeil would never hide them because there was a leper colony there.”

“There is today,” Diana said, agreeing, “but there wasn’t fifteen years ago. The pilot must have been rather young, I should judge; he probably doesn’t even remember when they put the sanatorium there.”

“And whereabouts on the island are they?” It was Wilson, returning to the important part of the report.

Diana Cogswell leaned forward a bit, speaking to Da Silva.

“There’s a cliff, a hill, on the southernmost end of the island; he said one can’t miss it. It’s shaped like a breaking wave with a rock overhang. About halfway up the face of it is a cave, probably covered with some brush but not hidden; he said the opening is unique in that it’s wider at the top than at the bottom. It’s about fifteen feet deep, and at the end the wall looks like ledge, but it’s merely rocks he set into clay. And behind that fake ledge is the package of stones.” She looked proud of herself.

“He went there, then,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “He was probably hidden in one of the coves when we flew over.” He looked up. “So why didn’t he get them when he was there?”

“For the same reason your pilot was sure he hadn’t hidden them there,” Diana said quietly. “Because he has all the old superstitious notions about leprosy that so many people have. The mon is frightened to death of the thought of the disease. He thinks if a leper even breathes on you, you automatically get it, or if you walk on land he’s walked on; and then you start getting big ugly sores right away, and your fingers and toes fall off, and things like that.” She shook her head. “It’s utter nonsense, but not to him. Nothing in this world, no matter how valuable, would ever get Bill McNeil to set foot on that island.”

“So he wants you to get them?” It was Wilson again.

“Heavens, no!” She smiled at him. “Bill McNeil’s grown quite fond of me at this point; he has, you know. He certainly wouldn’t want me to get the disease. I might just give it to him.”

“Then, who?”

“Who?” Her smile widened. “Why, you two gentlemen, of course. He thinks you’re crooks and that you’d go for any story of getting your hands on a dishonest biwi, especially if I were the one to tell you the story. Mr. Wilson is right; he doesn’t like you at all. So what better way to get back at you than seeing to it that you get leprosy? Bill McNeil couldn’t think of a more fitting revenge for someone he hates. And he hates the two of you.”

Da Silva swung his feet over the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet with him, bunching it in his lap. He ran a large hand through his black tousled hair and looked up, frowning.

“I don’t get it,” he said flatly. “Suppose we did everything he wants us to do; go to the island, get the stones, so what? Leprosy or not? How would it benefit him? Sure, he’d get his revenge, as he sees it, but he’d still lose the package. I’m sure he must have something more in mind.” He looked at the girl. “What else did he say, Diana?”

Diana Cogswell took a deep breath before answering; both men automatically looked at that lovely bust and then, a bit reluctantly, back to her face.

“He said he’d see to it there would be a powerboat at the end of the Brighton pier this morning; charts for getting to the island are in the cabin, and he explained to me how to get there. He knows I can handle a boat; we discussed sailing and powerboats more than once at the bar. Anyway, the island is two degrees north of true east, he said; a fifty-mile run. He wanted me to run the boat because he didn’t know if either of you two could do it.”

“But he didn’t want you to get off the boat, I imagine.”

“He didn’t say, but I assume not.”

“And what about him?”

“I asked him, and he said he’d be around when the time came. And that’s all he said.”

“So why don’t we take a seaplane there?” Wilson asked. “And leave Mr. McNeil’s too-convenient powerboat tied up to the Brighton dock from now until it falls apart?”

Da Silva shook his head decisively.

“No. You’re forgetting that at this point we not only want the stones, but that there’s an all-points out for McNeil on a murder charge.”

“Murder?” Diana stared at him, her eyes widening.

“Yes. He’s wanted for killing the little man who stuck you up in that loft.” He frowned, thinking, and then looked up. “No. We follow the plan he laid out, and play it by ear. After all, we wanted him to make a move, and this is it. Now the only way we can find out what he has in mind is to go through with it with no variations.”

“All right, I agree,” Wilson said. “But I do suggest one small variation. I suggest we leave Diana behind. Whatever his plan is, or whatever happens, there’s almost sure to be some danger, and there’s no point in putting her in needless jeopardy. I can handle any powerboat and navigate, too. That’s no problem.”

“Not on your life!” Diana Cogswell came to her feet instantly, her black eyes flashing in anger. Her usually soft island voice hardened. “I happen to be a peace officer, too, you know. And if I say so myself, I’m the only one who’s done anything on this case at all, so far. Mon, mon! Now that it’s coming to a conclusion — on information I got, not either of you two — you think you can leave me out of it, eh? All the credit to the gents, and the ladies go stand in the corner, is that it? I think not!” She swung about, glaring from one to the other. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know that I need either one of you at all. I couldn’t care less about Bill McNeil’s idea of revenge. Whatever he has in mind, he’ll be about. And I can pick up the stones and I can pick up Mr. Bill McNeil, too, as far as that’s concerned! You’d think I was never in on an arrest! My word!”

“All right, all right!” Da Silva said, and grinned at the outburst. “You can come along. Satisfied?”

“Well, it’s mighty sweet of you, mon! I suppose you’ll be expecting me to do the cooking!” She glared at him, far from mollified.

“Not quite,” Da Silva said, and then paused, thinking. “We’ll have to get in touch with Storrs and let him know what we’re doing.”

“I’ll do it while you two are getting some clothes on,” Diana said. “I’ll meet you at the dock.”

“Yes, Mother,” Da Silva said meekly, and reached for his trousers.

The powerboat could not be mistaken; it was the only boat of any stature tied to the pier. The fishing boats had already scattered for the day and were tiny white flash-marks against the blue of the horizon; only a few dinghies rose and fell on the pulsing sea, their loose painters tied to the slippery moss-covered posts of the dock. Da Silva jumped down and helped Diana aboard; Wilson came last, carrying a small overnight bag. He set it down and reached for the line holding the boat to the pier, but Da Silva held up his hand abruptly.

“Hold it — not so fast. If McNeil said he’d be around when the time came, it has to mean one of two things: that he’s on this boat now — which I admit is rather doubtful — or he’ll be on another boat in the neighborhood of that cove, waiting for us to come back from the cave with the stones.”

Wilson bent and opened the small overnight bag. He glanced about, saw nobody within sight, and brought out three revolvers, handing one to Da Silva, tucking one into his waistband, and then looking at Diana with a frown, as if wondering where she might accommodate hers. She smiled and took it, placing it on the small ledge holding the binnacle and the instruments. Wilson straightened up and looked at Da Silva.

“And since we’re armed, just how does Mr. McNeil plan on getting the stones away from us and leaving us on the island?” he demanded. “Using hypnosis?”

“I don’t know.” Da Silva slipped his revolver into his pocket and then brought it out again, holding it. “But I’m sure he has some idea. Before we cast off, let’s take a look around.”

He took on the task of investigating the small roundhouse, peering under the bunks, opening the lockers there, and even opening the doors beneath the chart table, revealing tiny cubbyholes filled with rolled-up maps. He checked the tiny space beneath the small galley and the sink, looked into the head; with a sigh he went back on deck. He watched as Wilson lifted the tarpaulin from the dinghy davited aft, and then pulled it tight again, looping the cord about the thole pins. Wilson walked over and raised the hatches that covered the inboard engines, although it was obvious there was no room in the shallow wells for anything other than the eight-cylinder marine power-plants, crowding the space with their V-shaped beauty. He dropped the hatch covers and secured them, coming to his feet, tucking his revolver back into his belt.

“If he’s in there, he’s hiding inside one of the cylinders.”

“And if he’s in the cabin, he’s hiding in a gasoline tin.” The reference reminded him. “How are we for fuel, by the way?”

“Plenty,” Wilson assured him. “Even for those thirsty monsters.” He grinned. “McNeil didn’t leave much to chance, I have to give him that. I gather he’d feel poorly if we got ourselves stranded halfway to the island, or something like that.”

“I have an even stronger feeling that he’d hate to be stranded himself, once he gave us the old heave-ho on Green Hell Island,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “All right, you’re the captain. Shall we be on our way?”

Diana had been watching silently. She stepped forward and pressed the self-starter buttons; the first engine ground a moment and then caught, followed almost instantly by the second. Water spurted in sudden gouts, bubbling loudly behind, rocking the boat in place. Wilson untied the rope holding them to the pier and stepped down into the boat; Diana let the tide move them clear of the dock and then slowly eased the throttle forward, swinging the wheel. The needle of the compass came about slowly, as if pushing through molasses. The tall girl waited until it reached eighty-eight degrees, between east-by-north and true east on the compass, and held the wheel steady there. Wilson reopened the engine hatches and listened appreciatively to the steady rumble, checked their oil level, and closed the hatches, coming to his feet and facing the prow, letting the wind whip through his hair.

Da Silva had disappeared into the cabin; he reappeared with ham sandwiches. “A woman’s work is never done,” he said with a grin, and handed them around.

Diana smiled at him. With the wind blowing her long hair back, and molding her blouse tightly against her firm, full breasts, with the sun glinting from her straight, strong profile, she was truly beautiful, Da Silva thought appreciatively. What the Brazilians would call a gorgeous morena. She looked like one of the figureheads mounted on the stemhead of some ancient barque, leaning into the wind, making the vessel travel by leading it fearlessly into the mysteries of the unknown sea. Da Silva sighed and turned to look around him, chewing his sandwich. Behind, the island of Barbados was visible almost in its entirety, with its low hills forming a figure similar to a sleeping giant. To the north of them the fishing fleet was closer, but still scattered, bobbing on the sea. Ahead the waves were empty, low and soft; the sun was rising, throwing heat. He turned to look at the girl again.

“How long a run?”

Diana glanced at the instruments. “A few hours. Why? Would you like to lie down and take a nap?”

“Maybe on the way back. This is too much fun.”

Da Silva turned to enjoy the loveliness of the day. It reminded him of yachting with friends in Guanabara Bay, heading for Paqueta — an island, now that he thought about it, not too dissimilar from their goal. Except for sharks; the lack of them wasn’t anything to be held against Paqueta, in his opinion.

Wilson finished his sandwich, lit a cigarette, and came over from his position near the rail. “I’ll take it,” he said to the girl, and put his hand on one of the wheel spokes. “You eat your sandwich.”

“All right.” Diana picked up her sandwich and gun and disappeared into the cabin; when she returned she had fashioned a wide belt from what looked like a pillowcase, pinned behind. Her gun was tucked into it securely; it looked like a pirate sash. She smiled at the two men. “Not exactly regulation holster design,” she said, “but I suppose there are several things about this trip that aren’t regulation.”

“Like, is this trip necessary?” Wilson grinned and paid attention to his task.

The sea rushed past them, foaming alongside and leaving a broad wake behind; the sun rose higher and higher. When at last Barbados had disappeared completely, the complete desolation of open sea could be felt. It was with relief that they finally could note, rising slowly above the waves, the faint outline of the island, increasing in size and clarity by the minute. Da Silva looked at his watch in surprise; Diana noted the gesture and smiled.

“It’s farther away than it looks,” she said. “Distance is deceptive at sea, especially in the Caribbean, where the air is so clear. We’re still a long way off.”

She was proven quite correct; it was nearly forty minutes before they were standing off the island, with the wave-shaped cliff above them and the cove they were seeking before them. Wilson had eased the throttles back until they were almost at the mercy of the waves breaking on shore; he increased their tempo enough to give him control and slowly maneuvered the boat into the gap beneath the spreading branches of the overhanging trees. The sudden shade made the cove seem extraordinarily dark after the brilliant light of the ocean and the glaring sun. Wilson brought the throttle back to neutral and let the boat drift into shore; it eased itself against one of the trees whose roots were locked beneath the water, bumped gently, and then swung slowly about, the starboard rail pressed tightly against a further stand of trees and brush. Diana tied the boat to the nearest tree and stepped back.

Wilson cut the engines. In the abrupt silence the shadowed cove suddenly seemed eerie, slightly frightening. Even the birds seemed to have suspended their activity momentarily in favor of impressing these interlopers with the full extent of their unwarranted intrusion. Almost as if they had practiced the motion in unison, the three withdrew their guns and held them prepared for any eventuality. They stared about as their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, looking at the forest on one side of the boat, and up into the leafy branches as if expecting to see McNeil poised there, ready to drop on them. Wilson finally broke the spell by tucking his gun back into his belt.

“They should hire this place out to anyone making voodoo movies,” he said. He walked to the taffrail and peered down into the water. Shadowy shapes could be faintly seen just beneath the surface. “Or to the Seaquarium for anyone who likes sharks.” He came back and looked at Da Silva. “All right, boss, we’re here. How now, brown cow?”

Da Silva laughed and put his gun away.

“A good question. I imagine that two of us go for the package and one stands guard here.” He studied the thin stretch of beach on the leeside of the boat, and the wall of forest beyond it. “The only problem is who goes and who stays?”

“You and Mr. Wilson go, of course,” Diana said. She smiled in an embarrassed manner. “I know I said I don’t believe all the superstitions about leprosy, and I don’t—”

“Only you’d prefer not to test them, is that it?” Wilson grinned.

Diana Cogswell’s smile disappeared. “We also agreed to follow McNeil’s plan, and that was what he had in mind.”

“We agreed to follow his plan,” Wilson said, “but there are limits. His plan included things like getting the stones from us and leaving us behind to face a fate worse than death. I don’t mind the fate worse than death — I imagine the sanatorium here must have some form of radio communication with Barbados and we could be picked up easily enough. But I don’t care for losing the stones after all the time we put into this thing.” He looked at her calmly. “I admit I don’t know what he has in mind, but it has to be something, and I don’t like to leave a girl alone on a boat if there’s the faintest possibility that McNeil may be in the area. He’s a nasty man.”

Diana Cogswell frowned at him.

“My dear Mr. Wilson, I have excellent hearing, and if he comes anywhere near here in a boat of any kind, including a canoe, I’ll hear him. And I’m positive he isn’t on the island. He just wouldn’t put a foot there, that’s all — not under any circumstances. Besides, even if Bill McNeil does show up, I’m quite capable of handling the situation. I’ll sit myself down in the door of the cabin where I’ll be protected on three sides; and the first thing that moves, without calling out loud and clear, is going to get shot. And accurately. Because, whether you believe it or not, I probably have a better rating on the police pistol range than either of you two.”

Da Silva smiled at her anger.

“You probably do at that. All right — we’ll go along with Mr. McNeil, at least until we have a chance not to go along with him anymore. Let’s just hope he’s not as smart as we are.”

“Which would really be downgrading the man’s intelligence,” Wilson said. “I’ll go along with the hope, though.” He walked to the prow, looked down, and then jumped to the sand. Da Silva followed him. The girl waved to them briefly; then she disappeared around the corner of the roundhouse, her gun in hand, her eye checking the cartridges in the revolver. Da Silva looked after her admiringly.

“What a woman!” he said. “What a wife she’ll make some man someday.”

“If he doesn’t look like a target on the police pistol range,” Wilson said dryly, and led the way up the slope of the beach and into the woods.

13

It was murky in the shaded woods, and slightly damp; the tall grass that interspersed the overhanging fronds of wild, untended banana plants and large breadfruit trees was slippery, almost waxen; it whipped at the men as they pushed through. Da Silva wished he had been able to bring a machete, but there had been no time to get one. He took the lead, his gun tucked away, his eyes straining to pierce the thickets for some sign of an end to the forest. And then open space was upon them without warning; they were in a wide glade, open to the blue sky and the sun, with soft turf beneath. Beyond it there appeared to be a low stand of weeds in what seemed from a distance to be a swamp; closer inspection indicated that it was a large, cultivated rice field, terraced to mount the hill. The colony had utilized the swamp, rather than draining it. The two men paused to rest a moment and then pushed on, skirting the top of the highest of the rice paddies. There was no one in sight.

Their path led them higher and higher along the lower slope of the oddly shaped mountain; in the open the sun was beginning to heat the slippery shale that seemed to make up the hill. The cliff before them blocked off any breeze; sweat poured from their faces, blinding them at times, itching. They kept on an angular course, mounting higher and higher as they cut across the face of the slope, slipping every now and then on the loose rock, and grasping roots or some fortunate outcropping of more solid stone to keep themselves from sliding ignominiously down to end up in the paddy below. Da Silva paused, scratching his cheek, looking up. The cave was easily visible, clearly identified by its opening, but still a long distance away and seemingly impossible to reach. He spoke over his shoulder.

“We should have brought rope. And pitons.”

Wilson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared up. He snorted.

“Pitons in this shale? Never. And about all we could do with a rope would be to hang ourselves. What we should have brought is a helicopter.” He frowned up at the wall of rock, which seemed steeper the higher they went. “I wonder how McNeil ever got there in the first place?”

“I imagine this whole slope was roots and trees at one time; when the swamp down below was cleared, the ones above probably kept sliding down. The roots couldn’t go very deep in this stuff.” Da Silva studied the terrain and then glanced back at Wilson. “There seems to be some sort of ledge about ten feet up. If you stand on my shoulders...”

“I suppose that’s as good as anything. I’ll be damned if I’ll turn back at this point.” Wilson waited while Da Silva crouched; he placed one foot on the big man’s shoulder and helped as the other straightened up, placing his palms flat against the face of the cliff and pressing downward with all his strength, taking some of the load from the straining man below him. He reached over his head, groping.

“Hold it. Not that you’re going anywhere...” His hand felt back and forth. “I know what you mean by the ledge; it’s about a foot deep here. But I need something... Wait. I think I’ve got it. A root, I hope. Hang on while I tug on it and see if it’ll take my weight.”

There was a faint cry from below, carried to them on the still air. Da Silva turned his head; Wilson above him clutched madly.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Somebody down below called out. I just turned my head.”

“Well, don’t turn your head! Let me do the sightseeing, eh? You scared the hell out of me.” He glanced over his shoulder, the sweat running down his face. “Three people down there with big straw hats. I don’t know what they’re selling, but they’ll have to wait.” He reached up again and found the handhold he had been seeking. “I’ve got something. Put your hands under my feet and lift me slowly. Slowly! This isn’t the shotput, you know! There!”

He pulled himself up carefully, got one knee on the narrow ledge, turned enough to come to his feet without falling, and looked down at Da Silva’s upturned face.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to hold down the fort. You can look around all you want now. I can reach the cave from here, and I can’t get you up here.” He scratched at his sweaty face. “Don’t go away.”

He turned slowly, facing the cliff, edging his way along the ledge. His hands examined helping holds and accepted or discarded them according to their worth; his feet shuffled slowly along, testing each step of the way. The unpleasant thought suddenly came to him that while the inaccessibility of the cave probably rendered it worthless as a home for wild animals, or even snakes, it still might well serve as an aerie for some large bird, and the thought of being attacked — or even critically examined — by some giant winged creature this far up in the air, was not a pleasant one. He put it away as being nonproductive and kept edging along the face of the cliff. And then the mouth of the dark cave was suddenly just above him, within reach.

He stared upwards into the dark cavern; there seemed to be no means of getting from where he was up to and into that opening, so close and yet so far away. His hand went up and probed the unseen floor of the cave as far as he could reach; it appeared exceptionally smooth. There was nothing to get hold of. His disappointment must have showed in the set of his shoulders because he heard Da Silva call out.

“Hold it there. I’ll try to get below you and push you up.”

Wilson glanced down, shaking his head.

“No chance. You stay where you are. Eventually I’m going to need to get down, and you’re my ladder. If you’re sticking head-first in a rice paddy, you’ll be small help.” He withdrew his hand from its barren exploration of the cave floor and used it to feel about on the wall before him. His fingers encountered a small niche about hip-high, a minor niche in the cliff, but one that satisfied him. “I think I can do it. Patience, patience...”

His hand dug at the small opening, slowly loosening small layers of shale, carrying them slowly to one side and dropping them; he could hear them clatter down the slope below him. The hole deepened; when he considered it sufficiently deep, he tested it by placing his knee into it and raising himself slowly, pressing himself tightly against the face of the cliff as his other foot was forced to relinquish its purchase on the ledge. His head rose slowly above the cave entrance; it was empty of bird or animal, but in the dimness he did see a jagged rock sticking out of one wall within reach. His fingers found it and locked themselves about it; he pulled and found himself lying on his stomach inside the cave, his feet dangling over space outside, his breath coming in great gasps of relief.

He sat up and crawled to the mouth of the opening, staring down. About the edge of the rice paddies a large group of men had formed, all in wide-brimmed straw hats, silently watching the drama being played out above them. Da Silva grinned up at him. Wilson put his forefinger to his thumb in a gesture of success, grinned back, and disappeared into the cave. He returned to the entrance in what Da Silva later claimed was an hour, but which was actually about five minutes, wiping the blade of his pocketknife on his trousers, folding it against his leg, and putting it away in a pocket. His other hand carried a package the size of a large book. He sat down in the cave opening, legs dangling, and proceeded to start stripping the stiff plastic from it. Da Silva yelled.

“Hey! I’m hanging on here by my eyebrows! That can wait!”

“Who knows?” Wilson looked down at him. “Maybe fifteen people hid packages here. I’ll admit it’s doubtful, but I’m the cautious type. Because I don’t want to go through this Pearl White bit again just because I later find I dug out the wrong one and we’ve got somebody’s lunch instead.” He removed the cover from the small box, studied the contents a moment, and nodded as he replaced the cover and rewrapped the box. “No — he must have left his lunch someplace else. This is the stuff.”

“Then let’s move.”

“Right.” Wilson came to his feet. He knotted the plastic tightly, half-removed his belt and slipped it through the knot, replacing the belt through its loops so that the package was firmly fixed in the small of his back. He placed the pistol that had been there in his hip pocket and looked down at Da Silva. “Incidentally, we have quite an audience. A pity we couldn’t charge admission. And for your information, the view from here is lovely...”

“Will you come on down!”

“I can see the sanatorium from here. Not a bad-looking layout. I think we ought to stop in and see the director and say hello. It’s the only polite thing to do. We probably won’t be back in a hurry.”

“You won’t be back, because if you don’t come on down, you’ll still be here for a long time,” Da Silva said darkly. “Either you come now or I go down alone. And you can stay.”

“I can always go back and look for that lunchbox—” Da Silva made a move. Wilson hastily turned on his stomach and dropped his legs into the void below, his foot groping for the ledge. “My God, I’ve never seen such an impatient person...!”

“Sorry about this, honey,” McNeil said apologetically, “but the mon won’t believe you didn’t call out with a good reason unless it’s open on the face of it you couldn’t, don’t you see.”

Diana Cogswell sat on the deck in the opening to the roundhouse. Her hands were firmly bound behind her back; her lovely face was expressionless. McNeil had taken her pistol and tossed it on one of the cots; the other cot had been folded back against the bulkhead revealing the opening to the between-decks lazaret. McNeil took a clean handkerchief and bound it tightly around her mouth, giving the appearance of gagging her without being too uncomfortable.

“There,” he said, studying his handiwork. “That ought to sell the ugly bostards. Once we get our mitts on the package, honey, we’re off and away and domned to the two of them stuck here for life.” He licked his lips, thinking about it, and then held up his hand. He turned his head, listening. “What’s that?”

The sound he had heard was a faint crashing in the distance, a body pushing its way through heavy brush. He picked up his rifle and stood back of the girl; he considered the position a bit, and then shook his head.

“No. You get on your feet and step forward a bit; I’ll stay here in the hatchway. I want him to see you clearly.” The girl stepped forward and stopped. McNeil nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good, honey. Get ready...”

The sound of the movement through the reeds increased; there was the final sound of the tearing of cloth, a faint curse, and then silence as footsteps crossed the sand. There was a hail.

“Diana!”

“That one’s the little thieving bostard,” McNeil muttered and tensed himself, the rifle raised and ready.

“Diana?”

There was hesitation in Wilson’s voice. McNeil shoved the girl to the fore, the rifle held steady in her back. He looked over her shoulder to the man on the narrow sand beach, staring up at the boat. Wilson frowned at the sight of the large black man with the gun.

“How the devil did you get here?”

“Don’t worry about it, mon.” McNeil stared about suspiciously, and instantly brought his eyes back to the man on shore. His gun nudged the girl; she winced involuntarily. McNeil frowned. “And where’s your ugly bostard half-breed partner?”

“We got separated.”

“Yeah? And where’s the package, then?”

“He has it.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” McNeil considered a moment and then grinned as a thought came to him. “Turn around.”

“What?” Wilson sounded puzzled.

“I said turn around!” The deep voice became menacing. “Or else the girl gets it!”

Wilson looked at him curiously. “The way I hear it, she’s your girlfriend, not mine. Why on earth should it bother me if she gets it three or four times?”

Diana’s eyes opened wider at this statement. McNeil sneered.

“Or you get it then. Is that better, mon? My word!” The rifle moved slightly, clearing the girl’s back to train itself on Wilson while still keeping her within the area of danger. McNeil’s yellowish eyes narrowed. “Now, turn around!”

“A far more effective argument,” Wilson agreed sadly, and turned. The package, knotted to his belt, dangled in plain sight. To Wilson it seemed as the albatross must have seemed to the ancient mariner.

“I had to hang it there myself when I put it up in the cave,” McNeil said, and grinned. The grin disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “Now, untie it, mon. And quick!”

“My pants will fall down...”

The rifle was raised slightly. “You getting past being funny, mon. Untie it, and now! And no tricky moves, you hear?”

“I hear.” Wilson sighed and unbuckled his belt, drawing it free of the knotted plastic wrapping, letting the package fall to the sand, then replacing his belt carefully through the loops and buckling it. He picked up the package and hefted it in his hand thoughtfully. McNeil brought the rifle up a bit.

“Throw it up here! And quickly, mon!”

“If you insist,” Wilson said, his tone robbing him of any responsibility for the act, and tossed the package toward the boat.

It sailed through the air, away from McNeil, landing near the taffrail of the ship, skidding into the scupper there. The big black man grinned to think the little thieving Yank bostard would think he could be drawn from the protection of the girl so easily, but his eyes followed the flight and landing of the package greedily nonetheless. It was a fatal lack of several seconds of his attention, and payment was extracted instantly. A second voice called out, suddenly, sharply.

“Diana! Drop!”

The girl’s feet went from beneath her instantly; she slumped like a dropped sack of flour. There was an immediate report of a revolver shot and McNeil was flung against the corner of the hatchway, his rifle falling to the deck, his hand clutching his wounded shoulder. His large eyes looked down at the girl reproachfully, and then came up.

They widened in horror. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest the sight before him, but no words would come; just animal sounds. He stumbled back toward the lee rail, holding his unwounded arm up as if to ward off the terrifying apparition in the wide-brimmed straw hat rising slowly over the starboard side of the ship, the hooked fingers scrabbling for purchase on the polished rail.

“No, no, no!” It came out finally in a hoarse whisper, increasing in crescendo as the man in the wide-brimmed hat, his face completely shadowed, clambered slowly and stiffly over the railing and stood on deck. The figure paused a moment and then began to advance slowly across the deck, its movement a sort of lurching followed by a recovery; the taloned fingers rose slowly in the air, held out toward McNeil as if seeking an embrace. McNeil retreated, stumbling, until his back was pressed tightly against the low railing. Both hands were raised now to protect him, the pain in his shoulder forgotten; there was the trace of foam at the corners of his mouth; his eyes were mad in their insane fright.

“No. No. No.” He screamed. “No!”

He tried to lean farther back from those probing, seeking fingers; his weight shifted. He twisted to escape, but there was nothing to be done. With a hoarse cry that was more a growl than a shriek, he fell over the railing into the cove, striking out instinctively and madly for the shore. But he had taken less than four strokes before there was a boiling of the water; dorsal fins like tiny sailboats swerved in his direction. The first strike was a thud almost audible both on the boat and ashore, where Wilson stood watching, his face a trifle pale and expressionless. There was one brief moment when a clutched hand rose from the water as if in supplication, and then the second strike came, followed by the third. The water bubbled with reddish foam, and then slowly settled to calmness again. The dorsal fins retreated; the waves of the disturbance translated themselves into widening circles from the scene of the struggle, coming to the sand beach in little wavelets, rocking the boat slightly as they washed its hull.

Both Da Silva and Diana stood at the railing, staring down gravely. The wide-brimmed straw hat had been pushed back on the tall Brazilian’s forehead; his black curly hair peeked out in front. He sighed and turned away from sight of the lagoon, starting to untie the girl. Wilson dropped to the deck. He walked to the taffrail scupper, retrieved the package, and placed it on the instrument ledge; this done he moved to the railing, gazing down into the calm waters, noting the faint shadows sliding beneath the surface. He turned to face Da Silva, studying the almost-Indian features a moment, and then spoke quietly.

“You know, Zé,” he said slowly, “sometimes — to repeat a phrase I seem to remember from someplace — you’re a hard-to-understand son of a bitch.” He gestured with his head toward the waters of the cove. “That was rather nasty, you know.”

“The world is full of nasty people,” Da Silva said quietly, and took the cord from about Diana’s wrist. “He was one of them...”

Green Hell Island lay behind them. The wave-shaped mountain stood clear against the blue of the sky, the palm-fringed cove beneath it was a darker smudge against the light-green vegetation that shared the water’s edge with the yellowish sand of the narrow beaches. Ahead of them the mid-afternoon sun worked its way across the sky, heading for the horizon and the endless chore of lighting lands farther to the west. Wilson, at the wheel, yawned mightily.

Diana Cogswell came to stand beside him, smiling at him in friendly style. “I’ll take over, if you wish.”

“That’s a great idea,” Wilson agreed. He handed over the wheel, stretched, and grinned at the girl as she took up a seamanlike stance behind the spokes, moving them slightly to bring the boat more exactly on course. “You know,” he said reproachfully, remembering, “we still haven’t had that fight you promised me, and here this case is just about over.”

“You mean the bare-handed wrestling match?” She laughed. “It wouldn’t be fair. You’re too tired.”

“Excuses, excuses!” He yawned and smiled at her. “In that case I’ll go in and take a nap. You stay here and try to dream up a new alibi once I’m rested and my old virile self again.”

Da Silva had wandered over from the railing and was listening. He smiled at both of them.

“I’ll join you. That is, if we can get the cot back in place over that lazaret our pal used to hide in.”

Diana Cogswell’s smile faded. “I’m sorry about that. He came up behind me so quietly—”

“Don’t apologize. All’s well that ends well.”

“To coin a phrase,” Wilson said. “Anyway, we promise to leave it out of our mutual report if you promise not to wake us any earlier than necessary,” he added, and winked at her. He moved into the cabin, followed by Da Silva. They managed to get the cot back on its feet over the lazaret opening, and the carpet kicked more or less into place. Wilson dropped down on the bunk and leaned back, luxuriating in its comfort. “Ah! This is good! Call me October eighth.”

“God, you’ve got a memory!” Da Silva said. He smiled across the cabin. “I know it was the Marx Brothers, but I forget the picture. How old are you, anyway?”

“Nineteen. My granddaddy told me all about it,” Wilson said, and closed his eyes. He opened them for a brief moment. “If it bothers you, call me October ninth.”

“If I’m awake by then.” The mustached, pockmarked Brazilian took Diana’s pistol from the cot and placed it on the chart table, out of the way. He lay down, stretching out his tall frame. “Man, this is the life!” He pulled himself up on an elbow, looking curiously over at Wilson. “I wonder if we could borrow this tub to go back to Brazil? In a crisis, I wonder if we might even rent it?”

“I wonder if you could stop jabbering so I could get some sleep?” Wilson muttered grumpily. He buried his head farther into his pillow. “Pretend it’s also a crisis.”

“I’ll try.”

Da Silva closed his eyes, allowing the even swaying of the deep-plumbed boat to relax him. Across the narrow aisle separating the two bunks Wilson was already breathing heavily, his mouth slightly open, his arm jammed beneath his pillow, bringing it in closer contact to his head. The even rumble of the twin marine engines was soporific in the heavy afternoon heat. A fly, buzzing from one head to the other, decided that neither offered too much hope for the future; it attempted to check on the third member of the crew on deck, and was swept helplessly to sea on the strong breeze.

The third member of the crew turned momentarily to watch Green Hell Island slowly disappear into the ocean over her shoulder, then brought her attention to the west again. The sea before her was empty; the lifting waves raised themselves sacrificially to be sliced by the dipping prow. She smiled and locked the wheel. She padded silently to the roundhouse and paused in the doorway, listening intently. A faint snore came from the bunk on her right; slight inhaling from her left. She advanced a bit farther into the cabin, her eyes searching; then she saw what she had been looking for. Her revolver had been put aside carelessly on the inclined chart table; it lay atop a straight edge, nudging a draftsman’s compass. She paused studying the two inert forms on the bunks and then moved quietly down the carpeted aisle, taking up her revolver and checking its contents. A full complement of cartridges winked up at her, reflected in the dim light of the cabin. She eased the revolver closed and gripped it, turning.

Both men were breathing evenly, deeply. She smiled faintly and raised the gun, then paused as if making up her mind. She nodded, as if in unconscious agreement with her own judgment, and moved to Da Silva’s side. The revolver was brought to his temple; her finger tightened perceptibly on the trigger. And suddenly she found her hand captured, the pistol averted, while two black eyes stared into hers reproachfully.

“That’s not nice,” he said softly. “You weren’t to wake us before it was necessary.”

For a brief moment Diana stared at him, her eyes wide with shock; then her quick brain woke up. She twisted, slashing down with the edge of her free hand. Da Silva grimaced in pain, his grip upon her loosening. She jerked her hand free, coming to her feet swiftly, stepping back and leveling her revolver at him.

“That wasn’t very nice, either,” Da Silva said, disappointed. “That was my sore arm.”

“You won’t worry about that very long,” she said in a low, taut voice, and turned slightly to make sure she was in a position to handle Wilson as well, should he wake and try to interfere. The pistol moved from one to the other with professional competence.

Wilson opened his eyes and yawned.

“Noise, noise! Is there no peace anywhere?” He looked across at Da Silva. “Will you please take that thing away from her so I can get some rest?” He saw the look on the other’s face and shook his head in simulated disgust. “Zé, for heaven’s sake! You don’t think I’d give a headstrong young lady like that a pistol that would fire, do you?”

Diana Cogswell’s jaw tightened dangerously; she stepped back another step and raised the pistol expertly, bringing it to bear on Wilson, pulling the trigger. The small nondescript man on the bunk watched in amusement as her eyes widened; the only result of her effort was a dull slapping sound.

“Revolvers need firing pins,” he explained. “Certainly you must have noticed that when you were racking up those fantastic scores on the pistol range. Well, that gun doesn’t have one.”

He came off the bed with an easy movement that surprised her. She raised the gun to use it as a club, and suddenly found her arm painfully twisted behind her, followed in a moment by the other. A pair of handcuffs were snapped about her wrists, but the stanchion upholding the cabin’s roof was between them. Wilson yawned and climbed back into his bunk.

“I’m afraid you’ll have trouble getting out of that.” He looked over at Da Silva. “Now may I please get some rest?”

“No,” Da Silva said. “You just got through incapacitating our crew. You are now elected, of course. You should be out there on deck steering, or tacking sightings, or something, shouldn’t you?”

There was a moment’s silence. Wilson swung his feet over the edge of his bunk, sitting up. He ran his hand through his thin hair and sighed despairingly as he came to his feet.

“While I’m taking those capoeira lessons,” he said, “you’re going to be taking lessons in navigation and allied subjects. That’s a must.” He started to leave the cabin, paying no attention to the girl staring at him with hatred in her large black eyes; then he turned back for a moment, looking at Da Silva. “Incidentally, I’ve had my suspicions of our Diana, here, for a long, long time. I had a feeling she was in this business for more than an Interpol agent’s paltry salary. But when did you suddenly see the light?”

“Me?” Da Silva looked at him evenly. “It started to strike me roughly about the time that I heard from Inspector Storrs that the banker — Mr. Thomas Glencannon, and you’ll notice I remember his name now — met his untimely end.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Da Silva said slowly. “I had the pleasure of tangling with Mr. McNeil once, as you recall, and one thing I can definitely assure you: He didn’t need a pitchfork to resolve his problems. And if Glencannon had tried to take a pitchfork to him, the chances are McNeil would have taken it and made the other man eat it — but he’d never use it to kill him.” He looked at the girl, his face expressionless. “That was another thing you did, Diana, that wasn’t very nice. I don’t know what we’ll ever do with you...”

14

“I’m not so sure I know what we’ll do with her,” Inspector Storrs said.

The inspector together with the two Interpol men were seated in a booth at the Badger Inn; Da Silva and Wilson had glasses of rum before them while the inspector nursed a giant mug of ale. The camper had been returned to the rental agency by Constable Wexford; the baggage of the two men was stowed in the trunk of Inspector Storrs’ car at the curb, waiting to take them to Seewell Airport and the return to Brazil. Wilson sipped his rum and looked across the table at the inspector.

“But I understood that you had ample evidence.”

“Oh, we have evidence,” the inspector said. “Diana Cogswell left her fingerprints all over the place — quite liberally, I might mention. I doubt she had any intention at the time of having McNeil blamed for the crime; she hadn’t learned where the stones were as yet, and that’s what she was after and had been since the beginning.”

“Then if you have evidence—”

Inspector Storrs looked at Wilson almost pityingly.

“You’re not thinking. I’d judge it shouldn’t take the worst barrister on the island more than two minutes to get an acquittal on the basis of self-defense. In fact, I’ll entertain a wager from you gentlemen at any odds that the jury wouldn’t even leave the box. After all, a chap kidnaps her. She says she tried to escape and the chap tried to stop her. The pitchfork is there at hand — she tries to ward him off. And an unfortunate accident occurs. But what’s a poor woman to do?” He shrugged. “It’s her story, and if you ask me, it’s a pretty good one.”

“Even if it isn’t true?”

“Even if it isn’t true.” Inspector Storrs took a deep draught of his ale and set the mug down. “And if I went on the stand and swore under oath that she killed Thomas Glencannon to reduce the number of people in the division of the spoils — just as she tried to get you to kill McNeil and had the immense fortune of having him kill himself — if I swore those things, the only thing the jury might do immediately upon freeing the girl, would be to recommend a long rest in some asylum for me until my brains became less addled.” He smiled gently across the table. “Picture her on the witness stand, with her dress above her knees and a low-cut neckline. You talk as if you’d never seen her in all her glory.”

“We’ve seen her,” Da Silva said, and smiled rather grimly. “I also saw her holding what I thought at the time was a loaded pistol to my head. Speaking of sights, that was not a very pretty one.”

“And she would simply deny it. Or, better yet, claim it was all a joke; that she knew the gun wouldn’t fire because she’d tried it before, aiming into the cove at a shark just for sport. Would you be able to prove otherwise?”

“No,” Wilson admitted unhappily. “And I imagine if I repeated some of the things she yelled out to us while she was handcuffed to that stanchion inside the cabin, the jury would claim that anyone unfairly handcuffed anywhere had every legal right to be upset. After which the judge would give me six months, or the lash, or both, for using obscenities in the courtroom.” He sighed. “So she gets away with it!”

Da Silva frowned and shook his head.

“I’m not so sure. She won’t swing for Glencannon, maybe, but she’ll suffer. Interpol has the complete story on her, and wherever she goes she’ll be watched. Anything off-color in the neighborhood and she’ll probably be brought in for questioning. And with her temper and her tastes, it’s merely a question of time before she gets picked up for something she did where self-defense won’t work. These things pile up, you know. I wouldn’t envy her if I were you.”

“I don’t envy her,” Wilson said stiffly. “Why should I? She’s not an exotic dancer, and she can’t even pilot a plane.”

Inspector Storrs stared. “What?”

“An in joke,” Wilson explained. “And not a very good one.” He sighed. “So someday we might run into the lovely Diana Cogswell again, eh?”

“Not if I can help it,” Da Silva said fervently. He looked at Wilson. “While we’re going through this autopsy, I’d like to ask a few questions myself. What led you to suspect her in the first place? Her bona fides from Interpol were genuine enough.”

“Oh, I never doubted she was with Interpol,” Wilson said. “But I have a hunch she managed to get in just for the purpose of getting her hands on those stones. Sound outlandish? It really isn’t, you know. She’s only been with Interpol a few years, and when I tell you some of the other things I dug up, you’ll see the connection.”

He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into an ashtray, staring at his glass of rum through a cloud of smoke, putting his thoughts in order while the others waited patiently. At last he looked up.

“Well, to start: In Port-of-Spain, in that bar, she started to say she had no plan — to find out what Zé knew or had in mind, I imagine — but the fact is that she did have a plan, and I spilled it in a childish exhibition of showing off my ability at picking pocketbooks. Now, as an Interpol agent assigned to Captain Da Silva, this reticence was rather odd, when you consider it. Unfortunately, I didn’t get around to considering it for a long time, but it stayed in my subconscious.

“Then, of course, there was the matter of her volunteering for the assignment just because it was in Barbados, her home sweet home. Now, I’ll admit I’ve had army training that Diana obviously didn’t, but the fact is I’m automatically suspicious of anyone who volunteers for anything, anytime, and the hometown bit struck me as being the flimsiest. I’m from Ohio, and I certainly don’t volunteer every time there’s a jewel robbery in Medina or Canton. My experience is that when Interpol wants you someplace, they see to it that you get there. So I sent a small cable from your communications center, Inspector, and discovered that Diana Cogswell hadn’t simply volunteered; she had used about every trick she could think of to get the assignment.”

Da Silva frowned. “And you never told me?”

“It was still only a faint suspicion,” Wilson said evenly. “Besides, you were always so busy in your meetings that I didn’t want to bother the brains of the operation with details. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Then there was the matter of age. When McNeil went up, he was twenty-two; Diana Cogswell was fourteen, and a beautiful creature at fourteen, I should imagine. Not a baby by island standards — in fact, I doubt if she was anything but a lovely young lady by any standards.” He shrugged lightly. “It struck me as being highly dubious that in an area as restricted as the Brighton-Queensland axis, let’s say, that McNeil and Diana had never met. A brawny young cock of the walk and what had to be the prettiest girl in the place? Very doubtful. But, I said to myself, where would they meet? Certainly not in the pub; certainly not in school, since McNeil probably quit before Diana even started. Then where? Ah, I said to myself — being a detective, you see — what if she went to church, and they had dances, and McNeil and his friends, who played beautiful music everyone agrees, just happened to pick up some change that way — or managed to meet girls that way — both normal youthful objectives? So I called the Queensland church, and the rector there, bless his soul, didn’t remember Diana or any of the girls and boys, but he did remember that McNeil and his friends played for dances there...”

“You were a busy little bee while I was in meetings, weren’t you?” Da Silva murmured, but his eyes were smiling.

“But still,” the inspector said in his soft island voice, “you only had suspicions, nothing more.” He had been watching closely; his attention riveted on the other; his tone indicated he was waiting for more. Wilson hastened to comply with the unspoken wish.

“They were just suspicions up to that point, it’s true,” he admitted, “but then Zé had one of his meetings that was a bit more boring than usual — you’ll forgive me, Inspector — and I wandered about your headquarters building; and being naturally interested in genealogy, I thought I’d just check on the Cogswell family.”

“We checked, you know, on her aunt when Diana first contacted us,” the inspector said quietly. “Her aunt’s maiden name was Windom; her married name really was Cogswell, you know.”

“I know. I found that in checking your records. What I also found out, though, is that Aunt Margaret was Diana’s mother’s sister.” He looked at the others proudly; all he got in return were blank stares. He frowned. “Now who’s not thinking? If her aunt married a man named Cogswell, how did Diana get the name? Did her mother also marry a man named Cogswell? Or did Diana merely adopt the name and later take it legally? And if she did give up her real name, why did she do so?”

“You’re trying to say something,” Da Silva said quietly.

“I am, indeed. Her real name was Corbett — Diana Corbett.”

Inspector Storrs sat up straight. “Jimmy Corbett’s sister! I imagine she would have known about the stones!” He turned to Da Silva. “He was one of the four who held up the ship. He died in prison.”

“I know.” Da Silva turned to Wilson. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. Anyone could have done it who wasn’t tied up in meetings all day.” He smiled.

Inspector Storrs was drumming his thin fingers nervously on the table.

“This may change the picture. We may be able to bring up a bit more at the trial than I had thought.” He looked at Wilson. “You’ll be able to stay here to testify, of course?”

Wilson’s self-satisfied grin disappeared instantly. He raised his hand hurriedly.

“Look, Inspector, you don’t need me. Everything I told you is a matter of record. I have to get back to Rio. I’ll make a deposition when I get back, notarize it at the Embassy and send it along airmail. But I have to get back. I’ve been away too long as it is.”

Da Silva smiled. “He has a date with some smells, and to cross a street.”

The inspector was beginning to recognize in jokes. He didn’t let them bother him. He glanced at his watch.

“All right. I’ll accept the deposition. And if you really want to catch your plane, we’ll have to be leaving soon. What about a final cup of cheer on the Barbados constabulary?”

“Good,” Wilson said, relaxing. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

Inspector Storrs smiled and turned to call the waiter; a thought struck him and he turned back. “By the way,” he said curiously, “how is it that at my house you preferred cognac, but here at the inn you seem to prefer rum?”

There was a moment’s pregnant silence.

“Do you mean,” Da Silva said slowly, “that they serve more than rum or beer?”

“Of course.” Inspector Storrs raised his voice. “Sam, what do you have in the way of brandy? Anything foreign?”

The bartender stooped beneath the bar, coming up with a dusty bottle.

“Some salesmon, he sell it to the boss one day,” he said. “Funny taste, boys don’t like it much. Got a name—” He squinted at the label. “Reserve San Joan, or something...”

“My God!” Wilson said in an awestricken tone.

There was a twinkle in Da Silva’s eye.

“Serve it quick and let’s get going,” he said, “before Wilson changes his mind and sticks around for the trial...”

Content

Robert L. Fish
The Green Hell Treasure

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