Blow-Down, page 12
The door opened and the captain of the Bonaca came in, red-faced and sputtering like a damp fuse.
“Pardon me for listening through the bulkhead,” he fumed, “but did I hear right—that your friend here expects to stay on my ship another forty-eight hours?”
“Well, skipper, I—”
“And with me already overdue at Puerto Temor! There’s thirty thousand stems of fruit standing on the dock since this morning and I can’t even start loading when I do come alongside. I got to unload a cargo of potatoes before I start refrigerating my holds. Perry, those bananas will start to ripen—”
“Listen, skipper, His Excellency has taken a liking to this bed, and he enjoys your hospitality—”
“Thirty thousand stems—”
“The company loses twenty times that much fruit in a single blow-down,” Perry said, speaking rapid English so Señor Manzana would not understand. “And this man means more to the company than a few bunches of bananas. This is important, skipper. We’ve got to humor him.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” said the captain. “Tell him I’ll make him a present of the bedstead if he’ll get off my ship. But if he doesn’t get off, I’ll sail in an hour anyhow.”
“Damn it, skipper, you can’t take him down to Puerto Temor!”
“Can’t I? I’ll take him clear to New Orleans if he isn’t ashore in an hour. Tell him that.”
Perry told him, but not in so many words. With much diplomacy and circumlocution, he made the proposal in such a way that it would have been a personal affront to refuse—since His Excellency was now to become the guest of the Division Manager.
His Excellency seemed delighted.
Forty-five minutes later four stewards from the Bonaca carried a brass bedstead through the streets of Puerto Musa to the residence of Dave Perry.
An hour later the Bonaca’s siren gave two blasts of hoarse exultation, and the ship backed away from the dock.
Chapter Fourteen
Love Also Conspires
The farewell snort of the Bonaca’s siren roused Lane from his stiff-necked, unrestful sleep on the folding chair. He had not really slept, he reflected as he removed his numb, tingling legs from the canvas seat of the second chair, kicking his heels on the floor in an effort to restore normal feeling. He had been in a semi-comatose condition in which his subconscious worked overtime, whirling confused, fragmentary pictures before his closed eyes, elements of the huge picture puzzle which had been dumped grimly before him and which still had so many pieces missing.
One part of the picture which had been particularly prominent during his few hours of attempted slumber was a small, delicately poised head surrounded by a halo of undulant sunshine, dominated by two very large and very blue eyes, and punctuated by a tantalizing pair of very red lips. Lane found himself remembering the brief sweetness of those lips, as he might remember the heady fragrance of rare wine. He wondered why he was not more resentful of the girl’s betraying him into the hands of Perry and the Comandante—if she did betray him. He really should be furious with her; instead he was merely annoyed with himself for thinking of Muriel Monroe when he should be puzzling over the murder of Gerald Stilton and Bill Roland. He was a little annoyed, too, that he had let himself become completely intrigued with the question of murder to the exclusion of his job—which, after all, was to run down and checkmate the Nazi and Facist propagandists who were trying to wean Latin America away from the friendship of the neighbor to the north.
Of course, he told himself, the solution of the double murder was really his job now. Since Adolf von Graulitz possessed a Deuxième Bureau efficient enough to uncover Lane’s true mission in Puerto Musa, his chances of flushing his quarry by usual methods were pretty slim. Now that his identity was known to Graulitz, the powerful ether-jamming wave that he had been trying to locate would doubtless remain silent for as long as he remained in Puerto Musa. And by the time he was released from jail, the offending apparatus would be dismantled—if it were not dismantled already—and either moved to a new location or successfully hidden. He had taken a few bearings on the source of interference during his first week at Rio Sangre, but they gave him only a rough indication of its location. He knew only that the anti-American noise came from within a half-mile circle in the immediate vicinity of the port—an area that took in most of the fruit company buildings, including the company wireless station itself. No, Lane was convinced now that he would be serving his original purpose if he found out who killed Stilton.
If Stilton had been killed to cover up the robbery of Dave Perry’s safe—and a hundred thousand dollars was a tempting item for any homicidal coin collector—then of course Lane would be following a false lead. If Muriel had actually left the safe open, and someone had known it, then it was possible that Stilton had been murdered merely by some marauder he had surprised removing the bundle of banknotes. If she had not left it open, then robbery was not a motive—certainly Perry, Henry Alcott, and Muriel herself, having access to the safe by their knowledge of the combination, would not have to indulge in murder to get the money.
Lane instinctively came back to his original thesis: That both murders were the direct result of the undeclared war between the fruit company and the German coffee growers. He still had a vivid impression of Adolf von Graulitz’s red-faced surprise when the two Indians had brought Lane to the hut on the cays. He was positive that he was not the man that Graulitz had instructed his two ruffians to waylay outside the American Consulate. And he strongly suspected that the identity of the man for whom the ambush was intended would be the key to the entire mystery. Who was the man?
Was it Roland himself? Not likely, since the thugs were waiting behind the Consulate, and it was not probable that the Vice Consul would emerge from his quarters by the back door. Unless, of course, he did not wish to be seen leaving. There was a remote possibility that Roland had somehow become involved with Graulitz, had been maneuvered into a difficult position, had been forced to play the German’s game, was on the point of revolting, and for this reason had been liquidated. The possibility had to be considered, because Roland was liquidated, and Graulitz was in Puerto Musa at the time of his murder.
And if it was not Roland that the Graulitz thugs were waiting for, who was it? Perry? Possibly. Or Pinky Hind, who had been Bossert’s overseer. Or Holliday, who Muriel Monroe was afraid might have been behind the office building. Or Alcott, who had the combination to the safe. Or Dr. Janvier, who may have known that Bossert did not have blackwater fever. Or the Comandante himself, for that matter. Janvier and the Comandante admitted to having been at the Consulate, though naturally neither would admit to leaving by the back door. Did the man who was to leave by the back door do so because he had killed Roland—in which case Graulitz must have known in advance that the Vice Consul was to be murdered, since his henchmen were already lying in ambush—or did he call at the Consulate secretly because he did not want Graulitz to know he was communicating with Roland? In the latter case, Graulitz himself might have killed Roland to stifle some bit of information that had been furtively passed on to the Vice Consul; and in which case there was probably another murder still to come: The man who had blabbed to Roland.
Well, all this was pure conjecture, Lane mused as he leaned his folded arms on the window sill and watched the white-flanked Bonaca rapidly becoming a miniature as it retreated into the morning, an aigrette of smoke darkly erect against the dazzle of the sea. If only he could get out and chase facts, talk to people, check his theories—
“Morning, Señor.”
Lane turned. The Comandante was standing in the doorway, as dapper as if he had slept all night.
“I must apologize again for our jail,” said the Comandante. “Breakfast is late because the cook has a terrific goma. What’s the word I want? Hangover. That’s it. I’m forgetting my English. It’s shameful. I’ll have a bite to eat sent over from the company mess hall.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Lane. “When do I get out of here?”
“Do you mind receiving a visitor before breakfast?” the Comandante parried.
“Not if he’s got a writ of habeas corpus,” Lane said.
The Comandante beckoned behind the door and Muriel Monroe came in. She was trim and crisp in white linen, just as she was the first time Lane had seen her, yet she looked different. There had always been a delightful contradiction between the wise solemnity of her eyes and the chaste delicacy of the rest of her features; an angelic innocence of her fluffy golden halo that was at odds with a lush, eager vitality; the sort of contradictory blonde that Henner painted. But this morning the balance seemed to be gone. She seemed to have grown up overnight. The flush of spring was still on her cheeks, but a hint of early summer harvest trembled in the ripeness of her lips.
“You can have five minutes together,” said the Comandante. He closed the door as he went out.
The girl looked at Lane for a moment in silence. Automatically he raised an appraising thumb and forefinger to his chin. The bronze stubble felt an inch deep. He was sure his eyes were hanging halfway down his cheeks. The girl was infuratingly fresh and powdered, while he probably smeled like the small-mammal house at the Bronx Zoo. He backed away from her a short step.
“So you still think the worst of me?” Muriel asked.
“Do I? You don’t look as though it disturbed your sleep.”
“I didn’t sleep a wink. Did you ever try sleeping on the horns of a dilemma, Walt?”
“You made your bed,” said Lane, “so naturally you’ll have to lie in it. Or out of it. Do you enjoy lying, Muriel?”
The impertinent end of the girl’s small nose seemed to quiver with indignation. She said:
“Are you being terribly, terribly subtle—instead of accusing me outright of selling you out to Dave Perry last night?”
“You did sell me out, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“I don’t know why you shouldn’t, after all. I’m nothing to you. Perry is. I told you last night that I admired loyalty in women. Why shouldn’t you follow the dictates of your heart—if you have one?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Do you know why I came here this morning, Walt?”
“Sure,” said Lane. “Perry sent you.”
“Dave doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“You can surprise him. What do you think he’d like to know first?”
“Look, Walt.” The girl sat down on one of the folding chairs, sat for a moment with her hands tightly clasped on her knees, looking up at him with beseeching earnestness. “Do we have to be enemies?” she said.
“That’s very much up to you.”
“Last night, when you sat on the edge of my bed, you told me that you’d stopped being suspicious of me, stopped blaming me for getting you in a jam. It was just part of your act, I suppose, but you did it very well, and—well, I liked it.”
“You spoiled the mood yourself,” Lane said.
“But I didn’t send for Dave—that’s just the point. That’s why I came here this morning: To prove that I didn’t.”
“You’ve got a skeptical audience,” Lane said. “What’s going to be your line of reasoning?”
“Look. Last night you wanted me to do something for you. I was ready to do whatever you asked, when Dave and the Comandante came. They wouldn’t let me talk to you last night, so. I came this morning to tell you that I’m still ready to help. What is it you wanted me to do?”
“It’s too late now,” Lane said.
“Why?”
“Well, I was going to ask you to go to four or five men in turn, and tell each of them confidentially that Walter Lane had seen him leaving the American Consulate by the rear door. If one of them asked you where Lane was, you were to say that he was as tight as ten ticks and had gone to sleep in the middle of the petunia bed in the Plaza.”
“Why can’t I still do it?”
“Because there’s no sense to it now. Last night, one of the men you’d have told that to—the one who had actually left the Consulate by the rear door—would probably have sauntered by the petunia bed in the Plaza just to see how deeply I was slumbering. Then I’d have known who it was. As it is, the man in question knows exactly where I am, if he wants to find me. Besides, since Roland was killed in the Consulate, I wouldn’t think of having you tell the man in question that you know that he left by the back door. It might be as much as your life’s worth—”
“How much is it worth, Walt?” The girl was smiling at him again from the luminous depths of her blue eyes, smiling wisely and not unhappily. Lane walked around behind her, and she bent her head back so that she could still smile at him. He had a sudden impulse to crush the golden fluffiness of her hair between his fingers. He raised his arms, then dropped them again. His hands were black with grime.
“Toss me a cigarette, Muriel,” he said.
The girl produced a package. She said, “Do you want me to send a wire to the Legation for you, Walt?”
Lane held the lighted match poised before his face. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, the Comandante was a little uncertain about locking you up last night. He was afraid he might be sticking his neck out, if you were an American agent. But Dave Perry said that if you were an American agent, you’d demand that the Legation be notified, so that there was no danger to Coronel Blanco’s neck. Are you an agent, Walt?”
“It seems to be an open secret,” Lane said. “The only people I was anxious to hide it from were the first to know.”
“Do you want me to wire the Legation?”
Lane shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good,” he said. “The Legation would have to deny they ever heard of me.”
“Why?”
“Because my situation here is slightly irregular. According to diplomatic procedure, the job I’m trying to do should have been discussed by our Legation and the Foreign Ministry in the Capital. In other words, Washington should have requested local officials to take care of the matter. My presence in the country implies that Washington is not quite sure of the attitude of the local authorities, and therefore could not be admitted officially.”
“Even if you are in danger of—of being shot—on trumped-up evidence?”
“For all practical purposes, I’m very much on my own, I’m afraid.”
“It must be a very important mission.”
“It is, in a way.”
“Too important to tell me, of course.”
“You’re probably the only person in the division who doesn’t know about it. Adolf von Graulitz, who is very well informed, has no doubt transmitted the details to the Comandante, who in turn has informed all and sundry that I am in Puerto Musa to trace and stop the loud and unusual noises which interfere with the reception of North American radio programs.”
The girl pressed her lips together in an incredulous smile.
“That’s silly,” she declared. “That’s the, job of a repairman from the corner radio shop.”
“Well, that’s about what I am, when you come right down to it.”
“You mean you’ll stay in jail and risk getting shot—just because we can’t get American radio programs here?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Lane smiled. “This radio business is a symbol. Or a symptom, really, of a dangerous type of national megalomania that’s epidemic in the world these days. I guess all nations develop collective megalomania at one time or another. We’ve had it, Lord knows. I remember not so many years ago when Americans used to go to Europe largely for the purpose of boasting about the superiority of their plumbing and telephones and sleeping-cars back home. Or to light cigars with ten-franc notes, and ask rhetorical questions about who won the war. The difference is that our own megalomania was harmless, even if it was a little childish. If the French or the Italians didn’t agree with us that the number of bathtubs and automobiles was an index to a higher type of civilization, we were quite content to leave them to their own primitive devices. We didn’t send out proselyting plumbers or automotive missionaries.
“The present crop of megalomaniacs, though, is different. They insist that the whole world think and act as they do—or else. They fill the air so full of colored news—of their own color, naturally—that even the people of Latin America, if they can’t get the news elsewhere, begin to think that we up north might be just foolish muddlers after all, and that the totalitarian states are really the boys to play ball with. From that point it’s not much of a step to a local government based on the same European political philosophy. Then it’s a matter of international credits, special privileges for certain types of foreign capital, special taxes to squeeze out other types, German and Italian goods favored over American goods, the fruit company itself perhaps forced out…. Am I boring you?”
The girl had walked to the window. She had turned her back to Lane, and, pushing out the broken screen, was leaning over the sill, staring down at the brackish waters of the inlet. In a voice so low that she seemed to be talking to herself, she said:
“Can you make yourself small enough to squeeze through this window, Walt?”
“Maybe,” Lane said.
“At ten o’clock tonight there’ll be a boat in the inlet. Try not to make any noise when you swing yourself down—”
She still had her back to him. He went to her, turned her around, studied her face.
“Seems to me,” he said after a moment, “that I’ve heard of the ley de fuga. They shoot you, trying to escape. Saves the cost of a trial.”
“Do you think I’d do that to you, Walt?”
“Frankly, I don’t.”
“Walt, you’ve got to get away. The dory will take you as far as the cays. I’ll arrange for a fishing-boat to pick you up and take you down the coast past the frontier.”
“No, thanks. I’m not running out on this job.”
“You’ve got to. They’re going to pin these murders on you and have you shot.”
