Blow-Down, page 17
“No.” Brusquely Nita shrugged off the sisterly hand.
“What is it, Nita? Tell me.”
“None of your damned business,” Nita almost shrieked. She fled to her own room and slammed the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
Preliminary Storm
Muriel sat down to the breakfast table and looked with distaste at the peeled orange, impaled on a fork, that lay on her plate. She had scarcely poured hot milk into the black coffee essence at the bottom of her cup, when the telephone rang. Dave Perry wanted her at once. It was urgent.
Muriel gulped her coffee, powdered her nose, and hurried to the division office. It was only 6:30, but men were rushing in and out of the building with an air of undisguised excitement. Behind a glass panel, Muriel saw the Jamaican telephone operator yanking at his jacks and jamming them into new connections with frantic haste—and she guessed what had happened. It wasn’t murder this morning, but another kind of destruction. The old battle of the tropics against man and his enterprises was on again.
As Muriel opened the door to Perry’s office, the superintendent of agriculture scurried out and passed her without speaking. Perry was yelling into his telephone and did not acknowledge her presence. She saw a sheaf of telegrams on his desk, picked them up, ran through them. It was as she had suspected. A blow-down was on the way!
There were radiograms from captains of fruit company ships at sea, data from company weather observers on small Caribbean islands in the regular storm tracks, reports from Jamaica and the Caymans. Yes, there was a blow-down on the way, and it was a lulu! Somewhere out on the blue Caribbean, innocently calm in the golden morning, a violent storm was racing for the coast. It was moving fast, the messages said, and it was a hundred miles wide. It would strike the coast in twenty-four hours, probably, and it would strike hard. If it missed Puerto Musa, there would be a miracle to chalk up. And if it didn’t miss, there would be a scene of devastation such as every banana planter knows and dreads.
Muriel sat down at her desk and began sorting the telegrams. She knew exactly what to do. Twice before she had seen blow-downs wipe out vast sections of plantations, roaring havoc that swept from the sea without warning, to wreck half a million stems of fruit in twenty minutes. The banana plant, with its fragile, woodless trunk, was helpless before the onslaught of these sudden, tropical wind storms. When there was no warning, the company, too, was helpless; men could only watch disconsolately while the product of their industry went down in a tangle of muddy ruin. When there was a warning, as today, they could only gear up their machine to top speed, to salvage what fruit they could before disaster struck.
Muriel knew the routine. She already had avisos for the ships that were rerouted, two steamers putting in at Puerto Musa to pick up the salvage—if any. Telephone lines were already humming through the jungle, carrying the warning over a thousand square miles to each district superintendent, overseer, and timekeeper: Cut fruit! Cut all available stems! Shade the grade, but cut! If it’s bigger than stringbeans, cut! Stack every bacardilla! The ships will be waiting! … In an hour Indian messengers would be chugging up the river, outboard motors on their dugouts, carrying the warning to independent planters of the Rio Sangre and of the lake! Cut fruit, before it’s blown flat! In another hour the dispatcher would be sending out the fruit trains over the far-flung network of rails, spotting empty cars, bringing back the first emerald loads of bananas.
Perry jammed down the telephone receiver, tossed a sheet of paper to Muriel.
“Dos Rios can give us two thousand stems,” he said. “Las Palmas eleven hundred. Let me know as soon as you get an estimate on the independents.”
“No word from Rio Sangre?” Muriel asked.
“No word yet.” Perry closed his eyes wearily, ran his hands through his bushy hair. “We had to have something like this, didn’t we?” he groaned. “It wasn’t enough that Stilton is murdered, that the third vicepresident is on his way down to raise hell, that the hundred thousand is still gone, that New Orleans refuses to send more money, and that we’ve got to stal the Minister of the Interior. And on top of this, a blowdown.”
“Maybe it won’t hit us,” Muriel said.
The Superintendent of Agriculture burst in.
“Dave, where’s that new man Lane?” he demanded.
“I fired him last night,” Perry said.
“Well, hire him again. Holliday needs him. They’re short-handed at Rio Sangre. Pinky Hind is out.”
“What do you mean ‘out’?”
“I mean out—out cold,” said the Superintendent of Agriculture. “He’s been on a bat for thirty-six hours, and he’s still drunk. He says he’s quit his job. He’s been throwing money around like a—”
“What money?” Perry barked. The weariness suddenly went out of his face.
“How should I know what money? Hind claims he won in the lottery, that he’s rich and he’s through with bananas. Holliday says there’s no use arguing with him. Even if we got him to stay until he got his fruit out and stacked, he’s not sober enough to work, Holliday says.”
“Ye gods and little alligators!” Perry groaned again. “All right, I’ll try to get Lane back for you. Where is he, Muriel?”
“I think he slept at the Comandancia last night,” the girl replied.
“Go out and look for him,” Perry ordered. “Find him and tell him he’s hired again. Apologize to him for me—if you have to. Put it strong. He’ll probably do what you tell him. And tell him to get out to Rio Sangre right away. Take him out yourself in my car. Tell the despatcher I said to give you a clear track. Now hurry.”
The girl needed no urging. She was smiling to herself as she went out the door in a flurry of crisp white linen.
Perry was not smiling. His perpetual frown was chiseled deeper than ever as he picked up the phone.
“Try to get me Rio Sangre again,” he told the operator.
Then Mrs. Alcott came in. She entered without knocking and stood leaning against the door when she had closed it. She was frumpier than ever in her gingham morning dress, and her sharp, pinched face, innocent of cosmetics, was the face of an old woman. There was an unfamiliar light burning deep in her eyes.
“Edith,” said Perry, the telephone receiver in his hand, “if you’ve come looking for apologies for what happened last night, consider yourself apologized to. It was a shame and we’re all sorry. I haven’t time to be more abject this morning. We’ve got a blow-down and a third vice-president due at the same time. Go on home, Edith.”
“Mrs. Alcott did not go. She came farther into the office and sat down her fingers tightly clasped in her lap.
“This isn’t about last night,” she said. “Not about the dinner party, anyhow. Do you want another murder on your hands, Dave?”
Something about Mrs. Alcott’s white-lipped earnestness gave Perry a queer start. He didn’t like the mad look in her eyes, the strained tautness of her angular body.
“What’s on your mind, Edith?” he asked.
“Murder,” said Mrs. Alcott in her high-pitched monotone. “If you don’t want any more killing down here, you’d better get Nita Fenwick out of port by the next boat.”
Perry dropped the receiver back in place. “Are you accusing Nita of killing Gerald Stilton?” he demanded.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Mrs. Alcott, “although I wouldn’t put it above her. But I do know that if you don’t send Nita Fenwick north right away, I’ll kill her. I swear to God, Dave, I’ll kill her with my bare hands!”
Her hands seemed to clasp each other a little tighter as she spoke, but the droning monotone of her voice did not change. The calm fury of the woman was frightening. Dave Perry got out of his chair and came around the side of his desk.
“See here, Edith,” he began, “be yourself. You—”
“I am myself, Dave. And I’m not going to let that hussy get away with stealing my husband.”
“There’s some mistake, Edith, I’m sure. Henry is—”
“No, there’s no mistake. Henry’s been sleeping with that little tramp for months. I suspected it six or seven months ago, but I didn’t want to believe it—so I closed my eyes and told myself it wasn’t true. But it was, and I can’t close my eyes any longer. I’ve got proof, Dave—material and definite proof.”
Perry leaned back against the edge of his desk. He lifted one hand in a bewildered gesture.
“Can’t you and Henry work this out together?” he suggested.
“There’s no use talking to my husband about this,” Mrs. Alcott said. “Henry’s always had a roving eye and I suppose he can’t help it. But the brazen effrontery of this woman! In my own house! Dave, bring her in here.”
“But, Edith—”
“Send for her, Dave. We’re going to settle this right now. And if she denies it, I’ll show you proof!”
Resigned, Perry picked up the phone and called Bannister’s office. A minute later Nita Fenwick came in. She wore a filmy gray dress that allowed an accurate appraisal of her most intimate wardrobe. She looked at Mrs. Alcott with a slow, pitying smile. Her sleeve fluttered as she raised her hand to give a reassuring pat to her glossy dark coiffure.
“Hello, Mrs. Alcott,” she drawled. “I saw you come in, and I thought you’d be needing me. Is the ultimatum ready, Mr. Perry?”
Perry was visibly embarrassed. “Nita,” he said, “Mrs. Alcott claims that—Well, she says—”
“She accuses me of breaking up her home?” prompted Nita.
“Exactly.” Perry was grateful for the help. “So, I thought, Nita, that you—well, you ought to get a chance to explain—”
“What’s there to explain?” drawled Nita. She was watching Mrs. Alcott through half-closed eyelids. “The explanation is right here. Take a look at Mrs. Alcott.”
“You see, Dave? She admits everything. You’ll send her home, won’t you, Dave?”
“Take a good look at her,” Nita continued, still studying Mrs. Alcott, “and you’ll understand what happens when a good egg like Hank Alcott finds he’s married to a dowd who starts going hag on him at thirty-eight. Look at her hair, Mr. Perry, and then thank God you don’t have to look at a rat’s nest across the breakfast table every morning. If—”
“You can’t insult me!”
“I wouldn’t even try.” Nita was warming to her subject. “Of course, there isn’t much choice down here—otherwise he probably wouldn’t have picked me to fall in love with.”
“He doesn’t love you!” Mrs. Alcott was losing control of her voice.
“Doesn’t he?” Nita shrugged. “He’d marry me if you’d give him a divorce.”
“I’ll never give him a divorce!”
“I guess I’d probably marry him, too. I like him a lot. I admire him. I feel sorry for him. I must love him some, too. Yes, I’d probably marry him!”
“You’ll never marry him!”
“Then that’s that. If you think you can hold a husband by force—”
“Dave, I’m not going to listen to any more of this. Are you going to send her north, or aren’t you?”
There was a long pause. Dave Perry looked helplessly at Nita. Nita laughed briefly.
“Sort of puts you on a spot, doesn’t it, Mr. Perry?” she said. “How are you going to keep peace in port without offending Westchester Fruit Distributors? If you fire the wayward daughter of a good customer to keep the honor of the company intact, you might lose the customer.”
“Nita, why do you make such a mess of—of—”
“Of my life? It’s my own—more than yours is yours, Mr. Perry. I like you, Mr. Perry. You’re a good guy, and I don’t want to make trouble for you—any more trouble.” She paused, and a flicker of gravity came and went in her eyes as she looked at the division, manager. “You won’t have to fire me, Mr. Perry. I’ll quit.”
“I’m sorry about this, Nita.” Perry was visibly relieved.
“What’s the first boat out—the Tío Juan?”
“The Tío Juan gets in this evening,” Perry said, “but the Fonseca is due before dark and will probably start loading first. If we can get enough fruit on the dock, she’ll sail before daybreak—and try to beat the blow.”
“Miss Fenwick will take the Fonseca,” said Mrs. Alcott.
Nita came over and held out her hand to Perry. “Does my resignation take effect immediately, Mr. Perry?”
“If you want, Nita.”
“Then I’ll take the rest of the day off,” she said. “I’ve a few things to do, packing and what-not. Sorry I won’t have time to show you how to use a lipstick properly, Mrs. Alcott. Or to give you lessons in—”
“Get out of here!” shouted Mrs. Alcott. “Get out, before I—”
The phone rang.
“Get out, the both of you!” ordered Perry.
“Exit smilingly,” said Nita, holding the door open for Mrs. Alcott, with a display of exaggerated politeness.
But Perry was no longer watching the women. He was talking on the phone to Rio Sangre.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At Kilometer 20
Walter Lane was not at the Comandancia when Muriel came to get him. He had been out since daylight, after only a few hours sleep, digging for more information with the industry of a terrier who has misplaced his bone.
The examination of Dr. Janvier’s X-ray equipment had not been particularly revealing. True, the fruit company hospital had the best of modern Roentgenological apparatus. There was ample electric power for a person bent on jamming the air waves, and there were transformers to step up the potential sky high, and more transformers to vary the frequency. It would take very little additional apparatus to transform the X-ray laboratory into the source of interference that Lane had been seeking. He found no traces of connections having been made, however, nor any sign of an outlet for the surreptitious wave energy. Of course such signs would have been removed when Adolf von Graulitz discovered Lane’s mission in Puerto Musa. And Mme. Janvier did have coral fingernails.
Mme. Janvier’s fingernails lost a good deal of their significance as the result of Lane’s early-morning investigation. The manager of the company commissary told Lane that there had been an error in the last shipment of nail polish from the States. Instead of the usual assortment, the shipment had contained only one shade: Coral. As the corrected order would not arrive for another week or ten days, five or six complaining ladies had been forced to buy polish which was not their regular shade. That meant that the half-empty phial which Lane had found on Graulitz’s islet might belong to any one of half a dozen.
Lane also spent half an hour at the company’s wireless station at Manaca Point, talking to the operators on duty and making mental notes on the equipment. It was not a particularly illuminating half hour—with the possible exception of a five-minute talk with Bob Neptune, the young operator who was carrying the torch for Nita Fenwick. Neptune told Lane he had been in the tropics only a little more than a year, and that before that he had been a ship’s operator. He had served for fourteen months with a steamship line that called regularly at Hamburg and Bremen—which might mean much or nothing. At any rate, Neptune disclaimed any knowledge of German and insisted he had made no friends in the German ports.
Lane was on his way back from Manaca Point when Muriel intercepted him.
“Hello, banana herder,” she said.
“Ex-banana herder,” Lane corrected her. “Double X. I’ve resigned and I’ve been fired.”
“Your resignation hasn’t been accepted, and you’re hired again,” said Muriel. “Dave Perry says you’re to get out to Rio Sangre immediately. The division’s scheduled to be blown flat in twenty-four hours, so we’re loading two ships with whatever fruit can be cut.”
“I imagine the division’s been blown down before without me. Can’t they get along without Lane this time?”
“They’re short-handed at Rio Sangre,” the girl said. “Pinky Hind is ossified. His number came up in the lottery, so he thinks he’s rich. He won’t work or draw a sober breath as long as the money holds out.”
“How much money was it?”
“I don’t know. But the reports are that he’s throwing it around by the fistful.”
“Maybe I had better go to Rio Sangre,” said Lane, half to himself.
“Mr. Perry said I was to offer you his apologies—if necessary.”
“And if I don’t consider them abject enough?”
“Then I was to use my feminine wiles.”
“Turn them on,” Lane said, “but gently. It’s very early in the morning.”
He stopped walking. They had reached the edge of the fruit company settlement. The girl turned and looked up at him. A traveler’s tree spread its great green fan peacock-wise behind her. It was like a fantastic headdress of huge emerald plumes, and it made her look smaller than ever. Lovelier than ever, too, if that was possible, Lane mused. The sun glinted upon her golden hair as she lifted her face to him with playful coquetry. She curled her lips in a flirtatious smile, but the smile faded when she caught the look in his eyes. He had suddenly become very serious. He took both her hands.
“Remind me to tell you some time,” he said gravely, “how terribly much I love you.”
“Tell me now, darling.”
“I wish I could. I don’t know the words. I love you much too much.”
“I adore you.”
“More than Perry?”
“You know I do.”
“More than Holliday?”
“More than anything in the world. I guess I’ve always loved you, darling. I guess—”
She said no more. Lane had swept her into his arms, lifted her off the ground, crushed her tight against him as he kissed her tempestuously.
Far at sea a storm was lashing out for the coast. Near by, hundreds of men were hurrying to stave off its destruction. Nearer still, in the hospital behind them, two dead men lay in sealed caskets, with the mystery of their killing still sealed with them. But for the moment none of these things existed. For Lane all the universe was locked in his arms, all of time was reduced to an instant of tender sweetness that lay in the pressure of his lips against hers, in the fragrance of her hair and the touch of her fingers against his fevered temples.
