Blow-Down, page 4
A year ago there arrived in Puerto Musa—or rather at Liberica, a scant five miles up the coast, just across the river, where the German coffee steamers lay offshore and loaded cargo and passengers from lighters—a gentleman by the name of Adolf von Graulitz. The new arrival was at times as suave and urbane as Mr. Stilton; these were times when he was radiating the charm of his Bavarian mother. At other times he was as blunt and domineering as his swaggering Prussian father. And at all times he was obviously bad medicine for Caribbean Fruit. There had long been antagonism between the German coffee men and the American banana growers, but it was confined to such minor matters as the Germans’ floating their coffee down the Rio Sangre to avoid paying freight charges to the banana company’s railway, and the banana company consequently refusing to allow the German ships to use the fruit company dock. With the arrival of von Graulitz, however, the matter grew more serious.
Von Graulitz was nominally the head of the coffee growers’ association. Actually he was regarded as the embodiment of the Fatherland’s avowed policy to offer protection and inspiration to Germans abroad. That he was gratuitously offering inspiration—and perhaps more—to certain high officials in the Capital who were friendly to the idea of a totalitarian state was more than probable. At least he had discovered land options that the fruit company had allowed to lapse and was making definite movements to take them over. There were whispered but persistent rumors that these waterfront lands would make a fine new coffee shipping port—unless, of course, the fruit company should abandon Puerto Musa under confiscatory taxation measures that a new government in the Capital might conceivably enact. In which case, naturally, Puerto Musa would become the coffee port.
Among the possible slips between the coffee cup and the lip there was Mr. Gerald Stilton and there was the hundred thousand dollars coming down on the S.S. Bonaca. Dave Perry, as he went to meet the evening train from the Capital, was fairly certain that the hundred thousand would somehow insure a retroactive exercise of the lapsed option on the waterfront lands at Liberica. Just how, Perry did not know, but, knowing Mr. Stilton and knowing that the hundred thousand was in currency instead of a bank draft, he was confident that it would find its way, however improperly, into the proper hands. He was not surprised, therefore, to see the dapper, white-haired, young-faced Mr. Stilton get off the train with a swart, fat, neckless man in a rumpled pongee suit.
“Perry,” said Mr. Stilton, “this is His Excellency Señor Manzana, the new Minister of the Interior.”
“ ’Egre,” mumbled His Excellency. He had a stringy black mustache that curled around the ends of his mouth like a pair of calipers measuring the thickness of his lips.
“My house is at the disposition of His Excellency,” said Perry.
“Thank you, no,” said Mr. Stilton. “The Bonaca is in port. His Excellency will stay aboard the ship.”
“The Bonaca sails at ten tonight.”
“Then we will postpone the sailing. His Excellency has never slept aboard a ship before, and he is eager for the experience. I suggest the B suite. Will you arrange it, Perry?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did the Bonaca bring a parcel for me, Perry?”
“The skipper brought it ashore half an hour ago,” Perry said. “It’s locked in my safe.”
“Did he confirm my radiogram to the chief steward?”
“Yes, Mr. Stilton. The dinner will be at seven.”
“His Excellency has never eaten aboard ship before,” said Stilton. “That’s why I had the Bonaca put in here. She has a good French chef.”
“About that parcel, Mr. Stilton—”
“That can wait until morning,” said Mr. Stilton with a casual wave of his Tobago cane.
“Yes, of course.” Dave Perry’s frown deepened again. He would be much happier when the hundred thousand was no longer in his safe. He knew, however, that business was not transacted so simply in Latin America. Even the purchase of a five-cent package of cigarettes entailed a certain amount of punctilio, and it would take a proportionate amount of ceremonious bowing before a hundred-thousand-dollar deal could be concluded. The fact that the financial arrangements might not be strictly honest called for even greater delicacy. In the States, where official corruption is crassly efficient, such matters may be carried on on a larger scale; but in Latin America they were kept on a higher plane. There would be nothing so crude as the mere exchange of a small black bag. Even for an opérabouffe politician from the highlands, a man who had never been aboard a steamship, there must be at least a banquet.
And a banquet there was—the best that the chef of the Bonaca could turn out. Aside from Perry and Mr. Stilton, there were a round half dozen local dignitaries invited to break Melba toast with His Excellency the Minister of the Interior. The Captain of the Bonaca was there as nominal host. There were smart and ambitious Coronel José Blanco, the Comandante, as ranking representative of the Republic at Puerto Musa; Bill Roland, the limp and lanky U.S. Vice Consul; Henry Alcott, the company accountant; Ed Bannister, the port superintendent; and Dr. Leopold Janvier, the bearded chief surgeon of the fruit company hospital. The division engineer and the superintendent of agriculture were in the bosque, working on a flood control project, but their wives were there. Mrs. Alcott was there, too, looking somewhat tacky in the dinner gown she had made herself from the iridescent green taffeta she had bought at the company commissary; and plain, motherly Mrs. Bannister; and dark, flashing Señora Blanco, easily the most charming woman present. Mrs. Janvier, the doctor’s wife, was not there; she was never invited when other company wives were present; they doubted whether she was legally Mrs. Janvier at all; besides, she had sung in music-halls before the doctor met her in Guatemala City.
His Excellency the Minister of the Interior seemed to be enjoying the shipboard function, although he did not say so. He expressed himself exclusively in grunts, monosyllables, a gesture of his pudgy hand bright with many rings, and, after the sixth champagne cocktail, an occasional eructation. Dave Perry could not help contrasting this gross, ignorant politico with the slim, cultured, military-looking Comandante. He thought he caught a gleam of contemptuous amusement in the keen dark eyes of the young Comandante when His Excellency appropriated the caviar from the steward who passed it to him first, lifted the hollow block of ice to his own plate, and scooped up the last of the lustrous gray pellets with the serving spoon. It was at this moment that Adolf von Graulitz arrived.
Von Graulitz did not merely come into the dining-saloon; he made an entrance. He paused on the staircase, one hand on the gilded balustrade, waiting for the moment of crashing silence to tell him he was the focus of shocked eyes. Then he slipped off his waterproof cape, raindrops glistening on the white silk, and gave it a slight flourish to display the scarlet lining as he handed it to a steward. With one precise movement he gave a tug of adjustment to the front of his white serge dinner jacket. The miniature medals jingled faintly on his left breast.
“I am afraid I am a trifle late, gentlemen,” he said. “My motor launch broke down.”
The thick, hostile silence which absorbed his words did not bother him in the least. His bearing was supremely self-confident, his egg-shaped head held high at an arrogant angle, as though he were surveying the dinner party through a non-existent monocle. Slowly, elegantly, he descended another step.
At last Dave Perry arose to break the silence, the color deepening beneath the tan of his rugged face.
“You’re not late, Graulitz,” he said. “You’re early—about fifty years early. This is a private party, Graulitz, and you’re not invited.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Perry,” said the German. He spoke with an accent that was mostly Oxford, with just a trace of Teutonic intonation in his long vowel sounds, particularly the O’s. His lips, pursed as in eternal preparation for an umlaut, tightened into a superior smile. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he repeated. “This is my party, Perry. You’re preparing the tar and feathers for me—before you ride me out of the country on a rail. Don’t you want your victim present?”
“If I ever want you,” snapped Perry, “I’ll send for you.”
“Now, Mr. Perry.” Adolf von Graulitz came down the staircase, approached the table, pulled up a chair and sat down next to the division manager. “Why go on dissimulating?” he pursued. “I know perfectly well why Mr. Stilton is here tonight—with Señor Manzana. I know that very shortly it will be revealed that Caribbean Fruit is owner of some recently discovered rights to the Rio Sangre delta, and that your dredgers, pile-drivers, and work barges will clog the mouth of the river—particularly on days when our coffee lighters might otherwise get through to load a German ship anchored off Liberica. You’re trying to put a noose about the neck of the coffee planters of this country, Perry. But you won’t succeed, I warn you.”
“Save your ultimatums,” said Perry. “This isn’t Czechoslovakia.”
“It’s useless to talk to you, Perry. But Mr. Stilton knows that unless he comes to an agreement with me—”
“He will have to deal with the Third Reich, I suppose,” Perry interrupted.
For an instant von Graulitz’s brazen urbanity deserted him. His pale blue eyes flashed, his close-cropped hair seemed to bristle, his bland voice became guttural with annoyance, as he shouted, “Why must you make politics of a commercial quarrel, Perry? Because you misunderstand the new Germany, you impute insidious purposes to everything we do. We are no more imperialists than you are—you with your dollar diplomacy and banana empire. We are only coffee diplomatists.”
“Oh, sure. I know all that,” Perry said. “I know there’s nothing political about those herds of young hotheads that parade around the Capital with swastikas on their arms. Or in the propaganda that comes over the short-waves from Berlin every night—in Spanish. Or it wouldn’t be political if the swastika boys in the Capital should somehow get possession of a few thousand Mauser rifles or machine guns that might come in—by mistake, of course—on a coffee boat some day. Or it wouldn’t be political—”
“Wait a minute, Perry,” Gerald Stilton broke in at last. “I think perhaps Herr von Graulitz and I might have a word together—privately.”
“I was certain that Mr. Stilton would want to talk this matter over sensibly,” said von Graulitz with a bow that was as smug as it was condescending. “In fact, I anticipated the interview. I brought a case of Rhine wine with me from Liberica and I took the liberty of asking your man at the Musa Club to chill the bottles. It is Schloss Johannisberger 1921. Shall we conduct our discussion over a glass of hock, Mr. Stilton?”
“After dinner, perhaps,” said Mr. Stilton. His expression was grave, his cheeks pale.
“Now,” said von Graulitz, sensing an advantage. “There are several points I am sure you will want cleared up before you conclude your—your meal with Señor Manzana.”
Mr. Stilton looked at His Excellency. The Minister of the Interior had been paying scant attention to the altercation. He had been too busy with his filet of sole Marguery, and was even now deeply engrossed in destroying the breast of pheasant sous cloche.
“Permiso, Excelencia?” said Mr. Stilton.
“Porque no?” replied His Excellency, helping himself to more Endives Bechamel au gratin.
Mr. Stilton got up. “You will excuse me, ladies? This is an unfortunate interruption, but I know you will understand its importance. Look after His Excellency, Perry. I’ll rejoin you later.”
When the two men left, the dinner party quietly died. For long periods there was no sound except the polite clink of cutlery on porcelain, or the appreciative smacking of His Excellency’s lips. When the coffee cups were brought on, Perry looked at his watch, leaned across the table to the accountant, and said, “Alcott, I think you and I ought to go see what’s keeping Mr. Stilton. Bannister, see that the ladies get home. You’ll find my car on the siding in case it’s raining. Dr. Janvier, you keep an eye on His Excellency; he’s getting a little red in the face. Come on, Alcott.”
Perry and the accountant walked rapidly down the dock. Alcott was almost running to keep up with the long, easy strides of Perry, and he was wheezing a little. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t very healthy-looking, either. He had his glasses off, and his slightly bulging eyes made him look a little like a carp-sucker out of water.
The rain had stopped, and a sickle of a moon was slashing a radiant swath through the restless clouds. It was a young moon, but it made bright reflections on the wet pavement of the dock.
When they got to the Musa Club, the bartender said that Mr. Stilton and von Graulitz had left together a few minutes before, and that the German was going back to Liberica.
“I’m going to walk down to the small-boat landing,” Perry said, as he came out the screen door. “You stick around here, Alcott, in case I miss Mr. Stilton on the way.”
In ten minutes Perry came back up the walk—alone. Alcott was standing outside the club, smoking a cigarette.
“Graulitz’s launch shoved off twenty minutes ago,” Perry said. “A fisherman saw Mr. Stilton come down to the landing and turn around and walk away.”
“He hasn’t come by here,” Alcott said.
“Funny I missed him,” Perry mused. “He must have come back by the way of the power plant, instead of the Comandancia.”
“Maybe he went up to your house,” Alcott suggested.
Bannister, the port superintendent, strolled up, having brought the ladies from the ship. He said, “There’s nobody at your house, Mr. Perry. I just came by there, and it was dark.”
Mr. Stilton hadn’t returned to the ship, either, according to the dinner guests who began to arrive from the dock—all but His Excellency. Dr. Janvier reported that His Excellency had gone to bed; that he always took a siesta after eating.
“Damned funny,” said Perry.
For a moment nobody said anything. A chorus of tropical frogs made strange counterpoint in the croton hedge. From beyond the tracks came drunken yells and faint music from the cantinas. A huge land crab scuttled across the walk, clanking its ponderous, armored claws.
Suddenly Dr. Janvier pointed.
“Look, Mr. Perry!” he exclaimed. “There is light in your office.”
Chapter Five
Red Footprints
Four men in slickers sat back to back on the hard seat that ran lengthwise on Cecil Holliday’s gasoline car. The Indian motor boy clung on precariously behind, huddling close to the engine box to keep out of the hot, pounding rain that sloshed off the flat top. Walter Lane was in front with Holliday, who held the throttle. Hind and a neighboring overseer were the other passengers.
It was nearly dark when they reached Puerto Musa. Lane and his companions helped the motor boy lift the car from the rails and push it off the right-of-way. Then they joined the swaggering, payday crowds of fruit cutters milling in the mud in front of the lighted cantinas. The dusk was streaked with rain and blustering profanity. Drunken, ribald songs blended discordantly with the blare of phonograph music. Ragged urchins swarmed about Lane, who was in the van, brandishing lottery tickets, yelling, “Quiere números? Quiere números?” Lane pushed them aside, but Pinky Hind held back.
Sure. Pinky Hind wanted numbers. He wanted numbers ending in 28. He was feeling lucky. Tiene veintiocho? Twenty-eight. He bought two tickets—06628 and 13028. He had a good hunch. Maybe 28’s lucky for you, too, Lane. No? How about coming along to the Two Owls for a little chingona, Lane?
“Not tonight, thanks.”
Lane watched Hind disappear into the smoke-blue interior of the Cantina de los Dos Tecolotes, where the payday dice game was in progress. He heard Holliday say, “But we will stop farther down for a spot of something bracing, if you don’t mind.”
Lane didn’t mind, so they went into a bar with the lulling name of Mi Sueño. It was a little less dingy than some of the others. The crowd was more orderly and the brown girls seemed less predatory as they sat in the back room with a party of army officers and two hogheads, listening to the deep-toned rhythm that throbbed beneath the muted hammers of a three-man marimba.
At the bar, Holliday apologized to Lane as he poured himself a tremendous slug of whisky.
“You don’t mind if I get a bit bottled tonight, do you, Lane?” he said. “I’m not really offensive when I’m bottled, and I do need a bracer before going to the Hen House.”
“The Hen House?”
“That’s Muriel Monroe’s name for the chummery of the non-wives. When I go there I like to be gay without growing too sentimental, without remembering—Well, finish your drink and let’s get on.”
When Muriel greeted them at the door, Lane thought he understood Holliday’s desire to cloak his sensibilities with an alcoholic indifference. She was as lovely as a cloud of apple blossoms as she came toward them in a sweeping mist of voile. The tilt of her small blond head was as delicate as the first eager glimmer of dawn. The freshness of the trade winds was in her cheeks, and the eternal vitality of the sea in her blue eyes. The hand she gave was warm and disarmingly friendly. Lane could see it was going to be hard to remember that someone had taken a pot shot at him yesterday.
Considering that a scant week ago he had been No. 212 and that the living-room was already bulging with young men, Lane thought that Muriel was being surprisingly attentive to him. She kept a firm but caressing grip of his hand as she led him around to be introduced.
“This is Walter Lane, everybody. Walter, this is Nita Fenwick—”
“Hi, pal,” said Nita languidly. She was a slim, dark girl with world-weary crescents under smoky gray eyes that didn’t seem to open all the way. Her slinky gown was as scarlet as hibiscus. The spicy scent of musk clung to the fingers she held out to Lane with exquisite fatigue.
