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.