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.”