“Diana!”
“That one’s the little thieving bostard,” McNeil muttered and tensed himself, the rifle raised and ready.
“Diana?”
There was hesitation in Wilson’s voice. McNeil shoved the girl to the fore, the rifle held steady in her back. He looked over her shoulder to the man on the narrow sand beach, staring up at the boat. Wilson frowned at the sight of the large black man with the gun.
“How the devil did you get here?”
“Don’t worry about it, mon.” McNeil stared about suspiciously, and instantly brought his eyes back to the man on shore. His gun nudged the girl; she winced involuntarily. McNeil frowned. “And where’s your ugly bostard half-breed partner?”
“We got separated.”
“Yeah? And where’s the package, then?”
“He has it.”
“Oh, he has, has he?” McNeil considered a moment and then grinned as a thought came to him. “Turn around.”
“What?” Wilson sounded puzzled.
“I said turn around!” The deep voice became menacing. “Or else the girl gets it!”
Wilson looked at him curiously. “The way I hear it, she’s your girlfriend, not mine. Why on earth should it bother me if she gets it three or four times?”
Diana’s eyes opened wider at this statement. McNeil sneered.
“Or you get it then. Is that better, mon? My word!” The rifle moved slightly, clearing the girl’s back to train itself on Wilson while still keeping her within the area of danger. McNeil’s yellowish eyes narrowed. “Now, turn around!”
“A far more effective argument,” Wilson agreed sadly, and turned. The package, knotted to his belt, dangled in plain sight. To Wilson it seemed as the albatross must have seemed to the ancient mariner.
“I had to hang it there myself when I put it up in the cave,” McNeil said, and grinned. The grin disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “Now, untie it, mon. And quick!”
“My pants will fall down...”
The rifle was raised slightly. “You getting past being funny, mon. Untie it, and now! And no tricky moves, you hear?”
“I hear.” Wilson sighed and unbuckled his belt, drawing it free of the knotted plastic wrapping, letting the package fall to the sand, then replacing his belt carefully through the loops and buckling it. He picked up the package and hefted it in his hand thoughtfully. McNeil brought the rifle up a bit.
“Throw it up here! And quickly, mon!”
“If you insist,” Wilson said, his tone robbing him of any responsibility for the act, and tossed the package toward the boat.
It sailed through the air, away from McNeil, landing near the taffrail of the ship, skidding into the scupper there. The big black man grinned to think the little thieving Yank bostard would think he could be drawn from the protection of the girl so easily, but his eyes followed the flight and landing of the package greedily nonetheless. It was a fatal lack of several seconds of his attention, and payment was extracted instantly. A second voice called out, suddenly, sharply.
“Diana! Drop!”
The girl’s feet went from beneath her instantly; she slumped like a dropped sack of flour. There was an immediate report of a revolver shot and McNeil was flung against the corner of the hatchway, his rifle falling to the deck, his hand clutching his wounded shoulder. His large eyes looked down at the girl reproachfully, and then came up.
They widened in horror. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest the sight before him, but no words would come; just animal sounds. He stumbled back toward the lee rail, holding his unwounded arm up as if to ward off the terrifying apparition in the wide-brimmed straw hat rising slowly over the starboard side of the ship, the hooked fingers scrabbling for purchase on the polished rail.
“No, no, no!” It came out finally in a hoarse whisper, increasing in crescendo as the man in the wide-brimmed hat, his face completely shadowed, clambered slowly and stiffly over the railing and stood on deck. The figure paused a moment and then began to advance slowly across the deck, its movement a sort of lurching followed by a recovery; the taloned fingers rose slowly in the air, held out toward McNeil as if seeking an embrace. McNeil retreated, stumbling, until his back was pressed tightly against the low railing. Both hands were raised now to protect him, the pain in his shoulder forgotten; there was the trace of foam at the corners of his mouth; his eyes were mad in their insane fright.
“No. No. No.” He screamed. “No!”
He tried to lean farther back from those probing, seeking fingers; his weight shifted. He twisted to escape, but there was nothing to be done. With a hoarse cry that was more a growl than a shriek, he fell over the railing into the cove, striking out instinctively and madly for the shore. But he had taken less than four strokes before there was a boiling of the water; dorsal fins like tiny sailboats swerved in his direction. The first strike was a thud almost audible both on the boat and ashore, where Wilson stood watching, his face a trifle pale and expressionless. There was one brief moment when a clutched hand rose from the water as if in supplication, and then the second strike came, followed by the third. The water bubbled with reddish foam, and then slowly settled to calmness again. The dorsal fins retreated; the waves of the disturbance translated themselves into widening circles from the scene of the struggle, coming to the sand beach in little wavelets, rocking the boat slightly as they washed its hull.
Both Da Silva and Diana stood at the railing, staring down gravely. The wide-brimmed straw hat had been pushed back on the tall Brazilian’s forehead; his black curly hair peeked out in front. He sighed and turned away from sight of the lagoon, starting to untie the girl. Wilson dropped to the deck. He walked to the taffrail scupper, retrieved the package, and placed it on the instrument ledge; this done he moved to the railing, gazing down into the calm waters, noting the faint shadows sliding beneath the surface. He turned to face Da Silva, studying the almost-Indian features a moment, and then spoke quietly.
“You know, Zé,” he said slowly, “sometimes — to repeat a phrase I seem to remember from someplace — you’re a hard-to-understand son of a bitch.” He gestured with his head toward the waters of the cove. “That was rather nasty, you know.”
“The world is full of nasty people,” Da Silva said quietly, and took the cord from about Diana’s wrist. “He was one of them...”
Green Hell Island lay behind them. The wave-shaped mountain stood clear against the blue of the sky, the palm-fringed cove beneath it was a darker smudge against the light-green vegetation that shared the water’s edge with the yellowish sand of the narrow beaches. Ahead of them the mid-afternoon sun worked its way across the sky, heading for the horizon and the endless chore of lighting lands farther to the west. Wilson, at the wheel, yawned mightily.
Diana Cogswell came to stand beside him, smiling at him in friendly style. “I’ll take over, if you wish.”
“That’s a great idea,” Wilson agreed. He handed over the wheel, stretched, and grinned at the girl as she took up a seamanlike stance behind the spokes, moving them slightly to bring the boat more exactly on course. “You know,” he said reproachfully, remembering, “we still haven’t had that fight you promised me, and here this case is just about over.”
“You mean the bare-handed wrestling match?” She laughed. “It wouldn’t be fair. You’re too tired.”
“Excuses, excuses!” He yawned and smiled at her. “In that case I’ll go in and take a nap. You stay here and try to dream up a new alibi once I’m rested and my old virile self again.”
Da Silva had wandered over from the railing and was listening. He smiled at both of them.
“I’ll join you. That is, if we can get the cot back in place over that lazaret our pal used to hide in.”