“Well, I didn’t. When the sea calms down I’ll take your offer, if she’s still got her mind made up...”
And Burt had a strange feeling that both men were playing parts for his benefit...
... When, from the nearest cabin, came what sounded like a ragged moan. Burt started forward, but Ace was standing in front of him with the gun in the crook of his arm. “Hold it, that’s only Charlie. He has nightmares.” His smile returned, too broad to be real, and he spoke over his shoulder. “Hoke, go turn Charlie over on his stomach.”
Burt felt rage boiling inside him, but forced himself to speak in a quiet voice. “Smith, you act like a damn fool with that gun.”
The hairy man raised his brows. “Yeah? You know a lot about guns, bird lover?”
“I know if you don’t take it out of my stomach, I’ll feed it to you.”
Ace eyed Burt curiously. “What did you say your name was?”
“Burt March.”
“March. Whaddaya do?”
“I sell insurance. And I’ll give you five seconds to move that gun. One, two, three—”
“Smith!” Rolf’s voice cracked. “You’re not the only one who’s armed. Do what he says.”
Ace looked surprised, then shrugged and smiled at Burt. “Insurance salesman, huh? The island’s full of tough nuts.” He slung the gun to his shoulder. “I came here to shoot pigeons, and that’s what I’ll do, as long as people leave me alone.”
He turned and walked up the hill, ostentatiously scanning the sky. Burt turned to Rolf. “I’d thank you, but I think you had your own reasons. You had to let him know I had a gun, didn’t you?”
“I figured it would save his life. Or yours.” Rolf smiled. “Why so disappointed? Did you want to kill him?”
“I wouldn’t have killed him. He was standing too close; it wouldn’t have been hard to disarm him.”
“Yes, and when he came at you with his bare hands? He looks strong as a gorilla.”
“I can defend myself.”
Rolf shook his head slowly. “I’m glad I didn’t decide to be a cop. You’ve tied your hands, haven’t you? You have to let the other man make the first move.”
He turned and started away, but Burt called after him. “Rolf, are those the men you think will kill you?”
Rolf paused and waved up at the peak. “Take a look. You think he’s hunting pigeons?”
Burt followed his gaze and watched Ace settle himself on the lookout rock with the gun across his knees. He was looking down, his hard face impassive. Burt was reminded of the guard on a prison farm.
Seven
The afternoon sizzled by like a slow fuse. Rolf said something about fouled plugs and began dissecting the innards of his cruiser, managing to get romantically grease-stained in the process. Burt had the chilling thought that he was deliberately putting his boat out of action. Joss sat in a wicker armchair at the corner of the club, scanning the sea through her ancient tripod-telescope.
“O’Ryan should be here if he’s coming,” she told Burt.
“Does he come when it’s rough?”
“Never has, but he might.”
Bunny came out into the open without her dark glasses, wearing a halter and short-shorts which lacked a couple of inches of doing the job they were meant to do. She paced the beach like a caged tigress for a half-hour, went for a swim in the lagoon, then emerged to lie on her stomach in the sand. She unfastened her halter strap to leave her back bare. Burt could see two inches of milk-white flesh between the top of her shorts and the faint pinkness of her back. There was an engaging dimple on each side of her lower spine.
Burt wasn’t the only one who noticed: Ace sat on the steps of the club flicking bits of coral at the sand crabs who scuttled sideways across the sand. He wasn’t watching the crabs; he was watching Bunny through lowered bushy brows, like a fullback about to charge the line. Hoke had taken his place on the tower with the gun across his knees.
Joss left her telescope and walked behind the bar; she stood there glaring in Bunny’s direction and sneaking quick gulps of rum. Boris stood beside her, pretending not to notice.
Burt tasted the bile of frustration in his throat. What can you do? he wondered. We’re prisoners, but does Joss know it, or Boris and the boys? One of them might make a false step and trigger the violence. Well, he thought, you can’t hold them all in the palm of your hand. Best you can do is quarantine them.
He went to Joss and persuaded her that she was tired and sleepy, then he walked her up to her house and left her stretched out on the bed with her glass beside her. He took Coco and Godfrey to the south shore of the island and asked if they’d noticed anything odd about the three new arrivals.
“Big men,” said Godfrey.
“They don’t wish to fish,” said Coco.
“They’re gunmen,” said Burt. “Professional killers. You boys stay clear of them, hear?”
They nodded gravely.
“We may have to leave the island in a hurry. You boys go around and gather up all the dry wood you can find. Carry the little stuff up the hill in case we need a signal fire. The big stuff you can put right here. When the sea goes down, well build a raft.”
The two deployed up the slope, scanning the ground, and Burt went to find Jata. She lived in a black shingle structure not more than eight feet square, hidden beneath a dark, brooding manchineel tree. He knocked and announced himself. A bolt slid back, a chain rattled, and Jata’s glittering eye appeared at a crack in the door. “Sir, I don’t come out ’til bad men leave.”
“You’re on the stick, Jata. Where’s Maudie?”
“She sneakin’ round. You see her, tell her come home. I lock her in tonight.”
Burt searched the island and tried to look like a nature lover taking a casual walk. His leg ached miserably. Each time he emerged from beneath the trees, he was aware of Hoke watching him from the tower. The longer he walked the more uneasy he became. Mother hen March, he thought wryly; one of your chicks is missing.
He paused to look at cabin four. Could she be in there with Charlie? Surely not of her own free will, in which case she’d be making some noise. The cabin was silent behind the curtained windows. Burt thought of the moan, and of the missing fourth man of the party—
“Sir, you wish to go in?”
Burt whirled and glimpsed the white flash of Maudie’s T-shirt inside a clump of bamboo. He looked up and saw that the palm’ trees which lined the path screened the cabin from the watchtower. He stepped back and watched her crawl from the bamboo.
“You hide well for a big girl,” said Burt when she squatted beside him. “What have you been doing?”
“I watch the people pass in the path. You wish to enter one of the cabins? I watch for you.”
“No, I was just wondering why one man stays in the cabin all the time.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
She was gone before he could stop her, then it was too late to call her back without warning the man inside. With frozen nerves he watched her climb the ladder outside the bathroom, her white cotton skirt riding high on her heavy brown thighs. Why had he assumed a sixteen-year-old girl would be clumsy? It was not true in Maudie’s case. She moved with the silent efficiency of a burglar, lifting the cover off the water barrel, plunging her hand inside, and drawing out a dripping metal case slightly larger than a cigar box. She replaced the wooden cover on the barrel, climbed down the ladder, and ran across the path. Burt drew her behind the bamboo and took the box. It was surprisingly heavy, with only a hair-line crease revealing where the lid joined the box proper. A combination lock held it shut. It seemed to be made of hard carbon steel; he’d have trouble getting it open even with a cutting torch.