The Spanish Hawk (1969) (9 page)

“What you’re telling me is that you and the others rescued me solely for your own advantage and that you don’t give a damn whether I’m alive or dead, except in so far as it affects your plans, whatever they may be. Is that it?”

She smiled. “I believe you’re feeling hurt. You really are looking for sympathy.”

“I’m not hurt,” Fletcher said; “except physically. But I resent being used. By anybody.”

“We all use other people; it’s a fact of life. You’re using us.”

He supposed it was true in a way, though it was hardly the same thing; he had not forced himself on them. But he decided not to get into an argument about it; and at that moment King and Lawrence appeared, followed a little later by Conrad Denning.

Breakfast was served on the terrace by an elderly black manservant, and there was that magnificent view which Fletcher had seen from his balcony.

“You have a fine place here,” he said.

Denning agreed. “I am lucky. Perhaps I should feel guilty about having so much.”

“And do you?”

“A little. Sometimes I ask myself why one man should have so much more than another.”

“It’s always been like that. Always will be.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I’m not expecting to see any big change in my lifetime. Even in communist countries there’s inequality.”

“Well, we shall see,” Denning said; “we shall see.”

He left soon after breakfast on his way to Jamestown, explaining that he had legal business to attend to; which served to remind Fletcher that this cousin of President Rodgers was still a practising lawyer. He drove away in an open Aston Martin, another example of his somewhat opulent style of living; and Fletcher could not help wondering how such a man came to be involved with people like
King and Lawrence, or even Leonora. And if it came to that, what was Leonora doing there anyway?

King and Lawrence soon disappeared, perhaps by previous agreement, and he was left with the girl for company. He suspected that she had been deputed to keep him under surveillance; which was just fine as far as he was concerned; he could think of no one he would rather have had to keep him under surveillance. She took him on a tour of the property; there was an extensive garden on several levels with a stream running through it; there were waterfalls and shade trees and rocky pools and rampant vines and creepers; and there was not another building in sight. They sat by one of the pools and watched the water cascading into it from a lip of rock above.

“What are you doing here?” Fletcher asked. He had already discovered that her surname was Dubois, which suggested French ancestry.

“I’m a journalist,” she said.

“A journalist!” If she had said a hairdresser it would hardly have seemed less likely.

“Well, don’t look so surprised. Is there anything strange in that?”

“Not in itself perhaps. It’s the situation that makes it surprising. Are you telling me that you’re practising journalism right here and now?”

She smiled enigmatically. “You might say that.”

“I don’t understand. What goes on here? What is everyone up to?”

“You would like to know?”

“Of course I’d like to know. When I’m involved in something as deeply as I’m involved in this, I naturally feel an interest in what it’s all about. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose I would.”

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Not yet.”

“It’s political, isn’t it? Mr. Denning is not supposed to touch politics, but I’ll bet he is. He’s got his fingers in something, and if President Rodgers found out about it he’d be in real trouble, wouldn’t he?”

“You’re just speculating,” she said.

“I know I’m speculating, but it’s pretty accurate speculation, isn’t it? What I still can’t figure out is where you fit in.”

She smiled again. “Well, you work on it, John. Just go on working on it, and maybe you’ll finally come up with an answer.”

With those legs and that figure and those lovely dark eyes and that enigmatic smile playing around her lips, she was really something. You could travel a long way and never come across anyone half as attractive as Leonora Dubois, and he toyed with the idea of telling her so, but decided not to. Let it wait awhile.

“Oh,” he said, “I’ll work on it. There’s nothing I can think of I’d rather work on.”

Denning returned late in the afternoon. King and Lawrence also turned up. Fletcher wondered where they had been, but he did not ask; he doubted whether they would have told him if he had. Denning called a conference to discuss plans for the picking up of the camera.

“Can you get into the house without rousing the family?” he asked.

“I’ve still got a key,” Fletcher said. He had had one for quite a while, so that he could come and go as he pleased. “But there’s no need to creep in like a thief. I’m not going to steal anything.”

“All the same,” Denning said, “I think it would be better if Mr. Thomas didn’t see you.”

Fletcher had a feeling that Denning had picked up some information in Jamestown which he was not revealing; but again he asked no questions.

“I suggest you get there at about one o’clock in the morning,” Denning said. “Will they be asleep by then?”

“Unless they’ve changed their habits.”

Denning took a piece of notepaper from a small writing-desk and drew a sketch-map of the Port Morgan peninsula.

“Whereabouts is the house?”

Fletcher marked the approximate position and Denning nodded.

“Good. Then you can approach it from the beach on the seaward side? Is that so?”

“Yes; but the road is on the other side.”

“You will not be going by road,” Denning said. “You will be going by sea.”

They picked up the boat at a little place on the north coast where an inlet from the sea formed a natural harbour. It was a trifle over half an hour’s journey in the Ford and it had been dark before they started. Leonora again did the driving and she was again dressed in shirt and slacks, but this time she had left the hat behind. King and Lawrence also came along. Fletcher was not sure whether they were armed, but he suspected they might be. He just hoped there would be no call for violence; there had been enough of that the previous evening.

The boat was in amongst a lot of other boats and they had to get to it along a crazy sort of board-walk after parking the car. There were a few lights hanging on posts, but the illumination was not very brilliant and there was little sign of activity around the boats. Fletcher had a guilty feeling and was keeping an eye open for any policemen who might be prowling about, but he could see none, and the girl and the other men seemed completely unworried.

It was not a large boat, but it looked fast. Perhaps Denning enjoyed a bit of water-skiing when he felt like relaxing, or maybe he just liked a speedy boat the way he liked a fast car. It was secured by a rope at the bows to a
post on the board-walk, and there was a cabin not much bigger than a fair-sized dog-kennel and a glass windscreen to catch the spray. They went on board and Lawrence got the engine started while King cast off, and a few minutes later they were clear of the harbour and heading towards the eastern curve of the shore.

It was a fine clear night with all the stars shining as brightly as newly-minted coins, and Fletcher might have enjoyed the trip if he had not been worrying about possible snags ahead. Suppose the police were watching Joby’s bungalow, waiting for him to return. It was not unlikely; in fact, when he came to think about it, it seemed the most probable thing in the world and he wondered why it had not occurred to any of them when they were planning the operation.

He suddenly felt Leonora’s hand on his arm. He turned his head and could make out the pale oval of her face under the dark hair.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

He told her.

“You worry too much,” she said.

“Don’t you think there’s any cause for worry?”

“It doesn’t help.”

“I know it doesn’t help, but nobody ever stopped worrying because of that.”

“Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I just hope so.” But he doubted it. More likely that everything would be all wrong. He listened to the powerful note of the engine and the swish of water streaming back from the bows, and all the time there was a sick flutter in his stomach and he wished he had been a thousand miles away and had never heard of a boat called
Halcón
Español.
It would have been better if that Spanish Hawk had never flown into his life.

Just over an hour later they turned the headland and were running south along the eastern coast about half a mile out from land. Before long the shoreline curved sharply away to the westward, but Lawrence kept the boat’s head still pointing due south, cutting across the wide bay on the southern side of which was the Port Morgan peninsula.

Lawrence had not been pushing it, but the boat had been going along at a useful rate and the engine had never faltered. Nevertheless, it was getting on for one o’clock when they reached the place where they had planned to go ashore. Lawrence reduced the speed and the engine note dropped to a low mumble, and he made a turn to starboard and ran on under the stars with no light showing. There was a glimmer of white beach ahead with a dark line of palm-trees beyond it, and they came in gently and slid the keel into the sand. Lawrence stopped the engine and King said:

“You know the way from here?”

“I know the way,” Fletcher said.

“I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need for that,” Fletcher said quickly. He was not keen to have King with him; this was something he preferred to handle on his own. That way there would be no shooting.

But King just said again: “I’ll come with you.”

It was no time to argue. Fletcher clambered up to the bows and jumped down into the shallow water. King followed him as he made his way up the beach, and when he turned he saw that Leonora had come with them.

“Look,” he said, “do we need a crowd?”

“You may need some help,” she said.

“If I need help it’s going to be a shambles.”

“All right, so it’s going to be a shambles. Get moving.”

He gave a sigh of resignation and got moving. The other two followed. Lawrence stayed with the boat.

They came to the palm-trees and went in among them. It was darker there. Fletcher had a torch in his pocket, but he had no need to use it; he knew the way well enough, for he had often used this route from Joby’s to the beach. The three of them kept close together and in a little while they were clear of the palms. There was rough grass underfoot and the ground rose slightly to a low ridge before descending again on the other side. The shadowy outline of Joby’s bungalow came in sight soon after that, with the trees in the back garden, and a few yards further on they came to the fence.

They all halted. The bungalow was dark and silent. There was no sound but the dry rustle of leaves and the soft murmur of the sea.

“You’d better wait here,” Fletcher said.

He felt the brief touch of Leonora’s hand. “You won’t be long?”

“I won’t be long,” he said; and hoped it was the truth. If he were long it would mean that he had hit trouble.

He climbed over the fence and made his way past the hammock slung between the two coconut palms and round to the front of the bungalow. He took the key from his pocket and groped for the keyhole. He inserted the key very carefully and turned it with equal care. There was a faint click as the tongue of the lock slid back. He turned the knob gently and pushed the door open.

There was a mat which the bottom of the door just
touched with a light brushing sound that seemed abnormally loud to his ears. The hall was no more than a narrow passageway and his room was on the right. He left the front door standing half-open and moved in the darkness to the door of his own room, opening it with the same infinite care he had used with the other. He stopped just inside the room and took the torch from his pocket and switched it on.

In this small light the room appeared to be exactly as he had left it: the suitcase he had packed was on the floor half under the bed and there was a canvas holdall with a zip-fastener lying on top of the wardrobe. He laid the torch on the bed and picked up the suitcase and put it on the bed also. He took down the holdall and filled it hurriedly with the things he had not already packed; then zipped it up.

He had put the camera on the dressing-table after Captain Green had had his look at it, and now he went to pick it up—and that was the first shock. It was no longer there.

He stood perfectly still for a few moments, beginning to sweat and wondering who the devil could have taken it, until suddenly he remembered that before leaving to go down to the Treasure Ship he had put it away in the bottom drawer of the dressing-table. He bent down and pulled out the drawer, and it was one of the tight-fitting kind that nobody has yet succeeded in pulling out silently. It seemed to make a hell of a noise and nearly dragged the dressing-table with it, and by the time he had got it open he was really sweating. But the camera was there, and the films and all the rest of the gear, and he stowed the lot in a big leather case and slung the carrying-strap over his shoulder.

He picked up the holdall and suitcase with one hand and switched off the torch and dropped it into his pocket—and that was when he had the second shock. There was a sharp click and the light came on in the room and there was Joby Thomas standing in the doorway with a machete in his hand.

“So you came back,” Joby said softly. He was naked except for a pair of cotton trunks, and his skin gleamed like polished ebony.

“Yes,” Fletcher said, “I came back.”

“Why?”

“To get my things.”

“You shoulda come in daylight, not like a thief in the night.”

“There were reasons.”

“Sure, reasons. I bet. Now what you aimin’ to do?”

“I’m clearing out, Joby. Like I promised.”

“No,” Joby said.

Fletcher looked at him. There was something strange about Joby; he was not the old friendly companion he had once been; he had altered, hardened; there was even a kind of shiftiness in his eyes, a reluctance to meet Fletcher’s gaze. Above all, there was the machete in his hand. Fletcher experienced a feeling of uneasiness that he had never previously known in Joby’s company.

“What do you mean—no?”

“I mean you ain’t clearin’ out. Not now.”

“You’re stopping me?”

“That’s right,” Joby said. “I’m stoppin’ you.”

“Why, Joby, why?”

“’Cause you’re wanted; that’s why.”

“Wanted?”

“For murder.”

“Now look, Joby,” Fletcher said, “you don’t really believe I killed anyone.”

“I don’t know what you done. All I know’s the cops want you for murder an’ I gotta hold you.”

Fletcher could see how it was: Joby was protecting himself. Perhaps he had been warned that if his lodger came back he was not to let him go until the police came to pick him up. Joby might not like doing it; he certainly did not look happy; but he had to protect his own interests, and he had his family to think about. The family would certainly weigh more heavily with him than any past friendship with Fletcher.

The suitcase and holdall were beginning to put a strain on his left arm, and he set them down. Joby filled the doorway and there was no possibility of brushing past him.

“Would you use the machete?”

“You better not make me,” Joby said.

“You’re going to stand there and keep guard on me till morning?”

There was a hint of uncertainty in Joby’s eyes. He had probably not thought things out to the conclusion. It was a situation that could soon have become tedious if there had not been another interruption.

“Drop the machete or I’ll shoot you in the back,” Leonora said.

Fletcher could just see a part of her behind Joby; the rest was hidden. She must have become worried at the amount of time he was taking to fetch the camera and have decided to investigate, leaving King to keep watch. She had come in very silently by way of the open front door, so that
neither he nor Joby had heard her; they had both been unaware of her presence until she had spoken.

Joby had stiffened but had not moved. The machete was still in his hand, dangling at his side. He had been taken completely by surprise and seemed at a loss what to do. The girl helped him to make up his mind by pressing the muzzle of the pistol she was holding into the small of his back. It must have felt cold on his bare skin, and Fletcher saw him give an involuntary shiver, though it might not have been entirely because of the cold.

“Drop it,” she said.

Joby dropped it and it fell with a slight clatter to the floor.

“Now go into the room,” Leonora said.

Joby walked into the bedroom and she followed him in and told him to turn round. He did so. She spoke to Fletcher.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Fletcher said.

It was her turn to show a little uncertainty. “We ought to go; but what do we do with him?”

Fletcher looked at Joby. “I don’t think he’ll make any more trouble. What do you say, Joby?”

Joby gave a resigned shrug of the shoulders. “What more you reckon I can do? I done what I had to, an’ it didn’ work. Ain’t nothin’ more to do now.”

“Right, then,” Leonora said. “Let’s go, John.”

She picked up the machete and carried it out, just to make sure Joby got no bright ideas about making use of it again. Fletcher picked up his luggage.

“I’m sorry, Joby.”

“Sure, sure,” Joby said. “It’s the way it goes, man.”

Fletcher heard Leonora calling him. She sounded impatient.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Sure,” Joby said.

He went out of the room and caught a glimpse of Paulina in a nightdress, looking scared.

“Good-bye, Paulina,” he said. “I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

He really was sorry about it, and he hoped they would not be persecuted because of him. But there was nothing he could do about it, except maybe stay there and wait for the police to pick him up on a murder rap; and that was too much of a sacrifice to expect of any man.

Leonora was waiting for him outside. They went round to the back garden and she threw the machete away. Fletcher was feeling pretty heavily loaded with the suitcase, the holdall and the camera case slung over his shoulder.

“My God,” Leonora said; “did you have to bring all that lot?”

“They’re my things. I need them.”

“Okay,” she said, “okay, so you need them. Maybe we should have brought a truck.”

He could tell that she was on edge, though she was doing her best to conceal her nervousness. When they came to the fence they both had reason to be nervous. King was not there.

They climbed over the fence and Leonora called his name softly: “Matthew! Where are you?”

There was no answer.

“We’d better make for the boat,” she said. “Maybe he decided to go on ahead.”

Fletcher could see no reason why King should do that, but there was no point in discussing the matter, and it would have been futile to hunt for him in the darkness. He glanced back at the bungalow. There was still plenty of light shining from it, but Joby was not following them. Fletcher had not expected him to.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He took the lead again, since he was more familiar with the way, and he had not gone more than twenty yards when he tripped over some obstacle lying in his path. He stumbled forward and nearly fell, dropping the bags. The obstacle was the body of a man.

The girl had come up close behind him and he could detect that edginess in her voice again.

“What is it, John? What’s happened?”

Fletcher had turned. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think we may have found Matthew.”