The Tarantula Stone

‘You are ill, senhor?’ inquired Hernandez patronizingly.

‘Yeah … Hernandez, what’ll you give me for these tools?’

‘Tools?’ Hernandez glanced down at the well-worn equipment. ‘You are quitting, Senhor Taggart?’

‘I guess so. I’ve got to get back to Rio and sort out this damned malaria. I can’t take another rainy season feeling this way.’

Hernandez chuckled. ‘You should count yourself lucky, Senhor Taggart. At least you have not yet the maculo. That one, she is a real killer … malaria, a man gets to live with. You will see, in a day or so, the badness will pass …’

‘I ain’t planning on waiting a day or so. Come on, Hernandez, how much for these?’

Hernandez gazed at the tools disdainfully, prodding them with his fingers. ‘These … there is little life in them, eh, senhor? I give you fifty cruzeiros.’

‘Fifty! They damned near cost me five thousand!’

Hernandez shrugged expressively. ‘That is what they are worth to me, Senhor Taggart. Maybe you should keep them. You may decide to come back, eh? They say a garimpeiro never quits until he has made his fortune … or died trying for it.’ He chuckled unpleasantly.

‘I can buy more in Rio, if I ever decide to come back to this rat-hole. Come on, give me a hundred for them, at least.’ He shuddered violently and swore beneath his breath.

‘Sorry, senhor. Fifty. That’s my offer.’

‘All right, dammit, give me that! At least I’m not in debt to you for anything and I guess I can just about afford the train fare back to Rio.’ He accepted the notes that Hernandez counted out from a cigar box under the counter. Martin knew that Hernandez kept a double-barrelled shot-gun beside the box.

‘The senhor should try a bottle of my aguardente; it’s very good for the fevers.’

‘No thanks, Hernandez, I couldn’t afford your prices.’ Martin leaned forward across the counter. ‘Unless, of course, you were offering me a bottle free, out of the goodness of your heart …’

Hernandez shook his head. ‘Alas, senhor, nothing in this life is free.’

Martin sneered and turned away from the counter; he froze for an instant when he recognized the figure standing in the doorway: the bearded Portuguese who had questioned him the day before. He was gazing at Martin with interest, leaning against the edge of the doorframe.

Goddammit, thought Martin desperately. The bastard knows something! But he kept his face impassive as he pushed by the man and trudged slowly outside. The man turned and came quickly after him.

‘Senhor, wait a moment! You leave tomorrow, yes?’

‘Maybe.’ Martin did not pause or look back.

‘Sure, I hear you tell Hernandez! Hold up a moment …’

Martin turned round, his expression threatening. ‘So all right, I’m leaving. What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

The man nodded and an arrogant smile played on his lips. ‘Yes, I figured so … you found something, no?’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘A diamond, senhor. You found a diamond, two days ago when I was working near. I wasn’t sure then, but I had an idea … just … something in your face; so I say to myself, Orlando, you wait to see what he does next. He will show you yes or no. And now suddenly you are ill and you have to leave … it is for sure you found a diamond, a big diamond or you would not risk to run with it.’

‘You’re crazy,’ snapped Martin.

‘I don’t think so, senhor. Can I … have a look at it, huh? Listen, I’m not a greedy man, you know. We could be partners you and me … What do you say?’

‘I say you’re crazy. There is no diamond. I’m leaving because I’m sick.’

‘Oh yes, of course! The malaria. Well, senhor, you’re a good actor. But I have seen malaria many times. In cases as bad as this, the skin of the face turns grey … but yours now, senhor, looks perfectly good to me. So you tell me where is the diamond? Can I see it? You keep it on you somewhere, no?’ The man stepped forward and began to finger the fabric of Martin’s shirt; then he lurched backward with an oath as Martin’s right fist clipped him hard against the jaw. He stood there, smiling ruefully and massaging his chin. ‘A strong arm for a man with malaria,’ he observed.

Martin said nothing. He glanced quickly about. Nobody seemed to have observed the fight but there were people around who would come running if the thing escalated. He fixed the man with a contemptuous glare and said, ‘Just keep away from me. You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And he turned and walked away, remembering to keep his gait slow and awkward, just in case anybody else was observing him. He was terrified.

Back at his shack, he threw his meagre belongings into an old carpet bag and made his plans. The Portuguese was wise to him, but what did he plan to do about it? It seemed likely that he’d try to get to Martin before the morning train arrived. Well, let him come; if he was foolish enough to try anything … But would he tell anybody else? Martin guessed not. The man was as greedy as any other garimpeiro and would not wish to share the diamond with any ‘partners’. Besides, he could have no idea how big this particular gem was. Martin could only hope that this reasoning was sound. If several men came after him in the night he wouldn’t stand a chance of holding them off. One man he figured he could handle.

When dusk fell, he bundled the carpet bag and whatever bits of rubbish that were lying about the place into the hammock and covered them with a blanket. He lit a candle and placed it a short distance away, so that it just about illuminated the shape. Then, taking his razor-sharp, big-bladed knife from its sheath, he dropped down into the shadows in the corner of the shack. As a last resort, he placed his pistol where he could grab it in an emergency but he was hoping there would be no need of it. A shot would alert everybody in the garimpo to the fact that he had something worth defending.

He resigned himself to a long, monotonous wait. The hours began their slow, laborious journey towards the dawn. He sat crosslegged in darkness, sweating in the stifling heat. Mosquitoes worried relentlessly at his forehead and bare neck but he remained stock-still, staring out at the slightly lighter rectangle of blue that was the doorway of the shack. The candle gradually burned its way downwards through the wax and from time to time a large moth fluttered jerkily round the halo of light before moving away to rest in darkness. Time seemed suspended and Martin began to wonder if he really had any reason to be afraid. He had slept little over the last couple of nights and now his eyelids grew heavy, his head inclined downwards by degrees until his chin rested against his chest. He slept, a deep, dreamless slumber of exhaustion.

And then he was awake, suddenly, with the intense conviction that something was about to happen. His legs were badly cramped and his mind woolly; but, glancing towards the doorway, he was aware of a shape moving there, crouched down by the floor to the left. For a moment he thought it was some animal that had wandered in from the jungle after food; but then the shape inclined upwards and Martin recognized the fat silhouette of the bearded garimpeiro. The man remained in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, his gaze fixed to the huddled form in the hammock. The candle had burned very low now and the faint glimmer of light only just caressed the soft curve. Now the man moved slowly forward into the shack, placing his feet on the wooden boards without making a sound. He was obviously barefoot and Martin silently cursed the fact that he had not considered this. His own heavy boots would be sure to make creaking sounds on the warped planking, but there was no time to remove them now. The man was approaching the hammock and between his outstretched fists something glimmered faintly. It was a length of cheese wire. Martin shuddered at the thought of the wire slicing into the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Setting down his own feet with as much care as possible, he got up, using the wall of the shack for support. He did not have long. As soon as the man realized that the hammock was a decoy, he would be on his guard; and even now the assassin was leaning forward over the blanket.

Martin took two quick steps forward, threw his left hand up to cover the man’s mouth and with his right hand slammed the long blade of the knife into the small of the garimpeiro’s back. The man’s fat body shuddered with the force of the blow and Martin began to lever the blade upwards, searching for the heart; but then the bearded man’s right hand let go of the cheese wire and he brought his elbow savagely upwards into Martin’s face, knocking him back across the room. The man spun round like an overweight dancer doing a macabre pirouette, his hand clawing ineffectually at the handle of the knife that protruded from his back. He was making a strange guttural noise deep in his throat and the length of cheese wire still dangled uselessly from his left hand. Knocked half senseless, Martin leapt in again, terrified that the man’s noises might alert the rest of the garimpo. He grabbed the wooden peg at the end of the cheese wire, whipped the man’s left arm upwards round his own neck and, when the wire grew taut, gave it a quick turn round the garimpeiro’s throat, pulling it tight until the sounds he was making ceased with an abrupt gurgle. The man stood in the centre of the room, thrashing hideously for a moment with his free arm. Then he gave a last jolting spasm, his head tilted sideways and he fell into Martin’s arms. Snatching the rubbish free of the hammock with one hand, Martin man-handled the body into its place, pausing only to wrench the knife free of its fleshy sheath. He wiped the blade thoughtfully on the dead man’s shirt, rolled him over onto his back and threw the blanket across him so that there would be no need to look into those glazed, staring eyes again that night.

Martin sighed. He undid the bandana round his neck and mopped his face dry of sweat. It was too bad that it had to happen this way. Now it would be obvious why he had left and of course people would be looking for him. He would have to move quickly as soon as he got to Rio. At least the body in the hammock would buy him some time. People would simply think he was lying in, suffering with his malaria. Only Hernandez at the barraca knew of his intention to leave next morning and he never came down to the diggings. It should be hours before anybody bothered to glance in at his shack, and by then, with any luck, he would be on his way to Europe. He had already decided that Rotterdam would be the best place to sell the diamond; and, with careful planning, he figured he had just enough money put by to pay his fare to there. That was surely one place where even Caine couldn’t reach him.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just a few hours to dawn. He remained seated in the corner of the hut, chain-smoking, and gradually the light began to brighten. Now Martin could make out the hunched shape in the hammock and the dark red stain that was spreading across the underside of the fabric. A swarm of plague flies buzzed curiously round the stain, settling and resettling upon it. He felt no sense of guilt at the killing. The man had come to steal a diamond and had paid for his greed in the most fitting way.

Glancing at his watch again, Martin saw it was time to make his move. He stubbed out his cigarette, reached up to the gap behind the roof beam where he kept the canvas money belt and tied the device in place beneath the loose fabric of his khaki shirt. Then, collecting his carpet bag, he ducked out of the doorway of the hut, glancing cautiously around in the half light. There were few people about yet, but he made his way slowly to the railway halt, walking as though with great difficulty. He left the great ugly scar of the garimpo behind him and moved on through the brief stretch of scrub jungle that bordered the trail to the railway halt. The vegetation was sodden with morning dew and the legs of his trousers were soon soaked through. Once he reached the rough earth banking that passed for a platform, he settled down to wait. His pistol was tucked in the waistband of his trousers, in case anybody should challenge him; but the only other people to arrive were a couple of feeble garimpeiros who were genuinely sick. Martin wisely kept his distance from them. Off to the east, lost somewhere in jungle, a few unidentified birds greeted the rising of the sun with a distant squawking. Then, at last, he heard the wheezing of the rusty old train as it came lumbering up out of the jungle. It clanged to a halt in a spasm of steam and ancient metal, disgorging a motley collection of would-be fortune-hunters, a pack of arrogant, snarling tough guys who had yet to be broken by the jungle. Martin watched them pass by, remembering his own arrival here six years earlier. More human fuel for the furnaces of men like Caine. The newcomers strode noisily away towards the garimpo, where the fazendeiros and their henchmen were waiting to greet them.

Martin hauled himself aboard the train and took his place on one of the hard wooden seats. The carriage stank of a mixture of sweat, cachaça and urine, but to Martin it was the vehicle that would carry him away from the living hell that was Garimpo Maculo. An impassive Indian guard came along collecting fares; and a few moments later the train lurched into motion, heading back into the dark, mysterious jungle. Martin sat quietly through the journey, staring out of the dust-streaked window.

Arriving at Rio three hours later was something of a shock. It was six years since he had seen anything of the trappings of civilization and clambering off the train to be swallowed whole by a sea of humanity in the process of hurrying to work was a weird experience. It seemed inconceivable that Rio de Janeiro, with its great glittering skyscrapers of glass and concrete, its traffic-jammed streets and its bewildering mixture of races, could actually have been here all the time, perched on the edge of the jungle like a bizarre oasis on the perimeter of a vast green wilderness. But now was the time to move fast. Martin’s first step was to seek out a cheap clothing store where he purchased a new khaki shirt and trousers to replace his rotting rags. Then he went to a public wash-house, where he was able to bath and shave himself. He was, all the time, horribly aware that the hours were passing and that each minute he wasted would bring him nearer to discovery; but he also realized the stupidity of turning up at the airport looking like a tramp. Once he was satisfied that he looked fairly presentable, he dumped his old clothes in a trash can and hailed a passing cab, directing the driver to take him straight to the airport.

A short while later, he was pushing his way through the crowds of people inside the main building. The presence of so many strangers made him nervous; every couple of moments, he glimpsed a man who could well be one of Caine’s pistoleiros. He made his way to the check-in desk and impatiently tagged himself onto the end of a long queue. When he finally reached the desk, he was met with an engaging smile from the pretty, dark-haired receptionist.

‘You er … speak English?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, senhor.’

‘Fine. Well now, I need to get to Zürich just as soon as possible. I er … had a telegram this morning, a friend of mine is seriously ill.’

The girl looked taken aback. She shook her head. ‘I am sorry, senhor, but … do you not have a reservation?’

‘No. See, I only found out this morning. When could you find me a seat?’

Again she shook her head. She gestured vaguely at the papers in front of her.

‘Now is a very busy time for us. There is certainly nothing until early next week, for sure. Of course, there may be cancellations … Have you perhaps a phone number where I could contact you?’

‘No, you don’t understand. I have to leave right away, today. You see, my friend … is dying, he …’

‘I’m very sorry, senhor, but –’

‘Is there no other way I could go today? I don’t have to go directly to Zürich, you see. Perhaps I could go to some other place first … Britain, Paris … I could pick up another flight from there.’

‘Well …’ The girl scanned her lists thoughtfully. ‘There’s a place tomorrow night on –’

‘Tomorrow night is too late!’ Martin snapped.

‘Well then, senhor, I’m afraid that …’

Martin did not hear the rest of her words. He nodded at her, but her voice did not reach him. This was something he hadn’t figured on. He’d just assumed he’d be able to clamber aboard a plane and take off. If he was obliged to hang around Rio till tomorrow night, he might as well go straight to Caine’s office and turn himself in. He moved away from the desk, his mind turning over furiously. Whatever happened, he had to put as much distance between Rio and himself in the shortest possible time. An internal flight perhaps? Yes, that might be the answer. Brazil was a big country; a simple hop up the coast involved a trip of several thousand miles. Lighting a cigarette, Martin manoeuvred his way across to the local flight desks. Various details were chalked up on blackboards. He found details of a domestic flight to Belém on the north-east coast, at the mouth of the Amazon. There was an overnight stop first at Recife, an eight-hour haul up the coast from Rio; and the second leg across to Belém would involve a journey that was barely shorter. While it was nothing like the distance that Martin wanted to put between himself and Caine it should at least buy him time to wait around for a flight to Europe. Best of all, this flight was due to depart in just under an hour’s time. He inquired at the desk and was relieved to find that there were still a few seats available. He purchased a ticket and strolled gratefully through to the small lounge at the far end of the building. It was quieter here, with only fifteen or so other passengers to worry about. At last he began to feel that his plan could succeed.

The fan above his head came back into focus. He had drifted for a moment into a half-sleep and his mind was a hazy jumble of confused thoughts. Instinctively, he lifted a hand to stroke the hard shape beneath his shirt. The touch was reassuring, but he was suddenly uneasy. Something had woken him and, sleep-dazed as he was, he could not direct his thoughts to identify whatever it had been. He yawned cavernously, shook his head to clear away the last shreds of sleep. Then the something happened again, making the blood in his veins turn to ice.

It was the firm, powerful grip of someone’s hand on his shoulder.

Chapter 2

Mike Stone pushed his foot firmly down on the accelerator, urging the old jeep up to its top speed. The engine growled a noisy mechanical protest, the wheels leaped and bucked over the uneven surface of the road. However, such measures were entirely necessary. Mike was late; he was usually late for something; and there was still a considerable distance to the airport. He sat hunched behind the wheel, his grey eyes fixed on the way ahead. Despite the heat, he wore the scuffed leather flying jacket that was the uniform of his profession. Occasionally, he turned to glance slyly at the woman in the passenger seat, but she was still ignoring him. She leaned back, her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, her long naturally curly red hair trailing in the wind. In the white cotton blouse and tight navy blue skirt her slim but curvacious body looked particularly inviting. Mike wondered wryly if he’d be able to last out the long trip to Belém without going crazy for her. Her name was Helen Brody; she was Mike’s stewardess and had been for nearly a year now. The two shared several things: a similar sense of humour, a tough, tenacious ability to survive; and on the regular overnight stops in Recife and Belém, a single hotel room and a double bed. It would have been a perfect arrangement but for one major problem: the wife and two children that Mike supported in his home on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. That was the main reason why Helen had not spoken a word since he had picked her up an hour earlier. Mike appreciated her troubles but didn’t feel inclined to do anything about them.

Like most airmen, Mike had found himself at the end of the war with few prospects. His role in the affair had not been a martial one though he had seen plenty of action in the South Pacific. He had flown ‘Gooney Birds’, the rugged, ubiquitous and ever dependable DC3 airliners, hauling troops and equipment to wherever there was a suitable runway hacked out of the jungle. The surrender of the Japanese in ’forty-five had left him somewhat out on a limb. What was there for a man whose only ability was to fly a battered old crate around the airways of the world? The answer should have been obvious, but oddly enough, he had never even considered the idea until Willy Borden had suggested it. Willy was a ground crewman, a little fellow with big ideas and a tidy sum of money put away for safe-keeping. What Willy had in mind was a charter airline; oh, nothing fancy, mind you, just a single plane to begin with, perhaps a couple more in time if things went well. It would be a way of utilizing the particular talents that the war had given them and, as Willy was so quick to point out, one thing that there was bound to be a lot of at a time like this was surplus equipment. So, they had pooled their resources, purchased a Gooney and sought out a stretch of the earth’s surface where there were guaranteed transport problems. Mike’s wife, Mae, was loyal enough to go wherever work might be found and willing to take two young toddlers with her. Things had gone surprisingly smoothly and the only item missing was a capable stewardess.

Helen had answered the advertisement.

From the moment he saw her, Mike had wanted her and she had felt pretty much the same way about him. Helen was the daughter of some stuff-shirted diplomat at the American embassy in Rio. She had grown tired of attending boring functions and opted for making her own way in the world. As she’d told Mike at the interview, she’d never done this kind of work before, but she figured she could turn her hand to just about anything. Helen had got the job and, shortly afterwards, had got Mike. The affair was by now a fixture and, typically, everybody knew about it but Mae.

A horsedrawn wagon appeared in the road ahead of the jeep, a rickety vehicle loaded with cans of latex. A lone driver dozed at the reins while his skinny horse plodded placidly to some unknown destination. Mike did not slow the jeep for an instant but accelerated around the rear of the wagon, cutting perilously close to the side of it. Startled, the horse reared up with an indignant snort and a couple of cans of raw rubber went hurtling back into the road. A stream of livid Portuguese curses were flung in the jeep’s wake but Mike just grinned, rejoicing in the petty annoyance he had stirred up.

Helen glanced at him contemptuously. ‘Big shot,’ she sneered.

Mike glanced at her in mock surprise. ‘Say, you do speak!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was beginning to think it would be like this all the way to Belém.’

She scowled at him. ‘Grow up,’ she advised.

‘All right, all right, I get the message. I’m not the world’s most popular man today, am I? You want to talk about it?’

She shrugged. ‘What’s the use? It never gets us anywhere. I mean, I talk to you and talk to you, but sometimes I wonder if you ever hear a damned word. It’s obvious you didn’t tell Mae.’

‘Hell no I didn’t! It isn’t that damned easy, believe me! I … wanted to tell her but …’

‘The trouble with you is you want everything, Mike. You want me on a string so you can have your fun when it pleases you. And you want Mae and the kids to be there waiting for you when you fly home, to make you feel like a big man back from the war. But what about what I want, Mike? I’ve been patient for a long time now … surely you could have brought yourself to –’