Señor Saint (The Saint Series) Read online

  She gritted her teeth and wished that lightning would strike him, but she forced herself to say, “That would be fun.”

  Four hours later she was nearly ready to strike him down herself. Following the river on foot was a minor nightmare which developed its miseries cumulatively but inexorably until their weight and blackness was smothering.

  Sometimes they were stumbling over tangled roots, sometimes sinking above their ankles in thick gluey mud, almost continuously warding off branches, leaves, fronds, vines, and thorns that poked and scratched and tugged at clothing and bare skin. The only respite from that harassment was when they took to the river to circumvent a particularly impassable thicket on land: then there was the treachery of invisible hazards underfoot, the haunting fear of crocodiles, and the discomfort of boots full of water for a memento. Winged and crawling things in infinite variety tickled and bit them. She was soaked with mud up to the hips and with sweat above that; her blonde hair hung in bedraggled skeins. She swore bitterly to herself that if she survived this excursion she would insist on some basic re-writing in her part next time.

  The Saint was equally hot and muddy, but his good humour seemed to feel no strain. He could be fascinated by a sloth which they came upon suspended from a cecropia bough, too sluggish to stir even when he touched it, and he could exclaim delightedly over a toucan taking off before them and speculate earnestly as to why its enormous yellow bill didn’t send it immediately into a fatal nose-dive. At other times he seemed to continue seeking for something, picking up a small rock to examine it or taking a handful of loam and gravel from the bank and crumbling it between his fingers, until she had had to ask what he was doing.

  “I told you I was a speculator, didn’t I, darling? It wasn’t only your golden frogs that intrigued me. They suggested something else which you seem to have missed. The ancient frog-worshippers who made ’em had to get the gold from somewhere, and the odds are it wasn’t so very far away. Also it isn’t likely that they used it all up. If I found the mother lode I’d have a real return on my investment.”

  A time came when she felt it would not be worth going any farther for any sort of wealth.

  “We should be turning back,” she said, with heroically simulated reluctance. “We ought to get back to the boat before dark.”

  The boat was an old forty-foot native hull on which some intermediate owner had built an oversize deckhouse and partitioned it into a crude kind of houseboat; it was cramped and dilapidated and none too clean, but it possessed screens on the windows and a primitive form of shower bath, and from her point of suffering it was starting to resemble a luxury yacht.

  The Saint was staring fixedly at the river bank, and suddenly his arm and forefinger stretched out in a compelling gesture.

  “Look!”

  Her eyes turned where he pointed, and even she saw the metallic yellow gleams on a rock caught by the sun.

  He picked up the chunk of stone and wiped it on his shirt. There were half a dozen kernels of the yellow metal embedded in it. He was able to prise one of them out with the point of a pocket knife and lay it in the palm of her hand, a nugget the size of a small pea.

  He looked around, and pointed to another rock, and another. All her wretchedness and exhaustion miraculously forgotten, she too began casting around and picked up other stones herself. She discovered that they were surrounded by a score and more of similar half-buried fragments, each crusted with the same crumbs of gold. She found herself grabbing them up wildly, trying to build a stack on one outspread hand and the arm held against her chest.

  “Hey, take it easy,” he said, as the top-heavy pile slipped and most of it spilled. “A couple of souvenirs is enough for now. We’ll pick up some more when we come by in the boat, if you like.”

  “The boat isn’t half big enough,” she gasped distractedly.

  He was laughing, an almost soundless laughter of celestial contentment.

  “Sweetheart, I’m not even thinking about what we could put in that boat. It’s what can be taken out with dredger and draglines and strings of barges. This isn’t something I’ll have to work myself with a pick and shovel.”

  “Do you really think it’s that big?”

  “I know it. I know a lot about mining, among a number of things. This is what every prospector dreams of blundering into. This is the end of the rainbow. When you find this exact kind of geological set-up, you know that you haven’t a thing to do but file your claim, form a company, and wait for the dividends!”

  She trudged all the way back to the boat in a daze that nullified fatigue and time.

  “This is one time when a long cold drink isn’t going to be merely medicinal,” he said. “This will be a legitimate celebration.”

  She managed to smile somehow.

  “I’d enjoy it lots more if I were clean,” she said. “Will you save it for me?”

  “You’ve got the best idea. Yell when you’re through with the shower, and I’ll get clean too. Then we’ll make it a party.”

  What she wanted more than anything was a chance to gather her wits without the superimposed strain of maintaining a mask. But her usually agile mind seemed to have gone numb. Soap and water, brush and comb, perfume and lipstick, and lastly a minimum of fresh cool garments, made her feel physically better but for once were inadequate to restore her mentally. She was overwhelmed by the magnitude of a complication that had never entered her dizziest dreams.

  Later, when he entered the forward section of the deckhouse, which served as both wheelhouse and saloon, Simon Templar found her sitting at the table, her eyes fastened in a hypnotized way on one of the gold-studded pieces of rock which she had brought back.

  “A lovely hunk of mineral, isn’t it?” he remarked, as he went to work improvising lime and soda and ice with fortification from a bottle of Pimm’s Cup which he had thoughtfully contributed to the ship’s stores. “It’s a shame you had those head-hunters sniping at you the last time you went by there, or I’m sure the Professor would have spotted that formation.”

  “But what a wonderful break it was that we asked you to take our picture.”

  It was all she could think of to say, a forlorn attempt to be reassured that the foreboding that chilled her to the marrow was unfounded.

  He set a tall tinkling glass in front of her, and raised its duplicate to the level of his own lips.

  “Here’s to Loro,” he said, and drank.

  He went on measuring her with a steady gaze, while he put his glass down and placed a cigarette in his mouth.

  “Forgive me if I’m off the beam,” he said, “but a moment ago it sounded just as if you were assuming that we were partners in a newly discovered gold mine.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “I don’t think it’s exactly up to you to say that, darling. The only partnership deal we made was that I agreed to finance a highly speculative expedition to try and recover some golden frog idols, with the understanding that if we succeeded I could keep, say, half of them.”

  “But if I hadn’t brought you here, you’d never have discovered this gold mine,” she was hot-headed enough to argue.

  “That’s true,” he said coolly. “And if I hadn’t been in the bar at El Panamá I might never have met you—but does that mean the bartender is entitled to cut himself in? I’m a gambler, but I play percentages. I told you this afternoon, even before we found any gold, that it wasn’t your frogs I was betting on, but the other angle, the possible gold mine, which I had figured out all by myself. Maybe you could make me feel generous about that, but I’d be uncomfortable if I felt you were grabbing.”

  She looked at him speechlessly, and only the most Spartan self-discipline inhibited her from throwing her glass in his face.

  He did not appear to notice the gelid malevolence in her eyes, for through her self-inflicted silence his ear was caught and held by a new sound that had been trying to creep in through the thin bulkheads and open screens. He raised a hand, his face suddenly tense and
withdrawn.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked, and a well-worn behaviour pattern dragged her back rather like an automaton into the script that had been so catastrophically interrupted but which was supposed to be still unreeling itself with her help.

  “The drums!” she breathed.

  He thrust open the screen door and stepped out on to the scanty triangle of foredeck, and in a moment she followed him. The scrawny captain was already out there, standing rigidly in the bow, with a naked machete gleaming in his hand. Dusk had been falling when Simon and Alice reached the boat, and the brief twilight had long since passed, but now a full moon had risen above the trees and flooded the boat with a cold silver-green brilliance. The river flowed past and under it like a torpidly undulant sheet of liquid lead, but the walls of jungle on each side were by contrast impenetrably black and solid except for the luminous dappling of their topmost foliage. And out of that huge formless obscurity came the monotonous menacing thump and titter of the drums, swelling and fading, shifting and drifting, muttering endless spells and abominations out of the unspeakable night. The tympani virtuosi of the nearby village, inspired by copious libations of Loro’s rum, were truly floating it out.

  “Sounds like a big fiesta for Loro,” Simon said.

  She clutched his arm, to make sure he would feel her shiver.

  “No, it’s bad,” she said shakily. “They never play those drums for fun. Only for a blood ritual, a head chopping. I’ve heard them before—I can never forget…”

  “Bad,” said the taciturn captain, in corroboration. “Muy malo!”

  A single ear-splitting shriek pealed out of the blackness, hung quavering on a climax of agony, and was abruptly cut off.

  “Oh, no,” Alice sobbed.

  At the Saint’s first movement, she clung to him tighter.

  “No, I won’t let you. There’s nothing you could do!”

  Like a giant firefly, a torch blinked alight in the forest, flaring and eclipsing as it wandered among the trees. It was joined by another, and another, until there were six or seven of them shimmering and weaving towards the river, throwing weirdly moving silhouettes of deformed tree trunks and twisted jungle growth. The drums came nearer, picked up a more feverish tempo.

  As the torches bobbed closer to the bank, they revealed not only the shapes of the brown men who carried them, but the gleaming leaping forms of a horde of other naked creatures that writhed and capered around them. The male population of the village where Loro sojourned didn’t do things by halves. He had explained to them that this was what the incomprehensible white tourists expected, and in return for the rum which he dispensed they were always ready to oblige. It was more fun for them than a square dance, anyway.

  Then, as if at a signal, the torches drew together and became almost still. And in the midst of them, on the point of a spear, to an accompaniment of shrill yips and yells, was raised a bleeding human head.

  This was Professor Humphrey Nestor’s crowning inspiration, the climactic triumph of his dramatic genius. The head, moulded in papier-mâché from a plaster matrix which the Professor had made himself, was a recognizable facsimile of Loro’s to pass at that distance and in the flickering torchlight, and the long black hair affixed to its scalp and the gold ring in one ear were clinchers of identification. The ketchup which dripped from its neck was a gruesome touch of realism which had become even more horrifyingly effective when some of the performers had discovered how good it tasted and had taken to dipping their fingers in the drips and licking them with ghoulish glee. Thus the subsidizer of the whole elaborate fraud was to be fully and incontrovertibly convinced that Loro was dead, the guns were lost, the expedition had failed, and there was nothing left but to kiss his investment goodbye and be thankful his own head was still on his shoulders. At that, he would go home with an anecdote to embroider for the rest of his life which in itself was almost worth the capital outlay, which he could take as a tax deduction, if he could get anyone to believe him.

  Alice screamed.

  All the torches went out as if a switch had been pulled. It had been found too dangerous to leave them alight any longer than it took to fulfil their purpose. One earlier victim had been so emotionally affected that he had fetched a gun and started blazing away, and might easily have hurt someone.

  Out of the darkness that seemed to swallow the land again came a rustle like unseen wings, and a shower of arrows plonked into the bulkheads and the deck. They were shot by the best archers in the village, who could be relied on not to hit anyone accidentally.

  The captain let out a yell of fear, and his machete flashed, cutting the bow rope by which they were moored with a single stroke. Instantly the boat started to move with the strong deep current. The captain scuttled into the wheelhouse, and as Simon instinctively dragged Alice down to the deck they heard the laboured grinding of the electric starter. The air quivered with bloodcurdling ululations from the Stygian shoreline. After four excruciating attempts the engine finally caught and the boat came under control, turning with increasing sureness out towards the centre of the river. Another shower of arrows fell mostly in the water behind them, and the hysterical war-whoops faded rapidly as the boat gathered speed with the stream.

  Simon rose and helped Alice up, and sympathetically let her continue to hold on to him, since that was what she seemed to want.

  “It’s all my fault,” she moaned. “I got Loro killed, and lost you all that money—”

  “Loro got himself killed,” said the Saint sternly. “It was his own idea, and he was sure he could get away with it. Nobody was twisting his arm. As for the money, I don’t know what you think I’ve got to complain about.”

  She had to force herself to recall how radically inappropriate half of her carefully rehearsed speech had become in the light of the veritable catastrophe which had intervened.

  The boat, driving at full throttle down the stream which the climbing moon had turned into a floodlit highway, must already have been somewhere near the place which they had reached so laboriously that afternoon on foot. Simon pointed towards the now silent blackness of the land.

  “I’m not an archaeologist, and I’ll be satisfied with what’s there,” he said. “I’ll be back with all the machinery necessary to get it out, and all the men that are needed—armed, if they have to be—to chase those head-hunters away. Before long, the head-hunters’ll probably have been scared so far off into the hills that you won’t have any trouble getting back into your frog cave. I’ll get along all right until then. I’ve still got that prospecting concession for this river—remember?”

  5

  “It was, literally, like an answer to prayer,” said Professor Humphrey Nestor piously. “As you know, Mr Tombs—I’m sure I must have mentioned it—I was scheduled to stop over to deliver a special lecture on Inca mythology at the University of Miami. So I had asked Michigan to forward my mail for a few days in care of the President. That is how I happened to receive this letter from the executors of this rich uncle from whom I frankly never expected to inherit so much as an old encyclopedia.”

  He handed Simon the unfolded letter. It was nicely typed on a letterhead purporting to be that of a firm of New York attorneys, and informed Professor Humphrey Nestor that they were holding at his disposal a legacy of fifty thousand dollars from the estate of Hannibal Nestor, deceased, and would appreciate his instructions regarding delivery of the same.

  Simon glanced at it and handed it back with a smile of congratulation. Nobody could esteem the value of an efficiently faked document higher than he.

  “That’s simply wonderful,” he said whole-heartedly.

  “Naturally,” said the Professor, “all I could think of was to get the money as quickly as possible and return here while we were still hot on the scent, as you might say, of those golden frogs.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Getting the money was only a matter of formality. Then I wired Alice, and took the next plane back here after my lect
ure. Of course, by that time you had already left on your ill-fated trip. No doubt you can imagine my feelings when she was forced to tell me the whole story. It would be impossible for me to forgive the bargain she made with you if I did not realize how altruistic although misguided her motives were. But both of us will always bear on our souls the burden of the death of poor faithful Loro.”

  He bowed his head, and a subdued Alice, becomingly garbed in black, meekly followed suit.

  “Don’t blame yourselves too much,” said the Saint. “I’ve already told her—”

  The Professor raised his hand.

  “Let us not discuss it,” he said. “All I ask, for my own satisfaction and peace of mind, is that you should permit me to reimburse you for your loss. Call it conscience money, or blood money, as you will. And let us consider that iniquitous compact ended, as if it had never been made.”

  He took another piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to the Saint. Simon took it, and saw that it was a cashier’s cheque for ten thousand dollars which his practised eye told him was certainly not forged.

  “If you put it that way, Professor,” he said, respectfully, “I hardly see how I can refuse.”

  “I understand you will not be a loser, in any event. May I ask what you are proposing to do about your lucky find?”

  “I haven’t had time to do anything much yet,” said the Saint. “In fact, for the present I’m keeping it right under my hat, and as you know I’ve asked Alice to do the same. I don’t want some local hotshots getting wind of it and maybe pulling some fast legal shenanigans before everything’s sewn up. I have got an attorney forming a local corporation, which will have quite a nominal capital, most of which I’ll put up myself—about a hundred grand. For operating capital, I’ll get a loan from some Texas oil men I know; in that way, the value of the original stock will skyrocket much faster as soon as we get going, and I can take a nice capital gain instead of paying a ninety per cent income tax.”