“I don’t believe it.”
“What you believe or don’t believe is of no importance whatever. But what makes you so sure, when you’d never met him and knew nothing about him at all?”
“I know her. She wouldn’t lie about it.”
He chuckled. “I rather thought that was it. And, by the way, that puts me in a somewhat awkward spot.”
“Why?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? One of us, it would appear, is lying. I think I can prove it was the lady; but should I, as a matter of policy? It’s a delicate point. We’re depending to some extent on your regard for the toothsome Mrs. Macaulay to ensure your co-operation in this venture, and it would seem we’d be doing ourselves a disservice in proving to you she’s been having you on. You might become indifferent as to what happened to her—”
“You got out of that all right,” I said.
“—but, on the other hand,” he went on as if he hadn’t even heard me, “if you were thoroughly disenchanted with the enchantress, you might be more inclined to help us in recovering what her husband stole from us. Interesting psychological point, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said contemptuously. “Very interesting. We’ll be down to the bar in a few minutes. Could I interest you in taking the tiller when we’re outside so I can get sail on her?”
“Certainly, old boy.”
The Ballerina began lifting slowly on the long ground swell running in through the mouth of the jetties. I searched the darkness ahead and could see the sea buoy winking on and off. There was a moderate breeze, a little north of east. I wondered why Barclay had tried to get off a cock-and-bull story like that. He was in control; why bother to lie?
“I found their bag, the one she sent aboard.”
I looked around. It was the voice of George Barfield, issuing from the companionway.
“Any chart in it?” Barclay asked.
“No.” Barfield came out and sat down beside Barclay. In the faint starlight I could see he was carrying something in one hand. “The satchel was in it, all right. About eighty thousand, at a rough count. But no chart.”
“What?” It exploded from me before I could stop it.
“What’s the matter with Don Quixote?” Barfield asked. “Somebody goose him?”
“I’m afraid you’ve spoiled Manning’s illusions,” Barclay murmured. “Mrs. Macaulay told him that money was in the plane.”
“Oh,” Barfield said. “Well, I wanted to see everything before I died, and now I have. A man over thirty who still believes women.”
I could only keep my hand on the tiller and stare straight ahead. I felt sick. “Shut up, you son of a bitch,” I said. “Put that bag down and throw a flashlight on it. There’s one on the starboard bunk.”
“I’ve got it here.” Barfield put the bag down at my feet.
The light flipped on and he pressed the catch on top of the bag. I looked at bundle after bundle of twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
I sold my jewelry and borrowed what I could on the car. It’s the last chance we’ll ever have. I don’t know why they’re trying to kill him; it was something that happened at a party—
“All right,” I said. “Turn it off.”
“Didn’t you forget my rank?” Barfield asked.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Turn it off, you son of a bitch.’ ”
“Shut up,” I said.
“How long would it take you to learn enough navigation, Joey?”
“Too long,” Barclay answered. “Leave him alone.”
“I was pretty good at math,” Barfield said; “Want me to try it? I could get sick of this guy.”
“Stop it,” Barclay ordered curtly. “Even if we could find the place alone, we still need a diver.”
“Anybody can dive with an aqualung.”
“George, old boy—” Barclay said softly.
“All right. All right.”
“What’s in the plane?” I asked.
“Diamonds,” Barclay answered. “You might say a considerable amount of diamonds.”
“Whose?”
“Ours, obviously.”
“And she knows about it?”
“Yes.”
I wondered if I had a latent tendency toward masochism. I wanted to hear it all. “And they weren’t trying to get to Central America?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, they were. Or at least originally. But Macaulay couldn’t take her in the plane because he had to take a diver. These particular diamonds appear to have an affinity for water. This will be the third time they’ve been recovered by a diver.”
“Why don’t you write him a book about it?” Barfield asked.
“Are you worrying over matters of policy again, George?”
“No,” Barfield said hastily. “But I don’t see any sense telling this jerk the time of day—”
“Well, I assure you he isn’t likely to tell anybody out here.”
Or ever come back. The implication was obvious.
I didn’t even hear them any more. They faded away as if I were alone in the cockpit. She had lied about the whole thing. Why try to find a way out now? It was perfectly clear; anybody but a fool would have seen it long ago. I wasn’t interested in their airplane or their stupid diamonds, or where they had come from, or what it was all about. The fact that she’d been lying all the time seemed to be the only thing that mattered.
I was a chump. A sucker. I’d believed her. Even when I’d had intelligence enough to realize the story sounded fishy I’d still believed it. She wouldn’t lie. Oh, no, of course not. Why, you could look at those big innocent, come-on-in-and-drown-yourself gray eyes and just know she couldn’t tell a lie. Jesus, how stupid could you get? She couldn’t go in the plane because he’d had to add a fuel tank to stretch out its cruising radius. I was their last chance to escape; she had trusted me with all the money they had left. She must have been laughing herself sick all the time. I had no desire to spare myself any of it. I even imagined her telling her husband about it. Dear, this poor sap will believe anything.
So I’d gone for it like a high-school sophomore. And because I’d believed it I had killed that poor vicious little bastard in a fight and now the police would be looking for me as long as I lived. Only I wasn’t going to be living very long. That was as obvious as the fact that I’d been a fool. I was scheduled for extinction just as soon as I located Macaulay’s plane and brought up what they wanted.
So was she. And wasn’t that too bad? I wondered if she realized just what her chances were of selling Barclay and that big thug a sob story of some kind. As soon as she told them where to look for that plane they’d kill her with no more compunction than a monkey cracking the life out of a louse. And if she didn’t tell them they’d enjoy beating it out of her. Well, let her turn up the rheostats in those big beautiful eyes and see what it bought her on this moonlight cruise. There should have been some satisfaction in knowing her double-crossing had got her killed as well as me, but when I looked for it, it wasn’t there. I just felt sick.
So I was going back to feeling sorry for her? I was like hell. The dirty, lying, double crossing—I stopped. A puzzling thought had occurred to me. If she knew what was in the plane and where it was, why hadn’t they grabbed her off long ago? Why had they kept trying to sweat Macaulay out of hiding so they could take him alive and make him tell, when they could have picked her up any time they pleased?
I cursed myself. What the hell, was I still trying to find a way out for her? Of course they hadn’t wanted her as long as there was a chance she would lead them to Macaulay. Her information about the plane would be secondhand, and they’d only taken her as second choice after Macaulay was dead. She was all they had left.
Well, I thought, they didn’t have much.
We were on the bar now. The breeze was kicking up a moderate sea that was choppy and confused as it fought with the ebbing tide. We shipped a little water on deck now and then as I held her on cours
e toward the sea buoy.
“Here, take the helm,” I said to Barclay. He slid over and I went forward and got the mainsail and jib on her. Barfield sat where he was, smoking. When I had the sails set we were passing the sea buoy. I cut the auxiliary.
“All right, what course?” I asked Barclay.
“Make it a little west of Scorpion Reef,” he replied in the darkness. “That will do until in the morning and we can have a little quiz session with Mrs. M.”
“Right.”
I went below, pulled down the chart table over the port bunk, and clicked on the small light above it. 155 degrees true would do it. I was just guessing at the leeway we’d make, having never sailed her before, but that was close enough since we didn’t even know where we were going anyway. And since nothing made any difference and I didn’t care whether we ever got there or not. Unless the wind changed we’d be able to run down on that course all night without tacking.
Before I went back I looked swiftly around the cabin. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, but since it was the first time I’d been alone, there must have been some idea in my mind of trying to find a weapon. I was just kidding myself. They had brought nothing aboard with them, so there was no hope they’d have another gun down here. I didn’t have a chance. There were two of them; I’d never be where one wouldn’t be watching me or at least aware of where I was. If I got behind one of them and tried to get his gun, the other would kill me. They were professionals; even a man armed with another gun would have no chance against them.
The sloop heeled down a little, the cabin deck tilting. Barclay had cleared the sea buoy and was letting her pay off a little before the wind, guessing at the course as approximately southeast. She lifted on a sea, and eased across and down, the only sound the hissing of water past the hull and the creaking of cordage. It was like home again until I remembered I was laying down a course which went in only one direction—outbound.
They wouldn’t need me going back. Anybody could find the coast of Florida.
On some impulse I couldn’t explain, I stepped to the curtain and looked into the forward part of the cabin. There was just enough illumination from the chart lamp behind me to make her out, lying on the starboard bunk with her face in the pillow. The big lovely body looked defenseless and utterly beaten.
I didn’t know why I did it. I stepped inside and stood near the bunk, as if I had no control over my own movements. She must have heard me, for she stirred and turned on her side and her eyes opened. They were wet.
“Bill,” she whispered, “I’m sorry—”
I snapped out of whatever it was. I grinned coldly at her. “Have a nice trip,” I said.
Turning, I went back through the after part of the cabin and on deck. Barfield had his legs stretched out in the cockpit. I kicked at them savagely.
“Keep your goddamned feet out of the way,” I said.
It had all the potentialities of lighting a cigarette in a tanker’s pump room. Barclay’s cold professionalism was all that saved it.
He was going to have his hands full. You could see that.
Ten
The moment for explosion had passed and he sat in the breeze-swept darkness. She heeled down a little and water hissed along the hull. I gave Barclay the corrected course, and he let her fall off another point.
“Now,” he said, off to my left, the faint glow of the binnacle light on his slender, handsome face, “watches. Have you ever handled a sailboat, George?”
“No,” Barfield replied, across from me. “But if your nipple-headed friend can do it, anybody can.”
“Well, it won’t be necessary, actually,” Barclay said. “Manning and I can take it watch-and-watch, but you’ll have to be on deck when he has it and I’m asleep. Mrs. Macaulay can have the forward part of the cabin; you, I, and Manning can get a little sleep in the two bunks in the after part from time to time, except that obviously he can’t go down there when one of us is asleep.”
He was utterly calm and matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the seating arrangement at a dinner party rather than trying to work out a deathwatch over a condemned man they had to live with and keep prisoner until the hour came to kill him.
“It’s a little after twelve now,” he went on. “You’d best go below, George, and catch up on your sleep. Manning can stretch out here in the cockpit and I’ll take the first watch, until six. When Manning relieves me, you’ll have to come on deck.”
Barfield grunted something and went below, carrying the satchel.
When he had gone, Barclay said, “I’d advise you to be chary of provoking him, Manning. He’s quite dangerous.”
I sat down, as near him as I dared, and lit a cigarette. “It would be tragic, wouldn’t it?” I said. “I mean, if he blew his stack and killed me before I found your lousy plane for you and the two of you could take turns at it.”
“Why should we kill you?”
“Save it,” I said. “I knew all along you wouldn’t. But aren’t you going to give me a letter of recommendation? You know, something like: ‘This will introduce Mr. Manning, the only living witness to the fact that we killed Macaulay and that his widow is innocent—“
“Not necessarily,” he said. “You won’t go to the police. You can’t. You’re wanted for murder yourself.”
I wondered if he thought I would believe that. Certainly the chances were I wouldn’t go to them. I’d have everything to lose and nothing to gain. But if I were dead and lying on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico somewhere in two hundred fathoms of water, there was no chance at all. And .45 cartridges were cheap.
I moved a little nearer. Just a slight shift of the buttocks along the seat, almost imperceptible. I glanced at his face. It was calm and imperturbable in the faint glow from the binnacle. I stretched and slid another inch. I could almost reach him.
The eyes were suddenly full of a mocking humor. “Here,” he said. He took the .45 automatic out of the pocket of his jacket and held it out to me butt first. “Save scuffling for it. Undignified, what?”
My mouth dropped open. For a fraction of a second I was too startled to do anything. Then I recovered myself and grabbed it out of his hand.
“That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he asked solicitously.
“Come about,” I said. “Take her back to the sea buoy.”
“I say, you are a theatrical devil, aren’t you?” His voice was amused.
“You don’t think I’d kill you?”
“Frankly, no.”
“So it’s not loaded?” Completely deflated, I took the gun in my left hand and pulled the slide back. I stared. It was loaded.
“You won’t pull the trigger,” he said, “for several reasons. You don’t want to go back to Sanport, because the police are searching for you. And in the second place I doubt very seriously that you are capable of shooting a man in cold blood. Requires a certain detachment you don’t have—”
“Go on,” I said.
“But, naturally, the principal reason is that Barfield is down there in the cabin with another gun, and he’s between here and Mrs. Macaulay. If you attempted anything, he has her. And he can be quite unpleasant if necessary. Has a knack for it.”
“I don’t give a damn what happens to Mrs. Macaulay,” I said.
He smiled. “You think you don’t, but that would change with the first scream. You don’t have the stomach for that, either.”
“I’m the original gutless wonder. Is that it?”
“No. You’re just vulnerable in a number of areas in which you can’t be in a business like this. I’ve made quite a study of you since that afternoon up there at the lake.”
“Then you knew what she was up to? That’s the reason you shoved off and left us?”
“Naturally. Also the reason we were a little rough with you, without actually hurting you, that night on the beach. We wanted you to hurry a bit and get this boat for them so we could find where Macaulay was hiding. Worked out quite well, too, except
that he was in such a funk he forced us to kill him. However, that’s all in the past. Right now, would you mind giving my gun back if you’re finished examining it?”
Sweat broke out on my face. I lifted the gun, lined it up squarely between the mocking brown eyes, and flicked the safety off. My hand shook so badly it wobbled. I had only to squeeze the trigger, ever so gently, and there would be only one of them. He watched me coolly. I wondered if there was any fear in him at all. He couldn’t be human.
My finger tightened. I was taut as guitar strings all over and the muscles hurt in my arms. I didn’t care what happened to her, did I? I cursed her silently, bitterly, hating her for being alive, and hating her for being here.
“George,” Barclay said quietly.
I went limp. I handed the gun to him, feeling sick and weak all over.
“What is it?” Barfield’s voice asked from the companionway.
“Nothing,” Barclay said. “Sleep tight, old boy.”
I lit a cigarette. My hands shook.
“Charge it to clarification,” Barclay murmured.
He had wanted me to know it, wanted me to realize the futility of jumping one of them to get his gun as long as she was there where the other could get her. This way it hadn’t cost anything. I wondered what kind of mind I was dealing with. He knew things about me I didn’t know myself. I detested her. Maybe I even actively hated her. She and her lying had ruined everything for me, I was sick with contempt when I thought of her, and yet he’d known he could tie my hands completely by threatening her with violence.
Clarification, he called it. It was about as clear as the bottom of the Mississippi.
“I shouldn’t feel too badly about it,” Barclay said. “Exploitation of weakness is purely routine in war, chess, or tennis, and older than any of them. And she is admirably constituted to be a carrier. Rather delectable wench.”
“Carrier?”
“Typhoid Mary of vulnerability, to use a medical analogy, assuming any extension of the areas of potential hurt to be a pathological condition. Regard for another human being is an exposed nerve end, if you follow me. Imagine a surrealist football player trailing his solar plexus or testes after him like an eleven-foot bridal train. Unwieldy, what? And damned convenient for the opposition in case the score is close.”