Scorpion Reef

  “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 course toward the sea buoy.

  “H
ere, 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.

  Chapter Ten

  THE MOMENT FOR EXPLOSION 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 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.”

  “The hell with Mrs. Macaulay,” I said.

  “Forgive me if I talk too much. Grow philosophical at sea, particularly under sail. Unpleasant habit.”

  “What are you going to do with her after you find the plane?”

  “Frankly, I haven’t given it any thought, old boy. And since neither of us gives a damn what happens to her, as you say, why waste time in speculation? Lovely night, isn’t it? Are you fond of Swinburne?”

  “We were like that,” I said. “What did Macaulay do?”

  “He tried to steal, or did steal, some three quarters of a million dollars worth of diamonds from us.”

  The sum meant nothing to me. He could have said twenty dollars or a billion and it would have been the same as far as I was concerned. It was something they were after, and Macaulay had been after. I was just a pedestrian who had been shoved into the line of march and run over.

  The breeze was almost directly abeam. We shipped some water amidships and a little spray blew into the cockpit. Barclay handled her well; he was a good helmsman. A clumsy one might have had the cockpit full by this time. I leaned down and cupped my hands to light another cigar
ette and looked around at him. The brown eyes gazed thoughtfully at the compass card. He was the most completely baffling human being I had ever run into, and I knew somehow that if we were to sail this boat around the world for the rest of our lives, just the two of us, I wouldn’t be any nearer to understanding him on the last day than the first. He was cold-blooded, entirely without conscience, and still you almost liked him. Why, I didn’t know.

  “Since you were in the salvage business,” he went on, “you must be familiar with the Shetland Queen.”

  I looked up suddenly. “Sure. I remember her.”

  She had lost her rudder in a tropical disturbance last fall and hit a reef somewhere along the northern edge of the Campeche Bank. As I recalled the story she had gone on across it as the sea piled up, but there had been too much damage below water line and she had gone down a few hours later. The crew had got away all right. She was in about ten fathoms, and the underwriters had let a contract to salvage as much of the cargo as wasn’t ruined. They had saved some machinery and several thousand cases of whisky that somehow hadn’t been smashed.

  “So that’s the first time your diamonds were dunked,” I said. “But where did Macaulay get into the act?”

  As soon as I asked, I began to get the connection. Salvage—underwriters; so she had been telling the truth about part of it, anyway. The part about his being in the marine insurance business.

  “That is correct,” he said. “They were aboard the Shetland Queen. But—” He looked up and smiled in the faint glow from the binnacle. “Through some oversight they didn’t appear on the cargo manifest or any of the customs lists. To be exact, they were in some cases of tinned cocoa which had been loaded in Holland and were consigned to a small importing firm in New Orleans. Quite an economical way to ship diamonds, if you follow me, except that it can be damned embarrassing if something happens to the ship, as in this case. The cocoa was insured, as I recall, for some two or three hundred dollars. And naturally we should have looked a little silly trying to explain to the underwriters at that stage of the game that we hadn’t really meant chocolate at all, but diamonds, and that they should pay us three quarters of a million when we’d paid a premium on a valuation of three hundred dollars. Hardly sporting, what? And one might anticipate a certain element of skepticism on their part. To say nothing of the embarrassment of attempting to explain a harmless prank like that to the customs chaps. Lacking in true appreciation of these little matters, the customs people.