She pushed her hands up behind her neck, turning her lustrous, heavy black hair into a waterfall. He shook his head, smiled, and checked the cabin in the rosy light of the bedside lamp. There were heavy red velvet curtains over the two cabin windows, but they did not reach to the deck. No one could be hiding behind them. The bed was very high, with enough clearance for a man to squirm under it. There were two doors, darkly paneled, with brass locks and polished knobs. Hanging in gimbals were two brass and glass globe lamps, Victorian in style, perhaps part of the riverboat's original equipment. He moved to the doors on either side of the bed and tested them. They were solidly locked. Inocenza, crouched on the bed, made a pouting expression with her ripe mouth.
"What is it, Sam?"
He smiled. "I don't want to be interrupted."
"One of the doors is to my bathroom. It has a big old-fashioned tub that stands on gilded lion's paws. It is all my own. The door on the right opens to a ladder going up to the wheelhouse, where I sometimes stand watch, and O'Hara's quarters. Sam, darling, I've been waiting almost too long."
He sat down on the bed beside her. He had his gun, a .38 Smith & Wesson Special, tucked into the waistband of his slacks. She saw it, looked up at his face, and began to unbutton his shirt.
"You are a strange man, Sam Durrell. You come to me armed with such a weapon. It is not what I wanted to see. Are you some kind of policeman? Or a bandit? Do you and your friends plan to hold up the boat?"
"Nothing like that," he said. "Inocenza—"
She had his shirt off. Her breasts pushed against his chest. The nipples were hard, eager. Her dark hair hung in a screen across her face. Her ripe mouth smiled.
"No talk now, Sam. Hurry."
He felt a vibration underfoot as the paddlewheeler again changed course. "Where did you get the bruise?" he asked.
"Oh." She touched the side of her forehead with quick, startled fingers. "It still shows?"
"How did it happen? An accident?"
She shook her head. "No accident. It was O'Hara."
"Your stepfather hit you?"
"He often does. But this was the last time. The next time, I put a knife in him. Or slice off his homem. I told him so. I promised it to him—a slice where he will never molest a girl again with his dirty tricks." She looked suddenly vicious. "He has treated me like a slave of the old days, all my life, since I was of twelve years. He bought me from some people upriver—yes, bought me, such things still happen up there. I do not know why he wanted me, until two years later, when he forced me. I was truly innocent then. Later, after it went on for a time, I made him stop. I threatened him with the knife. But the beatings went on, when he taught me about the river and the boat. Last week will be the last time, I said."
"Why did he beat you last week?"
She looked away. "It was nothing."
"Why?" he insisted. "Was it in Belem?"
''Sim. Yes."
"While you were waiting for me to come aboard?"
"It had nothing to do with you. It was Manoel."
"The first mate?"
"Manoel loves me. He wants to marry me. He wants to live on the river and have a steamboat for himself. I hate it. I hate the river. I will not let him have me." She snuggled on the bed. The gold chain swung, snuggled between her proud breasts. "I am famished for you, Sam. Please."
The boat was silent except for the endless thump and clank of the rocker arm high above that drove the big, splashing paddlewheels. In the ruddy glow of her glass bedside lamp, Inocenza looked infinitely appealing, ultimately lovely. He felt a pang of regret at what he had to do.
He held her breast, touched the chain and the key and the golden crucifix there. The metal felt warm in his fingers. She fell forward against him, crouching. Her mouth was warm and hungry. She made words with her Ups against his.
"Always it was Capitdo O'Hara. Oh, how I hated that fat, ugly old man! He couldn't—" She touched him. "He was not like you. He needed—I cannot say it—he was not young and smooth and hard like you, Sam. So long I dreamed of one like you, one I could truly love, who would take me from this terrible old boat, from that terrible old man—"
"Inocenza, no."
"No, what?" she laughed in her throat. "You say no with your lips, but not with—not with this—"
"I want the key to the ship's safe," he said bluntly. "I need it. Right now. Later, I'll try to come back."
She drew back as if he had struck her. Her face showed rage, chagrin, and then a kind of animal cunning. She touched the chain between her breasts. "The key? At once? Is that why—"
"I'll be back."
"Then you are a thief?"
"Not exactly."
"You come here to use me, just to get the key?"
"Inocenza—"
Her abrupt fury was that of the Amazon jungle, her speed that of a jaguar. Her claws scratched for his face as she lunged forward. He did not want to hurt her. Given time, he could have removed the key from her neck-chain without her knowing it. But there was no time. He could not make love to her, whatever she thought. He tried to evade her long nails, caught her wrists, forced her hands down. She fell on top of him, her body hot, writhing, smooth and supple. She was stronger than he had suspected. Her breath hissed as she sucked in air to scream. He did not want to hit her. But there was no help for it.
He tried to measure the strength Of the blow, but it was not quite enough to knock her out. She fell sidewise from the bed, hit the floor with a thump on her naked buttocks. Her grip dragged him down on top of her. Instantly her legs scissored, holding him to her.
"Inocenza, give me the key!"
"I shall call for Manoel. For O'Hara," she gasped. "You know what they will do to you? You know how it will look, you break into my cabin, you attack me?" She began to laugh under his weight. "Later, I may give you the key. It depends all on you. If you please me. If you make good love to me."
He hit her again, harder.
This time her eyes rolled and her smooth, struggling body went limp under him. He waited a second or two, to make sure she was not feigning. Her mouth was open; her white teeth glinted between her lips. There was a small trickle of blood from the comer of her mouth, where his knuckle had cut her slightly. He lifted himself, yanked the gold chain from around her neck, took the key, and stood up. The girl did not move. He was not particularly pleased with what he had done.
3
Agosto, Tony Belmont, and Wells were waiting in the deep shadows of the deck behind the square pilothouse atop the Texas deck of the paddlewheeler. Their faces looked pale in the dim glow reflected from the steamboat's riding lights. Behind them, the great iron rocker arm lifted and fell like some strangely jointed, antediluvian river monster, the screak and thump of its power covering any sounds they made. It was significant that none of them asked about the girl when he appeared. Durell preferred to work alone, under normal circumstances; but this was hardly the usual task he was assigned to perform; and the three men were competent, tough, and dedicated to the business.
Agosto held a dead chicken by its legs. Its neck was broken. On the narrow deck behind the pilothouse, a man in white trousers and cotton jacket lay face down, his arms sprawled.
Wells said, "The guy was chasing his chicken. It got loose and came up here. Belmont hit him."
"Dead?"
"Not quite."
Belmont said, "He was in the way."
"All right," Durrell told him. "What about Stepanic?"
"There is one main door leading to his suite. He could get out a window, I guess, after he discovered the door is locked and barred. He's in there with his people."
"Did they hear you?"
"I doubt it. No alarm."
Durell nodded. "In we go."
"Are we taking over the boat?" Belmont asked.
"Later. Not right now."
He went in first, sliding around the corner of the pilot house to the narrow door opening from the deck. Only a dim binnacle light shone inside. The figure of the young first m
ate, Manoel, was at the big wheel, conning the steamboat into the channel toward the distant glow of Paramaguito. The door was locked. Durell rapped softly on the yellowed glass. The pilot turned his head, shook it, and looked away. Durell rapped again, making the sound insistent. The pilot's good-looking young Indian face became annoyed. At the third rap, he lashed the wheel with a wide leather thong and came across the pilot room to unlock the door.
"It is forbidden for passengers—"
Durell moved in fast, knocking him aside. Belmont followed, slamming the muzzle of his gun into Manoel's throat. Wells and Agosto followed softly. The little cabin was crowded. The deck trembled underfoot. From far astern, down below, a woman called a man's name in a worried voice.
"It's the chicken fellow's wife, I think," Belmont said.
Durell returned to Manoel. "We want to look into your safe. We do not want the ship's money. Just a look at what Captain O'Hara has in there."
"I do not have the key, senhor." Manoel's voice was tight and hard with anger. "You have no right to do this to me. We will go aground." He spoke in a lilting but gutteral Portuguese. "You must let me go back to the wheel, senhor!"
Wells said, "Let him, Sam. I don't like the thought of going into this river with all those piranhas—"
"No piranhas here," Agosto said, "but let him take the wheel, sim? It would be best."
Durell nodded. "Let him go, Belmont. You'll break his larynx. But if he yells, hit him."
Manoel's eyes flashed with sullen anger. He understood English. "O Capitao O'Hara will have you skinned alive for this. Are you bandits? We carry no gold, no gems, no cash, no payrolls for the road workers. Only poor river people and their chickens. You are not Brazilian police. You are not bandits or terrorists. Then why do you do this?"
"Just steer the boat," Durell said, "and you won't be hurt. We only want to look into the safe."
"It holds nothing of value to you!"
"I'll decide that. Didn't Senhor Stepanic leave some paper with you?"
"Only a thin envelope. A nothing. No money in it, senhor!"
"He didn't take it out of the safe, did he?"
"Senhor, he said he would take his envelope when we dock at Paramaguito. In an hour, perhaps. At dawn. He will leave the ship then—he and his Chinese friends."
Durell turned to the rear of the cabin. There was another narrow, varnished door, and this led him into a tiny room filled with charts, empty liquor bottles, a flat mahogany table scarred by knives and by the rings left by countless liquor glasses. In one comer stood the safe. It loomed massive and heavy in the dim light. He stuck his head out the door for a moment.
"Willie? Agosto? Out on deck. Keep watch. Belmont? Control the pilot."
"No sweat," said Belmont.
"Don't hurt him," Durell said.
He went back to the safe and took the key he had lifted from Inocenza O'Hara. The safe was a huge iron Schmidt-Alexander, and it probably dated back three-quarters of a century, perhaps to the time when the steamboat still worked up and down the Mississippi. It had been built in Cincinnati. The ornate gold lettering on the door had been touched up once or twice, and the dark green paint was worn around the old combination dial. The dial didn't work. It had been replaced by the key lock drilled into the iron door, and he put the key in quickly, thinking of the dawn coming up soon astern. He was filled with a sense of urgency, of impending danger far beyond his personal safety or that of anyone on the riverboat. He had felt from the start that he was only one fly among many, caught in a dark spider's web, following his own strand, while others, like Guerlan Stepanic, followed theirs. The trail to this point had been long and puzzling. Perhaps, he thought,, they were not like flies, but mice being trained to follow a maze carefully, with bait at the end of the trail. He did not know their ultimate destination. His orders from Washington had been precise, but they had placed an intolerable burden on him. Other men, following their alleys in the maze, had an equal burden. Each was an enemy, a rival, determined to outwit, to out-think, and, if possible, to destroy the others and arrive alone at the end of the maze. Someone was playing a desperate game with them all, and Durell had decided to end his role as a willing victim and strike out for himself.
He shook the thoughts from his mind. He had to take one step at a time.
Inocenza's key fitted smoothly into the lock of the massive old safe. There was a soft click as the tumblers fell aside. He pulled the handle on the door decorated with faded gilt curlicues and dulled enamel paint. There was only a dim light in the chart room. The interior of the safe was like a black hole. Most of the compartments were empty. There were two bottles of J&B Scotch, some Olmeida Portuguese brandy, a heavy old Colt's Frontiersman that looked as if it were part of a hand-fashioned pair. On a shelf in the rear of the safe was a brown tin box with a flat key in it. He opened it quickly, saw it was filled with wads of both new and old cruzeiros, the former worth one thousand of the old bills since the currency reform in 1968. He didn't touch the money. He closed the box, left the key in it, and searched further. There was a pile of old, mildewed papers, some of them the ships' licenses and certificates going back for thirty years. He sifted through them impatiently, then in the middle of the heap, found the new manila envelope he was looking for.
Written on the face of the envelope was Senhor Guerlan Stepanic, Paramaguito, Brazil. Under the envelope was another, marked with his own name: Senhor S. Durell. And a third that stopped him, frozen with surprise. Prince T. Atimboku.
Durell swore softly. He opened Stepanic's envelope with a quick, slashing movement of his fingers and turned back to the light.
The certificate was not there.
It should have been a money note, an irrevocable letter of credit drawn on a Swiss bank, with the recipient's name left blank. It should have been valued at anywhere from fifty million dollars on up.
It was not there.
He was not too surprised. His own envelope was also empty, as he had arranged it to be. Guerlan Stepanic would not have truly trusted the safe, either.
He had no time to look farther.
There was a thump on the deck outside the pilot house. Another thump, a scuffle, a dragging of feet. Footsteps sounded in the pilot room adjacent to the safe. Durell's face went blank. He tossed the envelope and papers quickly back into the safe, closed the door, started to withdraw the key.
A rusty, grating voice that sounded as if its owner hadn't been sober in a decade spoke behind him.
"Hold it just Like that. One move, and I'll be happy to blow your goddam head off. Keep your hands at your sides, huh? Now turn around, real slow like."
He did as he was ordered. He told himself it was impossible, with three good, efficient agents to hold back anyone who might interrupt him.
But it had happened.
He stared at Captain Jack O'Hara.
The man's gross, bearded bulk seemed to fill entirely the narrow door to this little room behind the wheelhouse. He wore striped pajama pants and scruffy leather bedroom slippers, and above the top of his pants his huge belly bulged like a small beer keg, and his heavy chest glinted with a mat of sweaty silver hair. There was black hair in thick pads on his pale, suety shoulders, contrasting again with the baldness of his scalp and the silver-white of his unkempt beard. An odor came from him, a mixture of sweat, garlic, and stale whiskey. But there was nothing careless in his narrow, pouched gray eyes and nothing uncertain in the way he handled the big mate to the pearl-handled Colt's Frontiersman .48 that Durell had seen inside the safe. The muzzle looked as big as a yawning tunnel mouth, drilling steadily into the middle of Durell's stomach.
Durell spoke quietly. "How did you do it. Uncle Jack?"
"I ain't your uncle, sonny. You got a gun on you? Course you do. Keep it where it is, hey? Who told you to call me 'Uncle'?"
"My grandpa Jonathan. Jonathan Durell. He owned the Trois Belles. Still lives on it. He spoke of you now and then."
The gray eyes grew as cold as death. "Yea
h? Good or bad?"
"Neither. He just mentioned you, from the old days on the Mississippi. It was a long time ago, when I was boy."
"You got a good memory. Old Jonathan, hey? I thought he was long buried, the bastard."
"He's alive. In Bayou Peche Rouge."
"He would be. Yup, I knew the old son of a bitch. We was friends, once. Long, long time ago. I forget. That's why you bothered me, sonny. You look a little like he used to be. Your ma and pa still livin'?”
"No. They died a long time ago."
"How?"
"An auto accident. How did you get the drop on me?"
"And your grandma?" Something flickered in O'Hara's wet eyes. "She was a lovely gal. Clarissa?"
"She's dead. She died quite young. After that, Grandpa Jonathan beached the steamboat and never sailed her again."
"I see." The fat old man grinned and dropped the past. "I got a pad on the roof of this here pilothouse. Nights like this, on the river, I sleep up there. That Inocenza pesters and pesters too much. A man my age likes to sleep alone, once in a while." O'Hara's grin was as evil as the breath of hell. "You got to her, hey? Little tramp. Tried to raise her decent. But you got her key, I see."
"I stole it," Durell said.
"Don't try to cover for her, Samuel. You ain't all as smart as you think you are. I'm getting paid good for what I'm doing, and I don't aim to lose the balance of the cash that's promised me. I can move real quiet. You wouldn't think so, would you? I heard you and your men pick off that caterwaulin' Manoel, at the wheel. He's lovesick. Dreamin' of Inocenza's tits, most likely. So I slipped down real easy and came up behind your man outside. That's Agosto, right? Jazzed him right into the cabin with my gun up his ass and made the others, your other two boys, keep real quiet. Gave Manoel a gun to hold on 'em and walked in on you. What you doin', robbing my ship's safe?"
"I wanted to see what Senhor Stepanic had in there," Durell said mildly.
"Why?"
"We're business rivals," Durell said.
"What kind of business?"
"Uncle Jack, you talk too much."
The old man grinned. "A failin' of mine, picked up from these Brazilians. Been on the river too long, maybe. But if you don't answer, Samuel, I think I'll blow a hole right in your gut. Right now."
Assignment - Amazon Queen Page 2
