‘No. Too much human affection,’ Mat said. ‘That’s why he daren’t give an inch.’
‘Affection! Affection for what?’
‘I only heard it in his voice. For his fellows, I suppose, and of course his son.’
‘Now, how on earth do you know about Chepe?’ Jane asked.
‘I’ve run across him.’
‘That child needs a firm hand. He’s a law to himself.’
‘Better than other people’s.’
‘Not at seven years old,’ she protested.
‘Do you see him? Often?’
‘You sound jealous, Mr. Darlow. No, he just turns up sometimes and looks at me with big eyes and goes away.’
‘Poor little blighter!’
‘Rafael gives him all the love that Catalina did. Chepe is his treasure. But he hasn’t enough time now.’
‘Does he feel his life is in any danger?’
‘He hasn’t mentioned it. From whom?’
‘Well, me—for one of several.’
‘Of course not! I don’t see how you have worked it, but he trusts you.’
‘It’s mutual. I shall have the police guards removed altogether from headquarters and my house.’
‘You mustn’t do that!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll just create resentment.’
‘Why? It’s a gesture I can afford to make. The police are no earthly use.’
‘But the mothers like to see them. And if you take the guards off your house, Bill Gateson and the others will have to.’
‘They can do as they wish.’
‘No, they can’t, Mr. Darlow. They’ll look such cowards if they don’t do the same as you.’
She might be right, but reducing the temperature was what mattered, not popularity at the Country Club.
‘Blind ahead with whatever you decide, but keep your eyes open!’ Thorpe said. ‘You and Garay are beginning to remind me of a couple of snipers I once saw—so bloody fascinated by each other that neither looked to his flank.’
Mat let that go. Ray Thorpe saw everything in terms of attack, but there was truth in what he said. At present it was only possible to blind ahead, probing as he went. As for his flanks, they were all uncovered.
However, the invitation to the pig pens could not be refused. Dignity was nonsense, and the Superintendent’s suspicion of a trap did not fit his wife’s reading of Garay. So the following evening he drove out along the lush communal lands smelling as if they received the rainfall of green jungle. Damn it, this was a high pressure oil field, not a millionaire’s estancia! There was one sure way to smash the boycott: by emptying the Charca. He wondered if the men in the distance, sweating with pick and shovel and bags of cement to extend the channels realised it as clearly as he.
He left his car and walked over to the communal pigs. It was on the sun shelters that Rafael Garay was working. The model pens and styes did not look as if repairs would be needed for years. In the darkness under the leaf thatch the face and arms of the carpenter were invisible. A white cotton shirt was knocking in staples without any occupant.
Mat leaned on a rail until the white eyes rolled in his direction.
‘What’s new?’ he asked.
Rafael came over to him. Under the dark face the stocky, powerful figure was that of a Spanish peasant.
‘Nothing to please you, Mr. Manager. I only wished to thank you with all my heart.’
‘But that does please me. What for?’
‘My son has told me all the truth of what happened on the night of your arrival. There is no one in the world who would have done what you did.’
‘Nothing special, man! It’s just that I have no children of my own. Don’t punish him! What courage!’
‘I want you to know that he did not get his dynamite from me.’
‘Then I hope you know where he did get it.’
Rafael hesitated.
‘You need not have a care,’ he said. ‘I give you a whole sea of gratitude, and go with God!’
‘When may I meet your committee?’
‘Whenever you wish. You have only to let me know.’
‘Meanwhile, consider this with your mates! The boycott does not hurt us as much as you believe. The value of the oil we are losing is nothing compared to the value of the field.’
‘It has no value. You cannot sell a Company which will never have oil.’
‘Never is a big word, friend. If you won’t work, the Government may send a cruiser—and a shipload of men who will.’
‘Then they will have to deport the lot of us by force.’
A blank wall. There was no longer any government this side of the Iron Curtain which would dare to mow down its workers—let alone a bunch of so-called liberals hanging on to power and continually threatened by an explosion from the left. A bloody wonder the politicians didn’t order prayers in the churches for Cabo Desierto’s General Manager!
And here was another decision to be taken which could irrevocably alter the future. Ray Thorpe’s remark, lumping himself and Garay together, had some bearing on it. If there were a sniper out to the flank, this black spellbinder had much the better chance of spotting him.
‘By the way, Don Rafael,’ he said, using the prefix of courteous equality, ‘it was not dynamite; it was gelignite.’
‘What is that?’
‘Much the same, but for cutting steel.’
‘From the company store?’
‘No. We haven’t any.’
Chapter Six
The last red segment of the sun vanished into the Pacific as Mat Darlow started down to the Sports Pavilion for a first meeting with the boycott committee; yet lights behind east-facing windows were already on by the time his car reached the sea front. It was no wonder, he thought, that so harsh and exact a world, where the only twilight was the mountain shadow which delayed dawn, forced upon those who lived in it a violent simplicity.
For the last forty-eight hours he had been mulling over Henry’s reply to his private letter. Silky as always. But at least the Managing Director was backing him—with presumably the approval of some nebula of money evolving through the telephones of the City until ready to condense into golden reality.
‘I agree with you over the housing,’ Henry had written. ‘We will accept in principle any scheme you recommend so long as it can be presented to the shareholders as the enlightened policy of a forward-looking company. Details of course will be for the lawyers.
‘You have made an excellent start. I know that partly through the diplomats, partly through Dave Gunner who thinks you are missing opportunities. Thank God for north country bluntness! Dave can always be trusted not to notice when he has let a cat out of a bag. He has his own lines out. Government or one of his International Labour connections?
‘You should keep in mind three facts about Gunner:
1. He has spent a lifetime in the belief that every society must be run in the interests of the industrial workers and that Unions can do no wrong. Mass revolt is anathema—especially when elected leaders are made to swim.
2. He hates land. Food should be organised and provided by governments. In that he agrees with Stalin, but God forbid that I should ever point it out!
3. He is alarmed by any proposal to give away assets to what he calls dagoes. I, being an immoral capitalist, take a longer view. A contented community adds enormously to the value of Cabo Desierto and until we have it I will not advise acceptance of any offer for the field. If that means allowing a chap to get out of oil into potatoes I am perfectly prepared to help and encourage.
‘Don’t bother about Dave! He has the tendency of a weak man to square his chin, but at this end we can vote him down. I am more worried by what might happen at your end and can’t put a name to my suspicions.’
A cautious letter like the label on a box of pills. May be prescribed with confidence but watch out for contra-indications! Still, there was warmth and support. It occurred to Mat—not for the first time in his life—that he met with approval
at the top and the bottom and mistrust in the middle.
Lorenzo stopped the car at the gate to the sports ground and impassively opened the door for the General Manager. Though there was nothing obsequious about his bearing or legs, from the waist up he always seemed to be waiting for orders. The loose gathering of oil workers returned Mat’s greetings as he walked through them, showing neither enmity nor encouragement; he might have been a groundsman come to mark out the football field. That was more or less what he wanted. He had announced his intention as merely asking and answering questions on such minor points as canteens, imports, use of launches and the school, and had firmly turned down a suggestion that the Mayor should ceremoniously take the chair. The meeting would then have developed into a competition of eloquence, hardening attitudes and settling nothing.
Fourteen of the leaders were there to receive him. The table round which they sat was intelligently arranged with Rafael Garay at one end and himself, flanked by Gil Delgado, at the other. Though some members of the committee were cold and smug and some inclined to be over-hearty from embarrassment he was surprised at the deference shown to him.
For an hour relations were easy enough. With pad and pencil in front of him, he might have been, say, a Borough Engineer at a meeting of tenants, ready to agree to some of their requirements and to explain why others could not be met. Garay was his natural self. He gave the impression of a man so sure of his policy that he could afford to be reasonable, even grateful. Delgado, on the other hand, several times struck a note of hostility. Why? A possible reading was that he had to pretend more solidarity than he really felt.
‘Wine is agreed then,’ Delgado said, ‘on condition that you do not expect us to hold out our mugs outside the church door. But what about water? Will you sign a contract for our supply?’
Nobody else spoke. For a moment Mat could hear the monotony of the surf. Evidently this was unexpected.
‘A lot of good that would be to you! If you put an end to the Company, what value has the Company’s signature?’
That rammed home one of the illogicalities of their stubbornness. If there was to be no more oil, who or what would own Cabo Desierto? Delgado left it at that, his only comment being a half smile of contempt directed down the table. It looked as if he accepted the answer and was ready to let it stay in the minds of the committee. The contempt could be for them.
‘Listen, Mr. Manager!’ Garay exclaimed. ‘No one will ever drive us from our homes.’
‘No need to repeat it. I agree. No one will. But you must excuse me, Don Rafael. I did not mean to break our understanding that the boycott would not be discussed. Now, before I leave, may I ask one question? Tell me to go to the devil if you like! What exactly are your present relations with your Union?’
The committee erupted. At least six indignant voices bellowed simultaneously, with the howl of a passing jet from high note to low, that they had no relations with the dirty sons of whores.
‘You pay your dues?’
‘Never again!’ Garay answered.
‘And if a senior delegate were to come and help us with negotiations ?’
‘Into the harbour! And this time no launch to fish him out!’
‘That’s hard on me. I am forced to be the Company, your Union, the State and myself all at the same time.’
‘Then you won’t need any stamps on the letters, Mr. Manager,’ Delgado said and raised a general laugh.
‘Very true. But mine are delivered and yours are not.’
The retort went home with no reply but muttering. It was time to remind them that he had power as well as good will. He thanked the committee and got up. Except for his calculated slip, terms of peace had never been mentioned at all. He wondered how many of them were secretly disappointed.
As he strolled away from the pavilion to his car, speed and intentness of thinking carried on. He had no longer to concentrate on dark, set faces, the watchful eyes waiting for any threat, and so his searching mind switched into the allied problems which he alone could solve. Henry’s vague suspicions. The approaches made to González. All dropped into place without anything he could really call reasoning.
One couldn’t put it past a jealous Union to plan the assassination of Garay, but it was damned unlikely. As for Dave Gunner, murder would never be included or even imagined, whatever squaring of his chin he had in mind. González was telling the truth all right about turning a blind eye to any Union agent, but had either guessed at the real objective or been deliberately put off the scent.
He turned back from the car as if he had left some personal possession behind and called to Garay who with two or three others was politely waiting by the porch of the pavilion to see him drive off. An instinctive impulse, yes! But the fault, if it was one, had not led him far wrong up to the present.
‘A quick word!’ he said as they met on the path half way. ‘Any luck?’
‘With what? You think you will have luck because you show your face?’
‘With Chepe’s toffee, I meant. It seemed to me you didn’t know where he got it.’
‘It could be for you, Mr. Manager.’
It could indeed. The reply was unexpectedly brutal, but probably the only cause was resentment of himself and his question. The man was naturally on edge after a meeting in which he had been given little chance to show his hatred of the Company.
‘Or for you.’
‘No one would dare. I do not count. But no one would dare. So much for your threats!’
‘No threat from me, friend. I need you.’
‘You? Why?’
‘For one thing, nobody else can make a decent coffin.’
‘The things you say? We are not bandits. I have told you that you needn’t have a care.’
‘Then think a little! If these explosives are not for you or me, could they be for the Charca?’
‘Who would do that except the Company?’
‘That’s for you to tell me. The Union, perhaps? Any of you can see me whenever you wish.’
Rafael returned to the pavilion and reported that Don Mateo had suggested as an afterthought that no one need feel embarrassment in calling at the office. As soon as he was alone with Gil Delgado he repeated the obscure hint but could not bring himself to disclose Chepe’s story of hidden explosives. His son’s affairs were intensely private and to be investigated only by himself.
‘It is a trick,’ Delgado replied at once. ‘He means to cut off our water and pin the blame on someone else.’
That might be so. Rafael accepted that his colleague was cleverer than he. On the other hand Gil had not the gift of trust. One could not begin to explain to him that a man was not to be judged wholly by his words or even by his eyes. He was there and you were there and a thing passed from one to the other.
‘There are no Union agents among us,’ Gil went on. ‘But remember that not all of us like poking with a hoe and Don Mateo must know it.’
‘I do not understand him,’ Rafael said. ‘He seems half on our side.’
He expected to be laughed at, but Gil replied impatiently :
‘Of course he is! He still hopes that we will return to work without damage or bloodshed.’
Well, they would not, and let him hope! Rafael was irritated by all the subtle contradictions of this man who sat back and almost encouraged the development of a Cabo Desierto without oil.
Gil was right on one point. The Union had no active agents among the workers. There might be sympathisers, but not one of them would agree to blowing up the Charca or had the knowledge to do it. The man who, unknown to himself, had given Chepe a ride in his truck came from outside. If he had any collaborator in Cabo Desierto it must be Lorenzo or some other trusted servant of the management.
Rafael slipped away to the empty beach beyond the tank farm where he strolled up and down among the refuse, stopping from time to time to allow for the instinctive gesture of scratching his head. That the stranger had come overland was most improbable. He had brought a
small truckload of boxes as well as himself. Then he must have come in one of the company launches with the connivance of González. During the boycott all passengers had to show their identity cards and explain their business to the police on the quay. God alone knew what González did, all dressed up in his office, but one could always hear two typewriters clacking.
The arrangements had obviously been made before the new General Manager’s arrival, but whatever González knew, Don Mateo would. So Gil might be partly right. Yet Don Mateo was to be trusted. That was the only certain fact: a man. Then if the Company and its launches were not involved, the explosives could only have arrived by fishing boat.
Next day Rafael began enquiries. The operation got on his nerves. He had no faith in his ability to ask questions and conceal his motive, for no sort of intrigue had ever disturbed the plain honesty of a life spent between Catalina and the carpenter’s bench. The fish buyers in the market talked freely, finding it natural that he should show curiosity about supplies. Not so many boats put in, they said, as before the boycott, and only when they had a lot of coarse fish which Cabo Desierto could afford. Captains and crews were all well known. Rafael asked whether individual fishermen ever did any private business in the town. Yes, they might if they had got their fingers on something saleable, but nothing larger than a bottle or a box of cigars.
A dead end. He was no use as a detective. Well, but he was accepted as a leader and his orders were always eagerly obeyed. He could not help it, but it was so. Then shouldn’t it be as easy to find a man who could smell out truth without being suspected as a man who would charge down on the police?
He chose for his agent Antón, the little fiery mulatto who had appointed himself bodyguard. He was always a source of news in the peaceful days before the boycott, more often behind a bar counter than in front of it—not serving or cadging a drink, but slipping in for a quick word or helping with the washing-up or reporting on business next door. He was one of those labourers, unskilled but versatile as a gipsy, who had returned from the Capital to his shack to find wife and children dead.
The Three Sentinels Page 8
