He was, Peter thought, unusually controlled and silent while Tereza told him their story, but the moment she had finished he went off in a full head of steam.
‘Assis!’ he roared, and smacked his hammer down on a stone with such force that it split into small fragments, which whipped dangerously through the sun-dappled shade. ‘ Por Deus, the rogue! And the Pastori brothers!’ The thought was too much for him and the hammer smashed another stone. Wheeling round, he kicked Bobo on the rump. ‘ Get to your feet, sluggard! Get to your feet and let us seek them out. Oh, you black-haired devil Assis! Wait till my fists find your dark hide!’
It took Peter and Tereza a good five minutes to calm the old man down and prevent him from going off after Assis and the Pastori brothers. And it was then that Peter decided that in future he would tell Quisto only as much as he had to tell. He had a long time to spend on this island and he had to look after himself.
Tereza was impressed by the firm way he handled Quisto. By herself, she realised, she could never have stopped him from going to Assis. What a relief it was to have a man about who didn’t change colour every moment like a chameleon; a man who used words for what they meant and said only what he meant.
‘Well, Senhor Peter, what is to be done?’ Quisto asked finally.
‘Nothing that will give Assis and the Pastori brothers any cause to suspect we know about them. For the time being we must keep our eyes open!’
They went across the yard and into the cannery. The moment they got inside Quisto appeared to forget all about the three fishermen in his pleasure at showing Peter around. It was a long, low, primitive building, crowded with cleaning and preparing tables, an old-fashioned steam pressure retort and a long cooling tank. The place was full of noise; the rattle from an old petrol engine that worked the conveyor-belt through the cooler, the hiss and whine of the steam boiler, the steady clunk, clunk of the sealing machine and the chatter of men and girls around the tables as they worked their long, lean knives.
Peter could tell from the sound of the engine that it was slowly beating out its bearings—probably simply from lack of oil, he thought. Everywhere he looked his tidy nature was horrified by makeshift methods and badly working machinery. In an hour with a tool kit he could have increased the cannery’s efficiency twenty-five per cent.
José, Quisto’s son, who was working the sealing machine with three girls, gave him a wave of the hand. Quisto’s voice boomed in his ear … ‘ Wonderful, is it not, senhor? I have brought industry to Portos Marias. In another year we shall be making vast profits.’
Peter scarcely heard him. An idea had come to him. The jewels were brought in by Assis and the Pastori brothers, but they still had to be got to the mainland. It would be easy if the jewels could be placed in cans … But could that be done? And how could it be assured that the cans went to the right place on the mainland? He looked across at José and his companions at the sealing machine round which the cans revolved, and then at the long line of cans moving up the conveyor-belt. In this confusion and with all these people about it would be impossible safely to put jewels into a can and then be able to determine its destination … No, that was no good.
‘You frown as though you are thinking of something?’ It was Tereza at his side. He shook his head. They went down the length of the building and by the door he saw Captain Guarani sitting in a small glass-partitioned office. The cold blue eyes of the retired naval captain rested for a moment on Peter. Then the man signalled to Quisto, who went across to him.
Tereza watched her father go. She turned to Peter.
‘You like our cannery?’
‘Yes…’
She laughed. ‘I know what you are thinking. And you are right. It does not bring any profit. You see, my father is full of schemes for making money, but he is much better at spending it.’
He guessed that at times it might not be easy being Quisto’s daughter. There were lots of things on which a girl like Tereza might like to spend money … It would be a joy for any man to spend money on her. He took her arm and led her towards the door.
Outside Peter lit a cigarette to get the warm, heavy smell of fish from his throat. ‘What does Guarani do?’
‘He keeps the books for Quisto,’ Tereza explained. ‘ He likes to have something to do. He has a share in a boat, too, but he does not often go out.’
‘Does he go to the mainland often?’
‘Sometimes.’
He asked no more questions, but he could see that she was watching him. They moved across the square in silence towards Commere Grazia’s.
They were almost at the steps of the bodega when the ground beneath Peter’s feet gave a sudden, quick shake, was still and then juddered again. It was so unexpected that he was almost thrown off his balance. He put out a hand to Tereza’s shoulder.
She laughed and looked up into his face.
‘What the devil was that?’ he asked.
‘Have you forgotten Senhor Lesset’s words? A little shake of the earth. It is nothing, senhor. We have been having them lately. Every four or five years they come for a while, but they do no harm.’
Peter looked up at the distant crest of Pae. Tereza understood the look, but she shook her head. ‘ No, it is not from Pae, though most of our people say it is. But Senhor Lesset insists that it is out there, miles out.’ Her arm was lifted, pointing out through the harbour entrance.
‘Well, I must say you take it very calmly.’
‘Why not? We are used to it.’
He drew his hand back from her shoulder. She was looking at him, her mind obviously miles away from the earthquake. Then she said, ‘Since we went into the cannery you have been thinking of something. You must tell me what you plan to do, for we are partners.’
You couldn’t hide much from a woman, he thought. He still tried to evade the point.
‘How do you know I’m going to do anything?’
She stamped her foot angrily. ‘Because I do. You know now who brings the jewels. But you want to know more. It is natural. Besides’—for a moment a swift, mischievous smile touched her face—’the more we know, the bigger our reward will be. A small duck is only good eating for one.’
He could see there would be no escape, so he gave in.
‘I’m going to have a look round the Pastori brothers’ house to-night while they’re out fishing. Tell Quisto this and I’ll break your neck.’
‘But of course not. However, I shall come with you.’
‘In a pig’s eye, you will!’
She frowned, puzzled. ‘What does that mean?’
He laughed. ‘ It means that, much as I like you, this is a job that only needs one. You’re going to stay at home and I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow.’
To his surprise, she made no attempt to argue with him.
He had his evening meal with Grazia and Anita in the kitchen. Later, he walked to the cliff-top and sat smoking, watching the pewter lift and fall of the lazy combers coming in and spending themselves on the rocks below. Now and again a great moth came blundering past him out of the velvety night.
The discovery that it was the crew of the Miragem who smuggled the jewels was important, but he was still convinced that behind the fishermen there was someone else, someone who would have contacts with the mainland. He went over the things he had learned about the principal men. There was Captain Guarani, who made frequent visits to Santos; Doctor Jaeger, a bitter political internee, who in his years of confinement on the island might easily have been persuaded to take part in the affair; Samuel Lesset, the American biologist, who in three years had been away from the place for several spells of three or four months at a time, and Nimo Dinez, who sometimes made a trip to Santos, and seemed to have more money than anyone else. Then also, there were Father Gordano (it was no good ignoring him because he was a priest. Priests are human and corruptible); and Quisto (he didn’t like this thought, but he had to face it), who might, for all he knew, be playing an elaborate double game, decei
ving both him and Tereza.
While he waited for it to get late enough to go up to the Pastori house, he turned the situation over in his mind. So far he was doing very well, and with any luck he would do better without getting into trouble. His next step seemed obvious. On this island at this very moment, he felt sure, were the jewels which had been dropped overboard from the Turkish Slave. They might be with the Pastori brothers and Assis, or they might have been passed on; but, anyway, he felt there was nothing to lose in looking over the fishermen’s house.
Near midnight, when Portos Marias behind him had fallen still and only an odd light showed here and there, he went back along the headland and made for the Pastori brothers’ house. It was in the street a little below Lesset’s block-house. In the shadow of the wall he tried the door and found it locked. Below the house was a small yard, its gate set back in a dark recess. He slid into the recess and was soon over the gate. He worked the catch free from a side window with his knife and climbed in, closing the window behind him. He had a torch which he had borrowed from Tereza. It was lucky he had tested it before dinner because the battery had been flat. Grazia had provided him with a new one from her commodious storeroom.
The house was small: a living-room and a kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs. He went over each room carefully, keeping the light from his torch low and shielded. The place was poorly furnished and marked with a sordid, masculine untidiness. The beds were palliasses of straw, the blankets rumpled just as the occupants had risen and dropped them. Boots and clothes, fishing gear, pots of paint, old picture magazines, the remains of a meal on the living-room table, a few framed photographs of the Miragem and Pastori relations on the walls … he noted everything, but there was nothing to excite his interest. The place had a cold, dirty smell of stale wine, fish and damp clothes. It was odd, he thought, remembering the Miragem and the detail his professional eye had noticed on the boat, how tidy and shipshape everything had been aboard and yet how untidy everything was here. There was no hiding-place that he could see. The floors upstairs were made of rough, single boards, and downstairs they were tiled.
He went into the kitchen. There was a sink with a hand-pump, a bucket full of chopped fish bait, a rough table with a shot-gun, oil-squirt and a box of shells … all left as though the owner had got straight up from cleaning the weapon and walked out. A large cupboard ran along part of one wall and there was a small door that led to a cramped recess under the stairs, where brushes, old rags and a crate of canned milk were kept. Peter opened the wall cupboard. It was stocked with canned goods, bags of sugar and flour, and earthenware jars of vinegar and olive oil. He went over the various things quickly, searching for some hiding-place, but he found nothing. For all he was going to get out of this house, he decided, he might have saved himself the trouble. It was a bachelors’ dump, a bivouac for men who spent as little time as possible in it.
He clicked off his torch and stood there in the darkness. After this it was hard to know what step he could take.
At that moment he heard the rattle of the street door which opened straight into the sitting-room. He stood there, surprised and undecided. The Pastori brothers were at sea. They would not return until the next morning.
A key grated gently in a lock and he heard the brief protest of an ill-fitting door being forced over its wooden step. He moved swiftly, drew open the door of the recess under the stairs and squeezed himself in. He pulled the door as close as he could from the inside. He sat there, hunched up on the case of canned milk, and he held his breathing down.
Footsteps came across the living-room and into the kitchen. They moved past the recess and stopped. Peter heard the gentle squeal of the wall cupboard doors being opened and then a torch was snapped on. Light came into Peter’s hiding-place through the crack at the top of the door, which was just on a level with his eyes. Looking out, he could see only the vague bulk of somebody standing by the wall cupboard and the gleam of the floor tiles. The unknown grunted softly. There was a rustle of paper and then a soft clank. The cupboard doors squealed again as they were shut.
As the man turned from the cupboard the torch, held in his hands at waist level, was tilted upwards. Quite clearly Peter saw the gleam of a white shirt through the loosened jacket front, a dark stretch of tie held in place by an American fashion tie-clasp. Momentarily the white line of a chin emerged from the gloom, but before the face could be revealed the torch dipped. The only thing Peter had seen clearly was the gleam of the gold tie-holder. It was shaped in the form of a pair of clasped hands.
The torchlight went out and in the darkness Peter heard the grate of shoes on the tiles. The person moved out of the kitchen. The street door groaned, the key grated in the lock, and then the house was silent.
Peter’s first instinct was to go after the man. Then he realised that by the time he got out through the window, the man would be well away.
Peter sat there, wondering who it was that came into the Pastori house so confidently and with his own key at this hour. He gave himself a long grace and then crawled out of the recess.
Peter crossed to the cupboard, opened it up and switched on his torch. He had a keen visual memory and he saw at once the difference in the cupboard. On the lower shelf where the canned goods were kept, four additional cans now stood. They were a little apart from the others, a group on their own.
He examined one of them. It was a tin of tuna fish and on the label around its side was a picture of Portos Marias and a legend which he easily translated—Das Tegas Canneries, Supreme Quality, Finest Flavour, Packed under conditions of Strictest Hygiene. He grinned at that, recognising the Quisto touch. But who on earth brought canned tuna to the Pastori house? It was coals to Newcastle. All their other canned goods were meat, fruit, milk and vegetables.
He shook the tins. There was no sound of liquid. The lids had been soldered on neatly, but not as neatly as a sealing machine would do the job. And then he knew. Or at least he was prepared to bet that he knew. Until now he had been in the dark, a man who had taken a toss and wasn’t quite sure whom to blame, a man who wanted to make someone answer for the attempt on his life, a man who could probably do himself some good by telling in due course what he knew … but a man whose knowledge and scope for action were limited. He was a hunter who had hit a trail. His excitement was the excitement of one who closes in knowing that so long as his own skill never falters he cannot be discovered until it is too late for the quarry to escape.
The jewels went out through the cannery. He was sure of that now. The cans in this cupboard would be substituted for others already packed and assembled in the yard … Yes, he could see that. Quisto supplied wholesalers in Brazil, and one of them would be far more interested in jewels than fish. It was an obvious way, but safe so long as no one ever suspected the set-up. He had to find out who they went to in Brazil. And also who it was on this island who stood behind the Pastori brothers and Assis. It was someone with the brains and the contacts, someone who wore a pair of clasped hands on a tie-clip.
He made his way down to Grazia’s feeling good. But he had enough sense to try and curb his arrogance, telling himself harshly that whatever he did he had to do wisely, that he wasn’t playing a game, and that one mistake would be more than enough to finish him … and maybe others. He thought of Tereza and Quisto.
As he stepped on to the shadowed platform outside the bodega a lazy plump voice came breathing out at him.
‘Evenin’, Mistah English. What foh you cattin’ about at this time of night?’
He spun round, surprised, and was met by a husky laugh. Grazia was lolling in a chair under the vines, her pedestal legs up on a stool. She was fanning herself gently with a newspaper and smoking a pipe.
With an effort Peter made his voice casual. ‘You ought to be in bed, Grazia.’
‘This is my bed. Woman get to my age and figure and she ain’t got much use foh bed. Ah sits here and watches the cats—and dey ain’t all got four legs neither.’ Her la
ugh was a warm bubbling sound in the night.
He leaned against the rail and lit a cigarette.
‘Why ain’t you in bed, Mistah English?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
Commere Grazia winked slyly. ‘Man got a right to keep the truth for himself. Maybe you been up talkin’ to Miss Tereza? Maybe yoh found a little girl foh yohself already? Ah ain’t jealous. Ain’t more than passin’ interested. Though there was a day you could have looked at Commere Grazia and you don’t get no sleep.’
‘I’d like to have known you then,’ Peter said gallantly.
She chuckled and it was like the sound of a spring at the bottom of a deep well, dark, fresh, mysterious. ‘Ah, Mistah English, they was the days … Ah sets the rockets bangin’ in men’s heads when Ah walk in my green skirt and flip my legs. Dey go off like a squib when Ah puts the power in my eyes and lips …’ She laughed again and reaching out a hand felt his arm near the shoulder. ‘Yoh got good muscle, though. I like men with muscle.’
Her laugh was echoed in the shadows behind her, and a new voice said, ‘Perhaps, Senhor Landers, you would join us in a drink before you retire?’
Peter jerked his, head round. A dark shape was lolling back in a chair at the other side of the table.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
Grazia chuckled. ‘That’s Doctor Jaeger. Once in a while he can’t sleep either so he comes and keeps me company. You like a drink, Mistah English?’
Peter made no reply. Beyond Grazia Doctor Jaeger struck a match to light a cigarette. The lean head stood out clearly, the skin taut, dry and ivory-coloured. But Peter’s eyes were not on the man’s face. He was looking at the man’s chest. Clear in the light was a gold tie-clip across the dark tie. It was shaped in the form of clasped hands.
‘You like a drink?’ Grazia spoke again.
Peter came to himself.
‘No thanks, Grazia. It’s bed for me.’
He went slowly up to his room. He had his door half open when he heard a rustle behind him. He turned to find Anita standing at the head of the stairs. She was wearing a yellow dressing-gown much too big for her. She stood there staring at him, the long straight hair falling about her neck as though it were carved from jet, her face a little sombre in the light of the candle she held.
The Man from the 'Turkish Slave' Page 8
