“What are your questions?” he asked, trying to appear uninterested.
Hudgens took the Duchessa’s logbook out of several layers of rubber and turned to a bookmarked page. “On the second of June, 1940,” he read, running a finger along the line, “the Italian Duchessa d’Aosta landed in this port and took cargo under consignment from your company, correct?”
A slight twitch of Van Dyck’s left eye revealed that he recognized that date and cargo. “I don’t remember,” he answered. “I’d have to check my records.”
“Please do.”
Van Dyck seemed ready to use any excuse to avoid it, but he realized it wouldn’t be so easy. So he stood up, went over to a file cabinet, and returned with a thick volume that he proceeded to open on the table. He soon had his finger on the page in question and was reading slowly. “Here it is . . . aha. Shipped eighty-five boxes of ‘skins and game specimens’ it says here.” He looked up at Hudgens over his glasses. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
“That’s what I already knew,” Hudgens replied. “What I need to know is the true content of those boxes, where they came from, and where they went.”
Van Dyck reflexively raised his hands. “That’s confidential information, sir. You’ll understand I can’t provide it.”
Hudgens put a hand on the ingot and pushed it forward. “And you’ll understand that’s exactly why I’m prepared to compensate you for your troubles.”
Van Dyck realized he should have listened to his instincts. He looked at the solid gold piece as if it were infected with cholera. “I’m very sorry,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’d be risking my professional reputation by revealing a client’s information.”
“No one needs to know what you tell me here,” Hudgens said, leaning forward. “Answer the questions and keep the gold. You’ll never hear of us again.”
Riley saw an emotion on Van Dyck’s face he had no trouble identifying. He’d seen it on many other men’s faces, including his own.
Fear.
“I’ve told you what I can,” the Belgian insisted, trying desperately to end the discussion.
“Hold on,” Jack suddenly said. “You mentioned loading eighty-five boxes on the Duchessa, right?”
“I already told you I can’t—”
“It says here eighty-six boxes,” he interrupted, pointing to the line in the logbook.
Van Dyck waved his hand to make it seem unimportant. “It happens,” he argued. “The captain makes a mistake when writing the cargo manifest, leaves with one box less that he loses or breaks when—”
“But this isn’t one less,” Jack pointed out, “it’s one more.”
“What was in that extra box?” Hudgens pressed.
“How would I know?” Van Dyck opened his hands in a show of ignorance, but several drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. “All the information I have is in the shipping records, and here it says eighty-five boxes.”
Hudgens and Riley exchanged glances. It was clear they needed to take a different tack.
“Mr. Van Dyck,” Riley said, putting his hands on the table and interlacing his fingers as if preparing to pray. “Stop the games. You know as well as we do that, although the ship was Italian, the cargo was going to Germany. One of the boxes in that load, which was very large and was definitely not overlooked, held something of tremendous value. And we want to know what it was and where it came from.”
“If you help us,” Hudgens said, “you won’t only be compensated, but you’ll be helping your country fight the Nazis.” He paused to let the offer’s nuances sink in. “Or,” he added, “if you don’t reveal what you know, we’ll be obligated to tell the colonial authorities—who would certainly accuse you of collaboration with the enemy. Your choice.”
To Riley’s surprise, a confident smile appeared on Van Dyck’s ruddy face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Van Dyck said calmly. “The Duchessa d’Aosta’s shipment was completed before Italy entered the war, so it was legal. And, as I stated before, I have no additional information to give you.”
He stood up, deciding to end the visit. “Take your gold”—he pointed at the door—“and leave my office immediately before I report you for extortion.”
It was clearer than water that he was hiding something.
“Sit, Mr. Van Dyck,” Hudgens instructed, undeterred, “and calm down, please. We don’t want to cause any problems, but it’s very important that you cooperate with us and tell us what you know. For your own and your country’s benefit. Understand?”
“I already said that—”
Hudgens raised a hand to shut him up. “Think carefully about your response,” he warned the man in a threatening tone.
“Out of my office,” the Belgian finally erupted, reaching for the telephone on his desk. “I’m going to call the authorities right now to—”
Like lightning, Hudgens stood up and, grabbing the man’s neck, brutally crushed his face against the desk.
“Secure the door,” he said, turning to Riley. “And you,” he ordered Jack, “go down with Marovic and take care of the servant and the secretary. Entertain them or put them away somewhere—or do what you want, but make sure no one else comes up or enters the building.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Riley asked.
“Getting the information we need,” he answered, pushing Van Dyck’s face against the lacquered wood.
“There must be another way,” Jack argued.
“There was,” he responded, referring to the gold ingot that was still on the table, “but it’s already too late for that. Now go down and make sure no one interrupts us. This guy has a lot to tell us.”
Jack didn’t move an inch.
“It’s an order,” Hudgens insisted.
Riley tutted with distaste but put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Go, Jack.”
Jack gave Riley a questioning look that went unanswered, so he snorted as he stood up and turned to go.
At the last moment before the door closed behind him, Jack saw Hudgens take the letter opener off the table and put it along the unfortunate merchant’s neck, then bring his lips to Van Dyck’s ear and whisper something he couldn’t make out.
31
“Now,” Hudgens said to Van Dyck as he gripped his hair with his left hand to lift his head while with the right he held the letter opener to the man’s jugular, “you’re going to tell me everything you know about that cargo. Otherwise, I’ll slit your throat and let you bleed to death. Do you understand?”
Riley noticed blood spurting from the Belgian’s nose onto the stacks of paper on the desk. Not that he was a sister of charity, and he had certainly been more harsh when it was necessary, but he suspected Van Dyck would have ended up with a broken nose no matter what he’d said.
Eyes popping with fear, the Belgian nodded emphatically.
“Very good,” Hudgens said, letting go of his hair and going back to sit calmly in his seat as if nothing had happened. “I’m happy you decided to be reasonable.” He made a deferential motion with his hand, smiled cynically, and said, “Let’s continue.”
Van Dyck was on the brink of collapse. His face was a mask of dread, sweat, and blood. Still he managed to reach a trembling hand into his jacket pocket, take out a handkerchief, and wipe the blood from his face. “All I know for sure,” he mumbled, short of breath, “is that everything having to do with that load is gossip and rumors.”
“Let’s start with the facts,” Hudgens said.
Van Dyck wiped his face with the handkerchief again and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “It came by train from Léopoldville, the capital of Belgian Congo, one hundred fifty miles upriver.”
“All the boxes?”
Van Dyck nodded.
“The largest one too?”
“Especially that one,” he said. “The man who brought it took care of it like his son was inside. He didn’t let anyone get cl
ose to it and even slept next to it in the storehouse until it was loaded on the Duchessa.”
“Who was that?” Riley asked.
Van Dyck shrugged. “A tall man, lanky, gray hair. Quiet. Said his name was Max Mustermann, but I don’t think that was his real name. It’s the German equivalent of John Doe.”
“Was he German?”
“Possibly. He didn’t say. He just showed up with the eighty-six boxes, paid generously for the shipment, and disappeared. I think he went back to Europe.”
“And he didn’t offer any other information?” Riley asked. “He couldn’t have come out of nowhere with all that cargo without you asking for some kind of explanation.”
“Oh, of course not, but I told you he was very quiet. And he paid three times the standard price to help him . . . well, avoid customs, so I didn’t insist either.”
“And what was in the box?” Hudgens asked. “It was big.”
“He never told me.”
“Do you know if it was connected to some kind of electric generator?” Riley asked.
Van Dyck looked at him with surprise. “No, I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t swear to it.”
Hudgens ran his hands through his hair as if messing it up would help him think straight. “Let’s see,” he began with annoyance. “You don’t know who Mustermann was, where he came from, or what was in the cargo.”
The Belgian lifted his hands to claim innocence. “I told you I knew next to nothing. If I did, I’d tell you.” He looked at Riley pleadingly. “I swear.”
Hudgens leaned on the table and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the discarded letter opener. “You’re not being very helpful, Mr. Van Dyck.”
The gesture didn’t go unnoticed. “Hold on!” he cried. “There’s something else . . . Something an ivory dealer told me before he went back to Europe.”
“Explain.”
“It could be related or not—one of those stories people tell in the middle of the night after their fourth or fifth gin and tonic. Something that could be true or completely made up.”
“Stop beating around the bush,” Hudgens ground out. “What story?”
“Of course, of course. I was just trying to—” He stopped when he realized he was babbling. “He told me there was a German expedition to the middle of the country at the beginning of 1935—before the war broke out and I came to Matadi.”
“A German expedition?” Riley repeated.
“Yes, apparently a scientific one. Zoologists, botanists, people like that. More than forty people, along with three or four hundred black porters.”
Riley wanted to remind him that blacks were people too, but he decided not to interrupt the man now that he’d finally started talking.
“What else?” Hudgens prodded.
“Well, that expedition,” Van Dyck went on, “disappeared mysteriously a few months later. They went into the jungle and never came out.”
The Belgian looked like he wasn’t going to say anything else, but suddenly added, “Though it seems”—he lowered his voice as if whispering a secret—“two men did in fact return.”
“Two men?”
“Two years later, a black man and a white man were found floating in a canoe in the river, half-dead. The white man, who screamed at night in German, was very sick with malaria and died days after arriving in Léopoldville.”
“And you’re saying that he died of malaria?” Hudgens asked after a moment.
“He was very sick with malaria. But some say he was murdered.”
“Fuck.”
“And the other survivor?” Hudgens asked. “What happened to the black one?”
“He disappeared,” Van Dyck said. “They put him in jail, hoping he’d recover enough to be interrogated. But the same night the German died, he fled the police station and was never seen again.”
“I see,” Hudgens said. “So we have a German expedition that disappeared. And it’s very important because?”
“Well, actually, the connection is a little weak, but on the day the shipment was loaded on the Duchessa one of the men dropped a box and it opened. Mustermann immediately came to reseal it. But I was right there and could see there were glass jars with specimens in formaldehyde and a book with dried plant leaves between the pages. A book written in German.” He looked at them in turn and added, “See where I’m going with this?”
Hudgens didn’t answer the question, but he tutted and turned to Riley. They both remembered the specimens they saw in the hold.
“So,” Hudgens said, “you think this Mustermann also survived the expedition.”
Van Dyck opened his eyes wide and shook his head. “No, no. Definitely not. Remember the expedition set out in 1935 and the mysterious Mr. Mustermann didn’t show up until 1940. That man didn’t look like someone who’d spent five years in the jungle. No,” he repeated, “I think he came to the Congo precisely to send that cargo to Germany.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Who knows?” He tried to look ignorant. “I told you Mustermann didn’t give me any explanations. I’ve told you all I know.”
Riley asked the next question.
“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell us all that from the start. You would have saved”—he touched his nose—“you know.”
The Belgian ran the handkerchief along his thin mustache, wiping the nearly dried blood.
“Mr. Mustermann,” he said, glancing at the window as if he were suddenly afraid of being watched, “told me if I talked to anyone about the cargo going on the Duchessa, he’d personally take charge of . . .” Instead of saying it, he ran his thumb along his neck. “That’s why when you mentioned the Duchessa, I thought he had sent you to test me.”
“Well, now you can see that’s not the case,” Hudgens said drily. “Is there anything else that could be useful? A name? An address? Some other piece of information you remember, no matter how unimportant?”
Van Dyck seemed to think for a few seconds but finally shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s been almost two years since all that, and I haven’t heard anything from Mustermann or about the expedition.”
Hudgens tightened his lips, indecisive. “What do you think, Captain?” he asked Riley. “Has he told us everything?”
“I have!” Van Dyck insisted. “I swear!”
Riley stared at the Belgian, whose cheeks were covered in dried blood, his face swollen, his eyes reflecting undisguised fear. “I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to lie to us,” he concluded. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Van Dyck?”
The man nodded violently.
“Okay,” Hudgens said with a satisfied smile, standing up. “Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Van Dyck. And I’m sure you know not to talk to anyone about this conversation unless you want serious problems.” He offered his hand over the desk as if nothing had happened.
The Belgian looked suspiciously at the hand that minutes before had held a letter opener to his throat. Still, he understood he had no choice but to shake it. “Of course,” he grinned falsely, also offering his hand to Riley. “This was all just a terrible misunderstanding.”
“No hard feelings,” Hudgens added, pushing the ingot toward the merchant.
He smiled, his teeth also soaked with blood. “No hard feelings,” he responded.
There didn’t seem to be anything to add after that, so the two Americans turned without saying good-bye and left.
“What do you think?” Hudgens asked as they trotted down the stairs.
“I think he was too scared to lie,” Riley answered. “Though it’s hard to know if that wild story about the lost expedition is true—or if it’s actually related to our cargo.”
“Well,” he said, unconcerned, “there’s only one way to find out.”
Riley stopped short. “What do you mean?”
Hudgens, already almost at the bottom of the steps, turned toward Riley. “We have to go to Léopoldville, of course,” he responded. “It’s only a day’s tra
in ride upriver and we might be able to get all the answers we need there.”
Riley thought of many objections, but before he could say anything, Hudgens was already gone, telling Marco and Jack it was time to go.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Van Dyck was wiping dried blood from his face with the handkerchief. He looked at the fine Egyptian thread, wrinkled and stained scarlet. That was his blood.
Bastards, he thought, letting himself fill with rage. No one had treated him like that his whole life. It didn’t matter that they had paid, he wasn’t going to allow it.
Then he looked at the worn-out, black phone on the corner of the desk, breathed deeply, and picked up the receiver.
32
The whole crew of the Pingarrón sat around the ship’s lounge table, listening closely to their captain’s speech. Even though rain still raged on the other side of the open shutters, the heat and moisture made them sweat profusely.
“It’ll be four or five days total,” Riley said. “One to get there, another to come back, and two or three to look around Léopoldville and see what we can find out.”
“And why don’t we all go on the Pingarrón?” Marco asked.
Riley rolled his eyes. “I already explained this, Marovic,” he said patiently. “The route through the Congo River between here and Léopoldville is unnavigable unless you can make the ship fly over Livingstone Falls. That’s why we have to go by train.”
“And how far?” Julie asked.
“Over two hundred miles, but the train ride takes fourteen hours.”
“Fast one,” César said, whistling.
“That’s if we’re lucky,” Riley said. “From what we’ve heard, it can take twice as long during the rainy season.”
Riley looked out the porthole at the persistent rain falling beyond the glass. “Perfeito,” César murmured flatly.
“Four days ago,” Carmen reminded him, “you said we had another eight to ten days. Now another five or six?”
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 21
