The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  A bump even rougher than usual announced their arrival at a point of civilization. Wilson grabbed the wheel in desperation to meet the assault and then relaxed a bit as they rocked along more gently. They had come to a stretch of cobblestones which, he knew, would lead to the center of a village. A sign, tilted drunkenly back from the road from some previous encounter with an obviously superior force, informed them that they were in Camamú.

  Wilson sighed with relief and followed the uneven road to the inevitable town square with its neatly kept beds of tropical flowers and its row of cast concrete benches advertising the local funeral parlor. He pulled to the curb and switched off the ignition, trying to encompass the fact that they had actually arrived. A dog, equally amazed, sniffed at their tires a moment and then withdrew to stare at them from the cool shade of one of the benches.

  Da Silva grinned at his friend and fished in his pocket.

  “I have the directions here to Nestor’s place. Unless you’d like to stop for coffee or something first.”

  Wilson stared back at the dog and then lifted his eyes to the bench above. “I’d like to stop for a funeral first,” he said wearily. “Mine. Or even better, yours.” He frowned as a sudden thought struck him. “Do you suppose in a town like this they have the faintest clue about embalming people?”

  “They don’t embalm people way out here,” Da Silva said. “That’s why they have buzzards. Saves time and money. And chemicals, of course.” He reached for the door handle. “Want me to drive?”

  “I’m too tired to change,” Wilson said. “Or to eat.” He switched the ignition back on. “Which way?”

  “Down to the beach first. It’s supposed to be at a place called Ponto Cabral, out beyond the town to the north.”

  Wilson nodded and pulled away from the curve. They bumped past the local mercadinho with its sacks of rice and its pitchforks and shovels hanging from the open door, past a few houses built flush to the roadway, past the usual bar with its usual attendant staring into the road, and eventually came to a lane that turned off in the direction of the ocean. Wilson twisted the wheel and they wound down a dangerously narrow and steeply pitched path with weeds scraping loudly against the underside of their chassis. A few additional huts lined the way; thin, wide-eyed children eyed them soberly from the open, glassless windows. The path swung sharply, dipping between ragged rock outcroppings. Wilson started to brake and then thought better of it; the designers of this footpath had given little thought to proper banking. The car skidded a bit and then dropped sickeningly once again before the path began to flatten out, leading through the last of the scrubby brush to end at the white sand of the beach. Wilson pulled up staring.

  “No road.”

  “You still think you’re driving in Washington,” Da Silva said chidingly. “The beach is the road.” He stared along the flat expanse of smooth sand. Farther along a few weathered wooden racks held fishing nets set out to dry; a few ancient rowboats were drawn up in the dappled shade provided by the hanging mesh. Beyond, the broad beach was deserted. The sun, now high in the sky, glared from the calm blue water; far out to sea tiny bobbing boats marked the local fishermen at work. The faint breeze carried with it a welcome coolness in the growing heat of the day.

  “Go along the beach,” Da Silva said. “It can’t be too far.”

  Wilson obediently swung the wheel; to his amazement the track beneath them proved to be hard and firm. He increased his speed, pleased at the smoothness of their passage.

  “Say,” he said enthusiastically, “this is more like it! We should have come up from Rio this way!”

  “It’s been tried,” Da Silva said. “Usually by people who forgot to check the tide tables. Or the incidence of sharks …”

  “On second thought—” Wilson began, but Da Silva’s hand was pressing on his arm. The tall swarthy man at his side was staring ahead.

  “Hold it …”

  Wilson slowed down; the huge motor beneath the hood waited patiently, humming quietly in the greater quietness of their surroundings. Da Silva snapped open the glove compartment and withdrew a set of binoculars, bringing them to his eyes. In the distance, faintly visible through the low-lying heat haze that hugged the horizon, a small spit of land had appeared. Da Silva focused the glasses and a house emerged clearly, a neat white cottage set back on a small shady knoll surrounded by tall tufted palm trees. Farther along, at the water’s edge, a boathouse stood with doors agape. The swarthy man turned his head slowly and then paused with a muffled exclamation.

  “Someone’s there—there’s a car there! You can see the hood of the thing beyond the trees past the house …”

  He handed the glasses to Wilson who brought them to his eyes and repeated the detailed inspection. “The house seems to be boarded up. And there doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

  Da Silva took the glasses again and swung them out to sea. A grim smile of satisfaction formed at the corners of his mouth. “I think there will be soon. A boat’s just coming in.” He dropped the glasses. “Let’s go. It’s only hospitable to welcome travelers when they arrive …”

  Wilson shifted gears and tramped on the gas; the taxi, as if fully aware that it would be called upon for this effort, responded instantly. Sand spurted from beneath their tires and then hissed evenly beneath them as their speed increased.

  “Faster!” Da Silva leaned forward, watching the small grove approach. “I want to get there before they do. And they can probably see us as well as we can see them.”

  “Do you suppose it’s the little guy with the car that’s better than this one?”

  “I don’t know who it is,” Da Silva said tightly, “and we probably never will if you don’t get this thing going faster!”

  Wilson swallowed his answer and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The small spit of land was clear now in the blazing sun, jutting out into the ocean less than a mile away. A powerful small boat could be seen approaching the boathouse at incredible speed, its wake two shining walls of glassy water tipped with a fine line of white. A pinpoint of light was suddenly reflected from the deck of the racing boat; they were being observed in return. Wilson tightened his grip on the wheel and hunched forward, as if to urge the taxi to even greater efforts.

  A dark wavering line suddenly appeared in their path, meandering across the white expanse ahead; a rivulet, coursing down from the rocky serra above, had cut its own outlet to the sea through the hard-packed sand. They rushed upon it. For one wild second Wilson considered attempting to leap the tiny ravine by sheer velocity and the force of his strong hand lifting upon the wheel. Then better judgment prevailed, but the momentary hesitation now proved fatal. His foot found the brake pedal and he jammed down; the taxi careened wildly, skidding along the beach half sideways, and then slewed sharply into the dip. They struck the far side with a sickening lurch and bounced to a stop with the wheels buried in the soft sand of the bank.

  “Damn!”

  Wilson shot the car into reverse and stamped on the accelerator. The back wheels spun violently, churning the bed of the small stream, scattering sand and water in a muddy geyser, locking themselves even more helplessly in the hungry grip of the sand. Da Silva had the door open in a second and was out of the car, reaching beneath the car seat for a weapon from the gunrack slung there. Wilson slid from his side, dragged a rifle from the rack, and swung about.

  Two men were running from the boathouse in the direction of the house; Da Silva and Wilson started pounding across the sand toward them. The smaller of the two men in the grove suddenly paused, bringing up his arm. There was a spat as a bullet tore into the sand at their feet, followed almost instantly by the crack of the explosion. Wilson went to the sand, cushioning his fall on his rifle butt, and then instantly bringing the weapon to his shoulder in firing position. The men ahead were running again and had almost reached the safety of the house. Wilson’s rifle spoke once; the man in the lead stumbled, twisted, and caromed into a tree to bounce back and slide in a
heap, his arms outflung. His companion darted about him, jumping from tree to tree, and made the corner of the house. Over the reverberation of the shot they heard the grinding of a starter and then the roar of an engine as it caught. The hood of the car shot backward; the sound of the motor disappeared as the car turned and fled along the beach on the far side of the house.

  Wilson was back on his feet, trotting breathlessly at Da Silva’s side. They came to the first of the palm trees and paused in their shelter, peering ahead. The peacefulness of the small grove seemed in sharp contrast to the action it had witnessed and to the body sprawled grotesquely in the path. Da Silva’s sharp eyes searched the area carefully before he emerged slowly, his gun ready, and approached the corpse. Wilson followed, rifle held poised, pointed toward the shuttered house and ready for any movement.

  Da Silva knelt beside the fallen figure and rolled it over to stare at the unfamiliar face. It was a large man, dressed in tattered checkered shirt and ragged pants, with a straw hat still held to his head with leather thongs. His bearded face stared back at them noncommittally; his bare feet lay at odd angles, the sand still sticking to the damp skin. Da Silva shrugged.

  “A fisherman. From around here, I’d guess.”

  He slid a hand through each of the pockets in turn and then came to his feet. “Nothing …” He stared down at the dead face. “I don’t know how large the gang was to start with, but at this rate we won’t have many to prosecute.” His eyes came up. “Well, let’s check out that boat.”

  Wilson frowned. “I’d feel better if we checked out the house.”

  “All right. You cover me.”

  He slid from behind the tree, made the steps in two jumps, and flattened himself between the door and one of the boarded windows. His eyes took in the condition of the door and he stepped away, dropped to the sand, and trotted around the building. When he came back he walked over to Wilson, tucking his revolver into his belt.

  “It hasn’t been occupied for months. Except by scorpions probably.” He nodded. “Now let’s get down to that boat.”

  “Right.”

  They left the grove and walked down the path to the boathouse. The dockside doors to the long low building had been left half open, and the odor of gasoline was strong as they approached it. Da Silva pulled one of the doors wider and peered within. The large doors giving access to the ocean on the far side of the shelter had washed partially closed, leaving the interior in darkness. Da Silva dragged the one door back; the light from the clearing helped to reveal the boat inside, bobbing gently beneath a narrow plank platform that edged the inside of the boathouse. Da Silva climbed to the platform and dropped lightly to the deck of the boat, followed by Wilson. The boat dipped beneath their weight, rubbing against the timbers that supported the shelter.

  “We should have brought a flashlight …”

  “There ought to be one in the lockers,” Wilson said, and stretched out a hand to steady the boat. “I’ll take a look.”

  “All right. And I’ll try to get those ocean doors open and get some light in here.” He started around the small cabin.

  “O.K.,” Wilson said, and pulled up the cover of one of the lockers lining the stern deck. Two luminescent eyes stared up at him from the murky depths of the shallow cabinet, large and palely malevolent in the gloom.

  “Yow!”

  He leapt back, bringing up his rifle. Da Silva had turned swiftly at the yell.

  “What is it?”

  Wilson started and then moved slowly forward, lowering his weapon. “My God, what a scare! They’re just a couple of floats painted with phosphorescent paint, but I thought—” He swallowed convulsively and forced a smile. “I don’t know exactly what I did think, but I figured you’d have to dig that blasted taxi out of the sand all by yourself.”

  “Anything but that!” Da Silva said with pretended horror, and moved to the prow. He leaned over, supporting himself against the low curved railing, and pressed the ocean doors of the shelter open. The boat moved sluggishly against the incoming tide; the light that suddenly flooded their surroundings lit the building as the doors moved ponderously back. Da Silva searched for and found the overhead latches and locked them in place.

  “There, that’s better.” He dropped back to the deck. “Now, let’s see what you’ve found.”

  Wilson had the floats out on the deck and was squatting over them. “I thought for a minute it was the other way around. I thought they had found me.” He wiped his hand against one of the buoys. “It’s still wet.”

  Da Silva stared at the cone-shaped buoys and then brought his eyes up slowly to meet those of Wilson. For several seconds the two men stared at each other. Wilson nodded.

  “Of course it wasn’t smuggling,” he said slowly, almost to himself. “It was something much older. It was—”

  “Swindling,” Da Silva finished quietly.

  Wilson stared at him suspiciously. “And just when did you think of that?”

  “About two seconds ago,” Da Silva said, and grinned. His grin faded. “No, that isn’t quite true. Actually the idea crossed my mind when you brought Hastings to my apartment, but I sort of lost track of my early thoughts when Nestor was killed.”

  “Murder will distract you every time,” Wilson said sagely. “That’s the worst thing about it.” He nodded brightly. “Well, I agree with you; it was swindling. Only I’d like to know how you figured it out.”

  “Well,” Da Silva said, “I suppose you’d say that it was all lying there in my mind waiting to be tied together, and the floats did it.” He grinned. “Suppose you tell me how it worked.”

  “Certainly,” Wilson said. “It worked the way all swindles work. Basically you give a lot for a little and then don’t deliver the little. Or actually deliver something worth even less than the little.”

  “The diamond Hastings had was real enough. And I saw a receipt for six more of the same …”

  “Which is the proof,” Wilson replied. “Whoever bought the diamonds didn’t get to keep them. The gang gets them back. Free. Otherwise it couldn’t be classed as swindling—it would be charity.”

  “And they get them back by way of the floats,” Da Silva said. He nodded. “Which explains why they only dealt with people who took ships. Ships that were going north from Rio and stopping at Bahia.”

  The two men squatted over the cone-shaped buoys for several moments more; at last Wilson looked up with a frown. “Just a few questions,” he said slowly. “The deal is that they sell diamonds to rich tourists and then take them away again on board ship. Without the rich tourist making the slightest squawk …”

  “Without,” Da Silva agreed equably, “the rich tourists making the slightest squawk. And then drop them overboard in easily found floats where they can be picked up by a convenient boat. And then put back into circulation.”

  “Which brings me to question number one,” Wilson said. “Why didn’t the rich tourists squawk? The only rich people I know didn’t get rich by giving anything away. They’d squawk if they were overcharged even a dime for a cup of coffee at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

  “For American coffee? So would I.” Da Silva sounded quite serious. “Actually, I can think of several ways to get them to keep quiet. Remember, there’s always blackmail.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Blackmail? I doubt it. I can’t picture Mrs. Hastings doing anything for which she could be blackmailed.” He frowned. “The Senator, of course, could be a different matter. Senators are usually more susceptible than most to threats to their public image. The thing is, I can’t picture him going out of his way to bring us into the picture if the gang had anything on him.”

  “You’re right,” Da Silva said. “And besides, Nestor didn’t even know that Hastings was a senator, if you remember.” He shook his head. “Well, maybe that’s where Senhor Bernardes, looking and acting very official, comes into the act. After all, none of these people bothered with any taxes. And while they like money, they don’t want trouble.”
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  Wilson stared at him. “You mean he simply took them away from them?”

  “I doubt that it was all that simple,” Da Silva said, and looked around. “Well, that’s another question we’ll have to ask the man when we see him.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Which means we’d better get moving if we want to get to Salvador before he does.”

  Wilson sighed. “The thought of digging that taxi out—” he began, and then paused. “Say! What’s wrong with borrowing this thing? After all, Nestor was your cousin. It’s sort of in the family.”

  Da Silva looked at him and then smiled. “Now I know why I like you—you’re bright. Why not?” He moved to the small open cabin and inspected the interior. “Why not, indeed?”

  “Will we need anything from the taxi?”

  “We’ll have to do without it,” Da Silva said, and seated himself at the controls. His fingers located and identified the various buttons; his hand shifted the gear lever in and out several times and placed it once again in neutral. He pressed the starter button and was rewarded with a throaty growl as the engines caught. He leaned from the enclosure.