The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “All right, first mate, cast off.”

  “Aye, aye.” Wilson laid down his rifle and padded to the prow. He unlooped the hastily cast rope from one of the stanchions there and dragged it aboard. A quick inspection indicated that nothing else was fastening them to the dock. He trotted back to the enclosure.

  “Roger-doger, old codger—I mean, Captain,” he said. “You may fire when ready …”

  XII.

  Archimedes, bouncing madly along on the last lap of his predestined journey to Salvador, handled the car automatically, his mind in a whirl. How in the everlasting name of God had that unspeakable miserável Da Silva ever managed to appear in Camamú? And at the beach house? Could it possibly be that that other miserável Paulo had been right and that Nestor had betrayed them after all? But, no! Why would he, in the name of all common sense? No, that couldn’t be the answer. To begin with, Paulo hadn’t heard a thing; he had only made a drunken assumption that had started this whole mess in the first place. And in the second place, Nestor had gained as much as anyone from the scheme, including Senhor Ivan, so why would he betray them? Well, at least he, Archimedes, had taken care of Paulo; that one wasn’t around any more. But, unfortunately, neither was Nestor, nor Jorge the fisherman … He shook his head despairingly. My God! How could a simple little scheme that had worked so well for so long have suddenly taken such a disastrous turn?

  His sweating hands swung the wheel as required without conscious thought, holding to the center of the twisting road when possible and pulling precariously to the edge where necessary, each fatal mile taking him closer and closer to his goal. The thought of that consummation abruptly struck him. And just why, he suddenly thought, should I go to Salvador at all? He lifted his foot from the accelerator without volition as the brilliant idea blossomed within him. A sudden loud and imperious blast of a horn behind him brought him to awareness long enough to swerve hastily to one side. A huge bus roared past, its driver staring down at him coldly. He came back to the center of the road driving more slowly and thinking more clearly.

  Yes, after all, why go back to Salvador at all? After all, he had the diamonds—his small hand found the bunched packet in his pocket and pressed it for reassurance—and who set honesty as a vital virtue in a business like this in the first place? The scheme was dead; let’s admit it. Too many of the gang were gone. The only ones left were himself, Senhor Ivan, and the two stewards, one aboard the S.S. Bolivar, and the other on the Paraguay, both of whom had earned more from the scheme than they had ever dreamed when first they put to sea. And even more important, if Da Silva had managed to discover Camamú and the beach house and the yacht, it was more than possible that he knew about the entire scheme. Or would in short order. And if he knew this much, he probably also knew about the S.S. Bolivar, about Salvador de Bahia, and about Archimedes himself. Which was another excellent reason not to go there.

  Still, even if Da Silva knew about it, the fact remained that the man had to get there, and the last Archimedes had seen of the old battered taxi Da Silva had been riding did not indicate that it would be out of that sandbank in a hurry. By the time he and that man with him had dug it out of that hole … He grimaced painfully as a horrible thought struck him. What if Da Silva had considered taking the boat? Even as the idea occurred to him he was suddenly positive he was right. At this moment Da Silva and the man with the rifle were undoubtedly approaching Salvador from the sea!

  He almost braked the powerful car in his turmoil, but through the tortured pattern of his thoughts another thread suddenly wove itself, sharp and equally threatening. What about Senhor Ivan Bernardes? What would this one’s reaction be if the boat he was gaily riding docked and he didn’t find anyone at the usual restaurant rendezvous? Or, instead of Archimedes, he met Da Silva, probably with a warrant for his arrest? And he had not been advised or warned beforehand? Would he be pleased? He would not! He would be angry, and his means of working off this quite reasonable anger would be extremely unpleasant for someone. For me, Archimedes suddenly decided with maximum conviction—most definitely for me.

  And even if I ran away with these diamonds in my pocket, where would I run? Where would I go? Where would I sell them, because if I didn’t sell them what would I do with them in the first place? The big cities would be far too dangerous, and who on earth buys expensive diamonds in the small villas of the interior? And even if I managed to find a place to sell them, where would I run with the money where Senhor Ivan, or one of his friends, wouldn’t find me? And what would I possibly do with the diamonds, or the money they might bring, once I was dead? Without the faintest shadow of a doubt, painfully and horribly dead?

  He swallowed convulsively, picturing his poor small fractured body not only dead but lying broken and unattended somewhere in the neighborhood of the hotel where he had worked—which brought another sudden thought to mind. He had to be back at work in two more days at the most. He shook his head at his own profound stupidity. If there were no more scheme, then obviously there would be no more need for him to photograph tourists and steer them subtly to Nestor—particularly, he reminded himself, since there was also no more Nestor. Actually there was no more need for him to ever return to the job and that sarcastic, sadistic manager.

  He sighed. Looking back, it hadn’t been all that bad a job at the hotel. It had paid well, and the tips were good, and it was flattering to be consulted by rich people like the visitors that frequented the hotel. And it was exciting to be called to the suite of a woman traveling alone and wonder, as you tapped on the door, whether it was really a complaint about the water shortage, or whether it was really a dress she wanted dry-cleaned, or whether the door would swing languidly back to reveal a sheer negligee and a need compounded by loneliness and expressed by—

  He pulled his thoughts up violently, shaking his head in disgust at his own lack of disciplina. What a time to think of sex! Here he was, almost in the city, inexorably advancing on almost certain disaster, drawn by a compulsion he couldn’t explain, and he was dreaming about girls in sheer negligees! Deus me livre! Que bobo! He forced his mind back to his more immediate problem, searching for mitigating features.

  To begin with, there was no positive indication that Da Silva knew anything about the scheme at all. And even if he did, he certainly couldn’t know anything about the rendezvous. So, if Archimedes played it cautiously, there was certainly no great threat or at least no great immediate threat. And he couldn’t in all conscience fail at least to try to warn Senhor Bernardes—and, of course, hand over the diamonds—since such failure would most certainly result in conditions he would just as soon not contemplate.

  The outlying suburbs of the ancient sprawling capital had appeared and closed in on him during his mental struggle; he found himself suddenly bumping over trolley tracks and then committed to paved roads whose potholes simulated with backbreaking accuracy the hazards of the highway from Niterói. Houses had begun to spring up, stuccoed blocks of white with neatly laid stone walls and intricately grilled gateways, baking quietly in the blistering noonday sun. In the distance, through the gap-toothed plots of weeds that separated the rare houses, occasional views of the two-level structure of the city could be seen. Below, the lower portion of the city was marked with the wide flat expanse of galvanized roofing that covered the huge markets of abastecimento and by the battery of docks that stretched thin fingers into the endless ocean; above, on top of the sheer cliff that rose abruptly from the lower ledge of commerce, the cathedrals and more modern office buildings completed the serrated sky line. And between the two cities, connecting them, stood the two huge brick-faced elevators, posted at each end of the city like sentinels guarding the riches of Salvador from encroachment by land or sea. The sun caught one of the thin encased windows in the side of the gigantic towers and reflected a dagger of light; Archimedes drew down the sun visor.

  The upper city was growing about him. Narrow streets now began to branch off, leading to hovels posted at the cliff’s e
dge. And then at last a second main artery appeared, edging away from the street he had been traveling, leading to the steep winding road that dipped dangerously down the side of the rock face to the lower level. Archimedes sighed, shifted gears, and began the long descent.

  Behind him, in an unmarked car that had been parked at the side of the road, one plain-clothes detective nudged his partner. The second looked up and nodded.

  “It could be. Rio plates, and of the general description …”

  The first started the motor and edged into the road slowly, following the car ahead from a safe distance. His partner picked up a microphone and spoke into it. There was a crackle from the receiver, clearly understood by both.

  “Do not pick up suspect. Follow and report destination. That is all.”

  “Right.”

  The detective replaced the microphone; his partner slid into a lower gear and started the steep decline.

  Wilson mounted the narrow companionway leading from the roomy quarters below, carefully carrying two beaded bottles of cold beer and an opener. He steadied himself against the roll of the deck a moment and then moved to Da Silva’s side, settled himself in a swinging seat mounted there, and placed his booty on the deck at his side. The boat was beating its way across a sea whose surface was marred only by the slightest suggestion of a ruffle; a cool salt-laden breeze pleasantly dissipated the heat of the noonday sun. Wilson uncapped the bottles and handed one to his companion.

  “Thanks.” Da Silva quaffed deeply and grinned. “It looks like they’re well-equipped below decks.”

  “You mean downstairs? Lovely. All the comforts of home. Kitchen, bathroom, and about four beds. Plus a refrigerator full of cold beer. And a fairly complete arsenal.”

  “Which is just as well,” Da Silva said. “I’ve been trying to picture you trotting about Salvador with that rifle, looking like Daniel Boone.”

  “Let’s not be anti-American,” Wilson said. He leaned back, at complete ease. “This is the way to travel. I was never on one of these pleasure jobs before. Saw one in the movies once, though—with this rich owner bragging that his boat slept six.”

  “I think I saw the same movie,” Da Silva said. “As I recall, the movie slept six hundred.”

  “That’s the one,” Wilson said, and laughed. He looked about him, taking in the trim lines of the boat, the clean decks, and the two davited dinghies symmetrically balanced at each side. “And how are things upstairs here?”

  “Not bad. Also all the comforts of home.” Da Silva leaned forward over the wheel and snapped up a small metal plate set to one side in the instrument panel. The boat yawed a bit at the unexpected movement of the wheel; Da Silva’s strong hand instantly steadied it. Wilson’s eyebrows raised.

  “Short-wave, eh?”

  “Right. And it works.” Da Silva settled back in his seat. “While you were doing whatever you were doing below decks—outside of robbing the icebox—I was in touch with the Salvador police.”

  “I like to see energetic people,” Wilson said. “And?”

  “And they’re keeping an eye open for our short friend with the bad aim and the good car.”

  “Good,” Wilson said. “I thought you were going to turn me in for stealing beer. I could picture them racing up to us in a police boat with machine guns and warrants.” He lifted his bottle to his lips, brought it down empty, looked about for a place to dispose of it, and then tossed it overboard. “At least they’ll never get me for littering—not on the ocean.” He rubbed his chin and started to rise. “I think I’ll go down and shave.”

  “Not right now,” Da Silva said, and pointed. In the haze that hugged the distant shore line the city was just becoming visible, flanked by the huge elevator towers at each end of the beach. Wilson settled back with a grimace.

  “Someday I hope I get on a case with you where I can exercise my natural sartorial splendor instead of always having to dress like a bum. Or where I can ride the big liners in style, served hand and foot by stewards …” He leaned forward with a frown. “You know? I’ll bet a steward is in on the deal! I’ll bet that’s how the diamonds get taken …”

  Da Silva stared at him. “You’re probably right.”

  “But in that case, why don’t the stewards simply walk off the boat with the stones? Why go to all this fancy-Dan business with floats?”

  “Because stewards get searched every now and then,” Da Silva said, and nodded. “And nobody knows it better than Bernardes!” He shrugged and returned his attention to handling the boat. “One more question to ask the man when we see him. It’s—hold it!”

  The small grilled speaker of the short-wave set had begun to sputter unintelligibly. Da Silva leaned forward. pressing down on a switch. His fingers found a dial and he twisted it, intently watching the finger of a meter jumping erratically in its little boxed prison. The static continued. With a shrug of defeat he pressed another switch, slipped earphones over his head, and lifted the microphone from its hook. Wilson remained in his seat, watching.

  “Sim? Sim? Que? Muito bom.” Da Silva listened a moment more, nodding his head, straining to hear. “Que? Bom. A onde? Sim, eu sai.” His head came up to study the approaching shore line; his hand on the wheel twisted slightly, turning the direction of the boat. “Bom. Vamos la agora mesmo. Até logo.”

  He slipped the earphones from his head and placed them on their hook; the microphone was also replaced. His foot found the accelerator and he pressed down. The small launch responded instantly with an increased roar from its twin exhausts and a forward lurch that flung an even greater wake behind. Wilson stared at him.

  “That was very enlightening. What did they say?”

  Da Silva looked up from the wheel, grinning triumphantly. “They said that the S.S. Bolivar anchored out in the bay about half an hour ago—early, which proves it isn’t a Brazilian ship—and that Senhor Bernardes left on the official launch, landed, took a taxi—and was followed. To a restaurant in the lower city, in the market area …”

  “Senhor Bernardes is smart,” Wilson said. “Also the men who followed him. It’s past lunch time now, and I haven’t eaten for so long I’m going to forget how.”

  Da Silva shook his head decisively. “Nobody, but nobody, passes up a meal aboard ship in order to eat in a restaurant in the market section of Salvador. That’s the rendezvous where he and our short friend are going to meet. And where we—”

  The short-wave set suddenly came to life again. Da Silva leaned over, repeating his previous maneuvers with the earphones and the dials. He adjusted the pad more tightly to his ear and picked up the small hand microphone once again.

  “Sim?” A smile crossed his face as he listened. He nodded at the microphone in satisfaction. “Sim. Entendido.”

  Wilson was watching him. “I gather the little man arrived.”

  “Is in the process of arriving,” Da Silva corrected him. He put the radio gear back in place. “They picked him up where the Niterói highway comes in and followed him down the hill. He’s just parking his car in the vicinity of the restaurant.”

  He returned his attention to the boat, swinging it in a gentle curve toward the land. The city now rose above them in sweeping tiers, a mixture of architectural styles covering centuries, locked together on the steep face of the cliff in a picturesque mosaic, with the two gaunt brick elevator towers framing the colorful sight. A pier at the upper end of the beach exhibited bunting hung from stanchions and flapping in the brisk ocean breeze. Da Silva turned the boat in that direction, reducing his speed.

  “Salvador Yacht Club,” he explained. “The police will meet us there.”

  “I’ll get some guns,” Wilson said, and rose.

  “The police will have guns,” Da Silva said. “Let’s keep our thievery to a minimum.” He grinned. “After all, I was one of Nestor’s relatives. I may even inherit this thing, so let’s not strip it bare.”

  He made his last turn parallel to the pier and cut the engines; they coasted gently in. T
wo men with striped shirts and the insignia of the club caught at the rail with padded hooked poles. They swung to a stop. Da Silva stepped lightly to the rail and jumped to the pier, followed by Wilson. A plain-clothes detective waved to them and came up. If their ragged appearance surprised him, there was nothing on his expressionless face to show it.

  “Captain Da Silva? My name is Evaristo, Sergeant Evaristo. I was told to pick you up.”

  Da Silva shook the outstretched hand and introduced Wilson. The three men walked down the pier and got into the car waiting for them on the cobblestoned road. The driver nodded and put the car into motion. Suddenly Da Silva leaned over, speaking to Wilson.

  “I just thought of something. If our little friend picked up the diamonds and then got smart and dropped them off somewhere between Camamú and here, we’re sunk. We’d look pretty silly grabbing them without the stones …”

  Wilson shrugged. “They’re at a restaurant, aren’t they?” he asked. “The way I feel right now, I’ll be just as happy if we catch them with a couple of sandwiches.…”

  XIII.

  Archimedes closed the heavy door of the small restaurant behind him and paused to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom after the blinding brilliance of the sun outside. His hand slid down tentatively to touch the small package in his pocket, but there was no longer any pleasure in the feel of the sharp little stones. He sighed tremulously and moved forward. Get it over with, he said to himself sternly; hand the stones over to the man and get back to Rio and—if possible—your job there. The fact is that you were never cut out for this business.

  The restaurant was almost deserted. The market workers who ate there normally began work at four in the morning; ten o’clock was their usual lunch hour. He walked past the small bar and peered in the direction of the corner booth of the main dining room. The curtains facing the street along the wall of the restaurant had been drawn against the sun, but in the dimness the silhouette of a head could be seen. For one idiotic moment the hope rose in him that the man sitting there was not Senhor Ivan, that somehow Senhor Ivan had not disembarked from the S.S. Bolivar at all or had not come to the rendezvous for one reason or another, and that the man sitting there was simply one of the market laborers having an unusually late meal. He shook his head at his own ridiculousness and walked to the booth, sliding into the bench opposite the occupant.