Her only hope of getting to Rio was to stop a car, and she decided that the next one that came along would either have to halt or mow her down. Gingerly she stood up, wincing as the torn soles of her feet took the full weight of her body. Then, hands clenched, she moved into the centre of the road and waited.
Time passed. A cloud scudded across the face of the moon and a breeze played itself out against the bushes that clung precariously to the steep, rocky bank that towered beyond her shoulder. She strained her eyes upwards, hoping to see a glimmer of light. But there was nothing; only darkness and silence.
A twig cracked sharply behind her and she swung round. No one was there: at least no one she could see. Panic, like nausea, welled into her throat and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep calm. It was only the darkness that made things seem twice as large and menacing. She was but a few miles from Rio; a few miles from shops and hotels and people.
Another moment went by and there was still no car. For the first time since leaving Roland she faced the fact that she might have to spend the night out here alone. Would it be better to rest against the damp shelter of the bank or to stay by the railings? She considered the question carefully, taking her time over it, knowing that only by giving herself something to think of could she conquer her fear. In the morning it would be much easier to stop a car. There were certain to be lots of tourists coming to see the statue, and surely one of them would take pity on her and drive her back to the hotel? Or would the first car that came with the dawn belong to Diegos?
The thought drove away all rationality. Nothing would induce her to remain here, not even if she had to crawl into Rio on her hands and knees. Slowly she limped on. Another few yards went achingly by before there was a heavy chugging behind her. For a moment she was not sure what it was, and only as it grew louder did she realise it was a coach.
Determinedly she stood in the centre of the road, arms akimbo. Even a Latin driver, no matter how crazy he was, would have to come to a halt. The coach was nearer now, throwing its headlamps on to the railings as it negotiated a curve, and turning to shine full on her face as it straightened and gathered speed. She closed her eyes and waited. The light grew brighter and, to her frenzied brain, warmer. A horn hooted loudly and brakes screeched. Still she remained where she was. Brakes screeched again, their whine going higher and higher before they gave one final squeal and drew the coach to a grinding halt.
A male voice angrily shouted at her and Philippa stumbled forward, afraid to leave the centre of the road in case the coach drove on. Only when she was so close to it that she could put out her hand and touch it did she allow herself to move round the side. The door slid back and a dark face thrust itself forward, the nose and eyes highlighted by the glow that came from the small panel of instruments round the large wheel. Involuntarily she noticed that both hands were still upon it, and knew she would have to speak fast in order to stop him from closing the door and driving on.
"I'm lost," she stammered. "I went out for a walk and couldn't find my way back." Conscious of her dishevelled appearance, she held up her scratched arms, "I fell, I was climbing the mountain and -"
The driver moved back, and realising he had not understood a single word, she jumped on to the first step and leaned into the warm darkness.
"Can somebody help me?" she cried. There was no answer, and desperately she called again. "Parlez-vous francais?" Still no answer, she glanced quickly at the driver and saw his hands move on the wheel.
"Can't somebody help me?" she cried again.
"Perhaps I can be of assistance?"
With a gasp of relief she saw a short thin man wearing a tightly fitting striped suit, coming down the aisle.
"I'm lost," she said quickly. "I went sightseeing and didn't realise it got dark so quickly. I tried to take a short cut, but I fell. Could you ask the driver to give me a lift into Rio or some place where I can get a taxi. I haven't any money but…"
The man held up his hand to silence her and then spoke to the driver, gesticulating frequently in Philippa's direction.
The driver shook his head, but the man drew out a snakeskin wallet, extracted a note from it and thrust it into his face. Then he leaned down and held out his hand.
"There's an empty seat next to me," he said, and preceded her down the aisle.
She was aware of faces watching her, some swarthy, some black, and the sickly smell of sweat and dust and stale garlic. In the centre of the coach two seats were vacant, and the man beckoned her to take the one by the window. Gratefully she did so, sinking down into the luxury of padded springs. The lights above her head flickered, grew brighter and then went dark as the engine spluttered into life and the coach moved forward.
Beside her the little man made himself comfortable, wrapping his legs round a wicker-work basket which had obviously occupied the seat in which she was now sitting.
"It's very kind of you to help me, senhor. If you could let me have your name and address I will send you the money for my fare."
"No, no, it was nothing. A few - how you say -" He thought for a moment, and then said: "Cents?"
She nodded and leaned back against the seat. A warm, moist hand closed round her arm and she sat up quickly. The man's face was so close to hers that she could see the sweat on his nose and the large pores scarring his cheeks.
"We only go to the depot," he said confidentially. "Perhaps you will allow me to take you home from there?"
Unwilling to annoy him, she let his hand remain where it was, but made her voice as prosaic as she could. "I'll be perfectly all right once I'm in Rio. I'm sure I'll be able to get a taxi to take me to my hotel."
"I will take you."
"You're very kind, but there won't be any need."
As she spoke she wondered if it were true. Where were Maya and Diegos? Had they followed Roland back to his flat or would Roland, trying to make them believe she was still in the car with him, have driven straight to her hotel? But if he had, they would surely follow him, and not seeing her emerge, would wonder where she was. The fear which had lain quiescent since she had climbed into the coach rose again to dry her mouth and make it difficult to swallow.
What would Maya and Diegos do when they discovered she was missing? Would they stay together or would they separate, each going their different ways yet each intent on killing her.
Perhaps Diegos was scanning the road with his headlights as he slowly made his way back along the winding curves. Or would he guess she had begged a lift, and even now be stopping the cars that passed him to ask if anyone had seen a fair-haired English girl? Unable to stop herself, she moaned, and the man beside her slid closer, bathing her with garlic. She forced herself not to draw back. If Diegos had no luck finding her in a car he might decide to wait at the coach depot. She remembered his desperation and his determination; remembered too, the shiny black gun which could put an end to his fear and an end to her life… Her eyes moved round to the hand still clasping her arm. Its fingers were thin, the nails manicured into sharp little points. But a flesh and blood man was easier to avoid than a bullet.
"I think I'll accept your offer of a taxi after all," she said shakily.
"Good." He let go her arm and twisting round in his seat, began to burrow in the basket on the floor, coming up with a large crusty roll, its sides leaking with sausage. "You will join me?"
Looking at the roll, she remembered she had not had anything to eat since a snack on the plane from Belem. Impossible to believe it had only been today when already it seemed a lifetime ago.
Half the roll was being thrust in her face, the pointed nails piercing the soft sides of the bread. Her hunger left her and she shook her head.
The man smiled and started to eat the roll himself, one hand holding it, the other cupped beneath his chin to make sure no crumbs would fall on his suit.
The coach braked suddenly and they were flung forward. Instantly a picture of Diegos flashed into her mind and she crouched low in her seat.
>
"If anyone is asking for me," she whispered to the man beside her, "tell the driver not to say he picked me up."
"We have not stopped because of you," the man answered. "There is something ahead. I'll go and see what it is."
Other people in the coach were already doing the same, some standing in their seats and peering forward, some by the door, shouting to the driver to open it so they could see what was going on. Her rescuer joined them, listened for a moment and then returned to sit beside her.
"It is nothing." He resumed eating. "Only an accident. See, already we are moving."
The coach grunted on and, peering through the window, she made out some men standing in uniform by the side of the road. Part of the railings had gone, and remembering her own frightening descent with Roland, she closed her eyes, not opening them again until the movement of the coach told her they had gathered speed.
"You are ill?" the man asked.
She shook her head. "I can't bear accidents."
"There are many along this road. Young men never learn…" He brushed away a few errant crumbs that had escaped his palm.
"It was a man?" she asked, fear uncoiling in her. "What car was it?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you hear anyone say?" She clutched at him. "Was it an Alfa-Romeo? Are you sure there weren't two people in it ?"
Alarmed by her agitation, the man patted her. shoulder. "Only one," he said. "Only one. You see it isn't as bad as all that."
She put a shaking hand on his knee. "Can you find out what car it was ? Please! It's terribly important!"
With a sigh he got up and made his way down the aisle, clinging to the back of the seats as the coach swayed ahead in an effort to make up for lost time. Philippa leaned out to watch him as he bent over the driver. The two heads came close together, then the man turned and made his way back to her.
"It was only one man - as I told you. And the car was a red Ford."
Philippa shuddered. She had known it! Had guessed from the moment she had seen the gash in the railings, that Roland was dead.
It was something she had not allowed herself to think might happen, yet now it had, she knew she had been expecting it. Was that why he had insisted on her leaving the car?
She spoke to the man beside her. "Would he have been taken to hospital ?"
"Who ?" he asked blankly.
"The man who died."
A shrug was her only answer and she lapsed into silence. Turning to look through the window all she saw was her own reflection, wide eyes staring like the corpse Maya and Diegos must think she now was!
She sat up straight, wiping the palms of her hands on the sides of her dress. Had Roland's death been a genuine accident - if the word genuine could be applied to his headlong flight down from Corcovado - or had a well-aimed bullet in the tyre precipitated it as it had so nearly done when she had been driving with him? Either way, the result was the same: Maya and Diegos believed themselves safe.
The knowledge was like a reprieve, bringing with it so great a sense of relief that she wanted to stand up and shout. She was safe! Believing her to be dead, they would go home happy; and by the time they found out she was alive she would have told Lucas the truth. The nervous fear that had kept her going through the last nightmare hours disappeared and she was left exhausted, like seaweed on the sand after a storm.
"We're nearly there," her neighbour whispered, and she craned forward and saw lighted streets ahead of them.
Soon they were bowling along a ramshackle road. The coach swerved left, fluorescent lights glowed blue and she knew they had arrived at the depot. Even before they came to a halt, people were already standing up, inching down their corsets, pulling their coats from the racks, collecting their baskets from the floor.
Intent on escaping as quickly as she could, Philippa pushed her way into the aisle.
"Wait!" the man said. "I will get a taxi."
"There's no need. I'm being met by friends." She gave him a beaming smile, not caring that he thought her crazy, and squeezed her way to the front. The door slid open and she was the first person out.
Involuntarily she looked right and left, then zigzagged between dark and empty coaches to the exit.
The street outside was full of people sauntering along. Across the road, tables and chairs marked a cafe, and the blaring sound of a trumpet was occasionally deadened by the roar of a city tram swaying along its rails, packed so full of people that they seemed to be bursting through the windows. There was not a taxi in sight and she started to hobble along, stopping quickly as pain shot through her. She bent to rub her feet and, as she straightened, saw a taxi coming towards her, a lighted sign on the front. She signalled it and, barely waiting for it to stop, wrenched the door open before the driver could see her and change his mind.
"Hotel Miramar," she gasped, and slammed the door shut.
Not until she saw the smooth facade of the hotel, did Philippa experience relief. They swung into the narrow courtyard and she had the door of the car open before they stopped.
"The concierge will pay you," she called, and limped into the lobby. Hardly had she gone a step when the concierge barred her way.
"Yes, please ?" he said. "Who you want ?"
"No one. I'm staying here. Miss Smith, with Mr. Lucas Paget."
As he recognised her beneath the grime, his mouth fell open. "So sorry," he gasped. "You have accident?"
She swallowed hard. "No. Not me. A friend of mine." She glanced behind her and saw the taxi- driver looking through the glass doors. "Please pay him for me," she said, and continued her way through the lobby, the marble floor striking cold against her feet. Only as one of the bell-boys grinned at her did she realise what a frightening sight she must look, with her dishevelled hair, tattered dress and bare feet. Grinning back, she stepped from the elevator into the red-carpeted corridor and hurried towards the suite.
A few yards in front of her a shadow threw a dark curve across the carpet and instantly she froze in her tracks. Holding her breath, she edged against the wall. A handle dug into her ribs and stealthily she put her hand behind her and felt for it. Slowly it turned beneath her fingers and she gently pushed the door. It refused to open and the pounding of her heart grew louder. What a fool she was not to have guessed Maya and Diegos would double-check to make sure they had no more to fear from either herself or Roland. The shadow moved again, growing larger. There was a creak, followed by the sharp clatter of a knife. Then the shadow disappeared into a larger, oblong one and a white-jacketed waiter, wheeling a trolley, came out of a room.
Philippa let out a shaking breath and then started to run again, knowing that not until she had told Lucas the whole story would there be any peace for her.
Only as she stopped outside the door of the suite did she remember what had happened between them when they had last met, and wondered whether he had construed her absence as a desire not to see him. Knowing that the longer she stood there debating what to say the more difficult it would be to say it, she opened the door and stepped inside. With a gasp she stopped dead, the blood draining from her face…
"You!" she gasped, and stared at the elegantly garbed woman standing close to Lucas.
Maya stared back at her as if she were seeing a ghost. The warmth receded from her skin, turning it from a human face into a mask of make-up: scarlet lips, darkened eyes, pink cheeks. Then the blood returned to it and it became a face again and, becoming so, was able to speak.
"Miss Smith! Whatever has happened to you?"
Philippa swayed and felt Lucas's hands on hers, guiding her to a chair. She sank down and closed her eyes, not knowing what to say or where to begin. What a fool she had been not to guess that Maya - believing her and Roland dead - would come here at once to consolidate her position. With an effort she forced her lids open and found that Maya had moved again and was standing directly in her line of vision. The look of triumph on her face told her, more than anything she could have said, that the poi
soned dart had already been fired. Without having to ask, she knew the story and could almost hear the words… She felt something cold pressed into her hand and looking down saw that Lucas had given her a tumbler of brandy.
"Don't talk until you've drunk it," he commanded.
She sipped and felt a warmth spread through her body like the roots of a tree through earth, giving her the sustenance and strength to go on. With a determined bang she set the glass on the table and stood up. "I feel better now. I'd like to talk to you."
"Wouldn't you rather have a bath first?"
"No, I want to talk to you."
"There's no need," Maya cut in. "I've already told Lucas the whole story. You'd be better to rest."
"Go to hell!" Philippa retorted.
Maya glanced beseechingly at Lucas, and Philippa was aware of how handsome they looked together. She put up a hand and pushed away a strand of dusty blonde hair. There was so much to explain. Should she start with Roland or herself? With the present or the past? With Maya or Diegos or the death of Mrs. Marsh? She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out, and unexplicably she started to cry.
Instantly Lucas bent over her, his expression blank. "Maya is right. You should lie down."
The order acted like a shot of adrenalin and Philippa stood up, swaying with fatigue but determined that nothing and no one was going to stop her from speaking.
"Roland's dead." Words she had meant to say loudly came out as a croak and she repeated them, not sure they had been heard. "He was killed… His car went off the road on the way from Corcovado."
"What?" Lucas took a step forward. "Is this true?"
"Yes. He's dead. I - he was - I think he was taken to hospital. The man in the bus didn't know."
Lucas stared at her in amazement, though she was not sure whether it was because of what she was saying or her wild appearance.
"Philippa, for God's sake! What's happened to you? Were you in it with him - is that it ?"
Rachel Lindsay - Brazillian Affair Page 13
