Curtis crushed out his cigarette. “No,” he said assuredly, “they’ll merely have a brief investigation and release me.”
Jo rose.
“Then why,” she asked, “do you seem so visibly agitated? Why were you pacing the stateroom like a furious bear when I entered?”
Curtis looked at her wordlessly for an instant, as if debating his answer. Then he removed his horn-rimmed spectacles, placed them in his pocket, and took out a handkerchief with which he mopped his brow.
“I am anxious,” he said, “over the costly delay this will mean to our expedition.”
JO LOOKED at him with what almost amounted to incredulity. She shook her head slowly from side to side, as if refusing to believe what she’d heard.
“Allan,” she declared, “I don’t think you’ll ever fall out of character, even for an instant. Murder occurs, you are involved, placed in custody—and yet your only worry, your only apparent concern, is the delay it will cause your precious prowling about in dusty, ancient ruins!”
Curtis grinned at this biting characterization of himself. He shrugged.
“As I told you not so long ago, Jo,” he declared, “the real importance of things is merely relative—depending on how you view them.”
Jo Matthews sighed.
“Sometimes I think I know you better than anyone on earth, Allan. And then—” she left the sentence trailing, almost despairingly.
Curtis moved to her side, placed his hand reassuringly on her shoulder.
“Don’t worry about anything more, Jo,” he said gently. “This will all be merely routine.” Again, on his face there was the momentary suggestion that he was deliberating if he should say anything further. And again, he seemed to decide against his emotion with his answer.
“Good night, Jo,” he said lamely. “Don’t worry. I wish you’d drop in here tomorrow morning after breakfast. I’m turning in for some rest now. This day has been much more full than I’d expected it to.”
Jo looked up at him, the perfume of her auburn hair coming suddenly to his nostrils. In her eyes there was bewilderment. On her lovely lips a halfformed question.
“Good night, Jo,” Curtis repeated.
Jo Matthew’s white young shoulders suddenly slumped.
“Good night, Allan,” she murmured. Only his eyes betraying the conflict of emotions within him, Curtis Allan watched the girl leave the stateroom. He sighed, then, and walking to the portholes, quietly shaded them. Then he removed his coat.
With a half smile of dry amusement at the fact that no one had bothered to search him before he was confined to the cabin stateroom, Curtis removed his shoulder holster, took the automatic pistol from its leather sheath, and carefully placed it under his pillow.
Then he continued disrobing . . .
IT WAS almost noon of the following morning when Allan Curtis woke.
The sunlight streamed into his cabin stateroom, giving it a warm cheerfulness that for the first brief moments of waking awareness almost obliterated the danger he knew lay ahead.
Half an hour later, Curtis breakfasted, and after that talked once again to Jo Matthews. Later, at his own request, he had no more visitors in his “prison,” and spent the time until dinner perusing navigational volumes he found beside his berth.
Jo Matthews dined with him in his cabin, and their conversation was sparsely sprinkled through the course of the meal and the moments they spent together after that. On more than one occasion, sensing the mood of bewildered disappointment that had fallen over Jo, Curtis was forced to hold back any information he might have wanted to proffer.
And when Jo left that night, it was wordlessly, almost dejectedly. Curtis, however, shortly after her departure, stepped to the door of his cabin and had a brief, urgent conversation with the sailor who stood on guard outside.
It was the second such conversation that Curtis had had with the lean, cleareyed sailor that day. They made certain they were not overheard, and were unobserved.
When darkness blanketed the skies and water that surrounded the ship, Curtis observed with satisfaction that this would be a moonless night. Then he retired, fully dressed, and slept three hours . . .
THE hand and voice of the sailor who had been on guard outside his cabin, awakened Allan Curtis.
“It’s almost time,” the sailor declared in a voice reminiscent of Brooklyn. “We’re off the coastal regions already.”
Curtis opened his eyes, focusing them in the darkness of the cabin. Then he rose, making certain his automatic was still holstered at his shoulder.
“You have the Jacob’s ladder ready?” Curtis whispered.
The sailor nodded.
“All set. It will approach from starboard.”
“How about the watch?” Curtis demanded.
“Pheno-barbital in their coffees. Toured the watches. All sound asleep,” the sailor answered.
“Good,” Curtis said. “And the bridge?”
“First and third officers on duty. Helmsman too. They won’t catch the approach of the launch.”
Curtis moved toward the door. The sailor followed him. Out on the deserted deck, under the heavy blanket of the starless night, Curtis drew his automatic pistol. He turned to the sailor.
“Excellent work. I didn’t know you chaps were quite so efficient. Hope this doesn’t end your usefulness.”
The “sailor” grinned. “I’m due to be sent to the east coast to work pretty soon. The Chief’ll probably make my transfer after this.”
Curtis grinned back at him.
“You look nothing like an intelligence operative,” he observed.
“If I looked like one, I wouldn’t be a useful one for long,” the “sailor” smiled.
Curtis started along the darkened deck. At the railing, twenty feet later, he paused beside the shipboard end of a hemp ladder. It was knotted securely to a brace of rail davits.
Looking over the side, Curtis saw the length of the ladder trailing far down the steel sides of the vessel, almost to water edge.
“Long climb,” the “sailor” observed dryly.
Curtis nodded grimly, his eyes searching the darkened reaches of the waters out there.
“I think I hear them faintly,” he said.
The “sailor” stopped to listen. Then he nodded. “Keen ears, Curtis. That’s the launch.”
He pulled forth a tiny flashlight, and covering it with his hand, he flicked it on. A tiny pinpoint of light flickered several times as the “sailor” signaled. He stopped, waiting.
The faint muffled throb of a small motored boat was more audible now. And from the blackened reaches of the water off there, an answering pinpoint of light flashed twice.
“Everything ready,” said the “sailor.” He held out his hand. “The best of luck.”
Curtis smiled.
“Thanks, and to you, also.”
“I’LL HEAD up to the bridge now to create your diversion,” the “sailor” said. “For God’s sake, make it speedy. Don’t tarry. I won’t be able to carry the bluff long.”
“I won’t,” Curtis promised. The “sailor” turned, disappearing up a companionway. Curtis watched until he was gone. Then he turned his gaze back out over the railing to that darkened stretch of water. He could tell, now, that the motor power of the launch-out there had been cut, and that the pilot was playing the skillful, though dangerous, game of drifting his tiny craft at angle to the huge ship’s forward motion.
Curtis could barely make out the outlines of the tiny motor launch on the moonless waters. It was a roofed cabin craft, no more than twenty feet long.
And suddenly Curtis heard the muffled exclamation behind him.
“Allan!”
Curtis wheeled, automatic in hand. He faced Jo Matthews!
Her eyes widened as she saw the gun in his hand, the rope ladder tied to the rail davits. Her lovely lips parted in fear.
“Allan,” she whispered huskily, “have you lost your mind? What are you doing?”
&nbs
p; “Get back to your cabin, Jo, for God’s sakes,” Curtis whispered fiercely. “Quickly!”
“But, Allan,” Jo protested whitely, bewilderedly, “you mustn’t try to run from them. They’ll never implicate you in that murder. Don’t you see how foolish this is? Please, Allan, listen to—”
Curtis looked sharply over his shoulder and over the rail. The small launch was drifting to the side of the ship rapidly as the Ventura moved ahead through the tranquil waters.
He made his next decision in a split second, as swiftly as he realized there was no other alternative. He holstered his gun.
Stepping toward Jo with amazing alacrity, Curtis swept her up off her feet and into his arms. Then grabbing the davit lines for support, he swung up on the railing of the ship, teetering there for an instant, finding footing on the first rung of the hemp ladder which swung sickeningly down to the water below. He saw the tiny launch swinging closer now.
Precariously, then, Curtis started slowly down the swaying ladder of hemp. Dizzily bobbing at the bottom, far below, was the drifting motor launch.
Rung by rung, Curtis inched down the ladder, his body streaked with sweat, his arm cable-like around Jo Matthews.
And then, at last, he was at the bottom, while the wash from the prow of the ship frothed inches below his feet.
A grappling gaff, held in a sinewy black arm, extended from the launch and caught the hooks fast in the hemp ladder. Slowly, and with tremendous strength, the arm pulled the tiny craft in toward the ladder until it was at last only three scant feet away.
Curtis released his hold on the ladder, springing toward the bobbing deck of the small motor launch. He landed on his feet, Jo still in his arms.
A massive, powerfully-muscled negro stood there in the small roofed space of the launch deck, one hand on the helm, the other still clinging to the gaff hook. He smiled briefly, whitely, at Allan.
And then Allan let Jo gently down to the deck. Springing to the side of the gigantic negro, he grabbed the gaff hook, freed it from the hemp ladder, and fended the tiny launch away from the side of the huge steamer.
UNDER the expert hands of the negro, the motor of the launch snarled to life. Swiftly, he spun the wheel, turning the craft about. Then the motor launch, under full power, was surging away from the steamship.
Curtis turned to the huge negro, extending his hand.
“Well done, Juan,” he declared.
The giant negro, wearing only an oily pair of white sailor’s dungaree pants, cuff legs rolled slightly, revealing bare feet, grinned. He wore a gun and cartridge belt on his lean hips.
“Welcome back, Amigo Curtis. It been long time since I guide you.”
Jo Matthews had taken a place in the stern of the craft, her eyes filled with wonder as she gazed at Curtis and the negro. There was a curiously pleased, almost awe-inspired look in her eyes.
“Thanks, Juan,” Curtis said. Then, glancing about, he asked: “Where is the pilot of this launch, the little Scot, McAndrews?”
Juan shook his head. His expression was suddenly grim.
“He come in at beachhead, for pick up Juan. Then we to meet you. But my expedition party, twent’ boys, run into ambush there, just as launch come in. McAndrews among those dead.” Curtis cursed under his breath. “Ambush?” he asked. “Who ambushed your party?”
Juan shrugged.
“We no know. Not expect it. But see strange signs on way to jungle from Lima.”
“How many boys have you left for our trek?” Curtis asked.
“Four,” said Juan. “Five with me.” Again Curtis cursed, desperately. “And McAndrews, too,” he muttered savagely. He turned and went back to the stern where Jo sat silently.
“I had intended originally to keep you out of this mess, Jo,” he said. “You were just a front, to make my so-called expedition look more realistic. I was to meet this boat no matter what happened aboard the Ventura. I never intended to dock at port. But at least I’d thought you’d be safe.”
Jo started to speak, but Curtis cut her off.
“Even a few minutes ago, when you blundered on me making my exit over the rail, I had no choice but to take you along to keep you from delaying me and possibly unwittingly spreading an alarm. But I’d thought that the pilot of this launch, a McAndrews, would take you back to Lima once he’d landed me on the beachhead. I figured poorly, Jo. McAndrews has been killed. There’ll be no one to take this launch back to Lima. We’ll have to scuttle it.” He paused gravely. “I don’t know what I’ll have to do with you.”
“You haven’t told me what this is about, Allan,” Jo said quietly. “But I won’t stand in your way. Do as you please. I . . . I’m sorry I had to . . . to interfere as much as I must have. Can’t I make it back to Lima alone?” Curtis laughed humorlessly. “Through countless miles of trackless jungle?” He shook his head. “Natives could hardly make it afoot, let alone a white girl unaided.”
“I’m sorry Allan,” Jo said softly. “Forget it,” Curtis said briefly. Then he turned away to rejoin Juan at the helm. Over his shoulder, he paused to say, “I’ll think of something, some way. I have to.”
“We no go back to beachhead,” Juan said to Curtis. “Ambush party maybe there yet. Me leave four boys in cove, two mile up coast. We took cover in cove. Then I took boat, met you like plan.”
Curtis nodded grimly.
“Thank God we’ve still four of them left, at any rate,” he said. “How long did it take you to reach the beachhead from Lima?”
“Four day,” Juan said proudly. “Travel like los diablos.”
Curtis fished for a cigarette, eyes grimly knifing the darkness at the approaching jungle coastline. A verdant, tropical smell was already in the warm sea air. . .
CHAPTER VII
A Jungle Trap
THE motor faded away into silence as the launch coasted into a narrow, small-beached cove. Ahead of them, the shore line was an uninviting bulk in the deep blackness of the night. Except for the occasional, marrow-chilling scream of a soaring bird, not a sound welcomed their arrival.
When the bottom of the boat scraped against the sandy beach. Curtis jumped ashore and fastened the painter line to the bole of a tree.
Sloshing back through the warm, gently swelling water, he held out his arms for Jo.
“Come on, Kid,” he said. “You’re in for a tough enough time as it is, without starting things off thoroughly soaked.”
“All right,” Jo said meekly.
Curtis put one arm around her waist and lifted her over the gunwale of the boat and carried her ashore. Juan splashed after them.
Curtis set Jo down and turned to Juan.
“How many of the expedition did you say escaped with you?” he asked.
“Four, Amigo,” Juan answered. “They are very much afraid. Now they are hiding in the bush.”
“Get them,” Curtis ordered. “We’ve got to get moving as soon as possible.” Juan nodded and moved off, his oily dungarees a white blur in the darkness. Soon he disappeared into the forebodingly dark bush that grew in a tangled mass up to the beach.
“Allan,” Jo said in a small voice, “I know now I haven’t been much help to you. I still don’t understand what’s going on, but I realize I’ve been completely blind in judging you. You’re not at all the person I thought you were and I’m—I’m glad.”
“Thanks for the endorsement,” Curtis said. “But this is a mighty tough spot I’ve landed you in. I can’t send you back to Lima now because my pilot, McAndrews, is dead. You’ve got to stick with me, and the things I’m heading for aren’t exactly pleasant. Are you game?”
“I’ll go anywhere with you, Allan,” Jo said instantly, “but the suspense is absolutely killing me. Isn’t there anything you can tell me that will set my female curiosity at ease?”
“Not a great deal,” Curtis said. “I’m here because I know this country, as you once pointed out, like my own backyard. The government sent me here to do a very special job, but I can’t give you any of
the details. If we find what I’m looking for, you’ll know the whole story immediately. That enough?”
JO’S eyes were shining in the darkness.
“That’s perfect, Allan. I know that what you’re doing is necessary and important and I know you can do the job better than any man in the world.”
“That’s a large statement,” Curtis said. “Especially when you don’t know how tough this job is liable to be. I don’t mind for myself, but I feel guilty about dragging you into this hell-hole of danger. We’ve got a long trek ahead of us and there are some very nasty obstacles in the way of our objective. Then there’s the highly important problem of getting back alive. I’m not trying to scare you, but I’d feel a little better knowing that you’re going into this thing with your eyes open.”
Jo looked at him steadily.
“I’m seeing things more clearly than I ever remember,” she said softly.
Juan returned then driving four small, wizened, dark natives ahead of him. The four men were completely terrified.
Curtis saw the rolling whites of their eyes, the desperate glances they flung about, and he knew that they were not likely to prove of much use.
“What’s the matter with them?” he demanded of Juan.
Juan shrugged his massive shoulders. The glance he directed at the four cringing natives was full of scorn.
“Amigo,” he said, “they are from the bush and they are very much afraid. They do not want to go into the jungle and if they don’t, I break their heads open like a rotten fruit.”
Curtis looked from the terrified natives to Juan.
“I told you to get men who weren’t afraid of bullets,” he said sharply. “If a few rifle volleys did this to them, how do you think they’d react if they ran into a machine gun?”
“It is not the bullets,” Juan said quickly. “Those they do not mind.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Curtis demanded.
“It is the foolish old men’s tales they have been listening to,” Juan said with great indignation. “I have told them it is only the nonsense, but they will not listen. I knock them to the ground, but it does not help. They are still afraid of the snake god, Sacha, and her daughter. It is much foolishness.”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 84
