"The U.S. fleet's out there," Boudreaux said, "blockading the harbor. You see the crowds, people on the streets? They're scared to death, don't know which way to run. All day they were taking guns off the Alfonso XII-her boiler's out of order-and mounting them ashore, on El Morro. God Almighty, the fleet could've sent the marines in today and taken Havana. The city's in total confusion. People are running like rats from the hotel, afraid it'll be shelled. I said to the manager, "The Inglaterra? Our fleet wouldn't dare. Too many of ricers have gotten drunk here." " He said this without taking the binoculars from his eyes. It was not until he said, "Tell me what happened to Amelia. Where was Victor?" that Novis remembered, Jesus Christ, they'd given him a letter to deliver.
He got it out and said, "Mr. Boudreaux?" and had to wait. You always had to ask a question more than one time to get an answer. "Mr. Boudreaux, they gave me a letter for you."
That got him around from the window in a hurry and got Novis an evil look, hell in the man's eyes, as Mr. Boudreaux took the letter from him and tore it open. The first thing he said was, "What?"
It wasn't a question. Novis said, "Is Miss Brown all right?"
He had to wait then while Boudreaux read the letter and maybe read it again, he took so long.
"Sir, is it about Miss Brown?"
Boudreaux finished and stared straight into Novis's eyes from only a few feet away.
"They're holding her hostage."
"They are?"
"I have to pay forty thousand dollars, American currency, to get her back."
Novis said, "Forty thousand," and almost said, hell, send to Newerleans for another woman'd be cheaper. And was glad he didn't, seeing the way Mr. Boudreaux was looking at him.
"She was in your care, boy."
"Sir, I got hit from behind with a sack of coffee." "I told you to watch out for her." That evil look still in his eyes.
"Sir, they never gimme a chance. Was a whole bunch of 'em."
"Wearing uniforms?"
"Not as I recall."
Now he was reading the letter again. "Sir, you gonna pay it?" Still reading.
"They say how you're suppose to pay 'em?"
He must have been at that part in the letter, for he read aloud, " "They said you are to put the money in a pillowcase wrapped in a hammock with rope around it securely tied. On a tag attached to it write: To Amelia Brown, for Cuba Libre. On April 27, five days from this date, put it on the morning train to Matanzas in the care of Novis Crowe."
"Me?" Boudreaux was staring again, giving him the evil eye. He said, "Yes, but why you?"
"I reckon," Novis said, " "Cause you trust me. Could that be it?"
Mr. Boudreaux never said.
It was later on the bellboy knocked on the door and handed Novis a calling card for Mr. Boudreaux. It had a lot of printing on the front with Mayor and a Spanish name, big. TAVALERA. And with a note on the back that looked like it said this fella was waiting downstairs in the bar.
Earlier this day, Andres Palenzuela received a telephone call from a Guardia officer informing him that one of his men, Yaro Ruiz, had been shot and died of the wound. Another one, Rudi Calvo, was in San Ambrosio being treated for an injury. The Guardia officer would not give details; the chief of municipal police would have to come to the hospital.
The telephone call was made after Lionel Tavalera had had time to think about the murder of his men by two policemen and that the next step would be to speak to their chief. Lieutenant Molina had been removed.
Palenzuela entered the hospital room to find Rudi on the cot with both of his legs in plaster casts. Major Tavalera was seated next to him in a straight chair. Palenzuela appeared genuinely astonished.
"My God, what happened?"
Tavalera said to Rudi, "Tell him what you told me. All of it."
Palenzuelr stood with his back against the wall listening to Rudi's confession, looking from Rudi's face drained of color to the clean tubes of plaster encasing his legs. Rudi spoke for several minutes, Tavalera now and again prompting him. When Rudi finished and the room was quiet, Tavalera said, "You didn't say why the woman of Boudreaux was with you at Atarbs."
Rudi said he believed she wanted to be celebrated as a heroine of the revolution.
"Go on."
And pose as a hostage to receive money from Boudreaux. He didn't know how much; the amount had not yet been decided.
This time when Rudi finished Tavalera looked at Palenzuela standing against the wall-though not the kind of wall he should be standing against-and said, "You don't tell Boudreaux any of this. You leave that to me. You understand? You don't speak to him; you're too busy inspecting buildings, or whatever you do." Tavalera rose from the chair. "I leave you alone, if you wish to say something to Rudi."
He watched the chief of municipal police straighten, bringing himself to attention before shaking his head.
"To a traitor? I have nothing to say."
In the coach on the way to the hotel and now in the bar with a glass of sherry, Tavalera had time to plan, a step at a time, how much of Rudi Calvo's confession he would tell. Not all of it, no. Not a word about the business of the hostage being a hoax. There would be satisfaction in telling it, that his woman had walked out and was now planning to rob him; but much more to be gained in the long run if he didn't tell it.
It would be far better to see the American so aroused with pity for poor Amelia that he pays the ransom to get her back. How much? It would have to be a fortune. Why ask a millionaire for anything less?
Tavalera was confident the amount would be enoughh once the money was confiscated and disappeared, the tricky part-to buy land, a home, several homes if he wished. One here, one on the peninsula of Varadero There seemed always to be ways to supplement a lean military income. In the penal colonies of Africa they would write to the families of convicts, tell them a donation would buy needed food and clothes for their unfortunate loved ones. Pesetas arrived and the miserable inmates continued to starve and die of disease. Why not? It was their due.
What Tavalera saw now, Boudreaux entering, coming to the table, was far more than a few pesetas; he was looking at his retirement after the war.
A drink arrived for Boudreaux as he sat down, whiskey with crushed ice. He said not a word to the waiter, his gaze holding on the Guardia major.
"Yes?"
"Two of Andres Palenzuela's men, it turns out, are traitors."
"You telling me this because Andres is a friend of mine?" "Andres is a friend of everyone. I tell you because one of the traitors is a friend of your man Victor Fuentes. They are the ones to consider, not our friend Andres."
Boudreaux remained silent as Tavalera told of the murder of his eight men in the escape of the cowboy and the marine, and told of Amelia Brown's presence as a hostage. When he had finished Boudreaux said, "She went riding with Novis and Victor and. uever came back." He reached into his coat for the note and handed it to Tavalera.
"Ah, I wondered," he said, unfolding the sheet of paper, stained and creased, and read, " "My dearest Rollie," " aloud. He looked at Boudreaux and went back to the note, reading the rest of it-in silence. He finished, but continued to look at the note as he said, "The poor girl, she seem very frighten."
"I would imagine," Boudreaux said, "she's scared to death."
"Why do you think they want Novis to bring the money?"
"I wondered the same thing."
"He could be with them, uh? They offer him some of it?"
"He's stupid enough. By the same token Novis is dumb loyal. I tell him to stick his hand in the fire, he'll do it."
Tavalera looked at the note again. "Deliver to Matanzas. April twenty-seventh… I'm going to be in Matanzas at that time."
"So am I," Boudreaux said. "I'm going tomorrow. I still have a mill to run. I'm in business as long as I can keep my fields from getting burned."
"You have your guerrilleros for that, good men; I know many of them."
"They're capable, yeah, but you have to keep after them." "Like any soldiers," Tavalera said, wanting to be agreeable, and paused before asking the important question. "So, you're going to pay the ransom?"