“Well?”
The smaller man awoke from his reverie; he hurriedly picked up the lantern and the roll of wire. The shaft of light from the Coleman disappeared over the brow of the cliff, sending back wildly swinging shadows to crisscross the wall of trees and finally fade from sight. After the first uneven jerk the wire payed out more slowly, pausing every now and then as some obstacle on the treacherous path was overcome. The waiting man hummed a tune softly as he waited, feeling the strands of wire trail gently through his fingers. There was a longer pause, followed by a slight dragging on the wire. He calculated the amount remaining, subtracted it from the full skein, and nodded in satisfaction. He allowed the wire to slip free of his grip and turned, bringing his hands to the terminal-studded cover of the box.
“All hooked up, my friend?” he said softly to himself. “Well, we’ll soon find out. Ciao.” His white teeth suddenly gleamed in a harsh and humorless grin; without further hesitation he pressed heavily on the plunger of the box.
The bridge coughed diffidently, rising gently in the center as if to protest politely being disturbed in its slumber. There was a sudden reverberation from below, repeated again and again as the dull shock waves of the explosion rolled echoingly along the chasm walls seeking outlet. For a moment the bridge hesitated, poised under the moonlight, vainly attempting to comprehend the unwarranted attack, and then it conceded defeat, folding almost gracefully, collapsing, sliding toward the river below, and taking with it the few trees that had managed a precarious hold on the rocky walls. A hollow rumble marked its descent, ending in a faint crash; the naked abutments remained, shining in the moonlight like jagged white teeth in the black mouth of the fissure. The echo of the crash returned several times, fainter each time, and then at last faded shudderingly into silence. For a moment the jungle seemed to hold its breath, waiting, and then it exploded, voicing its displeasure at the frightening sound in a thousand growls and cries and screams.
The man at the detonator came slowly to his feet and moved to the edge of the chasm, playing the light from the flashlight down the rocky walls. The faint beam lost itself on the cloud of dust that had swirled up from the explosion and now hovered protectingly over the shattered piers. He listened awhile, intently, playing the beam back and forth, and then with a faint shrug returned to his box, squatting down and tugging at the wires that trailed below. They resisted a moment, and then what remained of them came along, wriggling silently up the canyon walls and through the underbrush. He wound them about the handle with expert ease, tucking the ends in neatly, and then came to his feet once again.
“You agreed with me, remember?” he said softly, addressing the swarthy little man buried below under tons of crushed concrete. “We really didn’t want a lot of witnesses, did we?”
He smiled at the thought and hefted the black box experimentally, as if deciding whether to throw it over the brink of the chasm or to take it back to the plane with him. It was doubtful that it would ever be found, and he knew it could never be traced to him; but there was still no need to take the chance. Dropped in another part of that vast jungle from the height of a flying plane, together with the attaché case, would be better. His grip on the handle tightened; he glanced at the shattered bridge once again.
“And also, my friend,” he added quietly with a smile, “while small, you still weighed close to sixty kilos yourself.”
The flashlight bobbed up and down as he tramped back across the field toward the waiting plane. The black box bumped against his leg with each step, like a pet who had performed well and clamored for recognition. It had been a full night, but one that had been well thought out, and its success, therefore, should not have been surprising. Still, one had to recognize the possibility of failure in bringing off the deaths of two men, both virtual strangers; but actually the plan had gone quite well. Of course, he might have waited until the plane had been loaded before disposing of the swarthy one — because now he would have to do it himself — but it might have been taking a chance. The little man might have started to think; this way was better. And, of course, there was still the job of disposing of the body beneath the plane, but that really was no major problem. It could be dragged to the cliff and dumped over to join the swarthy one and the remains of the bridge, or it could even be pulled to the edge of the jungle, much closer, and left to the mercy of the animals. Or it could even be left where it lay in the open field; the urubús would spot it from their wheeling observation points in the sky with morning’s first light, and would make short of it. For best results, in that case, the clothing would have to be removed first, but once the black scavengers had made their meal, there would be little left for identification.
He came to the plane and set the box on the ground, turning to duck under the wing, raising the flashlight, and then froze, drawing his breath in sharply, feeling a chill sweep his spine.
The body was gone!
For one moment his mind refused to encompass the fact, and then for another it attempted to rationalize the disappearance as being the work of one of the braver of the jungle cats, but he thrust the thought aside as quickly as it had come, as being unworthy of anyone clever enough to have planned as he had. The first cold feeling of panic conquered, he moved swiftly to the plane, revolver ready in his hand. He pulled the door open, inspecting the interior. As far as he could tell, nothing in the tiny cabin had been touched; the high-powered rifle clipped to the fire wall was still there, and that — obviously — would have been the first object of a search. With a frown he returned to the spot where the body had sprawled, bending down, training the flashlight on the bloodstained earth, and then noting the erratic trail of red drops wavering toward the thick stand of trees that walled off the airstrip. With a grunt of satisfaction, not untinged with amusement, he moved forward, following the trail to its end in the heavy brush, and then raised his voice, addressing the jungle.
“My friend” — his voice echoed hollowly in the open space; his grip on the raised weapon remained steady — “why not come out and be given a merciful death? A quick bullet?” He sounded — and was — sincere. “Believe me, the jungle is not a good way to die.”
There was a sudden chatter from a band of monkeys overhead, as if they were taking issue with his statement. He hesitated a moment longer, awaiting an answer, and then with a shrug returned to the plane. Armed and in good health, a stranger to these matos would be hard put to preserve life; unarmed and wounded merely meant that the jungle would quickly make up for his poor marksmanship. He tucked his revolver back into its holster, glanced over his shoulder once at the inhospitable forest behind, and began the task of loading the plane.
It was nearly dawn when he finished. He stood a moment, bathed in sweat, fighting for breath, and then hoisted himself wearily within the plane and buckled himself into his seat. First one motor and then the second whined shrilly before bursting into power, puffing clouds of gray smoke. The landing lights were switched on and responded, cutting through the darkness with twin splashes of light scattering themselves purposelessly in pools beneath the vibrating wings; he idled the motors for several minutes, checking the instruments, and then slowly pulled back on the throttles, bumping unevenly toward one end of the field.
As he swung the plane about for takeoff, the wing lights bathed the jungle’s edge, and he felt a certain touch of pity. He brought the motors up in speed, studying his instruments intently, and then his foot had released the brake and he was racing across the rough earth, bouncing unevenly. And then he was clear of the earth, joining the brighter moonlight and the cooler air, rising above the jungle, glancing down over his shoulder at the diminishing rectangle of the airstrip even as his hands automatically trimmed the ship for its extra weight.