Diana Cogswell’s smile faded. “I’m sorry about that. He came up behind me so quietly—”
“Don’t apologize. All’s well that ends well.”
“To coin a phrase,” Wilson said. “Anyway, we promise to leave it out of our mutual report if you promise not to wake us any earlier than necessary,” he added, and winked at her. He moved into the cabin, followed by Da Silva. They managed to get the cot back on its feet over the lazaret opening, and the carpet kicked more or less into place. Wilson dropped down on the bunk and leaned back, luxuriating in its comfort. “Ah! This is good! Call me October eighth.”
“God, you’ve got a memory!” Da Silva said. He smiled across the cabin. “I know it was the Marx Brothers, but I forget the picture. How old are you, anyway?”
“Nineteen. My granddaddy told me all about it,” Wilson said, and closed his eyes. He opened them for a brief moment. “If it bothers you, call me October ninth.”
“If I’m awake by then.” The mustached, pockmarked Brazilian took Diana’s pistol from the cot and placed it on the chart table, out of the way. He lay down, stretching out his tall frame. “Man, this is the life!” He pulled himself up on an elbow, looking curiously over at Wilson. “I wonder if we could borrow this tub to go back to Brazil? In a crisis, I wonder if we might even rent it?”
“I wonder if you could stop jabbering so I could get some sleep?” Wilson muttered grumpily. He buried his head farther into his pillow. “Pretend it’s also a crisis.”
“I’ll try.”
Da Silva closed his eyes, allowing the even swaying of the deep-plumbed boat to relax him. Across the narrow aisle separating the two bunks Wilson was already breathing heavily, his mouth slightly open, his arm jammed beneath his pillow, bringing it in closer contact to his head. The even rumble of the twin marine engines was soporific in the heavy afternoon heat. A fly, buzzing from one head to the other, decided that neither offered too much hope for the future; it attempted to check on the third member of the crew on deck, and was swept helplessly to sea on the strong breeze.
The third member of the crew turned momentarily to watch Green Hell Island slowly disappear into the ocean over her shoulder, then brought her attention to the west again. The sea before her was empty; the lifting waves raised themselves sacrificially to be sliced by the dipping prow. She smiled and locked the wheel. She padded silently to the roundhouse and paused in the doorway, listening intently. A faint snore came from the bunk on her right; slight inhaling from her left. She advanced a bit farther into the cabin, her eyes searching; then she saw what she had been looking for. Her revolver had been put aside carelessly on the inclined chart table; it lay atop a straight edge, nudging a draftsman’s compass. She paused studying the two inert forms on the bunks and then moved quietly down the carpeted aisle, taking up her revolver and checking its contents. A full complement of cartridges winked up at her, reflected in the dim light of the cabin. She eased the revolver closed and gripped it, turning.
Both men were breathing evenly, deeply. She smiled faintly and raised the gun, then paused as if making up her mind. She nodded, as if in unconscious agreement with her own judgment, and moved to Da Silva’s side. The revolver was brought to his temple; her finger tightened perceptibly on the trigger. And suddenly she found her hand captured, the pistol averted, while two black eyes stared into hers reproachfully.
“That’s not nice,” he said softly. “You weren’t to wake us before it was necessary.”
For a brief moment Diana stared at him, her eyes wide with shock; then her quick brain woke up. She twisted, slashing down with the edge of her free hand. Da Silva grimaced in pain, his grip upon her loosening. She jerked her hand free, coming to her feet swiftly, stepping back and leveling her revolver at him.
“That wasn’t very nice, either,” Da Silva said, disappointed. “That was my sore arm.”
“You won’t worry about that very long,” she said in a low, taut voice, and turned slightly to make sure she was in a position to handle Wilson as well, should he wake and try to interfere. The pistol moved from one to the other with professional competence.
Wilson opened his eyes and yawned.
“Noise, noise! Is there no peace anywhere?” He looked across at Da Silva. “Will you please take that thing away from her so I can get some rest?” He saw the look on the other’s face and shook his head in simulated disgust. “Zé, for heaven’s sake! You don’t think I’d give a headstrong young lady like that a pistol that would fire, do you?”
Diana Cogswell’s jaw tightened dangerously; she stepped back another step and raised the pistol expertly, bringing it to bear on Wilson, pulling the trigger. The small nondescript man on the bunk watched in amusement as her eyes widened; the only result of her effort was a dull slapping sound.
“Revolvers need firing pins,” he explained. “Certainly you must have noticed that when you were racking up those fantastic scores on the pistol range. Well, that gun doesn’t have one.”
He came off the bed with an easy movement that surprised her. She raised the gun to use it as a club, and suddenly found her arm painfully twisted behind her, followed in a moment by the other. A pair of handcuffs were snapped about her wrists, but the stanchion upholding the cabin’s roof was between them. Wilson yawned and climbed back into his bunk.
“I’m afraid you’ll have trouble getting out of that.” He looked over at Da Silva. “Now may I please get some rest?”
“No,” Da Silva said. “You just got through incapacitating our crew. You are now elected, of course. You should be out there on deck steering, or tacking sightings, or something, shouldn’t you?”
There was a moment’s silence. Wilson swung his feet over the edge of his bunk, sitting up. He ran his hand through his thin hair and sighed despairingly as he came to his feet.
“While I’m taking those capoeira lessons,” he said, “you’re going to be taking lessons in navigation and allied subjects. That’s a must.” He started to leave the cabin, paying no attention to the girl staring at him with hatred in her large black eyes; then he turned back for a moment, looking at Da Silva. “Incidentally, I’ve had my suspicions of our Diana, here, for a long, long time. I had a feeling she was in this business for more than an Interpol agent’s paltry salary. But when did you suddenly see the light?”
“Me?” Da Silva looked at him evenly. “It started to strike me roughly about the time that I heard from Inspector Storrs that the banker — Mr. Thomas Glencannon, and you’ll notice I remember his name now — met his untimely end.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Da Silva said slowly. “I had the pleasure of tangling with Mr. McNeil once, as you recall, and one thing I can definitely assure you: He didn’t need a pitchfork to resolve his problems. And if Glencannon had tried to take a pitchfork to him, the chances are McNeil would have taken it and made the other man eat it — but he’d never use it to kill him.” He looked at the girl, his face expressionless. “That was another thing you did, Diana, that wasn’t very nice. I don’t know what we’ll ever do with you...”
14
“I’m not so sure I know what we’ll do with her,” Inspector Storrs said.
The inspector together with the two Interpol men were seated in a booth at the Badger Inn; Da Silva and Wilson had glasses of rum before them while the inspector nursed a giant mug of ale. The camper had been returned to the rental agency by Constable Wexford; the baggage of the two men was stowed in the trunk of Inspector Storrs’ car at the curb, waiting to take them to Seewell Airport and the return to Brazil. Wilson sipped his rum and looked across the table at the inspector.