The Tarantula Stone. Philip Caveney

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ think so, senhor. Can I … have a look at it, huh? Listen, I’m not a greedy man, you know. We could be partners you and me … What do you say?’

      ‘I say you’re crazy. There is no diamond. I’m leaving because I’m sick.’

      ‘Oh yes, of course! The malaria. Well, senhor, you’re a good actor. But I have seen malaria many times. In cases as bad as this, the skin of the face turns grey … but yours now, senhor, looks perfectly good to me. So you tell me where is the diamond? Can I see it? You keep it on you somewhere, no?’ The man stepped forward and began to finger the fabric of Martin’s shirt; then he lurched backward with an oath as Martin’s right fist clipped him hard against the jaw. He stood there, smiling ruefully and massaging his chin. ‘A strong arm for a man with malaria,’ he observed.

      Martin said nothing. He glanced quickly about. Nobody seemed to have observed the fight but there were people around who would come running if the thing escalated. He fixed the man with a contemptuous glare and said, ‘Just keep away from me. You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And he turned and walked away, remembering to keep his gait slow and awkward, just in case anybody else was observing him. He was terrified.

      Back at his shack, he threw his meagre belongings into an old carpet bag and made his plans. The Portuguese was wise to him, but what did he plan to do about it? It seemed likely that he’d try to get to Martin before the morning train arrived. Well, let him come; if he was foolish enough to try anything … But would he tell anybody else? Martin guessed not. The man was as greedy as any other garimpeiro and would not wish to share the diamond with any ‘partners’. Besides, he could have no idea how big this particular gem was. Martin could only hope that this reasoning was sound. If several men came after him in the night he wouldn’t stand a chance of holding them off. One man he figured he could handle.

      When dusk fell, he bundled the carpet bag and whatever bits of rubbish that were lying about the place into the hammock and covered them with a blanket. He lit a candle and placed it a short distance away, so that it just about illuminated the shape. Then, taking his razor-sharp, big-bladed knife from its sheath, he dropped down into the shadows in the corner of the shack. As a last resort, he placed his pistol where he could grab it in an emergency but he was hoping there would be no need of it. A shot would alert everybody in the garimpo to the fact that he had something worth defending.

      He resigned himself to a long, monotonous wait. The hours began their slow, laborious journey towards the dawn. He sat crosslegged in darkness, sweating in the stifling heat. Mosquitoes worried relentlessly at his forehead and bare neck but he remained stock-still, staring out at the slightly lighter rectangle of blue that was the doorway of the shack. The candle gradually burned its way downwards through the wax and from time to time a large moth fluttered jerkily round the halo of light before moving away to rest in darkness. Time seemed suspended and Martin began to wonder if he really had any reason to be afraid. He had slept little over the last couple of nights and now his eyelids grew heavy, his head inclined downwards by degrees until his chin rested against his chest. He slept, a deep, dreamless slumber of exhaustion.

      And then he was awake, suddenly, with the intense conviction that something was about to happen. His legs were badly cramped and his mind woolly; but, glancing towards the doorway, he was aware of a shape moving there, crouched down by the floor to the left. For a moment he thought it was some animal that had wandered in from the jungle after food; but then the shape inclined upwards and Martin recognized the fat silhouette of the bearded garimpeiro. The man remained in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, his gaze fixed to the huddled form in the hammock. The candle had burned very low now and the faint glimmer of light only just caressed the soft curve. Now the man moved slowly forward into the shack, placing his feet on the wooden boards without making a sound. He was obviously barefoot and Martin silently cursed the fact that he had not considered this. His own heavy boots would be sure to make creaking sounds on the warped planking, but there was no time to remove them now. The man was approaching the hammock and between his outstretched fists something glimmered faintly. It was a length of cheese wire. Martin shuddered at the thought of the wire slicing into the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Setting down his own feet with as much care as possible, he got up, using the wall of the shack for support. He did not have long. As soon as the man realized that the hammock was a decoy, he would be on his guard; and even now the assassin was leaning forward over the blanket.

      Martin took two quick steps forward, threw his left hand up to cover the man’s mouth and with his right hand slammed the long blade of the knife into the small of the garimpeiro’s back. The man’s fat body shuddered with the force of the blow and Martin began to lever the blade upwards, searching for the heart; but then the bearded man’s right hand let go of the cheese wire and he brought his elbow savagely upwards into Martin’s face, knocking him back across the room. The man spun round like an overweight dancer doing a macabre pirouette, his hand clawing ineffectually at the handle of the knife that protruded from his back. He was making a strange guttural noise deep in his throat and the length of cheese wire still dangled uselessly from his left hand. Knocked half senseless, Martin leapt in again, terrified that the man’s noises might alert the rest of the garimpo. He grabbed the wooden peg at the end of the cheese wire, whipped the man’s left arm upwards round his own neck and, when the wire grew taut, gave it a quick turn round the garimpeiro’s throat, pulling it tight until the sounds he was making ceased with an abrupt gurgle. The man stood in the centre of the room, thrashing hideously for a moment with his free arm. Then he gave a last jolting spasm, his head tilted sideways and he fell into Martin’s arms. Snatching the rubbish free of the hammock with one hand, Martin man-handled the body into its place, pausing only to wrench the knife free of its fleshy sheath. He wiped the blade thoughtfully on the dead man’s shirt, rolled him over onto his back and threw the blanket across him so that there would be no need to look into those glazed, staring eyes again that night.

      Martin sighed. He undid the bandana round his neck and mopped his face dry of sweat. It was too bad that it had to happen this way. Now it would be obvious why he had left and of course people would be looking for him. He would have to move quickly as soon as he got to Rio. At least the body in the hammock would buy him some time. People would simply think he was lying in, suffering with his malaria. Only Hernandez at the barraca knew of his intention to leave next morning and he never came down to the diggings. It should be hours before anybody bothered to glance in at his shack, and by then, with any luck, he would be on his way to Europe. He had already decided that Rotterdam would be the best place to sell the diamond; and, with careful planning, he figured he had just enough money put by to pay his fare to there. That was surely one place where even Caine couldn’t reach him.

      Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just a few hours to dawn. He remained seated in the corner of the hut, chain-smoking, and gradually the light began to brighten. Now Martin could make out the hunched shape in the hammock and the dark red stain that was spreading across the underside of the fabric. A swarm of plague flies buzzed curiously round the stain, settling and resettling upon it. He felt no sense of guilt at the killing. The man had come to steal a diamond and had paid for his greed in the most fitting way.

      Glancing at his watch again, Martin saw it was time to make his move. He stubbed out his cigarette, reached up to the gap behind the roof beam where he kept the canvas money belt and tied the device in place beneath the loose fabric of his khaki shirt. Then, collecting his carpet bag, he ducked out of the doorway of the hut, glancing cautiously around in the half light. There were few people about yet, but he made his way slowly to the railway halt, walking as though with great difficulty. He left the great ugly scar of the garimpo behind him and moved on through the brief stretch of scrub jungle that bordered the trail to the railway halt. The vegetation was sodden with morning dew and the legs of his trousers were soon soaked through. Once he reached the rough earth banking that passed for a platform, he settled down to wait. His pistol was tucked in the waistband of his trousers, in case anybody should challenge him; but the only other people to arrive were СКАЧАТЬ