The Tarantula Stone. Philip Caveney

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СКАЧАТЬ stone. He fixed a strong loop of rawhide to the bag, double testing it by wrenching the finished article with all his strength. Satisfied at last that it would not break, he hung the pouch round his neck, tucking it beneath the loose khaki fabric of his shirt. With the hard, rough shape of the diamond pressing reassuringly against his chest, he finally snatched a few hours’ sleep, but he was troubled by an awful dream.

      He was climbing a remote mountainside, clutching precarious holds on some sheer granite rocks. Far below, the jungle spread out in every direction, the huge trees dwarfed by distance. He had no idea what he was doing in this place, nor what he had come to find. He only knew he had to go on.

      Reaching a particularly tricky section, he was obliged to put up both hands in order to pull himself onto a ledge. He began to do this, reluctantly lifting his feet up from their holds and letting his legs dangle above a terrifying chasm, and started to haul himself up; and then, with a sense of shock, he felt a movement under the fabric of his shirt, against his naked chest. Glancing down in terror, he saw that beneath the fabric something was moving, wriggling, pushing against the folds. Martin opened his mouth to yell but the sound died in his throat as he saw something dark and horribly furry begin to edge out from beneath the shirt. His fingers were aching on the ledge, a thick sweat bathed every inch of his body, but he could not move so much as a muscle; he could only hang helplessly as first one leg, then another, came creeping out into full view. Then there was a squat, heavy body and a whole series of quivering tiny jaws. He knew suddenly, with a terrible conviction, that the tarantula was going to crawl up onto his face.

      Martin woke, his body caked in acrid sweat. The first light of day was spilling through the open doorway of his shack. Remembering his plan, he stayed in his hammock much later than was his usual custom and then, after several hours of this, collected his tools and stumbled down to his digging place. He wore two layers of clothing to give the impression that he felt cold and of course this made him sweat profusely. The only difficulty was faking the shivering attacks, but even though nobody was taking a great deal of notice of him, he kept the act up all through the day, getting very little work done.

      In the early afternoon, he was startled by the sound of a heavily accented voice just behind him. He turned and had to suppress a look of shock. Standing by his dig was the man who had been working opposite him the day before. He was Portuguese, a thick-set, bearded fellow with an enormous belly that jutted out over the belt of his jeans. He had moved to a new site that morning and Martin had not expected to see him again; but he stood now, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans, regarding Martin with a calm, slightly mocking expression.

      ‘You are ill, senhor?’

      Martin shrugged, mopped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Yeah … just a touch of malaria, that’s all. I get it from time to time …’ He turned away to recommence digging.

      ‘Funny … you don’t look so ill to me,’ the garimpeiro muttered. This was said in such a sly way that Martin was shocked; but he forced himself to continue digging grimly and when he turned round again, the man was gone. Back in the shack, Martin pondered the matter. Could the man have seen anything yesterday morning? Was his remark just coincidental? Was Martin himself becoming paranoid, seeing enemies at every turn? He did not sleep that night and the following morning his feeble attempts at digging were less of an act than they had been the day before. After a couple of hours of ineffectual fumbling, he gathered up his tools and stumbled off in the direction of the barraca. Behind the roughly made counter, he found Hernandez, the man who ran the store. Martin trudged slowly over to him and set the tools down in front of him, shivering violently as he did so.

      ‘You are ill, senhor?’ inquired Hernandez patronizingly.

      ‘Yeah … Hernandez, what’ll you give me for these tools?’

      ‘Tools?’ Hernandez glanced down at the well-worn equipment. ‘You are quitting, Senhor Taggart?’

      ‘I guess so. I’ve got to get back to Rio and sort out this damned malaria. I can’t take another rainy season feeling this way.’

      Hernandez chuckled. ‘You should count yourself lucky, Senhor Taggart. At least you have not yet the maculo. That one, she is a real killer … malaria, a man gets to live with. You will see, in a day or so, the badness will pass …’

      ‘I ain’t planning on waiting a day or so. Come on, Hernandez, how much for these?’

      Hernandez gazed at the tools disdainfully, prodding them with his fingers. ‘These … there is little life in them, eh, senhor? I give you fifty cruzeiros.’

      ‘Fifty! They damned near cost me five thousand!’

      Hernandez shrugged expressively. ‘That is what they are worth to me, Senhor Taggart. Maybe you should keep them. You may decide to come back, eh? They say a garimpeiro never quits until he has made his fortune … or died trying for it.’ He chuckled unpleasantly.

      ‘I can buy more in Rio, if I ever decide to come back to this rat-hole. Come on, give me a hundred for them, at least.’ He shuddered violently and swore beneath his breath.

      ‘Sorry, senhor. Fifty. That’s my offer.’

      ‘All right, dammit, give me that! At least I’m not in debt to you for anything and I guess I can just about afford the train fare back to Rio.’ He accepted the notes that Hernandez counted out from a cigar box under the counter. Martin knew that Hernandez kept a double-barrelled shot-gun beside the box.

      ‘The senhor should try a bottle of my aguardente; it’s very good for the fevers.’

      ‘No thanks, Hernandez, I couldn’t afford your prices.’ Martin leaned forward across the counter. ‘Unless, of course, you were offering me a bottle free, out of the goodness of your heart …’

      Hernandez shook his head. ‘Alas, senhor, nothing in this life is free.’

      Martin sneered and turned away from the counter; he froze for an instant when he recognized the figure standing in the doorway: the bearded Portuguese who had questioned him the day before. He was gazing at Martin with interest, leaning against the edge of the doorframe.

      Goddammit, thought Martin desperately. The bastard knows something! But he kept his face impassive as he pushed by the man and trudged slowly outside. The man turned and came quickly after him.

      ‘Senhor, wait a moment! You leave tomorrow, yes?’

      ‘Maybe.’ Martin did not pause or look back.

      ‘Sure, I hear you tell Hernandez! Hold up a moment …’

      Martin turned round, his expression threatening. ‘So all right, I’m leaving. What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

      The man nodded and an arrogant smile played on his lips. ‘Yes, I figured so … you found something, no?’

      ‘What? What are you talking about?’

      ‘A diamond, senhor. You found a diamond, two days ago when I was working near. I wasn’t sure then, but I had an idea … just … something in your face; so I say to myself, Orlando, you wait to see what he does next. He will show you yes or no. And now suddenly you are ill and you have to leave … it is for sure you found a diamond, a big diamond or you would not risk to run with it.’

      ‘You’re crazy,’ snapped Martin.

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