Judas Journey. Lee Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ Pete’s hard fists had helped to get them out of unfriendly and even dangerous situations in which they sometimes found themselves, usually in a bar.

      “Good evening,” Simpson said in his grave voice. “I have been waiting for you, to apologize for my disgraceful conduct last night, and to thank you for putting me to bed, where I most certainly belonged. I am afraid that I sometimes misjudge my capacity for alcohol, especially after a dry time in the field. Who paid the check last night?”

      “I did,” Ramsey said, “but forget it.”

      “Thank you, Rackwell. I wish to reimburse you.”

      Ramsey said, “You bought us plenty of drinks in Pittsburgh.”

      “Then I insist upon buying now. Will you join me?”

      They ordered drinks—another Scotch and water for Simpson, Bourbon and soda for Ramsey and Pete. As Ramsey relaxed in the chair he became aware of the tiredness of his muscles and he told himself that right after dinner he would go to bed. Then he thought of the dancer, Sara—what was her last name? Colvin, that was it—and he stirred restlessly.

      Simpson said, “Have you two thought over what I told you last night?”

      Ramsey smiled. “I’m afraid not. After all, you didn’t give us a very clear picture.”

      Simpson smiled wryly. “Again I apologize. But what I told you is true. It seemed natural to tell you and Pete. I’m all alone now; my friends are scattered around the globe. My wife, as you know, divorced me and I can’t say that I blame her. A woman wants roots and security.” He paused and sipped moodily at his drink. “I presume I have told you about Angeline?”

      “Yes,” Ramsey said, remembering the days in Pittsburgh.

      Simpson sighed, “Angeline wanted a permanent home, and children—all the trite and maybe wonderful things that every woman wants. I don’t blame her. But geology is my work, my life, and I had to go where the work was. Oh, I could have taken a professorship at some university, and Angeline would have loved being a faculty wife, but I guess I’m just a rover at heart, like you, Rackwell, and you, Pete. The far horizon, you know, the view from the next mountain-top, the turn in the road and all that foolish and romantic nonsense.” He drank again. “Maybe I’m sorry, now that I’m getting along in years. I still write to Angeline, and she writes to me. She’s teaching natural history in a high school in St. Louis, and living with her parents.” He reached inside his coat. “I have a photo of Angeline, taken years ago in Brazil. . . .”

      “What about the mahogany?” Ramsey asked gently.

      “Ah, yes.” Simpson’s hand came away from the coat pocket and he wiped his glasses on a paper napkin. “It’s there, Rackwell, truly. A virgin stand. Acres of mahogany trees, sixty to eighty feet tall, in a remote and desolate country. I staked it out and made a preliminary survey. There will be complications—with the Mexican government, for one—but they can be worked out. The important thing now is to make a complete survey and plan a method of transportation to the coast. We will need financial help, but that can come later. It won’t be easy, but if we succeed I would not attempt to estimate our gain. . . .”

      Simpson paused, hooked the glasses over his ears, and continued in a soft voice. “Maybe Angeline would take me back then, if I would settle down and live the kind of life she wants. With the mahogany money, we could do that.” He smiled at Ramsey and Pete. “You see? This means much more to me than mere financial gain.”

      “I see,” Ramsey said. He had never thought of mahogany before, except as a wood from which the costlier furniture was made, but listening to Nevil Simpson’s precise voice had given it an illusive glamor. “How much would it cost?”

      Simpson shrugged. “I estimate that the preliminary expedition would require about three thousand dollars, and three to four months’ time.” He peered at Ramsey and Pete. “A thousand dollars for each of us.”

      “We can scrape that up,” Ramsey said, thinking that it would wipe out the savings accounts he and Pete had in a Pittsburgh bank. He looked at Pete. “What do you say?”

      “Let’s go,” Pete breathed, his dark eyes shining.

      Simpson said, “I cannot promise you anything, except that the mahogany is there.”

      “We understand,” Ramsey said. He and Pete had nothing much to lose, he thought, except their savings and a few months’ time. But money could always be earned again, and time meant nothing to them. He lifted his glass in a silent toast. Simpson and Pete joined him.

      “Then it’s agreed,” Simpson said. “We’ll place the project on a business-like basis. I propose that we organize a legal partnership, pool our resources, purchase the necessary supplies and equipment and cross the Border. I have maps which I will show you. Time is important. Others may discover the mahogany, and the rainy season is just ending there. It will begin again in May or June, but we should be back long before then. I have a car which will take us to the jumping-off place. Then it will be a hard journey on foot through wild and treacherous country, but at the end will be the—the rainbow.” He smiled half shyly and his glasses glinted in the light.

      “How soon can we leave?” Pete asked eagerly.

      “We’ll see.” Simpson pursed his lips, got paper and the stub of pencil. “It will take a little time to get ready.” He began to write. “We’ll need food, medical supplies, guns, ammunition, machetes, netting, surveying instruments . . .”

      Two hours later, after they’d eaten dinner, Ramsey left Simpson and Pete in Simpson’s room poring over maps and talking about supplies. He changed his mind about going to bed and went instead to the Jungle Tavern, where he sat alone in a corner and watched Sara Colvin dance. At one o’clock, after her last dance, he walked to her apartment building and stood in the shadow of the hedge. He smoked and wondered irritably what he was doing there. At one-thirty a black Jaguar pulled up to the curb and stopped. A man and a woman got out, and Ramsey saw that the woman was Sara Colvin. The man was tall and hatless and wore a loose topcoat over a tuxedo. They walked to the door and stood talking in low tones. Then Ramsey heard her say, “Good night, Blake. Thank you.”

      The man said something, went back to the Jaguar and drove away. Ramsey moved quickly up behind the girl as she entered the foyer. She heard his step and turned. He saw the startled recognition in her eyes, and he felt suddenly awkward and ill at ease. “Hello,” he said.

      “Hello.” Her voice and her eyes were cool.

      “I’m sorry—about last night.”

      Her eyes softened. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “It was nice of you to wait here to tell me—Rackwell. Is not that your name?”

      “Yes, but call me Rack.”

      “I have thought about you today,” she said, “and I have decided that perhaps you were not to blame. We were strangers to each other and I permitted you to walk home with me, and naturally you . . .” She lowered her gaze and fingered a button of her coat. He could not see the faintly mischievous gleam in her eyes.

      “Naturally,” he said, and he thought dismally that she really shouldn’t blame him. It had been her mistake, too. What kind of a woman did she think he was looking for, a man like him? He turned away and said shortly, “I won’t bother you any more.”

      Behind him СКАЧАТЬ