Island of Terror Page 2

  “Trifles,” she said impatiently. “Just trifles. What about the big things?”

  “I should say,” he answered without hesitation, “no change. Different methods, perhaps: different ways of doing them – but, in the end, the same.”

  “You don’t think we’re softer than you were?”

  “I think this age is more comfort loving, undoubtedly, if that’s what you mean. But that, I suppose, is only natural in view of the advance of science. Then one hacked to a meet – now one goes in a car.”

  “But are we as keen on adventure?”

  Jim laughed.

  “Adventure! Where is adventure to be found these days?”

  “You ought to know,” she said, “if half the stories I’ve heard about you are true.”

  “I’m afraid I’m a hard-bitten case,” he answered. “But I can assure you that even I have noticed the difference in the last few years. Everything is getting far too quiet.”

  “Even in South America?” she asked.

  South America! Percy’s remark came back to him, and he wondered what was coming next. This, apparently, was what she had been leading up to.

  “You can get a bit of fun out there at times,” he said lightly. “But then if one looked for it I dare say one could get it in London.”

  “What sort of people are they?”

  He laughed again.

  “My dear Miss Draycott,” he said, “they vary as much as the inhabitants of Europe. But by your question I assume you mean the brand that we generally lump together as dagos. Well – just like every other breed, you will find all sorts and conditions. I have excellent – very excellent friends amongst them. But they are people who require careful handling. For instance, there is one thing you must never do to a dago, unless you know him extremely well. Never pull his leg. He doesn’t understand it: he takes it as an insult. There’s another thing too. You stick a knife into one – or shoot him up – and he’ll understand it. You hit him with your fist on the jaw and he’ll never forgive you.”

  “Are they very quick with a knife?” she asked.

  “Very – and with a gun. Moreover, they will shoot on the smallest provocation. You’ll understand, of course, that I’m not talking about the vast majority of them, who are perfectly harmless people. But to show you what I mean about the minority I’ll tell you a thing I saw with my own eyes. It was in Buenos Aires about seven years ago, and a festa was in progress. Streets crammed with people and cars: the whole place en fête. I was on the side walk, and a motorcar alongside me was being held up by a man who was standing just in front of the mudguard. So the driver sang out to him to move. He didn’t, and after a while the driver very slowly drove forward, and hit the man a glancing blow on the leg. Now it was a blow that wouldn’t have hurt a fly: it didn’t even make the man stumble. But what happened next? As the driver came abreast of the man, he calmly stepped on to the running-board, drew his gun and blew out the driver’s brains. And this, mark you, with the wife in the back of the car.”

  “But didn’t they arrest the murderer?” cried the girl.

  “Not a hope,” said Jim. “He just vanished into the crowd. No – especially if they’ve got a drop too much liquor on board.”

  He pressed out his cigarette.

  “Is it permitted to ask why you are so interested in South America?”

  For a moment or two she hesitated, staring in front of her. Then she turned to him.

  “I am almost tempted to use that stereotyped beginning, Mr Maitland, and ask you not to laugh at me.”

  “Then I’ll make the stereotyped reply and assure you that I shan’t,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve got a brother,” she went on, “a twin brother. Arthur is his name. And for the past two years he’s been knocking about in South America. Brazil, Uruguay, and the Argentine. Now I know that must seem very small beer to you – I mean I don’t think he’s been much off the beaten track. But at any rate he’s been out there, cutting away from this.”

  “Has he been on a job?” asked Jim.

  “He went out there to start work for a big oil firm. Quite a good salary. And of course Daddy allows him something. But after two or three months he found he couldn’t stick it – his manager was a swine – so he chucked it. Since then he’s been drifting about.”

  “I see,” said Jim quietly. Only too many youngsters had he met drifting about on something allowed by Daddy, and the brand did not inspire him with confidence. Then feeling that his remark had been a little too curt, he added – “It’s difficult to get jobs out there – jobs that are any good, that is – unless a man is an expert. And it’s a devilish expensive place to drift in.”

  “I know it is,” she answered. “Arthur often wrote me to say how fearfully difficult he found it. At any rate he managed to carry on, until he had the most amazing piece of luck about six months ago. And now I’m coming to where I’m afraid you may laugh.”

  “Risk it,” said Jim with a smile.

  “If I’d known you were coming this evening I’d have brought his letter, but I think I can remember all that matters. It seems that he did some kindness to a broken-down sailor in Montevideo – an Englishman. And this sailor on his deathbed told him some wonderful story of buried treasure.”

  Jim’s face remained expressionless, though this was worse than he had expected.

  “I hope he didn’t part with any money for it,” he said quietly.

  “I thought you’d take it that way,” she cried. “I did myself when I first read it. But he didn’t pay anything: the sailor gave him the whole secret. And, anyway, he’d only got his allowance: he had no capital to give away.”

  “What is the secret?” he enquired.

  “That I don’t know,” she said. “He wrote something about a map, and fitting out an expedition, and from that moment I never heard another word till three weeks ago when I got a letter saying he was coming home by the next boat. He also said that if anything should happen to him I should find a letter addressed to me at my bank.”

  “If anything happened to him,” repeated Jim thoughtfully. “Have you been to the bank to enquire?”

  “Yes. I was actually in there this morning, and there was nothing.”

  “Then everything seems plain sailing, Miss Draycott. Presumably nothing has happened to him, and if you got his letter three weeks ago he ought to be in England by now. And as soon as you see him you’ll be able to get the whole story.”

  “I know. But it is there that I wondered if you could help.”

  She looked at him appealingly.

  “Me! I shall be delighted. But how?”

  “By going into the whole thing with him, and telling him what you think. You know so much more than he does, Mr Maitland, and if there’s anything in it, it would be wonderful if we could have your advice.”

  For a while he hesitated: then he looked her straight in the face.

  “I’m going to be perfectly frank, Miss Draycott,” he said. “The story, as you’ve told it to me, is, not to mince words, as old as the hills. From time immemorial drunken seamen have babbled in their cups of treasure trove – gold ingots, diamonds, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Generally, too, they have a roughly-scrawled map, with, as often as not, a skull and cross bones in the corner to make it more realistic. In fact the one point in which this story differs from the others is that he did not apparently touch your brother for money. Had he done that I should have advised you to dismiss the whole thing from your mind at once.”

  “You don’t think there is anything in it, then,” she said despondently.

  “I don’t want to be brutal,” he answered with a smile, “but I fear that is my opinion. I’m not going to deny that there must be treasure – probably priceless treasure – hidden away in odd parts of the globe: relics of the old pirate days. I’m not going to deny that the Spanish Main, and the coast of South America are very likely localities for the hiding-places. But what I do feel doubtful about is the likeli
hood of a down-and-out seaman in Montevideo knowing anything about it, or getting the clue to its whereabouts.”

  “But as you said yourself he took no money,” she persisted.

  “I know that,” he agreed. “And I think it is quite possible that the sailor genuinely believed what he was saying – they’re the most gullible brand of men on earth. I think it is more than likely that when your brother befriended him he really intended to do him a good turn. What I’m doubtful of is the value of the information. Certainly I would say one thing. Unless your brother, when you see him, has something very much more definite to go on than the ramblings of a seaman on his last legs, and this map he was given it would be nothing short of madness to sink any money in an attempt to discover it.”

  “I quite see your point,” she said. “But would it be too much to ask you to hear what he’s got to say? And then give us your advice.”

  “Of course not,” cried Jim. “I shall be only too delighted. The Dorchester Club always finds me when I’m in London, and I shall be very interested to hear what he has to tell us. I know that country better than most men, and if I can be of any assistance – count me in. But for Heaven’s sake – don’t build any false hopes on it.”

  A sudden surge of Bright Young Things bearing kippers and beer descended on them, and carried her away, leaving Jim with an intense female who shook him to the marrow on sight. He suffered her for five minutes, at the end of which period, to his inexpressible relief, Percy bore down on him.

  “I never thought I should be glad to see you, Percy,” he said, as the female drifted away, “but that woman is a menace to society.”

  “She is pretty grim,” agreed his cousin. “What price the other girl? I saw you with your noses touching for about half an hour!”

  “A nice little soul,” said Jim. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “Just been asking Pamela. Her father is a retired General: got a house down in Sussex.”

  “Has he got any money?”

  “Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!” Percy dug him in the ribs. “So that’s how the land lies, does it?”

  “Don’t be such a damned fool,” said Jim curtly. “To say nothing of being infernally offensive.”

  “Sorry, old man. I but spoke in jest. As a matter of fact, I think not. In fact Pamela said he was darned hard up. There’s a pretty useless waster of a son, I gather. Out in South America somewhere.”

  Jim glanced at his watch: the time was two o’clock.

  “Not going yet, old lad, are you?” cried Percy. “We’re only just beginning.”

  “You needn’t come,” said Jim. “I shall walk. This terrific excitement is too much for me. Do I have to whisper some mystic countersign to get out of the place?

  “No, just open the front door and beetle away. Sure you don’t want me to take you in the bus?”

  “Quite,” said Jim, and beetled.

  Thus did we find him, top hat tilted, pondering on things in general with the lights of London in front of him. He strolled slowly along drawing in great lungsful of fresh air. Lord! what an atmosphere there had been in that cellar. And what a damned-fool performance. Yet, in a way he was glad he had gone: the girl in grey was rather a dear. Stupid of him not to have asked her address: probably get it when this young brother of hers rolled up.

  He grinned to himself: the hidden treasure yarn had whiskers on it even when compared to the old Spanish prisoner chestnut. No less than four times had it been put up to him – vouched for chapter and verse. Still he was sorry for the girl, especially as there was not much money. Probably been building on it a bit: only natural that she should. But the brother must be a fool as well as a waster to be taken in by it.

  A belated taxi homeward bound hailed him, but he shook his head. He was not in the least sleepy, and the combined reek of smoke and kipper still clung to him. Young asses! He tried to picture what any of them would do in a really tight corner. That fellow who had been thumping the piano for instance, and thumping it damned well, to do him justice. But imagine him in a bar in Valparaiso, for instance, when a rough house started.

  He threw away his cigarette: was he being quite fair? After all, none of them had had any experience of such a show. And maybe if they did do the wrong thing it would be from lack of knowledge, not from lack of guts. It wasn’t given to many to have the opportunities he had had, even if the desire to have them was there.

  Men had often told him that he looked for trouble, but that was not quite the case. There was no need for him to look: it came of its own accord. True, he never went out of his way to avoid it: he would even admit that he welcomed it with both hands. Something out of the ordinary, off the beaten track: something with a spice of danger in it – that was all he asked of life. And up-to-date life had given him full measure, pressed down and running over.

  He glanced up at the houses he was passing: solid lumps of respectability, symbolic of everything that he was not. In them reposed lawyers, stockbrokers, city magnates – men who formed the backbone of the Medes and Persians. Not that there was adventure in London to be found: the mere thought of it was an outrage. In Dockland, perhaps, but that was cheap: the glamour of Limehouse exists only in the imagination of the novelist. No – though he had told the girl that it could be found he was wrong: it could not be found anywhere these days.

  And at that moment, clear and distinct in the still, night air, there rang out the sharp crack of a revolver shot.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jim Maitland stopped dead in his tracks, and then with the instinct bred of many years he sought the cover of a neighbouring tree. In the country he had just come from he would not have given the matter a second thought – gun work was part of the ordinary day’s round. But in London, especially in this part of London, it was a very different affair. The sound had come from the house in front of him – a house very similar to the one he had just left, save that it was not for sale. It was in darkness, but some kind of subconscious instinct told him that there had been a light in one of the upper windows a few seconds previously.

  He glanced up and down the road: not a soul was in sight. He looked at the two neighbouring houses: there was no sign of movement. And then, as was his way, he summed up the situation. He was unarmed: whoever had fired the shot obviously was not. Short of breaking in there was no way in which he could get into the house. And finally it was no earthly business of his. Wherefore, by three very good reasons to nil, he should have continued his leisurely walk towards home. Which was quite sufficient to decide him to do nothing of the sort. He would give it a few minutes at any rate to see if anything further happened.

  He turned the collar of his evening overcoat up so as to cover the white patch of dress shirt. Then motionless as a statue he seemed to merge himself into the trees in front of him. For a while nothing happened: then from one of the windows there came a gleam of light. It was extinguished almost at once, only to appear in the one just below it and then go out again. Someone was coming down the stairs. It shone for a second over the front door, and then the door itself opened, and two men came out.

  Jim realised they would have to pass within a few feet of him, and pressed himself still closer against the trees. He could hear their voices – one furiously angry, the other seemingly apologetic – though as yet he could not make out their actual words. One was a big man, the other a head shorter, and it was the big man who was in a rage.

  “You damned, blithering fool, Ernesto.”

  The words suddenly rang out clearly as they approached the gate.

  “You’ve wrecked the whole thing.”

  The latch clicked, and Jim waited for the smaller man’s reply.

  “He should not have struck me,” he said. “I do not like to be struck.”

  The two men stood peering up and down the road.

  “Not a cursed thing in sight,” growled the big man. “However, perhaps it is as well. No one heard. We’ll walk. But we’ve got to get a move on.”

  T
hey strode off, and Jim waited till their voices died away in the distance. The big man was obviously English: the other from his accent and name seemed Spanish. Or possibly South American. And it struck him that it was a queer coincidence that he should have been mentioning that characteristic of the dago to the girl only a little time previously – their hatred of being hit.

  He came out from behind the tree, and began to size things up. In the house in front of him was a man who had been shot: He might be dead: he might only be wounded. The great point was – was there anyone else inside? If there were servants, some of them at any rate would have been roused by the noise of the shot, and lights would have been turned on. But the house was still in darkness. On balance therefore he decided against servants.

  What about the owner of the house? Was it the big man himself? That seemed quite probable, and if so what was he going to do? To leave a dead man, or even a seriously-wounded man lying about the place would prove an awkward matter. He recalled his last words about getting a move on. What had he meant? And putting himself in his place Jim decided that the only possible course would be to take the body away and dump it elsewhere. It would be unsafe even to leave it till the following night, since any doctor would know that the man had been dead some time, and it would be most improbable for a corpse to lie through the day in the open undiscovered… It would therefore give a strong pointer to the police that the body had been moved after death, whereas if it was done at once they might be deceived. So it boiled down to the fact that if he was going to do anything at all, it must be done at once. He crossed the pavement rapidly, opened the gate and skirted up the short drive keeping in the shadow of the bushes.

  That he was proposing to break into somebody else’s house disturbed him not at all. His position, even if he was discovered, was a far stronger one than the owner’s who would have to explain the presence of a dead or wounded man on his premises. But he had no intention of being discovered. Amongst other attributes possessed by Jim Maitland was an almost catlike gift for silent moving at night, and he proposed to utilise it to the full.