TROUBLE IN MAYAPAN

From Sword in Sheath page 16

 

     In an interview that appeared in the Starlog magazine, September and October of 1989, Andre states that in her move from Cleveland, Ohio to Orlando, Florida she threw out this and several other manuscripts. Fortunately some parts of it survived; unfortunately what remains of the manuscript is incomplete.

The first 6 chapters consist of numbered pages and seem to be completed.

Chapters 7 through 11 are considered rough drafts with many hand corrections.

Chapters 12 through 18 are only rough outlines, originally in Andre’s hand and transcribed by Jay P. Watts to assist in your ability to read it.

It should be noted that the hand-written outline pages also include chapters 7 through 11 but since the drafts are available those outlines are not included in this presentation.

     The main protagonist underwent a name change from the drafts to the finalized chapters. The reason for this is unclear. In the drafts his name is Duncan Lord and in the finalized chapters his name is Peter Lord. We have chosen to go with Peter.

 

1. An Emerald for Sale.
2. "A Veritable' Pearl of a City!"
3. "Emeralds, Senor? You Jest."
4. First Appearance of a Jade Jaguar.

Please See - Part 2

5."Every River Rock Hides a Diamond!"
6. "My Price? Above Garnets -- But Offer Me Rubies!"

7. "A Gem of Steel, Senor."
8. It is a Jungle of Tourmaline.

Please See - Part 3
9. In the Night a Beast with Topaz Eyes.
10. An Aquamarine Set in Stone.
11. Blood Like Garnets on the Rock.

12. "Mountains? Sky-set Amethysts."
13. Second Appearance of a Jade Jaguar.
14. “Would you Beg Carnelians or A Python?”
15. A Bullet of Steel--A Spear Point of Quartz.
16. “These Are My Black Pearls of Great Price.”
17. Topaz Fire and---Death.
18. Final Appearance of a Jade Jaguar.

 

1: An Emerald for Sale.

     The rain was ice water driven neatly down every neck along Fifth Avenue. Peter Lord hunched his shoulders in a vain attempt to bring the collar of the shabby flight-jacket higher about his ears. He coughed and fumbled for a handkerchief.

     Before him was the destination had had traveled all night in a crowded day-coach to reach, but, in spite of the wet lash of the storm, he hesitated outside the elaborate iron grill which guarded the glass door. That door was so unlike the entrance to any jewelry store he had ever seen before. And he instinctively distrusted the absence of show windows ablaze with engagement diamonds and trade named watches. If it hadn't been for the crumpled clipping he carried in his wallet he would have turned around and----

     A harder gust of rain spat in his thin face and tugged at his dripping hat. He swallowed with a scratchy throat, coughed again and took the plunge through the forbidding portal. The door slid noiselessly back, obeying a light beam signal. He stepped warily in, to drip on a pavement of rust and white tiling.

   There were several glass cases about the room, unobtrusively placed, as if their contents did not really matter. And there were chairs thickly upholstered in rust and black leather.

     Peter remained just within the door. This was the wrong place for him sure enough. It looked more like a club than a place of business. And yet, when he glanced over his shoulder, he could read backwards the lettering which crossed the black pattern of the grill---“Norreys“.

     “You are looking for someone, sir?”

     Peter's heed snapped around.

     Out of the air or out of the tiles had appeared a short, stoutish man whose yellowish skin and smooth black hair suited the dull color scheme of the whole somber room.

     “This is Norreys, isn't it?” Peter pulled with cold fingers at the zipper which sealed his jacket pocket. He produced the page he had torn out of Time Magazine and held it out. Only the subject matter of those paragraphs of print certainly did not fit this atmosphere.

     “Of a surety this is the House of Norreys' establishment in New York, sir. And in what manner may we serve you?”

     Peter consulted the clipping for reassurance.

     “I’d like to see the Jonkheer Van Norreys---” he flushed guessing that his pronunciation of that unfamiliar title was probably not the proper one.

     “Mr. Van Norreys is out of the city just at the moment, sir. Perhaps you would care to see our Mr. Lamoyeaux---?”

     But that had not been one of the names mentioned in the article. And Peter had pinned all his frail hopes to that clipping.

     “How about Mr. Kane---?” He moved his feet nervously, leaving wet prints on the tiles.

     “Mr. Kane? I shall see, sir, whether Mr. Kane is in at the present---”

     The little man padded off on cat feet. Peter sighed. He might be in luck after all. Since reading Time he had thought that Kane would be in Singapore, Delhi or some other place at the ends of the earth. Kane---why, Kane was the best bet of all for him---being an American and coming from the same part of the country and all---

     “Mr. Kane is in, sir. If you will please to come this way---”

   Peter crossed the floor gingerly, trying not to drip more than necessary. They passed out of the dim elegance of the show room, and down a corridor walled by closed doors to one at the far end where his guide knocked twice and then motioned Peter to enter.

     With some of the same sinking feeling which had clawed at his middle when he had struck Jim Meyers for a job in the news office, Peter pulled off his battered hat and edged around the partly open door. But the room on the other side had none of the stiff grandeur of the outer ones.

     Instead he was standing in what appeared to be kind of a private museum. Above the desk which faced him a brightly painted demon mask, flanked by an arsenal of short, wavy bladed swords and knives, leered at all comers. And on the surface of the desk itself were small carvings among a litter of half unpacked boxes. The owner of the room had plainly been looking over his treasures when interrupted.

     “You wanted to see me?” The young man standing under the demon's jawbone threw an indifferently aimed ball of tissue paper in the general direction of the wastepaper basket and came forward. “I'm Lawrence Kane. What can I do for you?”

     Peter frankly stared. And the longer he studied that long, square jawed, sun brown face with its sign mark of the one unruly lock of dark red hair bobbing over the forehead, the more he could at last believe in the truth of those wild events chronicled in the clipping he still pinched between thumb and finger. Only the neatly pressed, well-tailored grey suit which covered Kane's wide shoulders, narrow waist and hips was wrong. Jungle dress or shirt and creaseless slacks would have been more in character.

     Kane glanced down at the tell-tale strip of paper in Peter’s hand and then he laughed.

     “So 'you've read that ballyhoo?” he observed rather wearily.

     “It’s true, isn’t it?” Peter blurted out.

     “True? Well, maybe that guff comes within a mile or so of the real story. Now please don't tell me that you're another reporter come down to ferret out our murky past. Somehow you don't look like---”

     Peter flushed. He was only too well aware that the worn jacket, cheap tweed slacks, which had lost any crease they might once have held, were not the usual New York business clothes. But his shoes had been shined that morning. His charcoal black hair was trimmed and the nails on his long, slim fingers were clean.

     He did not guess that Kane noticed these points or that the older man was deciding that he liked what he saw. And Kane was equally quick to note that flush on the plainly marked cheek bones-- those same sharply defined bones now, and the odd shape of the upper eyelid-- they were not quite of the American world. Kane had seen their like before-- somewhere---

     Peter endured that examination with an outward poise which had been painfully learned. He was able to laugh as he returned:

     “Sorry that I don’t look the part. Because I am a reporter-- or rather was one-- up until yesterday. On the Evansville, Ohio, News. But I didn't come here for an interview, Mr. Kane, but to see if you would be interested in buying this----”

     He plucked out the ball of cotton with it precious hard core. On the white blotter before Kane he dropped that core. It didn’t look like very much, that rough dark stone. But if it really was what Carter had claimed it to be---why---then---. Peter's tongue swept across his lips, he forced his sore throat muscles to move in a painful swallow and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

     “Sit down-- Mr.--- Mr.---”

     “Peter Lord,” Peter supplied mechanically.

     Kane had picked up the stone, looking at it through a jeweler's eye glass. He put it down again with some care and turned to the other.

     “Where did you get this?” his demand was sharp and curt.

     “Is-- is it really an emerald?” Pater countered. That was what had brought him there, the desire---the need to know whether Carter had been right.

     “I’m not an expert. To my belief it is. But I‘ll have it checked by our gemologist.” Kane pressed a button on the desk. “Now what's your story?”

     “If it is an emerald, would Norreys buy it?” Peter evaded.

     Kane shrugged. “That I cannot answer now. And we don‘t buy stuff without a pedigree. Where did you get the stone? Oh, Hamil---” the dark little man of the showroom appeared in the doorway. “Take this down to Van Droff and have him vet it-- thanks.”

     “Now,” he turned back to Peter--- “give.”

     But it had been so long since Peter had talked freely that he found it hard to begin. He would have to tell it all just as it had happened---so that’s the way it spilled out of him in a steady rush of words.

     “There was just the two of us, Carter and me. Mom and Dad were killed when their car overturned on a mountain road out west. The Simons took us in after that and they were swell to us. Carter wanted to be an engineer but there wasn’t money for college. So he tried to work his way through, but he never could get enough ahead to do it. Then the war started and he enlisted in the Engineers. He was good at it-- got a commission after a while. In 1945 he was sent down to this South American country, a little place not even on all the maps, right on the coast near the Guiana’s and Venezuela. It's called Mayapan.”

     “Anyway, the Army built a big airport there, we used it as a way station on overseas flights. Carter liked Mayapan. And he said that it could be important after the war-- that the air field he was helping to lay out could he used in the future for the commercial lines. So he took his discharge right there and started a business on his own-- supplying prospectors-- only they call them `porkknockers’-- who were going up country into the jungle. He had some of our guys with him on the deal, and they were doing fine.”

     “We-- we had it all worked out,” Peter's voice trailed off. This was the part it was hard to tell---to even think about. “I was through High by then and I even had a year of college—worked on the News during vacations. Carter wanted me to come down in the summers to help him out, when I was through, we would be partners---”

     “Then-- then in March Carter's letters stopped coming. When I cabled, I had an answer from the American consul. He said Carter was dead-- of fever.” Peter‘s voice remained under control. He was even able to continue serenely enough:

     “They sent Carter's stuff home, his personal things that is. He had an army automatic and a belt. There was a secret pocket in that belt-- he showed it to me on his last leave-- here in New York. We had four days just before he went south. And I found the emerald in that pocket along with a note to me.”

     “He'd been staking porkknockers, like I said a sort of a gamble. And one of the guys he staked was out of his old army outfit. This Aubrey Romanes had gone up country and sent word back that he had made a strike-- a big one. That stone was supposed to be just a sample of what he'd found. Carter didn't know whether to believe him or not-- seems that sometimes down there a few stones are found-- loose in the gravel of stream beds, but they‘re strays. The real source has never been discovered---”

     Kane nodded. “That's true enough.”

     “So Carter planned to head up country and join Romanes. Judging by the date on the note he died before he could go---”

     “And what do you propose to do now?”

     “Well, I thought if the stone is an emerald and I can sell it, I would buy a ticket to Mayapan. Carter had a good business started and maybe I can save some of it. He worked darn hard to get going-- it would be a dumb trick to throw it away---”

     “Do you know,” Kane had been fingering a carved ivory paper knife from among the jumble of curiosities, now he put it aside. “I think you have something there Lord. Yes, Hamil?” he raised his voice to answer the discreet knock at the door.

     “The report, sir.” The stone and a piece of paper were brought in to Kane.

     Peter fidgeted on the edge of his chair.

     “It seems, Mr. Lord, as if you do have the real thing---”

     Peter relaxed. “How much is it worth?”

     “Emeralds-- unflawed and of the best color-- just about top the price list in precious stones. I am not authorized to make you any offer at all. I can have it appraised and let Mr. Van Norreys see it. By the way, Lord, why did you come to us? Just because of that wild story in the magazine?”

     “Yes. It said that most of the firm members were ex-GI's-- and it told all about how you located that new pearling bed. Well, Carter was GI too----”

     Kane balanced the paper knife on the ball of his thumb. “Do you believe in hunches, Lord?”

     Peter blinked, and then, for the first time, his too-tight lips curved into a smile which broke wide the almost sullen mask of his face.

     “Sometimes I do---”

    “I always play my hunches. I learned the wisdom of that some years ago, Most of them have paid off, Now I have a hunch about this,” he touched the stone. “I don't know how much you understand of the gem trade---”

     “Practically nothing.”

     “It isn‘t just a matter of buying stones, cutting them properly and reselling them as jewelry-- though that is why the House of Norreys exists. There are a great many airtight monopolies in the business. The best known is that of the diamond trade-- almost everyone has heard of that sealed market. If all the diamonds in the South African mine vaults were dumped on the sales tables at once-- the prices would go down like a Helldiver after a Zero.”

     “The same is true-- in a smaller way-- of emeralds. Emerald mining is supervised by the governments in the few places where the gems have been discovered. Only a small portion of those found are allowed to reach the market. A new source, as yet un-bottled by such restriction, would mean a lot to any firm such as this one.”

     “If this prospector-- or porkknocker-- has found a new field, unknown, it would be very much worth the while of Norreys to investigate. Do you have the note your brother wrote?”

     “I can get it if necessary.”

     “Good enough. Now-- I would like Mr. Van Norreys to see this and maybe that note-- if you agree.”

     “Sure,” Peter responded eagerly. “I've all of Carter's papers-- that is all of them the consul sent along.”

     “Van Norreys won‘t be back until this evening. Where are you staying, Lord?”

     “At the Kingston, it's a little place down on 32nd Street. I stayed there with Carter once. I'm in Room 101---”

     Kane made a notation on the desk pad. “Do you want to leave this here?” He indicated the emerald. “I can give you a receipt for it.”

     “Maybe that would be better. I’d hate to lose it.”

     Kane grinned. “Yes, it isn’t the sort of pocket piece which make one comfortable. In the Norreys‘ vault it will keep you out of trouble.”

     Peter's oddly spaced eyebrows drew together in a little frown.

     “What makes you think it might get me into trouble?” he asked suddenly.

     “Its loss would mean trouble, wouldn’t it?”

     “It certainly would!” Peter folded away the receipt the other had scrawled. Thanks for giving me the time, Mr. Kane. I sure appreciate your bothering---”

     “Perhaps the thanks should be going the other way, Lord, You'll hear from me as soon as I can contact Van Norreys. You haven't gone to anyone else about this, have you?”

     “No-- just took a chance on you after I read that story.”

     “It may be an excellent thing for both of us that you do read `Time’ Lord.” was Kane's dismissal.

     Outside the rain still beat on sidewalk and building and the wind had lost none of its knife edge. Peter ducked across the streaming street and into the warmth and light of a big drug store. The hot coffee he ordered to draw some of the soreness from his throat was really hot and there was plenty of sugar at hand. He swallowed two aspirin hopefully. This was no time to crack up with the flu or something as silly as that.

     On the wall the big clock said eleven. He wasn’t really hungry yet. Of course he could kill time at a movie, but here in New York they'd probably come high. And those few bills in his wallet, the skimpy handful of change in his pocket, had to stretch a long way. No movie.

     He settled for two candy bars and two magazines of the fantastic adventure school. With these provisions for mind and body buttoned inside his jacket he got back to the Kingston and thankfully pulled off his waterlogged clothing.

     It was queer to be lying across a too firm, hotel bed in the middle of the morning, allowing a square of chocolate to dissolve on his tongue while he read, in magnificent leisure about bug-eyed monsters from the outer stars. He couldn’t remember, in the immediate past, of a single day spent in such idleness---not for a long, long time.

     The shrill ring of the telephone brought him out of a half-doze. His watch said half-past three. Van Norreys must have come back sooner than Kane had expected.

     But it was the desk clerk who answered him.

     “A Mr. Mannerheim to see you, sir.”

     Mannerheim---? He might be someone sent by Kane.

     “Send him up.”

     He had hardly time to pull on his robe before a knock at the door announced his visitor.

     The first thing that one noted about Oscar Mannerheim was his smile, a wide stretch of china bright teeth shown with a radiance which was a little over-powering. The odd thing about Mr. Mannerheim's beaming mouth was that his deeply set, dark eyes rarely agreed with its sentiments, any spark of good will which might have dwelt in their depths was adequately concealed from the world at large.

     “I am speaking to Mr. Peter Lord, yes?” the voice was soft, even insinuating, and yet something in its timbre made Peter uncomfortable.

     “Yes.”

     “You are indeed the brother of my poor friend Mr. Carter Lord---?”

     Peter's faint dislike of his visitor grew.

     “Yes.”

     Mr. Mannerheim’s smile faded into a dim but still present shadow of its usual exuberance. “Poor Carter. A great loss-- a very great loss to Mayapan, Mr. Lord. He had such a splendid future before him. We-- all his friends felt---”

     “You are from Mayapan then?” Peter couldn't stand any more of this.

     “I am. I have the good fortune to be a member of the Geneva Import Corporation of Maya City. And I had also the good luck to know you brother well. He perhaps mentioned to you in his letters my name-- I am Oscar Mannerheim!”

     He stood waiting, his round head a little on one side, as if he expected Peter to display some over whelming emotion at this revelation.

     “Sorry. Carter never mentioned you---”

     “But he told me of you-- many, many times. Of his little brother Peter---” persisted the tongue behind the Mannerheim smile. “That is why I have come to you now-- to ask your aid--”

     He paused and Peter obediently furnished the proper cue.

     “My aid?”

     “Yes. Your brother had among his papers a very important map belonging to my company-- the Geneva Import Corporation. We had arranged-- you understand-- for him to have surveyed some up river property we own-- property in the Rio Jaguar country---” there was a short hesitation after the word `country’, as if the other expected to see some sign of recognition from Peter. “He had this map completed just before his unfortunate death. We know that it was delivered to him. But, when we attempted to find it, we discovered that his papers had been sent to you. The Geneva Import Corporation is most desirous of obtaining the map. In fact, if there is no further delay in finding it, we will be able pay a small bonus to cover your trouble in the matter-- along with, naturally the fee still owing to Mr. Carter Lord.” With a flourish Mannerheim produced a wallet and unfolded with a sort of reverence a slip of green paper which he proffered with a gesture close to a bow.

     Peter read the sum above the spiky signature on the check. And, at first, the parade of figures didn't quite register. When they did he stood a little straighter.

     “And just what do you want in exchange for this?”

     “Merely to look through the papers belonging to your brother-- those which were sent to you after his death-- to look through them and abstract the map and the notes made for it. They are of value to no one but my company.”

     Peter held out the check, “I promise to look through the papers which are not here right now. And if I find among them any notes or map such as you mention we can talk this over again. But I cannot accept payment for what may not be there at all. So far as I know there isn't a single map there.”

     Mannerheim accepted the cheek cheerfully enough and appeared to be little disturbed at his dismissal.

     “Your promise to do so is enough for me, Mr. Lord. As I have stated, those notes are of no value except to my concern-- of no value at all. When you wish you may get in touch with me by calling this number.” He laid a card on the telephone stand, made a jerky half bow as he added: “Hasta la vista, Mr. Peter Lord.”

 

2: “A Veritable Pearl of a City!”

     “Letter for Mr. Peter Lord? Yes, sir, here it is.” The desk clerk of the Kingston dropped the envelope on the polished wood and Peter scooped it up.

     Maybe that hadn't been such a kid thing to do after all---to mail Carter's note to New York in a letter addressed to himself. At least it had allowed him to tell Mr. Mannerheim with truth that it was not in his possession that afternoon. And he didn't care at all for the thought of that single sheet of notepaper falling into the soft, fat hands of Mr. Mannerheim.

     But his hopes were higher than they had been a few hours before. If Kane thought enough of the deal to summon him to the Norreys apartment at night---why---the emerald might be as well as sold right now---and he was a good many steps nearer Mayapan.

     Peter found his way to the tall building Kane had mentioned, was whisked upward by elevator, and ended by being ushered into a long, low ceilinged room, the whole far end of which seemed to be one great window framing the gem lights of the dusky city.

     Kane came forward to meet him, but the tall American was not the only occupant of the room. By the fire place stood a slim young man whose hair was more silver gilt than blond. As he advanced smiling to be introduced he walked with a slight halt which was not quite a limp. And, when he stood facing Peter the boy saw that the youth of his body and movements was almost belied by stark lines around eyes and mouth.

     “Peter Lord, Lorens Van Norreys,” Kane waved a hand.

     “And very glad we are to see you, Mr. Lord. But come to the fire-- in spite of the very excellent central heating of this roof nest of ours-- the fire is still to be found good on a night such as this one. Or perhaps you are not of our fire worshiping fraternity?”

     Peter had already stretched his chilled hands toward the blaze. “It's perfect!”

     Van Norreys laughed. “Truly one of us! And now may I present my wife, Madam Van Norreys?”

     The girl on the couch within the circle of firelight held out her hand with a smile which has not marred by the faint white line across her left cheek. “You will please pardon my laziness. I have but recently returned from the hospital and have not yet rediscovered my feet---”

     Peter found himself bowing over that small hand, as he would have dared to salute the hands of his contemporaries back in Evansville.

     There was something about this small person, as she lay back among the many cushions, a crimson gold brocaded robe covering the not-yet-rediscovered feet, which demanded such deference. She was not as old as her husband and save for the pearls at her ears and around her childish throat, she was plainly dressed.

     Van Norreys dropped down on a footstool beside her couch. “Since Kaatje is a member of Norreys too, we asked you here, Mr. Lord, so that she could hear your story in person. First, though, I shall say that we will buy your emerald-- if you still wish to sell---”

     “I certainly do!” Peter broke in eagerly.

     “We can offer you twenty-five hundred----”

     Peter wondered if he had allowed his jaw to drop quite open. Twenty-five hundred! Half that amount might have been more believable.

     There came a little purr of laughter from Kaatje Van Norreys.

     “It is a beautiful stone, that one,” she commented. “Almost am I jealous of the woman who will someday wear it. Lorens, ever since he has seen it, has done nothing but think of a design fit to grace it best---”

     “It must be a modification of the Alexandrine pendant, I think,” her husband, said almost to himself “Eighteenth century-- these coldly modern settings could not do it justice. Red-gold with the small leaves---”

     Kane chuckled. “First kill your tiger-- before you skin him. Lord has not yet said he will sell.”

     “But he will,” returned Kaatje confidently. “And you, my red-headed one, shall go to this Mayapan and discover us many more-- for our talented designer to play with. Have we not decided that?”

     “I am willing to sell, Mr. Van Norreys. You know more about what it is worth than I do---”

     “Kane shook his head with a frown. “You are far too trusting. How do you know that we are not international gem thieves---?”

     “Because of my charm and Lorens' beauty!” Kaatje flashed. “You,” she turned her head to Peter, “Are like us. Therefore you will go to Mayapan with Lawrence---”

     “And why am I to be left behind?” Lorens demanded. “Do you dare now to hint that my days of going adventuring are past me?”

“Why?” Kaatje’s eyes were wide with mock surprise. “Have you not just since this very afternoon become a country gentleman-- the lord of a manor? What of this farm you have paid good money for? And what of Norreys? Sam Marusaki is still in the pearl islands watching your so dear friend Abdul-- that he does not steal from us more than half the year's catch. Which leaves only Kane---”

     “Footloose and fancy free?” The gentleman in question lit a cigarette. “All right, Kaatje, I’ll take the job. That is-- if Lord here is agreeable. What we have in mind is this,” he spoke directly to Peter now. “If we can locate the strike your brother knew, we'll buy out his share and maybe Romanes' too-- we have the capital you both probably lack. A new emerald source will be very valuable to us. And you say that no one else knows of this?---”

     “That’s what I thought this morning. Now I don't know.” Swiftly, Peter told of the visit of Mr. Mannerheim.

     Kane got to his feet, back to the fire. He had lost his look of quizzical amusement.

     “What about it, Lorens? This is known rival in the field?” he asked his partner.

     The Netherlander shook his head. “Not one that I have heard of before, no. And this Geneva Import Corporation-- that is new to me, also. But, since the war, there have been so many changes, new companies and old ones under new management. It might be well to ask e few questions, however,” without rising, he reached out a long arm and pulled to him an extension phone, to dial a number.

     “Chamberlain? This is Van Norreys. Very much at the top now, thank you. Have you, my friend, ever heard of a Geneva Import Corporation operating out of Maya City in Mayapan, South America-- they employ an Oscar Mannerheim. Yes? Very well, I shall be most eager to hear the result of your research. And in time perhaps I can return this favor. Thank you.”

     As he talked Peter brought out the envelope and passed it to Kane. “This is my brother's note about the business.”

     Kane read aloud from the much creased single sheet:

     “Dear Chan:

You remember that Romanes I staked for a trip up country? He seems able to deliver the goods. Hit something good in the Rio Jaguar territory. Sent this sample down river last week. If all works out o.k., we're in the chips-- plenty. I'm going up there for a look-see on my own. Keep this strictly undercover until you hear from me-- I’ll cable the good word.

Carter.”

     “That note was folded around the emerald in his belt pocket. I guess he didn't have time to send it before he took the fever. Anyway, I don’t think he ever went up country as he was planning to---”

     From under the edge of her crimson covering Kaatje Van Norreys produced a book with a bright green and orange paper jacket. “As soon as you told us about this, Lawrence, I sent Achmid to Brentanos to bring me the most recent book about Mayapan. All they had was this one, but it does tell a little about the country---”

     Peter read the title and identified it as a volume of personal reminiscence from the war days.

     “Gold diamonds and semi-precious stones are found there.” the girl continued.

     “So why not emeralds?” Van Norreys asked. “Well, that section is gem rich. From Brazil, the Guianas, and Columbia we have jade, pearls, diamonds, emeralds, topaz, almandine garnets, tourmaline, aquamarines, amethysts and carnelians. So I would not presume to say that this or that could not be found there. And Norreys is ripe for a little gamble just now. We cannot rest smugly forever on the pearls of our last venture.”

     “Thus you are ready to give your blessing on the project?” The lazy note had returned to Kane's voice. “Very well. Only it shall be an expedition in style, I warn you of that now. Not all tramp freighters are like the Samba we were lucky enough to voyage on last. I think that this time I shall take to the air. And what about supplies?”

     “Tomorrow I shall cable Gormez in Georgetown. He is one of our diamond buyers down there. And he will see that your equipment will be waiting at Maya City. What about it, Mr. Lord? Could you be ready to fly south-- maybe the day after tomorrow?”

     “It might be well,” suggested Kaatje, “To explain to Mr. Lord about the option. You have not the business mind, Lorens. I sadly fear that someday this lack will prove your undoing.”

     Van Norreys laughed. “Always the logical one, eh, my Kaatje? But you are most right. Lord, Norreys wishes to take an option on your brother’s property in Mayapan. We would also like for you to come into our employ-- as long as we investigate this rumored discovery. If you fly to Mayapan with Kane your expenses will be paid and also a salary.”

     “Do I pack my shooting irons?” broke in Kane.

     “Who knows the need for firmness? It may depend upon the degree of earnest endeavor-manifest in the action of Mr. Mannerheim and corporation. I do not quite like the thought of that gentleman---”

     “I didn’t like his looks,” Peter was blunt. “But the rest is all right with me, Mr. Van Norreys. Only this emerald find may be just the one stone, not a mine.”

     “There is the element of chance in every deal, as for me,” Lorens smiled, “Now and again I become a gambler. Now Kane, I have here the papers---” He went toward a big desk in the far corner of the room and Kane followed. Kaatje leaned forward in her nest of cushions.

     “There is here a puzzle,” she began. “Why did your brother, in his letter, address you as Chan? Me, I have a very great fund of curiosity and such matters intrigue me.”

     More than the heat of the fire made a scarlet pattern on Peter’s cheek bones.

     “It’s a sort of family joke. We had a great-great-grandfather who captained a China tea clipper in the old days. From one voyage he brought home a wife, a Manchu lady. The New England climate was so severe for her, she died young, but her son survived and every once in a generation or so one of our name inherits the hair and the bones and the eyes--. I did, as you have probably already noticed.” He was a little on the defensive.

     “But that is history to be proud of-- all the Manchus were warriors and strong rulers. You see, I have read of that other side of the world-- so that when Lorens talks of his life there I can follow him a little way along the path he has trod, and I have read some Chinese history. Of Manchu blood and heritage you have the right to be proud. Look at Lorens-- for all his yellow hair and blue eyes he is of East Indies blood-- far back. Me, I am only Rotterdam burger-- which is the dullest of dull----”

     “What is so dull?” Lorens had come up behind her couch, “This life, Kaatje?”

     “This?” She shook her head vigorously. “No, this life is very full and busy. Am I not becoming your gemologist-in-waiting with all my lessons. Soon I shall be able to qualify for a certificate-- which you have NOT, dear husband. And now I shall have-- to look forward to-- the reports from Mayapan!”

     Kane shook his head. “I’m not a very good correspondent, Kaatje.”

     “Ohh!” Her small hands covered her eyes as if to shut away a horrid sight. “What a monstrous untruth! Did you not first meet Lorens on paper? Were you not correspondents for many years before you met?”

     “That was when I was young. Now I have no time---”

     “I will not listen. One of you can oblige me. A day by day account of affairs-- why, you will have plenty of time for that?” She winked at Peter and wrinkled her nose disdainfully in Kane’s direction.

     But seventy hours and some hundreds of miles later, as the big amphibian circled twice over the crab-claw shaped bay before the tumble of white squares which was Maya City, neither of the two travelers in the front seats were thinking of reports to New York. Peter’s hands clutched tight on the buckle of his safety belt as they bounced down in waves and taxied in down a free lane of water. Kane shifted impatiently.

     “At least we’re strictly on schedule.” he commented.

     And still on Kane’s schedule they worked their way through customs---to be greeted at the last gate separating them from the city by a boisterous crowd of brown-skinned men. Peter had secretly imagined himself at home in Spanish, but the waves of staccato speech rising and falling around him made an untranslatable din.

     “Señor! Señor, I spik Americano-- ver’ well. I, Diaz Tomás-- eenterpeter, Señor. Ver’ good---”

     Both Kane and Peter could look down on the top of the once smart, but now much battered panama which covered the most of the bushy black thatch that served Señor Tomás as hair. But the round face turned up to them was all wide and pleading smile.

     “Fo’ the Americanos I have worked, Señores. See,” He waved on high a fan of finger-marked papers. “Diaz Tomás will treat you right, Señores. I am well acquaint’ weeth Maya City---”

     Kane dropped the bag he had been carrying. “All right, Señor Tomás. Can you get us and the baggage to the Casa Negro?---”

     In a second the fan of papers had been thrust into a sagging coat pocket as Thomas wheeled and shouted into the crowd. From the general chaos three men came at a quick shuffle to pick up the luggage and head around the corner of the custom house.

   “Thees way, Señores. There ees a car---”

     The car did exist and Tomás saw them loaded into it, taking his own seat besides the driver.

     “You have been to Mayapan before, Señores?”

     Peter marshaled his store of painfully acquired Spanish. “We have not had that pleasure, Señor Tomás.”

     “Then you have missed much, Señores,” Tomás kept stubbornly to his English. “Fo’ these ees a veritable pearl of a city, Señor. And old, ver’, ver’ old. I Diaz Tomás, can show to you where the pirates fought-- where Don Francisco Drake stood hees feet when hees wild men took these city. But here ees the Casa Negro!”

     Some minutes later Peter found himself alone in the middle of a huge, high ceilinged room which might comfortably have lodged an army corps. A bed of carved mahogany, the tall posters of which were draped with mosquito netting, a rocking chair of distinctly North American origin, a standing wooden cupboard, and a table completed the furnishings. The walls were washed white and bare of any decoration.

     He could hear the gurgle of water in a drain as Kane investigated the sliver of bathroom which connected their two apartments. As he shed his coat, the other’s dripping wet head was thrust around the edge of the door.

     “How about it, Lord? Do you want to see where Frankie Drake stood when he made the Dons bite the dust in the good old days?”

     “I’d rather visit Number twenty, Via Callico. Carter had his office there.”

     “An excellent suggestion. We can always wake up the consul later.”

   Number Twenty, Via Callico, was a thick walled building of the old Spanish colonial type which might once have been the headquarters of some government official. But within the arch of the doorway a series of name boards were hung up, some faded with the passage of time and one glaringly new, “Room Ten-- C. Norgate, Enterprises.”

     Peter pointed to the last. “That was Carter’s office number.”

     “Hmm-- must be a housing shortage down here too. They didn’t lose any time re-renting, did they? Shall we visit the enterprising Mr. Norgate? That isn’t a local name.”

     “Several Americans took their discharges and stayed on down here after the war was over. If Norgate is one of those he must have known Carter. We can ask anyway.”

     The door which bore the number ten was slightly ajar and swung in as Peter rapped on it. A call of “Come in” in accented Spanish brought both visitors over the threshold, Peter looking intently about him, trying to find some trace of Carter in this stone walled cell.

     Arising from a desk to greet them was a man wearing a crisply white, freshly laundered shirt, but his trousers were of a grey-blue and the coat swinging from the back of his chair was edged, collar and sleeve, with the glitter of metal braid. An officer’s peaked cap faced with some golden insignia rested on the desk top. Although his skin was no darker in shade than the warm brown of Tomás, the crisp curl of his hair and the shape of his nose betrayed his African blood.

     “What may I have the honor of doing for you, Señores,” he began in Spanish fluent enough. “but you are Americans---” he ended in English.

     “Very much so. And so, I take it are you,” returned Kane. “You are also C. Norgate?”

     “Crispin Norgate,” the owner of the name amplified. “Late of the Army Air Forces, and now head of the Mayapan Inland Ferry Service,” he grinned “rather an impressive title that-- isn’t it? And it just came to me between two swallows of coke on the first day. You in need of a spot of ferry service-- by air, of course?”

     “That might be on the program-- later. Just now we’re interested in the former tenant of this room. Did you know Carter Lord?”

     “Sure. He was one swell guy. In fact, it was his setting up here that gave me the idea to try it too. There’s not much chance for flyers of my race back home, you know. I did some jobs for Carter-- he had a good thing-- it was a damn shame-- his getting it that way!” Norgate’s hands went out in an expressive gesture.

     “Do you know what was done with his files and papers?” asked Peter. “I’m his brother---”

     “You are?” The dark eyes measured Peter soberly. “You’re Peter then-- he used to talk a lot---” His tone changed and he continues swiftly. “Masterson, he’s the consul, took charge of Carter’s things. You planning to start the business going again, Lord?”

     “Worth trying that?” asked Kane.

     “Worth it? Why, he was on to a regular gold mine! He had several guys prospecting for him back in the jungle country. You know, this is a good spot for anyone to locate in right now. That army air field has been taken over by a bunch of our boys and they’re going to put this country on the map. There’re mahogany and rubber back country, to say nothing of diamonds and gold. One of the fellows is experimenting with tropical fruit using deep-freeze methods to send it straight by plane to New York. We have a good climate and no competition-- or rather we didn’t have any---” For a moment his exuberance faded.

     “What kind of competition has shown up?” queried Kane.

     “It’s a European outfit-- call themselves the Geneva Import Corporation. Must have lots of capital the way they pass money out. They came here about four months ago and were quiet at first. But lately they’ve began to throw their weight around, after Carter’s death they busy and just about sewed up the up-river supply business.”

     “Hmm. I think, Peter, we’d better move on to see Mr. Masterson. But, Norgate, I want to keep in touch with that Inland Ferry service of yours, we may be needing it---”

     “You bet! You can always reach me here. And listen-- if you go straight on down this street you’ll get a good chance to look at the Geneva Import plant. Their H.Q. is in the big villa at the corner of the Plaza.”

     Kane’s eyes met Norgate’s and held for a swift instant of measuring glance.

     “Thanks,” his answer was almost a drawl--- “We may do that very thing.”

 

3: “Emeralds, Señor? You Jest?”

     There was an emerald green lizard streaking across the ceiling map of cracks and crevices. Emerald green---. Peter punched the lumpy pillow into a more comfortable position under his head. Not being used to this siesta business he had no inclination to doze away what had always been the heart of the working day for him. At last he rolled over and reached for his shoes. There was no sound from Kane’s room. But then Kane was used to life in the tropics and probably had no trouble in adapting to this boring routine.

     Then too, Kane had had something on his mind ever since they walked by the villa which housed the Geneva Export Corporation. He Peter Lord, was a raw outsider in this world, but even he could guess that there had been something queer about that European gatekeeper who had walked a short beat right inside the iron picket barrier---almost as if he were a guard on sentry duty.

     Kane had taken one good look at the fellow and had frozen up. And yet that glance had not been one of real recognition---.

     Peter tied his shoe laces and decided against putting on a jacket. There was a chance now for him to slip away and do something that a certain shyness had kept him from mentioning to his companion during the morning---something he wanted to do alone.

     He crossed the patio of the Casa Negro, slipping between two perches where chained parakeets voiced bored and rude disapproval of disturbances, and went down the short passage to the street where sunshine made a cruel hot plate of wall and pavement. Maya City was a city of the dead---asleep.

     Peter kept to such shadows as house walls afforded until coming into an avenue of some importance where dusty, yellowed palms drooped in ragged fringes. He passed the American consulate and found what he sought only a short distance beyond. The gate in the white wall stood ajar and, within the enclosure it guarded were trees, bushes and some grass which had not yet succumbed to the torture of the dry season.

     And here also white stones stood straight and tall, each a sentry above a small plot of alien ground. Those close to the gate were weathered, the letters carved into them softened by the hammer of time.

     “James Morton, first Mate of the Brig Newhaven, in the twenty-first year of his life. 1834,” Peter could read the nearest well enough. He hurried on toward the far end of the last row. It was there, right enough, the brown grass just beginning to creep up the mound.

     “Captain Carter Lord, 1922-1947”

     As he read that single bald line on the stone, he began to wish that he hadn’t come. Because the patchy strip of ground had nothing to do with Carter. Its drabness was not real. Carter was a tall, slim, uniformed figure swinging on a train with a half salute of farewell and a wide grin, he was lines of hopeful and excited writing in a pack of letters, he was anything but a white stone in a parched little resting place for exiles. Peter turned away abruptly and knew that he could never bear to come here again---at least not for a long, long time.

     Carter had left him a job to do, he would keep that in his mind for now. And so now he turned into the door of the consulate. There was no one in the outer office and he hesitated, wondering whether it was etiquette to shout or otherwise disturb the somnolent peace to announce one’s arrival. He compromised by shuffling his feet as loudly as possible on the floor and found he was able to produce quite a respectable amount of noise.

     In due time, he was cheered by the slow motion appearance of a bespectacled young man, whose annoyance was plain in a deep frown line between his slightly protruding eyes.

     “Yes?”

     Peter wondered if it were possible for any one's eyebrows to rise to the hair line---from the way those on the pale face across the counter were sweeping up it seemed that that feat might be accomplished, and it was a gesture which conveyed contempt in a very competent manner.

     “I'm Peter Lord-- from the States, your office here handled my brother’s affairs after his death?---”

     “Oh yes.” if possible the young man’s distaste was more manifest. “Carter Lord. Mr. Masterson attended to the matter himself---”

     “May I see Mr. Masterson?”

     From the shock the other then displayed Peter gathered that he must just have committed a rank diplomatic sin.

     “Mr. Masterson is out of the city for the weekend. If you wish to leave a message---”

     The heat and something else, something which had perhaps not been born at the sight of that white stone, but which had been strengthened by it, worked in Peter. His reply had an edge to it.

     “I'm trying to locate my brother's files and business papers, the ones which were not sent on to me. Have you any idea of where they are?”

     It seemed to give the clerk a great deal of pleasure to be able to shake his head, so much that he went on shaking it several seconds longer than necessary.

     “Mr. Masterson took full charge of the whole affair. You would have to see him----”

     “And when do you expect him back?”

     “Sometime Monday or Tuesday. He was indefinite about it when he left.”

     “All right.” beaten Peter was about to leave when he remembered something else. “Look here, don't you people keep a record of the Americans living and working in this country?”

     The clerk who had been oozing toward the inner door sighed loudly and unattractively. “Mayapanian law requires all foreigners to register at their consulates if they remain in the country more than seven days. But you will have to have the permission of the consul to inspect the register.”

     “Then how about your doing it for me? I want to locate Aubrey Romanes, an ex-GI who took his discharge down here and is prospecting up country---”

     “We have no such person listed.”

     Peter leaned across the counter rail which had clearly been devised to keep the public from the throats of the personnel. “And why are you so sure of that?”

     “Because you’re not the first to come around asking for him. Mr. Masterson-- and this office-- is tired of being bothered. There is no Aubrey Romanes in Mayapan. And if you want to see Mr. Masterson, you can come back Tuesday!”

     Apparently goaded beyond endurance the clerk fled into the inner sanctum and Peter wandered back to the glare of the street nursing a new problem, that of the existence of Aubrey Romanes. He hesitated in the skeleton shade of one of the wind shredded palms and wondered where to go next.

     “Señor Lord,” Diaz Tomás, a little more frayed, a trifle limper with heat, stood within the outer edge of the circle of shadow watching him, “Thees ees the siesta hour, Señor. Eet ees mos‘ difficult to do business now---”

     “Listen,” Peter interrupted him. “Do you know anything about porkknockers?”

     “Porkknockers? But of course, Señor. They are the prospectors-- the wild men who hunt een the jungle for gold and diamonds---”

     “Supposing you wanted to find out something about one of them-- where would you start asking questions?”

     Diaz patted his round face with a far from white handkerchief, sopping up the greasy beads from the beginning of a fat and bristly under jowl as he considered the problem.

     “There are cafes, Señor, cafes they visit when they are een funds. There ees fo‘ example the Emerald Parrot---”

     “Emeralds certainly pop up in the conversation,” commented Peter, “All right, Tomás, suppose you make yourself useful and show me the Emerald Parrot.”

     “Now, Señor? But thees ees the hour of siesta!”

     Peter’s fingers sank into the flabby flesh of the smaller man’s arm. “You told me that before-- remember? But I am a mad Norte Americano and do not believe in siestas. We shall visit the Emerald Parrot-- now!”

     Tomás shrugged himself out of the other’s grip. “Ver’ well, Señor. But Dona Eustacia-- she weel not be een a good humor. You are warned.”

     “I am warned.” returned Peter.

     The Emerald Parrot was a place of no-grace or dignity but undoubtedly it had been the scene-of-much history, most of it unsavory. It consisted of two dirty and vile smelling rooms on a side alley where the stink of raw native rum poisoned the air and thickened the heat bottled up between filthy walls. Tomes spat expertly on the floor and drummed with the palm of his fat hand on the stained and greasy bar. He was answered by a wild scream of rage and a cackle of Spanish profanity as, with a whir of wings, a huge bird beat across the empty tables and settled, to waddle down the bar spitting obscenities, its wrinkled, lids only half hiding evil eyes as glittering bright as its feathers.

     Tomás drew back hurriedly when the creature snapped at his fingers, and waved his arm to shoo it away. Peter kept to a prudent distance. He had never before seen a bird who had so much of the arrogance of a successful gangster.

     “Sooo-- Sooo, my little one. And who has disturbed you now?” The voice out of the gloom was low and sweet, sweet as the thick sugar which lay in the coarse bags on the wharves, drawing to it all the blundering bees of Mayapan, there was a disquieting note in all that sweetness, one did not altogether trust----

     Tomás swept off his hat and bowed grandly toward its source.

     “Dona Eustacia---”

     “Soo-- eet ees you, little man,” her English was surprisingly good. “And why do you stir about when all honest men rest? Even Cortez knows that that ees wrong. Do you not, my mos’ precious one?”

     As she advanced to the front of the bar room Peter drew a long breath of amazement. He had expected a slattern, one of the frowsy women of mixed blood, such as those he had seen on the streets during the morning. But Dona Eustacia plainly had no kinship with those examples of Mayapanian femininity.

     In the first place, matching his six feet in height, the proprietor of the Emerald Parrot held her elaborately dressed head high. Yet her largeness was not grotesque and she moved gracefully with the carriage of a woman who is justly proud of her figure. Her blue-white hair was puffed and curled into an almost wig-like state and in it was the high comb of Spain. Her skin was very white, without blemish, and showed to perfection against the dull, matt black of her full skirted, tight bodiced dress.

     The fingers of both her hands were weighted with rings, flashing gem fire in all colors and she wore a long necklace of pearls which Peter thought might compare favorably with those owned by Kaatje Van Norreys.

     “And who ees thees Norte Amerieano who has lost hees tongue at the sight of my great beauty, Tomás? You should mind better your manners and eentroduce us---” She laughed, opening her mouth widely and showing a fine set of strong yellowish teeth.

     “Eet ees the Señor Peter Lord, brother to the Señor Carter Lord.”

     She waved her hands, striking fire with the jewels on her finger, “But thees ees an honor, Señor. Many, many times has your brother stood just so een the Emerald Parrot. Cortez had a great affection for heem, had you not, my love?” She crooned to the bird who fluttered up to her shoulder and perched there, now and again putting its beak to her ear, after surveying the visitors narrowly, as if it were whispering secret advice.

     “Cortez, Cortez,” With one hand she stroked the parrot's head. “You must not be so suspicious, Now eet ees my guess that Señor Peter Lord has come to me for a good reason, ees that not so, Señor? But eef I am right, we must first show our hospitality, mast we not, my pet? Eff you will be so good as to follow me now, Señores---”

     Her skirts made a whispering sound as she turned, and rustled faintly as she walked before them with quick, graceful steps. But Cortez turned his head around to watch them with a measuring beady eye which would admit no virtue in them.

     They passed out of the sour smelling cafe rooms, down a corridor into another world where there was cleanliness and light. A patio, the core of which was a pool containing brightly colored fish, was their goal. Dona Eustacia waved her visitors to a bench, but she herself chose a high backed chair of ancient polished wood and Cortez hooked his claws over the carven crest which topped his mistress‘ head.

     “Thees ees your first visit to Mayapan, Señor?”

     “Yes, madam, and it is extremely courteous or you to allow me to interrupt your siesta hour---”

     She laughed. “Señor, now I shall tell you a little secret. I, Dona Eustaoia, do not keep the siesta. I am too old to coddle the flesh any longer. Also, I find eet ees sometimes ver’ profitable to be awake when others sleep. But now-- I know well the customs of the Norte Americanos-- let us to thees so important business of yours.”

     “I have been told that the Emerald Parrot is a favorite with the porkknockers from up country---”

     “That ees true,” Dona Eustacia extended her gemmed hands, “See, all of these are from the jungle country. Sometimes I sight a lucky man, a man who ees going to make a good find. I, Eustacia, can tell such men! Then I make with heem what you Norte Americanos call 'a little deal‘. I give to heem supplies, whatever he wants. And within six months, a year, I have another ring for the finger. But you, Señor, surely you do not intend to turn porkknocker! The jungle ees not for those who have no knowledge of eets bite. Many, many men have left their bones een there-- countrymen of yours. When the war was over there were soldiers who believed that diamonds and gold lay for the picking up een the river country. Against all warnings they would try prospecting. Some of them had listened to the tall tales told een thees ver' bar by the junglemen. And when that fever ees on a man there ees no reasoning weeth heem. Stay out of the jungle, Señor, eet ees not for such as you!”

     “l‘m not planning any trip inland, but l am trying to locate a man who did go-- about eight months ago. He was a former American soldier who took his discharge here and turned porkknocker. His name is Aubrey Romanes. Was he ever one of the patrons of the Emerald Parrot?”

     “Aubrey Romanes? And of what appearance was he-- this Americano porkknocker?”

     “That I can't tell you. I know nothing of him except that he was my brother's partner in an up country venture.”

     “Aubrey Romanes,” she repeated for the second time, “No, Señor, that name I have not heard before. But I shall eenquire eef you wish eet. Eef he has passed eento the jungle someone will know. Eet eee ver’ eemportent that you find thees Romanes?”

     Peter hedged as well as he could under the demand of those shrewd eyes. “I am here in Maya City to settle my bothers business affairs. Since Romanes was a partner of his, I feel that I should get in touch with him as soon as possible.”

     Dona Eustacia nodded. “True. Like all Norte Amehicanos you understand well the business. I, too, am a good business woman, Señor. And eef I can aid you I will.”

     “I have intruded upon your time long enough,” Peter got to his feet. “May I thank you for your gracious answer to my intrusion.” He managed a bow, which, if not as low as that made by Tomás, was at least not too ungraceful.

     “For a Norte Americano, Señor,” she observed frankly, “You have a feeling for Mayapanian ways which I find unusual. You have not seen the Emerald Parrot at eats best. Come again and do so. Also, should I hear news of your Romanes you shell have eet. Hasta la vista, Señor Lord.”

     She clapped her hands sharply and an Indian girl, barefooted, but in a spotlessly clean white dress, came to show them out, not through the empty cafe, but into the next street through Dona Eustacia’s own quarters.

     “Well,” Peter turned to Tomás. “Is there any other place where we can ask questions about Romanes?”

     “No, Señor. Eef Dona Eustacia cannot tell us of thees Romanes, than no one can, for she knows the junglemen better than anyone else een thees city. For many, many years has she controlled the porkknockers. Not one of them does a thing that she speedily does not know of eet. You saw her jewels-- they are all real. I, Diaz Tomás, swear eet ees true, on the hem of San Martin's cloak will I swear eet. She wears a fortune and yet there ees no man living who would dare to try and take eet from her. She ees a ver' strong person, Señor, ver' strong-- een spirit also. And they say that those she does not favor have eell luck sniffing at their heels-- eef not worse.” He made a curious little gesture with two crossed fingers to ward off the misfortune of speaking about the unknown so plainly.

     “But there was an Aubrey Romanes!” persisted Peter.

     Diaz Tomás was forced to trot to keep up with the long legged strides of the American and now he paused again to pat dry his sweating face. “Señor, eef your Romanes ees a porkknocker he must possess a government permit to enter the back country. Have you yet gone to the Ministry of Minerals and Mines to see eef such a permit has been issued?”

     Peter stopped so short that the other bounced ahead of him. “That's an idea! Where is this Ministry of Minerals and Mines?”

     Tomás beamed, pointing down a side street. "Thees way, Señor. The hour of siesta ees almost over, now ees a ver' good time to ask questions. I, Diaz Tomás, will show you where---”

     It was cool in the colonial building which housed the registration bureau for prospectors, cool and quiet and somehow remote from the dust and glare of the rest of the city. Tomás led the way through a maze of corridors and rooms to one on the second floor where an impressive legend in Spanish marked the end of their quest.

     The clerk in charge had returned to his post after the long noon rest and he waited for their pleasure with a quiet politeness which matched the formal elegance of the office.

     “But certainly, Señor, eet will be most easy to see whether thees Americano soldier applied for a license. All such applications are listed een our files here. You will pardon me please for one moment, Señor.”

     But when he returned he was obviously upset, “Señor, I am most sorry to tell you that the proper file ees missing! And these should not be so. There ees a strict rule that never are these files to be removed from place. But, Señor, young men, sometimes they do not see the wisdom of such orders, they are eempatient. One of our clerks has doubtless removed eet and forgot to return eet to the proper shelf. A search will be made at once. Perhaps-- Señor, eef you could return tomorrow?---”

     “Of course,” the clerk's distress was real and Peter felt sorry for him.

     “Señor, when the file ees again een my hands, I shall look up at once the record of thees Señor Aubrey Romanes and send eet to you-- that will be even better-- that you shall not have to journey here again!” The little man brightened as he made this suggestion. “Also, eef you wish, you might visit the Claims Registration Office-- eet ees within the second door down thees ver' hallway. Eef the man you seek has made any finds he will have recorded them there. All prospectors do that as soon as possible.”

     “That is a splendid idea, Señor. And thank you for your kindness.”

     The clerk of the Claim Bureau was a younger, less gentle man who affected the brusqueness of northern officials. But he ran through a card file efficiently and pleasantly enough at their request.

     “No, Señor, no claim has been recorded in the name of Aubrey Romanes or in the name of Carter Lord. In what section of the territory inland did you believe this claim to lie?”

     “That's just it, I don't know. Though my brother did mention the Rio Jaguar country.”

     “Now I can tell you at once, Señor, that that country has not been looked upon with favor by porkknockers. It has a bad name-- for fever, for hostile Indios-- Upon the fingers of one hand can I count the claims from there which are in our files. And none have been made within the year.”

     Peter thanked him and was turning away when a sudden thought sent him back to ask one more question.

     “Have you had an emerald claim filed recently?”

     “Emeralds, Señor? You jest. There are diamonds and gold-- yes, they are to be found in Mayapan. But never have emeralds been heard of here.”

 

4: First Appearance of a Jade Jaguar.

     Thin grey fingers of daylight thrust through the slatted blinds at the two windows. Peter rubbed eyes smarting with sleep. Something had awakened him-- what? There were no street noises and even the parakeets in the patio had forgotten their quarrel for the night.

     He did not turn on the bedside light but held his watch close. “Five o'clock----”

     The answer to that was a scraping noise from the far window of the room. Peter's head snapped around in time to see the wooden screen swing inward. He pulled free of the sheets and pushed through the slit in the mosquito netting.

     He lacked the latest in silencer equipped automatics. The only thing which might provide a suitable defense weapon was the water jug on the table. And it was certainly impossible to move as silently as the heroes in books all seemed able to, his feet unerringly found every squeaking board in the floor.

     The screen was pushed back against the wall now. And in the ghostly half light was silhouetted the outline of round head and hunched shoulders, as the intruder paused, hands on the sill, ready to pull himself through. Peter wondered fleetingly what had happened to the bars which had been in place to guard his privacy the evening before.

     Then that outline melted, flowed in. Peter edged along the wall. Judging by the slight sounds his quarry was trying the same form of progress---in the opposite direction---toward the bed in the corner. Then, when his back was at the open window, Peter fleshed his torch---straight at that betraying rustle.

     And, in the same instant that the light impaled him, the intruder spoke.

     “Señor!” He had been facing the bed, but now he wheeled to stare into the light, his eyes wide and dazzled, his mouth open in startled amazement.

     “What do you want?” Peter demanded in Spanish.

     But his visitor had made a swift recovery and he returned readily enough.

     “To speak with you, Señor.”

     “Is it then necessary to creep like an evildoer in the night to speak with me? An honest man uses the door---”

     The man in the circle of light grinned. “For neither of us would that be good, Señor. As you must realize. As a messenger, I am a man of little importance-- yet it would not be well for any to remember my coming. I have brought you-- as was arranged-- the gift from the old ones.

     From within his tattered and dirty shirt he took a small package which he tossed onto the pillow of the bed beside him. Then, with the agility of a serpent, he threw himself down, out of the spear-head of light. Before Peter could move a shadow was clawing at the bathroom door, and that barrier slammed full in the boy's face. As his fist crashed on the wood he heard the bolt shot.

     It took minutes to unlock the outer door, run down the few feet of corridor to Kane's room, to arouse the sleeper there and get in---only to discover that that door to the bathroom was also bolted.

     “I would suggest,” Kane sank down on the bed, “That we cease these games. If he has bottled himself up in the bathroom without considering that it lacks an exit-- then we can get him whenever he decides to quit playing hide and seek and comes out. But in my opinion, he has already fought his way out through that window near the ceiling-- small as it is-- and is halfway across the city-- leaving us with the little problem of how to get those doors open. Have you yet investigated the gift he came bearing-- sure it isn't an atom bomb?”

     “Not yet.” Deflated, Peter went back to his own room, Kane following.

     The packet still dented the pillow. It was small, but, as Peter discovered when he lifted it, surprisingly heavy.

     A coarse yellowed cloth formed the outer wrapping, stained here and there with dull brown spots. Inside was another and finer bit of fabric bearing an odd regular pattern of angular beasts marching in rows. Peter pulled this away somewhat impatiently, to find that he held cupped in his hand a small figure of green stone. He had only time to identify it as some sort of a cat when Kane took it from him.

     “Jaguar or puma. And I'll wager that this piece is old-- the design is not far from primitive. But why?---”

     Peter shook his head. “You know as much about it as I do.”

     “Your friend called it a `gift from the old ones‘, did he? But gave you no reason why you should be so honored. Well, not all the `old ones‘ of legend are amiable-- in this or any other country.” Kane set the image down on the table. “I would suggest that our fanged friend here be put in the hotel safe, until we can find out more about his past. And right now we had better get busy on concocting some kind of a convincing tale as to why the bathroom is locked up in such a peculiar fashion. Unless you are in the mood to tell the fantastic but unvarnished truth---?”

     Peter laughed. “D'you think any one would believe me? Night time visitors usually come to abstract something, instead of to leave it. I don't want to get the reputation of being slightly off balance---”

     So the jaguar went into the safe of the Casa Negro and the night manager was regaled with a story of a night prowler driven off which properly shocked him into action. Action in this case meaning that Kane and Peter must relate their adventure in invented detail to a somewhat sleepy member of the Maya City police force who appeared to be more awed by his own remarkable energy in being up and about so early in the morning.

     “That's that,” Kane observed without originality as the Sergeant, or Inspector, or whatever he was, bowed himself out. “Something tells me that we have now started the spinning of a web of governmental red tape. I only trust that we shall not end by being the flies caught in its meshes Now-- what are your plans for this bright and shining morning? I have, I must admit, some errands regarding our equipment requiring my attention. What have you in mind?”

     The dismissal was so pointed Peter almost demanded why. Kane fidgeted about the room; plainly he was in a hurry to be off---alone.

     “Oh, I shall find plenty of occupation.” Peter snapped and reached for his hat. But Kane made no answer to his outburst of irritation, he was already through the door, a wave of his hand signaling good bye.

     Peter walked slowly along the corridor. There were several things he could do--- locate Tomás and continue to explore the haunts of the porkknockers, try the consulate again, and even visit Norgate's office in the hope that its present tenant could remember something more of his brother’s affairs. But he couldn't make up his mind as to what to do first. Save for an ox-cart, a soldier on a motorcycle, and two women carrying an immense amount of their personal property balanced on their heads, the street outside was empty.

     “Hello there, Mr. Lord!”

     Fate had decided for him. It was Crispin Norgate, very smart in his braided uniform coat and cap, who was crossing the cobbles of the pavement toward him.

     Norgate sniffed the air. “Morning coffee! Now the morning coffee of Mayapan resigns one to every drawback of the country-- even black flies and djiggas. Perhaps you haven't heard of djiggas yet. But you will, oh, you will, if you continue to reside within our borders long enough, they are nasty little beggars, burrow into the skin of your feet and start housekeeping and raising families right away. But morning coffee can make you forget even them!”

     “What about letting me judge that for myself-- with you as a guide?” asked Peter impulsively. “Can we indulge here?”

     Norgate smiled happily. "Can you get it here? Let me tell you, Norte Americano, nowhere in Maya City can you get such coffee as is brewed here. It is a dream of coffee, a poem of the bean, an ecstasy in the mouth-- Coffee-- no man has really tasted coffee until over his tongue has flowed the beverage served by the Casa Negro.” He had led the way toward a series of small tables set around the edge of the patio. To Peter's surprise the chairs here were mostly filled by stoutish or lath thin middle-aged men, taking their ease, each with a cup before him.

     “See,” Norgate had lowered his voice as they found a table for themselves, “Here assembled is the `big money' of Mayapan's business world. When a man comes to the Casa Negro for his morning coffee he proclaims to the world that he is a man of wealth and substance. There is Señor Ricardo Oberen of the Fruit Lines, Señor Sancho Aruba who owns the sugar brokerage---”

     “And Captain Crispin Norgate of the Ferry Service.” added Peter, regarding warily the cup which had appeared before him. Mayapanians apparently liked their coffee black-- very black.

     “True. From the first I have come here for coffee, because it is good advertisement-- just as I wear this uniform. I shall be seen and remembered when someone of this company has a little errand up country. Where there are no flying fields my amphibian is the only swift way of travel. The journey which would take weeks to travel by canoe, I can cover in a day. And they are beginning to realize that. Within a short time Mayapan will no longer be a country of ox carts and Indian canoes.”

     “Are there many Indians left?”

     “More Indians than Spanish or half-bloods. Most of these coast people have a certain percentage of native blood-- as is true in Brazil, Guiana, any South American country. It has given them endurance and stamina-- this mixture of blood. For the tropics are not for the European or the Anglo-Saxon Norte Americano. So along the coast we have mixed bloods-- and in the jungle-- well, who knows?”

     “What do you mean by that?”

     Norgate put down his cup. “Legends, stories. You perhaps have heard of that old favorite which has been told about every country from Mexico south-- about the tribe of white Indians hidden away in the jungle? But there have been cities swallowed up there, cities in which no white man ever set foot. Some of them we have sighted from the air-- in Guatemala, Yucatan, Peru, Ecuador-- The history of these lands before the coming of the Spaniards is a closed book. All we have is bits, guesses, surmises, based on this and that bit of evidence which may be read different ways.”

     “Look,” from his pocket he produced and unfolded a small map. “This is the latest map of Mayapan. See this border line, running here and here? Only maybe it doesn't run in that direction at all! That border has never been surveyed because it runs along the Rio Jaguar and the Rio Jaguar is unknown territory. We have no idea where the head waters of that river lie. This map, except for a strip of about a hundred and fifty miles in from the coast is pure guess work. I have, been able to add a point or two to it myself within the past six months. This tributary of the Santa Rosa, I landed there with some supplies for a diamond buyer's bush shop. But before I touched there it wasn’t on the map. So that being true-- how can anyone say what-this country holds? You ought to talk to Piast-- he thinks he can guess what is back in there-- makes a darn good story of it too!”

     “Who is Piast?”

     “A Pole-- refugee from the war days. He was in the British trained Polish Legion during the war, but was invalided out right after V-E day. He couldn't go back to Poland because he doesn't see eye to eye with the Communists. So he drifted in here-- to wait for a visa for the United States. Then he sort of fell in love with the country, and now he's settled here for good. He used to be on the staff of a museum in Warsaw and now he runs a curio shop. Which, by the way, you shouldn't miss visiting. If you have an hour or so, I'll take you over there now.”

     Peter swallowed the last of the coffee, which, to his mind, fell far short of Norgate's extravagant claims for it, and nodded.

     But the building to which the flyer guided him bore very little resemblance to any antique shop he had ever seen before.

     “Sure this isn't the local Bastille?” he demanded. Norgate laughed.

     “It was a fort at one time sure enough. A fragment of Mayapan's blood spotted history stands there. This was the private town residence of General Zalvada Morgales-- who came to a sticky end about 1915. President Sam of Haiti wasn't the only dictator to be broken into small souvenir pieces by towns-people who disagreed with his beliefs.”

     “That is one reason why Piast was able to buy the place for a lot less than it is worth. Morgales is supposed to run screaming down the steps from the balcony on the third and fifth of each month-- or something like that. You won't find a native Mayapanian within its doors after nightfall.”

     “Much business for an antique store here?”

     “Some. And there's going to be more! Maya City is a natural for the tourist trade. A lot of our boys who were down here during the war realized that. We have a fairly healthy climate-- and it will be a better one-- whenever Jim Harrison gets through with his swamp project. He has a commission from the government to use DDT where it will do the most good and he's draining the delta land at the river mouth for truck gardening. Then there're De la Torre and Espenz, American trained Mayapanians, they bought up two LST and are establishing a coastwise shipping business. Carlos Martin-- he was a Major in the Mayapanian Air Force until he had a bad crash at Anzio-- you know Mayapan sent an army corps overseas to the Italian front-- has gone in with a couple of our guys and they are setting up a nice little money maker-- a conducted tour of the jungle country for two weeks with a spot of big game shooting added. Now if they could only locate Piast's city as another attraction---” Norgate pulled at the massive latch on the old, solid wooden slab which formed the front door of the late General Morgales' town house.

     “Piast's city?”

     “Yes” Norgate ushered Peter into a small hallway where two chairs faced each other austerely. “Piast thinks that there's a lost city back in the tall grass somewhere. He sure makes a good story out of it. Don't worry, he'll spill it quick enough-- it's his favorite topic of conversation. And this is the shop.”

     The showroom occupied one large room which had the appearance of having been intended for reviewing an army corps. There was a sprinkling of heavy colonial furniture carved from heartwood mahogany and other and rarer jungle woods. Lying on chest tops and on tables, roughly arranged as to general types of wares, were the less valuable bits of Gregori Piast's stock in trade. As the two Americans entered the proprietor himself bobbed up to greet them.

     He was a small man, very neat and with a sharp, clean line to his spare body, as if he had been cut from a piece of smooth grayish paper by a pair of shears. His hair was as silver gray as his coat and it lay sleekly across his rather large head. A hawk's beak of nose pointed aggressively at the world, but the smile with which he spoke was very real and warm.

     “Got e minute to show us around, Gregori?” asked Norgate. “This is another crazy Norte Americano in search of treasure---”

     “If it is the treasure of the mind-- then Mayapan will reward him,” the other returned in a soft precise voice. “This is a country of many secrets, Señor. And to the right man it will, perhaps, yield one of two of them. You are interested in antiquities?”

     “I don’t know very much about them,” Peter answered with haste. “My name is Lord, I'm Carter Lord's brother---”

     “Oh, but then you will, of course, be most interested in the animals-- your brother's own find----”

     Piast's needle fingers fastened on Peter's sleeve and he pulled the boy to the very table where he had been at work when they came in.

     “See, here, they are. I have not yet catalogued them properly. In fact, Mr. Lord, I sometimes wonder if they can be catalogued at all-- since so little is known about them. Why were they made-- as mediums for exchange, as ornaments, as religious offerings?” He pushed into Peter's hands one of the small objects.

     It was the carving of an animal, right enough, but the grotesque form was beyond Peter's power to classify. The thing had either two tails, one at each end of its body or the nose was utterly out of proportion.

     “That is an ant eater, not quite realistic, you understand, but yet the image of an ant eater. And the man who designed it was an artist-- and artist in gem carving, worthy to be ranked with the Tairomas of Columbia. They did the best gold-work of ancient South America. The Incas came late into this land-- there were others before them. What of the Timote peoples who built the mysterious raised roadways of Venezuela? There are stories---. Yes, I see you smiling, Crispin Norgate, at my fairy tales. Well listen, both of you, buried deep in many fairy tales there is a shining grain of truth. And no man knows what lies waiting back in the jungle there.”

     “Why, even in your own United States have not unexplained wonders only recently come to light? Your brother, Mr. Lord, gave to me a magazine in which there was an article written by one of your scientists about a community of forgotten towers found deep in the heart of one of your southwestern states! And the builders of those square towers are unknown! Just as the man who fashioned this tree sloth, this alligator, this bat, is unknown!”

     “Where did Carter get them?”

     “From up river. One of his men-- the men whom he staked for prospecting-- sent them down to him. But from where we do not know.”

     Piast set the sloth he held back on the table. “Perhaps you, Mr. Lord, may find somewhere among your brother's papers a clue as to where these came from. It is my dream!” Piast spoke almost shyly now, “It is my cherished dream, to discover somewhere in the unknown green a city. The Mayas were the business men of the pre-Columbian world. Although their great cities were mostly built in Yucatan, they roved over most of the gulf in their double freight canoes, penetrating into the mouth of the Mississippi in the north, building trading stations in Cuba and the islands, coming perhaps even here to Mayapan.”

     “There is a legend concerning how this country was named-- on the very old Spanish maps it has always been so marked---. The first European explorer to reach this shore, Don Ramon San Martin, found a carven stone figure standing by the river mouth, a figure which resembled to his eye the ones he had seen in Yucatan. So that he believed at first that here he had found another branch of that nation. Only there were no stone cities, no villages even of coastal tribes. Something or someone had swept the land clean of human beings long before the coming of Dan Ramon. Why-- why had that happened here? Perhaps had those explorers not broken to pieces that single monument-- as they did under the direction of their leader who feared it as an idol-- we might have learned. But they dropped even the pieces of it into the bay?”

     “Was it the sign of a Mayan trading station? Or a warning notice posted to keep intruders out of the country? Who made these carvings? They are not Inca, or Maya or any other native culture which I have been able to find records of. Can the old stories of lost Atlantean colonies be true? The puzzle, Mr. Lord, is enough to occupy a man for life.”

     “Could these have come from the Rio Jaguar country?” asked Norgate balancing a two inch replica of a vampire bat between thumb and forefinger.

     “Where else? But when I speak of the Rio Jaguar country what do I hear? Much of fever, bad Indies, thick jungle, no land for a white man! Always, always do they talk so-- do these porkknockers and jungle traders. But these images I shall send to my good friend in American-- Mr. Frederick Leffenwell of the Hanbacker Museum. In America there is money for knowledge seekers, perhaps he can secure for us the financial backing we must have to go and find the source of these. I am a patient man, Mr. Lord. The world during these years just past have taught most of us to be patient. I can wait two years-- three-- five-- but someday I shall go to find my city!”

 

Continue to Part 2

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Copyright ~ Estate of Andre Norton
Online Rights - Andre-Norton-Books.com
Donated by – Victor Horadam

Edited by Jay Watts aka: “Lotsawatts” ~ February, 2016

Duplication (in whole or parts) of this story for profit of any kind NOT permitted.