TROUBLE IN MAYAPAN - part 2
A Norreys Jewel Adventure
By Andre Norton
From Sword in Sheath page 16
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.
Continue to Part 3
Continued from Part 1
5: "Every River Rock Hides A Diamond!”
Peter lined up in a row the six animal figures. One, the long snouted anteater, was fashioned of what seemed to be the same green stone of that jaguar which had been delivered to him at dawn. The alligator next to it was of a reddish metallic substance, verdigris stains about the eye pits and fangs. Then came the sloth, made of the same metal. Peter picked up the fourth, the bat. He hardly dared to believe that his guess about that might be true, but the weight of it was a good answer-- solid gold! A monkey was next to that and last of all, more angular of line, was a silver lama the only beast of burden known to the men of pre-Columbian South America.
“What's the stuff this is carved from?” Peter tapped the green anteater with his fingernail.
Piast's answer came eagerly. “What was once one of the minor mysteries of this continent. That is jade-- pure jade. It has been found again and again, set in ornaments, fashioned into figures such as these. But, until a very few years ago, the source of it on this side of the ocean could not be located. That is one of the reasons why the idea persisted that both Americas must have had overseas contacts long before the period of European colonization.”
“Such jade was in the jealous possession of nobles and kings-- treasured by them far above gold or even the far more precious emeralds of Columbia-- because it was so rare. The story is told that when one of the Spanish conquerors levied tribute upon an Aztec noble, demanding the most prized belonging of his captive, he was given four beads of this-- laid out upon a dish of solid gold.”
“Nowadays we know that jade is native to California, Montana and outcroppings of it may exist elsewhere too---”
“Yes, the anteater is of jade, and the alligator and the sloth-- they are of that bronze of which only the ancient men of this world knew the secret. Imagine, if you can, the height to which they had raised their knowledge of metal work-- they possessed the secret of a bronze alloy which would take a temper so that they could make out of it gem cutting tools! Had they gained such a mastery over iron-- what could they not have done!”
“These images are in such fine condition that I cannot help but believe that they have been preserved in some high, dry place-- like those caves and cities of the mountains in Peru where even the mummies of forgotten rulers have not yet withered into dust and the colors of their beautifully woven burial wrappings are as fresh as they were a thousand years ago. I have only cleaned these a little and yet-- see-- they are almost uneaten by time. Only where, I ask you, where is there a high dry place in this jungle land?”
“There are the Mist Mountains---” Norgate suggested.
Piast nodded vigorously. “And yet that story is just another tale to bring laughter from foolish lips. Many times have I heard the unimaginative cackle over it.”
“What are the Mist Mountains?” Peter put the anteater back in line.
“It's a tall tale which came out of the war days,” Norgate began. “most of the boys who used the Maya City field-- it wasn’t ready until the last six months of the war in Europe-- were A.T.C. pilots ferrying supplies, men and planes overseas. We get storms suddenly down here and, when they do come, they're not the kind any sensible flyer tries to ride out. Get off the beam and out over the jungle in one of those and, brother, your family better start hunting for the insurance papers! Even the old hands who barnstormed flights down here before the war don't venture out after the warnings go up.”
“But that kind of weather has the nasty habit of breaking without much warning, and that happened a few dozen times. We lost ships-- never knew what happened to them-- they may have been blown out over the gulf and were lost in the drink or they may have crashed inland where there are no points of civilization. Anyway, there was one pilot on the run from Florida into Maya City who was a very old hand. He came down here in '36 and had a nice little business of his own, hedge-hopping, hauling prospectors-- things like that. He knew the country as well as any flyer up to that time did.”
“Well, he was caught in a beauty of a storm. And, to save his neck, ran before it. In no time at all he was so far from the beam that his radio man was talking to himself when he wanted to hear something. The ship was off the map so far they might have been wafted into the fourth dimension. When the clouds cleared enough for them to take a look-see eastward, they were over solid jungle, flat, green, and deadly. A crash there would mean the end, and any attempt to land meant a crash.”
“Of course none of those A.T.C. planes were meant to fly indefinitely. They had to have a little gas now and then or they didn’t stay airborne. And this one had just about used up its supply for the trip. By that time too, the navigator was so far from all the contact points he knew that he was spending most of the time praying for a good guess.”
“That’s when they first saw the Mist Mountains. Coming right up out of the jungle as big as the Andes. In fact, at first they thought that that’s what the mountains were-- the Andes. Only the pilot, who knew all that was known of Mayapan, guessed that they were part of the never-never land which has never been explored. He turned tail to them and beat it out-- but quick. Cracked up after using his last teaspoon of gas to bring them in on a half-cleared sugar plantation. As for his mountains-- well, we were kind of busy long about then and nobody was very interested in adding new details on the local map. There was a spot of bother across the big pond which was absorbing most of our attention. George Conners, the pilot, erased himself and the bomber he was flying, the next trip but one-- he'd had a little too much luck in the past. And the Mist Mountains just got to be a story kicked around among the boys. There was no percentage anyone could see in a lot of rocky mountains a hundred miles from nowhere. And without a decent landing place how could you get there anyway?”
“You see?” Piast flung out his hands. “Anything, anything at all may exist in the jungle-- and who cares?”
“Thinking of that book `The Lost World‘, Gregori? You know, a guy could pick up a nice bit of change supplying a live brontosaurus for any zoo in the world. You get from somewhere few thousand bucks backing money and I'll fly you in. I'm a sucker for a treasure hunt, too.”
Peter's eyes swung back to the row of grotesque figures.
“You say my brother gave you these, Mr. Piast---?”
“No. Perhaps I did not express myself clearly. He did not give them to me-- it was a business venture, you understand. One of the men whom he had staked in a prospecting venture sent them to him. Carter brought them to me for valuation since he had no knowledge of antiquities. I was to act as his agent in the matter of sale. Do-- do you wish to continue this arrangement, Mr. Lord?” For the first time the Pole's quiet voice sounded thin, faded.
“If Carter wanted to deal with you-- than I do, too. But when did he bring them to you?”
“It was-- let me see--” the other produced a thick ledger and turned the pages carefully, starting about a third of the way through. “It was about six months ago, Mr. Lord-- that he gave me the first two-- the anteater and the bat. Then, just a few days before he was taken ill, he dropped in very early one morning with the others. He was so happy that day-- it was his lucky day he said. A piece of great good fortune had come his way and now he would be able to do things which he had planned for a long time. He wished me luck too, said that maybe one of these pieces would bring it. Also he told me one other thing-- that the number seven was traditionally lucky. That I did not understand-- because, if he meant the figures, there are but six. Perhaps he knew of a seventh---”
“A seventh! Listen, what kind of animals, birds or insects might be represented in such a collection?” demanded Peter.
“These are all animals or creatures native to this country---” began Piast when Norgate cut in:
“With one important exception---”
“Maybe a jaguar.” Peter made the suggestion almost before the other had finished.
“A jaguar-- or perhaps a puma,” Piast corrected. “They are different and mean different things in native lore. A puma is a friend to man, a good spirit. While the jaguar is connected with dark and evil acts. But either one might be included in such a collection as this.”
“And Carter never told you which of the porkknockers he staked found these?” persisted Peter. "Did you ever hear him speak of an Aubrey Romanes?”
“Romanes? Romanes?” Piast repeated the name slowly. “No, I do not think that Carter ever mentioned such a man to me. Was he a countryman of yours, Mr. Lord?”
“Supposedly,” Peter answered wearily, “though the past couple of days has led me to wonder about that too. Just how well did you know Carter, Mr. Piast?”
“We were friends. He had a liking for the old things, though he knew little about them. Sometimes of an evening he would come to join our little circle-- there is Señor Oberen, and Captain Norgate, here, and Dr. Llanolles of the Ministry of Education, and Señor Curly Downes. We have a common interest in the up country lands and its legends. When we heard new tales from up country or had news from the rivers we would share it. Señor Oberen is interested in native gems-- he collects in a small way so he is eager to know of new finds in the river basins-- that is where our diamonds and beryls come from. Why, every river rock is said to hide a diamond in this land, and the lucky man may discover a fortune in one washing pan.”
“Did my brother buy diamonds?”
“But certainly you must know something of your brother's business Mr. Lord.” Piast was openly surprised. “He sold supplies to porkknockers. In return he received gold dust, diamonds, crude rubber or cinchona bark. He had a well established business. Though whether he might have continued to fare so well-- after the coming of the Geneva Import Corporation-- that is another question.”
“The Geneva Import Corporation,” remarked Norgate blandly, “is a very interesting concern. Sometimes I think that our esteemed friend, Colonel Pedimonte of the secret police might indulge himself with a bit of research in that direction----”
“And the Geneva Import Corporation also supplies porkknockers?”
“Among other occupations, yes,” Norgate answered Peter. “But you should know all about them by now-- the way your partner has been asking questions all over town. Though, I grant you, he's clever about it-- deuced clever. If it wasn't that I have a few lines out in dark places on my own accord, I wouldn't have gotten on to Kane. Do you know-- it might be amusing sometime for all of us to have a little truth session-- everyone present to speak freely and openly. For example you-- Mr. Peter Lord-- doubtless have a few secrets which would astound us all. As for the busy Mr. Kane----”
“Yes? And what about the busy Mr. Kane?” The question came from across the room. As if they were three puppets on a single string their heads turned. Kane lounged by the doorway, a polite smile curving his lips. But, as Peter noted, his eyes were not smiling at all.
“Remarkable acoustics in this place,” he continued. “For example your voice carries exceedingly well, Norgate. And the idea of a truth session is one I shall keep in mind-- it may come in useful.”
Norgate's perfect teeth flashed in a wide grin, he showed no sign of embarrassment.
“Any time, Mr. Kane, any time. Until the weather is reported clear-- and I get a commission, I'm chained here in town. And I like parties.”
Peter decided it was time to break this up. “Mr. Piast, this is Mr. Kane of New York---”
“A field agent for the House of Norreys,” Kane added smoothly.
“The House of Norreys! Diamonds, is it, Mr. Kane? But I have heard no rumors of a major strike recently---”
“Not diamonds, no. Those we shall buy through Castro as always. But Mr. Van Norreys is in the market for fancy stones, amethysts of good color, black pearls, topaz and aquamarines---”
“All of those have been found in Mayapan, that is true. But not for some years have any such gems of value been offered on the market. However, these sales are uncertain-- at any hour a porkknocker may bring in a treasure before undreamed of-- it has so happened in the past.”
“Do you deal in stones?” queried Kane.
“I?” Piast shook his head. “I possess some pieces of jewelry of the colonial period, yes. And,” he touched his forehead with his fingers, “this is indeed luck! It is of that variety which the House of Norreys was often interested in-- in past years. If you will but come with me, gentlemen---”
He hurried out of the shop room, pausing only to lock the door behind them, and down the hall which gave on a flight of stairs.
“To the dungeons,” Norgate said in Peter's ear. “The good General was very medieval minded in more ways than one. Piast cleared out the torture room, but I assure you that there was a very fully equipped one here before he moved in.”
“He also had this built in, the General did.” Piast must have heard the flyer's words as he stopped before a door of gleaming metal set flat in a wall of concrete blocks.
“Great Guns! A vault that size---!” burst out Kane.
“For his private treasury, I think.” Piast was busy turning a series of small dials.
“Which was merely a supplement to the public one, by all accounts,” remarked Norgate. “Only he didn't get away to Paris with the contents when the end came. If he does do any haunting I should think it would be right around here.”
“Come in, come in,” Piast stepped through the ponderous door and beckoned them to join him.
The vault was a real room of some size, floored, walled and ceiled with metal. A whole filing cabinet of drawers faced them. While set in the side walls were a series of glass fronted cupboards, completely lined in velvet of dull shades.
“The late General Morgales was also a collector of jewelry,” Piast explained. “It was his pleasure to come here from time to time and look upon his best items as they lay on display. Unfortunately, I cannot compete with my predecessor as I would wish. But in those two cases to your left, Mr. Kane, you will see my best offerings.”
“I'm not an expert,” began Kane and then stopped short as he saw the necklace, earrings and two bracelets arranged on the black velvet of the first case.
It was Peter who dared to ask the question.
“Are they real?”
Piast nodded. “Yes. By tradition they are said to have been a part of the General's own collection. The large stone is a brown diamond, the smaller ones gem topaz. The set was designed in Paris by Devieux Fres. Unfortunately, the diamond is flawed and the market for topaz limited. There is no longer a fashionable call for the stones---”
“Do you have a good photograph of it?” demanded Kane.
“No, but one could be made. Do you think then that Norreys might really be interested in it?” the Pole asked eagerly. “I accepted this as part payment on a debt and have too much capital tied up in it to please me.”
“I can't promise anything. But it will do no harm to send photographs and a technical report on it to New York. But what is all this?” Kane passed on to the next case.
“These, gentlemen, are not for sale,” Piast tapped the glass front of the case and gazed fondly at its contents. “She must have been a queen, the lady for whom these were designed-- do you not agree? As dainty a princess as that incomparable Nefertiti of Egypt whose portrait head still has the power to send men a little mad. Look at the grace of those wings-- the intricate scrolling---”
Here too lay a necklace and earrings fashioned of fine soft gold. Butterflies, their wings lifted to catch some passing breeze, were fastened to tiny links of a short chain. Part was gone, broken off and lost sometime in the centuries gone, what remained was not enough to span any woman's throat.
“It was sold to me by Dona Alvira de Furentues. She has conceived a dislike for it, springing from an old legend of her family concerning disasters linked with it. According to tales she has heard it was part of the dowry of a lady who came into the Furentues House from Mexico, a lady who was not happy nor well treated after she made an unwilling wedding voyage to Mayapan. Yet it is clearly native work of the finest-- maybe Aztec-- maybe Mayan. I have not yet been able to identify it. There were men who followed Cortez and married Indian brides. And so I can dream exciting dreams of this and how it came to me-- through whose fair hands it must have passed. No, this is not for sale.”
“Have you anything else?” asked Kane.
“Native work, such as you have seen upstairs. I supply some museums in the United States and Great Britain. This territory is virtually unknown as yet to their field men. And, through Señor Downes, I have been able to establish contact with some of the shy jungle peoples. Señor Downes has extraordinary control over the tribesmen of the interior.”
Piast closed his vault and they went back to the sales room where Peter wandered about looking at the treasures on tables and chests while Kane went over the papers concerning the jewel set Piast wished to sell. Most of the small objects set out for sale were of native work. But, in a collection of cutting tools of various kinds, Peter came across a strange knife which he carried into the stronger light from one of the barred windows.
The blade was hardly thicker than one of those needles which are used for carpet baling and the hilt had been cut down from a much larger one. It was a wicked looking weapon, sharp and vicious.
“What's this?” Peter asked Norgate who had drifted over to see his find.
“A dandy little tool for sharp work in close quarters. That has been cut down from a fine rapier. You could stab a man with that and leave hardly any trace of wound. It's tough too, the best steel and temper---”
Peter balanced the blade across his palm. It weighed surprisingly little, less than a third of the jungle knife which he had seen in Carter's equipment. Yet it was clearly more deadly than that larger weapon. He had an odd feeling, as he stood weighing it so, that it belonged where it lay, in his hand, as if it meant safety. Impulsively he went up to Piast.
“Ah,” the Pole looked up from his papers, “I see you have found a great curiosity. That is very old-- maybe fifteenth, sixteenth century, cut down from a fine Italian rapier. With all our vaunted modern ability, gentlemen, we cannot equal in some things the work older craftsmen have done. That is the weapon of an assassin, a workman in death. It is meant to be carried in such a sheath as this---”
He picked up a carved leather sheath about eight inches long with two straps dangling from it. “About the forearm under the sleeve-- so. Then there was a certain twist these murderers knew which sent the blade sliding down out of the sheath into the hand which needed it. Yes, a trick of their nefarious trade which certain of the underground re-learned during the war.”
“Do you have a sheath to fit this?”
“No. It came to me without one, part of an odd lot of old weapons I bought when Señor Keith Williams returned to the United States last year. He knew nothing of its history-- unfortunately.”
Peter bent the blade slightly, the supple steel sprung with a slight 'ting' back into place. It would be rather neat to know that wrist twist-- or whatever it was-- which could control such a weapon. Useful sort of information.
When Peter left the shop of Gregori Piast sometime later, the assassin's blade was his own.
6: “My Price? Above Garnets--But Offer me Rubies---”
The tortured shriek of ungreased ox-cart wheels mingled with the purr or clang of well or ill-treated motors and drifted through the windows of the Casa Negro. Maya City was coming awake for the evening. Peter tried to forget the dragging heat as with sticky fingers he coaxed a shirt button into its proper hole. The muggy atmosphere of the afternoon had been about all he could stand. And yet the inhabitants of this steam bath said that the sea winds of Maya City were heavenly cool compared to the turgid heat of the jungle!
A pile of sweat blotched papers on the table represented some hours of work. On the top one was a fairly credible drawing of the jade jaguar.
“Gift of the old ones---” he repeated as his eyes fell upon it now.
But what had Kane said? That the `old ones’ of legends were not always amiable. What had Carter been doing during those last few weeks of his life?
Under the drawing of the jaguar were written four questions, underlined heavily with the same pencil.
1. Who is Aubrey Romanes?
2. Where did Carter get the images?
3. Who sent me the jaguar? Why?
4. What is Kane's mysterious business?
Just now that last question seemed the most important. Ever since their first day in Maya City the Norreys man had become more and more elusive, abrupt and impatient---almost as if he wished he could rid himself of Peter. And yet it had been Van Norreys and Kane together who had brought him to Mayapan. What was the matter with Kane?
The more he, Peter Lord, probed and asked questions, the less he found out. All he had managed to establish so far was that Aubrey Romanes apparently had never existed and that Carter's business was different from what he had thought it to be.
“Hi!” Kane looked around the door. “Up and ready for the road, eh? How do you like this daily nap stuff?” This was the earlier Kane-- the Kane of New York.
Peter blinked. “I can't get the trick of sleeping in day time.”
“You'll learn if we stick around here long enough. Feel up to trying a spot of night life?”
`Night Life’ to Peter meant Dona Eustacia's establishment and for one startled moment he thought Kane might be proposing a second visit there.
“We've a dinner invitation,” the other went on to explain. “Norgate, I'm sure, sees in us prospective customers. And he isn't far wrong. But tonight, he's going to do the honors at a place down by the bay which is supposed to provide the cafe society of this fair city with excitement.”
“You say Norgate isn't far wrong-- about thinking of us as customers, I mean---”
Kane dropped down on the edge of the bed. “You haven’t located Romanes yet, have you?”
“No.”
“No luck at the consulate, mines registry office or elsewhere?”
“No-- how did you---”
“How did I know?” Kane's eyebrows were arcs of polite surprise. “Well, I assumed you would visit all those sources first. As you did. But I had made a few inquiries too. Rather queer, don't you think, about this Romanes. One might guess that he possessed the secret of invisibility if---”
“If---”
“If they hadn't sent me the dope on him from Washington. Aubrey Romanes was a Technical Sergeant of Engineers stationed in Maya City in the Engineer Supply Depot. He took his discharge here in 1945.”
“But where did he go? Nobody seems to know anything about him.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too. Queer, deuced queer, isn't it? There is a strong scent of fish in this business, very old fish. It's almost as if someone or ones do not wish Mr. Romanes to be discovered.”
“The guy at the registry never sent that record he promised either, Peter suddenly remembered. He explained quickly about the missing file.
Kane lit a cigarette. “Too, too interesting. The way everything vanishes when one name is mentioned is smelly-- to say the least. And Mr. Masterson remains conveniently out of town. Well, what would you say to a little hunting trip-- inland?”
“The Rio Jaguar country, maybe?”
Kane laughed. “Bright boy. So you've tumbled to that point? Yeah, the Rio Jaguar country seems indicated. That's where big bad some things prowl the dark after foolhardy explorers, or so they say. If Romanes has made any sort of a find in the other river sections or in the tributaries of the Monaco, rumors would be all over the place. There's a bush telegraph operating here, just as it does in the islands or in Africa. But the Rio Jaguar seems to be closed country. If anyone has gone tramping around in there, he's either never returned, or he's keeping very quiet. So we shall dine with Norgate and allow him to persuade us to take a trip via his carrier service. The only way to go into that district is by air. And I have a feeling that once Norgate is hired, he'll stick!”
“Won't it cost a lot?”
“This is a Norreys' gamble. We've thrown the dice before and had sevens turn up-- with smaller hopes of winning, too. That option you signed in New York is worth a little cruising in Norgate's amphibian.”
The soft dusk was beginning to thicken into night as Norgate drove up to the Casa Negro in a trim jeep. His smart uniform had been discarded in favor of a light linen suit and Peter wished that he felt as cool as the other looked.
“Genuine American dishes,” Norgate said as the jeep swerved around two laden donkeys and avoided by several inches an abrupt meeting with a large and shiny roadster. “The tourists-- first they want the exotic-- the new-- the native foods of Mayapan. Then they discover that these are not to the Norte Americano taste-- that they do not lie well in the stomach. And so they come gratefully to the `Fifth Avenue’-- just as the wealthy Mayapanians go there to taste the exotic Norte Americano food and revel in a real foreign atmosphere imported directly from New York City itself. It is considered very new, different, and smart.”
The Fifth Avenue was housed in a big building set on a point of land stretching out into the bay. Lighted windows and the loud notes of a swing band suggested that the place was open for business.
“Snakes alive!” was Kane's thunderstruck comment as Norgate ushered them into the one big room which appeared to cover the whole ground floor of the place. Peter stared a bit wildly at the violent mural paintings on the nearest wall and swallowed hard. He considered his vocabulary not adequate for the moment.
Kane turned to Norgate. “Is this the Mayapanian idea of what goes on in the United States?” he demanded.
The flyer chuckled richly. “But are not similar atrocities committed against friendly nations by restaurants in our own country? The food-- I promise you that-- is superior to the decoration. And do not begrudge the simple people of Mayapan their right to enjoy this strange foreign atmosphere.”
“I only trust you are right-- about the food---” murmured Kane. He caught full sight of a mural, snapped away his eyes and shuddered visibly. “My stomach is not geared to the neo-impressionistic in art.”
Peter watched with dogged fascination the weird antics of the band. They wore the conventional style of evening dress, but the suits were made of brilliant scarlet and blue cloth. And the affect upon the eyes was almost as stunning as the torture of the ear drums for which they were also responsible.
Norgate took up the menu and ordered with the rapid sureness of a patron who knew both the good and the bad features of the house. When he had done he pointed with no little pride to the three glasses the waiter set ceremoniously before them.
“That, my friends, is real ice water! A triumph which you could understand better only if you were an old timer on this coast. There are only two American refrigerators in Maya City, one here and the other in the Presidential Palace. And the one in the Palace does NOT have a deep freeze!”
Kane shook his head sadly and then involuntarily clapped his hands to his ears to shut out the last dying wail of the band. “How civilization does follow one about! Alas, nowadays the deep freeze is always with us---”
“One hundred miles from here men hunt their food with blowguns and strings of beads of certain colors are the accepted medium of exchange,” Norgate pointed out. “A hundred and fifty miles from here you are off the maps---”
“Which is just where we want to be---”
“Eh!” Norgate's eyes narrowed. “In which direction, please?”
“What do you know about the Rio Jaguar country?”
“Enough to keep me out of it. Never been explored-- can contain anything from tribes of white Indians to prehistoric monsters. Looking for either?”
“No. Just an emerald mine.”
Norgate transferred a forkful of lettuce from salad plate to his mouth and crunched it slowly.
“Emeralds-- One of Carter's deals?” his attention swung to Peter.
The boy nodded almost before he thought. “He wrote me just before he died that one of his porkknockers had made a rich strike-- he sent a sample---”
“And that brought Norreys into it, of course. Emeralds-- could be, could be, The Rio Jaguar country---” The flyer was musing aloud and plainly thinking hard. “I'd have to do some checking. When do you want to start?”
“If the weather permits. We’d like to make a preliminary flight the end of this week.”
“It's tricky country back there. A storm over the jungle is tough, very tough. Cold rain hits the warm jungle-- result a fog which you have to see to believe. And if you guess wrong on the landing-- it's curtains. As a lot of our chaps discovered a few years ago. It'll cost you----”
“I'll sign any reasonable check. You'll take the job then?”
“I'm probably a double-sized fool, but I've always had a yen to take a look-see over that way. With someone else to foot the bill-- well, brother, it’s a deal! If you want to come back to the office tonight, I can scrape together some facts and figures----”
A blast of the so-called music drowned him out and Peter turned to glare at the band. Only, instead, he found himself facing the entrance and the two men who stood there. Both were sleekly tailored in white linen mess jackets and dark dress trousers, too well dressed even for the garish smartness of the Fifth Avenue. The smaller man lit a cigar from a lighter flashing with gems. His outsize bulb of nose with its eyebrow fringe of mustache was thrown into relief against the green neck of one of the mural monstrosities. Peter caught Kane's cuff.
“There's Mannerheim!”
Kane glanced up. But Norgate caught that urgent whisper too and answered it without looking at the newcomers.
“Mr. Mannerheim is a regular and most popular patron of the Fifth Avenue. He is one of our leading representatives of Big Business. And doubtless he is now accompanied by Mr. Kurt Gloss.”
“A tall Aryan with yellow hair and a good set of teeth?” Kane's voice carried no farther than their small circle of three.
“The better to eat you with,” quoted Norgate, still without shifting his attention from his plate. “Yes, that is our Mr. Gloss in athletic person. Handsome Tarzan isn't he? And one of the boys at all times-- just one of the boys!”
“Dangerous?”
“I might go poking around an atom bomb just for the hell of it-- I wouldn't care to disturb Mr. Gloss‘ slumbers without due authorization,” returned Norgate dryly.
“Like that, eh?”
“Very much like that.”
“And with what sort of labor does our Mr. Gloss soil his hands-- or doesn’t he earn his living?” Kane offered an open cigarette case to the flyer.
“He manages an experimental rubber plantation.” Norgate's answer was a little too flat and colorless as he selected a cigarette.
“I wonder if I should now suddenly develop a burning interest in experimental rubber stations---” Kane murmured, as they watched Mr. Mannerheim and Mr. Gloss being led in a triumphant processional across the room to the very best table, the manager himself arriving to whip off the `reserved’ card.
“I wouldn't,” Norgate blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it waft away. “Your connection with Norreys is a little too well known. Too much knowledge at the wrong time is a dangerous thing.”
“In what direction does this rubber station experiment?”
“Geographically or chemically?” Norgate signed the check the waiter handed him. “The latter I cannot answer. As for the former-- it is somewhere on the upper reaches of the Monaco-- western bank.”
Kane frowned down at the table cloth. “I'd like to see a map.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure at this moment than to show you one. Shall we withdraw to the headquarters of the Norgate Enterprises, gentlemen?”
“A humming hive of industry by day and, as you perceive, a tomb by night,” Norgate commented as they climbed the stairs which led to his office. “We have one Estaban La Cruz for a watchman but he never seems to be doing much watching.” De turned the key in the lock and snapped on the overhead light.
“Now here is the map you want.” Norgate unrolled a wide strip of canvas-backed paper and dropped it on wall hooks prepared for such duty. It was, Peter saw, a large scale map of Mayapan, larger than any he had seen before. The coastal districts were exact and marked in detail but inland were large squares of virgin white, bearing no landmarks.
“The Monaco--” Kane ran his forefinger up the crooked black snake which was the representation of one of the two major rivers of the country. “Western bank-- hmmm?”
“Right about here-- by all accounts,” Norgate's brown finger tapped a point far inland.
“How informative! Right on the border of the Rio Jaguar country. Yet apparently Mr. Gloss has not had any trouble with all the horrors which are supposed to make life interesting in that part of the world?”
“He has never complained of any. Rather peculiar, don't you think?”
“Peculiar is no word for it---” Kane was beginning when a voice from behind interrupted him.
“Capitan, Capitan Norgate!”
The barrel of a pistol, surely the first cousin to those used by eighteenth century highwaymen, was what they saw first. But behind the pistol was a stocky little man whose mouth fell open with real surprise when the flyer turned.
“Estaban! But why the cannon, man?” Norgate demanded in Spanish. “Am I a wrongdoer to be hunted down with bullets from the gun of a brave man such as Esteban La Cruz?”
“But Señor Capitan, it is you yourself that stands here?”
“Myself in the flesh. Did you expect to come upon a murderer with blood dripping hands?”
Esteban shook his head slowly. “Not a murderer, Señor Capitan. But perhaps a thief. Even such a one as visited this room when Señor Lord was here---”
Peter moved. “What do you mean-- a thief visited Señor Lord?”
Estaban's thin neck twisted a little as he looked up at this tall Yanqui who had snapped the question at him.
“Eet ees so, Señor,” he answer in slow English. “On the cloak of San Martin weal I swear eet. While yet the Señor Lord lay on hees bed of seeckness, there was a thief who entered thees room. Een the morning Señor Masterson came to get some papers for Señor Lord and he found the lock broken and everything upset. That was when I was not here, you understand. I had gone to San Lorenzo to visit my son. He had a new feeshing boat bought from the Yanqui soldiers and weeshed me to see eet. I was in San Lorenzo when thees outrage happened. And that beeg peeg of an Enrique Villa-- the second cousin of my wife-- who was to take my place as watchman saw nothing. He ees of that nature, Señores, being so stupid as not to see an alligator een hees path until the creature bites heem! Which weel someday happen even as I have said!”
“And what was stole: from Señor Lord at that time?” asked Kane as the other paused for breath.
Esteban shrugged. “Eet ees not known, Señores. Señor Lord was very eell. He did not recover. Only he could tell what was missing and he was not able. After hees death Señor Masterson came and took all the papers away. Eet was never said what was missing----”
“Masterson tell you anything about this?” Kane asked Peter. The boy shook his head.
“This is the first I've heard of it,”
“Funny,” Norgate was frowning. “This is the first I've heard of it, too, and stories like that get around this berg quick enough-- especially when they concern members of the foreign colony. Well, Esteban, we are no thieves and these Señores have business with me. When we leave I shall lock all the doors behind me.”
“Bueno, Señor Capitan---”
Kane returned to the map. “I see that you have sketched in part of the Rio Jaguar country---”
“That's the result of guess-work mostly, piecing together stories told by the boys who flew over that portion of it during the war. It's a tough territory all right.”
“But you'll be willing to try to get us into it by air-- for a price?”
Norgate laughed. “My price-- it's above garnets-- but offer me rubies!”
“Would emeralds do?”
“Okay, emeralds. But if you are really intending to enter the jungle at that point there's only one man I know of in Maya City who can give you the latest and best dope on the lay of the land. And he's Curly Downes.”
“A prospector?”
“No, though he used to stake a few of them, old timers he took a liking to. In fact, your brother, Lord, sort of took over some of his business when Downes officially retired about a year ago. Curly Downes was a soldier of fortune, one of the old Richard Harding Davis crop of professional fighters who used to find the banana republics a happy hunting ground about forty years ago. Curly's fought under more flags than most of us know exist. And he knows more about South and Central America than any of our so-called experts.”
“Just the man we need. Do you suppose we can go calling---”
“Why not? I've the jeep here. I can get you out to his place in a half hour. And I'll bet if there are any emeralds in the Rio Jaguar or any place else in this rain soaked country Curly can tell you about them.”
“Pretty late to go calling on an elderly man,” Kane consulted his wrist watch.
“Curly doesn't consider himself old. And his idea of a reasonable bed time is about dawn. So we can make it easily. Also-- if Curly takes a liking to you or your plans, his good will, will make a lot of difference. He still has lines out in strange places, has General Curly Downes!”
The night air was soft against their faces. Peter tossed his hat on the seat and let it ruffle through his hair. Along the coast the roads of Mayapan were well surfaced and Norgate did not drive too fast, slowing down when once they rounded a curve and road along the lip of a highland by the sea across which the moon slashed a sliver sword.
“It gets you,” the flyer took one hand from the wheel of the jeep and waved it seawards. “Back country is all green teeth and rock claws, here it's tamed and smooth. Two countries in one, that's Mayapan!”
“I think that even here it would he well to walk softly,” Kane's sharper voice out through the night. “Maybe your two lands aren't so well divided as you think, Norgate.”
“But that would make it all the more interesting. I am a great devotee of thrillers, Mr. Kane. Do you expect Mr. X. or the Saint to join you soon?”
Kane laughed. “We might put in an indit for either. Listen, is, the wind coming up?”
They had come almost to a stop and Peter heard it too, a rustling in the trees along the road.
“The sea wind, yes. Which means that the clock is against us and I’d better step on her---”
“Downes have much of a place?”
“Very much of a place-- as you shall see when we round the next curve. He never married but he's taken in the kids of several of his own officers and buddies. The main villa is rather like a hotel but Downes has his own quarters. There, that's his lights you can see now!”
The jeep made a sharp turn off the main road unto a drive paved with the gleaming white of crushed coral. Not far ahead a wide bulk of building was gray-white among the tree shadows. But Norgate parked the jeep before he approached it and led them to a small cottage half hidden in vines and-bushes. Their feet came down loudly on the flooring of the wide veranda.
“Night owls!” The voice which spat at them from within the doorway was hardly more than a horse whisper. “Well, come in, come in! And don't bring half the insect life of this misbegotten wilderness with you!”
Peter was the last in and he pulled the very homey screen door shut behind him in a hurry. There were pools of light around darkly shaded lamps, big chairs with worn leather seats dimpled in permanent hollows and books-- spilling from shelves, pilled on tables and laid open and face down in convenient and inconvenient places.
A very modern typewriter on a streamlined stand was under one lamp and hunched over it-- not bothering to rise to greet them-- was the master of literary chaos.
He was neither short nor tall, his face was a seamed and weathered brown, his hair nondescript gray. On the bridge of his very ordinary nose a pair of plastic rimmed glasses balanced and he nursed a pipe in one hand.
“So it's you, Norgate,” that whisper rasped thickly across his lips. “These your present sucker list?” His glance flicked beyond the Negro flyer to Kane and Peter. “What kind of bill of goods is he selling you?”
“We're doing the selling,” Kane smiled a little at the abrupt demand. “I’s Lawrence Kane---”
“Of Norreys. Yes, even an old crock like myself keeps up with the daily news. Tell me, how much did Adbul Hakroun really clip you over those pearling rights? Did he get all your back teeth?”
“Just an even percentage of them. Am I right in thinking you know the gentleman in question?”
“We had shooting acquaintance about forty years ago. I was a young sprout a size too big for my boots. He cut me down to fit. Those were the days when one could have a nice private war without half the world poking their noses into it to ask embarrassing questions.” Curly Downs put his pipe on the pile of untidy manuscript beside the typewriter. “Radio and airplanes sure spoiled things.” His attention flitted from Kane to Peter.
“You're Lord,” it was a statement not a question. “Hmm,” the gray eyes behind the owl glasses remained rather dull, but Peter straightened his shoulder and lifted his chin a fraction of an inch. He had an idea he was under a very keen scrutiny. “Well, you're young-- and if you have one tenth of the stuff your brother had-- you’ll do. Now suppose we get down to brass-tacks. You didn't come out here at this hour to be polite-- what in the name of the Great Serpent, did you come for?”
“To ask questions about the Rio Jaguar country” Kane returned calmly.
“Why? Planning a little expedition that way?” Downes permitted himself a wry quirk of the lips which might or might not have been a smile. “There are a great many fools in this world-- why do most of them end up on my doorstep?”
“Only fools would be interested in the Rio Jaguar?” prodded Kane.
“Fools or-- Sit, down, sit down, I’ll get a crick in my neck trying to look you over. Fools, or pretty smart men.”
Peter slipped back on the wide seat of the nearest chair. Both Kane and Norgate were at ease, the flyer grinning happily and watching Kane.
“Suppose we're the latter?”
“You can claim to be the president but that doesn't put you in the White House! Just what's so interesting up that way? Hunting a lost nation of Atlantean refugees the way Piast is?”
“Emeralds!” To his own surprise it was Peter which dropped that one word as answer. It seemed to echo through the long room and all of their faces had swung towards him.
“Emeralds,” Downes whispered the word lingeringly, almost as if he savored it. “Emeralds, then Carter did have something good---”
“What did he tell you?” Peter lost all his difference and demanded boldly.
“Some fairy story or other that that harebrained greenhorn Romanes had sold him---”
“Romanes!” Peter interrupted. “Did you know Romanes?”
“Did I know Romanes?” the whisper became a harsh growl. “Seeing as how he came out here every day for a solid week and pestered me-- how can I forget him? Crazy as a bush loon-- or Piast with his hidden cities and lost nations. He'd persuaded your brother to stake him to a jungle trip. He went into the Rio Jaguar country and that was the last of him-- until about two months later when Carter got a message from up country and went around licking his jowls like a cat who'd been in the cream jar. So that was it-- emeralds!”
“Not impossible then---?” Kane's cool question caught him up.
“Impossible? Lord, nothing's impossible in this benighted country. And who has ever come back from the Rio Jaguar?”
“No one apparently?” Peter answered ruefully. “In fact, I can't find evidence that Romanes ever went.” Swiftly he outlined his attempts to find traces of the missing porkknocker at the consulate and the bureau of mines.
Curly Downes thumbed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and lit up.
“Romanes was here,” he answered flatly. “he was here and he went up country. I can swear to that. He was out here the night before he left---”
“What would be the position of the government if rich mining territory were discovered back country?” asked Kane.
Downes watched the thin column of smoke curling up from the bowl of his pipe for a long minute before he answered.
“Diamonds and gold are found in the gravel beds of streams here. I don't think that the question of a mine has arisen before. The government is anti-fascist and pro-United States just now. Falangists are in the minority. Of course, foreigners are usually dissuaded from going up country simply because the government refuses to be responsible for jungle explorers No, your hitch isn't official, I think.”
He gave a little push to the table holding the typewriter and sent it rolling away from him.
“This is no country for to poke around in if you are experienced. Oh, I know,” he turned to Kane, “you know something about the rain forests on the other side of the globe-- but Borneo and the Indies aren't the Rio Jaguar And the wild Indios are a different breed from your island headhunters. They hunt heads too-- enthusiastically. But whom I am to throw water on the flames of your enthusiasm? And if you go by air you may have a slim chance of coming back-- if you follow the rules.”
“First of all-- play square with the Indios-- don't cheat. Find out the fare rates of bargaining and stick to them. On the other hand-- bargain shrewdly. You'll get nothing but the contempt of every chief if you pay more than the customary rate. Hold fast to your `face’-- it's almost important here as it is in the orient.”
“You know where Romanes made his strike?”
Peter shook his head. Downes made an irritated sound with puckered lips.
“That is, of course, a big help. If his stuff was free, it might be found in the gravel of any stream flowing into the river.”
“Just a needle in a haystack,” commented Kane. “If you were an emerald, where would you lie waiting to be found, eh?”
Downes gave his owl hoot of laughter. “Well, maybe we can do a little better than that for you.” With one hand on the arm of his chair he pulled himself to his feet and went at a curious rocking pace across the room to snap on a light above a wall map. With the stem of his pipe he traced red and black lines muttering to himself before he turned to face the three who had crowded up behind him.
“I have friends back in the bush-- though I can't go visiting there anymore. But if your man had located down here, or in this curve here, the news would be common property backcountry and I would have heard by now.”
“He sent-out those animal images to Lord. They're new Stuff-- I'd never seen anything like them before. And Indies are quick enough to trade such finds as soon as they know we want them-- Piast buys tons of the stuff. So these were from new territory-- which means upstream.”
“Best way would be to establish a base near a good landing place and fly your supplies in,” began Kane musingly. “What about the natives up there-- hostile?”
Downes shrugged. “Nobody knows. Their reputations are bad enough. And there must be something in there-- or it was there once-- pretty hard to face. The first Spaniards along the coast here found the country deserted. Their slave raids into the jungle fared badly-- most of them didn't return at all. And after a time it was accepted that one did not go poking around there. Piast's theory is that there was once a strong nation in the bush who had over run the whole territory before their rule collapsed-- fighters who left a grim tradition of fear behind them. And nobody has proven him wrong.”
“"The Indios of the jungles are the usual head-hunting fighters which you find from here to the Matte Grasso. But this I do know-- they do not enter the Rio Jaguar either-- It is full of `kensina’-- evil luck. And what is powerful enough to set a taboo which had lasted for generations?”
“There's one thing---” Downes limped back to a long table piled high with drifts of papers and books. From somewhere in the middle he pulled out a tin metal box and snapped up the lid to withdraw a package wrapped in tough native cotton.
“This came down river sixty years ago, grasped in the hand of a priest, Father Justinian, who was dying of an infected arrow wound. He never told where he had found it--. But he had been along the edge of the Rio Jaguar. What so you think of this?”
`This’ was a round disc about two inches in diameter, curved of the green stone Piast had identified as jade. When Kane passed it to Peter the boy saw that the head of a snarling jaguar had been deeply incised on the stone, bordered by an intricate geometrical pattern. There was a hoop on the upper rim and it had been intended to be worn as an ornament.
“It's my guess,” Downes went on “that that was an insignia of some sort, perhaps the badge of a high priest. Father Justinian was interested in antiquities and in the country, and he had jungle experience. Perhaps he got into that closed land just a little too far. No,” he shook his head as Peter tried to hand back the disc. “you keep it and take it with you. It might just be a passport in a way. There are such things. I remember once in Ecuador an old stone knife got me safely through a very tough time. You see, this is old country, very old.”
“You all have a smattering of knowledge about the Aztecs, the Mayans, and the Incans. Cortez and Pizzaro's stories are taught in our schools. But what so few of us realize is that the Aztecs were late comers, the Incas built on civilizations far past and the Mayans were already a dying race. There were others before them-- perhaps greater. Lord, now you have me stammering out the same sort of stuff Piast spouts. The trouble is that the jungle gets under your skin and you can believe anything when you're in its grip. I wish that I was about five years younger and not so much of a crock and I'd trot along with you. But my exploring days are over-- all I'm fit for is to sit soft and write my memoirs!”
The glance with which he favored the pile of manuscript was somewhat sour.
It was very late when they pulled away from Curly Downes’ refuge and Peter tumbled into his bed at the Casa Negro half asleep, fully so before he had quite settled his head on the flat pillow. So it was equally late when he roused to shave and dress the next morning. Pinned to the bathroom door was a short note from Kane saying that the latter was out on `Business’. So Peter made a solitary breakfast and decided to try the consulate first. Perhaps Mr. Masterson would he back by now.
There was quite a bustle in the office which had been so deserted before and Peter had to wait a moment or two before he caught the attention of the girl who seemed to manage the inner sanctum. But she was more affable that her predecessor had been and he found himself at very long last in the Consul's own office.
“Yes, sir, and what can we do for you?” Masterson was younger than Peter had expected and both his greeting smile and voice were pleasant.
“I'm Peter Lord, brother of Carter Lord,” he began.
Masterson's smile was gone, the lines beside nose and lips were deeper in an instant. “That was a bad business,” he said frankly. “We can ill afford losing a man like your brother. He was the kind of American who is a good advertisement for all of us he fitted into this country and made friends for himself and us. It was a tragedy---”
Peter‘s attention shifted to the pictures across the white washed wall without seeing the subject matter of any of them. But when he spoke his voice came out evenly enough.
“I want to thank you---”
Masterson’s hand flew out in an impatient gesture of refusal.
“Not at all. Just my duty. Am glad to help all that I can.” he bit off his words sharply.
Peter came to business at once. “I'm down here trying to see what I can do about Carter's affairs. Do you have his files stored somewhere?”
Masterson ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Lord didn't appear to keep many records. What there were we stored in the old Cambree warehouse until the fire two weeks ago.”
“Fire?”
“Yes, it was a bad thing. The watchman and one of the firefighters caught under a wall. Nasty mess-- everything cleaned out. I am sorry.”
“What have you on Aubrey Romanes?” Peter blurted out his other question.
“Not one blasted thing!” Masterson exploded. “Who is this Romanes anyway. In the past three months we've had about six inquiries about him. He isn't listed in our records and we can't find out what happened to him after he took his discharge down here. Must have shipped out right after that on one of the coast boats for Guiana or Venezuela.”
“He was my brother's partner and I was told he went prospecting into the Rio Jaguar district---”
“Impossible!” the word was shot like a bullet from Masterson's somewhat thick lips, “That country's closed by the government. No exploring allowed up there. You are mistaken about that.”
“Maybe I am,” Peter conceded. “Thanks for giving me this time, sir. I won't take up any more of it.”
But Masterson insisted on escorting him to the doorway and seeing him off with an extra vigorous shake of the hand.
Peter drifted across the street. He could go back and harass the bureau of mines, he could look up Norgate, he could-- but somehow right now he wanted to forget Aubrey Romanes the invisible and just wander about Maya City for an hour or two, without having to ask questions like a district attorney.
And then he discovered the market and was lost indeed.
The delights of owning a monkey or a brilliant parrot were very apparent and only a strong New England common sense kept his money in his pocket as he lingered before the crowded space of beaten earth which was the animal dealers shop. In the air the rank scents of the animals and birds vied with the odors of cooking where a charcoal brazier down the cooked lane was the only furniture of a restaurant. Beans sizzled in a pan and stone hard cakes of candy from the sugar boiled at the primitive mills, were stacked on the none-too-clean board which served as a lunch counter.
Hand-woven blankets were draped and piled next to the backset and lines of pottery which bore the makers thumb print in designs. Then Peter came to a strange display which caught his full attention. The two saddles were rich in silver inlay and intricate carving. But Peter was more interested in the smaller pieces which were arranged symmetrically on a native blanket before the squatting salesmen. Knives, sheaths, belts, sandals, a fan of these were spread out to catch the eye. Peter reached for the handkerchief wrapped object he had stuck into his belt beneath his coat that morning in hopes of finding just such a merchant.
“Do you have s sheath, Señor, a sheath to be worn on the forearm, suitable to hold this?” before the man's blank black eyes he dangled the blade bought from Piast.
Without any signs of interest the leather merchant took the blade, bent the supple point on his brown thumb and let it fly back. The fine steel gave out a faint musical note. He handed the knife back to its owner.
“A gem of steel that, Señor,” he commented but he might have been discussing the weather.
From the litter before him he made three quick choices and held them out fanwise for Peter's inspection. One was not quite long enough, second seemed too wide, but into the third the blade slipped easily, fitting as if it had been designed for that very knife.
The leather of his choice was dark and worn glass-smooth. It was manifestly of different workmanship that the other pieces, fine as they were, made in a different age. The two straps to hold it in place on the arm were worn at the holes. And, except for a sprinkling of silver nail heads set in a vague pattern, it was plain.
Peter stripped back his sleeve. The old leather was cool and fitted against his skin as the dealer deftly adjusted it to fit. It was plain that the former wearer had possessed a thicker forearm and wrist and the new holes had to be bored in the straps. When the last buckle was fastened Peter swung his arm experimentally. But the new purchase fitted snuggly and he hardly noticed the added weight.
Without taking it off he began to bargain with the hopes that he was not doing too badly in the duel. Though he did not doubt as he counted the coins into the other’s palm that a native of Mayapan might have been able to obtain it for far less.
8: It is a Jungle of Tourmaline.
There was a wind faintly redolent of fish and fishy concerns beating in from the sea. In the half light of pre-dawn the men moving about the landing stage were awkward shapes who bumped into each other and spat unpalatable personal comments. And yet, Peter, keeping carefully out of the main artery, could see that there was a system in the loading and that Norgate and Kane were both old hands at the business.
He ran a finger around the inner circle of his button collar. The thick stuff of the dull greenish shirt seemed more suited to the arctic than the jungle and yet Kane had made forcible suggestions as to the desirability of keeping shirts buttoned up and the long sleeves rolled down once they hit the back country. More than half the menace of the back lands was both minute and winged and cloth might just baffle them in their hunt for fresh blood.
Though one beak-full of what was coursing through his veins right now ought to put any mosquito or black fly right on its back. His arm was still sore from the series of shots Kane had insisted on and there was a dull yellowish taste about his back teeth every time he remembered them. Strictly poison-- that was Peter Lord right how.
“OK” Norgate’s soft voice carried across the water from the amphibian's anchorage. “That's the last. Come aboard!”
Peter left his post of refuge and joined Kane in the light skiff which brought them to the side of the plane. It was a midget besides the giant clippers of the airlines but Peter saw when he clambered aboard that it was the tool of an expert and lovingly kept as such.
Most of the cabin was stocked with lashed tonnage and the two passengers were expected to stow themselves away in the crevices of this in whatever manner seemed most comfortable. Peter wedged into a hollow and gripped the taunt rope lashings grimly as the ship took off.
With such a heavy load the take-off was slow and it was a period of breath holding for all of them until they were air-borne. Norgate circled once above the city and Peter pulled himself to one of the small windows to catch a half glimpse of the spatter of gray-white which were the ancient buildings of the old port.
The sky was alight and broke through the dusk so that Kane became more than a tallish outline. He was at the other window peering out at the land below as if he had never seen the view from a plane before. Then he settled back and flipped open a map, running his finger along a crooked path on its surface. Peter's teeth met in the wad of gum he had cashes on a back tooth. At least none of the million and one accidents which might have happened on the take-off had materialized. They were on their way!
Sugar fields hacked from the bush and a winding path or two connecting them made a ragged sort of pattern. But the fingers of un-cleared land became wider and wider. They passed over the brown sluggish water of a river. Peter tried to remember the map-- That must be the lower reaches of the San Filipe. A fleet of four long canoes glided with the stream, and were gone as the plane droned steadily inland. Covering in minutes what might take hours for the voyagers below.
Now the green sweep of trees was a fuzzy carpet almost without a break, only now and then a forest giant which had outgrown its fellows thrusting up at them. Norgate was flying low, using river landmarks for a guide.
White streaks broke through the oily sheen of the muddy water. Rapids were so marked by the churning water. But Peter's attention was pulled from these when Kane pulled at his shoulder impatiently. He swung his head around to see the older man jabbing at the window with a thumb.
There were clouds far out over the jungle, clouds which were thick like an ugly wool springing from the green flooring. Even as Peter watched they puffed and grew, thicker, darker. Kane abandoned his seat and made for the small compartment where Norgate nursed the controls. That band of dirty wool was advancing on them. And for the first time Peter realized what it might mean. They were already flying at a low altitude, they could not fly by instruments, and without the visual guide of the river below they would certainly be lost. Now they were sandwiched between lowering clouds and the jungle-- if the clouds should seal them in-----
There was always the hope that this was only local, that any minute would bring them out of the sudden storm into daylight and free air again. Instead the lash of rain snapped across the window before him. The constant drum of a torrential downpour could be heard even above the steady drone of the engine. But Norgate did not appear to be bothered by the lessened visibility of the rain torn sky.
Only there was another result from that soaking downpour. Peter crouched fascinated, unable to look away from that sight. As the cold water from the sky struck into the steamy heat of the vegetation below a dense fog began to curl up towards them. It came out of openings in the bush, thicker than steam from the compressing nose of a kettle. They might have been flying over a forest of chimneys above some great factory. The mist arose and spread until they were flying over a billowing carpet of white, a carpet which covered the green, clinging to the wide crowned trees.
And the plane, fearing to lose the guide of the river, dipped down into that mist. They could not have been flying high above the surface of the water now, and that fortunately was not steaming as densely as did the jungle itself. Only with mist and driving rain cutting visibility close to zero Norgate had all he could do to gage the closeness and height of the trees on either bank.
There was another menace too, one which Peter had not known of until its first thrust was barely avoided. Hereabouts the San Filipe was broken with a spatter of small islands and on some of these grew trees which rivaled the giants of the back jungle. Norgate banked in and out between such obstructions with a skill which left Peter breathless, more with panic than an admiration which he did not know until much later should have been awarded such a feat.
The plane was making swift upshots and dives as Norgate fought to avoid the island tree tops. Peter crouched by the window---the driving rain making a barrier between the cabin and the dank foliage on the banks. Twice his insides heaved and he swallowed desperately, licking sweat salted lips.
In and out, up and down, the wild pattern Norgate was weaving along the river reaches had saved them so far. But the pull of the meters meant that the amphibian was approaching its maximum speed---if it had not already found it. And how long could they continue to play hit and miss?
He lurched forward as a hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Above the roar and hiss of the storm Kane's shouting was only a dull jumble with a few understandable words.
“Clear—take-- down---”
Down into this? Peter remembered only too vividly the white lace of rapid foam. And with all this rain the river would he running high---down---into this? Norgate must have cracked----
But even to his ears the rain was slackening, the barbed thongs of storm water tearing less at the battling plane. He blinked at the tree crowns which broke through the cotton-wool of fog. There appeared to be more of them.
Twenty minutes later the fog was a sullen white wall behind them, moisture ran down the fuselage and windows of the cabin but they no longer were breasting a flood in the air. Kane beckoned him forward towards the cockpit and he edged up to the pilots inner sanctum.
Norgate's slim body hollowed out the cushions of the one seat. His long dark hands were on the controls, but when the boy appeared in the doorway he glanced back with a half smile which cut the lines about his lips.
“Licked the jinx that time, didn't we?” has rich voice was a little flat, tired. “This buzz buggy's a great old girl----”
Kane’s laugh was a sharp bark. “She’s going great guy, nursing her along. I don't mind telling you I was seeing a tomb stone behind every tree along those misbegotten islands!”
Norgate shrugged. “It is plain our numbers have not yet been rolled. But I don't mind admitting that that was the worst situation I have ever known down here. No wonder the back country is a graveyard of missing ships. Well, what do you think of the jungle, Lord? Now that we are flying over unexplored territory---”
Lord stared down. As far as he could see the wooly carpet of tree tops was no different from that which had been under them ever since they had left the cleared lands of the coast. Norgate pointed north-west.
“Rio Jaguar country. If we leave the San Filipe and strike west we should sight it soon.”
“So we're beyond civilization?” questioned Kane.
“Not quite. There's a little rat hole-- diamond diggings at Columbo. Some crazy fool made a strike up here about three months ago and there'll be those who followed him back in. But strictly speaking we're out of the bonds of law and order, all right. It's where the D'oro flows into the main stream. Want a look-see?”
The plane dipped, side slipping to the left and down toward the glassy surface of the water. Then suddenly swept across a second stream, the waters of which were golden yellow and wild, racing with strips of foam across them.
“That's the D'oro. River of Gold-- it spells its name with that color. Tons of silt in that all right. And maybe a few good pounds of gold dust and some diamonds rolled along with it. If the gravel along her banks is ever going to pay off it’ll be after she's on a rampage like this one. All right, shall we take the plunge into the great unknown now?”
He was fully relaxed now, his hands light on the controls, all the taunt strain out of his smile. Kane looked from the ever present map through the window to the green below.
“Okay. Take her----”
“Up and over?” Norgate finished.
The nose of the amphibian swung up and over, following his words. They left the river junction and headed out over the raw green of the tight woven jungle foliage. Norgate was humming only half aloud, a wired minor series of notes which were far from a civilized tune.
“D' you know what this stuff looks like?” he demanded of the other two a moment later, flexing one hand towards the ground. “Brazilian emerald-- that's what. Piast had some for sale a year ago. And they came up from somewhere here too---”
“Emerald---”Peter took a deep breath but before he could ask his question Kane had answered it for him.
“Tourmalines, eh?”
“Yeh, green at one end and black-brown at the other. And that's this jungle, green on top and black muck under foot. A stinking trap for anyone fool enough to set foot in it.”
“Tourmalines---” Kane repeated the word slowly. “Electric stones-- Yeah?” Norgate looked enquiring.
“If they are rubbed or heat applied to then they'll attract small pieces of paper. Early Dutch voyages used to use them for drawing tobacco ash out of their pipes.”
Norgate widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Well, what’dya know! Learn something new every day.”
“But they do look like emeralds---” persisted Peter.
“To the novice maybe. Back in the middle-ages gem dealers made that mistake-- and a mighty good profit out of it. Nowadays any expert could tell the difference,” Kane answered. “Don't worry, kid. We're on the trail of the real stuff-- not tourmalines.”
Peter flushed. Something of just that sort of thought had been in his mind. Only he should have had better since. As if Norreys would gamble on tourmalines.
“And here is your land of mystery,” Norgate broke the short silence.
Through the wool of matted trees and vines was a broad slash of black, sullen, oily water, running like a foul ribbon before them. Here were no islands to break the scum of the water, only the too -quiet liquid and the unmoving green. Peter pulled absent mindedly at his belt. There was something about that dark stuff-- it did not look like healthy water at all, but more like the ichor which might flow from the wound of a reptile---nasty, a stench through the jungle.
The plane coasted about it, circling down close to the water. Norgate sat forward a little, his attention all for the water and the bush which hemmed it in. Kane folded away the map and thrust it into his skirt pocket, never taking his eyes from the oiled slick of the Rio Jaguar.
He turned to the pilot at last with a single question. “We’re definitely off the map?”
“Off the map-- brother, we're out of the world now. Shall we keep on going?”
There was a trace of frown between Kane’s level brows.
“Any chance of sighting a prospector's pitch along here?”
“Not unless he’d made a strike and they'd set up a regular diamond shop with a clearing and all. Otherwise-- from the air---” He made a round zero with thumb and forefinger.
“Suppose we go down for a glance over the land-- pick a good place----”
“And will I do just that?”Norgate returned with a force which showed through the humor. “To crack up now would mean a nice long walk home and one I wouldn’t care for.”
So it was Norgate who picked the sight of their first camp in the forbidden territory. A jog in the river bank manufactured a sort of half cove which seems to promise shelter of a sort for the plane. Peter and Kane went back to their places in the compartment and Norgate brought the ship down. They taxied up the stream, the brown water thrown in a spray and came to stop.
Peter crunched his jungle boots on the scrap of gravely beach where he had stepped across, purely for the pleasure of having land---of a sort---under them before. He swung the mattock Kane had handed him experimentally. The red haired American had made him practice that same swing bank in Maya City, when it had seemed rather silly to assail the thin air or the defenseless bushes at the edge of town. But now was the time for his hours of practice to pay off. He started towards the matted inland.
“Off we go-- into the wild green yonder,” Norgate came up behind him, balancing a second bush knife as if it were a rifle.
Peter sniffed the sweet, fetid breath of the mass before him. The jungle, he was discovering fast, when viewed from the ground, was not the jungle of the sky world. Here was a tight-walled prison world. A man swallowed deep in its maw could not guess what lay a foot or two beyond his struggling body. This was a trap---not a dull green carpet of velvet pile.
Underfoot were sunken logs, deposited by the overflow of ragging water, slimy roots, foot entangling vines, and higher hanging strands of bush rope and air living plants made a net of confusion.
Nor was this no-man-lands a silent one. A machine hum filled the dank air---rising and falling in regular rhythm---a hum which cut into the brain and nerves. Kane identified it for Peter.
“Giant cicadas-- sounding off and that---”
Peter had shifted his feet at a deep throated boom. Norgate laughed.
“And that, my friends,” he ended Kane's lesson in natural history. “Is a howler monkey telling the world what he thinks of it. He should be glad we are not Indios-- Bushmen would have him in the pot for supper.”
But Kane was beyond interest in howler monkeys. He was pulling at a tangle of dried branches caught in the upturned roots of a fallen tree, branches which bore a gruesome likeness of gray bones. Having partly freed this treasure trove he looked around him, bringing to light two more such untidy nest-like caches. From these he turned back to the river, eyeing the dark water reassuringly.
Norgate put it all into words. “Yes, we're below flood level---”
“Expecting any floods?” Peter dared to ask.
Kane only raised an eyebrow but the pilot shrugged. “That shower bath this morning is not just a local show. One like that in the head waters of the Rio Jaguar and it'd be high water here for sure. If the river is mountain born we can expect anything---”
“So we don't sleep ashore,” Kane prodded the flood flotsam with the toe of his boot. “However, one does not disdain the gifts of the gods. He set about gathering a respectable pile of the sun dried brush from the margin of the stream. “How about a hot dinner?”
“K rations yet,” but Norgate started his own wood hunt. And Peter was not slow to follow.
Knowing enough not to allow himself to be swallowed by the brush and lost in the new of the vegetation he moved by knife strokes up the stream side. Here and there narrow tongues of gravely white sand thrust out into the water. If a porkknocker had worked the Rio Jaguar, it was along these that he had prospected for the riches washed down by the flood waters. But on all of them Peter's foot might have been the first ever set by man.
He was lost in the fun of exploration and after a while gave up all pretense of adding to the bundle of driftwood he had gathered. All sorts of queer noises came out of the hot voidance at his side and things scuttled furiously away from his tread, unseen but not unheard. Once there was a fearsome screech and brilliant wings set out a path across the still air just above the flowing water, to disappear in the wall on the other side of the stream. And the howlers were all in good voice on both sides. It was with an odd sort of reluctance that he answered Kane's hail and headed back toward the anchorage of the plane.
But once within scent of the fire his pace became a trot and he realized just how hungry he really was. Norgate looked up from the small kettle he had swung over the flames.
“It's hot and it's food,” he announced without much enthusiasm. “Come and get it, or I'll feed the tiger fish---”
Peter looked over his shoulder at the brown ripple-less river.
“Any of them here?” He thought of all the horror stories told of the voracious needle toothed terrors which could strip the living flesh from the bones of anything living unfortunate enough to invade their home territory.
“Who knows? This is bogy country, remember, everything and anything may be waiting to grab up-- from djiggas to man-jaguars.”
“Djiggas, yes,” Kane conceded. “and nasty beggars they are too. Then there're the cabouri flies. But man-jaguars----? Those, my friend, I will have to see.”
“The old timers did, or at least so they say,” Norgate lit a cigarette. “Man by day, jaguar by night, and hunt your enemies when your claws were long and sharp. The good-- or bad old vampire-- werewolf legend you run into the world around-- wolf-men in Europe, Fox-women in Uhina and Japan and Jaguar folk down here. Now a puma-man might be a help---”
“Why?” asked Peter bluntly.
“Puma's are good-- jaguars evil. Incidentally they are enemies. But why I don't know. Just another bit of folk-lore for the collector to worry over. And this is jaguar territory-- so be warned.”
Kane grunted and poured another cup of coffee from the pot on the coals.
“You’ve done your duty” he blew inelegantly over the fiery stuff before he drank.
Continue to Part 3
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.