James Chase - A Can of Worms

The rifle came up.

“Beat it! I’m not telling you again!” The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. Don’t you want...”

The gun went off with a cracking sound. The slug churned up the leaves at my feet. It was a one-shot gun. I moved fast. I was on him while he was groping for another slug.

His reflexes were snake-like. If I hadn’t been trained in jungle fighting, he would have crippled me with the kick he aimed at my groin. The kick, a solid one, landed on my thigh and sent me staggering. He swung the rifle and the butt just missed my face. As he swung again, I weaved into him and landed a short arm jab into his belly with all my weight behind it. His breath came out of him with the hiss of a punctured tyre and he went down on his knees. As he was trying to drag air into his empty lungs, I chopped down hard on the back of his neck. He flattened out, face down.

I went quickly to the tent and peered inside. There were two beds, well separated, a canvas washbasin on a collapsible stand and a folding table. On one side of the table were a woman’s things: a hairbrush, comb, toothbrush, scent spray and face powder. On the other side of the table were his things: a toothbrush, mug, cigarettes and a cheap lighter.

I looked back at him. He was moving. I went over to the rifle, picked it up, then squatted away from him and waited.

He came slowly alive, pushed himself onto his knees, and then hauled himself upright. His hand massaged the back of his neck as he glared at me.

“Let’s be friendly,” I said, and stood up. I was watching him closely. There was a dangerous gleam in his slate-grey eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “And cut that crap about Blackbeard’s cave. What do you want?”

“Let’s say I’m looking for some peace and quiet — like you,” I said, and smiled at him. “These islands are great if a guy wants to drop out of sight until the climate cools.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What are you... a deserter?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for peace and quiet,” I said. “If you’re on the same wagon, then maybe I could confide in you. Are you?”

He hesitated, then shrugged.

“I kicked the Army six months ago. I’ve had enough of that bull.”

I was sure he was lying. He hadn’t the stamp of an Army man. After serving three years as an M.P., I knew an ex-Army man when I saw him.

“Well, you have a nice spot here: nice tent. Are you aiming to stay long?”

“As long as it suits me. There’s no room here for you. Go find another island.”

I was thinking about the woman’s things I had seen in the tent. Was there a woman on the island with him or were those Nancy’s things?

“Okay,” I said. “I like company, but if you don’t want me around...” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll look elsewhere. Good luck, soldier,” and I walked over to the shrub where I had hidden, and picked up my holdall.

“How did you get here?” he demanded.

“The same way as you did.” I gave him a wave, then started along the path back to my boat.

I hadn’t been walking for more than three or four minutes when I heard him following me. He hadn’t had jungle training, but he wasn’t too bad. If I hadn’t been alert, I wouldn’t have known he was following me. I kept on until I reached the boat. I knew he was within a few yards of me, but he didn’t break cover. He was just making sure I left.

I got in the boat, cast loose, started the outboard engine and headed back down the long, dark tunnel to the sea. I was sure he would watch me out of sight, so I headed back to the mainland, then when the islands disappeared below the horizon, I altered course and made for Matecombe Key. I tied up in the small harbour, crossed the quay to a fisherman’s bar.

The negro barkeep regarded me, surprise in his black eyes, then his lips peeled off in a big grin.

“Thought I was back in the Army, boss,” he said. “That jungle outfit sure brings back memories.”

The bar was empty except for him and myself. I climbed onto a stool.

“Beer.”

He uncapped a bottle and poured. I had a thirst that would slay a camel. I drank the beer, pushed the empty glass towards him and lit a cigarette.

“I’ve been looking at the pirates’ islands,” I said. “This outfit is right for those jungles.”

“You can say that again.” He poured another beer. “Nothing out there but birds. The Indians used to live there. That was before my time. No one there now.”

“Have a beer.”

“Too early for me, boss, but thanks.”

I looked at my watch. It was a little after eleven.

“Anyway I can hire a rod and tackle?” I asked. “I’m on vacation, getting a little sun.”

“I’ll let you have mine. I saw you come in. That’s one of Toni’s boats if I ain’t mistaken.”

“Right. I hired it for the day. You’ll let me have your rod?”

“Sure. I’ll get it.” He went behind a dirty curtain and I heard him rummaging around. After a while, he came back with a nice little rod and a can of bait.

I put my last fifty-dollar bill on the bar counter.

“Just in case I fall overboard,” I said as I took the rod and the bait from him. “I may not be back until five. Okay?”

He shoved the bill back to me.

“We’re veterans, boss. I don’t need security from you.”

I was glad to get the bill back. I thanked him and went back to the boat. When I was out to sea, I cut the engine and changed back into my shirt and slacks. I stowed the uniform in the holdall, then headed back to the islands. I gave the creek, leading to the hippy’s hideout, a wide berth and got under the over-hanging trees of an island some quarter of a mile from the creek. I unpacked the sandwiches and ate them while I thought.

What was this man doing, hiding up on the island? He was no Army deserter. Had he a woman with him or did Nancy use the things I had seen in the tent? Another thing, I told myself: that tent cost money. The hippy didn’t look as if he was worth a dime. Was Nancy staking him?

To pass the time, I began to fish, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking and puzzling, but I came up with nothing. I had to get more facts, and more information. All the same, the setup intrigued me.

Around 15.00, I heard the distant sound of a motorboat. I laid down my rod, grabbed hold of the over-hanging branches, and hauled the boat out of sight.

A few minutes later I saw Hamel’s yacht approaching fast. It headed for the creek, cut speed, then disappeared under the foliage.

I hesitated. Suppose Nancy had left Josh Jones to keep watch? It would be fatal if he spotted me. So I decided to wait. An hour crawled by. I sat in the boat, slapping at mosquitoes and sweltering. Then I heard the yacht’s motor start up, and a moment later, it appeared, and went racing towards the mainland.

I decided to have another talk with the hippy. I could tell him I had run out of gas and could I buy some off him? He wasn’t to know that I was sure he hadn’t a boat, and Nancy was acting as his life-line. Whether he was her lover or not, I was willing to bet she had got him on the island and probably had bought him the camping outfit.

I started up the engine and steered the boat to the creek. I tied up at the mooring post, then set off briskly down the winding path, making no attempt to conceal my approach.

I reached the sharp bend in the path that would bring me to the clearing. Rounding the bend, I came to an abrupt stop.

The clearing was deserted, and had an empty, used look. There was no tent, no two folding chairs, no barbeque. It was obvious my hippy bird had flown, helped by Nancy and Josh Jones. The moment they had arrived, my hippy must have told them of my visit and the decision to pack and get out was a matter of minutes.