Десмонд Бэгли - The Vivero Letter

‘I know you’re there, Wheale,’ came the big shout. ‘I saw you go in the hut. Are you ready to make a deal?’

I compressed my lips. Fallon said creakily, ‘A deal! Did he mention a deal?’

‘Not the kind you’d appreciate,’ I said grimly.

‘I’m sorry that guy was killed,’ shouted Gatt. ‘But you’re still alive, Wheale. I could have killed you right there by the door, but I didn’t. You know why.’

Smith jerked his head and looked at me with narrowed eyes. There was a question in them which he didn’t put into words. I closed my hand tighter round the butt of the revolver and stared him down until his glance slid away.

‘I’ve got another guy here,’ boomed Gatt. ‘Big Joe Rudetsky. Are you prepared to deal?’

I knew very well what he meant. I moistened my lips and shouted, ‘Produce him alive — and I might.’

There was a long pause. I didn’t know what I’d do if he were still alive and Gatt carried out his threats. Whatever I did would be useless. It would mean putting the four of us into Gatt’s hands and giving him all the aces. And he’d kill us all in the end, anyway. But if he produced Joe Rudetsky and began to torture him, could I withstand it? I didn’t know.

Gatt laughed. ‘You’re smart, Wheale. You sure are smart. But not tough enough. Is Fallon still alive?’

I motioned to Fallon to keep quiet.

‘Oh, I suppose he’s there — with maybe one or two more. I’ll leave them to argue with you, Wheale, and maybe you’ll be ready to make a deal. I’ll give you one hour — and no more. I don’t think you’ll be tough enough for that, Wheale.’

We stood there, quite still, for two full minutes and he said nothing more. I was thankful for that because he’d already said enough — I could see it in Smith’s eyes. I looked at my watch and realized with a sense of shock that it was only seven o’clock in the morning. Less than fifteen minutes earlier I’d been talking to Gatt outside the camp. His attack had come with a ruthless suddenness.

Fallon eased himself down until he was sitting on the floor. He laid the shotgun aside carefully. ‘What’s the deal?’ he asked, looking at his feet. The voice was that of an old man.

I paid far less attention to Fallon than I did to Smith. Smith held an automatic pistol; he held it loosely enough, but he could still be dangerous. ‘Yeah, what’s this deal?’ he echoed.

‘There’s no deal,’ I said shortly.

Smith jerked his head towards the window. ‘That guy says there could be.’

‘I don’t think you’d like to hear it,’ I said coldly.

I saw his gun hand tighten up and I lifted my revolver. He wasn’t standing very far away but I don’t even know if I could have hit him. They tell me that revolvers are very inaccurate in inexperienced hands. Still, Smith wasn’t to know I wasn’t a gunman. I said, ‘Let’s all kill each other and save Gatt the trouble.’

He looked at the gun in my hand which was pointed at his stomach. ‘I just want to know about this deal,’ he said steadily.

‘All right; I’ll tell you — but put the gun down first. It makes me uneasy.’

The thoughts that chased through Smith’s mind were reflected on his face and were as clear as though he had spoken them, but at last he made his decision, stooped and laid the pistol at his feet. I relaxed and put my revolver on the table, and the tension eased. Smith said, ‘I guess, we’re all jumpy.’ It was an apology of sorts.

Fallon was still regarding the tips of his bush boots as though they were the most important things in the world. He said quietly, ‘Who does Gatt want?’

‘He wants me,’ I said. ‘He wants me to go down and retrieve the loot.’

‘I thought he might. What happened to Rudetsky?’

‘He’s dead. He’s lucky.’

Smith hissed in a sudden intake of breath. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Gatt’s way of persuading me to dive isn’t pretty. He’ll take any of us — you, Fallon or Mr.s Halstead, it doesn’t matter — and torture him to put pressure on me. He’s quite capable of doing it, and I think he’d relish using his imagination on a job like that’ I found myself looking at it in a detached manner. ‘He might burn your feet off with a blow lamp; he might chop you up joint by joint while you’re still alive; he might — well, there’s no end to that kind of thing.’

Smith had averted his face. He jerked nervously. ‘And you’d let him do it? Just for the sake of a few lousy trinkets?’

‘I couldn’t stop him,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m glad Rudetsky and Fowler are dead. You see, we got rid of the air bottles, and diving without them would be bloody difficult. All we have are a few charged aqualung bottles — the big bottles are at the bottom of the cenote . If you think I’m going to dive in those conditions, with someone screaming in my ears every time I come up, then you’re even crazier than Gatt.’

Smith whirled on Fallon. ‘You got me into this, you crazy old man. You had no right — do you hear me? You had no right.’ His face collapsed into grief. ‘Jesus, how am I going to get out of this? I don’t wanna be tortured.’ His voice shook with a passion of self-pity and tears streamed from his eyes. ‘Good Christ, I don’t want to die!’ he wept.

It was pitiful to watch him. He was disintegrating as a man. Gatt knew very well how to put pressure on a man’s innermost core, and the hour’s grace he had given us was not intended to be a relief. It was the most sadistic thing he had done and he was winning. Katherine had collapsed; Fallon was eaten up with cancer and self-recrimination, and Smith had the pith taken out of him by the fear of death by torture.

I was all knotted up inside, tormented by my sheer impotence to do anything about it. I wanted to strike out and tear and smash — I wanted to get at Gatt and tear his bloody heart out. I couldn’t and the sense of helplessness was killing me.

Smith looked up craftily. ‘I know what we’ll do,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll give him Fallon. Fallon got us into this, and he’d like to have Fallon, wouldn’t he?’ There was a mad gleam in his eyes. ‘He could do things with Fallon — and he’d leave us alone. We’d be all right then, wouldn’t we?’

‘Shut up!’ I yelled, and then caught hold of myself. This was what Gatt wanted — to break us down with a calculated cold cruelty. I pushed down the temptation to take out my frustrations on Smith with an awful violence, and spoke, trying to keep my voice firm and level. ‘Now, you look here, Smith. We’re all going to die, and we can die by torture or by a bullet. I know which I prefer, so I’m going to fight Gatt and I’m going to do my best to kill him .’

Smith looked at me with hatred. ‘It’s all right for you. He’s not going to torture you. You’re safe.’

The ridiculousness of what he’d just said suddenly struck me, and I began to laugh hysterically. All the pent-up emotions suddenly welled up in laughter, and I laughed uncontrollably. ‘Safe!’ I cried. ‘My God, but that’s funny!’ I laughed until the tears came and there was a pain in my chest. ‘Oh, safe!’

The madness in Smith’s eyes was replaced by a look of astonishment and then he caught on and a giggle escaped him, to be followed by a more normal chuckle. Then we both dissolved in gales of laughter. It was hysterical and it hurt in the end, but it did us good, and when the emotional spasm was over I felt purged and Smith was no longer on the verge of madness.

Even Fallon had a grim smile on his face, remarkable in a man whose life and manner of death had just been debated by a semi-lunatic. He said, ‘I’m sorry I got you into this, Smith; but I’m in it myself, too. Jemmy is right; the only thing to do is to fight’