Plunder of the Sun Page 16

  I had turned to look at the lake, where the fishing boats were still paddling slowly for the mouth of the inlet, their sails useless in the morning calm. The comandante turned with me, a frown on his face. But he shook his head positively.

  “Every man in them had to show his papers to my men. And it’s thirty-five miles across the lake to the nearest point. Even an Indian wouldn’t try it in a balsa.”

  “Jeff isn’t an Indian.”

  The comandante shook his head again.

  “It’s impossible. He’s here, somewhere.”

  He turned back to follow the guardias, who had moved ahead two huts while we were talking.

  I watched the steamer back away from the mole, turn in a tight circle, and pick up speed toward the mouth of the inlet. She was fast. She would reach the open lake before the balsas did. The men in the balsas knew it, too, because when she hooted her whistle I saw them stop paddling and gesture warningly at each other. The comandante’s men had delayed them a few minutes too long. They couldn’t get through the mouth of the inlet before the steamer caught up with them, and if she passed them in the narrow channel her wash would swamp them. They separated like a flock of scared ducks, paddling away toward the shore on either side to give the steamer a free passage.

  And that beat Jeff. Because when the steamer cleared the mouth of the inlet and nosed out into the lake, there was no protective screen of fishing boats near her to hide the single balsa that put out from the headland, the man in it paddling hard to head the steamer off. He must have been desperate when the fishing boats that would have covered his escape turned back at the last minute. But it was his chance. He took it, gambling to the last, rather than wait there on the bare headland, anchored to his loot, to be hunted down like a rabbit when the guardias finished searching the town and fanned out to beat the countryside.

  I bellowed at the comandante, half a block up the street. I was already running back toward the station wagon when he caught up with me.

  “What is it?” he yelled.

  “Jeff. Hurry.” Running was difficult, with the heavy cast to throw me off balance at each step. I needed my wind.

  “Where?”

  “Balsa. Off the headland.”

  He looked over his shoulder as he ran, saw the small boat paddling furiously to cut the steamer off, and asked no more questions. He reached the station wagon ahead of me and had the motor going when I jumped in. We roared away toward the mole, the horn going steadily, Indians, burros and llamas jumping for their lives ahead of us.

  I said, “Is there a launch?”

  “Yes. We’ll get him. Where did he come from?”

  “The headland. That Indian you put in jail didn’t cut those reeds. Jeff and Tacho did. Jeff turned his burros loose, killed Tacho because he didn’t need him any more, lugged the reeds out to the headland before Tacho’s body was discovered, and spent the night tying a balsa together. Can you catch the steamer?”

  “If it slows down to pick him up.”

  “Will they be fools enough to try it?”

  “Probably. Those bolivianos would enjoy thumbing their noses at us, and they can make Bolivian waters before we could do anything about it. But they can’t take him aboard without cutting speed. We’ll get him.”

  The station wagon skidded on wet rails as we hit the spur track leading from the railroad yard to the mole. It slewed around, its wheels spinning, and bogged down in mud. We jumped out and ran the last few yards.

  The two guardias the sergeant had left on guard were loafing on a bench. They jumped up, grabbing their rifles, when they saw the comandante running toward them. He shouted and waved toward the ladder that led down to the water’s edge, halfway between us and them.

  They got it. They were ahead of us when we ran down the ladder to a float where half a dozen small boats were tied up. A cholo was slapping white lead on the hull of one of the boats, a launch with a gasoline kicker. He had careened it against the float with a couple of lines so he could paint below the water line.

  The two guardias were casting off his lines before he knew what was happening. He opened his mouth to yell, but the comandante shut him up.

  “Catch the steamer! Hurry!”

  The cholo knew authority when he heard it. He dropped his paint brush and jumped for the kicker. We piled in. The comandante picked up an oar from the bottom of the boat, pushed away from the float, and then, because the engine didn’t catch right away, began to paddle uselessly. The engine coughed, roared, coughed again, and began to hum. The cholo put the wheel hard over.

  The steamer whistled. Her pilot had spotted the man in the balsa, crazily wig-wagging his arms. Jeff had given up paddling, seeing that he couldn’t make it, and was staking everything on his signals and, I suppose, shouted promises of a fortune for every man aboard. He must have felt hell’s own fury in his heart when the steamer did slow down at his shouts and arm-waving, and he saw us skipping across the water toward him, the guardias’ rifles glinting in the sun, the comandante erect in the bow of the launch, a revolver in his hand.

  Jeff’s nerve never failed him, even then. He would have reached the side of the ship before us if the wash from her backed engines hadn’t pushed his balsa away. Somebody threw him a line that fell short. Before the line could be hauled in and tossed again, the launch had swooped in around the stern of the steamer. The cholo boatman cut his motor. The roar of the kicker faded. The launch rolled as it came about between the steamer and the balsa.

  In the sudden quiet, I said, “Hello, Jeff.”

  Five yards separated us. Both boats rocked in the wash, slowly coming together as the launch’s kicker ticked over. The guardias waited, their rifles ready. The comandante covered Jeff with his revolver. Heads lined the rail of the steamer above us.

  All Jeff saw was me, the cast holding my arm up by my ear in what must have looked to him like a mocking greeting from the grave, the end of everything for him. His dirty face, scrubby in a week’s growth of beard, twisted. He reached under his poncho.

  The comandante let him get the gun out before his own gun slammed in my ear. The guardias’ rifles banged a split second later. All three bullets hit Jeff in the chest. His reflexes shocked him to his feet, but he must have been dead before he crumpled and fell. The rickety balsa tipped as his body hit the gunwale. It rocked once, shipped water, and went down like a stone.

  18

  The diver that Naharro called up from Callao to get the gold from the lake bottom had no trouble finding it. It had gone straight down with the balsa, and the water wasn’t deep off the mouth of the inlet. The diver’s only difficulty was with his air-compression apparatus, which didn’t work right at such a high altitude. He wasn’t used to the cold water, either. But he found all ninety-three pieces.

  Jeff’s body floated up on the shore and was buried there in Puno, next to Tacho’s grave. I didn’t see the burial or watch the diver working, because I was in bed for four days after I passed out as I was leaving the launch at the mole. It was only fatigue and general weakness that bothered me, but I took it easy for a while and let Ana Luz wait on me. She and I were alone in Puno after Naharro and the comandante went to Lima with the treasure and Raul took Julie back to Arequipa. Ana Luz used to spend hours at my bedside, reading to me or playing cards with me or just dreaming, a glow in her face.

  Once she said, “Is it difficult to learn English?”

  “No more difficult than learning any other language, except for the spelling. Why do you want to learn English?”

  “I want to go to the States. I want to live in New York, get a job there, go to theatres and lectures and concerts every night, live like a North American. Do you know, I’ve never been out of Peru except for that one trip to Chile with don Alfredo. I was never farther from Arequipa than Lima until I became his nurse.”

  “It’s expensive, living in New York. Not like here.”

  “I have some money. I saved all the salary that don Alfredo paid me. And I should be ab
le to get some kind of a job nursing in a big city like New York. Is it as big as they say?”

  “The biggest city in the world. The biggest, noisiest and most exciting, if you have never been there.”

  She sighed, her eyes bright.

  “When are you going to leave?”

  “As soon as you are well.”

  “I’m well now. Don’t let me hold you.”

  “I owe you too much to leave now. I can never repay you, but…”

  “Stop it.”

  “No. I can never forget it. I swear I will not, as long as I live.”

  “Foolishness. Let’s play cards.”

  I got up on the fifth day. A letter from don Ubaldo and a telegram from the comandante arrived at the same time. The comandante was in trouble for killing Jeff. The United States Embassy didn’t like the idea of Peruvian police shooting United States nationals, whatever they happened to be doing, and the comandante needed my story to help square him. That was enough reason to take me to Lima, because he was a good guy and I liked him. Another reason was Naharro’s letter. The National Institute of Archaeology, he wrote, wanted me to attend a dinner they were having in my honor, at which the discovery of the treasure would be announced and the discovery reward paid.

  The letter was about as warm as the third one you get from a bill collector after you have ignored the first two. He didn’t ask after my health, and he didn’t ask after Ana Luz.

  So I took her to Lima with me. She had to go there anyway, to get a visa for the United States, and she said there was no reason for her to return to Arequipa. She never wanted to see Arequipa again. All she wanted to take with her was the clothes she wore. I think she would have sent those back if she could have bought others in Puno, stripped her body bare of everything connected with her old life as she had stripped her mind of its obligation when the treasure at last rose from the lake.

  We took the train back to Cuzco. I found my bag in Tacho’s hut, just as I had left it. His woman was there. I told her that Tacho was dead and gave her some money. She took it without a word or a change of expression. She was nursing her dirty baby when I left the hut.

  In Cuzco we caught a plane that put us down in Lima the next day. I looked up the comandante first, told him to stop worrying, and then went on to the Embassy to give them as much of the story as was necessary to get them to drop out of the picture. Afterwards I hunted up a doctor and had him knock the cast off my shoulder and fix a black satin sling for my arm. I didn’t need the sling, but the banquet was set for that night. I wanted to look properly battered when I stood up to accept the reward for all my trouble on behalf of the Republic of Peru.

  It was quite a banquet. The Institute Nacional de Arqueología took over most of the Hotel Bolívar, where I had first opened Berrien’s package and seen the manuscript. Ana Luz went to the banquet with me, in a new evening dress that was so nearly of the same material as my satin arm sling that they could have been cut from the same bolt of cloth. I looked real distinguished, with the sling on one arm and her on the other. The comandante was there, all clear since I had talked to the Embassy. Raul was there with Julie. He stayed far enough away from me so I couldn’t have hit him even if I had felt like it, but Julie waved hello. I didn’t have a chance to ask her how she was getting along before Naharro saw me.

  His face froze when I walked in with Ana Luz. But he had to make the introductions, whether he liked it or not, and he carried them off as if he weren’t wishing that we would both drop dead. There were about a hundred and fifty old badgers and their wives who wanted to meet the gringo hero, so dinner was served before I had finished going the rounds.

  The speeches began while the last plates were being cleared away. The president of the Institute was toast-master. He couldn’t wait to get started. He stood up, banged a wine glass with his knife for attention, and let go with a flood of oratory.

  “Socios del Instituto, señoras y convidados distinguidos. It is my privilege this evening to introduce our guest of honor, a norteamericano whose name will go down in Peruvian history along with the names of Francisco Pizarro, José de San Martin, Simon Bolívar and others who have contributed to the progress of our fair country. Before presenting our distinguished guest, it was my intention to make formal announcement of the discovery of a truly amazing collection of Incaic treasure which the Institute is now preparing for public exhibition. However—” he giggled happily “—since the discovery has been the sole subject of conversation of everyone present for several days, the announcement seems unnecessary. I will only say that we expect the Treasure of Amarú to be recognized by the world of archaeology as one of the most significant finds ever made in Peru. I will have more to say about it later. In the meantime, I am sure that you are all less interested in listening to my own poor words than to the story of the discovery of the treasure from the lips of the discoverer himself. Señoras y señores, I give you—Señor Al Colby!”

  The applause roared. Ana Luz smiled encouragingly as I stood up, cleared my throat, and stalled with a drink of water.

  The toastmaster had thrown me a hot potato. I hadn’t expected to have to say any more than “Thanks.” I didn’t know how much of the truth Naharro had told him, and I could put my foot in it good if I talked too much.

  I said, “Señoras y señores, your distinguished president embarrasses me with praise. My own small part in the discovery was possible only because I was fortunate enough to come into possession of a portion of a manuscript which led me to the treasure. Without the kind assistance of don Ubaldo Naharro, your associate, who obtained for me a permit to carry out the search, and the help of your justly famous Guardia Civil under the leadership of the comandante sitting opposite me—” I had forgotten his name and he knew it, but he grinned and nodded. “—I would never have been here this evening. The unearthing of the treasure was simply a matter of following instructions in the manuscript which I have mentioned. I believe that Señor Naharro knows as much of the history of this interesting document as any man living. I suggest that you call on him for a few words. Gracias.”

  I sat down, sweating. The hot potato was Naharro’s now. Damn it, where was my check? I wasn’t there just for a speech of welcome. If he had double-crossed me at the last minute…

  Naharro stood up as the applause died. He didn’t look in my direction.

  “What Señor Colby says is true,” he began slowly. “I think I know as much as any man alive of the manuscript to which he refers. You have all heard the story of the message of the last Villac Umu, the key to an enormous treasure which was hidden from the conquistadores by the Inca priests. You probably thought, as I did at one time, that it was only another legend. It is not a legend. The manuscript which—came into Señor Colby’s possession consisted of three pieces of parchment containing instructions leading to what our president has referred to as the Treasure of Amarú, a magnificent discovery. While those pieces of parchment have served their purpose and no longer have material value, they would have made an interesting addition to the Institute’s collection. I regret to say that they have been accidentally destroyed.”

  I was reaching for my water glass when he said that. I almost knocked it over. When I looked up, he was waiting, his face still turned toward his audience, as if thinking over what he would say next. I knew that he was waiting for me.

  I could have called him a liar then and there, I suppose. But I still didn’t have my check, I could still land in trouble any time he wanted to put me there, and I still didn’t know what he was up to. If he wanted to keep the three pieces of parchment, we both knew that I wasn’t in any position to argue about it. But I was puzzled.

  He gave me plenty of time before he went on.

  “The regrettable thing is not the destruction of this portion of the manuscript, since the treasure to which it was the key has been unearthed. The tragedy is that the rest of the manuscript, which might well have led to archaeological wealth beside which the Treasure of Amarú would
represent only an insignificant collection of toys, has been irretrievably lost to the world. There were nine other pieces of parchment, originally. What message they bore can only be conjectured. But we all know the immense value of the objects hidden during the last days of Cuzco, when the conquistadores swept up the Road of Kings from Cajamarca…”

  I wasn’t listening to him. I knew what he was doing, now.

  The message on the three sheets of parchment didn’t have to be conjectured. They said enough to prove that the legend of the fourteen gold statues under the middle wall of the fortress of Sacsahuamán was true. If the Institute ever got hold of that part of the manuscript, they wouldn’t need instructions how to get to the hidden chamber. They would take the fortress wall apart stone by stone. Naharro wasn’t going to have that. Let them gloat over the Treasure of Amarú. He would keep his secret until a time came when it was safe for him to dig. Only Al Colby could tip over his applecart, and if Al Colby knew on which side his bread was buttered, he’d keep his mouth shut. If not…

  A spatter of applause drowned the end of Naharro’s speech. He bowed and sat down. The toastmaster bobbed to his feet.

  “And now, señoras y señores, I have only a few more words to say.” His mind was so full of something else that he hadn’t noticed that neither Naharro nor I had said a single word about the discovery of the parchment, where, when or how. “First, it is my pleasure to present to Señor Colby this small token of appreciation from the Republic of Peru for his truly remarkable contribution to our archaeology—a check for seven hundred and fifty thousand soles de oro!”

  An excited buzz ran around the table. I swallowed hard as I took the check. Seven hundred and fifty thousand soles was fifty thousand dollars in hard money. I couldn’t think of a thing to say except “Muchísimas gracias.” The toastmaster barely let me get that much out.

  “A large reward, you will say. But well earned, as you may judge for yourself.” His voice rose and cracked. He clapped his hands loudly. “Behold—the Treasure of Amarú!”