Читать книгу Judas Journey - Lee Roberts - Страница 8

PETE DAVOS was waiting for him in the lobby of the Gulf Hotel. “How was it?” Pete asked, grinning.

“Shut up.” Ramsey strode past him.

“Aw, Rack,” Pete protested, hurrying after him. “I was just asking. I been waiting for you, Rack.” He grasped Ramsey’s arm.

Ramsey stopped and turned. “I thought you were going to bed.”

“I was, but there’s somebody I met in the bar. I want you to meet him.”

“I’m tired. Who is it?”

“You’ll see,” Pete said, grinning. “Come on.” He pulled the reluctant Ramsey across the lobby.

They entered a long murky room with a bar against one wall, booths along the other, tables in the center. Pete led Ramsey to a table at the far end. As they approached, a man stood up and gazed at them steadily, swaying a little. He was a very thin man with wide spare shoulders. His narrow face and the top of his bald head were burned dark by the sun, and the yellow hair over his ears was bleached almost white. His nose was long, with sensitive nostrils; his mouth and chin were firm. He wore a rather scraggly yellow mustache and his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses were the pale blue of a winter sky. A dark blue serge suit hung limply on his lean frame and a black knit tie was knotted loosely in the collar of a soft white shirt. He was about fifty years old.

“My God,” Ramsey said, grinning broadly. “Simpson.” He held out a hand. The thin man reached for it, missed, and Ramsey grabbed his.

“Rackwell,” Simpson said gravely, “it is nice to see you again.” He pointed a long wavering finger at Pete Davos. “When I saw Pete come in, I couldn’t believe my eyes.” He peered down over his glasses at the table. “I see that I have received a fresh drink. Will you join me?”

The three of them sat down. Simpson motioned to a waiter, gave their order, and then said to Ramsey, “I am quite drunk, Rackwell. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Don’t mention it. Are you out here on a job?”

“I was,” Simpson said, “but it is finished. Down Tampico way—for an American mining company. Consulting job.” He smiled at the two men. “As they say in the theatrical world, I am currently at liberty.” He drank from a tall glass which Ramsey knew contained Scotch and water, knowing Simpson’s drinking habits as he did.

Nevil Simpson was a geologist, a free-lancer, who worked mostly as a consultant. Ramsey and Pete had met him in Pennsylvania when he’d been doing some special strata testing for the coal mine. The two men had been assigned to help Simpson, and in the six weeks it had taken to complete the tests the three of them had become good friends. When Simpson left, they had promised to write each other, but they never had. Ramsey was genuinely pleased to see the grave and friendly geologist.

Pete touched Simpson’s arm. “Tell him about it,” he said eagerly.

Ramsey grinned at Simpson. “Don’t tell me you got married again?”

Simpson sighed and fixed Ramsey with bright and somewhat glazed eyes. “No, Rackwell,” he said sadly, “my marital situation remains unchanged. I wish it were otherwise, but my beloved ex-wife still refuses to share my roving life.” He sighed again. “Pete is referring to the mahogany.”

Ramsey looked puzzled. “Mahogany?”

Simpson nodded solemnly. “A veritable forest, a virgin stand. Fabulous.” He drank from his glass.

Ramsey gave Pete a questioning glance. “Go on,” Pete said to Simpson. “Tell him.”

Simpson leaned forward and peered at Ramsey. His blue eyes seemed to swirl in his head. “Pure luck,” he said gravely, “meeting you and Pete like this. Would you be interested in going after the mahogany?”

“I don’t know.” Ramsey winked at Pete. “Where is it?”

Simpson took an envelope from an inside coat pocket, laid it on the table, produced the yellow stub of a pencil and drew a wavering line. “That, gentlemen, is the Rio Verde in the Mexican state of San Luis Potosi.” An inch from the line he made a cross. “And there is the mahogany.” He drained his glass in one long swallow and said softly, “Virgin, Rackwell. Fabulous.” His gaze shifted and focused waveringly on a spot above Ramsey’s head. “Excuse me,” he mumbled. He closed his eyes and his head sank slowly to the table.

Ramsey looked at Pete, shook his head slowly and stood up.

Pete grasped Ramsey’s arm. “Listen, Rack, he’s on the level. We just met in the bar and got to talking, and then he began to tell men about the mahogany. He was a little drunk, but not like he is now, and the more he talked the more I believed him. It’s like he said; he was down there in Mexico working for the mining company, making some kind of survey, and he found the mahogany, a forest of it, way the hell back in the bush. Rack, he wants us to throw in with him—form a—an expedition, he said. We’ll all be rich.”

Ramsey laughed. “Oh, sure.”

“No, Rack, listen,” Pete said excitedly. “It makes sense. When he found the mahogany he was with a crew of ignorant working stiffs, Mexicans, dumb as hell. They didn’t pay no attention to the mahogany, and Simpson didn’t tell anybody about it—just us. He was trying to find somebody he could trust to go in with him, and we show up. He made a map of the location and he wants to go back, to see if there’s a way to get the wood out to the coast, but he don’t have enough money, and besides it’s a job for at least three men—the supplies to carry, and all. There’s a road part way, but it peters out and we’ll have to walk in. There ain’t no roads back there, Simpson said, and no places for a plane to land, just swamp and hills and jungle. But it’s there, Rack, all that mahogany. Think of it—the money!”

A little of Pete’s excitement was communicated to Ramsey. He had respect for Simpson’s education and intelligence, and he gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping geologist. “We’ll talk to him when he’s sober,” he told Pete. “But we can’t leave him here.”

“He’s got a room upstairs,” Pete said. “He told me he’d been here a week.”

Ramsey reached into Simpson’s coat pocket, found a tabbed key and said to Pete, “Two-o-six.” He paid the check and a sympathetic waiter told them they could take their friend up a back stairway. They got Simpson out of the bar, ignoring the amused glances of the other patrons, and up the stairs. Pete supported Simpson while Ramsey unlocked the door of room 206. As they laid Simpson on the bed, his wallet fell from his coat pocket. It lay open on the floor and when Ramsey picked it up he saw the contents of two cellophaned sections. A card in one certified that Nevil H. Simpson, of St. Louis, Missouri, was a member in good standing of the Geological Society of America. The other compartment held a faded snapshot of a pretty dark-haired woman in a white dress standing in bright sunlight beside a palm tree with the white roofs of a tropical village on the far hills behind her.

Pete peered over Ramsey’s shoulder. “Must be his wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Ramsey said. “Pretty, huh? Must have been taken in the days before she divorced him, before she decided she wanted to settle down in one place.” He sighed and replaced the wallet in the coat pocket. They undressed Simpson to his underwear and covered him up. As they left, they heard him mumble, “Fabulous . . . Virgin . . .”

The clerk called them at six o’clock, as they had instructed. Sleepily and mechanically they dressed in their working clothes of blue jeans, flannel shirts and heavy shoes. Years of conditioning had hardened them to getting up and going to work after a few hours sleep, or no sleep at all, often with wicked hangovers. It was part of the life they led, and they accepted it without complaint. Ramsey had long ago learned that there was a price for everything and that it was merely a matter of choice and how much you paid, in one way or another, for pleasures of goods received. This morning he was tired, but his head was clear, and he was faintly annoyed to realize that he was thinking of the little dancer at the Jungle Tavern. What was her name? Sara something.

Pete yawned, picked up his leather jacket and metal lunch box. “Well, come on. If we wanna eat, we gotta work.”

They left the room they shared and as they passed Simpson’s door, Pete paused and listened a moment. “Not a peep,” he said, grinning. “He’s still dead to the world.”

Ramsey merely grunted. It was funny, he thought, still thinking of the dancer. She had let him pick her up, and then pulled the innocent, hard-to-get act.

In the restaurant down stairs they ate ham and eggs, fried potatoes, brown bread toast and drank hot coffee from thick mugs. The Gulf Hotel catered to oil field workers, and the cook filled their lunch boxes with sandwiches, pie and coffee. Then they went out into the fresh morning and caught a bus to the field.

It was almost six o’clock when they returned to the hotel, tired and muddy. After a bath and a change of clothes they went down to the bar. Simpson was sitting at a table with a full glass before him. He stood up as they entered and smiled a little ruefully. He was wearing the same blue suit, but his shirt was fresh and white, his yellow mustache was neatly trimmed, and his blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were bright and clear.

Pete waved, grinning, “Hi, Simpson.”

Ramsey thought with affection that if Pete had been a dog his tail would be wagging. Life was simple for Pete, and he didn’t ask or expect much. He was friendly and easy-going, but fiercely loyal to Ramsey. On a number of occasions Pete’s hard fists had helped to get them out of unfriendly and even dangerous situations in which they sometimes found themselves, usually in a bar.

“Good evening,” Simpson said in his grave voice. “I have been waiting for you, to apologize for my disgraceful conduct last night, and to thank you for putting me to bed, where I most certainly belonged. I am afraid that I sometimes misjudge my capacity for alcohol, especially after a dry time in the field. Who paid the check last night?”

“I did,” Ramsey said, “but forget it.”

“Thank you, Rackwell. I wish to reimburse you.”

Ramsey said, “You bought us plenty of drinks in Pittsburgh.”

“Then I insist upon buying now. Will you join me?”

They ordered drinks—another Scotch and water for Simpson, Bourbon and soda for Ramsey and Pete. As Ramsey relaxed in the chair he became aware of the tiredness of his muscles and he told himself that right after dinner he would go to bed. Then he thought of the dancer, Sara—what was her last name? Colvin, that was it—and he stirred restlessly.

Simpson said, “Have you two thought over what I told you last night?”

Ramsey smiled. “I’m afraid not. After all, you didn’t give us a very clear picture.”

Simpson smiled wryly. “Again I apologize. But what I told you is true. It seemed natural to tell you and Pete. I’m all alone now; my friends are scattered around the globe. My wife, as you know, divorced me and I can’t say that I blame her. A woman wants roots and security.” He paused and sipped moodily at his drink. “I presume I have told you about Angeline?”

“Yes,” Ramsey said, remembering the days in Pittsburgh.

Simpson sighed, “Angeline wanted a permanent home, and children—all the trite and maybe wonderful things that every woman wants. I don’t blame her. But geology is my work, my life, and I had to go where the work was. Oh, I could have taken a professorship at some university, and Angeline would have loved being a faculty wife, but I guess I’m just a rover at heart, like you, Rackwell, and you, Pete. The far horizon, you know, the view from the next mountain-top, the turn in the road and all that foolish and romantic nonsense.” He drank again. “Maybe I’m sorry, now that I’m getting along in years. I still write to Angeline, and she writes to me. She’s teaching natural history in a high school in St. Louis, and living with her parents.” He reached inside his coat. “I have a photo of Angeline, taken years ago in Brazil. . . .”

“What about the mahogany?” Ramsey asked gently.

“Ah, yes.” Simpson’s hand came away from the coat pocket and he wiped his glasses on a paper napkin. “It’s there, Rackwell, truly. A virgin stand. Acres of mahogany trees, sixty to eighty feet tall, in a remote and desolate country. I staked it out and made a preliminary survey. There will be complications—with the Mexican government, for one—but they can be worked out. The important thing now is to make a complete survey and plan a method of transportation to the coast. We will need financial help, but that can come later. It won’t be easy, but if we succeed I would not attempt to estimate our gain. . . .”

Simpson paused, hooked the glasses over his ears, and continued in a soft voice. “Maybe Angeline would take me back then, if I would settle down and live the kind of life she wants. With the mahogany money, we could do that.” He smiled at Ramsey and Pete. “You see? This means much more to me than mere financial gain.”

“I see,” Ramsey said. He had never thought of mahogany before, except as a wood from which the costlier furniture was made, but listening to Nevil Simpson’s precise voice had given it an illusive glamor. “How much would it cost?”

Simpson shrugged. “I estimate that the preliminary expedition would require about three thousand dollars, and three to four months’ time.” He peered at Ramsey and Pete. “A thousand dollars for each of us.”

“We can scrape that up,” Ramsey said, thinking that it would wipe out the savings accounts he and Pete had in a Pittsburgh bank. He looked at Pete. “What do you say?”

“Let’s go,” Pete breathed, his dark eyes shining.

Simpson said, “I cannot promise you anything, except that the mahogany is there.”

“We understand,” Ramsey said. He and Pete had nothing much to lose, he thought, except their savings and a few months’ time. But money could always be earned again, and time meant nothing to them. He lifted his glass in a silent toast. Simpson and Pete joined him.

“Then it’s agreed,” Simpson said. “We’ll place the project on a business-like basis. I propose that we organize a legal partnership, pool our resources, purchase the necessary supplies and equipment and cross the Border. I have maps which I will show you. Time is important. Others may discover the mahogany, and the rainy season is just ending there. It will begin again in May or June, but we should be back long before then. I have a car which will take us to the jumping-off place. Then it will be a hard journey on foot through wild and treacherous country, but at the end will be the—the rainbow.” He smiled half shyly and his glasses glinted in the light.

“How soon can we leave?” Pete asked eagerly.

“We’ll see.” Simpson pursed his lips, got paper and the stub of pencil. “It will take a little time to get ready.” He began to write. “We’ll need food, medical supplies, guns, ammunition, machetes, netting, surveying instruments . . .”

Two hours later, after they’d eaten dinner, Ramsey left Simpson and Pete in Simpson’s room poring over maps and talking about supplies. He changed his mind about going to bed and went instead to the Jungle Tavern, where he sat alone in a corner and watched Sara Colvin dance. At one o’clock, after her last dance, he walked to her apartment building and stood in the shadow of the hedge. He smoked and wondered irritably what he was doing there. At one-thirty a black Jaguar pulled up to the curb and stopped. A man and a woman got out, and Ramsey saw that the woman was Sara Colvin. The man was tall and hatless and wore a loose topcoat over a tuxedo. They walked to the door and stood talking in low tones. Then Ramsey heard her say, “Good night, Blake. Thank you.”

The man said something, went back to the Jaguar and drove away. Ramsey moved quickly up behind the girl as she entered the foyer. She heard his step and turned. He saw the startled recognition in her eyes, and he felt suddenly awkward and ill at ease. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello.” Her voice and her eyes were cool.

“I’m sorry—about last night.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “It was nice of you to wait here to tell me—Rackwell. Is not that your name?”

“Yes, but call me Rack.”

“I have thought about you today,” she said, “and I have decided that perhaps you were not to blame. We were strangers to each other and I permitted you to walk home with me, and naturally you . . .” She lowered her gaze and fingered a button of her coat. He could not see the faintly mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“Naturally,” he said, and he thought dismally that she really shouldn’t blame him. It had been her mistake, too. What kind of a woman did she think he was looking for, a man like him? He turned away and said shortly, “I won’t bother you any more.”

Behind him she laughed softly, a pleasant sound. “Now you are being—noble, but I accept your apology.”

He paused and turned.

“Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” she asked. “The one you did not get last night?”

He felt that she was mocking him and he said stiffly, “No, thanks.”

She smiled. “Of course you do, and you’re welcome—now. Please come in.” She turned and entered the building.

Dumbly he followed her and stood silently as the elevator took them up. As she unlocked her apartment door, he said, “Who was the man who brought you home?”

“Just my employer,” she said over her shoulder. “Blake Bowen. He owns the Jungle Tavern.” She opened the door and he followed her inside.

Her apartment was small, but very neat and attractively furnished. She made Bourbon highballs and talked to him about his work, about Mexico, and he relaxed and suddenly realized that he was enjoying himself. She played some Mexican records and told him more about her life south of the Border. It was after two o’clock in the morning when he stood up, thinking of the job starting at seven. “Thanks,” he said, as he opened the door.

She said gently, “I have enjoyed it.” She paused, her lips parted a little. “Would—would you like to kiss me good night?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Is it safe? You won’t get angry?”

She shook her small head. “One does not get angry because of a kiss given in—in friendship.”

He lowered his head, not touching her with his hands. Her lips were warm and soft, and for an instant he thought of her near-nakedness in the blue spotlight as she danced. She drew away and smiled. “Good night—Rack.”

“Can I see you again?”

“If you like.”

“I like,” he said. “I guess we kind of got off on the wrong foot last night.”

“It is forgotten,” she said gravely.

“Tomorrow night?”

“All right,” she said, “but you go to work so early in the morning, and you need your sleep.”

“Hell,” he said, “I can rig a well with my eyes shut.” He snapped his fingers. “Who cares about sleep?”

“Why not an early meeting?” she asked. “For dinner? I do not report for work until nearly nine o’clock.”

“Fine. I’ll pick you up around six. Here?”

“I will be ready.”

He wanted to kiss her again. He was fairly certain that he could, but he did not want to press his luck. He stepped back and she softly closed the door. He heard the lock click, and he smiled a little grimly. It takes all kinds, he thought, as he went down the hall. He knew quite a bit about women and their tactics, but this was something a little different.

He whistled softly as he walked to the Gulf Hotel.