Assignment- Tiger Devil

by Will B Aarons

  "Then he neglected to make one," Eisler said. "Perhaps he was in a hurry to go see for himself."

  "See what?" Durell said.

  Eisler ran fingers through his limp, blond hair. They were passing the Botanic Gardens now, and on one corner was the enormous wooden residence of the prime minister. It had a multicolored awning above the main entrance and a tin roof. The Ford was still behind them, not too close, and Durell judged that Eisler's men had chosen against a high-speed chase for fear of harming their boss. He continued to loaf the Jaguar along, confident and at ease in the deep, leather bucket seat, no destination in mind, the Browning solid reassurance against his thigh.

  "According to my information, porkknockers— prospectors, that is—have been deserting their diggings like the devil himself was out there," Eisler said. "Some of them have been killed, mutilated. They say the Tiger makes a sound that chills the blood."

  "Men have been killed? What about the police?"

  "There's no police presence in that wilderness. It's dog eat dog."

  Durell's voice was grim: "Then if someone manages to scare the others out, he's got it all to himself."

  "That would be very difficult to do," Eisler said.

  "But not impossible. Where did you get your information?"

  "When Boyer asked my help, I told one of my employees, Peta Gibaudan, to inquire about it on his next buying trip into the interior."

  "Peta is employed by you?" Durell asked.

  "Peta is totally uncivilized," Ana said. "I doubt that you could believe anything he said. He lives near me— when he isn't roaming the forests like an animal."

  "He's good at what he does. Ana," Eisler countered, "He goes deep into the interior to contact Indians who catch rare fish. He arranges their transportation to Baftica, where I pick the fish up by air. I liked him well enough to grubstake his father." Eisler turned from Ana to Durell. "Claudius is an untrustworthy old porkknocker —an ex-convict from Devil's Island in French Guiana. He let Indians raise the boy, while he went off and mucked around in the woods."

  "So Peta's father is a prospector," Durell mused. Some things were beginning to fall into place. "A diamond prospector?" he asked.

  "I'm sure diamonds would do," Eisler said. "Of course, there's gold as well."

  "And where, in Guyana's seventy thousand square miles of rain forest, is the Warakabra Tiger supposed to have its lair?"

  Eisler kept just the tips of his fingers on the dash as he leaned back a bit and tried to make himself more comfortable. The Jaguar murmured, hardly audible. '*Well," Eisler said, "nobody knows the exact location, of course—nobody who has lived to tell. But it's somewhere in the Mazaruni-Potaro District."

  Durell's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He told himself he should have known: the Warakabra Tiger and the Chinese dam were in the same district—and maybe the two locations were one and the same.

  Maybe the Chinese were behind the Warakabra Tiger. Maybe they had something hidden at the dam and had killed Dick because he'd found it.

  But what could it be? he asked himself in bewilderment. The dam would become public property day after tomorrow; the dedication ceremony with all the bigwigs had already been scheduled.

  All Durell knew was that he, too, must go there.

  And that Su would be waiting.

  Chapter Twelve

  Durell had driven into the confusion of tiny shanties that was Tiger Town, the city's worst slum. Harlots in orchid-colored dresses and drunks roamed the streets or leaned sullenly in doorways; predatory packs of youths out of work, hopeless of finding it, prowled among the unpainted houses. The air smelled of open latrines, chicken and goat droppings, soursoup tea and pigtail stew. The ceaseless wind combed trees and bushes in postage stamp gardens, where charms called %ohis were buried to protect the plants. Beside the road, peeping frogs chirped from marshy grass.

  Eisler did not care for the place at all.

  "What are we doing here?" he said.

  "Just driving," Durell replied.

  A wheedling tone came into Eisler's voice. "You— you're not going to—to reveal my past associations, are you? You won't give my file to Otelo? I've cooperated."

  "At gunpoint," Durell rasped.

  "But—listen. I've had your best interests at heart. If you get as deeply involved as Boyer was, the same thing will happen to you. You should return to the U.S. Give the East Indians time to cool off." Eisler's voice was earnest as he added, "Publication of Dick's status with K Section must have been a terrible shock to them—highly inflammatory. He had begun meddling among them, apparently trying to win their confidence for some reason. I hope it was to keep a step ahead of a Marxist recrudescence, but who knows? I had word that he'd attended some of their bottom-house meetings—they call them that, because they are held secretly among the stilts beneath their houses. They aren't very happy with the situation here, because they have a racial majority, but the party of the minority blacks has managed to retain power since the turmoil of the sixties. Boyer owned a small house in Bartica, sealed since his death by the police, and may have used it for similar meetings—"

  Durell cut him oft: "Did you say Dick owned a house in Bartica?"

  Eisler stared at him, blue eyes surprised. "Yes. Have I been helpful?"

  "Yes. Maybe."

  "About that file . . ." Eisler ventured.

  Durell lifted the Browning and pointed its 9mm muzzle at Eisler's face. Eisler's cheeks went hollow. Durell said: "Take off your seat belt and shoulder harness. Easy does it."

  Eisler handled the restraints as if they were made of pastry.

  Durell said: "When I stop the car, Cal, you will run out there through those shanties. I'll be watching with this—" he hefted the Browning "—^until you are out of sight. So don't stop."

  Eisler suddenly found his indignation. "You're not going to put me out here?"

  "This is as good a place as any, Cal." Durell's voice was bland.

  "What about Ana?"

  "You wouldn't want me to leave her in this slum, would you?"

  Eisler's face hardened, and his eyes flashed and flickered like a rainy season squall. "You haven't heard the last of this," he hissed. He pronounced "last" like "lost."

  The Jaguar scrunched to a halt, and Durell told him: "Open your door and run like hell."

  Aware of the pistol in Durell's grip, Eisler did just that. Durell watched the few seconds it took for the shining white slacks to be swallowed up in the dirty shadows. Then, just as the following car was slowing to his bimiper, he jammed the accelerator to the floor.

  By the time the men back there found Eisler and got back to their car, he and Ana were blocks away.

  At the hotel, Durell sent Ana on to his room, while he stopped at the desk to retrieve the big diamond. He rang the bell. There still was some activity here in the lobby, mostly comings and goings at the bamboo-grilled bar that opened off to one side. Durell rang the bell again, twice. A fat man ambled into view, double chins quivering, marble-sized nose held high. Durell requested his package from the safe.

  The man said Durell had no package in the safe.

  "I left it here, earlier in the evening," Durell said.

  "Of course you did. I know you did," said the Portugese. He lifted his hands and let them fall to his sides, as he said, "But the police took it."

  Durell stared evenly at him. "When?"

  "Oh—over an hour ago. Two hours? You see, they demanded it. I gave it to them." He shrugged his shoulders, and his chins spilled down over the knot of his necktie. Alas," he said.

  Alas," Durell said. He strode rapidly for the elevator.

  It made sense; Inspector James must have had the diamond even as they talked in the warehouse. The diamond was the only evidence that could put Durell safely and more or less legally out of circulation. James would have been too clever to leave it at the hotel, where Durell might take it and run.

  Then Durell had another thought and vdshed he hadn't had to come back to
the Berbice at all.

  Eisler would most likely call James. There would be cries of assault, kidnaping, car theft—^he didn't trouble to list more.

  And now he might expect the police at any moment.

  Durell's mind rode above alarmed instincts to consider the problem clearly and eflBciently, as he left the elevator and turned down the hall toward his room.

  He still had Eisler's file, and there was no doubt that the national assemblyman regarded its release to the press with a mortal fear. But that game could be played two ways. If Eisler got Durell put away incommunicado, even for twenty-four hours, he could arrange to blow Durell's cover in the press—and when Durell obtained his release, no one would believe that what he revealed about Eisler was anything more than vengeful fabrication. And, Du-rell's usefulness on this mission would be at an end.

  Point, counterpoint. Move, countermove.

  Maybe Eisler wouldn't take the risk. But he was hurt, furious, unforgiving, and maybe he would.

  Meanwhile, some alien force was eating into this little country like cancer, perhaps to spread all through South America.

  Durell burst impatiently into his room, slammed the door behind him, heaved his suitcase onto the bed and began packing. The splatter of the shower came to his ears, and he looked around and saw Ana's black dress, draped carelessly over the back of a chair, her slippers beside it.

  Someone rapped on the door.

  Durell's hands hesitated over the suitcase.

  The knocking came again, louder this time.

  He dropped the heavy Browning into the suitcase, snapped the luggage closed, slid it under the bed. He took the snub-nosed .38 S&W—^his favorite weapon— from its holster and held it in loose fingers as he leaned his ear against the door. If it were the police, he'd have to take them. He did not think that would be too diflScult, judging by the cops he'd seen so far. He could not allow them to destroy his mission. He reached out, flicked off the lights.

  He heard nothing; he said nothing. The knock did not sound again. The shower rumbled.

  Then came the pad of foottreads, moving away.

  He let out his breath, turned on the lights, and heard a voice at his back:

  "Don't move. Drop your gun first."

  Durell remembered with regret that, in his haste to pack, he had not checked the window that opened onto the fire escape. His pistol thudded onto the carpet, and he slowly turned, hands raised, and looked first into the barrel of a stubby Colt revolver—it had a hammer shroud so that it could be fired from inside a pocket without fouling—and then at the man who held it. He was an

  East Indian, straight black hair, sloping Aryan cheeks, hooked nose. The gun was a crazed animal that might bite him, the way he held it with both hands at arms' length. He did not match up to the sophisticated little weapon, looked nervous and hostile. Durell guessed he was about twenty, with rocky shoulders under a grime-impregnated tee shirt. He wore khaki trousers and frayed sneakers.

  "Stay where you are," he said thickly.

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  The thin, angular man licked his lips. The nose of the gun wavered slightly, as if sniffing for Durell's scent, and Durell winced inwardly, aware of a new respect for the theory that East Indians had killed Dick Boyer.

  He began to think that this overwrought man aimed to kill him.

  It seemed ridiculous, after all the care and preparation, the dedicated and competent enemies that had failed against Durell in the past. Yet, he thought, it came this way sometimes, through a moment of haste, a trifle of carelessness. Unexpectedly. Absurdly.

  He watched the man with total concentration, knowing he must attempt to disarm him. But it was highly dangerous.

  The man's nerves were on a hair trigger.

  Then the shower stopped.

  The man's eyes flickered to the bathroom door and back to Durell, and he retreated a step to cover the door. "Who's in there?" he asked.

  Durell ignored the question. "We have no quarrel," he said gently. "Did your elders put you up to this? Their grudge is rusty with age."

  "What are you talking about?" the man snapped.

  Durell stared at him with puzzlement.

  The shower door opened, and Durell was reminded that Ana had not known of his plan to vacate the room immediately.

  She came out hopeful and sweet-smelling.

  Smiling and damp.

  Utterly nude.

  Miss Morera!" the man said.

  Have we met?" Ana responded with queenly hauteur.

  The man's mouth fell open, the gun barrel drooped, and Durell was at him in one long stride. He snapped the pistol away without resistance, drew a deep, shuddering Dreath and plucked his .38 from the floor. Ana disappeared into the bathroom with her clothes. The man continued :o stare, as if having a vision. Then he turned sad eyes on Durell and spoke with a defeated dignity:

  "Forgive me, sir. I have had no work for six months."

  "You meant to rob me?"

  "Oh, no, sir." He lifted a proud chin. "A man hired ne to do this; to come in when he knocked and hold you until he returned. I suppose he won't pay me now. I have a wife and baby daughter—^"

  "What's the man's name?" Durell interjected.

  "Jan Browde. I would not have harmed you, sir.'*

  Durell's face darkened. "So he's coming back. When he comes, you will let him in as planned."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ana came back into the room, fully dressed this time. An afterthought tinged her cheeks with pink as she turned to the East Indian. "How do you know me?" she asked.

  He put on a mannerly smile. "My two brothers work at your plantation. I visit them sometimes with my wife and little baby, who is eight months old. I would not sxpect you to remember me, of course. I am Ajit Nfarayan."

  "What are you planning to do with him, Sam?" she asked.

  "I haven't made up my mind," Durell said. "Maybe I'll give him a job. You go back to the plantation now."

  "And miss everything?"

  "Just be glad for that," Durell said. "Incidentally, you will have a houseguest tonight—I'll be out later."

  Ana smiled. "Marvelous," she said. "Then I won't miss everything."

  A couple of minutes after Ana left, Browde knocked and Durell signalled Ajit to let him in. The man was beefy and red-haired, with a florid face and heavy chin. He wasn't young anymore, but he wasn't old, either, and, with crystal blue eyes of stunning force, he had the manner of a top-rated salesman—or confidence man.

  He also had a glued-on smirk that evaporated when he saw his own gun in Durell's grasp.

  He turned to Ajit and said, "Don't be upset, pal. You did just fine; all that was needed was me getting through the door." Then, to Durell: "I knew you'd only talk over a gun—whichever one of us held it. No harm done, hey? Would you please lower that weapon?"

  Durell did not move. "Talk," he said.

  "Sure." Browde's voice lowered confidentially, and his eyes scoured Durell's face. "Too bad the cops took that hunk of ice, but there's plenty more where it came from, hey?" He rubbed his hands together. "You know, this is an old porkknockers' town. There aren't many secrets."

  Durell was trying to place the man's accent. It resembled middle-class British, but there was the note of a current or former commonwealth country to it.

  Browde was saying, "Your late brother-in-law was a friend of Claudius Gibaudan, and the grapevine has it that old Claudius was onto a big shout, a discovery, then just dropped out of sight."

  "Meaning?"

  "Maybe your brother-in-law had something going with Claudius; maybe it was something you inherited. Simple. Am I on the right track, huh?"

  "Where is Qaudius?" Durell said.

  The smirk crept back to Browde's clever lips. "No one knows. Could it be, Mr. Durell, that your brother-in-law saw opportunity and grasped it—never mind that a worthless old man's neck must come between his fingers in the bargain?"

  "You're accusing Dick of murder? To steal Claudiu
s' claim?"

  Browde's gesture was disparaging. "Oh, I don't make any accusations. Lordy. That's not my game."

  Durell glanced at his wristwatch and spoke with tight impatience. "You have one minute, Browde."

  "Certainly. Well—I'll put it bluntly. You have access to Claudius' diamonds, and I have a connection to dispose of them."

  "A buyer?"

  "Sure."

  "Who?"

  "Huh-uh." Browde shook his head and wagged a pink

  Enger. "I'll only deal with principals," Durell said, his voice at. Browde thought a moment. "I'll see what I can set up." "Tomorrow. In Bartica." "Isn't that rather out-of-the-way, chum?" "Take it or leave it."

  Durell read his watch again, his thoughts on the police. ;*Go," he said. "Now."

  As Browde went out the door, Ajit moved toward it.

  "You stay," Durell said.

  He jerked his suitcase from under the bed, yanked it

  Epen and threw the stubby Colt revolver down beside the ig, dark angle of the Browning, slammed it shut. He waited two minutes by his watch. "Let's get out of this >lace," he said, and Ajit followed dutifully behind.

  As they headed for the stairs, he considered Browde's ivords. There had been three things of consequence. Dick md Claudius had been friends. Claudius had disappeared, and Dick had been murdered, which could be coincidence, 3ut probably was not.

  And, in hopes of finding out more, Durell had just made an underworld contract to deliver diamonds he did not have.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Durell did not trouble to check out of the Berbice. He pped down to the rental Fiat and got away from the hotel as quickly as possible. He told Ajit he would pay him well if he would stay at Ana's plantation with his relatives for two or three days, ask the East Indians what they knew of Dick Boyer. He conjectured that if Boyer had made contact with them, Ajit would have less difficulty than he in finding out why. Most of the East Indian community was concentrated on sugar plantations; Ana's was as good as any to start with, and Ajit seemed happy enough with the proposal.

  He laughed, and said, "Today I bought a wish from the wish-come-true man, and tonight I found work—twice in a row."