That day they flew for several hours at only a few miles’ distance from the great chain of lofty, forest-covered mountains that ran down to an archipelago consisting of many hundred islands great and small. Only the larger ones showed any sign of habitation: little clusters of primitive buildings nestling beneath the lee of cliffs that sheltered a few fishing smacks. In many places where the channels were narrow, conflicting currents churned the sea into a mass of boiling foam, and great waves broke furiously on the jagged rocks, tossing the white spray high into the air. From time to time, Grau-Miraflores pointed out to his passengers places, the names of which indicated the almost incredible grimness of this stretch of coast: Gulf of Sorrows, Ice-water Valley, Hill of Anguish, Last Hope Sound.
Well on in the afternoon they landed at Puerto Montt and, on driving into the town, found it very different from Punta Arenas. Here, six hundred miles further north, the air had the balminess of spring, and the strolling crowds on the esplanade showed it to be a popular holiday resort. Actually, it was some distance from the Pacific, but it gave the impression of looking out on an ocean, dotted in the distance with islands.
The hotel to which Grau-Miraflores had telephoned for rooms had pleasant, modern décor and, in the evening, the dance floor was crowded with young people. For dinner their host gave them Cazuela de Ave, a delicious soup, conger-eel and, as a savoury, cheese pies. They washed down the meal with an excellent white wine called Savereo.
Over the meal, Grau-Miraflores talked to them about Chile and how, owing to its isolation, it differed greatly from all other South American countries. Its earliest inhabitants had been the Araucanian Indians, the most fierce and brave of all the races in the southern continent. Even the splendidly-trained armies of the mighty Inca Empire had proved no match for them, and penetrated only the northern part of the country. Then, early in the sixteenth century, had come the Spanish Conquistadores. But, as the land had no gold or silver, they had scorned it. Pizzaro, the brutal conqueror of Peru, had given Chile as a sop to his partner, Diego de Almagro, whom he had consistently cheated.
For many years Spanish settlements had been few and far between; so, although Spain’s law and language had been generally accepted by the white and mixed population, a very high proportion of the Europeans who had colonised Chile in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries had been Italians, Irish, Germans, Scots, English, French and Dutch, with the result that inter-marriage had produced a people more broad-minded, vigorous and business-like than in the countries shackled more closely to Spain.
Next morning, while Grau-Miraflores went about his business, Richard and Simon strolled round the town. At the eastern end of the waterfront there was a large street market with, below it on the beach, a fish market the like of which they had never seen. The stalls were actually in the sea. Rowing boats brought their catch right up to them. The fishermen unloaded the still-flapping fish and wriggling squids directly on to the counters, behind which the colourfuily-dressed fishwives stood up to their knees in water. There could be no better guarantee that the fish they sold were fresh. Some customers waded out in gum boots to take their pick of the best, while others waited ashore until the tide went down sufficiently for them to make their purchases dryshod.
Simon eyed the fresh-caught lobsters with a gourmet’s delight, hoping that he might enjoy one for lunch. He was not disappointed, although he did not eat it in Puerto Montt. At midday, after they had rejoined Grau-Miraflores, the latter took them in a car to the airport. As they boarded his ‘plane, he said:
‘I am taking you for lunch to the island of Chiloe. You can see it over there to the south-west. It is Chile’s largest island, over a hundred miles long, and the best lobsters in the world are caught off its shores.’
A quarter of an hour later, they landed at the little town of Castro and, after a most succulent feast, flew north once more, heading for their host’s fonda on the river Laja.
This second stage of their journey was even more fascinating than the first, as they flew low over Chile’s two largest lakes, Villarrica and Llanquihue. The mountains on their right many of which retained their snow caps all the year round, made the scene reminiscent of Switzerland, and here the country broadened out, with many rivers running towards the now distant sea. As they progressed, villages and towns became more frequent, and the land green with crops between easily discernible roads. They were entering Chile’s fertile seven-hundred-mile-long central valley, in which grazed herds of cattle; and, at five o’clock, put down on their host’s private landing strip.
They were met by the manager of the fonda, a young Australian, who took them to the house in a jeep. The country, with its fields, flourishing vegetation and mild climate, might have been England, but the fonda itself bore no resemblance to an English country house. The garden was blooming with daisies, geraniums, cannas and roses, partially shaded by magnolia and chestnut trees; but it had not been laid out to any plan. The house stood a hundred yards or so from the picturesque, rock-strewn river, but had no view of it or the country on the landward side. It was not a large building, and was sparsely furnished, but there was an air of cheerful activity about the place, and they all enjoyed a plain, well-cooked dinner.
Soon after they had gone up to bed, Simon went to Richard’s room, sat himself down and asked, ‘What do you make of Grau-Miraflores?’
‘A charming and intelligent man,’ replied Richard.
‘I mean, d’you think he’s mixed up in this muddle about Rex?’
‘No. I asked him casually whether he knew a club in Santiago called the “Barbecue”, and he said he’d never heard of it.’
‘That doesn’t mean a thing. If there’s anything fishy about the place, he wouldn’t admit to knowing it anyway.’
‘Not if he was in this racket and had been given the job of bear-leading us. But I don’t believe that to be the case.’
‘It was your idea that he’d suggested taking us in his aircraft in order to keep tabs on us.’
‘I agree I thought that a possibility. But on closer acquaintance, I think I was wrong. I’ve laid little traps for him several times and he’s not fallen into one of them. I’m convinced now that the beautiful Silvia is no more than an acquaintance of his, and that he knows nothing about Rex. He is simply a cultured and generous South American who delights in showing visitors the beauties of his part of the world.’
Simon nodded. ‘Hope you’re right. Still worries me that we’ve so little to go on in our hunt for Rex. Wonder if we’re correct in assuming that our lady friend’s mention of a barbecue did refer to a club?’
‘You told me she said “The” barbecue, and that sounds like a club. But quite possibly it is a meeting in a private house.’
‘Damn’ difficult to locate if that is the case.’
‘True. Remember, though, that our glamorous strawberry-blonde is coming to Santiago for the party. She did not strike me as a lady given to hiding her light under a bushel. With a little luck we should be able to find out where she is staying, and have her kept under observation.’
‘Or make her talk,’ Simon said thoughtfully. ‘Never been much good at that sort of thing myself. But you and old Greyeyes didn’t give a second thought to sticking a knife into anyone’s ribs until he decides that if he wants to live he’d better do what you tell him.’
Richard laughed. ‘Simon, Simon; what ogres you make de Richleau and me out to be. Personally I’ve always found it most distasteful to inflict physical suffering on people. But, if the interests of one’s country or a friend’s safety are at stake, one can’t afford to be squeamish.’
Their host spent the greater part of the next day riding round the estate with his manager. Richard accompanied them; but Simon never mounted a horse unless he positively had to, so he stayed behind and, with an Indian to pole him some way up stream in a punt, spent several hours fishing. In consequence, it was late in the afternoon when they again boarded the aircraft.
The evening ligh
t gave a new beauty to the landscape as the shadows lengthened and, twice during their flight, their pilot made detours to fly them down to within a hundred feet of and right round the craters of active volcanoes. Dusk was falling by the time they were over Santiago airport, so on coming in to land, they saw the myriad lights of the city. Half an hour’s drive took them into it and Grau-Miraflores set them down at the Carrera Hilton.
He refused their invitation to dine with them, because he already had a dinner engagement with one of his brothers, in whose house he was staying the night. He was then flying on to Buenos Aires the following afternoon. With hopes that they would meet again, they thanked him warmly for having enabled them to see so much of Chile; then, smiling and waving, he was driven away.
They had been given a suite on the tenth floor of the hotel and, on a table in the sitting room, stood a big bowl of tuber-roses.
‘Very generous of the management, I must say,’ Richard remarked; but Simon had spotted an envelope attached to the stem of one of the flowers. It was addressed to himself. On opening it he found it contained a note from Miranda. She said that, on receiving his telegram, she had decided to join him in Santiago and, accompanied by Pinney, she had flown in that day. The few lines ended, Only the blindfold mask you gave me has made this possible. It has opened a new life for me. Bless you, dear Simon. It then gave the number of her suite.
Simon’s dark eyes flickered towards Richard, and he came as near to blushing as his sallow skin would permit, as he said awkwardly, ‘They’re from Miranda. Er–jolly decent of her, isn’t it? She’s here. Flown across from B.A.’
‘Well! Well!’ Richard roared with laughter. ‘When girls start sending men flowers, wonders will never cease.’ But Simon had already picked up the telephone and was asking for Miranda’s number. She and Pinney were just about to go down to dinner, so she said they would wait in the cocktail lounge until Simon and Richard had freshened themselves up, then they could all dine together.
At this hour they found the Elizabethan cocktail lounge on the ground floor of the Hilton crowded; but the intriguing appearance of the masked lady had led to a waiter securing a table for Miranda and her companion. They had ordered the drink of the country, Pisco sour, a weak spirit made from grapes, and fresh lime juice. When the men joined them, they followed suit and declared the drink made a delicious aperitif.
Although the prim Miss Pinney was unaware that Rex had made off with a million dollars, she knew that he had disappeared without warning and that his friends were anxious to find him; so Simon was at once able to give Miranda an edited account of what had occurred in Punta Arenas, and their hopes of tracing Rex in Santiago.
When Simon thanked her for the flowers, Miranda said, ‘It was nothing. Only a tiny gesture to show my appreciation of what you have done for me. Before, I had to live the life of a recluse. Now I need do so no longer. I can go anywhere, wearing my blindfold mask. Pinney tells me that everyone stares at me; but it is not with repulsion or pity, only curiosity; and that is rather fun.’
After half an hour, they went up to the restaurant and, over dinner, talked of the respective flights they had made. Even Pinney thawed out and said how fascinating it had been to fly over the Andes—that strange, primitive world of hundreds of miles of mountains alternating with deep, lifeless valleys through which rushed foaming rivers. There was now a daily service between Buenos Aires and Santiago, and the aircraft had been much larger than the one in which Richard and Simon had flown down to Punta Arenas.
When Simon and Richard awoke next morning, they found that their rooms looked out on to the Plaza Constitucion, the principal square of the city, and that the view from their windows was positively breathtaking.
Santiago lies in a bowl which is almost entirely surrounded by mountains. To the west, behind the hotel, ran the coastal range; to the east the far higher, massed peaks of the Andes, their white caps standing out sharply against a bright blue sky. In the foreground, the irregular roofs of the city were broken in one place by a four-hundred-foot-high wooded hill, crowned by a ruined castle. Further off, to the north-east, the buildings gave way to a great expanse of tree-covered slopes rising to a thousand feet, and surmounted by several buildings, above which towered an enormous statue of the Virgin.
As a waiter wheeled a breakfast trolley into the friends’ sitting room, they caught the sounds of martial music, and went to the window again. From a lower and much older, domed building on the right hand side of the plaza, a band, followed by a company of troops, was emerging to form up in the square. The waiter told them that the building, La Monada, had once been the Mint of Chile, but was now the President’s Palace, and that the guard was changed in the square at that hour every morning.
Over breakfast they discussed what their next move should be. It had been on Tuesday the 10th that von Thumm had said he would see Silvia ‘this night next week’, at the barbecue. This being Saturday morning, they still had four days to go before the meeting. That Rex was mixed up with these people there could be no doubt at all; so it was possible that he might attend this party they were holding, and already be in Santiago. If so, owing to his build and character, assuming that he was still a free man, it was just possible that enquiries might enable them to find out where he was staying. But his having made off with a million dollars put it beyond question that he was in some very serious trouble; so all the odds were that he was in hiding.
On the other hand, Silvia, the Baron, or both, might arrive at any time in the Chilean capital and, if either of them could be located, a watch could be kept on him or her. There was the possibility that they might stay in private houses, but an equal chance that they might go to an hotel; so it was agreed that Simon should make the round of all the best hotels in the city and give their hall porters handsome bribes to let him know if Silvia or von Thumm booked in.
However, the meeting at ‘the barbecue’ was the only firm line they had to follow. That it was not a recognised club Richard had already satisfied himself, by enquiries of the head porter on their arrival at the Hilton the previous evening. But it might be a small, private club that a limited number of people would know about. Having considered the matter, he said to Simon:
‘The best informed people in any city are the reporters on the largest newspapers. I know a chap who frequently comes to England and stays with neighbours of mine. His name is Don Caesar Albert, and he is probably the wealthiest man in Chile. The family are immensely rich, and among their many interests they own one of the leading dailies.’
‘Ummm.’ Simon lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve heard of the Alberts. They got in early on nitrate, when it was first discovered here. The Germans gave it a nasty knock when their supplies were cut off during the First World War. Their chemists invented a substitute. But by then the Alberts had become incredibly rich, and they are very highly respected.’
Richard nodded. ‘Anyhow, I feel that Don Caesar might be able to help us.’ Going over to the telephone, he asked the operator to get him Don Caesar’s number. He was duly put through and, after he had had a few words with a secretary, Don Caesar came on the line. He at once recalled Richard, welcomed him warmly to Chile, and asked him to lunch.
Simon rang Miranda and arranged to give her and Pinney lunch, then the two friends went out to see something of the city. Santiago being on nearly the same latitude as Buenos Aires, it was very hot; but not with the scorching heat they had experienced in the Argentinian capital, and the people in the streets displayed much more vitality. Like the majority of comparatively modern cities, its centre consists of scores of square blocks and long, straight vistas with, in this case, the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The goods in the shops were, as in Buenos Aires, of second-rate quality, but the streets were cleaner and there was much less evidence of poverty.
Don Caesar asked Richard to meet him at the Crillon; so at one o’clock Simon left him in Augustines Street. On entering the hotel, Richard immediately appreciated its atmosphere. It
was a building of the last century, with all the spacious elegance and décor that is found in hotels of that period in France. In the lounge there were a few Americans, but it was clearly a resort of the Chilean aristocracy.
As Richard walked in, Don Caesar, a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty, rose from a chair and smilingly extended his hand. In an ice bucket beside his table there was already a bottle of French champagne. When their glasses had been filled, they talked of mutual friends in England, and good days’ hunting in the Shires. It transpired that the Chilean Millionaire had never met Rex Van Ryn, but knew of him through mutual banking interests.
Richard used the same story as he had with Don Carlos Escalente and Don Salvador Marino in Buenos Aires: that he and his friend Simon Aron were anxious to discuss an interesting business proposition with Rex but, on arriving in Buenos Aires, they had learned that he had gone off on a holiday, without leaving an address. He added that there seemed just a possibility that Rex had come to Santiago. But Don Caesar said that he had heard nothing of Van Ryn’s being on holiday in Chile.
In hot weather the restaurant at the Crillon was little used, and they lunched in a delightful courtyard that ran alongside it. An awning protected them from the sun, flowering shrubs in big pots stood among the tables, and the trellised walls were covered with bougainvillaea. As a pleasant change from still wine, they drank, with an excellent meal, a really good peach bola.
Gateway to Hell Page 7