Diamonds Are for Dying

by Paul Kenyon

  "Enough," he said. "It is time for lunch. That was the purpose of this foolish journey anyhow." He gave a smile. "Besides, Penelope, poor Hansy and Willi cannot possibly carry any more parcels."

  Penelope turned to look at them. Heinz's face was almost hidden behind a tottering pile of packages, and Willi was having trouble juggling his armful. They would have found it difficult to reach for the pistols they obviously had concealed at the waistband under their shirts. They didn't make very convincing servants, these elderly, hard-faced Prussians. They were bodyguards.

  "Willi," Heidrig said, "take the packages back to the motor launch. And see if you can find Horst. Ask him to join us for lunch at the hotel."

  Penelope doubted that Willi would be able to find Horst. He had remained sullenly silent during the boat ride, as far from her as he could get. And as soon as they'd tied to the dock, he'd taken off with ill-disguised eagerness.

  Heidrig took her elbow and began marching her briskly toward the hotel. She'd slept there last night on a lumpy bed, surrounded by damp walls, listening to the mosquitoes whine outside the netting. She'd half-expected Heidrig to come tiptoeing into her room during the night, but he hadn't disturbed her. It was puzzling, but a welcome puzzle, that he had so far neglected to claim his rights as host to a worldly woman who had accepted that kind of invitation. She supposed he was working up to it on some kind of an old-world Teutonic schedule known only to himself.

  A man with a cane was limping toward them down the wooden sidewalk. He was well dressed for Queimadura, in a crisply pressed blue linen suit. Penelope felt Heidrig's hand tighten on her arm, and then she recognized the man.

  "Silvio!"

  He hurried toward them, a broad smile on his face, a panatella stuck at a jaunty angle between his teeth.

  "Penelope! And my dear Wilhelm! What a delightful and unexpected surprise!"

  Silvio's face was a mass of ugly fading bruises. He held one arm carefully, as if he didn't want to move it too much.

  "Silvio," Penelope said. "What in the world are you doing here, six hundred miles from nowhere?"

  "Coincidence," he said blandly.

  "And what happened to your face? And you're limping!"

  Silvio stared levelly into Heidrig's eyes. "I had an accident. It's nothing."

  Heidrig stared back. "My dear chap, you certainly shouldn't be in a place like this when you are recovering from an accident. You should be back in Rio, where it is comfortable. And safe."

  Silvio was still staring at Heidrig with a cold smile. "I never let little things worry me, Wilhelm. My little accident was certainly not enough to keep me from doing what I wish to do." He turned to Penelope, and his voice became animated again. "And what I wish to do right now is to have lunch with you. We mustn't waste a marvelous coincidence like this! Come, you are both my guests! I insist!"

  You magnificent fool, Penelope thought. It was all too clear why Silvio had failed to show up for their date on Ash Wednesday. This is no game for amateurs, she thought.

  "That's very kind of you, Silvio," she said, "but Wilhelm and I had made other plans." She forced herself to give Heidrig's arm an affectionate squeeze.

  But Heidrig gave a stiff little bow. "Your invitation is accepted, of course. Come, we will have lunch together."

  * * *

  At first she thought it was Heidrig. There was the sound of a key in the door; all the rooms in the hotel had locks, but all the room keys were identical. A shadowy figure slipped inside and groped its way to her bed.

  "Penelope," a voice whispered.

  "Silvio." She sat up. "What are you doing here? Are you out of your mind?"

  He sat heavily on the bed. "If you're worried about your German lover, forget it. I just listened outside his door. He's snoring. Probably having happy dreams about the people he gassed."

  "Silvio. I want you to leave immediately."

  He shook his head. "I don't know what you're up to, Penelope, but I know you don't care for that cold spargelspitzen. You care for me. What is it? His money?"

  "Oh, Silvio, no!" She reached up and took his face in her hands. He covered her hand with kisses.

  There was an inevitability about it. He peeled the nightgown from her body, and she helped him out of his robe and pajamas. He winced when the left arm went through the sleeve. When the top came off, she saw the tight elastic bandage wrapped around his torso.

  "What is it, Silvio?"

  "Nothing. A few fractured ribs. Don't concern yourself with it." He smiled and put her hand on the rigid stem between his legs. "At least that one, he is not fractured."

  He put a hand on her breast and started to swing his legs up on the bed bedside her. A little involuntary groan came from him.

  "Silvio, you can't make love in this condition!"

  "My condition is superb. Hard as a rock." He bent to kiss the breast he was fondling, but couldn't make it.

  "See. And that's not all, I'll wager. What about that knee? You can't bend it all the way, can you?"

  "Where there's a will, there's a way."

  "There certainly is. Now lie back and do what I tell you."

  She put a pillow under his head and another under the small of his back. A bolster went under his knees.

  "Penelope, what are you doing? This is humiliating. The man is supposed to be the aggressor."

  "You can tell me that when you're healed."

  "But this is not proper!"

  "Damn right it isn't." She grinned wolfishly. Silvio was flat on his back, his tumid shaft sticking straight up. Penelope kneeled astride Silvio, facing his feet, and took his penis in her mouth.

  "Penelope, I forbid you!" he said, his voice muffled.

  "A gentleman always returns the compliment to a lady," she said. She put the bulging end of his organ back in her mouth.

  Silvio sighed, and parted the lips of her vagina with his fingers. Penelope settled down, and he went to work with his tongue. She could feel the hot rubbery tip, dipping in to taste her juices, then returning to swab the ripe knurl of her clitoris. A fire began to travel through her loins and she held on tightly to the fleshy lever in her grasp. The head began to ooze, and Silvio signaled her with a push on the buttocks.

  She straddled him in the reverse direction and inched backward until she felt contact. She rubbed herself against the tip, not using her hands, lubricating it with her fluids. Silvio was groping at one of her breasts with both hands, stroking its whole surface down to the stiffened tip. She bent a little further forward and he put it in his mouth. She let him suck on it for a few moments, then straightened her back to get into position. She moved the organ back and forth against herself until she couldn't stand it any more, then thrust it deep inside of her.

  At once Silvio began a piston motion, but she could sense his stiffness and pain. She put her hands on his hips to quiet him, and began doing it by herself. Silvio groaned, this time not with pain but with pleasure. It was long, slow, incredibly voluptuous doing it this way. Penelope could feel a warm bubble slowly growing inside her. She savored each stroke, knowing that Silvio was coming slowly to that same remote brink, too. In, out, in, out, that's all there was in the whole dark velvety cosmos, and it took a million years. The bubble grew and grew until its surface touched the boundaries of her being, then burst, and she burst with it.

  When she was able to speak, she looked at Silvio's face in the dim silver light of the room and said, "Did you like it?"

  "I liked it," he said. "But just wait till my ribs heal."

  The Indian girl Urulai lay naked on her back and tried not to show her fear. The fear only made him worse. The other girl, Eliana, the used-up jade whom A Dona always gave to the nasty men, the brutal men who liked to beat the girls, had been afraid of this one in spite of what she had seen, and one night he had become too excited and she died. The grand senhor, the rich fazendeiro, had come and paid A Dona much money, and the Coronel da Policia who was a friend of the rich jazendeiro had made it all right, and Elia
na's body had been taken away secretly in the night.

  He squatted naked at the foot of the bed, smoking a cigarette, looking at her as if she were an object, not alive. His little caneta, smaller than other men's, hung limply between his legs. It only stood out and became rigid when he hurt people.

  He was just a boy, too, she thought. What would he be when he was a man? He was pale and soft, with round shoulders and delicate bones, and his voice was weak when he talked. He had asked A Dona for her by name this time, but he couldn't pronounce "Urulai." Instead, he'd said something in a foreign accent that sounded like "Lorelei." There was nothing in the room that was sharp, she remembered gratefully; she had been smart enough to see to that. When he couldn't get that little caneta in as far as he wanted, he liked to substitute other objects. She'd left her hair brush in sight; that never hurt too much.

  She stirred and let him see the movement of her breasts. She reached her arms up and spread her long straight black hair on the pillow. It was a mistake to let him think too much.

  She stretched her tawny arms toward him and spoke his name. "O Senhor Horst."

  He smiled, and she thought the caneta grew a little bigger. She felt a soft damp hand on her knee. He took the cigarette from between his lips and, with a little giggle, ground it out on the inside of her thigh.

  Chapter 12

  Van Voort sat in the dark, the bottle of Dutch gin on the night table beside him. The night held no terrors for him. It was the day he was afraid of. The daylight hours when Heidrig goaded and berated him; the bright sunlight when that madman Horst fed houseboys named Humberto to the piranha fish.

  He reached for the bottle again, took another swallow. He was in pajamas and hadn't bothered to shave. The remains of his supper waited on a tray by the door for the maid to pick it up. The fact of the matter was that he was locked in. A tear trickled down his jowls. Locked in, like a bad child!

  And all because he'd had a conversation about diamonds with Tommy, the little Japanese fellow who traveled with the Baroness as her fashion consultant! There had been no harm in telling little Tommy about diamonds and their index of refraction, and why it is that a brilliant is always cut in just that way. The young man had been very interested — and why shouldn't he be? He was a fashion consultant. It was his business to know these things. He'd probed, and asked intelligent questions, and shown a quick grasp of the subject for someone who wasn't a gemologist. And van Voort had been careful not to let anything slip. Not a word about his special work for Heidrig!

  He poured himself another little glass of gin. It was intolerable to be treated this way! The name van Voort meant something in the world, after all! He was a master diamond cutter, at the very top of the profession, and a member of the Guild! He must have been insane to accept Heidrig's offer. But the money — so much of it! He snuffled with self-pity. He must be the highest-paid prisoner in the world!

  The gin was getting to him now. He stood up and felt a delightful wave of giddiness. It had taken so long this time. He shook the bottle. It was almost empty. Why had it been so difficult to get drunk this time? Perhaps it was the fear. But no more! He hiccoughed. He would stand up to Heidrig this time!

  He got uncertainly to his feet and lurched over to the window. The shutter was locked, too. Intolerable! Not even to be allowed a breath of fresh air!

  One more drink. Just for courage. He had made up his mind what he was going to do.

  The fact was, he was technologically unemployed. He had no one to blame but himself; he had talked too much to Strasser, the chief of the computer installation. When the computer simulation had passed the stone, Heidrig had been pleased enough to actually invite van Voort to a small party he was throwing for the senior officers. He had drunk a little too much, and expounded at length to Strasser about modern diamond cutting techniques. There weren't too many of the old masters like himself left who cleaved the diamond with the age-old tools. These days, they were more often sawed than cut, with an abrasive disc. It took a day or two, but any donkey could do it — even his stupid apprentice, Graaff. Of course, you could never achieve the precision demanded by Heidrig that way. But this devilish Strasser had listened and nodded, and then gone to Heidrig with a scheme for a computer-guided grinding apparatus that would use the original cut stone as a template. It would take a few months to design and build the device, but after that, Heidrig could turn out his diamond laser elements by the hundreds. It would take van Voort at least that long to cut the twenty stones that Heidrig had asked for. Worst of all, his donkey of an apprentice, Graaff, would be perfectly capable of doing the final polishing and silvering.

  Heidrig wouldn't need a master diamond cutter like van Voort any more.

  The time to leave was now, before he became a fifth wheel. Because as surely as the sun rose, as soon as the computer-guided diamond grinding machine was complete, Heidrig would be casting sidelong looks at him and asking himself why he needed to have him around. And pay him so much money.

  There was just a little gin in the bottom of the bottle. It would be a shame to waste it. He drained it, right from the bottle, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Dutch courage, that was what the Americans called it. Well he was Dutch, and he needed ail the courage he could muster.

  He was just drunk enough so that it seemed perfectly logical. He would walk out through the main gate. And he would borrow one of the jeeps, and ride that rutted jungle trail to the nearest town — Queimadura. He'd have to drive all night, but never mind! It could be done. Heidrig's trucks did it all the time. And in Queimadura, he would stay at the hotel until the twice-a-month steamer arrived. It was due in nine or ten days. And he would sail to civilization and board a plane to Amsterdam and never think about this crazy nightmare again.

  He began to throw clothing into a suitcase. One suitcase, that's all he'd take. Leave everything else behind. He'd buy whatever he needed en route. And Graaff could have the tools: the dop, the skeif, the hammers, the special chisels. They were worth little enough. It was the hand that guided them that was valuable.

  He shaved and dressed. The Swiss bank book went into his inner pocket. He patted it once. Mustn't forget that!

  Now there was nothing to do but wait. He sat on the bed, his arms folded.

  Should he open another bottle of gin while he waited? He debated the question. He was just about to get up to get it when he heard footsteps outside the door.

  A key turned in the lock. The door opened. Helena, the maid, came in for the tray. She nodded to him and said, "Boa noite, Senhor." She bent to pick up the tray.

  Van Voort got up quickly. He clapped his wide-brimmed straw hat on his head and picked up the suitcase. There was no guard with her. There hadn't been the last time, either. They trusted poor fat old Pieter van Voort to do what he was told and not make a fuss. They would get a surprise when they found him gone.

  "Senhor, what are you doing?" Helena said with startled eyes when he started toward the door. "You are supposed to stay in your room."

  He ignored her. She tried to shut the door, but he pushed past her firmly. She wasn't sure enough of herself to try to stop him. Instead, she put the tray down and ran down the corridor to tell someone.

  Van Voort marched down the big curving staircase and out the front door. There were a few people around, even at this hour, but no one questioned him.

  He was halfway across the grounds, the gatehouse in sight, when he heard footsteps behind him. It was Willi, one of the elderly guards.

  Van Voort put down the suitcase and turned to face him. He was puffing from the walk and from carrying the suitcase, but he was able to speak firmly enough.

  "I am leaving, Willi, and that is that. I am borrowing a jeep. Herr Heidrig can have it picked up in Queimadura tomorrow. Please do not attempt to stop me."

  Willi spread out his hands. He was a tough old bird with a stocky, muscular build, still stronger and harder than many men forty years his junior. He said, "I am not going to stop you, Herr
van Voort. Obergruppenführer Heidrig has sent me to tell you that you are free to go. He feels badly that you have chosen to leave this way. He said you need only have told him that you wished to go, and he would have sent you to Queimadura in the morning by motor launch."

  Van Voort felt a sense of relief. He had misjudged Heidrig. He wasn't so bad after all. Hadn't he made Pieter van Voort a rich man? He patted the comforting bulge of the Swiss bank book in his pocket. Should he wait until morning? No, he might lose his resolution. It was better this way.

  "Thank you, Willi. Please give my apologies to Herr Heidrig."

  Willi stepped forward and picked up the suitcase. "No need for you to carry this, Herr van Voort. Let me do it for you. It is a good half a kilometer to the jeep pool. Herr Heidrig has given me permission to drive you." He looked shrewdly at van Voort. "You are in no condition to drive along a jungle trail."

  Van Voort nodded. The starry sky seemed to tilt Willi was right. He had to admit it. He was a little tipsy. And the gin was still working on him. He was growing drunker by the minute.

  He followed Willi's broad back down the driveway and through the gate. Willi nodded at the gatehouse guard and said something to him. The guard nodded and let them through.

  It was dark outside the walls; the illumination from the line of lanterns along the inner driveway didn't reach here. Van Voort stumbled along down the uneven pathway, following Willi's dim form by starlight. Once he lost sight of Willi; in a panic he hurried to catch up until the broad indistinct form came in view again. The sounds of the jungle night were all around him, frogs and humming insects and owl hoots. He heard the hideous roar of a puma somewhere far off and shivered; he must have been insane to think of driving to Queimadura alone through the jungle. He felt grateful for Willi's presence, and for the gun strapped at Willi's side.

  Willi put down the suitcase and unlatched a wire mesh gate. He helped van Voort through, not bothering to close it behind him. Van Voort was confused; did the motor pool where the jeeps and trucks were kept have a wire fence around it? They were on a gravel path, and Willi was helping to support him. The gin and the exercise had made him dizzy.