by Lou Cameron
“Sir Basil sells submarines?”
“He sells anything. Your U. S. Navy contracted for some Holland boats, but the submarines didn’t work very well. They had little trouble going down, you understand, but there was some difficulty getting them to come back up. When your Navy refused them, Sir Basil bought them for scrap. Then, because he has friends at the Sultan’s court, he gave a couple, free, to Turkey.”
“I thought you said he sold them.”
“Ah, that is the part he likes to boast about. You see, he has friends in Athens, too. So he made sure the Greeks found out the Terrible Turk had some submarines. They became most depressed by the news, so Hakim sold them a dozen old Holland boats to restore the balance.”
“I get the picture. How long did it take him to make sure the Turks knew Greece had a submarine fleet?”
“About as long as it takes to telephone through Bulgaria. The Turks bought the last of his not-very-good submarines, and not for the price of scrap. I hope they never have a war. Both fleets will surely drown.”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “That sounds like Sir Basil, all right. So you figure he’s trying to start a brawl here to unload some weapons, right?”
“I don’t know. It may be bigger than it looks. Colombia is armed by France. They have new Lebels and quite good field guns.”
“Any machine guns?”
“Of course. French Chauchat guns. Not as reliable as the Maxim or Hotchkiss, perhaps, but the rebel factions have few arms of any kind.”
“Try it this way. Sir Basil knows there’s big money behind some of the rebel groups. Maybe they’d like to buy some hardware.”
“I’m certain they would, but again you are following a very twisted mind with straight logic. Certain American interests are backing one group. The British fish in troubled waters as usual by backing yet another. The Yanks can furnish their friends with good, cheap weapons. The British know Sir Basil sells high-priced junk. He drinks with the Crown Prince and brags about it.”
“That leaves the sincere patriots.”
“I know. They have no money.”
“Are you sure, Gaston?”
“Of course I am sure. I’m working for them. They have enough to keep me in wine, women, and cigars. I can get you a commission as a weapons officer if you don’t want Bebe’s sister. But, believe me, the Republicans don’t have the sort of money Sir Basil deals in.”
“Could he be starting his own revolution, just for the hell of it?”
“I doubt it. He tips more than most banana-republic Presidents make. He owns a town house in London, a Swiss chalet, and an island off Greece. What would he want with Panama?”
“Hell, he’s an international financier! If he were to gain control and maybe build his own canal—”
“Merde, now you are building the castles in the air. The only thing stopping England from simply taking over and completing the canal for their own Navy is your American Monroe Doctrine. If Washington won’t let Queen Victoria have Panama, do you think they’d sit still for an outside coup as raw as that? Non, the new government must be native Panamanian if Washington is to recognize it. You Yankees are so banal about the Puritan ethic.”
Captain Gringo drummed the table. Then he said, “You’ve eliminated any possible motive the old goat might have for whatever. Could he just be crazy?”
“But of course. That is how he became so rich. What are you going to do, Dick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d better throw in with your guys. Are they reasonably decent?”
“They are guerrillas. No better, no worse than others I’ve worked for. They have maybe a fifty-fifty chance. If you throw in with them and they win, nobody will ever be able to drag you back to the States. You’ll be at least a general.”
“Sounds good. Where do I sign up?”
“You just did. I’m in charge of recruiting officers.”
“Okay, where’s my unit and do I have a machine gun to work with?”
“We have a few. But we’re not ready to shoot them yet. Your first mission will be espionage.”
“Okay, where do I go and what do you want to know?”
“You go back to Sir Basil and see if you can find out what the devil he’s up to!”
“Damn it, Gaston! I looked you up to get out from under that crazy little guy. He scares the shit out of me.”
“I know. That seems to be a sideline of Hakim’s. From what you say, he has you in mind for something big. Play along with him and the redhead until you find out what it is. I’ll be here with my little police spy when you’re ready to report.”
Captain Gringo thought before he shrugged and said, “If he finds out what I’m up to, he’s going to be sore, and he plays rough.”
Gaston said, “So do you, if I remember correctly. Consider it this way: If you just quit, after he’s invested in you, he’s liable to play rough in any case. By spying on him for us, you’ll continue to enjoy his police protection, and he’ll pay you as much or more as we will. So you have to be better off, for now, working for two sides and drawing two salaries.”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “I can see that, but is it ethical?”
“Merde alors! Since when is a soldier of fortune expected to be ethical? We do not fight by gentlemen’s rules, mon ami. We fight, as you say, for keeps.”
Chapter Seven
Captain Gringo left Gaston’s and, having no place better to go, headed back to Sir Basil Hakim’s to have dinner.
He didn’t make it. It was still daylight, but the sun was painting long, dark shadows on the brick walks, and as he stepped into another arcade in the confusing light, he was hit high, low, and in the middle.
As he went down under at least four men Captain Gringo kneed one and tried to get at his gun. A wet sponge was clamped over his mouth and nostrils; the first sniff warned him not to take a second. The sponge had been soaked in chloroform.
He tried not to breathe as he fought silently with the men who’d jumped him from the shadows, but they were good, damned good, and his eyes were already filled with spinning little stars. He didn’t remember inhaling, but he must have. The next thing he knew he was seated in a comfortable overstuffed chair with no memory of how he’d gotten there.
He wasn’t tied up, so he reached for his gun. It wasn’t there. He sat up, feeling drunk, and stared at the man seated on the other side of the heavy desk between them. They were in some sort of paneled room with oddly curving walls. There was an overhead electric lamp shining in his eyes and masking the other man in shadow. Captain Gringo said, “I give up. You’re the Czar of all the Russians, right?”
“Greystoke here. On Her Majesty’s Service. You may remember me from our little talk on the Atlantic coast. I underestimated you, Captain Gringo.”
“You want your shirt back, huh?”
Greystoke chuckled and poured himself a drink without offering any to his prisoner. He said, “Gin and tonic on chloroform would be a dreadful thing to do to our carpeting. You’re aboard the yacht Corgie Dubh, out of Waterford. Private registry, but, as you’ll have guessed, charted to the British Secret Service.”
“You sailed to the Pacific in a yacht? I thought they were still working on the canal.”
“Don’t be an ass. I took the train, the same as you. Corgie Dubh is our, ah, unofficial headquarters here. We’re a few yards offshore and it’s getting quite dark, now.”
“Shit, I had a dinner date, too.”
“Heavens, that was no veiled threat to put you in the locker, old bean. You’re much too valuable to drown. The point I was trying to make is that you are out of reach of Sir Basil’s agents, and the paid-off Colombian police don’t know you’re aboard.”
“Consider your point made. Before we get the whips out, would it save time if I told you I don’t know what’s going on, either?”
“Oh, damn, I was afraid you’d take that line. My service frowns on torture, as you doubtless know. Makes it dreadfully difficult to ques
tion suspects, what? On the other hand British Intelligence enjoys a certain reputation for dealing honorably.”
“I’ll buy that, with a grain of salt. What’s your deal?”
“I propose we open a fresh deck. I admit I made a mistake about you. I frankly didn’t think you were up to the Byzantine chess we expect from the likes of Hakim. I took you for just another thug. They’ve been coming in like dung flies with another revolution in the air.”
“I told you the first time: I wasn’t even aiming for Panama when they threw me off that freighter.”
“Yet here you seem to be, staying at Sir Basil’s. With a wallet full of money.” He quickly added, “Don’t bother to grab, old bean. We counted it, but you still have your wallet. We’re British agents, not criminals.”
He let that sink in. Then he said, “You are the criminal, Captain Gringo. At this moment a U. S. Navy gunboat is steaming this way from Valparaiso, bound for San Diego, California. They should arrive within seventy-two hours. If they were to learn we had a wanted American aboard, it would be our simple duty to hand you over. Britain and the United States have several treaties dealing with the subject.”
“You’ve made the threat. Make your point.”
“The point is that if you were ashore when they arrived, I’d have no way of returning you to U. S. jurisdiction, would I? Why not do yourself a favor? No one will ever know what you tell me, in confidence. Just tell me what Hakim’s up to and you’ll be put ashore to wend your merry way.”
Captain Gringo ran a hand over his own face and muttered, “Oh, boy. Maybe we’d better bring out the whips and boiling oil after all. You might believe me if I let you work me over. Greystoke, I honest to God don’t know a thing you don’t.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
He did. He had nothing to hide, so he told Greystoke the whole story, from his jailbreak to the present, leaving out only Marie and Gaston. The Englishman interrupted once to say, “You met San Bias in the jungle and they let you live? Go over that again.”
Captain Gringo repeated his meeting with the young Indian couple, and the British agent said, “I don’t think you could have made that up. You say you were naked and squatting over a fire when they came upon you?”
“Sure. I’d been swimming.”
“Hmm, that ties in with something a missionary wrote about the San Bias. They don’t think Christians are people. Many Panamanians have Indian features, of course, but the San Bias lump us all together. They run absolutely naked, as you know, and eat all sorts of strange things. You doubtless gave them a turn. A big blond man with a gun, squatting naked in the jungle eating crocodile. While they were trying to figure out what in the blazes you were, you offered them food. Since they took it, they must have decided you were some sort of strange Indian.”
“Well, I didn’t try to change their religion or put clothes on ‘em.”
“You were just lucky and Her Majesty’s Service is not interested in anthropology. Please continue.”
Greystoke listened quietly until they wound up in the here and now. Then he said, “You left out spending the afternoon with Marie Chambrun, but I’ll credit you with gallantry.”
“Up yours. Were those your guys who shot those alley thugs with a silencer?”
“Of course. You have a date with a U. S. federal judge, unless you decide to stop beating about the bush with us. Can’t have co-operative informants bashed in an alley, what?”
“Look, I’m perfectly willing to co-operate. I don’t owe Hakim any loyalty. But I just don’t know why he’s here or what he’s up to.”
“Have you been contacted by the New York interests?”
“Buddy, I didn’t even know anyone from New York was here.”
“You doubtless forgot to mention Gaston Verrier and the Balboa Brigade in your understandable rush to tell all, eh?”
The American hesitated and Greystoke pulled a bell cord by his desk as he said, in a weary tone, “You’re really rather boring to talk to, Walker. You don’t speak with any real flare for it.”
A door behind Captain Gringo opened and two armed crewmen appeared. The agent said, “Put him in the hold with the other American we’re holding for their Navy.”
“Look, Greystoke. I forgot to tell you about this one-eyed sailor in the cantina.”
“Get out of here, Walker. I have work to do. You’ll have a day or so to come up with something better and I may drop down to the hold for a chat if I want a laugh.”
The crewmen took the American on either side and lifted him from the chair to frog-march him aft. He braced for a chance to break free and dive over the side, but they led him down the companionway to a hatch, opened it, and shoved him in without comment. A single dim bulb warned him just in time to grab the rails on either side of the steep ladder. He still slid as much as walked down the steps. He recovered his balance at the bottom, cursing. He was in a dimly lit hold, as promised. There were crates and barrels partly blocking his view, but he could see the sweating walls and bulkheads were riveted steel. So much for the idea about carving his way out with the penknife they’d left him.
He stiffened as something moved toward him in the dim light and a female voice called out, “Are you from the American consul, sir?”
She was a distraught ash blonde of about twenty-five. The print cotton blouse and twill riding skirt were a bit tight for her hour-glass figure and she looked too upset for him to tell if she was very pretty. He shook his head ruefully and said, “No, they’re holding me for Uncle Sam, too. My name’s Dick Walker.”
“I’m Sally Blackwell, from Lockport, New York, and there’s been a terrible mistake. I haven’t done anything!”
“That sounds reasonable. I’m wanted for murder, myself.”
The girl took a nervous step backward as she licked her lips, then smiled uncertainly and decided, “Oh, you’re just teasing, aren’t you?”
“Don’t worry. It’s sissy to kill girls. Why are the Limeys holding you if you’re American?”
“I only wish I knew! I keep telling them they have me mixed up with some other girl, but they keep telling me I’m some sort of spy and that I came down here to overthrow the government.”
He led her to a crate and suggested, “Let’s sit down while you tell me why you did come down here, Sally. Do you mind if I smoke?”
She sank down on the crate and answered, “Not if I can join you. I’m an actress. That’s not why I smoke. It’s what I’m doing in this awful little country.”
He fished out two smokes and lit both before passing one to Sally. She took a deep grateful drag and explained in a long, confusing saga filled with digressions and asides about people he didn’t know and never wanted to. In essence, her story was that she’d been had. She’d taken a job with an outfit representing itself as a dramatic touring company. Before she got to the breathless point, he cut in and said, “Right. When you got here you found out the theater was a parlor house near the waterfront.”
“How did you know? I was never there, not even for one night! I knew right away what they were trying to pull on us girls. So I flounced right out! I mean, I know what they say about life upon the wicked stage, but this was … well, if I ever get back to Lockport!”
“What happened to the other girls they stranded?”
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t know any of them all that well, and one or two were, well, not very nice.”
“I understand. How come British Intelligence picked you up? White slavery is a police matter.”
“Oh, I went directly to the police! Do I really look that stupid?” She sniffed and added, “They were beastly to me. None of them spoke English and they kept pinching my bottom and laughing. They put me in a cell with some awful native girls who took my hat and silver locket. Then that Mr. Greystoke came and told me to come with him. I think the police called him because they thought I was English.”
He blew a thoughtful smoke ring and mused, “Hmm, he should have taken you right to
the U. S. consulate, once he found out you were an American. Run that spy stuff past me again, will you?”
“They said I had a Canadian accent. Canadians are British subjects, and if I was working for somebody named Basement it was my duty to the Queen to tell them all about it.”
“Hmm, I was at West Point, so I know upstate New York fairly well. Lockport’s near the Canadian border, and you do hoot your open vowels.”
“What are you talking about? Everybody in Lock-port talks like me! No American has ever said I talked like a foreigner before!”
“Simmer down. I know Canadians and Yankees from the Northeast talk pretty much the same. If they’re not French Canucks, they arrived from England about the same time and there’s been a lot of moving back and forth across the Canadian border since. Greystoke picked up the one sound most Yanks and Canucks pronounce different and built a house on it. A Canadian would pronounce it hoose. I notice you say aboot for about.”
“Pooh! Does that make me Canadian?”
“I’d say it makes Greystoke suspicious. This Basement you were asked about wouldn’t be named Sir Basil, would it?”
“Oh! I think that was the name! He asked me about somebody called Gasket, too!”
“I’ll bet he did. Look, are you sure you’re not wanted for anything back in the States, Sally?”
“I’ve never been in trouble before, if that’s what you mean.”
“Okay, here’s what you should do. There’s an American gunboat on its way. Let Greystoke turn you over to the U. S. Navy on any charge he can manage. They’ll take you to California and as soon as you get to talk to an American judge, you’ll be set free.”
“What am I to do in California? I’ve never been there and—”
“Hey, you like it better down here in Panama? You say you’re stranded here and don’t speak the lingo. Just sit tight and let them put you ashore in your own country. You can wire home for railroad fare, can’t you?”
She lowered her eyes and said, “Not exactly. My father didn’t approve my going on the stage. If you must know, I sort of ran off with the juvenile lead of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and—”