Bell then, sat in an apparent half-daze, half-slumber, in the salon in which he waited for Ribiera to appear. He knew exactly what he was expected to do. Ribiera wanted to find out what he knew or suspected about Ortiz’s death. Ribiera wanted to know many things, and he would believe what Bell told him because he thought Bell had taken enough yagué to be practically an hypnotic subject. Let Ribiera believe what he was told!
When he came into the room, bland and smiling, Bell did not stir. He was literally crawling, inside, with an unspeakable repulsion to the man and the things for which he stood. But he seemed dazed and dull, and when Ribiera began to ask questions he babbled his answers in a toneless, flat voice. He babbled very satisfactorily, in Ribiera’s view.
When Ribiera shook him roughly by the shoulder he started, and let his eyes clear. Ribiera was laughing heartily.
“Senhor! Senhor!” said Ribiera jovially. “My hospitality is at fault! You come to be my guest and I allow you to be so bored that you drop off to sleep! I was detained for five minutes and came in to find you slumbering!”
Bell stared ruefully about him and rubbed his eyes.
“I did, for a fact,” he admitted apologetically. “I’m sorry. Up late last night, and I was tired. I dropped in to see those planes you suggested I’d be interested in. But I daresay it’s late, now.”
Ribiera chuckled again. He was in his late and corpulent forties and was something of a dandy. If one were captious, one might object to the thickness of his lips. They suggested sensuality. And there was a shade—a bare shade—more of pigment in his skin than the American passes altogether unquestioned. And his hair was wavy.… But he could be a charming host.
“We’ll have a drink,” he said bluntly, “while the car’s coming around to the door, and then go out to the flying field.”
“No drink,” said Bell, lifting his hand. “I feel squeamish now. I say! Haven’t you changed the lamps, or something? Everything looks blue.…”
That was a lie. Things looked entirely normal to Bell. But he looked about him as if vaguely puzzled. If he had drunk the liquor Ribiera had sent him, things would have had a bluish tinge for some time after. But as it was.…
Ribiera chaffed him jovially on the way to the flying field. And introducing him to fliers and officials of the field, he told with gusto of Bell’s falling asleep while waiting for him. A very jolly companion, Ribiera.
But Bell saw two or three men looking at him very queerly. Almost sympathetically. And he noticed, a little later, that a surprising number of fliers and officials of the airport seemed to be concealing an abject terror of Ribiera. One or two of them seemed to hate him as well.
CHAPTER IV
Bell stepped out of a tall French window to a terrace, and from the terrace to the ground. There was a dull muttering in the sky to the east, and a speck appeared, drew nearer swiftly, grew larger, and became a small army biplane. It descended steeply to earth behind a tall planting of trees. Bell lighted a cigarette and moved purposelessly down an elaborately formalized garden.
“More victims,” he observed grimly to himself, of the plane.
Ribiera lifted a pigmented hand to wave languidly from a shaded chair. There were women about him, three of them, and it sickened Bell to see the frightened assiduity with which they flattered him. Bell had met them, of course. Madame the wife of the State President of Bahia—in the United States of Brazil the states have presidents instead of governors—preferred the title of “Madame” because it was more foreign and consequently more aristocratic than Senhora. And Madame the wife of the General—
“Senhor,” called Ribiera blandly, “I have news for you.”
Bell turned and went toward him with an air of pleased expectancy. He noticed for the first time the third of the women. Young, in the first flush of youthful maturity, but with an expression of stark terror lingering behind a palpably assumed animation.
“An acquaintance of yours, Senhor,” said Ribiera, “is to be my guests.”
Bell steeled himself.
“The Senhor Canalejas,” said Ribiera, beaming, “and his daughter.”
Bell seemed to frown, and then seemed to remember.
“Oh, yes,” he said carelessly, “I met her in Washington. She was on the Almirante Gomez, coming down.”
The next instant he saw Ribiera’s expression, and cursed himself for a fool. Ribiera’s eyes had narrowed sharply. Then they half-closed, and he smiled.
“She is charming,” said Ribiera in drowsy contentment, “and I had thought you would be glad to improve her acquaintance. Especially since, as my friend, you may congratulate me. A contract of marriage is under discussion.”
Bell felt every muscle grow taut. The fat, pigmented man before him.…
“Indeed,” said Bell politely, “I do congratulate you.”
Ribiera looked at him with an expression in which a sardonic admiration mingled with something else less pleasant.
“You are clever, Senhor Bell,” he said heavily, seeming to sink more deeply into his chair. “Very clever.” He shifted his eyes to the women who stood about him. “You may go,” he said indifferently. His tone was exactly that of a despot dismissing his slaves. Two of them colored with instinctive resentment. His eyes lingered an instant on the third. Her face had showed only a passionate relief. “You, Senhora,” he said heavily, “may wait nearby.”
The terror returned to her features, but she moved submissively to a spot a little out of earshot. Bell found his jaws clenched. There is a certain racial taint widespread in Brazil which leads to an intolerable arrogance when there is the slightest opportunity for its exercise. Ribiera had the taint, and Bell felt a sickening wrath at the terrified submission of the women.
“Si,” said Ribiera, suddenly adverting to insolence. “You are clever, Senhor Bell. Where did you learn of yagué?”
Bell inhaled leisurely. His muscles were tense, but he gave no outward sign. Instead, he sat down comfortably upon the arm of a chair facing Ribiera’s. The only way to meet insolence is with equal insolence and a greater calm.
“Ah!” said Bell pleasantly. “So you found out it didn’t work, after all!”
Ribiera’s eyes contracted. He became suddenly enraged.
“You are trifling with me,” he said furiously. “Do you know the penalty for that?”
“Why, yes,” said Bell, and smiled amiably. “A dose of—er—poison of The Master’s private brand.”
It was a guess, but based on a good deal of evidence. Ribiera turned crimson, then pale.
“What do you know?” he demanded in a deadly quietness. “You cannot leave this place. You are aware of that. The people here—guests and servants—are my slaves, the slaves of The Master. You cannot leave this place except also as my slave. I will have you bound and given yagué so that you cannot fail to tell me anything that I wish to know. I will have you tortured so that you will gladly say anything that I wish, in return for death. I will—”
“You will,” said Bell dryly, “drop dead with seven bullets in your body if you give a signal for anyone to attack me.”
Ribiera stared at him as his hand rested negligently in his coat pocket. And then, quite suddenly Ribiera began to chuckle. His rage vanished. He laughed, a monstrous, gross, cackling laughter.
“You have been my guest for two days,” he gasped, slapping his fat knees, “and you have not noticed that your pistol his been tampered with! Senhor Bell! Senhor Bell! My uncle will be disappointed in you!”
It seemed to impress him as a victory that Bell had been depending upon an utterly futile threat for safety. It restored his good humor marvelously.
“It does not matter,” he said jovially. “Presently you will tell me all that I wish to know. More, perhaps. My uncle is pleased with you. You recall your little talk with the wireless operator on the Almirante Gomez? You tried to learn things from him, Senhor. He reported it. Of course. All our slaves report. He sent his report to my uncle, The Master, and I did not
have it until today. I will admit that you deceived me. I knew you had talked with Ortiz, who was a fool. I thought that in his despair he might have spoken. I gave you yagué, as I thought, and informed my uncle that you knew nothing. And he is very much pleased with you. It was clever to deceive me about the yagué. My uncle has high praise for you. He has told me that he desires your services.”
Bell inhaled again. There was no question but that Ribiera was totally unafraid of the threat he had made. His gun must have been tampered with, the firing-pin filed off perhaps. So Bell said placidly:
“Well? He desires my services?”
Ribiera chuckled, in his gross and horrible good humor.
“He will have them. Senhor. He will have them. When you observe your hands writhing at the ends of your wrists, you will enter his service, through me. Of course. And he will reward you richly. Money, much money, such as I have. And slaves—such as I have. The Senhora.…”
Ribiera looked at the terrified girl standing thirty or forty feet away. He chuckled again.
“My uncle desires that you should be induced to enter his service of your own will. So, Senhor, you shall see first what my uncle’s service offers. And later, when you know what pleasures you may some day possess as my uncle’s deputy in your own nation, why, then the fact that your hands are writhing at the ends of your wrists will be merely an added inducement to come to me. And I bear you no ill will for deceiving me. You may go.”
Bell rose.
“And still,” he said dryly, “I suspect that you are deceived. But now you deceive yourself.”
He heard Ribiera chuckling as he walked away. He heard him call, amusedly, “Senhora.” He heard the little gasp of terror with which the girl obeyed. He passed her, stumbling toward the gross fat man with the light brown skin and curly hair. Her eyes were literally pools of anguish.
Bell threw away his cigarette and began to fumble for another. He was beginning to feel the first twinges of panic, and fought them down. Ribiera had not lied. Bell had been at this fazenda of his—which was almost a miniature Versailles three hundred miles from Rio—for two days. In all that time he had not seen one person besides himself who did not display the most abject terror of Ribiera. Ribiera had made no idle boast when he said that everyone about, guests and servants, were slaves. They were. Slaves of a terror vastly greater than mere fear of death. It—
“Senhor!… Oh, Dios!” It was the girl’s voice, in despair.
Ribiera laughed. Bell felt a red mist come before his eyes.
He deliberately steadied his hands and lighted his cigarette. He heard stumbling footsteps coming behind him. A hand touched his arm. He turned to see the girl Ribiera had pointed out, her cheeks utterly, chalky white, trying desperately to smile.
“Senhor!” she gasped. “Smile at me! For the love of God, smile at me!”
In the fraction of a second, Bell was mad with rage. He understood, and he hated Ribiera with a corrosive hatred past conception. And then he was deathly calm, and wholly detached, and he smiled widely, and turned and looked at Ribiera, and Ribiera’s whole gross bulk quivered as he chuckled. Bell took the girl’s arm with an excessive politeness and managed—he never afterward understood how he managed it—to grin at Ribiera.
“Senhora,” he said in a low tone, “I think I understand. Stop being afraid. We can fool him. Come and walk with me and talk. The idea is that he must think you are trying to fascinate me, is it not?”
She spoke through stiffened lips.
“Ah, that I could die!”
Bell had a horrible part to play while he walked the length of the formal garden with her, and found a pathway leading out of it, and led her out of sight. He stopped.
“Now,” he said sharply, “tell me. I am not yet his slave. He has ordered you.…”
She was staring before her with wide eyes that saw only despair.
“I—I am to persuade you to be my lover,” she said dully, “or I shall know the full wrath of The Master.…”
Bell asked questions, crisply, but as gently as he could.
“We are his slaves,” she told him apathetically. “I and mi Arturo—my husband. Both of us.…” She roused herself little under Bell’s insistent questioning. “We were guests at his house at dinner. Our friends, people high in society and in the Republic, were all about us. We suspected nothing. We had heard nothing. But two weeks later Arturo became irritable. He said that he saw red spots before his eyes. I also. Then Arturo’s hands writhed at the ends of his wrists. He could not control them. His nerves were horrible. And mine. And we—we have a tiny baby.… And Senhor Ribiera called upon my husband. He was charming. He observed my husband’s hands. He had a remedy, he said. He gave it to my husband. He became normal again. And then—my hands writhed. Senhor Ribiera told my husband that if he would bring me to him.… And I was relieved. We were grateful. We accepted the invitation of the Senhor Ribiera to this place. And he showed us a man, in chains. He—he went mad before our eyes. He was a member of the United States Secret Service.… And then the Senhor Ribiera told us that we faced the same fate if we did not serve him.…”
Bell had thrust aside rage as useless, now. He was deliberately cold.
“And so?”
“It is a poison,” she said unsteadily. “A deadly, a horrible poison which drives men murder mad in two weeks from the time of its administration. The Senhor Ribiera has an antidote for it. But mixed with the antidote, which acts at once, is more of the horrible poison, which will act in two weeks more. So that we are entrapped. If we disobey him.…”
Bell began to smile slowly, and not at all mirthfully.
“I think,” he said softly, “that I shall gain a great deal of pleasure from killing the Senhor Ribiera.”
“Dios—” She strangled upon the word. “Do you not see, Senhor, that if he dies we—we—” She stopped and choked. “We—have a tiny baby, Senhor. We—we would.…”
Again sick rage surged up in Bell. To kill Ribiera meant to drive his slaves mad, and mad in the most horrible fashion that can be imagined. To kill Ribiera meant to have these people duplicate the death of Ortiz, as their greatest hope, or to fill madhouses with snarling animals lusting to kill.…
“It is—it is not only I, Senhor,” said the girl before him. She was utterly listless, and in the agony of despair. “It is Arturo, also. The Senhor Ribiera has said that if I do not persuade you, that both Arturo and I.… And our little baby, Senhor!… Our families also will be entrapped some day. He has said so.… He will give that poison to our baby.… And it will grow up either his slave, or—”
Her eyes were pools of panic.
“Oh, God!” said Bell very quietly. “And he’s offering me this power! He’s trying to persuade me to become like him. He’s offering me pleasures!”
He laughed unpleasantly. And then he went sick with helplessness. He could kill Ribiera, perhaps, and let only God know how many people go mad. Perhaps. Or perhaps Ribiera would merely be supplanted by another man. Ortiz had said that he killed The Master’s deputy in Buenos Aires, but that another man had taken his place. And the thing went on. And The Master desired a deputy in the United States.…
“Somehow,” said Bell very softly, “this has got to be stopped. Somehow. Right away. That devilish stuff! Can you get hold of a bit of the antidote?” he asked abruptly. “The merest drop of it?”
She shook her head.
“No, Senhor. It is given in food, in wine. One never knows that one has had it. It is tasteless, and we have only Senhor Ribiera’s word that it has been given.”
Bell’s hands clenched.
“So devilish clever.… What are we going to do?”
The girl stuffed the corner of her handkerchief into her mouth.
“I am thinking of my little baby,” she said, choking. “I must persuade you, Senhor. I—I have been tearful. I—I am not attractive. I will try. If I am not attractive to you.…”
Bell cursed, deeply and savagely. It seem
ed to be the only possible thing to do. And then he spoke coldly.
“Listen to me, Senhora. Ribiera talked frankly to me just now. He knows that so far I am not subdued. If I escape he cannot blame you. He cannot! And I am going to attempt it. If you will follow me.…”
“There is no escape for me,” she said dully, “and if he thinks that I knew of your escape and did not tell him.…”
“Follow me,” said Bell, smiling queerly. “I shall take care that he does not suspect it.”
He gazed about for an instant, orienting himself. The plane that had just landed—the last of a dozen or more that had arrived in the past two days—had dipped down on the private landing field to the north.
There was a beautifully kept way running from the landing field to the house, and he went on through the thick shrubbery amid a labyrinth of paths, choosing the turnings most likely to lead him to it.
* * * *
He came out upon it suddenly, and faced toward the field. There were two men coming toward the house, on foot. One was a flying pilot, still in his flying clothes. The other was a tall man, for a Brazilian, with the lucent clarity of complexion that bespeaks uncontaminated white descent. He was white-haired, and his face was queerly tired, as if he were exhausted.
Bell looked sharply. He seemed to see a resemblance to someone he knew in the tall man. He spoke quickly to the girl beside him.
“Who is the man to the left?”
“Senhor Canalejas,” said the girl drearily. “He is the Minister of War. I suppose he, too.…”
Bell drew a deep breath. He walked on, confidently. As the two others drew near he said apologetically:
“Senhores.”
They halted with the instinctive, at least surface, courtesy of the Brazilian. And Bell was fumbling with his handkerchief, rather nervously tying a knot in it. He held it out to Canalejas.
“Observe.”
It was, of course, a recognition-knot such as may be given to an outsider by one in the Trade. The tall man’s face changed. And Bell swung swiftly and suddenly and very accurately to the point of the other man’s jaw.
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack Page 5