The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  The sound of the rasping door handle acted on the trapped man within like a goad. In sheer panic and without conscious volition his sweating hands found the crossbeam over his head; he pulled, swinging one leg about a diagonal strut, and began to scramble upward, his hands and feet automatically finding purchase on the filigree of steelwork, his breath now a loud grating sound in the hot fetid air of the tower.

  Da Silva, pushing through the narrow doorway, heard the sound and glanced upward. In the dimness of the shaft the black shadow scrabbling higher and higher appeared as a huge spider pulling itself upward along the fine intricacy of its web. The thought of Nestor and his tattoo flashed through his mind as he ran to the far end of the platform and looked upward.

  “Bernardes!”

  His voice echoed harshly through the enclosed space, bouncing from the sheer brick walls, repeating itself to return as a whisper from the endless darkness above. It drove the trapped man to greater effort; he forced himself higher and higher, clutching wildly at the smooth steel, dragging himself madly up the lacework of the towering frame.

  “Bernardes …”

  The echo was quieter, the voice further away. The trapped man paused, hanging in space by an arm curled tightly about a crossbeam, his feet pressing tenuously against a diagonal strut, and peered downward through glazed eyes. His hands trembled uncontrollably with the extreme effort; his stomach churned within him.

  “Bernardes …!”

  The trapped man tried to catch his breath. “Come and get me,” he whispered, and sucked great gulps of air into his lungs. He wet his dried lips and tried again. “Come and get me!” The scream bounced from the walls, rolled along the steel, and lost itself in cacophony repeated and repeated in lower tones. He heaved a sigh and disregarded the man below, casting his eyes along the wall above him. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his memory he seemed to recall a ship, the hills of Rio; but these were undoubtedly dreams—life was really only the endless mounting of the heights of this steel monster, up and up for ever and ever, beam and strut, grasp and pull. Had someone called to him before, and had he screamed back? All part of the dream, and now there was no time for dreams. Climb and climb, that was the reality; grasp and pull, and he had to get on with it. He wiped a greasy hand against an even greasier jacket and reached for the next highest support.

  Da Silva stared up at the swinging shadow now tiny in the airless heights above. The man was trapped, but could it be possible that if he went for others the man above might actually scale those heights? Or descend and escape before he could return? He reached tentatively for a beam and then paused as a grating mechanical sound came from beneath his feet. He looked down; the two huge steel cable drums locked firmly to the concrete of the pit were beginning to unwind with gathering speed. The horrifying significance instantly struck Da Silva. He leaned back, craning his head upward, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “Bernardes! Come down! The elevator!”

  The man above was far beyond hearing anything. The driving compulsion under which he now acted had no logical connection with reason; but then, on the other hand, neither did it place any demands upon either his mind or his body beyond those which had now become completely automatic. Smoothly now, and as if it had all been planned and executed many times before, his hands swung from beam to beam, from support to support, his feet finding proper purchase on the sloping diagonals, his breath now quiet in his chest, his fingers automatically tightening on the level above, his past weariness now only a part of the fading, puzzling dream.

  Up and up—that was the answer to everything. Climb and climb, higher and higher, up and up; beam, strut, outstretched fingers, grasp, pull, foot, brace, push, lift, breathe, lift, cross strut, hand, grasp, beam, pull … Up and up, that was the only answer, with the terrors of the darkness below fading ever farther in the bottomless pit below, and the unknown welcome of endless climbing stretching itself in dark hope in the open trusswork overhead; up and up, hand, grasp, lift, pull …

  The dangling loop of the descending electrical cable brushed by him gently. He pushed at it, throwing it aside, aware that it, too, could only be a part of the unending dream and not the reality. Somewhere in the final answer it, too, would be explained.

  The voice below echoed among the tangle of steel, losing itself in the frightening space about him. He paused and glanced upward with a faint frown, watching the black broad platform descend inexorably to meet him, its cables swinging slowly in the still torpid air of the deep shaft, its weight a sure culmination of the vague dream more terrifying than the unknown reality. He nodded slowly, wetting his lips, loosening his grip on the skeletal steel. His hands reached upward, searching, almost imploring, seeking to grasp the finality of the dreaded nightmare.

  The elevator platform met him with equal obstinance and flung him almost contemptuously from his perch. He fell, the scream torn unwillingly from his throat and echoing hollowly through the black pit of the tower …

  XIV.

  Da Silva came up the curved stairway leading to the restaurant at the Santos Dumont Airport, noted Wilson’s lifted hand at the table in the corner, and sidled through the crowded room. He nodded, loosened his necktie, removed his jacket and hung it on the chair back, and dropped into his chair, wiping his brow. Wilson shook his head wonderingly.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “You natives are supposed to be used to the heat. It’s us foreigners who are supposed to suffer.”

  “Which proves what a foreigner you are,” Da Silva said in simulated disgust. “You don’t know the first thing about heat. It’s like cold, or hunger, or Federal taxes—the longer you suffer them, the worse they become. Wait until you’ve been here thirty-eight years like me.”

  “You mean if I stay here thirty-eight years I’ll be like you?”

  “Right. And you’ll deserve it,” Da Silva added, and grinned. He raised a hand for the waiter and leaned back comfortably. “Well? What did you find out from your Americans aboard the S.S. Bolivar?”

  “About the same as you found out when you grilled Archimedes, I imagine,” Wilson said. He stared across the table at his friend with a slight frown. “Why didn’t you wait for me in Salvador before coming back?”

  “Because you were tied up talking to the Americans on the Bolivar,” Da Silva said. He shrugged. “And I had more important things to do, like digging out a taxi you tried to bury in Camamú, and things to check on back here in Rio, and—”

  “And the fact that I was planning on flying back, and you don’t like flying …”

  “That, too.” Da Silva paused as their waiter came up with their drinks, waiting until he had retired, and picked up his glass. “Well? What did your Americans have to say?”

  Wilson took a sip of his drink and replaced the glass on the table. “It took a bit of talking to get them to say anything. At first none of them would admit they even knew what diamonds were, let alone that they had actually bought one of the little things and then been robbed of it. And then accused by a representative of Customs of having attempted to cheat the Brazilian Government.” He shrugged noncommittally. “They were on a spot—or felt they were. Here this official wanted to hold them responsible for trying to evade taxes, and they didn’t even have the bloody stones …”

  “Touching,” Da Silva said sarcastically, and picked up his drink.

  “Well, it really was, in a way. There’s nothing quite as sad as the cheater cheated. Actually, I’m sure they were happy the stones were gone. It saved them the embarrassment of trying to explain what they were doing with them, sans papers, sans receipts, sans, as the man said, everything.”

  “Especially sans everything, including the price of admission,” Da Silva said soberly. “Archimedes gave us a bit more of the actual mechanics of the operation. Paulo conveniently misplaced the bags when he put them aboard ship, the steward lifted the stones, and then Bernardes went into action.” He leaned forward a bit. “His pitch was that he had information to the effe
ct that they were in possession of stones purchased illegally in Rio and it was his duty to report them …”

  Wilson nodded. “And not bad psychology. Though you would think he would have been offered bribes, especially if one of them hadn’t discovered yet that his stone was missing.”

  “I’m sure he was offered bribes. And I’m equally sure it broke his heart to refuse. But, poor fellow, what could he do?”

  “Not very much,” Wilson admitted. He frowned. “The thing I don’t understand is how the gang could be sure the stones would be placed in their luggage. Personally, I’d tuck it in my watch pocket until I could get it in the ship’s safe.”

  Da Silva grinned. “More good psychology. According to Archimedes, this was one of the first things the gang thought of. Nestor would suggest that the stone be kept in its little box for protection—which automatically made a package a bit too large for tucking in one’s pocket without a bulge—and further mentioned that it might be well to avoid the offhand chance of a personal search by Customs by slipping it in the inside pocket of a suit or dress in one of their bags or among their dirty laundry.”

  “Hastings didn’t tell us anything like that.”

  Da Silva shrugged. “Hastings probably didn’t even listen. He fully intended to pay his taxes.” He grinned. “He didn’t respond to the psychology.”

  “It was still good psychology,” Wilson said. “Even after I explained that the whole thing had been a swindle, only one of them wanted his stone back. The others still weren’t sure but what they’d get into trouble over them; they were just as happy to forget the whole deal.”

  “Which proves that they’re smart,” Da Silva said quietly, his grin fading. “If the one who wants his stone back can offer definite proof of ownership or a description of the stolen property …”

  Wilson’s eyebrows went up. “Of course he can’t. But—”

  “But, nothing!” Da Silva’s voice was completely intransigent. “Either proof or a description that will identify it from any other stone beyond a question of doubt, or those stones go to the Brazilian Government.”

  Wilson continued to stare at his friend. “You’re serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. You may work for Washington, but I don’t.” The dark handsome face was completely emotionless. “Unless you prove otherwise to me, those stones go to the Brazilian Government.”

  Wilson thought a moment and then sighed. He raised his glass. “To a balancing of the Brazilian budget,” he said. “With more people like Captain José Da Silva it may even come about.”

  Da Silva smiled and raised his glass. “To Brazil,” he said. “And every penny we can save. We need it.”

  He drank and set his glass down, reaching for the menu. “And now we’d better eat. I still have to get Archimedes’ deposition down on paper this afternoon, and I’ve got a million other things to do. My desk has a stack of papers on it that makes it look like Annapurna.” He studied the menu. “How about carne-do-modo-da-casa?”

  “You mean hamburger?” Wilson looked at the menu a moment and then tossed it aside. “Anything. Actually I’m not hungry. Ever since I got rid of you and that starvation diet you had me on in Salvador I’ve been eating like a horse.” He fingered his glass as a curious look crossed his face. “Your mentioning Annapurna just now made me think of something—I wonder whatever happened to that gorgeous creature, Anna-Maria …”

  “Oh, her?” Da Silva sounded a bit embarrassed. “Well, what really happened, you know, was that after she wandered about the streets for a few hours that night she simply gave up and went back to her apartment …”

  Wilson stared at him suspiciously. “And just how, if you don’t mind my asking, would you know that?”

  “Good detective work,” Da Silva explained gently. “I found a message from her when I got back to the office, and I called her.” He shrugged. “And then she told me.”

  Wilson glowered. “And just what else did she tell you?”

  “Well,” Da Silva said, considering, “actually I was too busy at the moment to go into a lot of details, particularly on the telephone and with people in the office, so—”

  “So you arranged to meet her for cocktails and dinner tonight, where—in one place or another—I’m sure you’ll manage to squeeze the rest of the details from her. Which,” Wilson added, “is probably another reason why you want to eat and run. So you’ll be free by this evening.”

  Da Silva smiled at his friend in complete agreement and raised an arm to attract a waiter.

  “You’re so right,” he said. “You see? Detective work is really quite simple. Even you can do it.”

  “And you are also so right,” Wilson said. “I can indeed do it. And plan to do it this afternoon.”

  Da Silva’s smile faded. “And just what does that mean?”

  “Just what it says,” Wilson said and leered across the table. “It means that you’d better make reservations for three for this evening, because, my friend, you’re about to be tailed from the time you leave here.”

  Da Silva laughed. “You’re not as smart as I thought you were,” he said. “I made reservations for four. I’m sure she has a friend.…”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain José Da Silva Mysteries

  One

  The sea, which had been so deceptively peaceful and calm when the freighter Santa Eugenia had discharged a portion of its cargo in Salvador de Bahia and headed south along the Brazilian coast, was now beginning to perceptibly roughen. Whitecaps flecked the growing waves beneath a dismal morning sky rapidly filling with threatening black clouds; a sudden chill touched the rising wind. The increased movement brought protesting creaks from the rusty plates of the ship, which nosed deeper into the murky green depths, as if searching for the cause of this abrupt unfriendliness. In the small galley below, dishes slid haphazardly and pots clattered; dim bulbs in the forecastle angled perilously on their twisted flex, swaying erratically, throwing monstrously distorted shadows across the stacked bunks.

  On the small open bridge that jutted from the wheelhouse, Captain Enrique Juvenal, master of the Santa Eugenia, studied the latest radio reports of the storm into which the ship was heading, and shook his head. Captain Juvenal was worried. A cautious man by nature, he knew his beloved Santa Eugenia was neither the newest nor the sturdiest of freighters, and he also knew his cargo was in severe imbalance as a result of their off-loading in Salvador de Bahia. And even more he knew that the sudden tropical storms that could sweep this area, while rare, were certainly no less treacherous for that.

  He leaned over the flaking rail of the bridge and stared down at his young first mate, balancing himself expertly on the pitching deck below, busily directing the shifting of the meager deck-cargo in an effort to put some semblance of security into their tenuous position. Captain Juvenal scratched his heavily bearded face and sucked fiercely on his thin black cigar; smoke billowed about him, to be instantly snatched away by the increasing gale. A respectful touch on his shoulder drew his attention; it was the radioman handing him another slip. He nodded dismissal even as he scanned the paper, frowned blackly at the message it contained, and then bent over the rail, his white teeth gleaming about the cigar.

  “Miguel!”

  The first mate looked up, gave one final suggestion over his shoulder to his men to prevent them from disappearing for coffee while he was gone, and trotted up the narrow companionway. He paused a moment at the top to study the darkening horizon, and then touched his cap.

  “Sir?”

  “How’s the work going?”

  The mate raised his shoulders. “Slow.” His tone seemed to indicate that in his opinion it was also largely useless. He met the captain’s eye squarely. “It isn’t the deck-cargo that’s the problem, sir; it’s those large generators in the hold. The ones for Buenos Aires. And we can’t move those at sea with our equipment.”

  “I know.” The captain puffed on his cigar, thinking. His eyes dropped to the
slip of paper in his hand and then came up again. “How much of the cargo goes off in Rio? And how much in Santos?”

  The mate stared at him a moment, and then smiled in sudden understanding. He dragged a thick batch of papers from his hip pocket, wet a finger, and began leafing through them. The news was good; when he looked up it was with satisfaction. “Not a great deal for either place, sir. Nothing that couldn’t be shipped back from Montevideo, or even dropped off on our return, as far as that goes.”

  “And how about the passengers?”

  “That’s no problem. Three getting off in Montevideo, and the other one in Buenos Aires.”

  “I see.” Captain Juvenal squinted thoughtfully at the end of his cigar, carefully considering the various alternatives. His eyes came up to the horizon; he frowned at it a moment and then made up his mind. The slip of paper was jammed firmly into one pocket of his sea jacket, as indicating his arrival at a decision. He nodded. “All right. We’ll miss both Rio and Santos. And also the worst part of the storm. I’ll make up a cable advising the company and also the Rio agents. You post a notice below.”

  “Right, sir,” said the mate in a satisfied tone.

  “And then get back to shifting that deck-cargo,” the captain added dryly. “We don’t intend to go to Africa to miss this storm. We’ll still feel enough of it.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the mate with a nice combination of alacrity and agreement, and trotted happily back down the companionway.

  To the four passengers the Santa Eugenia carried, the change in plans made little difference; when one took a freighter one calculated the maximum travel time in any event, and none of them had plans which would be seriously inconvenienced by the changed schedule. Nor, in general, did the posted notice make any great difference to the crew. Salvador de Bahia was only two days behind them, and their pockets were empty and their vices temporarily assuaged. And, in any event, missing a storm in a ship whose cargo was out of balance was certainly no cause for any rational sailor to complain.