The boy squirmed with agitation. “Mister, he’s going directly to the baron’s place as soon as he leaves work. I won’t see him, at least not before he goes to the beach. He will be very angry. He set this up very carefully. My mother was told not to let me out of the house until it was time to come here and see you.”
“I’m still not going.”
The boy bit his lower lip. “My uncle thought you might feel that way. He said that I should tell you he has information about those friends of yours who disappeared.”
“The Hamiltons?”
“My uncle did not tell me their names.”
Cain thought for a moment. “Kid, I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll go, but only if you take me there.”
“You want me to go along?”
Cain nodded.
“My uncle didn’t say anything about that. He said for me to give you the message and then go home. My mother is waiting.” He frowned, and then his expression changed into a shy smile. “But I don’t see anything wrong with me taking you to the baron’s place, especially if that is the only way you will agree to go.”
“Wait here.” Cain went below and quietly awakened Johnson. Soldier and Slick had both spent sleepless nights, and he wanted them rested and available if he needed them. He chose Johnson as their sentry. He quickly explained about the boy and the message from Finzanno. Johnson protested mildly that it sounded dangerous. Cain ignored his opinion and handed him one of the automatic rifles. He slipped into his own cabin, being careful so as not to wake Soldier whose breathing was loud and deep. Cain buckled on his special holster and slipped the big magnum into it. He shoved some extra ammunition into his pockets. He was ready.
He followed the boy down the empty streets. There was no wind at all, and Cain felt perspiration breaking out on his face as he hurried to keep up with the barefooted youngster. Cain’s shirttails flapped out behind him. He had pulled them out to conceal the large pistol at his waist.
The road ended at a wire cyclone fence. A locked gate barred their way.
“Can you climb it, mister?” the boy asked.
“If you can, I can. Go ahead.”
The boy grinned and leaped upon the fence, scrambling up like a frantic crab. He dropped awkwardly to the ground on the other side.
Cain had no problem with the fence; he had climbed a hundred just like it and sometimes under fire. The boy’s face reflected his surprise at the agile grace shown by the older man as he dropped silently to the ground next to him.
“Let’s go,” Cain said.
They descended a sloping path cut through the thick foliage. The light of stars and moon was almost nonexistent on the dark path, and Cain stumbled several times. But the boy seemed as surefooted as if it were the middle of day. Suddenly they emerged from the darkness of the path. They stood alongside a long one-story white house. Its windows had been shuttered closed, and it was obvious that the place had been vacant for a long time. The place reminded Cain of some of the abandoned farms he had seen as a youth. It was there, ready to go; all it lacked was people.
The night sky provided ample light to see clearly. Cain followed the boy down a crushed stone path leading from the house to the beach below. The waves of the Caribbean lapped softly along the long wide crescent beach. A small square wooden building without windows stood at the edge where the grass met the sand of the beach. Cain guessed it was some sort of boathouse or storage shed.
When they reached the storage shed, the boy turned and began to walk away, returning up the path. “He will meet you here,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” Cain said. “Where are you going?”
The boy stopped and turned. “I’m going home.”
Cain’s eyes swept the area, alert for any kind of movement. “Part of this deal,” he said quietly, “was that you would stay by me.”
The boy’s smooth face erupted into a wide grin. “Are you afraid to be alone, mister?”
“I think I might need a little insurance, and you’re it. You stay here with me.”
The boy shrugged. “Okay, but my uncle will be mad at me.”
“I’ll tell him it was my idea. He won’t be angry.”
The boy nodded. He walked back to the storage shed and sat down in its shadow. Cain followed his gaze out to the sea. The reflection of the full moon painted a road of glistening diamonds through the velvet darkness of the water. It was a beautiful night.
Cain squatted down alongside the storage shed. Concealed in its shadow, he had a full view of all approaches to the beach. He rested his hand on the butt of the big magnum.
Their wait was short, only minutes, before a large shape moved out of the darkness from behind the white villa. Even at that distance Cain recognized the figure of Finzanno. The big man half trotted down the stone path to the beach.
“Cain?” Finzanno whispered urgently as he neared the boathouse.
“I’m here,” Cain answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the silent dark areas up near the house, watching for movement.
“Christ, I didn’t know if you’d come or not.” Finzanno was puffing slightly from his exertions. “I know this whole thing must sound crazy, meeting this way, I mean. But believe me, it is the only safe way. I …” Finzanno jumped sideways, his hand snaking down for the gun under his coat as the boy came around the storage shed.
“Uncle Tony,” the boy said, his voice edged with fright, “this man made me stay with him until you came. I told him what you said, but …”
“It’s okay, Roberto,” Finzanno said. “You get on home now. Your mother will be worried.” He patted the boy’s dark head affectionately as the boy passed him.
The two men watched the boy run effortlessly up the incline and disappear into the darkness behind the villa.
“Well, what’s this all about, Finzanno?”
The big man drew out a cigarette from an inner pocket of his tuxedo coat and lighted it. His heavy face, glistening with sweat, reflected the flare of the match. “Look, Cain, let’s not beat around the bush. We were never friends, right?”
Cain nodded.
“But you were always a fair guy, for a cop. At least you had that reputation. An honest cop. From our point of view, Cain, we didn’t see many of them. I was really sorry when I heard they had busted you for murder. And I was glad when I heard you had finally beat the rap. You wouldn’t have lasted long in prison—cops never do.”
“It was rough,” Cain said, his voice without emotion.
“I’ll bet. Anyway you know me. I’m a torpedo, a hired gun, right? Now that makes me a criminal, but the way I look at it, I’m kind of a policeman too. Look, if some joker runs up a gambling debt and doesn’t pay, the outfit can’t take him to court. I become their policeman. I enforce the law.”
“And execute it too,” Cain added.
Finzanno snorted. “Jesus, you should talk, Cain.” He paused and took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Not too many things bother me, Cain. I’ve led a tough life, and I’ve seen a few things. I don’t worry about what some other guy does or doesn’t do, you know? But what’s been going on around here even I can’t stomach. I heard you were looking for the Hamiltons. Cain, you wouldn’t believe what …” He stopped talking, his attention on a distant sound.
Cain heard it too.
“Were you followed, Finzanno?” Cain asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know. This ain’t exactly downtown Chicago. It’s hard to tell.”
Both men stepped around to the sea side of the storage shed, squeezing themselves into the shadows but watching the villa and the dark foliage behind it.
Again they heard a thrashing sound, like someone kicking a bush. This faraway sound was followed by a faint audible curse.
“Uncle Tony!” The boy’s scream came from somewhere up behind the villa. “Run, they are …” His words melted into a scream of pain followed by a wet sound like water gurgling through a pipe.
Cain swore to himself. He had heard that sound before.
Whoever had the boy had just cut his throat.
“Roberto!” Finzanno screamed. He lunged up the hill, a pistol in his hand. “Roberto!” The terror in Finzanno’s voice told Cain that the big gunman had also recognized the sound.
Two gun muzzles flashed from the thickets at the side of the villa and Finzanno fell to one knee. He raised his pistol and fired twice. Answering shots flashed from the darkness, and Finzanno fell forward, his bulky form crashing heavily onto the ground. The sound of the shooting had awakened some sleeping birds in the trees and bushes, and they squeaked shrilly at the disturbance.
Keeping in the shadows, Cain held the magnum in front of him as he eased himself down into a prone position. The sand felt cold through the thinness of his shirt. He sighted the gun up toward the villa.
He evaluated his position. If he tried to run, he would present an easy target, outlined against the bright night sea. A charge up the hill would end up exactly as Finzanno’s effort had—a quick death. He had six bullets in the revolver, another dozen in his pocket. Eighteen rounds. He could only wait and hope they would come to him. Eighteen rounds. Depending on how many gunmen were in those dark woods, it might be enough, as long as he was careful and didn’t waste any shots.
As always in dangerous situations Cain felt completely without emotion; a listening, seeing, thinking machine without feeling. He felt no fear or worry. His mind was absorbed in the details of the situation, and he mentally reviewed the possible tactics available to him. He lay still and waited for the people in the dark thicket to make their move.
A stirring on one side of the villa was followed by movements on the other side. At first one man emerged, bent over, his pistol leveled down the incline at the inert form of Finzanno. He held that position like a statue, making no further movements. He waited for a moment and then relaxed. He said something to someone on the other side of the house, and then he began to walk slowly down the path, keeping his gun pointed at the dead man.
Two men stepped out of the darkness at the other side of the villa. In the moonlight Cain could see they wore the tuxedo uniform of casino employees. Both men also carried pistols. The first man had reached Finzanno’s body. The other two walked casually down the path and joined him.
One of the tuxedo-clad men was shaking his wrist. “I’ll have to throw this coat away. That punk’s blood has soaked right through the fabric.” He cursed softly.
“What are you crying about,” his partner said. “That damn kid almost bit off my thumb.”
The man who had first reached the body prodded the large form with his foot. His pistol was still pointed at Finzanno’s head. Satisfied that he was dead, he reached down and with a grunt turned the big man over. Cain could see Finzanno’s dead eyes staring up at the starry sky.
“I never liked that ass,” one of the casino men said. “Always let you know he was a big-time Stateside mobster.” He laughed. “He ain’t so big a deal anymore.”
The man who had turned the corpse over stood up and looked at the other two. “The question is what was he doing down here.”
“Maybe he knew we had orders to kill him, and he was trying to figure some way to escape.”
The man at the body did not wear a tuxedo. He was dressed in a loose white shirt worn over light-colored slacks. Even in the moonlight Cain could see that the man was dark complexioned with high cheekbones. He had a Mexican or Indian look about him.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” one of the casino men said.
“No.” The white-shirted man was obviously in command. “We have to get rid of these bodies. We don’t want the slightest trouble on this island, you know that. We will have to bury them.”
“Bury them,” the other man snorted. “Hell, that’s a lot of work. Let’s get us a boat and feed them to the sharks. It’s too hot to dig.”
The white-shirted man stood up and seemed to study the villa and the beach. “I still can’t figure why he would come this way, unless …” He paused, his body tensing slightly. “Unless,” he continued in a much lower voice, almost a whisper, “he was going to meet someone here.” The white-shirted man began to move toward the storage shed. “The kid might have brought somebody here to meet Finzanno.”
Cain sighted on him and followed him with the barrel of his gun. The white-shirted man was headed for the other side of the shed. In a moment he would be out of sight, and Cain would be caught between two fires. He could wait no longer.
He steadied the weapon and squeezed the trigger. At the roar of the gun the white-shirted man jerked up into the air as if pulled by an invisible wire. Cain allowed the other two no time to react. He hit the nearest man with a heart shot. The third man took Cain’s slug in the head. The ordinary impact of the magnum at short range would have been enough to kill them, but the hollow-point bullets exploded inside them, and they were dead even before they hit the ground.
Cain waited without moving. There was always the possibility that someone else had been left behind in the thicket, although he doubted it. Nothing moved, so he jumped up and ran quickly to the villa. He searched for only a few minutes before he found the boy’s body. He had been right about the sound. They had cut his throat.
Cain returned down the hill and searched the clothing of the three men he had shot. All three carried cards identifying them as casino employees, but nothing more of any use. He quickly went through Finzanno’s pockets, hoping to find some clue as to what the big man was going to tell him. But he found nothing.
Cain assessed his situation. There was no point in trying to hide the bodies. Someone had sent the three men after Finzanno. They would be missed shortly. He reloaded the magnum, holstered the gun, and looked for the path back toward the harbor.
It was not until he reached the fence that he thought about the boy. It was dangerous to think about the past, and he had always trained his mind to think only of the present and future. But he could not erase the memory of the boy joyously scrambling over the wire fence, laughing and full of life. Cain knew he was responsible for the boy’s death. He accepted it as a fact and then put it out of his mind. Sentiment and guilt had no place in his line of work.
Cain walked quickly down the harbor road. Whatever secret Finzanno had to tell had died with him back at that beach. But the mere fact that Finzanno was killed to silence him was enough to prove they had come close to a nerve end. Cain knew that Finzanno could have been killed for some other reason, but he guessed it was because of some special knowledge that the big man possessed, some knowledge about the pirates and perhaps the fate of the Hamiltons. Cain had come to the Caribbean hoping to find some small trace of the Hamiltons or the pirates and now that he had stumbled across the island of San Bonaparte and its casino, he sensed he might have hit the mother lode.
Johnson came out of the boat’s cabin to greet him. “What happened? Was he there?”
“Yes, he was there. So were three gunmen. They killed him.”
“My God! How did you get away?”
“I killed them.”
Johnson stepped back from him. His eyes widened in a mixture of horror and disgust.
“That boy who was here, they cut his throat and then they shot Finzanno,” Cain said, not understanding why he felt he had to justify his actions to Johnson. “There was no other alternative—they had me with my back to the beach.”
“I see,” Johnson said, his voice subdued.
Cain felt disgusted with himself. There was no reason why he had to tell Johnson or anyone else about his actions. It was a sign of weakness to look for approval in others. “Wake the others,” he said to Johnson, his voice almost a snarl. “We have to get the hell out of here.”
“Why? Did someone see you do it?”
Cain shook his head. “No, but as soon as those bodies are discovered, all hell will break loose on this island. The casino people will direct the police to us. They know about my … reputation. This would be my first stop if I were an island cop.”
“But you
were defending yourself …”
“It seems to me I’ve heard that song before. The last thing we need is a police search, not with all those guns and ammunition aboard.” Cain started down the companionway. “You had better start the engines, and I’ll wake the others. I don’t know how much time we have.”
SEVEN
They lay at anchor in the quiet bay. Beyond the protection of their anchorage the Caribbean was like a dark blue painting with thousands of white slashes running across its surface; the wind was kicking up white-topped waves and sending them, row on row, across the sea’s surface like advancing ranks of infantry.
Slick was at the bow of the boat, fishing with a handline, his eyes fixed intently on the clear water below. Soldier had stretched out on a towel at the rear of the cockpit, allowing the hot sun to sear his flesh. Old scars marred his smooth muscles. The combination of perspiration and suntan oil failed to obscure the jagged lines; old wounds, each with a tale to tell of a great battle or a private fight.
Cain had elected to stay in the comfort of the air-conditioned cabin. Maps and charts were strewn before him. He had spent the morning studying not only the area around San Bonaparte but the entire Caribbean.
It was ideal for cruising. A boat could leave Miami, Florida, and follow a chain of islands that formed a huge circling line running down past Cuba and ending near the coast of South America, and during that long trip the boat would be seldom out of the sight of land. San Bonaparte was near the South American end of the island chain. It had been an ideal location for the old buccaneers of the Spanish Main, and it seemed probable to Cain that it might be just as useful to the more modern brand of Caribbean pirate.
The little island of Macosta had no such colorful history. It was a small pit of scrub-covered sand with no source of fresh water and a harbor that offered protection only against southerly winds. It had been used as a radar base during World War II, and since then its abandoned huts had been taken over by several professional fishing guides. They had to import their fresh water, but they conserved that commodity by drinking beverages with a strong alcoholic content. Though they were excellent fishing guides, they offered no comforts to their customers. Only the most fanatic and determined fisherman signed up to sail with these hardy captains.
The Mark of Cain Page 7