Flames Coming out of the Top (16 page)

The five main stock rooms stood in a row. Dunnett made for the end one, which was apportioned to Govern and Fryze. He stood back and the negro fitted the key into the lock. It was not an instantaneous process; the key chased the lock round the panel like a greyhound after a hare. When at last the door was open, Dunnett stepped inside. His feet rang out loudly into the gloom in front of him. The negro offered for a consideration to lend him his torch. Dunnett put out his hand and took it for nothing. He switched the light on the floor in front of him and up and down the walls. Then he understood why his feet had started such echoes as he walked. The whole stock room was empty.

The only occupant seemed to be a lizard.

The lizard rested in a trance-like posture on the ceiling, its head thrown back as though it had just taken up a strikingly defiant attitude in a world suddenly turned upside down. It clucked softly at him—or at something else: its eyes were examining the boundless inverted hunting-plains of the ceiling —as he passed. Dunnett walked down to the far end of the stock room flashing his torch from side to side. In the belief that something valuable must have been lost, the negro followed almost on all fours searching desperately in the hopes of winning some no doubt substantial reward.

“When was this stock room cleared?” Dunnett demanded.

“Motor lorries,” the negro replied, raising himself into an upright position once more.

“But when?”

“Four of them.”

“Where did they go?”

“Last Wednesday at four o'clock in the morning.”

“Yes, but where?”

The negro appeared surprised and a trifle hurt. “As I said, Señor,” he replied, “motor lorries. Four of them.”

“But where were they going?”

“You mean what place?”

Dunnett nodded.

The negro dropped his voice and leant forward. “They smashed my gate,” he said confidentially. “Four of them.”

Dunnett turned his back on him and walked towards the door. Overhead, the lizard still cluck-clucked at him. But Dunnett was thinking only of one thing: what he was going to say to Señor Muras in the morning. Just as he reached the door it opened of its own accord. The negro gave a little howl of terror. Then a shadow fell across the threshold. It was Señor Muras. His width fitted the doorway. And it was evident that he was not alone. Across the crook of his arm, a long, pale hand rested. He stepped a little to one side and the owner of the hand became visible. She was an imposing-looking woman, like a peroxided and mascara-lidded statue. When she stepped forward, the store room seemed full of scent. All around her capacious bosom she was swathed in white furs as though it were winter, and somewhere amid the furs a spray of dark red roses had been added. Dunnett stood where he was staring at them both; behind him he could hear the negro saying something that sounded like a prayer. Then he was aware that the creature on Señor Muras's arm was smiling at him, revealing a glint of magnificent gold teeth as she did so.

Señor Muras came forward, bowing politely. He ignored the negro completely. “We were just speaking of you, Señor Dunnett,” he said, “and my friend, Señorita Pilar—of the Opera, you know—wished to meet you. I felt sure that we should find you here.”

Dunnett woke next morning at the exact point at which he had at last dropped off on the previous night. He was wide awake at once. It was simply as though time had suddenly been set back upon itself and Señor Muras and his enticing companion were still confronting him in the misty courtyard. In his ears were the purring and sinister tones of Señor Muras. They had not spoken much after the initial moment of the encounter. Dunnett had said something guarded but significant about seeing Señor Muras in the morning, and had left them. Their two figures faded into the night behind him. But not so easily from his mind. Señorita Pilar he did not care about: Señor Muras was free to raid what orchards he pleased. But Señor Muras himself was a different matter. Dunnett cursed himself for having been fooled so long.

As he dressed he went over in his mind the show-down that was coming. He was quite fixed on it this time. He would cable to the London house what he was going to do, and then do it before they could possibly have time to stop it. The first step was to see Señor Muras and give him twenty-four hours in which to find the amount of Govern and Fryze's bill: the next step—to be made precisely twenty-four hours and five minutes after the first one—was to find a reliable lawyer (were there any of that kind, he wondered, in Amricante?) and secure an injunction preventing Señor Muras from disposing of any other of his property.

But when he came down to breakfast, there was already a cable waiting for him. “VERY MUCH DISTURBED,” it read, “RELY ON YOU MAKE THOROUGH INVESTIGATION STOP DO YOU SUSPECT FRAUDULENT PRACTICE STOP INSIST YOU KEEP US CLOSELY INFORMED GOVERN,” Dunnett read it through
grimly and went on drinking the harsh, bitter coffee. They'll be disturbed all right, he said to himself, when they get my reply. He broke his morning roll with a great deal of unnecessary force and mentally began composing a reply. When he had got it to his liking he left without troubling to finish his meal.

“AM CONVINCED WE HAVE BEEN LED ON A STRING,” the Cable ran; “PROPOSE IF NO SATISFACTION BY TOMORROW MIDDAY PLACE EVERYTHING IN HANDS OF GOOD LAWYER STOP REGARD INJUNCTION ESSENTIAL STOP PLEASE AUTHORISE?” As soon as he had sent it off he felt better. It was the first move towards wiping out the shame of last night's discovery. He now looked forward to telling Señor Muras what he had done.

The streets were pleasant enough at this time. There was even an air of freshness about everything that belied the heat that was to come. The tramcars, under their bright awnings lurched past as though on the way to some vast garden fête; and from the open windows of every house came the cheerful noise of rugs being shaken out and carpets brushed. Within the town everything was at peace, and away on the skyline the Fiery Mountain smoked in indolent and remote dignity. It was morning of another kind up there, of course, hot, gaseous, volcanic. But there was nothing particularly alarming about it; the Fiery Mountain was simply burning up its internal rubbish with the lazy tediousness of an old slagheap. The only real hint of the stoking that had gone on within it was the spreading pillar of grey that rose up from the centre until it made the mountains below it look squat and flattened.

Dunnett reached the Compañia Muras at nine-thirty. It had a strangely closed appearance. Even the gates were locked. When he rang the bell, a native Bolivian, one handspring from the Indian, came out and enquired his business; evidently the negro had already been suspended for his conduct on the previous night.

“I wish to see Señor Muras,” Dunnett told him.

“Señor Muras is not in,” the man replied.

“But I've got some business with him.”

“Señor Muras is not in.”

It was at that point that Dunnett decided that a brief show of temper might prove advantageous: he did not know until he began how naturally it would come to him. Taking hold of the bars as though trying to bend them he began to rattle the two gates until the chains danced. “Just you open these blasted gates,” he shouted, “and be quick about it. I'll have you turned out of here on your ear if you keep me waiting any longer.”

The man on the other side regarded him with great interest. “Pardon?” he enquired, and Dunnett realised that he had addressed the doorkeeper in English. He paused and gave the man a serviceable translation in Spanish.

“Unfortunately,” the gatekeeper replied, “I have orders not to open them.”

“Who gave you those orders?”

“Señor Muras gave them before he went away.”

“Where has Señor Muras gone?” Dunnett demanded.

The gatekeeper spread his hands. “I do not know,” he said. “Señor Muras does not tell us where he goes. I only know that he is not here.”

“When will he be back?”

“He did not say.”

“Is Señor Olivares here?”

“Oh yes, Señor Olivares is here.”

“Then can I see him?”

“Señor Olivares is not in.”

“But you just told me that he was here.”

“He is here but he is not in.”

“When will he be in.”

“I cannot say.”

“Then if you don't know when he will be in how can you say that he is here?”

“Because he has not gone away. He said he was coming back.”

Their conversation at this point was interrupted by the
arrival of Señor Olivares himself. He stepped out of one of Amricante's gay taxicabs—it was an orange and green run-about with a spray of artificial flowers like a bouquet mounted on the partition—and came running across the pavement. He had a bundle of papers crushed under his arm and wore the anxious expression of a man who has some important mission to perform against time. When he saw Dunnett his anxiety increased visibly. “Please to excuse,” he said hurriedly.

Dunnett stepped in front of him. “Where has Señor Muras gone?” he demanded.

The little man began side-stepping him like a dancer. “I do not know,” he replied quietly. “Pardon my hurry, but I have work to perform.”

“Not until you tell me where Señor Muras is.”

“I have not told you because I do not know.” Señor Olivares's voice rose into a thin wail of exasperation.

“But you know more than I do.”

“I know nothing.”

They were up level against the gates by now and Señor Olivares loudly commanded the doorkeeper to open up. The doorkeeper however had professional misgivings. “But if I open up,” he said, “
he
”—here he indicated Dunnett with his thumb—“may come in too.”

“And why shouldn't I come in?” Dunnett asked.

“Because I was instructed to keep you out.”

“Me in particular?”

“You are Señor Dunnett?”

“I am.”

“Then it is so.”

“Who instructed you?”

“Señor Muras.”

At those words Señor Olivares broke into a triumphant smile. “Now are you satisfied?” he asked.

“Perfectly, thank you,” Dunnett answered. “For the moment.”

He walked over to the taxi that had remained drawn up against the kerb. As he reached it he heard a shout from
behind him. It was Señor Olivares calling after him. He was inside the gate by now, and the iron bars in front of him gave him a new and unexpected courage. “And don't you trouble to come back,” he was saying. “Because we shan't let you in. If you try to make trouble we'll have you arrested. Arrested, do you hear? A-r-r-e-s-t-e-d! ”

Dunnett addressed the taxi driver. “Do you know the Señor Muras's
hacienda?”
he asked.

The driver considered. He seemed to resent the fact that Dunnett was proposing to take him away from the scene of a little bit of real excitement. “Ten bolivianos,” he said at last.

“All right, go there.”

The driver sat back and made no movement.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Ten bolivianos.”

“What do you want it for?”

“Because I have no money.”

“Won't it do when we get back again?”

“I have no gasolene.” He indicated the gauge on the dashboard as proof.

“But that shows ‘Full',” Dunnett replied.

“I know,” the driver answered. “It is broken.”

Dunnett took out his notecase and gave the man three bolivianos. “You'll have the rest when we get there,” he said.

The driver nodded his head and pocketed the money. He drove off, looking backwards over his shoulder to where Señor Olivares was still shouting insults from behind the gate. When they reached the tobacco kiosk he dismounted and bought himself a long black cigar; all thought of gasolene seemed to have departed from his imperfect brain.

The ride in Señor Muras's Cadillac had seemed long. In the orange and green taxi it was interminable. The driver did not hurry, but it was doubtful, in any case, whether he could have done so. His vehicle went down into the potholes like a trawler in a bad sea and emerged shaking itself on the other side. After really bad sections, the driver got down and walked
dubiously round from the front to the back to see that everything was all right there. When he saw that the spray of flowers had become dislodged from their holder he took them in front with him and sat on them for safety.

The spectacle of the Fiery Mountain was a trifle disquieting at close quarters. There seemed more smoke than usual, and things seemed to be happening. In particular, a long T-shaped fissure half-way down the mountain appeared to be enjoying a small local eruption on its own. Lava was slowly oozing out like tooth-paste, and occasionally little jets of steam spurted. It even coughed out a stone or two at intervals. It was too small to be the real thing—the whole orifice could hardly have been larger than a tennis-court, but it was a specimen display of some significance. Perhaps it's cooking up for something, Dunnett reflected. I may see a turn before I go.

It was nearly two hours later when they reached the
hacienda
. They had changed a wheel by then and waited by the roadside—how often, Dunnett had forgotten—for the car to go off the boil. The driver wore an expression of victory on his face as he drew up at the house.

The
hacienda
itself presented a reassuring air of activity. A manservant emerged from the house in time to open the door of the taxi.

“Is Señor Muras in?” Dunnett asked.

“Señor Muras is away.”

“For long?”

“He did not say.”

“Did he say where he's gone?”

“He is travelling.”

Dunnett frowned. “Is the Señorita in?” he asked.

“The Señorita is with him,” the manservant replied.

Dunnett screwed up his courage and began to lie bravely. “But this is very strange,” he said. “Señor Muras invited me. Did they leave in a great hurry?”