Get a Load of This (16 page)

     A tap sounded on the door and Anita came in. She carried a bundle of clothes over her arm. “Senorita is welcome to these,” she said, looking first at Myra and then at Quentin.
     Myra took them from her. “It is very kind of you,” she said.
     Anita shrugged. “They will not make senorita less attractive,” she said. There was a malicious look in her eyes as she said it. She went out without looking back.
     Morecombre ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “That dame is mad about something,” he said. “I didn't like the dirty look, did you?”
     Quentin went over and opened the bedroom door. “You can change in there,” he said. “I'm sure you will feel much more comfortable out of that evening affair.”
     Myra said: “I will. Please don't worry about me any further. You must have a lot to think about. I can manage now very well.” She went into the room and shut the door.
     Morecombre heaved a sigh. “That's very nice, isn't it?” he said, jerking his head towards the door. “A little cold and standoffish, but she'd make a swell tumble, huh?”
     Quentin lit a cigarette. “I don't think you're the only guy with that idea,” he said.
     “Fuentes?”
     “Yeah, that's where the trouble's going to start for us. We can't very well stand by and let that punk go for her, can we?”
     “Like hell,” Morecombre said. “If he starts anything like that, I'll knock him into next week.”
     “At least, that's what you'll try to do,” Quentin said dryly. “Actually, the guy has some forty soldiers to help him.”
     Morecombre sniffed. “Oh, I guess we could manage them together. I wouldn't like to try it on my own, but, with you, I guess we'd get by.”
     “Sure,” Quentin said dubiously. “But all the same, I wish she hadn't turned up like this.”
     He went back to the window and continued to stare into the deserted streets. Morecombre joined him, and for a while they stood silent, watching the sun gradually fall behind the horizon.

     
     In the evening it became cooler. The slight breeze coming in off the bay stirred the net curtains of the verandah window.
     Morecombre sat by the window, smoking a pipe, his eyes never shifting from the deserted waterfront. Quentin lay on the divan with his eyes shut, and an open book lying across his chest. Myra sat away from them, trying to read, but every sound from outside, and every step in the corridor, made her stiffen.
     They had just finished a snack meal from the assortment of canned food, and Quentin was mentally calculating how long that small store would last them. He opened his eyes and glanced across at Myra. She was looking away from him, unaware that he was watching her. He thought she looked absurdly young in the short, black silk dress Anita had lent her. Her long legs in shiny black stockings and the touch of white under her dress, which he could glimpse from the angle he was lying, brought a frown to his face. She was too good, he decided. Her fair hair, like a sheet of shining metal, reflected in the soft light of the reading-lamp. He liked her long, thin fingers, and the curve of her arms. He studied her face thoughtfully. The hard curve of her mouth puzzled him. The expression on her face made him grope for the right word—disillusion. Yes, that was it.
     He found himself wondering what had happened on the previous night. Why she was unescorted? How she came to miss the ship. All day she had been very silent. Obviously she was grateful to them for offering her hospitality, but there it ended. She had erected a barrier which neither Morecombre nor he could break through. In the long hours of waiting and listening for something to happen, both the men would have been glad to have been on their own. This constant small talk that led nowhere and social politeness which neither found to his mood had become irksome. Quentin found himself wishing that she would go away, but she had sat quietly in the chair all the long afternoon, speaking when spoken to, but otherwise retaining a brooding silence.
     Both the men had given up finally in despair, and for the past hour there was a heavy strained silence, broken only by the rustle of a turning page and the creak of a chair, as Morecombre shifted from one position to another.
     Suddenly from out of the darkness came three rifle-shots. They sounded very close. Morecombre sprang to his feet. “Did you hear that?” he asked, rather unnecessarily.
     Quentin was already up and crossed the room to turn out the light. Then he stumbled over to the window and peered out. But for the flickering lights on the waterfront he could see nothing. They listened in the darkness. Faintly they could hear someone shouting, and then two more shots sounded. This time they caught a glimpse of the flash from a rifle. It was just outside the hotel.
     “Maybe the sentry's gettin' the wind-up,” Quentin said. “I noticed a man at the gate this afternoon.”
     Morecombre fumed. “He must be shooting at something,” he said, going out on to the verandah.
     Quentin reached forward and jerked him back. “Keep off there, Bill,” he advised. “In this moonlight you'd be quite a target.”
     Morecombre hastily stepped into the room and put on the light again. “Well, I suppose this is about all we can do,” he said irritably, “just sit around and wonder. I tell you I'm getting mighty fed up with doing nothing.”
     The door jerked open, and a young lieutenant walked in. Behind him stood two soldiers, their rifles hovering in the direction of the two Americans. “You'll pardon me,” the Lieutenant said in careful English, “for interrupting you.”
     Quentin said, “What was that shooting?”
     The Lieutenant shrugged. “A little disturbance. It is purely a local affair. I assure you it is well in hand by now.”
     Quentin concealed his impatience. “Well, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”
     The Lieutenant glanced round the room until his eyes rested on Myra. A thin little smile came to his sharp-featured face, and he bowed from the waist. “General Fuentes presents his compliments, and wishes you to dine with him,” he said.
     Myra lifted her chin. “Will you thank the General and tell him that I have already dined?”
     There was a long pause. The Lieutenant stood, the thin smile still on his mouth, his eyes slowly travelling over her with appraising, insolent stare.
     Quentin said quietly, “Is that all?”
     The Lieutenant ignored him. He said to Myra: “Senorita doesn't understand. This is—how shall I put it?—a command invitation, yes?”
     Quentin eased his way between the Lieutenant and Myra. “Perhaps I could make things a little easier for you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Miss Arnold does not wish to dine with the General. She has already dined and she prefers to stay here under my protection.”
     The Lieutenant appeared to see him for the first time. He gave an elaborate start. “Senor would be advised not to interfere in this matter,” he said. “Escaping prisoners are unfortunately shot.” He looked significantly at the two soldiers. “I am sure senorita would not wish to be the cause of such a distressing occurrence?”
     Quentin said: “You're bluffing. Miss Arnold stays here with me.”
     Myra suddenly stood up. “No,” she said, “I will go. He is quite right. It would be absurd for you to be hurt because of me. You have important work to do. I will come with you,” she said, turning to the Lieutenant.
     At a sign from him, the two soldiers took a step forward, bringing their rifles to the ready.
     “One movement from either of these men,” the Lieutenant said sharply, “you are to shoot them like dogs. Come, senorita, let us have no more of this play-acting.” He stepped to the door and jerked it open.
     Myra hesitated, then walked out quietly. The Lieutenant followed her, shutting the door behind her.
     He overtook her in the passage. “The General has a suite on the second floor to this,” he said; “you would be advised to be as accommodating as possible to the General. He is a man who has what he wants and it is unfortunate that he has—what shall I say?”—he flicked his fingers impatiently—“no finesse, is that the word? You understand, senorita?”
     Myra stopped and faced him. “Am I to understand that you are acting in the capacity of a procurer, Lieutenant?” she said coldly.
     The Lieutenant started as if she had struck him. His yellowish skin darkened. “You will find that an unfortunate remark,” he said, his eyes gleaming angrily. “Since you prefer such candour, I see no reason why you should not realize the position you are in. The General will not tolerate any nonsense from you. Unless you are prepared to be entirely passive, you will be held to the bed by soldiers. Now do you understand?”
     Myra didn't flinch. She said quietly: “Please take me immediately to General Fuentes. I am sure he will be interested to hear what you have just said.”
     The Lieutenant went very pale. “But, senorita—surely...”he stammered.
     She walked past him and mounted the stairs. Her face was set in a cold, hard mask. The Lieutenant ran after her and caught her at the head of the stairs. “Senorita, I have to apologize. My remarks were entirely out of place. I wish to withdraw them.” Sweat had started out on his face, and he endeavoured to smile, succeeding only in making a terrified grimace.
     She took no notice of him at all, but continued to walk down the corridor to where a soldier stood with fixed bayonet. He saw her as she approached, and a little smirk crossed his fat, oily face. He rapped on the door and threw it open. “The senorita,” he said.
     The General stood by the open french windows. He looked up eagerly as Myra came in. “This is going to be a beautiful evening,” he said, advancing with his hand outstretched. There was no smile on his face. His eyes, like little glass pebbles, took in her beauty possessively.
     Myra ignored his hand. She said: “Is it true, General, that you employ your soldiers to assist you in your love-making?”
     The General stood transfixed. Blood mounted to his face, and he half raised his hand as if he was about to strike her. She met his furious eyes without flinching. For several seconds he was so nonplussed that he could only make little spluttering noises, then he jerked out, “How dare you say such a thing?”
     “I thought there must be some misunderstanding. Your Lieutenant told me that I was to expect no mercy from you, and that if I did not submit to you, I was to be held down on your bed by your soldiers.” The scorn and contempt in her voice nearly drove the General crazy. She stood very erect, her eyes flashing and her hands clenched by her side. She knew that everything depended on keeping the General angry. “I am relieved you are angry, General,” she went on. “I did not believe for a moment that a man who has risen to your high rank would tolerate such an insufferable insult to a woman. Perhaps you will correct your Lieutenant's conception of you. It is not flattering.”
     Fuentes took a quick step forward and gripped her wrist. His face was white with fury. “Did he really say that?” he demanded.
     Myra, feeling a little sick, said: “I have had enough of Cuban hospitality for tonight. Would you please take me back to my room.”
     She turned to the door and opened it. The soldier on guard gaped at her, and made a half-hearted attempt to stop her, but she brushed past him and walked down the passage. She heard the General's light step behind her and she had to make an effort not to break into a run. He overtook her at the head of the stairs. “It is most unfortunate that you should have received such treatment. Will you reconsider your decision and return to my suite? I can assure you of my protection. As for Lieutenant Cartez, I shall discipline him severely.”
     Keeping her voice steady, Myra said: “You must excuse me, General, but I have had a considerable shock. Your generosity, when you have me entirely at a disadvantage, is worthy of the highest traditions of your race. Please don't think that I'm ungrateful.” She gave him a frightened little smile and ran downstairs. The General watched her go. He was like a stupefied bull in the ring, transfixed by the sudden flip of a matador's cape.
     He stood very silent at the head of the stairs until she had gone from his sight. His face was twisted with vicious fury, then he jerked round and barked to the sentry, “Send Lieutenant Cartez to me at once.”
     The sentry, round-eyed with fear, moved hurriedly to obey. Fuentes raised his hand. “Wait,” he said. “In an hour's time I want a woman brought to my suite, do you understand? The maid who works here will do. Get her at once and bring her to me in an hour's time.”
     The sentry grinned uneasily. “Yes, your Excellency.”
     Fuentes looked at him. “If you touch her during that hour I will personally attend to your punishment. See that she is clean and wearing clean clothes when you bring her. Now, send the Lieutenant to me.”
     He turned and walked back to his room with quick, impatient steps.

     
     The small ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine o'clock sharply. Faint sounds of distant shouting and an occasional shot drifted in through the open windows. Morecombre sat on the floor, his back to the room, looking into the darkness. He had not moved for half an hour.
     Quentin, in shirt-sleeves and his collar open, paced the room with long strides. Cigarette-butts piled in the fireplace. Every now and then he glanced across at Myra, who lay asleep on the divan. He thought she looked very tired, drawn and defenceless, now that her features were relaxed. He crossed over to Morecombre and stood behind him, looking out into the night.
     “We're in a jam, Bill,” he said, very softly; “we've got to do something before the night's out.” He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. “She was lucky to get away with it this time, but tomorrow will be a different story. We ought to try to get her out of this.”
     Morecombre grunted. “You mean shooting our way through hordes of soldiers like they do on the movies?”
     “Along those lines.”
     “We two mugs protecting her from a hail of lead with our big, sunburnt bodies—huh?”
     “Something like that.”
     “O.K., if that's the way you feel. I guess I've had enough of newspaper work. Maybe heaven won't be so bad,” he laughed. “I wonder if angels take their wings off when they go to bed. It would rather restrict one if they didn't.”
     Quentin lit a cigarette. “The consul's about a half mile from here. It Will be tricky going, but that's where we've got to take her.”
     Morecombre stood up. “When do we go?”
     “After midnight, I think. We might stand a chance of surprising the guards.”
     A sudden wild frightened scream made them swing round. Myra also sat up with a start. “What was that?” she asked, her voice going off key.
     Quentin went to the door and jerked it open. As he did so the scream was repeated. It came from upstairs. The sentry outside the door threatened him with his rifle. “Get back into your room,” he said.
     Quentin took no notice, he stood staring upwards. At the head of the staircase, with her back to him, stood Anita. She was naked.
     Facing her was a gigantic negro soldier. He held a rifle and face almost split in two by a jeering grin. He held a rifle and bayonet and the long glittering blade hovered within a foot of her.
     Before Quentin could move he heard a voice say impatiently, “Go on, you fool, finish her.” He recognized the dry, harsh voice of Fuentes. His hand swung to his hip pocket, but the sentry hit him very hard on his chest with the butt of the rifle, sending him staggering back against Morecombre, who had crowded up behind him.
     They heard Anita give another terrified scream. They saw her catch the blade as the negro drove at her. They saw her hands sliding along the blade and the blood, as the sharp bayonet opened her palms, running down her wrists, then the point of the blade struck her in the middle of her chest with incredible force, and three inches of red steel protruded from her back. Still grinning, the negro held the rifle steady so that she could not fall. Her knees went and her hands beat feebly against the barrel of the rifle, but he still held her, rolling his great black eyes and laughing at her.
     Quentin regained his balance. The sentry had drawn back, his finger curled round the trigger of his rifle. “Get back!” he said savagely. “Get back!”
     As Anita fell, the negro shoved out his foot and kicked her off the bayonet. It was a tremendous kick and it sent her crashing down the stairs. Her body thudded to the floor almost at Quentin's feet. The sentry took his eyes off Quentin for a moment to gape at her. Quentin didn't hesitate, his hand flashed to his pocket and with one movement shot the sentry between his eyes. The big negro, hearing the shot, came charging to the top of the stairs and Quentin fired again. The negro gave a startled grunt, put both his hands to his belly and sat down heavily on the floor.
     One glance at Anita was sufficient. She was pathetically, horribly dead. Quentin spun round. “Let's go,” he said; “no time like the present.”
     “I'll take the rifle and go first,” Morecombre said, stepping forward. “You bring Miss Arnold and cover the rear.”
     Before Quentin could protest, Morecombre was already off down the corridor.
     Quentin said sharply, “Come on, we've got to get out of here.”
     Myra came to the doorway, very white, but steady. He grabbed her arm and bustled her past the two bodies. His face was set and grim. He knew this wasn't going to be a picnic.
     Morecombre had already reached the head of the stairs. Faintly they could hear the General shouting, and as Morecombre took one step down, a soldier came dashing to the foot of the stairs. Holding the rifle at his waist, Morecombre fired at him. The rifle kicked up, and the bullet swished over the soldier's head. As Morecombre fumbled at the bolt, Quentin came up behind him and shot the soldier as he was about to fire in his turn. “Use your gun,” he snapped. “You ain't used to a rifle.”
     “You're telling me,” Morecombre said, wiping the sweat from his face. He dropped the rifle with a clatter, and pulled a police .38 special from his hip pocket. They got down the next flight of stairs into the lobby of the hotel before three soldiers and a sergeant appeared from out of a side room. Two of the soldiers fired point-blank at them. Quentin felt the wind for a bullet against his face, and he fired with Morecombre. Two of the soldiers pitched forward, and the sergeant was shot through the arm. He turned and ran back into the room, shouting at the top of his voice.
     Morecombre said: “Go down to the cellar—you won't get out any other way. They can't get you there... I've seen it.” He swayed on his feet.
     Quentin ran to him. “Are you hurt?” he asked, taking his arm.
     Morecombre's legs folded up under him and Quentin had to lower him to the floor. “What is it?” he asked, bending over him.
     “Go on—go on, you nut,” Morecombre said faintly, “don't worry about me. Get the girl away.” He pressed his hands to his chest and Quentin could see blood oozing through his fingers.
     “Keep your hair on,” he said gently. “We'll go together. Put your arm round my neck.”
     “For Christ's sake leave me alone,” Morecombre said, his voice breaking into a sob. “Clear off—they can't do anything to me... Get the girl....”
     “Damn the girl!” Quentin said savagely. “I'm not going to leave you.” He stooped, and with a tremendous effort lifted Morecombre and took two staggering steps towards the back of the elevator which screened the service stairs. “Get down quick ... go first,” he gasped to Myra.
     She snatched up Morecombre's gun which had fallen on the floor and stood watching the door through which the soldier had disappeared. Quentin staggered on. He knew it would only waste time if he argued. Morecombre suddenly stiffened in his arms and then went limp, upsetting Quentin's balance and bringing him to his knees. One look at Morecombre's face was sufficient. Quentin laid him on the floor gently, and then, rising, ran back to Myra. “He's gone,” he said. “Come on, for God's sake.”
     Together they ran down the dark stairs into the basement. As they reached the bottom of the stairs they heard a heavy pounding of feet overhead. Taking Myra's arm, Quentin hustled her along the stone corridor, down another flight of stone steps into the cellar. The entrance to the cellar was low and narrow. Only one person could enter at a time. It was an ideal place for a siege.
     “We'll be all right here for a time,” Quentin said, producing a small flashlight and examining the low-roofed vault. It was very large and full of wine barrels. “Doesn't look as if we'll go thirsty, either,” he added with a crooked grin.
     He found the switch of the pilot light and a dim glow appeared in the ceiling when he turned down the switch. “If we can shift a couple of these barrels over to the door we can hold this place until the cows come home.”
     Myra helped him get the barrels into position and then she sat down limply on the stone floor. Quentin was too occupied to bother with her for the moment. He made certain that there was no other exit and then took up a position by the door. He could hear movements going on upstairs, and then a sudden clicking of heels. He heard Fuentes say, “Where are they?”
     There was a murmured reply which Quentin could not hear, then Fuentes said: “We can pick them up later. Put two men at the head of the stairs. Tell them to shoot at sight.”
     Quentin made a little face. “He's got us there,” he said. “They can't get in, but we can't get out. We'll have to wait until someone comes along and chases these guys away.”
     Myra said: “If it wasn't for me, this would never have happened.”
     “Forget it. What's the use of talking like that? If we get out of it, I've got a grand story to write. If we don't, some other guy's got the story—so what?”
     “Your friend lost his life because of me.”
     Quentin's face hardened. “This ain't the time for that kind of talk. It won't get you anywhere. Bill was unlucky. If you hadn't been here, you don't think we would have let the General push Anita around as he did, do you?” He shook his head. “No, I guess we were mugs to come to this joint. We wanted to be in at the death, now it looks like we're going to attend the wrong funeral.”
     Myra sat limply, her hands folded in her lap and her long legs tucked under her. Morecombre's death had shocked her badly.
     He got to his feet and went over to the wine-bins. After careful scrutiny he selected a couple of bottles and drew the corks with the corkscrew on his knife. “Have you ever tried drinking a nice light wine from the bottle?” he asked her. “I want you to have some of this stuff. It'll do you good.”
     She hesitated, then took the bottle. The wine was strong and sweet. They were thirsty and they both drank deeply. He sat by the door again. “Not bad stuff, is it?” he said, feeling the wine surging through him. Potent stuff, he thought, and put the bottle down. It wouldn't do to have a muddled head in his position.
     Glancing at her, he saw that her face was a little flushed and her eyes brighter. She drank from the bottle again. “It is strong, isn't it?” she said, after a moment, and then laughed. She stared at him thoughtfully for a few minutes. “You know, I'm scared being on my own like this,” she said abruptly.
     Quentin could see she was getting a little tight. “You don't have to be scared of me,” he said quietly.
     “No, I know that.” She turned the bottle slowly in her hands. “You know when I said it was my fault that your friend was killed?”
     “We don't have to start that all over again.”
     “But it's true. It began with Lacey. You wouldn't know about Lacey, but he and the moon began it.” She put the bottle to her lips and tilted her head. Quentin made a little move to stop her, then thought she might just as well get tight and talk.
     She put the bottle down. “I was crazy. Have you ever been crazy? Have you ever felt that you'd give anything in the world for a really fine man to sweep you off your feet?” She looked at him, and shook her head. “No, I guess you'd never feel that way. I did. I wanted love. I wanted someone to sweep me off my feet. I was so sick of New York. I came to Havana because I heard it was the place of love. I wanted to believe it so badly that I kidded myself to death. I wanted it so badly that I let a down-at-heel ship's Romeo seduce me. That is the type of double fool that I am. That was Lacey. Tall, beautiful and terribly, terribly cheap, and I thought he was the real thing. I couldn't go back to the boat after that, could I? I mean, I couldn't take that long trip back, scared that I might run into him at any moment. No, I couldn't do that. So I decided to stay. Do you see now? If I hadn't been such a bitch, you wouldn't have annoyed the General, your friend wouldn't have died... and I shouldn't be here. You do see that, don't you?”
     All the time she had been talking, Quentin stared at his highly polished shoes. This sudden outburst rather shook him. She didn't look the type to go off the rails. He said at last: “It's damn queer how things happen, isn't it? I mean, maybe, when you get out of this, and look back on it, you'll be able to see why it had to happen.”
     Myra screwed up her eyes as if to see him more clearly. “You think it had to happen?”
     He nodded. “Sure, I think these sort of things are planned to happen to you. Sometimes you think that life is giving you a hell of a belting, but when you've had time to get away from it, and you look back, you see why it happened. Most times you realize that it was the best thing that could have happened.”
     She frowned. “Can you see any redeeming feature in being shut up in a cellar with a good chance of losing one's life?”
     Quentin smiled. “Right now I can't, but maybe in another six months' time I might be glad to have had the experience.”
     “No, that couldn't work with me. Why should it happen to us? Why must it be us, down here?”
     “Why should it be anyone else? I'm not scared what will happen to us. Are you?”
     Her face suddenly twisted, and she began to cry. “Yes, I'm scared. I feel that we'll never get away. It is because I was such a fool. You've got to suffer because of me.”
     He went over to her and sat by her side. “It's not like that,” he said, giving her his handkerchief; “you'll come out of it all right and so will I. In a few days you'll be looking back on this as a swell adventure and something to tell your friends about.”
     His arm went round her and she relaxed against him. They sat like that for a long time until she fell asleep.