Leonie (45 page)

Gérard’s spirits rose. “I’d love it. Of course, I’ll have to get permission from my father.”

Sebastião laughed. “You may never come back,” he warned. “Rio is as seductive as a beautiful woman.”

–
• 43 •

Verronet hated Manaus. He hated the humidity that made him sweat uncomfortably in his white Paris suit, he hated the insects and mosquitoes that bit him insistently, he hated the moist jungle smells of rot and decay and the hot town smells of perfume and sweat and sugar-cane rum. And he loathed the all-pervading acrid stench of rubber.

Averting his eyes from the flashy brothels and bawdy painted women with teeth studded with diamonds and filed to feline points, he stared nervously at the Winchester carbines slung carelessly across the shoulders of fierce swarthy men, in town from remote upriver rubber trails. He was waiting to meet the last of the trail owners on his list. He’d already spoken to half a dozen—some of whom, with their flinty eyes and casually toted pistols, had put the fear of God in him, and some of whom, flaunting their new wealth in linen suits from London, Charvet ties from Paris, and women on their arms decked in emeralds from Cartier, had quoted prices as high as their life-style. There had been one or two possibles, but their plantations had turned out to be too small. De Courmont was going to need a lot of rubber and Verronet hoped that Wil Harcourt would be the one to provide it. If not, it could mean at least another month in Manaus, searching. He doubted he’d be able to bear it.

The Churrascaria Onça was named for the beautiful tame jaguar lounging lazily on its chain at the far end of the long, mirrored mahogany bar, and Verronet kept as far from it as possible as he ordered an American beer from the vast refrigerated cabinet.

“You must be Verronet.”

He wheeled around in surprise. “You look so damned uncomfortable, I guessed you were a newcomer to Manaus.”

Verronet assessed him quickly: a strong face, the straightforward
manner of a man with nothing to hide, and he toted no pistols and wore no diamond rings! Just let him have enough rubber, he prayed, and of the right quality.

Wil led the way to a table, past the guardian Onça. Her eyes followed Verronet as he skirted her nervously. “She’s tame enough.” Wil grinned. “Playful as a kitten—with her owner!”

Verronet got straight to business, listing the European Iron and Steel Company’s requirements: details of quantities, the five-year contract at a fixed, initially high price that they estimated would amortize itself over a period and which, in any case, would be substantially less than they would have paid buying from brokers. To his relief, Wil was able to confirm what he hoped to hear: the Oro Velho Trail had only the best
hevea brasiliensis
trees, supplying “Pará fine hard” rubber, and they had sufficient quantity for his needs. Wil promised to discuss Verronet’s terms with his partner and let him know in a day or two. It seemed probable they could make a deal.

Verronet glanced again at Wil Harcourt, who was digging enthusiastically into his plate of grilled meats. Harcourt was demanding payment for two years in advance. That was a very great deal of money, though his reasoning—that it must offset any great price rises for the next season’s rubber—was valid. Still, it made him nervous. Could he trust him? What if the rubber was of inferior quality when it arrived in France? De Courmont would hold him responsible. Verronet shuddered as he thought of the consequences. It was no use checking the rubber in the warehouses, they could show him anything they wanted. There was nothing for it but to go upriver and inspect their trail. De Courmont, I hope you appreciate this, he thought bitterly, because it’s going to cost you! He thought greedily of the rise in salary, the possible bonuses in de Courmont stocks that he stood to gain from such a deal, and sighed. It would be worth it.

Verronet felt a fool in his brand-new jungle outfit; the long-sleeved shirt was hot and the high boots uncomfortably tight on his already swollen feet—and besides, Wil Harcourt was wearing his normal clothes. He fumed silently, wishing Harcourt’s partner would hurry, the
Liverpool Lady
was already preparing to leave.

“There he is,” said Wil, leaning over the rail. “Come on,” he yelled, “Captain Beckwith will be furious if you make him miss his sailing!”

Edouard threw his bag onto the deck of the steamboat and hurried up the gangway. “Had to stop by the telegraph office to send a message home,” he said, grinning. He held out his hand to Verronet. “It’s a pleasure to meet a fellow Frenchman. I’m Edouard d’Aureville.”

Verronet blinked. Had he heard right? He offered his moist hand. “Monsieur … d’Aureville?”

“Didn’t I mention,” said Wil, “that my partner is French?”

“A lapsed Frenchman,” said Edouard. “I haven’t been home in twelve years.”

A fixed smile hid Verronet’s interest—of course, there had been a brother who lived abroad, and wasn’t it twelve years since Charles d’Aureville had died and Léonie’s baby had disappeared? “And where was your home, Monsieur?” he asked.

Edouard caught the faint tremor in Verronet’s voice. Why was the man so nervous? “The Loire, close to Tours. Would you excuse me?” he added. “I must check with the captain about an extra load we’re bringing back from Santarém.”

Verronet turned to Wil. “An odd coincidence,” he said casually, “a Frenchman supplying France with rubber from Brazil. Tell me, why has he never returned to France? There are ships from Belem every week.”

“Edouard’s family moved with him to Rio—his mother and his little girl. They’re happy there.”

“His little girl?” Verronet’s voice rose to a squeak. “He’s married then?”

“No, he’s not married. Amélie is Edouard’s brother’s child. He died when she was very young and Edouard has brought her up as his own.”

Verronet drew a trembling breath. Oh, the mysterious ways of fate! Here he was, on a steamboat, a thousand miles along the Amazon River, and he had found Amélie! He shook with excitement. He had to be alone; he had to think. He needed to consider his next moves.

He sat on the narrow bunk in his tiny cabin and stared at the blank wall opposite. He—Verronet—held the key to Gilles de Courmont’s obsession. Amélie was the one thing in life de Courmont
needed
—and it was going to cost him dearly!

Verronet laughed out loud. He needn’t be so careful now about this rubber deal. He’d go to Rio instead, track down the girl; he peered through the porthole, but Manaus was only a faint silhouette
on the darkening horizon.
Merde
. Now he’d have to go through with it. He sighed and threw himself on the bunk. Well, Amélie had waited all these years, a few more days wouldn’t matter.

Gray clouds misted the roofs of Santarém, and Edouard, watching the last of the rubber being loaded onto the
Liverpool Lady
, cast an anxious glance skyward. If it hadn’t been for Verronet, they wouldn’t have made this journey so late in the season; he hoped they would make it back to Manaus before the heavy rains began.

It had been a tough couple of days. Verronet made him uneasy, but he couldn’t think why. There was just something odd about him. It had been amusing, though, watching Verronet treading warily through the tall green silence of the jungle, shooting glances right and left as though expecting to be eaten alive at any moment, swooning with fear as the howler monkeys screamed their dawn chorus, shattering the still forest like a pane of breaking glass. Verronet had scurried thankfully back on board the
Liverpool Lady
and was now soothing his frayed nerves with a bottle of Captain Beckwith’s Scotch.

Verronet composed the telegram to de Courmont carefully. “Rubber situation successful,” he wrote, “delaying return for a further few weeks to follow up information of an important personal nature. Will report as soon as possible.”

Did it say enough? He wanted to feed de Courmont the information slowly, allow him to think that this would be extremely difficult, even dangerous, work. Then he’d tell him he had found her. Léonie’s long-lost daughter! And he’d make him pay every step of the way!

With a great blast on her siren, the
Liverpool Lady
pulled away from the dock and out into the sluggish silt-brown river—at last returning to Manaus. Verronet sipped his Scotch contentedly, he had finally won the game.

The sound of rain drumming on the decks woke Edouard. He glanced at his watch—after three o’clock—and turned over again, closing his eyes, but the noise of the rain beat incessantly through the darkness and the boat wallowed uncomfortably on the churning river. He was now completely awake; cursing the rain, he pulled on trousers and shirt and went in search of a drink.

He found Captain Beckwith in the wheelhouse, peering out into the rain-washed night. “Good weather, isn’t it,” commented the captain, filling their glasses, “for ducks!”

Edouard grinned and sipped his Scotch. The rain was a solid sheet, isolating the little steamboat as she plowed her way upriver. The wheelhouse seemed a tiny haven of security in a wild alien world. Flickering lights threw back their reflections from the useless windows as Edouard listened to Beckwith’s tales of ships and storms that spanned his fifty years at sea. A stocky Yorkshireman, who unbuttoned his tight-lipped silence only after his third whiskey, Beckwith alternated his drinks with mugs of steaming dark brown tea, brewed by the mate who stood in charge of the wheel.

The rain stopped suddenly, as though God had turned off the tap, and the captain looked up in surprise. On deck he sniffed the air like a pointer, scanning the gloomy predawn sky and the dark mass of river, searching through the spiraling mist to where he could just make out the bank on the port side. “Mmm,” he muttered. “I don’t know … something doesn’t feel right.”

“Perhaps we’re in for a thunderstorm,” suggested Edouard, stretching wearily.

The captain held up a gnarled hand as they strained their ears into the silence. Distantly, beyond the movement of the river, they could hear a low rumbling, like a far-off train surging through the night.

“By God,” roared Beckwith, “we’re in trouble! First Mate, ring that bloody bell … all hands on deck … it’s the riverbanks, the bastards are being ripped apart by the floodwaters. They’re tearing off in great chunks—mile after bloody mile of them. The force of the fall will create a freak wave maybe twenty feet high. Better wake up your friends, Edouard, and get below. We’ll run for the shelter of the islands in midstream.”

Wil was already awake and throwing on his clothes as Edouard pounded on Verronet’s door.

“What is it?” called Verronet irritably. He’d only just fallen asleep after spending restless hours tossing and turning, despite the bottle of whiskey he’d consumed.

“Get dressed,” yelled Edouard, “we’re in for trouble: the riverbanks are caving in.”

Verronet appeared at the door, white-faced. “You mean we’re
in danger?
”

He was obviously going to be of no help. “Better stay below,”
advised Edouard, heading for the companionway. “You’ll be safe enough down here.”

Verronet stared after him, his face pinched with panic. He glanced up and down the corridor—no one was in sight. He was all alone down here! He heard the sudden running of feet overhead as the ship pulled hard to starboard, gathering speed as she moved into the current, flinging him to his knees. Terrified, he scrambled to his feet and lumbered up the companionway, peering out at the wild, swirling, muddy river, the great roar ringing in his ears. A wave slapped viciously across the deck, pouring down the steps and slamming him backward. With a whimper, he picked himself up again, coughing river water, and clambered back up the stairs. He scurried toward the wheelhouse, passing Wil, who was working with the sailors on deck, frantically battening down hatches and portholes.

In the engine room stokers fueled coal into the roaring furnaces as Beckwith swung the ship into the shelter of the islands. Edouard focused the binoculars on the misty horizon, waiting.

Verronet stood in the doorway, dripping water. “What’s happening?” he demanded hoarsely. “You left me down there alone.…”

“Shut that blasted door!” roared Beckwith, as the boat wallowed and water slopped through the cabin.

Verronet slammed the door, cowering against the security of its solid wood, following their gaze as they scanned the river, his breath escaping from terrified lips in a long hiss as he looked out. Less than a quarter of a mile away, a solid wall of water spanned the width of the river, curving toward them, gathering momentum as it came. With a shriek like the twisting of steel girders, the Amazon riverbanks crashed, rending up giant centuries-old trees by their roots and hurling them into the torrent as though they were twigs. There was another sound above the roar of the falling lands and Verronet realized suddenly that it was his own terrified scream. He was going to die, here in this wilderness. They’d brought him here to drown him. He spun around as Edouard pushed past him and hurled himself on the bucking wheel with Beckwith, lending his weight to the captain’s, striving to keep the ship steady. Then the wave engulfed them.

The
Liverpool Lady
shivered under the impact like a dying animal, timbers splintered with a sound like pistol shots; metals ripped and screamed as the torrent poured in. Verronet fought the
weight of the water, choking on the silt-thick mass that pressed on his eyes, invaded his nose, crushed his lungs. It was bottomless, endless; he was drowning beneath the formless heaviness.

“Bastard river,” roared Beckwith, surfacing, still clinging to the useless wheel, which bucked wildly, flinging him backward with Edouard into the water. There was a sharp pain as a shard of broken glass crashed into Edouard’s forehead. Beckwith surfaced again, grabbing Verronet, shaking him like a rat, slapping the water from him with great thuds on his back, until Verronet choked and gasped air. Edouard staggered to his feet, shaking his head, spattering blood across them both. Where was Wil? he wondered fuzzily. Oh, God, where was Wil? Water still flooded through the wheelhouse. Staggering upright, he pushed his way across to the door, tripping over Verronet, who clung, paralyzed with fear, to the stair rail. The boat shuddered again, wallowing deep in the water as Verronet grabbed him. “Where are you going?” he screamed. “Don’t leave me here alone … you want me to die, you want me to die.…”