The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (54 page)

Mayo had mounted the ladder and was just stepping to the deck when a dark figure hurled itself from the blackness beyond the light. A shoulder struck him a terrific blow in the chest, and he was knocked off balance into the hand-line.

It caught him just at the hips, and overbalanced, he fell headfirst into the sea. He hit the water unhurt and went down, deep, deeper. He caught himself and struck out for the surface.

A dark body swirled by him, and a knife slashed. Avoiding it, he shot through the surface, and an instant later his attacker broke water not six feet away. Ponga Jim dived and grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife from his grasp. Then closing with him, Mayo began to smash powerful blows into his body.

The man sagged suddenly. All the breath had been knocked from his body. The platform of the accommodation ladder seemed only a few feet away. Ponga Jim struck out, reached it, and crawled up. He dragged his prisoner with him.

He lay still, getting his wind. Then he got up and pushed the stumbling man ahead of him up the ladder.

“What iss?” A big man with a childlike pink face stepped out of the dark.

Instantly, Ponga Jim knew his mistake. Fighting and swimming, they had worked their way forward until alongside the Norwegian ship, boarding it by mistake. Glancing back toward the other ship, he could see they had swung nearer on the tide.

“Sorry,” Mayo said. “This fellow jumped me as I came aboard my ship. I’ll call a boat and we’ll go back.”

The seaman stared at him warily. He was carrying a short club and a gun. He looked like a tough customer. “How I know dat’s true?”

The man who had attacked Ponga Jim came to life. “It’s a lie,” he burst out. “He attacked me.”

“Aboard my own ship?” Mayo laughed. “Hardly.” He swung the man into the light. He was short and thick, almost black. There was an ugly scar over one eye, another on his cheek. He glared sullenly at Mayo, then with a jerk, broke free.

Ponga Jim grabbed at him, but the watchman stepped between. “How do I know yet which iss lyin’?” he demanded.

“Ask the men aboard my ship.” Ponga Jim gestured aft. “The
Semiramis.
”

The man peered at him. “Dot iss not der
Semiramis.
I neffer see no ship by dot name. Dot iss der
Chittagong,
of Calcutta.”

“What?” Mayo stared aft. The dark loom of the ship was unfamiliar. Her bridge was too high, and there were three lifeboats along the port side of her boat deck, not two as on the
Semiramis.

“You come aboard der wrong ship, mister,” the seaman told him. “I t’ink you better go ashore now.”

The man with the scarred face leered at him, his yellowish eyes triumphant. Ponga Jim looked from one to the other. Dripping with water, he turned and went down the gangway.

When he had hailed a harbor boat, he had himself sculled aft. The other ship was a flush-decker at least a thousand tons heavier than the
Semiramis.
There were four other ships in the harbor, all unknown to him.

Ponga Jim Mayo scowled and let his memory travel back for a moment. Shortly after eight-thirty that morning, he had walked down the accommodation ladder and been taken ashore. Slug Brophy and Gunner Millan, his first and second mates, had leaned on the rail as he went. Beyond, several of the crew had been working about the deck.

Back on the Custom House Pier, Mayo took stock of the situation. He had been through too much with his crew to doubt their loyalty. He knew Brophy would never consent to move without ample reason, for Brophy was not a man to be bluffed or imposed upon.

Somewhere in the background would be Norden and his Nazi friends. Fourteen hours earlier, Mayo had left the ship with a full crew. Now she was gone.

In the meantime, he had received an offer for his amphibian plane. Upon refusing the offer, he had been threatened. The affair of Juan Peligro had brought about an open break with his host.

The Spanish-German might have had the ship removed from the harbor. If so, he would have laid deliberate plans to conceal his action. He would be ruthlessly efficient. No doubt the officials in port were all in his pay.

Coolly, Ponga Jim went to a hotel, obtained a room, and went to bed. In the morning after a good breakfast, he sought out Duro the port captain. “What happened to the
Semiramis
?” Ponga Jim asked. “When I went ashore yesterday she lay aft of the
Nissengate.
When I returned she was gone.”

The Brazilian looked at him thoughtfully. “The
Semiramis,
you say? I never heard of it.”

“The pilot who brought me in was Du Silva,” Mayo said.

Captain Duro studied Ponga Jim curiously, then shrugged. “I don’t think so. Señor Du Silva has not come to work all week…I believe he is sick.”

“Now that’s a bunch of…” Then he stopped. “I see,” he said warily.

“If I were you,” the man told him lazily, leaning toward him, “I’d go home and get some sleep.”

Ponga Jim’s hand shot out and took the port officer by the throat. “And if I were you,” he said coldly, “I’d figure out another story before the American consul and President Vargas begin to ask questions.”

Duro’s face paled, but he merely stared at Mayo, his eyes ugly.

“What could you tell them? That your ship, armed with a full crew, had been stolen from the harbor? It could be very amusing, señor.”

Ponga Jim slammed the port captain back into his chair. “No,” he said flatly, “I’d tell them Don Pedro Norden was a traitor, and that you were his tool.”

He strode from the office. After all, Duro was right. It would be an utterly preposterous story. Ships of several thousand tons displacement do not vanish into thin air. As for witnesses, no doubt fifty people had noticed the
Semiramis,
but how many could see her name at that distance? The
Chittagong,
moored in the same place, would be considered the same ship. The few who knew better could be bribed or frightened.

Then, he was aware of the fact that his own reputation did not appeal to many government officials. He had been in action against the Japanese and Germans in the East Indies before the war began. That his aid had been invaluable to the Dutch and British was data burned deep into reports of their intelligence services. The fact that he had usually profited from those services would be enough to blacken his reputation with some people.

A man of Norden’s strength could build a substantial case against a lone captain of a tramp freighter with a mixed crew. Even if he won in the end and proved his point, it would require months of red tape and argument. In the meantime, what of his ship and his men?

Just why Norden wanted planes Mayo did not know, but the presence of Nazis on the hump of Brazil boded no good for the Allies. It was too near the source of bauxite for American planes. It was a place of great wealth and poverty, two elements that were often unstable when combined.

What Ponga Jim Mayo wanted done he must do himself. No doubt the communications were controlled by Norden, and it was to be doubted if any message he might send would be allowed to leave Fortaleza.

No doubt the freighter had been moved to some nearby river mouth or minor port where the plane would be removed. Possible anchorages were few, but there was nothing he could do to search. For the moment, the
Semiramis
and her crew must get along on their own. Don Pedro would expect him to protest to the government. He would expect excited demands, protests, much noise. In that case, it would be very simple for Don Pedro to have him sent to an insane asylum. Certainly, a man claiming someone had stolen an unknown ship and its crew would be insane enough for most people.

Long ago, Ponga Jim Mayo had discovered that attack was the best defense. He had discovered that plotters like to take their own time. He knew that one man with energy and courage could do much. So he wasn’t going to protest or demand, he wasn’t going to argue. He was going to carry the fight to the enemy.

Jim bought a suit of khakis, and returning to the hotel, changed from the bedraggled suit. Castillo Norden was on a spur of Mount Jua, approximately ten miles from town. In the side street not far from the hotel was a disreputable Model A. Nearby a Brazilian loitered. He was a plump, sullen man with a mustache and round cheeks.

“How much to rent the car all day?” Mayo asked.

The Brazilian looked at him, bored. “You go to Castillo Norden, my friend,” he replied, “you go to trouble.”

Ponga Jim grinned. “Maybe I’m looking for trouble. Do we go?”

The Brazilian tossed his limp cigarette into the gutter.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug.

They rattled out of town and drove in silence for several miles. The man paid no attention to the main road, but took side roads toward Mount Jua. “I am Armando Fontes,” he said, “always in troubles.” He looked at Ponga Jim. “You have a gun?”

At Mayo’s nod, he drew back his own coat and showed an enormous pistol stuffed in his waistband. “I, too!” he spat. “These men are bad. You better watch out. They got plenty stuff.”

Leaving Fontes with the car, Ponga Jim walked up the stable road. He saw no one. It was easy to understand why Carisa and Peligro had been sure the road was safe.

It led through two rows of trees that would have allowed quick concealment in case of need.

Then he passed the stables and went on through the garden. He glanced back and saw a workman at the stables had straightened and was watching him, but when the
obrero
saw himself observed, he hastily bent over his work.

It was late afternoon when Ponga Jim slipped behind the boll of a palm, then behind a clump of hibiscus at the edge of the terrace where he had stood the night before.

He was waiting there when the French doors opened suddenly and Don Pedro Norden came out, walking with Don Ricardo. “You will see,” Norden was saying, “the planes will be here. The fields have been ready for months. As you know, there has been no passport control at Fortaleza and we’ve been importing technicians, army officers, engineers, all sorts of men, most of them Germans.”

“What about the Japanese?” Valdes suggested.

“Ready. The colonies around Cananea and Registro will act simultaneously with those here in Ceará and those on the Amazon. Our men have been posted in key spots for weeks now, ready for the day. The transport planes will move them where they are needed.”

Valdes smiled grimly and nodded.

“You will give the word?”

“Soon. There are approximately three million Germans, Japanese, and Italians in this country. Most, of course, want no trouble but our men will hide in those communities and when the time comes they will make sure that the right kind of incidents occur. I think we can count on a good many joining us once they are threatened by the government.

“First, seventy key men will be assassinated. To allow for mistakes, each man is covered by two groups. Vargas and Aranha are among the first, of course. Both are strong, capable men, and without them the army will have to step in.

“São Paulo will be seized—it is practically in our hands now. Also Manáos. The Amazon will be closed to traffic, all available shipping will be impounded. Our airfields here and at Teresina will be receiving and refueling planes. We will have Brazil before Vargas realizes we are moving.”

Valdes nodded. “A good plan, and a careful one.”

Norden snorted. “How did I make my money, Don Ricardo? By taking chances? I made it by planning. At all my properties in South America there are bases. Fuel is stored, the two ships in Fortaleza harbor are full of munitions for our cause, we are ready. This amphibian we picked up today—it will be priceless in getting about. We need many planes now, and they are hard to get.”

“What of the United States?” Valdes asked. “Will they interfere?”

“The Germans believe so. I doubt it. The Axis backs this move because they want a diversion, something to divide the strength of the North Americans. The Yankees will send some forces here, but we can handle what they send. The Americans are soft—their own correspondents say so.”

Valdes nodded. “Perhaps, but this Mayo, he took that situation over last night too fast to suit me.”

“Him?” Norden sneered. “He will be telling people his wild story of a stolen ship. It is too preposterous!”

“Perhaps.” Don Ricardo was uneasy. “You have been successful but perhaps you are too sure.” Valdes hesitated, biting his lip. “Don Pedro,” he said slowly, “I have been hearing stories. When the amphibian landed here one of the men recognized it. The plane is special, made to order for Count Kull, one of Germany’s most dangerous secret agents. It was taken from him by an adventurer in the East Indies.”

“You mean—Mayo?” Don Pedro was scowling.

“Just that. What I’m saying, Don Pedro,” Valdes insisted, “is that Ponga Jim Mayo may be a very dangerous man.”

Norden paused. “All right. I’ll give the order that he be killed on sight. Now let us go in. I could use a drink.”

CHAPTER III

Killed on sight. Ponga Jim watched them go. At least it was all in the clear now. The amphibian was here. If he only knew where the
Semiramis
was!

He stood still, staring out across the spacious grounds that surrounded the Castillo Norden. What a fool he was to believe he could cope with all this alone. Don Pedro Norden had stood upon the terrace like a king, a man who knew great power, yet thirsted for more. He was no petty criminal, no agent of a foreign power. He was playing the Axis off against the United States to win more power for himself.

Even to hope seemed foolish. The man was shrewd, he had power and held all the strings. Ponga Jim stood behind the hibiscus and knew that there was only one way out—right through the middle. Don Pedro had built well, but could the structure stand attack?

He glanced around. There was no one in sight. He caught the rack on which the wisteria grew and went up, hand over hand, to the balcony above.

He flattened against the building. He had been unobserved so far as he could see. He stepped to the window and pushed it inward. Carisa Montoya sat before a mirror in her robe, polishing her nails.