It was quite late in the evening when Riley pulled up his car outside the Nationale. He had had a rough time; the street lighting had failed or been deliberately knocked out (he thought that perhaps the power-station staff had fled) and three times he'd been halted by the suspicious police, his being one of the few cars on the move in the quiet city. There was a sporadic crackle of rifle fire, sometimes isolated shots and sometimes minor fusillades, echoing through the streets. The police and the soldiers were nervous and likely to shoot at anything that moved. And behind everything was the steady rumble of artillery fire from the mountains, now sounding very distinctly on the thick night air.
His thoughts were in chaos as he got out of the car. He didn't know whether he'd be glad or sorry to find Davon at the Nationale. If she had gone to Rivière de la Paix Base then all decision was taken out of his hands, but if she was still in the hotel then he would have to make the awkward choice. Rivière de la Paix, in his opinion, wasn't safe, but neither was getting mixed up in a civil war between shooting armies. Could he, on an unsupported hunch, honestly advise anyone---and especially Davon---not to go to Rivière de la Paix?
He looked up at the darkened hotel and shrugged mentally----he would soon find out what he had to do. He was about to lock the car when he paused in thought, then he opened up the engine and removed the rotor-arm of the distributor. At least the car would be there when he needed it.
The foyer of the Nationale was in darkness, but he saw a faint glow from the American Bar. He walked across and halted as a chair clattered behind him. He whirled, and said, "Who's that?" There was a faint scrape of sound and a shadow flitted across a window; then a door banged and there was quiet.
He waited a few seconds, then went on. A voice called from the American Bar. "Who's that out thre?"
"Riley."
Davon rushed into his arms as he stepped into the bar. "Oh, Riley, I'm glad you're here. Have you brought transportation from the Base?"
"I've got transportation," he said. "But I've not come directly from the Base. Someone was supposed to pick you up, I know that."
"They came," she said. "I wasn't here---none of us were."
He became aware he was in the center of a small group. Bowman was there, and Messier of the Sel et Poivre Club and a middle-aged woman whom he didn't know. Behind, at the bar, the bartender clanged the cash register open.
"I was here," said the woman. "I was asleep in my room and nobody came to wake me up." She spoke aggressively in an affronted tone.
"I don't think you know Mrs. Moore," Davon said.
Riley nodded an acknowledgment. "So you're left stranded."
"Not exactly," said Davon. "When Mr. Bowman and I came back and found everyone gone we sat around a bit wondering what to do, then the phone rang in the manager's office. It was someone at the Base checking up; he said he'd send a truck for us---then the phone cut off in the middle of a sentence."
"Martinet's men must've cut the lines to the Base," said Riley. "It's a bit dicey out there---they're as nervous as cats. When did this happen?"
"Nearly two hours ago."
Riley didn't like the sound of that but he made no comment......there was no point in scaring anyone. He smiled at Messier. "Hello, Antoine, I didn't know you favored the Nationale."
The sallow Louisianan smiled glumly. "I was tol' to come 'ere if I wan' to go to the Base."
Bowman said bluffly. "That truck should be here any time now and we'll be out of here." He waved a glass at Riley. "I guess you could use a drink."
"I guess I could use a drink," said Riley. "I've had a hard day."
Riley turned. "Hey, you! Where d'you think you're going?!" He bounded forward and seized the little man who was sidling out of the bar. The bartender wriggled frantically, but Bowman held him with one huge paw and pulled him back behind the bar. He looked over at Riley and grinned. "Whaddya know, he's cleaned out the cash drawer, too."
"Let go of him," said Riley tiredly. "It's none of our business. All the staff will bolt---there was one sneaking out when I came in."
Bowman shrugged and opened his fist and the bartender scuffled out. "What the hell! I like self-service bars better."
Mrs. Moore said briskly, "Well, now that you're here with a car we can leave for the Base."
Riley sighed. "I don't think that's smart. We may not get through. Martinet's crowd is trigger-happy; they're likely to shoot first and ask questions later---and even if they do ask questions we're liable to get shot!"
Bowman thrust a drink into his hand. "Hell, we're Americans; we've got no quarrel with Martinet."
"We know that, and Commodore Rodriguez knows it---but Martinet doesn't. He's convinced that the Americans have supplied the guerillas with guns---the guns you're hearing now---and he likely thinks that Rodriguez is just biding his time before he comes out of the Base to stab him in the back."
He took a gulp of the drink and choked; Bowman had a heavy hand with the whisky. He swallowed hard, and said, "My guess is that Martinet has a pretty strong detachment of the army surrounding the Base right now---that's why your transportation hasn't turned up."
Everyone looked at him in silence. At last Mrs. Moore said, "Why, I know Commodore Rodriguez wouldn't leave us here, not even if he had to order the Marines to come and get us."
"Commodore Rodriguez has more to think of than the plight of a few Americans in Trois Fourches," said Riley coldly. "The safety of the Base comes first."
Bowman said intently, "What makes you think the Base isn't safe, anyway?"
"There's trouble coming," said Riley. "Not the war, but...."
"Anyone home?" someone shouted from the foyer, and Davon said, "That's Mr. Fletcher."
Fletcher came into the bar. He was limping slightly, there was a large tear in his jacket and his face was very dirty with a cut and smear of blood on the right cheek. "Damn silly of me," he said. "I ran out of recording tapes, so I came back to get some more." He surveyed the small group. "I thought you'd all be at the Base by now."
"Communications have been cut," said Riley, and explained what had happened.
"You've lost your chance," said Fletcher grimly. "The Government has quarantined the Base---there's a cordon around it." He knew them all except Mrs. Moore, and regarded Bowman with a sardonic gleam in his eye. "Ah, yes, Mr. Bowman; this should be just up your alley. Plenty of material here for a book, heh?"
Bowman said, "Sure it'll make a damn good book." He didn't sound very enthusiastic.
"I could use a stiff drink," said Fletcher. He looked at Riley. "That your car outside? A copper was looking at it when I came in."
"It's quite safe," said Riley. "What have you been up to?"
"Doing my jog," said Fletcher matter-of-factly. "All hell's breaking loose out thre. Ah, thank you," he said gratefully as Messier handed him a drink. He drained half of it in a gulp, then said to Riley, "You know this island. Suppose you were a guerilla in the mountains and you had a big consignment of arms coming in a ship---quite a big ship. You'd want a nice quiet place to land it, wouldn't you? With easy transport into the mountains, too. Where would such a spot be?"
Riley pondered. "Somewhere on the north coast, surely; it's pretty wild country over there. I'd go for the Bayou del Flor---somewhere around there."
"Give the man a coconut," said Fletcher. "At least one shipload of arms was landed there within the last month---maybe more. Martinet's intelligence slipped up on that one---or maybe they were too late. Oh, and Sorel is alive, after all." He patted his pockets helplessly. "Anyone got a cigarette?"
Davon offered her pack. "How'd you get that blood on your face?"
Fletcher put his hand to his cheek, then looked with surprise at the blood on his fingertips. "I was trying to get in to see Martinet," he said. "The guards were a bit rough---one of them didn't take his ring off, or maybe it was a knuckleduster."
"I saw Martinet," said Riley quietly.
"Did you, by God!" exclaimed Fletcher. "I wish I'd known; I could have come with you. There are a few questions I'd like to ask him."
Riley laughed mirthlessly. "Martinet isn't the kind of man you question. He's a raving maniac. I think this little lot has finally driven him out of his skull."
"What did you want with him?"
"I wanted to tell him that a hurricane is going to hit this island in two days' time. He threw us out and banished the hurricane by decree."
"Christ!" said Fletcher. "As if we don't have enough to put up with. Are you serious about this?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Moore gave a shrill squeak. "We should get to the Base," she said angrily. "We'll be safe on the Base."
Riley looked at her for a moment, then said to Fletcher in a low voice. "I'd like to talk to you for a minute."
Fletcher took one look at Riley's serious face, then finished his drink. "I have to go up to my room for the tapes; you'd better come with me."
He got up from the chair stiffly, and Riley said to Davon, "I'll be back in a minute," then followed him into the foyer. Fletcher produced a flashlight and they climbed the stairs to the 1st floor. Riley said, "I'm pretty worried about things."
"This hurricane?"
"That's right," said Riley, and told Fletcher about it in a few swift sentences, not detailing his qualms, but treating the hurricane as a foregone conclusion. He said, "Somehow I feel a responsibility for the people downstairs. I think Davon won't crack, but I'm not too sure about that other woman. She's older and she's nervous."
"She'll run you into the ground if you let her," said Fletcher. "She looks the bossy kind to me."
"And then there's Messier---he's an unknown quantity but I don't know that I'd like to depend on him. Bowman is different, of course."
Fletcher's flashlight flickered about his room. "Is he? Put not your faith in brother Bowman---that's my message."
"Oh," said Riley. "Anyway, I'm in a hell of a jam. I'll have to shepherd this lot to safety somehow, and that means leaving town."
A cane chair creaked as Fletcher sat down. "Now let me get this straight. You say we're going to be hit by a hurricane. When?"
"Two days," said Riley. "Say 1/2 a day either way."
"And when it comes, the Base is going to be destroyed."
"For all practical purposes---yes."
"And so is Trois Fourches?"
"Yes to that question as well."
"So you want to take off for the hills, herding along these people downstairs. That's heading smack into trouble, my friend."
"It needn't be," said Riley. "We need to get about 100 feet above sea-level and on the norther side of a ridge---a place like that shouldn't be too hard to find just outside Trois Fourches. Perhaps up the Ochoa Valley on the way to St. Simon."
"I wouldn't do that," said Fletcher definitively. "Sorel will be coming down the Ochoa. From the sound of those guns he's already in the upper reaches of the valley."
"How do we know those are Sorel's guns?" said Riley suddenly. "Martinet has plenty of artillery of his own."
Fletcher sounded pained. "I've done my homework. Martinet was caught flat-footed. The main part of his artillery was causing a hell of a traffic jam just north of the town not two hours ago. If Sorel hurries up he'll capture the lot. Listen to it---he's certainly pouring it on."
"That shipment of arms you were talking about must have been a damn big one."
"Maybe---but my guess is that he's staking everything on one stroke. If he doesn't come right through and taken Trois Fourches his lost his chips."
"If he does, he'll lose his army," said Riley forcibly.
"God, I hadn't thought of that!" Fletcher looked thoughtful. "This is going to be goddamn interesting. Do you suppose he knows about this hurricane?"
"I wouldn't think so," said Riley. "Look, Fletcher, we're wasting time. I've got to get these people to safety. Will you help? You seem to know more of what's going on out there than anybody."
"Of course I will, old boy. But, remember, I've got my own job to do. I'll back you up in anything you say, and I'll come with you and see them settled out of harm's way. But after that I'll have to push off and go about my master's business---my editor would never forgive me if I wasn't in the right place at the right time." He chuckled. "I daresay I'll get a good story out of Big Oscar Bowman, so it'll be worth it!"
They went back to the bar and Fletcher called out, "Riley's got something very important to tell you people, so gather around. Where's Bowman?"
"He was here not long ago," said Davon. "He must've gone out."
"Never mind," said Fletcher. "I'll tell him myself----I'll look forward to doing that. All right, Mr. Martin; get cracking." He sat down and began to thread a spool of tape into the miniature recorder he took from his pocket.
Riley was getting very tired of repeating his story. He no longer attempted to justify his reasons but gave it to them straight, and when he had finished there was a dead silence. The Louisianan showed no alteration of expression---maybe he hadn't understood; Davon was pale, but her chin came up; Mrs. Moore was white with two red spots burning in her cheeks. She was suddenly voluble. "This is ridiculous," she exploded. "No American Navy Base can be destroyed. I demand that you take me to Rivière de la Paix immediately!"
"You can demand until you're blue in the face," said Riley baldly. "I'm going nowhere near Rivière de la Paix." He turned to Davon. "We've got to get out of Trois Fourches and onto high ground, and that might not be easy. But I've got the car and we can all cram into it. And we've got to take supplies---food, water, medical kit and so on. We should find plenty of food in the kitchens here, and we can take soda---and mineral-water from the bar."
Mrs. Moore choked in fury. "How far is it to the Base?" she demanded, breathing hard.
"15 miles," said Fletcher. "Right around the bay. And there's an army between here and the Base." He shook his head regretfully. "I wouldn't try it, Mrs. Boone; I really wouldn't."
"What in the hell is the matter with you people?!" she snapped. "These natives wouldn't touch us---the government knows better than to interfere with Americans. I say we should get to the Base before those guerillas come down from the hills."
Messier, standing behind her, gripped her shoulder. "I t'ink it better you keep yo' mouf shut," he said. His voice was soft but his grip was hard, and Mrs. Moore winced. "I t'ink you are fool woman." He looked across at Riley. "Go on."
"I was saying we should load up the car with food and water and get the hell out of here," said Riley wearily.
"How long must we plan on?" asked Davon practically.
"Four days at least----better make it a week. This place will be a shambles after Magda has passed."
"We'll eat before we go," she said. "I think we're all hungry. I'll see what there is in the kitchen---will sandwiches do."
"If there are enough of them," said Riley, smiling.
Mrs. Moore sat up straight. "Well, I think you're all nuts, but I'm not going to stay here by myself so I guess I'll have to come along. Come, child, let's make those sandwiches." She took a candle and swept Davon into the inner recesses of the hotel.
Riley looked across at Fletcher who was putting away his tape-recorder. "What about guns?" he said. "We might need them."
"My dear boy," said Fletcher, "there are more than enough guns out there already. If we're stopped and searched by Martinet's men and they find a gun we'll be shot on the spot. I've been in some tough places in my time and I've never carried a gun---I owe my life to that fact."
"Makes sense," said Riley slowly. He looked at the Louisianan standing by the bar. "Are you carrying a gun, Antoine?"
Messier touched his breast and nodded. He said, "I got gun. I American, American gotta have gun."
"Then you're not coming with us," said Riley deliberately. "You can make your own way---on foot."
The Louisianan put his hand inside his jacket and produced the gun, a stubby revolver. "You t'ink you are boss?" he asked with a smile, balancing the gun in his hand.
"Yes, I am," said Riley firmly. "You don't know one damn thing about what a hurricane can do. You don't know the best place to shelter nor how to go about finding it. I do---I'm the expert---and that puts me in charge!"
Messier came to a quick decision. He put the gun down gently on the bar counter and walked away from it, and Riley blew out his cheeks with a sigh of relief. Fletcher chuckled. "You'll do, Riley," he said. "You're really the boss now---if you don't let that Moore woman get on top of you. I hope you don't regret taking on the job."
Presently Davon came from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches. "This will do for a start. There's more coming." She jerked her head. "We're going to have trouble with that one," she said darkly.
Riley suppressed a groan. "What's the trouble now?"
"She's an organizer---you know, the kind who gives the orders. She's been running me ragged in there, and she hasn't done one damn thing herself!"
"Ignore the old bitch," advised Riley. "She'll let up if nobody pays any attention to her."
"Will do," said Davon. She vanished from the bar again.
"Let's organize the water," said Riley.
He walked towards the bar but stopped when Fletcher said. "Hold it!" He strained his ears and heard a whirring sound. "Somebody's trying to start your car," said Fletcher.
"I'll check on that," said Riley and strode into the foyer. He went through the revolving door and saw a dim figure in the driver's seat of his car and heard the starter's whine. When he peered through the window he saw it was Bowman. He jerked the door open and said, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
Bowman started and turned his head with a jerk. "Oh, it's you," he said in relief. "I thought it was that other guy."
"Who was that?"
"One of those cops. He was trying to start the car, but gave up and went away. I thought I'd check it, so I came out. It still won't start."
"You'd better get out and come back into the hotel," said Riley. "I thought that might happen so I put the rotor-arm in my pocket."
He stood aside and let Bowman step out. Bowman said, "I'll say this for you, Riley: you think of everything."
"Well, there's no sense in losing the car," said Riley. He looked past Bowman and stiffened. "Take it easy," he said in a low voice. "That copper is coming back....with reinforcements."
"We'd better get into the hotel pretty damn fast," said Bowman.
"Stay where you are and keep your mouth shut," said Riley quickly. "They might think we're on the run and follow us in---we don't want to involve the others in anything."
Bowman tensed and then relaxed, and Riley watched the four policemen coming towards them. They didn't seem in too much of a hurry and momentarily he wondered about that. They drew abreast and one of them turned. "Pied-blanc, what are you doing?"
"I thought a thief was trying to steal my car."
The policeman gestured. "Do you mean this man?"
Riley shook his head. "No, another man. This is my friend."
"What is your current residence?"
Riley nodded towards the hotel. "The Nationale."
"A rich man," the policeman commented. "What of your friend?"
"He lives in the hotel as well."
Bowman tugged at Riley's sleeve. "What in the name of Christ is going on?"
"Your friend, what does he say?" asked the policeman.
"He does not understand this language," said Riley. "He merely asked me what you were saying."
The policeman laughed. "We ask the same things, if that is so." He stared at them. "This is not a good time to be on the streets, pied-blanc. I strongly suggest that you stay in your rich hotel."
He turned away and Riley breathed softly in relief, but one of the other men muttered something and he turned back. "What is your country?" he asked.
"You would call me English," said Riley. "But I come from Grenada. My friend, he is an American."
"An American!" The policeman spat on the ground. "But you are English -- do you know an Englishman called Phelps?"
Riley shook his head. "No." Yet the name rang a faint bell, a bell he could make no connection to.
"Or Collier?"
Yes, something clicked now. Riley said, "I believe I've heard of them. Don't they live on the North Coast?"
"Have you ever met them?"
"No, I have not," said Riley truthfully.
One of the other policemen stepped forward and pointed at Riley. "This man, he works for the Americans at Rivière de la Paix."
"Englishman; you told me you lived in the hotel. Why did you lie?"
"I did not lie," said Wyatt. "I moved in there tonight; it's impossible to get to Rivière de la Paix -- and you know it!"
The man was clearly not convinced. "You still say you do not know the men, Phelps and Collier?"
"I don't know them," said Riley patiently.
The policeman said abruptly, "I'm sorry, pied-blanc, but I must search you." He gestured to his colleagues who stepped forward quickly.
"Hey!" said Bowman in alarm. "What are these assholes doing?"
"Keep still!" said Wyatt through his teeth. "If they want to search us, let them do so -- the sooner it's over, the better."
For the second time that day he suffered the indignity of a rough search, but this time it was more thorough. The palace guards had been looking for weapons but these men were clearly interested in much more than that. All of Riley's pockets were stripped, their contents handed to the senior policeman.
He looked with interest through Riley's wallet, checking it very thoroughly. "It is true that you work at Rivière de la Paix," he said. "You have an American pass. What military work do you do there?"
"None," said Riley. "I'm a civilian scientist on loan from the British Government. I work with the weather."
The policeman smiled. "I think it more likely you are an American spy."
"Spy?! What kind of bullshit....?"
"Your friend is American. We must search him, too."
Hands were laid on Bowman, but he resisted. "Get your shitty paws offa ma, ya goddamn black bastard!" he shouted. The words meant nothing to the man searching him, but the tone of voice surely did. A .45 automatic jumped into his hand as if by magic and Bowman found himself staring into the muzzle.
"Cut it out, you idiot!," said Riley. "Hold still and let them search you. They'll turn us loose when they don't find anything."
He almost regretted saying that when the policeman searching Bowman gave a cry of triumph and pulled a revolver from a holster concealed beneath Bowman's jacket. His senior said, "A-ha! We have armed Americans wandering the streets of Trois Fourches at a time like this. Both of you will come with me!"
"Look here--" began Riley, and stopped as he felt the muzzle of a gun poke into the small of his back. He bit his lip as the senior policeman waved them forward. "Damn you, Bowman!" he raged at the big sportsman. "Why the hell were you carrying a gun? Now we're going to be thrown into one of Martinet's jails!"
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