with his big, lazy grin, “that’ll do fine. Take the dough, baby; you might need it one of these days.”
She went out of the room without smiling at him.
As soon as she had gone and they were alone, he said: “Now we’ve got a moment to ourselves, we might as well consider our position. Quite frankly, I don’t like it too much.”
“What are you beefing about?” Morecombre asked. “We’re all right, ain’t we?”
“For the time being,” Quentin agreed, “but if trouble starts we shall be between two fires. If the natives come here and succeed in forcing an entry, everyone will be knocked off, including we three. If they don’t get in, Fuentes might think it a good idea to get rid of us rather than risk us raising the dust about being arrested like this.”
“For Gawd’s sake,” Morecombre said, staring, “he wouldn’t do that?”
Quentin shrugged. “He might. Then there is Miss Arnold here. She’s in rather a difficult position. Apparently the General has got ideas about her—ideas which will take a little checking.”
Myra shivered. “What am I going to do?” she asked.
“That’s what we’ve got to think about. Did you bring a gun with you, Bill?”
Morecombre nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I always carry one. Did you?”
Quentin patted his pocket. “I don’t say we’ll get anywhere with rough stuff, but it’s nice to know, in case we have to start something.” He went to the window and looked down at the deserted waterfront. “No one about,” he said. “It looks as if something is blowing up. You can’t hear a sound. I’m willing to bet that any moment the lid’s coming off.”
Morecombre crossed over and stood just behind him, looking over his shoulder. Myra hesitated, put her coffee-cup down and joined them.
Quentin said unemotionally, “Look, it’s starting”—he pointed down. “Good God, Bill, we ought to be down there. We ought to get to a telephone. Look over there. Do you see those guys coming out of that house? Look, they’re carrying rifles. They’re not soldiers… they’re dockers. Dockers with rifles…. I told you how it’d be. There they go. Nothing’s going to happen until they run into the soldiers… that’s when the lid will come off.”
“Anyway, I can get pictures,” Morecombre said. “I’m mighty glad I brought the telescopic attachment with me.” He rushed across the room and feverishly began setting up his camera.
Myra edged closer to Quentin. “Do you really think there will be fighting?” she asked.
Quentin didn’t take his eyes off the little group of men making their way cautiously along the waterfront. “I guess so,” he said shortly. “Those guys are itching to let those cannons off…. I don’t blame them really.”
Morecombre came back and set up the camera on a short-legged tripod. He hastily made adjustments, focusing on the men below. From where they stood they had an uninterrupted view of the whole of the winding waterfront.
Quentin stepped back into the room. “It would be as well to keep out of sight as much as possible,” he said to Myra. “These guys are going to shoot at anything.”
From just inside the verandah they watched the small group of men move slowly along the waterfront. They moved very cautiously, pausing outside each cafe, their rifles at the ready. No one disturbed them. Whether the word had gone out that they were starting something, Quentin didn’t know, but no one interfered with them; even the dogs slid into the dark alleys at their approach. Finally, they turned off the waterfront and made their direction inland. The three watchers lost sight of them.
Quentin went over to the sideboard and poured out three long gin slings. He handed them round in silence.
Morecombre sat back on his heels; he still kept near the window. “Fell a little flat, didn’t it?” he said. “Thought this was where it was going to start.”
Quentin shook his head. “It’s started all right,” he said. “In a day or so there’ll be as much trouble as anyone can handle here. That little gang will be wiped out. Then a bigger gang will turn up and they’ll go the same way. Then a bigger gang still will appear, and maybe a number of them will get away and join the next band. It takes time to get a real revolution going. These guys don’t have much chance to organize.”
Morecombre got up and stretched his legs. “Maybe we’re in the safest spot. I don’t fancy running around the streets with that sort of stuff going on.”
Quentin didn’t answer. He glanced over at Myra, and his lips tightened. If she wasn’t there, he would have been a lot happier. Maybe Fuentes would have left them alone but for her. There was always trouble when a woman turned up in a spot like this.
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.
3
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
