The Last Place God Made - Jack Higgins [62]
The breath went out from him like wind through the branches of a tree on a quiet evening. He slumped into the opposite chair, staring down at the wallet and passport.
After a while he said, 'What are you going to do?'
'I don't know. Finish this coffee then go and show him those. Should produce an interesting reaction.'
'All right,' Mannie said. 'So he was wrong. He shouldn't have treated you that way. But, Neil, this was his last chance. He was a desperate man faced with the final end of things. No excuse, perhaps, but it at least makes what he did understandable.'
'Understandable?' I stood up, allowing the blankets to slip to the ground, almost choking on my anger. 'Mannie, I've got news for you. I'll see that bastard in hell for what he's done to me.'
I picked up the wallet and passport, turned and plunged out into the rain.
*
I hadn't the slightest idea what I was going to do when I saw him. In a way, I was living from minute to minute. I'd had virtually no sleep for two nights now, remember, and things seemed very much to be happening in slow motion.
As I came abreast of the house I saw the Huna girl, Christina, standing on the porch watching me. I thought for a moment that Joanna or the good Sister might appear, not that it would have mattered.
I kept on going, putting one foot doggedly in front of the other. I must have presented an extraordinary sight, my face and clothing streaked with mud, painted for war like a Huna, soaked to the skin. People stopped talking on the verandas of the houses as I passed and several ragged children ran out into the rain and followed behind me, jabbering excitedly.
As I approached the hotel I heard singing and recognised the tune immediately, a song I'd heard often sung by some of the old R.F.C. hands round the mess piano on those R.A.F. Auxiliary weekend courses.
I was damned if I could remember the title, another proof of how tired I was. My name sounded clear through the rain as I reached the bottom of the hotel steps. I turned and found Mannie hurrying up the street.
'Wait for me, Neil,' he called, but I ignored him, went up the steps to the veranda, nodded to Avila and a couple of men who were lounging there and went inside.
*
Joanna Martin and Sister Maria Teresa sat at a table by the window drinking coffee. Figueiredo's wife stood behind the bar. Hannah sat on a stool at the far end, head back, singing for all he was worth.
So stand by your glasses steady,
This world is a world of lies:
A cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next man who dies.
He had, as the Irish say, drink taken, but he was far from drunk and his voice was surprisingly good. As the last notes died away the two women applauded, Sister Maria Teresa beaming enthusiastically, although the look on Joanna's face was more one of indulgence than anything else - and then she saw me and the eyes widened.
The door was flung open behind me as Mannie arrived. He was short of breath, his face grey, and clutched a shotgun to his chest.
Hannah said, 'Well, damn me, you look like something the cat brought in. What happened?'
Mannie grabbed my arm. 'No trouble, Neil.'
I pulled free, went along the bar slowly. Hannah's smile didn't exactly fade away, it simply froze into place, fixed like a death mask. When I was close I took out the wallet and passport and threw them on the bar.
'I ran into an old friend of yours last night, Sam.'
He picked up the wallet, considered it for a moment. 'If this is yours I'm certainly glad you've got it back, but I can't say I know what in the hell you're talking about.'
'Just tell me one thing,' I said. 'The bonus. For five thousand read twenty, am I right?'
Joanna Martin moved into view. 'What is all this?'
I stiff-armed her out of the way and he didn't like that, anger sparking in those blue eyes, the smile slipping. The solution, when it came, was so beautifully simple. I picked up the passport