The Tarantula Stone

‘This one is!’ Martin began to fumble with the pouch around his neck. There were only a few more steps to the cubicle and he had fixed on the notion that the diamond might be his one hope of escape. Everything seemed to be happening in a terrible slow-motion. His eyes took in each vivid detail: Agnello’s cold merciless eyes, as cold as the glittering steel blade that hovered several inches in front of Martin’s face; the great sinewed fist that clenched the handle of the knife, the knuckles whitening slightly from the pressure of holding it; Agnello’s badly made suit, worn at the elbows and cuffs and with a few unidentified foodstains spattered down its front. And now the pouch was in Martin’s hands; he was shaking the diamond out onto the palm of his hand, at the same instant that he was passing into the gloomy confines of the cubicle. He glanced up hopefully but Agnello had not even noticed the jewel, his gaze was fixed on Martin’s chest, seeking out the right place to bury the blade of the knife.

‘For Christ’s sake, look!’ snapped Martin.

For a fraction of a second Agnello’s gaze dropped to examine the diamond; then his eyes widened perceptibly, his jaw fell a few degrees and the blade of the knife wavered. He was standing framed in the doorway of the cubicle, his arm outstretched. He was frozen into immobility because he was looking at the biggest diamond in God’s creation. And now his eyes had caught the strange perfect form of the tarantula shimmering in the diamond’s heart. For a split second only, mesmerized, Agnello had forgotten the instincts that years of violence had taught him; Martin was just beginning to learn them. He let the diamond fall to the floor.

Agnello could not help himself. He made an instinctive lunge to catch the jewel with his free hand and in that instant Martin grabbed the edge of the door and slammed it with all his strength on the arm that held the knife. Then he threw the entire weight of his body against the metal door, snapping the bone beneath the flesh like a dry twig. From behind the door there came a hollow, formless scream of agony and the switchblade clattered to the floor. Now Martin wrenched the door open again, grabbed a fistful of Agnello’s hair and pulled the pistoleiro into the cubicle, hoping to make a quick end of him; but he had reckoned without the man’s brutish strength. Agnello came blundering in, lashing out with his left arm, catching Martin a stinging blow across the eyes. For a moment Martin reeled back against the cistern while Agnello tried ineffectually to grope for his shoulder holster with his useless right hand. Martin unleashed a savage punch that slammed Agnello back against the door, banging it shut again. His hands clamped around the pistoleiro’s thick throat and he began to squeeze with all his strength. Agnello aimed a knee up between Martin’s legs, but Martin twisted away from the full force of the blow. He swung Agnello around and pushed him back against the toilet seat, banging the man’s head with sickening force against the white enamel of the cistern. Then he continued with his squeezing, gouging his thumbs deep into the hollows at the sides of Agnello’s jaw. His eyes bulged grotesquely as the realization struck him that he was about to die. He struggled helplessly, his already swelling right hand clawing ineffectually at Martin’s face.

And then, to his horror, Martin heard the door to the washroom swing open. He glanced nervously back. The cubicle door was shut. He released one hand and clamped it roughly over Agnello’s mouth before a moan for help could issue from it. He applied all his strength into the pressure of the other hand, but somehow, Agnello clung on to life. His feet began to move weakly, the heels making dull scraping noises against the tiled floor. It was horribly quiet for a moment; then a familiar voice spoke.

‘Senhor, is that you?’ It was Claudio, the man that Martin had chatted to in the airport lounge.

‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Martin sweated helplessly as he strove to finish Agnello off. He hoped the tone of his voice did not sound too strange.

‘I thought perhaps you had not heard the call for our flight in here.’

‘Oh yeah, I heard it all right. You go ahead and save me a seat, huh? I’ll be right with you.’

Agnello’s face was now a curious shade of purple. His tongue had emerged from his mouth but he still made one last spasmodic attempt to free himself. Then his body gave a series of convulsions and he began to relinquish his hold on life. Outside, the door opened again. There was a short silence and then it swung shut with a final thud. From beyond, there came the muffled second call for the plane’s departure.

‘Die, God damn you,’ hissed Martin savagely. But there was barely any movement in Agnello’s limbs now and his eyes had begun to cloud over. Frantically Martin began to look about for the diamond. It was nowhere in the cubicle and the possibility that it might have been kicked out through the space beneath the toilet door occurred to him for the first time with an abrupt conviction that Claudio might have found it lying on the floor. He wrenched Agnello’s lifeless body up onto the toilet seat. The pistoleiro sat there, hunched and grotesque, his expression amply displaying the horrible manner in which he had died. Now, Martin realized grimly, he would have to run, as fast and far as he could.

Quickly, Martin picked up Agnello’s gun. Then, fixing the bolt on the toilet door, he slid out through the wide gap beneath. He collected his carpet bag, dropped the pistol inside. Casting around the washroom, he found his knife lying against one wall and returned this to the sheath on his right shin. In the next cubicle, he found Agnello’s switchblade and dropped that in his bag. But where was the diamond? He searched frantically through every corner of the washroom and had just come to the conclusion that Claudio had indeed found it when he spotted a glimmer near the skirting-board beside the door. With a sigh of relief, he snatched the jewel up and slid it back into its leather pouch, dropped the rawhide loop around his neck and settled the pouch back into its accustomed position beneath his shirt. Then he glanced into a mirror to check that he looked all right. Apart from a slight discoloration below his left eye where a fist had struck him, there was no outward sign that he had been in any trouble.

From the airport lounge, there came the muffled tones of the third and final call for the flight to Belém. Martin could only hope that Agnello had come to the airport alone. He opened the door slightly and peered along the hallway. That area at least seemed deserted.

‘Well, here goes nothing,’ he murmured softly as he hurried out of the washroom, slamming the door behind him.

Helen glanced irritably out through the open doorway of the plane, the checklist tucked underneath one arm. Everybody accounted for but one. There always had to be some joker who kept everybody waiting. The intercom beside her head crackled into life and she snatched up the receiver.

‘What’s the hold-up?’ Mike’s voice, edgy and irritable.

‘We’re one passenger short, Mike.’

‘Well, we’ll have to leave him behind. We’re a couple of minutes late as it is.’

‘Your wish is my command, great white captain,’ she replied mockingly. She turned to motion to the mechanics by the door that they could remove the steps; but then she saw the lone figure, running hell for leather across the tarmac. ‘Oh, hold it a minute, Mike. I think Little Bo Peep has just turned up.’ She watched impatiently as the man drew near, running as though his very life depended upon catching this plane. He was a slim, dark-haired man of no great height, obviously an American, though it was plain that he had been in Brazil for quite some time. His skin was tanned a very dark shade of brown and his clothes were not the usual ill-suited selection of a tourist. He clambered up the few steps to the door, panting softly from his run, and then stood regarding Helen intently with deep-set, grey eyes. There was a frankness in the gaze, a challenging, assured quality that threw her for a moment.

‘You er … must be Mr … Taggart,’ she ventured quietly.

He nodded and she ticked the final name.

‘It appears that I cut things a little fine there,’ he observed.

‘You could say that.’ She motioned him into the plane’s interior and signalled to the attendants to remove the steps, then pulled the door shut, moving the heavy bar down and across to seal it. When she pressed a buzzer beside the door, a signal that everything was ready, the plane began to taxi away.

Martin moved down the centre aisle. The seats were nearly all taken, but about halfway along he found Claudio sitting by himself.

‘Ah, senhor! I was beginning to think you were having trouble back there!’

Martin forced a smile. ‘I was.’ He settled into the vacant seat and patted his stomach. ‘Something I ate back at the hotel, I think. Sea-food.’

Claudio raised a hand in sympathy. ‘You do not have to tell me, Mr … forgive me, I still do not know your name.’

Martin smiled. Now he was on his way, he saw little reason to be cagy about his name and it seemed unwise to offer one that differed from what was on his passport.

‘It’s Taggart. Martin Taggart.’

‘Ah, Senhor Taggart, you do not have to tell me about sea-food. When it is good for you, it is like swallowing little pieces of heaven; and when it is bad for you, it is like throwing up several acres of hell.’ He chuckled. ‘Are you nervous of flying, senhor?’

‘Me? No, not at all.’

‘Me neither. I only wish the view was better.’

Martin glanced across the aisle and saw the heavy, grey-bearded figure of Carlos Machado sitting in the opposite seat. He had evidently placed his daughter by the window so that she could observe the wild scenery over which they would fly.

‘In the old days, cattle always travelled in freight cars,’ Claudio observed, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘These days they go by aeroplane. It makes no sense to me!’ For a moment, Machado glanced at Claudio with a kind of smug, distant aloofness that seemed to suggest that the man’s wealth made him somehow above the retribution of ordinary people. Then he turned away and whispered something to his daughter that elicited a high-pitched giggle.

The plane had come to a halt at the top of the runway. Helen moved along the aisle, asking everybody who had not yet done so to fasten their seat belts. She paused beside Martin. ‘Your belt, Mr Taggart,’ she reminded him.

He glanced up at her, grinned wickedly. ‘Well now, I tell you what the problem is. I can never seem to get the damn thing fixed together. Perhaps you could show me?’

She gazed at him coolly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out.’

Martin laughed and winked at Claudio. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying.’

‘Oh, no, to be sure. And I guess you’ve been starved of pretty girls for a long time now.’

A sharp twinge of suspicion cut into Martin’s voice. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh … only that a garimpeiro does not have much opportunity to see pretty girls, that is all.’

‘I never said anything to you about being a garimpeiro. I didn’t say anything about my work at all.’

Claudio nodded easily. ‘You didn’t have to, senhor. It is all written in your hands.’

‘My hands?’ Martin glanced at his outstretched palms and then he understood. Those scarred, calloused, iron-hard hands could belong to only one profession.

‘Tell me,’ he muttered wryly. ‘Is everybody in Brazil a natural detective?’

Claudio laughed. ‘No,’ he retorted. ‘It’s just that we practise all the time.’

Martin’s reply was drowned as the two one-thousand-horsepower engines roared abruptly into life. The plane accelerated along the runway, its momentum pushing the passengers back in their seats. Within a surprisingly short distance, the glittering silver fuselage began to lift upwards into the empty air, leaving nothing but a fleeting black shadow on the hot surface of the runway to mark its passing.

Martin leaned over to peer out of the window, watching in fascination as the buildings, vehicles and people below dwindled to the size of children’s playthings. A few moments later, the plane was banking around towards the north-east and there, far below, perched on the edge of the glittering South Atlantic Ocean, was the famous sugar-loaf mountain, a strange humped shape dwarfed by the vast stretch of blue water. From this height, it looked somehow inconsequential, like a half-melted cake that had collapsed at the edges. He settled into his seat with a sigh of content. Now at last he felt he was really on his way to freedom. He glanced up as the stewardess came walking down the aisle.

‘Say, Miss, can I get a drink now?’

She shook her head. ‘Not just yet, Mr Taggart. I’ll announce when the bar is open.’