The Tarantula Stone

The Tarantula Stone

Philip Caveney

This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

First published in 1985 by Granada Publishing

Copyright © Philip Caveney 1985

Philip Caveney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 Cover photographs ©

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780008127992

Version: 2015-04-16

Dedication

For Rachel …

who doesn’t like adventure stories

Author’s Note

I am aware that the cruzeiro did not actually become the currency of Brazil until 5 October 1942; but in the interests of the story, I deemed it advisable to disregard this fact. A change of currency seemed an unnecessary complication in an otherwise straightforward tale, which is, after all, intended as a celebration of a time when the world was not yet inextricably bound up with lengths of red tape. I trust that the purists among you will forgive this minor presumption.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

Part One: The Last Flight

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two: Before the Rains

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Three: Downriver

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Philip Caveney

About the Publisher

Prologue

The backstreet bar was very nearly empty. Mark Austin settled himself onto a vacant stool at the counter and ordered cachaça. The bar-man, a dark-skinned young caboclo, brought him the drink and then left him to consume it in peace. Beyond the open doorway of the bar, the streets of Rio shimmered in the afternoon heat-haze.

Austin sighed. The cachaça was unpleasantly warm and within moments a fine film of sweat had moistened his face, neck and armpits. He was still not sure what he was doing here; looking for a little reality perhaps. The fancy main-street bars and cafés had none of the qualities he was seeking. That was for the tourists, a category to which he liked to think he did not belong. Here, there was only grime and squalor, but at least that was more honest; and it was in places like this that he tended to pick up his stock in trade. He gazed slowly around at the interior of the bar, noting the rusted tin tables, the mottled fly-blown mirrors; and then that the other occupant of the bar was looking at him curiously.

A grizzled old-timer in a slouch hat and a grubby khaki shirt, he was gazing at Austin with the quizzical expression of a man bored with his own company. He was also nursing an empty glass.

‘Drink?’ offered Austin, waving his own glass to make his meaning clear.

‘Hell, don’t mind if I do!’

Austin was pleasantly shocked. He had expected a string of unintelligible Portuguese for a reply, but this was clearly a fellow American. In an instant, the old man was perched on the stool opposite and the two were shaking hands with the kind of warmth only employed by compatriots in a distant land.

‘Mark Austin, Washington DC.’

‘Martin Taggart, somewhere in Wyoming. I forget where.’ The old man’s eyes twinkled but there was, Austin thought, an unmistakable trace of sadness in them. His voice was slow, gruff, laconic. Somehow it seemed to speak of wide experience.

‘Well then, Mr Taggart …’

‘Martin. All my friends call me Martin.’

‘Martin then! What’ll it be?’

‘Oh, I’ll have just whatever you’re drinking.’

Austin ordered a bottle of cachaça – the local raw white rum – and another glass. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to the old man. Taggart shook his head.

‘No thanks. I gave those things up a long time ago. Never went back to them. No sir …’

Austin shrugged, put the cigarettes away. The cachaça arrived and the two men drank together in silence for a while.

‘So, what brings a feller like you to Rio?’ asked Taggart at last. ‘More importantly, what brings him to a piss-hole bar like this one?’

Austin considered the question for a moment. He’d had a couple of drinks so he thought: what the hell, come right out with it.

‘Adventure,’ he said.

Taggart raised his eyebrows. ‘Come again?’

‘Adventure. I’m looking for adventure. You see, I’m a writer and adventure is my thing. I write the stories as fiction, but I like to base them on real-life happenings. I’ve done my last four novels that way and it seems to work for me, so …’

‘A writer, huh?’ Taggart sipped his drink. ‘That pay well?’

Austin grinned. ‘I don’t do so bad,’ he replied. ‘Say, maybe you read my last one, Children of the Kalahari? I think it was published here.’

Taggart shook his head. ‘No, I don’t believe I did.’ He shrugged. ‘But then I don’t read much, these days. Adventure, huh? Well, I’m afraid you won’t find much of that in Rio de Janeiro, my friend. Not any more, anyway.’

Austin topped up Taggart’s glass. ‘Been here a long time?’ he inquired.

‘Oh yeah, hell of a long time. Since before the war. Seen some changes around here, I can tell you.’

Austin nodded. ‘Well, I’m going up-jungle tomorrow. The Rio das Mortes. Maybe I’ll find something there.’

Something suspiciously like recognition dawned in the old man’s eyes. ‘The das Mortes? Yeah … well, even that’s changed, you know. The Indians been killed off or pushed out of their territory. Hell, there’s even a damned ferry on the das Mortes these days, any two-bit tourist can go and have himself a look. None of that kind of business when I was there.’

‘You were there? When?’

‘Oh. Long ways back. Bad story. You wouldn’t be interested.’ Taggart shook his head. There was something evasive in his manner, something that fired Austin’s curiosity. It had been a casual incident very much like this one that had given him the basis for his bestselling book, Hour of the Wolf. These old-timers had their stories and the world tended to forget about them. Still, Austin was an old hand at wheedling out what people didn’t like to discuss. He fed the old man a ready stream of cachaça and gradually Taggart’s reluctant tongue was loosened.

He produced a yellowed scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. It was folded but Austin could see that it was inscribed with various pencilled lines and figures.

‘Looks like a map,’ he observed.

‘It is,’ replied Taggart, his voice slightly slurred with drink. ‘Sort of a map, anyway. Place on the river. That’s where the tarantula stone …’

‘The what?’

Taggart sighed, shook his head. ‘Hell, it’s a long story. You don’t want to be burdened with it.’ He made as if to put the scrap of paper back into his pocket but Austin stayed his hand.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘The day’s free, I’ve got nothing special to do and we’ve a bottle of cachaça to drink. I’d like to hear the story. Speak away, I’m listening.’

Taggart sighed again but then he shrugged. ‘Well, let me see now. It all started back in ’forty-six … well, earlier than that, I suppose. But to get it straight, I’ll begin at that point and backtrack a little. Yes, ’forty-six. The war just over with. That was one hell of a year …’

Chapter 1

Even in the relative cool of the airport lounge, Martin Taggart could not stop sweating. Directly above his head, a large electric fan clicked rhythmically round, beating the humid air into some kind of restless motion; but the perspiration still trickled from his armpits, making dark stains against the fabric of his khaki shirt. It oozed in a viscous stream down the gully of his spine, glued his collar to the back of his neck and made the soft leather pouch that hung round it stick like an island against the tanned flesh of his chest.

For perhaps the hundredth time that morning, Martin’s right hand came up to touch the pouch, his fingers probing the round hard shape that nestled in there. The diamond seemed bigger every time he touched it. It was the size of a chicken’s egg and Martin could only begin to guess at its true value. It would make him rich, that was for sure … provided he could get away with it.

He glanced nervously around the lounge, momentarily afraid that somebody might be reading his thoughts, but the motley assortment of passengers were, just like him, waiting impatiently for their flight to Belém. Out on the brilliantly sunlit concrete of the runway, the plane already stood like a great silver queen bee, attended by the restless assembly of gasoline trucks and maintenance men; but glancing at his watch, Martin could see that there were still twenty-five minutes to wait. It would be the longest twenty-five minutes of his lifetime. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. Extracting one from the damp packet, he struck a match with visibly unsteady hands and inhaled deeply. Then he leaned back in his seat, let the smoke out in a thin stream and watched as it rose for a short distance in a straight column and then went berserk as it was caught in the rush of air from the fan.

He had not wanted to think too much about Caine, because he was nervous enough as it was. But sitting there in the crowded lounge he couldn’t help letting his thoughts drift back to the very beginning, the chain of events that had brought him to where he was now.

He had never had what might be called a steady job, because he had never much liked working. It was a fact that he acknowledged but not something that bothered him overmuch. As a youth, he’d travelled a great deal, taking work when he needed it and wherever he could get it. He had been born in Wyoming and, as far as he knew, his family still lived there; but he’d left home at the age of seventeen and never gone back to visit. More by accident than design, he had gravitated southwards and had spent most of his years in the territory of New Mexico, driving trucks for local contractors and doing the odd spot of manual work whenever his finances got dangerously low. He lived in cheap hotels and rented rooms, slept rough when he needed to and had no ambitions beyond staying alive. He was in his late twenties when two things happened to change all that.

Firstly, it became apparent that America would soon be entering the Second World War; and around the same time, Martin came across an article in the local newspaper that described the recent boom in diamond prospecting in Brazil. There were vast fortunes to be made there. All a man had to do was make his way over and dig it out with his bare hands. For Martin, it was an easy decision. He had always detested the mindless stupidity of patriotism and he wasn’t about to get his ass blown away for any damned cause. South America seemed as good a place as any to hide himself from the draft board and, besides, he was feeling lucky around that time. So he buckled down for a month or so, worked himself like a dog and managed to raise just enough cash to buy himself a one-way ticket to Rio de Janeiro. Leaving was easy. There were no ties for him in New Mexico, no family, no special girl who might have a hold on him. Of course, he had no idea about how to go about becoming a garimpeiro – diamond prospector – but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

And so it was that he had arrived in Rio with nothing but a few dollars and the clothes he stood up in. He had wasted little time in making inquiries in the local bars and eating places. Of course, there had been problems. The native language hereabouts was Portuguese and few people could speak more than the odd word of English. His ‘inquiries’ usually consisted of his saying the one word, garimpeiro (he had picked it up from the newspaper article and did not have the least idea how to pronounce it), whilst striking himself repeatedly on the chest. He was rewarded with blank stares, sad shakes of the head and, occasionally, a string of Portuguese jabberings with accompanying gestures that meant absolutely nothing to him. At last, on his third day out, sunburned and riddled with mosquito bites after sleeping rough in the open, he had some kind of success. He met an old man in a dingy cantina who could speak passable English and seemed to know exactly what to do.

‘If you wish to be a garimpeiro, senhor, you will need a patron, patrão. Senhor Caine is the top patrão around here. For fifty cruzeiros, I will take you to him.’

Martin shook his head. ‘I don’t have any cruzeiros, old man.’

The man’s grizzled face had split into a wide, gummy grin. ‘Not yet,’ he admitted. ‘But Senhor Caine will give you money. For now, a promise is good enough.’

Martin frowned. It sounded too good to be true. ‘Well, I tell you what. This guy gives me any dough, the fifty Cs are yours.’

He had followed the old man through the sprawling ghettos of Rio, observing, as he passed, the awful poverty that existed away from the clean, well-ordered main streets where the richest people in the world came to squander their money in the elegant stores, casinos and night clubs. Back here, reality was the sight of a skinny Indian woman begging in the streets while three emaciated children clung to her skirts. The old man led Martin to a large crumbling office building. At a paint-blistered door, he rang a bell and, shortly after, a thick-set swarthy man in an ill-fitting black suit appeared. He stared disdainfully for a moment and then leaned forward so that his ear might be whispered into. He gazed thoughtfully at Martin for a moment, as though appraising him.

‘Wait here,’ he barked suddenly in toneless, heavily accented English. He slammed the door and the old man turned back to Martin with a reassuring grin.

‘What did I tell you, senhor. Senhor Caine is an important man. He’ll fix you up. The … the money … you would not break a promise to an old man, senhor?’

‘Relax.’ Martin slipped off his battered slouch hat for a moment and mopped at his brow with a bandana. The heat was intense. After a few moments, the door opened again and the thick-set man reappeared. He ushered Martin inside.

Beyond the doorway, Martin followed the man in the black suit along a gloomy roach-ridden hallway. There was a vile smell in the air that suggested bad sanitation. They moved on, up a rickety flight of wooden stairs and through another doorway at the top. A small metal plaque bore the legend Charles Caine Incorporated. Martin’s companion opened the door and stood aside to let the American enter. He found himself standing in a small airless office; at the desk a fat man in an expensive but badly crumpled suit appeared to be busy with a jumble of papers. He had a pale, almost baby-like face and what little hair was left on his head had been teased into an oily series of black curls that drooped down onto his forehead. His eyes were small and piggish, but they glittered with a low animal cunning. Behind him stood an impassive stooge in a suit that must have been run up by the same tailor who had garbed the man who answered the door and who now moved round the desk to join his opposite number. The two stood flanking the fat man like attendant flunkies waiting on an emperor. Martin could see quite clearly the bulges under their left armpits where gun holsters nestled. He frowned and turned his attention back to Charles Caine.

His first reaction was one of instant distrust. An old garage mechanic Martin had known back in New Mexico had once told him, ‘Never trust a guy who looks like he eats better than you do.’ Caine was the first overweight man Martin had encountered since his arrival in Rio. Most people here had the sallow, hunted look of those who did not know where their next meal was coming from. Not so Mr Caine. He looked content as only a wealthy man can, and there was something about the shrewd little eyes gazing abstractedly at the rows of figures before him which suggested that this man should be trusted only as far as he could be thrown. Martin’s nostrils twitched as a smell reached them, the sickly sweet odour of lavender water.

Caine glanced up as if noticing Martin for the first time, but of course this had all been a calculated ploy intended to belittle the newcomer. At any rate, it didn’t cut much ice. When Caine spoke, his voice had a strange, piping, high-pitched tone, but his accent was shot through with the unmistakable tones of a cultured Englishman.

‘So … er … Mister …? I’m sorry, I believe we have not yet …?’

‘Taggart. Martin Taggart.’

‘Mr Taggart. An American. Moreover, an American who wants to become a garimpeiro. An interesting break from tradition, but then we get all kinds in here.’ He grinned, displaying a set of even white teeth that looked too immaculate to be real. ‘I would have thought, Mr Taggart, that like all true-blooded Americans you would be busy preparing yourself for the er … glorious struggle with Japan and Germany; but then, perhaps you find the whole business of war as trivial and tiresome as I do.’ He studied Martin for a moment as if expecting a reply to this, then continued in a different tone. ‘Ah well, a man’s reasons are his own, I suppose. At least it will prevent your running back to your country for a while. The call-up brigade have never been well known for their understanding of those who evade them.’

Martin had to try hard not to register a reaction. The fat boy was obviously a good deal sharper than he looked. It hadn’t taken him more than a few moments to figure out the lie of the land. ‘A garimpeiro,’ Caine continued, pretending that he was unconcerned whether his arrow had hit home or not. ‘Yes, well, you might do at that. You look hungry enough … you look as though you can handle yourself in a tight spot. Show me your hands, please.’

Martin stepped obediently closer to the desk, extended his hands, palms uppermost. Caine reached out suddenly and took them in his own.

‘Ah, now look at these hands, Agnello,’ he purred, half-turning to address the man in the black suit. ‘Here is a fellow who has done some hard work in his time. Not like your lily-white hands, Agnello, hands that have done nothing more than pull a trigger or wield a knife; and not like mine either, hands that have only signed papers and … counted money.’ He gave a little giggle, a rather unpleasant sound; and he gazed for a moment at his own pudgy, stubby hands, the fingers of which glittered with a series of ostentatious diamond rings. Martin took the opportunity to pull his own hands away from Caine’s grasp. The fat man smiled at him a moment, a trace of mockery in his expression. Then he nodded.

‘Yes, well, Mr Taggart, I am after all a patron; I have many garimpeiros in my employ, hundreds. What’s more, I am always ready to take on more, regardless of their nationality. Good fortune owes allegiance to no flag, my friend.’

‘I’d say you’re proof of that, Mr Caine. How does an Englishman come to be a patron in Rio de Janeiro?’

Caine shook his head. ‘Oh, a long story, that one; and a strange and muddy path from the playing fields of Eton to this weird backwater. Let us just say that I am by nature an opportunist, Mr Taggart. It’s not just diamond prospecting that I have interests in. I have my fat fingers in a whole series of delectable pies dotted about this great continent; and as you can see from the shape of me, I never tire of trying out new flavours.’ He laughed drily. ‘But I digress. Let’s get back to the business in hand. I take it you have no money?’

Martin shrugged. ‘About five cruzeiros,’ he replied.

‘Five cruzeiros!’ Caine leaned back in his chair and cackled gleefully. ‘Well, you aren’t quite destitute, but you’re not far away! Let me see now, you will need to buy yourself the necessary equipment, you will need your fare up to the garimpo – the diamond field – and you will need a gun. I think ten thousand cruzeiros will suffice.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a thick wad of money. With the slow relish of a man who loved the feel of paper, he counted out the agreed sum. Then he indicated to Martin that he should take it.

‘What’s the catch first?’ Martin inquired tonelessly.

‘The catch.’ Caine feigned wide-eyed innocence for a moment. ‘The catch, Mr Taggart? Did you hear that, Agnello? Paco, did you hear? Such a suspicious nature this young fellow has. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he didn’t trust us!’ He fixed Martin with a calculating look. ‘The “catch”, Mr Taggart, is a simple enough idea and one that, I can assure you, you will find the same wherever you inquire around Rio. Of anything and everything that you find at the garimpo, I take fifty per cent.’

Martin returned the gaze calmly. ‘Fifty per cent, huh? That’s a little steep, isn’t it?’

Caine shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is, by some standards. But you see, by lending you the necessary money I’m running the risk of your never finding a thing.’

‘Some risk,’ muttered Martin.

‘I’m afraid that’s the way things work here. Without money for equipment, I don’t see how you can become a garimpeiro at all. Perhaps you may find a friendly backer who will loan you the money you require with no strings attached; but, somehow, I seriously doubt that. If you’d rather forget the whole thing …’ He made as if to put the money back in the drawer, but Martin stepped quickly forward and put his hand down on top of Caine’s wrist. It was an unwise move. The two pistoleiros on either side of the fat man went for their guns. In an instant, Martin found himself looking down two barrels aimed straight into his face. He backed quickly away, his hands in the air.

‘Hey, hold it, hold it! I was only going to say that I accept the terms …’

There was a long and terrible silence. Martin’s body crawled as he imagined the terrible impact of those unseen bullets. But then Caine spoke, his voice like warm oil. ‘You must forgive my boys, Mr Taggart. They tend to be a little overprotective sometimes. You see, I pay them a great deal of money to keep my interests uppermost in their minds. They can be very excitable. You wouldn’t believe the trouble it can cause.’ He waved the guns away with a delicate motion of his fat hands and the pistols were grudgingly returned to their holsters. Then he indicated that Martin should pick up the thin wad of money from the desk. ‘Spend it wisely,’ he advised as Martin slipped the cash into his pocket. ‘Here is a list of the equipment you will need. Go to the address at the top of the page and you will receive a special discount. Also, here are a set of instructions about how to get to the garimpo. The rest, Mr Taggart, is up to you. I wish you luck.’