Flight to the Lonesome Place (13 page)

“No, it has to be me inside. Being small's a help. I can hide easier. And my memory will be a bigger help if something goes wrong. You don't realize how many things I can think of at the same time. Anyway, someone has to keep guard outside. It ought to be a person familiar with the country. Why, I don't even know what those little creatures are that sing so loud at night.”

“That's the coqui,” said Black Luis. “It's called the songbird of the islands.”

“A bird, is it?”

“It's not really a bird. It's a tree frog. A tiny one. It's named from its call—co-kee! Most sing co-kee, but some sing ma-ree. At night you can always tell when someone is coming, because the coquis stop singing when he is near.
¡De veras!
Maybe I had better be the one to keep guard. The coquis tell me many things.”

Just before they left, Ronnie carefully smeared his face and arms with a concoction made of grease, a bit of soot, and a red powder from pounded achiote seeds, which grew wild on the mountainside. It turned his skin a deep mahogany. When he had drawn on his wig and a dark shirt, he doubted if even Peter Pushkin would have glanced at him twice.

Marlowe went ahead to make sure no one was around, and Ronnie crawled and fumbled his way along behind Black Luis in a slow descent of the mountain. After they had waded the creek the going was easy for some distance, but presently the beach became almost too rough to follow. Until they neared the captain's cottage nearly a mile down the coast, they were forced to weave in and out through brush, outcroppings of rock, and scattered clumps of wild guavas and sea grape.

It was a bright night, with a half-moon riding the ridges on the left, and Ronnie could see every detail around him. Several times he tried his best to catch a glimpse of Marlowe, but failed. His first guess was that Marlowe might be a mongoose. The evidence, at least, pointed in that direction. And though he hadn't remembered it at first, there really had been a talking mongoose that lived, of all places, on the Isle of Man. And a smart one too. He had read of it by accident when he was looking up something else, but had paid no attention to it because he hadn't believed it. It had sounded too kooky, like Ana María Rosalita's magic. Still …

As they approached the gleaming strip of beach that marked the captain's property, Black Luis turned sharply to the left. Within the shadow of the palms that formed a dense grove here, Ronnie paused a moment and looked back wistfully at the moonlit beach. The lazy sea that washed it glowed with phosphorus. What a beautiful spot! He wondered what it would be like to feel carefree, and be able to run along the water's edge in his bare feet, and to swim and fish, and hunt for shells. He had never had a chance to do those things. Nor would Gus have ever thought of bringing him to a spot like this.

“Keep moving,” Black Luis whispered. “We've a long climb ahead. And be mighty careful. We're almost at the road.”

They crept past the cottage, a pale masonry shape on concrete stilts, with every opening covered with grillwork. Beyond it the ground sloped upward through the breadfruit grove the captain had spoken of, and now the sound of traffic could be heard for the first time. Presently Ronnie saw the headlights of cars, and then they were crouching behind a gate, waiting for a chance to cross the road unnoticed.

So far they had seen no one. But all at once the nearness of the road, with its seemingly endless traffic, brought sharply back to Ronnie the danger he and Black Luis were in. To his knowledge, at least four men were searching for him, and probably as many more were on the watch for Black Luis. It would be a miracle, he suddenly realized, if they could actually do what they had planned and not run into trouble.

At the first break in the traffic Marlowe called to them, and they raced across the road and slipped into the tangle on the other side.

From the darkness that now enclosed them Marlowe said cheerfully, “All is clear below, comrades. The path is here, and it is safe to use your light. But watch it later. Something is going on upstairs.”

“Any idea what it is?” Ronnie asked quickly.

“Can't tell yet. But a lot of cars keep going up and down on the Las Alturas road.”

They began climbing the narrow, steep path, which was a shortcut used by the plantation workers to the coffee trees high above. The private road to Las Alturas wound back and forth somewhere on the right; occasionally headlights flashed through the treetops as a car swept around a turn.

It was nearly a half hour before they reached a corner of the plantation and saw, clinging to the side of the mountain ahead, the huge century-old villa of the Montoya family. Ronnie, breathing raggedly and all but exhausted from his climb, stared at it in dismay.

The place was ablaze with lights. Above the happy singing of the coquis, as loud here as in the jungle below, came strains of music and occasional voices lifted in drunken song. Bernardo, obviously, was having what seemed to be turning into an all-night party.

“
¡Mil diablos!
” Black Luis muttered. “What are we going to do?”

“What we came to do,” Ronnie said grimly. “I'm going to get her out of there. And if anybody tries to stop me—”

“You're not big enough to get tough without a weapon,” Black Luis told him. He took out his knife and groped in the shrubbery. Presently he came up with two small clubs the size of a policeman's nightstick. “Thought I'd better have one myself,” he admitted. “Let's go.”

They crept forward on a branching path that led, Ronnie knew, to the servants' entrance in the lower wall. The careful plan he had drawn from the descriptions given him had fixed every detail of Las Alturas clearly in his mind. With its great supporting walls, the place was like a fort. The main entrance, high on the right, was through huge iron gates and across a broad courtyard, now jammed with cars. The only practical way to slip inside, he had reasoned, would be through the servants' door they were now approaching. With Marlowe's help, of course, for it would have to be unlocked from the inside.

They stopped at a sudden warning whisper from Marlowe. Ronnie dropped to his hands and knees and crawled carefully forward until he could peer around the clumps of flowering shrubs that blocked his view.

Now, for the first time, he could see the servants' entrance. His mouth tightened. The outside light was on, the outer door of iron grillwork was ajar, and a man and a woman were standing on the threshold, drinking from paper cups while they peered out at the night. They must have come from the kitchen just above, for both wore aprons.

Black Luis crawled up beside him, grunted, but said nothing. All they could do was wait. Ronnie scanned the windows, hoping to discover one that could be entered. But like the captain's house and most of the others he had seen on the island, every opening was covered with ornate grillwork as a protection against prowlers.

Suddenly he whispered, “Marlowe?”

“Right here,” came the whispered reply from under a bush. “You're about to ask me if I can sneak in unobserved.”

“Can you?”

“Certainly! I'm a very clever little fellow. Shall I enter, find Ana María Rosalita's room, and tell her we'll be up soon to let her out?”

“Yes. And check on the key, will you? If it's in the Señora's room, maybe you'd better bring it to me. It could save us a lot of trouble later.”

“
¡Madre!
If I should find the key, it just occurs to me that it might be stupid not to use it immediately. Why not let her out on the spot? That is, if I can handle such an unwieldy object. The keys in that den of iniquity are enormous.”

“No, Marlowe! Don't do that! It'll be dangerous. Someone's bound to see her—”

“What difference will it make? Listen to them! They're whooping it up. Who would bother to stop her, or even care? No one but the Señora or Bernardo. And naturally I will take no chances with those two.”

“Okay,” Ronnie said doubtfully. “It might be worth a try.”

Something told him it wouldn't work, but there was nothing else they could do at the moment.

He sat chewing worriedly at his lip, trying to think of other plans if this one should fail. All at once he whispered to Black Luis, “Do you know where the fuse box is located?”

“Fuse box? You mean where the electricity comes into the house?”

“Yes.” Evidently Black Luis had had more experience with lamps than electrical circuits. Ronnie raised his head and pointed to a wire slanting through the trees high on the right. “See yonder? That's the power line coming up from the road. But with all the vines and growth around the house I can't tell where the line enters.”

“I remember now,” said the black boy. “Go in that door yonder, climb the steps to the kitchen like you've drawn on the plan, and at the top of the steps, on the wall to the right, there's a big flat metal box with wires coming out of it. That must be it.”

That had to be it, Ronnie thought, and realized Las Alturas had been built before the days of electricity and concealed wiring. “Is the fuse fox an old-fashioned one, with a knife switch in a separate box, or is it modern?”

“I—I wouldn't know. What difference does it make?”

It would make a lot of difference. But all he said was, “Can't tell yet. Wait till Marlowe gets back.”

Impatiently he watched the two servants, who were still standing in the doorway. Finally he glanced at the luminous hands of his watch. Why did time always seem to drag so when you were waiting for something to happen?

The two servants left, but their place at the door was almost immediately taken by another servant who glumly lounged there smoking a cigarette. The slow minutes crept by. What had happened to Marlowe?

Abruptly Black Luis plucked his sleeve and pointed to the sky on the right. The stars were being blotted out by spreading darkness. A faint rumbling could be heard in the distance.

“
¡Cáspita!
” he muttered uneasily. “We've got to get that small one out of there fast, or we're in trouble. If that rain hits us, we won't find our way off this mountain before daylight.”

At that moment the servant moved away from the door, and almost immediately afterward there was a rustling under the shrubbery and Marlowe returned. “I found her,
compañeros
,” he began hurriedly, and now his sharp little voice was no longer cheerful. “She is in that middle bedroom upstairs on the east side, next to the Señora's room on the northeast corner. She is locked in, of course, the excuse being—from what I overheard—that she is subject to fits and quite violent. She—”

“What's wrong?” Ronnie interrupted impatiently.

“There's nothing wrong with
her
, except that she's hungry. It's that ding-ratted blasted
key
,” Marlowe wailed. “It's not in the door. It's not in the Señora's room. I tore the place apart. I ripped it asunder. I made a shambles of it. When I found out they hadn't fed our little
camarada
a mouthful of food since they brought her here, I went quite berserk. In my anxiety to find the key, I got into the Señora's closet and quite shredded her best dresses. But no key.
¡Madre de Dios!
What was I to do? I rushed back to Ana María Rosalita's room and talked to her under the door, and she said get a key from another room and try it. That I did, pronto. But no luck. All the keys are different, except that they are monstrous. Then Ana María Rosalita said that maybe the Señora kept the key in that gold mesh bag she always carries in her hand. It would be just like her, and it seemed the only chance. So downstairs I go in a flash to find the Señora, and there she is in the middle of the drawing room floor. And what is she doing?”

Marlowe paused, gasping, breathless. Then he almost shrieked, “She is dancing! Dancing alone! A solo. Just as if she were nearer fourteen than forty. All the others are sitting in a big circle around her, clapping their hands and singing. And the mesh bag? She is waving it aloft as if it were the head of John the Baptist.” Marlowe paused again, and gasped, “Oh, that infamous female python of a
desollada!
How I would like to give her a taste of my teeth!”

Ronnie said quickly, “Could you tell by the way the bag was swinging if there was anything heavy inside?”

“It was heavy! I would swear the key is in it.”

“Then use your teeth, and we'll get it. Right now, while she's still dancing. But we'll have to change plans entirely. Here's the idea.”

Marlowe would dash in first and head for the drawing room while Ronnie and Black Luis rushed for the fuse box. The moment the box was opened and he knew what could be done with it, he would start counting slowly to give Black Luis time to race up the back stairs to Ana María Rosalita's door. At the count of ten he would pull the switch, plunging the house into darkness, then wreck the fuse box if he could, and run for the main stairway with his flashlight. His final task would be to use the light to lead Ana María Rosalita and Black Luis—who would carry her bags—safely out of the house.

He was still talking swiftly as he leaped to his feet and started for the still-open grill door ahead. His final word was, “Don't forget, we'll leave by the
front
entrance. The back hall will be jammed, because everybody will be trying to turn the lights on. If we get separated, just keep going and we'll meet at the captain's house.”

He wanted to ask Black Luis if he knew how to drive a car, but there wasn't time. They were suddenly inside the servants' entrance, and leaping up the short flight of steps to the service hall behind the kitchen. One glance told him he was too small to reach the switch box, but before he could ask for help Black Luis had swung up a long arm and jerked the box open, and in the next instant had thrust forth a chair for him to stand on.

As Black Luis sped away behind him, Ronnie began to count. At the same time his eye explored the unfamiliar interior of the box. It was fairly modern, which meant that, instead of a dangerous knife switch in a separate compartment, there were a series of square plugs that could be pulled out entirely. Unfortunately it had been poorly assembled, for three of the plugs had identical marking.