"Oh, it's so goddamn hot!" moaned Mrs. Moore.
Davon agreed but did not say so out loud---Mrs. Moore was the last person she felt like agreeing with about anything. She wriggled slightly, trying to unstick her blouse from the small of her back, and looked ahead through the windscreen. She saw exactly what she'd seen for the last 30 minutes---a small handcart piled perilously high with trumpery household goods being pushed by an old negro and a small black boy who obstinately stuck to the crown of the road and refused to divert to the side.
Cubbins irritably changed down again from second gear to first. "If we carry on like this in this heat, the engine will boil," he said.
"We can't stop," said Davon in alarm.
"Stopping might prove harder than moving," said Cubbins. "Have you looked behind lately.
Davon twisted in her seat and looked through the back window of the car, which was now cresting a small rise. Behind, as far as her eye could see, stretched the long line of refugees fleeing from Trois Fourches. She'd seen this kind of thing in old newsreels but had never expected to see it in real life. This was a people on the move, trudging wearily from the coming desolation of war, carrying as much as the material minutiae of their lives as they could on an incredible array of vehicles. There were perambulators loaded not with babies but with clocks, pictures, ornaments; there were carts pushed by hand or drawn by donkeys; there were beat-up cars of incredible vintage, buses, trucks and the better cars of the more prosperous.
But primarily there were people----men and women, old and young, rich and poor, the healthy and the sick. They did not laugh or speak, merely moved along quietly like driven cattle with gray faces and downcast eyes, whose only visible sign of emotion was the fast, nervous twitch of the head to look back along the road.
Davon turned as Cubbins blasted on the horn at the stubborn old black man ahead. "Damn him! He won't move aside," he grumbled. "If he'd move just a little to the side I could get through."
Antoine said "The road--she drop on one side." He pointed to the car. "E fright 'e fall."
"Yes," said Cubbins. "That cart is grossly overloaded and there's a steep camber."
Davon said, "How much farther do we have to go?"
"Two miles, I estimate." Cubbins nodded ahead. "Do you see where the road turns around that headland over there? We have to get to the other side."
"How long will that take?"
Cubbins drew to a halt to avoid running over the old black man. "Another two hours---and that is a conservative estimate."
The car crept onward by jerks and starts. The refugees on foot were actually moving faster than those in vehicles and Cubbins contemplated abandoning the car. But he rejected the idea almost as soon as he thought of it; there was the food and water to be carried, and the blankets, too---those would be much too valuable in the coming week to leave behind with the car. He said, "At least this war is having one good result---it's getting the people out of Trois Fourches."
"They won't all get out," said Davon. "And what about the armies?"
"It's damn bad luck on Sorel," said Cubbins. "Imagine taking a town and then being smashed by a hurricane. I've read a lot of military history but I've never heard of a parallel to it."
"It'll smash Martinet, too," said Davon.
"Indeed, it will," said Cubbins thoughtfully. "But who gets stuck picking up the pieces?" He stared ahead. "I like Riley, but I do hope he's wrong about this hurricane. There is a chance he might be, of course; he's relying too much on his intuition. I'd like Sorel to have a fighting chance."
"I hope he's wrong, too," said Julie somberly. "He's trapped back there."
Cubbins glanced at her drawn face, then bit his lip and lapsed into silence. Time dragged on as slowly as the car. Presently he pointed out a group of young men who were passing, fit and able-bodied, even if poorly dressed; one had a fistful of bank-notes which he was counting, and another twirled a gleaming necklace on his forefinger. He said meditatively, "If only Fletcher hadn't taken your gun, Antoine; it might have come in handy. Those boys we just saw, they're looters. They've taken money and jewelry but soon they'll get hungry and try to take food from whoever's got it."
Antoine shrugged. "Too late; 'e took gun -- I look."
They finally rounded the headland and Cubbins said, "Another few hundred yards and we'll pull off. Look for a convenient place to run the car off the road---what we need is a side turning."
They ground on, the car still in bottom gear. After a while Antoine said, "Turn 'ere."
Cubbins craned his neck. "Well, it looks all right. But where does it lead?"
"Let's find out," said Davon. "There's nobody going up there."
Cubbins turned the car on to the unmetalled side road and was immediately able to change up to second gear. They bumped along for a few hundred yards and then came into the wide space of a quarry. "Shit!" he said. "A dead end."
Davon wriggled in her seat. "Well, at least we can get out and stretch our legs before going back. Oh, while we're at it, let's eat again while we have the chance," she said.
The bread was stale, the butter melted and going rancid, the water tepid and, to make matters worse, the heat had not improved their appetites, although they ate a little while sitting in the shade of the quarry huts, all the while discussing their next move. Mrs. Moore said, "I don't see why we can't stay here -- it's a quiet place."
"Absolutely not," said Cubbins. "We can still see the sea from here -- to the south. According to Riley, the hurricane will come from the south."
Mrs. Moore made an impatient noise. "Don't listen to this Riley, he's a fearmongering bastard; there will not be a hurricane. I looked back when we could still see the Base and there are still ships there at anchor. Commodore Rodriguez doesn't think there'll be a hurricane, so why should we?"
"Yes, he might be wrong, but we can't take that chance," said Davon quietly. She turned to Cubbins. "Looks like we'll have to go back to the road and try again."
"No," said Cubbins. "I really don't think we can. This track left the road at an acute angle---I don't see how we could turn the car into the traffic stream. Nobody would stop to let us through. He looked up at the quarry face. "We've got to get on the other side of that."
Mrs. Moore snorted. "I'll be damned if going to try to climb that. I'll stay here."
Cubbins laughed. "No need to climb it---just go around it. There's a convenient place to climb a little farther back down the track." He chewed the rotten bread distastefully. "Riley said we had to get on the north side of a ridge, didn't he? Well, that's what we're going to do."
Antoine asked abruptly, "Do we leave car?"
"We'll have to. We'll take all we need from it, then park it behind these huts. With a bit of luck no one will find it."
They finished their brief meal and began to pack up. Davon looked at the wilting Mrs. Moore and forced some humor into her voice. "Well, at least there's no dish-washing to be done." But Mrs. Moore was beyond giving a damn; she just sat in the shade and gasped, and Davon thought cattily, this is better than a diet for reducing her surplus poundage.
Cubbins ran the car down the track and they unpacked all the supplies. He said, "It's better we do this here; it's a nice out-of-the-way spot with none of those young thugs snooping at us." He looked up the hill. "It's not far to the top -- I suppose this ridge isn't much more than two hundred feet high."
He took the car back to the quarry, leaving behind (temporarily) a pettish Mrs. Moore, who said, "I suppose we must, although I think this is bullshit." She turned to Antoine. "Well, don't just stand there, dammit! Pick up something!"
Davon looked at Mrs. Moore with a glint in her eye. "Sorry, but you'll have to do your share of carrying."
Mrs. Moore looked doubtfully at the scrub-covered hill. "Please, I can't---my heart..."
Davon thought that Mrs. Moore's heart was as sound as a bell and just as hard. "The blankets aren't heavy," she said. "Take some of them." She thrust a bundle of blankets into Mrs. Moore's unprepared arms and she dropped her bag. It fell with a dull thud into the dust and they both stooped for it.
Davon picked it up and found it curiously heavy. "What the hell have you got in here?"
Mrs. Moore snatched the bag from her, dropping the blankets. "My jewels, darling. You don't expect me to leave them behind?!"
Davon indicated the blankets. "Those might keep you alive -- your jewels won't." She stared hard at Mrs. Moore. "Do us all a favor: concentrate more on doing work and less on giving orders ; you haven't been right about a damn thing so far, and you're just so much dead weight."
"Okay, okay," said Mrs. Moore, perhaps alarmed at the expression on Davon's face. "Don't push so hard. You're too mannish, my dear. No no wonder you haven't caught yourself a husband."
Davon ignored her and lifted a cardboard box full of bottled water. As she climbed the hill, she smiled to herself. A few days ago that gibe might have rankled, but not now. At one time she had thought that maybe she was too self-reliant to appeal to a man. Men did like the clinging ultra-feminine type, which she personally had always regarded as parasitic and not giving value for value received. Well, shit on it! She refused to disguise her natural intelligence for any man, and a man who was fooled by that sort of thing wasn't worth marrying, anyway. Better to be herself than be a foolish, ineffectual, overstuffed bitch like the Moore woman.
But her heart ached at the thought that she might not see Riley ever again.
It took them a long time to transport their supplies to the top of the ridge. Cubbins, although willing, was not a young man and had neither the strength nor the stamina for the sustained effort. Mrs. Moore was totally unfit for any kind of work and after she had toiled to the top with her small load of blankets, she sat back and watched the others work. Davon was fit enough, but she was unused to the intense heat and the strong sun made her head swim. So it was Antoine who carried the bulk of the supplies, willingly and without complaint. All he allowed himself was a contemptuous glance at Mrs. Moore each time he deposited a load at the top.
At last all the stores had been moved and they rested for a while on the ridge-top. On the seaward side they could see the main coast road, still swarming with refugees heading east away from Trois Fourches. The city itself was out of sight behind the headland, but they could hear the distant thud of guns and could see a growing smudge of smoke in the western sky.
On the other side of the ridge the ground sloped down into a small green valley, heavily planted with bananas in long rows. Over a mile away was a long, low building with a few smaller huts scattered about it. Cubbins looked at the banana plantation with satisfaction. "At least we'll have plenty of shade. And the ground is cultivated and easy to dig. And a banana plant blowing down on one wouldn't hurt."
"I've always liked bananas," said Mrs. Moore
"Don't eat any you find down there; they're unripe and they'll give you the shits." Cubbins meditated for a moment. "I'm not an expert on hurricanes like Riley, but I do know something about them. If the hurricane is coming from the south, then the wind will blow from the east to begin with -- so we must have protection from that side. Later, the wind will come from the west, and that makes things complicated."
Antoine pointed. "Over there -- lil "ollow."
"I see that," said Cubbins. He arose and picked up a spade. "I thought these might come in useful when I put them in the car. Shall we go? We can leave all this stuff here until we're sure we know where we're going to take it."
They descended into the plantation, which was quite deserted. "We need to keep away from that building," said Cubbins. "That's the barracks for the convict labor. I imagine Martinet has given orders that the men be kept locked up, but there's no point in taking chances." He poked at the ground beneath a banana plant and snorted in disgust. "Very bad cultivation here ; these plants need pruning -- if they're not careful they're going to get Panama disease. Well, why not? Everything's been running down on this island since Martinet took over---including the vegetation."
They reached the hollow and Cubbins judged it a good place. "It's nicely protected," he said, and thrust his spade into the earth. "Now we dig."
"How dig?" asked Antoine.
"Foxholes -- as in the army." Cubbins began to measure out on the ground. "Five of them -- one for each of us and one for the supplies."
They took it in turns digging -- Cubbins, Antoine and Davon -- as Mrs. Moore panted in the shade. Fortunately, it was not very hard work since the ground was soft as Cubbins had predicted, but the sun was hot and they sweated copiously. Near the end of their labors Julie Davon stopped for a drink of water and looked at the five . . .graves?! She thought somberly of the unofficial motto of the Seabees -- "First we dig 'em, then we die in 'em." Despite the ultra-hot sun, she shivered.
When they had finally completed the foxholes and had brought down the supplies it was near to sunset, although it seemed hotter than ever. Cubbins cut some of the big leaves from some nearby plants and strewed them over the raw earth. "In the middle of a civil war camouflage does wonders. Anyway, these plants need cutting."
Davon lifted her head. "And, speaking of the war -- don't the guns sound louder . . . closer?"
Cubbins listened intently. "Yes, they do, don't they?" He frowned. "I wonder ..." He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"Wonder what?"
"I thought the battle might come this way," he said. "But now I don't think so. Even if Sorel takes Trois Fourches he has to attack Martinet's forces between Trois Fourches and Rivière de la Paix---and that's on the other side!"
"But the guns do sound nearer," said Julie
"Just a trick of the wind," said Cubbins. He said it with dubiety. There was no wind.
As the sun set they prepared for the night and arranged watches. Mrs. Moore, by common consent, was left to sleep all night as being too unreliable. They talked desultorily for a while and then turned in, leaving Davon to stand first watch.
She sat in the sudden darkness and listened to the booming of the guns. To her uneducated ear they sounded as if they were just down the valley and around the corner, but she consoled herself with Cubbins's reasoning. But there was a fitful red glare in the west from the direction of Trois Fourches -- there were fires in the town.
She searched her pockets and found a crumpled cigarette, which she lit, inhaling the smoke greedily. It had been a bad day; she was tense and the cigarette relaxed her. She sat with her back against a banana tree -- or plant, or whatever it was -- and thought about Riley, wondering what had I happened to him. Was he already dead, caught up in the turmoil of war? Was he raging in a cell, waiting for the deadly wind he alone knew was going to strike? She wished with all her heart they had not been separated -- whatever was going to happen, she wanted to be with him.
And Fletcher-- what had happened to Fletcher? If he found his way back to the hotel he would find the note they had pinned on the door of the store-room under the stairs and know they had fled to safety. But he would not know enough to be able to join them. She hoped he would be safe -- but her thoughts dwelt longer on Riley.
The moon had just risen when she awoke Antoine as planned. "Everything quiet," she said in a low voice. "Nothing is happening."
He nodded and said, "The guns ver' close -- more close than before."
"You think so?"
He nodded again but said nothing more, so she went to her own foxhole and settled down for the night. It's like a grave, she thought as she stretched on the blanket which lay on the bottom. She thought of Riley again, very hazily and drowsily, and then fell asleep before she had a chance to complete the thought.
She was awakened by something touching her face and she started up, only to be held down. "Ssssh," hissed a voice. "Keep ver' still."
"What's wrong, Antoine?" she whispered.
"Don' know," he said in a low voice. "Man' peoples 'ere -- lis'en!"
She strained her ears and caught an indefinable sound which seemed to emanate from nowhere in particular and everywhere at once. "It's just the wind in the banana leaves," she murmured.
"It not win'," said Antoine definitely.
She listened again and caught what seemed to be a faraway voice. "I don't know if you're right or wrong," she said. "But I think we ought to wake the others."
He went to shake Cubbins, while Davon woke Mrs. Moore, who screamed in surprise. "Muzzle it, bitch," snapped Davon, and clapped her hand over Mrs. Moore's mouth before it could open again. "We might be in trouble. Just stay there and be prepared to move in a hurry. And, if you make a sound, I swear I'll kill ya!"
She went over to where Cubbins and Antoine were conferring in low tones. "There's something going on," said Cubbins. "The guns have stopped, too. Antoine, go up to the top and see what's happened on the seaward side of the ridge; I'll scout down the valley. The moon's bright enough to see for quite a distance." His voice held a note of perplexity. "But these damn noises are coming from all round."
He stood up. "Will you be okay, Davon?"
"I'll be fine," she said. "And I'll keep that damned bitch quiet if I have to slug her."
The two men went off and she lost sight of them as they disappeared into the depths of the plantation. Cubbins flitted among the rows, edging nearer and nearer to the convict barracks. Soon he came to a service road driven through the plantation and paused before he crossed -- which was just as well for he heard a voice from quite close.
He froze and waited while a group of men went up the road. They were Government soldiers and from the sound of their voices they were weary and dispirited. From a word and a half-heard phrase he surmised that they had lost a battle and had not liked it at all. He waited until they had gone by, then crossed the road and penetrated the plantation on the other side.
It was here that he literally fell over a wounded man who lay just off the road. The man cried aloud in anguish and Cubbins ran away, fearing that the noise would attract attention. He blundered about in the plantation, suddenly aware that there were men all about him in the leaf-shadowed moonlight. They were drifting through the rows of plants from the general direction of Trois Fourches without order and discipline.
Suddenly he saw a spurt of flame and then the growing glow of a newly lit fire. He shrank back and went another way, only to be confronted by the sight of another fire being kindled. All around the fires sprang into being like rising demons from Hell, and as he cautiously approached one of them he saw twelve men sitting and lying before the flames, toasting unripe bananas on twigs to make them palatable enough to eat.
It was then that he knew he was in the middle of Martinet's defeated army. When he heard the roar of trucks on the service road he had just crossed and the sharp voice of command from close behind him, he knew also that this army was beginning to regroup for tomorrow's battle---which would probably be on the very ground on which he was standing!
Fletcher felt better once he had left St. Martin's Square and the sights that had sickened him. Nothing was wrong with his legs and he had no trouble keeping up with Riley who was in a great hurry. Although the town square was not being shelled any more the noise of battle to the north had greatly intensified, and Riley felt he had to get to the Nationale before the battle moved in to make sure that Davon was safe.
As they moved from the square and the area of government administrative buildings they began to encounter people, at first in ones and twos, and then in greater numbers. By the time they got near to the Nationale, which fortunately was not far, the press of people in the streets was great, and Riley realized he was witnessing the panic of a civilian population caught in a war.
Already the criminal elements had begun to take advantage of the situation and most of the expensive shops near the Nationale had been sacked and looted. Corpses lying on the pavement testified that the police had taken strong measures, but Riley's lips tightened as he noticed two dead policemen sprawled outside a jewelry shop -- the streets of Trois Fourches were fast ceasing to be safe (not that they were safe to begin with).
He pushed through the screaming, excited crowds, ran up the steps of the hotel and through the revolving doors into the foyer. "Davon!" he called. "Fletcher!"
Nobody answered him.
He ran across the foyer and stumbled over the bloody corpse of a slain soldier which lay near an upturned table just outside the bar. He shouted again, then turned to Bowman. "I'm going upstairs -- you see what you can find down there."
Bowman walked into the bar, crunching broken glass underfoot, and looked about. Someone had a hell of a party, he thought. He nudged at a half-empty bottle of Scotch with one bandaged hand and shook his head sadly. Yes, he could have used a drink, but now was not the time for such a thing.
He turned away, feeling a surge of triumph within him. Not long before he would have taken a drink at any time, but since he had survived the attentions of Sous-Inspector Robiquet he felt a growing strength and a breaking of bonds. As he defied Robiquet, stubbornly keeping his mouth shut, so he now defied what he recognized to be the worst in himself and, in that, found a new freedom, the freedom to be himself. "Big Oscar" Bowman was dead and young Oscar Bowman reborn -- maybe a little older in appearance and a bit shriveled about the edges, but still as new and shining and uncorrupted as that young man had been so many years ago. The only added quality was wisdom, and perhaps a deep sense of shame for what he had done to himself in the name of success.
He searched the ground floor of the hotel -- discovered nothing, and returned to the foyer, where he found Riley. "Zilch down there," he said.
Riley's face was gaunt. "They must've left." He was looking at the dead soldier sprawled with bloody chest near the upturned table, black flies buzzing all around him.
Bowman said tentatively, "Riley -- maybe the soldiers took them."
"I hope not!" said Riley in a voice heavy with fury and anger.
"I'm sorry it happened," said Bowman. "I'm sorry it happened because of me."
Riley turned his head. "Oh, don't blame yourself, Bowman. It probably would have happened anyway." He felt suddenly dizzy and sat down.
Bowman looked at him with concern. "You know what?" he said. "I think we could both use a bite to eat. When was the last time we ate?" He held out his bandaged hands and said apologetically, "I'd get it myself but right now I doubt that I can even open a can."
"What did they do to you?"
Bowman shrugged and put his hands behind his back. "Beat me up -- roughed me around a bit. Nothing I couldn't take."
"You're right, of course," said Riley. "We have to eat. Let me see what I can find."
Ten minutes later they were wolfing cold meat stew right oat of the cans. Riley found he could just hold a spoon in his left hand and by holding the can in the crook of his right hand he could feed himself tolerably well. But it was painful because his left hand hurt like hell when he gripped the spoon, but the last thing he wanted was for Riley to feed him like a baby -- that would have been an affront to his manhood.
He said, "What do we do now?"
Riley listened to the guns. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I wish Fletcher or Davon had left a message."
"Could they have?"
"I doubt it. There was nothing in their rooms."
Bowman thought about that. "Maybe they weren't in their rooms; maybe they were in the cellar. The guns were firing at the square, and that's not very far away -- maybe they sheltered in the cellar."
"There isn't any cellar."
"Okay -- but they might have sheltered somewhere else. Where would you go in a bombardment?" He shifted in his chair and the cane creaked. "I knew a guy who was in the London blitz ; he said that under the stairs was the best place. Maybe those stairs there."
Awkwardly he put down the spoon and walked over to the staircase. "Whoa!" he called. "Something's pinned on this door."
Riley dropped his can with a clatter and ran after Bowman.. He ripped the note from the door. "Fletcher's vanished," he said. "But the others got away in Cubbins's car. They've gone east -- out of the bay area." He drew a deep breath. "Well, that's one thing they did right."
"I'm glad they got away," said Bowman. "We gonna follow 'em?"
"You'd better do that," said Riley. "I'll give you all the necessary directions."
Bowman looked at him in surprise. "Me!? Aren't you gonna do anything?"
"I've been listening carefully to the guns," said Riley. "I think Sorel is making a breakthrough. He's the one I want to see."
"Are you out of your goddamn skull?! Hanging in around in the middle of war is what gets you shot, friend. You'd better come east with me."
"No, I'm staying," said Riley stubbornly. "I have to tell Sorel about the hurricane."
"What makes you think Sorel will listen to you?" demanded Bowman. "What makes you think you'll even get to see him? There'll be bloody murder going on in this city when Sorel comes in -- you won't stand a chance."
"I don't think Sorel is like that. I think he's an intelligent man, not a raving psychopath like Martinet. If I can get to him I think he'll listen."
Bowman groaned, but one look at Riley's inflexible face showed the uselessness of argument. He said, "You're a goddam, pigheaded, one-track guy, Riley; a stupid asshole with not enough sense to come in out of the rain. But if you really feel that way about it, I guess I'll stick around long enough to see you get your just-desserts."
Riley looked at him in surprise. "No need for that, Bowman," he said gently.
"I know there isn't a need for that," complained Bowman. "But I'm staying, anyway. Maybe Fletcher had the right idea -- maybe there's the makings of a good book in all this." He slanted a glance at Riley, half-humorous, half-frowning. "You'd make a helluva hero."
"You just keep me out of anything you write!" warned Riley.
"Don't worry about it," said Bowman. "Dead heroes can't sue."
"Dead writers can't write books. I think it's be a good idea if you got out."
"I'm staying," said Bowman. He felt he owed a debt to Riley, something he had to repay; he would no doubt get the chance if he stayed around with him.
"Have it your way," said Riley indifferently, and moved towards the door.
"Hold it," said Bowman; "Let's not get shot before we figure out what's going on. Why do you believe Sorel is making a breakthrough?"
"There was a heavy barrage going on not long ago -- it's stopped now."
"Stopped? Sounds just the same to me."
"You're not listening," said Riley. "The guns you hear are on the east and west -- there's nothing from the middle."
Bowman cocked his head on one side. "Hey, you're right. Could Sorel have bust through the middle?"
"Possibly."
Bowman sat down. "Well, then all we have got to do is wait here and Sorel will come to us."
Riley looked through a glassless window. "You've got a point; the street is deserted now -- not one soul in sight."
"Those people have brains," said Bowman. "Nobody wants to mess around with a driving army -- not even Sorel's. He might be as reasonable as you say, but reasonableness doesn't show from behind a gun. It's smarter to just wait here and see what happens next."
Riley began pacing up and down the foyer and Bowman watched him, seeing the irritability boiling up. He said abruptly, "Got a smoke -- the cops took mine."
"Mine, too." Riley stopped his restless pacing. "Try the bar. There should be some there."
He went into the bar, found a pack of cigarettes, stuck one in Bowman's mouth and lit it. Bowman drew on it deeply, then said, "When are you expecting this hurricane of yours?"
"Tomorrow, or the day after. I'm cut off from information."
"Then calm down, for God's sake! Sorel's on his way, and your girlfriend is tucked safely away." Bowman's eyes crinkled as he saw Riley's head swing around. "Is she your girlfriend?"
Riley said nothing, so Bowman changed the subject. "What do want Sorel to do about the hurricane? The guy's got a war on his hands."
"Not for much longer," promised Riley. "Two days from now, he won't. If he stays in Trois Fourches he won't have an army, either. He's got to listen to me."
"I hope he does," said Bowman philosophically. "Especially since he's the only chance we've got of getting outta here." He lifted his left hand clumsily to take the cigarette from his mouth and knocked it against the edge of the table. He winced and a suppressed sound escaped his lips.
Riley said, "Let's take a look at those hands."
"No!"
"Do you want them turning bad on you? Now let's take a look at them."
"No!" Bowman repeated..
Riley looked at Bowman's drawn face. "I have to take a look at them," he said. "Things that are all right anywhere else go sour in the tropics." He began to unfasten one of the bandages and his breath hissed as he saw what it covered. "God Almighty! What did they do to you?"
The hand was mashed to a pulp. As he slowly drew the bandage away he saw, to his horror two finger-nails come away with it, blue fingers, with gargantuan bruise where they weren't red-raw as beefsteak.
Bowman lay back in the chair. "They held me down and beat my hands with a rubber hose. I don't think they broke any bones, but I won't be able to handle a typewriter for quite a while."
Riley had once caught his finger in a door -- a trivial thing but the most painful happening of his life. The finger-nail had turned blue but his doctor saved it, and he had been careful of his hands ever since. Now, looking down at Bowman's raw hand, he felt sick inside, imagining how painful the battered nerve-endings likely were. He said glumly, "Now I can stop feeling bad about killing Robiquet,."
Bowman grinned faintly. "I never felt bad to start with."
Riley was puzzled. There was more to Bowman than he thought; this was not the same man who had tried to steal a car because he was scared -- something must have happened to him. "You'll need some embrocation on that," he said abruptly. "And a shot of penicillin would do wonders for you. There's a place across the street -- I'll see what I can find."
"Not a good idea, friend," said Bowman, alarmed. "That street's not the safest place in the world right now."
"I can watch out for myself," said Riley, and went to the door. Opposite was an American-style drugstore; it'd been broken into already but he hoped the drug supplies had not been touched. Before going out, he carefully inspected the street and, finding no movement, he stepped out and ran across.
Yes, the drugstore was in a mess but he ignored the chaos and went straight to the dispensary at the back, where he rummaged through the neat drawers looking for what he needed. There he found bandages and codeine tablets and embrocation but no antibiotics, and he wasted no time on a further search. At the door of the drugstore he paused again to check the street and froze as he saw a man scuttle across to hide in a doorway.
The man peered out behind the muzzle of a gun, then waved, and three more men ran up the street, hugging the walls, darting from door to door. They were not uniformed and Riley thought they must be the forward skirmishers of Sorel's army. He gently opened the door and stepped out, hands raised, clutching his medical supplies.
Strangely, he was not immediately seen, and had got halfway across the street before he was challenged. He turned to face the oncoming soldier, who looked at him with suspicion. "There are none of Martinet's men here," said Riley "Where is Sorel?"
The man jerked his rifle threateningly. "What do you have there?"
"They are bandages," said Riley. "My friend, he is hurt. They are for him. He is in the hotel over there. Where is Sorel?"
He felt the muzzle of a gun press into his back but did not turn around. The man in front of him moved his rifle fractionally sideways. "Go to the hotel," he ordered. Riley shrugged and stepped out, surrounded by the small group. One of them pushed through the revolving door, his rifle at the ready, and Riley called out in English, "Stay where you are, Bowman -- we've got visitors."
The man in front of him whirled and pressed his gun into Riley's stomach. "Silans!" he yelled threateningly.
"I was only telling my friend not to be afraid," said Riley evenly.
He went into the hotel, to find Bowman sitting tensely in his chair looking at a soldier who was covering him with a rifle. He said, "I've got some bandages and some codeine -- that should kill the pain a bit."
Sorel's men fanned out and scattered through the ground floor, moving like professionals. Finding nothing, they reassembled in the foyer and gathered around their leader. Riley took him to be a sergeant, though he wore no insignia. The sergeant prodded the dead soldier with his foot "Who killed this one?"
Riley, bending over Bowman, looked up and shrugged. "I don't know," he said, and turned back to his work.
The sergeant stepped over and looked at Bowman's hands. "Who did that?"
"Martinet's police," said Riley, keeping his eyes down.
The sergeant grunted. "Then you do not like Martinet. Ki bon!"
"I must find Sorel," said Riley. "I have important news for him."
"And what is this important news?"
"It is for Sorel's ears only. If he wants you to know he will tell you."
Bowman stirred. "You mind letting me in on this?"
"Well, I'm trying to get this chap to take me to Sorel. I can't tell him there's going to be a hurricane -- he wouldn't believe men and then I'd never get to see Favel."
The sergeant said, "You talk big, pied-blanc; your so-important news had better be good or Sorel will rip your liver out." He paused, then said with a grim smile, "And mine."
He turned to issue a string of rapid instructions, and Riley sighed deeply. "Thank God!" he said. "Now we're getting somewhere."
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