River of Death. Alistair MacLean

in quest of his suddenly and mysteriously vanished quarry. He was still peering anxiously ahead when he passed the alleyway entrance. Hamilton, a shadow detaching itself from the deeper shadow behind, stepped out swiftly and in silence brought his locked hands down on the base of Serrano’s neck. He caught the already unconscious man before he could strike the ground and dragged him into the dark concealment. From Serrano’s breast pocket he removed a well-filled wallet, extracted a gratifying wad of cruzeiro notes, pocketed them, dropped the empty wallet on top of Serrano’s prone form and continued on his way, this time without a backward glance. He had no doubt that Serrano had been on his own.

      Back in his tumbledown hut, the guttering oil lamp lit, Hamilton sat on his cot and pondered the reason for his being shadowed. That Serrano had acted under Hiller’s instructions he did not for a moment doubt. He did not think that Serrano had intended to waylay or attack him for he could not doubt that Hiller was almost desperately anxious to have his services and an injured Hamilton would be the last thing he would want on his hands. Nor could robbery have been a motive—although they may well have seen the bulges of the two pouches in his shirt pockets—and Hamilton had been well aware that Serrano had been watching him through the hut window—comparatively petty theft would not have interested Hiller; what he was after was the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow and only he, Hamilton, knew where that rainbow ended.

      That Hiller and his boss Smith had dreams Hamilton did not for a moment doubt: what he did doubt, and profoundly, was Hiller’s version of those dreams.

      Hiller had wanted to find out if he had been going to contact his two young assistants or other unknown parties. Perhaps he thought that Hamilton might lead him to a larger and worthwhile cache of gold and diamonds. Perhaps he thought Hamilton had gone to make some mysterious phone call. Perhaps anything. On balance, Hamilton thought, it was just because Hiller was of a highly suspicious nature and just wanted to know what, if anything, Hamilton was up to. There could be no other explanation and it seemed pointless to waste further time and thought on it.

      Hamilton poured himself a small drink—the nondescript bottle did in fact contain an excellent Highland malt which his friend Curly had obtained for him—and topped it up with some mineral water: the Romono water supply was an excellent specific for those who wished to be laid low with dysentery, cholera, and a variety of other unpleasant tropical diseases.

      Hamilton smiled to himself. When Serrano came to and reported his woes to his master, neither he nor Hiller would be in any doubt as to the identity of the assailant responsible for the sore and stiff neck from which Serrano would assuredly be suffering. If nothing else, Hamilton mused, it would teach them to be rather more circumspect and respectful in their future dealings with him. Hamilton had no doubt whatsoever that he would be meeting Serrano—officially—in the very near future and would thereafter be seeing quite a deal of him.

      Hamilton took a sip of his drink, dropped to his knees, ran his hand over the floor under the table, found nothing and smiled in satisfaction. He crossed to the shelving, picked up a solitary cassette, examined it carefully and smiled in even wider satisfaction. He drained his glass, turned out the light and headed back into town.

      In his room in the Hotel Negresco—the famous hotel in Nice would have cringed at the thought that such a hovel should bear the same name-Hiller was making—or trying to make—a telephone call, his face bearing the unmistakable expression of long-suffering impatience that characterised any person so foolhardy as to try to phone out of Romono. But at long last his patience was rewarded and his face lit up.

      ‘Aha!’ he said. His voice, understandably, had a note almost of triumph in it. ‘At last, at last! Mr Smith, if you please.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      The drawing-room of Joshua Smith’s villa—the Villa Haydn in Brasilia—demonstrated beyond all question the vast gulf that lay between a multi-billionaire and the merely rich. The furnishings, mainly Louis XIV and not the shadow of an imitation in sight, the drapes, from Belgium and Malta, the carpets, ancient Persian to the last one, and the pictures, ranging all the way from Dutch Old Masters to the Impressionists, all spoke not only of immense wealth but also a hedonistic determination to use it to its maximum. But for all that vast opulence there was nonetheless displayed an exquisite good taste in that everything matched and blended in something very, very close to perfection. Clearly, no modern interior decorator had been allowed within a mile of the place.

      The owner matched up magnificently to all this magnificence. He was a large, well-built and dinner-suited man of late middle age who looked absolutely at home in one of the huge armchairs that he occupied close to a sparkling pine log fire.

      Joshua Smith, still dark in both hair and moustache, the one brushed straight back, the other neatly trimmed, was a smooth and urbane man, but not too smooth, not too urbane, much given to smiling and invariably kind and courteous to his inferiors which, in his case, meant just about everybody in sight. With the passage of time, the carefully and painstakingly acquired geniality and urbanity had become second nature to him (although some of the original ruthlessness had had to remain to account for his untold millions). Only a specialist could have detected the extensive plastic surgery that had transformed Smith’s face from what it once had been.

      There was another man in his drawing-room, and a young woman. Jack Tracy was a young-middle-aged man, blond, with a pock-marked face and a general air of capable toughness about him. The toughness and capability were undoubtedly there—they had to be for any man to be the general manager of Smith’s vast chain of newspapers and magazines.

      Maria Schneider, with her slightly dusky skin and brown eyes, could have been South American, Southern Mediterranean or Middle Eastern. Her hair was the colour of a raven. Whatever her nationality she was indisputably beautiful with a rather inscrutable face but invariably watchful penetrating eyes. She didn’t look kind or sensitive but was both. She looked intelligent and had to be: when not doubling—as rumour had it—as Smith’s mistress she was his private and confidential secretary and it was no rumour that she was remarkably skilled in her official capacity.