1
She lay very still on the bed, vaguely conscious that she ought not to be there; that she ought to be doing something very important, but what it was she couldn’t remember.
She moved her long legs, feeling the smooth linen sliding over her flesh. What had she to do? Something… What was it? She couldn’t remember. It was all too much trouble. Everything was too much trouble.
In the distance the note of a ship’s siren sounded, a soft, gentle wail. Her heart missed a beat, but still she didn’t move. Now, she remembered. The ship, of course. It sailed at two o’clock. They had said repeatedly that they were not waiting for anyone. Something was going to happen in Havana. They didn’t say what it would be. They didn’t even admit that it was going to happen, but by a little gesture, by the apprehensive look in their eyes, by the flurry they all were in, one gathered that something was going to happen that couldn’t possibly be pleasant.
The little, pock-marked steward, when he had given her her coat, had emphasized the necessity of being on board by midnight. He was nice, in spite of his pock-marks, and she made a point of assuring him that she would be back before then. She would have been if she hadn’t met Lacey.
She moved restlessly. Lacey. She saw him as he was the previous night. Tall, very clean-looking in his white evening clothes. He was good to look at. Any woman would have thought so. His lean face, his full lips, and the jeering, cynical look he had in his eyes.
He had joined the boat at Bahama. As soon as he came on board the women began to talk about him. He was that kind of a man.
She pressed her fingers to her aching head. God! She must have been tight, as tight as she had been crazy—that must have been very, very tight. She wanted to go to sleep again, but she began remembering, and as the memory of the previous night built up in her mind, sleep retreated.
Oh yes, he had been awfully nice. It was by the sheerest coincidence that he happened to be going ashore as she stepped on the gang-plank. She had planned to see Havana with a Mr. and Mrs. Skinner. They were nice people, elderly, kindly and safe—nice people.
Lacey had jeered at them. He had shaken his head at her, behind their backs, as they prepared to take her away on a stately little drive along the brightly lit Havana waterfront. Then he had stepped forward. It was all done so smoothly. She couldn’t remember what he had said, but it must have been horribly smooth and just right, because the Skinners went away, smiling. They even looked back and waved, leaving her alone with him. Oh yes, she had to admit that it was all very neat and clever. He had taken her into the heart of Havana. He seemed to know all the unexpected places. He didn’t take her to the show places, but to all the exciting little cafes and houses, as if he owned the place.
He talked. She began gathering the top of the sheet unconsciously into a tight, long rope. Yes, he had talked. At first, he said amusing things. He did what very few people could do, he made her laugh. Then later, in the evening, after they had a few drinks, he began to flatter her. It wasn’t eye-talk stuff. It was shockingly personal, and it made her go hot, but because of the velvety strength of the drinks he had given her she didn’t go away from him as she ought to have done. So it went on until she suddenly realized that she was getting dangerously light-headed. She stopped drinking, but she couldn’t stop him talking. He said, in a charming way, the most outrageous things. She felt herself being drawn to him entirely against her will. It was as if something inside her was going out to him, leaving her weak and without resistance.
She remembered wondering when he would touch her. She knew, beyond any doubt, that he would touch her. Why else did he continue to stare at her with such intentness?
He seemed in no hurry. That was because he was so confident. Even in small things he was always confident. Small things, as lighting a cigarette, walking through a crowded room, or ordering a meal.
She remembered thinking that in an hour, or less, he was going to possess her. He would take her as confidently as he took everything. She was going to do absolutely nothing about it. She knew that before he started. Absolutely nothing, because she had no resistance. She felt almost as if she were asleep, dreaming that this was happening to her.
There—he had touched her. He had reached out and put his hand firmly on hers. She was quite sure that he would reach out his hand in the same way, steadily and confidently, to pat the head of a snarling dog.
At his touch her blood ran hot in her veins. She remembered thinking, at the time, that such a thing only happened in novels, but she actually felt a sudden surge of warmth go through her.
He went on talking, holding her hand lightly in his. Meeting his eyes, she saw that he had finished playing with her. He was serious now. She saw an eagerness that had pushed the jeering look into the background.
He rose to his feet abruptly, and took her through the back of the restaurant, through a doorway screened by a bead curtain. Together they went down a dim corridor that smelt faintly of sandalwood.
She followed him, her knees feeling weak, into a little room which was beautifully furnished, lit by rose-coloured lanterns. She was quite unable to say anything.
As she lay there in bed she could see those lanterns very clearly. She shut her eyes and she could see them even more clearly. She could feel him drawing her down on the divan, his hands taking the weight from her breasts. His hands there made her suddenly want him with an urgency that terrified her.
She had said, a little wildly, “Be kind to me—be kind to me,” and she remembered trying to find his mouth with hers.
She did not know how he undressed her. She was conscious of her clothes leaving her smoothly as he did everything. Then he suddenly lost all his smoothness, and treated her shamefully.
She lay staring at the rose-pink lanterns, feeling a sick loathing of herself. Her desires had gone away from her the moment he took her. It was all so sudden, so brutal, so unexpected—so filthily selfish. So she lay looking at the rose-pink lanterns until he stood away from her.
He had said, a little impatiently, “It’s getting late, we had better go back to the boat.”
She had said nothing. She couldn’t even cry.
“Don’t you hear?” he said. “It is nearly twelve.”
Without looking at him, she said: “Does it matter? Does anything ever matter to you? Go away. Go back to the boat. I’ve nothing else to give you. Why don’t you go away?”
He said impatiently, “For God’s sake stop talking and get dressed.”
She shut her eyes and said nothing, so he left her. He walked out of the room with his confident tread and left her there.
When he had gone she got up and dressed. She remembered that she couldn’t look herself in the face as she stood before the mirror. She remembered thinking that she had behaved like a bitch, and she was ashamed.
She went back to the restaurant. The waiter who had served them looked at her curiously when she sat down at the table they had previously occupied. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t care about anything. She just felt a cold fury with herself for being such a bitch. She didn’t even think of Lacey any more. All she could think was that because this was Havana, because of the great yellow moon, and because of the blue-black water, studded with thousands of lights from the waterfront, she had behaved like a bitch with a horribly smooth ship’s Romeo. She deserved to be treated as a whore. She hadn’t even the satisfaction of knowing that she had been as efficient as a whore—she hadn’t. She had just wanted to be very sick and to cry, but she had done absolutely nothing.
She had ordered a lot of drink from the waiter. She had to get tight. She could do that. There was nothing else she could do. She couldn’t sit in the restaurant, knowing the ship was sailing with all her clothes, leaving her in Havana, where something was going to happen, without getting good and tight. So she got good and tight, and she might have been still sitting there if the waiter hadn’t very tactfully put her in a taxi and told the driver to take her to a hotel. She would go back one day and thank the waiter. It was the first act of kindness she had received in Havana.
At the hotel they didn’t seem to notice how very tight she was. The manager seemed to have something on his mind. He wasn’t even sorry when he heard that she had lost the boat. He just raised his hands, saying, “That is a very grave misfortune for you, senorita,” and gave instructions for her to be taken to a room on the third floor overlooking the waterfront.
She sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her thick wavy hair. She must do something now. She couldn’t stay in bed nursing her cold hatred.
Reaching out, she rang the bell at her side violently.
2
It was hot. Too hot to stay in bed Quentin thought, pushing the sheet from him and sliding on to the coconut matting.
The sunlight came through the slots in the shutter and burnt his feet. He scratched his head, yawning, then reached under the bed for his heelless slippers. He sat there, staring at the wall, feeling lousy. It must have been the rum he’d belted the previous night. That guy Morecombre certainly could shift liquor. He might have known what kind of a party he was sitting down to. These press photographers spent most of their time on the booze. He pressed fingers tenderly to his head and then wandered over to the chest of drawers and found a bottle of Scotch. He put a little ice water in a glass and three fingers of Scotch to colour it, then he went back and sat on his bed.
The drink was swell, and he dawdled over it while he considered what he had to do that day. There wasn’t much he could do, he decided, except just sit around and wait. Well, he was used to that. He could do that fine.
He reached out with his foot and kicked the shutter open. From where he sat he could see the harbour and a little of the bay. By leaning forward he could see the old Morro Castle. He drew a deep breath. The place was pretty good, he decided. Very, very nice to look at. He got up and wandered to the open window. Below him the hotel grounds stretched away to the waterfront—flowers, trees, palms, everything that grew so richly in the tropical heat spread out before him. He hunched his muscles and yawned. Not bad, he thought, not bad at all. The Foreign Correspondent of the New York Post staying in the dump that millionaires condescend to be seen in. He finished the Scotch. All the same, he wouldn’t mind betting there was no one in the hotel except Morecombre and himself and the General. He grinned a little sourly. From where he stood he could see the waterfront, which looked ominously deserted. The hotel grounds were deserted too. “The word’s got round all right,” he thought; “rats leaving the sinking ship.”
He wandered over and rang the bell, then went on into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stood watching the water hiss down, still holding the empty glass in his hand. He eyed it thoughtfully, decided he wouldn’t have any more, put the glass down and slid out of his pyjamas.
The shower was fine. The water pricked and tingled on his skin. Raising his head, he began to sing, very low and rather mournfully.
When he came back to the bedroom he found Anita standing looking out of the window.
Anita was the maid in charge of the third floor. She was very dark, small, very well built. Her breasts rode high, firm… audacious breasts. They looked like they were proud of themselves, and Quentin himself thought they were pretty good.
“Hello,” he said, wrapping a towel round his waist, “don’t you ever knock?”
She smiled at him. She had a nice smile, glistening white teeth and sparkling eyes. “The water,” she said, lifting her hands, “it makes so much noise. You did not hear me knock, so I come in.”
“One of these days,” Quentin said, pulling on a silk dressing-gown and sliding the towel off, “you’re going to get an unpleasant shock when you walk in like that.”
She shook her head. “This morning I had it—it was not so bad.”
Quentin looked at her severely. “You’re not such a nice little girl as you look. You know too much.”
“It was Mr. Morecombre,” she said, her eyes opening. “He is a beautiful man—yes?”
“Suppose you get me some breakfast, and stop chattering,” Quentin said. “Get me a lotta food, I’m hungry.”
She made a little face. “There is nothing,” she said. “Coffee… yes, but the food … it is all gone.”
Quentin paused, his shaving-brush suspended halfway to his face. “I don’t get it, baby,” he said. “This is a hotel, ain’t it? This is the hotel, ain’t it?”
She smiled again. That smile certainly had a load of come-hither hanging to it. “But the strike,” she explained, “it is the strike. No food for four days. All out of the icebox. Now the ice-box is empty.”
Quentin resumed his shaving. “So I’m going to pay a small fortune to stay in this joint and starve—is that it?”
“But, senor, everyone has gone away. There is only you and Senor Morecombre left.”
“And the General,” Quentin reminded her. “Don’t forget the General.”
Anita pulled a face. “I don’t forget him,” she said, “he is a bad man. He has everything; he has food. He knew what was going to happen.”
“Maybe he’ll consider sharing his breakfast with me,” Quentin said. “Suppose you run along and ask him. Tell him George Quentin of the New York Post would like to breakfast with him. See what happens.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I do not ask favours from such a man; he is bad. Soon someone will kill him, you see.
Quentin put down his shaving-brush. “Then get me some coffee. Now beat it, baby; you’re in the way. I want to dress.” He put his hand under her elbow and took her to the door. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Senor is a very fine man, yes?” she said. She offered him her lips, but Quentin shook his head. “Go on, dust,” he said a little irritably, and drove her out with a smack on her behind.
When he was half dressed, Bill Morecombre came in. He was a tall, loosely built guy, a soft hat worn carelessly at the back of his head, and a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He draped himself up against the door-post and waved a languid hand. “Hyah, pal,” he said, “anythin’ happenin’?”
Quentin shook his head. “Not a thing except there’s no breakfast.”
Morecombre shrugged. “I expected that, didn’t you? Hell, the strike’s been on a week now. This joint’s going to be plenty tough before it gets better. I brought some stuff along with me. When you’re ready come on over. I guess the manager will be up too. I got plenty.”
“You guys certainly look after yourselves,” Quentin said, fixing his tie. “Sure I’ll be over.”
Morecombre was in no hurry to leave. “See Anita this morning?” he asked, flicking ash on the floor.
“I have,” Quentin returned grimly. “That baby’s wearing a pair of very hot pants.”
“You’re right, but what else has she got to do? I’m sorry for that judy.”
Quentin slipped on his jacket. “The trouble with you,” he said dryly, “is that you’re always sorry for dames. Then, eventually, they get sorry for themselves.”
They crossed the corridor into Morecombre’s room. “Do you seriously think anything’s going to happen?” Morecombre asked, diving under his bed and dragging out a large suit-case. “I mean big enough to justify all this fuss and expense?”
Quentin sat on the bed and eyed the suit-case with interest. “I don’t know,” he said, “but when you get into a country as hot as this, packed with people who’ve been pushed around and treated as these people have been, it’s a safe bet that the lid will come off sometime. And when it comes off a lotta guys are going to be hurt.”
Morecombre opened the suitcase and sat back on his heels. “Looks good,” he said, examining a big array of brightly labelled tins. “What shall we have?”
A discreet knock sounded. Morecombre looked at Quentin with a grin. “Vulture number one,” he said, going across and opening the door.
The hotel manager was a short, rather pathetic-looking little Cuban. He bowed very stiffly at the waist. “I’ve come to present my apologies—” he began, looking at the tinned food with a sparkle in his eye.
“Forget it,” Morecombre said, stepping to one side. “Come on in and have a spot of something. You can take it off the bill.”
The manager came into the room very quickly, a smile lighting his face. “That is generous,” he said. “American gentlemen are always very generous.”
Quentin looked up. He was busy opening a tin. “You know why we are here, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.
The manager looked confused. “You come to see our beautiful city… yes?” he said, fidgeting with his small white hands.
“We are here to report and obtain photographs of a coming revolution,” Quentin said impressively. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait before it begins?”
The manager looked helplessly at the tin in Quentin’s hands. “I could not say,” he said. “I know nothing about a revolution.”
Quentin glanced across at Morecombre and shrugged. “They’re all alike,” he said a little bitterly. “I guess we’ve just got to be patient and wait.”
Another knock sounded on the door and Anita came in with a tray. She, too, regarded the tins with interest.
“Coffee, senor,” she said.
Morecombre took the tray from her. “Come on in and join us,” he said. “This is no time to stand on ceremony.”
The manager scowled at her, but she sat down close to Morecombre, taking no notice of him.
Suddenly the manager clapped his hands to his head. “I forget,” he said, “the senorita who came last night. What has become of her?”
Anita frowned. “I gave her coffee,” she said. “She wishes to sleep again.”
“Who’s that?” Quentin asked. “What senorita?”
“Beautiful American lady lost the boat last night. She come to this hotel. I am very worried, but I give her a room. I only just remember.”
“You let her stay here?” Morecombre exclaimed angrily. “What the hell did you do that for?”
The manager looked distressed. “I was not thinking. I was very worried.” He broke off and looked pathetic again.
“I guess you were tight,” Quentin said angrily, getting to his feet. He turned to Anita. “Go and wake her at once. Tell her she had better pack and clear out of this joint. Explain that trouble is likely to happen here.”
The manager started up. “No, no!” he said. “Nothing is going to happen to my beautiful hotel. You must not say such things.”
Quentin looked at him grimly. “That’s what you say. If a revolution does start, this is one of the first places they’re coming to. You don’t think they’ll let General Fuentes get away after what he’s done to them, do you?”
The manager looked as if he were going to faint. “You must not say such things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “It is very dangerous to talk like that.”
Quentin jerked his head at Anita. “Go and tell her,” he said, “this is no place for American women.”
Anita scowled at him. “It is all right for me… yes?” she said. “It doesn’t matter about me … no?”
Quentin climbed out of his chair. “Go and tell her,” he said. “Never mind about yourself. You’ll be all right.”
She went out, closing the door sharply behind her. Quentin glanced at Morecombre, who was setting the table. “Rather complicated if we’ve got to look after some American girl, huh?” he said. “If things do start happening, I want to be free to move from here quickly.”
Morecombre grinned. “No woman has ever complicated my life,” he said. “If she’s a looker, you don’t have to worry. I’ll look after her.”
The manager wrung his hands. “This is a terrible thing that you do, senor,” he said, “turning my guests from my hotel.”
Quentin poured out some coffee. “Don’t talk a lotta bull,” he said. “You know as well as I do that all your guests have gone. If anything happens to this girl, I’m going to report the matter to the consul.”
The manager looked at him sulkily, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. “Nothing will happen,” he said; “I assure you that nothing will happen.”
Just then Anita came back. Her black eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “The senorita says she stays,” she said. “She has no place else to go, so she stays.”
Quentin groaned. “As if I haven’t got enough to worry about,” he said. “You gotta go and see her,” he went on, turning to the manager, “tell her that there is likely to be a disturbance in the town and she had better go.”
The manager shook his head. “I cannot say such a thing. It is not true.”
Quentin got to his feet. “Then I’ll see her,” he said. “I’m not taking the responsibility of her being here if things get hot. She can take a car out of town and the sooner she’s out the better.” He went to the door. “What room is she in?”
Anita’s eyes opened. “But, senor, she is in bed. You cannot go to her.”
Morecombre got to his feet hurriedly. “Just a minute, pal,” he said. “This sounds like a job for a man of the world. Just step on one side and let me handle it.”
Quentin eyed him coldly. “Sit down and shut up! What room is she in?”
Anita told him, looking furiously at Morecombre, and Quentin went out, crossed the corridor and knocked sharply on the door indicated. He heard someone say something inaudible, so he turned the handle and went in.
Standing by the open windows, looking on to the hotel grounds, was a tall girl, dressed in a white silk evening wrap. She turned sharply as Quentin entered. “What do you want?” she asked.
Quentin regarded her with interest. He was more interested in her expression than her actual beauty. He was curious about the hurt, sullen look in her eyes and the little frown that increased as their eyes met.
“I’m sorry to come barging in like this,” he said, standing just inside the room, holding the door handle, “but I thought you ought to be told that this hotel is not the place for any unattached girl. There is going to be a bad disturbance—”
She interrupted him. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “but the maid has already told me that I ought to go. This is a hotel, and I intend to stay. Anyway, for the time being.” She turned back to the window, dismissing him.
Quentin felt a strong desire to reach out and turn her over his knee. He came further into the room and shut the door. “Maybe I had better introduce myself. I’m Quentin of the New York Post.”
He saw her suddenly stiffen, but she didn’t turn from the window.
He went on: “I’m down here because my paper expects trouble. All Americans, except the residents, have cleared out. The residents have gone over to the consul’s house under guard. I guess you’re about the only white woman foot-loose around this town. If you’ll pack, I’ll take you over to the consul myself.”
For a moment she hesitated, then she turned and faced him. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” she said sharply. “What trouble? What can happen here?”
Quentin grinned sourly. “Plenty,” he said. “Maybe you don’t know anything about Cuban politics?” He came and joined her at the window. “A grand-looking joint, ain’t it?” he said, looking across the flaming flower-beds, the green lawns and across the bay. “Sure, it looks all right, but underneath it is a mass of seething misery. The graft that goes on here would make Chicago look like a virgin’s tea-party. The President in power right now is one of the meanest guys alive. All the punks who work under him run their own little graft on the side. This has been going on some time, and I guess the natives are getting tired of it. The trouble came to a head last week over transport dues. The guy who handles that has put a tax on every truck, pushing up the freight rate. Everyone knows that it will go into his own pocket, so they’ve got wise to him. They’ve come out on strike. These higher-up guys are crafty, and they guessed what would happen, so they’ve laid in a good stock of food and are sitting pretty. The rest of Havana is going without. No boats bring stuff in, no trains, no lorries, no nothing. Food is running short. It won’t be long now before the natives get mad. When those guys get mad, they’re likely to cause a heap of trouble. Now that’s why you ought to get out or at least go over to the consul’s place.”
The girl had stood very still while he was talking, watching him closely. When he had finished speaking, she seemed to relax and the frown disappeared. “I’m afraid you must have thought I was very rude,” she said, “but I’m in rather a difficult position.” She paused, looked at him rather helplessly, and then turned to the window again.
Quentin felt her embarrassment. “I heard you missed the ship,” he said casually. “I suppose you left all your things on board—clothes, money and so on, huh?”
She turned eagerly. “Yes, I did. I’ve got nothing to wear except this. I’ve got no money—what—what do you think I can do?”
“You’ll be all right. I’ll get a car and drive you over to the consul. I guess the manager of this joint has got a car. The consul’ll fix you up for dough. It’s his job.”
She looked relieved. “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Quentin,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m afraid I was very rude just now.”
Quentin gave her a lazy grin. “That’s all right,” he said, “you ain’t got anything to worry about. All the same, I’d like to see you out of here. Just to get the records straight, will you tell me your name?”
She reacted immediately to his question by stiffening once more and regarding him suspiciously.
Quentin was in no mood for mysteries. Far more important things were about to happen. He said rather sharply: “Listen; I know what you’re thinking. I’m a newspaper man. The fact that you’re in this hotel, without an escort, in evening dress, in the middle of a coming revolution, is news. So it is, but not now. A nice-looking dame who for some reason or other gets herself mislaid ain’t the kind of news my chief is expecting me to turn in. He wants a full-blooded revolution, so relax. I ain’t printing anything about you, but if you want me to help you you gotta give me your name. What is it?”
She said a little sulkily, “Myra Arnold.”
Quentin nodded. The name meant nothing to him. “O.K., Miss Arnold, if you’ll wait here, I’ll arrange to get a car for you—unless you’d like to come over to my friend’s room and have some breakfast.”
She shook her head. “I’ll wait here,” she said.
Quentin shrugged. “O.K., I won’t keep you long.”
He went back to Morecombre’s room. Anita, the manager and Morecombre were busy with tins when he entered. Morecombre said, “What’s she like?”
Quentin made curves with his hands. “Very nice, but very cold and up-stage,” he said, taking a cup of coffee from Anita. “Listen,” he went on to the manager, “you gotta car? I want to run her over to the consul’s place. I guess that’ll be the best place for her.”
The manager nodded. “I have a car,” he said. “She can go in it by all means, but there is too much fuss; there will be no trouble, you see.”
As Quentin turned to leave the room, the door was thrown open and two Cuban soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets slid in, taking up positions each side of the door.
The manager went very white and sat petrified. Anita’s big eyes opened and a tiny scream fluttered at her mouth.
Quentin said coldly, “What the hell’s this?”
In the passage, just outside the door, stood a thin little man, dressed in the white-and-gold uniform of a Cuban general. His coffee-coloured face reminded Quentin of a vicious, startled little monkey. One claw-like hand rested on a revolver strapped to his waist.
The manager said faintly, “Can I be of any service, General?”
The little man didn’t even look at him. He was staring at Quentin very thoughtfully. Then he walked into the room and one of the soldiers carefully shut the door.
The little man introduced himself. “General Fuentes,” he said, clicking his heels. “Who are you?”
“My name is George Quentin of the New York Post. This is my colleague, Mr. Morecombre, of the New York Daily. This is a very fortunate meeting.”
The General raised his eyebrows. “That is a matter of opinion,” he said tartly. “What are you doing here? I understood all visitors had left the town.”
“You’re probably right,” Quentin returned, “but we are on business here.”
“So I thought.” The General’s eyes gleamed. “I’m afraid you both must consider yourselves under arrest. It is not good that newspaper men should be here at this time.”
“Really, General,,” Quentin said, shaking his head, “you can’t do that. We are American citizens, and we are entitled to remain here as long as we like. You have no power to arrest us, and I think you know it.”
Fuentes touched his neat, close-clipped moustache with his fingers. “Owing to the present emergency,” he said, “the Government have special powers. I repeat, you both are under arrest. You are not to leave the hotel without permission. Should you fail to obey this order you will be shot without mercy.” He looked at the other two. “And this also applies to you.”
Morecombre pushed himself out of his chair. “Say, listen, General,” he said, “you can’t pull a thing like this. We’re here to represent our papers, and we’ve got to have our freedom of movement.”
Fuentes shrugged. “You can please yourself about that,” he said dryly. “I shall regret any accident, but you can’t say that you were not warned.” He looked across to the manager. “Any other American in this hotel?” he demanded.
The manager hesitated, but Quentin moved forward. “I can answer your question, General,” he said quietly. “There is a lady here, under my charge. She is going to the consul this morning.”
Fuentes shook his head. “I don’t think so. She will stay here. Where is she?”
Quentin kept his temper with difficulty. “This attitude you’re adopting isn’t going to get you anywhere,” he said. “The lady missed the ship last night. She is entitled to go to the consul without interference.”
Fuentes turned on his heel. “Come,” he said to the soldiers, “find this woman.”
Quentin followed him out into the corridor. “As you’re determined to play this little drama to its conclusion, I’ll take you to her.”
Fuentes eased his revolver slightly in its holster. “You have a great deal to say for yourself, haven’t you?” he said. “I should be careful how you choose your words.”
Quentin walked across to Myra’s door and knocked. She came immediately, and stood looking first at him and then at the little General.
Quentin said: “I’m afraid you will have to alter your plans, Miss Arnold. This is General Fuentes of the President’s Army. He has just told me that all Americans in this building are under arrest and are not at liberty to leave. He has made it quite plain that should they do so, they will be shot.”
Fuentes had been looking at Myra steadily. He made no attempt to disguise his admiration. He drew himself up and bowed. “I am exceedingly sorry that I must insist on you remaining in the hotel, senorita, but I shall be delighted to offer my services as host, if you will permit me. I understand the hotel is short of food, and I have plenty. It would afford me great pleasure if you took your meals with me.”
Myra moved her head slightly, bringing the General in line with her vision. She studied him, her blue eyes slowly growing cold and her mouth hardening, but before she could speak, Quentin said gently: “I think that is generous of you, General, but Miss Arnold is in my charge. We are fortunate to have a stock of food, and she has her meals with us.”
Fuentes smiled. He looked genuinely amused. “I am busy now,” he said, “there is much to be done. When I have a little spare time, I shall ask the senorita again.” He bowed, then added, “It would be absurd to refuse.” He turned on his heel and stalked down the passage. The two soldiers followed him and took up positions at the head of the stairs.
Quentin pulled a face. “I’m afraid that guy is going to be difficult,” he said.
Myra said: “But can’t we phone to the consul? Surely we can’t be held long!”
“We couldn’t get any calls through,” Quentin returned. “No doubt he has a man on the switchboard. I think, Miss Arnold, it would be safer for you if you came over and joined us in the other room.”
Myra picked up a little white satin handbag. “I’m afraid I’m being a fearful nuisance,” she said; “it is very kind of you to bother with me.”
Quentin eyed her thoughtfully. She didn’t realize just how much of a nuisance she was going to be. Fuentes had obviously fallen for her in a big way, and when Cuban generals fall for nice-looking girls, they don’t stop at patting their hands. At the best of times a swell looker is out of place in a revolution, but when she’s parked right in the stronghold of one of the big shots, the mug who undertakes to protect her might just as well make out his will. There wasn’t much Quentin could do. They were all in the hotel as prisoners, so he might just as well offer her his protection as not. There was no side-stepping the issue.
He introduced her to Morecombre, who seemed rather awestruck at her beauty. Anita went over by the window and watched Myra out of the corner of her eye. She was smart enough to know that she didn’t stand much chance with the two Americans so long as this girl was around.
Quentin poured Myra out a cup of coffee and Morecombre hastily prepared breakfast for her. She sat in a chair, rather tense, rather hostile, and a little frightened.
“I don’t know how long we shall be here, but we must watch the grub,” Quentin said. He looked over at the manager. “You’d better get downstairs and see if they’ve taken over the hotel services. If not, see what you can do about hustling up some more grub.” He swung round to Anita. “I want an outfit for senorita right away. She can’t live in these clothes she has. Go and rake up something.” He went over and slipped twenty dollars into Anita’s hand.
She looked at it, bit her lip and then handed it back. “I don’t need the money to do that,” she said. “She can have some of my clothes. Would that do?”
Quentin hooked his finger in the front of her dress and dropped the note into the hollow. “Yeah,” he said, with his big, lazy grin, “that’ll do fine. Take the dough, baby; you might need it one of these days.”
She went out of the room without smiling at him.
As soon as she had gone and they were alone, he said: “Now we’ve got a moment to ourselves, we might as well consider our position. Quite frankly, I don’t like it too much.”
“What are you beefing about?” Morecombre asked. “We’re all right, ain’t we?”
“For the time being,” Quentin agreed, “but if trouble starts we shall be between two fires. If the natives come here and succeed in forcing an entry, everyone will be knocked off, including we three. If they don’t get in, Fuentes might think it a good idea to get rid of us rather than risk us raising the dust about being arrested like this.”
“For Gawd’s sake,” Morecombre said, staring, “he wouldn’t do that?”
Quentin shrugged. “He might. Then there is Miss Arnold here. She’s in rather a difficult position. Apparently the General has got ideas about her—ideas which will take a little checking.”
Myra shivered. “What am I going to do?” she asked.
“That’s what we’ve got to think about. Did you bring a gun with you, Bill?”
Morecombre nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I always carry one. Did you?”
Quentin patted his pocket. “I don’t say we’ll get anywhere with rough stuff, but it’s nice to know, in case we have to start something.” He went to the window and looked down at the deserted waterfront. “No one about,” he said. “It looks as if something is blowing up. You can’t hear a sound. I’m willing to bet that any moment the lid’s coming off.”
Morecombre crossed over and stood just behind him, looking over his shoulder. Myra hesitated, put her coffee-cup down and joined them.
Quentin said unemotionally, “Look, it’s starting”—he pointed down. “Good God, Bill, we ought to be down there. We ought to get to a telephone. Look over there. Do you see those guys coming out of that house? Look, they’re carrying rifles. They’re not soldiers… they’re dockers. Dockers with rifles…. I told you how it’d be. There they go. Nothing’s going to happen until they run into the soldiers… that’s when the lid will come off.”
“Anyway, I can get pictures,” Morecombre said. “I’m mighty glad I brought the telescopic attachment with me.” He rushed across the room and feverishly began setting up his camera.
Myra edged closer to Quentin. “Do you really think there will be fighting?” she asked.
Quentin didn’t take his eyes off the little group of men making their way cautiously along the waterfront. “I guess so,” he said shortly. “Those guys are itching to let those cannons off…. I don’t blame them really.”
Morecombre came back and set up the camera on a short-legged tripod. He hastily made adjustments, focusing on the men below. From where they stood they had an uninterrupted view of the whole of the winding waterfront.
Quentin stepped back into the room. “It would be as well to keep out of sight as much as possible,” he said to Myra. “These guys are going to shoot at anything.”
From just inside the verandah they watched the small group of men move slowly along the waterfront. They moved very cautiously, pausing outside each cafe, their rifles at the ready. No one disturbed them. Whether the word had gone out that they were starting something, Quentin didn’t know, but no one interfered with them; even the dogs slid into the dark alleys at their approach. Finally, they turned off the waterfront and made their direction inland. The three watchers lost sight of them.
Quentin went over to the sideboard and poured out three long gin slings. He handed them round in silence.
Morecombre sat back on his heels; he still kept near the window. “Fell a little flat, didn’t it?” he said. “Thought this was where it was going to start.”
Quentin shook his head. “It’s started all right,” he said. “In a day or so there’ll be as much trouble as anyone can handle here. That little gang will be wiped out. Then a bigger gang will turn up and they’ll go the same way. Then a bigger gang still will appear, and maybe a number of them will get away and join the next band. It takes time to get a real revolution going. These guys don’t have much chance to organize.”
Morecombre got up and stretched his legs. “Maybe we’re in the safest spot. I don’t fancy running around the streets with that sort of stuff going on.”
Quentin didn’t answer. He glanced over at Myra, and his lips tightened. If she wasn’t there, he would have been a lot happier. Maybe Fuentes would have left them alone but for her. There was always trouble when a woman turned up in a spot like this.
A tap sounded on the door and Anita came in. She carried a bundle of clothes over her arm. “Senorita is welcome to these,” she said, looking first at Myra and then at Quentin.
Myra took them from her. “It is very kind of you,” she said.
Anita shrugged. “They will not make senorita less attractive,” she said. There was a malicious look in her eyes as she said it. She went out without looking back.
Morecombre ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “That dame is mad about something,” he said. “I didn’t like the dirty look, did you?”
Quentin went over and opened the bedroom door. “You can change in there,” he said. “I’m sure you will feel much more comfortable out of that evening affair.”
Myra said: “I will. Please don’t worry about me any further. You must have a lot to think about. I can manage now very well.” She went into the room and shut the door.
Morecombre heaved a sigh. “That’s very nice, isn’t it?” he said, jerking his head towards the door. “A little cold and standoffish, but she’d make a swell tumble, huh?”
Quentin lit a cigarette. “I don’t think you’re the only guy with that idea,” he said.
“Fuentes?”
“Yeah, that’s where the trouble’s going to start for us. We can’t very well stand by and let that punk go for her, can we?”
“Like hell,” Morecombre said. “If he starts anything like that, I’ll knock him into next week.”
“At least, that’s what you’ll try to do,” Quentin said dryly. “Actually, the guy has some forty soldiers to help him.”
Morecombre sniffed. “Oh, I guess we could manage them together. I wouldn’t like to try it on my own, but, with you, I guess we’d get by.”
“Sure,” Quentin said dubiously. “But all the same, I wish she hadn’t turned up like this.”
He went back to the window and continued to stare into the deserted streets. Morecombre joined him, and for a while they stood silent, watching the sun gradually fall behind the horizon.
3
In the evening it became cooler. The slight breeze coming in off the bay stirred the net curtains of the verandah window.
Morecombre sat by the window, smoking a pipe, his eyes never shifting from the deserted waterfront. Quentin lay on the divan with his eyes shut, and an open book lying across his chest. Myra sat away from them, trying to read, but every sound from outside, and every step in the corridor, made her stiffen.
They had just finished a snack meal from the assortment of canned food, and Quentin was mentally calculating how long that small store would last them. He opened his eyes and glanced across at Myra. She was looking away from him, unaware that he was watching her. He thought she looked absurdly young in the short, black silk dress Anita had lent her. Her long legs in shiny black stockings and the touch of white under her dress, which he could glimpse from the angle he was lying, brought a frown to his face. She was too good, he decided. Her fair hair, like a sheet of shining metal, reflected in the soft light of the reading-lamp. He liked her long, thin fingers, and the curve of her arms. He studied her face thoughtfully. The hard curve of her mouth puzzled him. The expression on her face made him grope for the right word—disillusion. Yes, that was it.
He found himself wondering what had happened on the previous night. Why she was unescorted? How she came to miss the ship. All day she had been very silent. Obviously she was grateful to them for offering her hospitality, but there it ended. She had erected a barrier which neither Morecombre nor he could break through. In the long hours of waiting and listening for something to happen, both the men would have been glad to have been on their own. This constant small talk that led nowhere and social politeness which neither found to his mood had become irksome. Quentin found himself wishing that she would go away, but she had sat quietly in the chair all the long afternoon, speaking when spoken to, but otherwise retaining a brooding silence.
Both the men had given up finally in despair, and for the past hour there was a heavy strained silence, broken only by the rustle of a turning page and the creak of a chair, as Morecombre shifted from one position to another.
Suddenly from out of the darkness came three rifle-shots. They sounded very close. Morecombre sprang to his feet. “Did you hear that?” he asked, rather unnecessarily.
Quentin was already up and crossed the room to turn out the light. Then he stumbled over to the window and peered out. But for the flickering lights on the waterfront he could see nothing. They listened in the darkness. Faintly they could hear someone shouting, and then two more shots sounded. This time they caught a glimpse of the flash from a rifle. It was just outside the hotel.
“Maybe the sentry’s gettin’ the wind-up,” Quentin said. “I noticed a man at the gate this afternoon.”
Morecombre fumed. “He must be shooting at something,” he said, going out on to the verandah.
Quentin reached forward and jerked him back. “Keep off there, Bill,” he advised. “In this moonlight you’d be quite a target.”
Morecombre hastily stepped into the room and put on the light again. “Well, I suppose this is about all we can do,” he said irritably, “just sit around and wonder. I tell you I’m getting mighty fed up with doing nothing.”
The door jerked open, and a young lieutenant walked in. Behind him stood two soldiers, their rifles hovering in the direction of the two Americans. “You’ll pardon me,” the Lieutenant said in careful English, “for interrupting you.”
Quentin said, “What was that shooting?”
The Lieutenant shrugged. “A little disturbance. It is purely a local affair. I assure you it is well in hand by now.”
Quentin concealed his impatience. “Well, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”
The Lieutenant glanced round the room until his eyes rested on Myra. A thin little smile came to his sharp-featured face, and he bowed from the waist. “General Fuentes presents his compliments, and wishes you to dine with him,” he said.
Myra lifted her chin. “Will you thank the General and tell him that I have already dined?”
There was a long pause. The Lieutenant stood, the thin smile still on his mouth, his eyes slowly travelling over her with appraising, insolent stare.
Quentin said quietly, “Is that all?”
The Lieutenant ignored him. He said to Myra: “Senorita doesn’t understand. This is—how shall I put it?—a command invitation, yes?”
Quentin eased his way between the Lieutenant and Myra. “Perhaps I could make things a little easier for you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Miss Arnold does not wish to dine with the General. She has already dined and she prefers to stay here under my protection.”
The Lieutenant appeared to see him for the first time. He gave an elaborate start. “Senor would be advised not to interfere in this matter,” he said. “Escaping prisoners are unfortunately shot.” He looked significantly at the two soldiers. “I am sure senorita would not wish to be the cause of such a distressing occurrence?”
Quentin said: “You’re bluffing. Miss Arnold stays here with me.”
Myra suddenly stood up. “No,” she said, “I will go. He is quite right. It would be absurd for you to be hurt because of me. You have important work to do. I will come with you,” she said, turning to the Lieutenant.
At a sign from him, the two soldiers took a step forward, bringing their rifles to the ready.
“One movement from either of these men,” the Lieutenant said sharply, “you are to shoot them like dogs. Come, senorita, let us have no more of this play-acting.” He stepped to the door and jerked it open.
Myra hesitated, then walked out quietly. The Lieutenant followed her, shutting the door behind her.
He overtook her in the passage. “The General has a suite on the second floor to this,” he said; “you would be advised to be as accommodating as possible to the General. He is a man who has what he wants and it is unfortunate that he has—what shall I say?”—he flicked his fingers impatiently—“no finesse, is that the word? You understand, senorita?”
Myra stopped and faced him. “Am I to understand that you are acting in the capacity of a procurer, Lieutenant?” she said coldly.
The Lieutenant started as if she had struck him. His yellowish skin darkened. “You will find that an unfortunate remark,” he said, his eyes gleaming angrily. “Since you prefer such candour, I see no reason why you should not realize the position you are in. The General will not tolerate any nonsense from you. Unless you are prepared to be entirely passive, you will be held to the bed by soldiers. Now do you understand?”
Myra didn’t flinch. She said quietly: “Please take me immediately to General Fuentes. I am sure he will be interested to hear what you have just said.”
The Lieutenant went very pale. “But, senorita—surely…”he stammered.
She walked past him and mounted the stairs. Her face was set in a cold, hard mask. The Lieutenant ran after her and caught her at the head of the stairs. “Senorita, I have to apologize. My remarks were entirely out of place. I wish to withdraw them.” Sweat had started out on his face, and he endeavoured to smile, succeeding only in making a terrified grimace.
She took no notice of him at all, but continued to walk down the corridor to where a soldier stood with fixed bayonet. He saw her as she approached, and a little smirk crossed his fat, oily face. He rapped on the door and threw it open. “The senorita,” he said.
The General stood by the open french windows. He looked up eagerly as Myra came in. “This is going to be a beautiful evening,” he said, advancing with his hand outstretched. There was no smile on his face. His eyes, like little glass pebbles, took in her beauty possessively.
Myra ignored his hand. She said: “Is it true, General, that you employ your soldiers to assist you in your love-making?”
The General stood transfixed. Blood mounted to his face, and he half raised his hand as if he was about to strike her. She met his furious eyes without flinching. For several seconds he was so nonplussed that he could only make little spluttering noises, then he jerked out, “How dare you say such a thing?”
“I thought there must be some misunderstanding. Your Lieutenant told me that I was to expect no mercy from you, and that if I did not submit to you, I was to be held down on your bed by your soldiers.” The scorn and contempt in her voice nearly drove the General crazy. She stood very erect, her eyes flashing and her hands clenched by her side. She knew that everything depended on keeping the General angry. “I am relieved you are angry, General,” she went on. “I did not believe for a moment that a man who has risen to your high rank would tolerate such an insufferable insult to a woman. Perhaps you will correct your Lieutenant’s conception of you. It is not flattering.”
Fuentes took a quick step forward and gripped her wrist. His face was white with fury. “Did he really say that?” he demanded.
Myra, feeling a little sick, said: “I have had enough of Cuban hospitality for tonight. Would you please take me back to my room.”
She turned to the door and opened it. The soldier on guard gaped at her, and made a half-hearted attempt to stop her, but she brushed past him and walked down the passage. She heard the General’s light step behind her and she had to make an effort not to break into a run. He overtook her at the head of the stairs. “It is most unfortunate that you should have received such treatment. Will you reconsider your decision and return to my suite? I can assure you of my protection. As for Lieutenant Cartez, I shall discipline him severely.”
Keeping her voice steady, Myra said: “You must excuse me, General, but I have had a considerable shock. Your generosity, when you have me entirely at a disadvantage, is worthy of the highest traditions of your race. Please don’t think that I’m ungrateful.” She gave him a frightened little smile and ran downstairs. The General watched her go. He was like a stupefied bull in the ring, transfixed by the sudden flip of a matador’s cape.
He stood very silent at the head of the stairs until she had gone from his sight. His face was twisted with vicious fury, then he jerked round and barked to the sentry, “Send Lieutenant Cartez to me at once.”
The sentry, round-eyed with fear, moved hurriedly to obey. Fuentes raised his hand. “Wait,” he said. “In an hour’s time I want a woman brought to my suite, do you understand? The maid who works here will do. Get her at once and bring her to me in an hour’s time.”
The sentry grinned uneasily. “Yes, your Excellency.”
Fuentes looked at him. “If you touch her during that hour I will personally attend to your punishment. See that she is clean and wearing clean clothes when you bring her. Now, send the Lieutenant to me.”
He turned and walked back to his room with quick, impatient steps.
4
The small ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine o’clock sharply. Faint sounds of distant shouting and an occasional shot drifted in through the open windows. Morecombre sat on the floor, his back to the room, looking into the darkness. He had not moved for half an hour.
Quentin, in shirt-sleeves and his collar open, paced the room with long strides. Cigarette-butts piled in the fireplace. Every now and then he glanced across at Myra, who lay asleep on the divan. He thought she looked very tired, drawn and defenceless, now that her features were relaxed. He crossed over to Morecombre and stood behind him, looking out into the night.
“We’re in a jam, Bill,” he said, very softly; “we’ve got to do something before the night’s out.” He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. “She was lucky to get away with it this time, but tomorrow will be a different story. We ought to try to get her out of this.”
Morecombre grunted. “You mean shooting our way through hordes of soldiers like they do on the movies?”
“Along those lines.”
“We two mugs protecting her from a hail of lead with our big, sunburnt bodies—huh?”
“Something like that.”
“O.K., if that’s the way you feel. I guess I’ve had enough of newspaper work. Maybe heaven won’t be so bad,” he laughed. “I wonder if angels take their wings off when they go to bed. It would rather restrict one if they didn’t.”
Quentin lit a cigarette. “The consul’s about a half mile from here. It Will be tricky going, but that’s where we’ve got to take her.”
Morecombre stood up. “When do we go?”
“After midnight, I think. We might stand a chance of surprising the guards.”
A sudden wild frightened scream made them swing round. Myra also sat up with a start. “What was that?” she asked, her voice going off key.
Quentin went to the door and jerked it open. As he did so the scream was repeated. It came from upstairs. The sentry outside the door threatened him with his rifle. “Get back into your room,” he said.
Quentin took no notice, he stood staring upwards. At the head of the staircase, with her back to him, stood Anita. She was naked.
Facing her was a gigantic negro soldier. He held a rifle and face almost split in two by a jeering grin. He held a rifle and bayonet and the long glittering blade hovered within a foot of her.
Before Quentin could move he heard a voice say impatiently, “Go on, you fool, finish her.” He recognized the dry, harsh voice of Fuentes. His hand swung to his hip pocket, but the sentry hit him very hard on his chest with the butt of the rifle, sending him staggering back against Morecombre, who had crowded up behind him.
They heard Anita give another terrified scream. They saw her catch the blade as the negro drove at her. They saw her hands sliding along the blade and the blood, as the sharp bayonet opened her palms, running down her wrists, then the point of the blade struck her in the middle of her chest with incredible force, and three inches of red steel protruded from her back. Still grinning, the negro held the rifle steady so that she could not fall. Her knees went and her hands beat feebly against the barrel of the rifle, but he still held her, rolling his great black eyes and laughing at her.
Quentin regained his balance. The sentry had drawn back, his finger curled round the trigger of his rifle. “Get back!” he said savagely. “Get back!”
As Anita fell, the negro shoved out his foot and kicked her off the bayonet. It was a tremendous kick and it sent her crashing down the stairs. Her body thudded to the floor almost at Quentin’s feet. The sentry took his eyes off Quentin for a moment to gape at her. Quentin didn’t hesitate, his hand flashed to his pocket and with one movement shot the sentry between his eyes. The big negro, hearing the shot, came charging to the top of the stairs and Quentin fired again. The negro gave a startled grunt, put both his hands to his belly and sat down heavily on the floor.
One glance at Anita was sufficient. She was pathetically, horribly dead. Quentin spun round. “Let’s go,” he said; “no time like the present.”
“I’ll take the rifle and go first,” Morecombre said, stepping forward. “You bring Miss Arnold and cover the rear.”
Before Quentin could protest, Morecombre was already off down the corridor.
Quentin said sharply, “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Myra came to the doorway, very white, but steady. He grabbed her arm and bustled her past the two bodies. His face was set and grim. He knew this wasn’t going to be a picnic.
Morecombre had already reached the head of the stairs. Faintly they could hear the General shouting, and as Morecombre took one step down, a soldier came dashing to the foot of the stairs. Holding the rifle at his waist, Morecombre fired at him. The rifle kicked up, and the bullet swished over the soldier’s head. As Morecombre fumbled at the bolt, Quentin came up behind him and shot the soldier as he was about to fire in his turn. “Use your gun,” he snapped. “You ain’t used to a rifle.”
“You’re telling me,” Morecombre said, wiping the sweat from his face. He dropped the rifle with a clatter, and pulled a police .38 special from his hip pocket. They got down the next flight of stairs into the lobby of the hotel before three soldiers and a sergeant appeared from out of a side room. Two of the soldiers fired point-blank at them. Quentin felt the wind for a bullet against his face, and he fired with Morecombre. Two of the soldiers pitched forward, and the sergeant was shot through the arm. He turned and ran back into the room, shouting at the top of his voice.
Morecombre said: “Go down to the cellar—you won’t get out any other way. They can’t get you there… I’ve seen it.” He swayed on his feet.
Quentin ran to him. “Are you hurt?” he asked, taking his arm.
Morecombre’s legs folded up under him and Quentin had to lower him to the floor. “What is it?” he asked, bending over him.
“Go on—go on, you nut,” Morecombre said faintly, “don’t worry about me. Get the girl away.” He pressed his hands to his chest and Quentin could see blood oozing through his fingers.
“Keep your hair on,” he said gently. “We’ll go together. Put your arm round my neck.”
“For Christ’s sake leave me alone,” Morecombre said, his voice breaking into a sob. “Clear off—they can’t do anything to me… Get the girl….”
“Damn the girl!” Quentin said savagely. “I’m not going to leave you.” He stooped, and with a tremendous effort lifted Morecombre and took two staggering steps towards the back of the elevator which screened the service stairs. “Get down quick … go first,” he gasped to Myra.
She snatched up Morecombre’s gun which had fallen on the floor and stood watching the door through which the soldier had disappeared. Quentin staggered on. He knew it would only waste time if he argued. Morecombre suddenly stiffened in his arms and then went limp, upsetting Quentin’s balance and bringing him to his knees. One look at Morecombre’s face was sufficient. Quentin laid him on the floor gently, and then, rising, ran back to Myra. “He’s gone,” he said. “Come on, for God’s sake.”
Together they ran down the dark stairs into the basement. As they reached the bottom of the stairs they heard a heavy pounding of feet overhead. Taking Myra’s arm, Quentin hustled her along the stone corridor, down another flight of stone steps into the cellar. The entrance to the cellar was low and narrow. Only one person could enter at a time. It was an ideal place for a siege.
“We’ll be all right here for a time,” Quentin said, producing a small flashlight and examining the low-roofed vault. It was very large and full of wine barrels. “Doesn’t look as if we’ll go thirsty, either,” he added with a crooked grin.
He found the switch of the pilot light and a dim glow appeared in the ceiling when he turned down the switch. “If we can shift a couple of these barrels over to the door we can hold this place until the cows come home.”
Myra helped him get the barrels into position and then she sat down limply on the stone floor. Quentin was too occupied to bother with her for the moment. He made certain that there was no other exit and then took up a position by the door. He could hear movements going on upstairs, and then a sudden clicking of heels. He heard Fuentes say, “Where are they?”
There was a murmured reply which Quentin could not hear, then Fuentes said: “We can pick them up later. Put two men at the head of the stairs. Tell them to shoot at sight.”
Quentin made a little face. “He’s got us there,” he said. “They can’t get in, but we can’t get out. We’ll have to wait until someone comes along and chases these guys away.”
Myra said: “If it wasn’t for me, this would never have happened.”
“Forget it. What’s the use of talking like that? If we get out of it, I’ve got a grand story to write. If we don’t, some other guy’s got the story—so what?”
“Your friend lost his life because of me.”
Quentin’s face hardened. “This ain’t the time for that kind of talk. It won’t get you anywhere. Bill was unlucky. If you hadn’t been here, you don’t think we would have let the General push Anita around as he did, do you?” He shook his head. “No, I guess we were mugs to come to this joint. We wanted to be in at the death, now it looks like we’re going to attend the wrong funeral.”
Myra sat limply, her hands folded in her lap and her long legs tucked under her. Morecombre’s death had shocked her badly.
He got to his feet and went over to the wine-bins. After careful scrutiny he selected a couple of bottles and drew the corks with the corkscrew on his knife. “Have you ever tried drinking a nice light wine from the bottle?” he asked her. “I want you to have some of this stuff. It’ll do you good.”
She hesitated, then took the bottle. The wine was strong and sweet. They were thirsty and they both drank deeply. He sat by the door again. “Not bad stuff, is it?” he said, feeling the wine surging through him. Potent stuff, he thought, and put the bottle down. It wouldn’t do to have a muddled head in his position.
Glancing at her, he saw that her face was a little flushed and her eyes brighter. She drank from the bottle again. “It is strong, isn’t it?” she said, after a moment, and then laughed. She stared at him thoughtfully for a few minutes. “You know, I’m scared being on my own like this,” she said abruptly.
Quentin could see she was getting a little tight. “You don’t have to be scared of me,” he said quietly.
“No, I know that.” She turned the bottle slowly in her hands. “You know when I said it was my fault that your friend was killed?”
“We don’t have to start that all over again.”
“But it’s true. It began with Lacey. You wouldn’t know about Lacey, but he and the moon began it.” She put the bottle to her lips and tilted her head. Quentin made a little move to stop her, then thought she might just as well get tight and talk.
She put the bottle down. “I was crazy. Have you ever been crazy? Have you ever felt that you’d give anything in the world for a really fine man to sweep you off your feet?” She looked at him, and shook her head. “No, I guess you’d never feel that way. I did. I wanted love. I wanted someone to sweep me off my feet. I was so sick of New York. I came to Havana because I heard it was the place of love. I wanted to believe it so badly that I kidded myself to death. I wanted it so badly that I let a down-at-heel ship’s Romeo seduce me. That is the type of double fool that I am. That was Lacey. Tall, beautiful and terribly, terribly cheap, and I thought he was the real thing. I couldn’t go back to the boat after that, could I? I mean, I couldn’t take that long trip back, scared that I might run into him at any moment. No, I couldn’t do that. So I decided to stay. Do you see now? If I hadn’t been such a bitch, you wouldn’t have annoyed the General, your friend wouldn’t have died… and I shouldn’t be here. You do see that, don’t you?”
All the time she had been talking, Quentin stared at his highly polished shoes. This sudden outburst rather shook him. She didn’t look the type to go off the rails. He said at last: “It’s damn queer how things happen, isn’t it? I mean, maybe, when you get out of this, and look back on it, you’ll be able to see why it had to happen.”
Myra screwed up her eyes as if to see him more clearly. “You think it had to happen?”
He nodded. “Sure, I think these sort of things are planned to happen to you. Sometimes you think that life is giving you a hell of a belting, but when you’ve had time to get away from it, and you look back, you see why it happened. Most times you realize that it was the best thing that could have happened.”
She frowned. “Can you see any redeeming feature in being shut up in a cellar with a good chance of losing one’s life?”
Quentin smiled. “Right now I can’t, but maybe in another six months’ time I might be glad to have had the experience.”
“No, that couldn’t work with me. Why should it happen to us? Why must it be us, down here?”
“Why should it be anyone else? I’m not scared what will happen to us. Are you?”
Her face suddenly twisted, and she began to cry. “Yes, I’m scared. I feel that we’ll never get away. It is because I was such a fool. You’ve got to suffer because of me.”
He went over to her and sat by her side. “It’s not like that,” he said, giving her his handkerchief; “you’ll come out of it all right and so will I. In a few days you’ll be looking back on this as a swell adventure and something to tell your friends about.”
His arm went round her and she relaxed against him. They sat like that for a long time until she fell asleep.
5
It was just after midnight when things began to happen. The sound of shooting and distant shouting became ominously nearer. Myra woke with a start as three rifle-shots crashed out above them. She gave a little scream and looked wildly round the dim cellar. She could just make out Quentin kneeling at the door, watching the stairs; the light reflected on the barrel of his .38. She scrambled over to him. “What is it?” she asked.
“Something’s happenin’,” he said. “Maybe the natives have found out that Fuentes is here.”
Again rifle-shots came from upstairs, and they could hear someone shouting orders feverishly in Spanish. Heavy boots thudded as soldiers ran about taking up positions. Sudden yells and shouts came from the garden. Quentin eased his position. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess they’ve come to smoke him out. Listen to that.”
The distant noise was rapidly swelling into a tremendous uproar as the crowd outside approached. The cellar shook with the noise of rifle-fire as the soldiers poured volley after volley into the crowd. More yells and screams followed, then suddenly someone screamed like a frightened child, and a tremendous explosion brought plaster and dust down on top of the two crouching in the cellar.
Myra was thrown off the box she was sitting on on to the floor.
“Some guy threw a bomb,” Quentin gasped, helping her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
She brushed her dress with her hands. “Yes… Will they do that again? Is it safe here?”
“Sure, these cellars can take a lot of that. I wonder how the General liked that little packet.” He went over to the door and peered up the staircase. Plaster lay in great pieces all the way up the stairs, and the air was thick with dust. Shooting began again, but this time the volleys were very ragged. “I guess these guys won’t hold out much longer. I think that bomb killed a lot of them.”
Two soldiers suddenly came running down the stairs, their scared faces coated with white dust, and their eyes filled with terror. Quentin fired at them. He hit one, who pitched forward, rolling down the rest of the stairs. The other soldier gave a yell and bolted upstairs again.
Myra flopped on the floor, putting her hands over her ears. The noise of the surging crowd and the tramping of feet overhead told them that the natives had entered the hotel. “They’re in now,” Quentin said. “We’ve got to keep out of sight. They’ll go for us if they see us. Once they have finished Fuentes they’ll probably clear off, then we can beat it when it gets quieter.”
The uproar continued upstairs. Shots, yells and tramping of feet. Suddenly a full-throated roar went up, followed immediately by a high scream of terror.
“They’ve got him,” Quentin said, running to the doorway and leaning over the barrels, trying to see up the stairs.
Myra crouched lower on the floor, shutting out the snarling roar of the crowd as it surged forward. Then, above the noise, she heard Quentin shout, “Look out… look out!” She saw him trying to get away from the door, his hands shielding his face. She could see his eyes, very large and frightened. Then a blinding flash came just outside the door and she became enveloped in dust and bricks. She was quite conscious of what was happening around her. She saw Quentin’s body lifted as if by a giant’s hand and tossed across the cellar. She went to him on her hands and knees. When she got close, she stopped, her hand going to her mouth. The bomb had made him like some horrible nightmare of torn blood and flesh. She scrambled to her feet and ran away from him. The force of the explosion numbed her mind. She couldn’t think. She just wanted to get away from that poor, mutilated body. She found herself crawling up the broken staircase. The woodwork creaked under her weight, but she kept on until she reached the top. The hall was in a complete shambles. Soldiers lay about the floor in big crimson pools.
She wandered into the lounge. One of the bombs had exploded in there. Furniture was scattered and broken. Glass from mirrors and windows lay on the floor. Plaster and dust covered everything with a coat of white. Opposite her, pinned by bayonets to the door, was the General. His head hung on his chest, and the front of his white uniform was blotched with blood. She put her hands to her face and ran blindly out of the room.
At that moment a small party of natives, bent on loot, came in from the garden. They closed in on her like a hungry pack of wolves, their hands seeking and their eyes maddened with lust for her. She was more aware of the overpowering reek of their bodies as they struggled round her than her own terror. She was conscious of thinking: “So he was wrong. I knew he was wrong. This couldn’t have been planned. God wouldn’t let this happen to me if He could stop it.”
One huge native managed to pull her away from the others and he tossed her across his back, threatening the others with the General’s revolver. He began edging away towards the stairs.
She said to herself: “He is only going to do what Lacey did. Only this time it will be more sincere. He won’t pretend that he is a beautiful man, and I shan’t pretend that Havana is the place of love.” She watched the floor move swiftly under big, black, naked feet. Dangling over his shoulder, almost upside down, she had a unique view of the hotel lounge. She found that she was laughing, because it was all rather funny. The group of natives huddled together, their eyes hungry and disappointed. All wanting her, but because this big one had the gun, they just had to stand back and do without.
She said to the black feet: “I know what you want. I am a woman of the world. I had to come to Havana to find out about it, but I know. I know exactly what you will do to me when you have got me alone. It won’t be long now.” Then she thought hopefully: “I wonder if I shall die tonight?”
Obviously no one will blame her for thinking and talking like this, as the accumulation of circumstances had been too much for her reason.