Get a Load of This (15 page)

     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.