The Vivero Letter

Fallon turned his head to look at me, then shook it slowly. There was pain in his eyes.

'Then he won't be coming,' I said harshly.

'Jesus!' said Smith. His voice was trembling. 'They killed Fowler. They shot him.'

A voice -- a big voice boomed from outside. It was Gatt, and he was evidently using some sort of portable loudhailer. 'Wheale! Can you hear me. Wheale?'

I opened my mouth, and then shut it firmly. To argue with Gatt -- to try to reason with him -- would be useless. It would be like arguing against an elemental force, like trying to deflect a lightning bolt by quoting a syllogism. Fallon and I looked at each other along the length of the hut in silence.

'I know you're there, Wheale,' came the big shout. 'I saw you go in the hut. Are you ready to make a deal?'

I compressed my lips. Fallon said creakily, 'A deal! Did he mention a deal?'

'Not the kind you'd appreciate,' I said grimly.

'I'm sorry that guy was killed,' shouted Gatt. 'But you're still alive, Wheale. I could have killed you right there by the door, but! didn't. You know why.'

Smith jerked his head and looked at me with narrowed eyes. There was a question in them which he didn't put into words. I closed my hand tighter round the butt of the revolver and stored him down until his glance slid away.

'I've got another guy here,' boomed Gatt. 'Big Joe Rudetsky. Are you prepared to deal?'

I knew very well what he meant. I moistened my lips and shouted, 'Produce him alive -- and I might.'

There was a long pause. I didn't know what I'd do if he were still alive and Gatt carried out his threats. Whatever I did would be useless. It would mean putting the four of us into Gatt's hands and giving him all the aces. And he'd kill us all in the end, anyway. But if he produced Joe Rudetsky and began to torture him, could I withstand it? I didn't know. Gatt laughed. 'You're smart, Wheale. You sure are smart. But not tough enough. Is Fallon still alive?' I motioned to Fallon to keep quiet. 'Oh, I suppose he's there -- with maybe one or two more. I'll leave them to argue with you, Wheale, and maybe you'll be ready to make a deal. I'll give you one hour -- and no more, I don't think you'll be tough enough for that, Wheale.'

We stood there, quite still, for two full minutes and be said nothing more. I was thankful for that because he'd already said enough -- I could see it in Smith's eyes. I looked at my watch and realized with a sense of shock that it was only seven o'clock in the morning. Less than fifteen minutes earlier I'd been talking to Gatt outside the camp. His attack had come with a ruthless suddenness.

Fallon eased himself down until he was sitting on the floor.

He laid the shotgun aside carefully. 'What's the deal?' he asked, looking at his feet. The voice was that of an old man.

I paid far less attention to Fallon than I did to Smith. Smith held an automatic pistol; he held it loosely enough, but he could still be dangerous. 'Yeah, what's this deal?' he echoed.

'There's no deal,' I said shortly.

Smith jerked his head towards the window. That guy says there could be.'

'I don't think you'd like to hear it,' I said coldly.

I saw his gun hand tighten up and I lifted my revolver. He wasn't standing very far away but I don't even know if I could have hit him. They tell me that revolvers are very inaccurate in inexperienced hands. Still, Smith wasn't to know I wasn't a gunman. I said, 'Let's all kill each other and save Gatt the trouble.'

He looked at the gun in my hand which was pointed at his stomach. 'I just want to know about this deal,' he said steadily. 'All right; I'll tell you -- but put the gun down first. It makes me uneasy.'

The thoughts that chased through Smith's mind were re-flected on his face and were as clear as though he had spoken them, but at last he made his decision, stooped and laid the pistol at his feet. I relaxed and put my revolver on the table, and the tension eased. Smith said, 'I guess, we're all jumpy.' It was an apology of sorts.

Fallon was still regarding the tips of his bash boots as though they were the most important things in the world. He said quietly, 'Who does Gatt want?'

'He wants me,' I said. He wants me to go down and retrieve the loot.'

'I thought he might. What happened to Rudetsky?'

'He's dead. He's lucky.'

Smith hissed in a sudden intake of breath. 'What's that sup' posed to mean?'

'Gatt's way of persuading me to dive isn't pretty. Hell take any of us -- you, Fallon or Mrs. Halstead, it doesn't matter -- and torture him to put pressure on me. He's quite capable of doing it, and I think he'd relish using his imagination on a job like that.' I found myself looking at it in a detached manner. 'He might burn your feet off with a blowlamp; he might chop you up joint by joint while you're still alive; he might -- well, there's no end to that kind of thing.'

Smith had averted his face. He jerked nervously. 'And you'd let him do it? Just for the sake of a few lousy trinkets?'