The Big Bite

  The Big Bite

  by GERRY TRAVIS

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Also Available

  Copyright

  CHAPTER I

  The cabin cruiser left the seaward side of the island as soon as the moon had gone below the horizon. The boat moved very quietly, the diesel making only the softest of putting sounds as the helmsman throttled so that he was barely making headway. When far enough out so the motor noise would not reach the mainland, he opened the throttle sharply. The cruiser picked up speed, its sharp bow cleaving the dark, warm water and leaving a turbulent wake of phosphorescence behind.

  “Let’s hope that fool fish patrol isn’t out at this time of night,” the man lounging in the cabin said. He spoke contemptuously as if the Mexican Coast Guard was really only a minor annoyance.

  “We could put on the lights,” the helmsman said. “That would keep them from getting suspicious if they saw us.”

  “Then, sure as hell, someone would spot us from shore,” the other man said in a grumbling tone. He was big, a vague, sprawled shadow in the faint glow from the binnacle. Long, heavy legs in walking-length khaki shorts were thrust solidly out in front of him. Besides the shorts and rope-soled sandals, he wore nothing. His torso showed thick from front to back, covered with matted hair going gray in places. The gray hair and the fact that his head was completely bald made him look older than he was. A closer examination revealed the clearness of his pale blue eyes and the smooth texture of his tanned skin. He was barely forty, a strong man with a brutal look about him.

  The helmsman said, “It should be okay to smoke now.” Taking one hand from the wheel, he worked a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, dug a match from his trousers and flipped it alight with his thumbnail. When he took a deep drag on the cigarette, his profile showed the clean, sharply delineated features that some men find a nuisance because this marks them as “pretty boys” and other men find an asset because a certain kind of woman is attracted to them. The helmsman was one who had often found his features an asset. His name was Nigel Forrest and he spoke an obvious British English despite his efforts to use American slang.

  “Nige,” the big man said lazily, “how long do you figure for this?”

  The helmsman squinted into the darkness ahead. “A half hour if the currents don’t hold us out of the passage too long. Or were you talking about the whole job? The answer to that is—I don’t know. Natalie’s still keeping the details to herself.”

  “I meant this job—tonight,” the big man said. “It’s a hell of a fuss to get somewhere that’s only twenty minutes away in a straight line. And why all this pussyfooting? Why not dump the guy here and forget about him?”

  “Stop griping,” Forrest said. “You knew what working for a woman was like when you took the job, Tiber.”

  The big man took a cigar from a cardboard packet on the seat beside him and jammed his teeth into the end. “I never did like working for a woman.”

  “You never had a chance at so much money before, either.”

  “I haven’t seen any of it yet.”

  Forrest took a final drag on his cigarette and crushed it on the linoleum-covered floor with the tip of one rubber-soled shoe. “You will. Natalie’s got her old man’s touch. He was the smoothest operator on the Continent. Not one of his men was ever caught until Tinsley was killed and Natalie went into hiding. It doesn’t pay to go on your own when you can work for a really smart operator. And that’s what she is.”

  “I suppose so,” Tiber said. He looked through the door aft where a large canvas bundle lay motionless on the deck. As grumpy as he felt, he had to admit it was a neat, workmanlike job.

  Forrest said, “That snooper never knew what hit him. And when he comes to, he won’t know how he got to where he’s going.”

  “I still think we should dump him,” Tiber said. “What if he’s smart enough to get away?”

  Forrest examined this idea. First they would put the man—who carried identification as Orvil Curtis and was supposed to be here on a vacation, fishing—shore and well up in the shade where tomorrow’s sun wouldn’t broil him before he came out of the hypodermic. Then they would take the dinghy they were towing, and which he had rented on the mainland the day before, and make sure that the reefs on the seaward side of the island tore out its bottom. When Curtis was found—if anyone was ever fool enough to stop at Fog Island and find him—he would either be dead of starvation or thirst, or completely mad. Without the dinghy, he couldn’t get off, and not even a top-flight swimmer could buck the currents and get away.

  “If he is found,” Forrest said, “it’ll look as if he had a wreck. If he should survive, he won’t remember enough about this to implicate us.”

  They went on in silence, only the throttled roar of the engine marring the soft quiet of the dark sea. Forrest handled the cruiser skillfully, and when he reached the island, he let the currents take them in just far enough before he turned on the power and fought the current trying to throw the cruiser against the sharp rocks that rose protectively like black teeth. Those rocks rimmed the island except for a small, rocky, reef-bound beach on the seaward side and a narrow, almost invisible channel that faced the mainland, which lay some forty minutes away.

  Inside its protective wall of rock, Fog Island was a miasma. Due to a contrast in the temperatures of the ocean air and the winds off the coast of this part of Mexico, an almost constant mist rose from the interior. This was a swamp, dotted with a few trees and a few bushes in the drier spots, but mostly it was a sinkhole of mud oozing with brackish, un-drinkable water. No one lived there; as far as anyone knew, nothing lived there. It was said that even the sea birds feared it. The lack of guano on the rocks seemed to substantiate this. The natives on the mainland, even the better-educated people in La Cruz believed that Fog Island was inhabited by a steam-breathing spirit. None of them fished close by, not even when they could see a school running. What were a few pesos compared to one’s sanity—or one’s soul?

  Forrest located the narrow, almost invisible channel and maneuvered the cruiser along the corridor and its two sharp bends with no more than a foot to spare on either side. The tide was running, but slowly, and he had little trouble bringing them into the tiny bay. He eased up to a shelf of rock which made a natural pier and Tiber went forward and tied up to a projection of stone that stuck up to form a hook.

  “Turn on the spot,” he called. In the tiny, rock-enclosed bay, his voice echoed and re-echoed.

  Forrest snapped on the harsh white light and adjusted it so that the beam flooded the rock pier and the narrow path that ran up the rocks and disappeared into them. It was up there they had to take Curtis.

  When Forrest reached the deck, Tiber had the canvas off the body and neatly folded. The man lay motionless. He was of average height, brown-haired, with plain, undistinguished features; he looked to be in his early thirties. He could be nobody; he could be someone very important, very dangerous. They couldn’t take the chance of waiting to find out.

  “Up,” Forrest said, taking the ankles.

  Tiber snorted, got the body about the middle, and hoisted it, fireman fashion, over his shoulder. With the leg
s dangling down his back and the head and limp arms flopping against his stomach, he started up the narrow pathway.

  Forrest came leisurely behind, his rubber-soled shoes finding footing easily on the rock. When it seemed that the path ended, there was a sharp turn, a widening crack, and then they could smell the stench of rotting vegetation and hear the hum of insects. Tiber began to pant as the pathway became steeper.

  “We could leave him in the cave there,” he said, jerking his head at an opening to the left.

  Forrest was using his flashlight now that they were out of range of the cruiser’s spot, and he flashed the light into the cave. There was nothing visible but a flat space of white, hard sand and then the dark swallowed up the beam of his light. He shivered. He did not relish places such as that.

  “Orders,” he reminded Tiber, and they went on up.

  There was a sharp pitch and then, at the top, four feet of dirt covered with thorn bushes. Beyond that lay the edge of the oozing mud. The fog that rose from it was light, wraiths of dirty white rising and twisting from its surface.

  “Gawd, what a stink!”

  “You’re too tenderhearted,” Forrest mocked. “Drop him farther along. We don’t want him rolling down the pathway and breaking his neck.”

  “It’d be easier on him,” Tiber said, but he did what he was told.

  Leaving the body sprawled on the narrow dirt track where two stunted trees would shade it from the coming sun, Tiber turned carefully and picked his way back to where Forrest held the light. They went back down, quiet now. And they remained so while Forrest eased them out of the gut into open water. He took the same route back as that which had brought them there.

  Tiber lit the cigar he had been chewing on. “I like a good, clean killing myself.”

  “Of course, like breaking a man’s neck, or hitting him so hard in the midriff that he ruptures inside and bleeds to death internally.”

  “That’s better than what Curtis’ll go through.”

  Forrest put more speed into the cruiser. He was tired; he wanted a drink and a wash and then bed. Tiber wanted only bed. The carrying of the body had taken little of his strength, but he had been on the alert for over twenty-four hours, keeping an eye on Curtis, and he was tired.

  • • •

  On Horsetail Island, so called because from the heights over La Cruz its growth of palms made it look like nothing so much as an arched horsetail, the woman the men had called Natalie Tinsley reclined in a canvas beach chair and wriggled brown toes as she sipped a daquiri. It was a soft, warm evening with no light but that of the stars, the kind of night in which she liked to lie, as now, with her clothing off.

  She enjoyed the feeling of the air on her sleek, tanned body, but she was wise enough not to lie so when the men were on the island. She was no child; she knew well enough that even had she not been physically attractive, this self-imposed isolation would have made her so to Forrest and Tiber. Particularly Tiber, she thought; Forrest had some of the qualities of a machine about him. In some respects she was glad; in others, she was bothered. Forrest’s interest in his work at times appeared to amount to devotion. She was not accustomed to finding herself relegated to second place as far as men were concerned.

  She did not rise to put on her brief costume—halter top and shorts—until she could hear their footsteps on the path from the boat dock. When they came to where she was by the pond, she was dressed and smoking a cigarette.

  “All finished,” Forrest said.

  “Good. Have a drink. No trouble at all?”

  “None,” Forrest said. He told her what they had done.

  Tiber yawned widely, and turned away. “Me for bed,” he said. He lumbered off.

  Forrest fixed drinks for both of them, took a small canvas-and-iron footstool and drew it near her beach chair. “Isn’t it about time we were let in on what’s going to happen?”

  “What do you want to know, Nigel?”

  “You keep telling us there’ll be money when we’ve delivered the goods. What goods? And how much money? We haven’t seen a ruddy peso since we arrived here.”

  “Have you needed one?” Her voice was light, mocking. “Do you want to go in and see the night life of La Cruz?”

  “It would probably be more exciting than what I get here.”

  His tone bothered her. It lacked the usual machine-like quality. Draining her glass, she rose. “I’ll tell you when the time comes. Good night, Nigel.”

  CHAPTER II

  When the tip Paul Knox was waiting for came in, he was in the Lisbon office of World Circle, the agency more than one government used as its espionage arm or as an adjunct to it, depending on the size and wealth of the government.

  Knox looked at Senhor Santos, the head of the large Lisbon office. “Is this another one of your wild-goose chases, Manny?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Senhor Santos displayed his beautiful white teeth in a wholly pointless smile “You will remember that this all began as a favor to you—a personal favor as World Circle was no longer officially interested in the girl.

  “But now,” he went on with a spread of his hands, “it is no longer a favor I am doing you. When I say there is a possibility of something in Tangier, I am transmitting an order.”

  “You’re a long-winded so-and-so,” Knox said. “Are you trying to tell me that World Circle is interested in Natalie Tinsley again?”

  “Of course. Is that not clear?”

  “And I’m supposed to keep on hunting for her like I have been for the past year—but now on company time?”

  “I have said as much.”

  “Like hell you have.” Knox found his pack of cigarettes and lit one. “What’s this about Tangier?”

  Santos put the tips of pudgy fingers together. “There are always rumors from there because of the free gold market. That is all I have, a rumor. Something about Natalie Tinsley’s name in connection with the buying of gold.”

  Knox rapped ash from his cigarette. So many of his friends had “heard” rumors and he had made so many trips to talk to them—and he was no further along than when he had started a year ago. Either Natalie Tinsley had disappeared for good or she had built herself a new and very clever organization in the year since he had last seen her and was cautiously hiding behind it.

  “Who do I see, Manny?”

  “In Tangier? Murello. I will get word to him that you are coming. You can leave soon?”

  “Right away,” Knox said. “Or almost. The next plane is at four-fourteen. Sixteen-fourteen your time.”

  “You always know such things,” Santos said admiringly. “Go to your hotel and sleep for the three hours. I shall have your ticket waiting for you at the airport. Do you need expense money?” He answered the question himself. “Of course not. Paul Knox is one of the lucky ones who seldom needs money.”

  Knox stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I live a clean life, Manny.”

  Santos held out his hand. “Be careful, Paul. If she has an organization, this may be dangerous. You remember how her father operated.”

  When he had known Gerard Tinsley, Knox thought, the man had not been operating very well. Knox had known him only briefly, just long enough to maneuver the man to his death. Not that Tinsley hadn’t deserved that death. But Knox could not help wondering if—despite what Natalie had said at the time—it had not had something to do with his daughter’s refusing to let Knox find her in the year that had followed.

  “I’ll be careful,” Knox said. “I suppose John will know where I’ve gone.” John was one of the names for the head man in the States.

  “I hope so, or I have misread his order.”

  “Ate logo, men amigo” Knox said in acceptable Portuguese.

  He left, wondering how to kill three hours. He was not in the least sleepy and did not feel like taking the nap Santos had suggested. He began to walk, but Lisbon did not seem to have its usual charm, and he turned to his hotel. By the time he arrived there, he was so keyed up tha
t even a three-hour wait looked like a long stretch of time.

  Knox had long ago learned to wait and watch and choose the right time to act. Yet where was his patience now? Where had it been this past year? He pushed his way into his room and slammed the door.

  For a year now, he had been hunting Natalie Tinsley, seeing the deceptively slender, almost boyish figure, the sleek head with the very dark, short-cropped hair, the large eyes, the small nose, the wide, beautifully curved mouth—seeing each of these a thousand times in a thousand separate women, but never finding them all in one woman—the one woman.

  What did a man do with three hours of waiting except to go over for the nth time how big a fool he was making of himself?

  Knox peeled off his coat and found that his shirt was damp. He called down for two bottles of cold beer and drank them while immersed in a tepid tub. Then he climbed out, dried, and prepared to shave.

  He regarded himself sardonically in the mirror. He was in his middle thirties, well built, a man who wore three-hundred-dollar suits easily. His features were good—healthy, taut skin, fine eyes, a mobile, thoughtful mouth. Since high-school days, Knox had had that quality which makes a man attractive to women.

  He stopped looking sardonic and glowered at himself. “You utter fool,” he said aloud. It fell flat and he tried cursing himself in Spanish. That was much more satisfactory.

  • • •

  Airplane trips bored Knox; he had made too many of them. He was relieved to arrive in Tangier, and as his taxi—driven by a man who could have been French or Arab or Spanish, and probably was a bit of all three—dodged and dived and skidded to the hotel, he began to feel better. Perhaps it was the warm, dry air, or the sudden darkening of the African sky, or the incredible mixture of types on the streets—but he felt that something was about to happen.

  Tipping the driver enough to keep him in comfort in the native quarter for a month, Knox followed a bellhop into the hotel, registered, and was shown to his room.

  He offered the bellboy the naïve look of a wealthy American on his first trip abroad. “What does a man do in this town for amusement?”