Fear is the Key

"It was brilliant. I admit it. What better cover could you ever have had for quartering every square yard of sea off the Florida coast without arousing suspicion? While the general's geologists were busy setting off their little bombs and making seismological maps of the under-sea rock strata, you were busy mapping every tiniest contour of the ocean floor with the depth recorder. It took you almost six weeks, because you started operating too far to the north — we were watching your every move even then and had fitted out a special boat for night prowling — that was the boat I came out on early this morning. Well, you found the plane. You even spent three nights dragging for it with grapples but all you could drag up was a small section of the left wing-tip." I gestured through the window. "You can see how comparatively recent that break is."

"How do you know all this?" Vyland whispered.

"Because I had secured a job as a replacement engineer aboard the Temptress." I ignored the startled oath, the involuntary clenching of Vyland's hands. "You and the general thought you had seen me aboard that Havana salvage vessel, but you hadn't, though I had been with the firm. I was five weeks on the Temptress and it wasn't till I left that I dyed my hair this hellish colour, had a plastic surgeon fix up this scar and affected a limp. Even so, you weren't very observant, were you, Vyland? You should have cottoned on.

"So there you were. You knew where the treasure was, but you couldn't get your hands on it — anyone who started using diving bells and all the complicated recovery gear necessary for a job like this would have been putting a noose round his own neck. But then someone had another brilliant idea — this one, I'd wager anything, came from the mind of our deceased engineer friend, Bryson. He'd read all about those bathyscaphe trials that were being carried out in the West Indies and came up with the idea of using it in conjunction with this rig."

The air was almost back to normal inside the observation chamber and though the atmosphere was still stuffy and far too warm for comfort there was plenty of oxygen in the air and breathing was no longer any problem. Royale and Vyland were getting their meanness and courage back with the passing of every moment.

"So, you see, everyone was having brilliant ideas," I continued. "But the real beauty, the one that's brought you two to the end of the road, was Jablonsky's. It was Jablonsky who thought that it would be real kind and helpful of us if we could provide a bathyscaphe for you to do the job."

Vyland swore, softly and vilely, looked slowly at Royale then back to me. "You mean-?" he began.

"It was all laid on," I said tiredly. I was taking no pleasure in any of this. "The French and British Navies were carrying out tests with it in the Gulf of Lions, but they readily agreed to continue those tests out here. We made sure that it got terrific publicity, we made sure that its advantages were pointed out time and time again, that not even the biggest moron could fail to understand how good it was for stealthy underwater salvage and recovery of buried treasure. We knew it would be only a matter of time before the Temptress turned up, and she did. So we left it in a nice lonely place. But before we left it I jinxed it so thoroughly that no one apart from the electrician who'd wired it in the first place and myself could ever have got it going again. You had to have someone to unjinx it, didn't you, Vyland? Wasn't it a fortunate coincidence that I happened to turn up at the right time? Incidentally, I wonder what our friends the field foreman and petroleum engineer are going to say when they find that they've spent the better part of three months drilling a couple of miles away from where the geologists told them to: I suppose it was you and Bryson who altered the reference navigation marks on the charts to bring you within shouting distance of the treasure and miles away from where the oil strata Me. At the present rate they'll end up with the pipe in the Indian Ocean and still no oil."

"You're not going to get off with this," Vyland said savagely. "By God, you're not-"

"Shut up!" I interrupted contemptuously. "Shut up or I'll turn a knob here, pull a switch there and have the two of you grovelling on your hands and knees and begging for your lives as you were doing not five minutes ago."

They could have killed me there and then, they could have watched me die in screaming agony and the tears of joy would have rolled down their cheeks. Nobody had ever talked like this to them before, and they had just no idea what to say, what to do about it: for their lives were still in my hands. Then, after a long moment, Vyland leaned back in his stool and smiled. His mind was working again.