I
When at last Jose Quintana had secured what he had been after for years,
his troubles really began.
In his pocket he had two million dollars worth of gems, including the
Flaming Jewel.
But he was in the middle of a wilderness ringed in by hostile men, and
obliged to rely for aid on a handful of the most desperate criminals in
Europe.
Those openly hostile to him had a wide net spread around him--wide of
mesh too, perhaps; and it was through a mesh he meant to wriggle, but
the net was intact from Canada to New York.
Canadian police and secret agents held it on the north: this he had
learned from Jake Kloon long since.
East, west and south he knew he had the troopers of the New York State
Constabulary to deal with, and in addition every game warden and fire
warden in the State Forests, a swarm of plain clothes men from the
Metropolis, and the rural constabulary of every town along the edges of
the vast reservation.
Just who was responsible for this enormous conspiracy to rob him of what
he considered his own legitimate loot Quintana did not know.
Sard's attorney, Eddie Abrams, believed that the French police
instigated it through agents of the United States Secret Service.
Of one thing Quintana was satisfied, Mike Clinch had nothing to do with
stirring up the authorities. Law-breakers of his sort don't shout for
the police or invoke State or Government aid.
As for the status of Darragh--or Hal Smith, as he supposed him to
be--Quintana took him for what he seemed to be, a well-born young man
gone wrong. Europe was full of that kind. To Quintana there was nothing
suspicious about Hal Smith. On the contrary, his clever recklessness
confirmed that polished bandit's opinion that Smith was a gentleman
degenerated into a crook. It takes an educated imagination for a man to
do what Smith had done to him. If the common crook has any imagination
at all it never is educated.
Another matter worried Jose Quintana: he was not only short on
provisions, but what remained was cached in Drowned Valley; and Mike
Clinch and his men were guarding every outlet to that sinister region,
excepting only the rocky and submerged trail by which he had made his
exit.
That was annoying; it cut off provisions and liquor from Canada, for
which he had arranged with Jake Kloon. For Kloon's hootch-runners now
would be stopped by Clinch; and not one among them knew about the rocky
trail in.
All these matters were disquieting enough: but what really and most
deeply troubled Quintana was his knowledge of his own men.
He did not trust one among them. Of international crookdom they were
the cream. Not one of them but would have murdered his fellow if the
loot were worth it and the chances of escape sufficient.
There was no loyalty to him, none to one another, no "honour among
thieves"--and it was Jose Quintana who knew that only in romance such a
thing existed.
No, he could not trust a single man. Only hope of plunder attached these
marauders to him, and merely because he had education and imagination
enough to provide what they wanted.
Anyone among them would murder and rob him if opportunity presented.
Now, how to keep his loot; how to get back to Europe with it, was the
problem that confronted Quintana after robbing Darragh. And he
determined to settle part of that question at once.
About five miles from Harrod Place, within a hundred rods of which he
had held up Hal Smith, Quintana halted, seated himself on a rotting log,
and waited until his men came up and gathered around him.
For a little while, in utter silence, his keen eyes travelled from one
visage to the next, from Henri Picquet to Victor Georgiades, to Sanchez,
to Sard. His intent scrutiny focussed on Sard; lingered.
If there were anybody he might trust, a little way, it would be Sard.
Then a polite, untroubled smile smoothed the pale, dark features of Jose
Quintana:
"Bien, messieurs, the coup has been success. Yes? Ver' well; in turn,
then, en accord with our custom, I shall dispose myse'f to listen to
your good advice."
He looked at Henri Picquet, smiled and nodded invitation to speak.
Picquet shrugged: "For me, mon capitaine, eet ees ver' simple. We are
five. Therefore, divide into five ze gems. After zat, each one for
himself to make his way out----"
"Nick Salzar and Harry Beck are in the Drowned Valley," interrupted
Quintana.
Picquet shrugged again; Sanchez laughed, saying: "If they are there it
is their misfortune. Also, we others are in a hurry."