stood below me, a slim, unreal figure in the gathering darkness.
‘Now, Mr Hawkins,’ she said. ‘Will you torture me to find out where it is? I shall only tell you lies and you will never find it.’
I have the impression that all heroic women are masochists and look forward to resisting pain.
‘Dear Teresa, I am here to talk business. Will you please realise that “the bastard” and you are both on the same side? I want to deliver the Punchao to the general of the
Retadores, and a male can carry it across country undetected whereas a female cannot.’
‘You know where to find the general?’
‘No. But you do.’
‘I do not yet.’
‘Then where were you going to take the Punchao?’
‘We will find out his present headquarters on the way.’
‘Very well. And this time it is I who will be the stable boy and carry the Punchao, always riding behind you.’
‘To ensure your safety, I suppose.’
‘Quite right. At that range you could hardly miss.’
‘The only objection to your excellent plan is that I have not got the Punchao,’ she replied.
‘Then who has?’
‘Carlota? Hector? What is the point of all this planning when all you know is that it is no longer where you hid it?’
‘Why should you lie?’ I asked her.
‘And you? I believed that you really meant to give it to the Heredistas hoping for a reward.’
‘If they have it, why haven’t they shown it to the people? Why is there complete silence about their success? And remember, I would have got a bigger reward from President Heredia
than from that bunch of ragged patriots. No, nobody knows that I have the Punchao but you.’
I was fairly sure of that. If Heredia had it, why hadn’t he exhibited it with drums and trumpets? Why had Carlota preserved complete silence about her father’s success?
‘Show me where you hid it?’
I led her to the tree. Even the one print of Pepe’s alpagatas on the one damp patch was now only recognisable as a shapeless dent. Teresa bent down and circled the trunk.
‘What can this be?’ she asked, drawing my attention to little patterns of parallel strips on the bark.
I supposed they were made by the vulture returning to its nest, but birds flew up; they didn’t walk up. I wished I had the use of an African tracker from the Father of his Country. Myself,
I had never learned the skill. The shallow scratches faintly reminded me of the mess that a dog can make of furniture coverings.
A dog. Pepe’s precious dog. My shirt. Pepe’s guilty air. They all fitted. And he wouldn’t have had the faintest notion what to do with the Punchao even if he recognised it for
what it was.
The dog had nearly always remained out of sight of the camp. Hector, who considered all dogs filthy beasts unless they were born or bred in Scotland, would not allow her to enter the camp,
insisting that she would give us worms if she touched our food, hydrophobia if she slobbered on us and fleas in any case. Fleas were likely. Worms were swiftly dealt with by Pepe, and hydrophobia
– well, you risk that anyway in a tropical country if you do not immediately disinfect any breaking of the skin by a dog’s tooth.
So Donna had been exiled from the main party. She was an engaging beast with a home of her own hollowed out by Pepe from a thick clump of bushes a short walk from the camp. She was delighted to
be talked to and petted whenever I passed, for no doubt I carried with me half a dozen scents connected with Pepe who had bought her from an Italian immigrant when she was half-grown.
‘Come with me,’ I told Teresa. ‘I know now that Pepe gave the Punchao to a friend to take care of.’
She followed me through the undergrowth to Donna’s private enclosure. As soon as the bitch received my scent she started to give her little yelps of welcome. She was at home, and by her
side was my missing shirt folded neatly around the Punchao. I was received with a grumble of protest when I picked it up – only a grumble, for
‘Now, Mr Hawkins,’ she said. ‘Will you torture me to find out where it is? I shall only tell you lies and you will never find it.’
I have the impression that all heroic women are masochists and look forward to resisting pain.
‘Dear Teresa, I am here to talk business. Will you please realise that “the bastard” and you are both on the same side? I want to deliver the Punchao to the general of the
Retadores, and a male can carry it across country undetected whereas a female cannot.’
‘You know where to find the general?’
‘No. But you do.’
‘I do not yet.’
‘Then where were you going to take the Punchao?’
‘We will find out his present headquarters on the way.’
‘Very well. And this time it is I who will be the stable boy and carry the Punchao, always riding behind you.’
‘To ensure your safety, I suppose.’
‘Quite right. At that range you could hardly miss.’
‘The only objection to your excellent plan is that I have not got the Punchao,’ she replied.
‘Then who has?’
‘Carlota? Hector? What is the point of all this planning when all you know is that it is no longer where you hid it?’
‘Why should you lie?’ I asked her.
‘And you? I believed that you really meant to give it to the Heredistas hoping for a reward.’
‘If they have it, why haven’t they shown it to the people? Why is there complete silence about their success? And remember, I would have got a bigger reward from President Heredia
than from that bunch of ragged patriots. No, nobody knows that I have the Punchao but you.’
I was fairly sure of that. If Heredia had it, why hadn’t he exhibited it with drums and trumpets? Why had Carlota preserved complete silence about her father’s success?
‘Show me where you hid it?’
I led her to the tree. Even the one print of Pepe’s alpagatas on the one damp patch was now only recognisable as a shapeless dent. Teresa bent down and circled the trunk.
‘What can this be?’ she asked, drawing my attention to little patterns of parallel strips on the bark.
I supposed they were made by the vulture returning to its nest, but birds flew up; they didn’t walk up. I wished I had the use of an African tracker from the Father of his Country. Myself,
I had never learned the skill. The shallow scratches faintly reminded me of the mess that a dog can make of furniture coverings.
A dog. Pepe’s precious dog. My shirt. Pepe’s guilty air. They all fitted. And he wouldn’t have had the faintest notion what to do with the Punchao even if he recognised it for
what it was.
The dog had nearly always remained out of sight of the camp. Hector, who considered all dogs filthy beasts unless they were born or bred in Scotland, would not allow her to enter the camp,
insisting that she would give us worms if she touched our food, hydrophobia if she slobbered on us and fleas in any case. Fleas were likely. Worms were swiftly dealt with by Pepe, and hydrophobia
– well, you risk that anyway in a tropical country if you do not immediately disinfect any breaking of the skin by a dog’s tooth.
So Donna had been exiled from the main party. She was an engaging beast with a home of her own hollowed out by Pepe from a thick clump of bushes a short walk from the camp. She was delighted to
be talked to and petted whenever I passed, for no doubt I carried with me half a dozen scents connected with Pepe who had bought her from an Italian immigrant when she was half-grown.
‘Come with me,’ I told Teresa. ‘I know now that Pepe gave the Punchao to a friend to take care of.’
She followed me through the undergrowth to Donna’s private enclosure. As soon as the bitch received my scent she started to give her little yelps of welcome. She was at home, and by her
side was my missing shirt folded neatly around the Punchao. I was received with a grumble of protest when I picked it up – only a grumble, for
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