Gallows on the Sand Read online

  “Not more than usual, Manny. But I could use it, if it runs.”

  “I guess we all could at that,” said Manny. “Say, Commander, what do you think of this?”

  He closed his hand round the model’s limp fingers and lifted her forearm to display a heavy gold bracelet hung with coins.

  “I bought it for her today. It’s the little sweetheart’s birthday and I thought, that’s for my baby. So I waltzed right in and bought it. Cost a packet, too. But I reckon she’s worth it. What do you think of it, Commander?”

  “I think it fits the lady’s personality.”

  “See, there’s room for more coins on it. So I say to her, if she’s a good girl and brings me luck, I’ll fill it up for her, link by link.”

  “I’m dry, Manny,” said the model. Her voice was fiat and bored.

  Manny frowned and tapped the counter and the steward sidled up to refill the lady’s glass. The coins jingled dully as she took her hand away from Manny and began to fumble in her handbag. It was then I had my foolish idea.

  I took the gold piece out of my pocket, spun it in the air and laid it on the bar.

  “Talking of coins, Manny—have you ever seen one of those before?”

  A flicker of interest showed in Manny’s guarded eyes. He took the coin, examined it, and made a tiny nick in the edge with his diamond ring.

  “It’s gold?”

  “Pure gold. I keep it for a good-luck piece.”

  I popped the coin back in my pocket and watched with some satisfaction the gleam in Manny’s eyes.

  “What sort of coin is it, Commander?”

  “Spanish. Eighteenth century. There’s a story about it.”

  “I’d like to hear it some time.”

  This was the lead I had hoped for. Manny smelt gold. Manny might be prepared to lay out paper to catch gold. I said, as casually as I could, “As a matter of fact, Manny, there’s a proposition behind that gold piece. One that might interest you.”

  Manny’s eyes were instantly hooded. His voice took on the fiat incurious tone of the huckster.

  “Well, you know me, Commander. Always interested in any proposition, provided its profitable—and safe. Like to talk about it now?”

  I shook my head.

  “Later, Manny.”

  Later I might have a thousand pounds and then I wouldn’t have to discuss any proposition with Manny. I wouldn’t have to say a single word to Manny—ever again.

  “Later it is, Commander,” said Manny, and turned back to the bar and the drooping model with the round bosom, the flat voice the shrewd professional eyes.

  One hour and seven minutes later I was back at the bar—flat broke and busted.

  Chapter 2

  “DRINK, Commander?” said Manny.

  I refused, wearily.

  “Sorry, Manny, can’t afford it. I’m cleaned out.”

  Manny clicked his tongue and made little soothing gestures.

  “Too bad, Commander—too bad. It comes and it goes. I figure the house owes the loser a drink. Sit down.”

  “No thanks, Manny. It’s a nice thought, but I’ll be running along.”

  I moved towards the door, but Manny followed me. I had never known him so reluctant to speed the losing guest.

  “Commander?”

  “Yes, Manny?”

  “You said something about a proposition. Like to talk about it in my office?”

  So I had hooked him after all. My heart was thumping and my mouth was dry. I had to clench my fists to stop the trembling of my fingers; but I tried to make my answer sound indifferent.

  “Just as you like. There’s no hurry.”

  “This way, Commander,” said Manny, and steered me through a leather-studded door onto an acre of mushroom carpet under a chandelier of Murano glass.

  There were mushroom drapes with gold cords. There was a buhl desk with a high-backed chair in Italian walnut. There was a fabulous settee in gold brocade in front of an Adam fireplace and the drinks were served from a cabinet concealed in the pastel panelling. The fairies from the Cross had done Manny proud. Everything was genuine, everything was expensive, and the final effect was as true to character as the foyer in the House of All Nations . . . and as depressing.

  Manny gave me a sidelong look as he bent over the drinks.

  “You like it, Commander?”

  I clicked my tongue and said, “It must have cost you plenty, Manny.”

  Which Manny took for a compliment and grinned and said, “It even frightens me, how much. Still, I work here, so I figure I might as well be comfortable. Besides, it impresses the clients.”

  “I didn’t think the clients ever got in here, Manny.”

  I winked and smiled at him over the glass, the brothers-in-lechery smile, which makes a man like Manny pout his chest and forget that he has to buy what other men have for love.

  Manny winked back and raised his glass.

  “To the fillies . . . God bless ’em.”

  We drank. Then Manny waved me to the settee, while he himself stood back against the Adam fireplace, his elbows resting on the marble mantel. I recognized the gambit. It’s hard to sit down and sell anything to a man who is standing up. You should try it some time. I decided to make myself as comfortable as possible. I leant back against the gold brocade, crossed my knees and tried to feel relaxed, while I waited for Manny to open the discussion.

  Manny’s eyes were hooded again, filmed over like a bird’s, so that there was no light or lustre in them. When he spoke his voice was soft, almost caressing.

  “What line of business are you in, Commander?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Manny pinched the end from an expensive cigar and took his time over lighting it. When it was drawing well he blew a cloud of smoke and waved the cigar in the direction of the door.

  “Out there at the tables—no, it doesn’t matter. A man pays for his drinks. If he loses he pays for his chips. If he wins he doesn’t make a fuss. That’s all I want to know. You’re a man like that, Commander. I like to have you here. But this is different. This is business. In business you’ve got to work together. So I’ve got to know.”

  He put the cigar back in his mouth, drew on it and waited.

  I grinned at him—a nice friendly grin, no malice in it at all. I said, “Just for curiosity, Manny, what do you think is my business?”

  Manny blew out more smoke and pursed his lips and said, “I’ve often tried to figure that, Commander. You’re not Service, although you’ve got the Service look. Guess a navy guy never really loses that. You could be wool money, but you don’t spend big enough. You play cautious, and when you’re out of chips you quit. You could be an agent, though you don’t have the salesman look. Doctor, dentist, maybe. Like I told you. I’ve never been able to figure for sure.”

  “I’m a historian.”

  His cigar almost fell out of his mouth.

  “A what?”

  “A historian. I lecture in history at the University of Sydney.”

  Manny was puzzled. It showed behind the film that covered his eyes. I had made ground. If I could hold it I might have a chance. Manny gave himself time to recover before he shot his next question at me.

  “How much does that pay?”

  “Eleven hundred a year . . . twelve with extension lectures.”

  “Peanuts,” said Manny, concisely. “For a guy with brains—peanuts.”

  “That’s why I’m interested in business.”

  Manny shook his head. “For business, you need capital. What have you got?”

  I stood up and spun the coin under his nose again.

  “I’ve got this.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “For the gold—about six pounds, Australian. As an antique, about thirty. I’ve had it valued.”

  “With that, maybe, you could start in the popcorn business, Commander, but that’s not for Manny Mannix.”

  This was the critical moment. If I said the wrong thing no
w I was lost and my treasure-ship was lost, too. I said nothing, I smiled. I took my glass over to the cabinet and made myself another drink. This made Manny puzzled again; puzzled and interested. I brought my drink back to the fire and toasted him. Then I said, “The trouble with fellows like you, Manny, you think you know all the answers. Nobody can tell you.”

  Manny flushed but he kept his temper.

  “So you should tell me anything, Commander. I got all I want . . . and it’s all paid for with dough to spare in the bank. What should you tell me that I don’t know?”

  “Where this coin came from, for instance.”

  “Well, spill it. Where did it come from?”

  “From a Spanish galleon that left Acapulco for Manila in October 1732 and was lost with all hands.”

  Manny relaxed and grinned sceptically.

  “Treasure stories, huh? Oldest sucker-bait known. You got a map, too? Old pirate map maybe? Pick ’em up for five dollars apiece anywhere round the Caribbean. Like shrunken heads, the locals make ’em for the tourist trade.”

  I shook my head.

  “No map.”

  “Well, go on, what have you got?”

  I took the letter out of my pocket and showed it to him. He read it painfully, fumbling for the facts behind the courtly phrases and the stilted English. Then he looked at me and tapped the letter with his thumb.

  “This genuine?”

  “It is. Nobody forges a document like that. Only costs a cable to prove it true or false.”

  Manny nodded. So much he could understand.

  “Yeah . . . yeah. Guess that’s right. But it doesn’t say enough. There was a treasure-ship. This coin could have come from it. Doesn’t say it did come from it.”

  “That’s where I come in. I’m a historian, as I told you. It’s my job to collect, weigh and determine the value of historical evidence. I’ve collected enough evidence to show that the lost galleon could have been wrecked near the spot where I found that coin.”

  “Where was that?”

  I was sure of him now. He wasn’t waving his cigar any more. The film had slipped from his eyes and I read greed and interest and the calculations of the trader weighing cost against revenue to determine the percentage profit. I could play him more firmly now, like a tiring fish at the end of his run. I told him bluntly.

  “The place is my secret. I know where it is. I found this coin there myself. I’m not prepared to reveal it until we’ve made and signed a legal agreement.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “For a half share—a thousand pounds, and all expenses paid.”

  So it was done. The chips were down. There was no more to do or say. The next play was up to Manny Mannix.

  But Manny wasn’t ready to bid yet. He had more questions to ask.

  “Suppose we did find this ship—where you say it should be—how much of this stuff could we expect to get?”

  “The letter says twenty chests of gold. I couldn’t guess what it might be worth . . . twenty thousand, thirty . . . something like that. Could be a lot more, of course.”

  “Could be. Could also be that this place was salted and then we’d get nothing.”

  “Could be,” I agreed. “But it wasn’t. I know that. My wife and I brought up the coin.”

  Manny shot me a quick inquiring glance. “You didn’t tell me you were married.”

  “My wife died a month after the wedding day.”

  Manny clucked and said, “Too bad,” then handed me the next inquiry. “You said you wanted a thousand for yourself and all expenses paid. What sort of expenses did you have in mind, Commander?”

  “Two thousand pounds—more or less. You might do it on less, but you’d be working the hard way.”

  “What sort of items would that include?”

  Manny was so obviously interested, we had so obviously progressed from speculative bargaining to practical thinking, that I forgot to be cautious.

  I gave him the answer, clear and simple.

  “Five hundred to buy the island. That would give you land and water rights and a way round the law of treasure-trove. Then there’s a cabin-cruiser and aqualung equipment and stores and perhaps a professional diver for the later stages. I could give you an itemized list when we get round to it.”

  I had dug my own pit and walked myself happily into it; but I didn’t know it then. I didn’t know it till much later. At that moment I didn’t even know why Manny was smiling. When he turned away to mix our third drink I thought he was preparing to seal our bargain. Which proved I didn’t know Manny. Which proved I was what Manny thought I was: a simple-minded historian, who couldn’t read the elementary lessons of history, which are the vanity of human wishes and the fickleness of women and the fact that no sucker ever gets an even break—because he doesn’t deserve it.

  Manny came back with the drinks. We raised our glasses and smiled at each other across the rims. Then Manny said, quite gently, “Sorry, Commander . . . no dice.”

  It was as final as a smack in the mouth.

  And Manny smiled and smiled and smiled.

  I wasn’t smiling. I felt sick and tired and humiliated, and I wanted to go home. Then Manny moved in for his final punch.

  “Tell you what, Commander. Just to show there’s no ill feeling I’ll buy the coin for the market price—thirty quid. Look nice on the little girl’s bracelet.”

  I laughed myself then. God knows why, but I laughed. I spun the coin and caught it and said to Manny, “Give me a free night at the bar as well and it’s a deal.”

  Manny looked at me with cold contempt, then went over to the buhl desk and counted out thirty pounds in crisp new notes. He snapped a rubber band round them and laid them flat in my outstretched hand. He said, “If you’re wise, Commander, you’ll leave the tables alone, and stick to the bar. The drinks are on the house like you wanted.”

  “Thanks, Manny,” I said. “Thanks and good night.”

  “Good night,” said Manny. “Good night, sucker.”

  I remember walking to the bar and ordering a double Scotch.

  After that, nothing.

  At nine o’clock the next morning the Dean found me snoring in the shrubbery outside his front window.

  At four o’clock the same afternoon the Faculty accepted my resignation, and gave me a month’s pay in lieu of notice. Which left me with a screaming hangover, no job, no prospects and a little better than a hundred pounds in cash. For Manny had been kind to me. When he had bundled me out into the street he had pinned his thirty pounds into my inside pocket with a note:

  “Too bad, Commander. It was a nice play.”

  Manny is like that. A friendly fellow, with a sense of humour.

  Chapter 3

  ON Friday morning I went out to collect a debt.

  I took the early train to Camden, which is a small, smug little town built on the wealth of the oldest landed gentry of the youngest country in the world. The green pastures sweep up to its doorsteps and the black bitumen highway winds through acres on rolling acres of fat grazing land, dappled with shade from the great white gums and the willows that fringe the homestead creeks. The mellow grey houses are set far back in the folds of the land and the families who own them go back to the First Fleet and the raw roistering days of a convict colony.

  This is stud country, all of it; dairy country, merino country, sleek, horse-breeders’ country where a drought never comes and the creeks are never dry and the roots go deep and where I, a rootless man from the city, had no place.

  In Camden I hired a taxi and drove out five miles along the highway to a chain-wire gate, over which was raised, pergola fashion, the legend—McAndrew Stud. It’s a longish walk from the gate to the homestead, and the taxi-man stared at me when I paid him off and told him to call back for me in an hour’s time.

  He couldn’t know that I was ashamed of my errand and of myself and that I needed the walk between the flowering gums to prepare for my meeting with Alistair McAndrew.


  The drive rose gently for a while and then dipped down to the house, a low spreading sandstone building nestling in shrubbery and ringed by white outbuildings and the fences of the home paddocks.

  To the left was a broad pasture with some of the McAndrew stock at grass. To the right was a small enclosure of tan where a group of men were watching a young colt being broken to the saddle.

  McAndrew was with them—a stocky black Celt in khaki shirt and riding-breeches. He leant on the rail fence in the relaxed attitude of the country-man, but his puckered eyes missed no detail of the exercise and from time to time he called a quiet direction to the strapper in the saddle.

  He turned at my footfall, hesitated a moment, then came towards me with a wide smile and hand outstretched.

  “Lundigan! Well, I'll be damned! Man, it’s good to see you!”

  I grinned foolishly and pumped his hand and said, banally enough, “Hullo, Mac.”

  “What brings you out Camden way?”

  “Well, I . . . I wanted to see you, Mac. If you’ve got time, that is.”

  My voice, or my eyes, betrayed me then, because he looked at me with odd concern and said, “Of course, man. All the time in the world. Excuse me a minute while I have a word with the boys.”

  I watched him as he turned away to give directions to the men around the training enclosure. He walked with assurance, talked with authority, a man at home and at ease with his men and his horses and his dappled acres. I remembered the day when I had dragged him across a beach in the Trobrians, a yellow, shrunken skeleton, last survivor of a raiding party whom the Japanese had cut to pieces two days after they landed. Shaking with malaria, knotted by dysentery, he had made his way to the rendezvous and we had brought him off under fire from the patrol in the palm-groves . . . and now I had come to claim payment.

  McAndrew came back and we walked together towards the house.

  “It’s been a long time, Renn.”

  “Eleven years twelve. Yes . . . a long time, Mac.”

  “My wife’s in town for the day. She’d like to meet you. You’ll stay, of course. I’ve a lot to show you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mac. I have to leave in an hour.”