found herself wondering if there would actually be a hotel at all.
She’d had no further contact with Fay Preston, who’d left the boat at yesterday’s fuel stop without even the courtesy of a goodbye.
Before Charlie went ashore she took the usual precaution of stowing her passport and few valuables in her shoulder-bag, along with her mug and cutlery, as these items, she’d been warned, might disappear if left on the boat.
As it turned out, finding the hotel was no problem. It was a small wooden building with a sign, faded to illegibility, hanging over the front entrance, and a small veranda, which, like the paintwork, had seen better days. Charlie mounted the rickety steps with care, and went in.
The fan, affixed to the ceiling, kept the heavy, humid air moving, but did nothing to lower the temperature, she thought, wiping her face with a handkerchief as she looked round. She seemed to be in the bar, but the place was deserted. Charlie went over and rapped smartly on the unpolished wooden counter. There was a pause, then a small, fat man in a sleeveless vest and baggy trousers pushed his way through a beaded curtain behind the bar and stood looking at her in silently amazed enquiry.
Charlie said stiltedly, ‘Bom dia, senhor. Faia inglês?’
‘Não.’
Well, she supposed it had been too much to hope for, she thought resignedly as she delved for her phrase book.
She produced the letter. ‘Tenho uma carta.’ She’d looked that up already. And also how to ask if the recipient was in residence. ‘O Senhor da Santana mora aqui?’
The man’s bemused expression deepened, and the shake of his head was a decided negative, but he took the letter from her, first wiping his hand on his trousers, and examined it as if it might bite him.
Charlie was almost relieved that the unknown Senhor da Santana didn’t live at the hotel after all. She hadn’t relished the prospect of trying to explain in her minimal Portuguese that Fay Preston had chickened out on his family’s hospitality. But then Ms Preston hadn’t seemed exactly a linguist either, so perhaps the senhor spoke a modicum of English.
She shrugged mentally. Well, she’d done all that she’d been asked, and now she could see something of the town before the Manoela sailed. It was clearly no use in pursuing any enquiries about Laragosa with the hotel proprietor, but tracing Philip Hughes had only been a silly dream anyway.
She realised the man was gesturing at her, pantomiming a drink, and she hesitated. Judging by what she’d seen on the way, this was the only bar in town, she thought, touching her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, so she might as well take advantage of it, unprepossessing though it was.
‘Agua mineral?’ she asked, adding a precautionary, ‘Sem gelo.’
The man shrugged, clearly contemptuous of anyone who would ask for a drink without ice in such heat. He waved her towards one of the stools at the bar, and uncapped a bottle taken from a primitive refrigerator.
But the glass she was handed, along with the bottle, was surprisingly clean, and the drink tasted magical. Good old Coca Cola, she thought, taking a healthy swig.
The hotel proprietor had vanished back into the domain behind the beaded curtain. Charlie suspected that he was probably steaming open Senhor da Santana’s letter at that very moment, and wondered whether it would ever reach its rightful destination. Well, fortunately that wasn’t her problem. She was simply the messenger girl.
She glanced at her watch, decided there was time for another Coke, and tapped on the counter with a coin. There was no response, so she knocked again more loudly. The bead curtain stirred, and this time two men entered, both strangers.
More customers, she decided, dismissing a faint uneasiness as they came round the bar to stand beside her.
‘Senhorita.’ It was the smaller and swarthier of the two men who spoke. He was wearing denims and a faded checked shirt, his hair covered by an ancient panama hat which he lifted politely. ‘Senhorita, the boat, he wait.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Charlie slid off her stool, thrusting a handful of coins on to the bar-top. Either she’d lost all track of time, or her watch must have stopped. Thank heavens Captain Gomez had sent someone to find her. The last thing she wanted was to remain here in Mariasanta, possibly at this hotel, until the Manoela came downstream again.
A battered jeep was waiting outside the hotel. The small man opened its door, motioning Charlie on to the bench seat.
Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have dreamed of accepting such a lift, but time was of the essence now, and she scrambled in. However, she was slightly taken aback when the other man, taller, with a melancholy black moustache, climbed in beside her, effectively trapping her between the two of them.
Her uneasiness returned in full force. She began, ‘I’ve changed my mind …’ but got no further as the jeep roared into life with a jerk that nearly sent her through its grimy windscreen.
By the time she’d recovered her equilibrium they were heading out of town—in the opposite direction to the dock and Manoela, she realised with horror.
Suddenly she was very frightened indeed. She turned to the driver, trying to speak calmly. ‘There’s been a mistake—um engano. Let me out of here, please.’
The driver beamed, revealing several unsightly gaps in his teeth. ‘We go boat,’ he assured her happily.
‘But it’s the wrong way,’ Charlie protested, but to no avail. The jeep thundered on towards the heavy green of the forest, and if she was going to scream, now was the time, before they got completely out of town. But she wasn’t in the least sure that her throat muscles would obey her.
She took a deep breath, trying to think rationally, then reached in her bag for her wallet.
‘Money,’ she said, tugging notes out of their compartment. ‘Money for you—to let me go.’ She thrust the cash at the man with the moustache. ‘It’s all I’ve got, really.’
The man inspected the cash, nodded with a sad smile, and handed it back.
‘I haven’t any more,’ she tried again desperately. ‘I’m not rich.’
Or were all tourists deemed to be millionaires in the face of the poverty she saw around her? Maybe so.
But if they didn’t want her money—what did they want? Her mind quailed from the obvious answer.
The road was little more than a track now, and the jeep rocketed along, taking pot-holes and tree roots in its stride. It occurred to Charlie that if and when she emerged from this adventure it would be with a dislocated spine.
The driver was whistling cheerfully through one of the gaps in his teeth, and the sound made her shiver.
He glanced at her and nodded. ‘Boat soon.’
She said wearily, ‘The bloody boat’s in the other direction,’ no longer caring whether they understood or not.
The track forked suddenly, and they were plunged deeper into the forest. It was like entering a damp green tunnel. Animal and bird cries echoed raucously above the sound of the engine, and tall ferns and undergrowth scratched at the sides of the vehicle as they sped along.
Charlie had a feeling of total unreality. This couldn’t be happening to her, she thought. Presently she would wake up and find herself safely in her hammock on board the Manoela. And when she did her first action would be to tear up Fay Preston’s letter.
The jeep began to slow, and Charlie saw a dark gleam of water ahead of them. Perhaps there was going to be a miracle after all, she thought incredulously. Maybe this was just a very roundabout way to the dock, and the Manoela would be there, waiting for her.
But the age of miracles was definitely past. Journey’s end was a makeshift landing stage, at which a small