“WHERE IS THIS COCOS ISLAND?”
“Where is this Cocos Island?” he asked.
“Only two hundred miles from the coast of Costa Rica,” instantly answered Ramon. “You see, it is a short voyage through the Canal and into the Pacific. You will not have to climb a tree, like El Draque, to look at the great South Sea. You are wondering why I should have so much faith in this chart? I am easily fooled? Well, then, it will cost a great deal of money to pay for a ship and a crew to go to Cocos Island and dig up the treasure. Nobody ever saw Ramon Bazán spend a dollar unless he knew what he was doing. They call him the stingiest old tight-fist in Cartagena. To get ahead of him you must rise before the cock crows.”
“Yes, it will cost you a good many thousands,” agreed Cary. “Do you mind telling me why you feel you have a sure thing in this treasure chart?”
“It is fair to ask me that question, Ricardo. When did the Mary Dear sail away from Lima? One hundred years ago, and a little bit more. One hundred and three years ago. This chart was given to me by my father. He lived and died in Cartagena, and he was eighty-six years old when he died in this house. It was always mañana with him, and he had business that tied him to the grindstone. He had dreams of going to Cocos Island. Figure it for yourself, Ricardo. This chart came to him just one hundred years ago. Will you laugh at me if I say this chart was given to him by Captain Thompson himself?”
“In Cartagena I believe anything and everything,” gravely acquiesced Richard Cary. “You couldn’t make me bat an eye to save you. The fever downed this Captain Thompson, I presume, while he was dodging under cover, and your father befriended him. That is how it should work out.”
“Exactly that! Truth is funnier than fiction,” cried Ramon Bazán, bobbing up from the desk. “My father had the kindest heart in the world. This stranger was dumped on the beach from a Mexican privateer which came in for fresh water. The man was ill and almost dead. My father took him into this house. He died in the room where you now sleep, Ricardo. A merchant captain, he said, whose ship had been wrecked off the Isle of Pines. Just before he died he told the truth, which is a proper thing to do, Ricardo. One should always make his peace with God. Then it was that my father received the chart and learned the whole story of Captain Thompson and the Mary Dear and the partnership with the pirate Benito Bonito.”
“I’m in no position to pick flaws in it,” said Cary. “I could tell you wilder ones than that. And you actually have a ship in mind to sail for Cocos Island and you want me to take her there?”
Ramon Bazán seemed to have some sudden difficulty with his articulation. He opened his mouth. His eyes bulged. His gestures were aimless as he faltered in a high key:
“The ship will be ready—the ship will be—will be—will be—”