The odor was much stronger here; his nose wrinkled. The morgue attendant shuffled forward to meet him in the fluorescent glare of the room. He was a bright-eyed gnome, happy in his work; the competition of the living world, rumbling senselessly by in the cobbled streets overhead, only served to emphasize his joy in his exile. Da Silva wondered if the hunched figure ever left when his day was done, or if he quietly savored his triumph over the battles of life by slipping into one of the empty alcoves and closing his eyes until morning. The sharp eyes of the slippered attendant caught the odd look on Da Silva’s face; for an instant they faced each other in something approximating mutual understanding. We are both ghouls, the gnome’s bright eyes seemed to say, but at least I admit it.
“Gávea Beach,” Da Silva said abruptly, turning away, breaking the spell.
“Certainly, Captain.” The gnome nodded sardonically and started to hum. He shuffled to the shining row of cabinets that lined one tiled wall and drew one out. The shelf rasped in protest, sticking; the gnome frowned at this rebellion and pulled harder, dragging the pallet into the light. A heavy, bare arm slipped sinuously from beneath the stained sheet, swinging slowly down like a splotched stalk unfolding from some obscene jungle plant. The gnome grinned and stood back.
Da Silva shrugged and picked up the arm; it came stiffly, reluctantly, as if attempting refusal. Sand clung to the large calloused palm and rasped under the broken fingernails. The upper muscle was flaccid in relaxation; a tattoo that covered it was wrinkled, the form and letters blurring. Da Silva pulled it straight; it read Mamae! Everyone has a mother, he thought; this one’s mother is lucky she can’t see her darling now. Below the elbow, on both sides of the arm and under the sheen of cold dampness that covered the flesh like sweat, were a series of small scars. They looked like midget mouths, puckered for weeping, and Da Silva studied them thoughtfully. Little nips, pinched in the flesh, but old and long healed. Burns? No … Injections? No. He frowned, dropping the arm, and pulled the sheet from the body.
Behind him he could hear the delighted intake of breath from the attendant. Something will have to be done about this little monster, Da Silva thought; he’s been among the dead too long. He glanced down. The broad face on the pallet was calm in death, the dark eyes opened in bland indifference to the blinding light; and this appeared the more surprising because the torso was a mass of cruel cuts and vicious bruises. Despite himself Da Silva caught his breath. He had seen death in all its forms, but seldom as brutal as this. Someone had cut, not deeply to kill, but long shallow trenches now brimming with the dried crust of congealed blood. And then someone had beaten the tortured body unmercifully, breaking it, denying it even the faintest semblance of respectability to present to its Maker. And yet, despite the obvious signs of beating, or torture, of pain, the expression on the heavy face did not in any way reflect the anguish he must have suffered. Da Silva nodded thoughtfully and then studied the rest of the body.
A pair of sand-clogged pants were all the corpse was wearing; below the waist no mark of knife or knout appeared. The bare feet, splayed out at right angles, were unmarked. Da Silva picked up the other arm and studied it; the same series of odd scars, long healed, covered the forearm. He folded the arms across the chest, but the one on top rolled free and slid down once again, refusing contact with the mutilated torso. The gnome watched, bright-eyed, as if pleased by the resistance offered by his charge.
“Did he have any other clothes?”
“Here.” The attendant shuffled to a drawer and returned with a bloody bundle. “They were brought in separately. They were found scattered around near him.”
Da Silva spread them out and began to search them by running his hand into a jacket pocket; his fingers emerged from the other side. Both pockets and linings had been slashed, the collar torn. The shirt was useless. The boots had been cut to expose the inner sole.
The gnome was enjoying Da Silva’s frown. “You won’t find anything, Captain,” he said softly. “The police—the regular police—they searched and found nothing.”
“I’m sure,” Da Silva said coldly. He returned to the body and started going through the trouser pockets. The body rolled heavily as he pulled it over; sluggish trails of blood began to ooze from several of the deeper cuts. Da Silva grimaced, attempting to stand back a bit to avoid stains on his clothing. He finished his search of the back pockets and let the body slump back to its original position, the recalcitrant arm still swinging slightly. Almost as an afterthought he slipped his finger into a watch pocket, felt something, and, inserting a second finger, drew out a thin slip of paper.
“Great searching!” he said in disgust, and held the paper to the strong light flooding down from the ceiling. He read the faint scrawl on both sides of the wrinkled scrap and then folded it carefully to insert it in his wallet. The expression on the gnome’s face had subtly changed; he was watching with faint perturbation.
“You’ve identified him?”
Da Silva stared at him silently for several seconds, his face a tight mask. “No,” he said at last. “He’s still yours for a few more days. You can put him back in your collection.”
“Ah!” said the gnome happily.
Da Silva turned to the door. Behind him he could hear the tuneless humming as the attendant cheerfully rolled the body back into its slot. The rollers once again protested, this time as if against return to the airless cabinet. The tall detective found himself holding his breath until he had reached the main floor and turned into the office area.
The director was in his office and arose with a smile when he saw his visitor.
“Hello, Captain,” he said, holding out his hand. “Well? Is he one of yours?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know,” Da Silva said. He shook hands and dropped into a chair, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it, looked about for an ash tray, and then dropped the burned match onto the floor. “Offhand, I’d guess he belongs to the boys in Homicide. I doubt that he was anything but Brazilian; he has a tattoo that says Mamae, but of course that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be from Portugal. We don’t have anyone of his description on the Interpol list right now, and his clothes are all Brazilian, but still …” He cocked his eye at his cigarette, as if searching some answer there. “… I’d like to check the thing a bit further.”
The director’s eyebrows lifted. This was quite unusual. “Could I ask why?”
Da Silva continued to study his cigarette. “Well, for one thing, I found a slip of paper in his pocket.”
“A slip of paper in his pocket? That our people missed?”
“That’s right. And another thing …”
The director cleared his throat. “Wait. About that paper, Captain, don’t you think it should go to Homicide?”
“When we are certain Interpol isn’t involved, I’ll be happy to turn it over,” Da Silva said smoothly. The director looked as if he were about to object, but the tall detective went on as if he had not noticed. “You know, I can’t understand why there was so little blood.”
“Little blood? He looked bloody enough for us.”
Da Silva shook his head. “Not for the way he was cut up.”
The director smiled deprecatingly. “That’s really a medical problem, isn’t it? Does Interpol enter a case just because a corpse isn’t bloody enough? Things must be pretty dull down at your office.”
“As a matter of fact, they are,” Da Silva said with an answering smile. “No, it’s just that a lot of little questions wander through my mind about this one. Call it a hunch, but I think I’ll check the thing further.”
The director made a note. “The autopsy is this afternoon; maybe it will tell us something. Anything else?
“Did you notice his arms? Those funny little scars?”
The director made a further note. “We’ll look at them. But what do they have to do with it?”
Da Silva shrugged. “I don’t know. Just one more odd thing, is all. Put them all together, and—”
<
br /> “Put them all together and they spell a typical Da Silva hunch,” said the director, smiling. “Anything more?”
“Yes. I’d like some pictures of him. As he is. Good shots.”
The director leaned over and pushed a button. “All of our shots are good. It’s just that some of our models might be improved.” He grinned. “By the way, I suppose your report mentioned that there was nothing on his fingerprints.”
Da Silva nodded wearily. “I know. We’ve a long way to go yet in proper identification methods here, I’m afraid.” He pushed himself to his feet, glanced about once again for an ash tray, and then ground the cigarette out under his shoe.
A clerk came in and the director instructed him to provide sufficient copies of the morgue photographs. The clerk waited patiently as the director came around his desk and grasped Da Silva’s hand.
“That piece of paper you found,” he said quietly. “I know our boys missed it, and I’m not trying to excuse them, but a lot of talk about it wouldn’t do anyone any good. What I mean …” He seemed to notice the clerk standing there for the first time. “This character downstairs,” he said in a slightly louder tone, pumping Da Silva’s arm, “we don’t know if he’s yours or ours, but let’s make up our minds in a hurry and get him buried, eh? You know this place: standing room only.”
“We’ll bury him soon,” Da Silva said, smiling, and then added, “and quietly, I expect.”
He shook hands again and escaped, following the clerk into another office. With the pictures in his pocket he hurried out of the building and down to his car. Our relationship with the Homicide boys has probably not been improved today, he thought grimly. But my God! What searching!
He shot into the maze of traffic that clogs Rio at all hours. He glanced at his watch and turned off for the Santos-Dumont airport restaurant to meet Wilson. I suppose I could have ducked the entire issue, he thought; the man is undoubtedly Brazilian and not on any wanted list. It would have made the director happy and probably have saved a lot of trouble with Homicide. And a lot of work for myself. But still, there is the note, and more important, there is that feeling—that hunch …
He glanced at his watch once again, realizing he hadn’t seen it the first time he had looked. Twelve-ten and late again. Oh well, he thought, Wilson wouldn’t believe it if I ever got there on time anyway. We have to keep our Latin-American reputation secure, you know. He gunned the red Jaguar through traffic, grinning.
Wilson was seated at the curved jacarandá bar, foot tangled in bar rail, his hands cupping the glass as he stared morosely into his supposedly dry martini. He looked like nothing as much as a disgusted crystal-gazer as he sat there, yet none of the passers-by would have even wasted a second glance at him. He was a stocky, nondescript man wearing a blending combination of neutral shades; his ability to pass unnoticed in any group was one of his major assets in his profession. To the other members of the official family at the American Embassy, he was simply the security officer. As such, he was the one to whom tales of implied attacks against American Interests (such as a suitcase inadvertently opened in customs) were relayed, usually after the third cocktail. He was also the one who had to handle the disagreeable chore of dealing with the Brazilian Foreign Office when some character, unwanted in either country, but unfortunately the possessor of a green passport, decided to spend the money stolen in the North in the supposed security of the South. Very few knew of his connection with Interpol or with certain other Government agencies that most American citizens are unaware of. He and Da Silva had enjoyed many years of both official co-operation and personal friendship; Da Silva was one of the few who knew the true status of the other’s position.
At the touch of the firm hand upon his shoulder, Wilson turned around slowly, noted his companion as if with amazement, lifted his eyes to the ceiling with exaggerated drama, made a great show of consulting his wrist watch, and then sighed with such great disgust that the barman raised his eyebrows inquiringly, suspecting a deserved complaint about one of his mixtures.
Da Silva laughed. “Come now,” he said. “If you haven’t been here long enough to even finish your first drink, then I’m not really late. Not for me, that is.”
Wilson nodded solemnly. “And just how, Captain Da Silva,” he asked with exaggerated courtesy, “do you deduce that this is my first drink? What depths of intuitive genius do you explore to arrive at this conclusion?”
“A martini that dark?” There was a glint in Da Silva’s eyes. “You are too polite to send it back, but in your quiet but firm manner you would have directed the waiter to make the next one with far less vermouth.” He looked about, pulling at Wilson’s arm. “You see how simple it is when you know the secret? Let’s get ourselves a table while there are some.”
“Detectives!” said Wilson with mock bitterness, trailing along, drink in hand. “They should have warned me when I took this job that I’d have to associate with detectives! No privacy. No secrets.”
They selected a table along the double railing that overhung the noise and bustle of the lower level of the airport, and Wilson sank into his chair wearily, still clutching his glass. The roar of aircraft motors preparing to take off suddenly swept the room, followed by a sharp wave of warm air as one of the Convairs twisted on its nose and rumbled off toward the far end of the runway. The diners, quite accustomed to this normal part of their meal, merely clutched their napkins and newspapers until the minor hurricane had dissipated.
Wilson finished his drink and almost slammed his glass down. “What a damned racket!” he complained. “Why the devil do you always insist on eating here?”
“It’s the only decent place in town where you can eat in your shirt sleeves,” Da Silva explained gently, taking off his jacket and draping it across his chair. He sat down again, leaning back idly in the luxury of freedom from his outer clothing. “Take off your jacket and take advantage of it.”
“I like to eat in my jacket,” Wilson said stiffly. “Class, you know.”
“Besides,” Da Silva reminded him, taking an olive, “the point of a restaurant is food, and the food here isn’t too bad.”
Wilson snorted. “That’s a great recommendation: the food isn’t too bad! That’s the way I wish they would advertise. Why don’t you ever consider a place where the food is actually good?”
“There are such places?” Da Silva sounded interested. “In Rio?”
“There are,” Wilson said flatly. “And also places where the air conditioning doesn’t come from the south end of an airplane heading north.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Da Silva chided, and then grinned. “Anyway, I hate air conditioning.” His tone was that of one explaining an obvious truth to a dull mind. He paused to study the menu and give his order to the waiter and then waited while Wilson did the same. When he resumed the conversation there was no indication in either his manner or his voice that there had been any interruption. “I also hate airplanes, so just imagine what an additional pleasure it is to sit here and see hundreds of the beasts take off and know that I don’t have to get on one of them.”
Wilson sighed helplessly. “And what else do you hate, Daddy?”
Da Silva considered the question carefully. “Well, let’s see. I hate fat women in slacks. I hate holidays that fall on either Thursday or Tuesday. I hate all telephone calls, but I especially hate those that come after I’m asleep. I hate bad brandy.” He frowned, remembering; his face suddenly became serious. “Now that I think of it, I also hate morgues.”
Wilson was watching him steadily. “Morgues? Were you at the Instituto today?”
Da Silva nodded. “That’s why I was late.” He raised a hand hastily. “I mean, if I had been late, that would have been the reason.” But then he became serious again. “A body they found out on the beach early this morning. No identification. Cut and battered to pieces, but not as much blood as you’d expect.” He picked up another olive and stared at it, frowning. “If you’d seen him you’d know what I
mean. Unusual.”
Wilson stared at him gravely. “Anemic, do you suppose?”
Da Silva stared back, equally solemn. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that. That’s probably the answer. Or he may have just come from the Blood Bank and had a careless attendant.”
Wilson laughed. “Anything in it for you?”
Da Silva shrugged. “I don’t know. There are a few things that have to be checked.”
“Checked?”
But Da Silva changed the subject. He looked around the rapidly filling restaurant and heaved a sigh. “I love this breeze. Don’t be so Brazilian—take off your jacket. Enjoy it. You’ll appreciate it when you’re stacked up like cordwood at that cocktail party tonight.” He looked across the table. “You ought to sweat off ten pounds in your tux—which wouldn’t hurt you. If you’re going, that is.”
“Oh, I’m going. Of course I’m going.” Wilson abandoned the bread and transferred his attention to a fork. “Protocol and all that, you know. Protecting visiting senators is standard employment for security officers. Just think, if I weren’t there some enterprising photographer from one of your yellow sheets might sneak up and take a snap of the old boy with his hand on a secretary’s garter.” He suddenly smiled at the thought. “Oh well, it’s all part of the job. Want to come along? I can sneak you in as my third assistant. Just look stupid and nobody will know the difference.”
“I’d know the difference.” Da Silva grinned. “Anyway, I’ll be busy. Lots to do, and only me to do it.”
Isle of the Snakes Page 4
