Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Da Silva buried his head further under the pillow, but the shrill thread of sound followed him, burrowing under the pillow with him, dulled but persistent. In final surrender he flung the pillow away and rolled over, swinging his feet to the floor. The curtains swayed lightly in the night breeze, pleased at being joined in their lonely vigil; the floor felt faintly damp under his bare feet. The phosphorescent fingers of the clock on the night stand were angled to three o’clock. Da Silva yawned deeply and lifted the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain? This is Lieutenant Camargo.” Da Silva sighed, fighting the narcosis of sleep. Lieutenant Camargo was Homicide; he hadn’t even been on the fire engine. If he had his way, Camargo would never get to ride the fire engine at all. And just where in hell were his cigarettes?

  “Captain?”

  “I heard you. What’s the trouble?” The cigarettes were at his elbow on the corner of the night stand. But now where the hell were the matches?

  “Tell me, Captain—” the jocularity at the other end of the wire was forced, false—“have you been killing people lately?”

  The matches were on the floor; who the devil left them there? Da Silva fumbled a cigarette loose from the package and managed to light it one-handed. Three in the morning and he had to listen to bad humor. And from a man he never liked and who wasn’t endearing himself more by calling at this hour.

  He yawned openly into the telephone. “Nobody you know, Lieutenant. Why?”

  “Well, we picked up a corpse a few minutes ago, shot through the head. He had your card on him.”

  All traces of sleepiness fled. Da Silva cursed. The fool! The damned idiot! But maybe it wasn’t his fault; maybe they angled in on his cab and he had no choice. They were resourceful, these two!

  “Captain?”

  He drew deeply on his cigarette, watching the ash flare in the darkness. “It was a cab driver, wasn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, it was, Captain. What do you know …?”

  “Where was he found?”

  “In a little side street off the dock road. It’s pretty deserted around there at night, but some warehouse watchman heard the shot and came over. Look, Captain, what …?”

  “The poor bastard! Was anything taken from the cab?”

  There was a moment’s silence, probably of frustration, before the lieutenant answered. “There’s no way of knowing, Captain. The glove compartment had been pried loose. And the trunk was open. The seats were all pulled loose, front and back. Someone had searched the cab, but the driver’s money was all there. At least he had money in his pockets. Now, Captain, what I’d like to ask …”

  Da Silva was tempted to say that Homicide was doing better searching these days if they thought to look in a man’s pockets, but he refrained. Relations between him and Homicide were already sufficiently strained. “And my card was on him?”

  “On the floor of the cab.” The lieutenant’s tone indicated that these evasions had to end. “What’s the story, Captain?”

  “Hold the line a minute.” Da Silva flicked on the bed lamp, padded into the living room, and came back with an ash tray. He set it carefully on the night stand, crushed out his cigarette, and picked up the phone again. “Now, what do you want to know?”

  The slight wait had not improved either Lieutenant Camargo’s manners or his temper. “We want to know everything you can tell us.” Sarcasm, no longer held in rein, tinged the heavy voice. “Like who killed him, for example. We’re the Homicide Division, if you recall. We like to know these intimate little details about the dead bodies we collect. Especially when one of the big brains from Interpol seems to have all the answers. So you see, Captain,” he finished with relish, “all I’m asking for are the details. That’s not asking too much, is it, Captain?”

  Da Silva stared at the phone. Some of the boys resented or envied Interpol, and some of them resented or envied Da Silva personally. And some of them, like Camargo, resented and/or envied them both. Da Silva’s voice became cold.

  “All right,” he said evenly. “He was killed by two men, one large and the other small, but reportedly mean, who were—obviously—armed. For your further information they were driving a 1948 Buick with a twisted bumper, a four-door sedan repainted black. Poorly repainted, I might add.” That ought to hold the lieutenant, he thought a bit smugly. But the other’s voice was almost condescending as it answered.

  “We know all that, Captain. I’ll admit that we didn’t know the small man was reportedly mean, but we suspected it from the fact that the driver was shot. We found the Buick alongside the cab; it was stolen two days ago in Merití. And the watchman who saw the two men running from the scene described their heights.”

  Da Silva winced; the voice went on, almost oily in its condescension. “What we would like to know is how you know all this. And how your card came to be in the cab. And why these two men killed him. And what they were looking for when they tore the cab to pieces. And, of course, who the killers were.” The voice practically dripped. “Names, I mean.”

  Da Silva looked at the clock on the night stand; it now pointed to three-fifteen. “It’s late, Lieutenant. We’ll go over it in the morning.” He sighed. “If it helps Homicide any between now and then, he was killed by the same two men who also killed a man out at Gávea Beach yesterday …”

  Honest interest cut into the sarcasm. “You mean the one who was knifed?”

  “Not knifed, cut,” Da Silva said patiently. “Also beaten to a pulp. They don’t know what actually killed him, or maybe they do by now. The autopsy report ought to be in by this time.”

  “It is,” said the lieutenant. “He died of heart failure. They say his heart was in bad condition from some sort of poisoning over a number of years. I guess the sight of the knife did it, or maybe the first tickle. I’d guess they worked over a dead man for some time.”

  And that explains the small amount of bleeding, Da Silva thought. He remembered and added, “The same two men also beat up a bartender down on Rua Riachuelo last night. In Lapa, near the arches …”

  The lieutenant’s voice had completely altered. While it could not be said that respect had entered it, at least the sarcasm had left. “I have that one, too,” he said slowly. “He died about midnight in the Vargas Hospital. Without talking, unfortunately.” There was a pause. “All right, Captain, what’s the story?”

  Da Silva shrugged and reached for another cigarette. The curtains at the window billowed in as if eager to eavesdrop on his reply. “I don’t know, Lieutenant,” he said wearily. “This man they picked up dead on Gávea Beach came to Rio carrying a package these two men wanted. They’ve been looking for it everywhere he went since he got to town.” The cigarette he had just lit suddenly tasted bitter; he leaned forward and flipped it through the open window. The curtains, as if insulted by this careless gesture so conducive to setting fire to innocent draperies, puffed back into place. “So far they haven’t found it. He stopped at the bar in Lapa, which explains the bartender there. He rode this cab, which explains the dead driver. So far it’s cost three lives, this package.”

  There was silence for a minute. “Do you know what was in the package, Captain? And do you know where it is? Who has it?”

  Da Silva was tired; the clock on the night stand kept reminding him that his hours for sleep were disappearing. He wanted to get back to the fire engine and the good men playing cards. “The package is safe, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, for the time being it’s under my jurisdiction.”

  The lieutenant was shocked and his tone indicated it. “But look, Captain! That package is evidence!”

  “Is it?” Da Silva lifted his eyebrows; it was a pity that the lieutenant could not see them. “Evidence of what, Lieutenant?”

  “Evidence of murder, Captain!”

  “It is? And the three dead bodies aren’t? Look, Lieutenant, it’s late and I’m tired. I’ve had a long, hard day. Suppose we talk about it in the morning.”

  But Lieutena
nt Camargo was hot on the trail of a clue. “Just a second, Captain! What was in the package?”

  Da Silva smiled humorlessly at the phone. “I’ll tell you for what it’s worth—a dead snake.”

  “A what?”

  “A dead snake. Stuffed. And we’ll talk about it in the morning. I’ll even allow you to take pictures of it if you want. But not now. I’ve had a long day and I’m tired. Is that all right with you, Lieutenant?” His voice had unconsciously hardened; Lieutenant Camargo received the message.

  “All right, Captain. In the morning. But just one thing before you hang up—about the card. Your card. How did it get …?”

  “In the morning,” Da Silva said firmly. “Go to sleep. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “But, Captain!” The lieutenant attempted to portray blocked authority determined to fulfill its duty at all costs. “We have a dead man here …”

  “He won’t be any deader by daylight,” Da Silva said. “I said in the morning, Lieutenant. I’m going to say good night now.”

  “All right, Captain. But early in the morning, do you hear?” There was a veiled threat back of the words; the receiver at the other end was slammed down.

  Da Silva hung up and snapped off the bed lamp, dropping back on the bed, closing his eyes, but he knew that sleep would be hard to recapture after that phone call. Lieutenant Camargo did not bother him; the lieutenant was a trouxe, a boob. In the old days, before Interpol and the reorganization of certain sections of the national police departments, a man of Camargo’s talents, or lack of them, rather, would have swallowed his tongue before he spoke to an officer with a superior title with anything except groveling acquiescence. Today, with authority and responsibility split eight ways, with everyone out to grab whatever personal glory he could get and to the devil with co-operation, the only ones who stood to gain were the criminals.

  He rolled over on his side, blotting Lieutenant Camargo from his mind. But he could not blot the picture of the body in the morgue from his mind, or the memory of his last drink with the dead cab driver in that noisy little bar in the Praça Mauá. Three dead, and for what? A snake? A dead, stuffed snake? It made no sense at all. Could he have been wrong? Maybe the package had nothing to do with the case at all. Maybe Wilson was right, and it was only coincidence. Or maybe there had been another package—one with money or jewels—and this one was unimportant or accidental. Maybe this package was just a blind; but in that case, why a snake? Why not only folded newspapers or even just an empty box? Or why anything? Better yet, he thought grimly, tugging the pillow into a more comfortable position, why not the names of the killers engraved on the box lid in boldface?

  He rolled over again, staring at the corner of the sky visible through the open window. Mottled clouds rode under a full moon; the curtains, jealous, swept over to obscure the view. Could there really have been two packages? No, he thought definitely, one package is enough! Let us not bring in a second and complicate things even further. But a snake, a dead snake! Something connected with Macumba or one of the other primitive religions that cropped up every now and then in the interior? No, snakes were the one thing that every Brazilian feared and hated. They played no part in any religion here. Then what?

  Maybe it will all make more sense in the morning, he thought, and rolled over for a third time, this time facing the wall, closing his eyes determinedly. Maybe if I try to dream of snakes some idea will come; but the picture of the rigid little body with the glittering eyes made him shudder and his mind fled for sanctuary back to the fire engine. Where had they been going? And how did those splendid fellows manage to play cards out there on the tail gate? Let’s suppose we were going to a fire out at the Jockey Club. The stands blazing, tiers of fire, horses neighing in panic … no, let’s forget the horses neighing. The stables aren’t touched, just the stands and the bar … no, not the bar either. This is impossible, he thought, and knew that the morning would find the problem as confusing as ever. The sudden ringing of the telephone almost brought relief; he swung his feet to the floor again, picking up the receiver almost with satisfaction.

  “Captain Da Silva?”

  “Speaking.” Well, at least it isn’t Camargo again, he thought, and was pleased at the thought. But then, who …?

  The thin veneer of apology in the tense voice was woefully transparent. “I hate to bother you at this hour, Captain Da Silva, but the fact is that I’ve lost a small package, and I think you may be able to help me find it.”

  Da Silva’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully; his hand gripped the receiver tightly. “Who is this?”

  “Never mind who I am. How about it, Da Silva? Do you have a package that doesn’t belong to you?”

  Da Silva took a tremulous breath. Contact! he thought. He smiled at the phone viciously, his fingers biting into the cool plastic. The presence of his card in the cab had at least served one purpose. “Maybe I have,” he said slowly, spacing his words. “Why don’t we arrange a meeting where we can discuss it?”

  There was an unbelieving gasp from the other end of the line. Da Silva shook his head. You’re too used to failure, he wanted to say; you shouldn’t lose hope that easily. He could hear a muffled, excited conversation in the background and then a sudden “Shut up!” The voice came back on the wire, the edge of triumph audible. “Where did you get it?”

  “I’d say that would be one of the things for the agenda of our meeting,” Da Silva said softly.

  “For the what?” There was hard suspicion in the question.

  “For the meeting. I’ll tell you all about it when we meet.”

  “Good enough! Where?”

  “Well,” Da Silva said easily, his voice carrying the conviction that he had given the matter careful thought, “how about the Central Police Station?”

  Silence greeted this, and then one short, vicious curse. “Look, you! Don’t try to be funny! I want that package!” There was a sudden pause, and then the voice continued, soft and almost wheedling, “Did you say the Central Police Station? Is the snake there?”

  “Well, no,” Da Silva admitted. “The Police Station doesn’t have any facilities for handling snakes. But it’s not too far from there, and I thought we could meet there, and then …”

  “Then?”

  “Then after we book you for murder, we might discuss it.”

  There was a curse in his ears. “Listen, Da Silva! You can stop all of that wise talk! I want that package and I’m going to get it!”

  “How?” Da Silva sounded honestly curious. “What’s your proposal? That we meet at—let’s say the airport restaurant, tomorrow? I’ll be wearing a carnation and you carry a copy of O Cruzeiro under your arm. How’s that?”

  The man at the other end sounded bitter. “How did you ever get into this, anyway?”

  Da Silva stared at the phone. This time his amazement was genuine. “You go around killing people and then you ask how the police get into it? Now that’s really a stupid question!”

  The telephone released another nasty word. There was further muffled conversation and then a barely heard “Shut up!” Da Silva suddenly grinned; he was beginning to enjoy himself. Boys, boys, he whispered silently in the darkness, you’ve got enough trouble without fighting.

  “All right, Captain.” The voice was more conciliatory, almost resigned. “How much?”

  Da Silva felt it was time to verify certain facts. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “How much are dead snakes bringing these days?”

  There was silence. Then, tightly, “How much do you want?”

  Da Silva grinned to himself. Wait until he saw Wilson! Wait until he saw that great stone-face! Coincidence, eh? Incinerator, eh? God bless hunches, he added. God bless stubborn policemen named Da Silva. He spoke softly into the phone. “Make me an offer.”

  The voice was cold, as if it hated itself for what it was saying. “One million cruzeiros.”

  Da Silva almost sneered. “Make me another offer.”

  There was an expl
osion of anger. “Now you look here! If we have to, we’ll get along without it! We’ll find it without it! The snake isn’t absolutely essential, you know!”

  “No? You’ll admit it’s pretty important, though. It’s cost three lives so far. That’s not cheap, you know.” If I had the faintest idea of what we were talking about, Da Silva thought, this would make for a far more intelligent conversation.

  The whisper that answered him announced defeat. “All right, two million.”

  “You’re closer,” Da Silva admitted, and grinned in the darkness. “Once more?”

  There was a sigh. “Three million?” The voice hardened, but it was the hardness of the actor reading a line. “That’s the last offer!”

  Da Silva nodded. “What if I said at three it’s a deal?”

  “Can you get the package? Wherever it is?”

  “I can get it. The question is, can you get the three million cruzeiros?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” I’m sure I wouldn’t have to, Da Silva thought. After all, what would I spend it on? A veined-marble tombstone? “All right, then,” the voice went on. “Where do we meet?”

  “I told you,” Da Silva said patiently. “The Central Police Station.” Let’s see how far we can needle this character; he seems to be the unstable type.

  But the torrent of abuse he had expected failed to materialize. Instead, the sinuous thread of sound that reached his ear was deadly and quiet. “All right, Da Silva. O.K., Captain. You’ve had your fun. You say there are three dead? Let’s see if we can’t arrange one more by morning. You being the fourth.” The receiver was placed on the hook so softly that it was only when the dial tone came on that Da Silva realized the other had hung up.

  “My, my! Temper!” Da Silva said chidingly and got to his feet; but his face was not smiling, and his eyes were deathly cold. He checked the chain locks on the front and back doors of his apartment, took his police automatic from his desk and laid it on the night stand. He padded to the open window and looked down thoughtfully at the eight sheer stories that separated him from the silent pavement beneath. The curtain, shocked by the look on Da Silva’s face, swirled away from him, curling itself protectively about the window frame.