That telephone call was a bad mistake on their part, he thought, and lay down once again on the bed. They should never have let me know how important the snake was. He yawned and closed his eyes. This time, illogically, sleep did not fight him. The fire engine, which had been waiting patiently for his return, formed at once in his dream; but this time it was not the Jaguar, but a Pau de Arara badly repainted a bright shade of red. And of the men hanging on behind, two were faceless. Da Silva tried looking back to see if he could recognize them, but other than the fact that one was small and the other large, they were only shadows.
He turned back to the wheel, snoring.
The sight of his police positive lying lethally quiescent on the night stand brought back to Da Silva, in the morning, the brutal fact that his dream the night before had been confined to the fire engine. The conversation with the killers had been no dream. He rubbed sleep from his face, sitting on the edge of the bed, and lit a cigarette. Well, he thought, we advance, but in what direction?
A hot shower drove the last remnants of sleep away. Facing the mirror as he shaved, Da Silva momentarily contemplated removing his thick mustache as a means of attaining at least a partial disguise, but then he realized that in all probability the killers didn’t even know what he looked like. All they knew about him, at least at present, was represented by a name and a telephone number. And besides, he reminded his pockmarked image in the steaming glass, quirking his heavy eyebrows ceilingward to emphasize the point, a Da Silva dies with his mustache on! The male members of the family, that is, he hastily corrected. He tried to get some satisfaction from this whimsy, but he knew as he dried his face that this was no joking matter. Three people had been killed, and Da Silva intended to do everything in his power to avoid becoming the fourth.
It was not the first time that threats had come his way. Nor was it the first time that people had attempted to make good on these threats. Luck, a willing and able partner to quick reactions and good co-ordination, had saved him up to now. I’m not the bravest man in the world, he admitted to his frowning face, but damn it, I’m not the most cowardly, either. Forget about being the most cowardly or the most brave, he suddenly advised the watchful brown eyes peering back at him from the mirror; just try to be the most careful.
A sudden rap at the back door brought him, towel-wrapped, alert, and pistol in hand, to stand behind and to one side of the chained panel. The rap came again, imperiously.
“Yes?”
“Senhor?” It was the day maid. Who’s nervous? he asked himself, and unlatched the door. The maid came in, showing no great surprise at either the towel-draped figure of her employer or the pistol facing her. Da Silva rechained the latch and turned to leave.
“I forgot my key this morning, senhor. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.” He paused. “Just coffee and some toast this morning, Francisca. I’m not too hungry.”
“Sim, senhor.” She watched the bare shoulders disappear behind the bedroom door with admiration and then bent to the closet containing the pots and pans. She didn’t understand the pistol, but it was all right with her. In the little village of Ceará from whence she came, the only men worth while were men with pistols.
His brief breakfast finished, Da Silva slipped his pistol into the side pocket of his jacket and adjusted his Panama hat before the hall mirror. The pocket sagged in an ungainly fashion under the weight of the automatic, but today was one day when the tall detective was not depending on his ability to reach for a shoulder holster in fast-draw competition. We suffer for fashion, he told his trim image; today I’m afraid that fashion must suffer for us. The maid watched him idly, broom in hand, prepared to take over as soon as the boss left for work. Da Silva turned to her.
“Did you see Manuel in the garage when you came in?”
“Sim, senhor. He’s here. He came on the same bus as I did.”
“Good.” He smiled at her as he reached for the house telephone. Not a bad-looking girl, he thought. Or maybe it is only that danger stimulates the glands. “Manuel? Senhor Da Silva here. Could you bring out my car? I’ll be right down.”
“Right away, sir!” The garage attendant nodded vigorously at the phone in his hand; Captain Da Silva was his favorite customer. And how he loved to drive that Jaguar, even if it was only from the depths of the apartment garage to the street front!
Da Silva checked his gun once again and settled it in one side of his jacket pocket, one large hand curling comfortably about it. Man about town, he thought; standard pose, with one hand nonchalantly settled in pocket. He nodded pleasantly to the maid and went through the front door to the elevator. Not a bad-looking girl at all.…
It was when the elevator was between the third and second floor, descending in that viscous fashion of all automatic elevators, like deep-sea divers sinking slowly in warm honey, that Da Silva heard the explosion. It jarred the tiny cab; the blasts of hot air rising in the narrow shaft from the closed confines of the garage below were strong enough to temporarily halt the boxlike affair. It immediately settled on the cables once again with a sharp jerk and then started again on its torturous descent. Da Silva fumed with impatience. The shock waves of sound reverberated within the elevator shaft deafeningly. He caught at the door handle as soon as they had settled; the automatic mechanism momentarily held. With a curse he pulled again and the door swung open. He ran headlong into the open area of the garage, fearful of what he would find.
The red Jaguar was a shambles. The body of the garage attendant, caught at the wheel when the explosion came, was twisted sickeningly about the steering gear. The door beside him had sprung half open at the violent detonation; one leg dangled idiotically over the open sill at an odd angle, as if its owner were attempting a belated escape. The windshield, disintegrating before that furious charge, had left the eager face a formless pulp of blood and tiny shards of broken glass; the steering wheel had punched back, pinning the body helplessly to the rapidly staining nylon upholstery.
Even as he tugged at the flaccid body, attempting to loosen it from its tangled position behind the wheel, Da Silva kept up a steady stream of bitter invective. The Jaguar had swerved with the blast, battering itself against one of the huge concrete pillars of the garage exit, locking the curved steering wheel under the crushed chest of the dead body in implacable embrace. It was only by forcing the seat cushion away, and lifting the body clear from above, that he was finally able to extract it from the bent steering shaft. Da Silva carried the crushed body a bit away from the smoking wreckage and laid it carefully on the smooth concrete of the sloping garage floor. A trail of blood had followed his path from the car; he unconsciously scuffed at it, grinding it into the dust of the floor.
Others were now appearing; startled tenants flooded down the stairway from the upper levels, several passers-by trotted down the ramp leading in from the street, to halt in reverent wonder at the bloody sight. A radio patrol car screamed to a halt before the building, either attracted by the unusual commotion or called by some frantic tenant. A sergeant and two uniformed policemen came down the ramp, shouldering aside the gathering crowd. They recognized Da Silva and waited as the tall detective pushed himself to his feet and stared down with an expressionless face at the lifeless body on the garage floor.
“He’s dead. Call an ambulance and have him taken down to the Instituto.” He looked around dully. “The hall porter upstairs can give you all the information on him.” He turned to leave and then came back, drawing the police sergeant to one side. For several seconds he held the sergeant by the arm, silent, thinking. The sergeant waited patiently. “Look, Sergeant. Have them hold him there at the Instituto for a few days as an unidentified. If the family has to know, all right, but not the newspapers. Tell the director that’s the way I want it, and tell him I’ll be in touch with him and explain.”
“Right.” The sergeant had long since learned not to question orders; he went immediately to telephone.
Da Silva took one la
st look at the crumpled body sprawled on the garage floor. Someone had obtained a sheet and was settling it over the body; another was already busy fixing candles at the head and feet. Forgive me for using you in death even as I used you in life, Manuel, he thought. Though you don’t know it, you saved my life. If you had missed your bus this morning, or decided to stop by and see your girl friend, or have a second cup of coffee for breakfast, you would have carried me from that car. And in return for your ultimate kindness, I am asking you to withhold your identity for a while. It’s really not so much, Manuel, and it may help confuse the man who killed you. And besides, if there is any place beyond this pointless idiot excursion we call life, you are already there, and minor subterfuges wouldn’t fool Them in any event.
He pushed through the crowd brusquely and rode upward in the small elevator, his face a rigid mask. The day maid was leaning out of the window when he opened the door; she turned to ask about the excitement evident below, but one look at Da Silva’s face and she bent swiftly to her tasks. She had seen faces like that in Ceará, when the rain hadn’t fallen for one more day and when one more head of cattle had simply lain down and died. You did not talk to people with faces like that. Da Silva picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Hello, Wilson?”
At the other end of the line Wilson yawned deeply. “Hello, Zé. I recognize your dulcet tones. God, what an hour to call!” He yawned again. “Which reminds me, what time is it?”
“A little after eight. Listen, Wilson, how busy are you at the Embassy?”
Wilson rubbed his eyes. “A little after eight? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea of when I finally managed to get the senator into his trundle bed? And finally managed to stagger into my own?”
Da Silva clamped his jaws shut. “Wake up!” he said tightly. “How busy are you at the Embassy?”
Wilson scratched his head and yawned again. “Well, you know how it is—always something to keep idle hands at play.”
“Can you get away?”
Wilson sat up a bit straighter in bed. He knew Da Silva when he employed that tone; he also recognized the question. Similar questions in the past had brought him many interesting adventures. He cupped the telephone closer. “Why? What’s up?”
“How would you like to take a trip with me?”
“In that lovely Jaguar? Any time!”
“Not in the Jaguar. The Jaguar is …” He thought of the Jaguar and of Manuel pinned bloodily back of the bent wheel. His jaw hardened. “In the taxicab.”
Wilson’s eyebrows went up. He was more than familiar with Da Silva’s taxicab; the rippling scar on his right arm was the result of one adventure in that most unusual automobile. “All right,” he said more slowly, more soberly. “Of course. When?”
“Right now. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
Wilson’s eyebrows went up again, but long experience with his tall friend had taught him not to ask needless questions. “Ill be ready,” he said, already swinging his feet from beneath the covers. “Just one question—where?”
“Urubuapá.”
Wilson stared at the phone. “Where on earth is that?”
“On the south coast of São Paulo state. A small fishing village. I’ll tell you all about it on the way down. And, Wilson, you still have that snake in your safe, don’t you?”
“I sure have,” Wilson said indignantly. “I’ll also bet I have the smelliest rent receipts in Rio de Janeiro.” His voice became serious. “Zé, what are we doing, going to a small fishing village?”
“Going fishing,” Da Silva said grimly. “So bring your gun!”
On the platform of the main bus station in the Praça Mauá, Jorge and Luis were waiting for the Santos bus. From Santos they would pick up a connection back to Urubuapá, one of the small local buses which ran down the coast to Paranaguá.
They sat quietly. The stunning finality of his loss seemed to have drained the fury from Jorge. Luis was still not clear as to exactly what had happened. Or why. Particularly why. Why they were taking a bus back home empty-handed, for example. He lit a cigarette and stole a sideways glance at his younger brother.
“Jorge …” The other looked up dully. “Jorge, why are we going back? Without the snake, I mean?”
Jorge’s jaw tightened dangerously, then, strangely enough, relaxed. “Forget the snake. It’s gone.” His own words seemed to sink into his blunted consciousness. He turned to his brother with mounting anger, his mouth working. “It’s gone, you fool. Can’t you realize it? It’s gone! Gone!”
Despite the intensity of his brother’s reactions, it still wasn’t too clear to Luis. “But you said last night this Da Silva knew where it was. If he knows where it is, how can it be gone?”
“Shut up!”
“But …”
“Now look!” Jorge clasped his hands together tightly, clamping them between his thin legs. “Wherever it is, there’s no way to get it now. Do you understand that? Can you understand that?” He stared at his brother doggedly, trying to get his message across. “So now will you please shut up?”
“But …”
“The worst thing,” Jorge continued, his anger slowly rekindling, “the saddest thing, is that someone has it somewhere and they don’t even know what they have! The fools!” His fury, contained longer than usual, finally broke loose once again. “The damned, idiotic fools! A fortune and they don’t even know what they have!”
“This Captain Da Silva,” Luis pointed out. “He knows. You said that he knows.”
The fury abated as quickly as it had come. “Forget about Captain Da Silva!” Jorge glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. “In fact, don’t mention his name anywhere. Forget you ever heard the name, do you understand?”
“But why?”
Jorge closed his eyes in desperation and then opened them again. “Because I tell you to, that’s why!”
Luis pondered this. That’s a rather strange request, he thought, especially coming from Jorge. You’d think Jorge would want to keep saying things about Captain Da Silva—nasty things, like. And then a possibility struck him. Jorge thinks I’m stupid, but I’d be willing to bet anything that I’m right about this.
“Jorge …” he started.
“Shut up,” Jorge said, but there was no immediate anger in his voice. He unclasped his hands and laid one on his brother’s knee thoughtfully. “Look, Luis, you know the island, don’t you?”
Luis stopped short in his thinking; he had not expected this question, but being honest, he attempted to answer to the best of his ability. “Nobody knows the island, Jorge. Armando knew it better than anyone else, and he only knew a part of it. Why?” He paused—what had I been thinking about before? What had I been about ready to ask?
“What’s it like? I’ve just sailed about it. I’ve never been on it.”
Luis considered. “I was only on the shore; that time I helped Armando take off those cases … It looked pretty wild.” He tried to repicture the island in his mind. “Lots of trees …”
Jorge shook his head impatiently. “I know there are lots of trees! What I mean is, how dangerous is it, really? How far could you go if you don’t know where you’re going?”
Luis almost giggled. “With those snakes? If you don’t know where you’re going, maybe ten feet.”
“We’ll go farther!” Jorge sat up and slapped his tiny hand against his leg. “We’ll go all the way.” He looked at his brother almost slyly. “You can go anywhere on that island if you want to. You’re big, and you’re strong, and you’re brave. And you’ve been there; you know the place. Better than anyone else now.”
Luis smiled. “I guess I could at that. I just never tried it before. I’m not afraid.” The smile faded. “Of course I never went there without Armando, and he’s …” Memory of the query that had been forming in his mind before suddenly came back to him. “Jorge, what I was going to say before—where did you go last night after you left me?”
Jorge l
ooked at him. “Why?”
“I was only asking.”
Jorge stared at the dirty cement walk beneath his feet. “I made a telephone call, that’s all.”
“Did you talk to The Man, Jorge? Did you?”
The hard, mean lines tightened about Jorge’s mouth. “Yes, damn it! Yes, I talked to him!”
Luis nodded. “Did you tell him, Jorge? What did he say? Was he mad?”
The sheer stupidity of this question almost caused Jorge to explode. “What do you think he said? A fortune lost and us responsible!” His voice was bitter. “Because you can’t drive …”
Luis passed this by. “You’re afraid of The Man, aren’t you, Jorge?”
There was a deep sigh, torn from some depths of the shrunken figure. “Yes,” he said in almost a whisper, “I’m afraid of The Man.”
“I’m not afraid of The Man,” Luis said, almost proudly. His mind returned to the subject that had been nagging it. “Did you tell him about this Captain Da Silva, Jorge?”
Jorge looked around swiftly. “Shut up!” he said softly. “I told you not to mention that name!”
“But did you, Jorge?”
Jorge stared into the bright, eager eyes of his huge brother. “He told me,” he said softly. His glance swung along the deserted platform. “He told me plenty …”
“Did he tell you …?”
But Jorge had had enough. “Shut up!” he said darkly.
Their bus pulled up from the waiting area and slid alongside the platform. The door opened and the driver came down, ticket punch in hand; the huge monster began ingesting passengers pythonwise, swallowing them whole. Jorge slipped into a window seat and leaned back against the stiff plastic that topped the mountainous back rest. He looks so small there, Luis thought, sitting down beside him. Just like he did when he was a kid and I had to take care of him. So small and helpless … He smiled at the thought of Jorge being considered helpless.
Isle of the Snakes Page 10
