Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “What’s he saying?” Jorge asked suspiciously, sitting higher in his chair.

  “How should I know?” The old man was worried; he wasn’t getting anywhere.

  “He really is stupid,” said Jorge in deep disgust, eying Wilson as if he were some odd marine animal being viewed through glass. “We’ll just have to wait for that taxi driver of his to show up. Ask him where the taxi driver … No, don’t bother.”

  Wilson caught at the old man’s arm. “Beer,” he said. He held his two hands apart approximately the length of a quart bottle, made a swooping drinking motion, and pointed forcefully to the large refrigerator back of the bar. The old man, happy to have arrived at some form of communication with this stupid one—rich but stupid one, he amended—ran off and came back with a bottle and a glass.

  “Thank you,” Wilson said gratefully.

  He started to pour his drink, remembered his manners, and lifted his eyebrows in the direction of Jorge and Luis at the neighboring table, his sweeping hand motion clearly indicating, in a sign language known throughout the world, his invitation to be joined in a drink. Jorge scowled, but Luis came to life, sitting higher in his chair.

  “He’s offering us a drink, Jorge,” he said, intrigued not only by the offer but also—as the old man had been—by his ability to understand the odd creature. He immediately called over the waiter. Jorge grunted inhospitably but grudgingly agreed to accept a drink. The old waiter hustled.

  Wilson waited until all were served and then, just as he was raising his glass to his lips with a small salute, intelligence seemed to flare. A smile swept his face; he set the glass down and nodded his head vigorously. “Eight?” He pointed to his watch and raised eight fingers. I haven’t had this much fun, he thought gleefully, since they had those handies.

  “Yes,” said the little sour-faced man in the peaked cap, shaking his head disgustedly. “Oito!” Wilson looked extremely pleased at his own cleverness and returned to his drink. A police sergeant came wandering disconsolately up the road from the delegacia. He came in, leaned wearily on the bar, and said hello to the occupants.

  “Beer,” he said, and shook his head. “It’s politics, that’s what it is!” he added bitterly.

  “Politics? What’s politics?” Jorge’s glance fixed the sergeant contemptuously. Luis paid no attention to the conversation; he was busy with his drink.

  “What else could it be but politics?” the sergeant demanded in an aggrieved tone of voice. “Why else would he have called me all the way from Rio de Janeiro—on the telephone that is, of course—and tell me that I should arrest a captain of police? And him only a lieutenant?” He poured his drink and stared at the foaming collar morosely. “He didn’t call it arrest; he called it detain, but it’s the same thing. And just suppose this Lieutenant Camargo doesn’t have the authority he claims to have? What if I pick up a captain of police and it turns out to be a big mistake? Who will be holding the empty sack? Whose neck will be na forca? Me! Mine!” He sucked his teeth, but without his usual relish. “In any event,” he suddenly added with both conviction and the relief that came from that conviction, “it is almost certain that this captain of police won’t even pass this way.”

  “You are a complete fool,” Jorge said with his habitual tone of being irritated. “You are a fool, and the son of a fool, and the great-grandson of a fool.” His omission of the grandfather did not seem to strike anyone as strange. “Why don’t you either make sense or keep your big mouth shut?”

  But the sergeant was apparently used to Jorge and considered these words, quite rightly, to be merely rhetorical. “A Captain Da Silva he wants me to arrest. Or detain, he calls it, but it’s really the same thing. A Captain José Da Silva. Of the police!” He frowned darkly and then turned, appealing the case to his audience, one of whom, at least, was paying him tense attention.

  “Now, it has to be politics, doesn’t it? What else could it be? How else would a lieutenant of Homicide ask for the arrest—all right, detention—of a captain?” He turned back to his drink, satisfied that he had made his point. And also satisfied that here in Urubuapá, at least, such things could never happen; his brother-in-law was prefeito, and a distant cousin on his mother’s side was a Deputado.

  He suddenly found his arm gripped by small but fierce fingers. His beer sloshed dangerously; he turned in amazement to find Jorge at his side, the small face screwed up in a terrifying grimace.

  “A who? A Captain who? Did you say a Captain Da Silva? What are you talking about?”

  The sergeant disengaged his arm forcefully. “What’s the matter with you, Jorge? Grabbing my arm like that!”

  “I said, what are you talking about?” There was a frightening look in the glaring eyes; the sergeant became nervous. This Jorge was a queer one, all right! Some of the stories they told about him …

  “I’m telling you,” the sergeant said defensively. “I just got a telephone call from Rio de Janeiro, from a tal Lieutenant Camargo. He’s in the Homicide division. He wants me to arrest, but he calls it detain, a captain of police named Da Silva. For withholding information, or because he was a witness to something, or because this Camargo wants him to be a witness to something. I’m not too sure; he wasn’t very clear. And the connection …” He dismissed the connection, returning to his original thesis. “Now, what else could it be but politics?”

  “And this Captain Da Silva,” Jorge asked in almost a strangled whisper, “he is here? In Urubuapá? What made this lieutenant think that he would be here? In Urubuapá?”

  The sergeant shrugged elaborately. “How should I know? In any event, what would he be doing here?”

  “You have a picture of him?” The fingers came back to the sergeant’s arm, biting deep.

  The sergeant jerked his arm away viciously. Crazy or not, this Jorge had no right to grab his uniform that way; it wrinkled the material. Still, there was no point in needlessly angering this type. “I told you it was a telephone call,” he said, explaining. “How would I have a picture? But I have a description.” He drank his beer.

  Jorge almost tore the glass from his lips. “And what was this description, you fool?” The rich American tourist leaned back, bored by this jabber in an unintelligible tongue, his eyes fixed innocently on the old waiter’s seamed face.

  “Well,” said the sergeant, figuring it was best to answer and get the matter over with, “he’s a tall man, about five feet eleven in height, and maybe forty years old. Dark complexion with a mustache.” He paused, closing his eyes and screwing up his face remembering. “Pock-marked face, black curly hair, dark-brown eyes.” He opened his eyes and thought a moment. “Almost sounds Indio, doesn’t he? Except for the curly hair, of course.” He pulled his sleeve straight where Jorge had gripped him, as if by this gesture to reassert his authority and independence. “And his name is José Da Silva.” He turned back to his beer. “And they want me to arrest—detain—him. Arrest a captain of police! Me! It’s ridiculous.”

  The old man was busy polishing the marble top of the bar. “Why would a policeman come to Urubuapá in the first place?” he asked. “Especially if he were running away from something?” It was obvious that the description had meant nothing to him or more likely that he hadn’t even listened to it. He noticed Wilson watching him, and before the American could look away, he was out from behind the table and standing attentively before the American.

  “More beer?” He pointed to the empty bottle. Wilson almost waggled a finger in negation but caught himself just in time; it was a typical Brazilian gesture. Instead he shook his head, reached into his pocket, and presented for the old man’s inspection a handful of paper money. The old man hesitated and then extracted the proper amount for the drinks. He glanced at Wilson’s impenetrable face with one more second’s hesitation and then extracted another note. Wilson waited. The old man sighed and folded Wilson’s fingers over the balance. “It is paid,” he said sadly.

  Jorge was still standing at the bar beside the sergea
nt; his narrowed eyes were fixed, trancelike, in the distance. Suddenly he wheeled sharply; Wilson reached up and caught at the thin arm. “Eight?” he said with a blank smile and again held up his eight fingers. The little man stared at him blindly, as if he had never seen him before, and then swung about to the table holding his brother.

  “Luis!”

  “But I’m not through yet …”

  “Luis!”

  The large man tried to finish his drink in one gulp, coughed on it, spilled most of it on his tattered sweater, and arose, trying to brush the drops of liquid free. “All right, all right!” he said sulkily. “I’m coming …” But his brother was already out of the broad doorway and walking swiftly down the deserted street.

  Wilson arose, yawning. He smiled pleasantly at the sergeant and the old man. “Eight,” he said again, held up his fingers, and sauntered off down the street.

  “it?” The sergeant looked up from his beer, staring at the old man in a puzzled fashion. “What’s âit?” The old man didn’t even bother to answer; the sergeant returned to his beer, shaking his head dismally. The entire evening had been completely confusing.

  At the corner of the street Wilson paused and, in a fashion he was quite adept at, managed to get a glimpse of the main cobbled street below without in any way appearing to be peeking. His heart sank; Jorge and Luis were engaged in a discussion before the hotel. Jorge was pointing to the hotel, and apparently, for once in his life, Luis was agreeing with his younger brother. Well, Wilson thought with discouragement, of course it would be the logical place to check first, especially in a town this small. And the proprietor, faced with that damned accurate description, and facing the force of Jorge’s fury, would not be long in directing them to his friend’s room. There would be no time at all to warn Da Silva; therefore some other means of saving the situation would have to be devised.

  Wilson waited impatiently for the two to finish their interminable talk. He passed the time by staring through the grillwork into the glass of the pharmacy window before him. The ancient display contained toothpaste and truss ads intermingled as if one depended upon the other. They had obviously been there since the building was built, if not before.

  His reflection stared back at him, somber and colorless. You do look sort of stupid at that, he said to his image; at least you don’t look very bright. Now let’s just see if you can manage to be brighter than you look—the situation, to say the least, demands it. Brighter than that insufferable, indescribable idiot Camargo, at the very least; that miserável filho really managed to heave the fat into the pan! He glanced about the corner once again; the two brothers were just disappearing into the low hotel entrance. He started down the empty street at a half run and then, with a muffled curse at his own imprudence, forced himself to reduce his pace to a normal walk. Running! Didn’t you hear me? he asked himself with more than a touch of anger. I just this minute got through saying let’s not be stupid!

  By the time he came past the hotel he was strolling quite casually, although it was only by an effort that was almost insupportable. He passed the entrance without a glance and came to pause at the side of the cab parked against the curb a bit further down the street. Time was important; but other things were also important. A quick glance up and down the street indicated that there was no one about; a second later he had the cab door unlocked and was reaching hurriedly beneath the front seat for an automatic. The spare box containing clips that always accompanied the gun went into his jacket pocket. He straightened easily, locked the cab door in almost the same motion, and was strolling idly down the street all within seconds. It was doubtful that anyone watching him could even have been sure that he had rifled the taxi or had even stopped. The pistol was tucked comfortably in his trouser pocket; his finger caressed the trigger guard lovingly.

  Where the main street ran out of its cobbled length to disappear into the beach, he calmly turned and merged into the shadows of the last building. It was done so easily that he seemed to have simply disappeared. Now, no longer fearful of being observed, he ran swiftly to the grassy path that bordered the buildings of the main street in the rear. The full moon shed enough light to avoid the trash cans and other litter cast haphazardly back of the shabby shops; in moments he stopped and was cautiously peering down the alley that bordered their hotel rooms.

  Light was pouring from Da Silva’s window. He withdrew the automatic and knelt, careless of his imported finery. The gravel of the alley rasped against his Italian silk trousers; he could not help but wonder how he would manage to fit the item into his expense account. His senses alert for any sound that might betray an observer, he crept closer to the lighted window. Except for the murmur of voices from the room the silence was absolute; even the dogs seemed to have given up their barking for the night. A series of trash barrels provided, in the blackness of their shadow, suitable refuge; he knelt behind them just as Luis thrust his head inquisitively out of the low window.

  From his hiding place the voices were now clearly audible. “… anyone?”

  It was Jorge. The large stocking-capped head was withdrawn; apparently it gave a muttered negative, for Jorge’s voice continued without pause. “Taxi driver, eh?” The deep satisfaction in the voice would have appeared normal, except that it was followed by a quite insane giggle, “Captain Da Silva, the man of several lives …” Wilson risked lifting his head above the rim of the odorous barrel; the scene within the room was clearly visible.

  Da Silva was sitting up in bed, his hair a tousled mess, his chest bare, his long legs extended beneath the single sheet. His hands lay placidly upon the top of the coarse sheet; his face was completely unconcerned. The pistol he faced might have merely been an admonishing finger for all the attention he paid it.

  Wilson lifted his automatic experimentally, sighting along the barrel; the little face beneath the peaked cap came clearly into his sights. Then Luis hulked into the scene, one huge hand dangling at his side, but dangling with a gun. Obviously a match in target shooting was not the solution, not with his friend unarmed in a room with two proven assassins both carrying guns. Wilson lowered his pistol thoughtfully.

  “Jorge …”

  “Shut up!” Da Silva grinned at the remembered phrase and then straightened his face as the tiny man turned back to him. “And this pigeon who paid to rent my boat? Is he a real pigeon or just a decoy? One of Captain Da Silva’s many decoys? Eh?” Jorge waved the pistol slightly; Da Silva yawned. A sly smile appeared on Jorge’s face. “I have a feeling that he is a real pombo; certainly Captain Da Silva wouldn’t pick a decoy that stupid. Or would he? In any event he will be no problem, because if he is …” The voice hardened. “If he is he will be taken care of also.”

  “Jorge …” Luis felt they were wasting too much time. He did not like being shut up in a room too long; he wished that Jorge would come to the point so they could leave.

  Jorge turned his head a second. “Shut up!” He turned back to Da Silva, gloating. “So here we all are, and Captain Da Silva is the man who knows the map!” He smiled, pleased with fortune. He had often regretted the instructions that led him to plant the dynamite in Da Silva’s car. He should have refused. It had been another of those errors which he hated even more in himself than in others. But through some great gift of the gods who watched over him, his error was recuperable. The tide of his luck was turning, flooding in.

  “Tell me, Captain,” he went on, his voice suddenly soft, “do you want to talk about the map now? Here, while there’s time? While you are still alive?”

  Da Silva scratched his leg; the tiny eyebrows raised dangerously, the pistol firmed. Da Silva noted the gesture and grinned. “A man must scratch,” he said, and added idly, “You seem to be nervous. If you want the snake, I’ve already told you it’s near the Central Police Station in Rio. If you want to go there and get it, I’ll gladly get up and get dressed.”

  Jorge giggled again. It was a high, keening sound, weird and slightly frightening. Da Silva’s w
ords amused him; the very unexpectedness of his victory seemed to have acted upon him like strong drink. Da Silva stared at the little man curiously. “In Rio, Captain? And of course you wouldn’t have looked at it first? And memorized it first? Every direction, every measurement, every detail?” He nodded, the tiny eyes sparkling. “Do you know where we are going, Captain? Not to any police station. We’re going for a ride, in a boat. You’ve been so anxious to see the Ilha das Cobras that I’m going to take you.” Suddenly that ridiculous snicker came again. “Your pombo has even paid for it …”

  Luis came forward stubbornly. The needless waste of time was unnerving him. “Jorge …”

  “Shut up!” The pistol stiffened in the little hand. “Get his things together. His bag is sticking out from under the bed—see what’s in it. And that package over there. Come on, we’re taking him with us to the boat and I don’t want any of his things lying around afterward.” Again that snigger, like a neigh. “Let them think he left without paying his bill. Very bad for a captain of police!”

  Luis bent to his duties with relief; sometimes Jorge allowed himself to be swept away with love of his own voice. He pulled Da Silva’s bag from beneath the bed. The clothes came out, laid carefully to one side for instant repacking; below them he uncovered a police positive. “Jorge, he’s got a gun …”

  “So he’s got a gun! He’s a policeman, you idiot; of course he’s got a gun. Get on with it! What’s in that package?”

  Luis swept everything back into the suitcase and hastily latched it. He went over to the package lying on the floor near the small table and pulled nervously at the strings. The slim cord snapped and he unwrapped the package quickly. The cylinders lying beside the narrow tube looked faintly familiar; he crouched on his haunches, nodding sagely.

  “It’s one of those underwater things, Jorge. They use them in fishing. To breathe underwater …”