Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  The Minister nodded somberly. “We know. Even more puzzling is why the head should be sent to us.”

  “It was sent to you?”

  “Indirectly.” The Minister's eyes involuntarily went to the small ball. “It was mailed—locally—to the Commandant of the Manaus Military District. There was a note with it which read: ‘Please forward to the Foreign Office.’ Inside the buckskin sack was another note that simply read: ‘Itamaratí: here's your Mr. Bailey. Try again."’

  Da Silva stared at him. “Try what again, sir?”

  “We haven't the faintest idea” The Minister leaned forward, clasping his hands tightly before him. His eyes drilled into Da Silva's. “We thought you might have some idea.”

  “Me?”

  The Minister shrugged. “You knew him; we didn't even have that.”

  “Did he have any connection at all with your office, sir?”

  “None.”

  “That note,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “What language was it written in?”

  “Portuguese.”

  Da Silva thought a moment and then shook his head. “It doesn't make any sense to me, sir. Where do I come in?”

  The heavyset Minister leaned back. His thick fingers formed a tent; he stared at the tall detective over it.

  “Captain, we don't like mysteries. We had no connection with John Bailey, but it seems obvious that somebody thought we did. In today's world...” He coughed and seemingly changed the subject. “You come in because somebody has to go up there and try to trace John Bailey's movements, to find out what this is all about.”

  “But why me?” Da Silva stared at the Minister. “There must be many others who know the area a lot better.”

  “We'll furnish you with somebody who knows the area. You were selected for several reasons. One, this seems to be a case where imagination and the ability to think and act independently may be vital; you'll be far from any official help. And nobody knows better than I do that you don't always follow the book of rules and regulations. Two, I've been informed that you have worked with the personnel of the American Embassy before.”

  “The personnel of the American Embassy?”

  “Yes. We told them about this, of course, since Mr. Bailey was a citizen of their country. They claim to be equally in the dark, I might mention, equally curious. They are assigning a Mr. Wilson to the case.”

  Despite the seriousness of the discussion, a broad grin lighted Da Silva's face. “Wilson! Well, I can't think of anyone I'd rather work with. We've had our share of adventures together.”

  “I know.” The Minister smiled dryly. “I spoke with Mr. Wilson. I thought I knew your record, Captain, but Mr. Wilson seems to know things about you that do not appear in the official files.”

  A twinkle appeared in Da Silva's dark eyes. “And I was still selected?”

  “Yes, you were still selected. Well, Captain, that's the story. Do you have any further questions?”

  Da Silva's grin faded. He thought a moment. “Do you have any idea at all why anyone would send you Bailey's shrunken head?”

  “None. But I have a hunch it may be important.”

  “A hunch? Do foreign ministers work on hunches?”

  The Minister smiled. “That's usually all we have to work on. Most of our facts are untrustworthy. Anything else, Captain.”

  “Do you have any information at all on Bailey, sir?”

  “We made up a file on him,” the Minister said. “Nothing of importance, though. We have his entry visas, his applications for permission to explore in the area, a few magazine articles written about him.” He shrugged. “Not very much, I'm afraid; but you can have it. Elena will give you the file.”

  “Elena?”

  “The girl in the outer office. The one that brought you in here.” The gray eyebrows raised in simulated surprise. “Don't tell me you didn't notice her. Mr. Wilson must have been giving us misinformation about you.”

  Da Silva laughed. “Yes, sir. I noticed her.”

  The deep voice was dry. “I thought you would. She'll give you the file. Mr. Wilson may be able to tell you more, although if the American Embassy has any information, they are not giving it to us. I believe Mr. Wilson will also handle your transportation. You leave for Belém in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir. I'll clear up my other work this afternoon.”

  The gray-haired Minister arose and came around the desk. He held out a large hand. Da Silva rose, taking the outstretched hand firmly. The Minister held the other's hand a moment longer than necessary.

  “Goodbye, Captain. We've had our differences in the past, but let's forget that for now. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir. We'll do our best. Goodbye.”

  The door of the office closed slowly behind the swarthy detective. His last memory was of the heavyset man leaning over the desk, gently scooping up the shrunken head and slipping it back into the buckskin sack. We'll do our best, Da Silva said to himself—but on what?

  He swung about as the door closed to find the tall, slim girl watching him alertly. The disdain had completely disappeared from her eyes. She held out a thin folder.

  “This is for you, I believe, Captain.”

  “Thank you.” Da Silva took the folder and stared at the girl speculatively. “Elena. That's a very beautiful name. Are you busy for lunch today, Elena?”

  There was a smile in her eyes. “Yes, I am, Captain. But I can have lunch with you tomorrow.”

  “Fine!” Then his face fell. “But, unfortunately, I can't. Ah, well ... some other time, I imagine.” He smiled at her ruefully. “Duty—that nasty word—calls. Goodbye, Elena.”

  “Au revoir, Captain Da Silva.”

  He walked down the wide corridor, hefting the thin folder in his hands. What a lovely girl! What a figure! What a vast improvement over that Iracema and her gloating when ever he appeared for a lecture. When this is over, he thought, I'll come back and wine and dine this girl, and then I'll take her out to one of our lonely beaches some night and lay my head in her lap and discover what mystery lies beyond those lovely eyes of hers....

  If she isn't married, he suddenly thought, coming back to reality with a start. And if the eyes with which I look at her with passion aren't sewn shut with tiny stitches. If the head I lay in her lap isn't the size of an orange and shrunken grotesquely in the smoke of some distant ceremonial fire....

  Chapter 2

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON before his desk was cleared and the other work in his department was distributed among his several assistants. Three calls to the American Embassy had failed to find Wilson in. Probably at the public library reading up on Jivaros, Da Silva thought. His secretary, recognizing his urgency to clean up his work and leave, even forwent her fifth trip for coffee that day in order to help him. As a result, Da Silva found himself out of his office and threading his way through the thin afternoon traffic of Botofogo towards his apartment in Copacabana a full three hours earlier than usual.

  He pulled down the ramp into the parking area in the garage below his building with a sigh, remembering as always Manuel, who had always parked his car for him before that sad business of Urubuapá. He had never come to trust the new garage attendant with the now-rebuilt Jaguar. He turned into his outlined space beside the washstand, set the hand brake, and switched off the ignition.

  Up in his apartment he pulled off his necktie, threw his jacket across a chair, and poured himself a cognac. The emptiness of the apartment seemed to mock him; even the day maid had already gone, leaving behind silence and the faint odor of furniture polish. Maybe you've been a bachelor too long, he thought; this emptiness used to be the thing you liked best when you came home from work. Or is it only because you met a girl today that you think might fit into this empty apartment without shattering its comfort? Wait a second, he told himself sternly; one room I know she'd fit into—but how about the others?

  He drank his cognac and poured himself another. It's just the usual jitters that always come with a n
ew job, he thought—the hidden fear of failure. Or can it be the emptiness of not having anyone to tell of success? Let's forget these thoughts, he said to himself; you're not in a job that can invite another to share the worries and the dangers. Each job is another chance of death—but also, he admitted, another break from the monotony of desk work. There ought to be a happy medium, he suddenly thought. Dangerless danger for the policeman who wants to come home to a family every night but still hates clock punching. He grinned at the thought, drank his cognac, and poured himself another. Before we build this into a sure trip to the morgue—or a trophy collection of heads—why don't we call Wilson and find out what he knows about this business? He set down his glass and reached for the telephone.

  The operator at the American Embassy nasally switched him through; the extension at the other end of the wire began to ring shrilly. Da Silva took advantage of the respite to slip off his shoes. He scratched his toes contentedly, feeling the drinks he had taken. The greatest tragedy of death, he decided, is that you can't experience the pleasure of scratching your toes anymore.

  The ringing at the other end stopped suddenly; the receiver was lifted.

  “Wilson speaking.”

  “Wilson? Mr. Wilson?” Da Silva contemplated the receiver evenly. “Are you the same Mr. Wilson who requests people to work with you without even bothering to inform these people that you want them to work with you?”

  “Hello, Zé.” There was warmth in the voice. “I've been expecting to hear from you. How've you been? What's the good word?”

  “The good word would be censored by the telephone company. You don't give a man much notice for these jobs, do you?”

  Wilson chuckled. “So they finally got around to telling you?”

  “They finally did. And why didn't you? I thought we were friends.”

  “Look, friend.” Wilson's voice stiffened a bit. “I love you like a brother, but I still draw my paycheck from the United States Government. Like sweet Alice Ben Bolt, I weep with delight when they give me a smile and tremble with fear when they frown. Friend, they frown when people talk without authorization.”

  Da Silva smiled idly at the receiver. “This Alice Ben Bolt sounds like a rather spineless character, but any friend of yours, friend ... By the way, where were you all afternoon? I called you three times.”

  “I was down at the library. Why?”

  “Hoo! I'm a detective!”

  “Zé! I don't know about your being a detective, but you sure sound looped.”

  “Looped? Me? I'm just mellow—that's all. However, even this mellowness is wearing off in spots, so my suggestion is that we meet at Mario's for dinner so, among other things, you might fill me in on this business. I'll be there about seven. How's that?”

  “Fine.” Wilson hesitated a moment. “The only thing is, I've got myself a date.” He considered. “Why don't you get a girl and we'll make it a foursome?”

  Da Silva stared at the telephone with a frown. “You've got a date? So cancel it. We have to discuss this thing. That strikes me as being a bit more important than your date.” He raised his eyebrows at the phone. “Do you always put your personal pleasures ahead of your job?”

  “Whenever possible.” Wilson's voice became wheedling. “Look, we'll still be able to talk. When the girls go to the powder room. Or, if necessary, we'll go to the powder room ourselves. My last night in romantic Rio de Janeiro I don't expect to pass fruitlessly. Call up one of your harem and join us.”

  Da Silva shook his head in disgust. “Such devotion, but not to duty! No, thanks. We'll let it go until tomorrow; we'll talk on the plane. If the time of departure isn't classified information. Or—wait a minute!” His frown faded, replaced by a widening smile. “You've just given me a wonderful idea. I think I will get a date. You're on. We'll meet at Mario's at seven.”

  “Good,” Wilson said with satisfaction. “First one in reserves the barstools.”

  “Fair enough,” Da Silva said. Then he added quietly, “By the way, I don't suppose that John Bailey was working for you people, was he?”

  There was a moment's silence.

  “As a matter of fact, he wasn't,” Wilson said quietly.

  “You wouldn't kid me, would you?”

  “I would if it served any purpose,” Wilson said. He sounded quite serious. “But in this case it wouldn't. No, Zé, he had no connection with us.”

  “Oh, well,” Da Silva said, completely unconvinced. “The telephone's not the place to discuss it anyway. See you at seven.”

  He hung up, waited until the dial tone returned, and began dialing once again. Wilson was right: they might as well carry some last pleasant memories with them up to the jungle. He could put hot needles under Wilson's fingernails tomorrow and find out Bailey's tie-in with the Americans; tonight was made for love. He waited for the red tape of the Itamaratí telephone service to untangle; then the extension in the Minister's office began to ring. I hope they don't work normal Brazilian hours, he thought; she may have already left for home. But then the receiver was lifted and the soft voice he had been hoping to hear was speaking.

  “Hello?”

  What a nice voice, Da Silva thought. Vibrant, intriguing ... what a voice to her whispering in your ear out on some lonely beach with a full moon overhead....

  The lovely, intriguing voice became a bit impatient.

  “Hello? Who's calling, please?”

  Da Silva woke up with a start. “Oh, hello, Elena. This is Captain Da Silva again. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner tonight.”

  “I'm sorry, Captain.” Da Silva tried to read regret in her voice. “I'm busy this evening. I can see you for dinner tomorrow night, though.”

  Tomorrow, always tomorrow! A fat lot of good that was. Da Silva was surprised at his own disappointment. Down, boy, he said to himself. You've a year or so to go before you reach the dangerous forties. Then, to his own amazement. he heard himself say, “Can't you break your date for tonight?”

  “I'm afraid not, Captain.”

  He sighed. “No, I suppose not. Well, on the offhand chance that something comes up that breaks it for you, I'll be at Mario's for dinner at seven. If you could possibly make it, I'll be at the bar.”

  “I'll remember that, Captain, but I doubt that anything will come up to break it. Thank you just the same for asking me.”

  “Sure. Well, I'll see you some other time, then. Goodbye.”

  He hung up with a shake of his head. What on earth had made him make his last suggestion? She wouldn't be at Mario's, and he knew it. But now he had no choice but to go, on the one small chance that she might appear. A great evening ahead, listening to Wilson exert his dull American charm on some poor girl. Well, at least Mario's had decent cognac; that might help the situation. With a defeated shrug he finished his drink and went in to take his shower.

  It was a few minutes before seven when he stepped out of the apartment elevator and walked out into the early-evening traffic of the Avenida Atlantica. He waved away a cruising taxi; it was early and Mario's was less than six blocks away. With a sigh he turned towards the famous restaurant, walking slowly along. Couples passed him, arm in arm, chatting gaily. A full moon hovered over Copacabana; the curve of the beach was lit by sparkling streetlamps, a pearl necklace strung along the patterned mosaic walk dwindling into the distance. The breaking surf flashed white in the darkness as it crashed with a soft roar, tumbling halfway across the smooth sand before recoiling with a soft hiss to rejoin the heaving ocean.

  Da Silva strolled along pensively. The benches along the beach were beginning to fill with lovers, arms locked behind each other's waists, eyes turned to drink in the beautiful mystery of the restless sea. He sighed; an empty bench beckoned and he dropped on it, facing away from the ocean. Let's think this thing out, he said to himself; you're in no mood to join even a dull party.

  He raised his eyes; traffic poured steadily by. He barely noticed the dark car that slowed down as it approached his bench. It
took a full second before he realized-that a muzzle was being extended from a lowered car window, a short muzzle surmounted with a bulky apparatus he suddenly recognized as a silencer. With a startled grunt he awoke and flung himself backwards, falling from the low seawall to land painfully on his shoulder in the soft sand. The flat spat of the revolver discharging was followed immediately by the roar of the car's engine as the vehicle sped away.

  He scrambled to his knees and peeked over the wall; several couples had stopped their stroll and were laughing at his tumble. He hopped back to the sidewalk, disregarding the growing crowd, completely alert now. A few moments would be all the attacking car would need to swing about ahead and return, searching for its target once again. A cruising taxi slowed down, attracted by the laughing people; Da Silva waved it over, jumped inside, and began brushing sand from his clothes.

  “Mario's,” he said to the driver tightly.

  The driver stared at him. “Mario's? The restaurant? It's just two blocks up.”

  “I've got corns.” Da Silva's voice hardened. “Just take me there.”

  The driver shrugged and put his cab into gear. Da Silva's eyes searched the cars that passed in the other direction, knowing bitterly as he did so that he wouldn't recognize the car even if he saw it. You're a lucky boy, he said to himself. One of these days you may not be so lucky. With the enemies you've made in your career, you ought to know better than to wander around with your head in the clouds. One of these days you'll be dreaming and you'll wake up dead.

  The cab pulled up before the famous restaurant. Da Silva paid the driver generously before opening the cab door; then, with a liquid motion, he was out of the taxi, across the walk, and into the lobby in one move. He paused there to complete the brushing of his clothes. A couple passed him and stared in amazement at the sight. After one hard look from Da Silva's glowering face they hustled into the restaurant without a backward glance.

  He finished brushing himself and turned into the darkened lounge that held the long, curving jacaranda bar with the famous collection of brandies from all over the world. He paused, letting his eyesight adjust to the gloom. Wilson did not appear to be at the bar. He turned, searching the small private alcoves that filled one wall, and then smiled, for seated alone at one small table was Elena, staring thoughtfully into her cocktail. He walked over, smiling, his recent brush with death put away from his thoughts for the time being.