Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Elena. So you made it!”

  A soft voice at his elbow caused him to turn in surprise. Wilson had been arranging a table for dinner and had returned, coming up silently behind Da Silva. He was a stocky, nondescript man with light, sandy hair and pale eyes set in a face that was completely expressionless. He had the average appearance that people never remember; his anonymity served him well in his profession. He was ostensibly the Security Officer of the American Embassy, but his position was actually far more important. Da Silva was one of the very few who knew Wilson's connection with several American Government agencies that not many people know exist. Now Wilson was staring at the tall Brazilian with lifted eyebrows.

  “You know my date?”

  "Your date?” Da Silva frowned at this presumptuousness.

  “Certainly my date. Do you doubt my word?” He turned to the girl, who was watching this exchange with a smile on her face. “Elena, tell the man.”

  Her eyes were studying the two. “I'll be both your dates. Sit down, Captain. You're late. Your cognac will get cold.”

  He slid into the small booth beside her while Wilson seated himself on the other side of the girl. A waiter came over, placed glasses before both men, and filled them with Remy Martin without being asked.

  “This is a fine thing,” Da Silva said with an attempt at sounding morose. “Plots and more plots. How did you know I wouldn't bring another girl?”

  “We didn't,” Wilson said honestly. “I was hoping you'd bring two.”

  Elena laughed. “I was hoping you would come alone.” Her face sobered. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  Da Silva brightened. “We certainly do. Let's start with your childhood. Did you have the usual diseases? Were you always the prettiest girl in school? How do you feel about airplanes? What is your honest opinion of air conditioning?”

  “Yes,” Wilson said, leaning over. “Tell Captain Da Silva how you feel about air conditioning. Give him a brief rundown on your views on fat women in slacks.”

  “Fat women... ?”

  “Don't pay any attention to him,” Da Silva said expansively. “He's just jealous because I hate more things than he does. Let's get back to you. What's your honest opinion of bad cognac?”

  “That's not exactly what I thought we were going to talk about,” she said with a faint smile. “I was thinking that it might be more practical to discuss our assignment.”

  "Our assignment?” Da Silva's voice lost its banter instantly. His eyes became watchful. He pushed his glass away slightly and turned to face the girl squarely. “Just what do you know of this assignment?”

  “Quite a bit,” she replied coolly. “I'll be flying to Belém with you and Mr. Wilson tomorrow, Captain. And I'll be going up into the jungle with you, too. You see"—her fingers twisted the stem of her glass slightly—"I've been assigned to this job also—by the Foreign Office.”

  “You? A woman?” Da Silva leaned past her, staring evenly at Wilson. “Did you know anything about this?”

  “Of course I knew,” Wilson said calmly.

  Da Silva snorted. “You all must be out of your coffee-picking minds! A woman going into the upper Amazon? Well, not with me. You can get yourself another boy.” He swung back to his cognac, considered it a moment as if surprised to see it there, and drank it.

  Wilson turned to Elena with a faint smile. “I wouldn't want you to think he's always like this,” he said. “As a general rule he's pretty rational, but every now and then this impulsive streak comes through.”

  “Impulsive?” Elena shook her head. “I'd say he sounds more hysterical than impulsive.” She sounded as if she had given the matter clinical consideration.

  “Hysterical? Impulsive? Me?” Da Silva stared at the two of them in amazement. He leaned past the girl, directing his words at Wilson. “I'm honestly surprised at you. Joking aside, how could you ever have agreed to an idiot idea like this? Do you have any idea of what it's like in the upper Amazon jungle? Can you picture trying to do our job and wet-nursing a woman at the same time? You must be crazy!”

  Wilson returned his friend's stubborn glare quite calmly. “Just how much do you know about Elena, Zé?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Yes,” the girl said quietly. “How much do you know about me, Captain?”

  “Nothing, and I'll admit it,” Da Silva said doggedly. “But I happen to know something about the upper Amazon, and I know it's no place for a woman.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Elena. There's nothing personal in this. But it's just impossible.”

  He waved to the waiter, who came over and filled his glass.

  “Tell me something, Captain,” Elena said softly. Her eyes were fixed on her cocktail glass, her fingers continuing to twist the thin stem slowly. “Do you speak many of the Indian dialects they use above the Japurá? I'm asking because, you see, I do.”

  Da Silva paused in raising his glass. “You do?”

  “Yes, Captain.” She paused to take a sip of her drink and then set the glass down. “What else? Oh, yes. Have you ever used a blowgun? You see, I have. Do you even know where Marãa is? Or what it is like? I do. You see, I lived there.” Her eyes came up innocently to meet his.

  “Marãa? I know where it is, but what has Marãa got to do with this? Or Japurá?”

  Wilson entered the conversation. “I had a letter from Bailey recently,” he said. “He wrote it in Marãa and sent it downriver to Manaus with some seringueiros. They air-mailed it from there. We're trying to find them now; they should be getting close to Belém, if they're still traveling by canoe.”

  Da Silva stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I thought you said Bailey wasn't working with you people.”

  “He wasn't. It was just a friendly letter; Bailey was an old pal of mine. But at least it gives us a place to start from. We know he was on the Japurá about a month ago.”

  “And you see, Captain,” Elena added, “I happen to know that part of the country. I was born and raised there.”

  “You?” Da Silva stared at her.

  “Yes, Captain. Me. I was nearly sixteen years old before I was ever as far downriver as the city of Manaus. Don't look so surprised.” She laughed quietly. “It wasn't yesterday.”

  Da Silva stared at her soft beauty seated quietly beside him, her polished fingernails resting lightly against the stem of her cocktail glass. His eyes noted the quiet elegance of her white dress, the neat arrangement of her coiffure, the beauty of her etched profile. His eyes returned to his glass.

  “But...”

  “It's the truth, Captain.”

  Wilson leaned over. “Maybe you ought to shrink a head for him, just to prove it, Elena,” he said, and then paused, considering. “As a matter of fact, I think you've just shrunk his. It certainly looks less swollen than it did before.”

  Da Silva searched his mind for other arguments. He considered and rejected the thought of advising them of the attack made on his life that night. There was certainly nothing to indicate that it was connected with the present case; the people who would have rejoiced to hear that Captain Da Silva was found dead on the beach were legion. Such an argument would not have swayed either of the others at all.

  “I still say...”

  The headwaiter came to stand unobtrusively before their alcove. Wilson turned queryingly.

  “Your table, Senhor Wilson. It is ready.”

  Wilson finished his drink and came erect. Elena slid out on his side and stood smiling easily at Da Silva.

  “Come on, Captain,” she said with a smile. “Finish your drink and join us. We still have quite a bit to discuss. And please don't worry; one of the first things I learned after reaching civilization was how to tell one fork from another. I promise not to embarrass you.”

  Wilson grinned. “I'm not much of an expert on forks,” he said, “but I'm a demon on spoons and knives. I also promise not to embarrass you, Zé.”

  Da Silva came quietly. Wilson, who knew the tall Brazilian better than anyone else, should ha
ve recognized that quietness, but he didn't...

  Chapter 3

  THE SOFT HUM of the jet motors changed subtly as the huge United States Air Force plane reached cruising altitude and banked in a sweep to bring itself to a north bearing. Below to one side, the narrow fringe of beach curved off into the distance; tiny breakers could be seen, wisps of white against the beige band separating the sea from the green of the land. On the other side, Rio faded behind, with the tall majesty of Corcovado and the statue of Christ finally dwindling to blend into the white of low-lying clouds. They were on their way.

  Da Silva unbuckled his seat belt and picked up the thin folder that contained the few facts the Foreign Office had been able to gather about John Bailey; but he didn't open it. Instead he stared down at the cover unseeingly, his mind back in the city they had just left.

  Wilson came down the aisle of the deserted plane from the cockpit, where he had watched the takeoff. He settled himself in the seat beside Da Silva and cocked an eye speculatively at the pensive profile beside him.

  “Thinking of Elena?”

  Da Silva looked up, smiling. “You're a mind reader.”

  “I'm a drool reader,” Wilson said in a superior tone of voice. “That has mind reading beat a mile.” He leaned back, staring up at the plane's ceiling. “That was quite a dirty trick you pulled on the little girl this morning. Do you suppose she's still waiting at Santos Dumont Airport?”

  “I doubt it. I tried to get hold of the Minister this morning, but I couldn't. I left a message for him, though, telling him that we were leaving from Galeão and that Elena would be waiting at Santos Dumont.” He shrugged. “The whole idea was ridiculous in the first place. A woman along on a job like this!”

  “I'm not so sure,” Wilson said thoughtfully. “She might have come in handy.”

  Da Silva looked at him. “Can I try a bit of that drool reading?”

  Wilson grinned. “You're so right. Well, enough of these idle dreams. What do you have in that folder?”

  “Not very much,” Da Silva said. “I went over it yesterday. However...”

  He opened the folder, and the two men went over the contents carefully. The papers listed the official documentation necessary for a foreigner to do anything within Brazil, including leaving. There were also several articles about the explorer that had appeared in various magazines. There was nothing of any value to their quest that they could see.

  Da Silva closed the folder with a frown.

  “How about that letter he wrote to you?”

  “Just about as valuable as that stuff,” Wilson said. He dug in his jacket pocket and came up with an envelope. He opened it and withdrew a sheet of paper apparently torn from a pocket notebook.

  The letter was carefully printed in pencil. Da Silva took it gingerly and read it slowly.

  Dear Wilson:

  I'm writing this from Marãa, a putrid hole if ever I saw one. How I envy you the beach in Rio, not to mention Mario's and a decent steak. One more alligator egg and I'm going to crawl instead of walk.

  I've been held up here a week now, and boredom has finally reduced me to writing letters. I'm also taking advantage of some rubber tappers who are going downriver tomorrow and will mail this from Manaus. They're going all the way to Belém in a couple of canoes—and you complain about going from town to your apartment every night after work.

  What I'm writing about is this: I gave the Embassy as a mailing address, so if anything comes for me, please hold. Wish I could tell you where to forward them, but the mail service up here lacks something. Post offices, maybe.

  I've been fine, other than an occasional touch of Rio-belly; but alligator eggs clear that up pretty well. Ugh! Why did I have to mention that? So far no signs of natives bedecked in rare gems or gold. It's a shame I'm not looking for mud; that's what most of them use to make themselves beautiful, if that's the word I want.

  The reason for the holdup here is that my Indians quit me—refused to cross over towards Tapuruguara. I'm waiting here for others to pass through to hire. Can't imagine why these quit; it's never happened before. I must be losing my charm.

  Well, save a bottle of PX Scotch to split when I get back. We'll drink it over an omelet. I'll bring the eggs.

  Best,

  Johnny

  Da Silva read the letter through a second time and then handed it back to Wilson.

  The smaller man folded it meticulously, returned it to his pocket, and looked across at his friend.

  “Well?” he asked. “Did it give you any ideas? Other than the fact that he was at Marãa and planned to go across to Tapuruguara, wherever that may be?”

  Da Silva smiled at him. “Well, yes. It makes me tend to believe your story that he wasn't doing some quiet work for the CIA or one of the other hush-hush agencies that pay you.”

  Wilson looked at him. “I told you that,” he said quietly.

  “I know you did,” Da Silva said. “I don't believe everything I'm told, however.” He held up his hand. “Don't misunderstand me. I know we've worked together on a lot of cases, and not only would I trust you with my life, but I have, many times. Still, we each work for our own governments. Bailey was an American; his head was sent to the Brazilian Foreign Office. Why?”

  “I haven't the faintest idea,” Wilson said a trifle warmly. “Look, let's get one thing straight. I've never lied to you, and I never will. If any information ever comes along that I don't want you to know about, I'll tell you so. I won't lie.”

  “Fair enough.” Da Silva smiled. Wilson's hard face hesitated and then joined in the smile. The swarthy, mustached man reached into his pocket, brought out cigarettes and offered them to his friend. “Have one of these as a peace offering.”

  “I ought to take the whole pack,” Wilson said.

  The two men lit up and leaned back, blowing smoke into the air.

  “Well, where are we?” Da Silva asked. “If he wasn't working for the Brazilian or American government, is there any possibility"—he hesitated, a frown beginning to form on his face—"that he was working for any other government?”

  “No,” Wilson said decisively. “I went over his record from the time he was born. He was clean. Why don't you accept the fact that he was just what he said he was—a man looking for diamonds?”

  “I'm beginning to accept it,” Da Silva said, “but I wish I didn't have to. Because, accepting it, I can't understand why somebody sent his shrunken head to the Foreign Office with that note.”

  “That's what we're going up there for,” Wilson reminded him. “To find out why.”

  “True,” Da Silva conceded. “Well, let's get on with it. Let's take a look at that map and see where he was.”

  They spread the large map of the Amazon basin out across their laps. Da Silva's strong finger sought and found the area with which they were concerned.

  “Here's Marãa, up on the Rio Japurá above the confluence with the Rio Solimões. And here"—his fingers slid over—"is Tapuruguara, on the Rio Negro, almost at Uaupés. Somewhere in that tremendous area he must have stumbled on something that led to his being killed.” He looked up. “It isn't his being killed that's surprising. Anyone can be killed up there in a dozen ways and for a hundred reasons. It's that head.”

  “I know.” Wilson stared at the map with a frown. “I didn't know you had Jivaros up there. From what I read...”

  “We don't. Our Indian Service would have heard about it if any new tribes had settled—although, actually, I don't believe anyone has ever been through that area. They've explored along the rivers—but across? I don't think so.”

  “But somebody must have been through there,” Wilson objected. “The map has rivers marked on it in that area.”

  Da Silva smiled at him condescendingly.

  “That doesn't mean a thing. Cartographers are like nature: they abhor a vacuum. With so many rivers around, it's logical to assume a few more up there. Also, what sometimes happens is that a Varig pilot comes into Belém and he says,
‘Say ... coming across from Bogotá I thought I saw some water.’ And somebody else says, ‘Whereabouts?’ And he says, ‘Oh, somewhere up here,’ and he lays his finger anywhere between Manaus and the Pacific Ocean. And a new line goes on the map.”

  Wilson grinned at this explanation. “At least nobody can argue with them, if nobody's ever been there.”

  Da Silva folded the map and stowed it away. He leaned back with a frown, recalling Bailey's letter. “By the way ... he spoke of mail. Did he have any?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Two tailor bills. Both very legitimate. Any other ideas?”

  “Well ... he spoke of his Indians’ quitting on him, refusing to go over to Tapuruguara. I wonder why they quit. He says it's the first time it's ever happened.”

  “He hadn't been trained in your Indian Service,” Wilson suggested sarcastically. “He didn't make friends with them. Or, more likely, they refused to accept dollars. They probably heard about the gold flight from the United States and didn't want to take chances.”

  Da Silva laughed. “That's probably it.” He sat up and stretched. “What do you do for food on this, thing?”

  “Sandwiches and coffee, probably lukewarm,” Wilson said. “You see, you should have let Elena come along. She's probably a terrific cook.”

  “Sure,” Da Silva said, grinning. “With alligator eggs.”

  The small door leading to the cockpit opened; a head emerged, calling to Wilson. The stocky man pushed himself to his feet, padded forward, and disappeared into the pilot's compartment. When he returned a few moments later he was smiling.

  “The blessings of radio! We just received word that the harbor police of Belém have picked up our three canoeing seringueiros and are holding them for us to interview.”