Da Silva straightened up. “I think that's all, senhors. I want to thank you very much for your trouble.” He reached for his wallet, extracting a sizable note as the three pulled themselves to their feet, recognizing dismissal. “Something for your time, senhors. To buy a drink.”
The old man took it, examined it, and thrust it into his shirt pocket. He smiled brightly. Politeness forbade him asking the reason for the interrogation. At the same time, politeness demanded that he accept the gift, since it was only for a drink. To him this represented a more than fair exchange.
“At your service, senhors,” he said. He touched his hat to the two.
His younger counterparts repeated the gesture.
Da Silva opened the door, and the three nodded solemnly and filed out in chronological order. Da Silva closed the door behind them and fell into a chair.
“I could use a cognac,” he said wearily.
“I could use ten,” Wilson said. “All we learned from that little meeting was that Bailey sent a message downriver with three seringueiras. To pick up his tailor bills. Big deal.”
Da Silva smiled at him. “No; I think we learned more than that. Did you notice the old man? He wasn't chewing tobacco; he was chewing huanuco—coca leaves—and he didn't even know it. You don't spit when you chew huanuco. And he got it from a friendly young chap at a clearing a few days below Marãa.”
Wilson looked at him curiously. “So what difference does it make whether he was chewing coca leaves or tobacco or bubble gum, for that matter? Or where he got it?” He sat up slightly. “Wait a minute ... I know what you mean. Coca leaves are the source of cocaine. They're a drug. The old man could have imagined half of what he said.”
Da Silva looked at him with simulated disgust. “I suppose I should forgive your ignorance. I'd be just as much in the dark if we were talking about peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches or another of your typical American dishes.” He smiled. “No; the old man didn't imagine anything. He didn't even swallow the juice. Don't you see?”
Wilson shook his head without taking his eyes from his friend.
Da Silva leaned forward, serious now.
“Coca leaves don't grow in Brazil. But you do find them in Ecuador—near where you find Jivaros.”
Chapter 4
THE CO-PILOT OF the Catalina flying boat scheduled to leave Belém shortly for Santarém and Manaus leaned back in his seat, one foot propped idly against the empty pilot's seat, his face bored and discontented. The romance of flying wore thin quickly on this run—eight or more hours flying low over dirty water, with the solid walls of the jungle like green cliffs dropping into the river, marking their path on either side. It was like flying over a twisting, meandering runway: all the navigation one needed on this job was not to be color-blind, to be able to distinguish between yellow-brown and green, and at least one heavy, frightening storm per day, and sometimes two. And hot? The devil himself would suffer on the Amazon at high noon! He sighed with nostalgia for Santa Catarina and decent weather and glanced back through the open door of the cockpit to the improvised passenger cabin.
The passengers would soon be clambering aboard from the small launch that bobbed precariously on the muddy water beside the high fuselage. Few passengers as usual, he supposed. And, also as usual, they would probably be the ragtag and bobtail brigade to whom Belém was Paris—the upriver people.
Two wire-enclosed coops swung overboard. They were followed by the sweating face of a dark-skinned man who wore once-white jacket and trousers, representative of the highest in civilization as he knew it. Raucous cries came from the small coops. This was too much! The co-pilot pushed himself from his seat and moved threateningly to the door of the passenger compartment.
“You!” His voice was cutting, and he used the você instead of the o senhor, in itself an insult when addressing a stranger. “Chickens go into the luggage compartment. You should know that!”
“Chickens?” The dark-complexioned man looked up from his labor of stowing the coops in the back beside the lavatory. "Chickens?" His bronzed face became almost black with outraged anger. “These are the finest galhos de luta in the entire state. In five states! Maybe in the entire country!” He stared at the co-pilot, his small chest heaving, his black eyes flashing. “Finer fighting cocks do not exist! In the luggage compartment?” He waved one hand ceilingward, dismissing the whole absurd idea. “You know? You are mad.” He bent over, tucked lengths of black cloth about the cages, and then fell into the last seat next to his now-silent charges.
“Now look, you... !” the co-pilot began hotly, but found his words cut off by the emergence through the hatch of the other passengers. For one moment he considered forcing his way down the aisle to assert his authority, and then he changed his mind. To hell with it, he thought bitterly. What difference did it make on this terrible airplane anyway? He pushed his way back to the cockpit.
The pilot was the last one aboard. He was a bulky man in his mid-fifties; his only concession to uniform was an airline pilot's cap, purchased in Rio de Janeiro on one of his rare trips there. Years of experience on the river enabled him to size up his group of passengers at once. As he slammed and locked the hatch door his eye counted this one automatically. Eight. Two gentlemen, probably either Government or sportsmen; one small farmer with fighting cocks; a seringueiro heading for some plantation upriver; another little man, probably a trader in something; a large man in white carrying a large camera case, most likely a tourist; and two heavily painted girls who looked as if they were going to try their luck in the houses of Manaus. Good God, he thought with an honest touch of pity as he threaded his way forward; don't they know there are nine women for every man in that town?
He seated himself, twisted to close the door behind him, locked his seat belt, and nodded to the young man at his side. The engine starters ground, the motors caught with a cough and sudden puffs of gray smoke. The pilot allowed the motors to run for a short while as he checked his instruments, and then he slowly thrust the throttles forward, bouncing the plane into midstream. Boats had been pulled back from their path, opening a muddy yellow path leading in the distance to the hazy wall of trees that marked the far edge of the Rio Pará. He shoved the throttles forward, watching the small waves come bouncing in faster and faster, the mottled scenery fleeting past the cockpit window, blurring as the plane gained speed. The bouncing ceased; they were clear and rising, the boats dropped away, the small waving figures below diminishing in size. They banked, climbing, the engines growling under the strain, and then headed west along the southern margin of Marajó Island with the incredible tangled maze of the river delta below them.
It was a bumpy ride. Da Silva, never too happy in an airplane, stared down at the complicated network of islands, rivers, inlets, and bays that comprised this one entrance to the mighty Amazon. The pilot kept banking back and forth, always keeping himself within easy gliding distance of a wide expanse of water. Planes had come down within five miles of the river's edge, and even those who had survived those forced landings uninjured had never made it through the jungle. Da Silva sat unrelaxed, the air scoop above his head playing a stream of hot air across his sweating face. Each minute became an hour. It was one thing to talk about the jungle and another to realize that only this flimsy assembly of worn aluminum and straining engines kept them safe from the largest unexplored area of land on the surface of the earth.
They came into Santarém a little before noon. The swarthy detective drew momentary relief from the sight. From the air, as they approached, they could see the sharp hills that embraced the little town, curving to form a picturesque frame for the blue and white and pink houses that spread back from the narrow strip of white beach. The Rio Tapajoz, black from the air, contrasted sharply with the tawny water over which they were flying. Water sprayed as they touched down; the motors raced madly and then abruptly fell silent. They rode the pulsing river quietly; the air within the plane suddenly seemed heavier, damper. A launch cut away from the
shore, followed in a more leisurely manner by a gasoline barge. The pilot appeared in the doorway of the cockpit, wiping his forehead.
“We'll be here for one hour,” he called. “There are restaurants and bars along the waterfront where you can eat. We leave on time, so please do not be late.”
The passengers rode the small launch to shore in silence. The air was torpid, stagnant, and the slight breeze from the north carried from the far shore the miasma of the jungle in its fetid breath. The ancient wooden dock where they landed was steaming in the hot sun; a morning storm had passed but a short while before, leaving a cloudless sky and bringing the humid heat to a point that was almost unbearable.
Da Silva and Wilson picked the cleanest-looking restaurant and entered; the other passengers strolled on ahead, intent upon more economical accommodations. The seringueiro fell into step with the tall tourist in white, quite as if by accident.
“What do you think, Orlando?” he asked quietly.
The other glanced about idly to make sure they could not be overheard. “You take the little businessman and the caboclo with the galhos de luta. I'll take the two girls. And don't mess it up. We're lucky they split up like this. Do you have enough money?”
“Plenty. All right. I'll see you back at the dock in an hour.”
“Good.” The tall man in white paused, shifting his camera case on his shoulder. He glanced at his companion. “For God's sake, don't you miss the plane.”
The seringueiro grinned. “Don't worry; I won't. You're the one that better be careful; you're taking care of our ladies of the evening. See that you get back on time.”
He increased his pace, catching up with the two men strolling ahead.
The tall tourist slowed his own pace until the two heavily painted girls, walking behind, caught up with him. He flashed them a bright smile; they hesitated and then responded automatically.
“Hello,” he said genially. “Since we're all passengers together, how about the three of us having lunch together?”
The two girls nodded enthusiastically, and the trio turned into the first small bar they came to. Forty minutes later the tall tourist emerged alone, automatically touching his camera case as if to make sure he still had it. He strolled back to the dock, a faint smile on his face. His friend was waiting for him, seated on a small bench on the dock, his feet propped on the dock rail, his chapeau shoved back from his curly hair. The tall tourist lit a cigarette negligently and looked about. The two men were alone.
He flipped his match into the water. “How did you do, João?”
“Fine.” João laughed. “That so-called businessman is just another one looking for an easy bit of change. For ten thousand cruzeiros he'd swim the rest of the way.” His handsome face sobered. “That little caboclo was another story. He wouldn't leave his fighting cocks for all the money there is.”
The tall man frowned. “So?”
João rubbed his fist. “So I had to take him out in the back alone and reason with him. Don't worry. He won't be making the plane.” He looked up. “How about the girls?”
“They'll stay. I convinced them that Santarém offered a better opportunity for their talents than Manaus. They were suspicious, naturally, but for fifteen conto each they didn't care what I had in mind. They'll probably take tomorrow's plane.”
“So far so good.” The seringueiro frowned in sudden thought. “Orlando, what if some other passengers get on here?”
“That will just be their hard luck,” Orlando said coldly. “This is going to be an unfortunate accident. No survivors. These four who are staying can thank us for their lives.”
“They'll think it odd, though, when they hear the plane is lost. They'll remember that we paid them to stay. They may talk.”
“Think it odd? Talk?” The tall man in white laughed. “You don't know people, João. By tomorrow night, an hour after it's on the radio about this plane being lost, those four will all be convinced that God whispered in their ears, that they had a hunch, that something told them they should get off in Santarém. They'll swear—and honestly mean it—that the idea of not continuing the flight came to them like that!” He snapped his fingers. “All by themselves ... out of the blue.”
He stared along the waterfront. Da Silva and Wilson had emerged from the restaurant, followed by the plane's pilot. The rest of the dock area appeared deserted. “All right; it looks like there won't be any other passengers. You know the deal. Where's your gun?”
“In my duffel bag, under my seat. Where's yours?”
The tall man smiled coldly. “What do you think this is in this camera case? A camera? All right; here they come.”
The three men approached, the pilot carrying a paper bag with sandwiches and hot coffee for the co-pilot. The two men fell silent, turning away from each other. The pilot came out onto the small pier, glanced at his wristwatch, and then looked around with an impatient frown.
“Damn ! Where is everybody?”
The tall tourist in white laughed congenially. “I doubt that they'll make it,” he said easily. “I had lunch at the same bar with them, and the two men and the two girls"—he winked—"well, they seemed to be planning a party this afternoon at some friend's place.” He shook his head comically. “Last I saw them, they were heading for town in an old taxi.”
“That's great!” Wilson said in disgust. He turned to the pilot. “How long do we wait for the love birds?”
“We don't,” the pilot said shortly. “I told them when to get back; I've got a load of perishables aboard, and I don't want to get caught by dark before Manaus.” He looked around once more; the noon sun beat on an empty dock. “Let's go.”
The launch pulled up beside the dock, and they dropped into it and rode to the bobbing plane in silence. They climbed wearily through the hatchway. The sun, beating on the plane in mid-river, had made the inside a furnace. The pilot pushed through to the cockpit, the paper bag dangling from his fingers; the four passengers spread themselves throughout the deserted cabin.
Wilson, leading the way, dropped into a seat about midships, let the two strangers pass him, and turned to find that Da Silva had usurped the small caboclo's seat in the rear.
“Hey,” he called. “Come on up here.”
Da Silva grinned at him. “The tail's the safest part in case of a crash,” he said. “Haven't you heard?”
Wilson sighed hopelessly. “You and airplanes!”
He turned back and settled himself beneath the air scoop, prepared to enjoy its benefits once they were airborne. In the rear of the plane Da Silva loosened his tie, locked his seat belt, and stared pensively out of the small window.
They took off smoothly, came to altitude, and crossed the enormously wide river to follow the northern bank. The jungle below was solid, an undulating green roof stretching to the horizon, broken every now and then by the spreading fronds of some higher stands of palm, which shone with a lighter green against the dark olive of the forest.
Da Silva unbuckled his belt and hunched himself lengthwise on the double seat, closing his eyes. In the middle of the plane Wilson was already dozing, his forehead beaded with sweat despite the play of air across his face.
Orlando looked about easily from his seat just outside the cockpit; João, seated just behind him, nodded his head a trifle. Orlando pulled his camera case into his lap and silently opened it. The pistol nested within was quietly removed and held in his lap as the silencer was threaded into position. Finished, he dropped the gun into his pocket, slipped the camera case beneath the seat, and glanced back once again. Joáo nodded, dropped his hand to the duffel bag beneath his feet, and gripped the revolver there tightly. As soon as they were down again on the water....
Orlando arose, stretched in a bored fashion, and took one last look at the two men further down the plane. Both asleep. Good. He opened the door to the pilot's compartment, entered, and closed the door softly. His fingers reached behind him and found the latch as he faced the two in the cramped space of the c
ockpit; silently he slipped the lock into place.
The pilot looked up pleasantly.
“Hi,” he said. “Bored back there? I don't blame you. Not much scenery around here.” His eyes swung back to the instrument panel. “Ever seen an airplane from up front?”
“I've seen them,” Orlando said harshly. He pulled his hand from his pocket, bringing out the gun, which he moved steadily from one man to the other. “All right. Let's get this thing down on the water. Right now.”
The co-pilot had been hunched forward, a half-munched sandwich in one hand and his coffee in the other. He looked up in surprise at these words; his eyes widened incredulously at the sight of the weapon.
“Hey!” he said. “What goes on?”
“This is a gun, mister! Let's set this plane down on the river. I mean right now. And I don't want to have to tell you again.”
The pilot's jaw was rigid with shock. “What's the idea? What do you want?” His eyes stared up at the hard face above him; he attempted reason. “If you shoot us, you go down in the river with us.”
“That's right.” The voice of the standing man was ice-cold. “And the other passengers, and the plane and its cargo, and the works. We all go down together.” The finger tightened significantly on the trigger. “So why don't you avoid all that and set her down easy?”
“Here?” The young co-pilot's voice expressed amazement. “Here? You can't set an airplane down here! This is the most dangerous part of the river! Why...”
He turned swiftly as he spoke and flung the contents of his coffee container straight at the face above him. In the same movement he twisted in his seat to grapple with the standing man. Orlando jerked his head to one side; the coffee splashed against the rear bulkhead. In the same motion the pistol came up, thrust forward, and fired. The co-pilot's head seemed to explode; his body slammed against the instrument panel and collapsed, jamming against the control wheel. The plane yawed wildly. Orlando's hard hand dragged the body free with a wrench, flung it back into its seat. The gun swung instantly to the pilot.
The Shrunken Head Page 5