The other two ordered Scotch. The bartender trotted back to the bar, his face serious with the thought that momentous decisions were taking place in his little establishment. No one had ever informed him of the details of the deal, but he knew it was big; success, he was sure, could mean Rio de Janeiro for him instead of Belém, and possibly a large nightclub instead of a miserable little bar that even most bums avoided. Failure, of course, could mean return to the Penitenciaria, where he had first met the Faca .... He refused to consider that, busied himself with bottles and glasses, and hurried back to the corner table.
Alameida picked up his glass of vermouth. His eyes were bright. “To October 20,” he said quietly.
“And success,” said the small man.
The three drank. The scarred man wiped his hand across his lips and leaned back comfortably.
“How are you going to get hold of the boys?” he asked.
Alameida smiled, pleased with himself. “By radio. Each one of them has a small portable transistor radio, and they listen to Radio Manaus every night.”
“By radio?” The scarred man frowned; his scar made this expression into a near smile. “But couldn't anyone hear?”
“All they'll hear are carnival songs,” Alameida said easily. “This has been planned for a long time. The radio will broadcast carnival songs in a certain definite sequence. Depending on the sequence, they will know what the story is.” He sounded almost pedantic, although the pride in his system shone through his dry words. “There are three possibilities. One, normal operation. Two, emergency: drop everything and make it as fast as possible. Three, abandonment of the project.” He shrugged. “There is a sequence for each. Tomorrow night they will hear the sequence for normal operation.”
“And then?”
“Then they rendezvous. There are four points where they will meet.” Alameida pushed aside the glasses and began tracing with his finger on the damp table. “Two are on the Rio Japurá and two on the Rio Negro. At these points they will be met by Indian guides and then taken in groups to the village.”
He looked at the two silent men. “Under the emergency signal they would rendezvous, but then they would have to try and get to the village as best they could; there would be no time for guides to go down to meet them. In that jungle a good many of them might be lost. Luckily we don't have to consider that possibility.”
“They need guides to get to the village?”
Alameida looked at his questioner. “There aren't any superhighways up there,” he reminded the other gently. “You can't stop at a gasoline station and ask for a road map. Even with guides it's at least a week from the river, and only because the worst of the liana vines have been cut by my Indians. And many of those vines may have grown back. It's jungle that almost no white man has ever gone through. Try and remember that.”
The granite-faced man with the scar nodded. “If you say so.” He glanced at his watch and looked at the small man in the silk suit. “It's time we were on our way; the plane should be serviced by now. We don't want the others wondering where we got to.” He prepared to rise.
The telephone rang sharply in the silent bar; the bartender hurried to answer it. The two visitors paused uncertainly. The bartender came back to the booth and bent over the wedge-nosed Alameida.
“It's Antonio. He says he has to talk to you.”
“Antonio!” He pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head at the others. “Thank God this thing is coming to an end at last. That man will drive me mad with his telephone calls! One moment, please.”
He walked easily to the telephone and calmly raised the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”
There was a frantic burst of language from the instrument. The Faca's face darkened incredulously as he listened.
“What? What? How do you know? Calm down; talk slowly!” The other two had half risen in the booth, preparing to move closer. Alameida waved them down with a sharp gesture. The bartender stood rigid. “Who? Yes ... Orlando? Da Silva? What ... ? Their bodies? Report was what? Talk slower, damn it!” His face was screwed up as he pressed the receiver tighter against his ear.
“What? He still doesn't know where? I don't believe it. I don't care. Let me think...” The machine-gun burst from the other end of the line continued. “Quiet! Let me think!” He stared at the wall beyond the telephone; the scribbled numbers etched there in the plaster were a blur before his eyes. The voice at the other end faltered, trailing into silence. Alameida's brain raced. “All right; let me have it all again. Slowly. Your report said what?”
He listened intently as the murmur renewed, gathering speed and volume as it continued. “Antonio, you are a fool! This Da Silva is no idiot, I tell you. I know him! Look at Orlando and João Cardoza if ... What? How would he know? How should I know? But I tell you he'll be on his way to the Japurá ... What? Well, try and find out! What? Keep quiet and let me think!”
The voice at the other end was raised in attempted reassurance. Alameida pulled the receiver from his ear and stared at the wall, his mind calculating all of the possibilities. He pressed the receiver to his ear once again. “All right, all right! Keep still!” He forced calmness into his voice. “I'll let you know. Yes. If anything comes over in the next few hours, get in touch with me. After that, I won't be here. What? After that, forget about it. Yes. All right. Yes.”
He hung up, leaning against the wall a moment, thinking furiously. When the first shock of the news he had received wore off, his sharp brain was once again active. Behind the bar the bartender remained frozen, his hands poised over the small sink, his eyes alert on the Faca's face. Alameida's jaw hardened, his mind made up. He swung back to the booth and slid in across from the two waiting men.
The scarred man studied the rigid visage of the other. “What happened?”
Alameida stifled a curse. “Da Silva managed to get away. He killed Orlando and João Cardoza in that plane yesterday; he's in Manaus, free as a bird and ready to get under way.” He paused, biting his lip. “We'll have to put in the emergency signal. Tonight. We can't afford to waste any time.” Despite his control, he was suddenly overwhelmed by bitterness. “Damn that Da Silva to hell!”
The little man in black silk cleared his throat. “I think you overestimate Da Silva. After all, he's just one man.”
Alameida's eyes blazed. “We've come a long way in two years—and do you know why? Because I've overestimated all danger—that's why! And you don't know José Da Silva. I do.” He dismissed the subject, shifting his glance to the scar-faced man. “Let me see that calendar again. We'll have to move sooner.” His eyes studied the small piece of paper. “September 30. That will be the day.”
“But will it give you time? You said...”
Alameida pushed to his feet. “It will have to give me time. We have to move fast now.”
“But...”
The tall, thin man paid no attention to this interruption. “I'm leaving for upriver at once. You two go back to Rio. The day will be September 30; the signal will go out tonight.” He stared at them a moment, and then all of the bottled frustration and rage broke through once again. “Damn that Da Silva! Damn him!”
The small river steamer pulled slowly away from the dock of Teffé, nosing into the amber flood, heading across the huge confluence of the Rio Japurá and the Rio Solimões. The small village faded slowly behind, a row of unpainted thatched huts mounted drunkenly on stilted legs, crouching over the lapping water. The tiny shacks seemed crowded against the riverbank, as if pressed there by the force of the jungle behind them. Their presence only served to emphasize the desolation of the immense wilderness in which they were set.
From midstream the small village had already merged with the dark wall behind; only a thin column of gray smoke from a cooking fire, wavering unsteadily in the clear morning air, marked its place on the dwindling shore. Ahead, across the oceanic expanse of water, the forests on the far side were still not visible. Islands dotted the endless wastes of water; they were the on
ly land to be seen. Here, at the juncture of these two great rivers, the mighty Amazon is born, an incredible giant at birth, swelled further downstream by the Rio Negro, and the Madeira, and the Tapajoz, and the Xingú, and all their countless and unknown tributaries, until it sweeps to the Atlantic, majestically carrying a volume of water greater than all the rivers of Europe combined.
From the deck of the small steamer the small sports seaplane looked at first like a large bird with wings silvered by the rising sun. The young man at the wheel atop the small deck enclosure nudged the captain at his side and pointed.
“Hey! What do you think of that? It's one of those new small sports jobs.”
Captain Freitas grunted. The captain was a mountainous man wearing a sweat-stained white suit and a worn marine cap; a stubby pipe was locked between his heavy jaws. Gray hair peeked out from beneath the wrinkled cap, and the cords in his thick neck stood out like cables: these were the only indications of age. Tiny blue eyes, hard as flint, bespoke some Dutch in his background, not unusual in the far north of Brazil. The small eyes fastened on the approaching plane.
“What do I think? I think he's crazy. This is no place for a small airplane.” The tiny eyes continued to watch the antics of the mad pilot of the little sports plane, which was losing altitude now, sweeping closer to the steamer. A frown appeared on the face of the huge man in white.
“Maybe he's in trouble...”
The young man at his side shook his head. “He's all right He's just having sport. He—wait; he's going to land!”
Captain Freitas grimaced. River etiquette demanded that he wait to determine if the occupants of the small craft required assistance. It was not the loss of time that irritated the captain; time was one thing there was plenty of in the Amazon jungle. It was the thought of the plane itself that irked him. Airplanes had reduced his once-lucrative steamer trade considerably and driven him from the busier lower river into the dangerous reaches of the upper basin. He also thought they made too much noise. He reached over and pulled a lever, the engine on the boat reduced its chugging to permit the steamer merely to keep pace with the current. The young man at the wheel turned the prow into the stream. The boat hung there, waiting.
The small plane dipped, started to land, and then zoomed upwards again as the pilot saw a huge log rise from the muddy water directly in his path. The plane swept around and nosed downwards once again; clear water faced it this time. It touched down, spraying water from its floats, and bounced in the direction of the steamer. The propeller stopped; a door opened in the side of the plane and a curly head emerged.
“Yo!” came the cry. “Captain Freitas!”
The sharp blue eyes tightened, staring into the sun, and then widened in disbelief. The captain suddenly smashed a hamlike hand down on the steamer rail in delight.
“José!” He leaned over, shouting. “José! Yo” He started to wave and then stopped, swinging to the young man at his side. “The canoe—over the side. I'll take it myself. You hold the steamer here.”
He completely disregarded the fact that he had issued instructions, hurried down the stairway, and trotted to the bow to begin untying one of the two canoes lashed there. A member of the boiler crew came forward to help, and between the two they wrestled the canoe free and dropped it over the side into the water. The huge captain dropped with surprising lightness into the small craft and immediately began paddling toward the bobbing plane.
The young man on top of the deck enclosure shrugged in disinterest. Probably some sportsman the captain had once taken upriver for hunting. It was not the first time he had witnessed one of these long-lost-brother reunions. His eyes remained on the small silver plane in admiration; what a beauty! The steamer's lone passenger, an elderly farmer going from Teffé to his clearing across the river, remained in his hammock, his eyes taking in the scene calmly. His only sign of emotion was a slight raising of his eyebrows; he had seen stranger things in his many years on the river and expected to again.
Captain Freitas maneuvered the canoe alongside the plane, now wallowing crosswise in the small waves of the river. He reached up and clutched the open doorsill. Da Silva grinned down at him and then disappeared within the plane, to reappear a moment later with a pack in his hand. He dropped it into the canoe, disappeared once again for another, and finally completed the transloading by handing down several rifles and cartridge belts. A strange face appeared over Da Silva's shoulder and looked down incuriously at the large man in the canoe; after a moment's inspection the face was withdrawn. Da Silva looked back, called something over his shoulder, and then hunched forward and lowered himself into the bobbing canoe. The captain relinquished his hold on the plane, but Da Silva immediately reached up and clutched the doorsill again.
“One more passenger,” he said, and waited while Wilson spoke with the pilot.
A second later the stocky man was at the plane door and lowering himself into the canoe. Da Silva waited until Wilson was seated in the bow and then released his grip, allowing the canoe to drift free. There was the grinding of the engine's starter; the propeller wound slowly several times and then began to whirl as the motor caught. A gloved hand waved from the cockpit. The small plane began to taxi, dwindling in size as it skimmed the river. It seemed to hesitate a moment, poised, and then it was airborne and rising, disappearing to the east into the sun.
In the rocking canoe Captain Freitas stared at Da Silva with a broad smile. He seemed to be considering the possibility of embracing the other in the standard Brazilian bear hug of an abraço. Then one could see him reluctantly abandon the idea as being too dangerous in a canoe. His eyes settled on Wilson questioningly.
“A friend,” Da Silva explained, and grinned at the huge man. “Wilson, this is Captain Freitas. Captain, the American is both a close friend and a colleague.”
The two nodded at each other.
“We talk on the boat ... all right?” The captain bent to his paddle; Da Silva picked up another, and the canoe skimmed toward the waiting steamer.
Conversation waited until the gear had been brought aboard and the canoe lifted and lashed in place again. Wilson began loading the gear into the deck enclosure while the captain got back into routine by pointing and giving his standard cry to the boiler crew.
“Fire! Steam!”
Brown backs bent to their task of feeding logs to the ancient upright deck boiler; the young man on the roof of the deck enclosure shoved a lever and twisted the wheel. The steamer resumed its journey.
Captain Freitas led Da Silva to the stern, one arm draped over the detective's shoulder. He swung the swarthy man about, staring at him; the two savored the pleasure of the reunion. Then the captain released the tall detective and struck a match; he lit his pipe and sucked on it while his small eyes studied the face of his old friend.
“It's good to see you again, José. What brings you here? And so dramatically?” He jerked his thumb toward the speck of plane. A sudden thought seemed to strike him; a frown crossed his face. Without volition, he lifted his eyes to stare at the broad back of the young man at the wheel. “Not him, I hope?”
Da Silva followed the captain's eyes; he studied the bare back of the wheelman and then turned back to the captain. “Who's he?”
Captain Freitas puffed on his pipe. “This one comes to me ... let me see ... It must be six months now. He wants to work on the boat; he does not care too much about the pay.” He stared at Da Silva evenly. “Of course he is hiding from the police: but what do I care? He works well and gives no trouble. I have been hoping that his crime"—his blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Da Silva's face—"was not so serious as to bring people like Captain José Da Silva up the river after him.”
Da Silva laughed. “No; he's still all yours. If he's wanted by the police, I know nothing of it.”
Captain Freitas smiled in relief, and then the smile disappeared. “Then what brings you? Not,” he added hastily, “but what I am very happy to see you. But you have never been up thi
s far before, have you?”
“Never,” Da Silva admitted. He frowned down at the paddle wheels, churning beneath them, and picked his next words with care. “Captain Freitas, do you remember a man named John Bailey?”
“John Bailey? Of course. I took him to Fonte Boa on the Rio Solimões it must be ... six or seven months ago.” He stared at Da Silva. “You should remember: you saw him off in Manaus.” His eyes were curious. “What about him?”
“He's dead,” Da Silva said flatly. “He was killed up here.”
“Dead? What a pity! He was a good man.” A puzzled frown crossed his face. “You look for the people who killed him? Up here?”
“His death was a little unusual,” Da Silva said slowly. “Even for up here.” He thought a moment. “Tell me, Captain; what did he talk about on the trip up?”
“Talk about?” The captain shrugged. “Diamonds, mostly. He was planning on crossing over from Fonte Boa to Marãa on the Japurá. He thought there might be diamonds up in that area.” He stared at the brown water beneath them and then shook his head sadly. “José, do you know how many people I have taken up these rivers who were looking for diamonds? Or gold? Many. Do you know how many ever returned? Very few. And these few did not come back with diamonds. With arrow wounds, and snakebite, and malaria, and the poison that comes from eating the wrong berries when the food runs out. With diamonds or gold, no.”
“I know,” Da Silva said.
“And those that did not come back at all...” The captain frowned as a sudden thought struck him. “No policeman ever came upriver looking for their killers.”
Da Silva nodded. “I know.” He sighed. “But, you see, Bailey's head was shrunken and then was sent down to Rio to the Foreign Office with a note.”
"Shrunken?" The small blue eyes widened and then narrowed. “That's impossible. That's a Jivaro skill, and there are no Jivaros around here.” He thought a moment. “And why would it be sent to the Foreign Office?”
The Shrunken Head Page 7