The loading of the two canoes was soon accomplished. There was a whispered conference at the rail, and then one of the figures suddenly turned and padded silently in Da Silva's direction. The swarthy man froze; he tried to breathe noiselessly, to press back into the wall at his side and appear to be part of its normal shadow. The figure came closer; Da Silva tensed to spring should he be discovered, but at the last moment the figure turned aside and entered the door to the deck enclosure. Through the thin wall Da Silva could hear the faintest of movements; a moment later the figure emerged, arms loaded, and padded silently back to the rail. The additional items disappeared over the side as Da Silva remained hunched over in the shadow, his mind racing.
The young mate, without doubt, was preparing to leave the steamer, accompanied by—by whom? Had anyone come in the night? And, if so, from where? And why were they leaving from this particular clearing? Why had they chosen this one? He suddenly remembered that it was he, by asking the captain to continue that day, who was responsible for their stopping at this particular place. The thing became more puzzling by the moment.
He waited for the second figure at the rail to follow the other over the side, but there was apparently a whispered conference going on between the man on deck and the man in the canoe. To his surprise, the first appeared once again, pulling himself quietly back over the rail. He dropped with cat's feet onto the deck and bent in whispered consultation with his companion. Then the two crept to the gangplank on the other side of the deck and disappeared in the direction of the clearing.
Da Silva frowned. This didn't make sense. What would they be doing in the empty clearing? He waited for their reappearance, a feeling of uneasiness pervading him. Should he wake Wilson? No; it was impossible to do so without some sound. He waited tensely. The minutes crept past; with sudden resolve he eased himself from his hiding place and crept forward behind the protection of the low rail.
His eyes strained for any sign of the others’ return; his ears tried to hear any warning through the uneven sounds of the jungle. He inched closer and closer to the deserted gangplank. You didn't come on this trip to lie in hammocks, he reminded himself. On the other hand, what do you have to connect the young mate with Bailey's death? In fact, what do you have at all? It was this last thought that decided him: any possibility had to be investigated, and what was happening in the clearing might be important.
What was happening in the clearing was a nervous, whispered conversation between the two men.
“We've been here five minutes,” the young mate said in a low voice. “You must have imagined the whole thing.”
“I didn't imagine it! I tell you someone was squatting alongside the deck enclosure in the deep shadows there. Watching. I couldn't make a fuss on board.” It was one of the boiler crew speaking, no longer the indolent, nondescript figure loading logs into the boiler with the others, but erect and decisive.
The mate shook his head. “I'll admit I'd rather waste a few minutes now than take any chances, but if someone had been watching, you'd think he would have followed us by this time.” His head come up; his hand reached out to still the other. “Wait. Quiet!”
A crouched figure had appeared at the head of the narrow gangplank and was paused there. It waited a moment and then bent even further, hurriedly scuttling down the plank and immediately fading into the shadows of brush leading into the clearing.
“Ah!” the crewman whispered. “We've got him! You go around to the left; I'll go around to the right.”
“No noise,” the mate whispered admonishingly, and disappeared.
The other dropped low and crept silently to the nearest edge of trees, muscles taut, ears attuned to every movement about him.
Da Silva paused in the shadow of the forest wall, his ears straining for any sound. Blindman's buff, he thought, and edged his way further along the dark shadow of the forest's edge. They're here some place, he thought. I don't know why, but they are. A faint rustling across the clearing made him pause; he waited, each nerve tense, straining his eyes into the darkness around him.
Suddenly two arms reached out from behind him, locking themselves about his neck in a fierce, strangling grip. His involuntary cry was choked off; his hands shot up, fingers straining at the muscular forearm clamped across his throat. He kicked backwards violently, but the other had sidestepped and his heel encountered empty air. Police school, he thought with sudden disgust, and then realized that this was no joking matter. The grip across his windpipe tightened; there was a twist that threatened to take him from his feet. Da Silva fought it for a second and then went with it, throwing himself, dragging the other from his feet with him. They fell, striking the hard ground together; the grip never loosened. The tall detective could feel dizziness begin to sweep him; his chest burned in agony. With a last desperate effort he brought his elbow back with all his strength and felt it sink deep into the other's stomach.
There was a sharp gasp and the arms about his neck loosened their iron hold momentarily. Da Silva twisted savagely, gulping in air, feeling the other's beard scrape across his cheek, feeling his hot breath in his face. There was the barest hesitation on the part of his opponent, and he felt him draw away. He turned his leg just in time; a knee came up viciously, striking his thigh.
They rolled once in this embraced position, feeling the ground cut into their backs, struggling for mastery. Then Da Silva's thumbs found the arteries in the other's neck and he pressed violently. The grip loosened. Without pause Da Silva dropped his hands and brought his arms up fiercely between the two arms still embracing him tightly. The other's grip broke with a snap. In the same motion Da Silva swung down as hard as he could, bringing his hands in a devastating chop against both sides of his opponent's neck. He felt the body beneath him arch in a sudden convulsion and then relax limply; the arms dropped away. He rolled free, panting hoarsely, scrabbling for purchase on the rocky ground, each breath cutting into his chest. He pushed himself to his knees, swaying there, trying to catch his breath.
There was a sudden sound behind him; he listened to it dully, panting. Of course, he thought. Naturally. He tried to fling himself to one side, twisting, but he was too tired and his reactions were too slow. Too many cigarettes, he thought, even as he felt the heavy chop on his shoulder, painful and crippling. He raised the other arm wearily to ward off the blow he knew was coming, trying to roll free, but the arm above descended inexorably, sweeping past the ineffectual raised hand, swinging the pistol butt viciously. Pain exploded in his head, sending brightly colored lights scattering to the horizon, lighting up the yellow river and the green forest. Crimson alligators laughed at him from the tawny flood and parakeets scolded him for his temerity. Police school, he thought, and allowed himself to sink beneath the rippling, muddy waves.
Chapter 7
A STRONG HAND pushed at Wilson's shoulder. He smiled cheerfully in his sleep and nuzzled deeper in his hammock, one hand searching vainly for a nonexistent pillow. The hand came again, more insistent; the hammock swayed dangerously. Wilson reluctantly abandoned his dream and opened one eye in resentment; the morning sun caught it squarely. He turned about, irritated, to find himself staring into the worried blue eyes of Captain Freitas.
“What's the matter?”
The captain frowned wordlessly; he crooked a finger and walked forward heavily to stand beside the bow of the steamer. Wilson shrugged, yawned, and slid from the hammock. His eyebrows raised as he noted Da Silva's empty hammock. This is some vacation, he thought sourly; nobody sleeps. He scratched his stomach, yawned again, and walked forward to join the waiting captain. The big man seems perturbed about something, he thought; maybe I snored all night and kept him awake.
The captain was waiting for him at the rail, his thick fingers rolling the ends of two free strands of rope. Two of the boiler-crew members were crouched by the boiler, sitting on their haunches, patiently awaiting the familiar cry of “Fire! Steam!” They were playing some sort of game with little polished sticks.
Wilson nodded to them as he passed, but they paid no attention. This just isn't my day for making friends, he thought sleepily, and turned to face the captain.
“What's the matter?”
The heavy fingers twisted the rope ends. “Where's José?”
“Zé?” Wilson stared around, slowly waking up. “I don't know. Isn't he here?”
“No.” The captain's fingers tightened convulsively on the ropes. “And both canoes are gone. And my mate and one of the crewmen—a man who came with the mate when he was hired. And he took his radio and half the supplies.” His eyes came up somberly. “And José is gone, too.”
The significance of the bare ropes came to Wilson. All sleepiness had fled now.
The captain continued, answering the question in the stocky man's eyes.
“They must have found out you were policemen. And run away. And José followed them.”
Wilson did not answer; his mind was racing, trying to fit these facts together. The mate gone and Da Silva gone after him? Alone? Without advising him? Never! His eyes swung automatically to the muddy water pulsing past and then back to the bare deck. If Da Silva had gone into the river ... But even so—without an outcry? A swift knife stab could have done it—but why? And if so, why just Zé and not all of them? Why not Wilson as well?
“The clearing...” He brushed past the captain and walked swiftly down the gangplank.
The large man hesitated, staring at the rope ends in his fingers, his mind a blank. He could hear Wilson tramping through the brush on shore. And then he heard the call from the other; it galvanized him into action. He dropped the ropes, jerked a finger at the two crewmen to stay in place, and lumbered down the gangplank.
He found Wilson kneeling beside the crumpled figure of Da Silva, one hand feeling for a pulse in the neck of the still body. The kneeling man looked up with relief.
“He's alive.”
The captain nodded and bent down. “I'll handle him.”
He lifted the heavy man as one would a baby, supporting the battered head on his shoulder, and carried him toward the gangplank. His eyes were puzzled as they passed over the sprawled body of the dead crewman with the neck angled oddly; red ants were exploring the open mouth. He carried Da Silva aboard and laid him gently in his hammock; then he disappeared into the deck enclosure and returned a moment later with medical supplies. The long cut in Da Silva's head was swabbed with iodine; a generous portion of penicillin powder was poured in and the head was tightly bound with a clean bandanna. The captain stepped back.
Da Silva stirred. The dark eyes opened. They swung about, finally stopping at Wilson. He wet his lips with his tongue.
“The mate,” he whispered.
“You'll talk later,” Wilson said quietly. “Take it easy. You got a bad bump on the head.”
Da Silva tried to struggle to a sitting position and gave it up, slumping back. “Wilson, the mate—he took the canoes.”
“We know,” Wilson said. “You'll tell us about it later.”
The man in the hammock waved a hand weakly. “I'm all right. I can talk.” His eyes swung about. “They loaded the canoes, and then they went down to the clearing. I followed them.” His voice became bitter. “Like a lamb to slaughter. They led me down there.”
“Take it easy,” Wilson advised. “Rest awhile.”
“No.” Da Silva attempted to sit up, wincing in pain. “Don't you see? We have to try and follow them.”
“Follow them?” The captain stared at him in amazement. “I thought you said you weren't after them. And that you had to get to Marãa as soon as possible.”
Da Silva started to shake his head and stopped as pain swept him. “Wait. Let's think logically. We were going to Marãa to try and find a lead, a start. But we have our lead right here and now.”
“Lead?” Wilson's eyebrows raised. “What lead?”
“Don't you see?” Da Silva's eyes were glowing. “There's something mighty strange going on in there.” He tilted his head towards the dense jungle. “Something that Bailey stumbled on—and it cost him his life. That's unusual fact number one. Unusual fact number two is the presence along the river of young, educated men working at bad jobs for very little money. Why?” He turned to the captain. “You've been in this country all your life. Did you ever see young men like that around before?”
The captain shook his head. “That much is true. I never have.”
“And they pick this time to leave.”
“That wouldn't be so unusual,” Wilson said, “if they thought we were after them.”
Da Silva stared at him. “Wilson, see if our gear has been touched.”
Wilson nodded and went swiftly to the deck enclosure. When he returned he stared at Da Silva thoughtfully. “It's all there—rifles and all.”
“You see?” There was weak triumph in Da Silva's voice. “They didn't leave because of us. They wouldn't have left our rifles if they had. I was just a nosy fellow who had to be put out of action.”
“Then why did they leave?”
Da Silva sat up and swung his feet to the deck. He winced, took Wilson's arm, and stood up, swaying a moment. He leaned against the deck enclosure, his hand pressing against the edge of the bandage as if to squeeze the answer from his brain.
“They were waiting for something.” He stared at the deck. “They were waiting for a message, and that message came.” His brain was racing now. He looked up. “The radio! The radio last night!”
“But he listened to the radio every night,” the captain objected. “Every night at exactly nine o'clock he would tune in Radio Manaus.” His own words seemed to come back to him with a different meaning. “At exactly nine o'clock ... Yes, it is possible. A code, maybe.”
“In music,” Da Silva said, suddenly sure.
Wilson shook his head. “It still seems mighty thin to me. You're building a lot out of very little.”
“There's one way to find out,” Da Silva said quietly. “We can go back and check on that other lad—the one at that plantation downriver. If he's also gone...”
“When you get stubborn,” Wilson said, “you get stubborn all over. All right. Let's go back.”
Captain Freitas nodded. “That we can do. It won't take too much time.” He looked at the two men. “We're shorthanded now, though. We'll need help on the boiler.”
Wilson sighed. “Don't tell me; I know.” He shook his head. “Next time let me be wounded, will you?”
The steamer was untied; the current caught it, twisting it slowly until the engine took command and the paddles took it into the main stream, away from the treacherous banks. Wilson worked with the boiler crew, sweat pouring from him. Da Silva leaned over the rail with a pair of binoculars, studying the shoreline for any sign of a canoe or any break in the liana vines. At places the roots of huge trees curled down into the muddy water; gray wading birds lined the roots, wings half raised, poised for instant takeoff should the noisy intruder come closer. Large bluebottle flies investigated the small boat, their iridescent wings flashing in the sun; butterflies pulsed on the still air. Da Silva's binoculars studied each cove, every break in the forest's wall, but nowhere could he see the slightest sign of any violation of the tangled vegetation.
Wilson took a breather and came to stand beside his friend.
“He may have gone upriver.”
Da Silva shook his head without lifting the glasses from his eyes. “Against the current? He would have stayed with the steamer and left it above where he wanted to go. No; he went downriver.”
Wilson lit a cigarette and leaned over the rail. “Maybe he crossed over to the other bank.”
“Bailey was heading north of the Japurá. We have to assume he went in the same direction.”
Wilson shrugged and stared down at the bandanna. “You look like Errol Flynn in one of his pirate pictures.”
Da Silva took the binoculars from his eyes and rubbed his face wearily. “If he's the one who's always grinning after being brained, you've got us m
ixed up.” He looked up. “Not a sign.” He bent back to his task with a sigh.
Wilson flipped his cigarette into the river and went back to the boiler.
The plantation came into sight, first heralded by the everpresent wavering column of smoke from the cooking fire. The dock became visible as a thin line jutting into the brown river. A straw-hatted figure had come out on the little dock and was waiting for the steamer to approach. As they turned in the current to pull closer to the low wooden dock, they could distinguish the fixed features of Senhor Mello, their fellow passenger of the previous day. The same naked children were strung along the bank of the clearing, but they were now still and silent, as if realizing that something serious was in the wind.
If Senhor Mello felt any curiosity as to the reason for the unusual return of the steamer, his face did not reflect it. He caught the pole Wilson held out to him, retained it until it was followed by the rope, and then looped the cord casually about one of the pier stanchions. Captain Freitas descended from the little bridge, slowly climbed over the rail, and dropped onto the swaying pier. Wilson and Da Silva remained at the rail, letting the captain handle the conversation.
The huge man with the sharp blue eyes dispensed with all amenities. “You have a young man working with you,” he began abruptly, and then paused, for Senhor Mello had raised a hand.
“Had,” the smaller man amended.
“He has gone? When? Where?”
The Shrunken Head Page 9