The Shrunken Head

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Wilson stumbled to his knees and remained there, his feverish eyes opening wide in astonishment.

  “It worked. Holy cow, it worked!"

  “Get up!” Da Silva, half deafened, dragged at the kneeling man's arm with frantic impatience. “Get up, will you? We have to get out of here. The captain will be waiting at the river!”

  Wilson allowed himself to be brought to his feet, but his eyes still sought the red, crackling glow that was growing in intensity beyond the fringe of the giant, swaying trees.

  “It worked...”

  Da Silva swore mightily, sweat pouring from his matted face. He pulled desperately on the swollen arm of his staggering friend. Wilson, pleased by this unasked-for but welcome attention from the well-meaning stranger at his side, responded by allowing himself to be meekly tugged along. The holocaust he had helped create was as suddenly forgotten as if it had never existed, although the growing heat on his skin reminded him pleasurably of some enjoyable event far in the past. His fever was rising dangerously. The top of his head hurt abominably, but—and Wilson found this rather odd—it seemed to be hurting someone else, not himself. Pity flooded Wilson for the poor soul so unfairly afflicted; possibly a little rest might help him...

  Da Silva caught him as he fell; his eyes swung about desperately as he supported the limp body. A new danger seemed to have presented itself, for the animals were now on the move in the forest, fleeing the deadly smells and noises of the growing conflagration. A panther, who had been studying the camouflaged net from the safety of a tree high above, had been flung to the ground by the explosion and was now lying dazed a few feet from the sweating Da Silva, blinking its eyes. With a mighty effort Da Silva swung the smaller man into his arms and stumbled in the direction of the river.

  A tapir lumbered past him; monkeys screamed as they fought their way through the branches high above, intent upon safety. The brush at his feet seemed to boil as the smaller animals joined the flight: the rodents, the snakes, the spiders—all wormed or slithered their way along the forest floor. Da Silva found himself praying under his breath in a mad monotone; the safety of the river seemed a dream never to be realized. But in the face of the common danger the creatures of the forest did not waste time on this mutual victim of disaster; they crept or padded past the stumbling man, caught in the fear of the growing heat and the stifling smoke.

  Sunlight forced its way weakly through the solid wall ahead. Da Silva crashed through the last few yards, breaking past the final barrier of tangled vines, and stood tottering, panting, staring at the black rushing water and the empty stretch of sandy beach at his feet. His eyes went frantically to the curve of trees that hid the village below. Nothing! He remained dumbfounded, lost in his great disappointment, his breath rasping painfully in his throat. And then, from around the spit of forest, the huge figure of Captain Freitas appeared, bent almost double, dragging a canoe behind him through the soft sand.

  There was no pause for greetings. The large man slid the canoe partway into the water and in almost the same motion relieved Da Silva of the inert body of Wilson and laid it gently in the bottom of the small craft. To Da Silva there was an air of unreality about the scene; he stood rocking on his feet, gulping in the cool air of the river, fighting for control. And then he felt himself being propelled forward like an automaton in the firm grip of Captain Freitas.

  He never remembered stepping into the canoe or seating himself or grasping the paddle as the large captain pushed them into the water and sprang over the side to crouch at the rear. He never remembered the sudden pull of the current or his hands locking themselves automatically on the paddle to steer them diagonally across the swift river to the far bank and safety. He never remembered any portion of that swift ride.

  But he never forgot—although the memory remained with him only as an excerpt from some mad dream, and not clothed at all in reality—the picture of the Indian huts as they were swept away from the village, with the roiling flames making a macabre backdrop to the scene, and the smoke swirling overhead, and the figure of the small shaman squatting on the deserted beach ... the shaman who raised his head as their canoe was caught by the hungry river and swept further away, and who stared at them and then lifted his thin arms, not in anger, nor in frustration, but almost as if he were somehow asking benediction...

  Chapter 14

  CAPTAIN JOSÉ DA SILVA, final report submitted and once more released to Interpol, trotted down the broad steps of the Itamaratí with a thoughtful look on his swarthy face. He walked quickly to his red Jaguar—which was parked this time in the space reserved for the Minister of State—and slid behind the wheel. He laid his overstuffed briefcase on the seat beside him and glanced at his wrist-watch; he was late for lunch again, and he smiled faintly at the thought of Wilson's reaction. With a sigh he slid the car into gear, drove through the wide gates, and turned into traffic.

  It had taken the entire month since his return from the upper Amazon to complete his investigation of the abortive revolt. The facts of the failure had been determined easily enough: when anxiously watched radar screens had proved empty of the promised squadron, the resulting dissension, accusations, and counter-accusations had led—as was only possible—to disastrous confusion. It was the placing of exact responsibility that had been so time-consuming, particularly in view of the Government's refusal to allow any publicity to events—although it had released a laconic statement to the press stating that the startling announcement from Radio Manaus had been a prank on the part of a group of university students in Manaus on holiday. Da Silva shrugged; he was happy that the case was over and that he was out of it, although he was far from convinced in his own mind that the philosophies that had led to the attempt would accept either the failure or the penalties for failure easily or for long.

  He parked on the bay side of the Santos Dumont Airport and came through the crowded lower level striding rapidly; the curved steps leading up to the restaurant level were taken two at a time. At the top he paused, refused to relinquish his briefcase to an attendant, and peered about the bar. A faint hail from the restaurant caught his ear. He turned to find the stocky man from the American Embassy eyeing him calmly from a nearby table. Wilson's fingers were tapping evenly against the side of a glass. Da Silva walked over, set his briefcase on a vacant chair, and sat down with a grin on his face.

  Wilson studied his watch. “I was afraid that while I was in the hospital you might have changed your ways,” he said. “I'm relieved to find you haven't. You know, I have an idea for an invention that should earn me a fortune—special clocks for Brazilians. Permanently fast.”

  “I was tied up at the Itamaratí.” Da Silva caught a waiter by the arm and ordered a cognac. He was suddenly aware that Wilson was speaking to him, but the roar of an airplane engine on the runway beyond the open windows drowned out the words. He waited patiently until the plane had trundled out of earshot and then leaned forward.

  “What?”

  “I merely asked how it went.”

  Da Silva shrugged. “It went all right, I suppose. At least I'm glad it's over.” His drink came and he picked it up. “Well, what will we drink to? Coming downriver from that little Senhor Mello's clearing to Manaus on that wood-gulping monster that Captain Freitas is so proud of I'm afraid we drank to about everything you can drink to. And in the captain's best high-quality twenty-cents-a-bottle pinga, too."

  "You drank,” Wilson said coldly. “You two had me laid out like a corpse in that hammock, subsisting on penicillin and that goddammed dried corn.”

  Da Silva chose to pass this by. “Well, you choose it, then. What will we drink to?”

  Wilson thought. “How about drinking to your being on time once in your life?”

  Da Silva forced down his smile. “Let's not waste good cognac. Try again.”

  “Then how about solid pavement under our feet?” Wilson asked. “Forever and ever and ever and ever?” He grinned.

  The two lifted their glasses, touche
d them, and drank. Wilson set his glass down and stared at it, suddenly thoughtful.

  “I haven't seen you for some time,” he said slowly. His eyes came up. “I still have a few questions. Like how did your Foreign Office ever get involved in a deal like this? And how did Elena ever manage to get her job with them?”

  Da Silva raised an arm in a vain attempt to attract a waiter's attention. “The Foreign Office? Actually, here in Brazil they have more to do with internal security than you might think. For one thing, Brazil is a signatory of an OAS pact stating that any threat to the internal security of any one of the signing parties is to be considered a threat to all. Not that that means much, but...” A waiter scooted by them, disregarding Da Silva's arm. “As for Elena, I found she had been recommended for her job by a very big man. A general. Who at present"—he waved again at a waiter, this time violently—"is enjoying a long-due and well-deserved rest from his duties.”

  Wilson stared at him a moment. “Well, that's something.” His eyes dropped to study his hands: the bruised fingers still showed the marks of the ordeal of having been bound. “Elena and that miserable brother of hers,” he said softly. His fingers suddenly clenched into fists. “How I'd like to get these hands on that precious pair!”

  Da Silva's arm dropped as he stared across the table at his friend. The cognac had eased him, reducing the strain he had felt all morning, the wonder of how to bring the subject up himself. He shrugged.

  “That shouldn't be hard,” he said quietly. He reached over to pick up his briefcase; he opened it and placed his hand within. He withdrew two small buckskin bags and pushed them across the table to Wilson. The two bags bumped a bit as he shoved them and then came to rest.

  “They arrived from Manaus this morning.”

  Wilson stared at the two small sacks and then raised his head. Growing intelligence widened his eyes. Da Silva returned the startled stare with no expression on his face.

  “The first group that crossed by land from Mello's found the village untouched by fire. Deserted, but not burned. And in the doorway of one of the huts—the small one where we had been prisoner—they found these.” His fingers reached toward the sacks and then paused.

  Wilson raised his eyes slowly from the two buckskin sacks. He stared into his friend's eyes for a moment. When he spoke his voice was low and slightly hoarse.

  “Get that waiter, will you? I think I need another one, too...”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain José da Silva Mysteries

  ONE

  The voice on the telephone was evenly modulated and quiet, but it was no less deadly for all that. The listening man gripped the receiver lightly, as if even the pressure of his hand on the smooth plastic might somehow sway the course of the conversation; this call was extremely important to him and it had to be handled just right. His half-closed eyes, staring through the broad window at the snow falling gently over Manhattan, saw none of the nighttime beauty of the winter scene, but only the thin, clever, sardonic face of the man at the other end of the line. He swung his heavy chair around to face the large well-furnished office with its low sofa and large paintings, but again he saw none of it. He nodded his head; this was the time to cut into the icy flow of language, but it had to be done with just the proper touch of desperation, just the exact amount of pleading, or at least the hint of pleading. He listened to a few more words and then cleared his throat, interrupting.

  “Listen, Barney, please …”

  “No,” said the voice in his ear, with that exaggerated pretense of patience that was its trademark in the gambling fraternity of the city. “No. You listen to me instead, Mr. Martin, and you listen very carefully. One hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money in anybody’s language, and you owe it to me. And have long enough. You lost it and I won it. And I want it.”

  “And you’ll get it, if only you’ll—”

  “I know I’ll get it. I know it better than you do.” The listening man could almost see the tight little smile creeping across the other’s thin lips, could almost see the small cold eyes glisten momentarily in anticipation of their own sardonic humor. “Either the money or its equivalent. From your hide.”

  Now is the time to sound angry, the listening man said to himself, but it must be an anger tinged with just the slightest edge of fear. Nothing too overt, but nothing too easily misunderstood, either. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Threats? What are threats?”

  The listening man maintained his studied tone. “You’ll get your damned money!”

  “You’re repeating yourself.” Barney’s voice was bored, as if the conversation were dragging on longer than he felt necessary. “You keep saying the same thing, that I’ll get my money, but you don’t get around to saying when. And that’s what interests me.”

  “Now look here, Barney! If I wanted to, I could tell you that gambling debts are illegal; uncollectable—”

  “So?” Quiet amusement entered Barney’s voice for a moment, instantly replaced with an even deadlier coldness. “Gambling debts are uncollectable? Is that what you’re saying? Well, Mr. Martin, would you like to make a separate bet on that? Double or nothing?”

  “You know what I mean! I mean—”

  “And they’re also illegal? Let me bring you up to date on something, mister—everything is getting to be illegal these days. It’s a shame, but that’s the way it is.” Barney’s voice was almost conversational. “You want to know something? Even accidents are illegal. A man gets himself into an innocent discussion with some complete strangers in a bar one day, and the first thing he knows they have him out in the alley in back, and they make a basket case out of him. Cripple him up bad. For no reason at all. Is it legal? Or—”

  “Barney, listen!”

  “—or,” the cold voice went on inexorably, “this same guy comes out of the movies some fine night with his girl friend on his arm, and he starts to cross the street with the light—maybe to pick up his car, or to catch a drink in some joint they like—and out of nowhere some car comes, some maniac driver shooting around the corner, not watching where he’s going, and wham!” The quiet amusement returned for a moment. “You want to know something, mister? Even committing suicide is illegal. So just remember that fact, and don’t tell me what’s legal and what isn’t!”

  “Will you listen? I said I could tell you that, but I didn’t! And I’m not! I’ll pay you off!”

  “I hate to repeat myself …” Barney’s even tones contained neither sarcasm nor the slightest trace of humor; he sounded as if he really meant it. “Just tell me when.”

  “Soon. In a month or so. I’ve been—” He hesitated as a sharp rap came on the door of his office. “Hold it a second.” His hand cupped the receiver; he stared angrily at the door. “Yes? Who is it?”

  The heavy door swung back; an elderly woman in a stained dress and a faded dustcap peered in on him from behind the dubious protection of a mop handle protruding from a galvanized pail. “Cleaning woman,” she said succinctly, and looked about the large office as if weary to see it again, as if she would have been equally pleased to skip it this night. Her eyes came back to the man at the desk. “You going to be long, mister? How soon before I can get in here?”

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” he said shortly, and waved her away. He waited until the door had closed behind the woman and then uncovered the receiver again. “It was the cleaning woman—but damn it! It could have been anyone.”

  “So call from a phone booth instead of your office,” Barney said calmly. “You called me, I didn’t call you.”

  “And you’d better not! I could get in a jam just for knowing you, let alone talking to you.” That should be the proper tone, he thought with some satisfaction. Just the right amount of outrage combined with just the proper touch of panic.

  “Mister,” Barney said wearily, “just pay me what you owe me and you won’t have to worry about telephone calls from me, to me, or with me.” There was a moment’s p
ause. “How’s that for a solution? Why don’t we try that one for size?”

  The listening man abandoned this line of discussion for one that suited his purpose better. “I was saying that I was working on a scheme that can’t miss; it’ll get me the money I owe you and leave me in the clear. The only thing is, it’ll take another month at the least to set it up, and maybe even more. Almost certainly more, but it’s dead certain to work. The way the thing works—”

  “Don’t tell me your ideas,” Barney said with no expression in his voice at all. He might have been reading the stock-market reports on the radio, or the weather news. “Don’t unburden yourself of your schemes to me. I couldn’t care less. Just pay up. And quick.”

  “I’m trying to tell you you’ll get your damned money, but I need a month, damn it! At least a month and probably more!” He tightened his voice calculatingly. “You can’t get blood from a stone!”

  “I can try,” Barney said philosophically. From the tone of his voice the listening man could imagine the other calmly inspecting his fingernails. “Of course, the stone don’t look quite the same afterwards …” There was a brief pause; then Barney sighed deeply, as if surprised at his own softheartedness, at the decision to relent a bit. “All right—I’ll go along. You got one month to come through with the dough.”

  “I said at least a month and probably more. I—”

  “One month,” Barney said with cold finality. “Thirty days. From today.” He paused again. “This is the twenty-ninth of November—on the twenty-ninth of December I want you here. With the dough. I don’t want to have to go out looking for you. So for your sake I hope your scheme works.”