Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Wilson bent down, peering closely. “What’s there?”

  Da Silva took the pencil and poked gently in the mass of stuffing that spilled out. He probed back and forth for several seconds and finally looked up.

  “Nothing!” he said in disappointment. “Sawdust!”

  “Fine!” Wilson straightened up, stretching. “I hope you’re satisfied. Now can I throw him away?”

  But Da Silva was staring off into space, his dark eyes brooding. The pencil waved gently in his fingers, like a tiny baton in the hands of an orchestra leader conducting a slow movement.

  “I won’t have time to get home,” he said slowly. “I’ve got to go to the office and then I’m going down to the bus station at Praça Mauá and check on this Evaristo Machado line. Maybe the driver will remember something.” He looked up at Wilson. “If you could put this in your safe until morning, I’d appreciate it. I’ll take it off your hands in the morning.”

  Wilson stared at him. “When you get one of your ideas, you’re certainly hard to move,” he said almost admiringly. He leaned over the table, reaching for the tiny coiled form there, and then wrinkled his nose. “In my safe? This thing stinks!”

  “Just until tomorrow morning.” Da Silva poured himself another brandy, gulped it down, and then stood, quiet and tall, staring at the snake.

  “So you won’t be at the party tonight? I was hoping you would come.”

  “Not tonight. I’ll be busy.” He waited as Wilson scraped the snake with traces of sawdust inexpertly back into the bottom of the box and then fitted the cover in place. The balance of the sawdust he swept to the floor, leaving it for the maid to clean.

  “Where’s that paper?”

  Wilson looked up from his task. “What paper?”

  “The one I gave you in the car. With the name on it. And the bus line.”

  “In your shirt pocket.” Wilson walked behind the bar, carrying the package gingerly. He swung a picture away from the wall, twisted the combination, and then slipped the cardboard box from sight in the wall safe. Da Silva watched him twirl the knob to lock it and then walked with him to the door.

  “The whole thing is screwy,” Wilson said in a complaining tone of voice. “I admit that it’s queer to find a man carrying a dead snake in his pocket, but I could probably find ten reasons for it if I had to. I think you’re making too much out of it. I don’t see a connection.”

  “You don’t?” Da Silva paused with his hand on the knob, remembering the morgue and the loose arm that refused to lie still under the bloody sheet. “You didn’t see him. You didn’t see the man who was carrying that package after they were through with him.”

  His dark eyes looked beyond Wilson, staring at the wall. “But I did.”

  THREE

  Senhor Adhemar Santos de Monteiro, recent civilian appointee as head of Brazilian Interpol and Da Silva’s immediate superior, was short, dumpy, and quite vague in appearance. He made an impressive picture seated behind his large desk, but only because he had a special chair which enabled him to rest his elbows on his blotter without appearing to be climbing out of a hole. It must not, however, be thought that Senhor Monteiro received his appointment without merit; he had contributed heavily to the current incumbent’s campaign fund and had relatives on his wife’s side with more money than they knew what to do with.

  Da Silva, seated opposite his chief and trying to read intelligence in the reflection from the thick spectacles, sighed patiently. He had repeated his story several times, but it still did not seem to have penetrated.

  “You keep coming back to the dead man and the dead snake, Captain,” Monteiro said, almost complainingly. A sudden idea seemed to strike him. “Do you mean you suspect that the same person killed them both?”

  God! Da Silva thought bitterly. Where do they come from? Why couldn’t this one have been appointed head of fisheries in Matto Grosso? “No, sir,” he said. “It’s simply that I feel there are things in this case that warrant further investigation.”

  “But we’re pretty busy, Captain,” Monteiro pointed out, and then ruined everything by adding, “We are, aren’t we?”

  “Not too busy, sir. I’ve explained about the paper I found in his pocket and the fact that he went to a lot of trouble to conceal that snake. Plus that rather odd robbery at the Pernambuco. I think we ought to check into it further.”

  “Ah!” said Senhor Monteiro, as if Da Silva had unwittingly given him the weapon he needed. “But that’s just the point, isn’t it? It really doesn’t have anything to do with our department, does it? Dead snakes? Or even dead men? That is, unless they’re foreigners, of course,” he added hastily.

  Da Silva forced himself to calmness. “We don’t know that it doesn’t have anything to do with our department, sir,” he said slowly. “We won’t know unless we check into it further.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Probably just a waste of time, Captain.” He attempted to sit higher in his chair and failed. “Time, Captain, is not to be wasted. I’m sure you can understand that. No, I can’t see it as anything for us.”

  Da Silva stared at him. “You don’t mind, sir, if I check into it further on my own time?”

  “Your own time? Can any of us in Interpol call our time our own?” He cleared his throat suddenly, as if realizing he might be inviting an answer. “Well … I suppose there would be no harm in spending a few days on it. If we’re really not busy, that is.” His little hand shot up in the air. “But I’ll expect reports, Captain. Regular reports. Written, of course, with the standard number of copies.”

  “Yes, sir.” Da Silva rose to his feet, quickly and gratefully. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

  “Do that.” Senhor Monteiro considered also standing and decided against it. “And if there is anything I can do to help, Captain, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Nothing.” The pudgy hand brushed aside this merited appreciation. “What I’m here for, after all.”

  What you are here for, Da Silva said to himself viciously as he closed the door behind him, is to keep that high-chair from blowing away in a mild breeze. Ah, well—politics. He trotted down the broad stairs of the Central Police Building, slowly regaining his humor. There was work to be done, and that always eased his irritations.

  The omnibus station in the Praça Mauá handles the majority of the scheduled bus lines that radiate like tangled vines from Rio de Janeiro to the many small suburbs that border the giant city. Offices in general free their prisoners at five o’clock, and from then until eight each evening the platforms swarm with confused and struggling humanity, squirming madly in their effort to return to the relative peace of their homes. After nine, however, the majority of commuters have finally managed to batter their way aboard either their own or at least some transportation, and the station in the later hours is fairly deserted except for rare intercity traffic. Captain Da Silva, therefore, found one of the ticket windows empty and, leaning down, rapped until he irritated the clerk into attention.

  “Pardon me,” Da Silva said politely, pushing his hat back from his dark, curly hair, “does the Evaristo Machado Bus Line come into this station?”

  The clerk stared at him impatiently. Non-customers with idiotic questions were the greatest bane of his existence. The second greatest were legitimate customers. “What line?”

  “The Evaristo Machado.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Then could you please tell me …” But the clerk had already turned away in complete disinterest.

  “You!” said Da Silva in a voice so sharp that the clerk turned back with a snarl to deliver himself of a biting reprimand, but he found himself facing a police badge and he swallowed instead.

  “Now!” said Da Silva bluntly, slipping the badge back into his pocket. “You will stay right there and answer my questions, or we’ll go down to the delegacia and see if we can open you up there!” He pushed himself erect, glowering at the clerk; the s
maller man behind the grill-work had to lean over in order to look up at the stern face.

  “Ye … yes, sir!”

  “Now,” Da Silva said with satisfaction, “this Evaristo Machado Bus Line. If it doesn’t come into this station, where could it come to?”

  “Where?”

  “What station?” Da Silva’s voice tightened.

  The clerk blanched. “There is no Evaristo Machado Bus Line,” he said fervently, more than anxious to please. “We know all of the bus lines in the country; we have to.” He paused, thinking hard, trying to help. “It might be one of the independents from one of the small towns around here. Nova Iguaçú, maybe, or Caxias, or someplace like that.” He frowned. “The starter outside on the platform, or one of the drivers … maybe they could help you.” He stared at Da Silva alertly, eager for more questions, eager to be of further assistance, extremely uneager to visit the delegacia, particularly in company of this large man.

  Da Silva stared back. In addition to air conditioning and morgues, he also hated the cavalier treatment afforded the public by so many people behind counters. A proper punishment for this one occurred to him and he pulled one of his photographs from his pocket.

  “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  “Please.” The clerk reached out, smiling, and pulled the picture to him for study. His smile faded; the sight made him shudder, but he did not dare cease inspection too soon. After a proper interval he shoved it back across the counter; his face was white.

  “No, sir. I never saw him before.”

  “Are you sure? Take another look.”

  The clerk closed his eyes queasily. “I’m sure.”

  Da Silva shrugged, put the picture back in his pocket, and began to turn away with a smile. A further question came to him and he swung back, his face serious once more. The clerk was immediately watchful, bending down alertly.

  “How far could a person get,” Da Silva asked thoughtfully, “on a return passage worth thirty conto?”

  “Return from where?”

  “Say from Rio?”

  “Thirty thousand cruzeiros?” The clerk was relieved by the innocence of the question, but also properly amazed. “A return? Only a return? That would have to be at least a fifty-conto round-trip passage. At the least.” He shook his head. “Even Recife wouldn’t be anywhere near that much. Are you sure you mean by omnibus? There’s no place you can go from Rio that would be that expensive.”

  Da Silva nodded his thanks and turned away once more, shaking his head in disgust at his own stupidity. Of course, he should have realized that there was something odd about a return passage worth thirty conto. You could go to Buenos Aires by jet for less than that amount. The affair became more confusing every minute, but by the same token it also became more interesting.

  The platform beyond the office was deserted except for the starter, an old man seated lazily on a hard wooden bench, yawning and scratching himself. He looked up, bright-eyed, at his visitor; any break in the monotony was welcome.

  “Good evening,” Da Silva said pleasantly. “I wonder if you could help me. Have you ever heard of a bus line called the Evaristo Machado?”

  The old man shook his head slowly. “No, sir.”

  Da Silva frowned. “Well, that’s that, then.”

  The old man held up his hand in sudden thought. “Wait a second. There’s a young fellow by that name who runs a Pau de Arara down from somewhere on the São Paulo coast. He drops over and has coffee with me sometimes when he gets in. But it isn’t a bus line at all; it’s just a Pau de Arara.” He shook his head sadly. “No, it isn’t a bus line. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “A Pau de Arara?” Suddenly it began to make sense. “Where does he stop, do you know?”

  “Over on the other side of the Praça.” The old man got to his feet, walked to the open end of the platform, and pointed. “Over there, along the rail. That’s where almost all of them stop. Maybe one of the fellows over there could help you.”

  Da Silva took his picture from his pocket and showed it to the old man. “Did you ever see this man before?”

  The old man looked at him shrewdly. “You are from the police?”

  Da Silva nodded. The old man fished out a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then carried the picture to one of the platform lights. He bent over it and whistled.

  “Puxa!” he said admiringly. “Someone certainly didn’t like this one!”

  “I guess not,” Da Silva said. “Ever see him before?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t remember. I see thousands every day.” The old man continued to study the picture with appreciation for several minutes before handing it back. “They don’t look like this one, though.”

  Da Silva smiled and slipped a bill into the old man’s hand. With a wave and a word of thanks, he left the platform at the open end and crossed the wide street to the dockside. A large passenger liner was tied up at the first wharf opposite the Touring Club, and lights from the towering decks flooded the area. A band on deck was playing Brazilian music in a distinctly American manner; people were crowding the rail, throwing confetti and pompoms of colored paper down to their friends below. Along the high grilled fence that separated the dock area from the Praça a band of ragged adults and wide-eyed children were watching this animation solemnly.

  Da Silva approached the first of a line of battered, open trucks; the driver was lost in the shadows of his lifted hood, tinkering with the motor by flashlight, humming along with the ship’s band. Da Silva tapped him on the shoulder and he withdrew his head, scratching his nose on his wrist to avoid grease.

  “Evaristo Machado?”

  The driver studied him carefully a moment before deciding it was safe to answer. “Third or fourth truck down. A Chevy.” He leaned over the fender of his truck, calling loudly, “Evaristo! Someone here for you!”

  “Grácias a Déus!” A young man came hurrying up. “Finalmente!” He paused uncertainly as he saw Da Silva; it was obvious he had been expecting another. “Yes, sir?”

  “Are you Evaristo Machado?”

  “Yes, sir.” It was said hesitatingly.

  “Did you write this?” Da Silva took a paper from his wallet and handed it over. The driver of the first truck offered his flashlight, watching this unusual affair with curiosity.

  “This? No, sir.”

  Da Silva looked down perturbed, then reversed the paper. “Not that; this.”

  The young man read his own handwriting slowly, as if for the first time. His face fell in anticipation of trouble, the usual result of the unknown. He hesitated.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, sir. I wrote it. Is something wrong?”

  Da Silva took him by the arm and led him further down the fence. The driver of the leading truck looked disappointed at being left out of the conversation but shrugged philosophically and bent over his motor.

  “I’m from the police,” Da Silva said quietly. “I want you to look at a picture and tell me if it is of the same man you gave this receipt to.” He took a pencil flashlight from his pocket, shining it down on the photograph. The young man gasped.

  “He’s dead …”

  “Yes, he’s dead. Is he the one?”

  The young man looked sick. “Yes.” He looked up in misery. “Do I have to give back the thirty conto? I didn’t ask for it; he offered it. He wanted me to wait for him. He said he’d be back by eight this morning. I’ve been waiting all day …”

  “No,” Da Silva said kindly. “You don’t have to give back the thirty conto.” The young man stirred with at least partial relief. “I just want you to tell me everything you know of him.”

  “I don’t know anything of him. He got on at Urubuapá, down by the docks. He came running out; I almost missed him. He wanted to come to Rio, and he paid me and climbed up in back. When we stopped at Merópolis, where we come out onto the Dutra, he talked to me and said he wanted to come back with me—or rather, he said h
e wanted to come back as far as where we cross the Santos road. He said his business in Rio would take only a few hours. He offered me thirty conto to wait …” The young face was raised defiantly. “I didn’t ask him for it; he offered it to me. And I insisted on giving him a receipt. That receipt there.”

  “And you did right,” Da Silva said. “Do not worry about the money; it is yours. What time did you arrive in Rio?”

  “We got here about two in the morning. Here in the Praça.”

  “I see. And where did he go after he left you?”

  “Over there.” The young man pointed. “He crossed the Praça toward that bar. It’s the only one that stays open after midnight.”

  “And that’s the last you saw of him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t see him take a cab?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t wait around.” He cleared his throat. “What … what happened to him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Da Silva paused, thinking. “You never saw him before? In Urubuapá, for example?”

  “No, sir. We get a lot of strangers there; it’s a small place, but we get a lot of fishermen, and people stopping by the docks for gasoline for their boats, or coming in for provisions or beer to take back to the islands off the coast.”

  “The islands?”

  “Yes, sir. There are a lot of islands off Urubuapá, and people live on some of them. Or camp there. It’s not like a small town in the interior where everybody knows everybody else. We get a lot of strangers.”

  “I see,” Da Silva said. He looked around; the noise from the boat deck of the liner was increasing. Lines were being cast off; tugs were nosing at the ship impatiently. Passengers waved madly; the band played frantically. The contrast to the dull, shadowy corner of the Praça and the weary line of broken-down trucks was startling. I should be up there getting drunk, Da Silva thought, and forced his attention back to the waiting figure before him. “Where can I get in touch with you if I want to ask you any further questions?”