Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “This island,” Da Silva asked curiously, “how does it happen that the snakes never left it? Migrated, you might say, to one of the other islands, or even to the mainland? Some of the other islands are quite close.”

  “Salt water,” the director explained. “The jararaca doesn’t like salt water. No, they are a land snake. They will cross fresh water, but never salt.”

  “How does it happen there are that many snakes on the island?” Da Silva stared at the director. “You’d think they’d run out of food or come to some natural limit in number. What do they live on?”

  “Snakes?” the director smiled. “They live on anything and everything. They eat bugs, crabs, birds, even fish. They can even eat themselves. Do you know,” he went on, his enthusiasm making Da Silva squirm, “a snake can eat another snake his own length! Remarkable, isn’t it? But true. And also, as far as food is concerned, baby snakes don’t eat anything for the first six months of their lives.”

  He paced the office, caught up in the wonders of his favorite subject.

  “Another thing,” he went on, “if a snake finds itself in a situation where food is restricted, he can even go without it for a very long time. Or make do on whatever is available. Without, I might mention, reducing in the least its ability to reproduce, or without reducing the strength of its venom, or the viciousness of any attack it might make. They are very adaptable, snakes, really marvelous creatures. No, there is small limit to the number of snakes any given place can support. We have fewer here, on the mainland, because of the predatory attacks of other animals. There, on an island, there really is no limit.”

  Da Silva shuddered and changed the subject.

  “Just one more question, if you don’t mind.” The director’s nod indicated his willingness to aid the police in any way. Da Silva pointed to the wall. “Do you have a detailed map of the island? Are there any maps showing details of the island?”

  The director smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid not. The coastal survey group started to land a team there several years ago, but they took one look and came away. They have the outline, but that’s all.” He stared at the tiny point on the large wall map. “It’s about seven and a half miles long and only one to two wide; they aren’t even sure of these figures. They were made by sightings from the boat.”

  “You wouldn’t know if there is a lagoon on the island? Or a lake?”

  The director shook his head. “The only one who could have told you was Armando.”

  “I see.” Da Silva searched his mind for further questions but could find none. He held out his hand. “Well, thank you very much for the information. And, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to keep our conversation confidential for the time being.”

  “Of course.” The director took the outstretched hand and then paused. “But perhaps, Captain, you might like to be shown through the Instituto? I can even show you some of the jararacas from the Ilha, some from the cage that Armando sent. And we have a rather special aranha that arrived only yesterday from the Matto Grosso—a spider that measures almost six inches across just the body!” His voice became almost enthusiastic. “His full spread, of course, is nearer to sixteen.”

  “No, thank you!” Da Silva said hastily. “I’m afraid I have to go. Very busy, you know.”

  “Too bad,” said the director philosophically. “Well, some other time perhaps.” They shook hands once again, and then Da Silva effected his escape.

  Standing on the broad stone steps of the Instituto, Da Silva wiped his brow. A new group of visitors passed, led by an acolyte in a white jacket. Cameras were being wound; the tense smiles of anticipation were being readied. Snakes! Da Silva thought with an inward shudder, and headed for his car.

  Wilson was seated outside of a local botequim in São Clemente when Da Silva appeared. He had been waiting, uncomfortable on the hard wicker chair, for almost an hour, passing the time by admiring the women who passed in bikinis, pushing baby carriages, or applying sunburn lotion on the run. Across the wide palm-studded avenue the beach ran down to the bay, the rippled sand crowded with umbrellas and sprawled bodies. The loud shirt made Wilson feel conspicuous; he wished Da Silva had not been so insistent on painting a picture of an American so true to Hollywood standards. There were many Americans wandering about, he was sure, who looked quite normal. He caught the thin waiter’s critical eye and ordered another beer.

  Da Silva slid into a chair across from his friend, waved to the waiter, and indicated by gestures his desire for the same drink as his friend. The waiter tilted his head a fraction of an inch and disappeared into the shadows of the bar, appearing within a reasonable time with two bottles of beer and a glass. Da Silva drank deeply, wiped his mustache, and belched gently. The waiter beamed, assured that one of his customers, at least, was pure Brazilian.

  “Meester,” Da Silva said, “we march. But rapidly we march.”

  “We also march,” Wilson said. He looked at the empty tables spread about the sidewalk around them. “Whose music should we march to first?”

  “Mine.” Da Silva finished his beer, made a hissing noise to the waiter, and pointed. Another beer appeared as if by magic. Da Silva loosened his tie and sucked in his breath with appreciation as another bikini passed. He forced his attention back to Wilson. “Where was I? Oh yes. The dead man’s name—the one in the morgue, you remember—was Armando. Armando de Mattos. And the chances, meester, are many that the map we are in the possession of is of an island called Ilha das Cobras. Or at least,” he added, “that’s what I told my boss in the report I sent in from São Paulo.”

  “The word is ‘good,’ not ‘many,’” Wilson said, smiling.

  “Pardon, meester.” Da Silva poured his glass full, noted the low level in Wilson’s glass, and proceeded to bring it up to foaming repletion. He looked at his friend with twinkling eyes. “I am naturally elated. I dreadfully fear me it has uprooted my English.”

  Wilson grinned. “Even in your uprooted English you interest me. And do you know why?”

  “Of course.” Da Silva spread his hands. “We have found the island. Our map shall shortly be of use. We shall track down the poor hat-check girls and free them from slavery. They may wish to express their appreciation in their own native fashion.”

  Wilson laughed. “Not quite. If you’d let me tell my story, you might come closer.”

  “Then tell it. Lord, you’d think you got paid by the word, the way you drag things out!”

  “Well,” Wilson said, “I went and spoke with Souza of the customs down at the docks. You remember him—the little fat man who looks like he eats watermelons. Whole. Anyway, I asked if he had had any recent experience with smuggling or smugglers in the Urubuapá area, and he just stared at me for several seconds.”

  “He didn’t understand you? Your Portuguese?” Wilson laughed.

  “He understood too well. And then he told me a rather strange story. It seems that about a month ago, or maybe a little less, one of the customs boats was cruising in that area and noticed a power boat separating itself from a freighter in mid-ocean; anything beyond the legal limit is mid-ocean to Souza. Being curious, and having nothing else to do, the lieutenant in charge of the customs boat decided to follow it until it came within the legal limit and then drop in for a visit. For tea, possibly, or to pass the time of day; maybe even to make a search. But it seems the power boat wasn’t in the mood for company and decided to make a run for it.”

  Da Silva was watching Wilson closely now. “And?”

  “The lieutenant, naturally, was irked by this demonstration of ill-manners and decided to catch up with it and give the unco-operative owner a sharp lesson in politeness at sea, but …”

  “But?”

  Wilson spread his hands. “But the smaller boat ducked between two islands out there in the middle of nowhere. The shore lines of the two islands curve, sort of nested, if you know what I mean; the boat was out of sight in a few minutes. Our hero, it seems, couldn’t follow; a
s Souza explained it, it had something to do with soundings or draft or some such seagoing term. Why do sailors always use such unintelligible language?”

  Da Silva stared at him impatiently. “Get on with it!”

  “Oh. Pardon me. So our lieutenant stood off and waited. And was properly rewarded, for a few minutes later the power launch came putt-putting around the other end of the larger island and headed calmly for the beach. Our lieutenant immediately pushed down hard on the gas pedal, or whatever they do on board ships, and caught up with it. After which he clambered aboard with several of his cohorts and did a better-than-usual search. From the satisfaction in Souza’s voice as he told me about it, I would judge he really shook the place down properly. And what do you think he found?”

  “Don’t tell me, I can guess. He didn’t find a damned thing.” Da Silva sighed. “And so?”

  “So?”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it.” Wilson leaned back comfortably. “Unless, of course, you might be interested in knowing that the larger of the two islands, the place where the power launch managed to disappear for a few minutes, is called—at least by the folks thereabouts (or do I mean hereabouts?)—the Island of Snakes.”

  “Ilha das Cobras!” Da Silva leaned over the table, thinking, staring into the damp round ring left by one of the bottles as if the answer were concealed there as in a crystal ball.

  “Now, there was one thing you might call rather odd,” Wilson went on, thoroughly enjoying the expression on Da Silva’s face. “The lieutenant of the customs boat, you see, was quite upset by the snide manner in which this launch had ducked out on him. And their story of not having any idea he wanted them to stop struck him as being thin. So, after he had gone through the boat from keel to haul—at least that’s what I think they call it—he proceeded to throw the book at them.”

  Da Silva lifted his eyebrows. “For what?”

  “For not having a dinghy. It’s the law for charter boats, which this launch claims to be, you know.” Wilson looked at Da Silva calmly. “Now, I wonder just where they might have lost a dinghy. Certainly they wouldn’t go out and visit a freighter in mid-ocean without the usual precaution of having some sort of a lifeboat.”

  Da Silva nodded in agreement. “They dropped somebody at the Ilha das Cobras in the dinghy. With a package they had taken from the freighter. Our friend Armando de Mattos, of course. And our friend hid the package, and when they came back sometime later to pick him off the island, he managed to convince them—of what?” He shook his head, puzzled. “Why didn’t they take the package off the island when they came back to pick him up?”

  “I can think of lots of possibilities,” Wilson said. “Maybe the customs boat was still around, or they thought it might come around. Or maybe they decided it was safer to leave the package on the island for the time being. They, obviously, are only middlemen; maybe they felt it best to leave it there until it was time to make delivery. Or maybe they had always planned on leaving the package temporarily on the island; that might explain what Armando was doing in the deal. Nobody else would want to go traipsing around that snake pit.”

  Da Silva shrugged. “Maybe any one of them. I don’t know. It was certainly safer there than anywhere else; no chance of some curious picnicker stumbling on it by accident. Well, in any event, this Armando made a map of the place he had hidden this package—no honor among thieves—and then came to the conclusion that it would be more profitable to make a separate deal himself. With someone in Rio …”

  “But why the map?” Wilson objected. “He knew where the stuff was.”

  “Because a map was all he was about to sell. Little boy white had no intention of going back to Urubuapá himself; he was going to peddle his papers and then go far away. As one of your American magazines says so succinctly: no fool he! But the boys found out somehow, and then …”

  He drew his hand sideways across his throat; his watch caught his eye as he completed the dramatic gesture and he paused. “Well, it’s getting late. Let’s get on the road. Tomorrow we’ll take a run out to this famous Ilha das Cobras and see what we can see. That is,” he added, “if our friend the old man arranged us a boat that will make it that far.”

  “Oh, I think it will make it that far,” Wilson said airily. “I forgot to mention that the power launch our vindictive lieutenant stopped and searched so thoroughly is called the Valente. Our charter boat, I believe. And if it made it once, why shouldn’t it make it twice?”

  Da Silva, who had been in the act of rising, sank down again. “All right, Wilson,” he said with a cold edge to his voice. “What else did you forget to tell me?”

  Wilson grinned widely. “Well, I thought it might be well to ask Souza if he could arrange his customs boat to be somewhere in the neighborhood of Urubuapá tomorrow morning early. From what you tell me, the owners of the good ship Valente have a tendency at times to be nastier than necessary. Their names, by the way,” he added with a completely innocent expression, “are Jorge and Luis Dantas.”

  Da Silva stared at him in utter silence for several moments. When he spoke it was almost through his teeth. “Wilson, remind me never to ask you to work with me on a case again. Will you do that?”

  “With pleasure.” Wilson arose and placed some money on the table. “Shall we go?”

  The sun had long since disappeared beyond the ragged fringe of mountain looming over them by the time the taxi bounced over the last rut in the dismal dirt road and rolled smoothly across the hard-packed sand leading to Urubuapá. They had stopped at a small roadside gasoline-station-restaurant combination, and despite the general shabbiness of their surroundings, they had managed an excellent dinner of fried shrimp and boiled land crab. The owner had also unearthed a bottle of Portuguese cognac and had shared it most generously. Da Silva was yawning openly by the time they pulled up the cobbled main street and parked a bit below their hotel.

  “Almost two hundred miles today,” he said wearily as he climbed down and stretched. “If this keeps up I’m going to start thinking seriously about taking up taxi driving for a living. Might as well get paid.” He shook his head. “I’m for bed.” He went back, unlocked the trunk of the cab, and withdrew a large package.

  “What’s that?” Wilson asked.

  “We also have secrets,” Da Silva said and grinned. He leaned over conspiratorially to whisper in Wilson’s ear. “It’s an insurance policy,” he said.

  Wilson eyed the size of the package. “It must have lots of clauses.”

  “Claws, not clauses,” Da Silva said, smiling. “Well, are you coming in?”

  “It’s too early,” said Wilson, who despite the dire condition of the road had managed to doze most of the way back. “We wealthy American tourists never go to bed before dawn; you know that. I think I’ll wander down to our favorite bar and enjoy the night life for a while.”

  “Have fun, meester,” Da Silva said. He shouldered his package and nodded. “I’m going to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Wilson lifted a hand in a parting gesture and wandered up the cobbled street. The shabby store fronts were shuttered, mostly with sliding grillwork that allowed a view of their discouraged and dusty contents. There was no one on the street—Urubuapá fishermen were at their nets too early to indulge in late hours. But from the open doorway of the bar, weak light peered yellowly and the voices of people could be heard. Wilson dropped negligently into a chair near the door and glanced about in a bored manner.

  The old waiter was conversing with a small, mean-faced, hard-looking type dressed in faded overalls and a thin cotton sweater. A peaked marine cap, stained by everything from salt air to greasy hands, was the only nautical accouterment of his costume. At his side, slouched in his chair and staring moodily into a murky caipirinha, was a large brute of a man similarly attired in overalls and sweater, but wearing a torn stocking cap through which spikes of his hair poked uneasily, as if scouting the light and air of the open room. Luis had not yet arr
ived at a stature to wear nautical headgear; it was something that had never ceased to impress him with the injustice of this world. At the sight of Wilson the old man’s face lit up.

  “Here’s your charter now, Jorge,” he said, and then paused uncertainly. He went to the door and peered down the street. “But the taxi driver isn’t with him.…” Wilson, whose eyes had unconsciously narrowed at the sight of the two men and the mention of the name, was once more staring innocently into the street.

  “What difference does it make?” the little man asked sourly. He seemed to be talking directly to Wilson in a challenging tone of voice. “Does he need a babá, this one? A nursemaid?”

  “But you see, he speaks no Portuguese whatsoever,” the old man explained nervously. He tapped the rich American tourist on the shoulder apologetically. Wilson turned to him with a friendly nod. “This is your boat captain. Of the Valente. The one you hired for tomorrow. His name is Jorge,” the old man said. By keeping his sentences short, and speaking them in a loud and slow manner, he seemed to hope that they would become understandable. Wilson smiled in a puzzled fashion and spread his hands wide. He was enjoying himself thoroughly.

  “He not only looks stupid, he is stupid,” Jorge said glumly. “Tell him we leave at eight in the morning. If he can manage to get up and have his bubble bath by that time.”

  The old man opened his mouth and then closed it again. “His what?”

  Jorge snorted, “Never mind. Just tell him we leave at eight. In the morning.”

  “Tell him? How?” The old man swung back to Wilson, determined to do his very best. After all, he had a thousand cruzeiros riding on this one. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “You leave at eight in the morning,” he said, almost shouting. “Eight!” He held up nine fingers, considered them a moment, and then doubled one more over.

  Wilson frowned in an embarrassed fashion. It was obvious that he disliked causing all of this trouble. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said apologetically in English, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. Eight? Eight what?”