Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Jorge laughed harshly. “He’ll breathe underwater, all right. All by himself …!” The voice hardened. “All right, Da Silva, on your feet and get dressed. And then tied. And any funny business and you’ll get it here and now! Luis, gather that junk together; take some of his neckties out of his bag and tie him. Out of bed, Da Silva! Come on, get on with it!”

  Wilson dropped lower into the shadows, a plan beginning to unfold in his brain. It was obvious that a Marine-like rescue with himself charging up, pistol in hand, would only lead to disaster. On the other hand, Da Silva was in danger only after they got him away from land on the Valente. Pigeon, he said to himself, we’d better fly.

  He backed along the wall, staying in the shadows, until he was once again on the grassy path. There wasn’t much time; Jorge and Luis would be hustling their prisoner down to the beach in minutes. Tucking the pistol firmly in his belt, he trotted rapidly down to the beach.

  The moonlight was brilliant; the sand appeared hard and white under the strong rays. Tiny ripples lapped the beach, moonbeams flicking cheerfully from one to the other. Wilson paused in the shadow of a large sailboat drawn up and tilted on the sand and stared out at the power launch warped firmly to the jetty’s end. In that strong light any figure passing along the top of the jetty would be spotlighted, and this was no time to take needless chances. And time was running out.

  With a silent curse for the exigencies of his chosen profession he began shedding his clothes, stuffing them deep under the curved prow of the tipped sailboat. In the distance a few dogs came to life and barked; the only other sound was his muffled breathing and the soft lapping of water against the rocks of the jetty.

  He kept his shorts and shoes on, the pistol held firmly in his hand. What the well-dressed tourist wears on the sunny beaches of Brazil, he thought; this costume would be an instant hit on Copacabana. And if my clothes are found before I get back? The only logical conclusion the natives can draw is that the crazy American went out and got himself drowned.

  And the natives might just be right, he added grimly, and trotted swiftly to the black shadows of the long rock pier.

  SIX

  The Valente was not a prepossessing boat in appearance. A smaller version of a harbor tugboat with far less superstructure, it carried a small one-deck bridge a bit forward of midships and a hatch leading to an engine well a bit aft. Beneath the bridge were the sleeping quarters and galley. The thin bulkhead that separated the large diesels from the dirty living quarters did little to keep noise out; sleeping on the Valente was impossible once the launch was under way. However, since no one had ever tried it, no one had ever complained. Both Jorge and Luis used the launch as their living quarters ashore, but at sea they were far too busy for sleep.

  The decks of the squat launch were wide and well scarred; the lockers that lined the battered taffrail had seen in their time all manner of cargo from machine guns to Chinese, run in from some freighter anchored beyond the legal limit. On rare occasions the lockers had even seen fish and rope. Two rusted davits poking from the port side held a small dinghy; ropes led from the wooden falls to a battered power winch set beside the cabin wall. The Valente would not have been selected as a charter by anyone wintering in Miami Beach, but in Urubuapá it was considered a very fine—not to mention profitable—boat.

  Luis and Jorge came hurrying up the jetty in the moonlight, shoving Da Silva along brusquely. They hustled him aboard, shouldering him up the narrow plank that served as gangway; his heel caught on the low rail and he pitched forward, hitting heavily and painfully on one shoulder, but his almost Indian rigidity of feature did not change. Luis dumped the suitcase and package carelessly on one of the lockers and squatted down, lashing Da Silva’s feet together tightly with cord taken from the rail. He then tied the tall man to one of the small warping capstans and without a pause trotted back to the jetty to cast off the heavy ropes that held the boat. Jorge was already at the engines, opening the oil valves, priming them. Luis jumped aboard, coiled the ropes, and padded over to relieve Jorge at the engines; the smaller man without a word ran swiftly to the small one-deck bridge and scampered up the ladder. In seconds the engines had responded with a low roar and the stubby boat was leaving a broad wake as it sped away from the shore line and headed for the tiny mounds that marked the outer islands against the far horizon.

  It was all neatly and quickly done and demonstrated a long-time practice in rapid co-operation—aboard ship, if not ashore—between the two brothers. Da Silva, lying with one shoulder painfully pressed against the capstan, was almost forced to admiration. While the men were shabby and poorly dressed, and the boat could have stood a thorough cleaning and a complete paint job, the diesel engines gave every indication of exceptional care. Da Silva, as the owner of a rather unusual taxi, appreciated the thought behind the engines. The Valente, he was suddenly sure, could demonstrate a speed far beyond what her appearance might lead people to suspect. Probably, he thought with a sinking feeling, beyond what the customs cutter could deliver.

  They were cruising at reduced power, the engines pitched below their maximum rumble but still, Da Silva calculated, making well over fifteen knots. The first of the inshore islands suddenly appeared on the bow; little strings of lights led from the dark house set high on the rocky hill, twisting through the shrubbery to end at a tiny pier. Other piers paralleled it, each holding some form of rowboat or small sailboat. Even without running lights we can easily be seen from those islands, Da Silva thought; but even if we were seen, and even if a man lashed to a capstan were to be seen, who could do anything about it? Or want to? he added grimly to himself. Urubuapá was an area where live-and-let-live seemed to be well established as a basic philosophy.

  Luis now had the engines adjusted to the fineness he preferred; he emerged from the engine well, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. Jorge called him from the open doorway of the little bridge; Luis obediently climbed the ladder and went in, ducking his head under the low open frame. A minute later Jorge slid down the ladder and came over to stand beside Da Silva. He looked at his prisoner silently a moment and then squatted beside him, easily accompanying his balance to the slight swaying of the vessel.

  “You know, Captain,” he said quite conversationally, almost as if he were continuing a discussion begun and interrupted earlier, “it is just bad luck for you to have ever become involved in this affair. Of course,” he added with a candor that oddly enough did not seem out of place at the moment, “it is mostly my own fault. Altogether my own fault. I should never have trusted Armando in the first place, but we thought the island would be a good place to leave the stuff for a while, a safe place, and Armando was the only one …” He picked idly at a splinter on the worn deck.

  “It isn’t that I didn’t know Armando; I’ve known him for years. He used to be an engineer, you know, on the Belém Highway, as a matter of fact—that’s where he first ran into snakes. He got used to them. But then he was fired for taking something from the company …” The small head shook in disgust at himself. “So it isn’t that I didn’t know he was crooked. I knew, but when I saw him again after all these years … I made a snap decision. That’s always been my greatest weakness, I make snap decisions. And so often they are wrong …”

  He sighed sadly. Aboard the launch he seemed to be a different person, more fitted to his surroundings, less volatile. Da Silva, lying before him, remained silent, watchful, remembering that high giggle. “Impetuous, that’s what I am,” Jorge said softly, accusingly. “Impetuous. It’s always a mistake to be impetuous. That bartender, for example. Or that taxi driver. There was no need for that.” His voice chided himself, but without bitterness. “And of course that idiotic bombing of your car! That was instruction, but even so! What if you had been in it? What if you had been killed? I might never have recovered the stuff. You don’t know that island; it’s terrible, I tell you. Without a map it would be almost impossible. You see what I mean? Blowing up your car simply because someone told me
to—that’s what I mean. Impetuous …”

  He seemed to be trying to explain something to himself. “No planning, no checking up—just move when the idea strikes. It’s awful to be like that. Awful! I’m just lucky that you’re here, alive. Very lucky. I don’t really deserve it.…” His eyes swept the dark waters about them; they had passed the last of the inshore islands and were running through open sea. A slight swell had added a bit more roll to the boat’s motion, but they still plowed through the even billows swiftly and smoothly. The bridge, in complete darkness, hid the bulk of Luis. Jorge turned back to Da Silva.

  “For you, of course, it is unfortunate. Really unfortunate. For you it would have been much better to have died in that automobile.” He shrugged as if to say: I’m sorry, but you can see I have no choice; you can understand my position. “You know where it is, and I have to know. Really unfortunate …” There seemed to be genuine regret in his voice. And then, for no reason at all, he suddenly began to giggle. A cold chill swept the tall man lashed to the capstan; this one was completely mad.

  The giggle stopped as abruptly as it had started; Jorge sighed heavily and arose. “We’ll be in very soon now,” he said quietly. He sounded like a co-pilot reassuring a worried airline passenger. He walked to the rail, staring into the moonlit distance, watching the large pair of islands ahead rapidly assume size and shape before him. Luis stuck his head out of the bridge doorway.

  “Jorge, we’re getting in …”

  Jorge stared up, bringing his thoughts back from afar. “Cut in between the two islands. Anchor in that cove on the smaller one, the place where we dropped Armando.”

  The stocking-capped head was withdrawn. The engines reduced their growling; the boat swung in an even curve, banking slightly against the swell. The shadow of hills cut off the moonlight. Da Silva felt his throat tighten; they were approaching the moment of truth. There was another change in the pitch of the engines; they were purring softly now, pleased with themselves. Then with one sudden gasp they fell silent.

  Luis dropped from the bridge and walked quickly to the prow. A pin was knocked loose; the sharp rattle of chain paying out broke the night stillness. The slow coasting of the boat was suddenly checked, and they swung about in a small semicircle before settling to a full stop. Luis went to the hatchway, turned off valves, and then came to stand at his brother’s side, silently awaiting instructions.

  Jorge stared down at Da Silva, the expression on his small face completely lost in the shadow of the peaked cap. “It’s all luck, you see,” he said, earnestly explaining this thing to the man on the deck. “All luck. Bad luck that Armando could not be trusted; good luck that he got drunk one night and talked. We’d never have known about the map if he hadn’t. Bad luck that he died before telling us where he hid the stuff …” He sighed. “Good luck you weren’t killed in that car … All luck …” His voice neither paused nor changed in tone as he added, “Luis, get me some wire.…”

  Luis looked surprised. “But he’s already tied up …”

  “Shut up.” But there was no anger in the voice, only a preoccupied contemplation. “Thin wire …”

  Luis padded to the hatchway and disappeared into the engine well. When he returned he held a spool of fine copper wire. Jorge snapped off a length and held it in his hands, tugging on the two ends gently. “We’ll need some light …”

  Luis returned to the hatchway; when he came back he was pumping at a Coleman lantern. A few seconds later a match flared and the pumping was resumed. Da Silva watched these preparations with mounting tenseness; there was no doubt that Jorge, lost in his fantastic dreams, was capable of anything. The lantern was set on the deck; a three-quarter shield had been built about the glass, and it threw a thin shaft of light ahead. In the cold beam Da Silva’s taut face sprang into sharp relief.

  “Now,” Jorge said softly, still tugging gently on the wire, “take down his pants …”

  Wilson, lying in one of the rope lockers under the taffrail and watching this scene through a small slit made by lifting the lid, felt the time had come to act. He shoved hard, throwing the cover back, and stumbled out onto the deck, his gun in hand. The tableau before him froze in disbelief; then, with a high, thin scream, Jorge fell back, dropping the wire, reaching for his gun.

  “Luis!” His voice was shrill with terror. The huge man had been bending over the bound figure on the deck; with a speed surprising in one so ungainly he flung himself to one side, rolled swiftly to his feet, and lunged at the almost-naked apparition facing them from the rope lockers. Da Silva drew up his bound feet and kicked violently at Jorge, sending the little man sprawling. The roar of Wilson’s gun shattered the night. Luis paused and then stumbled toward the deck; Wilson ran past him and brought the barrel of his gun viciously down on the head of the small man trying to regain his balance in the scuppers. The entire action had taken seconds; Wilson stood panting over the unconscious body at his feet. Luis lay doubled over near the hatchway, one arm outstretched as if reaching for some thread of life just beyond his curved fingers. Wilson nudged the revolver from Jorge’s hand with his foot, sliding it across the scarred wood of the deck. The Coleman lantern hissed quietly.

  There were several seconds’ silence; then Wilson knelt and fumbled for the ropes about Da Silva’s feet. He was breathing raggedly, unevenly. Da Silva took a deep breath and forced a calmness into his voice he was far from feeling. “You certainly took your time,” he said.

  Wilson laughed shakily. “Too much desk work,” he said. “I’m out of practice for this sort of thing.”

  “Believe me, you did just fine.” The ropes at the feet came loose; Wilson rolled the large figure over and tackled the knots in back. A moment later Da Silva sat up, rubbing his wrists. He swung his head from one body to the other and then arose, tightening the belt that Luis had started to loosen. The thought of the torture he had narrowly escaped caused him to clench his teeth; he forced the thought away and picked up the pistol from the deck, tucking it into his waistband. He nodded toward the crumpled body of Jorge and nudged the pile of rope at his feet.

  “Tie up that maniac,” he said, his voice hard. “I’m going to look at the other one.” He walked over, dropped down beside Luis, and then arose and came back. “Dead. You’re a good shot at two feet. How’s this one?”

  “He’ll live.” Wilson’s fingers were busy. He bound the hands and feet of the unconscious man and then swung a cord about the capstan that had anchored Da Silva. Tugging at the knots satisfied him that their prisoner was safe, and he pushed himself to his feet, still breathing hard. He picked up the Coleman lantern and swung the steady, piercing beam about the boat. “Do you know anything about these diesel jobs? How to start them and run them and all that?”

  “I know enough. Let’s have the lantern. I’m going to look around.”

  Wilson sat down on the rope locker as Da Silva walked about the boat, sending the beam of the lantern along the lockers and down into the engine well. He came back and disappeared into the small cabin beneath the narrow bridge. A few seconds later he emerged, carrying a bottle in his free hand. “Pinga,” he said briefly and, putting it to his lips, drank deeply. Wilson took the bottle and followed suit.

  “God!” he said sincerely, setting the bottle on his bare knee and shivering violently from the pungent odor. “I never thought the day would come when I would actually be glad to drink this stuff.”

  “They have some clothes in the cabin,” Da Silva said, taking back the bottle. “You ought to borrow them. You should see yourself—floral underwear and two-toned shoes. The well-dressed rescuer …” Wilson grinned and went over to the cabin.

  When he returned he was wearing a pair of Luis’ overalls with the legs doubled over several times. Da Silva was standing staring at the crude davits that held the dinghy. Wilson pulled the sleeves of a borrowed sweater up over his hands and went to stand beside him. “Come on,” he said impatiently. “You can figure out how boats are built some other time. Right n
ow let’s get this thing going and get out of here.”

  Da Silva paid no attention. “Power winch,” he said as if to himself. “You’d have to start the diesels and the generator.… Well, to hell with all that. I guess we’ll just have to cut the bloody ropes and let the thing fall into the water. I’ll climb down and you can hand all the stuff down to me.…”

  Wilson stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Da Silva nodded to himself, peering at the davit calculatingly. “There ought to be something sharp in that so-called galley …” He winked at Wilson and went back to the cabin, coming out a moment later with a wicked-looking knife. “Just the sort of kitchenware these boys would have. This ought to do it.”

  Wilson caught at his arm. “Zé, are you crazy? Let’s get out of here! We can come back tomorrow or some other time with people from Butantan who know something about snakes. And a whole boatload of customs lads.”

  “Not tomorrow, and not later. Now!” Da Silva’s voice was decisive. He looked at Wilson, his lean dark face a graven mask. “I’m tired of this thing. I’m not waiting any more.” He looked down at the sprawled body of Luis. “Five dead … Anyway,” he added brightly, “we already paid ten conto for the boat. We might as well use it.” He turned back to the davits, dismissing the subject. “Here, when I cut this rope she’ll pivot. You’ll have to try and ease her so she won’t hit the rail and splinter. But be careful—that dinghy’s heavy.”

  “But …”

  “Maybe some padding on the rail,” Da Silva said thoughtfully.

  Wilson shrugged his shoulders. When Da Silva was in this mood it was pointless to argue with him.

  “All right,” he said resignedly. “At least let me try and steady the thing decently.” He took some rope from the locker where he had hidden, climbed unsteadily upon the low rail, and knotted the rope about the eyebolt holding the dinghy’s anchor. The other end he flung over the top of the davit and then, dropping to the deck, he reefed it several times about the rail. “O.K. Cut it. I’ll let her down slowly.”