Isle of the Snakes

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Wilson opened one eye. “Hello, Zé” He sat up groggily. “How long have I been sleeping?” He glanced at his watch and yawned. “Twelve hours? Twenty-four hours?” He looked down, surprised. “Who threw water on me?”

  “Wilson, for God’s sake, wake up! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Wilson yawned again, a long, complicated yawn involving arm twisting and shudders. “All right. Don’t get excited. What day is this?”

  But Da Silva already had Wilson’s shoes in his hand and was pulling the smaller man from the bed. “I’ll tell you about it in the car,” he said tersely. “Come on.”

  He pulled the other from the room and led the unresisting figure down the narrow hallway into the street. He piled him into the front seat of the cab, tossed the shoes into the other’s lap, and had the taxi hurtling down the cobbled street all within minutes. Wilson stared dully through the window at the sandy beach flying past and yawned once more.

  “That’s what I needed, a good night’s sleep.” He was suddenly aware of the shoes lying in his lap. “Say, I even forgot to put my shoes on. I must have really been tired.” He dropped the shoes to the floor of the speeding car and slipped his feet into them. “By the way, where are we going in such a rush?”

  “Santos. And I hope to God we get there before that customs cutter docks there!”

  “The customs cutter? But that must have gotten there yester—” Wilson shook his head violently and stared at his companion with growing intelligence in his eyes. “Zé! How long did I sleep?”

  “About five minutes.” Da Silva negotiated a sharp curve with wheels skidding and tramped on the gas. His eyes were fixed rigidly on the rutted road before them. Clouds of dust whirled; the outskirts of Urubuapá dwindled in the distance behind them.

  “Five minutes?” Wilson stared at Da Silva in something approximating horror. “Zé, you’ve finally cracked up! Your brain has rotted from the salt air down here! You mean you woke me after five minutes of sleep? Five minutes? What are you, crazy or something?”

  “The Valente,” Da Silva said through clenched teeth. “God, how stupid I’ve been! The Valente! And that illuminating conversation aboard the customs cutter!”

  “To hell with the customs cutter!” Wilson said violently. “What I want to know is …” He paused, his temper vanishing, his eyes narrowing. “What about the customs cutter?”

  The taxi tore down the uneven road, Da Silva swinging the wheel expertly. “Don’t you remember on the cutter? That conversation? Don’t you …” A bus came around a hidden curve, swinging wide on the sandy road, flinging curtains of sand in the air. Da Silva stamped on the gas, forcing the taxi wide, missing the charging monster by inches. Wilson opened his eyes again.

  “Figure it out for yourself,” Da Silva said between his teeth. “If I want to get us there in time, I better drive, not talk!”

  They tore along the beach road, the hills brightening on their left under the morning sun, the sea quiet and smooth to their right. Wilson stared through the dusty windshield, weighing the problems arising from his friend’s statements. The cutter, eh? And the conversation there … of course! Wilson swung his head to stare in frank admiration at Da Silva’s frozen profile; the boy was sharp, no doubt of that! Let’s get there before the cutter comes in, he thought; I’ll be ready!

  They swung from the sandy beach trail into the paved, palm-lined drive along Gonzaga Beach, roaring in the direction of the Santos docks, their horn blowing at slower cars. A radio patrol car, parked at an intersection, watched them crash a traffic light, and the driver shrugged philosophically. Some people drove like idiots, it was true, but the radio patrol didn’t handle traffic cases. That was a job for the transit police.

  They wheeled into the dock area, through the wide cobbled streets between the low blocklike warehouses baking in the yellow sun, with the dock cranes hovering like giant birds in the background. Da Silva swerved at a cross street, avoided a truck by a miracle, and pulled up before the Customs Building. The lieutenant of the cutter was standing on the steps, straightening his cuffs preparatory to heading for a well-deserved lunch.

  Wilson’s eyes narrowed; his hand fell on the door handle. “Cut him off, Zé,” he said in a tight voice. “I’ll get him if he tries to get back to the cutter.”

  “Shut up, you idiot,” Da Silva said snappishly. He pulled alongside the steps. The lieutenant stared in amazement at the grim face thrust at him from the taxi.

  “Captain!” he said in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were all set to sleep a week down at Urubuapá.”

  “Monteiro!” Da Silva barked. “Where is he?”

  “Who, your boss? He left. About five minutes ago. But don’t worry; he has the milk can. He’s taking it up to the laboratory in São Paulo for checking.”

  “He’s just a helpful character,” Da Silva said bitterly, and shoved the car into gear.

  “But … Is anything wrong?” The lieutenant found himself talking to the rear end of the taxi, already racing madly up the dock road. He shrugged. Some people certainly took their jobs seriously, he thought, and trotted complacently down the steps.

  “Monteiro?” Wilson asked, hanging on for dear life as they cut through city traffic, heading for the mountain road leading to São Paulo. “Monteiro?”

  “Of course! Don’t you remember on the cutter? He asked what happened to the Valente. How did he know that was the name of Jorge’s boat? I never told him. When I wrote my last report to him, I didn’t even know myself. But he knew …”

  “But, Zé,” Wilson objected, “you want to be pretty sure about an accusation as serious as that. Just because he asked about the boat …”

  “It’s enough.” Da Silva looked over at Wilson. “In Rio, when my car was bombed, who knew where I lived? Jorge and Luis certainly didn’t; the card I gave the taxi driver had my telephone number only, and that’s unlisted.”

  His knuckles were white with the pressure of his big hands on the steering wheel. His voice mimicked the hesitant tones of Monteiro. “‘Cut? What do you mean, cut?’” Da Silva dropped the imitation; his voice hardened. “I’ll cut him, right down to size! If we don’t get him before he hits São Paulo …”

  “But what would he do? He has to turn it in. Everyone knows he has it.”

  “Sure he’ll turn it in. Cut twenty times. And ninety-five per cent of almost fifty pounds of pure heroin in his pocket!” The mimicry returned. “‘We’ll check the purity in our laboratories!’” His foot jammed harder on the gas pedal. “God, I’m stupid!”

  The battered, unprepossessing taxi swept past the city limits, past the banana plants that lined the swamps along the Santos River, cut over the narrow bridge across from the Cubatão Refinery, and fled for the entrance to the famous Via Anchieta. This engineering marvel is the highway that mounts the serra from Santos to the plain three thousand feet above, where São Paulo is located. Above them, as they turned with screaming tires into the one-way, two-laned highway that led to the summit, they could see the winding panorama of bridges and stiltlike supports that held the road against the sheer side of the cliff. The down lane, twisting alongside on separate bridges and columns, completed the geometrical pattern of helical curving beauty.

  “The lieutenant said five minutes,” Da Silva muttered. “We ought to get him before he gets too far.”

  “Can’t he swing off somewhere?”

  “Not from this road. This is one-way until the lakes on top, and no exits. Mountain on one side, and a long way down on the other!” He gunned the motor of the ancient-looking cab and was rewarded by a low throbbing as the superchargers cut in. Wilson held his breath; Da Silva grinned at him savagely. “If he’s ahead of us, we’ve got him!”

  A yellow omnibus labored slowly up the incline ahead of them. Da Silva went by in a roar, leaving a startled and cursing driver nearly up the rock face of the cliff. “What’s Monteiro driving?” Wilson asked.

  “Probably his own car, a Cadillac.
Black. With official plates.” Da Silva smiled without humor. “This thing could catch a Cadillac in second gear. That miserável! That civilian!”

  A string of passenger cars appeared ahead, held back by one overloaded truck attempting to pass a second. Da Silva slowed down, hovering on the edge of the line, like a sheep dog impatiently herding a string of lackadaisical sheep. His eyes swung along the line, inspecting each one.

  “Not here,” he said briefly. “Still up ahead. I hope.” He slammed on the gas, swooped by the others, roared past the heavy truck as it slowly chugged back into its lane. The road ahead was empty. The taxi straightened and gained speed, the bushes at roadside cringing back from the rushing wheels. Below, Santos dwindled, its island shape taking form in the clear morning air, the rivers that bound it sparkling in the bright sun. Wilson thrust his head from the window, staring up at the striated rock cliff at their side, searching the twisting road above.

  “There’s a car about three levels up,” he reported. “Doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.”

  They swung around another hairpin turn, their momentum carrying them almost against the curbing. Da Silva stared ahead; one level above them a large black car cruised along complacently.

  “That’s him!” he said with grim triumph. “Why should he be in any great hurry? He thinks we’re sacked in down at that buraco Urubuapá!” He fed more gas to the car; it almost leaped from beneath them.

  Wilson hung on desperately, forcing his eyes away from the sheer chasm rushing by at their side. “Easy, boy,” he said tensely. “You just finished saying it’s a long way down!”

  Da Silva held the taxi close to the inner curves, his foot locked on the gas pedal. A tunnel appeared; they were through and out almost before the dim lights that lined the sweating interior could register on their brains. Ahead of them in the road a black Cadillac appeared. The driver was handling his car quite carefully. At sight of the madman behind he obediently pulled to one side and slowed down to allow the maniac in the ancient car to pull past.

  Da Silva drew alongside, slowing down. The spectacled eyes of Senhor Monteiro swung about casually to note the idiot who drove at such reckless speed. But the casual expression did not remain; one quick glance at the drawn, grim face at the wheel of the taxi and Senhor Monteiro responded to panic, tramping on the gas pedal and pulling away. But the panic was a momentary thing only; Monteiro had not become The Man by allowing himself to succumb to easy fright.

  His mind immediately began to function normally, sharply. The first thing was to get away, and that should be no problem, considering he had a large Cadillac and Da Silva was in some old taxi he had apparently picked up somewhere. Once free, he could manage to dump most of the stuff somewhere safe and cut the balance with milk sugar before he appeared at the laboratory. And if Da Silva wanted to know why he hadn’t stopped? Hadn’t stopped? Was that you, Da Silva? I had no idea. What on earth were you doing in that old taxi? If I had known it was you, of course I would have stopped.

  It was not the best of excuses, and Monteiro knew it, but there was nothing better at the moment. The important thing was to get away. His foot pressed more heavily on the accelerator; he held the heavy car to the middle of the road, racing wildly up the mountain. But despite his increased speed the old taxi seemed to have no trouble keeping right on his bumper. Monteiro frowned. The curves here in the upper reaches were sharper, and he was still many miles from the lakes and the turnoff there. With narrowed eyes he increased his speed once again; it was dangerous and he knew it. More than dangerous—almost suicidal, but there was little choice left. How did that damned battered taxi manage to hold this speed?

  A sharp curve almost cost him control of the car. For an instant he took his foot from the accelerator and felt the wheels churning the gravel at roadside as the Cadillac fought to hold the road. Panic began to return. He couldn’t shake that damned taxi! With a recklessness born of growing desperation he gave the heavy car the maximum of speed; ahead, a few levels higher, he saw the cloud bank that often hid the summit. Possibly there, in the fog and the mist …

  The two cars raced madly along, mounting ever higher, the fog sweeping closer as they climbed. The road bent into a tunnel. Monteiro felt the car swinging and fought it straight, charging ahead. The curve of the tunnel ended, opening into the swirling whiteness of the cloud bank. So soon? For one instant he hesitated. Curve left or right? But there was little time for decision; a tortured glance in his rear-view mirror showed the old-fashioned hood of the taxi bearing down upon him. He clenched his teeth, his foot trembling on the gas pedal, and swung the car slightly to the left, his bulging eyes frantically searching the gray wall of fog for the road’s edge.

  And then it was suddenly in front of him, the whitewashed curbing leaping into sight through the heavy mist, crosswise to his tires! He screamed, swinging the wheel with all his force, but his momentum carried the huge car forward. The thin cables guarding the brink loomed before him. He was still reaching vainly for the brake when the heavy car smashed through and disappeared into the void below.

  Da Silva braked violently, skidding to a halt with his front bumper nudging the snapped strands of cable. He jumped from the car and ran to the edge of the cliff. A crashing sound came up through the sea of fog below, faint in the distance. Then silence. The tall, disheveled man stood panting, staring into the swirling mist. Wilson appeared at his side.

  “My God!” he whispered in awe. “My God!”

  Da Silva lifted his eyes and stared at the other. “Don’t worry about him,” he said slowly, almost brutally. “What he had in that can would have killed thousands, and slowly. He was luckier than he deserved.”

  He shrugged and turned back to his car, his face expressionless.

  “Let’s get down there,” he said quietly. “There’s still forty-five pounds of heroin in that car and a lot of curious people in Brazil!”

  SEVEN

  The whooshing blast of air from a spruce Convair wheeling on the apron below their window almost tore Wilson’s napkin out of his hand; he had just been setting it down in order to reach for his after-dinner brandy. He gripped the napkin firmly until the minor hurricane had subsided and then placed it on the table, anchoring it with the brandy bottle.

  “I will never understand you,” he stated morosely, staring with barely concealed venom at Da Silva, who lounged easily across from him. “Here we could be eating at the American Club; excellent food, fine service, and a view that tourists pay dollars—dollars, not cruzeiros, mind you—to see. Not to mention air conditioning …”

  Da Silva was smiling. “But …”

  Wilson held up his hand. “I know, I know! You do not like air conditioning! You also do not like airplanes, fat women in slacks, bad brandy, and morgues.”

  “In case you’re keeping a record,” Da Silva said with a grin, “I also don’t like snakes.” He drank his brandy and lit a cigarette. “Not to mention civilians.” His eye idled about the crowded restaurant. “Now, let’s see. How about that bowlegged waiter serving the startled-looking gentleman over there? The one who is caught between the choice of unhanding his toupee or losing the plate the waiter is removing? Which he obviously hasn’t finished. All right? For lunch, odd or even?”

  He returned his glance to his table partner to find Wilson staring at him in shocked surprise, one upright finger waggling vigorously.

  “Oh no!” Wilson said. “Never! We already have a bet, remember? The package with the snake? If you recall, I said it contained drugs, and you said it didn’t. And gave me seven to one odds, Captain. Seven meals, food for one week. This is meal number one.”

  Da Silva sat up. “What?”

  “Well, now,” Wilson went on, thoroughly enjoying his friend’s discomfiture. “You wouldn’t attempt to deny that fifty pounds four ounces of heroin wasn’t drugs, would you?”

  “You really are reaching, aren’t you?” Da Silva stared across the table in disgust. “You already paid off on that bet; you
gave me a brandy.”

  Wilson waved this argument away grandly. “That was only my natural inherent sense of hostmanship. Hospitality. The bet is something else.”

  “But there was no dope in the package itself,” Da Silva pointed out. “And that was the bet.”

  “There’s no silver in a dollar bill,” Wilson pointed out, “but it’s still coin of the realm. If the package had contained dollar bills, would you deny it contained money?”

  Da Silva’s dark eyes glinted with humor. “You want to watch those legal talents, Wilson, or the F.B.I. will have you on their payroll instead of Interpol. I’m not sure whether or not I agree with your argument, you know.”

  “As long as you pay,” Wilson said expansively, “I’m not sure whether I care whether you’re sure.”

  Da Silva laughed. He rose, slipped into his jacket, and laid some money on the table. He took the shorter man’s arm, steering him in the direction of the curved staircase leading to street level.

  “You Americans!” he said with a sigh. “You come to Brazil to teach the poor heathen Portuguese tricks!” He smiled ruefully. “And so often you do!”

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

  Chapter 1

  CAPTAIN JOSÉ DA SILVA, liason officer between the Brazilian Police and Interpol, put his telephone receiver back on the hook with a beatific smile and swiveled his chair to stare blissfully out of his high office window. The broad view of Guanabara Bay, replete with little green islands and squat dingy ferries chugging manfully between Rio and Niterói, was as lovely as ever, but it could have been the morning lineup of the night's catch down at the Police Delegacía for all it registered on his mind. His imagination, always active, was already transporting him to distant shores and beautiful, mysterious ladies...

  The invitation from the Itamaratí—the Brazilian Foreign Office—was not too strange in itself. It was the extreme politeness of the Foreign Minister, who had spoken to him personally, that was so surprising. As a general rule the Itamaratí did not request his presence; it demanded it. The calls usually came to Captain Da Silva when the officials had something to complain about, and they were seldom cordial. Since Interpol often had to deal with the foreign colonies of Rio, situations occasionally arose where the nationals of other countries considered themselves offended, or at least considered offense the best form of defense. Their nervous outcries would be transmitted through attaché and consuls, who in turn would pass them on in further exaggerated form to the Brazilian Foreign Office. By the time a complaint would come to Da Silva, the magnification often made the case either nonrecognizable or nonacceptable. His further habit of filing most of such complaints in the wastebasket did little to increase his popularity at the Itamaratí.