The green hell treasure, p.22
The Green Hell Treasure, page 22
“But—”
“No ‘buts’!”
The driver was silent. His partner in the crime reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. He brought out a sheet of paper, crudely hand-printed, with a loop of string stapled to each side at the top, making it into a sort of flimsy placard. He squatted down and rolled the body back to its original position, sightlessly facing the sky. He brought the arms and legs together and then propped the sagging body enough to slide the string over the thick neck, and then let the heavy body slump back to the road. He stood up. The driver moved closer, looking down with no expression at their work of the past thirty minutes, and the sign the flaccid body now wore around its neck.
Under the white beam of the depressed headlights the sign was clearly visible. A skull and crossbones had been poorly sketched in black against the gray of the cheap paper, and beneath it in blood-red letters was a crudely printed legend. It read:
ESQUADRÃO DE MORTE!—DEATH SQUAD!
CHAPTER 2
Captain Jose Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian Federal Police assigned to the Rio de Janeiro district and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, had nothing against his nation’s new capitol Brasilia, other, of course, than if one didn’t have all the time in the world to waste, the only way to get there was to fly, and airplanes headed a long list of things the captain heartily disliked. The list also included coral snakes, fat women in slacks, heavy traffic, bad brandy, and cocktail parties without pretty girls. Other than these and a few additional minor aversions and phobias, Captain Da Silva would have been the first to admit he was the most equable, mild-mannered, agreeable, tolerant, and generally lovable person in the world.
Certainly most women would have agreed. They found his six feet of athletic physique attractive; they thought his being under forty years of age and still single, intriguing; they considered his smile, a white flash of even teeth against his almost Indian-copper skin, to be gay and boyish; they found his swarthy, pock-marked face, with its bushy black mustache and topped by his black curly hair, to be romantic in the manner that swashbuckling brigands were romantic. A violently opposing vote would most certainly have been cast by those members of the Rio underworld who had had the misfortune of facing a scowl on that tough, pock-marked face, or an accusing glare from those piercing black eyes—not to mention those who had felt the captain’s wrath in more physical form, such as his strong right hand.
At the moment, though, Captain Da Silva was neither scowling nor smiling; with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of brandy on the small tray before him, he was trying his best to be as brave as possible about the almost assured disaster that was certain to result when the plane in which he was flying to the capitol attempted to land in a few minutes if the tragedy didn’t occur earlier. True, the turbines were humming along smoothly, the weather was perfect with the sky over the planalto its usual deep clear blue, with scattered puffy white clouds so stationary as to seem painted against an azure backdrop. Nor was there the slightest sign of panic among the stewardesses or passengers. Still, Da Silva was not deceived. In the course of his career he had been forced to fly in airplanes many times, and it was only logical that his luck had to run out some time. He only felt profoundly sorry for those other passengers who had had the misfortune of taking the same flight as himself.
He brushed ash into the ashtray, took another sip of brandy, and looked down, trying to postpone thoughts of the inevitable crash as long as possible. He had to concede that the capitol city over which they were now flying, at a constantly lessening altitude, was indeed spectacular when seen from this lower height, both for its heroic concept and its vast spaces, as well as for the remarkable architecture, which was just now becoming discernible beneath them. Still, in his beloved Rio de Janeiro one could get an equally fine view, or better, just by driving up to Corcovado or Vista Chineza; one didn’t have to risk life and limb just to enjoy a view.
He put the thought aside to return to one that had puzzled him since the command to appear in Brasilia had first crossed his desk the day before: Why was he being asked to present himself to the Minister of Business and Industry with minimum delay? Normally, in the old days when he had been summoned to the Itamarití—the Foreign Office—he had usually known why; it was usually to receive a reprimand. But this time he had no idea at all. He had nothing to do with either Business or Industry, so why the meeting with that particular minister? God alone knew; He, apparently, was saving His strength for the coming crash. Well, Da Silva thought, the chances were it won’t be for a reprimand, and then became aware that a stewardess was at his side, waiting for him to finish his drink. She gestured overhead; the light above his seat advised him to follow instructions as they were about to land. He crushed out his cigarette, finished his drink and handed the glass to the girl with a smile, and was in the process of tightening his seat belt, when he suddenly stopped smiling.
The jet reactor had changed pitch querulously; the horizon suddenly changed location, tilting sickeningly without warning. Da Silva swallowed and gripped the armrest tightly, feeling a sort of perverse satisfaction in the accuracy of his prediction. Strange bumps and grinds came from somewhere in the nether regions of the craft; the angle of the plane was reversed as suddenly as before, tipping the passengers in the opposite direction, and then the plane seemed to miraculously manage to level itself, but too late! They were falling, with the airport runway coming up swiftly to smash at them. Da Silva gripped the armrest tightly and closed his eyes, not wishing to see the actual disintegration; there was a gentle bump and he opened his eyes to find the airplane rolling sedately toward the distant terminal. It paused long enough to snort disdainfully in a backward direction, and then rolled on under better control. Da Silva released his death’s grip on the armrest and took a deep breath. The successful flight meant nothing and he knew it; it merely increased the chances of disaster on the next flight. One couldn’t argue with probabilities and statistics.
The door of the jet was swung open from the outside and the passengers emerged into the brilliant sunshine, shading their eyes, edging their way down the steep aluminum stairway, ladened with hand luggage and magazines, starting to trail antwise across the tarmac toward the shaded building. The stewardess at the plane’s exit smiled at Da Silva brightly.
“Good-bye. I hope you enjoyed the flight.”
“As always,” Da Silva said, for he was a man who did not believe in lying when the truth would serve as well. He nodded a bit formally, for while there was no one on earth who admired stewardesses more—on earth—all thoughts of romance left him when aloft. He had often wondered at the stories of horseplay between pilots and stewardesses in the cockpit during flight; it seemed to him incredible that anyone could concentrate on sex when there were thirty-five thousand feet of empty space between them and the hard ground.
He came down the stairs and paused to look around. An official-looking limousine was drawn up not far from the plane, in an area where private vehicles were seldom if ever permitted. A uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the car, leaned inside a brief moment, as if receiving instructions, and then straightened up. He noted Da Silva, nodded as if in confirmation, and then hurried toward him, touching his cap.
“Captain Da Silva?”
Da Silva was pleasantly surprised at being so quickly recognized. To his knowledge he had never personally met the present Minister of Business and Industry, Dr. Jorge Wanderlay. Well, the captain thought with a touch of his usual modesty, the Minister probably saw my picture in the Rio newspapers, or maybe that time in Manchete. He nodded to the chauffeur.
“Right.”
“If you’ll come with me, sir—”
Da Silva obediently followed the man to the limousine, aware as he did so that the other passengers undoubtedly were wondering what Important Personage had shared their flight without their knowledge. Da Silva unconsciously stood a bit more erect; the chauffeur opened the rear door of the limousine and stepped back smartly, almost at attention. Da Silva bent forward. The Minister of Business and Industry, Dr. Wanderlay, was sitting in the center of the rear seat; the sharp features, tight lips, stern jaw and brush of stiff white hair, cut military style, were all quite familiar from the television screen or the newspapers; he was usually posed before a ribbon, scissors in hand, prepared to inaugurate a new factory or power plant. But it was the man on the jump seat, smiling at him in friendly fashion, who caught Da Silva’s attention and solved the problem of how he had been so quickly recognized. A wide smile of delight crossed the captain’s face; since an abraço in the restricted space was difficult, he contented himself by extending his hand.
“Wilson!”
“Hello, Zé.” Wilson took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly.
The Minister cleared his throat authoritatively. “If you’ll get into the car, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” Da Silva climbed in; the Minister slid over a bit, making room for him on the rear seat. The chauffeur stepped forward to close the door, but rather than move around to the driver’s seat, he remained standing stiffly at the door, as if on guard. The Minister saw Da Silva’s faint look of surprise and properly interpreted it.
“You’ll be taking the next plane back to Rio with Mr. Wilson, so I thought we could talk here as well as at my office. Better, I suppose.” He glanced at Wilson a moment and then brought his steady gaze back to Da Silva. “So you two know each other?”
“Very well, sir,” Da Silva said, and smiled broadly. “Wilson and I have been involved in a good many cases together over the years.”
“Oh?” If the Minister thought it strange that a man in the relatively innocuous position that Wilson held—Security Officer for the American Consulate in Rio, a job normally concerned with visitors from the States who lost passports, or sailors from American ships who got drunk and ended up in Brazilian jails—should have worked on cases involving Da Silva’s particular branch of the police, he did not comment further on it. Da Silva, well aware of the true status of the nondescript-looking Mr. Wilson, did not press the matter. He just knew that the stocky Wilson, with his bland features, his sandy hair, and his pale eyes, and with his uncanny ability to appear unnoticed in any group, had saved his life several times, and there was no one he preferred to have beside him in a tight position than the quiet American. He didn’t know what had brought him to Brasilia, but he was just happy that the two of them were apparently going to work together again. He became aware that the Minister was speaking to him.
“Well, to get to business, Captain. What do you know about Paraíso?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said Paraíso.” There was a momentary glint of humor in the steady blue eyes, surprisingly not out of place on the stern face. “Not heaven, Captain—the city.”
Da Silva frowned. If he had taken the trouble to list all the potential questions a Minister of Business and Industry might throw at a captain of police, this one would have been at the bottom of the list. Or below.
“Paraíso?” he said slowly, trying to dig into the recesses of his memory to see what he really did know about the place. “It’s a small town in the northeast—in Ceará State, I think—where the government is trying to build an industrial city. Or they were some years back. It got quite a bit of publicity when it was launched several years ago, but I haven’t read much about it lately.”
“Have you ever been there?”
Da Silva shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good! Do you have any contacts with the police there?”
Da Silva wondered at the word “good” but merely shook his head.
“No, sir. But I’m sure I could arrange any contacts you might want, if—” He stopped short. He was even more sure that a Minister of the Republic could arrange any police contacts he wanted anywhere in the country without his humble aid. Da Silva repeated his opening words and let it go at that. “No, sir.”
“Good!” said the Minister, again to Da Silva’s surprise. “Well, gentlemen, before I get down to our problem, let me tell you something about Paraíso, since you apparently know very little. In the first place, it is in Piauí, not Ceará, although it’s quite close to the state line, as well as being close to Maranhão. Secondly, it is far from having been dropped as a government project; that ‘small town’ as you called it, now has over two hundred thousand inhabitants, and if our plans for the city are fulfilled, we can easily envision Paraíso doubling its population within ten years.”
He turned to Wilson and his voice took on the timbre of an enthusiast. Da Silva, listening, suddenly remembered that the old man had come from that part of the northeast himself.
“Mr. Wilson, let me explain the vital importance of this industrial city—and, Captain, you listen closely, too, because what I am about to say is very important. Paraíso used to be a crossroads village, the center of a struggling cattle-raising area. But Paraíso is located in what we call, in Portuguese, caatinga—scrubland—not good for anything except raising cattle, and not especially good even for that. When the drought comes—as it does every six or eight years—then the cattle die and the people starve. Some of them, those who can, some of the men, go to the big cities—Recife, Salvador, Rio, Sao Paulo—and only swell the unemployment rolls there and add to their own misery as well as that of others. And even when the rains come again, many of the cattle are so weak by that time that they drown. And even in the best of times you could not put more than three head of cattle on a hectare of land in the caatinga—that’s about one head per acre, Mr. Wilson—whereas we can put ten head per hectare on ranches within a two-hour drive from Rio, near the slaughterhouses and near the market. But I’m getting off the track; what I’m trying to say is that in the old days the situation for the people in that area wasn’t very good. But now—”
He paused a moment, as if for effect, and then went on.
“Now, with a city like Paraíso—which is an industrial park on a rather large scale—conditions have improved immeasurably for those who live there. They live decently, with proper hospitals and schools; the factories furnish good housing; they don’t have to worry any more about droughts, or dying cattle, or starving children.”
Da Silva, listening, could understand what the industrial development of an area in the northeast could mean to the Minister of Business and Industry; he could even understand what it could mean to the development of the country in general and to the welfare of the people who lived there in particular. What he could not understand was what it had to do with the police. Still, listening to the old man was interesting. It was questionable in his own mind, though, whether or not working on an assembly line was really more satisfying to the people of that part of the northeast than taking their chances with the bounty of an admittedly stingy Mother Nature, although he was sure the women and children had to prefer their new life. The Minister was continuing, his gaze moving metronome fashion between his two listeners.
“There are other attempts at industrial parks in Brazil of course, imitations of Paraíso; cities like Novo Mundo and Industrianopolis in the south, but our efforts have been concentrated on Paraíso. Twenty years ago, or even fifteen, anyone suggesting an industrial park of this size—or any size, as far as that goes—in the northeast of Brazil, would have been called insane. But things have changed. First, the hydroelectric-power project on the Sao Francisco River made cheap power available for the first time. Secondly, water isn’t a matter of luck, good or bad, that it used to be; we bring water in from the Rio Prêto and the Rio Grande and store it in a man-made lake. We’ve extended the Salvador-Paulistana railway to Paraíso and continued it to the São Luis line, so that rail shipments are possible to ports to the north in Maranhão, to the east to Forteleza, or to the south to Bahia, with connections on to Rio. And we’re building a highway that will eventually connect with the Brasília-Belem road. We’ve built a pipeline from São Luis and a refinery in Paraíso; the city will eventually become the largest petrochemical complex in South America. If—”
He paused, a finger in the air, and turned to Da Silva.
“That ‘if is where you come in, Captain. At present there is a threat to the continued growth of the city, and that threat brings it into your domain. You’ve probably been sitting here wondering what all this has to do with you. Very much, Captain. In the past two weeks four people have been killed—murdered—in Paraíso. The fourth was an American, which is the reason for Mr. Wilson’s involvement and his being present here today.”
Da Silva frowned. People were being killed every day of the week in Rio, Chicago, Paris, London, and just about everywhere else in the world, and he was surprised that a Minister of Business and Industry should worry about it. If anything, it seemed more a problem for the law enforcement agencies of government. Besides, if in a town the size of Paraíso—which was, after all, still a frontier town, despite its modern factories and its advanced technology—only four people had been killed in a period of two weeks, it had to be the cleanest city in Brazil, or anyway, in the northeast. He felt he had to mention that fact.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said, “but with that population, four homicides in two weeks isn’t a very startling statistic. Especially in what amounts to a frontier town. Actually, on that basis our record in Rio is pretty bad. We have about twelve times that population, and between twenty and twenty-five times that homicide rate—”
Minister Wanderlay waved the captain to silence.
“I have no idea how many homicides were committed in Paraíso in the past two weeks, or how many people died in traffic or drowned in the lake, for that matter,” he said a bit sardonically. “Many more than four, I’m sure. As you say, it’s still a frontier town—” He turned to Wilson. “It’s something like your far west a hundred years ago, Mr. Wilson; I understand that Australia also has places like it.” He turned back to Da Silva. “And if these four men had been killed in barroom fights, or in a card game, or even over a woman—or even to be robbed, Captain—I wouldn’t have asked that you be brought up from Rio. But these men didn’t die those ways, nor was any one of them robbed; as a matter of fact, all of them except one had a considerable amount of money on him, and they all had their watches and personal papers untouched. One even had a very expensive camera and light meter, and they were intact. However, these four men did have one thing in common.” He paused significantly. “They all had a very familiar handprinted sign around their necks, which read—”
