  Mr. Brewster swung about at Biff’s warning, an instant too late. The hand had already clutched the map and was snatching it from his grasp. The map tore apart, leaving only a corner in Mr. Brewster’s hand. Quickly, Biff’s father dove for the closet door, intending to slam it and trap the occupant, map and all. But the man in the closet moved swiftly, too. He flung the door wide, and its edge swept past Mr. Brewster’s fingers as the man dived under his arm. Biff, crouched low, was about to stop the intruder with a football tackle when Mr. Brewster overtook the fugitive, applied a powerful arm-hold, and brought him full about. Biff saw that the struggling man’s face was masked behind a large, knotted bandanna handkerchief, and that his rough, baggy clothes disguised his height and weight. As he twisted in Mr. Brewster’s grasp, the man managed to thrust his hand into the folds of his jacket and whip out a revolver. Coming about, he aimed point-blank at Mr. Brewster. Biff’s father dropped away a split second before the revolver barked, its muzzle tonguing flame inches above his head. Then, before the masked man could fire again, Mr. Brewster wheeled about, grabbed a small table with both hands, and flung it bodily at his masked foe. The man darted out of the way, only to find Biff blocking his escape. Biff heard a snarl from behind the bandanna, and saw the glint of the gun barrel as the man swung the weapon with a savage, downward stroke. Instinctively, Biff shot his own hand upward, using the trick that Serbot had shown him on the plane that very day. The heel of Biff’s hand caught the man’s wrist, driving it outward. The impact jolted the gun from his hand, but the weapon scaled toward the side of the room and clattered near the bottom of the wall, where Mr. Brewster sprang across and scooped it from the floor, practically on the rebound. The masked man hadn’t tried to retrieve the gun. Instead, he dashed through the doorway to the hall, still clutching the stolen map. Biff raced after him, with Mr. Brewster close behind. They might have overtaken the fugitive if he had gone down the stairway to the lobby, but instead he chose a shorter route to a large open window at the other end of the hall. There, he leaped a low railing, carrying a loose screen with him. When Biff reached the window and looked down into the dark, the man had vanished in the thick mesh of tropical foliage that had broken his fall. “No use trying to go after him,” decided Mr. Brewster ruefully. “We don’t even know the direction he has taken. The hotel clerk will have heard the shot. We’ll let him report the incident to the police. They’ll figure it was just a sneak thief.” “But what about the map?” Biff inquired anxiously. “How will you find the route to the Orinoco without it?” “I still have the corner that shows the mine itself,” declared Mr. Brewster, holding it for Biff to see. “And Joe Nara would have to guide us there anyway.” Biff’s father frowned. “We may have trouble getting through to the Orinoco, if someone tries to block our way. But from there on, it should be smooth sailing. Mr. Stannart says in his letter that he will bring his yacht to meet us on our way back, and will sign the agreement with Nara, then and there.” Returning to their room, Biff and his father met the manager of the hotel hastening up the stairs. Mr. Brewster told him briefly that they had surprised a sneak thief in their room, and handed over the intruder’s revolver. With profuse apologies, the manager departed after Mr. Brewster refused his offer to have the room put in order. When they were alone, Biff’s father said, “It was neat, the way you disarmed that fellow. Where did you learn that trick?” “From Mr. Serbot,” replied Biff, “the man I met on the plane coming from Belem.” While they were repacking Mr. Brewster’s bags and clearing up the room, Biff told his father about the things they had discussed on the plane. Mr. Brewster listened intently, then asked: “Did you tell Serbot that I was stopping at this hotel?” “Positively not,” returned Biff. “He couldn’t possibly have learned it—unless—” “Unless what?” “Unless he saw the envelope,” exclaimed Biff in a hollow tone. “It nearly worked out of my pocket while I was asleep. Mr. Serbot might have drawn it out that far. When I looked at him, though, he was asleep, with his hands folded.” “Playing innocent, perhaps. Did he seem to make a habit of folding his hands?” “No, that was the only time I saw them folded. Dad”—Biff’s tone became worried—“do you think Mr. Serbot read the address on the envelope and phoned someone from the airport, and told them to come up here?” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” his father asserted grimly. “The envelope has the return address of the Ajax Mining Corporation, and that would identify us to anyone who is trying to beat us to the El Dorado mine. But let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.” Mr. Brewster had finished packing his bags. He picked them up and nodded for Biff to bring his, too. “We’ll send these out to the airport,” Mr. Brewster declared. “There’s a plane going up the Rio Negro at dawn, and our luggage can go on it. We may take that plane, or perhaps a later one. We’ll see.” They made arrangements with the hotel porter to handle the baggage. After that, Mr. Brewster decided that they should go out for dinner so Biff could see the city. Once on the lighted streets of Manaus, Biff realized how futile it would be to look for the baggily clad man who had stolen the map. Dozens of workmen who passed them were dressed in similar attire, even to a bandanna worn as a neckerchief. The gay life of the tropical city impressed Biff. There were brilliantly lighted downtown cafÉs, and Mr. Brewster chose one where they were served half a dozen courses of tasty, highly seasoned food, finishing with ice cream that Biff thought was the best he had ever eaten. He had just swallowed the last spoonful when he suddenly exclaimed: “Look, Dad! Those two men sitting at that table in the corner! One of them is Mr. Serbot!” Mr. Brewster had no difficulty in picking out Serbot from Biff’s earlier description, though the scar on the smiling man’s cheek was scarcely visible in the soft light of the cafÉ. Serbot’s companion was shorter and chunkier, with a broad face, quick, narrow eyes, and straight lips. “Introduce me on the way out,” Mr. Brewster told Biff. “I would like to size up that pair.” A few minutes later, Biff’s father was shaking hands with Serbot, who immediately introduced his stocky companion. “This is Senhor Armandeo,” stated Serbot. “Pepito Armandeo, known as Grande Pepito, or Big Pepito, as you would call him in English. He is a famous wrestler.” Smoothly, Serbot changed the subject. “You have a very intelligent son, Senhor Brewster. I enjoyed my trip with him. You are interested in rubber, Senhor?” “What else,” asked Mr. Brewster, “would bring me to Manaus?” Serbot’s response was a noticeable increase of his perpetual smile. He bowed as he made the parting comment: “Perhaps we have mutual interests, Senhor.” Outside the cafÉ, Mr. Brewster spoke reflectively. “Perhaps Serbot and I do have mutual interests,” he said. “In something bigger than rubber. Something like gold.” They climbed into the jeep, and Mr. Brewster drove past the Amazonas Theater, the magnificent opera house that had been built when Manaus was a boom town in the jungle. Mr. Brewster mentioned that to Biff as they went by; but Biff realized that his father was thinking of something else. Finally, he said: “I am not surprised that you suspected Serbot. He strikes me as being very shrewd. I am doubtful of his friend, Big Pepito, too.” “Then maybe Serbot sent Pepito to steal the map!” “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, Biff.” Mr. Brewster smiled as he spoke. “I still can’t understand how Serbot could have learned so much. Nobody knew my plans except Mr. Stannart.” “What about the directors of the Ajax Company, Dad?” “Once they agreed, they gave Stannart full say. Our dealings were confidential. Stannart sent me funds to buy safari equipment which I shipped here to Manaus ahead of me.” “Mr. Serbot talked about safaris on the plane trip.” “So you told me, Biff.” Mr. Brewster frowned. “I’m beginning to think that somebody found out about our plans here in Manaus. Pepito, for instance, could have learned of the safari shipments and sent word to Serbot. But Hal Whitman should have suspected something and informed me.” “Hal Whitman? Who is he, Dad?” “The man who received the shipments here. He assembled them secretly in a boathouse a few miles up the river. Later, he loaded all the supplies and took them far up the river to an old landing above Santa Isabel. He is waiting there for us to join him.” Mr. Brewster halted the car at an intersection and pondered for a few moments. Then he said: “Somebody could have snooped around that boathouse after Whitman left. They might have learned where the shipments came from and perhaps gained some link between Whitman and myself. If we go out there, we might pick up some clue ourselves. It’s worth a try.” Mr. Brewster headed for the outskirts of the city. The road became rougher, and he was handling the jeep in its best puddle-jumping style as he added: “Maybe some spies are still around the boathouse, trying to learn what else they can. In that case, we can surprise them. If the boathouse is empty, we can wait inside it and see if anyone shows up later.” As the jeep swung beneath an arch of trees, Biff was startled by what looked like human figures jumping from bough to bough in the glow of the moonlight. Mr. Brewster laughed. “Just monkeys. Don’t let them worry you. There is the boathouse. You can see our headlights reflected in its windows.” Mr. Brewster cut off the headlights as he spoke, but oddly, the reflection persisted for a few moments more. Biff thought it was his imagination, but his father decided otherwise. “Someone is moving around inside with a flashlight,” he whispered. “The boathouse is on pontoons to allow for the rise and fall of the river. If we reach the gangplank first, we can trap them before they come ashore.” Silently Biff and his father slipped out of the jeep and crept forward beneath overhanging boughs that Biff could hear creak above him. This time, he was thinking about people in the boathouse, not monkeys in the trees. He was watching for a flashlight instead of looking up into the moonlight. That proved to be a bad mistake. Two living human figures dropped from the branches like massive rubber balls, one taking Biff as a target, the other landing squarely on Mr. Brewster. In their hands, these silent, shadowy attackers carried thin ropes that they looped around the necks of their victims as they flattened them. Biff heard his father give a short, gurgling cry. Then Biff was gasping as the cord tightened around his own neck. Next, his captor clapped a cloth to his face, and Biff was stifled by a strong, pungent odor that completely overpowered him. His head seemed to burst with stabs of flashing light that turned to utter blackness as his senses left him. |
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