PIZELLA, THE INSCRUTABLE
Before Hal had recovered from his astonishment, there burst into the
cabin, the sailor, who was leading a cringing, ratlike little man.
Behind them came the captain, wringing his hands excitedly and talking
in vociferous Portuguese.
“Many pardons, Señors!” said he, bowing apologetically. “This
half-caste, Pizella—he come up from steerage to rob you—yes?”
“I’ve been robbed of something important,” Denis Keen answered and
explained in Spanish the importance of his letter.
The captain was irate with the half-caste, Pizella, and with the aid of
the sailor proceeded to search him most thoroughly. But this availed
them nothing.
“Nothing?” Hal asked. He glanced at the sailor. “You sure this is the
bird I told you to beat it after?”
“Most certain, Señor,” the sailor assured him. “I caught him half-way
down the stairway.”
“Hmph,” said Denis Keen, “question him, then.”
A few more minutes ensued in which the captain and the sailor took turns
at arguing with the man in an unintelligible patois. But nothing came of
this either, for the half-caste protested that he was entirely innocent.
“Then what can we do?” the captain beseeched Denis Keen. “We find
nothing stolen on Pizella, the young Señor Hal does not know sure that
it was he in the cabin—he admits it very truly when he asks the sailor
was he sure.”
“That is very true, Captain,” said Denis Keen. “My nephew could not
swear to it that this man was the intruder, can you, Hal?”
Hal could not. A fair-sized group of upper deck passengers had gathered
about their cabin door listening to the singular conversation. At the
head of them stood Señor Carlo Goncalves in a state of partial
dishabille and listening attentively.
When Denis Keen had dismissed the wretched Pizella because of lack of
evidence, the dapper Brazilian came forward twisting his little waxed
moustache and smiling.
“Perhaps you have lost not so very much—yes?” he asked sympathetically.
“Perhaps not,” Denis Keen smiled. “Just a letter, Señor.”
Señor Goncalves looked astonished, then comprehending.
“Ah, but the letter is important—no?”
“Yes,” Denis Keen smiled, “it is important. You know nothing about this
man Pizella?”
“Nothing except he is half-caste and that speaks much, Señor,” said
Goncalves genially. “They do quite funny things, these half-castes.”
“Such as _espionage_?” Denis Keen asked quietly, yet forcefully.
Hal watched the dapper Brazilian narrowly, but caught not one betraying
movement. The man’s swarthy face showed only a sincere concern that
these aliens should be distressed in his beloved country.
“The half-castes they are all rebels perhaps,” said the man at length.
“But that they should bother the Señors—ah, it is deplorable. For why
should the half-caste Pizella....”
“Perhaps he had reason to believe I had something to do with your
government,” interposed Denis Keen. “I have—as a friendly neighbor. But
my letter—it was one of introduction to the interventor at _Manaos_.
With his aid I am to get together a party suitable to my purpose. I am
interested in anthropology, Señor, just a dilettante, of course, and my
nephew, Hal, inherits the curse.”
Señor Goncalves laughed with great gusto and twisted his tiny moustache
until each end resembled sharp pin points.
“Ah, but that is interesting, Señor,” said he genially. “But as for your
letter—ah, it is nothing, for I myself know the interventor—I can take
you to him.”
“That is indeed kind, Señor,” said Denis Keen relaxing. “Very kind.”
“Ah, it is nothing, Señors, quite nothing. I should be delighted to help
my neighbor Americanos on their interesting journey into the Unknown.
And now shall we enjoy the rest of the journey to _Manaos_—no?”
“Yes,” Denis Keen chuckled. “We shall indeed.”
Hal smiled wryly—he was still smiling when the Señor had bowed himself
out of their cabin to dress for breakfast. Denis Keen observed him
carefully.
“You seem to be laughing up your sleeve, as usual, Hal.”
“I am, Unk. It’s a case of the noise is ended but the suspicion lingers
on.”
“You’re just hopeless, Hal. I watched the man closely—so did you.
Besides, he is acquainted with the interventor and that serves my
purpose. I shall have no further use for the Señor, once I get an
audience with the interventor. He’ll know no more about us than he does
now.”
“Well, that gives him a pretty wide margin, Unk. Wasn’t it telling him a
lot just to say you missed that letter?”
“Not at all. Most Americans on such expeditions as it is believed we
contemplate secure letters of introduction along their itinerary. The
dapper chap is just a former prosperous man forced by circumstances to
go trading into the interior for rubber as his only means of livelihood.
He’s a jolly chap, you must admit, and with an inherent sense of
hospitality. And as for any continued suspicion of him, Hal, you saw
with your own eyes that he was in pajamas and dressing gown, while you
are sure that the man who ran from this cabin was fully dressed.”
“Yes, that’s true, Unk. Oh, I guess I’m just a bug on hunches. I’ll try
and forget it, because I do admit the Brazil-nut’s a friendly little
guy—yes, he isn’t half bad for a shipmate. But I would like to know
about that letter.”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s futile to wonder, though. I’m convinced that the
little Pizella isn’t what he looks. I think he took the letter all
right, but my idea is that he’s either hidden it or thrown it into the
river before the sailor caught him at the foot of the stairs. But our
chances for holding him were nil when you couldn’t identify him.”
“How could I in the dark and when he ran so fast, too?” Hal protested.
“I couldn’t say it honestly even if I felt I was right.”
“Of course. But put it out of your mind. The captain has promised to
have Pizella watched closely for the rest of the voyage. Now let’s hurry
and dress so we can get breakfast over with. The Señor promised me
yesterday afternoon that he’d escort me below this morning. He’s going
to explain in his inimitable way two or three quite interesting looking
half-castes that I happened to spot down in the steerage yesterday. He
seems to have a knack for worming historical facts out of people. He did
that with a Colombian sailor who was stationed up forward.”
“Well, look out he doesn’t worm any historical facts out of you.”
They laughed over this together and finished dressing. Breakfast
followed, and when they strolled out on deck to meet the dapper
Brazilian, the steamer was chugging her way through the Narrows.
They spent an interesting hour down in the steerage with the vivacious
Brazilian, then lingered at the deck rail there to view the surrounding
forest which all but brushed the ship on either side. At times it seemed
as if the jungle had closed in and was trying to choke them, and that
they were writhing out of its clutches, struggling ahead with heroic
effort.
Hal felt stifled at the scene and said so. Señor Goncalves was at once
all concern. They would return to the upper deck immediately he said and
proceeded to lead the way, when the half-caste, Pizella, shuffled into
sight. Instinctively they stopped, waiting for him to pass.
He glanced at them all in his shiftless, sullen way—first at Denis Keen
and then at Hal. Suddenly his dark little eyes rested on the Brazilian,
then quickly dropped. In a moment, he had disappeared around the other
side of the deck.
Not a word passed among them concerning the wretched-looking creature
and Hal followed the others to the upper deck in silence. He was
thinking, however, and greatly troubled. Try as he would, he could not
repress that small questioning voice within.
Was there any significance in the glance that passed between the
half-caste and Goncalves?