[Illustration: “_Biff, come this way! Quick!_”]
A BIFF BREWSTER
MYSTERY ADVENTURE
BRAZILIAN
GOLD MINE
MYSTERY
[Illustration: Compass]
By ANDY ADAMS
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
© GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1960
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I Up the Amazon 1
II The Clutching Hand 8
III The Hidden Boathouse 16
IV The Safari Starts 25
V The Spotted Terror 40
VI Into the Quicksand 50
VII The Deadly Coils 58
VIII A Traitor Strikes 67
IX The Shrunken Heads 76
X Trapped by the Head-Hunters 85
XI A Sudden Surprise 95
XII Between Two Fires 103
XIII The River of Death 110
XIV The Devil’s Gateway 119
XV Fabulous El Dorado 128
XVI Surrounded! 137
XVII The Man of Gold 147
XVIII Urubu Again 156
XIX Partners in Crime 164
XX The Tables Turn 173
BRAZILIAN GOLD MINE MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
Up the Amazon
“Guard this letter as you would your life!”
Mr. Stannart spoke in a low, tense tone as he glanced around the waiting
room at Idlewild Airport. Biff Brewster felt a sudden surge of
excitement when he took the envelope that the gray-haired man handed
him.
The envelope was tightly sealed, and it was addressed to Biff’s father,
Thomas Brewster, at the Hotel Jacares in Manaus, Brazil. In the upper
corner was the return address of the Ajax Mining Corporation in New York
City. Gregg Stannart was the president of the company, and Mr. Brewster
was its chief field engineer.
“Since you are flying to Brazil to join your father,” Mr. Stannart
continued, “I decided to have you deliver this letter personally, rather
than take the risk of its falling into the wrong hands.”
He paused, gave Biff a keen, steady glance, and asked, “Did your father
tell you why he was going to the headwaters of the Amazon River?”
“He wrote that he was going on a jungle safari,” replied Biff, “and he
invited me to fly to Brazil and join him, as a birthday present.”
Biff was thinking back to his birthday party at the Brewster home in
Indianapolis less than a week ago. His mother had brought in a cake with
sixteen lighted candles that Biff had blown out with a single puff, to
the delight of the twins, Ted and Monica, who were five years younger
than Biff. But the big surprise was when Biff’s mother had given him the
birthday letter from his dad.
Next had come the excitement of packing, when it dawned on Biff that
nearly all his birthday presents were clothes and equipment he could use
on a tropical trip. Then Biff had flown to New York where Mr. Stannart
had met him to put him on the plane for Brazil.
“Your father is bound on a highly important and secret mission for our
company,” Mr. Stannart confided now. “He is going far up the Rio Negro,
which joins the Amazon just below the city of Manaus. The party
_supposedly_ will be looking for sites for rubber plantations.”
Mr. Stannart paused, then said solemnly, “Your father will be looking
for gold—a fabulous gold mine about which we have secret information.
But here in New York,” he went on, “we have just discovered that there
has been a leak in that information. We have learned that certain people
would do anything to stop your father and get to the mine first. Even
now, he may be in danger.”
“But Dad didn’t say anything about it—”
“Because he doesn’t know about it. He may change his mind about letting
you accompany him after you give him this letter. It will tell him all
he needs to know.”
Biff put the letter deep down into his coat pocket. Mr. Stannart nodded
approvingly.
“Be careful what you say to strangers,” he warned Biff, “and above all,
guard that letter!”
It was nearly time for the departure of Biff’s plane. Mr. Stannart
explained that it would take him to Belem, the capital city of the
Brazilian state of Para, not far from the mouth of the Amazon. There,
Biff would change to a plane for Manaus, a thousand miles up the great
river.
Mr. Stannart studied the other passengers who were waiting to board the
plane. He said to Biff in parting, in a low but confident tone:
“You won’t have any trouble on this flight. But be careful after you
leave Belem!”
The long trip south did prove uneventful. During daylight, the plane was
over the Atlantic Ocean, and darkness had settled when it reached the
coast of Brazil. Biff landed in Belem at dawn, so it wasn’t until he had
changed to the plane for Manaus that he gained his first view of the
Brazilian jungle.
He saw it from a seat beside the window as the plane climbed above
Belem; a vast, solid mass of billowing green that looked ready to
swallow the city that spread below. Then the jungle ended, and the plane
was flying over a huge expanse of brownish water streaked with waves of
white. This was the Amazon River, stretching as far as the eye could
see.
A smooth voice purred from beside Biff’s shoulder:
“It looks more like an ocean than a river, doesn’t it?”
Biff turned to meet the gaze of the smiling man sitting beside him whose
eyes looked sharp even through his dark-green glasses. The large lenses
gave an olive hue to the sleek, oval face that narrowed to a pointed
chin.
“_O Rio Mar_,” the smiling man continued. “That is what Brazilians call
the Amazon. It means ‘The River Sea’ in Portuguese. Do you understand
the language?”
“A little,” replied Biff, “but I know Spanish better.” He was about to
add that he had learned both from his father. Then, remembering Mr.
Stannart’s warning to be careful when he talked to strangers, Biff
stated simply but truthfully:
“I have been studying Spanish in school.”
“You will need to speak Portuguese,” the man declared, “if you are
stopping off anywhere between Belem and Manaus.” He paused inquiringly.
Then, getting no response, he added, “If you go farther up the Amazon or
any of its tributaries, you will need to know the dialects of Indian
tribes as well.”
The stranger’s easy, persuasive tone almost caused Biff to remark that
he was going on beyond Manaus. But he caught himself in time and said
nothing.
“You may have to talk fast, too,” Biff’s fellow passenger continued.
“Those tribes are often dangerous. You are sure to find head-hunters
among them.”
This time, Biff asked a question.
“Have you been among the head-hunters, sir?”
The stranger’s smile widened. “My name is Serbot, Nicholas Serbot. And
yours?”
“Bruce Brewster. My friends call me Biff.”
Nicholas Serbot inclined his head politely. “No, I have never been among
the head-hunters, Biff. I come to Manaus occasionally to do business for
some European concerns that I represent. Mostly in rubber.”
“My dad is in Manaus,” Biff volunteered. “I’m meeting him there.”
“Perhaps he will take you on a jungle safari. They organize such trips
in Manaus.”
“That sounds great!” exclaimed Biff. “I’ll mention it to Dad!”
“Tell him to inquire at the Hotel Amazonas,” suggested Serbot.
“Meanwhile”—he leaned toward Biff as he spoke—“you may find the scene
below quite interesting.”
They had reached the head of the Para River, the principal mouth of the
Amazon, sixty miles above Belem. The plane was thrumming over a gigantic
carpet of thickly tufted green, furrowed by a maze of irregular streams.
“The region of the Thousand Islands,” Serbot explained. “Those channels
that twist through the solid jungle are called the Narrows. They come
from the main course of the Amazon, and most of them are deep enough to
be navigable.”
Below, Biff saw an ocean-going freighter working up through a watery
passage. It looked like a toy boat from this altitude, and occasionally
it was swallowed by the thick foliage that jutted over the channel, only
to emerge from the green arcade.
Soon the boat was far behind, and Biff watched the narrow channels widen
and merge into a limitless, white-capped sea—the great Amazon itself.
Serbot’s purring voice, and the steady drone of the plane’s motors had a
lulling effect. Biff’s eyes closed to avoid the glare of the tropical
sun; soon he was asleep. He dreamed that he was back at Idlewild, with
Mr. Stannart’s voice repeating:
“Guard this letter as you would your life! Guard this letter....”
In the dream, invisible fingers seemed to be plucking the precious
envelope, drawing it up and out of Biff’s pocket. With a sudden start,
Biff awoke and shot his own hand to his pocket, where it met the crinkle
of paper.
The dream had been realistic in one respect. As he dozed, Biff must have
kept slumping down into his seat, causing the envelope to work upward
every time he hunched his shoulders. A few inches more and it would have
fallen from his pocket.
Or was that the answer? What if those phantom fingers had been real
instead of mere figments of a dream!
As he thrust the envelope far down into his inside pocket and buttoned
his coat for safer keeping, Biff Brewster shot a suspicious glance
toward his companion of the plane trip, the smooth-spoken man who called
himself Nicholas Serbot.