The Clutching Hand
Biff was wide awake now, the drone of the plane growing louder in his
ears. With it, his suspicions of Serbot faded. The smiling man was
leaning back in his seat, his own eyes closed as if in sleep. His hands
were folded loosely across his stomach.
For the first time, Biff saw why Serbot wore that constant smile. The
left side of his mouth was curled to match the right, which was drawn
upward by a scar that began at the corner of his lips and became
increasingly jagged until it ended beside his right eyebrow.
Before, the large rims and green tint of the sun glasses had helped to
hide the scar; but Serbot had removed them before he went to sleep. Now,
as Biff studied him, Serbot opened his eyes slowly and gave Biff a
sleepy glance. Realizing that Biff had observed the scar, Serbot raised
his right hand and traced it lightly with his forefinger.
“A decoration I received during World War Two,” he commented, “while I
was working with the French Underground. A Nazi spy tried to give me
this—” Graphically, Serbot swept his hand across his throat—“but I
managed to save my neck. I received this instead.”
Serbot clenched his left fist as though it contained a weapon. He
grabbed his left wrist with his right hand and shook his head.
“If anyone attacks you with a knife or gun, don’t try to stop him that
way,” he said. “It won’t work fast enough, as I found out. Hit his wrist
like this”—Serbot opened his right hand, bent it backward, and drove it
against his left wrist—“with the heel of your hand, upward and outward.
Try it.”
Biff practiced the action a few times and apparently won Serbot’s
approval, for the smiling man added:
“That not only will stop him, it will jar the weapon from his grasp,
enabling you to snatch it all in the same move.”
Serbot demonstrated that, too. Then, noting that some of the other
passengers were beginning to look their way, Serbot changed the subject
abruptly. Leaning toward Biff, he began pointing out more sights from
the window, as the plane followed the north bank of the river.
There, the jungle had opened into widespread grazing lands, studded by a
range of low, flat-topped mountains. Perched on one summit was a little
town that Serbot said was called Monte Alegre. Then they were far out
over the river again, and the Amazon once more resembled a choppy,
yellow sea, until the order came to “Fasten safety belts!” The plane was
coming to a landing at Santarém on the south bank.
Serbot pointed out to Biff the wide Tapajóz River which disgorged a huge
flood into the turbulent Amazon, splotching the yellow tide with long
streaks of green that looked like wash from the jungle and shone with
emerald brilliance in the noonday sun.
The plane roared off again, and at Obidos, eighty miles farther
upstream, the Amazon narrowed to a single deep channel only a mile and a
quarter wide with the walls of solid forests fringing both bluffs.
Later, the river widened again, and Serbot indicated small settlements
built on high stilts in clearings back from the bank.
“Those show you how high the river rises,” Serbot told Biff. “Often it
overflows its banks for many miles on both sides. Some of the native
villages are so far off in the jungle that they can only be reached when
the Amazon is in flood.”
Between pointing out these interesting scenes, Serbot talked
occasionally of his war experiences, and Biff, wide awake and alert ever
since his morning nap, was enjoying the trip more and more. He realized
that he was gaining a slight preview of the Brazilian jungle that might
prove helpful when he and his father set out on the safari that was
actually to be a gold hunt. But he was careful to avoid answering any
direct questions that Serbot put to him.
It was late afternoon when Serbot indicated a great, dark swirl of water
that merged with the muddy Amazon, marking the mouth of another huge
tributary.
“The black water of the Rio Negro,” defined Serbot. “From here it is
only ten miles up to Manaus.”
Soon, the plane landed at the Manaus airport, and a few minutes later,
Biff was being welcomed by his father, a tall, rugged man with dark hair
and tanned, square-jawed face, an older counterpart of Biff himself,
except for the boy’s blond hair. But when Biff looked around for Mr.
Serbot, hoping to introduce him to Mr. Brewster, he found to his
surprise that his companion of the plane trip had already gone.
Biff and his dad talked about the family and everything at home while
they were picking up Biff’s luggage. Mr. Brewster then led the way to a
jeep that he had parked outside the airport. Before they started their
drive into the city, Biff drew the sealed envelope from his pocket and
handed it to his father with the comment:
“Dad, this is from Mr. Stannart. He told me to guard it carefully, that
it is very important.”
Mr. Brewster tore open the envelope, and Biff watched his expression
change as he read the letter. His lips set tightly above his firm jaw,
Mr. Brewster thrust the letter into his own pocket; then he started the
jeep. Keeping a sharp eye along the rough road, he asked:
“Did Mr. Stannart mention what was in the letter?”
“In a way, he did,” rejoined Biff. “He said we were supposed to be going
with a rubber-hunting expedition, but that actually we would be looking
for gold—”
“You didn’t mention that to anyone, did you?” interrupted Mr. Brewster
anxiously. “I mean, while you were on the plane?”
“I only talked to a man named Mr. Serbot,” returned Biff, “and I even
played dumb when he suggested that you take me on a safari. He said we
could make arrangements at the Hotel Amazonas.”
Biff saw his father’s taut expression change to one of relief. Mr.
Brewster spurted the jeep over a watery stretch of road with the
comment:
“These jeeps have to be real puddle jumpers. You never know how deep
some of the mud holes are.”
The road improved as they swung into the city. It was then that Mr.
Brewster asked:
“Did Mr. Stannart tell you that there might be serious danger, now that
other persons are after the mine?”
“Yes, he said you must be warned.”
“I suppose that is why he let you come,” mused Mr. Brewster. “Frankly, I
feel he made a mistake, and I should send you straight home. However, if
we keep far enough ahead of trouble, it may not catch up with us.”
Mr. Brewster ended with a reassuring smile.
“I’ll tell you the story from the start,” he said. “During World War
Two, two prospectors, Lew Kirby and Joe Nara, gave up hunting gold and
diamonds down in the state of Minas Geraes and came up the Amazon to
help gather rubber. They put their profits into food and supplies and
kept going north to look for a fabled land of gold—a land called El
Dorado.”
“El Dorado! We learned about him in American History!” Biff exclaimed.
“It sounded crazier than science fiction. Wasn’t El Dorado supposed to
be a king who came out of a lake with his body all covered with gold?”
“Originally, yes,” returned Mr. Brewster. “Then the story became a
legend of a golden city and finally a golden land. The Spaniards looked
for it, and so did Sir Walter Raleigh.”
“But nobody ever found it!”
“Nobody except Lew Kirby and Joe Nara.”
Sure that his father was joking, Biff expected a chuckle to follow. But
Mr. Brewster was very serious.
“They uncovered a fabulous Inca mine,” resumed Mr. Brewster. “It was too
far and too difficult to bring the gold down the Amazon. So they worked
their way to the Orinoco River, which brought them out through
Venezuela.
“Kirby sent Nara back to the mine and then returned to Minas Geraes,
hoping to find someone to help finance the claim. But people either
didn’t believe his story, or they were the sort he wouldn’t trust. But
he trusted me and I believed him—when he gave me these.”
Mr. Brewster brought out of his pocket some small samples of ore that
fairly glistened with gold. Biff had learned enough regarding mining and
minerals from his dad to recognize the value of these specimens. In an
awed tone Biff asked:
“Is there much of this in the mine, Dad?”
“A whole mountain full,” replied Mr. Brewster, “from what Lew Kirby told
me—before he died.”
The jeep was rolling smoothly now along a boulevard lined with fig
trees, all neatly trimmed to a mushroom shape. But the story of the
fabled gold mine interested Biff more than the sights of Manaus.
“Lew gave me a map,” continued Mr. Brewster, “showing the route that he
followed to reach the headwaters of the Orinoco, though it does not give
the exact location of the mine. To learn that, we must find Joe Nara. I
hope that no one else finds him first.”
“Like the persons mentioned in Mr. Stannart’s letter?”
“That’s right, Biff. Despite Mr. Stannart’s constant urging, the
directors of the Ajax Corporation have been painfully slow in providing
funds for our trip. Meanwhile, Mr. Stannart says in his letter, certain
foreign interests have learned of the mine and have moved into the
picture. They may be the sort who will stop at nothing to get that
mine!”
Before Biff could ask more questions, the jeep pulled up beside a
modest, low-built structure that bore the sign: HOTEL JACARES. Looking
about, Biff was surprised to see that it was growing dark and that the
street lamps were already aglow.
“Night falls swiftly here in the tropics,” explained Mr. Brewster, as
they went through the hotel lobby and up the stairs to the second floor.
“That is why I lost no time coming from the airport. The driving is
difficult after dark.”
Mr. Brewster unlocked the door of his room, turned on the light, then
halted in amazement. The place was strewn with clothes from his
suitcases. Sheets had been ripped from beds and mattresses cut open.
Papers were scattered everywhere.
In a corner was a framed mirror hanging above a washstand. Mr. Brewster
hurried over, took down the mirror, and laid it on a table beside a
closet door. He pried away the backing of the mirror and brought out a
sheet of paper that had been hidden there.
“This is what they were after!” he exclaimed. “The one thing they
couldn’t find! Kirby’s map!”
As Mr. Brewster spoke, the closet door was opening slowly, but it was
behind his shoulder and he didn’t see it. From the crack slid a long,
bare human arm, and a hand reached for the prize that Mr. Brewster
flourished. Frantically, Biff shouted:
“Dad! Look out!”