“Open the gate,” he said.
The guards rolled the gate aside. The man stepped forward, his hand extended. “I am Captain Scheermann,” he said, with just a trace of a German accent, as he shook Pendergast’s hand. “And you are Mr. Fawcett?”
“
“Of course. I understand you’re a naturalist?”
“That’s right,” said Pendergast, his voice rising belligerently. “As I was telling these men, I’ve come halfway around the world on a mission of great scientific importance, endorsed by the governors of two Brazilian states as well as the British Museum and the Royal Society, in cooperation with the Sociedade Entomologica do Brasil”—he stumbled badly over the pronunciation. “I insist on being treated with courtesy! If I am turned away, I promise you, sir, there will be an investigation, a very thorough investigation!”
“Of course, of course,” said the captain soothingly. “If I may—”
Pendergast went on, undeterred. “I am in pursuit of the Queen Beatrice butterfly,
“Yes, yes,” the captain interrupted, smoothly if a little impatiently. “I understand. There’s no need for such excitement, no need for investigations. You’re welcome to enter. We have our rules, but for you we will make an exception. A
A beat. “Well,” said Pendergast. “That is most kind of you. Most kind! If there are expenses or fees—?”
The captain held up his hand. “No, no. The only thing we require is that you accept an escort.”
“An escort?” Pendergast frowned.
“We’re used to our privacy here, and some of our people might be startled by an outsider. You’ll need an escort—mostly for your own comfort and safety. I’m sorry, but that is not open for negotiation.”
Pendergast harrumphed. “If necessary, fine. But I will be moving about in the forest in all weathers, and he or she better be able to keep up.”
“Naturally. Now, may I escort you to our town hall, where we can take care of the paperwork?”
“That’s rather more like it,” said Pendergast, climbing into the jeep as the captain held open the door. “In fact, that’s capital. Just capital.”
AS THEY DROVE THROUGH THE TOWN, PENDERGAST peered about with evident interest at all that he saw. The drizzle was letting up slightly, the clouds lifting, and gradually the environs were coming into view. The village sported stuccoed buildings, and it spread across a grid of capacious streets along the shores of an emerald lake. While it could be no more than half a century old, it beautifully reproduced the architecture, cobbled streets, and general layout of an old Bavarian village, even down to the steep stone staircases rising up the shorefront, the hand-painted signs, the slate roofs and half-timbering of the larger public buildings.
The lakeshore itself was graced with long stone quays of neatly dressed stone, which led to a series of well- kept docks, wharves, and slips, on which crisply painted fishing boats and a few launches were tied up. Everything was cloaked in mist; the lake itself vanished into a drizzle of rain, its central island no more than a dim gray outline.
The town ended abruptly in a forest of immensely tall araucaria trees, mingled with pines and other subtropical species. The darkness, the fog, the dreary weather, and the untamed wall of forest formed a strange contrast to the town—so neat, clean, and so very European in character.
Perhaps because of the rain, the streets were eerily deserted.
In a few moments they arrived at the town hall, a half-timbered building done in faux-medieval style. The captain led the way into a spartan interior, with benches lined up as if for a town meeting, moving past them into a cluster of offices. Pendergast followed Scheermann into a large office in the rear of the building, its door open, with a broad picture window looking out over the lake. A fire burned in a brick fireplace. A vase of gorgeous red roses stood on a table. Behind a desk sat a roly-poly man in Tyrolean vestments, ruddy-cheeked and cheery-faced. And yet the man’s blue eyes were utterly without expression, like small glass marbles reflecting back only the light that shone into them and nothing more.
“This is Burgermeister Keller,” said the captain. “Mayor of Nova Godoi.”
The mayor rose and extended a small, fat hand. “Looking for the Queen Beatrice butterfly, I understand!” he said genially. He, too, spoke perfect English. “I hope you find it.”
The paperwork was time consuming, yet it was taken care of with great efficiency. Pendergast was given an official document, stamped and embossed, which he was told to keep on his person at all times. As they were concluding the arrangements, a thin man stepped into the office. He was about thirty-five, with a narrow head, a high-domed forehead that seemed to loom over his watery blue eyes, and a thick lower lip that also extended beyond the upper, giving his face a queer, caved-in look.
“And here is your escort,” said the mayor. “His name is Egon.”
“You are free to go anywhere you like, except out on the lake or to its island.” The captain paused significantly. “You did not expect to go to the island, I trust?”
“Oh, no,” said Pendergast. “The last QB was found on the mainland, along the shores of the lake. No need for water trips—I’ve had enough of that coming up the river!”
This little joke elicited a chuckle from the mayor. “Good. Egon will also show you to your evening’s quarters. Egon, please see that the
Egon nodded.
Pendergast bowed. “Thank you. Most kind, most kind indeed. But I shall not be needing evening quarters: the Queen Beatrice, you see, is best hunted at night.”
They emerged back onto the streets as the sun finally broke free of the clouds, flooding the town with a weak light. Slowly the veil over the lake was drawn back, revealing the central island—a naked cinder cone topped by a grim fortress of ancient lava rock, black in color, its towers partly in ruins, battlements and crenellations broken and crumbling. A single ray of light pierced the gloom and illuminated the structure, and Pendergast could see, briefly— as the fugitive light passed over the old fort—the flash of something metallic hidden behind the massive walls.
The appearance of the sun had an unusual effect on the town. Suddenly, as if summoned, the streets filled with men and women going about their business with a remarkable fixity of purpose. It was almost like a movie set, many of the townsfolk dressed in vintage clothing from the late 1940s, the women with rolled bangs and tailored jackets or dresses, wide shoulders and hips, the men in dark baggy suits and hats, some smoking pipes. Others were dressed in more working-class outfits, jumpsuits and overalls, flat caps and straw boaters. All were handsome, and most sported classic Nordic looks—tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with chiseled cheekbones. They went about their business by bicycle, on foot, some with wheelbarrows and carts. But, Pendergast noted, no cars. The only vehicles were World War II–era jeeps driven by men in olive drab, always with an important-looking personage seated in the back, dressed in a gray uniform. These were the only people who seemed to have guns, and they were well armed indeed, packing high-caliber sidearms and, frequently, an assault rifle with an oversize magazine.
Many inhabitants stopped and stared at him, some gaping in surprise and some eyeing him with evident hostility. For the fact was, Pendergast, aka Dr. Percival Fawcett, stood out like a sore thumb. Which was precisely his intention.
Pendergast set off at a breakneck pace toward the quay, explaining loudly that the Queen Beatrice preferred the littoral zones and that its favored time of day was dawn, not sunset, but that one never knew. Egon seemed not to hear, following him with dogged persistence, never tiring, always keeping up.
The boats along the quay were beautifully maintained, and some were much larger than would normally be necessary for lake fishing. They included two big motorized barges, on which sat heavy machinery and exotic equipment of unknown function—again, far heavier than seemed necessary for a remote farming community. How
