The Tarantula Stone
Philip Caveney
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
First published in 1985 by Granada Publishing
Copyright © Philip Caveney 1985
Philip Caveney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 Cover photographs ©
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780008127992
Version: 2015-04-16
For Rachel …
who doesn’t like adventure stories
I am aware that the cruzeiro did not actually become the currency of Brazil until 5 October 1942; but in the interests of the story, I deemed it advisable to disregard this fact. A change of currency seemed an unnecessary complication in an otherwise straightforward tale, which is, after all, intended as a celebration of a time when the world was not yet inextricably bound up with lengths of red tape. I trust that the purists among you will forgive this minor presumption.
Contents
The backstreet bar was very nearly empty. Mark Austin settled himself onto a vacant stool at the counter and ordered cachaça. The bar-man, a dark-skinned young caboclo, brought him the drink and then left him to consume it in peace. Beyond the open doorway of the bar, the streets of Rio shimmered in the afternoon heat-haze.
Austin sighed. The cachaça was unpleasantly warm and within moments a fine film of sweat had moistened his face, neck and armpits. He was still not sure what he was doing here; looking for a little reality perhaps. The fancy main-street bars and cafés had none of the qualities he was seeking. That was for the tourists, a category to which he liked to think he did not belong. Here, there was only grime and squalor, but at least that was more honest; and it was in places like this that he tended to pick up his stock in trade. He gazed slowly around at the interior of the bar, noting the rusted tin tables, the mottled fly-blown mirrors; and then that the other occupant of the bar was looking at him curiously.
A grizzled old-timer in a slouch hat and a grubby khaki shirt, he was gazing at Austin