“I’m sure,” Wilson said hastily. “And thank you again.”
But Dona Ilesia was not finished. “—this ever happened. I hated to bother you, because I know how busy a man like you must be, especially working at the American Embassy, but I tried to reach Senhor Weldon first, and they told me he was out at Gavea playing golf.”
“He usually is,” Wilson said idly, and then realized that this was no way to break off a conversation. He cleared his throat authoritatively. “Just don’t worry about a thing, Dona Ilesia. That’s what trustees are for.” And at long last we know what they’re for, he said to himself, and placed the receiver firmly back on its cradle.
He swiveled his chair and stared at the wall in deep concentration, reviewing the facts she had given him. A sailor taken by helicopter from a ship in mid-ocean, brought to shore and delivered to an ambulance... The whole thing, of course, might be exactly what it purported to be, a foreign sailor suffering from a bad appendix who panicked at the thought of being operated on in a strange place by strange doctors. On the other hand, there was also the chance that it was not. And in any event, the proper man to get in touch with under the circumstances would be his old friend Captain Zé Da Silva.
He reached for the telephone again and then became aware that he was not alone. The gentleman from Zenia, Ohio, was clearing his throat in a manner that clearly indicated his resentment at being disregarded. Wilson flashed him a rueful smile to calm him, erased it immediately, and lifted the receiver.
“Mary, would you please get Captain Da Silva?”
“You mean that beautiful hunk of man? Get him? I’d love to, boss, but he—”
“On the telephone, Mary! And we can discuss your problems some other time.”
“Well, all right...”
He sat waiting impatiently, his fingers drumming restlessly on the desk. The man across from him glowered at this continued rudeness, but Wilson paid him no attention. One smile was enough, especially with a nuisance like this one. At last the instrument gave him the connection he wanted and he took over from his secretary, leaning over his desk and speaking with intensity.
“Zé? This is Wilson. I—”
“Wilson?” At the other end of the line, Da Silva leaned back in his desk chair and smiled genially at the telephone. An assistant, waiting at his side with a pile of reports, was waved to wait. A conversation with his American friend was always relaxing, and after the stack of reports he had gone through that morning, a little relaxation would be welcome. Besides, a conversation with any member of the American Embassy staff at the present might also prove fruitful. “How are you? What’s on your mind?”
“It’s—” Wilson glanced across his desk and then dropped into Portuguese. “It’s something I’d rather not discuss on the telephone. But it might be very important. How about dropping your work awhile and meeting me some place?”
Da Silva glanced at the wall clock in his office, made an addition of ten minutes for its normal error, and frowned. He had always thought the police department had purchased the clock at an auction from an old English pub. “Can it wait until lunch? I think I can break away for awhile around noon. We can meet at Santos Dumont. Same place, same time.”
“Unfortunately, the same food.” Wilson stared at the instrument. “I’d really like to make it sooner. Or wait! That might be even better. It will give me time to do some checking.”
“Checking? On what?”
“On disapproving one of your wild theories about one of the organizations I belong to.”
Da Silva grinned at the telephone. “I’m sometimes wild, but my theories never are. Take all the time you want, and I wish you the best of luck. I’ll see you at noon.”
“All right,” Wilson said, “but this time you’ll have to break all your rules and be prompt. I think I’ve run across something that might be very interesting. And very hot.”
“Is she anyone I know?”
“I’m serious. Be prompt.”
“I’m always prompt.” Da Silva considered his words and then made a concession. “However, today I’ll be even prompter. How’s that?”
“That’s fine. Let’s also hope it’s true. I’ll see you at noon, then. Ciao.”
He depressed the button of the telephone in preparation for making another call, and then became aware that his visitor by now was glaring at him in full-blown anger, and even beginning to sputter. Wilson sighed and withdrew his hand from the instrument.
“I’m sorry, Mr... er... um; I’m sorry, sir, but something quite important has come up. I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up for awhile.” A better solution to the problem occurred to him. “Tell me, sir, how much longer do you plan on being in Rio?”
“Only two days more.” It was almost a bark.
“Oh? Ah, fine! I mean, we might still be able to find time to discuss the matter. Why not give all the information to my secretary? I’ll call her.” He clicked the button several times and then spoke into the instrument. A moment later Mary appeared in the doorway, glancing sympathetically at her boss. Wilson rose to his feet.
“Mary, this is Mr... um... this is a gentleman from Ohio who would like to give you some notes regarding a problem of some sort at the Miracopa Hotel. I wonder if you might—”
“Of course, Mr. Wilson.”
“Thank you.” Wilson held his hand out to his guest; the businessman from Zenia barely touched it. Wilson smiled. “It’s been a great pleasure, sir. Always pleased to be of assistance to a fellow American. What we’re here for, actually. I’m sorry we couldn’t chat longer.”
His visitor merely growled deep in his throat.
“And have a good trip home, sir. Good-bye.”
Mary took the small man gently but firmly by the arm and led him from the room. Wilson’s forced smile disappeared the minute the door closed on the disgruntled gentleman from Ohio, and he dropped back into his chair, reaching for the telephone again. Good God! What was the man’s complaint? That the telephone operators at the Miracopa Hotel didn’t speak English? Wilson tried to picture a Brazilian complaining to his consulate in New York that the help at the Statler didn’t speak Portuguese, and then wiped the incident from his mind. He clicked the button.
“Mary? Put me on an outside line and tell the operator there will be a series of overseas priority calls. And they have to be completed fast.” A faint smile spread across his face. “I have a luncheon date with your dream man, Captain Da Silva, and I’d hate to be late...”
Five
Even at twelve-thirty, quite early by Brazilian standards, the mezzanine restaurant of the Santos Dumont Airport was beginning to crowd. Wilson pushed his way through the closely set tables, ignoring the combination clatter of silverware, hum of voices, and roar of aircraft that came from the runways beneath the open windows, until he managed to locate Da Silva seated alone near the railing overlooking the main floor of the long, modern building. He swung a chair back from the table and sat down, grinning at his friend. Da Silva merely glared back.
“This is your idea of noon sharp?”
Wilson looked at him innocently. “You mean I’m late?” He shook his head in wonder. “I knew if I stayed around here long enough, some of the national habits would rub off.” He looked across the table curiously. “By the way, how does it feel to be on time for a change?”
“Terrible,” Da Silva admitted, and found himself smiling despite himself. “I know I wouldn’t like it as a steady diet.” He turned in his chair, snapping his fingers loudly for a waiter, his smile fading. “We’re going to have to make it short today, though. I left my desk piled to the ceiling with work. And I want to get a few more things organized before tonight. I’d also like to get some sleep tonight if I can.”