“How are things going, by the way?” Wilson’s voice contained only polite interest, but his eyes were extremely steady on his friend’s face. “Any incidents over the weekend?”
“No,” Da Silva said, “but we really didn’t expect any. The period we’re most concerned with starts tomorrow with that pointless motorcade, and lasts until these meetings are over. And also the man I’m most worried about, our friend Dorcas, won’t arrive until this evening. After which, whether he knows it or not, he’s going to be covered like a nut sundae.” He thought a moment. “Or whether he likes it or not.”
He suddenly realized that no waiter was responding to his finger-snapping and reached out in a predatory manner, grasping a passing waiter by the arm. He ordered their usual cognac and then turned back to Wilson.
“Now, what was on your mind that was so important that you arrived here a half-hour late to tell me?”
Wilson looked across the table a moment and then leaned forward. “Do you remember that character that got lost from one of Stranger’s Hospital’s ambulances last week?”
Da Silva stared at him. “Who?”
Wilson remained patient. “You must remember. It was about a week ago — the last time we had lunch together. In the middle of that terrible storm, remember? Our ambulance picked him up and he was gone by the time they got him to the hospital?”
“Oh!” Da Silva nodded, the incident returning to his mind. A faint grin creased his lips. “Now I recall it. He was the advanced appendix case. The one we decided would be suffering from double pneumonia or flat feet when you found him. And also flying. Well, with all those clues you should have found him, and from that glint in your eye I gather you did.”
“No,” Wilson said quietly, “we didn’t find him. We didn’t even look for him. But I have a strong feeling that you will. And with all the men you can muster.”
“You? Meaning me?”
“You, meaning the entire Brazilian police force, in all its pristine glory.”
Da Silva stared at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Overlooking your obvious ignorance as to what the word ‘pristine’ means — not to mention ‘glory’ — just why should the Brazilian police waste time on this obvious nut? And even if we managed to catch him, what crime would we charge him with? Leaving the scene of an ambulance?” The thought seemed to amuse him; he snapped his fingers. “I have a better one. We arrest him for failure to pay his fare on a public vehicle.”
“If you’re through trying to be cute,” Wilson said coldly, “I’ll tell you why. Because he happened to be a sailor, and the Air Force people were the ones who delivered him to our ambulance. From Galeão Airport,” he added significantly.
Da Silva frowned at him and then looked up as a waiter bent to place a bottle and two tall-stemmed glasses on the table. The swarthy Brazilian acknowledged the service with a thankful nod, and then poured the two glasses full. He started to push one across the table and then hesitated. When he spoke his voice reflected his doubts.
“Wilson, are you sure the reason you were late wasn’t because you stopped in a bar some place? You sound as if you may have had a couple too many as it is.”
Wilson nodded, not at all perturbed. “Exactly what I thought when Dona Ilesia relayed the information to me.” He reached across the table, retrieving his drink, and then bent forward, his voice serious. Da Silva, from long experience with the smaller man, listened carefully. When Wilson assumed this attitude, it was usually wise to pay attention.
“This man,” Wilson said quietly, turning his glass between his thin fingers and watching Da Silva’s face closely, “was a sailor — a steward — on a freighter called the Santa Eugenia. The ship was originally scheduled to dock here in Rio, but because of the storm, and because the ship was in bad balance because of its cargo, the captain decided to pass up both Rio and Santos and go directly to Montevideo.” He brought his glass to his lips, sipped, and set it down. “Well, just after the captain came to this decision — and had a notice posted to the effect for the benefit of the crew and the passengers — this steward supposedly became deathly ill. Suddenly and with no previous warning...”
Da Silva was listening closely now. “And?”
“And the captain, afraid of taking any chance that a sailor might die on him, and unable to dock, got in touch with the Sea Rescue Squad here by radio, and they sent out a helicopter and brought the man to shore. They had already called for an ambulance—”
Da Silva’s eyebrows had risen. “They brought him ashore in a helicopter in the middle of that storm?”
“That’s right.”
Da Silva shuddered; it was not acting. “Better him than me! The thought of being in any aircraft, but especially a helicopter in that weather!” He grimaced and then looked up. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
“Well, that’s about it. They picked him up, brought him ashore, and delivered him to the Stranger’s Hospital Ambulance at Galeão.”
Da Silva stared at him intently a moment and then upended his drink. He reached for the bottle. “And from the ambulance he disappeared on the way to the hospital.”
“Exactly.” Wilson nodded and leaned back. “I thought you might find it interesting.”
“Damned interesting.” Da Silva stared at the bottle a moment and then slowly refilled his glass. He studied the amber liquid as if trying to see a clear motive in the depths of the cognac. “It would be a rather neat way to get into the country without going through the formality of Customs, or Immigration...”
“Or the police, either, if it comes to that,” Wilson added.
“Especially when we were checking out all airplanes and ships from top to bottom. It would be a very cute gimmick, indeed. Unless, of course” — Da Silva frowned — “the man really was sick and needed attention.”
“You knocked holes in that argument the other day,” Wilson objected. “You pointed out that no man who was genuinely sick was going to leave an ambulance, especially in the middle of that storm.”
“That’s true,” Da Silva admitted. “But that was before I knew about his coming ashore by helicopter. It’s hard to believe that any man would do that unless he had a desperate reason.”
“Exactly,” Wilson agreed softly. “But that desperate reason doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad appendix...”
“I suppose not.” The swarthy face frowned; the black eyes came up. “By the way, where did you get all this information?”
Wilson shrugged. “The captain of the ship cabled the Air Force to find out how the man was, and the Air Force called the hospital. All very delicado and routine. And the hospital called me, since they had no idea of how to explain a lost patient, and apparently felt that trustees did. And then once the facts finally clicked in my brain—”
“You checked back.”
“Right.” Wilson raised his glass, smiled at it, and then drank it. He reached for the bottle. “And found that the ship was still docked in Montevideo, unloading, and its personnel were available for questioning.”
“And this questioning was done by whom?”
Wilson looked at him steadily. “By Interpol, if you must know. Not by the C.I.A.”
“I see.” Da Silva’s face was expressionless. “And what was this mysterious steward’s name?”
Wilson dug into a pocket and brought out some papers. He leafed through them and finally extracted one. “Here it is. On the ship’s manifest he was listed as Cacarico. Z. Cacarico.”