“What!”
Wilson stared at him. “Do you know him?”
The somber expression changed to a broad, but slightly rueful grin. “Whoever this character is, he either has a sense of humor or he’s smart enough to pick a name that probably few Portuguese recall if they ever knew it. For your information, Cacarico was a rhinoceros in the São Paulo zoo who was elected in a write-in campaign some years ago to the House of Representatives.”
Wilson looked interested. “And how did he do?”
“They wouldn’t seat him. I forget now if it was because he wouldn’t swear allegiance to the flag, or because he couldn’t salute it. Or maybe because he might represent too much competition to the other solons.”
Wilson shook his head sadly. “Well, that’s politics.”
Da Silva’s smile faded. “Whatever it is, it seems to put the finish on any arguments of mine. Anyone who comes into this country the way this one did, with a name obviously picked from the blue, especially in times such as these, certainly does rate being picked up by the police.” He glanced at his watch and started to rise. “And today don’t tell me we haven’t eaten because I know it. And resent it. But, also knowing the Brazilian police, I think we ought to get them started on the job as soon as possible.”
“A fine way to talk about your colleagues,” Wilson said chidingly. “Sit down and relax. The plane from Montevideo won’t be in for at least another four hours. We’ll have lots of time for a good meal — if they’ve got one here — and you can still spend a few hours at your desk before they arrive.”
“Whose plane from Montevideo?”
“Well,” Wilson said slowly, “that’s a bit hard to say. Officially, of course, it was assigned to the delegates to the conferences beginning tomorrow. Unofficially, I suppose it belongs to the American people. In any event, since no one was using it, I’m afraid I arranged to have it fly down to Montevideo. A blow to the crew, since they probably figured they had a week’s unearned vacation to investigate the beaches and fleshpots, but that’s the way it goes.”
“I’m sorry I put it that way.” Da Silva sounded anything but sorry. “I meant, what plane?”
“What plane? Why, the one with the pictures, of course,” Wilson said cheerfully.
“Pictures?” Da Silva smiled across the table, but it was a taut smile, and there was steel beneath the softness of his voice. “You know, Wilson, I have an odd feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”
“You noticed that, eh? Well, as usual, you’re right. I’m trying to tell you the chances are good that we have some pictures of the man we’re talking about.”
“Pictures?”
Wilson shrugged. “Photographs, anyway. If you were expecting oils, I’m sorry. But even these are a break, because the descriptions the Interpol man down there got from the crew were about as useful as pockets on a shroud. A composite of what they told him would have resulted in a man anywhere from four to eight feet tall.”
“How about fingerprints?”
“After almost a week? Not on that ship. But, as I say, we got a break with the pictures. Or anyway, maybe. The captain was cooperative enough, but he barely remembered they had a steward, let alone what he looked like. To him a steward was just a body in a white jacket; and, of course, a statistic to be checked when it got sick. However—”
“Well, let’s hear it!” Da Silva was close to barking. “Don’t drag it out into an eight-part serial!”
“Calma,” Wilson said evenly, and then grinned. “After all, I did all the work, so let me have the fun of telling it my way.” He took a deliberate drink and set his glass down. “As I was saying, it seems the first mate, a promising lad named Miguel, bought himself a fancy Japanese camera in Funchal when they stopped there, and after that he took quite a few candid shots around and about the ship — two rolls, as a matter of fact. He thinks — mind you, he doesn’t know for sure — but he thinks our elusive steward may have unconsciously figured in some of them.”
“He thinks? Why doesn’t he simply look at the pictures?”
“I can tell you’re upset,” Wilson said. “Not thinking clearly. Obviously because they haven’t been developed yet. The ship hasn’t been in any one port long enough to get them back from a processor. He was planning on having them done in Buenos Aires.”
“I see,” Da Silva said slowly. “Instead of which we’ll develop them for him — free of charge — in our police laboratory here.”
“Right!” Wilson said, and smiled at him proudly. The character of his smile changed slightly. “Actually, I didn’t know it would be free of charge, but I think it’s a nice gesture.”
Da Silva considered him seriously. “Just one question,” he said slowly. “Granting you used your head this morning, and did a nice bit of follow-up, just how do you expect this to clear your C.I.A. of my nasty accusations?”
“Well,” Wilson said a bit expansively, “if this suspicious steward is uncovered through my efforts — and I have faith in you to do it — and if he should prove to be one of the bad guys, and if all this walking hand-in-hand into the sunset comes about through my modest efforts, then” — he raised his shoulders, but the light tone of his voice had somehow diminished — “then, obviously, it has to clear the C.I.A. of any suspicion, at least in connection with him. Because otherwise why would I do it?” He became completely serious. “Look, Zé; I don’t deny that there might be a try at Dorcas. There has been in the past. But if there is, we have nothing to do with it. I want that understood. And that’s why I’ve been breaking my back trying to dig up anything that might identify, and at least — well, say disarm — any potential assassin.”
Da Silva looked at him wonderingly.
“You are marvelous!” he said with admiration. “You are absolutely incredible. Fantastic! I love the way that brain of yours works. I especially love the way you assume I never heard of the word ‘decoy’ or any of its thesaurian synonyms.” He leaned forward. “I’m not saying I don’t want to see these photographs of yours, because I do. What I’m saying, simply, is this: if the United States feels it imperative to uplift us poor ignorant heathens, why do they insist on sending us such unimpressive things as money? Or wide-eyed youngsters to build us ice hockey rinks in the middle of the Amazon jungle? Why don’t they simply send us more Wilsons?”
Wilson considered him with a jaw that was tightening perilously. For several moments there was a charged silence at the table. Then Wilson took a deep breath and forced himself to smile.
“More Wilsons?” he asked, and then shook his head. “Why? You don’t know what to do with the ones you already have...”
He turned abruptly and raised his arm for the waiter.
The late afternoon sun, flooding Da Silva’s fifth-floor office in the old Instituto de Estudios Academicos, slanted insidiously through the Venetian blinds and threw bars of shadow across the city map that covered one full wall of the room. Under the blaze of light the various colored pins all assumed the same shade of burnished gold, losing identity. Da Silva walked over, drew the blinds, and then walked back to his post beside the map. The two detectives waiting for him watched their boss stolidly.
At one side Wilson sat quietly, watching the repeat of a performance he had witnessed since dropping off the negatives some half-hour before. Some long hours of subjective thought had removed most of the anger he had felt at lunch; under similar conditions he knew he would have acted much as Da Silva was acting. And watching Da Silva delegate the various jobs and cover the possible trouble sources, he wondered if he would act as efficiently.
Da Silva’s finger reached toward the map and then retracted. He smiled wearily.