“Lucky? You mean, and run into him?”
“Possibly,” Da Silva said. His eyes were steady on Wilson’s face. “On the other hand you might be even luckier and not run into him. This man is a killer. I’m sure he’s here for an important killing. But I’m equally sure he wouldn’t mind tossing in a free one, if the free one happened to be a nosy police officer.”
“Worry not,” Wilson said, and grinned. “I’ll be circumspection itself. Well, take care of the store; I’ve got to be going. I want to get home and change into my bar clothes.” He opened the door and winked at the seated man. “And don’t ruin your eyes with all those reports.”
Da Silva grinned back at him. “I won’t. And don’t ruin your eyes staring at those girls. Or drinking that cheap pinga.”
The door closed behind Wilson. The smile was wiped instantly from Da Silva’s swarthy face. He listened to the receding footsteps until they had disappeared, and then dragged his telephone closer, dialing an internal number. The phone at the other end was lifted instantly.
“Lieutenant Perreira here.”
“Perreira? Da Silva. Senhor Wilson just left my office. He’ll be coming down in the elevator any moment. I want a man on him — a damned good man. And I want reports as often as possible. I’ll either be here or I’ll leave word where I can be reached.”
Lieutenant Perreira was puzzled. “Senhor Wilson? Of the American Embassy? Your friend? I thought—”
“Don’t waste time!” Da Silva said savagely, and slammed the receiver down. He stared at the telephone a few moments in deep thought, organizing his ideas, putting his plans into proper perspective, and then reached for the stack of small photographs once again. The picture of a man’s back, a man leaning against the rail, which had caught his attention on his first run-through, was extracted from the pile. He studied it with narrowed eyes a moment, and then reached into his drawer and withdrew the anonymous letter from Salvador de Bahia. It was clipped to the laboratory report he remembered as being quite detailed as to paper source, type of ink, and all the other useless details which had helped him not a bit. He folded the letter and the report, tucked the photograph in among them, and slid the lot into an envelope. This accomplished, he reached for the telephone once again, clicking the button for the central police department operator.
“Hello? This is Captain Da Silva. I want to put through a priority call to Captain Echavarria of the Montevideo police. Instantly! I’ll hold on.”
His thick fingers drummed impatiently on the desk as he waited; he closed his eyes, resting them, reviewing in his mind the many possibilities, both of error and of success. There were a series of clicks and weird whistles, interspersed at times with various languages, all spoken in that nasal tone which forever identifies the long-distance operators of this world. At long last the interlopers died away; Captain Echavarria came on the line. Da Silva’s eyes opened with a visible effort.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Echavarria? Ché, this is Zé Da Silva from Rio—”
“Zé! How goes it?”
“Not good,” Da Silva said honestly. “I think we’ve got trouble here, but there’s something you can do to help.”
“Anything!” Da Silva could see in his mind’s eye his heavyset friend in Montevideo waving one hand enthusiastically as he spoke. “Anything! You know that!”
“Thanks.” Da Silva bent over the telephone, speaking quickly. “Here’s the story: I’m having an envelope flown down to you. It should be there within two or three hours at the latest. It has a picture in it, and also a letter — hand-written. As well as a laboratory report on the letter, for whatever good it is. This is what I want you to do...”
He spoke for several more minutes. At the other end of the line, Captain Echavarria nodded at regular intervals, one thick hand scribbling down his instructions on a pad.
“I understand. Of course, if the ship has sailed...”
“If it sailed, it’s in the River Plate on its way to Buenos Aires, or possibly there already. And you’ll have to be there anyway. And soon. Because I need the answers by tomorrow morning.”
Echavarria stared at the telephone. “By tomorrow morning?”
“That’s right,” Da Silva said grimly. “And very early tomorrow morning.”
Echavarria sighed. “We’ll do our best.”
“I know you will, and that’s good enough for me. Well, I’ll hang up and let you get to it.”
“And you’ll hear from me early tomorrow morning, one way or the other.”
“Right. And thanks again, Ché.”
“Anytime, Zé. Ciao.”
Da Silva placed the telephone back in its cradle and reached out, pressing the button on his desk. Ruy appeared almost at once. Da Silva handed him the envelope. “Ruy. This goes to Captain Echavarria at central police in Montevideo. He must have it within two hours. You will arrange a plane and take it personally. If there is any question about getting the police plane, you will telephone me from Galeão. Is that clear?”
“Right, Captain.”
Ruy took the envelope and disappeared. Da Silva smiled at the closed door with genuine affection: one of the best things about the organization he had built up was that they never questioned his instructions. His smile faded; of course, they didn’t always carry them out, either. But he knew Ruy would, or would advise him.
He put the thought of Ruy and his errand out of his mind and reached for the telephone once again. This call was going to be the most important of all, and the one which had to be handled just right. It would also be the hardest call of all to get results from. He took a deep breath and dialed the Hotel Gloria; the operator answered at the hotel and then quite routinely connected him to the desired extension. It was obvious from her bored tone that big names no longer served to excite her.
A weary voice answered the extension, speaking in Spanish. “Alô?”
Da Silva leaned forward, speaking slowly and clearly. “Hello. I should like to speak personally with Señor Juan Dorcas.”
“De parte de quien?”
“I am Captain Da Silva, of the Brazilian police.”
There was a slight hesitation. “I’m sorry, Captain, but Señor Dorcas has only just arrived, and is resting. He has left word that he wishes to speak with no one.” The speaker made no attempt to sound even faintly sorry.
“And I am equally sorry, señor,” Da Silva said with exaggerated politeness, “but I’m afraid the matter is imperative. I’m afraid I must insist on speaking with Señor Dorcas.”
The voice at the other end remained suave. “And I am more than equally sorry, señor, but I’m afraid that if you wish to insist, the proper manner is to do it through the Argentinian Embassy.” The telephone was firmly disconnected.
Da Silva stared at the instrument in his hand a moment and then hung up. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, his jaw hardening. It appeared that Señor Juan Dorcas’ staff did not understand what Captain Da Silva meant by the word “insist,” and this was one time when Da Silva had no intention of being misunderstood. He started for the door and then returned, picking up the telephone for the last time.
“Operator? This is Captain Da Silva. I’m leaving my office. I’ll be at the Hotel Gloria until you hear from me again. Yes. In the suite of Señor Juan Dorcas, of Argentina...”
Six
For Nacio Madeira Mendes, the week that had passed since his return to his beloved Brazil had seemed endless. While he had long since developed the patience necessary for one in his selected profession, he had never developed any patience beyond this. To Nacio, waiting could be tolerated only when it served a purpose, and he was far from convinced that in this case it did. And each day that passed made him more certain that the entire complicated scheme was unnecessary, and that his victim — whoever he might be — would have long since been dispatched had he been left to his own methods.