“Matter?” Wilson sounded bitter. “Not a thing. Only my head’s coming apart at the seams.”
A slow smile spread across Da Silva’s swarthy features. “Too much pinga? I tried to warn you.”
“And I thank you very much. Only you forgot to warn me about mickeys, and that’s what they fed me—”
“A mickey? Who? And why?”
Wilson started to nod and then thought better of it; the twinge of pain that shot from his neck to the top of his head almost made him lose his grip on his ice bag. “That’s an excellent question. When — and if — I ever recover, I expect to go back there and take that waiter by the scruff of his neck and get an answer to that very question.”
Da Silva’s grin faded. “What happened?”
“Well,” Wilson said, pressing his ice bag tighter against his head and turning from the glaring sunlight at his window, “I went out to this Maloca de Tijuca, parked in the parking lot, and went into the main bar. The place was empty except for one couple — it seems everyone in Rio gets moral on Mondays — and I had a drink and prepared to wait around. And...”
“And what?”
Wilson sighed. “And then I had a second drink. And that, it appears, was a major error, because the next thing I knew the room started to get fractious and jump around, and the lights started to get bright, and then they went out. And when I woke up, which was about half an hour ago, I was in my car outside, and the joint was closed. And my head...” He shuddered, preferring to try to forget his head.
“So?”
“So how I managed to make it home is going to remain one of the classic mysteries of all times. The Marie Celeste pales in comparison. I mention this in case you start getting reports of a dangerous drunk weaving along the Lagôa in an old Chevy.”
Da Silva nodded at the telephone in a polite manner, but his thoughts were anything but polite. Where the devil had Freire been? And why hadn’t he called in with a report? “I’ll remember. And just what would you like us to do about the affair? Send a squad car out to the Maloca and tear the joint apart?”
At the other end of the line Wilson stared at the telephone in amazement. “Do you mean you don’t wonder why they would slip a knockout drop to a perfect stranger? It doesn’t rouse the slightest curiosity? I know you’ve been on a sleep diet these past nights, but even so!” He leaned forward, as if in this manner to impress the man at the other end of the connection. “Look, Zé; we know this Nacio used to hang out in this place, and when I go looking for him, I suddenly get taken out of the action.” He started to shake his head and then winced. “There has to be a connection.”
“Why?” Da Silva asked curiously. “How would Nacio Mendes know who you were, or even what you looked like? When he made his escape, I don’t think you were even in Rio yet. Or if you were, I’m sure you two never went around in the same social circles. So why would he go to the trouble of arranging a mickey for you?”
“Do me a favor and don’t ask me my own questions.” Wilson sounded stiff. “I just asked you why.”
“Unless,” Da Silva continued thoughtfully, “he did know you, or at least knew who you were. Possibly he had seen you in Washington...”
Only the knowledge that any sudden movement would prove painful prevented Wilson from exploding. “Honest to God, Zé! Are you still on that maniac C.I.A. kick?” Heavy sarcasm entered his voice. “And I suppose we hired him when he came begging for a job on his knees, and his method of expressing his gratitude is to feed us all knockout drops!”
“I wouldn’t know,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. For example, what action are you suggesting that we take? That we pull a bunch of policemen from their duty guarding the motorcade — all as a result of your unfortunate selection of drinks at the Maloca — and rush out there to waste their time searching the place and putting hot needles under the fingernails of that poor waiter?”
“I wasn’t suggesting...”
“And have him look at us with innocent baby-blue eyes and tell us that the pobre Americano simply couldn’t hold his liquor and passed out? And that as an act of compassion — and not to endanger inter-American relations — he put you in your car to sleep it off?”
“And I also suppose,” Wilson said, almost gritting his teeth, “that he decided to put the note in my pocket just to keep me warm. Certainly he wouldn’t want me to catch cold!”
Da Silva bent back and stared at the telephone. If Wilson’s assignment by his superiors in Washington was to confuse either him, or the issues, he was doing it in fine style. “What note?”
“That’s one of the things I called to tell you,” Wilson said. He sounded a bit smug, as if happy to have finally aroused Da Silva’s interest. “When I woke up from that mickey-induced fog, I had this note tucked in my jacket pocket, wrapped around my car keys, where I couldn’t miss it. And it simply said: ‘Sebastian — here’s your watchdog.’” He took a deep breath, almost of triumph. “And just what do you think of that?”
Da Silva reached over, picked a cigarette from the ever present package on the nightstand, and lit it. He drew in deeply and blew a wavering cloud of smoke toward the open window. “If you want an honest answer, I don’t know what to think of it. One answer, of course, is a romantic triangle. If someone thought you were a private detective who had followed him to the Maloca, then the note makes sense. After all, some people take their own dates to the Maloca, and I hear not all of them are married.”
“Except the only people I saw there were a couple who never stopped dancing all the time I was there. And I doubt if they even knew I was there. But just suppose Nacio was there and thought I was trailing him?”
“In that case,” Da Silva said slowly, “why would he address the note to someone named Sebastian? Who’s Sebastian? Certainly nobody in the police department that I know of.” A faint smile crossed his lips; he took a last puff on the cigarette and then crushed it out. “It isn’t a common American name, but I have heard it occasionally. Who do you have in your department, or up in Washington, named—”
“Hold it!” At the other end of the line Wilson started to shake his head hopelessly, and then instantly pressed the ice bag against it more tightly. Arguing with Captain José Da Silva was certainly no way to relieve a pounding headache. “Look, Zé, I know you’re tired, and I know you’ve got this crazy idea fixed in your brain — though I’m damned if I know why — but the fact remains I’m telling you the truth. And I’m sure it ties in with this Nacio Mendes.”
“On what basis?”
Wilson sighed. “God, you’re stubborn! Forget it; I was just trying to be helpful. As soon as the four aspirin I took begin to work, I’ll come down to your office.” The sarcasm returned to his voice. “I don’t suppose you’d mind terribly if we compare the handwriting on this note with any samples you might have in your folder of this Nacio’s handwriting, would you?”
“Not at all,” Da Silva said magnanimously. “Be my guest.”
“My, you’re sweet when you get up in the morning!” Wilson said bitterly, and hung up.
Da Silva frowned at the telephone a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then depressed the button. He released it and began to dial. The operator at central police took his call, transferred it to the proper extension, and began to ring. The telephone was lifted instantly; a bright and wide-awake voice answered.
“Lieutenant Perreira—”