“Fosters it? You’re crazy!”
“Am I? Maybe. On the other hand, to take one small example, when you people went into the Dominican Republic, you did so on the basis of a claim from your diplomats there that there were some eighteen — or maybe the figure was twenty-eight, or possibly even thirty-eight — active Communists there that constituted a threat to democratic government there—”
Wilson frowned at him. “And you don’t believe there were?”
“I’m sure there were,” Da Silva said gently. “In fact, knowing the accuracy of diplomatic reports, I’m sure there were more. My point is, however, after you were there awhile, the figure probably jumped to a hundred times that number. That, my friend, is what the word ‘fosters’ means.” He held up a hand to prevent Wilson from breaking in. “Now, if I were Senhor Dorcas, interested in protecting my investments, I’m afraid I’d at least take a good, long look at any method that resulted in an increase in revolutionary feeling on that scale.”
Wilson stared at him. “And so, in your opinion, we should simply do nothing?”
Da Silva suddenly grinned. “In my opinion I shouldn’t be giving you my opinion. It serves no purpose for me, and I’m sure it won’t change your ideas in the slightest.” His grin faded. “I suppose you do what you feel you have to do. Which, after all, is exactly what Juan Dorcas does. And what I do as far as preventing trouble for my country.” He leaned back, his black eyes studying his friend, his strong fingers twisting the stem of his brandy glass. “Well, enough of politics. We’ve been fortunate to avoid the subject in the past; let’s leave it that way.”
Wilson looked into the dark eyes across from him for several moments and then nodded. “Fair enough. As long as you don’t get carried away by any wild worries about the C.I.A.”
Da Silva grinned. “How about the O.G.P.U.? Have I your permission to worry about them?”
Wilson started to frown and then broke down and laughed. “You’re impossible! All right, worry about whomever you want to worry about.”
“That’s better,” Da Silva said. He reached for the cigarettes and drew one out, lighting it. “Now, what was this queer thing that happened to you this morning? This queer, but minor, thing?”
“Fancy your still remembering!” Wilson said with exaggerated admiration. “After your romantic flights of fancy, though, I’m afraid you’ll find it a pretty dull story.”
“I like dull stories,” Da Silva said. “What happened?”
“Well,” Wilson said, leaning back in his chair, “if you must know, it was something that happened at the hospital just before I came here this noon. You know I’m one of the trustees of the Stranger’s Hospital — which is one of the penalties for being a foreign resident in this town who can’t think up evading excuses fast enough — and this morning we had one of our endless meetings, and...” He paused, as if to put his words into proper order.
“And found out you were broke?”
Wilson grinned. “That, too, but there’s certainly nothing unusual about that. Or minor, either; but I’ll discuss that aspect with you on our next fund drive.”
“I’m sure. So what happened?”
“Well,” Wilson continued with a slight frown, “after the meeting was over and we were getting ready to break up for lunch, someone came in to tell us we had lost a patient...”
Da Silva’s smile disappeared; sympathy appeared in his eyes. “Lost a patient? Who was he? How did he die?”
Wilson shook his head. “Not that. No. It seems we actually lost a patient.” He spread his hands. “Lost, like the opposite of found.”
“How do you lose a patient?” Da Silva stared at him curiously. “I can’t even see how you could misplace one, with the fabled efficiency of the Americans and English who run Stranger’s Hospital.”
“The operative word there is ‘fabled,’” Wilson explained. “What happened in this particular case was that one of the ambulances was called out on an emergency — a serious appendix case as I understand it — and they picked the man up, all right, and stashed him neatly in the rear, all right; only when they got back to the hospital and went to drag him out — what do you know?” He shrugged humorously. “No patient.”
“No patient?”
“That’s right. I suppose the man became frightened at the thought of having somebody cut into him, and—”
Da Silva frowned across the table. “A man with a bad appendix attack calls an ambulance and then changes his mind halfway to the hospital? A bit unusual, isn’t it?”
“I said it was queer,” Wilson said patiently. “Anyway, that’s the story. He must have gotten out of the ambulance when it stopped for a traffic light, or something.”
Da Silva stared at him and shook his head. “In this downpour? Not to mention the fact that the thought of an ambulance anywhere in the world — but especially in Rio de Janeiro — stopping for a traffic light is ridiculous. Or for anything else, for that matter. The only reason they stop for stone walls is that they haven’t figured out yet how to go through them.” He nodded confidently. “But they will. I’m sure it’s only a question of time.”
“Well,” Wilson said reasonably, “I’m sure he didn’t step out when it was screaming around corners at ninety miles an hour.” He raised his shoulders and smiled. “Or maybe the attendants stopped somewhere for a cafezinho. It wouldn’t surprise me. After all, it was only supposed to be an emergency.”
Da Silva looked at him. “But doesn’t one of the attendants usually ride in back with the patient?”
“Not in weather like this,” Wilson said. “It takes two up front. One to drive and the other to try to keep the windshield wipers going.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. If you want to loan us a good mechanic from the police garage, we’ll accept.”
Da Silva shook his head. “Do the police know about this? I don’t mean your windshield wipers...”
Wilson nodded. “They know. The police sergeant stationed in the emergency ward was there when the ambulance came back. But I don’t imagine they’ll waste too much time looking for a man who doesn’t want to come to the hospital. We’re busy enough with those that do.” He shrugged lightly. “In any event, we’ll be able to recognize the poor devil when and if we ever do find him.”
“How?”
Wilson grinned. “In this weather? He’ll be the bad appendix case also suffering from double pneumonia.”
“Or flat feet, if he jumped,” Da Silva said dryly, and glanced at his wristwatch. “Good Lord! Look at the hour!” He crushed out his cigarette and began getting to his feet. “Let’s get the check and get out of here. I’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of me.”
“The check?” Wilson stared at him. “We haven’t eaten yet!”
“We haven’t—?” Da Silva slowly settled back into his chair and then turned to wave at a waiter. “We haven’t, have we?” He shook his head, but only half-humorously. “I really will be glad when these O.A.S. meetings are over. If I can’t remember whether or not I’ve eaten, I’m getting in sad shape.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Wilson said soothingly, and pushed the bottle of brandy across the table. “Take a drink and relax. It’s easily explained. It’s simply because you’re sitting here with your jacket on. You always put it back on when you’re finished eating and ready to leave, so naturally, finding yourself properly clothed, you automatically assumed—”
“The art of deductive reasoning, eh?” Da Silva said, and grinned.
Wilson shrugged modestly.
“Now, if I were you,” Da Silva said, pouring his glass half full, “I’d save my deductive genius for figuring out why a sick man with a bad appendix would call an ambulance and then jump out of it on the way to a hospital...” His tone was light, but there was a serious look in his dark eyes.