“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then you can also understand our keen interest in knowing who destroyed the bridge, and what their purpose was. Was it to stop the settlement of these immigrants? Because whether it was or not, it succeeded, at least for the time being. We’ve been forced to cancel their arrival for at least eight months, the time our engineers calculate it will take to repair it. Actually, to rebuild it completely. Or was the bridge destroyed for a completely different reason? And if so, what?” He smiled, but there was no humor in the pained grimace. “It certainly wasn’t a student prank. It took time and trouble. And money.” He sighed; his sharp eyes studied Da Silva’s face. “Well, Captain, I’ve answered your questions. Now you answer mine. Who? And why?”
“Before I begin,” Da Silva said slowly, “I have one last question, sir. How did you happen to hear about the bridge’s being destroyed? So soon, I mean.”
“I suppose you could call it luck, except that I don’t believe in luck,” the minister said. “A VASP pilot, coming across from Juan Caballero in Paraguay thought he saw a helio signal from that part of the jungle; he left his course to investigate and saw the bridge was out. The helio signal must have been his imagination or possibly even a reflection from some part of the reinforcing steel of the bridge, but at least he saw its condition and reported it.” The heavyset man shrugged. “We would have known about it fairly soon, in any event. We were sending an engineering party out this week to begin laying in waterlines from the river to the settlement. Now, of course, they’ll also have to be postponed.” His voice became more official. “Well, Captain? About your investigation?”
Da Silva brought out a cigarette and lit it, using the time to organize his thoughts. He tossed the spent match into an ashtray on the desk and frowned unhappily.
“Well, sir, to be honest, we have very little. We know that in the dynamiting of the bridge there were at least two men involved—”
“Why at least two?”
“Because one of them was killed in the explosion.” Da Silva’s nose wrinkled slightly. “I know, because I found and brought back with me parts of his body.”
The minister’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Parts?”
“Yes, sir. Actually a foot, ripped off just above the ankle, still in its shoe, and also what I think was a part of his arm. They were all I could find. They were caught beneath chunks of concrete where the urubus or the other animals couldn’t get at them. Still, the ants had already begun working on them, so I don’t know how much good they’ll be for identification. They’re being examined at the institute now; we’ll have to wait and see what they come up with. The shoe may be of some use; it was in fairly good shape. With luck we may be able to get the manufacturer, and through him, possibly even where it was sold. We’ll see. It was unusual up there; I mean, up there the standard footwear is either the accordion boot or nothing. This was a type of work shoe.” He smiled faintly. “For whatever good that is.”
The minister nodded slowly. “But somehow you don’t think it could have been one man’s work and that he might possibly have blown himself up with the bridge?”
“No, sir.” Da Silva was positive on this. “The dynamite was detonated from a spot about a hundred meters away, over the brow of the cliff — a safe place. I found bits of insulation where the wires had been scraped for attaching to the terminals. I also found bits of insulation on the bark of trees between this spot and the bridge pier that had been wired. That’s where the wires dragged past. And of course, the detonator itself wasn’t there.” Da Silva shook his head stubbornly, frowning at the end of his cigarette as if searching for the answer in the growing column of ash. His eyes came up. “My guess, sir, is that while there may have been more than one involved in this to begin with, right now we’re looking for one man.”
“Why only one man?”
“Because I don’t think there’s any doubt that he purposely blew the bridge while his partner was still there, having just hooked up the explosive. If I’m right, then he did it to eliminate a witness. And if he eliminated one, it’s logical to assume he’d eliminate any others who might have been along.” He scraped the ash into the ashtray and leaned back again. “That’s conjecture, of course. The second man’s death may have been an accident. There may have been a bad connection in the detonator; there are lots of things that can happen accidentally when you play with explosives. But I doubt it.”
“I see.” The minister frowned. “So, assuming you’re right, what else do you know about this man — the survivor — other than he’s rather bloodthirsty?”
“Well,” Da Silva said slowly, “we know if he left the place by himself, then he can pilot a plane, because that’s the way they got there, and that’s the way he left. I spent five miserable, uncomfortable — I spent five days there, and one day entirely just going over that airstrip foot by foot. I found where a plane had stood. Recently.” He shrugged. “Again, of course, it’s conjecture. A plane completely unconnected with the dynamiting may have used the airstrip for some completely disassociated reason, while the man we’re looking for may have come through the jungle on foot and left the same way. Carrying dynamite, a detonator, plus all the rest of his gear.” He shook his head. “Again I doubt it. By foot you’re at least eighteen kilometers from Santa Isabel, and until you get your highway through, I’d judge it to be two days, at least. And that’s if he didn’t mind being seen in the village. If he did, then God knows where he came from and where he went.”
“Unless, of course,” the minister said slowly, “it was somebody from that part of the country. Possibly somebody who resented the fact that we were interfering with the life he knew and liked—”
“With a plane? And a friend who wore work shoes?”
“We don’t know about the plane.”
“And dynamite? And wire? And a detonator?” Da Silva shook his head. “Believe me, sir, I’d love to believe it, because up there, there can’t be more than a dozen people to interrogate. The way I see it, we have all Brazil to check out.”
The minister sighed. “Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tented, thinking intently. “So, what do you have? A man who can pilot a plane flies there from some unknown place with at least one partner, dynamites the bridge, killing his partner in the process, and then flies off again.” His eyes came down. “Where did he go? And again — possibly to be repetitious — why did he do it?”
“We’re working on the ‘where’ now,” Da Silva said, and slowly shook his head. “Frankly, I’m far from optimistic about coming up with a quick answer. From the marks I found, the plane would be a small one, but still large enough to make it as far as Rio without any trouble. We did, and we were in a much smaller plane. Which means he could have landed at any airport or private flying club — or even any flat field — between here and there.”
He smiled a bit grimly and leaned over, crushing out his cigarette.
“I don’t like to complain, especially not to a minister of the government, sir, but while it’s very nice to build airstrips all over the country as a means of developing the interior and while it’s fine to foster flying clubs left and right, because the airplane is to us what both the railroad and the highway together were to Europe and the United States, the fact remains that our control of private aircraft in this country leaves a hell of a — leaves a lot to be desired. Outside the major cities and the major airports, any owner or pilot of a private plane can take off and land where and when he wants without any flight plan whatsoever. In the interior, in fact, many of the private planes aren’t even registered. Nobody knows where they came from, and fewer people care.”