He held up a hand. “I know a lot of people would deny this; but it’s the truth, and I know it, and you know it, sir. Now add to this the fact that the place in the Mato Grosso where this bridge was blown is fairly close to both Bolivia and Paraguay — both of which could also do a lot more to control their private plane traffic — and what do you have?” He frowned unhappily. “It makes it a bit difficult on a policeman trying to locate a particular plane at a particular moment.”
The minister’s lips quirked; he straightened them out at once. “I’ll take that problem under advisement, Captain. But I hope that you’re not saying that because of this difficulty, you don’t have too much hope of success.”
“No, sir. I’m merely saying it won’t be easy.”
The minister’s voice subtly stiffened. “Easy or difficult, Captain, this case must be solved. We must know who destroyed that bridge and why they did it. That bridge was not destroyed by whim; it was blown up for a reason. We must know that reason.” His voice became dry. “We intend to rebuild it, but we can scarcely continue to rebuild it if somebody keeps blowing it up each time we do. It could become an endless project, and we have neither the time nor the money for that. Nor the patience.”
Da Silva sighed. “Yes, sir.”
“And I have faith in you to find the answer, Captain.”
The sigh that this brought forth was even deeper. “Thank you, sir.”
“So what are your plans, Captain?”
Da Silva contemplated the man across from him. The sunken eyes were demanding, allowing no evasion or excuse. For a few seconds the two men stared into each other’s eyes, and then Da Silva smiled faintly.
“Sir, we’ll do the best we can. We’ll keep checking on that plane, contacting airstrips where we have telegraphic or radio installations. If the institute can use the parts of the body I brought back to narrow down the time of his death, that might help. I don’t know how, but it might. At least we’d have a better time element to aim at. Right now, from what I saw at the airstrip and when this VASP pilot reported, it could have been anywhere within a week that the bridge was dynamited. Engineers studying the wreckage might do better, but that’s my guess. And a lot of planes take off and land at a lot of airports in Brazil in a week.” He thought a moment. “And of course, we’ll follow up on that shoe and see what we can get from that.”
He pondered a moment longer while the minister waited patiently. At last he looked up.
“After what you said, sir, we’ll also check on any groups who are openly critical of our immigration policies, Japanese or otherwise. We’ll try to determine if any of their members are registered pilots or have any particular knowledge of explosives. It’s a long shot, but I suppose it has to be done. Personally, I can’t see this as an organized effort — not with the killing of the partner — but never mind.” He thought a moment more and then looked up. “There’s just one thing in regard to this immigration theory — was it generally known? About the settlement of Japanese in this area, I mean? Was it ever officially announced? Mentioned in the newspapers?”
The minister raised one shoulder expressively. “Again, like the construction of the bridge, it was no secret. On the other hand, we seldom make official announcements about something of this sort. It’s too common; I doubt if the newspapers would even take notice of them at this date or even print them. After all, we’ve settled many groups from Indonesia in the interior of many states, and we’ve done the same thing with various groups of Japanese also in many states, including the Amazon. It’s more or less standard work in our department.”
He thought a moment. “However, we do publish a monthly bulletin outlining our progress for anyone interested, and these are distributed to libraries, embassies, and various departments of our own government. I’m not sure, Captain,” he added dryly, “that you don’t have copies yourself.”
“Possibly, sir.” Da Silva grinned. “Lately I’ve had trouble finding time to read my mail.” His grin faded. “In any event, sir, we’ll do the best we can.”
The minister came to his feet, indicating the interview was over, and came around the desk. Da Silva rose. The minister put a friendly hand on his arm.
“I’m sure your best will be enough to solve the case. Quickly, I hope. If there’s anything our department can do to help, let us know.”
“Yes, sir.” Da Silva smiled faintly and moved to the door. “There’s one thing you might do for me, sir. Wish me luck.”
No muscle moved in the minister’s rigid face. “I said before, Captain, that I don’t believe in luck. What I suppose I mean is that I never underestimate luck. It always seems to come to those who work for it.” His voice was dry. “I’m sure you’ll have your share.”
What you mean, Da Silva thought, looking into the piercing, deep-set eyes, is that I’d better arrange to have my share. Or probably end up warming a chair in some outlying precinct.
“Yes, sir,” he said evenly, and made his escape.
5
Santos Dumont Airport, built on a green wedge of land jutting into the blue waters of Guanabara Bay, presents to the air traveler a view unequaled for beauty, with the stark sides of Sugar Loaf rising in the foreground on one side of him, the tiny white buildings of Niterói glistening across the water on the other, and the frequent sight of incoming ocean liners cutting a smooth wake in between. In addition to beauty, Santos Dumont has the distinction of being the most accessible airport in the world, being a mere five-minute stroll from the Avenida Rio Branco in the center of Rio de Janeiro.
To Captain Da Silva, however, these facts were unimpressive. The beauty was available elsewhere, and as for its accessibility, if he had had his way, all airports would have been built ten thousand miles from the nearest city, and access to them strictly forbidden by law. To Captain Da Silva the only advantage the airport presented was that guests to its mezzanine restaurant were permitted to remove their jackets, loosen their neckties, and eat in comfort — save, of course, for the occasional gusts that blew tablecloths and sometimes soup, as a plane warmed up on the runways beneath the open windows.
He came up the curved stairway from the main lobby, frowning thoughtfully at the marble steps beneath his feet as he reviewed his meeting with the minister. If mere motion meant work, then there was a lot of work to do, although in truth he could scarcely see in any of this labor a major possibility of coming up with an answer to that most simple of questions: Who went to the trouble of going way out there in the jungle to blow up a bridge that didn’t go anywhere in the first place? And, to quote the Minister, why? He sighed as he plodded upward. Possibly if he laid the whole story before Wilson, the American might come up with a suggestion. Wilson was an extremely acute person, and if his mind could be enticed from his newfound girlfriend, there was a good possibility that he would prove helpful.
He came to the top of the steps, surveyed the scene a moment, and then raised his bushy eyebrows in mild surprise. Rather than being seated at one of the tables in the large dining room, Wilson was hunched on a stool at the oval bar, frowning morosely into a glassful of brandy. Da Silva walked over and leaned on the bar beside him; Wilson looked up briefly and then returned to stare into his drink once again.