“Hello, Zé.”
Da Silva glanced across to the dining room and then back to his friend. “Why here at the bar? We’d better get a table before the place fills up.”
“I’m not hungry.” Wilson apparently decided that he had considered his drink long enough and that it was time now to do something about it. He brought it to his lips, drank it quickly, reached for the bottle, and then paused. The amenities of friendship suddenly seemed to occur to him. His eyes came up again. “You want a drink?”
“1942,” Da Silva said, and settled himself more comfortably on the stool next to Wilson. “August, as a matter of fact.”
“1942?”
“The last time I refused one,” Da Silva explained, and snapped his fingers for a waiter, indicating his need for an empty glass. He watched Wilson pour him a drink, took it, and then studied his friend sympathetically. “You want to tell me about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Wilson said bitterly, and then proceeded to negate his own statement. “That fat-headed bartender and that imbecile at the hotel desk didn’t know what man Jill was following or anything else I was talking about. I waited around that lobby for her to return, for about a year—”
“Anyway, maybe half an hour?” Da Silva said gently.
“Closer to forty-five minutes. Anyway, about that time I got the bright idea that maybe going back to Mario’s might be the answer, that she might have tried to get in touch with me there—”
“In case she remembered the name of the place? Or your name, for that matter?”
Wilson pretended not to have heard; he seemed determined not to become any more disturbed than he already was. “Well, in any event there wasn’t any message at Mario’s, so back I went tramping to the hotel—”
Da Silva grinned at him. “If I had known you were going to patrol the beach last night, I could have arranged to have the regular police taken off duty there and given something constructive to do.”
Wilson paid no attention, plodding grimly on. “Then, when I got back to the hotel, it seems she had come in in the meantime and had gone to bed, leaving instructions not to be disturbed. And no phone calls. The desk clerk said she was tired.” He looked up remembering something. “I very nearly gave your police something constructive to do — like arresting me — because I was going to knock her door down to see if she was really there. After knocking down the porteiro first, of course—”
“But you thought better of it?”
“Yes,” Wilson said simply.
“And thank God for that!” Da Silva said fervently. “It would have meant my being wakened in the middle of the night to come down to get you out.” He sipped his drink and set his glass down, eying Wilson evenly. “And then?”
Wilson shrugged. “Then? Then I went home. And early this morning I called again. And she had already gotten up, had breakfast, and gone out. At eight!” His voice became bitter. “Can you imagine?”
“Easily,” Da Silva said. “She has insomnia. Or she didn’t want to miss the morning newspaper. Or they came in to clean the room and she didn’t care to watch. Or—”
“Very funny!”
“Well,” Da Silva said, “I will admit that for two lovebirds, you two do seem to have trouble getting together. If I thought it would relieve you any, I’d tell you that the course of true love seldom runs smoothly. But,” he added hastily, seeing the look in Wilson’s eye, “I promise I won’t.” The sardonic look on his face disappeared as an idea came to him. “I’ll tell you what I will do, though. They say the best way to get a man’s mind off his problems is to present him with other problems. And I have a beauty for you.”
Wilson looked at him suspiciously. Da Silva shook his head.
“I’m serious. Last night you wanted to know what I was doing in the interior most of last week. Well, I’ll tell you. I was investigating a case there, and maybe you can help.” He hesitated a moment, organizing his thoughts. Wilson waited patiently.
“There’s a bridge up there — or there was — that crosses a river called the Água Branca, and that means just what it says. White water — rapids and the works. Anyway, this bridge goes from nowhere to no place; it was built of solid concrete, and it’s a million miles in the jungle. Now, this bridge was built because our government is about to settle some Japanese immigrants in that area, and the bridge would give them access — first by some pretty lousy jungle trails, but eventually by a highway — to Santa Isabel, and from there on by river to the Paraná.” He studied Wilson carefully.
“Now, other than the possibility that someone wanted to prevent this settlement, can you give me one good reason why anyone would go to the trouble of flying up there — which is about the only way he could get there — at very great trouble, bringing along dynamite, planting it around the bridge piers, and blowing it up? Incidentally, killing a man in the process?” He waited a moment and then repeated himself. “Well? Can you think of one good reason?”
“Yes,” Wilson said flatly. “I can think of a very good one. Or at least a very good reason why I might have done it.”
Da Silva’s eyes lit up; he should have known that his American friend, lovesick or not, was still a very sharp brain. He leaned over intently. “And that is?”
“I’d do it just for the pleasure of blowing something up!” Wilson said savagely. “If I’d had a couple of sticks of dynamite last night at the Miracopa, this morning you’d be wrapping pieces of that porteiro in cellophane!”
Da Silva stared at him a minute and then leaned back.
“Thanks a lot. That’s really helpful.” He sighed. “Well, after that outstanding contribution to crime prevention, suppose we get a table while they still have a few available. After all, we don’t all work for the American Embassy. Some of us have work to do — especially in view of the help we get from you—” He broke off, frowning at Wilson. “What’s the matter with you?”
Wilson had raised himself on his stool, his hands supporting him on the bar. He was beaming over Da Silva’s shoulder, his entire attitude changed to one of excited joy.
“Jill!”
Da Silva swung about. A pretty blond girl had come to the top of the steps and was studying the tables of the dining room. Wilson came down from his stool, starting forward.
“Jill! We’re over here!” He turned back to Da Silva. “Zé! What are you waiting for? Get a table before they’re all gone!”
Da Silva contemplated his friend a moment helplessly, shrugged, and climbed down from his perch. He picked up the bottle and motioned the waiter to add their drinks to their table check. Holding the bottle, he came forward, studying the girl as he passed the pair, and then continued into the dining room. One thing he had to give Wilson credit for: he may have gone overboard, but at least he had picked a beautiful girl. True, her eyes were a deep blue in comparison with Astrea’s deep brown, and her blond hair was cut in a rather boyish bob, whereas Astrea wore her thick wavy hair almost shoulder-length. And Jill’s features were more patrician, her nose straighter, her cheeks more symmetrical than Astrea’s, whose nose was almost pug and who had a dimple on only one cheek. And just how did I remember all these things about Miss Alves? Da Silva wondered; I saw the girl only twice; and once I was half-asleep, and the other time I thought the only thing I noticed was her neck, which I wanted to twist. Apparently I must have noticed more...
Still there was no doubt that Miss Jill Howard was definitely an uva, worthy of any Brazilian’s whistle, and while possibly a bit less buxom than Astrea, still plenty worth Wilson’s adoration. How bright she might be was another matter, but something in the firm cut of the jaw and the widespread eyes made him think she might not be as addlepated as her actions that previous night made her appear. On the other hand, she could be twice as addlepated; with women it was difficult to tell. In any event, that was Wilson’s problem, not his.