Wilson stared at her unhappily. “But I thought we could use this week for sight-seeing here in Rio. I thought we might get better acquainted, and—”
“But we’re completely acquainted, Mr. Wilson.”
“—and I thought you were coming to that New Year’s Eve party with me.” He turned to Da Silva almost as an afterthought. “By the way, you’re invited, too.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Da Silva murmured politely, and continued to watch the pair across the table. The girl sipped her drink for a moment and then nodded.
“Yes. It’s good, but too much would make me drunk. I’m afraid I don’t have a good head for liquor. But it really is good.” She smiled at Wilson brightly. “Oh, I’ll be back in time for the party. You told me where it was, at What’s-his-name’s place, in the Rua Something-or-other. I’ll meet you there.” She saw the stricken look on Wilson’s face and shook her head. “Oh, no! This time I have it all written down.” She reached to the empty chair beside her, picking up her large shoulder bag and rummaging in it for proof. Another idea interfered, and she allowed it to take over. “Wait! I have a picture of Don here someplace. After all the trouble we’ve both been to you, I wanted you to see it. I’ve got it here somewhere...”
Wilson refused to be sidetracked. His voice tried to sound stubborn without causing the slightest animosity. “I think it would be much better if I met you and took you to the party. That way—”
“You know I don’t like being picked up,” she said a bit severely, and continued to dig into her purse. “Oh, dear — it’s here somewhere. Why do we women carry so much junk in our purses? Oh, well, I don’t suppose it’s really that important. I just thought you might like to see it.” She snapped her purse shut and pushed back her chair, coming to her feet.
“No, you sit still. Please. I really have to be going. Do I have my ticket? Of course, and my bags are already checked in downstairs. No, you stay here with Captain Da Silva and finish your drink. You can have the rest of mine, too. You gave me way too much, you know. It’s been nice meeting you, Captain Da Silva.” She reached across the table to shake his hand; he was surprised to find her grip firm. “Now I really must be going. Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Wilson. I’ll see you both at that New Year’s Eve party. I promise I won’t forget. If I get there before you, will they let me in? Oh, I’m sure they will. I’ll see you there, then. Good-by.”
With a bright smile she turned away, edging her way through the tables of the dining room, her purse held high. Wilson had half-risen in his chair; he sank back, shaking his head slowly. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Da Silva agreed, and smiled. “She certainly is. Meeting her is like trying to count tissue paper in a hurricane. You should be happy she’s going away for a few days. I imagine a concentrated dose of that could prove fatal.”
“The trouble with you, my friend,” Wilson said with an air of superiority, “is that you have no romance in your soul.”
“The trouble with me,” Da Silva corrected him gently, “is that I have no lunch in my stomach.” He winked across the table and raised his hand to attract a waiter.
6
By three o’clock that afternoon, the Major steps in Captain Da Silva’s campaign to determine the who and the why of the bridge’s destruction had begun to take nebulous form. His immediate assistant, Ruy, was hard at work compiling — or rather, trying to compile — a list of organizations and individuals critical of the government’s immigration policies in general, as well as those whose opposition to Japanese immigration was specific. Lieutenant Perreira, much against his wishes — had been taken from a study of illicit pornographic literature, its examples and its dissemination — had been given the task of trying to catalog the numerous flying clubs as well as any unregistered airfields in an area that the captain knew, even as he gave the assignment, was far too large to hope for any accuracy. Still, Da Silva thought, one had to start somewhere, although it seemed sad that one couldn’t start from something as simple as a beginning. The proper way to solve this crime, in his opinion, would be to rebuild the bridge, plant a police agent there, wait until the structure was blown up again, and then nab the criminals in the act. It was doubtful, however, that the minister would accept this as a viable method.
He grinned at the thought, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his swivel chair, stretching his muscles and yawning deeply. One thing was certain; he had either to sharply reduce his cognac consumption at lunch or to rearrange his schedule to include a long nap each afternoon, because as it was, his mind was too fuzzy to permit any great bursts of genius. Maybe now that Wilson was free of Jill Howard for a few days — or at least free of the problem of her brother — he would settle down again and prove useful. In the past the American had been one of the brightest people Da Silva knew, and this case looked as if it could stand all the brilliance it could get.
He leaned forward to crush his cigarette to extinction just as the telephone at his elbow rang sharply. He yawned again, shrugged himself into a semblance of alertness, and picked it up.
“Yes?”
It was his own operator. “Captain Da Silva? Dr. Martins of the Medical-Legal Institute is on the line. Are you free to speak with him?”
Da Silva drew himself a bit more erect, his mind struggling up from his previous reverie. “Yes. Put him on.” He yawned once again, as if to get his sleepiness over and done with for the afternoon, and tried to concentrate. Maybe the institute had found something in the exhibits he had brought back, something that would give him a better basis for his investigation than he now had. And, he thought unhappily, they wouldn’t really have to find much to do that. The telephone clicked in his ear.
“Hello, Zé?”
“João? What have you got for me?”
“Several things” — the doctor’s voice sounded rather curious — “But the first one is a question. What did you do to get my girlfriend so interested in you in such a short time?”
Da Silva shook his head as if to clear it of any cobwebs remaining from lunch and frowned, puzzled. “Your girlfriend?”
“Well,” Dr. Martins said, considering the question fairly, “let’s say I’d like her to be my girlfriend. And until today I thought I had a fighting chance, but you seem to have cut me out. Nobody who says the things she said about you at lunch today can be anything but intrigued. And deeply.”
Da Silva’s forehead furrowed. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Astrea Alves,” João said. His tone implied that the answer was obvious. “The girl who drove you home from the airport yesterday.”
For some reason unknown to himself, Da Silva felt a sudden tingle run along his spine. So the girl had been able to see the light in that unfortunate incident at the Itamaratí! In that case, he forgave her, too. He tried to sound calm, indifferent, but he could not prevent a slightly smug smile from creasing his cheeks. João at least could not note the smile.
“She talked about me?”
“From the martini to the wine — manhattan for me — and from the wine to the brandy.”
Da Silva used his foot as purchase against the desk to swing his chair about almost youthfully; one hand came up to run through his thick curly hair. That, in any event, hadn’t thinned with age.
“Oh? What did she say about me?”