Dr. Martins hesitated a moment, attempting to recall the exact words, as well as their proper order. It was as if he realized any inaccuracy here might easily lead to a charge of rival jealousy, and that would be unfortunate with an old friend.
“Well,” he said at last, speaking slowly and distinctly, “she said you were discourteous, uncouth, boorish, impolite, uncivil, unmannerly, and ill-bred. She also said a few more things, but as a gentleman, I refuse to repeat them.” He paused, making sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. “Oh, yes. She also said you don’t know how to drive a car.”
The boyish grin on Da Silva’s face remained frozen for several seconds, locked in a hideous grimace. It slowly faded as the muscles came back under control, changing into a ferocious glare.
“Oh, she did, did she? Well, you can tell Miss Alves for me, that when it comes to driving—”
“Hold it!” The doctor’s peremptory tone forbade all further discussion along those lines. “If you and Astrea want to discuss your relative abilities at handling automobiles, please do it without me in the middle. I’ve done my Cupid stint for the day.”
“Fair enough!” Da Silva said coldly. “And now, if changing the subject doesn’t harm your purpose, what about those bits and pieces I brought back from the interior? Or have you been so busy discussing me with your — girlfriend — that you haven’t found time to get to them?”
“Oh, we got to them, all right,” Martins said airily. “In fact, we’re still killing ants in the laboratory. Why the devil didn’t you at least brush off your gruesome samples before wrapping them up?”
“Because I thought a few ants would add to the flavor,” Da Silva said, regaining his good humor once again. He grinned. “How was the smell when you finally unwrapped them? Pretty ripe?”
“Not bad. My friend, if you don’t get used to pretty ripe smells in this business, you’d better go out and find another line of work.” His tone changed, putting the lightness aside, becoming serious. “Are you ready for a report on those samples?”
“I’m ready. I’ve been ready since you got on the phone.”
“All right. The upper arm was useless, except to give some idea of the force of the explosion. I don’t even know why you brought it back. However, the foot and the shoe were something else. From the skin tone and the analysis of the retained blood, we definitely judge the man to be Brazilian. Also from the size, though that means less. If he followed the standard charts, he’d be about five foot five in height and should have weighed about one hundred and thirty-five pounds. The sole of the foot was heavily calloused; I’d say he was as accustomed to being without shoes as with them. Which, unfortunately, is not uncommon in our country. Again, a further indication of his being Brazilian and obviously not of the upper classes.”
Da Silva had dragged a pad into position and was busily scribbling notes. He paused, wide-awake now. “That would have been a good assumption, anyway. What about the shoe? Anything there that could be used for identification?”
“There’s a very good chance. It’s a fairly new heavy-duty type work shoe, manufactured by the Companhia Sapátolan in Lavrinhos. They specialize in that type. All of the interior markings are still clearly visible, which is a break. The markings inside — are you writing this down?”
“I’m getting it. Go ahead.”
“Right. Inside is the name of the company and — for no reason that I can think of — the town, and then under it is the marking eighteen D — that’s the size, of course — and then just below that is the number two six four four. On the opposite side of the inside of the shoe there’s only one number — thirty-six A seven twenty-six. I tried to get hold of the factory, but you know what trying to reach Lavrinhos is by phone, so I checked instead with the Bata office here in town. They say that Sapátolan is a small company that only makes work shoes, and that while different manufacturers use different methods of marking they’re sure the two six four four is a style number, and the other number is a lot number. If that’s true and if this Sapátolan outfit keeps any sorts of records, you should be able to find out where and when it was shipped. And of course, if it went to a small store someplace, you may be able to find out who bought it.”
“Right.” Da Silva marked down the information and smiled; the pencil dangled, awaiting a return to action. “Of course, if it was shipped to a large department store, it might be a bit more difficult, but at least we’ve got something to get our teeth into. Thanks, João. You’ll send all this through in a regular report, I assume.”
“With all the useless copies. But don’t hang up yet. I’m not through.” A tinge of anticipation crept into the other’s voice. “There’s one other feature about the shoe that I think you may find rather interesting.”
“Oh?” The pencil was raised again. “What’s that?”
“Well,” said the doctor, pleased in advance with the reaction he was sure he would get, “for some odd reason that shoe gets a Geiger counter all excited.”
The pencil froze. A look of incredulity crossed Da Silva’s features.
“What!”
“You heard me,” João said, satisfied with the results of his surprise. “It makes the little gadget go beep-beep-beep like a hysterical Volkswagen. I thought you’d be pleased to know.”
Da Silva stared blankly at the bare wall across from him for several moments and then gave a deep sigh. “‘Pleased’ is scarcely the word. ‘Confused’ would be a lot closer. Radioactive shoes? How the devil did they get radioactive? Or where?” He frowned at the instrument. “Are there any more little tidbits of information you’ve been saving for dessert?”
“No,” João said, almost regretfully. “I’m afraid that’s it.”
“Well! And again, well... At least it gives us something to think about, doesn’t it?” He nodded profoundly and answered his own question. “Yes. It certainly does.” He printed the word ‘radioactive’ in large block letters on his pad, underlined it for emphasis, and tossed the pencil aside. “Well, thanks very much, João. If I ever manage to find out what this affair is all about, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You ought to put that promise on tape,” Dr. Martins said with mock disgust. “I get it every time I help you out. I suppose I’ll read about it in the papers like everyone else. Ciao, Zé.”
He hung up. Da Silva placed the receiver slowly back on its hook, leaned back in his chair, and automatically fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette.
Radioactive shoes... What was that supposed to mean? Where was one supposed to start with an oddball clue like that? He brought out a pad of matches, stared at it a moment as if wondering what they were for, and then took the unlit cigarette from his mouth, laying it aside and tossing the matches to the desk. Radioactive shoes... A good title for an avant-gardé ballet, possibly, set to discordant music, but other than this?
With whom could he check to get any ideas at all about the potential significance of radioactive shoes? One place, of course, would be the C.N.E.N. — the Comissão Nacional de Energia Nuclear. They were supposed to comprise all the big brains in that field. And somewhere, if he wasn’t mistaken, he had a bulletin, or several, from that organization. He got to his feet and walked over to the file cabinet in one corner, opening it, running through the folders. To his great surprise it was filed under the letter C and even as he pulled it out, he made a mental note to congratulate Dona Dolores, his elderly and motherly secretary.
He spread the contents on his desk and sat down again, picking up one of the reports. The subject was one he didn’t faintly understand, but his main interest was not in that; he flipped to the last page, running his finger down the list of signatures, and then sat back, his finger on one name, a faint frown on his face. Dr. Jaime Nicoli... Could that possibly be the Dr. Nicoli whose family had the fazenda next to his uncle’s place in Duque de Caxias? As he recalled, his name had been Jaime... Da Silva’s nose wrinkled; as he also recalled, Jaime had given him his first plane ride and scared him to death doing acrobatics. And thought it very comical. He’d been studying some sort of science at the time at the university; had a clown like that actually graduated and gone on to become a member of the C.N.E.N.? Well, it would be easy enough to find out. And if it were the same man, at least he wouldn’t be speaking with a complete stranger.