“My, my! Did I say they didn’t have any women with them? Was I ever wrong! Look at this!”
Under the scattered camouflage of flowers on the raft lay the body of a nude girl, young and shapely. Her short blond hair was swirled to form a partial mask before her face, further hidden by a spray of blossoms, her rich, full breasts cushioned the motionless arms folded across her body. Da Silva dropped down beside her, bending close, listening to the faint rasp of breath that came from beneath the mass of hair. A sharp, recognizable odor came to him.
“She’s alive at least. Knocked out with lança-perfuma — perfumed ether. I hope that’s all that’s wrong with her.” He took a deep breath, staring across at Wilson. “Well, let’s get her out of here.”
Wilson nodded in agreement and scrambled about in the sand to retrieve the fallen knife. He began sawing at the ropes that bound her bare feet to the raft and then whistled again.
“No wonder they had so much trouble moving this thing. They must have about a ton of old iron tied to her feet. And I’ll bet they weren’t putting her in traction for a slipped disk, either!” The last cord parted with a snap. Wilson looked up and then frowned at the odd expression on his friend’s face. “What’s the matter?”
His eyes traveled from his companion’s face to the girl on the raft. Da Silva had removed the flowers and brushed the hair from the face. Wilson drew his breath in sharply, fighting shock.
“Jill!” A look of icy anger locked his face in a rigid mask. “Those miserable, dirty—”
“Later,” Da Silva said tersely. “Let’s get her out of here!”
He slipped out of his white jacket, wrapped it as protectively as he could about the naked body, and lifted it easily. He had taken one step toward the sidewalk when Wilson laid an imperative hand on his arm.
“I’ll take her,” he said, his voice expressionless.
Da Silva nodded and handed the girl over. Wilson held her tenderly; his small frame masked a strength far greater than most people imagined. Beneath the icy calm of his face, a blinding fury at the person responsible for this thing fought with the disturbing pressure of the lush breasts against his chest, the feel of the smooth legs in his arms, and the occasional touch of her lips as they unconsciously brushed against his cheek.
They came to the corner where the small street joined the beach road, and Da Silva strode to the curb, raising his hand commandingly at the cars that passed. If anything, his posture speeded them on their way. Mouths opened, and faces assumed startled expressions at sight of the man with the unconscious form in his arms; but without exception each one jammed down on the accelerator, intent on not getting involved. Da Silva turned to Wilson with a grim look on his face.
“This is too much! I’ll show you how to hitchhike in this town!”
He suddenly stepped from the curb into the roadway, thrusting up an arm authoritatively into the headlights of a cruising car. The driver swerved violently, almost striking the tall, formally dressed figure; his brakes squealed indignantly as he slowed to a halt against the curb. An outraged head emerged from the open window of the car, the eyes wild, the voice snarling.
“Hey, louco! Are you crazy? What’s the matter with you?” The man was almost incoherent in his justified rage. “You want to get killed? Fine! Jump off a building! Don’t involve me!”
Da Silva moved over and bent down, thrusting a face into the one extended from the car that was twice as vicious and four times as tough.
“Police!” He made it sound as if he considered it an answer to the man’s questions to date and any further ones he might think up. He had the rear door open even as he spoke; he slid in, reached out to take the inert form from Wilson, held it while the other entered and slammed the door, and then handed the girl back. He leaned over in the direction of the speechless driver. “Hospital de Clínicas!”
“No.” Wilson’s voice was quiet though strained, but it dominated. “We’ll go to my place. She’s been enough of a sitting duck until now.” He looked at the driver. “Epitácio Pessôa, on the Lagôa. We’ll show you the apartment.”
Anger had been replaced by fear on the face of the motorist. One man outside his car was one thing, but two inside was something else. “Look, mister, I don’t know what this is all about, but I don’t want any trouble. I’m a married man with a fam—”
“Move!”
There was no arguing with either the tone or the expression on the small man’s face; besides, the other one — the big one — looked just as impatient. The brake was released convulsively; the car swung about in the wide street and headed in the proper direction. The driver glanced up apprehensively into the rear-view mirror.
“Was it a bad accident? Is she dead?”
Da Silva’s face was inscrutable. He closed his fist with the thumb upward and jerked it in the direction of his mouth; it was the standard Brazilian gesture for too much to drink. The driver relaxed slightly, and then his eyes widened as he noted in the rearview mirror the complete extent of the girl’s dishabille. Fear returned; his eyes moved in the mirror to Da Silva’s face.
“Look, mister, I don’t want trouble. Like I said, I’m—”
Da Silva fixed a glowering eye on the mirror. The driver swallowed and returned his attention to handling his vehicle. There was obviously only one way to handle this situation, and that was to get it over with as quickly as possible. They swung through the dawdling traffic, swaying erratically, and cut into the Epitácio Pessôa at the Jardim de Allah with squealing tires; the driver straightened the car and tramped on the gas. He passed the Caiçaras Club, swinging to parallel the lagoon, when Da Silva leaned forward, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Slow down. There it is — that building.”
The wheel turned instantly; the brake was applied at the same moment. Da Silva had the door open before they were completely stopped; he dropped down, came around the car to help Wilson descend with his burden, closed the car door, and then leaned down toward the driver.
“Thank you very much for your help, Senhor.”
The response to this gentility was a black look of bitter resentment, a clashing shifting of gears, and the roar of the car’s exhaust as it sped away. Da Silva looked after the vehicle a moment and then shook his head sadly.
“That’s the trouble with the world today,” he commented reproachfully. “No manners.” He shook his head again at the lack of politeness exhibited by the driver, sighed, and followed Wilson into the building.
9
They rode up the small elevator in silence. At the apartment door Wilson tilted his head slightly. “My apartment key. It’s in my jacket pocket.” Da Silva dutifully fished it out and opened the door; Wilson walked ahead of Da Silva, speaking over his shoulder. “You wait here. I’ll get her to bed. You’d better start calling doctors.” His voice was bitter. “God knows where you’ll find one tonight.”
He continued on into the bedroom, deposited the nude form on the bed, and pulled the jacket free from the smooth rounded hips. He leaned over, his jaw rigid and his pulses pounding, and dragged the covers up to the girl’s chin, leaving one arm free. His fingers found the pulse and held it; at the moment it appeared steady. He straightened up, staring down at the adored face. What if he and Da Silva had come along a few minutes later? What if they had stayed to watch the ceremony on the beach? Where would Jill be now? He forced the terrible thought away and walked back into the living room.
Da Silva was standing at the telephone, one hand holding the receiver, a finger of his other hand depressing the button, seemingly lost in thought. Wilson frowned.