“How about the Mato Grosso? How complete and how accurate are the geological maps of that area?”
Crandall frowned in thought. “As I recall, they’re not too bad for the most part. Actually, they’re quite good for the cultivated sections of the state and the Savannah section, too. The extreme jungle portions are pretty sketchy, though. Most of the maps of those areas — not just geological, but physical as well, and not just in the Mato Grosso but even more so farther north in the Amazon region — are often made more on assumption than on actual survey. I have the maps by states and territories in my office, if you’d like to drop in and look at them.”
“Do you recall the section around Santa Isabel in the Mato Grosso? How complete are those maps?”
“If I’m not mistaken, that whole Água Branca section is one of the sketchy areas. If it’s even mapped, that is. I can check it out for you tomorrow, if you want.” He noticed the empty glasses in the hands of his guests and began to rise. “Here — let me get you a refill.”
“No, thanks,” Da Silva said, and sighed. “I’ve just about run out of questions. We won’t keep you from your party any longer.”
He came to his feet; Crandall also rose with a smile.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been too helpful, but if I can be, let me know. Wilson knows where my office is.” He gestured toward the bookshelves. “Would you like to take home some reading material? I’ve plenty of books and all the bulletins from the Bureau of Mines. You’re welcome to borrow anything you want.”
Da Silva ran his eye over the thick books; in his mind he could picture them all as having very thin pages and very tiny print. He shook his head slowly.
“If the solution to this case depends on my understanding all those books or even any small part of them, I might as well quit now.” He held out his hand. “Well, thank you again.”
The two men shook hands; Wilson pulled himself up from the chair where he had been quietly listening. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Anytime.” A thought occurred to their host. “Why not stay for the party? It ought to be thinning out pretty soon, and we can start doing some serious drinking.”
“No, thank you,” Da Silva said. “I’m tired.” Even as he said it, he realized how true it was; the thought induced a prodigious yawn. He grinned. “See?”
“Something like that would help on this case,” Wilson said. “Instant proof.” He smiled and led the way from the room.
Wilson brought his car to a halt before Da Silva’s apartment and studied his friend’s face a moment, the motor of the old car pulsing asthmatically beneath his feet.
“Zé, do you mind my asking you a question?”
“Be my guest.” Da Silva smiled, a weary smile, and rubbed his hand across his face. “Tonight seems to be question and answer night, anyway.” His smile faded. “Or, anyway, question night.”
“All right then. Tonight you kept asking a string of questions about where that shoe might have become contaminated. Yet you know all about that shoe — who owned it, where it was bought, where it was found. So why all the questions?”
Da Silva stared through the windshield at the deserted pavement.
“I know where it came from and where it was found, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that it became radioactive in either place. It was in a lot of places between. For all I know, it might have gotten contaminated right here in Rio—”
Wilson nodded, convinced he had been right. “And now may I make a brilliant deduction?”
“We could certainly stand one.”
“All right, then. I deduce that you are hoping it became contaminated here in Rio, simply because you don’t want to make that long and frightening trip back into the jungle.”
Da Silva grinned. “And you are so right!”
“I further deduce,” Wilson went on, “that a second reason is that you don’t want to be away from your newfound girlfriend.”
Da Silva opened the door of the car, climbed down, and closed it behind him. He leaned in, patting Wilson on the shoulder, smiling.
“That’s two in a row for you. Now that the famous Wilson brain is back on the track, maybe we’ll get somewhere.”
12
One of the major problems concerning long holiday weekends, Captain Da Silva had always felt, was that criminals did not seem to take time off from their profession in the same manner as law-enforcement officials, and as a result the delicate balance between crime and punishment often tipped dangerously in the wrong direction at the ends of such periods. It was probably, he thought because their consciences bothered them for not punching clocks during the normal workweek, but whatever the reason, this weekend had been no exception. With a frustrated sigh at sight of the accumulation of papers on his desk, the captain took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and plunged in with Dona Dolores, his elderly secretary, at his side silently taking notes.
An hour passed before the sharp ring of the telephone broke into his concentration; he glanced at his watch and leaned over with a sigh of relief at the interruption, picking up the instrument.
A feminine voice was on the line. “Captain Da Silva?”
“Speaking.”
“One moment for the Itamaratí...”
Da Silva’s feeling of relief evaporated. He had been hoping to clear away some of the routine and then start putting his thoughts into some semblance of order before being tackled by the minister, but it seemed he was not to escape that easily. He cupped the receiver, turning to his secretary with a frown.
“Any word from Ruy?”
Dona Dolores shook her head; Da Silva scowled blackly and returned his attention to the telephone. The familiar deep voice came on the line. “Captain Da Silva.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”
Da Silva took a deep breath. “Well, sir, I don’t have anything definite to report yet.”
The minister refused to be put off with any statement that flimsy. The faintly sardonic tone he assumed seemed to say that experts from many foreign ministries had tried similar tactics and failed.
“Then what do you have that’s indefinite, Captain?”
“I—” Da Silva paused, his jaw tightening. All right, he thought savagely; if that’s the way you want it. “Well, sir, I have a lot that’s indefinite. The reason why the bridge was blown up is indefinite. Who did the job is also indefinite. The connection of Miss Jill Howard with the affair is indefinite. The—”
“Who is Miss Jill Howard?”
“She’s a young lady somebody tried to kill because of her connection with the case. That’s our assumption, but that’s also indefinite. The connection of the Caxias Construction Company and some of their personnel with the affair is indefin—”
“Who?”
“The Caxias Construction Company. They do building foundations. Sir,” Da Silva said candidly, “I have enough indefinite information to write six reports. I’m only waiting until some of it becomes definite before putting anything on paper.”
There was a brief pause, and then the minister chuckled.
“I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, Captain. I’m also glad to see you’re working actively on the case.” The humor disappeared, wiped away instantly. “I’ll expect some of these things to become definite enough for a report by the end of the week. Until then, Captain—”
The telephone clicked in Da Silva’s ear with an ominous sound. Ht put down the receiver and stared at it a moment. One very good idea might be to go back into the jungle and do a bit more thorough search than he had the last time — maybe even interview the natives and see if any of them owned a detonator — and still be there by the end of the week. At least the minister wouldn’t be able to reach him by telephone. And if he didn’t come up with any definite answers, he could just stay up there; it would save the department the trouble of having to transfer him there. He sighed and returned his attention to his secretary.