“Where were we?”
She folded back her notebook, found her place, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again as the telephone rang once more. “Damn!” Da Silva said bitterly, and picked it up, barking into it. “Hello.”
“Captain Da Silva?” It was a man’s voice, soft, apologetic.
“Yes. Speaking.”
“This is Dr. Nicoli, of the C.N.E.N. I understand you called me the other day.” The apology in the voice deepened. “I’m sorry I was out of town. The long weekend, you know, and the heat in the city... Is there anything I can do for you?”
Da Silva raised his eyes to the ceiling imploringly. How many idiotic interruptions was he supposed to suffer? Why was it that Rio de Janeiro, plagued with so many problems, couldn’t be plagued with a strike of telephone personnel? At least until he could get his desk clear and get to work?
The soft voice seemed perturbed by the silence. “Senhor — I mean, Captain?”
“Sorry,” Da Silva said brusquely. “I was thinking of something else. No, Doctor, there isn’t anything I need right now. I wanted some information the other day, but fortunately I was able to get it without disturbing you.”
“I hope you weren’t put to any trouble because of my absence,” Dr. Nicoli said, sounding sincere. “Actually, my secretary could have gotten in touch with me if you’d told her it was that important. Just what was it in connection with, Captain?”
Da Silva looked at his secretary and raised his shoulders hopelessly. “It wasn’t anything important Doctor.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “You understand, Captain, that we both — more or less — work for the government. Naturally, therefore, anything I can do to help—”
“I quite understand, Doctor. I’ll remember. Good—”
“I have to take a trip in a few days, and I’ll be away for the rest of the week; but after that I’ll be at your disposal, Captain.”
“Yes, sir. Well, good—”
But Dr. Nicoli was not finished. “Da Silva,” he said slowly. “José Da Silva... Is it possible, Captain, that we knew each other some years ago?”
“I’m afraid not, Doctor,” Da Silva said abruptly. “I’m a stranger to Rio, myself. Good-bye.”
He dropped the receiver in place, shaking his head. Even after all these years since he’d last seen Nicoli, the man still had the ability to irritate him simply by saying hello. A plague on him! he thought, and turned back to his secretary. “All right, let’s get back to work. For the tenth time, where were we?”
The interruption this time came not from the telephone but from the door being swung wide, bumping against a file cabinet. Da Silva looked up, irritated; Ruy stood there, a folder clutched in his hand. Da Silva’s black eyebrows bunched in a scowl.
“Where the devil have you been?”
“In Duque de Caxias, Captain. You said—”
“I know what I said! What took you so long?”
“You said two days, Captain. I—”
“So don’t pay any attention to what I say!” The sheer ridiculousness of his own statement came through to him; he suddenly relaxed, grinning. “Especially when I say something as stupid as that. What have you got?”
“What you asked me for, Captain. The list of the officers of the company, together with a list of the jobs the company contracted for over the past two years. Plus the men who worked on each job and the names and addresses of the office staff. They also changed quite a bit over the past two years, but I think I have them all. I had to dig out the old payroll records, and they keep them scattered all over the office in a dozen different files.”
He handed over the folder and stood back, proud of the job he had done. Da Silva cleared a space on his desk for it, opened it, and studied the first of the many pages. He flipped it over, going on to the second.
“It certainly looks complete enough. Half of the state of Rio must have worked for them at one time or another. I’d say you did a good job, Ruy. We’ll have to check out the lot—” His finger froze on one line.
“What!”
Ruy bent over, fearful that he might have made a mistake. “What is it, Captain?”
Da Silva was staring at the list, his face expressionless, his eyes narrowed. For several minutes the tableau held, with both Ruy and Dona Dolores watching him. At last the tall detective seemed to make up his mind. He closed the folder slowly and came to his feet, reaching for his jacket.
“I’m going out.” He shrugged himself into the garment, tugged his tie straight, and strode purposely to the door. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
His secretary stared at him. “But what about this work?”
“Ruy can handle most of it.” His hand clasped the knob; he looked at his assistant. “Anything you want to throw in the wastebasket is all right with me.”
Dona Dolores was still not satisfied, but then she seldom was. “But where will you be?”
Da Silva considered her evenly. His voice lowered almost conspiratorially.
“I’m going to a place where a man is going to ask me an important question. And I’m going to give him an honest answer.”
His secretary abandoned this line as being fruitless. “But what if there are any calls?”
He smiled grimly. “Just tear the phone out by the roots.” He closed the door firmly behind him and a moment later opened it again to thrust in his head. “Unless, of course, the calls happen to be from me.”
The place where Da Silva went to be asked his question was known as the Villarino, and as he had so accurately predicted, the man there approached him and asked him that question.
“Hello, Captain, what’ll it be?”
“Double brandy,” Da Silva replied honestly.
He lit a cigarette and laid the pack on the table, leaning back in his chair, studying the empty bar through a haze of smoke. One thing was evident: in view of the information in Ruy’s list, there was a considerable amount of thinking to be done, and trying to do it in his office with the constant interruption of the telephone was impossible. And the Villarino, while one of the busiest bars in Rio from noontime on, was beautifully deserted and marvelously quiet at ten-thirty in the morning.
His brandy was served; he sipped it and set it down, beginning to concentrate on the full significance of the information Ruy had brought back from Duque de Caxias. It was really amazing what a difference a tiny pinhole made in a seemingly solid web; given one little thread to tug on, the thing unraveled almost by itself! Bit by bit the pieces of the puzzle dropped snugly into place; the formerly unanswered questions almost answered themselves.
Time passed as the captain remained a graven figure at a small table in the deserted bar, his only motions those necessary to lift his glass from time to time or to withdraw a cigarette from the pack on the table. The picture of the case was fairly clear, but a very big question remained: How to prove it? How to handle it best? This required further thought, plus, naturally, further brandy.
He snapped his fingers, pointed to the empty glass for the waiter’s benefit, and then came to his feet. Some steps could be taken at least, and he might as well get them started. “Some tokens,” he said, took them from the waiter, and walked to the telephone booth in the corner. He dropped one in, dialed, and eventually heard his secretary answer.