“Yes, sir.”
The minister held up his hand. “And just one last question, Captain, and I want an honest answer, regardless of what you put in your report. Are you sure your shooting of that man was accidental?”
“Positive, sir,” Da Silva said, and smiled faintly. It was actually more a grimace than a smile. “We had a three-hour ride back to Rio, and his body was practically in my lap the entire way.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make for easy conversation. And believe me, sir, it doesn’t add to the pleasures of air travel.”
15
Captain José Da Silva trotted rapidly up the curved steps leading to the mezzanine restaurant of the Santos Dumont Airport, turned in the direction of the dining room, and then grinned widely, raising a hand in enthusiastic greeting in the direction of one corner. Across the room, seated in the alcove, were five people, and the first thing he noted was that Astrea was among them. The fact that Dr. Martins was seated beside her did nothing to dampen his spirits; if anything, he felt a twinge of pity for the doctor. It must be tough, he thought sympathetically, to lose a girl like Astrea...
He was, of course, not at all surprised to see either Wilson or the Howards there; he had invited them. He squeezed between the crowded, buzzing tables of the dining room to the side of his friends, pulled up a chair, and dropped into it, noting the collection of bottles on the table. He recognized both the label and the water-white clarity of one and turned to Wilson, his eyebrows raising.
“Pinga? Is that the best you can offer our friends?”
“It’s not for them; it’s for me,” Wilson said morosely.
Da Silva studied the other’s face in puzzled fashion; in his own pleasure at seeing and being with Astrea, he had not previously noticed the look of abject misery on his friend’s normally placid countenance. He frowned.
“What’s the trouble?”
Wilson pointed wordlessly to the pair of sparkling rings on Jill Howard’s finger. The girl locked her other hand a bit more tightly about the arm of Dr. Howard and smiled at him in a slightly embarrassed manner.
“I suppose I owe you all an apology, especially poor Mr. Wilson, but I thought—” She tossed her head. “Well, if you want the truth, I thought if he thought I was just another jealous housewife named Mrs. Howard, probably down here in Brazil looking for a philandering husband, instead of being, well, a single girl—”
“Then maybe I wouldn’t have been so ready to risk life and limb for you?” Wilson asked bitterly.
“Something like that,” the girl admitted, and turned quickly to her husband. “But I really acted quite properly, darling. I really did. I never let anyone pick me up for a date, or—” She suddenly blushed, remembering. “I know I was — well, undressed — when they rescued me; but I was unconscious, so that doesn’t count, does it? I mean, I didn’t know I was — was without clothes, so it wasn’t my fault, was it? And outside of that, I was very good.” She turned to Astrea for confirmation. “Wasn’t I?”
Don Howard grinned at Wilson sympathetically. “Don’t feel so sad, Mr. Wilson. I’ll admit she’s beautiful, but believe me, being married to her isn’t all that relaxing.”
Astrea smiled at the girl. “You were very good. Better than I would have been under the circumstances, believe me!” She turned to look across the table at Da Silva and Wilson. “And you two — some detectives! Jill has a mark on her finger from rings that had been removed. I saw it the first time I laid eyes on her.” Her smile concentrated on Da Silva. “And you had her purse for one whole day and didn’t see that all her papers were marked Mrs. Howard!”
“I’m a gentleman, remember?” Da Silva said with mock pride, and grinned back. “I took only what I needed from the lady’s purse. I closed my eyes to the rest.” He studied the bottles on the table once again. “No brandy? I’ll get a waiter. What are the rest of you having?”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Dr. Howard said with sincere regret. “Our plane leaves in a very few hours, and Jill still has her packing to do. And I’m a week late at work already.” He came to his feet and helped his wife from her chair. His eyes studied the faces about the table. “Don’t get up. Please.” He hesitated a moment and then took a deep breath. “Well, you all know how much both Jill and I owe each and every one of you, and you also know that I know it. So I won’t make a television spectacular out of saying good-bye. I’ll just say we hope to see you all again some day, and in the meantime, au revoir.” He raised his hand in a salute of farewell and smiled. “And use my one word of Portuguese. Ciao.”
Wilson stared after the departing figures blackly. “His one word of Portuguese,” he muttered bitterly, “and that’s Italian!”
“Don’t be a poor loser,” Da Silva said severely. “It isn’t becoming.” He turned to Astrea and João Martins. “Children? I repeat my question. What are you drinking?”
Astrea shook her head slowly, watching him carefully. “I’m afraid we have to be going, too. João and I have a date for lunch, a reservation at Mesbla, and I’m afraid it’s only for two.”
Da Silva’s smile remained a moment, foolishly, and then disappeared. “A date? But I thought you and I—”
Astrea interrupted quietly. “I had a lot of time to think in the four days since you said you’d get in touch with me — and didn’t.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a thread of steel beneath. “I decided I didn’t like being taken for granted. At least not to that extent. Or at least, not by you.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, and came to her feet. João Martins rose with her, taking her arm.
Da Silva set his jaw and came to his feet stiffly, his face a mask. “If that’s the way you feel—”
“That’s the way I feel,” she said calmly, and turned. “Come, João.”
Dr. Martins decided to enter the discussion. “You know, Zé,” he said slowly, “I think I liked it better when she used to call you names.”
Da Silva watched the two depart and then sat down again heavily. Wilson leaned over.
“Don’t be a poor loser,” he advised softly. “It doesn’t help a damn.” He studied his companion’s face. “And now, how about some brandy? A Maciera Five-Star? Or do you want to follow my example and drown your sorrows in pinga?”
Da Silva awoke from his reverie. He raised a hand for a waiter.
“Brandy,” he said, and smiled faintly. “There’s no point in carrying martyrdom too far...”
At that moment Carlos Renaldo Ribeiro stood and watched with self-congratulation as the man behind the scarred wooden counter laboriously tapped out the letters of the mysterious messages one by one. A faint sneer twisted the small man’s lips as he thought of those doubting Thomases he was sure had been dubious of his fulfillment of the commitment. But even greater than either his pride in himself or his disdain for those others, at the moment, was his astonishment at the huge number of cruzeiros he had received in change — for, quite naturally, he had been called upon to pay for the cables in advance.
A frown creased his forehead as a sudden disturbing thought struck him. He stared at the pile of notes still lying on the counter; they presented a problem he had not considered before. A few cruzieros — enough for some cigarettes or a small pinga — would have been lovely, but this huge quantity complicated things. To return home with a sum this size was to invite certain discovery by his wife. He knew quite well he could hide neither the money nor the fact that he had it from those piercing, mind-probing eyes. Not to return to the village at all? With this amount of money it was possible, but then there was Anton’s canoe to consider. A man of honor could scarcely overlook that. And — even more important — if he didn’t return to Santa Isabel, who would ever know he had successfully completed his mission?