“I know what you’re thinking,” Wilson said half angrily. “You think the whole thing could be some sort of a con game — the missing brother routine instead of the Spanish count, or something like that. Well, outside of the fact that I’m not exactly a child in these things, you just don’t know Jill. I’ll admit she’s a little kookie, but she’s also the most wonderful—”
Da Silva cast his eyes heavenward and then retired gracefully. “Or maybe she finally heard from her brother.”
“And therefore decided there wasn’t any need to suffer my company at dinner tonight?” Wilson shook his head; there was no humor in his voice. “No. I know you’re taking this whole thing very lightly, but I tell you there’s something going on I don’t like. She didn’t stand me up; at least not in the way you mean.”
Da Silva opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. Wilson obviously was not in the mood for ribbing. They completed their journey in silence, coming at last to the hotel and walking up the curved driveway together, mounting the deserted marble steps side by side, swinging through the double glass doors. The bright and patently false smile on the face of the porteiro faded at the glower that Wilson’s face was directing at him. Whoever the gentleman was, he seemed to be displeased about something, and that displeasure seemed to somehow involve him. Da Silva reached out, laying a restraining hand on Wilson’s arm.
“Let me handle this,” he said in English, and then smoothly switched to Portuguese as he suavely turned to face the porter. He reached into a pocket, bringing out a leather billfold and opening it to present his credentials. The porter leaned over to study them and then straightened up, suddenly realizing he had been wary of the wrong man. Da Silva smiled at him gently.
“I understand you are holding a message from a guest here — a Miss Howard — addressed to a Mr. Wilson.” He moved one hand in a casual sweep. “This gentleman is Mr. Wilson—”
The porter’s brow cleared. So that was the trouble! The man who had been so angry with him on the telephone had gone to the police! Well, police or no police, he knew the law. His voice became righteous. “Yes, Captain. But he can’t receive it from me.”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“Because it’s stamped.” The porter’s tone chided Da Silva for not being more familiar with the law. “It’s the property of the government, and only they—”
“Ah!” Da Silva said, and nodded in agreement. “But, you see, I also represent the government. So if you have any objection to delivering it to the gentleman, give it to me and I’ll deliver it.”
“But you don’t represent the postal department, Captain,” the porter said firmly, almost triumphantly. He pictured himself describing the conversation later to his friends, few of whom had any particular love for the police. It would make quite a story! He stared into the captain’s eyes and suddenly wondered if it would make that good a story; the captain was nodding, but there was something almost too agreeable about his expression.
“True,” Da Silva conceded, and sighed. “You’re probably right; the best thing would be to do it all legally — to take you and the letter down to the delegacia and hold you there until we can locate and fill out the proper forms.”
The porter blanched; on second thought there was no good reason ever to repeat the conversation to his friends. The look in the steady eyes across from him promised that the stay in the delegacia would not be pleasant. But then, as the porter well knew, few stays at police headquarters were. He hastened to correct any misunderstanding.
“I didn’t exactly mean—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Da Silva said sympathetically. “And I’m also sure that at one time or another the red tape of bureaucracy has irritated you. So I know you’ll welcome an opportunity to cut through some of it. Won’t you?”
“Yes, Captain,” the desk clerk said hopelessly, and handed over the letter.
“Thank you,” Da Silva said politely, and took the envelope from the outstretched fingers. He turned back to Wilson, walking him out of earshot and handed the letter over, winking.
“I love these legal types,” he said. “For a slight tip that character would probably arrange you anything from a kilo of marijuana to the chorus line of the Golden Room. But hand over a letter addressed to you? Heavens, no! That wouldn’t be legal!” He eyed Wilson curiously. “Why didn’t you simply offer him a tip? He’d have probably given you every letter in the rack.”
“Because I didn’t like his tone of voice,” Wilson said shortly, and ripped open the letter. He scanned it quickly and then looked up, a startled expression on his face. “Zé! Listen to this! ‘Dear Mr. Wilson—’”
“‘Dear Mr. Wilson’?” Da Silva’s bushy eyebrows rose. “This is a love affair? How does she address simple acquaintances?”
“Damn it, Zé! Will you stop that and listen?” His eyes went back to the letter, reading it aloud:
DEAR MISTER WILSON—
The man who hired Don up in Berkeley walked into the bar with some friends just as I was leaving to meet you, and they’re all in the bar right now. I asked him where Don was and he pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about, and he acted as if I were crazy, and I’m so DAMNED MAD I could SPIT! Now I’m really worried about Don and that makes me even madder! When he comes out of that bar, I’m going to follow him, and he’ll know I’m following him, too! If he thinks he can tell me I’m crazy, then he’s crazy! I KNOW he’s the one. Anyway, I’m almost positive!
I’ve already had the porter arrange me a cab, and it’s waiting outside right now, and I’ve already stamped and addressed the envelope for this letter, so you should get it at the embassy tomorrow—
Wilson looked up, frowning. “Tomorrow?”
Da Silva shrugged; there was a look of mild humor in his eyes. “So it would take two weeks to a month instead of one day for the letter to be delivered. How would she know about our marvelous mail service? Go ahead with the letter.”
Wilson nodded and went back to the scrawled note.
— so you should get it at the embassy tomorrow. I don’t know where to call you except at your office, but if I can find out where he goes, I’ll try to call you at that restaurant — I forgot the name, but I’m sure I’ll think of it — if you and that Captain What’s-his-name are still there. I’m sorry about not meeting you.
I just remembered — there’s another entrance to the bar from the street, so I’d better go out and wait in the cab. I’m going to make my driver keep blowing his horn at his car all the way. That’ll show him who’s crazy!
Wilson lowered the folded paper and stared at Da Silva in almost bitter triumph; it was as if the verification of his fears somehow cleared the air. “All right — are you convinced?”
“That she’s a kook? Certainly. I believed you the first time.”
“Damn it, Zé! I mean, that she’s in trouble!”
“She probably is,” Da Silva agreed. “In fact, she almost certainly is. Anyone who doesn’t speak Portuguese getting into a Brazilian cab and chasing all over town is asking for real trouble. The cabbie will charge her a fortune. And if she tries to get him to keep blowing his horn, you can expect her back here in about five minutes. Escorted by a police car.” He thought a moment. “I doubt if they’d take her to the delegacia. Not on Christmas.”