Wilson could hardly believe his ears. “So you’re not going to do anything?”
“Not quite true,” Da Silva said, and glanced at his watch. “I’m going home.” He looked at Wilson evenly. “You promised me both a dinner — which you said you’d pay for — and a meeting with a lovely girl, and you didn’t come through on either one. I promised myself a good night’s sleep, and — luckily — I’m more a man of my word than you.”
Wilson continued to stare at him in amazement.
“You mean you’re not going to talk to the barman or the porter and find out who this character was that she followed? Or stick around until she gets back and find out what this is all about? That is, if she gets back?”
“I am not,” Da Silva said, and yawned. “Look, you’re a detective, too. You work tonight, and let me get some rest so I can work tomorrow. I happen to be on a special assignment for the Foreign Office, and the minister isn’t going to take kindly to my staying up all night checking out some kookie girl who likes to blow horns and then being too tired to handle his problem.” He saw the slowly hardening expression on Wilson’s face and modified his tone, trying to sound reasonable.
“Look, Wilson, this is Rio de Janeiro. It’s a big city and very well policed. She wasn’t grabbed; she went of her own free will. She isn’t going to be kidnapped into some heathen opium den and sold into white slavery.” Despite his intentions, a smile crossed his lips. “To begin with, no Rio cabdriver would let her go until the bill was paid, and nobody in his right mind — intent upon kidnapping her or not — would ever pay the bill that cabbie is going to charge.”
Wilson looked at him bitterly. “Very funny!”
Da Silva studied his friend’s face a moment and then sighed. Love, he thought, may be a many-splendored thing, but it certainly played havoc with one’s judgment!
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what. Meet me for lunch at Santos Dumont tomorrow, and bring me up-to-date. If you still want help and I can check anything out for you, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you!” Wilson said coldly. “That’s very big of you!”
Da Silva frowned at his friend. “As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, equally coldly. “I had planned on taking a siesta on top of my desk tomorrow, and I’m giving it up.”
4
Captain Da Silva, humming a lilting tune to himself, trotted lightly down the marble steps of the Instituto Médico-Legal, climbed happily into his red Jaguar convertible, switched on the engine, and listened in pure enjoyment to the throaty roar of power that instantly responded. The Army knapsack containing the few bits of evidence he had brought back from his trip had been duly deposited with the director of the institute, and he had been promised that any information gained from it would be telephoned to his office as soon as possible. The next step on the morning’s agenda was to report to the minister at the Palácio Itamaratí — the Foreign Office — give his report and receive whatever further assignment the minister wished, and then get over to Santos Dumont Airport in time for lunch with Wilson. It was a busy schedule, but an interesting one, and that was what counted.
He grinned to himself broadly as he put the small car into gear and wheeled into traffic, narrowly missing a brace of taxis that appeared from nowhere. Poor Wilson! He really seemed smitten with that complete nut of a girl, and anyone who allowed a woman to affect him that way was really to be pitied! Da Silva shook his head in commiseration, and wondered if his American friend had managed any sleep at all the night before or if he had ended up his interviews at the hotel by sleeping on a lumpy couch in the lobby. Ah, well, he thought, I’ll undoubtedly get the full sad story at lunchtime, probably together with a request for a lot of useless help. However, time enough for that when lunchtime came; in the meantime, life was here to enjoy! It was a beautiful morning, he was out of the jungle and back in his beloved Rio, and he had had time that morning for a decent shave and haircut at a barbershop whose proprietor did not hone his blades on string or glass. In addition, he was behind the wheel of his favorite automobile, and on solid ground — not five thousand feet in the air. What man could possibly ask for more?
His exalted mood continued as he came in to the Praça República and cut across the Avenida Getúlio Vargas with an airy disregard for the steady flow of traffic that was impressive. It was not until he had passed the War Ministry and had swung between the ornate gates of the Itamaratí that his blithe spirit deserted him. Only the instant veering of the steering wheel and the swift application of his brakes saved him from a head-on collision with a car which had been emerging. For a moment he sat in stunned silence, the Jaguar pulsing steadily beneath him, slowly realizing the shocking fact that his wonderful car might well have had a fender creased; then he exploded, leaning across the low sill and bellowing.
“Barbeiro!”
Even this, the worst possible insult between Brazilian drivers, did not fully relieve his outraged feelings; with eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, he turned off the ignition, opened the door of the convertible and unfolded himself to the pavement, prepared to teach the idiot driver of the other car a few manners.
The other car had also stopped, slued to a precarious halt with its front bumper but inches from one of the stone gateposts. The door was swung back violently, and a girl descended, her face white with justifiable wrath. She opened her mouth to respond to the deadly insult in kind and then slowly closed it as she recognized the man facing her.
“Captain Da Silva!”
Da Silva took a deep breath, bringing his temper under control, reminding himself that a Carvalho Santos Da Silva never forgot his chivalry no matter how great the provocation.
“Hello, Astrea.” He studied her coldly a moment and then said the politest thing that came to mind. “I might have known it would be a woman driver!”
The girl’s jaw tightened. This was too much! Even for an acknowledged boor, this was really too much! And captain or no captain, he had been completely at fault, and she could see no reason not to let him know it.
“Captain Da Silva! Do you realize that your poor driving almost caused an accident? That because you handle an automobile like a lotacăo driver you almost wrecked my car?”
Da Silva could scarcely believe his ears. “I almost wrecked your car?” He stared at her, amazed at the lengths women would go to avoid responsibility. His tone became curious, asking a question that had often bothered him. “Tell me something, Astrea — when women purchase their driver’s license at the five-and-ten-cent stores, why don’t they splurge and get the expensive kind?”
“Oh?” His tone brought the girl instantly under control. So this was how he wanted to play the game, eh? Well, let him discover how an expert went about it! She managed to bring a touch of condescension into her voice and nodded gravely. “I think I know where you made your mistake, Captain. These driveways were built to accommodate a car entering and a car leaving at the same time. The way it was meant to work was that each car should use half. What you overlooked was that it was never intended that one driver should take his half in the middle.”
“My dear Senhora! Are you attempting to state that I was not on my proper side of the driveway?” Da Silva glared. “That, in fact, I was in any way at all even faintly at fault for this ridiculous affair?”