Da Silva reached down, picking the wallet from McNeil’s pocket, coming to his feet, staring down at the beaten man.
“My word!” he said, imitating McNeil’s favorite phrase. “Trying capoeira on a Brazilian! How stupid can you be?”
McNeil fought to sit up and then collapsed again. He lay on the floor, fighting for breath, his topaz eyes filled with hate as he looked up into black eyes as cold as any he had ever seen. He tried to speak and finally managed a harsh whisper.
“I get you for this, mon,” he said painfully, struggling to get the words out. “I get you for this, it’s the last thing I do on this earth, you ugly bostard. My word!”
“I’ll be around whenever you feel like trying it. We’re in a camper about a mile down the beach toward Bathsheba. I’d hate to have you miss us.” He smiled. “You don’t find suckers like you used to, you know.”
McNeil glared at him with hate. Da Silva drew a note from the billfold and placed it on the bar.
“Take out our drinks and the ones he had.”
The bartender picked up the bill and moved toward the cash drawer. Wilson called him back. He had come from the booth and was standing beside Da Silva. He looked at the waiting bartender.
“Take out for the full bottle of rum the man ordered,” he said, and turned to his friend. “It’s the least we can do, don’t you think? After all, the poor man doesn’t look too strong. And it is his money...”
11
The falling-apart camper was hidden in a thick stand of tamarind trees a short distance north of the path leading to Diana’s aunt’s house; the main road and the bit of shoulder where the perimetral bus normally stopped were barely visible in the darkness, but the headlamps of any car approaching and stopping to discharge a passenger would clearly be visible. Da Silva and Wilson were inside the car, waiting; Wilson was patient, but Da Silva was markedly less so. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match out the window.
“I still don’t see your point in insisting that we wait,” he said almost grumblingly. “What do we gain? I’d like to get up there and find out what happened to Diana, and what she can tell us about last night, or about McNeil and his plans.”
“Relax,” Wilson said soothingly. “I didn’t argue when you put on that football match with McNeil, did I? No — I went along like a good little boy, even if it meant seeing you nearly get your head handed to you. And do you know why?”
“Let me guess. Because you had an idea of what I was doing?”
“Exactly. If we can keep Mr. McNeil off balance, he may just make a major mistake. He’s very bright when he doesn’t lose his temper, but you felt — and I tend to agree — that when he sees red he seems the type to jump on his horse and ride off in all directions.”
“Good,” Da Silva said sourly. “So now that we’ve explained why I did what I did, will you please explain why we’re doing what we’re doing? Namely, just sitting here and waiting.”
“We are sitting here and waiting,” Wilson explained in the tone one uses in the first grade, “because McNeil is going to come here. It may take him a short while if he bums a ride, or a long while if he has to walk, but he’ll be here. And we do not wish to be talking to Miss Cogswell when he does. It doesn’t serve any great purpose to have him find us hob-nobbing with his girlfriend — and us perfect strangers — just after you tried to drop-kick him over the bar.”
“I know, but the chances are he won’t even come. If our great hypothesis means anything, he went off before she was snatched. He probably doesn’t even know she’s missing.”
Wilson almost snorted.
“McNeil must have gotten in a few on your head that I didn’t see! He walks into an inn where Diana works nights, sees she isn’t there, but the day bartender is on duty instead, and doesn’t think anything of it? Good Lord!”
“I suppose you’re right,” Da Silva said, and crushed out his cigarette.
“I’m always right,” Wilson said modestly. He looked over at Da Silva’s profile in the darkness. “Incidentally, speaking of rights, how’s yours? Your arm, I mean.”
“Sore,” Da Silva said shortly. He flexed his fingers and frowned. “It’s a lucky thing my muscles were tensed for slapping him, and an even luckier thing he didn’t have much room to chop down, or he’d have definitely broken it, if he didn’t tear it off all together.”
“Well,” Wilson said, “you’re the one who insisted on handling it. If you’d have left it to me—”
“If I’d have left it to you, we’d probably be filling in your next-of-kin forms.” Da Silva glanced over at the smaller man and smiled. “You’re tough and nobody denies it, and using straight judo or karate I think you could probably take him — if you didn’t make any mistakes, of course—”
“I never make mistakes,” Wilson said virtuously.
“—but capoeira is a sport you’re not acquainted with,” Da Silva went on evenly, completely disregarding the interruption, “and if you don’t know it and you’re up against somebody that does, you can really have your head handed to you — or to somebody else, rather. The first one to catch it.”
“So I start taking capoeira lessons the day I get back,” Wilson said. “I have a great fondness for my head.” He glanced at his watch and yawned. “I know our boy is coming, but I wish he’d do it soon so we can finish up our chores and get some rest tonight.”
“Amen.”
“In spades.” Wilson reached into his pocket, brought out his cigarettes and took one, offering the pack to Da Silva. “Incidentally, I’m afraid we’ll have to clean up this case in a hurry.”
“I’ve certainly no objection,” Da Silva said equably, and held a match for them both. He shook it out. “But why the auxiliary intransitive verb of predication?”
Wilson stared at him in amazement. “The what?”
“I said, why the word ‘must’?”
“Oh, showing off, eh? Well, if you want the tragic facts,” Wilson said, puffing away, “this is my last pack of PX cigarettes, and from now on we’ll have to depend on the local product...”
McNeil came out of the Badger Inn, the last customer, and stood a moment, looking up and down the road. Behind him there was the sound of the latch being put up, and a moment later the light behind the curtained window went out, followed in an incredibly short time by the sight of the bartender wheeling down the lane beside the pub on his. bicycle. He turned into the main road and was soon lost in the darkness. McNeil sighed. The road was deserted, the village was deserted; the world, it seemed, was deserted. A few lamps burned in a few huts, but their very existence seemed to increase, rather than decrease, the desolation.
The big man raised a hand to his swollen and discolored jaw, winced at the pain, and walked over to the police car. The pungent odor of rum went with him, preceding him and trailing behind. He leaned on the door of the open sedan, breathing into Jamison’s face.
“Constable Jamison, I presume. I hear you’re under orders to trail me everywhere I go. Well, how about a slight favor, eh, mon?”
Jamison stared at him suspiciously. It was the first time words had passed between them, and the constable wasn’t sure but what it was against regulations. The big man was also drunk as a lord, and looked as if he had taken a bad fall inside the Badger.
“What favor, McNeil?”
“Ah, you know my name, eh? Well, just a ride to my girl’s house up Queensland way. I’ll be getting along there anyway, you know, and you’ll be rolling along right back of me, so what’s the odds? Can’t watch a mon better than when he’s right under your beak, can you? My word!” He saw the unconscious glance Jamison threw toward the inn, and laughed. “Oh, your little mon from the chandler’s shop, the one doesn’t know a bitt from a pail of bait, he can come, too. Plenty of room. And when we get there, he can set up house in the back same as usual, while you keep an eye on the front. Standard drill. I’ve no objection. What say, mon?”