Wilson shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I’ll ever get to really understand you, Zé!”
“I wouldn’t stay up nights worrying about it,” Da Silva said, and carried his drink back to his chair. He sat down and sipped. “I’ll make it up to Rangel with a scoop when — and if — we ever break this case. And anyway,” he added a bit defensively, “I’m not so sure that story might not do some good. It has nothing to do with us or our case, but I’d be very much surprised if those docks are really as free of pilferage as Rangel and Paulo Bombeba think. As Gertrude Stein would have said if she’d thought of it, a dock is a dock is a dock, whether it’s in Port Said, New York, or Santos...”
Chapter 11
The rain descended steadily, vertical unwavering sheets that gave no sign of diminishing. It obscured the deserted Gavea golf course below the cantilevered porch, blocking the usual view of a beach crowded with microscopic bathers, hiding the tubular grandeur of the Hotel Nacional so modern against the sea and the ancient rocks that marked the entrance to the Avenida Niemeyer. At the end of the long veranda the small sugar-water feeders were unattended; the hummingbirds that normally hovered there, tippling endlessly, had disappeared, victims of the pitiless rain.
Gustavo Dorn, leaning on the railing of the protected porch, wondered if he should instruct the maid to move his breakfast setting from the veranda to the dining room, and then decided against it. The veranda was well protected by its chalet-type roof, and Dorn liked the rain. There was a strength in the element that Dorn admired; an unremittance, a ruthless implacability that aroused in Dorn a kindred sense of power. He smiled at the feeling of comradeship with the rain, almost as one would at a trusted and trustworthy ally, and went to sit down at the set table, reaching for the morning journal even as his foot found and pressed the floor bell for the maid.
Gustavo Dorn was a tall man, well-built, with sharp features, thin lips, almost colorless eyes, and with his graying blond hair cut in the latest fashion, longer than usual, nestling almost sensuously against his small ears. He accepted the orange juice the girl brought, sipped and then drank it, and then unfolded the newspaper while he waited for his usual hot rolls and coffee. His eye caught the subhead that covered the two left-hand columns, passed on automatically to the right-hand headings from accustomed habit, and then returned with sharp attention to the article he had bypassed before. With a frown he studied the heading and then moved to the article beneath it, reading with intensity. The maid appeared with his coffee and rolls, placed them at his elbow, and then stood back, wondering why her employer was not eating. Then, with a shrug, she padded back into the kitchen. People who preferred reading to eating were beyond her ken — as, indeed, was reading itself.
Dorn finished the portion of the article on the front page and quickly turned to the inner page where the story was continued and terminated. This portion of the article boasted photographs, taken necessarily from a distance, since the object was unaware of the camera’s scrutiny, and therefore understandably indistinct to begin with; they were made more indistinct in normal newspaper fashion by the quality of the paper. Still, the photographs were unimportant to the idea that had sprung almost full-blown into Dorn’s sharp mind as soon as he had grasped the significance of the article. The name was unfamiliar, and Dorn was proud of his memory for names; still the name was as unimportant as the photographs. He took one final glance at the photographs and went back to the article. He read it to its conclusion, returned to the first page and reread it completely, painstakingly, from start to finish. Then he placed the newspaper to one side of the table momentarily and stared out at the rain, but this time without either seeing or feeling any kinship with the continuing downpour.
Just the man! Made to order. He would fit in with the others like nesting spoons, with, of course, one small difference, the difference being that he had never heard of this one before. What was the man’s name? José Maria Carvalho. Dorn poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it, unaware that it was cool, a condition that normally would have earned the cook a sharp reprimand regardless of whether it had been her fault or not. Dorn put aside the cup, took out a small penknife, and carefully slit the article from both the inner and outer pages, photographs included. He folded the two clippings and slid them into his wallet. Then he came to his feet and walked purposefully into the living room, moving to the telephone on the bookcase. He raised the receiver, dialed a number, and waited. The telephone at the other end was answered almost immediately; the cheeriness in the answering voice was so patently false that Dorn wondered if possibly the girl shouldn’t be fired.
“Dorn, Pireles and Verdeiro. Good morning.”
“Ilsa, this is Senhor Dorn. Is Senhor Pireles in yet?”
“Yes, sir. He came in about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Let me speak to him.”
It did not occur to Dorn to say “please” nor did it occur to the telephone operator to expect it. She merely plugged in a line, depressed a switch, and went back to her novela. Dorn tapped one thin finger restlessly against the receiver as he waited; waiting was not something he did well. Then he stood a bit more erect as the phone was answered.
“Senhor Pireles’ office.”
Too damn many secretaries; too many intermediaries, Dorn thought with irritation, and dropped the matter in typical fashion. He recognized that the newspaper article had brought about his tension, not the matter of excessive secretaries. He took a deep breath.
“This is Senhor Dorn. Put Senhor Pireles on the line.”
“Yes, sir!”
There was a brief pause and then the voice of Dorn’s partner was heard. “Hello, Gustavo. Do you want me in your office?”
“I’m not in my office. I’m still at home. I won’t be in until later, if at all.”
“But the Souza case—”
“You can handle it. You know as much about it as I do.” Dorn’s tone dismissed the Souza case completely. “I can’t get in this morning.”
Sympathy entered Pireles’ voice; he was a hypocondriac, himself. “Are you ill?”
“No—” Dorn suddenly realized that the quickest way to keep Pireles quiet was to satisfy him. “I mean, not really ill, but not too well, either. A cold, you understand. This constant rain, you know.” For a moment he considered a cough to enforce his story, and then dropped the idea at once. He didn’t have to explain to Pireles, for God’s sake! “Is Emil—”
“Well, stay in bed,” Pireles said helpfully. “Take lots of liquids and bundle up well. Sweat, that’s the answer.”
“Yes,” Dorn said briefly. “Is Emil there?”
“I imagine so. Lemonade is good—”
“Tell Emil I have some errands for him. Have him drop out to the house.”
“All right. Hot milk isn’t bad, but sometimes it constipates, which isn’t so good. No beer, of course; sometimes that can be even worse the other way—”
“Pireles! Did you hear what I said about Emil?”
“Of course,” Pireles said, wondering why Dorn always used that tone with him, as if he were an idiot.
“Then tell him I want to see him. This morning,” Dorn said, and hung up. What a fool that Pireles was! Still he was the ideal junior partner, like Verdeiro; they both had excellent reputations, handled the cases given them with skill if not with imagination, and did not ask questions about things that did not concern them. He put the thought of his partners aside and raised the instrument again, dialing once more. This time there was a brief wait before the telephone was answered.
“Alô?”
“Senhora Castro, por favor.”