“Momentinho.”
There was another wait. Dorn stared out over the porch at the rain; at least he wouldn’t be going out this morning, but fortunately his business could be handled by telephone. Emil would have to dig up his friend again, but a call should arrange that. Then there was a feminine voice on the line, not that of the maid.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Isabela. Do you know who this is?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “What do you want?”
“A favor, is all—”
“No! Wait...” There was a short hiatus and then the girl was back on the line. “I’ve sent the maid to the corner. Now, what do you want?”
“I told you — a small favor.”
“And I said ‘no’! I did what you called a favor for you once, and I haven’t slept well since! So good-bye. And don’t call me any more.”
“I wouldn’t hang up if I were you,” Dorn said quickly. He smiled as the sound of her quiet breathing continued to come through the receiver. “Good. I’m glad to see you’re being sensible.”
“Look,” the girl said intently, “I have no intention of getting involved again, ever, not to the slightest degree.”
Dorn sighed, a sigh loud enough to communicate itself through the line. “But you will, of course. You see, it isn’t a matter of getting involved again; it’s a matter of being involved at all. And you are. There is no death penalty in Brazil, as you know, but you would go to prison for as long as anyone else. And just think of those pretty dimples becoming deep wrinkles, and think of no pretty gowns, and think of—”
“I don’t have to think of anything,” the girl said decisively. “I have my letters back and that’s an end to it.”
Dorn shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid you’re laboring under a misapprehension. You have the originals of your letters back, but not, I’m happy to say, your Xerox copies.”
“Copies!”
“You sound surprised. Of course, copies. You’ve heard of Xerox, haven’t you? Ah, the advance of communications!” The amusement disappeared, replaced by a hardness Isabela had met before. “So let’s stop playing games.”
There was a brief pause; then the girl said bitterly, hopelessly, “Who are you, anyway? What kind of a monster are you, anyway?”
“Monster, me? You’re quite wrong. As to who I am, I’m the man who has some letters you were foolish enough to write. Don’t call me names; you wrote them, not me.”
“I could go to the police—”
“My dear Isabela Andrea Castro,” Dorn said, and the truth was in his voice, “to begin with, you don’t know me and you never will. And if I thought for a moment you could have been, or still could be, the slightest threat to me, do you honestly believe you would still be alive and well?” He shook his head, almost as if the girl could see him, and then smiled deprecatingly, charmingly. “But why talk of such unpleasant things? It’s a simple enough favor I want, and there’s no danger. My lord! From his picture in the paper, the man even looks halfway decent. You might even enjoy his company before you bring him up to Paraíso.”
There was a long pause and then Isabela spoke. Her voice was dead. “What’s his name? And where does he live?”
“Ah, that’s better. You see, the argument was all for nothing. His name is Carvalho — José Maria Carvalho. He has an apartment in São Paulo. I’ll get his address for you some time this morning.”
“But who is he?”
“A thief,” Dorn said, and his voice had lost all expression. “A man who steals from the docks.” He shrugged. “Does it make any difference to you? I’ll be in touch with you once I’ve gotten his address. I’ll also arrange the — ah, the affair — so that this time you won’t have to be a witness. All right?” He sounded as if he thought he should be thanked for this humaneness. “Then all you have to do is get him up to Paraíso.”
One final question came to Isabela, one that had always bothered her. “Why does it necessarily have to be Paraíso?”
Dorn smiled at the instrument humorlessly. “Why not?” he said quietly, and hung up.
“Insurance companies,” Rangel said into the telephone.
“An insurance company?” Da Silva stared at the telephone, mystified. “Which one?”
“National Protection and Casualty was the first; but since then—”
“Did you give them the apartment address?”
“Of course,” Rangel said, mystified. “You said to give it to anyone who asked.”
“But why would an insurance company want Carvalho’s address in São Paulo?” Da Silva asked, puzzled, and then answered his own question, mentally kicking himself. “Of course! To try and make a deal for some of the stuff they’ve insured that’s been lost. It’s common enough; I should have considered the possibility.”
“If Carvalho is stupid enough to deal with them and practically admit his guilt,” Rangel said.
“These things are usually worked out through an intermediary, so nobody sticks his head out far enough to get it chopped off,” Da Silva said, his mind on other things. He suddenly remembered something else Rangel had said. “You did say ‘companies’? In the plural?”
“I did. There have been four so far, and it’s only ten o’clock. And I’m sure there’ll be many more. The Correio de Manha is a very influential newspaper,” Rangel said, unable to keep from sounding smug. “And you might be interested, if you care to examine a phone book, to find around two hundred different agencies and companies all of whom are willing to insure anything connected with anything, including things connected with ships. They’ll insure the ships themselves, dishes, laundry, perishable goods, imperishable goods, equipment, personnel, delivery dates—”
Da Silva interrupted, taking what little comfort from the situation he could.
“Well,” he said, “I know for a fact that José Maria Carvalho never stole a ship, or a personnel. Or even a delivery date, as far as that goes.” He shrugged.
“Which only leaves about one hundred and forty companies and agencies,” Rangel said cheerfully. He seemed to be taking pleasure in the proof that his article had been widely read. “Do you want us to stop giving out the address?”
Da Silva thought a moment and then shook his head. “No. You’ve given it out to so many you might as well give it out to the rest. It would look damn odd if you didn’t. We can have an insurance broker’s convention at your apartment in São Paulo. I just hope they bring their own liquor.”
“I’m sorry, Zé—”
“It’s not your fault; it’s mine. I ought to see if the target is booby-trapped before I shoot from the hip. Don’t bother calling to tell me if any more insurance companies have called; it’ll only make me feel worse. But if any individual calls come in, claiming to be an old pal, or Carvalho’s long-lost grandmother, let me know. We’re catching the two-forty Ponte Aerea. After that you can reach me at the apartment.”
“Right,” Rangel said, and hung up.
Da Silva put the receiver back in its cradle, stared at it disgustedly a few moments, and then looked at Wilson.
“It appears our little hideaway in São Paulo is liable to inundation by various and sundry insurance companies.”
“I heard,” Wilson said sympathetically, and added reminiscently, “I used to know a company that insured sundries...”
“I should have thought of insurance companies,” Da Silva said, paying no attention to Wilson, and still irked with himself. “What do we tell them when they descend in hordes? How do we get rid of them?”
“Tell them you never heard of Santos. As far as you know, it slipped into the sea during the night.”
“And what did you think I was going to tell them?” Da Silva shook his head. “Insurance companies...!” Suddenly he paused, frowning. “Insurance companies... Is it possible?”