“Is what possible?”
“Is it possible that insurance companies are involved in this in some way?”
“In what way?”
“Suppose these men were killed because of their insurance?”
“And the insurance companies are now calling because they want a rebate for quantity?” Wilson snorted. “You’re shooting from the hip, again, right into your foot. Anyway, the insurance companies could scarcely be involved with José Maria Carvalho; as I understand it, he keeps his fortune in a pillbox in a night-stand drawer, and besides, his will leaves it all to Mario’s for brandy to soak his ashes in.”
Da Silva grinned and went back to his packing. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Wilson said calmly, and reached for the bottle on the dresser.
Chapter 12
Wilson listened to the telephone with a patience that was fast running out; and the rain drumming on the windows-rain which had accompanied them to São Paulo — did little to improve his mood. Across the room, Da Silva, stretched out comfortably on a couch, watched and listened, pleased it was Wilson on the phone rather than himself.
“No, senhor,” Wilson said politely, “it’s all a mistake, I assure you. Yes, senhor, this is the residence of José Maria Carvalho, but the story in the newspaper was a complete exaggeration, I assure you. No, senhor, I would never call a newspaper a liar; one can only ask for trouble that way, but an exaggeration it was, senhor, I assure you. You can check with the police if you doubt my word, senhor. You will find that Senhor Carvalho has no police record at all — or practically none — I assure you. Well, of course if you wish to put whatever you are referring to in a letter, I’m sure that Senhor Carvalho will read it, but I assure you—” He paused a moment, listening. “Then you do that, senhor. Yes. Good-bye.”
“You handled that very well,” Da Silva said dryly. “I assure you.”
Wilson turned from the telephone to look at Da Silva resentfully. “The next one who asks who I am, answering for you, gets told I’m your parole officer. That was insurance company number ten, and we haven’t been here three hours, yet.” He frowned curiously at his friend. “Tell me, Senhor Carvalho, did you really steal an anchor from the Santa Clara at one time?”
“It’s a foul lie invented by my jealous enemies down at the Santos docks,” Da Silva said, hurt. “One of my helpers happened to be walking along the pier—”
“And the anchor just followed him home.”
“Exactly.”
“Anchors like that can be a traffic hazard—”
“Quiet!” Da Silva said, all pretense of whimsy gone. He brought his fingers up to pull at his mustache and discovered its loss. It did not make him feel any better to think it might have been shorn in a wasted cause. “How long do we keep up this idiotic charade? This insurance company bit has certainly fouled up the detail!”
“Not to mention the two national magazines that have called asking for personal interviews, and the writer who wanted your help on a plot to get into the strong room of the Queen Elizabeth,” Wilson said. “Plus the fact that I’m waiting for the police to drop in momentarily.”
Da Silva smiled humorlessly. “Having the police drop in is just what I’m hoping for.”
“Still on that death squad kick, are you? On a national scale?” Wilson walked to the small bar in one corner and began to pour himself a drink. “One thing I have to give you credit for, Senhor Carvalho — you have stick-to-it-iveness.” He raised his glass. “To my theory, right or wrong. May it always be right, but right or wrong — my theory!” He drank.
“I haven’t heard a better one from you,” Da Silva began, and then paused as the telephone rang.
“Your turn,” Wilson said. “I’m busy.”
“We should have arranged an answering service or a recording,” Da Silva muttered savagely, and swung his feet from the couch. He stood up and strode angrily across the room.
“And don’t shout,” Wilson advised helpfully. “You catch more flies with honey than with—”
“Shut up,” Da Silva said darkly, and picked up the instrument, barking into it. “Yes?”
“Senhor Carvalho?”
Da Silva instantly bit back his first angry reply. Nobody with a husky, sexy, feminine voice like that could possibly be interested in stolen truck tires or disappearing crated sewing machines, could they? And if not, why would she be calling?
“This is Senhor Carvalho speaking.”
From the bar, Wilson looked across the room curiously, intrigued by the change in tone, by the sudden docility. Da Silva winked at him. “What can I do for the senhora?”
“A moment of your time, perhaps?”
Or an hour or a day or a month, probing the invitation implicit in that lovely voice, Da Silva thought — but with eyes wide open. It should be fun asking her what business a nice girl like her had calling an unmitigated ruffian like José Maria Carvalho. Still, there was the chance she was something like his own secretary, Dona Dolores, whose voice on a telephone usually had strangers thinking in terms of soft music and softer pillows, but who was, in fact, a grandmother who liked to eat fattening foods and who looked it. On the other hand, of course, it was also possible his caller didn’t look like Dona Dolores at all.
Da Silva smiled at the telephone. “Regarding what, senhora?”
“I... I’d rather discuss it in person, if I might?”
Might she! “Of course. Where would you like to meet?”
There was the barest hesitation. “Your apartment? I’m — I’m not far away.”
Da Silva winked at Wilson again, and then straightened his face. He sincerely believed that the expression on a person’s face affected the tone of voice he used, and he didn’t want to scare this one away. “Of course, senhora. Would fifteen minutes be too early?”
“It would be fine. I’ll be there.” There was almost a kiss in the breathless final words; the telephone receiver was hung up softly, almost caressingly.
Da Silva put the receiver in place and looked at Wilson. “Bingo! Or anyway,” he added, “maybe.”
“Who was that?”
“That, my friend, was a girl with a voice so sexy she could have led the Pied Piper of Hamlin right into the water after his rats. But I’m afraid you won’t get a chance to find out, because she wants to talk to me alone. In private. So I suggest you take a long walk. I think they’re playing some old Sherlock Holmes movies at the museum in the park; you might go there and possibly pick up some pointers.”
Wilson frowned. “A girl? Working for an insurance company?”
“Possibly. Possibly not. Let’s not forget why we came up here in the first place. And this isn’t the first time a girl has figured in this affair, don’t forget.”
“You’re thinking of that manicurist who had lunch with Valadares before he went off and got himself killed in Paraíso? Isn’t that stretching things a bit? What would a manicurist from Rio be doing in São Paulo calling on José Maria Carvalho?”
“I have no idea. What would anyone from anywhere be doing calling on Carvalho? All I know is they sell airplane tickets from Rio to São Paulo to anyone with the fare. They even sold some to us, remember?” Da Silva glanced at his wrist watch. “You ought to be on your way. Let’s not cut it too fine, shall we? And you’d better telephone before you come barging back.”
“I know the whole routine,” Wilson said with a touch of superiority. “I had a roommate in college.”
He winked at Da Silva and closed the door behind him. Da Silva smiled after him a moment and then looked around the room. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen it before; actually for the past few hours he had done little except answer the telephone and study his surroundings, but he hadn’t considered the room in the same context. Looking at it now he had to admit that the Correio de Manha did its guests well; there was ample liquor, a soft couch, pictures on the wall no young lady could object to, and a proper selection of lighting fixtures capable of developing and maintaining any desired degree of romantic dimness — or illumination, either, if some idiot wanted to read. There was also a fine stereo. He walked over, put the machine to work exuding a properly gelatinous melody, and walked into the kitchen to get ice cubes. Once these were on the bar he stared at them as if willing them to tell him what else was needed. Crackers and cheese? Hold it, he told himself sternly; this isn’t that convention of insurance brokers. This is business, of a sort, but not that kind of business.