He lit a cigarette and walked over to the wall mirror in the hallway, studying himself in it. He tried to remember if Rangel’s article had said anything to indicate that this Carvalho was overly susceptible to women. No matter; it was a good assumption that a handsome, suave, and daring — such as faced him in the glass — crook like Carvalho was bound to be. He considered shaving, although he didn’t need it, and then turned to listen. The knock at the door had been almost timid. He winked at himself in the mirror and went to the door, swinging it wide. And then stood staring.
The girl facing him was as lovely as any he had ever seen, and he wished now that even if he hadn’t shaved he had at least changed his shirt, even though it did not need changing. True, she had the dimple that Perreira had said the manicurist at the Hotel Miracopa had, and, also true, her hair was dark and shoulder length and her eyes were large and luminous — but if Perreira was under the impression that half the girls in the Miracopa swimming pool looked the same, Perreira needed glasses. This one looked as if she was made of dreams, woven together with the love of past memories, clothed with—
“May I come in?”
Da Silva came out of his poetic trance, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else. Of course, come in. Let me have your coat.” He took it from her, a thin raincoat, laid it almost reverently across the back of a chair and turned back. “Would you care to also take off your jacket?” He suddenly noted that the little jacket was obviously her only top garment, and that it protected a lovely architecture. He grinned. “Sorry. Come in and sit down. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” The girl came into the room slowly, selected a chair near the window, and sat down almost shyly. Da Silva closed the door, refrained with an effort from bolting it, and then walked over to take a seat on the sofa on the side nearest the girl. Her reason for being there, or under whose direction, was unimportant at the moment; the fact was she was there.
“What can I do for you?”
She looked at him a bit anxiously. “Are you José Maria Carvalho?”
“That’s right.”
“You—” The girl hesitated a moment. “You don’t look like the pictures in the newspaper...”
“Newspapers!” Da Silva smiled deprecatingly, and shrugged, forgiving newspapers their bad photography in view of the fact they had been the catalyst bringing him together with this lovely. “And your name?”
“Isabela.”
“Just Isabela?”
She hesitated a moment and then said, “Isabela Ándrea Castro.” This was said a bit defiantly, and for a moment Da Silva wondered why. What he could not know was that it was simply that the girl had decided giving her correct name was easier than inventing one, especially in view of the fact that this stranger would not be around to remember it in a day or two. It was a cold-blooded view, but everyone had to worry about his own skin. And he was a criminal...
“Isabela Ándrea,” Da Silva said musingly. His tone indicated that if and when he ever had children he would name them Isabela and Ándrea in that order, whether they were girls or boys. “You are from São Paulo?”
“No.” She smiled at him, a strained smile, and Da Silva restrained a desire to go over and run his hands through her hair. “I just came here today in the hopes of talking to you. That article in the newspaper...”
“Yes? What about the article?”
“My company thought—”
“Your company?” So it seemed this lovely girl was not the lovely girl from the Miracopa and Armando’s, but was a lovely girl indeed interested in stolen truck tires and missing sewing machines. What a pity! Still, his idea of the newspaper article hadn’t been so bad at that; otherwise they might never have met.
“Yes,” she said. “The company I work for. Maritime Indemnity and Casualty.”
He had already known it was coming, but it was still a disappointment. She really didn’t have to be the girl from the Miracopa; she could have been from the national death squad anyway. Or from a magazine; he was getting tired of insurance representatives. “You’re an insurance agent, then.”
“In a way, only.” She shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I’m just a secretary in one of our branch offices, but if I can be — well, be successful in this assignment, maybe...”
She let it trail off, her large eyes begging him to understand the importance to her of the success of her mission. An increase in pay? A key to the lady’s washroom? Marriage to the son of the boss? For a moment Da Silva felt sorry that he was not, indeed, José Maria Carvalho, Stealer of Things from Docks, just so he could assist her in her assignment.
“I see. And?”
“It’s just that my company—” She paused, looking as if she might start blushing at any moment. Her eyes came up, defiant, daring him to laugh at her because of her femininity. “They thought a girl might be more persuasive than a man...”
And you work for a smart company, Da Silva thought admiringly.
“Persuasive about what?”
Isabela hesitated a moment longer and then took the plunge.
“You know what I mean.” Her eyes studied his impassive face. “There was a large shipment of radio parts due to a major factory in our area. And it was — well, missing from the dock warehouse in Santos. Our company has it insured for its full value, and we’d — well, we’d be willing to pay a reasonable percentage of the cost to get them back.” Her hand came up to forestall any obvious objection, although Da Silva was perfectly willing to listen to her husky voice without interrupting. “Oh, we’re not saying you had anything to do with taking them you understand. It’s just that we feel with your connections on the docks you might be able to locate these parts. I mean, we’d like to hire you as a sort of investigator to get them back, no questions asked. For a fee, of course. A percentage.”
If we’re going to play the role, then I suppose I’ll have to mouth the lines, Da Silva thought. He waved aside the circumspection as being needless, getting down to the meat of the transaction.
“How large a percentage?”
The girl looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t given the authority to negotiate on the matter of the exact percentage.”
Da Silva stared at her. “Then, if you’ll pardon me, why did they send you? I’ll be glad to give your company a letter saying you could probably persuade anyone to do anything at any time, but if, once you have that person persuaded, you can’t make any final deals — what’s the point?”
She smiled, and Da Silva felt himself melt.
“All I’m supposed to do is to persuade you to come back with me and speak with the people in our branch office. They’re the ones with the proper authority. They’ll make the deal.”
“I see. And where is this branch office?”
“You probably never heard of the place,” she said lightly, as if trying to sound modest for the town; but beneath that air of lightness there was a profound nervousness. The authorities had kept the story of the killings out of the newspapers, but it was very possible that, through his criminal contacts, this man knew all about the town and the killings. And if he became suspicious of her motives, he looked plenty tough enough to be difficult. “It isn’t a big place,” she said deprecatingly, “but we have a lot of industry there. It’s called Paraíso...”