“I said, I’m sure you’d be interested,” Wilson repeated cordially, “but is the girl interested?”
“At least I think it’s worth investigating.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more if I knew what you were talking about,” Wilson said, and grinned at the telephone. “I gather you’re trying to get across some little bit of vital information while the little lady is practically sitting in your lap.”
“Well, that’s true, of course.”
“Fine. Now that we have the story line straight, what is it you’re trying to get across?”
“That’s right. The ship is at the new Hog Island in the Bahamas at present. Do you know the place?”
“I knew it when it was still Hog Island,” Wilson said, “before the advance of civilization in the form of slot machines, crap tables, and Keno made a more beauteous name imperative. What you are referring to, of course, is Paradise Island, and what you are saying, in your roundabout way, is something about Paraíso. Right?”
“Of course the deal is legitimate. I resent—!”
“So we have that much straight,” Wilson said with satisfaction. “You know? This is fun. Remind me to propose you for the Consulate’s charade club — we’ll make you an honorary American every Wednesday night. What else?”
“The ship? It’s the Petty Pace. Are you familiar with it? I admit it’s old, but it’s still quite serviceable.”
“Petty Pace? Old?” Wilson frowned at the wall of the telephone booth, trying not to be distracted by the graffiti there, which claimed physical prowess to one João which was difficult to believe. “You lost me there. Petty Pace? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Is it something that sounds like lace? Mace?”
“Of course it’s old,” Da Silva said with a touch of asperity. “I just told you so. But it’s serviceable, I said. It won’t shake itself to pieces.”
“Ah! Shake is the operative word, and since I’m sure you don’t mean Shake and Bake, we’ll accept Shakespeare. Petty Pace? Why didn’t you say so? I played Macduff in college, wooden sword and all. ‘Tomorrow and a few more tomorrows, creeps on this petty pace to the something, something of recorded time. And all our yesterdays—’ You’re trying to say that tomorrow you plan on going to Paraíso, I gather. It could scarcely be yesterday.”
“That’s the deal.”
“In the interests of saving time and not taxing my erudition beyond its admittedly limited capacity,” Wilson suggested, “suppose I just ask questions and you answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ All right?”
“That sounds like a reasonable condition.”
“That wasn’t exactly a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ but I’ll let it go. First, are you planning on going up with the girl?”
“Yes.”
“Is she our manicurist from Rio?”
“I don’t know, but probably.”
“I hope if you get her to bed you wear your bulletproof pajamas. Are you going up to Paraíso with her at her suggestion?”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least the article in the Correio wasn’t as useless as we were beginning to think!”
“As you were beginning to think.”
“As we were both beginning to think, but we won’t quibble. What plane are you planning on taking? Wait, that can’t be answered ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ although you haven’t been paying attention to that, anyway. Let’s try a few — is it the early plane?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, which?”
“It isn’t decided yet.”
“What do you have to do? Sleep on it? And what am I supposed to do? Get up there first and wait for you? Or try to catch the same plane as you? Or follow — which would mean I’d probably get there just in time to point the ambulance the way to the morgue, since I know where it is?”
“None of them,” Da Silva said. “Although I agree you should go as soon as you determine the shipping dates. December would be too late and February would be too early...”
“Which even I can figure would make January just right. January? Janeiro? You mean, Rio de Janeiro?”
“That’s smart.”
“You want me to go back to Rio? Why, for God’s sake?”
“Yes,” Da Silva said, sounding as if he’d given the matter ample thought. “I agree that investigation of this Edgar is essential, but don’t underestimate him. He’s tough. Don’t let the fact that he wrote poetry fool you.”
“Now you’ve gone completely off the track!” Wilson declared. “Edgar? Poetry?”
“It was a while ago, I admit—”
“Good grief! Edgar? Poetry? A while ago?” Wilson would have thrown up his hands had the dimensions of the booth allowed. Then light came. “I’ve got it! Poe!” His enthusiasm waned. “What the devil does Poe have to do with—?”
“No! Not him. It wasn’t that long ago, and the syndicate was in on it!”
Wilson sighed. “Not Poe. Probably doesn’t even sound like Poe. But it’s Edgar, who writes poetry, and the syndicate has something to do with it—” True light dawned this time, but he approached his discovery with a caution born of previous failure. “Don’t tell me you mean Edgar Guest, for God’s sake!”
“I knew you’d come to see it my way.”
“How did you ever hear of Edgar Guest? You should have been in knee pants around his era. Anyway, what does Edgar Guest have to do with — oh! You mean your guest?”
“That’s right.”
“Let’s see if we can put this all together and come out with Mother,” Wilson said. “Are you trying to say you want me to go back to Rio to investigate the girl?”
“Exactly.”
“I gather you have some reason to think she comes from there?”
“The goods would have to be labeled, of course. I know that doesn’t guarantee the contents, but at least it’s an indication.”
“All right, so her clothes have labels. Her name, of course, would also be useful.”
“Ah, yes! Him!” Da Silva had been expecting the question and was proud to be prepared for it. “Actually, you ought to know him; he comes from the capitol of your home state. And he’s definitely the boss.”
Wilson sighed a bit plaintively.
“You know,” he said, “a little bit of this is fun, but it also goes a long way. At home when we play this, at least we have refreshments. And these booths aren’t air conditioned, you know. Capitol of my home state? That’s Columbus. That would make the boss Ferdinand, right? Don’t yell — I was just kidding. You mean Isabela, right?”
“So far. He lives in the Doria Apartments. First floor.”
“Doria, doria. What’s a doria? A dory? Is Doria her second name? Her last name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept that,” Da Silva said sternly.
“Doria... maybe you ought to jump that and go on. Or, wait; the only bell that rings is the Ándrea Doria...”
“I’d say that was satisfactory.”
“All right. Her name is Isabela Ándrea. That’s all?”
“No, no! I think you should avoid Cuba in all cases. With the political conditions there, keeping our assets convertible would be a problem. Don’t you agree? Or do you want to sleep on it?” That ought to give Wilson something to conjure with, Da Silva thought with satisfaction.
“What I’d like to sleep on is my own trundle bed,” Wilson said, and stared at the graffiti on the wall. Was it possible that Maria, at 23-6792, really did all those things? “All right, we’ll go to work on that, now. Cuba — convertible — sleep on it? Message received! Her name is Isabela Ándrea Castro, or my name isn’t Wilson. Right?”
“Very good!”
“Just one final question,” Wilson said. “Why are you intending to go up to Paraíso and make like a target for them, in the first place? Why not simply take the girl back to a delegacia in Rio and shake her — like in Shakespeare — until some information comes loose?”