XIV.

Da Silva came up the curved stairway leading to the restaurant at the Santos Dumont Airport, noted Wilson’s lifted hand at the table in the corner, and sidled through the crowded room. He nodded, loosened his necktie, removed his jacket and hung it on the chair back, and dropped into his chair, wiping his brow. Wilson shook his head wonderingly.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “You natives are supposed to be used to the heat. It’s us foreigners who are supposed to suffer.”

“Which proves what a foreigner you are,” Da Silva said in simulated disgust. “You don’t know the first thing about heat. It’s like cold, or hunger, or Federal taxes—the longer you suffer them, the worse they become. Wait until you’ve been here thirty-eight years like me.”

“You mean if I stay here thirty-eight years I’ll be like you?”

“Right. And you’ll deserve it,” Da Silva added, and grinned. He raised a hand for the waiter and leaned back comfortably. “Well? What did you find out from your Americans aboard the S.S. Bolivar?”

“About the same as you found out when you grilled Archimedes, I imagine,” Wilson said. He stared across the table at his friend with a slight frown. “Why didn’t you wait for me in Salvador before coming back?”

“Because you were tied up talking to the Americans on the Bolivar,” Da Silva said. He shrugged. “And I had more important things to do, like digging out a taxi you tried to bury in Camamú, and things to check on back here in Rio, and—”

“And the fact that I was planning on flying back, and you don’t like flying …”

“That, too.” Da Silva paused as their waiter came up with their drinks, waiting until he had retired, and picked up his glass. “Well? What did your Americans have to say?”

Wilson took a sip of his drink and replaced the glass on the table. “It took a bit of talking to get them to say anything. At first none of them would admit they even knew what diamonds were, let alone that they had actually bought one of the little things and then been robbed of it. And then accused by a representative of Customs of having attempted to cheat the Brazilian Government.” He shrugged noncommittally. “They were on a spot—or felt they were. Here this official wanted to hold them responsible for trying to evade taxes, and they didn’t even have the bloody stones …”

“Touching,” Da Silva said sarcastically, and picked up his drink.

“Well, it really was, in a way. There’s nothing quite as sad as the cheater cheated. Actually, I’m sure they were happy the stones were gone. It saved them the embarrassment of trying to explain what they were doing with them, sans papers, sans receipts, sans, as the man said, everything.”

“Especially sans everything, including the price of admission,” Da Silva said soberly. “Archimedes gave us a bit more of the actual mechanics of the operation. Paulo conveniently misplaced the bags when he put them aboard ship, the steward lifted the stones, and then Bernardes went into action.” He leaned forward a bit. “His pitch was that he had information to the effect that they were in possession of stones purchased illegally in Rio and it was his duty to report them …”

Wilson nodded. “And not bad psychology. Though you would think he would have been offered bribes, especially if one of them hadn’t discovered yet that his stone was missing.”

“I’m sure he was offered bribes. And I’m equally sure it broke his heart to refuse. But, poor fellow, what could he do?”

“Not very much,” Wilson admitted. He frowned. “The thing I don’t understand is how the gang could be sure the stones would be placed in their luggage. Personally, I’d tuck it in my watch pocket until I could get it in the ship’s safe.”

Da Silva grinned. “More good psychology. According to Archimedes, this was one of the first things the gang thought of. Nestor would suggest that the stone be kept in its little box for protection—which automatically made a package a bit too large for tucking in one’s pocket without a bulge—and further mentioned that it might be well to avoid the offhand chance of a personal search by Customs by slipping it in the inside pocket of a suit or dress in one of their bags or among their dirty laundry.”

“Hastings didn’t tell us anything like that.”

Da Silva shrugged. “Hastings probably didn’t even listen. He fully intended to pay his taxes.” He grinned. “He didn’t respond to the psychology.”

“It was still good psychology,” Wilson said. “Even after I explained that the whole thing had been a swindle, only one of them wanted his stone back. The others still weren’t sure but what they’d get into trouble over them; they were just as happy to forget the whole deal.”

“Which proves that they’re smart,” Da Silva said quietly, his grin fading. “If the one who wants his stone back can offer definite proof of ownership or a description of the stolen property …”

Wilson’s eyebrows went up. “Of course he can’t. But—”

“But, nothing!” Da Silva’s voice was completely intransigent. “Either proof or a description that will identify it from any other stone beyond a question of doubt, or those stones go to the Brazilian Government.”

Wilson continued to stare at his friend. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. You may work for Washington, but I don’t.” The dark handsome face was completely emotionless. “Unless you prove otherwise to me, those stones go to the Brazilian Government.”

Wilson thought a moment and then sighed. He raised his glass. “To a balancing of the Brazilian budget,” he said. “With more people like Captain José Da Silva it may even come about.”

Da Silva smiled and raised his glass. “To Brazil,” he said. “And every penny we can save. We need it.”

He drank and set his glass down, reaching for the menu. “And now we’d better eat. I still have to get Archimedes’ deposition down on paper this afternoon, and I’ve got a million other things to do. My desk has a stack of papers on it that makes it look like Annapurna.” He studied the menu. “How about carne-do-modo-da-casa?”

“You mean hamburger?” Wilson looked at the menu a moment and then tossed it aside. “Anything. Actually I’m not hungry. Ever since I got rid of you and that starvation diet you had me on in Salvador I’ve been eating like a horse.” He fingered his glass as a curious look crossed his face. “Your mentioning Annapurna just now made me think of something—I wonder whatever happened to that gorgeous creature, Anna-Maria …”

“Oh, her?” Da Silva sounded a bit embarrassed. “Well, what really happened, you know, was that after she wandered about the streets for a few hours that night she simply gave up and went back to her apartment …”

Wilson stared at him suspiciously. “And just how, if you don’t mind my asking, would you know that?”

“Good detective work,” Da Silva explained gently. “I found a message from her when I got back to the office, and I called her.” He shrugged. “And then she told me.”

Wilson glowered. “And just what else did she tell you?”

“Well,” Da Silva said, considering, “actually I was too busy at the moment to go into a lot of details, particularly on the telephone and with people in the office, so—”

“So you arranged to meet her for cocktails and dinner tonight, where—in one place or another—I’m sure you’ll manage to squeeze the rest of the details from her. Which,” Wilson added, “is probably another reason why you want to eat and run. So you’ll be free by this evening.”

Da Silva smiled at his friend in complete agreement and raised an arm to attract a waiter.

“You’re so right,” he said. “You see? Detective work is really quite simple. Even you can do it.”

“And you are also so right,” Wilson said. “I can indeed do it. And plan to do it this afternoon.”

Da Silva’s smile faded. “And just what does that mean?”

“Just what it says,” Wilson said and leered across the table. “It means that you’d better make reservations for three for this evening, because, my friend, you’re about to be tailed from the time you leave here.”

Da Silva laughed. “You’re not as smart as I thought you were,” he said. “I made reservations for four. I’m sure she has a friend.…”