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 Sao 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.

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.…”

She waited to see if there was any reaction, but other than polite interest there was none that she could see. Subconsciously Da Silva knew he had been waiting for the revelation since her arrival, and equally subconsciously he had been preparing for it.

“Paraíso?” he said, and his great disappointment that this lovely, desirable girl should be part of a murdering death squad was well masked by the natural curiosity he displayed as he went on. “No, I never heard of it. Where is it?”

The girl visibly relaxed. You’re a great little actress in the middle of Act One, Da Silva thought with a bitterness he kept well concealed, but you should learn not to flinch at the curtain lines. He wished he could get up, go to the bar and pour himself a triple brandy, but he knew he wouldn’t. He also knew he wouldn’t turn her over his knee and spank her, as one would a naughty child, although she obviously deserved it. But it would be so nice consoling her after a spanking, and kissing away her tears.…

“It’s in Piauí state,” she said. “Near both the Maranhão and Ceará borders—”

Da Silva came back to earth. “That far away, eh?”

“It isn’t far at all, not by plane. Oh, I suppose it’s in what you could once have called the ‘backlands’ but Paraíso is really quite a growing city. You’ll be surprised when you see it.” I’ll bet I will, Da Silva thought. In fact, surprise isn’t the proper word; struck speechless might be closer. How did a girl like you ever get tangled in a web like this? Isabela glanced at her wrist watch. “You know, we could even go up tonight. If we left now, we could catch the last flight from Congonhas. I could call Paraíso from the airport and I’m sure our manager wouldn’t mind waiting late for us at the office, or even coming to meet us at the airport.”

I’m sure, Da Silva thought. “Tonight?” He smiled and shook his head. “I’m not much for traveling by air at night.” He did not mention that he wasn’t particularly overjoyed by traveling by air in the daytime, either; it didn’t seem too germane to the conversation. “But tomorrow morning I’d be quite willing to go with you to this—what is it?”

“Paraíso. But it must be at night.” Isabela seemed to realize this may have sounded a bit odd. “The manager is out all day calling on accounts,” she said. “He’s only available at night. And you wouldn’t want to spend all day in Paraíso with nothing to do.”

Not a bad recovery, Da Silva thought, and gave her three points. “All right,” he said. “We’ll make it tomorrow night, then. That will at least give me twenty-four hours to work up courage.”

Isabela looked disconsolate. “I really would prefer to make it tonight. I—well, I expected to go back tonight so I didn’t bring a bag, or make any hotel reservation, and I expect they’re very difficult to get.” She smiled at him touchingly. She really did want to go to Paraíso; she wanted to get the whole business over with as soon as possible. “I guess I overrated my ability to persuade.”

“Not at all,” Da Silva said gallantly. “You just underrated my cowardice.” He looked at her idly, but he was watching for her slightest reaction as he added, “Of course, you could go back tonight, and I could come up tomorrow.…”

“Oh, no!” Isabela sat more erect and then forced herself to relax, separating the hands that had been clasped too tightly in her lap. She smiled. “I mean, in that case I probably wouldn’t get the credit for your coming to make the deal, you know. No, I have to come with you.”

And if I couldn’t think of a better excuse in five minutes, I’d swear off being a liar, Da Silva thought. It seemed she got paid for the ones she personally led to slaughter; so much per head, you might say. Still, her excuse was pitiable—if one could feel compassion for the bellwether intent upon leading one down the chute. On the other hand there was no reason not to get as much information as he could in the time allotted to him before putting his head on the block. He might, he conceded, even enjoy himself in the process, if only he could forget for a while that he would be enjoying himself with a murderess. He leaned toward her, smiling.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do. If you’re from a small town, you’ll certainly enjoy a night in a big city like Sao Paulo. I know a little place for drinks I’m sure you’ll like, and then to Fasano’s for dinner and dancing, and then—” He shrugged. “We’ll find someplace for a nightcap.”

“But—”

“You mean, a place for you to stay tonight? I know most of the hotel people in town. After all, I sell them back a lot of their imported tablecloths and napkins.” He smiled, taking the sting from the admission, while he thought that with the contacts of the Correio de Manha, a simple hotel room should be no problem. “What do you say? Then tomorrow we can go to Paraíso and everybody will be happy. All right?”

Indecision was written plainly on her face. This was something the unknown man on the telephone had not given instructions on. Still, refusal to go along with Carvalho might result in his not going to Paraíso at all and that would be disastrous to her. There was also the rationalizing thought that spending the evening with this Carvalho would prevent him from exercising any curiosity. True, Maritime Indemnity and Casualty was a genuine enough company, but the branch in Paraíso was a figment of the imagination of the man on the telephone, and a simple call was all that was needed to expose that fact.

“All right,” she said, and forced herself to blank her mind to the thought of dancing in the arms of a man who would be dead, the following night, through her agency. Don’t think about it, she told herself angrily; don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.…

“Good!” Da Silva said enthusiastically, and came to his feet. “You pour yourself a drink for starters while I put on a tie and jacket.” He disappeared into an inner room and returned a moment later, pulling his necktie straight. He started to shrug himself into his jacket just as the telephone rang. Not another damned insurance company at this hour! he thought with disgust, and marched over to pick it up.

“Yes?”

It was Wilson. “Is the lamp all lit and trimmed in the window? Is all forgiven? Can the wandering boy come home again?”

“No.”

“Oh! Congratulations,” Wilson said, “although from the speed with which you answered, plus the sharpness of your usually dulcet tones, I gather you did not have to come running from the bedroom to get the phone.”

“That’s right,” Da Silva said, and put his mind, always active, into high gear. There was a very good chance that Isabela also spoke English, but that was still the language he intended to use. His voice was expressionless as he went on with the line that had come into his head, brought on by the exigencies of the situation. “What? Well, in that case I might be interested.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked at the girl, shrugging apologetically. “Business …”

She nodded her understanding and returned to the magazine she had found under the end table beside her chair. Da Silva noted the perfect profile, the full lips seen from the side, promising a rich harvest to some lucky man, and then became aware that Wilson was speaking. He reluctantly brought his attention back to his conversation.

“What?”

“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?”

“Because it’s quite likely the cargo we’re expecting may be in a different hold, which would mean a great waste of time.”

Wilson shook his head stubbornly. “What do you mean! She has to be in it up to her ears. The information isn’t in any other hold; it’s in her pretty little head. And a few hours in a Rio police station ought to ease it out of her!”

“I’ll take it under advisement, but I doubt I’ll change my mind.”

“I still don’t like the idea of your going up to Paraíso without your American confederate.…”

“Well,” Da Silva said with finality, “that’s the way it’s got to be!”

“Okay,” Wilson said helplessly. “I also gather, then, that you’re spending the evening with her. In which case, since I’ve already missed the last plane back to Rio, I suppose you’d prefer I spend the night elsewhere than the apartment?”

“It would be better,” Da Silva said, and glanced at the waiting girl. He turned back to the telephone, sounding brusque. “We’re wasting a lot of time on a simple proposition. Check into it and get in touch.”

“All right,” Wilson said. “And if you don’t hear from me before you catch your plane, I’ll be in the Jardim da Luz, third bench from the left. I’ll be the one with last week’s copy of Time for a pillow.”

“That should suit you comfortably,” Da Silva said solemnly, and hung up. He pulled his jacket straight and smiled at the girl. “Business, business! Well, shall we go?”