II.

Cocktail parties held by the American colony in the city of Rio de Janeiro follow a rigid pattern dictated by archaic custom and dedicated to the proposition that no guest shall be comfortable. The number of people invited to one of these affairs is a fixed function of the space available and usually works out to approximately two people to one space. Drinks are proffered by waiters who lumber through the thirsty pack as if they were all on their way to claim the last seat at a World Cup football game. Strange foods are offered on trays by other waiters who carry them about head-high with small regard for spectacles, coiffures—or, for that matter, skulls—and then expertly withdraw them the moment a hungry guest has the temerity to reach for anything. (The following day the hostess tearfully complains that nobody ate a thing!)

The hour of the party is generally selected to afford the maximum disruption of normal schedule, coming as it does in the neighborhood of 6 P.M., the time of greatest traffic congestion and lowest energy level. Excessive heat and humidity are not prescribed essentials, but since they are always present in Rio, they have come to be accepted as part of the routine. Everyone seems to smoke too much at a cocktail party, and for some reason the smoke never seems to clear away, so that by the time the third gin and tonic is being gloomily consumed it becomes quite difficult to even tell with whom you are trading worn clichés.

Mr. Wilson, of the staff of the American Embassy in Rio, forced his way with more than a touch of impatience through the mob of incoming guests at the Ambassador’s cocktail party in honor of visiting Senator Joseph P. Hastings. Mr. Wilson, normally the calmest of men, had had about all he could take of this particular party. Given a chance to classify this party on a boredom level against other parties he was forced by his position to attend, he would have rated it high.

The affair was being held on the upper level of the American Club, which occupied the top two floors of a skyscraper in the Avenida Rio Branco in downtown Rio, a location undoubtedly selected for this party by the chief of protocol because of the impossibility of parking anywhere within a mile of the site. A curved stairway led from the upper level, where the affair was being held, to the lower level, where the Men’s Bar was located, and Mr. Wilson was intent upon reaching this haven before the small amount of oxygen in the crowded area was exhausted and bodies would begin to pile up. The Black Hole of Calcutta, Wilson thought with sudden conviction, was undoubtedly misreported in the press; the odds were strong that it was merely an American cocktail party at which guests had stayed overlong.

He jammed his way down the wide staircase that joined the two floors, elbowing his way as politely as he could through the eager pack of free-loaders tramping thirstily skyward. With an adroitness a stranger might not have credited him with, he managed to side-step the full flood at the elevator landing at the bottom and edged into a narrow alleyway leading away from the mob scene. A pair of nail-studded leather-covered doors at the end of the deserted corridor marked the end of his quest, and he pushed through into the welcome silence beyond, feeling a bit like a shipwrecked sailor sighting a rescue ship.

The Men’s Bar, he was both surprised and pleased to note, was not only empty but serviced. With a heartfelt sigh he fell into a soft upholstered chair beside the huge windows in one corner of the room, beckoning in the same motion to the waiter who stood watchfully polishing glasses behind the long crystaled bar.

“Brandy, please.”

Served, he signed the chit negligently and leaned back to enjoy his freedom, cupping the balloon glass in his fingers, taking pleasure from the chill smoothness of the glass, relaxing from the fray. Through the tall undraped windows beside him he could look down on the beauty of the city and of Guanabara Bay, spread out below him in picturesque detail, surrounded by tinted mountains now catching the glancing rays of a setting sun. A tiny launch, foreshortened by the height from which he watched it, jauntily cut its way across the bay to Niterói, its wake a fine curving white line stenciled clearly against the deep blue of the water. You’re all alone down there, Wilson thought idly, and I’m alone up here. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? He sighed with gratification and tilted his glass to his lips.

Wilson was a medium-sized, nondescript man with sandy hair and pale eyes, of a type to be passed unnoticed on the street any day. Everything about him was subdued, from the formal dress he wore at the moment in honor of the occasion to the few mannerisms he employed—which was no accident and exactly as he both planned and wished it. His standard uniformity served him very well in his job. Ostensibly he was the security officer of the American Embassy, the man to whom lost luggage or misplaced passports were reported, and the one who was also charged with the thankless task of effecting the release from jail of those American sailors who failed to note the difference between Santos and Hoboken.

Actually, however, Mr. Wilson’s position at the Embassy was far more important. He was a member of Interpol and played a vital role in a number of government agencies which were less publicized but far more reaching. Among Embassy personnel only the Ambassador himself was aware of Wilson’s true status, and this intelligence was shared by several in similar positions in the Brazilian Government, but by no one else.

Although his presence at this particular cocktail party was somewhat in the nature of a duty, at the moment he did not feel he was acting in any official capacity. At the moment he simply felt he was resting from a battle for survival which he had waged and which he rightly considered—by managing to find the Men’s Bar both operative and empty—he had won. He savored his triumph, his eyes lazily following the little launch as it slipped quietly across the ruffled mirrored surface of the bay, his fingers curling comfortably about his glass.

His victory, however, was short-lived. There was a scraping sound and the leather-covered doors swung open once again, but hesitantly this time, as if the newcomer were unsure whether or not his intrusion would be welcomed—or even permitted. Wilson looked up; his initial grimace of annoyance changed instantly to a broad smile. He called softly from his corner.

“Senator …!”

Senator Joseph P. Hastings allowed the nail-studded door to swing silently shut behind him and crossed the room, his feet sinking into the thick pile of the carpeting. Wilson waved genially, indicating the chair across from him, and the Senator sank into it with a grateful sigh. Wilson grinned at him in quite a friendly manner; in the five days since he had made the Senator’s acquaintance he had come to both admire and like the man.

He tilted his head toward the bar. “How about a quiet drink?”

The Senator nodded in profound relief and leaned back. They waited in relaxed silence until the taciturn waiter had once again performed his service. Wilson accepted the tendered pencil, signed the chit, and handed the Senator his glass as the waiter retired. He raised his balloon glass in a small toasting gesture; Senator Hastings responded appropriately and then set his glass down on the small end table provided beside his deep chair. From the floor above the sound of music filtered down faintly. The orchestra, having finally decided that the proper degree of immobility had been reached, had begun playing animatedly for dancing. Wilson smiled inquisitively at his companion.

“How did you ever manage to escape, Senator?” He tilted his head idly upward, indicating the faint noise from above. “After all, you’re supposed to be the guest of honor here tonight.”

The Senator grinned; it made him look years younger. He was a handsome, well-built man in his late fifties. His full shock of hair was almost blinding white; his complexion was ruddy with good humor and good health. He unbuttoned his dinner jacket, moved to a more comfortable position, and withdrew a leather cigar case which he offered to Wilson. The slighter man shook his head in refusal.

“I did my duty,” the Senator said, and began peeling the foil wrapper from a cigar. “I shook hands with the first thousand or so, not that they had the faintest idea of who I was or why I was there. Which put them in the same category as me.” He paused to puff, holding a match steadily before his cigar. “After all,” he continued with a twinkle, “I’m just a visiting senator, not a candidate for office down here.” He waved the match to extinction.

“True,” Wilson conceded with a smile. “Plus the fact that most of these people are permanent residents here, so they can’t even vote for you in the States.”

“A terrible thought,” said the Senator. “In any event, I think I was the first one here, so I ought to rate time off for sentence served, if not for good behavior.”

“You’re forgiven,” Wilson said. “Actually, once the Ambassador left, he relieved all of us of our responsibility to suffer.”

The Senator wiped ash into an ash tray. “I’m not sure if you’re right on protocol, but I’ll go along with you.”

The two men smiled at each other. Wilson raised his glass to drink. He set it back on his knee. “At least your wife was spared seeing you walk out on your own party. I don’t believe I saw her here.”

“Elly? You didn’t.” The Senator puffed on his cigar and slowly allowed the smoke to escape his lips. “She left this afternoon by ship. I managed to get her to fly down with me by jet, but risking her life once on those newfangled flying machines is just about her limit.”

“Oh? She left on the Bolivar?”

“Right. I took her down there and then walked over here. If it hadn’t been for this party, I confess I might have weakened and gone with her. The ship looked very lush, albeit noisy.” He picked up his drink, drank, and then continued in almost the same tone of voice.

“So, having fulfilled my duty upstairs, I figured I was free. And after that, to be truthful, I was looking for you. Someone upstairs said if you were sensible, you’d probably be in the Men’s Bar. And having found you eminently sensible in the few days I’ve known you, I came here.”

Wilson laughed. “Looking for me? I’m flattered.”

“I hate to water down the flattery,” said the Senator, gazing blandly out of the window, “but actually I was looking for someone else through you.” He brought his eyes about casually. “At lunch today you mentioned a friend of yours connected with the Brazilian police in some capacity or other. A Captain Da Silva. I was wondering if he might be here this evening, as your guest.”

“Zé Da Silva?” Wilson stared at the other with a smile in his eyes and then shook his head. “Cocktail parties are a status symbol to the American colony in Rio, Senator. Zé doesn’t fall into that category—or that trap. To begin with, he isn’t American and he has all the status he wants. Besides, he likes his comfort, which you’ll admit he wouldn’t find here. No, he—”

Wilson paused. A fuller sense of the Senator’s words suddenly seemed to strike him. His eyebrows quirked humorously, but his pale eyes were suddenly steady on the other’s face.

“Why would you be wondering if a Brazilian cop might be here tonight, Senator?” Wilson’s voice was deceptively quiet, but there was suddenly no doubt but that he was quite serious. “You haven’t been doing something you oughtn’t, have you?”

Senator Hastings shook his white hair and smiled. “No. It’s simply that—well, yesterday morning my wife bought something from a man she met at the hotel …”

Wilson laughed, relieved, and leaned back. “‘American, thy name is Tourist!’ What was it she bought? A solid-gold, twenty-one-jewel, Swiss automatic chronometer for a dollar ninety-eight? Or a bolt of genuine English worsted smuggled into Rio from one of the dozens of woolen mills in the interior of the state of São Paulo?”

“No. It was a diamond, as a matter of fact. You see, my wife has rather a thing about diamonds, and a good eye for them, too—and since our daughter has a wedding anniversary coming up—”

“A diamond!” Wilson’s smile faded. His eyes narrowed slightly; he sat a bit more erect in his chair, studying his companion. “I hope she didn’t pay any more than five dollars for it.”

The Senator looked a bit embarrassed. He puffed on his cigar a moment and then studied the ashes. “Well, you see, that’s why I was hoping to see this Captain Da Silva here this evening. I wanted to—well, to see him about it.”

Wilson set his drink down carefully, a feeling of foreboding beginning to creep over him in a pattern he recognized. When he spoke his voice was low and controlled.

“Senator, how much did your wife pay for that diamond?”

“You don’t understand,” the Senator said patiently. “I’m not complaining about the price …”

“Senator!” Wilson realized that despite his effort at control his voice had unconsciously risen. “Please answer me. How much did your wife pay for it?”

The Senator looked at him evenly. “I really don’t see what—”

Wilson realized he was taking the wrong tactic. He looked at his companion quite calmly. “Senator, I have a reason for asking. As security officer of the Embassy I have the responsibility to see that Americans are not cheated. How much did she pay for it?”

The Senator shrugged. “Three thousand dollars,” he said quietly.

“Three thousand dollars?” Despite himself, Wilson’s imperturbability was momentarily shattered; he stared at the other with shocked eyes. The thought of the story going around the Embassy that the security officer had permitted the wife of a visiting senator to be fleeced…! The shock faded; he forced himself to be calm, to become all policeman.

“Senator, did you see this man? The one who sold your wife this—this—this diamond? Do you know what he looked like? Had you ever seen him before, hanging about the hotel or talking to any of the guests? Could you identify him from mug shots downtown or in person if we managed to pick him up?”

“I’m afraid you still don’t understand, Mr. Wilson,” the Senator said gently. “Of course I saw the man. I paid him. My wife certainly wouldn’t consummate a purchase of this type without consulting me. I will admit that if she hadn’t been taken so much by the stone, I rather doubt that I would have bought it, but that’s really not the point. I’m not complaining about the sale. I happen to know something about diamonds myself, and of course I also had the stone checked by an expert. As a matter of fact, the man who sold it to us insisted upon it.”

“I’m sure he did,” Wilson said wearily, attempting to the best of his ability to keep the disgust in his voice from showing.

The Senator frowned, as if his word were being doubted. “He did.”

“I know he did,” Wilson said sadly. “I know exactly what he did. The peddler took you to a very reliable jeweler, who weighed the stone and examined it carefully and then assured you that the stone was worth upward of five or six thousand dollars at the current rate of exchange. So you paid the man who sold you the stone—in traveler’s checks, most likely—and he, before handing it to you, polished it just a wee bit to bring out the full, rich luster, tucked it neatly into a cute little box which he just happened to have, and then handed it to you. And went his way.” He sighed hopelessly. “Only unfortunately the stone he handed to you isn’t the same one the jeweler examined.”

The Senator smiled at him a bit pityingly.

“You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?” he asked. He puffed on his cigar, allowing the rich smoke to trickle from his lips, and looked at Wilson through the haze. “I’m rather surprised. I thought you said you’d spent some time in Washington. I should have thought your years there would have taught you more about senators. You don’t reach the position of senator in American politics, Mr. Wilson, without being—well, to be charitable, shall we say alert? Self-protective, at any rate.” He smiled at the slighter man.

“No, Mr. Wilson, everything happened almost exactly as you said, except that from the time the jeweler examined the stone until I placed it in my pocket—” he wiped ash from his cigar “—it never left my sight.”

Wilson nodded. “And the hand is slower than the eye, and the nasty man really saws the beautiful young lady in half.” He set his drink to one side and stared at his hands. Another thought struck him and he looked up with a frown.

“Senator, if you’re satisfied with your purchase, why do you want to see Captain Da Silva?”

“The tax,” the Senator explained gently, in the tone of one instructing a child in an obvious verity. He spread his hands explanatorily. “I fully realize that the sale was irregular. I know that a sales tax must be paid, and I don’t want the failure to pay it to prevent my taking the stone back with me. My wife is expecting it. I thought, since you mentioned having a close friend who was an official here, that he might know how I should go about paying the tax.”

Wilson stared at him and then sighed deeply.

“I wouldn’t worry about the tax if I were you, Senator,” he said. “The tax on glass is pretty low here in Brazil. I think you may have a problem, but I doubt if it’s a tax problem.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong.” Senator Hastings raised his glass, drank, and set the empty glass to one side. His fingers curled about his cigar; he smiled. “Please don’t look so stricken, Mr. Wilson. The diamond is quite genuine.”

Wilson bit back his first retort; his mind was busy calculating all the angles. Well, the Senator wanted to see Da Silva, and that seemed best to him as well. He straightened up in his chair and raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention.

“Telefône, pôr favor.” He leaned back again, studying the handsome man beside him. “I’ll see if Da Silva is at his apartment. He sometimes is at this hour. Where is the diamond?”

“In the Embassy safe. We stopped on the way to the boat and I dropped it off. I didn’t want to carry it with me.”

“Good,” Wilson said. “If Zé is home, we’ll stop by the Embassy and pick it up.”

“At this hour?” The Senator shook his head. “It’s in the main safe. I’m afraid only the Ambassador can get to it. Tomorrow—”

“I have access to the safe. And the Embassy.” Wilson did not dwell on the point. “By the way, I may as well tell you that Zé Da Silva knows quite a bit about diamonds. In his work he has to know quite a bit about a lot of things.”

Senator Hastings’ eyebrows were raised; the man before him was no longer the nondescript Embassy employee he had considered with tolerant amusement. Anyone who had access to the main safe of the Embassy, particularly at this hour, was obviously more than a normal employee. A slight chill had come into the atmosphere.

“Is it really necessary that this Captain Da Silva see the stone? After all, it’s only a question of paying the sales tax …”

“I’d prefer it, if you don’t mind.”

The Senator nodded. It suddenly occurred to him that the man opposite probably could insist upon it if he wanted. “Not at all.”

“Good.” Wilson paused, considering. “The only thing is, can you break away from the party this early? I know we were joking about it before, but after all, it is in your honor.”

For a fleeting second the Senator wondered what would happen if he agreed he could not, but the situation had begun to intrigue him.

“I can break away.” He looked about the deserted bar. “I already have. I doubt if anyone knows in whose honor the party is at this point. And I’d like to meet this Captain Da Silva very much, after all you told me of him.”

Wilson plugged in the telephone and stared at the Senator.

“I hope you like him as much after this interview as before,” he said quietly. “Captain Zé Da Silva is a very sharp man.” He dialed a number and then leaned back, lifting his eyebrows at the Senator, watching him steadily.

“He knows glass a mile away.…”