III.

Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between Interpol and the Brazilian police, was not only at home but engaged in his favorite occupation—being comfortable. In shirt sleeves, with necktie removed, he was slouched in an easy chair before the television, his long legs spread out before him. At his side, and within easy reach on the low inlaid coffee table, were a bottle of Remy Martin cognac and a glass, flanked by cigarettes (American) and an ash tray. A fan ruffled the white curtains of the open window, vainly attempting to trade warm air for cool; the soft sounds of children’s voices and automobile exhausts drifting up from Copacabana Beach below his apartment mingled unintelligibly with the noises from the television set.

The program in progress was an ancient American Western movie with Portuguese subtitles, and Da Silva was wondering—not for the first time—if there might not be a case for Interpol here. Certainly the mangled translation could be nothing but sabotage against better relations between the two countries—an attempt to undermine the Alliance-For-Progress, not to mention John Wayne. He grinned at the thought and reached lazily to the coffee table for a cigarette; the telephone rang as he was lighting it.

He came to his feet easily, a tall, athletic-looking man in his late thirties, with a swarthy pock-marked face and a thick mustache that combined with his black curly hair to give him the appearance of a slightly satanic brigand. His smile, when happy or pleased, could be a boyish flash of white teeth against his almost-copper skin that took years from his age. Conversely, a black scowl on that pock-marked face, and a piercing stare of accusation from his black eyes, was a combination known, feared, and respected by the majority of the Rio underworld.

He turned down the volume of the television set and padded in stocking feet to the bedroom where the telephone continued ringing shrilly from the night stand beside the bed. He was not averse to the interruption. One more lost gold mine or one more rustled cow, he felt, and he would have been reduced to watching Brazilian TV fare, which was patently unthinkable. He lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Zé? This is Wilson. Are you busy this evening?”

Da Silva grinned. Wilson was not only his favorite American but his favorite person, ruling out, of course, members of the opposite sex. Da Silva was one of the very few who were aware of Wilson’s true status at the American Embassy; the two had had their share of adventures together. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, wiping ash from his cigarette into the ample stomach of the reclining bronze nude that served as an ash tray beside the phone.

“No, I’m free. But I thought you were going to be tied up tonight with social duties …”

“I’m about to untie myself. Together with a guest. Wait for us; we’ll be right over.”

“A guest?” Da Silva was delighted and sounded it. “Fine! You’ve just saved me from a death worse than radio. Let’s have dinner together. I hope she has a friend …”

He suddenly realized he was speaking to a steady dial tone. He hung up, his gamin grin slowly fading to a somewhat dubious frown. Wilson had sounded serious, and the abruptness of his disconnecting the call did not seem to presage a gay evening. Da Silva shrugged and then sighed; a guest, whatever the sex or circumstances, would mean a necktie and—despite the heat—a jacket, plus shoes, drinks, and no TV. Which in itself, he conceded with a smile, was no great loss.

He went back into the living room winding a tie about his neck, knotted it, slipped into his jacket and shoes with a grimace, and then studied the television situation. In his absence John Wayne had given way to Gene Autry, who not only faced an identical set of problems but even had the courage to sing about them. He shuddered and switched the machine off.

He checked the kitchen for ice cubes and glasses and brought a sufficient supply back at least to start the festivities. The easy chair and coffee table were dragged back to their accustomed places, after which he walked to the window and stared down thoughtfully to the beach below. Wilson’s call, he was sure, was far more than an idle escape from a boring cocktail party; his friend’s voice had none of the joie de vivre you would expect from a man making his getaway from a cocktail party. No, something was on the fire.

The time stretched to half an hour, and then to forty-five minutes, and his frown deepened. At this hour it was only twenty minutes at the most from the American Club to Copacabana. When the doorbell finally rang he answered it with relief.

Wilson and another man faced him from the doorway. Da Silva’s eyes opened a bit wider at the sight of the second man; he stood aside to allow the two to enter.

“Good evening, Senator. Hello, Wilson.”

Senator Hastings paused, surprised. “You know me, Captain?”

“I tried to tell you,” Wilson said, coming into the room. “Zé knows everybody and everything.”

“Everybody and everything that’s been in the newspapers and on the radio,” Da Silva said with a smile. “It’s the secret of my success. Come on in and sit down, gentlemen.” He led the way to the coffee table, waited until the other two were seated, and lowered himself easily into an arm chair opposite them. “You’re late. I was beginning to get worried.”

“An errand on the way,” Wilson explained.

“Your apology is accepted,” Da Silva said. “How about a drink? Is cognac all right? I have scotch if you prefer, Senator.”

“Cognac’s fine.”

“Good. I won’t ask Wilson; he drinks anything.”

Wilson grinned. As usual when he was with Da Silva, he felt relaxed and at ease with the world. He turned to the Senator. “Zé’s referring to a bout I had with pinga once; it’s a sort of local rum. But roughly three hundred proof. However, I had a pretty good excuse—we were surrounded by snakes at the time, and there wasn’t anything better to be had.”

“Surrounded by them before or after?” the Senator asked. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Both, as a matter of fact,” Da Silva said. He served his guests and leaned back, cupping his glass. His eyes lost their humor; his voice became serious. “Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” He surveyed them calmly, but there was an awareness to his glance that Wilson recognized. “I’m sure the Senator didn’t break away from a party in his honor just to get a run-down on our local drinks.”

The smiles faded from the faces of his two guests; they looked at each other as if each were waiting for the other to begin. Da Silva lifted his glass and waited.

“Well, gentlemen?”

Wilson nodded. “All right, Zé. As you know, Senator Hastings is down here on official business for our State Department. Until today his wife was with him, but she left on the S.S. Bolivar this afternoon—she prefers the ship to flying …”

Da Silva nodded in complete agreement; it was a feeling he heartily shared.

“At any rate,” Wilson continued, “the other day Mrs. Hastings happened to meet a man at their hotel, and this man was apparently selling”—he paused a bit uncertainly, as if his own story sounded silly to his own ears—“selling precious stones. And to make a long story short, Mrs. Hastings bought a diamond—” He looked up, fully expecting at least a smile from his friend, but Da Silva continued to watch him evenly. Wilson continued a bit more easily.

“Well, Senator Hastings completed the sale yesterday and paid for the stone in traveler’s checks. Now what the Senator wants is to pay any sales tax—or any other tax that might be involved, I imagine. He realizes a sale of this nature—from an individual—was irregular, and he isn’t complaining about it. He thought you might be able to steer him into the proper channels to handle the thing legally.”

Wilson paused and then, despite himself, grinned broadly. “That’s quite a switch, when you think about it. Most people spend their time trying to figure out a way to avoid taxes …”

“Without doing it, unfortunately,” Da Silva said. “What else? I’m sure you didn’t interrupt your party just to find out about taxes. That could have waited until tomorrow. What else?”

“Well,” Wilson said, “I thought that since we were going to talk to you anyway, and since you know something about diamonds …” His voice trailed off into silence.

Da Silva nodded with a faint smile. “I understand. I begin to get the feeling that you aren’t as satisfied about the sale as the Senator seems to be.”

“To be honest,” Wilson said, “I’m not.”

Senator Hastings bent over, entering the conversation smoothly. “What Mr. Wilson means, Captain, is that he’s afraid that I was cheated, and he feels it is his duty to protect me.”

Da Silva’s eyes swung to the white-haired man. “And you feel differently?”

“I know I wasn’t cheated.”

“I see.” Da Silva drained his glass and poured another. His gesture invited his guests to do the same. “Tell me, Senator, how much did you pay for this diamond?”

Senator Hastings faced him calmly. “Three thousand dollars.”

Wilson expected a greater reaction from Da Silva, but other than the faintest raising of his bushy eyebrows the tall detective remained emotionless. “Quite a bit of money. Do you have the diamond with you now?”

The Senator nodded and reached into his jacket pocket, bringing forth a small box. “I had it in the Embassy safe. We stopped by and got it just now, which is why we were late.” His eyes flicked to Wilson as if he could still not understand the ease with which the nondescript man had managed access to the safe at that hour.

“I see.” Da Silva pushed himself to his feet, disappeared a moment into his bedroom, and returned with a jeweler’s glass. He accepted the box, opened it, and removed the diamond, picking it up carefully in the fingers of one hand. Screwing the lens into his eye socket, he bent before the lamp and studied it carefully. Wilson and the Senator waited, the Senator with a faint smile on his face, Wilson with a slight frown.

Da Silva straightened, hefted the stone a moment in his hand, and then returned the stone to the small box. He removed the jeweler’s lens from his eye, dropped it into his pocket, and handed the box back to the Senator. For several moments he stared at the floor thoughtfully; then, with a sigh, he lowered himself back into his chair and reached over for his glass. There was silence as he took a sip of his drink.

“It’s a very fine stone,” he said at last, quietly. “An exceptionally fine diamond. At three thousand dollars you got quite a bargain, Senator. I would judge the true value to be at least twice that amount.”

“I know,” the Senator said, a trifle complacently. He tipped his head in the direction of the silent but thoughtfully frowning Wilson. “Mr. Wilson didn’t believe me.” He smiled, relieved that the problem had been resolved. “Now, Captain, about the tax …”

“I imagine,” Da Silva said slowly, “that you considered the possibility of a stone that valuable having been stolen? Particularly being offered for sale in the manner it was?”

“Of course.” Senator Hastings met Da Silva’s gaze equably. “The jeweler who examined it had a list of stolen gems. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t anything this size even on the list. Which even precludes the possibility of its having been recut.”

Da Silva nodded. The list was one which he also had in his office, and while he made a mental note to have the list rechecked, he was certain he would not find the diamond there. Stolen merchandise of that category did not end up being sold in such haphazard fashion. There was something very odd about the whole affair. “And who was the jeweler?”

Senator Hastings named a company of utmost respectability. Da Silva nodded again, his face inscrutable. “This man who sold you the stone—did you happen to get his name, Senator?”

The white-haired man cleared his throat. “Would you mind telling me why you want to know, Captain? After all, as the buyer the responsiblity for purchasing the stone is mine. If there wasn’t anything illegal involved—and you haven’t indicated to me that there was—I can see no reason to involve him in an investigation.”

Da Silva’s almost Indian-like features broke into a wide grin; he was reading the mind of the man across from him quite accurately.

“Please, Senator Hastings! I’m not trying to break up your bargain. But let’s be honest with each other. You know as well as I do that something out of the ordinary is going on when you pick up a diamond of that size and quality at that price.” His eyes peered at the other humorously, but there was an underlying steadiness about them that was not lost on the Senator. “My business, Senator, is looking into things that are out of the ordinary.”

The handsome white-haired Senator stared into the smiling eyes of Da Silva for a moment, and then he broke into a grin, although it appeared a bit rueful.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I guess there’s a bit of larceny in all of us, and I’m afraid mine was showing. It’s just that I hope any investigation won’t interfere with my taking the stone back with me.” Da Silva’s face did not change; it promised nothing. The Senator sighed. “Well, after all that, the truth is I don’t remember his name. He gave it to me, but frankly all these Brazilian names sound alike to—”

He stopped abruptly, his face reddening. Da Silva laughed.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Senator. American names used to all sound alike to me. Could you tell me what he looks like?”

Senator Hastings nodded. “I should judge about forty years old, about your height, but a bit heavier, I’d say. Black hair, tanned complexion; nice looking. He didn’t wear glasses, and he was well-dressed. And—oh, yes, he spoke English, of course. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to converse at all.”

Da Silva stared at him evenly.

“Other than the fact that he spoke English, Senator—and a lot of the people who work the hotels do that—you’re describing half the men walking along the Avenida Atlântica right this minute. There must have been something a bit more distinctive about him. Please try to remember.”

Senator Hastings frowned in recollection. “He didn’t have a wooden leg, if that’s what you mean. I recall he had a widow’s peak, and … wait a minute! I remember his hand—his right hand. He had a very strange tattoo on the back of it.” He looked up to see Da Silva staring at him with a very odd look on his face. “What’s the matter?”

“About forty? Black hair in a widow’s peak? About my size? And a tattoo on the back of his hand?” Da Silva’s voice was almost hypnotic as he repeated the details; his eyes had almost closed to slits. “Do you remember anything about the tattoo?”

Senator Hastings nodded positively. “I certainly do. I don’t know why I didn’t remember it at once. It was most unusual, almost grotesque. Normally you expect to see an anchor, or a girl’s name in a heart, but this one was—”

“A blue-eyed sea serpent drinking Coca-Cola …” Da Silva’s voice was dreamy.

Senator Hastings stared at him. Wilson’s eyes had suddenly become bright.

“It was a huge spider,” the Senator said. “It almost covered the entire back of his hand. And horribly realistic. It startled me. When you saw it closer, it even seemed to be puckered, as if the spider were biting into—” He paused and cleared his throat. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten it.”

Da Silva sighed. “A pity. I was hoping it was a blue-eyed serpent …”

“Why?”

Wilson leaned over. “So it wouldn’t be the man Zé knows it is.” He turned to Da Silva. “Who is he?”

“Well, he isn’t a street vendor.” Da Silva raised his brandy glass to eye level and stared into the amber depths of the liquid through half-closed eyes as if searching for an answer to something there. When he finally looked across at the others there was a wry smile on his face. “His name is Nestor Nelson Correia Carvalho. Very alliterative.” He sipped and set his glass down. “He’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin?” Wilson was surprised. “You never told me about him.”

“I don’t tell you everything. Especially things that are unflattering to my family, and that certainly includes Cousin Nestor …” His voice became thoughtful; he seemed to be talking to himself. “I wonder what Nestor is tangled up with now?”

“Do you ever see him?”

“Every now and then. About a year ago I saw him when Homicide had him on the carpet, but he managed to get out of that. And about six months ago Customs was interested in him. But he got out of that too. A pity about Nestor—he can be charming at times.” His eyes came up to the Senator. “I imagine you can confirm that, Senator.”

“He seemed to be.”

“He can be. We were good friends once. We roomed together at the University, and we even became good friends after the trouble there …”

“Trouble? What happened at the University?”

Da Silva sighed. His half-open eyes seemed to be peering into the past. “That tattoo was done to hide a knife scar. That’s why the pucker seems so realistic. Nestor has a rather macabre sense of humor.” He looked up. “In school one day I found my cousin taking something of mine, and in those days I wasn’t the calm, cool, collected person I am today, so—” He shrugged. “—I put a knife through his hand.”

Senator Hastings looked startled.

Wilson’s eyes twinkled. “Didn’t they teach you: ‘Who steals my purse steals trash’?”

“Who steals my purse steals money,” Da Silva said flatly. “In any event, Nestor never felt any particular animosity. He’s rather a philosopher in his way. And I’m sure if he had caught me taking something of his, the knife would have gone in a lot further up.”

He looked up, suddenly businesslike. “Well, enough of memory lane. If you’re not too busy, how would you like to look Cousin Nestor up and ask him a few simple questions?”

Wilson nodded. “Good. Do you know where to get in touch with him?”

“I know where he usually is at this hour.” Da Silva’s dark eyes twinkled. “I know where most of the Rio bad boys are at most hours.”

Senator Hastings looked uncomfortable. “Do you want me along?”

“If you don’t mind.” Da Silva looked at the white-haired man equably. “There won’t be any knife play tonight. Both Nestor and myself have grown more subtle. And it’s quite a respectable bar.” He paused, considering. “Well, as respectable a bar as you’d expect, with Nestor as the owner.”

“You don’t understand,” Senator Hastings said patiently. He was finding Captain Da Silva quite different from what he had expected. “It’s simply that I really have no argument with the man. Plus the fact that I’m down here in an official capacity, and in my position …”

Da Silva pushed himself to his feet. “I understand perfectly, Senator. You’re afraid there might be girls soliciting in the bar and word might get back to the Embassy …”

“I beg your pardon?” The white-haired man was startled; then his handsome face broke into a smile. “You’re pulling my leg, Captain.”

“I certainly hope so,” Da Silva said, and turned in the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He closed the bedroom door behind him, removed his jacket, and then went to a closet where he took a shoulder holster from a hook and slipped it on. His service revolver was in the night-stand drawer, and he checked it very carefully before dropping it into place. He shrugged his coat back on, buttoning it over the slight bulge. As he passed the dresser mirror he winked at himself somberly; a new case always seemed to inject just that slight amount of adrenalin into his blood stream that kept him alert and happy. And, he said to himself, if Cousin Nestor is involved in something, there isn’t any doubt that this is shaping into a new case.

He came back to the living room to find his two guests on their feet and waiting at the door. Wilson’s eyes automatically noted the slight bunching of the jacket over the gun; his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. The Senator noted nothing. Da Silva opened the door, waited until the others had passed through, and then closed it, checking the lock behind him. Caution had paid him dividends in the past. As he led the way to the elevator his calm expression broke a bit, replaced by a faint frown.

“I wonder what Cousin Nestor is tangled up with now?” he repeated softly to himself, and pressed the down button.

“You said something?” Wilson asked.

“I think I did,” Da Silva said, and smiled. “It’s just that I don’t know how right I might be. Or how wrong.”

“That’s my boy …” Wilson said approvingly, and held the door open for the Senator and Da Silva to enter.