X.

Wilson squatted, caboclo fashion, hunkered down with his back against one of the grotesquely carved wooden pillars that halfheartedly upheld one of the corners of the ferry-slip entrance in the Praça Quinze de Novembro. With the warm sun of late afternoon in his face, and the soft noise of the square about him, he waited quietly, comfortably, happy that they were once more embarked on an adventure that took them from the crowded and predictable city.

The majority of the people about him were standing in queues of one nature or another. Some marked time for the erratic arrival and departure of the madly driven lotacões that used the square as a starting gate in their suicidal race to return as soon as possible; others stood with the endless patience of their kind, waiting for the plodding ferries that would take them across the bay to their homes in Niterói. On all sides peddlers attempted to whip up enthusiasm for their wares, trudging along the queues and offering every useless article imaginable, from vegetables long since wilted from the day’s heat to live baby squid, plastic raincoats, and statuettes cast from purest chalk. Over the entire busy scene the huge outspread arms of the Perimetral Highway loomed, curving massively through the Praça, and angling wide shadows across the grassless packed earth to the water front beyond, impervious to the chatter of the crowds below.

Wilson had had time for several errands since Da Silva’s telephone call, and these had included his following instructions to dress properly for the trip. With the wilted collar of his tan work shirt open at the throat and his small battered overnight bag tucked for safety between his accordion-booted feet, he appeared to be a reasonable facsimile of most of those about him in the square. He was still as nondescript as always, but now in a Brazilian rather than an American style. One of his fingers, dangling to the sidewalk beneath him, traced an idle design in the dust and then brushed it away. Da Silva had said five o’clock, and it was past that hour already. And they had a long and bumpy trip ahead of them. Well, at least one thing was sure—the taxi would get them there. It always had.

His mind dwelt a moment on Da Silva’s unusual taxi and on some of the adventures they had enjoyed in it. He considered the word and rejected it; suffered, he decided, would be more accurate. Although to all outward appearances the battered vehicle was a duplicate of all the other ancient taxicabs that limped, shuddered, and coughed their asthmatic way through the streets and over the rutted highways of Brazil, held together by string, rust, and prayer, and peering myopically at the world through cracked and rheumy glass, beneath the crumpled hood of Da Silva’s taxi beat as finely tuned a twelve-cylinder engine as money or mechanics could arrange. And in its scarred horn ring dwelt a two-way radio set, and beneath the scratches and dents of its body lay bulletproof steel. And in its trunk—that part that was not occupied by auxiliary gasoline tanks—was a complete set of license plates for every state and territory in the country. Wilson was well aware of the advantages of Da Silva’s taxi over any other around; he simply hoped they wouldn’t need any of the special features of the car on this particular trip. Except, of course, to get them there.

There was a sharp beep of a horn. Wilson looked up from his musing to see Da Silva cutting expertly into the automobile queue, beckoning to him with his free hand. He came to his feet easily, lithely, and moved across to the waiting line of cars. Da Silva leaned over and opened the door; Wilson slid in, tossed his bag carelessly into the rear seat, and leaned back. He glanced across at his friend.

“So here we go again,” he said, and grinned cheerfully. The thought of action was always pleasant to him, particularly action at the side of Da Silva, who struck him at times as being more American than Brazilian. Or possibly, he thought to himself, I’m getting to be more Brazilian than American. Or maybe there really isn’t too much difference.…

Da Silva nodded equably and fumbled in his pocket for his fare. The wide gates had finally been swung back and the waiting crowd surged forward, blocking the inching cars, hurrying between the closing gaps of bumpers to get aboard and find a place to sit on the long hard benches that lined the ferry’s interior. A truck in the front of the line edged onto the ferry; the squat boat dipped alarmingly in response to the sudden weight and then bobbed manfully back into place, scraping against the ferry slip with a reproachful rasp. The line moved forward slowly.

Da Silva pulled down the ramp, bumped aboard, and eased himself into position behind a pau de arara filled with solemn-eyed people who stared back at him with no expression whatsoever. He slid payment to the attendant who had immediately appeared, set the hand brake, and switched off the ignition. And then he leaned back comfortably, returning Wilson’s smile.

“Yes. Here we go again. But unlike some other times I remember, this time I think we’re going with some ammunition.”

Wilson’s expression changed to one of anticipation. “Did something come up this afternoon?”

“Many things came up this afternoon.” The tall swarthy man reached into his shirt pocket, extracted a battered packet of cigarettes, and flipped them up, offering one to Wilson. He scratched a match, lit the two cigarettes, and then dropped the match negligently outside the car to the deck of the ferry. Like Wilson, he was dressed for the occasion, including the small leather cap prescribed by law for all taxi drivers; he shoved it back a bit to reveal black curly hair and stared out of the window toward the pulsing bay. The ferry had cast loose and was squirming from the slip, churning violent froth. The captain leaned from the small wheelhouse above, screaming unintelligible orders at a crew that paid not the slightest attention. After all, they went through the ritual of docking and departing every forty-five minutes all day long, and besides, the orders too often came long after the performance.

“Such as?”

Da Silva turned back from his contemplation of the blue water. “What?”

“What things came up?” Wilson’s voice was becoming a trifle impatient.

Da Silva grinned and wrinkled his forehead as if in consideration of his own words. “Or rather, things didn’t come up—not in the sense that they were the result of accident. We brought them up. But,” he added, “in any event, up they came …”

“I think I hate you most when you’re in one of your triumphant moods,” Wilson decided. He sounded as if he had given the matter considerable thought. He flicked ash from his cigarette and continued to stare grimly at his companion. “These things that came up—or were brought up by your genius, if you prefer—what were they?”

“Lots of things,” Da Silva said, not to be denied his moment. He brought his head around to face Wilson, his dark eyes twinkling. “Like a bill in Nestor’s safe for diamonds …”

Wilson instantly became serious. “A bill?”

Da Silva nodded firmly. “A bill, meaning bought. And a receipt, meaning paid for. For six diamonds totaling over twenty carats, from the most reliable house in Rio. Six diamonds, the cheapest of which was a lot more than the Senator paid for his.”

Wilson considered this information a moment. “When were they bought?”

“About four months ago. Which is sufficiently recent to indicate clearly Nestor didn’t resell them because he urgently needed cash. Which,” Da Silva added as he thought about it, “his bankbook indicated he didn’t need in any event.”

“I see.” Wilson didn’t see at all, and he was equally sure that Da Silva didn’t see at all either. He took a last puff of his cigarette and flipped it bravely in the general direction of the boat rail. It barely missed a passenger there as it arched itself into the bay; Wilson turned back hastily to avoid the threatening, accusing glare sent by the near-victim on the car queue in general. “What else?”

“Well …” Da Silva’s faint smile faded; his dark eyes became serious. “We finally located that cable. The one that said: ‘Lay off Hastings.’ Remember?”

“Of course I remember. And it was a cable?”

“It was a cable. It was sent last night from the International Telegraph office in Arpoador.” His face darkened; a frown twisted his brow. “To a certain Senhor Ivan Bernardes aboard the S.S. Bolivar …”

Wilson noted the changed expression. “You look and sound like you know him.”

“I know him. At least I know a Senhor Ivan Bernardes who could easily have a connection with Nestor,” Da Silva said tightly. “It’s a common name, and it could be another Ivan Bernardes, but it makes too much sense for it to be this one. I—”

He was forced to pause. The ferry, charging madly ahead, suddenly seemed to realize that journey’s end had been reached and decided to brake, almost capsizing in the process. The cars, trucks, passengers, and crew all took the sickening jolt in stride; it was a normal part of the trip. Only the ancient ferry itself seemed offended by the rude shock of water against its broad bow and showed its disapproval by frothing even more madly than usual as it swayed to a slithering stop, paused, and then continued cautiously and sullenly into the Niterói slip. It rubbed itself angrily against the creaking timbers and then finally subsided as if in realization that resistance was useless against the chains being flung ashore and hastily warped into the ratcheted stanchions there.

The pau de arara in front sprang into noisy and vibrant life and then edged forward, its passengers swaying gently. Da Silva switched on the ignition, started his motor, and released the clutch. The mob of passengers aboard flooded forward, pushing madly to jump to the dock before the platform had been fully warped into place. They were met head on by an equal number of opportunists intent upon seated comfort. Horns blew raucously, crewmen screamed imprecations; nobody paid the slightest attention. The ferry captain leaned from his small deckhouse above and spat genially into the bay; confusion seemed to be the only thing that pleased him.

Wilson stared about him curiously. “Quite an adventure crossing on this thing,” he observed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Da Silva said, and grinned once again. “Every now and then they tip over. Or catch fire. Or hit some bit of floating debris—like another ferry, or maybe a Navy destroyer—and sink. Or get completely lost in the fog and end up halfway out in the Atlantic Ocean, or—” His grin widened. “—or worse yet, have the misfortune of arriving at Niterói.”

“You make it sound delightful,” Wilson observed.

“Adventuresome, anyway,” Da Silva conceded, and concentrated on his driving. Cars from the waiting queue on the Niterói ramp were attempting to drive onto the ferry before those aboard were well off. Pedestrians ran about with a lofty disregard for the potential danger of their four-wheeled opponents that was quite impressive. Da Silva inched steadily along in the wake of the bouncing truck ahead; its cargo of frozen-faced passengers continued to consider him gravely. They scraped past the last threatening fender of an oncoming truck, rolled up the ramp, came at last to the ferry entrance, and emerged into the confusion of Niterói at this hour. An open alley beckoned and Da Silva swung into it, narrowly avoiding a battery of tilted and open garbage cans set like drunken sentries along its passage. He increased his speed. Knowledge of the terrain was useful here; two more obscure corners and he was accelerating in the direction of the bay front of Icaraí, the traffic congestion of the city well behind him.

Wilson leaned back more comfortably. “Now—you were saying?”

“You mean about this tal Bernardes.” Da Silva paused as if in thought, unconsciously reaching one hand up to scratch at his pock-marked cheek. “Do you remember I told you about Nestor being in a jam with Customs some time ago? And getting out of it? Well, it seems he was tied in with some stewards aboard a ship who were bringing dope out—in their pockets, yet!—and turning it over to him for distribution. Only one day it occurred to somebody to give the stewards a fast frisk, and that blew the gaff.” He grinned at Wilson. “How’s my American slang?”

“A bit dramatic,” Wilson said dryly. “And?”

Da Silva shrugged. “And he got out of it. At the time it happened I thought they had enough evidence to put him away for a long, long time, but he came out of it smelling like a—what do you Americans call it?”

“We say, smelling like a rose,” Wilson said. “What do you say?”

Da Silva shook his head. “What we say is a bit more vulgar and a lot more impressive. But anyway—that’s how he smelled. And at the time this Senhor Ivan Bernardes was the Customs official charged with the prosecuion of his case.”

Wilson nodded thoughtfully. “And you think there was some sort of a deal cooked up between them …”

“I didn’t think anything when it happened,” Da Silva said quietly. He stared at his reflection in the windshield as if asking that phantom to give the true answer. “Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.” He swung the wheel expertly, narrowly missing three homeward-bound bathers; Wilson blanched, but neither Da Silva nor the near-victims seemed at all perturbed. The swarthy detective attempted to explain. “My aunt—Nestor’s mother—was alive at the time, and to be honest, I was just as happy not to see her hurt.” He broke into his infectious grin. “I’m sure this confession must shock you. I’m confident you Americans never let family feeling interfere in a police matter.”

“Never,” Wilson said stoutly. “Or anyway, only if we’re personally involved.”

They smiled knowingly at each other and then Da Silva returned his attention to the sweeping road that curved along the bay. In the distance across the darkening water Rio was beginning to glitter with early lights; a sloping band of distant tiny lights marked the ascent to the Pão de Açúcar. The beach road ended. Da Silva turned into a shaded side street, patiently followed it to where it finally angled sharply into the highway to Espirito-Santos, waited less patiently for a truck to roar past, and then cut in to follow.

The sun had finally reached the safe haven of the rolling hills beyond and the long shadows lay like wedges of gray haze over the rough cobbled road. Houses were spread farther apart here, no longer the walled estates with their red roofs of azulejo, but now the squat yellow adobe boxes that heralded the interior, each jealously holding the heat of the day and only grudgingly giving up a small portion of it in the relentless face of evening. Lawns gave way to open fields of stubble, fences to rows of staggered trees carelessly left standing as rather indefinite boundary lines. Then, without warning in the growing dimness, the cobblestones suddenly were gone, and they dropped heavily onto a dirt road that tried to squirm away under their attack. They were on the main highway to Bahia.

A swirling brown cloud ahead marked the approach of a truck beating its way in their direction, hurrying to reach Niterói before the darkness made evident its nonexistent headlights. Da Silva swung to one side precariously, swayed dangerously past, and seemed to regain the center of the road again by sheer instinct. A blast of acrid dust swept in to choke them; it seemed to bring with it a heat they had thought lost with the sun. Wilson swallowed convulsively and turned his head away, concentrating his attention beyond the road. Through the stand of scrawny timber that separated them from the cliff’s edge overlooking the ocean, occasional vistas of the placid waters below could be seen. The bobbing lights of a fishing schooner flashed briefly in the deepening darkness and then disappeared as they turned inland, maneuvering a sharply banked curve with whining tires.

Da Silva drove swiftly but carefully, holding the steering wheel loosely, letting the overpowered car judge for itself the depths of the ruts that snatched hungrily at their tires or the ridges that crossed the road invisibly beneath the bouncing beam of their headlights. Darkness was complete now and the road had become a twisting, desperate creature beneath them, wildly attempting to escape the relentless beam of twin lights that held it prisoner. Trees and tall grass bent ever closer, edging voraciously into their path, eager and ready to snatch the highway back to the tropical forest from which it had been cut. The jungle cringed away momentarily before the onslaught of the rushing wheels and then immediately returned to its dedicated task, creeping back toward the hard dirt of the roadway.

Wilson twisted, leaned over the back seat, and dug out his overnight case, wthdrawing a bottle from it. He uncorked it with a flourish, brought it to his lips, and swallowed convulsively. He shuddered a moment at the sharp taste of the cognac and then prepared to recork the bottle.

“None for you,” he advised his companion. “You’re driving.”

“Which shows how little you know about Brazil,” Da Silva said derisively, and reached across for the bottle. “Sober, on a road like this, is simply courting disaster.” He took the bottle, brought it to his lips without reducing his attention to the winding road, and when finished handed it back to Wilson. He took a deep breath and settled himself firmly in his seat, prepared for the difficult hours of driving ahead.

Wilson recorked the bottle and placed it on the floor of the car between his feet for easy access. He straightened back up with a sigh and glanced across at Da Silva.

“Well,” he said, “enough of this love-making. We’ve got hours to discuss this thing, so let’s start with you. What ideas do you have?”

Da Silva frowned. The faint light from the instrument panel threw dark shadows across his rugged face; he looked almost malevolent, staring through the windshield at the twisting road ahead.

“The first thing that comes to mind, of course,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “is smuggling. Using these tourists either consciously or unconsciously as dupes. So far we can place certain people in the gang, and they include a dock porter, Cousin Nestor with his photographs of tourists and his contacts with them—not to mention his glib tongue—plus a Customs inspector who probably isn’t as honest as he could be. Or should be. And a yacht in the picture, and connections with ships …” He paused, frowning. “And speaking of that, why only boats? Why not airplanes?”

“Or automobiles? Or mules?” Wilson agreed. “Or rafts? Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

“I am?” Da Silva shook his head. “I’m not, and we both know it. It has all the elements of a smuggling racket except for one thing: what in hell could they be smuggling? Diamonds? Bought at top market price here in Rio and then sold for less than half their value?” He shook his head again, harder this time. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Wilson said. “For one thing, I can’t see Mrs. Hastings, or our wealthy hog raiser, engaged in smuggling. They don’t need it, and I doubt that they want it. You’re right, it isn’t smuggling.”

Da Silva glanced across at him. “Which leaves us what?”

“That was my next question,” Wilson said.

“Then I’ll answer it,” Da Silva said decisively. “It leaves us completely in the dark. And it leaves us a lot to find out.” He thrust his watch under the pale gleam of the swaying instrument panel. “Which, with luck, we’ll accomplish tomorrow, when we meet with Senhor Ivan Bernardes.”

Wilson stared at him in surprise. “We’re seeing Bernardes tomorrow?”

“Certainly. We should be through going over Nestor’s yacht by ten in the morning; we can be in Salvador by one in the afternoon at the latest. And the S.S. Bolivar isn’t scheduled to dock there until three …”

Wilson looked at him suspiciously. “You were a busy little bee today, weren’t you?”

Da Silva grinned. “I was, indeed.”

“And you’ve got some definite ideas about this thing, don’t you?” He paused as a thought struck him. “Which reminds me of something I’ve been wanting to ask you: just why are we going up to Salvador by way of Camamú, anyway? What’s this sudden, intense interest in Nestor’s boat?”

“Oh, that?” Da Silva’s grin remained, although a bit thoughtful. “Do you remember how much it bothered us that Nestor, with only seconds to live, tried so hard to tell us about Anna-Maria? Well, actually he wasn’t.”

Wilson stared at him incredulously. “He wasn’t?”

“No,” Da Silva said quietly. “He was trying to tell us about the boat. Or at least I think he was. I saw a picture of it today, and you see—it’s called the Anna-Maria.…”