FOUR

The finest of vibrations throbbed delicately through the sunlit cabin of the giant plane. Below them the ocean sparkled in the crystal air, stretching away in soft, ruffled folds to disappear beneath a low bank of wispy clouds that indistinctly curtained the horizon. Da Silva, pleasantly relaxed, nodded at the pretty stewardess leaning over him. She smiled brightly in return, slightly excited by the presence of the man, and removed his depleted tray from the small shelf before him. A white-jacketed steward, following the girl down the aisle with a narrow cart loaded with bottles in exotic shapes, paused inquiringly at his side. Da Silva brought his eyes back from the swaying hips of the stewardess, studied the collection judiciously, and pointed. The steward poured a generous portion of Dom Pedro Segundo into a glass, set it down, and passed on.

Da Silva lit a cigarette, dropped the match negligently into the ashtray in the seat arm, and leaned back comfortably, his thin, strong fingers twisting the stem of the brandy glass carelessly. It’s a far cry from the old shaky, bumpy, creaking, frightening days of the DC-3, he thought. Today, flying isn’t too bad at all—providing all the mechanical parts are functioning properly, that is, and when the weather is good and the visibility unlimited. And when there isn’t any other way to get there, of course. Plus the proper credit that good brandy—or even bad—deserves in relieving passengers of their natural fears at being raised more than five feet off solid ground. I wonder, he thought idly, if the ancients who discovered the miraculous process of distilling brandy from wine had any idea of how much they would eventually contribute to people’s blithe acceptance of being thrust through the atmosphere at six hundred miles an hour? Probably not; the chances were they invented brandy for completely different reasons, although one could scarcely accuse such humanitarian benefactors of being men without vision. It may have been discovered about the time that rumors of flying carpets were rife, so naturally …

“Zé.”

Da Silva turned his head slightly. Wilson, in the seat beside him, was frowning at him thoughtfully. “Yes?”

“I want you to read a letter I had from Jimmy.” Wilson held the envelope in his hand, wondering whether it would strengthen or weaken his case to present it to Da Silva. He thrust it out. “I want you to read it and then tell me if it sounds like a letter from a man who was planning on stealing some bonds and then running away.”

Da Silva sighed and pushed himself more erect. “All right.”

He put his glass down and accepted the envelope, took out the letter, and read it through slowly and carefully. He read it a second time and then folded it and slipped it back into the envelope, tapping it against his fingers. He studied Wilson’s face a few seconds in silence and then handed the envelope back without speaking.

“Well?” Wilson was impatient.

“When did you receive it?”

“About five days ago.”

“Which means it was mailed from the States at least a week and a half ago. Or maybe even two weeks. And a lot can happen in a couple of weeks.”

“Whatever that profound statement is supposed to mean,” Wilson said shortly.

“Well,” Da Silva said quietly, “it might mean that since writing to you a sudden chance came up to grab off some bearer bonds, and since he was planning to leave the country anyway—”

“You don’t believe that,” Wilson said indignantly. “Not even your wild imagination could concoct a situation where a bond theft and a previously planned trip might coincide so conveniently.”

Da Silva grinned, sipped his brandy, and put the partly filled glass down. “You’d be amazed what my wild imagination could come up with. But in this case, you’re right. I don’t believe it. I think that the trip to Brazil was arranged to accommodate the stealing of the bonds. Does that make you any happier?”

“Then explain this letter to me,” Wilson said stubbornly. He shook the envelope in Da Silva’s face and then tucked it back into his pocket. “Does it sound like a man planning to steal a bundle and then escape?”

“No,” Da Silva said. “It doesn’t.” He crushed out his cigarette and leaned back, staring ahead. “Personally, if I were planning a deal such as your friend Martin pulled, I doubt that I’d lay it all out in a letter to a Federal man, even if he was an old buddy from the war years. I don’t think I’d start off saying, ‘Wilson, old pal, a funny thing hapened to me on the way to the airport. I was passing this bank, see, and—’”

Wilson glowered at him. “Very funny. Just answer me one question: Why did he write to me at all if he was planning a thing like this?”

“On the other hand,” Da Silva continued dreamily, almost as if the other had not spoken, “I might want to know what the police were working on, how close they were getting, and where better to get the dope than from an old buddy-buddy? An ex-comrade in arms?” He looked across at his friend. “How does that stack up as an answer?”

Wilson drew in his breath to let out a blast and then allowed himself to relax. “You’re joking. Only, as with most of your jokes, it isn’t even faintly humorous. I’m still waiting to hear your explanation of why he would write to me at all?”

Da Silva shrugged elaborately. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe he had an extra airmail stamp in his wallet and didn’t want to waste it before leaving the States. Or maybe he’s a compulsive correspondent. I had an uncle like that once. He wrote to the Jornal Do Brasil every week, whether he had anything to say or not. If there were no political crisis that week—a rare event, I admit—any other subject would do, from birth control to the proper way to shade coffee. I remember one time—”

“Zé!”

Da Silva’s light tone disappeared. “All right. I don’t know why he wrote to you, and I doubt that it’s greatly significant. One good reason would be to have you think the way you’re thinking—that if he wrote, therefore he couldn’t be guilty. One thing is sure—if I had been in his place, I wouldn’t have written.”

“But the fact remains that he did write.”

Da Silva shrugged. “If it makes you any happier, when we find him, we’ll ask him. How’s that?”

Wilson had had about all he could take. He exploded. “Damn it, Zé, can’t you ever picture yourself as being wrong?”

“Easily, but not this time.”

“You’re a thick-headed, stubborn bastard!”

“Language,” Da Silva said reprovingly, and shook his head.

Wilson stared at the tall, relaxed man at his side, amazed in his mind that a person he had known and respected for so long could be so completely blind to the opinions of those with whom he worked and lived so intimately, with those with whom he had faced danger so many times. “Well, you can be as cute as you like, but you’re still wrong. If you knew Jimmy like I know Jimmy—”

Da Silva’s eyes crinkled. “The way I heard it, it was Susie.”

Wilson clenched his jaw. “The fact remains that you don’t know the man and I do.”

The smiling face across from him lost its humor. “I’ll know him,” he said softly. He held his hand out, his fingers outstretched, and then suddenly clenched them into a fist. “Like that, I’ll know him.”

“And when you know him,” Wilson said softly, “ask him why he had the foresight to get a visa for travel to Brazil weeks before he needed it. Because that’s how long it takes. And ask him why he allowed a good suitcase with good clothes to go on ahead to Rio, when he never had any intention of reclaiming it there.”

Da Silva frowned. “Do you expect me to overlook the fact that the New York police say he’s guilty of stealing bonds and running away, just because he sent a suitcase through to Rio and got off a Recife?”

“I don’t expect you to overlook anything,” Wilson said. “All I want you to do is to explain it. And while you’re at it, explain the empty briefcase. And the blood.”

“Blood’s not too hard to come by,” Da Silva said easily. “It’s a very cheap commodity.” He reached out and picked up his glass, frowning at the brown liquid. “And empty attaché cases? A dime a dozen.” He considered his words and then amended them. “Well, possibly a bit more expensive, but still cheap at twice the price. In comparison, that is, with a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth of negotiable bonds. And the same goes for the suitcase and the clothes.”

“You mean, you think it was all planned?”

“I’m sure it was all planned.” He shrugged. “I don’t think it was planned with as much thought as it should have been, but I’m sure your friend Martin considered it well planned.”

Wilson shook his head helplessly. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“Not thieves,” Da Silva admitted. “No.”

“You know, Zé, you really are a pigheaded, blind, stubborn, inflexible, hardmouthed, bullheaded, obstinate—”

“You sound like a thesaurus.”

“—contrary, obstreperous, refractory bastard!”

“You forgot ‘uncompromising,’” Da Silva said, and grinned. He held up his hand. “Anyway, we were supposed to be having a truce, remember?”

Wilson bit back his reply, forcing himself to subside. He swung about and stared out of the window, seething. The twin instruction lights above their heads suddenly flashed on. The drone of the steward’s voice advised them, first in fair Portuguese, then in very good English, and finally in fluent French, that the ship was preparing to land and would they please, etc., etc. Da Silva crushed out his cigarette, finished his brandy, and put the glass down on the floor. It was not necessary for him to fasten his seat belt; he never unfastened it in any circumstances on a plane. He brought his seat to an upright position and stared ahead, thinking.

A sudden shudder rippled through the long body of the plane, accompanied by an eerie whistling sound, and followed immediately by twin thumps that indicated the landing gear had been lowered and locked into position.

Wilson stared down through the tiny window. The smooth beach, beige in color, was sweeping gradually toward them; the even rows of palm trees that bordered the ocean road were taking on a more distinct form, their interlacing green shades now plainly visible, their clumped roofs more sharply delineated, all bowing obediently away from the sea, bracing themselves against the steady landward breeze. A hundred yards offshore, clearly definable as the plane sank closer to the earth, a wavering line of white froth marked the edge of the hidden reef that separated the deep green of the vast Atlantic from the lighter blue of the narrow lagoon that paralleled the curving beach.

The huge wing at his side suddenly rose majestically, frighteningly; when at last it returned to position the view of the placid ocean had been replaced in the distance by the skyline of tall white buildings surrounded by neat green squares edged in waving palm trees that hid the lesser rooftops. Wider, lighter paths glistened in the sun, weaving irregularly through the city, marking the network of canals that had made Recife famous as the Venice of Brazil. Wilson shook his head sorrowfully; Recife had always been one of his favorite cities. It was a pity that he was visiting it now for such a tragic reason.

The plane dropped lower. The sight of the skyline was lost behind the rising brims of nearer vegetation, replaced by brown fields flashing below, and finally by arched hangars rearing back from the danger of the roaring traffic that swooped by on the wide concrete runways. The plane touched down with a rocking thud; the reactors reversed, screaming mightily, pressing the passengers tautly against their seat belts, and then relaxed as if satisfied that they had demonstrated their gigantic power to the puny human cargo they carried. The plane rolled easily toward the terminal, dipping lightly at expansion joints, and drew to a welcome stop before the two-storied passenger building.

Da Silva unbuckled his seat belt and rose to his feet. He stepped into the aisle, making room for Wilson to emerge. The smaller man pulled himself erect and stared at his companion coldly.

“No more truce,” he said, almost harshly. “That ended when the plane touched down.”

Da Silva nodded equably. “No more truce,” he agreed, and led the way up the narrow aisle.