SEVEN

Al Cormier, with Wilson at his side and Da Silva behind, wheeled his black Oldsmobile into Central Park South, made an illegal U-turn in the wide, dark, deserted avenue, and pulled up to the ornate entrance of the Simon Bolivar Hotel, his windshield wipers clicking madly in a vain effort to maintain clear vision. Snow swirled across the pavement, whipped by the bitter wind; it swept in sheets from a sky still black at six in the morning, hard pellets that twisted wildly in the light of the street lamps and then disappeared instantly in the darkness beyond the pale cones of light struggling down from the ghostly lamps above. Laden trees lined the park across the street, bent resentfully under the burden of their weighted branches, creaking mournfully in the strong gusts of wind that buffeted them.

In the rear seat of the car, sharing the space with the extra overcoats and the bags, Da Silva stared at the lighted front of the hotel entrance and smiled gratefully; it was the hotel at which he always stayed when he was in New York. His smile faded as he turned his head and stared through the windshield at the snow beating against the pavement. Brazilian, he said to himself with conviction, go home. Finish this case and get back to the palm trees and the beaches and the sun and the warm breezes. Come back here in the spring or—better yet—when they grow banana plants along Fifth Avenue. The thought brought a smile to his lips, and he turned and studied the man behind the wheel.

Cormier was a tall, rangy man with flaming red hair that came to a sharp widow’s peak in the center of his wide, freckled forehead. He had small but exceedingly bright blue eyes, and a ready smile that revealed well-spaced white teeth. His appearance was contrary to Da Silva’s preconceived notions of what American private detectives might look like. The few private detectives he knew in Rio were rather slimy characters, with few morals and fewer talents; the one thing he and the Rio private detectives had in common was a mutual loathing for each other. He shrugged; Wilson had contacted this one, and Wilson, whatever his faults, seldom made mistakes about people.

Except in the case of James Martin, of course.

The red-haired private detective in the front seat finished setting the brake; he turned off the ignition and swung around, grinning at his rear-seat passenger. “I made the reservations here at the Simon Bolivar, Captain, because most of the staff speak Spanish,” he explained genially. “I didn’t know until I met you at the airport that you spoke any English.”

Da Silva opened his mouth to deny indignantly that Brazilians spoke Spanish and then changed his mind and closed it. After all, Cormier had gone to the trouble of finding them a couple of spare overcoats—which, oddly enough, fitted—and had also been kind enough to meet them at the airport in miserable weather and at an hour when most people would have shunned crossing the street as a favor to a rich uncle working on his will. After all, since 99 per cent of all Americans thought that Brazilians spoke Spanish and that Buenos Aires was the capital of Rio de Janeiro, what difference did it make, anyway?

Wilson was not so generous. “For God’s sake, Al,” he said in deep disgust. “Portuguese, not Spanish! What do they teach you in that barber school you go to to get a license?”

“Portuguese, Spanish, what’s the difference,” Al asked cheerfully, not at all put out by Wilson’s tone, and then answered the other’s question. “What do they teach us? They teach us to dig out dope for CIA agents either too lazy or too thick to dig it out for themselves, if you really want to know.” He grinned and ran a large freckled hand through his damp red hair. “And if you’d like to find out what dope we dug out, why not get into the hotel and let me give it to you? And then let me get back home and get me some sleep.”

He swung around to face Da Silva. “This Simon Bolivar isn’t a bad hotel at all, Captain. I know the hotel dick here. If they give you any trouble about anything, look him up and use my name.”

“Thank you,” Da Silva said drily, and smiled to himself.

The porter had been watching the parked car through the heavy glass of the lobby doors in the hope that it had only paused to discharge a passenger and would then go away; he blanched at the sound of the horn being beeped in a short tattoo. He shook his head at the cruelty of life, pulled the collar of his uniform as high as it would go in a vain attempt to cover his ears, pushed through the doors, and walked reluctantly to the curb, bracing himself against the icy blast that swept the avenue. At the sight of the brigand mustache and the wide smile on the face of the tall man emerging from the rear seat, a complete change of expression crossed his face. He smiled widely, displaying two large gold teeth.

“Captain Da Silva! It’s good to see you again!”

“Hello, Otto. How’ve you been?”

The porter accepted the question as not being rhetorical. “More or less, Captain. This terrible cold weather, so early in the year—” Da Silva turned to pull the overcoats from the rear seat. The porter hurried to block him, scandalized. “Here, Captain! Leave all that. I’ll take care of everything.” He turned to Cormier almost imperiously. “The keys to the trunk!” Wilson watched with a faint smile.

“The stuff’s in the back seat,” Cormier said shortly and hurried to catch up with Da Silva, who was pushing through the heavy doors.

“You know the guy, huh?” he asked. “A Brazilian?”

“A Pole, actually,” Da Silva said, and advanced on the desk.

The night clerk, weary from a long stint of boredom that only seemed to have been relieved by irritations, looked up in pain at the sight of guests arriving at this unheard-of-hour. It seemed to him that anyone who had delayed this long to check in could certainly have had the decency to wait an hour more and inflict himself on the day clerk rather than on him. He drew himself up haughtily. The guests would be served, of course, but there was no reason why they should not be subtly chastened in the process. Or possibly not even subtly; as he recalled, Room 814 was unoccupied, and Room 814 adjoined the service elevators and had thin walls. It should do nicely.

The clerk noted the key in the box of 814 and swung back to his guests. One look at the smiling swarthy face with its heavy mustache, its bushy eyebrows and flashing teeth, and he forgot all about Room 814.

“Captain Da Silva!” he cried in honest delight. “It’s good to have you back again. For a long visit this time, I hope?” He beamed across the desk and thrust out a hand.

Da Silva grasped it firmly. “Not too long, I hope,” he said, and robbed his words of any possible misunderstanding by adding, “Not in this weather of yours, Pierre. If I could spend all my time inside your hotel, it would be fine, but—” He shrugged.

The clerk accepted this compliment to the hotel. Guests were treated as they deserved, and Captain Da Silva always deserved the best. He smiled happily once again and then got down to business. The Captain had undoubtedly traveled far and would be tired and wish to wash up and rest. “I can give you—”

“The reservation has already been made. In the name of Wilson.”

“Oh.” The room clerk fumbled through a pile of cards on the desk before him and finally extracted one. He studied it a moment and then frowned in shock, as if he had suddenly discovered the small pasteboard spread with a culture of a particularly virulent bacillus. “This is for a double room. With twin beds!” His tone seemed to imply that twin beds were not only constructed with broken springs, but that the chances were somebody went around putting peas under the mattresses. He looked up indignantly, his expression denying any culpability on the part of the hotel management for this outrage. “I’m positive they did not know you were in the party, Captain.” He waited a moment to assure himself that his apology had been accepted and then, dismissing the entire affair as an idiotic mistake on the part of some imbecile, tore the card in half and neatly dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.

“Your usual suite is available, Captain,” he said. “I shall have the adjoining room opened for your guest.” He reached behind him for a key and handed it over. “Your bags will be sent up immediately.” He pounded loudly on the call bell.

“Thank you, Pierre.” Da Silva raised a finger; the room clerk sprang to instant attention. The tall Brazilian indicated the silent red-haired man beside him. “Pierre, this is a friend of mine. Mr. Cormier. Should he ever require anything—”

“Be assured, Captain Da Silva, as if it were for yourself. And I shall see to it that the rest of the staff are informed.”

“Excellent.” Da Silva thanked him with a smile and turned toward the elevator. Wilson had been standing to one side, watching the scene with a grin he found difficult to conceal. Cormier walked along, frowning; he glanced at the swarthy man beside him.

“You didn’t register.”

“Pierre will register for me. As well as for Wilson.” He smiled pleasantly at the other and continued. “Pierre, by the way, is French. He may or may not speak Spanish. The telephone operators are of several nationalities, although one of them—Maria—is Puerto Rican and exceptionally lovely. She, I know, speaks Spanish.”

The elevator door opened and the three men filed in. Da Silva gave the floor number to the operator and then lounged back against the rail in the rear of the car. Cormier looked at him a moment and then jerked his head toward the elderly man at the controls.

“No demonstration? He must be a stranger.”

“Merely new,” Da Silva said easily. “Which is not quite the same thing as being a stranger.”

Cormier opened his mouth to speak and then shut it. They rose in silence; the door slid back at their floor and they walked down the richly carpeted hall to the door of the suite. Da Silva inserted the key and swung the door back, standing politely aside to allow the others to enter. He closed the door behind him and took off his coat, dropping it into a chair. Cormier and Wilson followed suit. Da Silva walked to the windows and pulled back the drapes; it was still dark outside. He flipped a wall switch, flooding the richly appointed room with soft light. He waved one hand about.

“Sua casa.” He looked over at the red-haired man apologetically. “I beg your pardon. That was Portuguese and it means, ‘This is your house.’ Incidentally, almost the same in Spanish.”

Cormier stared at him a moment speculatively and then suddenly grinned. It was a rueful sort of grin but friendly, too, and it lit up his whole face. “All right,” he said quietly. “So I goofed. So they speak Portuguese in Brazil. So you speak English a lot better than I do. So you don’t need a nursemaid to hold your hand in the big, bad city. So I’m sorry. If you insist, I’ll shoot myself, but I’d be a lot happier if you’d accept my apology instead.”

Da Silva looked into the steady blue eyes a moment and felt all his former irritation drain away. Here was a man he knew he was going to like. He shook his head slowly, ashamed of himself.

“No. I think I’m the one who owes an apology to you. You’ve been more than helpful, and I’ve been—” He smiled wearily. “Well, let me be generous to myself and say I’ve been on a long plane trip, which I hate; lost too much sleep, which I love—the sleep, that is, not the loss—and …” He waved aside the balance of his explanation and held out his hand. “Let’s start over.”

Cormier took the hand and shook it; his blue eyes were pleased. “Good enough. In that case, let’s go to work.”

“Thank God!” Wilson said fervently. “I came up here to try and get to the bottom of this thing, and for a while there I thought I was going to have to referee a fight instead. Let’s get started.”

He turned and led the way to a large, round coffee table set in the center of the room. He swung a chair around and drew it up to the table. The other two men moved chairs into position and the three sat facing each other. Wilson brought out his cigarettes, extracted one, and tossed the package onto the table. He leaned over and pulled one of the heavy ashtrays toward him.

“All right, Al. What do you have for us?”

Cormier dug into an inside pocket, brought out a sheaf of papers and leafed through them. He selected one, studied it a moment, and then looked across the table at Wilson.

“Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s take the theft of the bonds first,” Wilson said.

“All right. Well, Martin was the assistant cashier at this bank, and last Monday afternoon—”

“Hold it.” Wilson brought out a notebook and a pencil, preparing to take notes. “What bank?”

“It’s the General International Trust. He worked in the main offices, on Sixth Avenue between Fifty-second and Fifty-third. They’ve got half the block. Anyway, last Monday, according to Mr. Henderson—he’s the president of the bank—he asked Martin to bring him a file of bearer bonds that were being held in the main vault; it’s down a flight of stairs from the first floor, with a guard and all, but Martin apparently had authority to go in and out. Anyway, Martin went downstairs and came back with the file, and the two men made a list of the bonds. It seems that Henderson was going to Chicago the next day to see a client, and the bonds—or their value—were involved in the deal.” He looked up, shrugging. “Before I go any further, let me tell you right off the bat that I’m no financial expert. I don’t know a bond from a share. I’m just telling you what the man said when I asked him.”

“Those bonds were the same as cash,” Da Silva said. “Did Henderson mention that fact?”

Cormier nodded. “He did. Although he said they’d have to be traded in one of the big centers—New York or London.” He returned to his notes. “I have a list of the bonds involved, if that’s of any use to you.”

“Maybe later, if we need it,” Wilson said. “Or you can leave it when you go. Let’s get on with the story.”

“All right. Well—”

There was the sound of a key being inserted in the door. A bellboy wheeled their luggage in, walked to a door in one wall and opened it with a second key. The three men waited until the boy returned with the empty cart. Da Silva rose, tipped him, and closed the door firmly behind him. He came back and sat down.

“And?”

“Well, as I was saying, after Henderson and Martin had made up this list, Martin took the bonds and left, supposedly to return them to the vault. And that was that. The next day Henderson went to Chicago and apparently while he was there some question came up regarding the bonds, or regarding the list in some way, so Henderson called New York and asked for Martin. But Mr. Martin had not come in to work that day. Well, Henderson didn’t think anything of that—he said he merely assumed that Martin was sick or something—so he had the call transferred to the chief cashier, a man named Quinleven, and asked him to get the information he needed from the bonds in the vault and call him back. Quinleven went to the file and—” Cormier shrugged humorously—“what do you know? No bonds.”

“And that would have been Wednesday?”

“That’s right. Last Wednesday.”

“And?”

“Well, Quinleven called Chicago back in a rush, believe me! Since the bonds were supposed to be in that place and no other, and since both Martin and the bonds were missing at the same time, they figured there wasn’t any point in waiting until Henderson got back from his trip to start checking, so Henderson told Quinleven to put the police on it. And the cops, once they got through their heads that missing cashiers and ticket agencies might go together, started checking around, and found that Mr. Martin had caught a plane—” He checked his notes again. “Varig Flight 906 for Rio.”

“Stopping at Recife,” Da Silva murmured.

“And also Belém,” Wilson said half-angrily.

“And also Belém,” Da Silva agreed equably.

Cormier looked from one to the other a moment. “I didn’t hear anything about that.” He shrugged and returned to his notes. “Anyway, the cops here cabled the Rio police, and that’s about all I can tell you about the Great Bank Robbery.”

Wilson looked up from his notebook and then shook his head stubbornly. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I had a letter from Jimmy that was mailed almost two weeks ago saying he was coming down on that flight. How could he have planned on taking the bonds that far in advance? He had to have an excuse—” He suddenly paused and stared at Cormier. “You said he had the authority to go in and out of the vault at any time. Didn’t he have to leave a receipt for anything he took out?”

Cormier shrugged. “I haven’t any idea. You’ll have to ask Henderson about that.”

Da Silva stared at Wilson. “What’s on your mind?”

“If he needed an authorization to remove anything from the vault,” Wilson said slowly, “he certainly couldn’t have known this man Henderson would give it to him just at the time he was ready to catch his plane. And obviously, if he had had previous authorization, he wouldn’t plan on stealing the bonds and then waiting a week or so to catch his plane.” He shook his head. “Something stinks.”

“The fact that he wrote to you at all is the only thing that smells, as far as I can see,” Da Silva said. He was leaning back, his eyes half-open, staring at the growing light in the sky through the tall windows facing him. “After all, maybe he didn’t need authorization. We’ll check that when we talk to Henderson. But, more likely, he didn’t have these bonds in mind when he booked passage—in fact, from what I’ve heard here, he couldn’t have. But he probably figured on clearing out with whatever he could pick up. An assistant cashier can usually lay his hands on something valuable at a moment’s notice if he wants to, and out of nowhere came this opportunity. So it was bonds.” He changed the subject, turning to Cormier in curiosity. “How did you manage to get all this information in the short time since Wilson called you? After all, the bank must have been closed by the time the call finally came through.”

The red-haired man shook his head. “It was closed for business, but Henderson was there, and Quinleven, and the cops. And a couple of state bank examiners.” He hesitated a moment and then grinned a rather embarrassed grin. “Actually, I could have waited for the morning papers and gotten most of it. They had the story—from the cops, I guess—though they don’t say too much. A lot of ‘alleged’ this and ‘alleged’ that. I’ve got the clippings here if you want them.”

He dug them out of his pile of papers and handed them over. Wilson took them and scanned them rapidly. They said very little; the news had apparently hit the newspapers too late for anything but a brief note. Wilson looked up.

“No pictures?”

Cormier shook his head. “No. The bank didn’t have any, and—” He thought a minute. “As a matter of fact, I don’t remember any at his apartment.”

“You went to his apartment?”

“Yes, but I’ll get to that later. Let me finish about the bank first. I talked to Henderson. He was getting so used to people asking him questions that he didn’t even ask for my credentials, which is just as well. Though I knew the police lieutenant there.… Anyway, Henderson seemed to be pretty broken up about the whole affair. He thought a lot of Martin, he said; brought him up from teller, step by step, until Martin got to be assistant cashier. Henderson said he felt let down by Martin’s taking the bonds. Never thought he’d do a thing like that.”

“Nobody thought he’d do a thing like that,” Da Silva said, and smiled faintly. “Of course, if anybody thought he’d do a thing like that, I doubt if he would have been allowed to continue working in a bank.”

Wilson disregarded the sarcasm. He stared down at his detailed notes a moment, sighed deeply, and then looked up again.

“What was the value of the bonds taken?”

Cormier checked his notes. “A little under a quarter of a million dollars, give or take a buck. Two hundred and thirty thousand, depending—according to this guy Henderson—on the fluctuation of the market.” His eyes came up. “Still, a lot of scratch in any man’s language.”

“Including Portuguese,” Da Silva murmured.

Wilson marked it down, studied it a moment, and then sighed. “All right. What did you find out about Jimmy personally? You say you had a chance to visit his apartment?”

Cormier nodded. He picked up another sheet of paper and studied it a moment. “I also checked him out with the cops. But about his apartment, he lives—or lived—in a room-and-a-half place in a new building over on Third Avenue, in the Seventies. He’s been living there about a year and a half now. He has a good reputation, at least with the building superintendent. The super says that Martin never made any trouble, paid his rent on the button, didn’t play his TV after one A.M— or if he did, he kept the volume down so the neighbors didn’t squawk—and if he ever brought any dames to his place, at least he never made a Paramount production out of it. All in all a good tenant by Manhattan standards.” He looked up. “Translation: He tipped the super pretty good at Christmas.”

He shuffled the papers before him and then looked up again. “I had time to see only one neighbor, a guy works out in Queens for Con Edison. Lives in the next apartment to Martin. Says Martin was a good neighbor—wishes everybody else in the building was as good.” He grinned. “Translation: Whenever-this Con Edison guy had a party and ran out of Scotch, Martin was available for the loan of a bottle.” He became serious again. “Like I said before, the super let me into the apartment, and it all looked in order, but I didn’t see any pictures around.”

“And you also checked with the cops?”

“That’s right. I still have a couple of friends down there. He hasn’t any record, at least not in town here, except for a couple of parking tickets that date back a good bit.” He shuffled his papers. “Military record—but you say you know all about that. Started working at the bank just a little over a year ago—”

Da Silva sat a bit straighter in his chair, frowning. “He started working at the bank a little over a year ago and worked his way up to assistant cashier in that short a time?”

Cormier shrugged. “I’m just giving you the facts, ma’am.” He grinned. “That’s a line from a television show, Captain.”

Da Silva wrinkled his nose. “I know; we have it dubbed in Brazil.” He shook his head. “Cultural exchange …”

Wilson wasn’t interested in the Alliance for Progress. “Had Jimmy had any previous banking experience? Between the time I knew him six years ago and the time he started working at this General International?”

Cormier checked his notes, and then shook his head. “Not according to the dope I’ve got. He seemed to be pretty much of a rolling stone until he took this job at the bank. Worked as a car salesman for a while, one of those big places on Broadway in the Fifties, and worked after that as a bartender—on the boats—”

Da Silva’s eyes narrowed. “What boats?”

“Holborn and Campbell Line—passenger ships to the Caribbean.”

“Do any of them go farther? To South America?”

Cormier looked up, surprised at this interest in something he had marked down purely by routine. “I don’t know, but it would be easy enough to find out. They’re sure to have an office in town. I know they go to the Caribbean because they advertise their cruises all the time on TV. Maybe they go farther. Why?” He looked from one to the other. “He left here by plane, not by boat.”

“This time he did,” Da Silva said quietly.

Wilson looked at him coldly. “We’ll check it,” he said, and then turned back to Cormier. “How did you manage to pick up all this dope on Jimmy in that short a time?”

Cormier grined. “Never underestimate the power of a private license,” he said. His blue eyes twinkled. “I could be real mysterious about it, but actually the truth is I got most of it from the application blank he filed when he applied for work at the bank. Quinleven dug it out for me and I copied most of it. The police was simply a telephone call, and I still had time to visit his apartment before I went to the airport.”

Wilson nodded. “Still a good job. Anything else?”

Cormier studied his notes a moment longer and then shook his head. “No. That’s about it.”

Wilson frowned. “Did you run into anything about a girl he was supposed to be engaged to?”

Cormier looked surprised. “No. Nobody mentioned anything about a girl.” He thought back. “No, neither at the bank nor at his apartment.”

There was a moment’s silence. Wilson came to his feet and wandered over to the window, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He frowned at the gray of the morning and then swung around. “Well, at least it gives us something to start working on. Thanks a million, Al.”

“Any time,” Cormier said, and sounded as if he really meant it. “But I don’t get what you mean, something to start working on. There doesn’t seem to be much of a mystery to this case, except for where Martin is, and where the bonds are.” He looked at Wilson quizzically. “Unless there’s something in all this I don’t understand.”

“There’s a lot in this I’m sure we all don’t understand,” Wilson said quietly, and stared down at the red-haired man. He nodded his head. “Well, thanks again, Al.”

“That’s what I like,” Cormier said approvingly. “A straight answer to a straight question.” He got to his feet and reached for his overcoat. Da Silva also came to his feet as Cormier shrugged himself into the garment and raised a hand. “Well, if you want me for anything else, you know where to reach me.”

“Right,” Wilson said. The three men shook hands and walked to the door together.

“What about your fee?” Da Silva asked.

Cormier grinned and tilted his head in Wilson’s direction. “This one’s on the house. You can ask him why.” He saluted the other two with a lifted hand and opened the door. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Da Silva closed the door behind the red-haired man and walked back to the coffee table. He bent down and extracted a cigarette from the pack there, lit it, and then straightened up, looking at Wilson. “Why is this one on the house?”

“Al Cormier used to be on the police force,” Wilson said. “A lieutenant. He was accused of something he didn’t do and I helped him to prove it, that’s all.”

Da Silva looked at him shrewdly. “And you see a parallel in that to your friend Martin’s case?”

“I didn’t even think about it,” Wilson said shortly. “Anyway, after it was all over, Al was so burned at his so-called friends on the force who were all ready to throw him to the lions that he quit and went out for himself.” He shrugged, dismissing the subject, and dropped back into his chair, staring down at the voluminous notes he had taken. He looked up again. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think you’re a good friend to have,” Da Silva said sincerely. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar, and then glanced at his wristwatch. “I also think we ought to have some coffee sent up and then try and get a couple of hours’ rest. Nothing will be open until nine at the earliest.”

“I don’t know if banks open that early in New York.”

“I wasn’t thinking of banks,” Da Silva said, “I was thinking of customs and the police executives and people like that. Martin is going to be coming into the States again very soon, assuming he isn’t already back …” He thought a moment. “No. He wouldn’t have had time to get back yet, but he’ll be back very soon, and I’d like to arrange a welcoming committee for him.”

Wilson’s jaw tightened. “Can’t you see from everything we’ve heard that the whole thing smells?”

“Does it? How?” Da Silva shook his head. “On the contrary, the whole thing follows the pattern. Except for his cute little attempt to lead us astray in Recife.” His dark eyes studied Wilson evenly. “Even to the fact that he didn’t have any pictures around anywhere.”

Wilson snorted. “That’s ridiculous! How many pictures do you have of yourself around your apartment?”

“I’m modest,” Da Silva said, and smiled.

Wilson gazed at him a moment and then shook his head. “I thought we had agreed to work together on this thing.”

“We are. But we’re also going to cover all angles. Let me get Jimmy Doe’s return to the States properly covered and I’ll be glad to go to the bank with you. Or anywhere else you want to go.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re equally welcome.” The tall Brazilian removed his tie and slumped farther into his easy chair, yawning deeply. “How about calling down for the coffee? You’re closer to the telephone.”

Wilson stared at him a moment and then shook his head admiringly. “I can see how we’re going to work together,” he said. “I’m going to be your valet …”

A faint snore was his only answer. He shook his head and reached for the telephone.