TEN

Da Silva opened the door of the suite and stepped aside, waving Al Cormier in.

“Let me have your coat.” He took Cormier’s lined Burberry and dropped it on a chair and then walked over to the bar in the corner of the room. “How about a drink?”

Cormier looked about the room and grinned. “All the comforts of home, eh?”

“All except warm weather. What would you like?”

“A shot and a beer, if you have them.” The red-haired man looked a bit truculent, as if his choice of drink might be sneered at. “I happen to like it,” he added simply.

“You could like worse,” Da Silva said with a grin, and bent over the miniature refrigerator beneath the bar. He uncapped the beer and then poured a generous slug of whiskey into a whiskey sour glass, dug out a crystal beer stein, and pushed everything across the polished mahogany bar. “You could like pinga, for instance. Like Wilson.”

“Whatever that is,” Cormier said, and poured his beer into the stein.

“That’s Brazil’s answer to Sterno. It’s the first distillation of raw sugar alcohol, and its smell alone is enough to scare off everybody but about fifty million Brazilians. And Wilson.” Da Silva poured himself a brandy, raised his glass, and sipped. “I’ll take cognac.”

Cormier propped one of his size twelve shoes on the bottom rung of the adjacent stool and looked about the room appreciatively. “This is really some fancy layout. Speaking of Wilson, where is he?”

“He ought to be wandering in any minute. He had some chores to do.”

Cormier nodded, drank his shot, and followed it with a sip of beer. “That’s better. That should keep the cold out. By the way, how are you fellows doing?”

Da Silva grinned. “I don’t know about Wilson, but I’m doing fine. I’ve got a date for dinner with a beautiful and very well built girl.”

Cormier studied him. “And that’s going to solve the problem?”

“It’ll solve mine,” Da Silva said, and then looked up. A key was being inserted in the door. Wilson came in, nodded to the two men, and shed his overcoat. He walked over to the bar and studied the array of glasses there.

“Hi. You can pour me a brandy while you’re standing there.”

Da Silva reached for a glass and a bottle. “Al was just asking how you were doing.”

“I’ll do better once I get that drink,” Wilson said, and shook his head. “God, but it’s cold. And that shipping office had to be all the way downtown, and a wind off the Battery that could kill you. I’ll be happy when we get back to Brazil.”

Da Silva paused in his bartending duties. “When will that be?”

Wilson looked at him evenly. “It won’t be before I get that drink—or before you have your date, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He picked up the glass Da Silva had filled and stared into its contents, frowning.

“So Jimmy had been to Recife,” Da Silva said.

Wilson nodded, and downed his drink in one gulp. “Yes.” His eyes came up. “But he’s also been to Belém.”

“And Rio?”

“No. The ship he was on did one of these twelve-day cruises that seem to be laid out by the policy-making division of the CIA. From Recife they went to Dakar.” He pushed his glass across for a refill. “God alone knows why.”

Da Silva poured. “So now you’re probably going to ask me why we don’t chase him to Dakar.”

“No. Now I’m going to want to ask you why we don’t forget the whole thing and go home.”

Da Silva frowned. “Because we still don’t have the bonds. Did you get a chance to talk to this chief cashier, Quinleven?”

Wilson nodded. “I talked to him. A good-looking guy, about our age, who sounds like he’s doing his best to get old fast. Prissy, if that word still means anything. Says he never liked Martin from the time he started working there. Says he wasn’t at all surprised that Martin stole the bonds. Asked what the world was coming to.”

“Not a bad question,” Cormier conceded, not knowing what the conversation was all about.

“The best one he asked,” Wilson said.

Da Silva leaned forward. “Didn’t he say anything of any use?”

“To whom? You or me?” Wilson sounded bitter. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t say anything useful to either one of us.” He downed his drink and pushed his glass across again.

Da Silva filled it only partially. “It sounds like you’ve had a hard day.”

Wilson shook his head. “Hard? On the contrary, it was easy. Too easy.” He hiccuped gently and reached for his glass. “Six easy lessons in how to railroad a guy who once saved your life.”

“Railroad? You sound more as if you were finally convinced that the man is guilty.”

“So he’s guilty!” Wilson sounded savage. “So he took the bonds and ran away to Brazil! So why?” He nodded his head slowly at his own question. “That’s a good question there. Why did he do it?”

There was a moment’s silence. Da Silva refrained from the obvious answer. Cormier had been listening to the exchange quietly. It seemed to him a good time to break the tension.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you guys are talking about,” he said, “but you asked me to stop up here, apparently for a reason. Could I ask what it might be?”

Wilson shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Zé wanted you to come.”

Da Silva nodded. “Yes, I did. Wilson just asked a question: Why did Martin do it? Well, one good reason, of course, is that he had to do it—if he needed the money desperately enough. And the thought came to me that one way people get to need money desperately is if they have a habit of gambling.”

Wilson stared at him morosely. “So?”

“So I thought that if he needed the money to pay off a gambling debt, it might just be possible to find out whom he lost the money to. It would have to be on a rather large scale—professional stuff, and not some penny ante game in a friend’s apartment.” He swung around to Cormier. “How many big games are there in this town?”

Cormier shrugged. “What kind of games?”

“I don’t know.” The tall detective turned to Wilson. “You knew him; what kind of game would he go for? On a big scale?”

“You know something?” Wilson said. “You’re crazy.”

“So humor me. What kind of gambling would Martin go for on a big scale?”

Wilson shrugged. “All right, I’ll humor you. He’d go for craps, but that’s about it. The horses never interested him, and he never played cards well enough to bet any really big money on them. But craps? He’d bet the house and lot on them.”

“So we’ll guess it was craps.”

Wilson almost sneered. “What difference does it make? Suppose you find out he lost the money at craps. Suppose you even found out who won it from him. What about it?”

“If he paid off—or plans to pay off—with stolen money,” Da Silva said in a hard voice, “then it’s just too tough for the gambler. I’m interested in getting that money back. As for Martin—” He shrugged. “If he’s back, he’s bait for the police here. If he isn’t, he’s bait for any police that get him. But a good part of the money he has belongs to the Brazilian Government. And I’m interested in that.” He turned back to Cormier. “Well? Any ideas?”

The red-haired man studied the smooth wood of the bar counter for a few moments, thinking. His heavy fingers drummed on the rail of the bar, keeping time with his thoughts. “Craps? There’s two or three big games in town. I’d have to do some checking to find out if Martin ever played in any of them—or if he won or lost, for that matter.” He looked at his watch. “It’ll take a little time, but let me check around and call you back.”

“Fine,” Da Silva said, and came around the bar. “How long do you think it will take?”

Cormier shrugged. “To get some dope on it? Maybe quick; maybe never. I don’t know. I don’t know any of the games myself. I’m not much of a gambler, and even if I was, I don’t have the kind of dough those games cost. But I know some characters who know some characters, if you get what I mean.” He reached down and picked up his Burberry, dragging it free from Wilson’s overcoat. “I’ll do the best I can. Suppose I call you back in the morning. Around eight.”

“Make it nine,” Da Silva said. “I’ve got a heavy date tonight, and there’s a good chance I’ll want my sleep in the morning.”

Wilson snorted and stared blackly into his glass. Cormier put on his overcoat and nodded. “Okay. Nine it is.”

He raised a hand in farewell to the two, and left. Wilson stared at the closed door a moment and then turned to Da Silva, frowning.

“So you have a heavy date for tonight. With the dame. The one you think was engaged to Jimmy.”

Da Silva walked back of the bar again, looked at Wilson’s glass, and then firmly returned the brandy bottle to the shelf. “That’s right.” He studied his friend calmly. “I’m no great believer in coincidence. He writes to you that he’s engaged to be married, and then we find a picture in his suitcase showing him with a beautiful girl and a fatuous grin on his face as if he had been drilling for water in Pernambuco and had struck oil instead. And the date on the back of the picture shows it’s been taken in the last few months.” He shrugged. “At least let’s say there’s a good chance she’s the girl Martin was interested in.”

“And if she is?”

Da Silva looked at Wilson in surprise. “Then doesn’t it strike you that she seems to be taking the whole affair pretty calmly? After all, if you were a girl whose boy friend was accused of theft and had run off to Brazil with all the cops in the world on his trail, would you take it that calmly?”

“I haven’t any idea,” Wilson said glumly. “I’m. not a girl.”

“Or would you put on the big sex act and make a date with a perfect stranger—a man who is after your ever-loving boy friend? Unless you had some ulterior motive?”

“Like what?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Da Silva said, and finished his brandy. He set his glass down; a faint smile formed in the corners of his eyes. “And it ought to be fun, in any event.”

Sandra Johnson lived in an apartment building on East Seventieth Street, a short block from the traffic of the East River Drive. Da Silva, getting out of a cab before the new and obviously expensive apartment house, raised his eyebrows. In Brazil, he knew very well, secretaries didn’t live in apartments like this—or if they did, they weren’t called secretaries. Possibly gambling wasn’t the reason why Jimmy Martin needed the money—or at least not the only reason. He shrugged the thought aside and pushed his way across the icy sidewalk to the refuge of the warm lobby with the wind buffeting him, helping him on his way.

The building had been designed to avoid the necessity for a doorman: whether for reasons of economy or to preserve the anonymity of some of the visitors was not immediately apparent. Da Silva, scanning the list of names beside the set-in communication apparatus, rather thought the latter reason more forceful. The building apparently catered almost exclusively to single girls. For a moment he had a notion to close his eyes and stab at the rows of buttons blindly, assured that every one concealed a possible winner, but with a grin he decided not to. He pressed the button for Apartment 1612 and waited.

In place of the voice he had expected, the door buzzer shrilled. He nodded in satisfaction at this proof that he was still expected and pulled the heavy door open. The lobby beyond was richly carpeted, the elevator sterile in its stainless-steel modesty. The elevator door closed quietly; there was a momentary sensation of motion and it slid open once again. Fast elevators and fast women, Da Silva thought with a faint smile, and walked down the hall.

The girl was standing at the open door of the apartment. Despite himself, Da Silva’s eyebrows raised. Even his most optimistic estimate of what lay behind that severe façade had not envisioned anything as lovely as this. Without her glasses her eyes were large and violet in color; her hair fell about her shoulders in rich masses. Her face had just that slight touch of angularity that made its beauty piquant; the excellence of her figure was emphasized by the tight Capri pants she wore, and the loose silk of her patterned blouse opened in a wide V to show the curving promise of the soft flesh beneath. She watched Da Silva’s inspection with a humorous look in her eyes and then stepped back.

“Come in, Captain.”

Da Silva followed her into the apartment. Beyond the small entrance hall a large living room faced the river and the nighttime beauty of lights flickering from the rise beyond. The cables of the Triborough Bridge, edged in sparkling strands of light, gave the picture windows the appearance of framed charcoal sketches rather than glass. Da Silva nodded approvingly and looked about the room. The furnishings were feminine in the extreme, chosen with good taste and an obvious disregard for expense; they seemed to have been selected, Da Silva thought, as an antidote to the rigid, cold modernity in which she passed her time at General International.

“Let me have your coat.”

He slipped out of it. The girl hung it in a closet and closed the door behind it. Her head tilted toward the small bar in one corner.

“Would you mind fixing the drinks?”

He brought his attention back from his inspection of the room and smiled. “Not at all. What would you like?”

“A martini, please. Very dry.”

Da Silva busied himself with glasses while the girl walked to a small coffee table and picked a cigarette from a box there. His eyes noted the more than slight swing to the full hips, the neat calves tightly clasped in the fabric of the garment. He returned his attention hurriedly to his job as she turned about. From the glint in her eyes as she walked back and seated herself on one of the bar stools, it was evident that he had been caught in the act. She leaned forward, cigarette in mouth; he paused to light it, and then finished stirring her drink. He poured it and set the glass before her with a smile. She lifted it, tasted it, and then nodded her head sagely.

“You make a very good martini. Nice and dry, and nice and cold.” The violet eyes studied him judiciously for a moment. “In fact, Captain Da Silva, you look like the kind of man who does most things well.”

“I try,” Da Silva said, and shrugged modestly. He found the bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass, raising it. “Well, here’s to friendship.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Fine.” He sipped and smiled at her. “Where would you like to eat tonight?”

Sandra studied him for several seconds, almost as if she were trying to make up her mind about him in some fashion. She smiled. “I thought, on a night as bad as this, that we might stay here and let me prove to you that I, also, can do some things well. Cooking, for one. I imagine you must be pretty tired of hotel meals.” She swung from her stool, carrying her glass. “Why don’t we sit on the couch and be more comfortable? And you can take off your jacket.”

Da Silva came around the bar, carrying his glass. He grinned. “You must have heard about my reputation. In Brazil I’m famous—or infamous—as the man who takes his jacket and necktie off at the first opportunity.” He set his glass on the low coffee table, removed his jacket, and dropped to the sofa, reaching for his drink again. “Ah. That’s better.”

“Much better,” Sandra agreed, and bent to open the cigarette box on the table before him. The movement caused the V-necked blouse to gape. Beneath it she was nude; her full breasts swelled the opening before his startled but appreciative gaze. She held the pose a moment, her face straight. “Cigarette?”

His eyes forced themselves up to hers. “No. No, thank you. Not right now.”

Her lips quirked; she straightened up and came to sit on the sofa beside him. One hip pressed against him. He leaned back as she bent forward and placed her glass on the table. “Tell me about Brazil.”

“Brazil?”

“You’re from Brazil, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Brazil!” He brought his mind back to the conversation and shrugged. “Well, I like it, especially Rio de Janeiro. It’s picturesque, dirty, wonderful, smelly, and beautiful. And warm of course.” He turned his head and grinned. “Let’s not talk about Brazil.”

“All right.” She smiled a bit wickedly. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Well …” He paused, as if thinking, and then looked at her again. “Tell me about Jimmy Martin.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Da Silva said gently, “if I’m poaching on his territory, I’d like to know.”

Sandra laughed; it actually seemed to be a genuine laugh. “I don’t think it would bother you a bit to poach on another man’s territory, Captain. I can’t keep calling you Captain all night. What do I call you?”

“You call me Zé. It’s the diminutive for José. And what do I call you?”

“Sandy.” The girl curled her feet up on the couch and considered. “I think I prefer José to Zé—Zé sounds like a stage comic speaking French.” Her eyes came up. “What makes you think I’m Mr. Martin’s property?”

“A rumor,” Da Silva said, and grinned at her. “A vicious rumor. Unfounded, I hope?”

“Completely unfounded.” The girl said it calmly. She took her drink, sipped, and replaced the glass on the table. “He had ideas, but they were strictly his own.” Her expression was serious. “Why do you think that Jimmy—Mr. Martin, that is—wasn’t attacked and robbed in Recife—as the police do? Why do you think he’s on his way back to the States?”

Da Silva’s eyebrows went up in mock surprise. “Eavesdropping? That’s a naughty habit.”

“Of course I eavesdropped.” She said it almost disdainfully. “I’m as curious as everyone else. It’s been the main topic of conversation around the office for the past few days, ever since it happened.” Her smile returned. “You still haven’t told me.”

Da Silva grinned at her. “And I’m not going to tell you. For one reason, I could be wrong. Everyone thinks I am. And I don’t want to start off trying to impress a beautiful girl by being proved wrong in something. It would be bad for the reputation.”

“And for another reason?”

“For another reason, because curious women are so much more intriguing when their curiosity isn’t satisfied.”

“Which proves you know too much about women.”

Da Silva smiled and picked up his drink. “Never too much. Or even enough.” He finished his brandy and set the glass back on the table. “It must have been fairly exciting around the office the day Martin took off with those bonds.”

“They tell me it was.”

“They tell you? Weren’t you there?”

She shook her head. “I was in Chicago.”

“Oh?”

“I travel with Mr. Henderson on business trips.” Her eyes smiled at him almost mischievously. “After all, I am a private secretary.”

“And a good one, I imagine.”

She nodded in complete agreement. “And a good one.”

“And a good cook.”

“And also a good cook.” She bobbed her head.

“And a beautiful girl.”

“If you think so, then I’m a beautiful girl, too.”

Da Silva grinned at her. “And what else?”

Her answer was to reach out and begin to loosen his necktie. “I’m also an excellent necktie take-off-er,” she said softly. “You said you were famous as a man who takes off his necktie at the first opportunity.”

He sat quietly while she unknotted it and drew it sinuously from his collar. She dropped it on the floor and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Her hand slid inside, moving lightly against his bare chest. “Muscles, too …” She bent over him, her breasts pressing his shoulder deliciously, her eyes half-closed, self-hypnotized, her full lips parted moistly.

Da Silva took her in his arms; their lips met in a kiss that grew in passion. She held herself against him hungrily, savoring the strength of his hard, lean body, molding herself to him, and then suddenly broke away. Her head came back, the violet eyes studying him intently, gravely. Her voice was shaky.

“Not now. Not yet …”

Her hand continued to softly stroke his bare chest a moment and then was suddenly withdrawn. She swung about, brought her feet to the floor and stood up. One hand passed through her thick hair as if the motion could somehow erase or at least abate the emotions of the past few moments. She closed her eyes and then opened them again; she took a shuddering breath. “Would you like another drink?”

“I’ll fix them.”

“No. I’ll fix them. I—” She stared at him a moment and then shook her head as if trying to clarify her thoughts. Her eyes were grave. “I like doing things for you.”

She walked a bit unsteadily to the bar and stirred another martini. She picked up the brandy bottle and looked at it a moment as if surprised to find it in her hand, and then brought the bottle over and set it down on the coffee table. Her hand shook slightly as she placed her glass beside it.

“One more drink and I’ll start fixing dinner.”

“Fine.”

She suddenly bent and picked up her glass, raising it in the gesture of a toast. “To you, José. It isn’t often that I meet a man who makes me feel the way you do. So here’s to the strong, silent men of Brazil.” Her arm lowered and she pouted at him provocatively. “Which reminds me—are you going to continue to be strong and silent?”

“About what?”

“About Jimmy Martin and why you think the way you do about him.”

Da Silva laughed. “Well, I’m going to try and be silent, at least. I won’t promise anything about being strong.”

Her glass came up again. “And I’m going to try and break down that strong silence. Even if it doesn’t work, it ought to be fun.” She lifted her glass to her lips, her beautiful violet eyes peering at him over the rim with a promise as much to herself as to him.