TWELVE

Forty-sixth Street was deserted as Da Silva came through the heavy doors of the old building and let them swing shut behind him, cutting off the light and warmth of the shabby lobby. The wind from the river whistled bitterly along the dark empty street, beating against him fiercely as he walked to the curb seeking a taxi. As if in response to his raised arm, one rounded the corner of Broadway and sped in his direction. It passed without stopping, its bare interior plainly visible to the waiting man. New York, Da Silva said to himself, and added a muttered curse. Well, there wasn’t any point in freezing to death here. With a shake of his head he turned toward the Avenue of the Americas and began walking. In Rio, at least, the twelve blocks that separated him from his hotel would have been a pleasant stroll; here, it promised to be anything but that.

He came to the broad avenue and turned north, his hands jammed as deeply as possible into the pockets of his overcoat, his head bent before the icy wind. Curbs came and went; cars passed rarely, each intent on its own business. A bread truck parked before a darkened restaurant was almost the only sign of life, with its driver dropping cases to the pavement, his breath steaming. Da Silva tramped along, trying to keep his thoughts on any subject except the biting cold that was edging up his trouser legs and worming its way down the raised collar of his overcoat.

And what had he gained by getting up from a warm bed practically in the middle of the night and going down to visit Barney Hahn and that oversized Neanderthal, Trenton, other than the privilege of walking back to his hotel in a cold that would probably leave him a rigid statue on some street corner long before he arrived? Barney and Trenton knew Martin, that much was sure, but so what? What if Martin gambled with them and had even lost, and had not paid off? Did he imagine for one moment that Martin would reveal his presence to them any more than to the police? What had he gained from the visit? Probably a good chance of pneumonia.

He passed Radio City Music Hall, black and massive, and then, farther along, the marble building that housed General International Trust. The sight of the building brought to mind the passionate girl with whom he had spent the previous evening. One thing was sure: Sandy wasn’t in love with Martin, whether she had been engaged to him or not. But one would still have expected more interest on her part, or more curiosity, if nothing else. The whole thing was very odd.

He raised his head, staring up at the shadowed façade of the building, and then hunched back into his coat collar. How many tiny currents were stirred by the slightest action on the part of any one man: Henderson’s job as president of the bank threatened, and with it possibly Sandy’s as well; police departments activated, assignments changed, insurance adjusters brought into the flow of events, airline departments motivated, work loads increased for customs men—hundreds and hundreds of people affected, each making his tiny contribution to the motion started by one man’s stepping out of the slot into which life had carelessly dropped him. Like the circles expanding on a lake from an idly dropped stone. A curious thought came to him: What would all these people be doing now if no list of bonds had ever been made and if Martin had not taken that opportunity to steal them and flee the country? Would there have been a vacuum, with everyone waiting in a sort of non-time period to resume his normal activities? What would he, himself, be doing now had Martin never gone to work for the bank but remained a bartender on a cruise ship? He frowned. He would be working on some other case—there was never a vacuum in crime. But some small portion of his brain refused to accept this answer; something in the background that had led to these philosophical thoughts continued to bother him subtly.

Central Park South finally arrived; he put aside his quest for the answer to what had been nagging at his mind and headed gratefully for the hotel, one block down the street. More hot coffee and a scalding shower might or might not revive him, but they would certainly help. Had he ever complained about the heat in Rio? Well, never again! The lights of the lobby welcomed him as he reached the heavy glass doors. He took one hand from his pocket and pushed against the glass.

To his complete astonishment, the glass under his hand suddenly starred, cracked, and then fell in jagged slabs to crash thunderously on the lobby floor. For one split second his mind tried to comprehend how the minute pressure could have occasioned such damage; then his brain came to life, driven by the hollow echo of the fusillade from across the street. Without conscious thought he flung himself past the shards, struck the floor of the lobby and rolled swiftly over the broken glass toward the safety of the window ledge. The second panel of the door cracked and then exploded inward under the stuttering impact of the bullets. Da Silva pressed himself closer to the floor. The room clerk was running over; the elevator operator, dozing beside the open car, came to his feet dazedly, rubbing his face, attempting to comprehend what was happening. There was the roar of an automobile exhaust and the sharp squeal of tires taking off from a standing start. Da Silva pulled himself to his knees and peered over the ledge; the fleeing shadow of the blacked-out car swung at the corner and disappeared into the park beyond. The tall Brazilian came to his feet shakily, surveying the damage.

The clerk had pulled to a stop a few steps away, his eyes horrified at the damage; they suddenly lit on the rigid face of his guest. “Captain, are you all right?”

Da Silva shook his head, not in answer to the query, but in an attempt to clear away the shock of having death brush by so closely. “I’m all right.” He turned and walked toward the elevators, the clerk following him.

“What was it? What happened? Why—” His eyes widened. “Captain, you’re bleeding!”

Da Silva looked down; a rivulet of blood was running from his wrist, curling across the back of his hand, dripping from his fingers. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wrapped it about the wound. “It’s just a cut from the glass.” He looked down; his coat was covered with tiny glistening bits of glass. “I’d better get upstairs and get cleaned up.”

“I’ll get a doctor.” The clerk started to move away.

“Forget it. I’ve got bandage upstairs.”

“And the police.”

“Pierre!” The clerk swung around; Da Silva’s eyes bored into his. “I want to be left out of this, do you understand?”

“But, Captain—”

“No buts! Tell the police anything you want, but leave me out of it. I don’t have time right now to waste with investigations. I’ll tell the police what they need to know when I’m ready. Do you understand?”

Pierre nodded. “If you say so, Captain.”

“I say so.” Da Silva got in the elevator and stared at the operator who had been listening. “And the same goes for you.”

“Yes, sir.” The door closed; the operator started the car, his eyes fixed rigidly ahead.

Da Silva rapped on the door of their suite. Wilson opened it immediately. “What was all that excitement downstairs?” His eyes noted the handkerchief. “What happened?”

“Somebody took a couple of shots at me.” Wilson’s eyes widened. Da Silva shook his head. “No, he missed. This is a scratch I got from the glass. The shots shattered the door downstairs.” He started to slip out of his coat. Wilson hurried to help him and then dropped the coat to a chair. Da Silva smiled bitterly. “It’s a good thing we’ve got spare overcoats—that one could be used for scraping floors.”

“You sit down. Let’s take a look at that wrist.”

Da Silva dropped into a chair while Wilson went into the bathroom, returning with Mercurochrome and bandage. He took off the blood-soaked handkerchief and neatly bandaged the cut. “Man, you bleed easily!”

“I told you in Recife that blood wasn’t hard to come by,” Da Silva said, but there was nothing humorous in his tone. He stared across the room in bitterness. “I wonder how Martin got past customs.”

Wilson stared at him. “Martin?”

“Who else?” Da Silva stared at him almost angrily, and then shook his head. “It was Martin, all right.”

“You’ve got Martin on the brain,” Wilson said coldly. “First of all, why would he do it? Assume he’s built up this whole thing in an attempt at a successful theft, why would he complicate his life with a murder? And the murder of a cop, which would be worse?”

“Because I’m the only one who doesn’t go for that fake attack on the beach at Recife, that’s why. And that’s the only real threat to his scheme.”

“And just how did he find all this out?” Wilson asked with sarcastic sweetness. “From the customs men as he came in? Or from that girl who doesn’t love him, and who asked you no questions, and to whom you gave no answers?”

Da Silva’s jaw tightened. “She knew, though. She was eavesdropping on our talk with Henderson.”

Wilson nodded. “I see. So she told him, and of course she also told him all about your date last night. And he, with a dual motive of jealousy and revenge, decided to take a swipe at you in broad daylight. This, of course, would strengthen his attempt to have people believe he disappeared in Brazil.” He shook his head admiringly. “When you decide to fit facts to your theories, you really go whole hog, don’t you?”

Da Silva glared at him. “And if it wasn’t Martin, who was it?”

“I have no idea,” Wilson said, “and you wouldn’t believe me if I had. Maybe it was one of those tough guys you saw this morning. Or maybe it was Miss Johnson, who would rather have you dead than leaving her to return to Brazil and the women there.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it was only a vendor of plate glass trying to drum up business, and you had nothing to do with it at all.”

Da Silva pulled himself to his feet and began pacing the floor. “You can be as cute as you want, but I still say it was Martin.” He shook his head in disgust—disgust directed as much at himself as at anyone else. “What I can’t understand is how a man stupid enough to snatch a bunch of bonds on the minute’s notice that he had—” Something that had nagged at his thoughts as he had passed the General International building that morning tried to come back to bother him again, but he thrust it brusquely aside. “—Or a man stupid enough to try and fool us with that gag of leaving a bloodstained briefcase and a passport on a beach, can be smart enough to walk through customs without any trouble and with everyone on the lookout for him. Luck? It must be luck, because for my money Martin isn’t very smart.”

“No?” Wilson looked at him. “And you’ve been smart?”

“Smart enough to see through that fakery at Recife!”

“And what do you think he should have done to convince you properly?” Wilson asked sarcastically. “Add to the picture of the briefcase and passport by leaving a body there as well?”

Despite himself, Da Silva grinned. “It would have helped. At least in that case, I wouldn’t …”

His voice slowly trailed off; his grin faded. He paused in his tracks and stared down at Wilson’s face without seeing it. Then he dropped back into his chair and sat frozen, his mind picking at the edge of the thought that had suddenly struck, worrying it, trying to unravel it.

Wilson frowned at him. “Zé! What is it?”

Da Silva held up one hand without speaking. He closed his eyes and spanned his forehead with the other, his fingers pressing tightly against his temples as if to squeeze some sense out of the idea that had just flashed across the screen of his mind. Was it possible? Suppose, just suppose … He blanked his mind to everything else and concentrated on the picture of the beach at Recife as they had last seen it. There had been blood; suppose there had also been a body there, sprawled out on the sand, one hand stretched out toward the briefcase, the other curled in a death agony, clutching a handful of slowing trickling sand? He could almost see it. And in that case, what? What if there had been a body there? Then, of course, he would be back in Rio at this moment, and the case would be in the hands of Recife Homicide. And the bonds? They would be in the hands of—of whom?

He pressed more tightly against his forehead. If someone were to plan a theft in detail, was it logical to suppose that he would go to the trouble of planting such weak clues on the beach at Recife? Would he, himself, have done it? No, he thought—if I wanted to make it appear that a man had been attacked and robbed on the beach, I’d have had a body there. And if there had been a body, where was it? Certainly nobody went around stealing bodies. But if it was alive, it could move itself—but then …

He shook his head and purposefully moved his thoughts to some of the other things that had been bothering him subconsciously. There was the question of pictures, or lack of them. None in Martin’s apartment, which really wasn’t so unusual. But also none in Sandra’s apartment. Which also meant little; after all, a girl doesn’t invite a man to her place and then have a gallery filled with pictures of her other boy friends. Still …

He pushed that thought aside as well. Something about the list of bonds … What about the list of bonds, and where did that thought fit in? Well, thinking of the bonds, if some of them hadn’t been Brazilian bonds in the first place, he would be warm and happy in Rio, but that certainly couldn’t be the thought that was eluding him. If they had been French bonds or British bonds or even New York City bonds for the construction of a public rest room … He shook his head impatiently. Let’s get off that track; the fact remains that some of them were Brazilian bonds, but what about it? He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, trying to visualize the appearance of the stack of folded gilt-edged sheets. Probably held together with a rubber band. What was it about them that was worrying him? Their size? No. The attaché case he had seen was plenty large enough to accommodate them. Their shape? Hardly that. Then what? He shook his head in frustration, about to move his thought onto a more profitable path, when suddenly the significance of the bonds came to him. And with the answer, several large pieces of the puzzle fell into place. He opened his eyes.

“God, I’m stupid. Of course!”

“Zé, what is it?”

“Wilson, let me have those notes you took.”

The smaller man recognized the expression on Da Silva’s taut face from long experience. Without saying anything he came to his feet, retrieved the pad of notes from the desk and walked back, handing them over. The tall Brazilian hunched over the finely written sheets of paper, first reading them through quickly and then again more slowly. When he finally finished he suddenly frowned and then closed his eyes again. Wilson had had enough. He reached over and pushed his hand roughly against the other’s shoulder.

“All right, Zé, wake up. What is it?”

Da Silva opened his eyes and looked at him steadily. “It’s an idea, but it’s only half-formed. There are still a lot of questions.” He suddenly came to a decision and pulled himself to his feet, looking at his watch. “Eight-thirty. What time do people usually go to work in this town? At places like General International, for example?”

“About nine,” Wilson said. “Why?”

“Because that will just give you time,” Da Silva said calmly, “to get whatever authority you need from the New York police, if you need any at all, to pick up one of their employees and deliver him to me.” He thought a moment. “And I think there’s one other I’d like to talk to in greater detail. A man named Barney Hahn. He has an office on Forty-sixth, but he’ll be home sound asleep.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wake him up. He has a bodyguard named Trenton; we won’t need him, which is just as well.”

Wilson stared at him suspiciously, but he still marked down the name. “And where is his home?”

Da Silva shrugged. “I’ll leave it to your detective instincts to find out. Because I don’t know.”

“And who’s the other?”

“But I don’t think we ought to meet here,” Da Silva decided after a moment’s thought, and then smiled. “I know just the place. I want to go there for another reason, and it’s a nice, quiet apartment where people can talk in privacy. And comfort.”

“And just whom am I supposed to pick up at General International?”

“The address of this apartment is on Seventieth Street,” Da Silva said, and he walked over to the closet and took out the spare overcoat. He gave the street address and apartment number to Wilson. “If Sandra is the good little secretary that I’m sure she is, she ought to be at work, and we can have the place all to ourselves for our little meeting.”

Wilson glared at him. “So if it isn’t Sandra, whom do you want me to pick up at General International?”

“Quinleven,” Da Silva said.

“Quinleven?” Wilson stared at him. “What’s that mouse got to do with this? And anyway, I questioned him yesterday.”

“I know you did,” Da Silva said gravely. He pulled first one arm and then the other through the sleeves of the overcoat and started to button it. When he spoke again his voice was without expression.

“What you didn’t do was to ask him the right questions.”

The glass door of the apartment entrance on Seventieth Street swung silently shut behind Da Silva. He glanced about the small deserted lobby and then moved to the bank of buttons set in an alcove beside the mailboxes. He pressed one at random on the nineteenth floor. There was no reply. He waited a few moments, shrugged philosophically and then tried another, this one on the twentieth floor. Here his luck was better; he was rewarded with a sleepy squawk from the communication outlet.

“Who’s that?”

“Western Union. Telegram.”

There was click in his ear and the buzzing of the door. He pulled it open and entered. Thank the Lord, he thought as he entered the elevator, for apartments without doormen. A poor thing for the morals of the city, perhaps, but a definite advantage for housebreakers.

The elevator door slid back on the sixteenth floor, and he pressed the button to send it to the twentieth floor before emerging into the empty hallway and walking quietly down it to the door he wanted. He paused. Possibly he should have telephoned first from the drugstore across the side street from the building, to make sure that Sandy hadn’t decided to take the day off from work with a headache or something. He shrugged. The showdown had to come sometime, and if she was home, then she was going to be a witness to it—and a participant in it, willingly or not. That was just too bad, but that was the way it was.

He studied the lock a moment and then selected one of his master keys, eased it in place, and twisted. To his very pleasant surprise the latch clicked. He turned the knob and swung the door open. For a moment he hesitated, waiting, listening, but no sound at all greeted him. With a nod he softly closed the door behind him and advanced into the room.

The draperies has been drawn across the picture windows; the room he remembered so well from the previous evening was deep in shadows. He surveyed it a moment and then turned aside to the small hallway that led from the entrance to the other rooms. The doors to the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen were all standing open; all the rooms were empty. He eased the door to the kitchen closed and clicked on the hall light, unbuttoned his overcoat and removed it, placing it on a chair. Alone at last, he thought with a faint smile, and got to work.

He went over each room carefully, saving the bedroom for last. The record-player cabinet was examined in the living room, as well as a pair of matching end tables with small drawers in them; he searched the cupboards back of the bar and closed their doors once again. He went back into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him, and carefully went through the cupboards and the cabinets. There was nothing. He checked the linen closet in the bathroom, running his hands between the sheets and towels there, and then, finally, moved to the bedroom. I wonder, he thought as he turned on the small bed lamp, why we always leave the most logical place for last in a search? Probably because failure there would be too disheartening. Or maybe we’re like children who always save the best for the last.

The room contained a faint aroma of Sandy’s perfume; he disregarded it and glanced around. The bed was neatly made. He remembered that the kitchen, when he had examined it, had also been clean, all dishes washed and returned to their proper place. Sandy had been busy that morning before going to work. A very organized girl, he thought with approval; a pity she isn’t more careful of her playmates.

He began his search with the dresser drawers, patting the flimsy garments almost guiltily, but other than the usual contents and a few boxes that proved to contain costume jewelry, they demonstrated nothing useful to his purpose. The night stand was taken next, but a box of Kleenex and a package of cigarettes was all the small drawer contained. With a slight frown he opened the door of the closet and began rummaging through the clothes. He pushed them aside and knelt, opening each shoe box. They contained only shoes. The top of the shelf came next, and he began to take down the hatboxes that perched there. The first was filled with hats, but as he lifted down the second a faint smile crossed his lips. Unless Sandy wore a metal helmet, this one contained something more than a bonnet. He placed it on the floor and removed the cover; the silver-framed picture on top of the wadded tissue-paper was the object of his search. He carried it to the light of the bed lamp and studied it a moment, nodding in satisfaction. Bingo!

The doorbell rang sharply. He walked back to the hall and raised the small receiver set beside the door, speaking guardedly. “Yes?”

“Wilson here. With guests.”

“Good.” He pressed the buzzer a moment and then hung up, returning to the bedroom to clean up after himself. He closed the dresser drawers and had begun returning the hatboxes to the top shelf, when he suddenly paused. One box had not been searched, the one still on the shelf. For a moment he considered leaving it, but some feeling of having left a job unfinished bothered him, and with a grimace at his own persistence, he lifted it down. The cover came off, and he stared a moment almost in disbelief before his lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. No. No search had been anticipated, because the package before him most certainly contained the missing bonds.

There was a tap on the door. He slid the package into his pocket and walked to the hall, closing the bedroom door on the scattered boxes behind. Wilson was standing there with Quinleven and Barney Hahn; the bank cashier seemed nervous, but Hahn appeared merely wary. Wilson ushered in his two guests and nodded toward the small gambler.

“This one insisted on knowing where we were going before he’d come along. And on making a phone call to some character he called Trenton.”

“Good,” Da Silva said. “Let him make ten, or twenty. I have some friends who own A.T. and T. stock. All I want to do is ask him a few simple questions.” He walked ahead of the others into the living room and turned on several lamps. The room instantly took on a cheery air. He waved them to seats. Quinleven perched gingerly on the edge of a chair; Barney Hahn remained standing, frowning.

“What’s this all about?”

“We’ll get to you in a moment,” Da Silva said. “Let’s finish with Mr. Quinleven first.” He waited until Hahn, almost reluctantly, had seated himself, and then dropped easily into a chair across from the stiff figure of the cashier. He smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Mr. Quinleven. All I want from you is a bit more detail about your conversation with Chicago the other day—the day the bonds were stolen.”

Quinleven stared at him suspiciously a moment. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “What about the conversation?”

“You’re quite sure you were speaking with Chicago?”

“What?” The cashier frowned in puzzlement. “Of course I’m sure. The first time, when Mr. Henderson called me, it was an incoming call, of course, but he left a number for me to call back, and when I called it I had to use the area code. It was Chicago all right.”

“Good,” Da Silva said. “And when Miss Johnson relayed Mr. Henderson’s message to you—both the first and the second times—did you happen to notice if her voice was strange?”

“Strange?”

“With a cold, or anything? As if her nose was stuffed?”

Quinleven shook his head. “No. She sounded natural enough.” He thought about it a moment. “No. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen her since she got back, and she’s fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Da Silva said with a smile. “In this weather it’s so easy to catch something.” He rose to his feet. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. Quinleven. You’ve told me what I wanted to know. I’m sorry I had to inconvenience you for these few questions, but I was really worried about Miss Johnson’s health.”

“You mean that was all you wanted?”

“All except one thing,” Da Silva said. “I don’t want you to go back to work today. Take a day off. Go to the movies or just go home and go back to sleep. But don’t go to the office. And don’t mention our little conversation to anyone. Do you understand?”

Quinleven stood up, a petulant look on his face. “But today is the Board of Directors’ meeting,” he objected. “They always want a lot of information …”

Da Silva’s pleasant expression disappeared, hardening into a rigid mask. “Today they won’t get it from you. Is that clear?”

For a moment it appeared that Quinleven might rebel, but one look into the tough face staring at him made him change his mind. He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m glad you agree.” The easy smile returned to Da Silva’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Quinleven. And goodbye.”

Wilson was watching Da Silva with narrowed eyes. He had seen his Brazilian friend on some of his rampages before, but in the past he had usually known what they were all about. This time he did not, but he also knew from past experience when and when not to interrupt. Da Silva waited until the door had closed behind the cashier and then turned to the silent, waiting figure of Barney Hahn.

“All right, Mr. Hahn,” he said quietly. “Now we come to you.”