2

Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian police and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, dropped wearily from the wing of the small plane that had brought him back to Galeão Airport in Rio de Janeiro, and wordlessly reached back to accept from the pilot first an Army knapsack tightly strapped shut and then his well-worn suitcase. With a grunt of farewell that could not possibly have adequately expressed his irritation with his assignment, the pilot, the plane, and conditions in the world in general, he tramped across the concrete apron toward the police car parked—per his radioed instruction—in the shadows of the Air Force Administration Building. His four-day growth of beard itched maddeningly, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his ears buzzed from the combination of cabin noises which had convinced him, for the past six hours, that the crate in which he had been flying was about to bow to the inevitable logic of obsolescence and shake itself to pieces in midair. If any good were to be gleaned from the trip at all, he thought sourly, it was that the racket of creaking metal and laboring engine made the incessant and needlessly cheerful chatter of the pilot unintelligible.

The heavy heat of the runway came up to smother him. The sun, just sinking over the hills to the west, threw his shadow before him grotesquely, making monsters of his baggage, and then went on to tint the calm black waters of the bay with a shuddering swath of gold. In the far distance, beneath the watchful eye of Corcovado and its statue of Christ, the white buildings of downtown Rio lined up like tiny toy soldiers; the highest windows of the new apartments caught the slanting rays and reflected them, winking back in friendly manner. It was a sight that normally uplifted Captain Da Silva when returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro, but at the moment his main concern was to get home, get out of his stiff, soiled clothing, take a hot and prolonged bath, and then sleep for a week.

The driver of the police car awaiting him was a more than normally attractive young lady, and at any other time Da Silva’s eyes would have widened appreciatively at such beauty; but at the moment he was having trouble merely keeping them open. She was dressed in the chocolate brown blouse and skirt of the recruit policewoman, but neither her rigid stance, drawn up to attention beside the open door of the car, nor the impersonality of the uniform, did much to hide the fact that she filled the stiff cloth excellently. Contrary to regulations, she was not wearing her prescribed cap, and her brown hair was thick and luxuriant; her dark eyes sparkled, and she smiled at him brightly as he came up to the car.

“Hello, Captain. I hope you had a nice trip.” Her voice was just a trifle throaty; at any other time Da Silva would have been fascinated by it. “And I’d like to wish you a very—”

Da Silva frowned at her, interrupting a bit brusquely. “Please, Miss—by the way, what’s your name?”

“Astrea, Captain. Astrea Pinheiro Alves. And I’d like to wish—”

“Astrea, do you know where Copacabana is?”

Her large brown eyes widened in surprise. “Of course, Captain.”

“And do you know where I live?”

“They gave me the address, of course—”

“Good. Then see if you can get me there as quickly as possible.” One hand came up abruptly, forestalling any comment. “And as quietly as possible, if you don’t mind. My ears have had all they can take for today.”

He leaned into the car, depositing his baggage in the rear seat, and then climbed into the front seat and closed the door behind him. His driver, her face red and her jaw set dangerously, got in behind the wheel and started the car, spinning the wheel viciously in the direction of the bridge leading to the Avenida Brasil and the distant city.

So this was the famous Captain Da Silva, was it? This was the man the other women talked about on their coffee breaks, eh? This—this—this uncouth boor! Well! This was the last time she’d ever accept any assignment involving him, that was sure! And to think she had looked forward to this assignment, had actually given up a day off to accept it! Well, it merely proved the dangers of being influenced by the judgment of others. It also proves you’re a fool, she told herself angrily, and concentrated on her driving.

By the time they came to the Rio Comprido just before the docks, the sun had sunk with that suddenness that marks the tropical night. Astrea leaned over and flicked on the parking lights and then applied the brakes as a traffic light glowed red in the growing darkness. She brought the car gently to a stop and glanced across at her passenger. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. Still, she thought, with an unreasonable feeling that she was somehow betraying her merited irritation, despite his bad manners and his need for a shave and despite those caboclo clothes, there’s no denying he’s a damned attractive man. At least she could agree with the other women in the department on that. She studied the black curly hair, the bushy eyebrows, and the almost-brigand mustache badly in need of a trim, and then nodded. Yes, he was attractive; but so were a lot of other men. And a lot of other men were more polite and more attentive, too. For a moment she wondered how she might have reacted to the man had they met when the captain was less exhausted. Probably the same, she thought almost bitterly. A boor is a boor under any conditions.

There was the sudden blare of an impatient horn behind them; the captain’s eyes opened, startled at the sound, staring blankly into hers. In the confusion she put the car into gear and tramped on the gas. Captain Da Silva turned to stare out of the open window dully for several moments, yawned, and then leaned back, settling himself, closing his eyes again. His even breathing returned almost at once.

They came through the tunnel into Copacabana, turned into the Avenida Atlântica and drew up before his apartment at Pôsto 3. Da Silva came awake instantly, as if brought from his sleep by the cessation of movement; he yawned deeply and glanced at his wristwatch. His shaggy eyebrows rose dramatically at the remarkably little time it had taken them to arrive at an hour when normally traffic was stalled bumper to bumper throughout the long length of the city. He glanced across at his driver with appreciation.

“Very good time, Astrea. In fact, extraordinary. You must either know some short cuts I don’t, or my watch stopped.” His eyes studied the ornate entrance of the apartment building a moment, and he smiled dryly. “However, I think you’d better drop me off at the side entrance. Seeing me dressed like this, the porteiro would probably toss me out. And I wouldn’t blame him.”

Astrea was quite sure the porteiro wouldn’t dare toss the captain out; this, when she thought about it, was a pity. The one possibility for their rapid arrival never occurred to him—that she was a very good driver. A true boor! With no expression on her face she put the car into gear and drove around the corner, stopping at the head of the ramp leading to the garage beneath the building. Captain Da Silva unfolded his six-foot frame to the sidewalk, dragged the knapsack and suitcase from the back seat, and then paused, holding the partially opened door, smiling pleasantly at the girl. Yes, she thought resentfully; you can look quite human when you want to. It’s a pity your manners aren’t as good as your smile.

“Thanks for the ride, Astrea.”

Her features remained wooden. “De nada, Captain.”

“And for the lack of conversation.” His brief nap from the airport seemed to have refreshed him, at least to some degree. He studied the girl’s slightly flushed face a moment speculatively. “Astrea, you aren’t married, are you?”

Her flush deepened. And, she thought resentfully, what business is that of yours? “Why, no, Captain.”

“I didn’t think so. And I’d be willing to gamble that you live alone, too. Don’t you?”

Despite herself, her eyes widened. “I do, but I don’t see how you could have known.”

“I’m a detective, remember?” Da Silva said, and nodded sagely. “You see, I recognize the breed. Only a single person, living alone, truly appreciates the beauty of silence. It’s marvelous, but you run into it all too seldom.”

His sudden grin robbed the words of any offense; he closed the car door firmly, raised a large hand in a salute that neatly combined appreciation and leave-taking, picked up his knapsack and suitcase, and turned into the building. Astrea stared after him with a mixture of emotions, not the least of which was confusion. A boor and a sarcastic one at that, but not stupid. And still, without a doubt, a very attractive one. She put the car into gear and slowly pulled away from the curb. A damned attractive one …

De Silva tramped down the ramp to the garage area and smiled affectionately at his red Jaguar sports convertible parked in its usual slot next to the washrack. The sloped windshield seemed to return his glance a bit coldly, as if expressing justified resentment at not having been included in whatever adventure the captain was returning from. Da Silva shrugged at it apologetically, winked at it for good measure, set the suitcase down, and punched the button for the small self-service elevator.

He rode to his floor amid the usual whining of cables, pleased that he had returned to Rio at an hour when the electricity was not cut off. He let himself into the silent apartment, switching on the light and dropping his suitcase where Maria, his day maid, could find it and pack it for whatever subsequent trip might be required. The knapsack went into a closet which he then locked; too much work had gone into collecting those exhibits to take any chance with them. Not that they were very illuminating, he admitted to himself sadly, and then put all thought of the knapsack and its contents away. When the police laboratory had finished with them and he took his report to the minister at the Foreign Office, it would be time enough to think about it.

A brief glance about revealed a pile of accumulated mail on the coffee table, but at the moment he was in no mood for examining it; in any event most of them were undoubtedly bills. Instead, he walked through the living room and dropped wearily onto the bed, savoring its welcome comfort. A far cry, he thought, from that damned rope hammock slung where the insects seemed to be the thickest and where every animal in the Mato Grosso had seemed to come to investigate his presence.

He yawned deeply and leaned down to pull the heavy accordion boots from his feet, wriggling his toes gratefully at their freedom. How many hours had he spent in that damned Army plane? So-called plane, rather? Six? It ought to go down on his commendation record as bravery above and beyond the call of duty; if not as foolhardiness above and beyond the good sense a man was born with. Six hours wedged in a two-seater propeller-driven cigar box probably originally built by the Wright brothers themselves, and possibly one of their rejected models at that, and piloted—he was certain—by an ex-cabdriver who had undoubtedly turned to flying after losing his license for reckless driving. With cause.

He rubbed one hand wearily across his face, pressed on the back of his neck several times to relieve the tension there, and then dragged off the checkered shirt he had been wearing. A faint breeze puffed in at the window, easing the heat of the room, partially drying the sweat on his shoulders. A good hot bath and a good night’s rest might make him feel human; and in the morning a welcome half hour in the barber’s chair being scraped and shorn into a semblance of civilized man once again. He sighed, torn between the lovely thought of the bath and the unpleasant fact that it entailed getting up from the bed; the sharp ring of the telephone resolved the problem. He stared at it, startled by the sound, and then slowly shook his head. Civilization undoubtedly had its advantages, such as hot baths and barbers, but it also had its drawbacks. At least in the jungle of the Mato Grosso this particular beast with its queerly shaped head, its ten eyes, its long snaking tail and its raucous cry, had been pleasantly absent.

The telephone, unimpressed by either the insulting comparison or the philosophical concept, rang again. With a hopeless sigh Da Silva reached over and picked it up.

“Hello? Yes?”

“Zé?” The voice combined annoyance and relief. “Where in the devil have you been?”

Da Silva grinned at the instrument, relaxing. If he had to be interrupted by a telephone call, at least he minded it less if the call were from his old friend Wilson, of the American Embassy. The small nondescript man who ostensibly held the position of security officer at the embassy, but who actually represented several agencies seldom discussed—if admitted—by his government, also served Interpol; he and Da Silva had worked on many cases together and had become fast friends in the process. Da Silva leaned back against a pillow, pulling the receiver with him.

“I’ve been away. Obviously. What’s new with the American colony in Rio? Still keeping you busy finding their lost passports or complaining about the water shortage?”

Wilson refused to be drawn into banter. Da Silva could picture him, with his sandy hair, his almost colorless eyes, and his ability to sound stubborn without any change in his facial expression at all. “You didn’t answer my question. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for four or five days. I even dropped you a note in the mail. Or don’t you read your mail?”

Da Silva thought of the pile on the coffee table. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet. I thought it might be something to keep me busy on dull evenings—”

“And I called your office a dozen times, but the way they clammed up, I thought maybe they’d taken away your political rights.”

“Don’t say it, even joking,” Da Silva said fervently, and swung his legs to the bed, stretching out comfortably, settling himself. He dragged the pillow into a new position and welcomed its soft pressure against his head. “My office clams up, as you put it, because that’s what they’re paid to do. And so seldom accomplish. If you really want to know, though, I’ll tell you. I’ve been hunting.”

“Hunting?” Wilson sounded suspicious. “Why would they refuse to tell me you went hunting?”

Da Silva shrugged humorously. “Maybe they’ve finally gotten trained. According to the rule book, they’re supposed to be circumspect when I go to the bathroom. In this particular case, it may have been because I wasn’t hunting animals. Although there were plenty of them around in the neighborhood.” He smiled faintly, remembering. “Anyway, this time I was hunting people.”

“Oh?” There was a momentary pause. “Why?”

“Because they were naughty people. Obviously.”

“And how did you do?”

“Poorly,” Da Silva admitted ruefully. “I didn’t get one.” He thought a moment and then revised his statement, the smile fading from his face. “That’s not exactly true. I got a part of one. Wrapped in cellophane and plastic—tightly—packed in an army knapsack and locked in my front closet.”

“Sounds absolutely lovely,” Wilson said. “I hope for the sake of the neighbors you have it packed in dry ice—”

“It doesn’t smell too bad. Not the way I’ve got it wrapped. Anyway, it only has to last until I get it to the Institute tomorrow.”

“And what happens when they open it?”

“That’s their problem,” Da Silva said. “Anyway, they’ve got air conditioning, and I don’t.”

“Just remind me not to go into your closet for the next couple of weeks,” Wilson said. “Just where did you happen to find the part of this one?”

“You wouldn’t know if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“All right,” Da Silva said equably. “I’ve been visiting the interior of our fair country. I’ve been roughly eighteen kilometers from a crossroads in the mato known to everyone in those parts—possibly ten people, nine of them Indians—as Santa Isabel de Água Branca. Known only to them, I might mention. I never heard of it until I got the assignment; it isn’t on any map. It also isn’t as big as its name, at least not when seen from the air.” He smiled faintly. “Does that answer your question?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Wilson sighed, conceding defeat. “You’re right; I still don’t know. And I gather from your tone that when you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”

“True.”

“Well,” Wilson said, getting back to the matter on his mind, “the important thing is that you’re back. I need your help. Suppose we meet at Mario’s for dinner. I’ll even pick up the tab.”

“Dinner?” Da Silva frowned; the word had a faintly remembered ring. Now that he considered it, he hadn’t eaten since eight that morning, and then only farinha and coffee, taken under the wing of the plane while the usual morning mist cleared from the airstrip. However, at the moment, given a choice between food and sleep, the calories had to take second place.

His frown cleared. “I’ve got a better idea—why don’t we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning? Or maybe even the day after tomorrow, depending on how long I sleep? I’m exhausted.” He thought a moment and then clenched his argument for not leaving the apartment. “Besides, I can’t go out tonight. It’s impossible. I need a shave and all the barbershops are closed.”

“Of course, they’re closed,” Wilson said with exaggerated patience. “It’s Christmas Day. Or rather, Christmas night.”

“Christmas?” Da Silva frowned. “Are you sure?” He sat up slightly, staring at the telephone in surprise. “So that’s why there wasn’t any traffic in town!” He thought a moment more. “And I’ll bet that’s what she was trying to say to me at the airport? She was trying to wish me a Merry Christmas!”

“When you leave a subject, you really leave it, don’t you?” Wilson said, almost admiringly. “I don’t know who ‘she’ is, but if it clears the air, I’ll do it for her. Merry Christmas. All right?” Wilson paused. “Now—where were we? Ah, yes. We were talking about barbershops. Well, you can shave yourself. You have a razor, don’t you?”

“Certainly. The maid uses it to cut string and scrape paint off glass.” Da Silva shook his head at the other’s abysmal ignorance. “Whoever heard of a Brazilian shaving himself? Especially a Brazilian with a mustache?”

“I have no idea,” Wilson said, sounding both honest and unconcerned. “I suppose I could find out if it’s vital.” He dropped his light tone. “Come on, Zé. Get cleaned up and meet me at Mario’s. It’s important. I need your help. I want you to meet somebody.”

“You need my help to meet somebody?”

“Damn it, Zé, don’t be cute!”

“I’m not being cute. I’m just tired.” Da Silva proved it by yawning elaborately. “So bring him up here. If Maria didn’t throw a party while I was gone, I ought to still have some liquor around.”

“It isn’t a him,” Wilson said patiently. “It’s a her. And a lovely her, too.”

“And you call yourself a friend?” Da Silva sighed and shook his head. “When I’m feeling fine, rested, clean, and charming, you introduce me to Senators, ambassadors, kindly clergymen, and the like. When I’m so tired I can hardly see, let alone sparkle, you want to introduce me to lovely ladies. What kind of system is this?”

“In this particular case it’s a good system,” Wilson said coldly. “I’d just as soon you didn’t exert your overwhelming Brazilian charm on this particular lady, anyway.”

There was a note in his voice that caused Da Silva to raise his bushy eyebrows quizzically. “Ah? Do I hear aright? Do my unfailing detective instincts point me in the right direction? Do I note in your voice an indication that the indomitable Wilson has finally met the woman of his life?”

Wilson laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I can say this—if we spend all night talking on the telephone, the chances are that neither one of us will meet her. At least not on time.” His voice became serious again. “Well? She said she’d meet me at Mario’s at eight. Are you joining us or staying home?”

“You don’t leave me much choice. I can’t very well pass up an opportunity to meet the woman who’s finally broken down that famous Wilsonian reserve, can I? I’ll be there, but I don’t promise to stay awake.” Da Silva grinned at the instrument. “I’ll meet you in the bar. First one there orders the drinks.”

“Make it the tables outside,” Wilson suggested. “I don’t want to miss her. She doesn’t know Rio.”

“Good enough. Even better, in fact,” Da Silva agreed expansively. “I’ve eaten so many meals outdoors lately that I’d probably get claustrophobia with walls around me. If you could arrange some mosquitoes, I’ll really feel at home.”

“You’ll take flies and be happy,” Wilson said coldly, and then grinned. “I’ll see you at eight, then.”

“Right,” Da Silva said. “I’ll be the one who’s sound asleep.”

“Just keep your brain awake,” Wilson said with sudden sobriety, and hung up.