“That she’s a kook? Certainly. I believed you the first time.”
“Damn it, Zé! I mean, that she’s in trouble!”
“She probably is,” Da Silva agreed. “In fact, she almost certainly is. Anyone who doesn’t speak Portuguese getting into a Brazilian cab and chasing all over town is asking for real trouble. The cabbie will charge her a fortune. And if she tries to get him to keep blowing his horn, you can expect her back here in about five minutes. Escorted by a police car.” He thought a moment. “I doubt if they’d take her to the delegacia. Not on Christmas.”
Wilson could hardly believe his ears. “So you’re not going to do anything?”
“Not quite true,” Da Silva said, and glanced at his watch. “I’m going home.” He looked at Wilson evenly. “You promised me both a dinner—which you said you’d pay for—and a meeting with a lovely girl, and you didn’t come through on either one. I promised myself a good night’s sleep, and—luckily—I’m more a man of my word than you.”
Wilson continued to stare at him in amazement.
“You mean you’re not going to talk to the barman or the porter and find out who this character was that she followed? Or stick around until she gets back and find out what this is all about? That is, if she gets back?”
“I am not,” Da Silva said, and yawned. “Look, you’re a detective, too. You work tonight, and let me get some rest so I can work tomorrow. I happen to be on a special assignment for the Foreign Office, and the minister isn’t going to take kindly to my staying up all night checking out some kookie girl who likes to blow horns and then being too tired to handle his problem.” He saw the slowly hardening expression on Wilson’s face and modified his tone, trying to sound reasonable.
“Look, Wilson, this is Rio de Janeiro. It’s a big city and very well policed. She wasn’t grabbed; she went of her own free will. She isn’t going to be kidnapped into some heathen opium den and sold into white slavery.” Despite his intentions, a smile crossed his lips. “To begin with, no Rio cabdriver would let her go until the bill was paid, and nobody in his right mind—intent upon kidnapping her or not—would ever pay the bill that cabbie is going to charge.”
Wilson looked at him bitterly. “Very funny!”
Da Silva studied his friend’s face a moment and then sighed. Love, he thought, may be a many-splendored thing, but it certainly played havoc with one’s judgment!
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what. Meet me for lunch at Santos Dumont tomorrow, and bring me up-to-date. If you still want help and I can check anything out for you, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you!” Wilson said coldly. “That’s very big of you!”
Da Silva frowned at his friend. “As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, equally coldly. “I had planned on taking a siesta on top of my desk tomorrow, and I’m giving it up.”
Buy The Bridge That Went Nowhere Now!
About the Author
Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.
Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1967 by Robert L. Fish
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0728-3
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