Their food came and they spoke of inconsequential things as they ate. Football was discussed, and Brazil’s winning of the World Cup, a new show that was to open at the Night and Day, the fluctuation of the cruzeiro. When the dishes were being cleared they ordered brandy and coffee and leaned back, enjoying the breeze and the profound pleasure they always felt in each other’s company. Each time a plane would trundle out to the edge of the runway to take off, Wilson would frown and shake his head, while Da Silva would nod solemnly and then attempt exaggerated protection for the napery as the blast of propellers came. Wilson watched this show with quiet satisfaction, and when the brandy came he lifted his glass in a silent toast to the artist performing before him. Da Silva acknowledged the toast, drank, and then glanced at his watch.
“Well, fun’s fun,” he said, “but I’ve got to be on my way. I’ve got to stop out at the Pernambuco Hotel. A couple of our bad boys were there last night, made the night porter open the safe, threw everything around, and then ended up by slugging him. One of the lesser-known and more romantic facets of Interpol work: making sure that nothing international is involved in idiotic affairs like this.” He shook his head. Wilson looked faintly pleased.
“The Pernambuco? Fine. You can give me a lift in that fancy Jaguar of yours and save the Government taxi fare. I’ve got to go out there, too.” He noted Da Silva’s raised eyebrows. “Oh no. No complaints from the American guests about the holdup. They’re probably all still sleeping; the chances are I won’t get their complaints until tonight. At the senator’s party, most likely.”
“You have to go to the Pernambuco?” Da Silva asked. “For what? Afternoon cocktails at the pool? So soon after lunch? Who is she?”
Wilson grinned. “I wish! No, it seems that someone called the hotel last night, claiming they were from Americo-Brazilian Airlines, and made a reservation for one of their American directors. And he never showed up. And when the reservation desk checked the airline this morning, they had never heard of the man. Or of any reservation.”
Da Silva made no attempt to conceal his delighted smile. “So that’s it! So now they have the great Wilson checking no-shows? Or telephone gags? My, my, but things must really be quiet at the American Embassy these days!”
Wilson got slightly red. “That’s not it at all. But a man came around to the hotel last night and left a package for this nonexistent person. The hotel called the Embassy, and the call came to me. So I’m simply going to pick it up on my way, is all.”
Da Silva grinned. “On your way where? That’s a good question, by the way. Where do security officers go in the afternoon? They’re never at their desks.…” He arose, slipping on his jacket. “Don’t tell me. You’ll only make me jealous. Well, on your feet. I should hate to delay the solution to an important problem such as the non-appearance of one of our hotel’s guests. Especially at the height of the season, and Brazil needing all the hard currency she can get.”
He paused and glanced about. “All right. The waiter with his back to us, bending over that luscious creature in the corner. His number: odd or even?”
Wilson sighed hopelessly. “Odd.”
“We shall soon see.” The tall man walked over, tapped the waiter on the shoulder, and borrowed a light for his cigarette. And then walked back, lazily triumphant. “A beautiful girl,” he said.
“The number,” Wilson demanded.
“Oh yes, the number. His number is twenty. A nice even number. You pay.”
“I am absolutely convinced,” said Wilson in disgust, digging furiously into his pocket for his wallet, “that you and these waiters are all in cahoots.”
“Of course,” Da Silva agreed cheerfully. “On the lunch money I’ve saved I’ve equipped them all with invisible walkie-talkies. And reversible number badges, of course.” He grinned and took the shorter man’s arm, steering him in the direction of the curved staircase that led to the street. “You Americans! You come to Brazil to teach the poor heathen Portuguese tricks! What naïveté!”
They came through the new tunnel in the Avenida Princesa Isabel, cut into the Avenida Atlantica, running parallel to the ocean, and neared the hotel. The beach at this hour was crowded; bathers dashed back and forth across the avenue dragging baskets, umbrellas, soft and hard drinks, and small children with the Brazilian’s lofty disregard for disaster that to Wilson was so impressive.
“No wonder you people develop the best football players in the world,” he pointed out. “Look at the practice they get just dodging traffic.”
“It’s the drivers that really make the best players,” Da Silva explained. “It’s the practice they get hitting those running targets. One point each, too.” He pulled up before the hotel and pushed his tall body from the low seat, slamming the door behind him. Wilson managed to wriggle loose and fell into stride beside him.
“Me first,” Da Silva said as they walked up the curved driveway to the hotel entrance. “You can wait in the bar. I won’t be long. I’ve a busy day ahead while all you have to do is worry about what tie to wear to your party.”
“Why don’t we go in together?” Wilson suggested. “Save time. It will also look more official. A demonstration of the co-operation between two friendly governments in war and peace.”
“Need assistance, eh?” Da Silva smiled broadly. “Oh well, all right. You did buy lunch.”
They entered the ornate lobby together, requested the manager, and were shortly seated in comfortable chairs before a gigantic desk in a large, luxurious office that might, Da Silva could not help but think, have added at least two apartments to the premises during the rush season. The manager was a stocky man, dressed in the manner of managers, and with an eye like a stethoscope. He accepted their introductions with a bit of dubiousness; he could imagine nothing sufficiently serious about the attack the previous night to warrant a combined call from Interpol and the security officer of the American Embassy. However, to be on the safe side, he offered them cigars, which were refused. He then leaned back and broke the growing silence by clearing his throat prior to speaking.
“The police have been here, of course,” he said in a voice that subtly accused his visitors of lack of prescience. “A radio patrol, at least. They took some notes, but I seriously doubt if anything will be done. There wasn’t anything taken, you see.…” This last was said accusingly, as if the police, somehow, were at fault.
“I know,” Da Silva said calmly. “However, we have to check to see that nothing involving my department is … er, involved. Your hotel is the leading accommodation for foreign guests in the city, you know.” The manager unconsciously sat a bit higher, nodding at this deserved compliment. Da Silva continued suavely. “Then, if you don’t mind … Is the night porter around?”
“He is for the time being, but he won’t be for long!” said the manager, glowering darkly, and reached over to touch a button on his desk. He spoke into a small box and leaned back. “We hire two people for the night shift because we feel that two people are necessary, not to let them take advantage of us and slip off when nobody is watching!” He cleared his throat, coming back from his dream of night porters hanging by their thumbs. “I asked him to come in when your office called and said you’d be by. He’s been waiting.”
Both Da Silva and Wilson nodded understandingly and leaned back to wait the arrival of the night porter. The walls were covered with the autographed pictures of the various world-famous artists who had performed in the night club of the hotel; a wealth of bare skin seemed to be the main costume employed in the exposures. Fame, Da Silva thought, smiling to himself. You’re cute kids, but let us be honest: anywhere except on the stage of a famous hotel’s night club and we’d have most of you in for medical examinations.
The door opened hesitantly, and a young, pleasant-faced man entered nervously. He was dressed in street clothes, obviously his best, and a wide strip of adhesive covered one side of his forehead. He waited in the doorway, balancing first on one foot and then on the other, whil
e he glanced at the two visitors and then at the manager with something like trepidation.
“Come in,” Da Silva said with a pleasant smile. “Sit down. Now, I know you’ve told your story before, probably several times, but I’d appreciate it if you could go through it just once again. Everything.” He spread his hands expansively. “What happened, when, who, and all the rest.”
The young man seated himself gingerly on the edge of the chair, still watching the manager as if for permission. A curt nod from the frozen face behind the desk unlatched his tongue and he began to speak, his hand automatically stroking the bandage on his forehead.
“It was about four in the morning,” he said hesitatingly. “There were two men. One was a big son—a big guy, really big; the other was small, but he looked pretty mean. Real mean, as a matter of fact. They came in—”
“Which way did they come?” Da Silva asked. “From the pool and the apartments, or from the street?”
“From the street. Through the main doors. They looked like they’d been in a fight; the little guy had blood on his shirt. They got me at first—they sure didn’t look like guests, all tough and bleeding like that. I mean all bloody like that. Anyway, by the time I smarted up and reached for a phone the little mean guy had a gun on me.” He swallowed. His fingers were twisting in his lap. “Anyway, I thought they wanted the money in the cash drawer. There isn’t very much, just enough to make change for the waiters and the cab drivers. But they wanted the safe opened. I … I …” He paused, looking miserable, as if by opening the safe he had betrayed some sacred trust. But then the thought that nothing had been stolen seemed to occur to him and to relieve him somewhat.
“I opened it,” he went on, his eyes avoiding the cold face of the manager. “They shoved me to one side arid started to go through all of the guest’s envelopes. They didn’t seem to be looking at any of the stuff inside, and they passed over a lot of jewelry and money.…” His voice indicated that he found this puzzling. “They started throwing the envelopes on the floor and digging deeper into the safe. I figured they were busy and made a break for the telephone, and one of them—the little guy—he slugged me.” He swallowed again. “When I come to, they were both gone.”
“And nothing was taken?”
“No, sir. Nothing. We keep a list in the desk of the envelope numbers and we checked them right away. I couldn’t stop them,” he added in a non sequitur that searched for understanding. “They had a gun pointed at me.”
Da Silva nodded placid agreement. “I know. I’ve had guns pointed at me. I don’t like them. They scare me.” He turned to the manager. “You keep large sums in the safe?”
The manager shook his head. “Not in that safe. That’s just for guests who come in late from parties and want to leave a ring or something in the safe until the next day.” He sniffed. “That’s why the porters are allowed to have the combination.”
“I see.” The tall detective turned back to the waiting night porter. “These two men—were they Brazilian, do you know? Or do you think?”
“Oh yes, sir. At least I think so. They spoke Portuguese regular, just like us.”
“Were they from Rio, do you think? Cariocas?”
The clerk paused, trying to remember. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Actually, they didn’t talk much.”
“Didn’t say anything?”
“Just told me to open the safe.” He coughed delicately. “And they swore a lot.” His tone seemed to indicate that swearwords were pretty much the same in both Rio and São Paulo. Da Silva nodded again.
“How old would you judge them to be?”
The night porter frowned, judging. “Pretty old. Middle-aged, anyway. About thirty, at least.”
Wilson smothered a grin, but Da Silva went on with his questioning equably. “Do you think you would recognize them if you ever saw them again?”
For the first time the nervousness vanished, replaced by a hard line of the lifted jaw and a stiffening of the voice. “I’ll say I would!”
“You gave the police their full description?”
The young man gulped, his nervousness returning. He had hoped that these two were from the police, but from this last question it did not appear so. Then they could only be from the hotel directorate; it was what he had feared. He swallowed.
“Yes, sir. I told them just what I told you.”
Da Silva nodded. “I see. And where was the receptionist during all this?”
The young man blanched. This was really the question they had been leading up to. His eyes tried to avoid not only the manager but also the calm, pock-marked face confronting him.
“He … he wasn’t there. He’d … gone to … to the toilet, I think.”
The manager muffled his snort out of respect for his position, but his eyes clearly indicated what he thought of this excuse. Da Silva nodded in an understanding fashion. There was a few moments’ silence. Wilson glanced at Da Silva, concluded that his friend was finished, and then leaned over.
“Tell me,” he said, while the young man stiffened at this attack from a new direction, “were you the one to take a reservation from Americo-Brazilian Airlines last night?”
“A reservation? Me? No, sir.”
“It must have been the receptionist, then. Is he here in the hotel at the moment?”
“He’s right outside. I’ll send him in if you want.” The young man had risen hurriedly, anxious to make his escape from this inquisition.
“If you would.”
Da Silva added his thank you as the young night porter disappeared; his eyes lifted to find the manager looking at the closed door blackly.
“Toilet!” said the manager scathingly. “I’ll toilet the two of them! Too many bars around here that stay open all night! I’ve suspected for a long time …!”
Wilson held up his hand to silence him as the night receptionist entered. This one was as nervous as the night porter had been; he avoided the manager’s eye, accepted a seat dubiously as if it might be booby-trapped, and sat rigid and waiting, his face flushed. Wilson broke the silence, looking across at Da Silva.
“My turn,” he said in English and then turned to the receptionist. “I wonder,” he went on, switching to fluent Portuguese so evenly that his remark to Da Silva blended right in, “I wonder if you could tell us the story about this reservation for a Mr. William Drury?”
Had Wilson been watching Da Silva he would have noticed the sudden start at mention of the name, as well as the narrowing of eyes filled with swift thought. Wilson, however, was bent in a kindly manner toward the receptionist, whose eyebrows had gone up at the question. This was a query far removed from anything he had expected. Da Silva also leaned forward intently, watching the receptionist keenly.
“Drury? William Drury? The reservation?” His voice indicated his profound relief at this line of interrogation, although it also indicated his puzzlement that this routine matter had been brought up at all. It was obvious that he did not know that Mr. Drury was a fictitious name or that the reservation had not been taken up. He shrugged. “Nothing, sir. Americo-Brazilian Airlines called last night and made a reservation for one of their American directors. That’s all, sir.”
“And the package?”
“The package? Oh, you mean the package that the man left for Mr. Drury?” There was no understanding the vagaries of people or their methods of arriving at a point. He knew he was in trouble for having stepped out for a short beer the night before; why all these round-about questions? “Some man came in about two-thirty in the morning and asked to leave a package for Mr. Drury. I told him Mr. Drury hadn’t registered yet, but if he left the package we’d deliver it as soon as he did. He marked it and I put it in the mail rack.” He looked puzzled. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Not a thing,” Wilson began, but Da Silva interrupted smoothly. He had been listening to this story with increasing interest, and he now held up his hand.
“This man,” he said quietly. “The one who le
ft the package. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
Wilson stared at him, but he knew Da Silva and recognized the seriousness of the other’s expression. The tall detective was onto something. The receptionist smiled, the first smile either of the nervous employees had attempted.
“Oh yes, sir. I’ve a very good memory for faces. After all, it’s necessary when one is in reception …” His smile faded as he suddenly realized it was very possible he was no longer in reception. “He was a big man …” He paused, arranging the details in his mind.
“Dressed in a white suit?” Da Silva prompted gently. Wilson gasped.
“Yes, sir. He was as tall as you, and heavier. Like you say, he was dressed in a white suit. I remember it was pretty wrinkled. You don’t see as many white suits as you used to, even in summer.” He seemed to realize he was drifting from the main current of the questioning and fell silent.
“Is this him?” Wilson’s jaw tightened as Da Silva handed over a photograph. The receptionist’s breath caught as he stared at the picture. His face whitened; he looked sick.
“He … he’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s dead. He’s in the morgue on a stainless-steel shelf and that’s the way he looked when they brought him in. Or worse. They may have cleaned him up a bit.” Da Silva bored in. “Is that the man who left the package for Mr. Drury?”
Wilson was watching the scene closely; his face was a mask, but behind the mask were smoldering thoughts. So his old friend had been giving him the rib, eh? Knew nothing about this William Drury or the package, eh? He glared at Da Silva, but the tall detective continued to keep his eyes fixed on the white-faced receptionist.
“Well, is that him?”
“Yes, sir. That’s him.” He continued to stare at the gruesome picture until Da Silva leaned over and gently extracted it from his fingers.
“I think that’s all. Thank you.”
The receptionist got to his feet slowly, wonderingly. The questioning hadn’t been at all what he had expected. The man in white was dead; how horrible! But he had had nothing to do with that. The man in white had only been someone who came in and left a package, as so many did. And he had taken it and filed it; certainly you couldn’t fire a man just for that …
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