Wilson paused. A fuller sense of the Senator’s words suddenly seemed to strike him. His eyebrows quirked humorously, but his pale eyes were suddenly steady on the other’s face.
“Why would you be wondering if a Brazilian cop might be here tonight, Senator?” Wilson’s voice was deceptively quiet, but there was suddenly no doubt but that he was quite serious. “You haven’t been doing something you oughtn’t, have you?”
Senator Hastings shook his white hair and smiled. “No. It’s simply that—well, yesterday morning my wife bought something from a man she met at the hotel …”
Wilson laughed, relieved, and leaned back. “‘American, thy name is Tourist!’ What was it she bought? A solid-gold, twenty-one-jewel, Swiss automatic chronometer for a dollar ninety-eight? Or a bolt of genuine English worsted smuggled into Rio from one of the dozens of woolen mills in the interior of the state of São Paulo?”
“No. It was a diamond, as a matter of fact. You see, my wife has rather a thing about diamonds, and a good eye for them, too—and since our daughter has a wedding anniversary coming up—”
“A diamond!” Wilson’s smile faded. His eyes narrowed slightly; he sat a bit more erect in his chair, studying his companion. “I hope she didn’t pay any more than five dollars for it.”
The Senator looked a bit embarrassed. He puffed on his cigar a moment and then studied the ashes. “Well, you see, that’s why I was hoping to see this Captain Da Silva here this evening. I wanted to—well, to see him about it.”
Wilson set his drink down carefully, a feeling of foreboding beginning to creep over him in a pattern he recognized. When he spoke his voice was low and controlled.
“Senator, how much did your wife pay for that diamond?”
“You don’t understand,” the Senator said patiently. “I’m not complaining about the price …”
“Senator!” Wilson realized that despite his effort at control his voice had unconsciously risen. “Please answer me. How much did your wife pay for it?”
The Senator looked at him evenly. “I really don’t see what—”
Wilson realized he was taking the wrong tactic. He looked at his companion quite calmly. “Senator, I have a reason for asking. As security officer of the Embassy I have the responsibility to see that Americans are not cheated. How much did she pay for it?”
The Senator shrugged. “Three thousand dollars,” he said quietly.
“Three thousand dollars?” Despite himself, Wilson’s imperturbability was momentarily shattered; he stared at the other with shocked eyes. The thought of the story going around the Embassy that the security officer had permitted the wife of a visiting senator to be fleeced…! The shock faded; he forced himself to be calm, to become all policeman.
“Senator, did you see this man? The one who sold your wife this—this—this diamond? Do you know what he looked like? Had you ever seen him before, hanging about the hotel or talking to any of the guests? Could you identify him from mug shots downtown or in person if we managed to pick him up?”
“I’m afraid you still don’t understand, Mr. Wilson,” the Senator said gently. “Of course I saw the man. I paid him. My wife certainly wouldn’t consummate a purchase of this type without consulting me. I will admit that if she hadn’t been taken so much by the stone, I rather doubt that I would have bought it, but that’s really not the point. I’m not complaining about the sale. I happen to know something about diamonds myself, and of course I also had the stone checked by an expert. As a matter of fact, the man who sold it to us insisted upon it.”
“I’m sure he did,” Wilson said wearily, attempting to the best of his ability to keep the disgust in his voice from showing.
The Senator frowned, as if his word were being doubted. “He did.”
“I know he did,” Wilson said sadly. “I know exactly what he did. The peddler took you to a very reliable jeweler, who weighed the stone and examined it carefully and then assured you that the stone was worth upward of five or six thousand dollars at the current rate of exchange. So you paid the man who sold you the stone—in traveler’s checks, most likely—and he, before handing it to you, polished it just a wee bit to bring out the full, rich luster, tucked it neatly into a cute little box which he just happened to have, and then handed it to you. And went his way.” He sighed hopelessly. “Only unfortunately the stone he handed to you isn’t the same one the jeweler examined.”
The Senator smiled at him a bit pityingly.
“You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?” he asked. He puffed on his cigar, allowing the rich smoke to trickle from his lips, and looked at Wilson through the haze. “I’m rather surprised. I thought you said you’d spent some time in Washington. I should have thought your years there would have taught you more about senators. You don’t reach the position of senator in American politics, Mr. Wilson, without being—well, to be charitable, shall we say alert? Self-protective, at any rate.” He smiled at the slighter man.
“No, Mr. Wilson, everything happened almost exactly as you said, except that from the time the jeweler examined the stone until I placed it in my pocket—” he wiped ash from his cigar “—it never left my sight.”
Wilson nodded. “And the hand is slower than the eye, and the nasty man really saws the beautiful young lady in half.” He set his drink to one side and stared at his hands. Another thought struck him and he looked up with a frown.
“Senator, if you’re satisfied with your purchase, why do you want to see Captain Da Silva?”
“The tax,” the Senator explained gently, in the tone of one instructing a child in an obvious verity. He spread his hands explanatorily. “I fully realize that the sale was irregular. I know that a sales tax must be paid, and I don’t want the failure to pay it to prevent my taking the stone back with me. My wife is expecting it. I thought, since you mentioned having a close friend who was an official here, that he might know how I should go about paying the tax.”
Wilson stared at him and then sighed deeply.
“I wouldn’t worry about the tax if I were you, Senator,” he said. “The tax on glass is pretty low here in Brazil. I think you may have a problem, but I doubt if it’s a tax problem.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong.” Senator Hastings raised his glass, drank, and set the empty glass to one side. His fingers curled about his cigar; he smiled. “Please don’t look so stricken, Mr. Wilson. The diamond is quite genuine.”
Wilson bit back his first retort; his mind was busy calculating all the angles. Well, the Senator wanted to see Da Silva, and that seemed best to him as well. He straightened up in his chair and raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention.
“Telefône, pôr favor.” He leaned back again, studying the handsome man beside him. “I’ll see if Da Silva is at his apartment. He sometimes is at this hour. Where is the diamond?”
“In the Embassy safe. We stopped on the way to the boat and I dropped it off. I didn’t want to carry it with me.”
“Good,” Wilson said. “If Zé is home, we’ll stop by the Embassy and pick it up.”
“At this hour?” The Senator shook his head. “It’s in the main safe. I’m afraid only the Ambassador can get to it. Tomorrow—”
“I have access to the safe. And the Embassy.” Wilson did not dwell on the point. “By the way, I may as well tell you that Zé Da Silva knows quite a bit about diamonds. In his work he has to know quite a bit about a lot of things.”
Senator Hastings’ eyebrows were raised; the man before him was no longer the nondescript Embassy employee he had considered with tolerant amusement. Anyone who had access to the main safe of the Embassy, particularly at this hour, was obviously more than a normal employee. A slight chill had come into the atmosphere.
“Is it really necessary that this Captain Da Silva see the stone? After all, it’s only a question of paying the sales tax …”
“I’d prefer it, if you don’t mind.”
The Senator nodded. It suddenly occurred
to him that the man opposite probably could insist upon it if he wanted. “Not at all.”
“Good.” Wilson paused, considering. “The only thing is, can you break away from the party this early? I know we were joking about it before, but after all, it is in your honor.”
For a fleeting second the Senator wondered what would happen if he agreed he could not, but the situation had begun to intrigue him.
“I can break away.” He looked about the deserted bar. “I already have. I doubt if anyone knows in whose honor the party is at this point. And I’d like to meet this Captain Da Silva very much, after all you told me of him.”
Wilson plugged in the telephone and stared at the Senator.
“I hope you like him as much after this interview as before,” he said quietly. “Captain Zé Da Silva is a very sharp man.” He dialed a number and then leaned back, lifting his eyebrows at the Senator, watching him steadily.
“He knows glass a mile away.…”
III.
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, liaison officer between Interpol and the Brazilian police, was not only at home but engaged in his favorite occupation—being comfortable. In shirt sleeves, with necktie removed, he was slouched in an easy chair before the television, his long legs spread out before him. At his side, and within easy reach on the low inlaid coffee table, were a bottle of Remy Martin cognac and a glass, flanked by cigarettes (American) and an ash tray. A fan ruffled the white curtains of the open window, vainly attempting to trade warm air for cool; the soft sounds of children’s voices and automobile exhausts drifting up from Copacabana Beach below his apartment mingled unintelligibly with the noises from the television set.
The program in progress was an ancient American Western movie with Portuguese subtitles, and Da Silva was wondering—not for the first time—if there might not be a case for Interpol here. Certainly the mangled translation could be nothing but sabotage against better relations between the two countries—an attempt to undermine the Alliance-For-Progress, not to mention John Wayne. He grinned at the thought and reached lazily to the coffee table for a cigarette; the telephone rang as he was lighting it.
He came to his feet easily, a tall, athletic-looking man in his late thirties, with a swarthy pock-marked face and a thick mustache that combined with his black curly hair to give him the appearance of a slightly satanic brigand. His smile, when happy or pleased, could be a boyish flash of white teeth against his almost-copper skin that took years from his age. Conversely, a black scowl on that pock-marked face, and a piercing stare of accusation from his black eyes, was a combination known, feared, and respected by the majority of the Rio underworld.
He turned down the volume of the television set and padded in stocking feet to the bedroom where the telephone continued ringing shrilly from the night stand beside the bed. He was not averse to the interruption. One more lost gold mine or one more rustled cow, he felt, and he would have been reduced to watching Brazilian TV fare, which was patently unthinkable. He lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Zé? This is Wilson. Are you busy this evening?”
Da Silva grinned. Wilson was not only his favorite American but his favorite person, ruling out, of course, members of the opposite sex. Da Silva was one of the very few who were aware of Wilson’s true status at the American Embassy; the two had had their share of adventures together. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, wiping ash from his cigarette into the ample stomach of the reclining bronze nude that served as an ash tray beside the phone.
“No, I’m free. But I thought you were going to be tied up tonight with social duties …”
“I’m about to untie myself. Together with a guest. Wait for us; we’ll be right over.”
“A guest?” Da Silva was delighted and sounded it. “Fine! You’ve just saved me from a death worse than radio. Let’s have dinner together. I hope she has a friend …”
He suddenly realized he was speaking to a steady dial tone. He hung up, his gamin grin slowly fading to a somewhat dubious frown. Wilson had sounded serious, and the abruptness of his disconnecting the call did not seem to presage a gay evening. Da Silva shrugged and then sighed; a guest, whatever the sex or circumstances, would mean a necktie and—despite the heat—a jacket, plus shoes, drinks, and no TV. Which in itself, he conceded with a smile, was no great loss.
He went back into the living room winding a tie about his neck, knotted it, slipped into his jacket and shoes with a grimace, and then studied the television situation. In his absence John Wayne had given way to Gene Autry, who not only faced an identical set of problems but even had the courage to sing about them. He shuddered and switched the machine off.
He checked the kitchen for ice cubes and glasses and brought a sufficient supply back at least to start the festivities. The easy chair and coffee table were dragged back to their accustomed places, after which he walked to the window and stared down thoughtfully to the beach below. Wilson’s call, he was sure, was far more than an idle escape from a boring cocktail party; his friend’s voice had none of the joie de vivre you would expect from a man making his getaway from a cocktail party. No, something was on the fire.
The time stretched to half an hour, and then to forty-five minutes, and his frown deepened. At this hour it was only twenty minutes at the most from the American Club to Copacabana. When the doorbell finally rang he answered it with relief.
Wilson and another man faced him from the doorway. Da Silva’s eyes opened a bit wider at the sight of the second man; he stood aside to allow the two to enter.
“Good evening, Senator. Hello, Wilson.”
Senator Hastings paused, surprised. “You know me, Captain?”
“I tried to tell you,” Wilson said, coming into the room. “Zé knows everybody and everything.”
“Everybody and everything that’s been in the newspapers and on the radio,” Da Silva said with a smile. “It’s the secret of my success. Come on in and sit down, gentlemen.” He led the way to the coffee table, waited until the other two were seated, and lowered himself easily into an arm chair opposite them. “You’re late. I was beginning to get worried.”
“An errand on the way,” Wilson explained.
“Your apology is accepted,” Da Silva said. “How about a drink? Is cognac all right? I have scotch if you prefer, Senator.”
“Cognac’s fine.”
“Good. I won’t ask Wilson; he drinks anything.”
Wilson grinned. As usual when he was with Da Silva, he felt relaxed and at ease with the world. He turned to the Senator. “Zé’s referring to a bout I had with pinga once; it’s a sort of local rum. But roughly three hundred proof. However, I had a pretty good excuse—we were surrounded by snakes at the time, and there wasn’t anything better to be had.”
“Surrounded by them before or after?” the Senator asked. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
“Both, as a matter of fact,” Da Silva said. He served his guests and leaned back, cupping his glass. His eyes lost their humor; his voice became serious. “Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” He surveyed them calmly, but there was an awareness to his glance that Wilson recognized. “I’m sure the Senator didn’t break away from a party in his honor just to get a run-down on our local drinks.”
The smiles faded from the faces of his two guests; they looked at each other as if each were waiting for the other to begin. Da Silva lifted his glass and waited.
“Well, gentlemen?”
Wilson nodded. “All right, Zé. As you know, Senator Hastings is down here on official business for our State Department. Until today his wife was with him, but she left on the S.S. Bolivar this afternoon—she prefers the ship to flying …”
Da Silva nodded in complete agreement; it was a feeling he heartily shared.
“At any rate,” Wilson continued, “the other day Mrs. Hastings happened to meet a man at their hotel, and this man was apparently selling”—he paused a bit uncertainly, as if his own story
sounded silly to his own ears—“selling precious stones. And to make a long story short, Mrs. Hastings bought a diamond—” He looked up, fully expecting at least a smile from his friend, but Da Silva continued to watch him evenly. Wilson continued a bit more easily.
“Well, Senator Hastings completed the sale yesterday and paid for the stone in traveler’s checks. Now what the Senator wants is to pay any sales tax—or any other tax that might be involved, I imagine. He realizes a sale of this nature—from an individual—was irregular, and he isn’t complaining about it. He thought you might be able to steer him into the proper channels to handle the thing legally.”
Wilson paused and then, despite himself, grinned broadly. “That’s quite a switch, when you think about it. Most people spend their time trying to figure out a way to avoid taxes …”
“Without doing it, unfortunately,” Da Silva said. “What else? I’m sure you didn’t interrupt your party just to find out about taxes. That could have waited until tomorrow. What else?”
“Well,” Wilson said, “I thought that since we were going to talk to you anyway, and since you know something about diamonds …” His voice trailed off into silence.
Da Silva nodded with a faint smile. “I understand. I begin to get the feeling that you aren’t as satisfied about the sale as the Senator seems to be.”
“To be honest,” Wilson said, “I’m not.”
Senator Hastings bent over, entering the conversation smoothly. “What Mr. Wilson means, Captain, is that he’s afraid that I was cheated, and he feels it is his duty to protect me.”
Da Silva’s eyes swung to the white-haired man. “And you feel differently?”
“I know I wasn’t cheated.”
“I see.” Da Silva drained his glass and poured another. His gesture invited his guests to do the same. “Tell me, Senator, how much did you pay for this diamond?”
The Diamond Bubble Page 3