The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  His mind clicked along cleanly, like roller skates crossing neat sidewalk cracks. The three men are strolling along calmly; possibly they are merely on their way to dinner. Maybe they are merely old acquaintances, renewing a friendship begun sometime in the past, on their way for a friendly drink, or maybe—He drew himself up; this type of thinking was the path to disaster! One thing and one thing only to remember: where Da Silva was, danger was!

  Almost without knowing why, he reached across and opened the glove compartment. The revolver that nestled there among the oily rags and crumpled documents was not an unusual accessory to many Rio drivers. The cold touch of the metallic barrel against his taut fingers further convinced him of his sobriety; he laid it beside him on the seat and switched on the ignition.

  There was no time to call Archimedes, no time or opportunity. But even if there were, what could Archimedes do? No, it would have to be up to him—Paulo—to save the venture. How he did not know, but he knew that when he had to, he was capable of solving the problem. Any problem.

  It was probably that last glass of pinga—although the previous ones had doubtless played their part—which led him to believe he had never been more sober in his life.…

  The three men strolled along the sidewalk side by side, enjoying the faint breeze that had arisen to cut the sweltering heat of the day. Across the Avenida Atlântica the wide stretch of sand fell to an ocean unusually calm, curving with white tendrils of foam to point the way to the sharp rocky spurs that flanked the beach at its end. The wall of apartment fronts before which they sauntered was glittering with a mosaic of lights, each contributing its bit to the soft beauty of the scene. Senator Hastings sighed in appreciation.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “I sometimes wonder if you people who live in a city like Rio day in and day out have any true idea of the loveliness that surrounds you. Or do you become so used to it that after a while you don’t even notice it?”

  Da Silva looked across to him; his eyebrows raised humorously.

  “We realize it, Senator. It’s simply that we also realize that Rio, for all its startling beauty, can also be pretty ugly at times.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid that in my business I see more of the ugliness than the beauty.”

  “Watch it, Zé!” Wilson warned, and grinned. “The Chamber of Commerce will have your scalp!” He turned to the Senator. “What Zé means, Senator, is that while nature per se dealt more kindly with Rio that it did with—well, Hoboken, for example—unfortunately it also put people in it. Also like Hoboken. And Nestor is a prime example of that unfortunateness, if there is such a word.”

  Senator Hastings smiled. “You still haven’t convinced me that Cousin Nestor has done anything illegal, you know,” he said gently. “I was raised to believe that a man is innocent until he is proven guilty.”

  Da Silva grinned at him.

  “I was raised to believe that diamonds don’t come free. Not honest diamonds.” They were passing a small bar. A large man in a stained blue uniform was bent over his glass, apparently in deep concentration; a young fellow in a clean shirt and with a knowing smirk on his face was obviously doing a selling job on the telephone. And good luck to you, Da Silva thought; may she not only be beautiful but receptive. He turned back to the others. “If Nestor can show me how he can afford to sell honest diamonds at half price, I’ll apologize to both of you.”

  They walked along, savoring the warmth of the evening, opening their ranks every now and then to allow couples to stroll through. From the open window of an apartment a television blared. Da Silva noted it automatically. Gene Autry apparently had been replaced by Roy Rogers, but the basic problems seemed to be the same. Of all the times I visited America, Da Silva thought, I never had a chance to see their West; it must be a lot more musical than our interior. I wonder who does the work?

  He slowed his steps, pointing. “There’s the bar up ahead. Let’s see what exotic story Nestor will dream up to explain this one.”

  They were approaching a cluster of tiny marble-topped wrought-iron tables spread before the front of an open-doored bar and edged with wide planters that offered a modicum of protection from passers-by. At this hour, neither very early nor very late by Rio drinking standards, the majority of the tables were unoccupied. The lone waiter was standing at a recently deserted table, his back to them, picking up some glasses with one hand and tucking his tip into his vest pocket with the other. Da Silva swung a chair free from a table, waited until the other two were seated, and then sat down, snapping his fingers loudly.

  The waiter turned, noted the new customers, and padded over. At sight of Da Silva all expression left his flat swarthy face. Da Silva smiled at him genially.

  “Hello, Mario. Is my cousin here?”

  “Good evening, Captain.” The waiter shifted his tray slightly; his eyes went to the other two briefly and then returned to Da Silva. “No, Senhor Nestor isn’t here at the moment.”

  “We’ll wait then, if you don’t mind. You might bring us three cognacs in the meantime. Something drinkable.”

  The waiter hesitated uncomfortably. “I don’t think Senhor Nestor will be here at all this evening, Captain.”

  Da Silva clucked in a shocked manner.

  “I’m amazed at you, Mario. I do not think Senhor Nestor would be very pleased if he knew you were discouraging the sale of drinks. Three cognacs, yes? And, as I said, something drinkable.”

  His eyes held those of the waiter for a split second. Mario swallowed nervously, shrugged, and moved in the direction of the inner bar. Da Silva came to his feet lazily, nodding to the others.

  “If you’ll pardon me …”

  He pushed his way through the small maze of tables, following the waiter into the bar, and brushed past the white-jacketed figure to walk to the rear of the room.

  “Captain …!” Mario’s voice was loud, almost desperate. “I said …”

  “I heard what you said.” Da Silva paused with his hand on the knob of a door there; his eyes turned hard and his voice became icy. “Keep quiet or I’ll remember what you said.”

  Mario subsided hopelessly. Da Silva turned the knob, entered, and softly closed the door behind him. The man seated at the wide desk there, bending over some papers, looked up with a grimace of annoyance at the interruption. At sight of his unexpected visitor he forced a smile onto his face.

  “Zé! It’s been a long time. What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting,” Da Silva said easily. He tilted his head in the direction of the bar outside. “You know, Nestor, you should get waiters with better memories. Or better eyesight. Mario didn’t even know you were here.”

  Nestor shrugged, his eyes watchful. “You know how it is, Zé. I tell him I don’t want to be disturbed, and he doesn’t realize I don’t mean that for everybody. I’ll have to talk to him.” He cleared his throat. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.” Da Silva stared down at his cousin with a pleasant look on his dark face. He glanced about the cluttered office idly and then returned his gaze to the waiting man.

  “Nothing, actually. As you say, it’s been a long time. I thought I ought to buy you a drink. I happened to be passing with some friends and I said to myself, ‘Zé,’ I said, ‘why don’t you stop and buy your cousin Nestor a drink? After all,’ I said, ‘nobody ever thinks of buying the owner of a bar a drink. They always expect the owner of a bar to buy them a drink. So,’ I said to myself, ‘why not do the unusual thing and buy your cousin Nestor a drink?’”

  “Even when Mario said I wasn’t in?” Nestor asked a bit sarcastically.

  “Particularly when Mario said you weren’t in,” Da Silva said explainingly. “That made it more challenging.”

  Nestor sighed hopelessly. “All right, Zé. What’s on your mind?”

  “I told you. I simply want to buy you a drink.” Da Silva’s voice remained pleasant, but a thread of hardness crept into it. “Outside. With these friends of mine.”

  “I see.” The seat
ed man shrugged and pulled himself to his feet. “All right, Zé.” It was said quietly.

  “Good.” Da Silva opened the door of the room and stood aside to allow Nestor to pass through. “By the way, we’ve already ordered. What will you have?”

  Nestor didn’t even bother to answer. He walked slowly through the bar to the street with Da Silva a brief step behind him. Mario, busy at the bar, looked away in embarrassment.

  At the step to the street Da Silva pushed ahead, leading the way through the tables to the one where Wilson and Senator Hastings waited. He tilted his head.

  “I’d like you to meet my friends,” he said. His voice was easy, the voice of a man among friends, but his sharp eyes never left Nestor’s face. His cousin’s gaze moved from face to face; the rigidity of his expression broke a bit. A faint smile appeared, watchful, it is true, but one which betrayed nothing more than the natural concern of a person with his record when confronted by the police.

  A doubt touched Da Silva. Could the sale of this diamond conceivably have been legitimate? Was he bothering Nestor for no good reason at all? He thrust the thought aside and continued with the introductions. “Mr. Wilson; Senator Hastings—my cousin, Nestor Correia Carvalho …”

  “Senator? How are you? It’s good to see you again.” He spoke in English, turning to Da Silva as if in explanation. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Senator Hastings before.” He turned back to the table. “Mr. Wilson, a very great honor.”

  Wilson nodded pleasantly. Nestor drew a chair to the table with a slight flourish and seated himself. Da Silva also sat down. Nestor glanced at his cousin and correctly interpreted the frown of uncertainty that crossed the tall detective’s face. His faint smile broadened. “On second thought, Zé, I believe I will have that drink.”

  His fingers snapped authoritatively. Mario, relieved by the trend of events, nodded and disappeared once again inside the bar. Nestor turned back to the others, speaking conversationally. “I suppose I owe the Senator an apology …”

  “Oh?” Senator Hastings looked at him.

  “Yes. Actually, Senator, I had no idea when I was dealing with you that you were a senator. I thought it was plain Mr. Hastings. I hope I did nothing to offend …” His voice could not have been more innocent.

  “Not at all,” Senator Hastings assured him.

  “And I’m pleased that you are remaining in our Brazil awhile longer.”

  “Until next week. A change in plans.” Senator Hastings smiled, pleased that there was to be, after all, no difficulty. His eyes went automatically to the grotesque spider tattooed on the hand leaning idly against the table. His smile faded slightly. “Yes, until next week.”

  “I see.” Nestor nodded. “And I hope you aren’t dissatisfied with the stone you bought, Senator.” His eyes held the other one easily, but they were quite alive. “It’s really quite a good one, you know.”

  Senator Hastings smiled again, more broadly this time.

  “I know it is,” he said. “I’ve been satisfied from the beginning. It’s these gentlemen who seem to have some doubts.”

  “Oh?” Nestor’s eyebrows went up questioningly. It was an excellent performance.

  “That’s correct,” Da Silva said quietly. “It is a good stone. I examined it. A very fine stone. So fine, in fact—” His thin, strong fingers traced a design idly upon the bare table. “—I was wondering if you could tell me just where you got it.”

  Nestor was not at all perturbed. He had been waiting for the question and was quite willing to be open about answering it.

  “Actually, I don’t remember exactly, but I could probably dig out the information if you really want to know. It was one of those things one picks up when money is free and then, unfortunately, is forced to part with when times get harder.” He shrugged humorously. “You don’t know the bar business, Zé, but I can assure you it’s very difficult these days. A new place opens, people change their tastes, and then there you are … One is reduced to selling one’s last cherished possessions …”

  “Very touching.” Da Silva eyed his cousin somberly. “Things are difficult throughout Brazil.”

  “Throughout the world,” Wilson added sadly.

  Nestor eyed him carefully; this one was a bit difficult to determine. “I take it you are not a tourist, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Not a tourist,” Wilson admitted.

  “I see.” Nestor stared at the nondescript man a moment and then sighed. “Too bad. I—” He stopped and swung his head to the open door of the bar. Mario was just appearing, carefully balancing a tray covered with glasses and a bottle. “Ah, here we are!” He pushed his chair slightly to one side to allow the waiter passage. “You gentlemen are also drinking cognac? I hope Mario gave you something of quality …”

  The waiter twisted the bottle to exhibit the label. Nestor nodded, satisfied.

  “Good. Not, it is true, of an international reputation such as some of the French or Portuguese brandies enjoy, but actually quite respectable.” He reached for the bottle; his voice did not vary in any degree. “I should not like the gentlemen to entertain the same doubts about my drinks that they apparently do about my diamonds—my diamond, that is.”

  He uncorked the bottle and prepared to pour; the spider on his hand bunched itself, gathering together as if prepared to spring.

  Da Silva frowned at his cousin thoughtfully. The insouciance of the other was not a rarity among criminals of superior intelligence when faced with a difficult situation, but Nestor was exhibiting a calmness above and beyond this. He truly did not seem to be worried. There was something very odd here.… Nestor completed the filling of the small glasses, set one carefully in front of each man, and then raised his own.

  “A toast,” he said softly. His eyes twinkled; his arm swung about slowly, including each of the three men individually in his gesture. “What shall we drink to? I know—to diamonds. To beautiful, wonderful, first-water diamonds …”

  “And cheap,” Wilson said dryly.

  “And cheap,” Nestor agreed. “Quite cheap.” He drank, wiped his lips, and rose to his feet. “Well, gentlemen, it has been a pleasure. Zé, it was good to see you after all these months. Please, remain as my guests.” His eyes came up, commanding. “Mario, take care of these gentlemen. And no check.” He smiled at the three benignly. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I really have quite a bit of work to do.”

  Da Silva smiled at him. “Nestor, my cousin, you are marvelous. You are fantastic. You are also a bit too much in a hurry. Please sit down.”

  Nestor smiled back. “I should love to, Zé, but I’m afraid it will have to be some other time.”

  “And I’m afraid it will have to be now,” Da Silva said with equal ease. “I haven’t had a chance—” He paused in irritation as a car backfired loudly as it passed along the avenue in front of the bar. “As I was saying, I haven’t had a chance—”

  He paused, staring. His cousin had half turned and then began to stoop as if in a move to reseat himself. The glass he had been replacing on the table slipped from his fingers and tinkled as it bounced unevenly and then rolled to a stop against a table leg. Nestor’s handsome face held the sudden shocked realization of pain; for a brief moment he held the slightly bent position and then slumped to his kness, dislodging a chair as he did so. But even this support was insufficient; he groped blindly for the sidewalk, the spider on his outstretched hand bunching and unbunching itself as if attempting independent escape. Nestor swayed a moment on his knees, turned his head upward in anguish, and then fell on his face. Da Silva was out of his chair in an instant and bending over him. With a supreme effort Nestor forced himself to half roll over and then fall onto his back.

  “What …!”

  The gouts of blood spurting from the white-shirted chest gave the answer. Da Silva half rose, twisting his head automatically in the direction of the shot, but a weak grip on his arm deterred him. Wilson, equally trained, had already sprung for the curb. Senator Hastings sat froze
n in his chair, staring in horrified disbelief at the bleeding man spread-eagled on the walk. Nestor stared up at his cousin, his eyes puzzled, his face working with the growing pain.

  “Zé! Eles me fuzilaram! Porqué …?”

  His eyes came down, encompassing his own blood; his head twisted. “Zé, porqué?” The eyes closed for a moment; the mouth twisted in a wince as another wave of pain washed over him. The tattooed hand tried to tighten itself on Da Silva’s arm. And then the eyes opened wide in sudden knowledge of the presence of death and the need to speak once more before the growing shadows crept down and closed off all light for all time. They probed those of the man kneeling over him in desperation. “Zé! Meu primo! A Anna-Maria! Tem … que …”

  The effort was too much. A bright pool of blood gushed from the open mouth, washing grotesquely across his chin to pour down and stain the tiny mosaic stones of the walk and then trail sluggishly into the crevices there. His head twisted sharply to one side. The hand on Da Silva’s arm tightened once again, spasmodically, and then opened, relaxed, falling lifelessly to the ground. The tattooed spider seemed to instantly join in the death, to become a mottled stain on the gray skin, rather than the loathsome thing, seeking escape, that it had been seconds before. Da Silva stared at the frozen face before him, dazed by the suddenness of the murder.

  Wilson came running back. He pushed his way brusquely through the openmouthed crowd that was already beginning to form excitedly behind the planters and along the curb. He bent over Da Silva and the dead man.

  “Nothing, and not a chance, Zé. Traffic looks normal in both directions as far as I could see. The only hope is that if somebody along the walk saw anything, or possibly somebody in another car—possibly the car behind, if the driver wants to come forward.”

  There was the clatter of hard heels on the walk. A large hand tugged at Wilson’s shoulder, straightening him up, swinging him around roughly. It was a uniformed policeman, his revolver held rigidly in his other hand, his face tough. “All right, not a move!”