Brazilian Sleigh Ride, page 17
“Wilson told me the whole story on the plane coming down,” Martin said. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have probably been a DOA in the morgue in Recife with a cardboard tag marked ‘unknown’ tied to my big toe.” He saw the question in Da Silva’s eyes and explained. “I managed to make it off the beach and into the brush after Henderson shot me—and then I guess I passed out. One of the fishermen who live out there found me and took me to this shack.” He shrugged in a slightly embarrassed manner, as if he were somehow guilty of a betrayal. “I’m sure he thought he was saving me from the police, but I wouldn’t have lasted long if your friend Lieutenant Pedroso hadn’t torn apart that end of the beach looking for me.”
“Then thank Pedroso, not me,” Da Silva said brusquely, and robbed his words of any offense by suddenly smiling at the other. “Let’s talk about something more important. What do you drink?”
Martin took the change of subject with a grin. “Usually, anything. But Wilson tells me you’re addicted to cognac. It’s never been my drink, but I’ll try it.”
“Good,” Da Silva said. “I converted Wilson and now he’s become an evangelist. And like most evangelists he tries to make up in enthusiasm what he lacks in knowledge.” He turned to the waiter who had been standing, pad in hand, waiting for the conversation to end. The order was given and Da Silva turned back to the other two.
“What you are about to drink,” he said, “is, believe it or not, Brazilian. Not as sweet as Spanish or Portuguese cognac, nor as sharp as French, but a nice blend, if you like it. And certainly a lot better than the best the Germans produce. They have no clue to what brandy is or should be. They lack the subtlety to understand the nuances of cognac.” He smiled at Martin. “Now that the lecture’s over, what are your plans now?”
Martin shrugged, his smile fading. “I don’t know. See a bit of Brazil, now that I’m finally in this part of the country. And then go back to the States and look for a job of some sort, I suppose.”
“Your job will still be waiting for you at the bank,” Wilson pointed out.
Martin shook his head. “No. I never liked it. I only held it as long as I did because Sandy insisted.” His eyes came up, almost defiant. “I was really the fall guy in everything, wasn’t I? I suppose it’s hard for you to understand, but you never knew Sandy.…”
Da Silva and Wilson looked at each other a moment in silence. “No,” Da Silva said quietly at last. “I never knew her, so I’m in no position to judge.”
Wilson felt the subject should be changed. “One thing you never told me, Jimmy—probably because I never asked before—but what was this letter of recommendation to Barney Hahn that you had?”
“Oh, that.” Martin shrugged. “I happened to prevent one of the passengers on the cruise ship from being taken by a couple of sharpies I recognized. He was a big wheel who liked to gamble, but he liked honesty, too. Anyway, one night at the bar he was feeling no pain, and he wrote out this letter and insisted that I take it.”
“And how did Henderson get hold of it?”
“I gave it to him,” Martin said, looking a bit sheepish, “as one of my recommendations.”
Da Silva nodded in sudden conviction. “And I’ll bet you gave it to him the first day you met him, when you were having dinner after playing golf.”
Martin looked surprised. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“Because he hired you on he basis of that letter.” Da Silva waved a finger. “Not because it emphasized your honesty, but because—”
“But because it emphasized my stupidity,” Martin finished bitterly. “Because anyone who would hand over a letter that permitted another person to have a second identification, ready-made …”
“Well, to be honest, something like that. In any event, the idea of a second identification may have given him the basis for the entire scheme. And if he had torn it up instead of trying to add to his profits by gambling, he’d have been much better off. Because he wouldn’t have met Trenton on his way out of that apartment building …”
The waiter came up, exhibited a bottle of brandy to Da Silva, and then left it on the table together with three glasses. Da Silva carefully poured each glass full and nodded to Martin.
“Try that.”
Martin raised the glass and sipped; some of his displeasure at himself disappeared. “Very good.”
Wilson sipped his and frowned. “Just a trifle tart. It lacks a little—I don’t know …”
Da Silva grinned at Martin. “I’m sure he doesn’t know. A short time ago he didn’t know cognac from pinga, and now he’s an expert.” He winked at Wilson. “Maybe what it lacks is knockout drops.”
Wilson set his glass down. “That reminds me. In all the furor back in New York I never got a chance to ask you, and anyway I was fogged for about two days—but, how is it those knockout drops didn’t affect you, when they laid Barney and myself out like a light?”
Da Silva grinned. “Oh, that? Just a little bit of deception. I noticed that the pills needed to be dissolved, so I managed to knock over my glass. He refilled it and put in another pill, of course; I hoped he would. Or at least I hoped he wouldn’t shoot me instead. And I drank it quickly. One sip to take off the top, and then one final one that allowed me to hold the pill in my mouth. Henderson was so rushed at the time he just didn’t notice. Which, by the way, is the basis of all good deception.”
“Very clever.”
“Well,” Da Silva said reasonably, “it was better than having headaches like yours and Barney’s.”
Wilson nodded. “Poor Barney! And that headache was on top of being taken for all that money.”
“I don’t know,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “Trenton came in for the reward, you know—for picking up Henderson and also for recovering the bonds. And the last I heard from New York, he plans on turning the reward money over to Barney to cover at least part of the loss.”
Wilson stared at him in utter amazement. “And why would he do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know,” Da Silva said. “Maybe because they’re friends. And friends sometimes do funny things for friends.…” And he raised his glass in a slight toast to the nondescript man seated across from him.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain José Da Silva Mysteries
I.
Paulo Raimundo Acâcio Aquilar—“Fat” Paulo to his extremely few friends, or better said, acquaintances—tramped happily down the shaky gangplank leading from the kitchen deck of the S.S. Bolivar to the wide, cobbled pavement of the Rio de Janeiro quay. His small eyes were intent upon the unsteady wooden platform beneath his feet; his mind was already happily planning his evening’s entertainment. Fat Paulo was proud of himself and of the manner in which he had handled his assignment that day, and he expected to reward himself properly.
An irritated shout brought his eyes up from the gangplank; the final load of provisions was being wheeled toward him up the narrow walkway. He halted, pulling to one side against the slack rope railing, drawing in his considerable stomach to allow the heavy hand truck passage. The sweating stevedore pushing it sneered at him; Fat Paulo was not the most popular of the luggage porters on the docks. Paulo stared back blandly, shrugged slightly, unbuttoned the single remaining button on his blue tunic to allow his stained undershirt to express his contempt, and glanced idly upward.
The side of the huge luxury liner rose abruptly above him, a towering, sweeping curve of blinding white, geometrically pitted with portholes, sheer and overwhelming in the blazing sun of late afternoon. The upper deck rails, backed by the oblique tilt of the giant stacks, stood out in sharp outline against the cloudless blue sky. Figures were gathered there, handkerchiefs in hand, waving their farewells to a raucous group of friends and relatives below on the pier; their waving motions unconsciously caught the beat of the samba band playing loudly and rhythmically from some hidden spot on the main deck. Pompons soared through the air to be snatched by excited children below; brightly colored paper streamers wove a twisted and lazy path through the hot, still air, falling limply on the dock, or draping themselves listlessly about the gaunt supports of the giant dock cranes waiting patiently for all this nonsense to end to allow them to return to productive labor.
Paulo smiled, a smile partially compounded of this reiterated proof of the childishness of all tourists, but mainly based upon a secret knowledge denied these people who paid a fortune for their pleasures. Especially denied them, he thought, and his smile deepened. He brought his eyes down once again, the smile still marked upon his thick lips, and walked the last tenuous steps of the gangplank to step at last to the firmness of the cobbled quay. Above him the sound of parting rose, mixed with the harsh screaming of sea gulls wheeling overhead. The passenger gangplank amidships was now free, swinging lazily and erratically from the firm, almost motherly grip of one of the dock cranes, like a kitten being retrieved from danger by a mother cat. The fat man paused to unhook his porter’s badge from his cap and slip it into the side pocket of his blue blouse.
He was through working for the day, and the thought of this freedom was pleasing to him. It had been a good day’s work, and one which he was sure would be both productive and successful, and now—until Friday and the sailing of the S.S. Paraguay—he was free. Free for the beach and to watch the Santos team playing at Maracaná Stadium; free for the bars and the girls and sleeping as late as he wished with whomever he chose. Money in his pocket and more to come. And his own automobile! True, the car was not a new one, although ten years of age was far from old as Rio cars were measured, and true, it could stand a new paint job—not to mention a new motor—but what other dock porter had transportation of any type, let alone an automobile? Or what book-keeper, for that matter, or what factory worker? Even the crooked clerk who assigned work on the pier and robbed the porters left and right, did he have a car? He did not. He had to be content with a Vespa, and one that was several years old at that.
Paulo nodded his head in the oft-repeated conviction that while Luck had been late in coming to him, the fact was that it had finally arrived. He crossed the crane tracks, whistling softly to himself, and moved in the direction of the outer gate, skirting the huge armazéns filled with the fruits of foreign commerce, paying no attention to the band music swelling on the deck high above him. At the pier gate a line of porters waited patiently for work on other ships; Paulo elbowed his way through them, his attitude clearly demonstrating his superiority over these less-fortunate beings. A hand reached suddenly from the ragged queue, clutching the fat man by his sleeve.
“Hey, Fat—Paulo—where do you go?”
“Home.” He paused a moment, savoring the pleasure of the situation, smiling in a superior manner. The teeth disclosed by his lopsided grin were stained and broken. “I’ve done enough work for today.”
“Just one ship?” The other porter’s tone was properly amazed. He jerked his head in the direction of the water’s edge. “They’re going to load coffee onto the Rio Tunuyan …”
“So let them load coffee.” Paulo sounded quite magnanimous about it. “Brazil needs it.” He tugged his arm free.
The other looked at him suspiciously. “You must have a rich uncle.”
“A rich friend. And beautiful.”
The other laughed, but it was a wistful laugh and a bit questioning. Opportunities to make money were not unknown on the docks, but it was a closely knit organization that controlled such opportunities. His next question showed a sad attempt at subtlety. “Has she a sister?”
“Only a grandmother,” Paulo said, winking. “Eighty-eight years old with a wooden leg.”
An uncouth sound came from one of the other porters in the line. Paulo pushed past, paying no attention, stripping his faded blue cap from his bullet-shaped head, marveling at the fantastic fortune that enabled him to be in his position. Less than six months before and he had been standing in that same line, passing the endless hours staring at his battered shoes, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, waiting patiently for a chance to load coffee or unload machinery—or even fertilizer, for that matter. And now … He sighed in satisfaction.
Behind him the confusion of departure rose further; the service gangplank was now being slowly ingested into the ship’s side, a patently paltry meal for so huge a monster. Ropes were being unlooped from the quayside stanchions and flung into the bay to be sucked up by the deck winches; squat tugs nosed into position. A hoarse scream tore the air, ripped from the ship’s whistle, leaving only faint wisps of steam trailing into nothingness in the hot afternoon air. Paulo walked through the gate; the arrival or departure of ships no longer meant anything to him. Pompons and streamers and bands playing on decks were for tourists; loading and unloading were for laborers. And he was neither.
His car was parked in the Praça Mauá where he had left it, but now tightly wedged between the vehicles of two inconsiderate late arrivals. For a moment his good temper almost deserted him; he glared at the offending cars with the bitterness of any automobile owner in the situation. And then he shrugged. After all, they had done his car no damage, and he was in no particular hurry. Time was unimportant. He walked past his landlocked car, unconsciously stroking a fender in passing, still amazed that it legally belonged to him. With one last affectionate look over his shoulder he crossed the wide square, nimbly avoiding the flood of traffic despite his girth. The small marble table of a sidewalk café beckoned and he sank into it, fully prepared to remain there until he could extract his car and drive home.
A waiter appeared at his elbow even before he could hiss, and Paulo nodded to him benignly. “Scotch whisky.”
For a moment the waiter stared at him blankly. Scotch whisky? This one? Scotch whisky was no drink for dock porters. Normally, when things were going good and work was plentiful, they drank pinga, and when ships were rare and money rarer, they usually made do with beer, and the cheapest beer at that. And then, realizing that he himself drank nothing but imported brandy (true, only after the owner went home, but still …), he marched off toward the inner bar. Paulo relaxed, at peace with the world, leaning back in his chair and idly comparing the various and luscious gifts a bountiful nature had pleasantly bestowed on the girls hurrying by.
His peace was short-lived. As he lifted his eyes from the flaring hemline of a passing frock, he happened to glance across the wide Praça in the direction of the Touring Club exit leading from the docks. He was in time to see a tall figure emerge and walk slowly along the railing separating the dock area from the square. The figure paused a moment to wave in the direction of the departing ship and then turned, assessing the traffic. At the first break in the solid line of cars and buses he moved across, gained the near curb, and continued evenly down the south side of the street.
Paulo’s mouth fell open. He stared, unconsciously raising his bulk from his chair as if the small additional difference in distance might help to clarify his view, but he knew at once he was not mistaken. Not only the height and the white hair, but the tuxedo, permissible on a passenger aboard ship on sailing day, but certainly rare on the street at that hour. Paulo’s eyes fled to the bay in the hope of seeing the S.S. Bolivar still tied there, but it was a forlorn hope and he knew it. Several hundred yards of open water between the ship and the quay were being steadily widened under the calm pressure of the tugs.
It was not possible! This one should be on the ship to the United States—he himself had placed him in his stateroom but minutes before! Good God, what now? He came to his feet hurriedly, turned, and collided with the waiter who had appeared, carefully balancing a precious glass of scotch whisky on a tray the size of a napkin. Paulo grasped his arm roughly, nearly upsetting the teetering glass.
“The telephone! Where is it?”
The waiter stared at him blankly. Paulo gave him a violent shake for emphasis, and only the waiter’s years of training enabled him to save the glass from spilling.
“The telephone!” Paulo was gritting his teeth; the sound, combined with the glare on the fat man’s face, convinced the waiter that a discussion on manners would best be postponed.
“It’s inside, on the counter …”
The fat man swung around and then paused, mentally kicking himself. The telephone? What was he thinking of? It was an idiotic thought, a ridiculous thought—his quarry would have disappeared long before he could even make the connection. With sudden resolution he reached out, downed the drink in one gulp, and started to leave. A hand, tiny but rigid with shock and determination, grabbed at him.
“The whisky!” The waiter’s bravery was tempered by the knowledge that he had already put up the money for this drink at the bar. “Five hundred cruzeiros!”
Paulo reached into his pocket, drew forth the required size bill, and flung it in the general direction of the waiter, tearing himself loose in the same gesture. It was not until he was a block down the street, with the man he was following plainly in sight, that he realized he had been outrageously overcharged. He pushed the thought away, albeit reluctantly. Another day he would speak with that waiter, and in no uncertain terms, but right now …
They crossed the maze of tiny intersections that scar the Avenida Rio Branco at its terminus with the Praça Mauá, with the gap between them slowly narrowing, past the travel agencies with their colorful posters, past the souvenir shops and the money exchanges, with the shadows of buildings lengthening under the glare of the late-afternoon sun, until, at the intersection of the wide Avenida Getúlio Vargas, they were less than a hundred feet apart, but well separated by the crowds streaming from offices as the day’s work ended. Paulo had little fear of losing sight of his man; the large head, topped by its shock of white hair, stood out clearly. Plus, of course, the tuxedo. Americans! Paulo thought, and then hurried as the light changed and his man stepped from the curb.
