The Green Hell Treasure

3

The warden’s office at the Penitenciário de Bordeirinho was no better furnished than was necessary for the fulfillment of its principal function — which was to accept the delivery of prisoners from the Sheriff of Recife (giving, of course, the proper number of receipts), maintain them through that portion of their sentences which they managed to survive, and then to arrange as expeditious a burial for them as possible (sending, of course, all records back to Recife to be stored in the archives). The burial, however, was no worse than most nonprisoners in that area of Brazil received, which was — at best — a cheap unpainted casket and the minimum of earth in breadth, depth, and width.

It was not that the penitentiary at Bordeirinho was any worse than the one at São José dos Campos, for example; or even any worse than some of its counterparts in places like Arkansas, or Florida, or Berlin, or Prague — it was simply that it was no better. Funds for the free were scarce enough in northeast Brazil; funds for the incarcerated were often considered an unwarranted waste. And funds for the dead, of course, were funds taken from the living — the living quite often being prison officials.

Nor did the furnishings of the dingy warden’s office consist of more than the bare necessities: two scratched and listing file cabinets, a cupboard unopened in years, a battered desk with the minimum of paper on it to mar the uniformity of its layer of dust, three chairs — one solid and upholstered for the warden, the other two hard and unstable for visitors — a clock on the wall with filigreed hands and chipped Roman numerals that expressed its age, a filthy sink in one corner with a streaked mirror above it, and in another corner a small table covered with a cracked patterned plastic cloth and holding the implements for the making of coffee, a vital adjunct to even the most unkempt office in Brazil. From the open barred windows the wide stone-paved yard could be inspected, with the three two-story concrete cellblocks completing the quadrangle. Tiny windows peeked down at the inhospitable pavement beneath turreted machine-gun towers set above the cellblock corners and connected with barbed wire.

The prisoner being ushered into the office had a faint smile of amusement on his heavy, black features. Age had taken little toll of William Trelawney McNeil; true, the lines in his face were a bit deeper, and there was the faintest touch of gray at the temples of his kinky hair, but his years in prison had taken nothing from the broadness of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, or the muscles that still bulged under the thin prison uniform. Work on a rock pile has that advantage, at least; it builds muscle tone.

He took the accustomed stance of a prisoner before the warden, his manacled hands clasped before him, his wide shoulders thrown back, his yellowish eyes staring straight ahead, looking over the warden’s head at a calendar that continued to show a month long since past. Still, in prison it really didn’t matter. The guard who had accompanied the prisoner stood back against the wall, hitching his side-gun to a more comfortable position, watching the proceedings with bored eyes. The warden, a string-bean of a man with a hard face and a straggling yellowish mustache, dressed in cotton drill with an open-throated shirt, looked up.

“McNeil.”

“Yes, sir.”

The warden picked up a pencil and drummed it. He glanced over his shoulder a moment and instantly looked back at his desk. He seemed a trifle uncomfortable, a bit irritated, an unusual feeling for him and one he obviously disliked. It was apparent that his actions at the moment had been dictated by superiors, that whatever he was about to say he had been told to say. The prisoner kept a frozen countenance, staring somberly at the calendar, but within he was grinning. The warden came back to his task.

“McNeil. You get out of here in two weeks. You’ve done your fifteen years—”

He paused. It suddenly occurred to the warden that he and McNeil had both been prisoners: He had come to the penitentiary just about that time. For some reason the thought angered him, as if it were somehow at least partially McNeil’s fault. The prisoner remained quiet, respectful on the surface, the smile of contempt held back, as if he could read the other’s mind. The warden tossed the pencil aside and began his speech again.

“McNeil. You’ve been a good prisoner, considering all things. One session in solitary for hitting that doctor, and I still don’t know why—” He paused as if awaiting an answer. McNeil remained silent, rigidly at attention. The warden shrugged. “At any rate, you’re still guilty as hell of the crime you are convinced of. I’ve been instructed to advise you not to get any idea that your fifteen years in prison have paid in any way for the stuff you stole. They still aren’t yours. Do you understand that?”

“I understand what you’re saying, sir.”

The foreign language, learned well over the years, still had not removed the deep softness from the big man’s voice; he sounded as if he were speaking in his native island tongue, merely translated to Portuguese.

“Well, just don’t forget it,” the warden said flatly. “I just want to tell you the stones aren’t yours. I was also told to tell you that wherever you go from the time you leave here, you’re going to be followed and watched. Constantly. You’ll never set hands on those stones.”

The big man never shifted his glance from the calendar on the wall. “Yes, sir.”

“And this is for myself,” the warden added. “If you get picked up anymore, you’ll spend time in somebody else’s jail, not mine. And just be happy about it, McNeil. Because if they left it up to me, you’d tell where those stones are, and you’d tell in a hurry.” He waited for an answer, received none, and glanced over his shoulder again. “That’s all, McNeil. You can go.”

The armed guard pushed himself erect and walked forward, placing a hand on the big man’s arm, but McNeil shrugged it off, postponing his leave-taking for a moment. The guard hesitated and then waited, his hand dropping to the butt of his revolver, looking at the warden for instructions. For the first time the prisoner showed expression: He grinned broadly.

“Before I leave, warden, what do you want me to do?”

“What?”

“I asked, what do you want me to do? Sing? Dance? Tell funny stories?”

The tiny eyes across from him narrowed dangerously.

“What are you talking about?”

The big man’s eyes dropped from their inspection of the calendar, twinkling down at the warden. He spread his feet a bit taking an at-ease stance.

“Ain’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re on camera, warden? Sing? Dance? Tell funny stories?” He gestured with his head in the direction of the sink. “Who’s back of the mirror today, warden?”

“There’s nothing back of that mirror except plaster wall.” The warden reddened; then his mouth turned down, a sign of his anger. “And I told you before. You can go.”

“Yes, sir.” McNeil brought himself back to attention and turned, moving ahead of the guard to the door. He paused as the guard reached around him to open it, then spoke over his shoulder. His tone was friendly. “But I’d get a new two-way mirror, warden. That one’s beginning to wear, sir. Especially a man lights a cigarette back of it. And especially you keep looking over your shoulder at it every five minutes, sir.”

He brought his face back to a non-committal expression and walked through the door. The guard swung it closed. The warden came to his feet and marched to the mirror, glowering into it.

“Fool!” he said in disgust and anger. “Idiot! Lighting a cigarette!”

He refused to consider any possible blame of his own because of his inadvertent study of the corner sink. He had never been in favor of the mirror in the first place; when both he and it had been new at Bordeirinho, he never knew but what somebody might not be studying him. And anyway, long before two-way mirrors had been invented he had gotten what information he had required from prisoners and saw no reason why the old ways were still not the best ways. He shook his head again and returned to his desk, slumping into his chair, wiping sweat from his forehead, waiting for the stupid idiot behind the mirror to come into his office with his film and tape. And, of course, his damned cigarettes...

Rather than abate, the storm in Rio de Janeiro had intensified with the day, and now, at eleven o’clock at night, it struck at the city with renewed force. Da Silva, quite naturally, had checked the airport, convinced that certainly all planes would be grounded; instead the voice that answered subtly suggested, without using the words, that only a cretin thought a bit of rain kept airlines from flying.

It might not keep airplanes from flying, he thought sourly as he bumped through the night in his cab, but it certainly played hell with driving. Rain drummed on the cab roof with machine-gun violence, as if the drops drilling down from the black sky actually entertained hopes of getting through the rusting steel and attacking the driver and his passenger. The sound within the cab was deafening; the rain, sweeping in sheets, occasionally veered to beat wildly against the streaming windows. The windshield wipers flashed madly left and right in a vain attempt to maintain some small degree of clarity; the taxi driver hunched forward, squinting fiercely, driving more by instinct than by vision, his foot held tautly, ready in an instant to move from accelerator to brake, his brain wisely refusing to picture the result if he ever had to do so.

It was sticky hot in the humid enclosed space. Da Silva leaned back against the worn upholstery of the rear seat glumly, his attaché case on his lap, his suitcase rigidly held on the seat beside him, more for his own stability in the swaying car than for the protection of his luggage. Through the blurred windows recognition of the area through which they were passing was difficult, but he estimated from the roughness of the road that they had to be somewhere in the vicinity of the warehouses along the docks. Substantiation came as they bumped over the crossing at the Ponte dos Marinheiros with the bright lights of the bus depot a white blotch in the rain that disappeared behind them as quickly as it had appeared, leaving them once again at the mercy of the frail headlights.

The Avenida Brasil was deserted, a rarity at any time, storms included; the cab-driver, no fool, did not allow this unusual situation to reduce his concentration in the least, nor did he permit it to induce him to increase his speed on the rain-drenched highway. He patiently crept along, past the cemetery, past the black factory fronts, the occasional dimly lit botequims, with a hunched figure now and then peering from beneath the waterfall of an awning, awaiting a chance to make a mad dash for home. A traffic light, barely seen, a sharp curve, and he welcomed at long last the lights glowing faintly on the bridge to the Ilha do Governador, and then the even greater cluster of lights at Galeão International Airport.

The driver pulled to the curb, nerves slowly unwinding, relieved and slightly amazed to have made the perilous trip without accident, flat tire, or failing engine. Even the windshield wipers had cooperated. He accepted his fare with a calm bob of his head, took the generous tip equally calmly, well aware that he had earned every cruizeiro, and equally aware that he intended to wait out the torrential rain in the nearest bar before attempting to return to the city, with or without a fare. In his considered opinion anyone who drove on a night like this had to be as crazy as anyone who flew.

His passenger would have been the last to disagree with him. The large mustached detective watched a skycap approach holding a huge umbrella over the cab door — a rather useless gesture against the wind and the slanting sheets of rain. Still, it was the thought that counted, Da Silva had to admit with an inner smile, and felt better for it. He made the series of leaps necessary to reach the protection of the terminal lobby with his attaché casé firmly in hand, followed by a skycap who had long since given up all thoughts of dryness and who now squished hopelessly after him carrying his bag. The captain paused to fold the useless umbrella and set it aside, and made his way to the Varig counter, glancing about the lobby as he did so, as if seeking someone.

Flight 916 from Buenos Aires to Miami by way of Rio, Recife, Belem, and Port-of-Spain, was not only flying despite the storm, but was scheduled to arrive and depart on time. A regrettable situation, the captain thought, leaving very little time for necessary personal fueling for the flight. He was quite confident that had the night been clear and the winds calm, the plane would have been mysteriously delayed several hours somewhere back along the line. It seemed to be the way planes were where he was concerned.

He took the receipt for his bag, his seat check, and walked to the front of the terminal once again, staring toward the bridge leading to the city. No cab appeared to be approaching. With a sigh he glanced at his watch again, shook his head disconsolately, and mounted the broad steps to the second floor bar-restaurante, pushing through the swinging glass doors to face an empty room, the expanse of white tablecloths making the barren room appear quite antiseptic. One expected doctors, but only a waiter was present, leaning indolently against the cash register behind the bar reading the Jornal de Esportes. The large mustached man seated himself, his attaché case held on his lap, and ordered the best brandy in the house, well aware that the best in this particular restaurant was far from the best. Still, it was obviously better than facing the takeoff on an empty stomach, something all experienced travelers had assured him was inviting disaster. He swallowed the drink quickly, shuddering at its pungency, and ordered another, staring at the doorway as he did so as if willing someone to appear there.

A sudden raucous screech from the wallspeaker almost caused him to spill his drink, although the waiter engrossed in the newspaper across from him didn’t move a muscle. Either deaf or plucky, Da Silva decided. The volume on the loudspeaker was adjusted and the announcement repeated more intelligibly. Flight 916 was coming in to land, and would passengers be so kind as to present themselves for embarkation. Da Silva upended his glass and tossed money on the counter. He studied his watch for the fourth time and glowered at the message it gave him. Apparently the storm had prevented his expected companion from joining him. He only hoped they could meet in Port-of-Spain; possibly he could arrange a cable from the plane. With a shrug at a fate seemingly determined to thwart him at every turn, he descended the staircase and made his way to the loading area at the rear of the terminal.

On the edge of the tarmac, skycaps stood with umbrellas, awaiting the few passengers who were boarding; two officers and two stewardesses also stood and waited, staring equably out at the torrents of rain washing down. Apparently the crew changed in Rio, Da Silva thought, and envied those who were disembarking here. There was a sudden flash in the sky as the incoming plane turned on its landing lights; twin beacons cut through the pelting rain, outlining the glistening needles, misting the black field with blotches of light. A Caravelle lowered itself gracefully toward the field, its turbines suddenly audible over the beat of the storm as it swept past the terminal, touching down in a sheet of spray.

Da Silva glanced at his watch for the last time and shrugged. There seemed no doubt but that he was going to make the trip alone. He stared back at the empty lobby; shutters were being raised over the Varig counter, the only one displaying any activity at all. There was no evidence of anyone hurrying to join the flight at the last moment. Damn! he thought, and turned his attention back to the Caravelle. The tail doorway had been lowered; a moment later several officers and stewardesses appeared in the square of light, hesitated a moment, and then hurried across the field from the plane under the protection of umbrellas. They waved briefly at the new crew and disappeared inside the building. No passengers descended. There was a momentary pause; then the new crew dashed for the plane. A moment later he felt an umbrella being thrust into his hand and he was also hurrying across the slippery concrete. One of the new stewardesses relieved him of the umbrella, and he climbed the steep steps under the protection of the high tail to find a warm, dry, congenial atmosphere with soft music playing a popular samba. Much better, he thought approvingly, and made his way forward toward his seat. Now, if the plane just stayed on the ground and didn’t attempt to take off, everything would be fine.

He waited until a second stewardess had seated him, then fastened his seatbelt and tried to peer through the small window to see if the person he was expecting had made it to the airport in time, but the rain beating against the double glass made sight impossible. There was finally the slam of a door behind him and the whine of a reactor starting up, followed in seconds by the other reactor. He clenched his attaché case tightly, awaiting the first motion of the dreaded trip, and then felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned with a slightly curious smile; the smile held for a moment and then faded, replaced by a frown.

“Well, well!” he said expressionlessly. “One more good reason not to patronize the airlines. The things you run into! What in the devil are you doing here?”

“Come, come!” Wilson said chidingly, wiping the rain from his face. “What kind of hospitality is this? I change all my plans this afternoon, dash home madly to pack, make it to the airport with about one second to spare, almost break my neck to get here all because you so evidently wanted me to join you on this case — and this is the thanks I get?” He dropped into the seat next to Da Silva and fastened his seatbelt.

“Because I wanted you to join me on the case?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Wilson said. “Don’t pretend you weren’t expecting me. That long story at lunch today was merely for the purpose of tantalizing me, of whetting my appetite. Which,” he added, wishing to be honest, “it did.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I trotted right back to the office and checked up on that little matter of the good ship Porto Alegre — which I’m sure you knew I’d do — and what do you think?”

“I think you have a great imagination.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said, and smiled. “But I wasn’t fishing for compliments. What I meant was that I discovered certain facts which you failed to give me at lunch.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact that the majority of the jewelry stolen that fateful evening belonged to American nationals.”

“Of course it did,” Da Silva said dryly. “I didn’t even think it needed mentioning. Brazilian women buy jewels to wear, not to keep in ship’s safes.”

“If you say so,” Wilson said equably. “Anyway, I also learned that the loss was covered, almost in its entirety, by American insurance companies. Naturally, when I pointed these facts out to the Ambassador, he agreed instantly that the matter was of grave interest to the American government.” He spread his hands. “Hence my presence. Q.E.D.”

“Quixotic, Erroneous, and — probably — Drunk.”

“I’d be more apt to call it Quite Excellent Dedication — to Duty, that is, if we need another ‘D’,” Wilson began.

He paused because his companion was paying him no attention. The plane had taxied to the end of the runway and was now prepared to take off. There was an increased whine from the reactors as the instruments were checked, the great sleek plane straining at the leash; then they were off into that wall of darkness, bumping roughly on the runway, swaying slightly in the heavy cross wind as they gathered speed. Suddenly the trembling stopped: They were airborne. The pilot responded to this triumph over gravity by tilting the nose of the plane almost vertical. Da Silva swallowed, counted to ten, and opened his eyes. To his amazement he was not only still alive, but in the short time since takeoff they had traversed the thick rainclouds and were lifting through deep black-blue skies beneath a quarter moon with the lights of Rio only the faintest glow beneath the swirling clouds below. The light over their heads went out; he loosened his seatbelt without removing it, pressed the button for the stewardess, and lit a cigarette a bit shakily.

“May we get back to business?” Wilson asked politely.

“If I ever stop smoking — which I sincerely hope to do one of these days, because it’s a nasty, filthy habit, and bad for the health as well,” Da Silva said feverishly, “it’ll have to be the day I stop flying.”

“Or the day I lose PX privileges, more likely,” Wilson commented. “Anyway, as I was saying — to get back to the slight matter of the SS Porto Alegre — this is not only an American case as well as a Brazilian one, it also happens to be an Interpol one. Which also explains why I’m here. As you well knew I would be.”

“Yes, you’re here.” Da Silva sighed. “I don’t suppose—”

He paused as the stewardess answered his ring. When Reserva San Juan had been ordered — available on a flight originating in Buenos Aires — he leaned back in silence until the stewardess had lowered the trays from the seats before them and placed their glasses on them. Wilson looked at him.

“You were saying?”

“I was saying, I don’t suppose in your research this afternoon you happened to uncover the fact that the rainy season in Rio by coincidence corresponds to the dry season in Barbados, did you?”

“You’re being insulting,” Wilson said sternly, and grinned. “I always knew it...”

Da Silva picked up his glass and shook his head wonderingly.

“Your record for misunderstanding, I’m happy to report, is still intact. I didn’t want you on the case, believe me. However.” He sipped and turned to the man beside him. “Well, since you’re here, and apparently here officially, you might as well be useful. What else did you dig up this afternoon?”

“Not a thing,” Wilson said, leaning back and studying the ceiling. He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought I’d done a good day’s work in just getting travel money out of the embassy fiscal officer before he shoved off for his daily cocktail party. Anyway, since you’ve been on the case longer than I have — by fifteen years — I’ll defer to your judgment. Although,” he added pleasantly, “it did strike me — since you claim not to have wanted me along — that if one plans on trailing a man, it is generally conceded that two are better at it than one. Which you would know if you ever studied your Police Manual. Or even Agatha Christie.”

“True,” Da Silva admitted. “It helps, of course, if those doing the trailing know what the man they are trailing looks like. Or sounds like.” He pulled his attaché case around in his lap, snapping it open, reaching inside to pick up an envelope. “Here are some recent pictures of Mr. William Trelawney McNeil.”

“Good,” Wilson said. He took them, studying them. “How recent?”

“They were taken today. About the time we were having lunch, or a little earlier, if the clock on the wall there is accurate, which I doubt. They were developed and flown down from Recife late this afternoon.” The brandy was relaxing him, as was the conversation; the smoothness of the flight was also helpful to his mood. He smiled. “I didn’t think anyone would be interested in fifteen-year-old mug shots of the man, but if you want them I can cable for them from Port-of-Spain.”

Wilson shook his head absently, even as he moved one picture behind the other. Da Silva, watching, was well aware that the smaller man was carefully memorizing every feature of the prisoner he was studying. Wilson marked the proud tilt of the large black head, the neatness of the close prison cut of the kinky hair, the musculature of the well-kept body. He nodded and handed them back.

“Well,” he said, “he certainly didn’t let himself get run down in prison. He looks as tough as they come, and not afraid of God, Devil, or Da Silva.”

“He doesn’t know me yet,” Da Silva said, and grinned. His grin disappeared. “Oh, he’s tough, all right.”

“What did you say about sound?”

Da Silva handed him a pair of earphones from his attaché case; Wilson slipped them on and watched as Da Silva slid a casette into a small battery-operated tape-recorder. There were several moments of silence and then the conversation.

“‘McNeil.’”

“‘Yes, sir.’”

A long pause and then: “‘McNeil. You get out of here in two weeks. You’ve done your fifteen years—’”

The tape ran on. Wilson listened to the end of the casette, and when it began to repeat itself he reached over, switched off the set, and removed the earphones. He watched as Da Silva stowed the gear away in the attaché case; his voice was curious when he spoke.

“What’s this business about him slugging a doctor?”

Da Silva shrugged. “All I know is that it was his only infraction. It was during a typhoid epidemic, which unfortunately isn’t a very uncommon event here. The doctor wanted to give him an injection and he popped the doctor in the nose.”

“But, why?” A thought came. “Maybe he doesn’t like needles.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like doctors,” Da Silva observed. “At any rate, he pulled down two weeks in solitary for it. But otherwise he was a good boy, just like the tape says.”

“The tape also says he’ll be followed constantly. Is the tape being honest about that?”

“As honest as tapes can be.”

Wilson thought a bit and then nodded.

“I think it’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “He’d expect to be followed, anyway. So if somebody is doing it openly and obviously, then we — you and me — follow him from in front. Is that it?”

“More or less.”

“You never got any hint in all his years in prison where he might have put the stuff?”

“None.” Da Silva sipped his brandy and set the glass down, twisting it idly on the formica of the tray. “And it wasn’t for lack of trying. We didn’t put hot needles under his fingernails — not that I think it would have done one much good — but Storrs questioned all four of them rather thoroughly, and it didn’t get him anyplace. In prison their cells were bugged for a very long time with no results whatsoever.” He frowned in memory. “As a matter of fact, they even took motion pictures of the four of them in the exercise yard with a telephoto lens and had expert lip-readers study them, but no dice. At no time did any one of them refer either to the robbery, or the jewels, or anything else even remotely helpful.”

“How about the ship’s librarian?”

“Not a word.”

“What did they talk about?”

Da Silva stared at him with lifted eyebrows.

“What do you think they talked about? What would you talk about if you were in prison for fifteen years?”

“Girls.”

Da Silva nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what they talked about.”

Wilson finished his brandy and snubbed out his cigarette. He frowned at the empty glass, thinking. Da Silva respected his thoughts, remaining silent. At last Wilson looked up.

“Fifteen years in prison... The first thing McNeil is going to be interested in, as we’re both agreed, is girls. It would be very helpful if we had a girl working with us. Someone from Interpol. Someone he might spill his little heart out to.” He grinned. “Because I hope you don’t expect me to put on a wig and play the part.”

Da Silva smiled back at him.

“McNeil’s been in prison fifteen years; it may have affected his brain, but his eyes are all right.” His smile became mischievous. “Your idea isn’t a bad one—”

“Thank you.”

“—even if it isn’t original.” Da Silva reached into a pocket of his attaché case and brought out another envelope. “Here. Try this one on for size.”

Wilson slid a pair of photographs from the envelope. His eyes widened at sight of the one on top. The picture was of a girl, chocolate in color with wavy black hair reaching her shoulders, a deep dimple in one cheek, brilliant teeth against the mahogany tone of her skin, and twinkling black eyes. He whistled lightly between his teeth.

“Wow! Where did you find her?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but turned to the second. This one gave a view of her figure in an evening gown, standing straight and winking provocatively into the camera; her ample cleavage almost caused Wilson to forget to check the face to make sure it was the same girl. It was. He envied the photographer. Da Silva reached over and removed the pictures gently, putting them away. Wilson took a deep breath.

“My Lord, she’s lovely! Who is she?”

“Stop drooling,” Da Silva said sternly. “Remember your good old Ohio upbringing. Also your blood pressure.” He snapped the attaché case closed. “Her name is Diana Cogswell. She was born in Barbados, educated there through Queen’s College for girls, after which she took a job in England.”

“And she’s in Interpol?”

“She is. And she’s going to work with me — with us, now, I suppose — on this case. She asked for the assignment, since she knows Barbados, and when they sent me her record — and her pictures — I certainly had no objections.”

“I can see why not!”

“I said, stop drooling!” Da Silva smiled at him. “Now do you believe me when I said I honestly wasn’t trying to induce you to help me on this case today at lunch?”

“I believe you. I’d be crazy not to.” Wilson grinned. “By the way, where and when do we meet this dish?”

Da Silva’s smile faded. Unconsciously he looked at his watch.

“In Trinidad, I hope. She was scheduled to meet me at the airport in Rio; we were supposed to take the plane together. But she didn’t show. She was coming in from Lima on a flight leaving there this morning, but either she missed her flight from there, or the storm held her up back in Rio. Maybe she couldn’t get a cab from town.” He shrugged. “We’ll try to have the pilot cable back to my office and see if we can’t arrange to meet her in Port-of-Spain. We’ll wait for her there.”

“Forever, if necessary,” Wilson said fervently, raising a hand with his empty glass in it for the stewardess’ attention. Da Silva aided this effort by ringing the bell.

“Let’s hope it won’t be quite that long,” he said. “I’d like her to be well established in Barbados with a good cover before Mr. William Trelawney McNeil is returned to his native heath.” Da Silva watched the stewardess refill his glass, nodded to her pleasantly in thanks, and raised his glass in a slight gesture of a toast once she had left. “Well, here’s to Mr. McNeil’s eyesight. If Miss Diana Cogswell doesn’t have him eating out of her hand in a week, he has to be blind.”

Wilson had lowered his glass and was staring thoughtfully down the aisle.

“I’m not so sure,” he said slowly.

“Eh?”

“I said, I’m not so sure. I think,” Wilson said, coming to a conclusion with a twinkle in his eye, “that Miss Cogswell met you at the plane at Galeão on schedule, and I think she’s had us — if not eating — at least drinking out of her hand for the past hour or so. So how blind does that make us?”

Da Silva frowned at him a moment uncomprehendingly and then looked down the aisle. Their stewardess was watching them with just the faintest smile on her pretty dark brown face. Da Silva looked at Wilson a moment, reddened in embarrassment, and then swallowed his drink hastily.

“Blind is no word for it,” he said, and looked shamefacedly at his seat companion, aware of the scrutiny from down the aisle. “Well,” he said, “don’t just sit there, Wilson! Hide me!”