“But it was meant to,” Ari said. “Not suspicion, exactly, but curiosity. I wanted them to remember me and my briefcase, but only, of course, after I had cleared customs and gone to the hotel. When they read about the embezzlement, I wanted everyone to remember the man with the briefcase chained to his wrist.” He almost sounded apologetic. “The news release was not supposed to be made until this afternoon; somebody slipped up.”
“When I heard about it,” Da Silva said, “I had to work fast I thought it odd that you would want to be searched, and that is the only conclusion I could come to at first when the release came. But when I saw you...” He laughed.
“Another question, Mr. Schoenberg,” the quiet man continued, almost as if nobody had spoken. “When Zé’s friend Mr. Gunther searched you, were you wearing a money belt? Or anything under your clothes that might have served to hold money?”
He was puzzled. “A money belt? No.”
“And one more question, possibly a foolish one. Was there ever two million dollars? Was there ever, in fact, any money at all?”
Da Silva laughed. “Wilson is a fan of the late Mr. Belasco,” he said to Ari. “He seems to feel, and I am forced to agree, that an actual two million dollars would have added a nice touch of reality to the situation.”
“No,” Ari said, wondering where the questioning was leading. “No, there was never any money at all.”
“Then where is it?” Wilson asked.
“Where is what?” Da Silva said, looking at his friend with astonishment. “Where is money that never existed?”
“Exactly.” Wilson laid the pencil down carefully. “Look, Zé; I don’t know how intelligent your friend Mr. Gunther is, but it would be pretty hard for a customs guard to search a man and overlook two million dollars. It makes quite a bundle, you know, even in big notes. Now; you say that if it had been there, Mr. Gunther would have overlooked it. What I say is that, not being there, it would be impossible to overlook.”
Da Silva struck himself on his forehead with his clenched fist. “You’re right, of course! I was too clever.”
Ari looked from one to the other. “But I don’t understand.”
“Quite simple,” Da Silva said, disgusted with himself. He reseated himself. “Wilson is saying that we have convinced them, at least for the time being, that the money left New York. But it wasn’t in your bag, and it wasn’t in your briefcase. And Gunther knows it wasn’t on your person. Had you been wearing a money belt, our customs friend may have thought he was helping you whisk it away under my nose, but since there was nothing under your jacket except you, they know that this isn’t the case.”
He shook his head. “They probably think your thing with the briefcase was a blind, and merely meant that you had an alternate and better way to get the money into the country. Mr. Wilson is saying, in his quiet but accurate manner, that if we really want to convince them that you have this two million dollars, we shall have to do more than show them where it isn’t.”
Ari came further into the room, worried. “But how?”
“I have no idea,” Da Silva said glumly, staring at his shoes, but no longer with the air of being their proud owner. There was a few moments’ silence. Then Da Silva sat up straight, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Or maybe I do. But it means night work. Overtime, without pay.”
The others watched him as he leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “How does this sound? Imagine you are listening to this on the Radio Nacional.” He let his voice drop to the unemotional tone of a newscaster. “Sometime last night,” he said gravely, “a mysterious figure was seen lugging a heavy bundle from the darkened hangars of Pan American Airways at Galeão Airport. Despite the best efforts of the customs and the airport police, who fired — no, make that, who shouted — at the thief, he effected his escape to a car in which an accomplice was waiting. As of this hour, the police have no clue as to the identity of the thief. Pan American officials who were called immediately to the scene of the daring robbery made a complete search of their premises, but state that nothing belonging to the company is missing. Police feel that possibly the thief was disturbed before he could open the company safe, but are unable to explain the bulky package he was seen to be carrying.” He looked at Wilson, his eyes twinkling. “How does it read, accomplice?”
“Now wait a minute, Zé! You are not going to pull me into this thing!”
“Listen to him,” Da Silva said in simulated disgust. “If it hadn’t been for him we would have all been home hours ago!”
“Now look, Zé. This is no affair of mine. Count me out.”
“I would suggest your car,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “Mine has been giving me trouble lately. Something with the transmission, I think.”
“No car and no Wilson,” Wilson said shortly, getting to his feet. “I’m leaving right now for dinner.”
“An excellent idea,” Da Silva said agreeably. “We can discuss the details much better over some good food.” He opened the door and ushered the other two out. “I’ll show you another exit to the street,” he said to Ari, grasping the smaller man’s arm in friendship. “They may have followed you from the hotel, and your long delay here would get them wondering. Let them think they missed you.” He turned back to Wilson as they walked to the elevator.
“Where would you like to eat?”
“I’m eating alone.”
“Practically alone. In fact, if you like, I’ll even do all the talking.” He winked at Ari, and in a sotto voce that carried clearly, added, “I told you he wouldn’t hinder us too much!”
Chapter 5
The reporters were waiting, cold drinks in hand, when Ari returned from the Embassy. They glanced at the unprepossessing figure incuriously, and he might easily have escaped their attention except that one, more enterprising or less thirsty than the others, was waiting at the desk when he asked for his room key. In an instant he was surrounded by a group talking excitedly in three languages; none of it made sense to him. He noticed a photographer hurriedly adjust his lens and raise his camera with the air of a hunter making a snapshot; he flung his arm before his face just as the light exploded. He felt very tired and nervous, confused by the babble; his heart seemed to be pumping in a peculiar fashion, and he only wanted to reach his room quickly. The noise of the crowd about him made him dizzy; he tried to push through, blinding himself to the pressure of bodies bearing against him and fingers clawing at his jacket.
There was a sudden burst of outraged Portuguese, a firm hand on his elbow, and he found himself being piloted through the crowd to the elevator. Another flash of light from a hastily raised camera only succeeded in recording the nape of his neck. The elevator door shut, cutting away the noise of the lobby, the open protesting mouths of the reporters, the startled gaze of the other guests. His arm was released, and he stared in wonder at the tall man beside him.
“Your pardon, Herr Busch,” said the other apologetically in German. “I am the manager of the hotel.” Ari noted the reddish brush of hair fringing a bald head, the heavy, almost theatrical eyebrows, the square white porcelain blocks of teeth. “I realize that you have had a hard day. I am here to help you. If you wish, I shall make some excuse to the newspaper people.” He paused questioningly, his eyebrows shooting up onto his forehead; Ari could only nod. “Then,” began the manager, but the elevator came to a smooth halt and the doors slid back. They left the wide-eyed operator and turned down the hall. “Then,” continued the other suavely, “if you wish I can have your telephone calls held until tomorrow.”