“I will go down with you,” the manager said to Gunther, also rising and straightening the creases in his trousers carefully. “Besides, it is very late, yes? I am sure that Herr Busch must be most tired of our company by this time.” His toothy smile robbed his words of either offense or meaning.
Ari bowed slightly from the waist. “It was a wonderful meal,” he said, happy to be honest. “I thank you very much. You must be my guest another time.” He puffed smoke rapidly from his cigar to demonstrate both his enjoyment and his sincerity.
“I will have the chambermaid arrange the Herr’s apartment,” Mathais said, looking about the room anxiously. Ari assured him that the morning would be fine; that the room would do until then.
“If the Herr says so,” Mathais said dubiously, and led the way into the hall. They all shook hands again at parting, that stiff one-up-and-one-down of the European, and Ari closed the door softly behind him.
Well, it did not go too badly, he thought with satisfaction, undressing slowly for bed. Da Silva would have been proud of me tonight. As I am proud of him, he thought, remembering the telephone call. That had been pure luck. He felt relaxed and pleasantly full of good food as he peeled back the covers and slipped thankfully into bed. It had been a complicated day, a long day; but all in all a very good day. Maybe the dreams will not come tonight, he thought hopefully. Maybe they were just my punishment before for not having done anything. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep happily. Tonight he was suddenly sure that the dreams would not come.
Chapter 7
In the manager’s apartment on the second floor of the hotel, Mathais and Gunther sipped cognac.
“So he got it in,” Mathais said shortly. He was a far different man from the scraping, bowing, smiling-Buddha manager with the trick eyebrows.
“Yes,” Gunther answered.
“Very clever.” He sipped.
Gunther shrugged indifferently.
“And with no help from you.”
At this, Gunther bridled. “There was nothing I could do. What could I have done? Even if he had had it with him? With Da Silva there and all!” The unfairness of the accusation stung him. “I had no idea of how he intended to bring it in. If you knew, you should have told me!”
“Ah,” Mathais said, almost with satisfaction. “That’s where the man is clever!” He lifted his glass slightly, as if in toast to Busch’s cleverness. “I didn’t know. Nor did anybody.”
“So don’t blame me,” Gunther said crossly.
“I’m not blaming you,” Mathais said soothingly. “In any event it’s not important. At least we know the money is here in Brazil.”
“I still don’t know how he managed to arrange it,” Gunther said thoughtfully. “Pan American...” He reviewed the people he knew at Pan American, the office people, the hangar crew. He shook his head. “He must be far sharper than he looks.”
“Well,” Mathais said. “Of course.”
“I know,” Gunther said stubbornly. “But still. It must have been exceptionally well organized.”
“He must have a lot of faith in the people he works with,” Mathais said dryly. “I am sure that I wouldn’t trust you with two million dollars.”
“He probably pays them better than I get paid,” Gunther said sourly, absently. “Another thing. I wonder how he got away from Da Silva’s watchdogs long enough to arrange the thing.”
“I shouldn’t imagine that would be too hard,” Mathais said, twirling the brandy glass in his fingers. “There has been a man across the side street from the hotel all afternoon who has ‘policeman’ written all over him. He doesn’t look like the type it would be difficult to slip.” Gunther shook his head stubbornly in disagreement. “Don’t underestimate Da Silva.”
Mathais smiled, a cold smile. “I don’t underestimate anybody. And particularly, I do not underestimate Mr. Busch.” He looked across at the other sardonically. “After all, he gave the slip to the entire New York police department.”
“That’s true,” Gunther admitted grudgingly.
“And the fact is,” Mathais added negligently, “Busch did get the money into Brazil. Which was not as easy as people might think.”
Gunther nodded. “That is also true. But exactly where is it?”
Mathais shrugged. “At the moment, that is not important.” He got to his feet and replenished the glasses. He raised his in a toast. “To two million dollars!” He shook his head in profound admiration and drank. He set his glass down and turned to Gunther. “You will let the people in São Paulo know?”
“I’ll call them tomorrow. I don’t know if the boss is there; I think he is traveling in the South. But in any event he should be back by the end of the week.” He sipped his glass. “I’ll call tomorrow.” He paused, wondering. “Do you think he’ll stay in Brazil?”
“Who, Busch? Of course he’ll stay in Brazil,” Mathais said positively. “Where else would he go? There aren’t many places left with no extradition these days. And also, he can’t keep taking his money in and out of countries. He was lucky this time. No; hell stay. He came to stay; I’m sure of that.”
“In Rio?”
“Or São Paulo. It really makes no difference. Two million dollars! It is what we have needed!” He looked across at Gunther. “You will call São Paulo?”
“I said I would.” There was resentment in the tone; the resentment of the unappreciated.
“Just don’t forget to,” Mathais said rudely. He stood up, yawning deeply, his entire attitude indicating that the discussion was at an end. “Well,” he said, seeing the other still sitting and drinking, “Drink up!” Gunther swallowed his brandy hastily and got to his feet, barely suppressing his indignation. Mathais waited impatiently until the other had left, still muttering; then he closed the door softly behind the departing man. “Two million dollars,” he said to himself with a smile as he went into his bedroom. “Two million dollars...!”
Chapter 8
In Wilson’s small bachelor apartment overlooking the quiet Lagoa de Freitas, the nondescript man and Da Silva were also sipping cognac.
“My dear Wilson,” Da Silva was saying, squinting at his brandy glass from the depths of the couch. “You would do me a very great favor by having a good mechanic go over your car. When I came through that fence and heard that starter grinding endlessly, I thought I would have heart failure. I thought we were finished.”
“My dear Zé,” Wilson retorted, stung out of his normal calm. “You would do me an even greater favor by leaving me completely out of your crazy schemes!” He snorted. “In all honesty, do you really believe that robbing, or pretending to rob, an airport, is the best way to convince people that this Schoenberg actually brought that money into Brazil?”
“I don’t know if it was the best way,” Da Silva said calmly, “but I’m certain that it was the quickest. We saw Mr. Schoenberg a little better than six hours ago; I would be willing to bet that a report of our little escapade is all over Rio at this very moment.”
“Well, possibly,” Wilson conceded reluctantly. “But...”
“No but; and no possibly. Definitely,” Da Silva said lazily. He studied his cognac glass once again, holding it to the light. “My dear Wilson,” he said, “you would think that, with PX privileges, you could afford to drink a better brand of brandy than this.”
“Zé,” Wilson said, paying no attention to Da Silva’s remark, “are you honestly convinced that there is a real conspiracy here in Brazil to rebuild the Nazi party?”
“Wilson,” Da Silva said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “you are changing the subject.” He studied his glass again. “Now, with PX privileges, if I had been so lucky as to be born an American, I would get Remy Martin. Or, if they were out of it.”