While his car was being serviced the tall man went to a Coca-Cola machine, withdrew a bottle and tilted it to his lips, idly watching the traffic whizz by as he drank. If he patted his lips in the fashion of one accustomed to drying a mustache after partaking of liquids, it was not such a movement as excited either curiosity or notice from the busy attendant.
When the car was finally ready, the tall man paid his bill, swung back behind the wheel with athletic ease, and roared off down the highway. The sun had been up and at work for several hours, and the day was beginning to show the result of this effort in mounting heat. The driver swung the small side window to an angle that allowed the warm breeze to play briskly across his face, and stepped up his speed. A huge signboard advertising motor oil flashed past; beneath a picture of a grinning automobile thirstily drinking from a golden can, an arrow pointed in the direction he was traveling. “São Paulo,” said the arrow, “400 kilometers.” The driver nudged his companion sharply and the other slowly opened his eyes.
“My dear Zé,” said Wilson, straightening with a deep yawn and eying Da Silva with undisguised rancor. “You drag me out of a comfortable bed at some ungodly hour, frighten me half to death by having shaved off your mustache, throw me in your car with no explanation whatsoever, and then you don’t even have the decency to let me catch up a bit on my sleep!”
“There is a time for everything,” Da Silva said brightly. Without his mustache he appeared years younger; his strong white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. “When I picked you up, Wilson, my son, I was in the midst of a dramatic escape. Even you will admit that that is certainly no time for fancy speeches and lengthy explanations. Now, however, that we have foiled the dastardly intentions of the minions of law and order, and are well free of their foul clutches, other times have come!”
“Like the time for explanations?” Wilson asked curiously.
Da Silva laughed gayly, shaking his head. “Like the time to appreciate nature. Look at the sunlight glistening on the waves below; notice the beautiful cloud banks ahead of our brave airplane! Think of the drink we shall take together at Belem, think of the wonders we shall see tonight in Dakar, and the food we shall eat tomorrow in Paris! Wilson, my friend, there is no place in the world to appreciate nature like Paris!”
Wilson hunched back into his corner, closing his eyes. “When the mood passes, Zé, please wake me again. There’s no point in both of us dreaming with our eyes open.”
“Up, up!” Da Silva cried happily. “The lark’s on the wing; God’s in His heaven; all’s right, more or less, with the world!”
Wilson sat back up, looking at his friend in disgust. “You have no idea how obnoxious you can be when you get all boyish and exuberant. And that shirt! Are you trying to look American? And without your mustache.” He examined his companion critically, his head cocked to one side. “You know, in this light, you look like an aging juvenile delinquent. Is that supposed to be a disguise?”
“Not supposed to be. Is. Is. And very effective, too. You have to admit it completely fooled you.”
“ ‘Fooled’ isn’t exactly the word. ‘Frightened’ would be closer. Or maybe ‘horrified.’ ” Wilson lit a cigarette and gazed at Da Silva calmly. “Would it be a breach of palace security to ask just where we are going?”
“I told you.” Da Silva sounded hurt. “Belem, Dakar, Paris. In the order named. With a one-hour stopover in each airport. For gasoline, I imagine, since they must have W.C.’s aboard.” He swung the wheel, hurtling the car recklessly around a truck that had pulled half off the pavement with a flat tire; he smiled wickedly. “Also watch out for air pockets!”
“Belem, Dakar, Paris?” Wilson asked, quietly.
“Exactly! You finally got it!”
“By way of São Paulo?”
Da Silva looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t mention that place, or I’ll know you’ve been peeking!”
Wilson sighed. “All right, Zé,” he said patiently. “When you get playful I know something has broken. What?”
Da Silva smiled at him gently, his eyes dancing behind the dark glasses. “I’ve been trying to tell you. My leave has been canceled. I have drawn the fascinating assignment of checking up on several cases of completely unimportant people who are thought to have illegally immigrated from France to Brazil.” He winked broadly. “This is rather interesting, especially when you consider that immigration into Brazil is practically open. Except for two-headed giraffes.” He sighed deeply. “At any rate, I have orders to report to Paris immediately to work with the French branch of Interpol on this grave breach of law.”
Wilson sat up straight. “When do you leave?”
Da Silva suddenly blasted his horn at a slow-moving furniture van and passed it in a screaming burst of speed. “You really haven’t been listening to a word,” he said reproachfully. “I left early this morning. By now I imagine I should be coming into Belém de Pará.” He grinned. “I mean, by now I am coming into Belém de Pará.”
Wilson studied the strong face of his companion, now smiling faintly at the windshield, his large hands firm on the wheel. “Do you think you can get away with it?” he asked quietly.
Da Silva grinned again. “This is one sure way to find out.”
“You think that someone is trying to get you transferred off the Busch case?”
Da Silva took his eyes from the road a moment and glanced at Wilson blandly. “I should consider it a possibility.” He returned his attention to the highway winding beneath them. “You must admit it is interesting that the assignment happened to come at this particular moment. And that it should just happen to deal with immigration. Now, I wonder who could possibly have arranged that?”
Wilson looked at him speculatively. “You think it was Strauss.”
The restraint was too much for Da Silva’s explosive nature. He snorted, dropping his sarcasm. “I’m sure it was Strauss;
I know it was! With all of the usual Teutonic subtlety!” He curved the car around a bus laboring up a hill. “Immigration is one of his pet projects; it would be no problem for him to arrange a transfer like this.” He looked across at Wilson seriously. “Do you still doubt my theory?”
“Your theory?”
“The meeting back in 1939, remember?”
Wilson shrugged this subject off; his mind was on things more important to him at the moment. “But, Zé, won’t they know you didn’t go to Paris?”
“Not for a while. I have friends too, you know. Reports, cables, and all of the paper work we all love so well will come through on schedule, at least for the time being.” He sighed. “Let’s hope we can clear this Busch affair up before then.”
Wilson stared at the firm set of his friend’s face. “Zé,” he said quietly, “why do you do it? You’re a policeman, under orders, ducking out on an assignment given you by your superiors.”
“My superiors haven’t the faintest idea of why they were asked to assign me to Paris,” Da Silva replied stubbornly.
“That’s not the point,” Wilson said, “and you know it.”
Da Silva looked at him, his face a mask, a brown granite block with flat eyes that looked at Wilson and through him, far beyond. “I don’t care,” he said flatly. “I’m a man, too. Under more important orders. From much higher up. That’s the assignment I can’t leave.”
He turned back to the wheel abruptly, concentrating on his driving. They stopped once again for gasoline at São José dos Campos, in the State of São Paulo, caught a quick sandwich while the car was being serviced, and left as soon as it was ready. The sun was high now, past the meridian, and there was no longer a breeze; the area was sweltering. Wilson had thrown his jacket into the rear seat of the car, and now loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.