Mathais ground his huge teeth together, but maintained an outward calm, albeit a trifle shaky. He thought a moment and decided to try another tack.
“You open at what time?” he asked slowly, speaking with extreme clarity.
The other considered this carefully, and apparently finding nothing incriminating in answering, nodded thoughtfully.
“Quite early,” he said, but added sadly, “of course before we open, no one is allowed.”
“I understand,” Mathais said heavily. “Now; what time do you close?”
“Quite late.”
“The time,” Mathais said, almost gritting his teeth. “What time do you close? The exact hour?”
The second man, who had sat throughout this duel in silence, now decided to come to his partner’s aid. “We close at midnight,” he said.
Mathais gave a vast sigh of relief. “You close at midnight. Then, if I wished to come there with my friends after midnight, there would be no one there.” He quickly raised his hand to forestall the inevitable. “Yes. I know it is closed after midnight. But we would only require someone to run the mechanism — the car. And we would pay for this. We would pay money for someone to stay after hours to run the car.”
The magic word “money” seemed to have the necessary effect; or at least it had some effect. The two fell into a huddled conference, jabbering softly to each other. Mathais waited patiently, convinced that he was on the right track. One might have imagined that his years in Brazil would have taught him better, but he had always been of a basically optimistic nature. The conference finally ended; the first turned back to him with a tragic face. “Senhor. It is not possible. After midnight we are closed.”
A lesser man might have broken; Strauss, Mathais reflected, would have stalked from the room, or lain down upon the floor and shed tears. He, however, was made of stronger stuff. It suddenly occurred to him where he had been making his mistake, and he immediately took steps to rectify it.
“Fifty conto,” he said, staring hypnotically into the eyes of the man seated so precariously before him.
“I beg your pardon?” It was startled, but definitely interested.
“Fifty conto. Fifty thousand cruzeiros.” His eyes flickered across to the other, and he nodded his head slightly in recognition of the presence of the second. “Fifty conto each, that is, of course. A total of one hundred conto. One hundred thousand cruzeiros.”
There was silence. The second turned to the first and then paused. This obviously did not even require a conference. “Senhor,” he said, “exactly what do you want us to do?”
Mathais smiled successfully and leaned forward. “Listen closely,” he said, “I will explain everything. On next Wednesday...”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mathais’ expression did not change. “I said, ‘On next Wednesday.’ And please, just remember as you are listening, one hundred conto. One hundred thousand cruzeiros. Will you remember that?”
“Yes, Senhor, we will remember that.”
“Fine,” Mathais said with satisfaction. “Now see if you can remember this...”
Chapter 3
The brightly lit facade of the Mirabelle Hotel threw its reflected glow upon the empty pavement of the Avenida Atlantica, now damp from the faint sea fog that was slowly rolling in from the rustling ocean lost in darkness beyond the barrier of the sandy beach. It was past midnight, and the traffic had slowed down to a few well-spaced cars hurrying by, seeking to reach home before the full force of the fog swept down and closed off vision. Their tires sucked at the wet pavement hungrily, sounding sticky in the quiet night. The sharp clacking of an occasional pair of high heels patrolling the darkness were the only other sounds.
Parked a block above the Mirabelle and facing north in the direction of the city stood the battered taxi with the mechanically interesting horn ring. Two blocks below the hotel, facing south, a gaily dressed Brazilian lounged at the wheel of a long, low Jaguar. To pass the time the drivers of these two parked cars were talking to each other by radio.
“This is boring,” Wilson said, and his voice reflected his words. His finger toyed with the dashboard switch. “This is the second night in a row; I’m about ready to leave you to your own devices and call it quits.” He paused, and when his voice came back on the air again its tone had livened. “Or possibly I’ll take this taxi racket seriously. I’ve turned down about eight fares so far tonight, but there are three girls coming along now that I think...” “Relax, boy.” Da Silva’s voice came through roughly, distorted as usual by the instrument, but Wilson could hear the chuckle behind the words. “I can see every move you make. Be patient; just be patient. When this is all over, I promise you can use the cab for a week. Everything you earn will be yours. Including tips.”
“Including women?”
“Including everything. I’ll even buy the gas.”
Wilson yawned. “How much longer do we hold down the fort tonight?”
“One more hour and we’ll call it off. If they are going to make a move, they ought to make it at a reasonable hour. If they want us to be around, that is.” The voice became more serious. “One more hour and we’ll call it a night.”
“And for just how many more nights do we keep up this let’s-wait-for-curfew-to-ring routine?”
The seriousness in the other’s voice became more profound. “I wish I knew. I don’t imagine it will be long, but I honestly wish I knew. This is Wednesday; they pulled that cute little stunt with Moraes in São Paulo a week ago tonight. Don’t worry; something has to break soon.”
“I should hope so. I’m getting calluses on my you-know-what.” The voice of Wilson suddenly tensed. “Hold it. A couple of king-sized cars just pulled up to the side-street entrance of the hotel.”
Da Silva’s voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in his tone. “I see them.
Packards. Who drives Packards these days?”
“Undertakers,” Wilson said. “Two men in the front seat of each. It’s too dark to make out anything else at this distance. By the way, nobody seems to want to get out. They must have heard that the beds are hard.”
“I think this is it!” Da Silva said, excitement creeping into his voice. “Just a minute! I’m sure of it now; here come the leading characters!”
Mathais and Ari were coming down the steps of the hotel entrance; Mathais handed Ari carefully into the rear seat of the first car, and then looked quickly up and down the street. He hesitated, went back to talk to the driver of the second car for a moment, and then returned, spoke softly to his driver, and entered, taking his place beside Ari. The man beside the driver reached back through the open window and swung the door shut.
The cars took off in tandem, turned into Avenida Atlantica in the direction of the city, and gained speed. Wilson threw his car into gear and cut in behind the second Packard. His radio suddenly crackled.
“I’ll turn around and come up behind you,” Da Silva’s voice said, firm and authoritative. “I think this is really it! This time, for the love of God, don’t lose them!”
“Roger, Wilco, Joseph and Mary,” said Wilson succinctly, and reached forward to switch off the radio. He settled determinedly behind the wheel, concentrating on his driving.
The fog was increasing in intensity; the street arcs along the Avenida wore sparkling halos. They passed wedge-shaped shafts of light thrown out from hotels and bars and apartment entrances; Wilson flashed a quick glance in the rearview mirror, but it was impossible to say whether or not Da Silva had come up with him. On the other hand, he thought with some compensating satisfaction, it should be difficult for those in front to know they had a tail!