But he could not erase his own trembling figure from the picture he had created, and the sudden muffled roar of an airplane shattered the spell, leaving him tired and hot, a small, miserable man standing uncertainly in a crude room, his luggage being efficiently searched. With a sharp, quizzical sidelong glance, Captain Da Silva laid the pitiful camouflage of wrinkled clothing to one side and began withdrawing blocks of neatly tied newsprint from the depths of the briefcase. They looked foolish piled on the desk, like the accessories of some child’s game, leaning idiotically against the underwear and dirty socks. The clattering fan only served to emphasize the silence.
Da Silva straightened up and sighed, as if weary of the disappointments of constant dissimulation. “A personal search, Mr. Busch,” he said sadly. “I am afraid that I must ask you to submit to a personal search.”
“Isn’t that most unusual?” He tried to sound indignant, but only succeeded in sounding frightened. They were right, he thought bitterly, you’re too old for this sort of thing.
“Most unusual. As are the circumstances. Please.”
“No!” It was an animal cry; he clutched the ends of his coat sleeves with his fingers, straining. “I’m sorry.” He attempted to smile, but the grimace was pitiful. “I have... well, I have a thing about being undressed in public. ”
Da Silva’s eyebrows raised in honest surprise. “My dear Mr. Busch,” he said, “we certainly have no intention of undressing you. In any event, it would be quite purposeless. Please.” A gesture plus a few words of instruction in Portuguese and the customs official swung himself from the table and came over. He ran his fingers with impersonal speed over the cringing figure, sliding his hands down the rumpled trouser legs, crumpling the cloth of the suit to expose any papers hidden in the lining. He removed the contents of the pockets and handed them to Da Silva. He shook his head, his face a mask.
“Fora disso, nada.”
The mustached man examined the papers desultorily, leafed through the wallet with an air of complete disinterest, and handed them back. He returned to his swivel chair back of the desk and seated himself wearily.
“Tell me, Mr. Busch,” he said softly, conversationally, “who has the money?”
“Money?”
“Please. Let us not have any fencing. We know all about you. I am not, as you might have thought, of the customs. Our government is interested in you, Mr. Busch. We are interested in any man who brings two million dollars into our country.”
He felt a wave of hysteria bring sour laughter choking in his throat and desperately fought it down. I’m tired, he thought. It was a long trip. But don’t break now; you can’t break now. Actually, what can they do? What is the very worst they can do? Be glad this is Brazil and today, and not Europe and yesterday. Here they talk; they do not use castor oil and needles.
“Pardon me, Captain, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about. A million dollars? In cash? Carrying it with me? You must be joking; the thought is idiotic.”
“Two million, Mr. Busch, two million. And the thought of a man carrying a briefcase filled with newspaper blocks chained to his wrist for twenty-four hours might also be considered by some as being idiotic. Or at least, shall we say, slightly abnormal.”
“Chained to my wrist?”
“Chained to your wrist, Mr. Busch, until you got off the plane. Please, do not play with me. We are quite well informed. We know you left New York with this amount of money; we know this definitely and positively. Of this there can be no doubt at all. Tell me, Mr. Busch, where is it?”
“Is it illegal to bring money into Brazil? I understood that there are no currency regulations here for travelers.”
Da Silva shrugged, his eyes cold and somber. “Two million dollars is not money in the tourist sense, Mr. Busch. Two million dollars could be counterfeit, or could buy a lot of arms, or bribe enough officials. Or any one of many things. Particularly any one of many things. You are correct in thinking that there are no currency regulations here in Brazil, but you are completely wrong in feeling that this applies to you.” He leaned forward impressively, never removing his piercing eyes from the disheveled figure before him.
“Believe me, Mr. Busch, when I tell you that our government is extremely serious about your case. We are interested in this money and the purpose for which it is intended. We are quite certain that we know this purpose, and we fully expect to prevent it. Believe me.”
“But I tell you...”
The tall, thin man shook his finger coldly. “Mr. Busch. There is only one thing I want you to tell me, and that is where the money is. Please. Or bitte if you prefer. We know who you are and what you have been. You will not spend this money. You are making a grave mistake, Mr. Busch. A grave mistake.”
The other stood silent, the sweat rolling down his pale cheeks, his shirt and jacket soaked. Am I making a mistake? Quite possibly; it won’t be the first, nor the last.
But what could one do? Whom could one trust? In New York these past three years, it had seemed simple, necessary, even — my God! — romantic. But no, he thought with finality, I am not making a mistake; it would be too useless. He saw the captain’s eyes and knew the ordeal had run its course, but there was no feeling of exultation or even relief. He was only conscious of the oppressive heat and a slight feeling of nausea.
Da Silva suddenly swiveled about, staring at the noisy fan with distaste, as if it represented in its mechanical sickness the malaise of the world in which he was forced to work and struggle.
“All right, Mr. Busch. The money is not on your person nor in your luggage; that much is certain. Whoever you passed it to, either on the plane, or en route, or in the customs shed, will be found. It will not be passed back to you. Or we will be there when it is.” He paused in thought, shook his head sadly. “You would be well advised to turn the money in to us and return to New York, Mr. Busch.” He eyed the small man before him queryingly, shook his head again, and then nodded to the customs official.
“All right, Mr. Busch. You are free to go. But you would be making a sad error to feel that this case is over.”
Now the relief came, flooding him, immediately followed by doubt.
“But my passport?”
Da Silva did not lift his eyes from the scratched desk top before him. His fingers idly followed some of the ancient marks impressed upon the worn surface. “I am afraid I shall have to hold that for the time being.”
But really, this was too much! How could he hope to accomplish anything if he couldn’t even pass the simple test of getting through customs with his papers intact? And he might well need his passport for identification or travel. I’m tired, he thought, and sick and old. I’m really old. It was enough to make one cry.
“But I am an American citizen...”
“A naturalized American citizen, Mr. Busch, but still, I admit, under the protection of that embassy. However, I am afraid that we cannot permit you to leave our hospitality without due notice. The law, Mr. Busch, allows us to verify that travelers in our country owe no Brazilian taxes before giving them permission to leave.” Da Silva looked up coldly; there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Are you quite certain your tax situation is clear?”
He shrugged dejectedly. This was one more problem that had not been considered, but at least one small barrier had been cleared. He could get out of customs and go to his hotel. Possibly the others could solve the problem of the withheld passport, that is, if there were any others and he wasn’t being a complete fool. Possibly with a little rest and a cold bath he could figure it out himself. He suddenly felt exhausted and very alone.