He waited until a second stewardess had seated him, then fastened his seatbelt and tried to peer through the small window to see if the person he was expecting had made it to the airport in time, but the rain beating against the double glass made sight impossible. There was finally the slam of a door behind him and the whine of a reactor starting up, followed in seconds by the other reactor. He clenched his attaché case tightly, awaiting the first motion of the dreaded trip, and then felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned with a slightly curious smile; the smile held for a moment and then faded, replaced by a frown.
“Well, well!” he said expressionlessly. “One more good reason not to patronize the airlines. The things you run into! What in the devil are you doing here?”
“Come, come!” Wilson said chidingly, wiping the rain from his face. “What kind of hospitality is this? I change all my plans this afternoon, dash home madly to pack, make it to the airport with about one second to spare, almost break my neck to get here all because you so evidently wanted me to join you on this case — and this is the thanks I get?” He dropped into the seat next to Da Silva and fastened his seatbelt.
“Because I wanted you to join me on the case?”
“Don’t act surprised,” Wilson said. “Don’t pretend you weren’t expecting me. That long story at lunch today was merely for the purpose of tantalizing me, of whetting my appetite. Which,” he added, wishing to be honest, “it did.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I trotted right back to the office and checked up on that little matter of the good ship Porto Alegre — which I’m sure you knew I’d do — and what do you think?”
“I think you have a great imagination.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said, and smiled. “But I wasn’t fishing for compliments. What I meant was that I discovered certain facts which you failed to give me at lunch.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that the majority of the jewelry stolen that fateful evening belonged to American nationals.”
“Of course it did,” Da Silva said dryly. “I didn’t even think it needed mentioning. Brazilian women buy jewels to wear, not to keep in ship’s safes.”
“If you say so,” Wilson said equably. “Anyway, I also learned that the loss was covered, almost in its entirety, by American insurance companies. Naturally, when I pointed these facts out to the Ambassador, he agreed instantly that the matter was of grave interest to the American government.” He spread his hands. “Hence my presence. Q.E.D.”
“Quixotic, Erroneous, and — probably — Drunk.”
“I’d be more apt to call it Quite Excellent Dedication — to Duty, that is, if we need another ‘D’,” Wilson began.
He paused because his companion was paying him no attention. The plane had taxied to the end of the runway and was now prepared to take off. There was an increased whine from the reactors as the instruments were checked, the great sleek plane straining at the leash; then they were off into that wall of darkness, bumping roughly on the runway, swaying slightly in the heavy cross wind as they gathered speed. Suddenly the trembling stopped: They were airborne. The pilot responded to this triumph over gravity by tilting the nose of the plane almost vertical. Da Silva swallowed, counted to ten, and opened his eyes. To his amazement he was not only still alive, but in the short time since takeoff they had traversed the thick rainclouds and were lifting through deep black-blue skies beneath a quarter moon with the lights of Rio only the faintest glow beneath the swirling clouds below. The light over their heads went out; he loosened his seatbelt without removing it, pressed the button for the stewardess, and lit a cigarette a bit shakily.
“May we get back to business?” Wilson asked politely.
“If I ever stop smoking — which I sincerely hope to do one of these days, because it’s a nasty, filthy habit, and bad for the health as well,” Da Silva said feverishly, “it’ll have to be the day I stop flying.”
“Or the day I lose PX privileges, more likely,” Wilson commented. “Anyway, as I was saying — to get back to the slight matter of the SS Porto Alegre — this is not only an American case as well as a Brazilian one, it also happens to be an Interpol one. Which also explains why I’m here. As you well knew I would be.”
“Yes, you’re here.” Da Silva sighed. “I don’t suppose—”
He paused as the stewardess answered his ring. When Reserva San Juan had been ordered — available on a flight originating in Buenos Aires — he leaned back in silence until the stewardess had lowered the trays from the seats before them and placed their glasses on them. Wilson looked at him.
“You were saying?”
“I was saying, I don’t suppose in your research this afternoon you happened to uncover the fact that the rainy season in Rio by coincidence corresponds to the dry season in Barbados, did you?”
“You’re being insulting,” Wilson said sternly, and grinned. “I always knew it...”
Da Silva picked up his glass and shook his head wonderingly.
“Your record for misunderstanding, I’m happy to report, is still intact. I didn’t want you on the case, believe me. However.” He sipped and turned to the man beside him. “Well, since you’re here, and apparently here officially, you might as well be useful. What else did you dig up this afternoon?”
“Not a thing,” Wilson said, leaning back and studying the ceiling. He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought I’d done a good day’s work in just getting travel money out of the embassy fiscal officer before he shoved off for his daily cocktail party. Anyway, since you’ve been on the case longer than I have — by fifteen years — I’ll defer to your judgment. Although,” he added pleasantly, “it did strike me — since you claim not to have wanted me along — that if one plans on trailing a man, it is generally conceded that two are better at it than one. Which you would know if you ever studied your Police Manual. Or even Agatha Christie.”
“True,” Da Silva admitted. “It helps, of course, if those doing the trailing know what the man they are trailing looks like. Or sounds like.” He pulled his attaché case around in his lap, snapping it open, reaching inside to pick up an envelope. “Here are some recent pictures of Mr. William Trelawney McNeil.”
“Good,” Wilson said. He took them, studying them. “How recent?”
“They were taken today. About the time we were having lunch, or a little earlier, if the clock on the wall there is accurate, which I doubt. They were developed and flown down from Recife late this afternoon.” The brandy was relaxing him, as was the conversation; the smoothness of the flight was also helpful to his mood. He smiled. “I didn’t think anyone would be interested in fifteen-year-old mug shots of the man, but if you want them I can cable for them from Port-of-Spain.”