Wilson shook his head absently, even as he moved one picture behind the other. Da Silva, watching, was well aware that the smaller man was carefully memorizing every feature of the prisoner he was studying. Wilson marked the proud tilt of the large black head, the neatness of the close prison cut of the kinky hair, the musculature of the well-kept body. He nodded and handed them back.
“Well,” he said, “he certainly didn’t let himself get run down in prison. He looks as tough as they come, and not afraid of God, Devil, or Da Silva.”
“He doesn’t know me yet,” Da Silva said, and grinned. His grin disappeared. “Oh, he’s tough, all right.”
“What did you say about sound?”
Da Silva handed him a pair of earphones from his attaché case; Wilson slipped them on and watched as Da Silva slid a casette into a small battery-operated tape-recorder. There were several moments of silence and then the conversation.
“‘McNeil.’”
“‘Yes, sir.’”
A long pause and then: “‘McNeil. You get out of here in two weeks. You’ve done your fifteen years—’”
The tape ran on. Wilson listened to the end of the casette, and when it began to repeat itself he reached over, switched off the set, and removed the earphones. He watched as Da Silva stowed the gear away in the attaché case; his voice was curious when he spoke.
“What’s this business about him slugging a doctor?”
Da Silva shrugged. “All I know is that it was his only infraction. It was during a typhoid epidemic, which unfortunately isn’t a very uncommon event here. The doctor wanted to give him an injection and he popped the doctor in the nose.”
“But, why?” A thought came. “Maybe he doesn’t like needles.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like doctors,” Da Silva observed. “At any rate, he pulled down two weeks in solitary for it. But otherwise he was a good boy, just like the tape says.”
“The tape also says he’ll be followed constantly. Is the tape being honest about that?”
“As honest as tapes can be.”
Wilson thought a bit and then nodded.
“I think it’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “He’d expect to be followed, anyway. So if somebody is doing it openly and obviously, then we — you and me — follow him from in front. Is that it?”
“More or less.”
“You never got any hint in all his years in prison where he might have put the stuff?”
“None.” Da Silva sipped his brandy and set the glass down, twisting it idly on the formica of the tray. “And it wasn’t for lack of trying. We didn’t put hot needles under his fingernails — not that I think it would have done one much good — but Storrs questioned all four of them rather thoroughly, and it didn’t get him anyplace. In prison their cells were bugged for a very long time with no results whatsoever.” He frowned in memory. “As a matter of fact, they even took motion pictures of the four of them in the exercise yard with a telephoto lens and had expert lip-readers study them, but no dice. At no time did any one of them refer either to the robbery, or the jewels, or anything else even remotely helpful.”
“How about the ship’s librarian?”
“Not a word.”
“What did they talk about?”
Da Silva stared at him with lifted eyebrows.
“What do you think they talked about? What would you talk about if you were in prison for fifteen years?”
“Girls.”
Da Silva nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what they talked about.”
Wilson finished his brandy and snubbed out his cigarette. He frowned at the empty glass, thinking. Da Silva respected his thoughts, remaining silent. At last Wilson looked up.
“Fifteen years in prison... The first thing McNeil is going to be interested in, as we’re both agreed, is girls. It would be very helpful if we had a girl working with us. Someone from Interpol. Someone he might spill his little heart out to.” He grinned. “Because I hope you don’t expect me to put on a wig and play the part.”
Da Silva smiled back at him.
“McNeil’s been in prison fifteen years; it may have affected his brain, but his eyes are all right.” His smile became mischievous. “Your idea isn’t a bad one—”
“Thank you.”
“—even if it isn’t original.” Da Silva reached into a pocket of his attaché case and brought out another envelope. “Here. Try this one on for size.”
Wilson slid a pair of photographs from the envelope. His eyes widened at sight of the one on top. The picture was of a girl, chocolate in color with wavy black hair reaching her shoulders, a deep dimple in one cheek, brilliant teeth against the mahogany tone of her skin, and twinkling black eyes. He whistled lightly between his teeth.
“Wow! Where did you find her?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but turned to the second. This one gave a view of her figure in an evening gown, standing straight and winking provocatively into the camera; her ample cleavage almost caused Wilson to forget to check the face to make sure it was the same girl. It was. He envied the photographer. Da Silva reached over and removed the pictures gently, putting them away. Wilson took a deep breath.
“My Lord, she’s lovely! Who is she?”
“Stop drooling,” Da Silva said sternly. “Remember your good old Ohio upbringing. Also your blood pressure.” He snapped the attaché case closed. “Her name is Diana Cogswell. She was born in Barbados, educated there through Queen’s College for girls, after which she took a job in England.”
“And she’s in Interpol?”
“She is. And she’s going to work with me — with us, now, I suppose — on this case. She asked for the assignment, since she knows Barbados, and when they sent me her record — and her pictures — I certainly had no objections.”
“I can see why not!”
“I said, stop drooling!” Da Silva smiled at him. “Now do you believe me when I said I honestly wasn’t trying to induce you to help me on this case today at lunch?”
“I believe you. I’d be crazy not to.” Wilson grinned. “By the way, where and when do we meet this dish?”
Da Silva’s smile faded. Unconsciously he looked at his watch.
“In Trinidad, I hope. She was scheduled to meet me at the airport in Rio; we were supposed to take the plane together. But she didn’t show. She was coming in from Lima on a flight leaving there this morning, but either she missed her flight from there, or the storm held her up back in Rio. Maybe she couldn’t get a cab from town.” He shrugged. “We’ll try to have the pilot cable back to my office and see if we can’t arrange to meet her in Port-of-Spain. We’ll wait for her there.”
“Forever, if necessary,” Wilson said fervently, raising a hand with his empty glass in it for the stewardess’ attention. Da Silva aided this effort by ringing the bell.
“Let’s hope it won’t be quite that long,” he said. “I’d like her to be well established in Barbados with a good cover before Mr. William Trelawney McNeil is returned to his native heath.” Da Silva watched the stewardess refill his glass, nodded to her pleasantly in thanks, and raised his glass in a slight gesture of a toast once she had left. “Well, here’s to Mr. McNeil’s eyesight. If Miss Diana Cogswell doesn’t have him eating out of her hand in a week, he has to be blind.”
Wilson had lowered his glass and was staring thoughtfully down the aisle.
“I’m not so sure,” he said slowly.
“Eh?”
“I said, I’m not so sure. I think,” Wilson said, coming to a conclusion with a twinkle in his eye, “that Miss Cogswell met you at the plane at Galeão on schedule, and I think she’s had us — if not eating — at least drinking out of her hand for the past hour or so. So how blind does that make us?”