Da Silva frowned at him a moment uncomprehendingly and then looked down the aisle. Their stewardess was watching them with just the faintest smile on her pretty dark brown face. Da Silva looked at Wilson a moment, reddened in embarrassment, and then swallowed his drink hastily.
“Blind is no word for it,” he said, and looked shamefacedly at his seat companion, aware of the scrutiny from down the aisle. “Well,” he said, “don’t just sit there, Wilson! Hide me!”
4
“Moonlighting?” Da Silva asked politely.
“Believe me,” Wilson said earnestly, understandingly, “nobody knows better than Zé or myself how difficult it is to make ends meet on the paltry salaries doled out by Interpol to its vassals — but a stewardess? I should have thought there’d be more money in exotic dancing. Or even piloting the plane, if you must fly. Although,” he added in an attempt at fairness, “I’ve never tried either of them, myself.”
The three were seated at a window-seat table on the upper-floor lounge of the famous upside-down Trinidad Hilton. Beneath their window the Savannah Race Track stood empty at this hour of noon, twin rows of palm trees guarding the bare asphalt of the gigantic parking lot; beyond, the green of the city ran smoothly down the slopes to the distant ocean. At their side the buzz of the crowded bar occupied by every major race in the world; conversation in a dozen languages flashed back and forth over the heads of the busy bartenders in their sunken pit, sunken so they would not impede the view.
Diana Cogswell looked from one man to the other and sipped her whiskey sour. She placed her glass back on the table, reached down to fish a handkerchief from her bag on the floor beside her, and patted her lips.
“To tell the truth,” she said, “I like to size people up a bit before I start working with them. At least when I can.” Her voice was soft and the slightest bit husky. Sexy, Da Silva thought — and it would be a wonder if it weren’t. He brought his eyes back from her low-cut gown to her face; she noticed the change in direction and bit back a smile. “I also prefer to study them when they’re not aware of it. It’s amazing what one can learn about a person.”
Wilson grinned at her; his grin disappeared as his cigarettes slid from the table, jogged by his elbow. He reached down, gathering them in, bringing them back to the table.
“I was about to say, ‘What conclusions did you come to about Zé?’ but I won’t for two reasons.” He came to his feet apologetically. “For one, I have an errand to run. And for the second, I’d just as soon not hear your answer. I hate to see a grown man embarrassed.”
Da Silva’s eyes twinkled as the nondescript man left the room.
“You can still answer,” he said.
“I—” She stopped.
“Let me help you out,” he said, his eyes on the door through which Wilson had passed. “You found out that Captain Da Silva doesn’t particularly care about flying, and also that he’s not the most observant man in the world as far as stewardesses are concerned.” He glanced at her lovely profile and shook his head in wonderment at himself. “I’ve no excuse for that last one. Absolutely none. It must have been too much storm. Or too much Reserva San Juan.”
“I wasn’t all that unimpressed,” Diana said softly, and smiled at him. “You can handle your Reserva San Juan, at least; you don’t pinch, and I did see that you obviously came well prepared for your assignment with pictures and tapes of your man.” She forced herself to sound very businesslike. “Well, Captain, you’re the boss. What are your ideas?”
“My first idea is let’s finish our drinks,” Da Silva protested. He raised his glass, winked at her, finished his drink, and set it down. “There, that’s better. All right, down to work if you insist.” He looked curious. “My ideas about what?”
“For getting McNeil—” She stopped abruptly; her tiny jaw started to tighten, and then relaxed. “You’re joking with me, Captain. I don’t think it’s particularly a joking matter.”
“You almost got angry,” Da Silva pointed out. “I also like to learn things about people I work with, and it’s amazing how much one can learn when the other person loses his — or her — temper. However—”
“However, I didn’t lose it,” Diana said sweetly.
“But you came close,” Da Silva said, laughingly. He paused as Wilson returned and unobtrusively seated himself. He bent to tie his shoelace and then straightened up. “We were discussing our plans,” Da Silva explained.
“Oh?”
“Yes, such as they are.” He turned to the girl, shrugging. “Well, to be serious for a change, my plan really isn’t much of a mystery. As soon as I saw your picture, I said to myself — ‘If Diana Cogswell doesn’t have McNeil eating out of her hand in a week, he’s got to be blind!’”
“Actually,” Wilson said, “you said it to me.”
“I knew I said it to somebody — I was sure I hadn’t heard it just anywhere.” Having put the smaller man in his place, Da Silva returned to the girl. “Anyway, basically that’s the plan.”
“I see.” Diana nodded, not at all surprised by the plan. It had been, after all, what she had expected when she had requested the assignment. Her dark eyes came up. “And you?”
“Me? I’ll be around someplace if the action gets rough. Or if you need me for something. I have my own ideas of a cover, and what little I can contribute, but there’s no need to go into all that at this early date.”
The girl tilted her head toward Wilson.
“And what about him?”
“Well,” Da Silva said thoughtfully, “in all honesty, my original scheme was for him to stay home in Rio and not get underfoot at all. However,” he added in a kindly tone, “since he’s here he might as well stay. He’s been useful in the past for minor errands, and we might manage a use for him in this affair. He exhibits surprising talents at times, you know. Not often, but occasionally.”
“Thank you muchly,” Wilson murmured.
“That’s perfectly all right,” Da Silva said magnanimously.
Diana Cogswell frowned. “And just how do I go about meeting this McNeil man?”
“Well—” Da Silva began, but Wilson cut in smoothly.
“I do believe Miss Cogswell is getting her revenge for your not having noticed her on the plane,” he said. “A woman scorned is a joy forever, or something along those lines—”
“What are you talking about, Mr. Wilson?”
“I’m merely saying, ma’am, that you have a plan well worked out. Let me see if I can guess it...” He frowned at the table and then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Now just suppose that you had an aunt living in St. Andrew parish, Miss Cogswell — an Aunt Margaret, for example — and suppose the thought occurred to you that this McNeil would be going back to Brighton when he gets back to Barbados — it’s a natural thing for the man to do. And it’s not too far from your Aunt Margaret’s, where you plan to stay. Now, I don’t imagine there’s a lot to do in a small fishing village like Brighton, so I’d judge the social life, such as it is, must center about the pub. Now if I were you, Miss Cogswell, I’d get in touch with the local police through Interpol, and have them arrange me a job at one of them. How? Possibly by offering the present barmaid a better proposition in a big town like Bridgetown, and making it worth her while, thereby leaving the job open.”
The girl was staring at him with open mouth. She noticed him looking at her, and closed it suddenly. Wilson smiled at her in friendly fashion.
“Oh, yes,” he went on, struck by a second thought. “I’d say the Badger would be the pub to start at. It was named for Nelson’s first command, incidentally — they seem to have a thing for Nelson in Barbados. My guess is it’s the largest pub in Brighton—”