“Here’s luck,” he said.
They drank; the inspector returned his glass to the coffee table. His black eyes came up to study first one of his guests and then the other.
“Well, gentlemen, exactly where are we?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before Da Silva finally answered.
“We should be getting some action fairly soon,” he said thoughtfully. “Possibly in a day or so at the latest. The fact is that at the moment McNeil is broke. Unless he had some extra money hidden in his shack on the beach, which I doubt. He doesn’t look the type to trust the local population not to break in and help themselves.”
“Broke?” Inspector Storrs’ eyebrows rose.
Da Silva grinned. “I don’t know if I ever fully explained all of our friend Wilson’s talents, but among them is picking pockets. You notice I stay a safe distance away from him myself. Well, I thought it was time to start a little fire under McNeil, so I asked Wilson to pick his pocket today at the bar — the Badger Inn, that is—”
“You picked his pocket? Without being caught?”
“Really nothing,” Wilson said modestly. “Actually, his mind was a mile away.”
“But that was only step number one,” Da Silva said, picking up the conversation. “The second step was for Diana to give the poor man a hard time for always being broke, promising her the moon and never getting around to deliver. Which I imagine she is doing just about now.” He glanced at his watch.
“You want him to move after the stones right away?”
Da Silva frowned. “That was one thing, of course — if it were possible. But another question came up. You see, I thought when we relieved Mr. McNeil of his wallet, we’d temporarily deprive him of a few dollars, and give Diana an excuse to take off on him, once he couldn’t even pay for his beer. However—”
He reached into his pocket and handed over a new leather billfold. The inspector opened it, removing the thick stack of bills and beginning to count them. The other two men remained quiet, watching, waiting for the tall black policeman to finish.
“It’s the reason I asked you to meet with us tonight,” Da Silva went on. “It struck me that wasn’t a small piece of change for a man to be carrying whose earning capacity for the past fifteen years has been zero.” He saw the question in the inspector’s eyes and answered it. “No,” he said gently. “We don’t pay our prisoners. Room and board; that’s the lot.”
“Almost eight hundred biwi...” Inspector Storrs frowned and placed the money to one side, looking at Da Silva. “Where the devil could he have gotten it?”
“Exactly my question,” Da Silva said soberly. “He certainly didn’t leave Brazil with more than his plane ticket and about five dollars at most — I think that’s what they send them out into the world with. And in any event, he couldn’t have bought Exchange Currency in Braziclass="underline" I doubt if the cambios carry them, and besides he was taken directly from the penetentiary to the plane at Recife, put aboard, and watched until the plane took off.” He drank his brandy and put his glass aside, staring at Storrs. “Who met him when he got here?”
“Nobody. Other than the police, of course.”
“Who saw to his transfer from one plane to the other in Trinidad?” Wilson asked.
Da Silva shook his head. “Interpol. He didn’t even go through customs. Nor speak with a soul there.” He looked back at the inspector. “Where did he go when he first got here?”
“Directly to Brighton. He took the bus at the airport.” Inspector Storrs seemed to read the other’s mind. “No. We had a man on the bus, in uniform. Just to let McNeil know.” He shrugged. “I had assumed he must have accumulated some wages in prison...”
“Not in Bordeirinho,” Da Silva said flatly. He crushed out his cigarette. “None of us are very bright, I’m afraid. We should have wondered a long time ago where he got his money. Or at least I should have, because I knew he left prison without any.” He frowned at the black police inspector across from him. “How sure are you that his surveillance has been complete during the week he’s been back?”
“I thought I was sure until now,” Storrs replied in a worried tone. “Now, of course, I’m not so positive. We have a uniformed constable on duty at all times watching him quite openly, in a car. We have a man in plainclothes also watching fairly obviously, handling the rear of any building he enters. And we have also placed — at least for the time being — a man in the village — a clerk at the chandler’s — who is there in case McNeil takes any trips where a car wouldn’t be able to follow. Pierce is his name, and he’s one of our best trackers.”
“And you’re sure McNeil hasn’t left the village?”
“No place he hasn’t been followed. He’s been to Miss Cogswell’s house — her aunt’s house, that is — and to the movies in Bathsheba—”
“To the movies?” Da Silva frowned.
“He sat next to Pierce,” Inspector Storrs said dryly. “With Miss Cogswell on the other side.”
Da Silva came to his feet, striding the room. The inspector gestured toward the bar; the tall Brazilian detective accepted the offer, moving behind the bar, refilling his glass, but instead of drinking it he placed it on the counter and frowned at it. Finally he looked up.
“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt somebody in the area is getting money to him, or at least got some to him once at least. And if he’s broke, he’s going to have to try to contact this — well, this banker of his, let’s call him.”
“Unless he goes directly for the stones right now.”
Da Silva considered it a moment and then shook his head.
“I doubt it. He’d still need some cash to operate. And he’s planning on taking Diana with him, and up until tonight, at least, he’s made no mention of a sudden trip to her. It’s always been ‘in a little while’.” He sipped his drink, thinking. His eyes came up to the inspector’s face. “Can you get in touch with your men in Brighton?”
“Of course. There’s a radio in the car.”
He studied Da Silva’s face a moment and nodded, then reached for a telephone on the endtable beside him; apparently it was a direct line to headquarters because he was answered instantly. He gave instructions into the phone a moment and then cupped the receiver.
“They’re hooking me up to Jamison in the car. He’s the night constable who takes over from Wexford, the day man.”
There was a pause of several seconds as the connection was made, then the faint buzz of a voice could be heard from the receiver. The inspector leaned forward.
“Jamison? Inspector Storrs here. Where are you?” He listened a moment and then looked up. “He’s just outside McNeil’s shack. McNeil went in several hours ago and is still inside. He can hear his radio.” He turned back to the phone. “Where was he before he went home?” He listened and then reported to the waiting men on the porch. “He says McNeil came stamping out of the Badger looking as if he ate a bad oyster, charged down to the beach and started throwing rocks into the sea — Jamison says he was acting as if he had to get something out of his system. Then—”
“Diana’s needle,” Wilson surmised.
“Right,” Da Silva agreed. “Well, we’ll stop by her place after we leave here and have her bring us up to date.”
“Right,” the inspector said. “In any event, McNeil went along the beach to his shack. It’s got some sort of a porch on it and he sat there a while and then went inside, turned up the lantern and started the radio. It’s a transistor, I imagine; no electricity out there.”