“True,” Wilson agreed, and then frowned. “Except that would mean that there’s no connection between McNeil’s disappearance and Diana’s. Which further means—”
“Which further means that she was picked up by somebody else,” Da Silva said flatly. “By this fellow we keep calling the banker, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Nor would I,” Wilson said, suddenly convinced. “Undoubtedly to guarantee that McNeil didn’t skip without giving him his cut.”
“Then McNeil must have stopped there to tell the banker that tonight was the night,” Da Silva said. “The man wouldn’t kidnap a girl a month ahead of schedule.”
“Not if he had any sense,” Wilson agreed with a grin. “Her food bill alone would take the profit out of the operation. She’s a big girl with a healthy appetite.”
“Unless he kidnapped her because he found out she was a police agent.”
“I don’t believe so.” It was Inspector Storrs. He looked up calmly. “Look, gentlemen, we’ve developed a hypothesis; it holds the maximum probabilities under the circumstances and facts as we know them. A policeman cannot ask for more as a basis of beginning a case.”
Wilson looked at him. “You mean we might be wrong, but at least we’ll be wrong with the odds?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. To operate any other way would be to dilute our energy. So let us see where we stand: Our theory is that McNeil is somewhere at sea in a boat, on his way to pick up the jewels. Due to a lack of foresight on my part, he is not being followed. The girl, Diana Cogswell, is being held a prisoner by an unknown man we call — for lack of more positive identification — the banker.” He paused. “Can we infer more? We can. We can infer that for the time being, at least, the girl’s position is that of a hostage, and as such she is in no immediate danger. I realize that statistics in kidnapping cases in the States might refute this statement, but in this case I honestly believe she is in no danger. The man has nothing to gain by harming her, and would face the wrath of McNeil if he did so. I doubt if he would want to face that wrath. He merely wants his thieves’ share.”
Da Silva nodded. “I agree. So?”
“So we continue our search for the girl, of course, here on Barbados—”
“And wait for McNeil to show up,” Wilson asked, “hoping we’re someplace in the neighborhood when and where he decides to land?”
“I should say not.” Storrs came to his feet and walked to a large map mounted on one wall of the office. Da Silva moved over; Wilson struggled up from the cushioned depths of the sofa to join them. The map was of the Windward Islands, with Barbados a small triangular land mass off by itself to the east. The inspector picked up a pointer and swept it around the island of Barbados. “Now let’s see where he might go by sea...”
Wilson frowned at the large expanse of green surrounding the islands, with contour lines weaving about marking ocean depths.
“It looks awfully big,” he said. “The ocean, I mean, not the island. And mighty empty.”
“It’s big,” the inspector admitted, “but far from as empty as it looks. On a small map this size they don’t show all the tiny islands and atolls that are around, small peaks of underwater ranges that are part of the same mountain chain as most of the Caribbean islands, many of them deserted; but they’re all on the sea charts, of course. As I said, we’ve often thought that McNeil hid the jewels on one of them. He certainly had ample time before we picked him up. But it would have been impossible to search them all, or even a small part of them. However, we do have a bit of an advantage...”
Da Silva looked at him. “Such as?”
Inspector Storrs smiled.
“Well, if our hypothesis is correct — and I say ‘if’ — then quite obviously McNeil has no idea the girl is missing and therefore has no idea that anyone, like her aunt for example, might report it and get the police interested in him, since everyone knew he was very attracted to her. He therefore has no reason at all to think we are looking for him. He would expect us to discover his absence around noon tomorrow, when he normally comes out of his shack and heads to the pub.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Right now it is two o’clock in the morning, which means we have ten hours headstart over anything he might expect. That’s quite an advantage.”
“That’s true. But only if we can use it,” Da Silva pointed out.
“Oh, we’ll use it. Or at least a good part of it,” the black police inspector assured him, and laid down his pointer, resuming his seat. “You see, a second advantage we have is that one can see a great deal of ocean from an airplane, and small boats very far from shore are quite rare, even fishing boats.”
“Of course he can see the plane just as far,” Wilson said.
“I remember what one of your American boxers — Joe Louis — once said about one of his opponents,” the inspector remarked, a twinkle in his eye. “The same is true of a small boat at sea. He can run, but he can’t hide.”
Da Silva nodded. “How soon can a plane take off?”
The inspector glanced at his wristwatch.
“First light should be sometime between four fifteen and four thirty. In a little over two hours. I’ll have our two police seaplanes gassed up and their pilots ready to take off by then. The plane taking the eastern course can leave a little earlier, of course — even before light. He’ll be flying into the sun and from his altitude he’ll have enough light to begin his part of the search. And I’ll have a trained observer on each plane with the pilot, of course; between the two they can scan a lot of sea.”
Da Silva took a deep breath, coming to a decision.
“I’ll go as the observer on the first plane that takes off.”
“You?” Wilson stared at him in honest amazement. “Going flying in a small plane? And volunteering, yet?” He turned to the inspector. “How are your police planes fixed up for liquid refreshment?”
The swarthy, mustached Brazilian was not amused.
“Yes, me,” he said shortly. “I don’t like flying, it’s true. But no matter how good our hypothesis is, there’s still the possibility that the girl is with McNeil, and I’m still responsible for anyone assigned to me, whether they asked for the assignment or not. Besides,” he added coldly, “the fact is that we came down here to follow McNeil and find the jewels, and that’s precisely what I’m suggesting. And I’d also like to finish up and get back home to Rio.”
“You must have heard that it finally stopped raining there,” Wilson said, and sighed sadly. “All right. I can take a hint. I go as observer in the other teensy-weensy plane. I know...”
8
The pilot of Da Silva’s plane was a young lad whose shining black face glinted with good humor, a rare thing, Da Silva thought, for anyone wakened at that hour, especially for the purpose of taking an airplane off the ground — or, as in this case, off the water. However, being a young man who loved flying for the sheer fun of it, Da Silva suspected — almost as much as he himself disliked it — any hour was probably all right with him.
The pilot clamped his headphones in place, pulled one halfway off one ear to permit him to hear things not transmitted by radio, tightened his seatbelt to his satisfaction, and turned to his companion in the twin-seated cockpit.