“For my money it would be more than either dangerous or cute on the Avianca flight,” Wilson said dryly. He negotiated a curve in the coral road and settled back. “It would be downright foolhardy. Varig could have been late, or even cancelled; McNeil might have been transferred to a different plane by the Interpol men in Trinidad and the package eventually found by some cleaning woman in Rome or someplace. A hundred things could go wrong. I vote we scratch that one.”
“Scratched. I agree,” Da Silva said. He lighted another cigarette and tossed the match away. “I think if the money was passed to McNeil on the flight — and it seems by far the most logical place to do it — it would have to be passed on Varig flight 479 somewhere between Recife and Port-of-Spain.”
“Any intermediate stops on that flight?”
“None.”
“And when will you have the lists?”
“Sometime tomorrow, with luck. They’ll be telexed from Rio Grande de Sul for Varig, and from Bogotá for Avianca. God knows why it should take so long to dig something out of a file, but that’s what they say.” He yawned and stretched slightly in the cramped seat. The lights of Brighton were approaching. “Drive down to the beach — let’s see if Jamison has anything to report.”
“And then I’ll buy you a drink at the famous Badger Inn,” Wilson said. “You haven’t seen it, have you? Very picturesque, even if the wine list isn’t the longest in the world. And there’s still an hour before closing.”
“If you insist,” Da Silva said politely, and leaned back.
They turned into the rutted lane and bounced unevenly over the dunes, turning again at the shore and following their headlights over the rippled sand to the dark open sedan parked patiently down the beach. Da Silva climbed down while Wilson waited, the old car hiccuping gently beneath him, the headlights dimming of their own accord without the full cooperation of a racing generator to sustain them. Wilson’s patience was starting to wane at the time his friend was taking when Da Silva appeared from the gloom. He climbed into the car and closed the door, turning to Wilson. There was a note of deep satisfaction in his voice, as well as a tone of great relief.
“Diana’s been found.”
“What?”
“That’s right. I was speaking to Storrs on the radio when he interrupted and asked me to wait, and when he got back on the road she’d been picked up on a lonely road near a place called Farley Hill. Some planter on his way home from Speightstown after a late evening saw her lying on the edge of the road. He picked her up and took her back to Speightstown; the closest doctor’s there — and also the closest police. They called it in just a few minutes ago.”
“Anything on who grabbed her? Or why?”
“Nothing yet, of course.”
“And how is she?”
Da Silva stared at him in surprise.
“That’s a rather odd sequence of questions: First, who grabbed her and why; and second, how is she? I admire devotion to duty in a policeman, but a little humanity wouldn’t hurt.”
“Sorry,” Wilson said contritely.
“All right. Anyway, she’ll be all right. Shock, exhaustion — that’s about it, according to the report. They say she wasn’t too coherent. She’s being given a mild sedative and then the police will drive her home. I doubt if we can ask her any questions tonight, but we’ll stop by anyway.” He bent forward, looking at his watch in the dim light of the dashboard. “She ought to be home in about an hour, I’d say.”
“Good,” Wilson said. He put the car into motion and swung it about on the wide beach, the wheels spitting sand. Da Silva was bumped against the door frame. Wilson shifted gears. “That gives us just about until closing time to wait it out in the Badger.”
Da Silva frowned in the darkness, his jaw tightening.
“You know, Wilson,” he said slowly, “sometimes you’re a hard-to-understand son of a bitch.”
“But only sometimes,” Wilson said. “Look, Zé — what would be gained by rushing up to her house and sitting there for an hour? We might as well relax.”
He pulled over the dunes and out of sight of the police car with Da Silva silent beside him. Behind them Constable Jamison sighed. He had a good idea of the destination of the two men and wished he were able to join them in their vigil at the Badger — a cool beer would go nicely at the moment. However, duty first; he returned to his fruitless contemplation of the darkened house on the shore. Suddenly he sat erect, twisting swiftly in his seat to see if the two Interpol men were still within sight or hailing distance. They were not; the camper had disappeared. He turned back to his study of the house, his hand automatically reaching for the microphone, pressing the button.
“Headquarters? Headquarters?”
“Headquarters here.” The voice was disembodied, echoing hollowly and metallically from the car speakers.
“Constable Jamison here. In Brighton. Keeping an eye on McNeil’s place, you know.”
“Yes?”
“A light just went on inside. I think our boy is back.” He hesitated a moment. “Do I pick the mon up? I’ve a copy of the warrant with me, but I heard Miss Cogswell was found...”
“One moment.” There was a pause; when the voice came back it was as expressionless as before, tinny as a robot. “Inspector Storrs will have a word with you...”
The inspector’s soft voice came on. “Jamison? Are you sure it’s McNeil in the shack?”
“No, sir, but I can go up and find out. The lantern’s on, but there’s a rag of a curtain across the window. Maybe—” He paused. “It’s McNeil, sir. He just came out on the porch. He’s walking this way...”
There was a pause; when the inspector spoke, his voice was quiet.
“If he went for the stones he didn’t get them or he wouldn’t be back — not to the shack.” He seemed to be talking to himself. His voice livened as he addressed himself more directly to the constable. “No, don’t pick him up. Right now the warrant is ineffective in any event; we don’t have a case for touching him. But keep on him. Openly. Who’s with you on the watch?”
“Just Pierce, sir.”
“Well, we may have to give up his cover. No matter; we can always replace. Same drill as before Miss Cogswell was taken. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have to sign off and get cracking if I’m to follow him.”
“Right. Then get cracking.”
The radio switch was depressed, the microphone returned to its hook on the dash even as the motor was started and the headlamps turned on. McNeil was starting to climb the dunes as Jamison pulled up behind him. The large man was marching over the sand slowly, wearily, aware of the car slowly trailing him but really not interested. They had naught on him; if they had they would have picked him up when he showed the lamp. And if Diana got loose she must be home by now and the police aware of it. Maybe he could get to see her later, and let the domned constable sit outside for all he cared, wondering what was going on in the inside! In any event he’d had nothing to do with her being taken, and he knew it and she knew it, whether the coppers knew it as yet or not.
He came to the top of the dune and started down the other side, crossing the main road to the Badger Inn, pushing through the heavy door. Jamison pulled to the curb across the way and turned off the ignition, watching as Pierce walked quickly down the lane beside the building, taking up his stance at the rear of the inn. Jamison slid his tongue over his dry lips, picturing Da Silva, Wilson, and now even McNeil partaking of the pub’s hospitality. Although he did not realize it, his thoughts were echoing those of the tough, thin warden at Bordeirinho, as well as those of a host of law enforcement people before him down through the ages: Which one of us, he was thinking morosely, is really the warder and which one the prisoner?