“Just the four? What happened to the librarian?”
Da Silva sighed. “God knows. He managed to get out of the local jail in Bridgetown where he was being held; Storrs took better precautions with the others.”
“And they ended up where?”
“Recife. It was the port of call of the ship they were returned in — they deserved being flown back, but it wasn’t so common in those days,” he added almost sadly.
“And you mention this matter today because it is exactly fifteen years since it happened, so this judge gave them fifteen years in the penetentiary.”
“You are so right.” Da Silva smiled at him. “And that, my friend — in case you ever decide to put aside your meager efforts at detection and turn to writing my biography — was the beginning of my meteoric rise to fame and fortune.”
Wilson nodded, his mind on his own thoughts rather than on his friend’s banter. He looked up.
“And — since parole from a Brazilian penetentiary is an almost unknown thing for real bad boys — real bad boys that do not come from well-known families — they served every day of the sentence.”
“Not quite.” Da Silva’s light tone disappeared. He shook his head slowly. “Only one of them is going to be released. The big man; the boss of the gang. His name is William Trelawney McNeil, a common enough name in Barbados. Or Trinidad, or Montsarrat, or the other formerly British islands. Most of the names there are either English or Scottish. Taken from the slave owner originally, of course.”
“And the other three?”
Da Silva turned his head, staring once again at the black clouds sweeping in from the east to cover the bay. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, touched in a way with sadness, as if he were relating a personal failure of some kind.
“They didn’t make it.” He sighed. “Prison reform is something that Brazil isn’t alone in needing, but I must admit this isn’t the best place to be jailed. Actually, I suppose McNeil deserves an award of some sort; fifteen years in one of our penetentiaries must be damned near the record. The first of the others to go died of dysentery about ten years ago. Then another one talked back to a guard. The guard claimed he had a homemade knife. Maybe he did. Anyway, it never was found. Well, he left the prison hospital with a sheet over his face. That was eight years ago. The third one went to solitary confinement — four, five years ago. He was lucky enough to be able to pry a leg loose from his cot.” His eyes came back to Wilson’s face, unemotional now, almost Indian in their stoism. “He used it to stab himself to death. No easy task, I might mention.”
“But McNeil, apparently, kept his nose clean.”
“As a whistle. Seldom an argument with anyone, guard or prisoner. No trouble at all, except once when he slugged a prison doctor and wound up in solitary for a few weeks. But that was his only infraction, which is something in fifteen years. He kept pretty much to himself, even after he picked up Portuguese, which was fairly soon, since of course it was the only language spoken. He didn’t even pay too much attention to his old gang. No special friends; in fact, no friends at all. Spoke when spoken to, and politely, too. Did his work, ate his slop, and never squawked about it. No cup-rattling on the bars such as American movies love to depict. A model prisoner.” He sighed. “I guess he wanted to live and he did. And in two weeks he walks out of the pen at Bordeirinho. It’s about ten miles or so out of Recife on the road to Jabatão.”
Wilson studied the face of his friend a moment with curiosity.
“And you’re going to Barbados to be on hand to meet him when he gets there, because you can’t wait for your next airplane ride.”
“If you’re guessing,” Da Silva said disdainfully, “you’re cold.”
“Then you’re going there to meet him just to buy him a drink for old time’s sake.”
“If anything, you’re getting colder.” Da Silva shook his head. “He doesn’t know me. I never saw the man in person in my life. I turned over all the evidence I had, together with the confessions Storrs finally got from the four of them, to the Public Prosecutor at Recife. I wasn’t even at the trial; something else more important was on the fire at the time. However, the purser’s assistant and the deck officer were there, and they recognized them in the line-up at the Recife police headquarters, native or no native.”
He raised his hand to attract the attention of their waiter.
“We’d better have lunch. I hate to break the Brazilian tradition of taking three hours for a meal — not to mention the American Embassy custom — but I’ve got a deskful of work to clear up before tonight, and I want to be sure to leave myself ample time to get properly stoned before I get aboard the plane. Otherwise they’ll have to drag me on, fighting and screaming, and that’s bad for the public image of a brave, fearless police officer.”
Their waiter appeared almost instantly. Despite his other clients he had been keeping an eye on their table at all times, for Captain Da Silva and his American friend were two of his favorite customers. They drank the best cognac — when available — and tipped well. He placed a menu before each man and immediately stepped back out of earshot. He had no intention of even looking as if he might be eavesdropping on a captain of police.
“Then you’re going to Barbados to make sure McNeil really gets off the plane and doesn’t stay on it and return to Brazil where he might end up in Rio de Janeiro and add to the steel-drum population here. Which, while not extensive, is large enough; especially those who go around holding up cruise ships.”
Da Silva grinned. “You’ll never qualify for that raise that way.”
Wilson stared at him. “Now, don’t tell me you’re going there in hopes of McNeil managing to contact that librarian who escaped? So you can finally bring an oldtime fugitive to justice?”
“I’m afraid the chances are that that old-time fugitive ended up with his throat cut a long time ago,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “It’s a guess, but I have a feeling he didn’t last too long after he broke out. He didn’t confess, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean those four who got sent up ever believed that.”
“And how did they get their hands on him when they were behind bars?” Wilson asked sarcastically. “Voodoo?”
“Relatives, I imagine. Much more effective.”
Wilson relapsed into silence. Da Silva’s black eyes began to twinkle as he watched Wilson tackle the problem seriously. He could picture the wheels turning in the other’s very adequate brain; he was well aware of the American’s ability. Then the nondescript man suddenly sat erect, his eyes widening as the gears finally meshed. He opened his mouth in surprise, held it open a moment in silent wonder, and then burst into loud laughter. There was a momentary break in the clatter about them as people stared; he dropped his laugh to a chuckle but failed to subdue it completely.
“There’s only one other reason for your going to Barbados, then,” he said, “only one possible reason, and as an old friend I hate to mention it—”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You’re not going there to meet him at all. On the contrary — since he doesn’t know you. You’re going there to follow him.” His eyes crinkled; the chuckle returned. “Through your brilliance — or your luck plus the brilliance of this Inspector Storrs — you managed to round up your four crooks. But you never did find the jewels!”
“Amazing,” Da Silva murmured, as if honestly surprised at this remarkable coincidence. “Those were almost exactly the words my superior officer used when I got back from my tour de force. As a matter of fact, he used it as a shabby excuse not to immediately promote me to head up the department, too.”
“You never found the jewels!”