The full moon, impersonal and serene, shepherded its scattered flock of lamb�s-wool clouds as they slowly munched their way eastward; beneath its cool eye the jungle fretted through its usual uneasy rest, still steaming from the torrential rains that had swept through at midnight. From the raised plateau where the twin-engined plane huddled on the now-abandoned airstrip, the roof of the jungle stretched beyond sight, a sea of shadowed green with taller stands of striated palm and giant white cetigo rising like eerie islands, standing guard above the ruffled surface.

A deeper band of black curved through the darkness at the western edge of the cleared space, marking the sheer chasm where the river ran far below, twisting its way over jagged rocks; the high canyon walls held its sound to a murmur, scarcely heard over the usual night noises of the restless selva. In the moonlight the pale reflection of the bridge glimmered faintly, as if aware, somehow, of its strangeness in this primeval wilderness, and even more aware that its majestic architecture deserved something more impressive than the rough dirt trails that twisted their way from its approaches to disappear into the brush. It spanned the depths below gracefully, a monolithic monument to modernity in a jungle as ancient as time; the jungle had withdrawn from its roadway as if to calculate some means of absorbing it, as it had all other attempts at intrusion into its domain.

The younger of the two men squatting beneath the wing of the plane completed packing his attach� case; he snapped it shut and came to his feet, ducking his head around the leading edge of the wing. Beside the nosewheel of the plane a Coleman lantern hissed steadily, furnishing a cone of light that attracted thousands of insects; the young man slapped half-heartedly at one, as if aware that the gesture was useless in that flood of stinging life, and grinned down at his companion. It was a pleasant grin, friendly and unenvious, which made his freckled face seem even younger.

�Well,� he said with open admiration, �I don�t think there�s any doubt. Your hunch was right.�

�You�re quite sure?�

�As sure as I can be with what I brought. Of course, once we�re back in civilization, I�ll verify it.� He shook his head. �It�s really remarkable. I�ve never seen anything like it. You know, you�re a lucky man.�

The second man stared at him thoughtfully. �Lucky?� He seemed to consider the statement a moment and then nodded slowly. �I suppose you�re right.� He pulled himself heavily to his feet, tugging his gun belt to a more comfortable position, sighed, and then shook his head almost sadly.

The younger man smiled at him quizzically. �What�s the matter? You should be happy as a lark. Why the long face?�

The older man sighed once again. �Because not everyone is as lucky as I am.� He shrugged. �You, for example.�

�Me?� The younger man had turned to place his attach� case on the wing, ready for loading into the plane. He swung about to seek an explanation for this cryptic statement and stopped short, his eyes widening. His companion was holding a revolver in one hand; his attitude was negligent, his expression almost apologetic, but the hand holding the revolver was as steady as rock. The light from the lantern winked along the barrel, emphasizing the black cavity of the muzzle. The eyebrows of the armed man were slightly raised, the eyes sardonic. The younger man�s jaw tightened dangerously.

�What is this � a joke? What�s that for?�

�I�ve been trying to tell you. You�re just not lucky,� the older man said quietly, and fired.

The black wall of trees surrounding the field returned the echo of the shot as if rejecting any responsibility for the deed; there was the crashing of brush, and a third man came running across the field. He pulled up, panting, staring incredulously at the body on the ground; the man with the gun straightened up a bit reluctantly. His arm had been extended rigidly, preparatory to administering a coup de gr�ce; instead he tucked the revolver back into his holster. The newcomer stared at him with wide, black eyes, tipped his stained chapeu back with one thumb and then used it automatically to wipe sweat from his swarthy forehead.

�Deus me livre! Qu� que h�?�

�An accident,� the older man said sadly, and shrugged. �An unfortunate accident.�

The small swarthy man frowned at him unbelievingly and then moved forward, bending over the body, but the other�s hand shot out, gripping him roughly by the arm, dragging him back. The deep voice became hard, threatening; the heavy fingers bit into his arm.

�I said it was an accident! And in any event, you weren�t hired on this trip as a male nurse.� He shook the smaller man slightly, as if to both demonstrate his greater strength and also to get his attention. �Now � what about the bridge?�

The swarthy man pulled free, looking sullen. �You didn�t say anything about murder.�

�Nobody ever says anything about murder.� The tone indicated that this was so obvious as scarcely to require explanation. �And what could I say about accidents, since by definition they always are unpredictable?� The heavyset man studied the shocked expression on the face before him thoughtfully for several moments and then continued, calmly, logically. �Besides, we didn�t want a lot of witnesses, did we?�

�No...� The furrowed brow cleared slightly. �That�s true. But even so��

�And don�t forget that he weighs � weighed � over eighty kilos.� This statement was made flatly, finishing the discussion. �Now � what about the bridge?�

�The bridge?� The shorter man shook his head as if to clear it and then took a deep breath. Everything the patr�o had said was true; they obviously did not want witnesses, and the fact was that the plane now had eighty kilos more capacity. And of course, there was nothing to be done about the other�s death now and nothing to be gained by even thinking about it. He brought his mind back to business. �There�s no problem with the bridge.�

�Good,� said the heavyset man, satisfied, and nodded. �Then suppose we get on with it, eh?�

He stepped over the body casually, moving to the side of the plane, swinging the narrow door open to lean over and rummage on the floorboards within. Two boxes were withdrawn, and a skein of wire tightly looped; a flashlight was removed from its clip near the pilot�s seat and slung from his belt. The heavier of the boxes was handed to his partner; he made one last inspection to be sure he had not forgotten anything and then closed the door against any animal intruders during their absence. The lantern was retrieved from its position near the nose wheel and held high, its beam steadily piercing the darkness, as the two men moved in the direction of the bridge.

At the edge of the chasm they paused. The heavier man directed the shaft of light into the gorge, studying the twisting path leading down past the bridge piers to disappear into the depths. The light was raised, traveling up the white columns to the concrete girders holding the roadway, and then brought down again to the base cut in rock. He nodded and set his burden on the ground.

�You take the lantern; you�ll need it.� He handed it to his companion and unhooked the flashlight from his belt, flicking the switch and laying it down beside the black box. He squatted down in the glow of light, fumbling with the brass terminals that studded the surface of the box. A knife was withdrawn from a pocket, opened, and used to skin the wires protruding from the skein. The other watched him in silence. Suddenly the squatting man paused, looking up with a dark frown.

�Well?�

The smaller man awoke from his reverie; he hurriedly picked up the lantern and the roll of wire. The shaft of light from the Coleman disappeared over the brow of the cliff, sending back wildly swinging shadows to crisscross the wall of trees and finally fade from sight. After the first uneven jerk the wire payed out more slowly, pausing every now and then as some obstacle on the treacherous path was overcome. The waiting man hummed a tune softly as he waited, feeling the strands of wire trail gently through his fingers. There was a longer pause, followed by a slight dragging on the wire. He calculated the amount remaining, subtracted it from the full skein, and nodded in satisfaction. He allowed the wire to slip free of his grip and turned, bringing his hands to the terminal-studded cover of the box.

�All hooked up, my friend?� he said softly to himself. �Well, we�ll soon find out. Ciao.� His white teeth suddenly gleamed in a harsh and humorless grin; without further hesitation he pressed heavily on the plunger of the box.

The bridge coughed diffidently, rising gently in the center as if to protest politely being disturbed in its slumber. There was a sudden reverberation from below, repeated again and again as the dull shock waves of the explosion rolled echoingly along the chasm walls seeking outlet. For a moment the bridge hesitated, poised under the moonlight, vainly attempting to comprehend the unwarranted attack, and then it conceded defeat, folding almost gracefully, collapsing, sliding toward the river below, and taking with it the few trees that had managed a precarious hold on the rocky walls. A hollow rumble marked its descent, ending in a faint crash; the naked abutments remained, shining in the moonlight like jagged white teeth in the black mouth of the fissure. The echo of the crash returned several times, fainter each time, and then at last faded shudderingly into silence. For a moment the jungle seemed to hold its breath, waiting, and then it exploded, voicing its displeasure at the frightening sound in a thousand growls and cries and screams.

The man at the detonator came slowly to his feet and moved to the edge of the chasm, playing the light from the flashlight down the rocky walls. The faint beam lost itself on the cloud of dust that had swirled up from the explosion and now hovered protectingly over the shattered piers. He listened awhile, intently, playing the beam back and forth, and then with a faint shrug returned to his box, squatting down and tugging at the wires that trailed below. They resisted a moment, and then what remained of them came along, wriggling silently up the canyon walls and through the underbrush. He wound them about the handle with expert ease, tucking the ends in neatly, and then came to his feet once again.

�You agreed with me, remember?� he said softly, addressing the swarthy little man buried below under tons of crushed concrete. �We really didn�t want a lot of witnesses, did we?�

He smiled at the thought and hefted the black box experimentally, as if deciding whether to throw it over the brink of the chasm or to take it back to the plane with him. It was doubtful that it would ever be found, and he knew it could never be traced to him; but there was still no need to take the chance. Dropped in another part of that vast jungle from the height of a flying plane, together with the attach� case, would be better. His grip on the handle tightened; he glanced at the shattered bridge once again.

�And also, my friend,� he added quietly with a smile, �while small, you still weighed close to sixty kilos yourself.�

The flashlight bobbed up and down as he tramped back across the field toward the waiting plane. The black box bumped against his leg with each step, like a pet who had performed well and clamored for recognition. It had been a full night, but one that had been well thought out, and its success, therefore, should not have been surprising. Still, one had to recognize the possibility of failure in bringing off the deaths of two men, both virtual strangers; but actually the plan had gone quite well. Of course, he might have waited until the plane had been loaded before disposing of the swarthy one � because now he would have to do it himself � but it might have been taking a chance. The little man might have started to think; this way was better. And, of course, there was still the job of disposing of the body beneath the plane, but that really was no major problem. It could be dragged to the cliff and dumped over to join the swarthy one and the remains of the bridge, or it could even be pulled to the edge of the jungle, much closer, and left to the mercy of the animals. Or it could even be left where it lay in the open field; the urub�s would spot it from their wheeling observation points in the sky with morning�s first light, and would make short of it. For best results, in that case, the clothing would have to be removed first, but once the black scavengers had made their meal, there would be little left for identification.

He came to the plane and set the box on the ground, turning to duck under the wing, raising the flashlight, and then froze, drawing his breath in sharply, feeling a chill sweep his spine.

The body was gone!

For one moment his mind refused to encompass the fact, and then for another it attempted to rationalize the disappearance as being the work of one of the braver of the jungle cats, but he thrust the thought aside as quickly as it had come, as being unworthy of anyone clever enough to have planned as he had. The first cold feeling of panic conquered, he moved swiftly to the plane, revolver ready in his hand. He pulled the door open, inspecting the interior. As far as he could tell, nothing in the tiny cabin had been touched; the high-powered rifle clipped to the fire wall was still there, and that � obviously � would have been the first object of a search. With a frown he returned to the spot where the body had sprawled, bending down, training the flashlight on the bloodstained earth, and then noting the erratic trail of red drops wavering toward the thick stand of trees that walled off the airstrip. With a grunt of satisfaction, not untinged with amusement, he moved forward, following the trail to its end in the heavy brush, and then raised his voice, addressing the jungle.

�My friend� � his voice echoed hollowly in the open space; his grip on the raised weapon remained steady � �why not come out and be given a merciful death? A quick bullet?� He sounded � and was � sincere. �Believe me, the jungle is not a good way to die.�

There was a sudden chatter from a band of monkeys overhead, as if they were taking issue with his statement. He hesitated a moment longer, awaiting an answer, and then with a shrug returned to the plane. Armed and in good health, a stranger to these matos would be hard put to preserve life; unarmed and wounded merely meant that the jungle would quickly make up for his poor marksmanship. He tucked his revolver back into its holster, glanced over his shoulder once at the inhospitable forest behind, and began the task of loading the plane.

It was nearly dawn when he finished. He stood a moment, bathed in sweat, fighting for breath, and then hoisted himself wearily within the plane and buckled himself into his seat. First one motor and then the second whined shrilly before bursting into power, puffing clouds of gray smoke. The landing lights were switched on and responded, cutting through the darkness with twin splashes of light scattering themselves purposelessly in pools beneath the vibrating wings; he idled the motors for several minutes, checking the instruments, and then slowly pulled back on the throttles, bumping unevenly toward one end of the field.

As he swung the plane about for takeoff, the wing lights bathed the jungle�s edge, and he felt a certain touch of pity. He brought the motors up in speed, studying his instruments intently, and then his foot had released the brake and he was racing across the rough earth, bouncing unevenly. And then he was clear of the earth, joining the brighter moonlight and the cooler air, rising above the jungle, glancing down over his shoulder at the diminishing rectangle of the airstrip even as his hands automatically trimmed the ship for its extra weight.

He frowned. Not that the wounded man offered any danger; actually, had the man been conscious, he would have been far better off accepting the plea from the forest�s edge and coming out to be given a decent death. But that was not the point. It was simply that he hadn�t planned it that way. It just wasn�t the way he liked things to be.

Not neat, he chided himself sternly, and banked the plane gently toward the west, and the greater darkness there.

Captain Jos� Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian police and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, dropped wearily from the wing of the small plane that had brought him back to Gale�o Airport in Rio de Janeiro, and wordlessly reached back to accept from the pilot first an Army knapsack tightly strapped shut and then his well-worn suitcase. With a grunt of farewell that could not possibly have adequately expressed his irritation with his assignment, the pilot, the plane, and conditions in the world in general, he tramped across the concrete apron toward the police car parked � per his radioed instruction � in the shadows of the Air Force Administration Building. His four-day growth of beard itched maddeningly, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his ears buzzed from the combination of cabin noises which had convinced him, for the past six hours, that the crate in which he had been flying was about to bow to the inevitable logic of obsolescence and shake itself to pieces in midair. If any good were to be gleaned from the trip at all, he thought sourly, it was that the racket of creaking metal and laboring engine made the incessant and needlessly cheerful chatter of the pilot unintelligible.

The heavy heat of the runway came up to smother him. The sun, just sinking over the hills to the west, threw his shadow before him grotesquely, making monsters of his baggage, and then went on to tint the calm black waters of the bay with a shuddering swath of gold. In the far distance, beneath the watchful eye of Corcovado and its statue of Christ, the white buildings of downtown Rio lined up like tiny toy soldiers; the highest windows of the new apartments caught the slanting rays and reflected them, winking back in friendly manner. It was a sight that normally uplifted Captain Da Silva when returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro, but at the moment his main concern was to get home, get out of his stiff, soiled clothing, take a hot and prolonged bath, and then sleep for a week.

The driver of the police car awaiting him was a more than normally attractive young lady, and at any other time Da Silva�s eyes would have widened appreciatively at such beauty; but at the moment he was having trouble merely keeping them open. She was dressed in the chocolate brown blouse and skirt of the recruit policewoman, but neither her rigid stance, drawn up to attention beside the open door of the car, nor the impersonality of the uniform, did much to hide the fact that she filled the stiff cloth excellently. Contrary to regulations, she was not wearing her prescribed cap, and her brown hair was thick and luxuriant; her dark eyes sparkled, and she smiled at him brightly as he came up to the car.

�Hello, Captain. I hope you had a nice trip.� Her voice was just a trifle throaty; at any other time Da Silva would have been fascinated by it. �And I�d like to wish you a very��

Da Silva frowned at her, interrupting a bit brusquely. �Please, Miss � by the way, what�s your name?�

�Astrea, Captain. Astrea Pinheiro Alves. And I�d like to wish��

�Astrea, do you know where Copacabana is?�

Her large brown eyes widened in surprise. �Of course, Captain.�

�And do you know where I live?�

�They gave me the address, of course��

�Good. Then see if you can get me there as quickly as possible.� One hand came up abruptly, forestalling any comment. �And as quietly as possible, if you don�t mind. My ears have had all they can take for today.�

He leaned into the car, depositing his baggage in the rear seat, and then climbed into the front seat and closed the door behind him. His driver, her face red and her jaw set dangerously, got in behind the wheel and started the car, spinning the wheel viciously in the direction of the bridge leading to the Avenida Brasil and the distant city.

So this was the famous Captain Da Silva, was it? This was the man the other women talked about on their coffee breaks, eh? This � this � this uncouth boor! Well! This was the last time she�d ever accept any assignment involving him, that was sure! And to think she had looked forward to this assignment, had actually given up a day off to accept it! Well, it merely proved the dangers of being influenced by the judgment of others. It also proves you�re a fool, she told herself angrily, and concentrated on her driving.

By the time they came to the Rio Comprido just before the docks, the sun had sunk with that suddenness that marks the tropical night. Astrea leaned over and flicked on the parking lights and then applied the brakes as a traffic light glowed red in the growing darkness. She brought the car gently to a stop and glanced across at her passenger. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. Still, she thought, with an unreasonable feeling that she was somehow betraying her merited irritation, despite his bad manners and his need for a shave and despite those caboclo clothes, there�s no denying he�s a damned attractive man. At least she could agree with the other women in the department on that. She studied the black curly hair, the bushy eyebrows, and the almost-brigand mustache badly in need of a trim, and then nodded. Yes, he was attractive; but so were a lot of other men. And a lot of other men were more polite and more attentive, too. For a moment she wondered how she might have reacted to the man had they met when the captain was less exhausted. Probably the same, she thought almost bitterly. A boor is a boor under any conditions.

There was the sudden blare of an impatient horn behind them; the captain�s eyes opened, startled at the sound, staring blankly into hers. In the confusion she put the car into gear and tramped on the gas. Captain Da Silva turned to stare out of the open window dully for several moments, yawned, and then leaned back, settling himself, closing his eyes again. His even breathing returned almost at once.

They came through the tunnel into Copacabana, turned into the Avenida Atl�ntica and drew up before his apartment at P�sto 3. Da Silva came awake instantly, as if brought from his sleep by the cessation of movement; he yawned deeply and glanced at his wristwatch. His shaggy eyebrows rose dramatically at the remarkably little time it had taken them to arrive at an hour when normally traffic was stalled bumper to bumper throughout the long length of the city. He glanced across at his driver with appreciation.

�Very good time, Astrea. In fact, extraordinary. You must either know some short cuts I don�t, or my watch stopped.� His eyes studied the ornate entrance of the apartment building a moment, and he smiled dryly. �However, I think you�d better drop me off at the side entrance. Seeing me dressed like this, the porteiro would probably toss me out. And I wouldn�t blame him.�

Astrea was quite sure the porteiro wouldn�t dare toss the captain out; this, when she thought about it, was a pity. The one possibility for their rapid arrival never occurred to him � that she was a very good driver. A true boor! With no expression on her face she put the car into gear and drove around the corner, stopping at the head of the ramp leading to the garage beneath the building. Captain Da Silva unfolded his six-foot frame to the sidewalk, dragged the knapsack and suitcase from the back seat, and then paused, holding the partially opened door, smiling pleasantly at the girl. Yes, she thought resentfully; you can look quite human when you want to. It�s a pity your manners aren�t as good as your smile.

�Thanks for the ride, Astrea.�

Her features remained wooden. �De nada, Captain.�

�And for the lack of conversation.� His brief nap from the airport seemed to have refreshed him, at least to some degree. He studied the girl�s slightly flushed face a moment speculatively. �Astrea, you aren�t married, are you?�

Her flush deepened. And, she thought resentfully, what business is that of yours? �Why, no, Captain.�

�I didn�t think so. And I�d be willing to gamble that you live alone, too. Don�t you?�

Despite herself, her eyes widened. �I do, but I don�t see how you could have known.�

�I�m a detective, remember?� Da Silva said, and nodded sagely. �You see, I recognize the breed. Only a single person, living alone, truly appreciates the beauty of silence. It�s marvelous, but you run into it all too seldom.�

His sudden grin robbed the words of any offense; he closed the car door firmly, raised a large hand in a salute that neatly combined appreciation and leave-taking, picked up his knapsack and suitcase, and turned into the building. Astrea stared after him with a mixture of emotions, not the least of which was confusion. A boor and a sarcastic one at that, but not stupid. And still, without a doubt, a very attractive one. She put the car into gear and slowly pulled away from the curb. A damned attractive one...

De Silva tramped down the ramp to the garage area and smiled affectionately at his red Jaguar sports convertible parked in its usual slot next to the washrack. The sloped windshield seemed to return his glance a bit coldly, as if expressing justified resentment at not having been included in whatever adventure the captain was returning from. Da Silva shrugged at it apologetically, winked at it for good measure, set the suitcase down, and punched the button for the small self-service elevator.

He rode to his floor amid the usual whining of cables, pleased that he had returned to Rio at an hour when the electricity was not cut off. He let himself into the silent apartment, switching on the light and dropping his suitcase where Maria, his day maid, could find it and pack it for whatever subsequent trip might be required. The knapsack went into a closet which he then locked; too much work had gone into collecting those exhibits to take any chance with them. Not that they were very illuminating, he admitted to himself sadly, and then put all thought of the knapsack and its contents away. When the police laboratory had finished with them and he took his report to the minister at the Foreign Office, it would be time enough to think about it.

A brief glance about revealed a pile of accumulated mail on the coffee table, but at the moment he was in no mood for examining it; in any event most of them were undoubtedly bills. Instead, he walked through the living room and dropped wearily onto the bed, savoring its welcome comfort. A far cry, he thought, from that damned rope hammock slung where the insects seemed to be the thickest and where every animal in the Mato Grosso had seemed to come to investigate his presence.

He yawned deeply and leaned down to pull the heavy accordion boots from his feet, wriggling his toes gratefully at their freedom. How many hours had he spent in that damned Army plane? So-called plane, rather? Six? It ought to go down on his commendation record as bravery above and beyond the call of duty; if not as foolhardiness above and beyond the good sense a man was born with. Six hours wedged in a two-seater propeller-driven cigar box probably originally built by the Wright brothers themselves, and possibly one of their rejected models at that, and piloted � he was certain � by an ex-cabdriver who had undoubtedly turned to flying after losing his license for reckless driving. With cause.

He rubbed one hand wearily across his face, pressed on the back of his neck several times to relieve the tension there, and then dragged off the checkered shirt he had been wearing. A faint breeze puffed in at the window, easing the heat of the room, partially drying the sweat on his shoulders. A good hot bath and a good night�s rest might make him feel human; and in the morning a welcome half hour in the barber�s chair being scraped and shorn into a semblance of civilized man once again. He sighed, torn between the lovely thought of the bath and the unpleasant fact that it entailed getting up from the bed; the sharp ring of the telephone resolved the problem. He stared at it, startled by the sound, and then slowly shook his head. Civilization undoubtedly had its advantages, such as hot baths and barbers, but it also had its drawbacks. At least in the jungle of the Mato Grosso this particular beast with its queerly shaped head, its ten eyes, its long snaking tail and its raucous cry, had been pleasantly absent.

The telephone, unimpressed by either the insulting comparison or the philosophical concept, rang again. With a hopeless sigh Da Silva reached over and picked it up.

�Hello? Yes?�

�Z�?� The voice combined annoyance and relief. �Where in the devil have you been?�

Da Silva grinned at the instrument, relaxing. If he had to be interrupted by a telephone call, at least he minded it less if the call were from his old friend Wilson, of the American Embassy. The small nondescript man who ostensibly held the position of security officer at the embassy, but who actually represented several agencies seldom discussed � if admitted � by his government, also served Interpol; he and Da Silva had worked on many cases together and had become fast friends in the process. Da Silva leaned back against a pillow, pulling the receiver with him.

�I�ve been away. Obviously. What�s new with the American colony in Rio? Still keeping you busy finding their lost passports or complaining about the water shortage?�

Wilson refused to be drawn into banter. Da Silva could picture him, with his sandy hair, his almost colorless eyes, and his ability to sound stubborn without any change in his facial expression at all. �You didn�t answer my question. Where have you been? I�ve been trying to get hold of you for four or five days. I even dropped you a note in the mail. Or don�t you read your mail?�

Da Silva thought of the pile on the coffee table. �I haven�t gotten around to it yet. I thought it might be something to keep me busy on dull evenings��

�And I called your office a dozen times, but the way they clammed up, I thought maybe they�d taken away your political rights.�

�Don�t say it, even joking,� Da Silva said fervently, and swung his legs to the bed, stretching out comfortably, settling himself. He dragged the pillow into a new position and welcomed its soft pressure against his head. �My office clams up, as you put it, because that�s what they�re paid to do. And so seldom accomplish. If you really want to know, though, I�ll tell you. I�ve been hunting.�

�Hunting?� Wilson sounded suspicious. �Why would they refuse to tell me you went hunting?�

Da Silva shrugged humorously. �Maybe they�ve finally gotten trained. According to the rule book, they�re supposed to be circumspect when I go to the bathroom. In this particular case, it may have been because I wasn�t hunting animals. Although there were plenty of them around in the neighborhood.� He smiled faintly, remembering. �Anyway, this time I was hunting people.�

�Oh?� There was a momentary pause. �Why?�

�Because they were naughty people. Obviously.�

�And how did you do?�

�Poorly,� Da Silva admitted ruefully. �I didn�t get one.� He thought a moment and then revised his statement, the smile fading from his face. �That�s not exactly true. I got a part of one. Wrapped in cellophane and plastic � tightly � packed in an army knapsack and locked in my front closet.�

�Sounds absolutely lovely,� Wilson said. �I hope for the sake of the neighbors you have it packed in dry ice��

�It doesn�t smell too bad. Not the way I�ve got it wrapped. Anyway, it only has to last until I get it to the Institute tomorrow.�

�And what happens when they open it?�

�That�s their problem,� Da Silva said. �Anyway, they�ve got air conditioning, and I don�t.�

�Just remind me not to go into your closet for the next couple of weeks,� Wilson said. �Just where did you happen to find the part of this one?�

�You wouldn�t know if I told you.�

�Try me.�

�All right,� Da Silva said equably. �I�ve been visiting the interior of our fair country. I�ve been roughly eighteen kilometers from a crossroads in the mato known to everyone in those parts � possibly ten people, nine of them Indians � as Santa Isabel de �gua Branca. Known only to them, I might mention. I never heard of it until I got the assignment; it isn�t on any map. It also isn�t as big as its name, at least not when seen from the air.� He smiled faintly. �Does that answer your question?�

There was a moment�s silence, and then Wilson sighed, conceding defeat. �You�re right; I still don�t know. And I gather from your tone that when you want me to know, you�ll tell me.�

�True.�

�Well,� Wilson said, getting back to the matter on his mind, �the important thing is that you�re back. I need your help. Suppose we meet at Mario�s for dinner. I�ll even pick up the tab.�

�Dinner?� Da Silva frowned; the word had a faintly remembered ring. Now that he considered it, he hadn�t eaten since eight that morning, and then only farinha and coffee, taken under the wing of the plane while the usual morning mist cleared from the airstrip. However, at the moment, given a choice between food and sleep, the calories had to take second place.

His frown cleared. �I�ve got a better idea � why don�t we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning? Or maybe even the day after tomorrow, depending on how long I sleep? I�m exhausted.� He thought a moment and then clenched his argument for not leaving the apartment. �Besides, I can�t go out tonight. It�s impossible. I need a shave and all the barbershops are closed.�

�Of course, they�re closed,� Wilson said with exaggerated patience. �It�s Christmas Day. Or rather, Christmas night.�

�Christmas?� Da Silva frowned. �Are you sure?� He sat up slightly, staring at the telephone in surprise. �So that�s why there wasn�t any traffic in town!� He thought a moment more. �And I�ll bet that�s what she was trying to say to me at the airport? She was trying to wish me a Merry Christmas!�

�When you leave a subject, you really leave it, don�t you?� Wilson said, almost admiringly. �I don�t know who �she� is, but if it clears the air, I�ll do it for her. Merry Christmas. All right?� Wilson paused. �Now � where were we? Ah, yes. We were talking about barbershops. Well, you can shave yourself. You have a razor, don�t you?�

�Certainly. The maid uses it to cut string and scrape paint off glass.� Da Silva shook his head at the other�s abysmal ignorance. �Whoever heard of a Brazilian shaving himself? Especially a Brazilian with a mustache?�

�I have no idea,� Wilson said, sounding both honest and unconcerned. �I suppose I could find out if it�s vital.� He dropped his light tone. �Come on, Z�. Get cleaned up and meet me at Mario�s. It�s important. I need your help. I want you to meet somebody.�

�You need my help to meet somebody?�

�Damn it, Z�, don�t be cute!�

�I�m not being cute. I�m just tired.� Da Silva proved it by yawning elaborately. �So bring him up here. If Maria didn�t throw a party while I was gone, I ought to still have some liquor around.�

�It isn�t a him,� Wilson said patiently. �It�s a her. And a lovely her, too.�

�And you call yourself a friend?� Da Silva sighed and shook his head. �When I�m feeling fine, rested, clean, and charming, you introduce me to Senators, ambassadors, kindly clergymen, and the like. When I�m so tired I can hardly see, let alone sparkle, you want to introduce me to lovely ladies. What kind of system is this?�

�In this particular case it�s a good system,� Wilson said coldly. �I�d just as soon you didn�t exert your overwhelming Brazilian charm on this particular lady, anyway.�

There was a note in his voice that caused Da Silva to raise his bushy eyebrows quizzically. �Ah? Do I hear aright? Do my unfailing detective instincts point me in the right direction? Do I note in your voice an indication that the indomitable Wilson has finally met the woman of his life?�

Wilson laughed. �I don�t know about that, but I can say this � if we spend all night talking on the telephone, the chances are that neither one of us will meet her. At least not on time.� His voice became serious again. �Well? She said she�d meet me at Mario�s at eight. Are you joining us or staying home?�

�You don�t leave me much choice. I can�t very well pass up an opportunity to meet the woman who�s finally broken down that famous Wilsonian reserve, can I? I�ll be there, but I don�t promise to stay awake.� Da Silva grinned at the instrument. �I�ll meet you in the bar. First one there orders the drinks.�

�Make it the tables outside,� Wilson suggested. �I don�t want to miss her. She doesn�t know Rio.�

�Good enough. Even better, in fact,� Da Silva agreed expansively. �I�ve eaten so many meals outdoors lately that I�d probably get claustrophobia with walls around me. If you could arrange some mosquitoes, I�ll really feel at home.�

�You�ll take flies and be happy,� Wilson said coldly, and then grinned. �I�ll see you at eight, then.�

�Right,� Da Silva said. �I�ll be the one who�s sound asleep.�

�Just keep your brain awake,� Wilson said with sudden sobriety, and hung up.

Mario�s Restaurant had earned its reputation as Captain Da Silva�s favorite dining spot in Copacabana for many good reasons. To cite the most cogent, it was handily located a few blocks from his apartment, the food was excellent and the service adequate � which is about the best one can hope for in Rio de Janeiro � and the cocktail lounge with its high-walled booths was maintained in an obscurity properly conducive to either solitary thought or unsolitary romance, whichever was on the docket at the moment. In addition, and most important of all, behind the long jacaranda bar was exhibited the finest collection of brandy in all Brazil, and each bottle was what the Brazilians call lig�tima � meaning that one did not have to question the validity of the label. This, in itself, marked Mario�s as a rarity in that city of readily adjustable virtue.

Captain Da Silva, relaxed from a steaming bath and both pleased and surprised that he felt as wide-awake as he did, strolled along Avenida Atl�ntica in the direction of the famous bistro, happy that Wilson had called him. Nearly a week in the jungle certainly called for some recompense, and what better than an hour or so with friends and a good drink to hand? Unless, of course, he thought, it might be sleep? Even the torture of removing his wiry beard with a razor that had served its apprenticeship dislodging paint and severing string had done little to depress his spirits. The feeling of clean clothing against his skin was also welcome, and the fact that the sidewalks were almost deserted � a very rare situation along the beach � added to his sense of freedom. To his right, as he walked slowly along the wide mosaic sidewalk, the foaming tips of waves served as a wavering boundary, limiting humans to the confines of the land, but graciously allowing them to share in the benefits of the offshore breeze with its touch of coolness in the humid night.

The lights of Mario�s shone ahead; as he approached, he saw Wilson emerge from the restaurant door and seat himself at one of the scattered tables that occupied half the sidewalk before the curtained window of the bar. Except for the American, the tables were empty. Wilson watched calmly as Da Silva came up with a smile of welcome and sank gratefully into a chair.

�Hello, Z�. You�re on time for a change. What happened?�

�It was come while I was still awake, or not come at all.� Da Silva�s smile changed to a frown. �I thought the first one here was to order drinks?�

�I just got here myself. I��

�And where�s your date?�

�She�ll be here any minute.� Wilson tipped his head toward the restaurant door. �I just called her hotel, and they said she�s already left.�

Da Silva shook his head sadly. �Wilson, my friend, there�s a lot you�ve got to learn about romance. A gentleman picks a lady up at her hotel; he doesn�t arrange to meet her at some other place. Particularly in a strange town.�

Wilson shook his head back. �Z�, my friend, there�s a lot you have to learn about this particular girl. When she says she�ll meet you someplace because she doesn�t want you to pick her up, then you meet her there, and you don�t pick her up.�

�Ah!� Da Silva nodded. �Headstrong, eh?� He looked sad. �A bad trait, you realize.�

�Not headstrong. Capable.�

Da Silva shrugged. �Capable, headstrong � it�s the same thing.� He glanced at his watch. �One thing, at least, she�s feminine all right. It�s almost eight o�clock now.�

�She�ll be here on time,� Wilson said, and contemplated the other with a slight air of superiority. �She isn�t Brazilian, you know. She�s American. She�ll be here.�

Da Silva stared at him in amazement. �Brazilian or American, she�s a woman, isn�t she? Or at least that�s the impression you�ve been trying to give me. Wilson, my friend, if you are seriously thinking about this girl � or any girl � take a lesson from the old master. Time with a woman is strictly a matter of opinion. And this has nothing to do with national traits. Women are international in this.�

�Look who�s talking! When were you ever on time?�

�Once,� Da Silva said. �I was four at the time and hadn�t learned to read a clock��

He twisted in his chair, rapping sharply on the curtained window behind him; it was the accepted method at Mario�s to induce a waiter to hazard the dangers of the great outdoors. A swarthy face appeared at the glass, tugging the curtain aside, studying the situation, and then disappeared. A moment later a white-jacketed figure appeared with a tray, two glasses, and a bottle of Maciera Five-Star; the desires of these two well-known customers were both standard and familiar. Wilson poured the drinks carefully, sliding one across the table to his companion. Da Silva raised it in a small salute.

�Sa�de. And Merry Christmas.�

Wilson accepted the toast with a nod, drank, and then sighed.

�You know,� he said slowly, thoughtfully, �somehow it never seems like Christmas in a place where all you can see are warm beaches and palm trees.� He stared out across the dark ocean. �I guess the one thing I�ll never get used to in this climate is Christmas without snow, without cold weather, or the sound of sleighbells��

�Sleighbells?� Da Silva eyed his friend sardonically. �Pardon me. Do you mean sleighbells on the radio or as background sound effects on television? Prerecorded?�

Wilson grinned. �Maybe I went too far in my enthusiasm. Anyway, you know what I mean.�

�I know what you think you mean,� Da Silva said equably. �But what you actually mean is that it couldn�t possibly seem like Christmas in a climate this comfortable, without slush, and wet feet, and a bad case of the sniffles��

�That�s precisely what I don�t mean. I mean��

Da Silva shook his head at his friend. �You know,� he said thoughtfully, �you folks from the northern parts of the world should actually avoid cold weather like the plague. At this time of the year it seems to do something to your judgment. And that goes for Europeans, as well as Americans. Anyone from cold climates.� He shook his head again. �I suppose I�ve heard that same statement a hundred times or more from both American and European friends � usually in the same tragic tone of voice. It just doesn�t seem like Christmas in Brazil because there isn�t any snow.� His tone was light, but there was a touch of seriousness beneath it. �No snow, eh? You know, you people always relate everything exclusively to your own limited experience, and if something doesn�t fall into the proper slot, you automatically reject it. Like an idiot I.B.M. machine.�

Wilson stared at him. �I gather that�s supposed to mean something?�

�It means this.� Da Silva smiled faintly and twisted his cognac glass, watching the damp trails it left on the table. His eyes came up. �As I recall, the weather at Bethlehem on that fateful day when our Lord was born was remarkably free from snow. That part of the world usually was and is. And the pictures I�ve seen of the shepherds watching the great star in the distance usually had groves of palm trees in them for background. Actually, the weather at the time and place of Jesus� birth was probably a lot more like ours than it ever was like yours.� His smile broadened as a thought struck him. �I can picture Three Wise Americans approaching the manger on that fantastic day, and then one of them rears back suspiciously, shaking his head. �There�s something very wrong here,� he says to the other two. �It�s quite doubtful if this is the true Messiah at all. No snow.��

Wilson laughed in delight. �I should have learned long ago never to argue with you,� he said, and raised his glass in a gesture of a toast. �Well, here�s to no snow.�

�I�ll drink to that,� Da Silva agreed pleasantly, and completed his drink. He set his glass on the table, glanced at his watch, and frowned. �I know she�s a woman and all that, and I don�t want to be curious, but just where is that hotel of your girlfriend�s? In S�o Paulo?�

Wilson�s smile faded; his eyes went to his own watch and then raised, worried. �You�re right. She�s staying at the Miracopa, and that certainly isn�t very far. She should have been here long ago. I�ll call her hotel again; maybe she went back for something.�

He came to his feet and purposefully strode into the bar. Da Silva leaned back, relaxing, enjoying the night. He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply, and then reached over, drawing the bottle to him, pouring himself another drink. If Wilson had been stood up � and such things had been known to have happened to people � then he would have done much better to have stayed home and got some sleep. Not that it hadn�t been good to see his old friend and straighten him out on Christmas without snow and not that the cognac at Mario�s wasn�t always worth a visit, but the thought of listening to love betrayed for an hour or more over a steak � even one of Mario�s steaks � was not his notion of how to enjoy a meal. He set his glass down and was in the midst of a prodigious yawn when Wilson came out of the bar, his jaw set dangerously.

�Z�! Let�s go! I�ve already signed the tab inside!�

Da Silva�s yawn ended abruptly and resentfully. �Go! We haven�t eaten yet. You�re the one who talked me into coming here for dinner in the first place, and now��

�Now I�m talking you out of it! I want to get over to the hotel in a hurry!� Wilson�s tone was curt. He walked out to the curb, peering impatiently in both directions. �Damn! Where the devil are all the cabs?�

Da Silva shrugged, crushed his cigarette to extinction, and leisurely followed Wilson to the street. �It�s Christmas,� he reminded the other gently. �They�re probably all at home, watching the snow on television. What�s all the excitement?�

Wilson gave up his fruitless search for a cab and swung around. �Damn! Well, let�s start walking!�

�Good enough,� Da Silva said agreeably and fell in step beside Wilson, easily matching the shorter man�s stride. �I wasn�t too hungry, anyway. And this way we go right past my building, and I can go in and get some sleep.�

�You can come right along with me and save the worthless life of that stupid desk man at the Miracopa!� Wilson said savagely. �Because if I�m alone I�ll kill him! That idiot! That miserable garbage-brained meathead! He tells me now that she wrote me a letter and left it at the desk for mailing before she left the hotel! The last time I talked to him, all he said was that she�d already left. Not a blessed word about a letter! That stupid, filho de��

Da Silva smiled at him. Wilson was the last person he would have thought to become so upset simply because a date had stood him up; that girl must really be something! �And for that you�re going to kill him? For not mentioning a letter?�

�Not for that!� Wilson tramped angrily across a side street without looking for traffic; fortunately there was none. Da Silva hurried to catch up, falling into step again at once. �He has this letter at his desk, but he tells me that since it�s already stamped, he has to mail it. He can�t hand it over to me. Can you imagine such an idiot? If he ever mailed it, I�d be lucky to get it by a year from next November! If at all!�

�Well,� Da Silva said in a reasonable tone of voice, �after all, legally he�s right.�

�That and twenty cruzeiros will get him a cup of coffee!� Wilson said viciously. �That incredible cretin! If he puts that letter in a postbox before I get there, he goes in on top of it! If I have to take him apart to get him through the slot!�

Da Silva�s smile faded. Wilson certainly looked and sounded as if he had something more on his mind than fear of losing a date, and Wilson was far from a fool. Still, any man head over heels in love was never in full control of his faculties. He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at the man marching beside him.

�What�s the story?�

The smaller man took a deep breath without in any way reducing his stride. �Damned if I know. All I�ve got is half a story, plus a hunch.� He paused to put his thoughts in order and then went on. �About four days ago, Jill � her name�s Jill Howard � came to the embassy with the story that her brother is missing in Brazil, she thinks, and��

�She thinks? She doesn�t know?�

�She knows he�s missing, and she thinks he was heading for Brazil. She says he told her, but she says she wasn�t paying much attention at the time��

Da Silva raised his eyes to the evening sky. �Oh, brother!�

�I know,� Wilson said, and shrugged. �Anyway, they sent her to me. The story she gave me was that her brother Don is a geology professor at Berkeley, and he was approached by some man to fly down to South America to look at some ore samples. Apparently the price was good, and the trip fell at a time the university was closed for both Christmas holidays and between terms, so he had the time, and all in all it looked like a great adventure. She says she can�t remember the name of the man who hired Don; she can�t even remember if she ever knew it. Anyway, she drove Don to the airport where he met this private plane, and that was the last she�s heard from him. And now she�s worried. He�s been on similar assignments before � he seems to be pretty good in his field � but he always kept in touch before.�

�I see.� Da Silva glanced at his friend. �And of course, she didn�t have any data on the plane itself? The registration or anything useful like that?�

�She�s a doll, but my guess is she wouldn�t know a jet from a glider,� Wilson said morosely.

�But they must have filed a flight plan of some sort.�

�There wasn�t any flight plan filed from Berkeley Airport for any foreign destination � not the day she says she left. I checked that out through the C.A.B. the first day.� He looked up, frowning. �Which is suspicious in itself.�

�Suspicious?� Da Silva smiled faintly. �Why? It sounds as if it was only a local flight. What makes her think they were heading for Brazil?�

�She says she�s sure he said something about Brazil; she just can�t remember what it was.�

Da Silva shook his head. �You really picked yourself a girlfriend. She thinks! But she doesn�t remember. Her brother could be anywhere between San Francisco and PagoPago. Not to mention Brazil, Indiana.� He looked at Wilson. �And just what did she expect you to do about it?�

�She wants me to find him,� Wilson said simply.

�Just like that, eh? How?�

�That�s why I wanted to get in touch with you. There�s just so much I can do, even attached to the embassy, but with your connections you can check out most of the airstrips in the interior and find out if any plane with two men landed, coming from the States, or where they are.�

�I don�t suppose,� Da Silva said quietly, �that her brother might just have wanted to disappear? You know as well as I do that nine out of ten disappearances are done on purpose.�

�I thought of that, of course,� Wilson said evenly. �I started a check on him, but so far nothing has turned up. He doesn�t have a police record, and his credit is good � which accounts for fifty percent of the reasons for disappearing � and according to Jill, he doesn�t have a wife, which takes care of the other fifty percent.�

Da Silva smiled. �Well, even supposing he did come to Brazil, I still wouldn�t worry too much about it if I were you. There are some pretty remote airstrips in Brazil. And four days isn�t a very long time.�

�It isn�t four days,� Wilson said stubbornly. �It�s four days since she came down to Rio to try and find him. It�s ten days since he left Berkeley, and��

�You mean she�s worried enough to make a trip like this after only a little more than a week? That he�s gone, I mean?�

�She does remember that the job was only supposed to take two days,� Wilson said. �And ten days isn�t two days. He�s been on these jobs before and never delayed like this.� He looked at his friend. �If he was heading for Brazil, he hasn�t landed at any of the major airports, because I checked with customs. And if he landed at one of the interior airports with communication facilities, you�d think he�d try and get a message to her. But he hasn�t. So she�s worried. And so am I.�

The short blocks that traverse Copacabana between the mountains behind Rua Toneleros and the beach had been crossed quickly during their conversation; traffic had been light, and few people were on the street. The hotel appeared a few blocks ahead, its rounded, illuminated marquee a familiar landmark jutting over the mosaic sidewalk. Wilson thought of something else.

�And another thing: when I finally arrange to have her meet you and tell you the full story herself, she doesn�t show up. Instead, she leaves me a letter and disappears herself!�

�Hold it!� Da Silva said, and smiled. �I don�t mind your building a mountain out of a molehill, but let�s not try to compete with Everest. She didn�t disappear; she left you a note and stood you up.� He grinned. �I can think of several reasons a girl might want to do that.� He thought a moment, and his grin disappeared abruptly. �As a matter of fact, I can think of one very good reason why she might not have wanted to meet a Brazilian cop.�

�I know what you�re thinking,� Wilson said half angrily. �You think the whole thing could be some sort of a con game � the missing brother routine instead of the Spanish count, or something like that. Well, outside of the fact that I�m not exactly a child in these things, you just don�t know Jill. I�ll admit she�s a little kookie, but she�s also the most wonderful��

Da Silva cast his eyes heavenward and then retired gracefully. �Or maybe she finally heard from her brother.�

�And therefore decided there wasn�t any need to suffer my company at dinner tonight?� Wilson shook his head; there was no humor in his voice. �No. I know you�re taking this whole thing very lightly, but I tell you there�s something going on I don�t like. She didn�t stand me up; at least not in the way you mean.�

Da Silva opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. Wilson obviously was not in the mood for ribbing. They completed their journey in silence, coming at last to the hotel and walking up the curved driveway together, mounting the deserted marble steps side by side, swinging through the double glass doors. The bright and patently false smile on the face of the porteiro faded at the glower that Wilson�s face was directing at him. Whoever the gentleman was, he seemed to be displeased about something, and that displeasure seemed to somehow involve him. Da Silva reached out, laying a restraining hand on Wilson�s arm.

�Let me handle this,� he said in English, and then smoothly switched to Portuguese as he suavely turned to face the porter. He reached into a pocket, bringing out a leather billfold and opening it to present his credentials. The porter leaned over to study them and then straightened up, suddenly realizing he had been wary of the wrong man. Da Silva smiled at him gently.

�I understand you are holding a message from a guest here � a Miss Howard � addressed to a Mr. Wilson.� He moved one hand in a casual sweep. �This gentleman is Mr. Wilson��

The porter�s brow cleared. So that was the trouble! The man who had been so angry with him on the telephone had gone to the police! Well, police or no police, he knew the law. His voice became righteous. �Yes, Captain. But he can�t receive it from me.�

�Do you mind telling me why?�

�Because it�s stamped.� The porter�s tone chided Da Silva for not being more familiar with the law. �It�s the property of the government, and only they��

�Ah!� Da Silva said, and nodded in agreement. �But, you see, I also represent the government. So if you have any objection to delivering it to the gentleman, give it to me and I�ll deliver it.�

�But you don�t represent the postal department, Captain,� the porter said firmly, almost triumphantly. He pictured himself describing the conversation later to his friends, few of whom had any particular love for the police. It would make quite a story! He stared into the captain�s eyes and suddenly wondered if it would make that good a story; the captain was nodding, but there was something almost too agreeable about his expression.

�True,� Da Silva conceded, and sighed. �You�re probably right; the best thing would be to do it all legally � to take you and the letter down to the delegacia and hold you there until we can locate and fill out the proper forms.�

The porter blanched; on second thought there was no good reason ever to repeat the conversation to his friends. The look in the steady eyes across from him promised that the stay in the delegacia would not be pleasant. But then, as the porter well knew, few stays at police headquarters were. He hastened to correct any misunderstanding.

�I didn�t exactly mean��

�I�m sure you didn�t,� Da Silva said sympathetically. �And I�m also sure that at one time or another the red tape of bureaucracy has irritated you. So I know you�ll welcome an opportunity to cut through some of it. Won�t you?�

�Yes, Captain,� the desk clerk said hopelessly, and handed over the letter.

�Thank you,� Da Silva said politely, and took the envelope from the outstretched fingers. He turned back to Wilson, walking him out of earshot and handed the letter over, winking.

�I love these legal types,� he said. �For a slight tip that character would probably arrange you anything from a kilo of marijuana to the chorus line of the Golden Room. But hand over a letter addressed to you? Heavens, no! That wouldn�t be legal!� He eyed Wilson curiously. �Why didn�t you simply offer him a tip? He�d have probably given you every letter in the rack.�

�Because I didn�t like his tone of voice,� Wilson said shortly, and ripped open the letter. He scanned it quickly and then looked up, a startled expression on his face. �Z�! Listen to this! �Dear Mr. Wilson���

��Dear Mr. Wilson�?� Da Silva�s bushy eyebrows rose. �This is a love affair? How does she address simple acquaintances?�

�Damn it, Z�! Will you stop that and listen?� His eyes went back to the letter, reading it aloud:

Wilson looked up, frowning. �Tomorrow?�

Da Silva shrugged; there was a look of mild humor in his eyes. �So it would take two weeks to a month instead of one day for the letter to be delivered. How would she know about our marvelous mail service? Go ahead with the letter.�

Wilson nodded and went back to the scrawled note.

Wilson lowered the folded paper and stared at Da Silva in almost bitter triumph; it was as if the verification of his fears somehow cleared the air. �All right � are you convinced?�

�That she�s a kook? Certainly. I believed you the first time.�

�Damn it, Z�! I mean, that she�s in trouble!�

�She probably is,� Da Silva agreed. �In fact, she almost certainly is. Anyone who doesn�t speak Portuguese getting into a Brazilian cab and chasing all over town is asking for real trouble. The cabbie will charge her a fortune. And if she tries to get him to keep blowing his horn, you can expect her back here in about five minutes. Escorted by a police car.� He thought a moment. �I doubt if they�d take her to the delegacia. Not on Christmas.�

Wilson could hardly believe his ears. �So you�re not going to do anything?�

�Not quite true,� Da Silva said, and glanced at his watch. �I�m going home.� He looked at Wilson evenly. �You promised me both a dinner � which you said you�d pay for � and a meeting with a lovely girl, and you didn�t come through on either one. I promised myself a good night�s sleep, and � luckily � I�m more a man of my word than you.�

Wilson continued to stare at him in amazement.

�You mean you�re not going to talk to the barman or the porter and find out who this character was that she followed? Or stick around until she gets back and find out what this is all about? That is, if she gets back?�

�I am not,� Da Silva said, and yawned. �Look, you�re a detective, too. You work tonight, and let me get some rest so I can work tomorrow. I happen to be on a special assignment for the Foreign Office, and the minister isn�t going to take kindly to my staying up all night checking out some kookie girl who likes to blow horns and then being too tired to handle his problem.� He saw the slowly hardening expression on Wilson�s face and modified his tone, trying to sound reasonable.

�Look, Wilson, this is Rio de Janeiro. It�s a big city and very well policed. She wasn�t grabbed; she went of her own free will. She isn�t going to be kidnapped into some heathen opium den and sold into white slavery.� Despite his intentions, a smile crossed his lips. �To begin with, no Rio cabdriver would let her go until the bill was paid, and nobody in his right mind � intent upon kidnapping her or not � would ever pay the bill that cabbie is going to charge.�

Wilson looked at him bitterly. �Very funny!�

Da Silva studied his friend�s face a moment and then sighed. Love, he thought, may be a many-splendored thing, but it certainly played havoc with one�s judgment!

�All right,� he said quietly. �I�ll tell you what. Meet me for lunch at Santos Dumont tomorrow, and bring me up-to-date. If you still want help and I can check anything out for you, I�ll do what I can.�

�Thank you!� Wilson said coldly. �That�s very big of you!�

Da Silva frowned at his friend. �As a matter of fact, it is,� he said, equally coldly. �I had planned on taking a siesta on top of my desk tomorrow, and I�m giving it up.�

Captain Da Silva, humming a lilting tune to himself, trotted lightly down the marble steps of the Instituto M�dico-Legal, climbed happily into his red Jaguar convertible, switched on the engine, and listened in pure enjoyment to the throaty roar of power that instantly responded. The Army knapsack containing the few bits of evidence he had brought back from his trip had been duly deposited with the director of the institute, and he had been promised that any information gained from it would be telephoned to his office as soon as possible. The next step on the morning�s agenda was to report to the minister at the Pal�cio Itamarat� � the Foreign Office � give his report and receive whatever further assignment the minister wished, and then get over to Santos Dumont Airport in time for lunch with Wilson. It was a busy schedule, but an interesting one, and that was what counted.

He grinned to himself broadly as he put the small car into gear and wheeled into traffic, narrowly missing a brace of taxis that appeared from nowhere. Poor Wilson! He really seemed smitten with that complete nut of a girl, and anyone who allowed a woman to affect him that way was really to be pitied! Da Silva shook his head in commiseration, and wondered if his American friend had managed any sleep at all the night before or if he had ended up his interviews at the hotel by sleeping on a lumpy couch in the lobby. Ah, well, he thought, I�ll undoubtedly get the full sad story at lunchtime, probably together with a request for a lot of useless help. However, time enough for that when lunchtime came; in the meantime, life was here to enjoy! It was a beautiful morning, he was out of the jungle and back in his beloved Rio, and he had had time that morning for a decent shave and haircut at a barbershop whose proprietor did not hone his blades on string or glass. In addition, he was behind the wheel of his favorite automobile, and on solid ground � not five thousand feet in the air. What man could possibly ask for more?

His exalted mood continued as he came in to the Pra�a Rep�blica and cut across the Avenida Get�lio Vargas with an airy disregard for the steady flow of traffic that was impressive. It was not until he had passed the War Ministry and had swung between the ornate gates of the Itamarat� that his blithe spirit deserted him. Only the instant veering of the steering wheel and the swift application of his brakes saved him from a head-on collision with a car which had been emerging. For a moment he sat in stunned silence, the Jaguar pulsing steadily beneath him, slowly realizing the shocking fact that his wonderful car might well have had a fender creased; then he exploded, leaning across the low sill and bellowing.

�Barbeiro!�

Even this, the worst possible insult between Brazilian drivers, did not fully relieve his outraged feelings; with eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, he turned off the ignition, opened the door of the convertible and unfolded himself to the pavement, prepared to teach the idiot driver of the other car a few manners.

The other car had also stopped, slued to a precarious halt with its front bumper but inches from one of the stone gateposts. The door was swung back violently, and a girl descended, her face white with justifiable wrath. She opened her mouth to respond to the deadly insult in kind and then slowly closed it as she recognized the man facing her.

�Captain Da Silva!�

Da Silva took a deep breath, bringing his temper under control, reminding himself that a Carvalho Santos Da Silva never forgot his chivalry no matter how great the provocation.

�Hello, Astrea.� He studied her coldly a moment and then said the politest thing that came to mind. �I might have known it would be a woman driver!�

The girl�s jaw tightened. This was too much! Even for an acknowledged boor, this was really too much! And captain or no captain, he had been completely at fault, and she could see no reason not to let him know it.

�Captain Da Silva! Do you realize that your poor driving almost caused an accident? That because you handle an automobile like a lotacăo driver you almost wrecked my car?�

Da Silva could scarcely believe his ears. �I almost wrecked your car?� He stared at her, amazed at the lengths women would go to avoid responsibility. His tone became curious, asking a question that had often bothered him. �Tell me something, Astrea � when women purchase their driver�s license at the five-and-ten-cent stores, why don�t they splurge and get the expensive kind?�

�Oh?� His tone brought the girl instantly under control. So this was how he wanted to play the game, eh? Well, let him discover how an expert went about it! She managed to bring a touch of condescension into her voice and nodded gravely. �I think I know where you made your mistake, Captain. These driveways were built to accommodate a car entering and a car leaving at the same time. The way it was meant to work was that each car should use half. What you overlooked was that it was never intended that one driver should take his half in the middle.�

�My dear Senhora! Are you attempting to state that I was not on my proper side of the driveway?� Da Silva glared. �That, in fact, I was in any way at all even faintly at fault for this ridiculous affair?�

She smiled at him sweetly. �I merely point out, Senhor � I mean, Captain � that you entered the driveway at a speed far in excess of the limit posted on the gate, which is a violation of Article Twelve, Section Fourteen of the Traffic Code; that you quite obviously did not have your vehicle under proper control � covered, if I am not mistaken, by Article Eighteen of the same section � and that you did not make the slightest attempt to see if another car was leaving as you were entering.� She frowned, as if trying to remember. �I�m not exactly sure which article would handle that. Probably several.� She looked at him calmly. �If I ever meet anyone trained in police work, I must be sure to ask him.�

Da Silva fought to keep from exploding. �Senhora! How would you like��

�A punch in the jaw?� She shook her head chidingly, her thick hair swirling. �I�m sure it�s your standard method, Captain, but I should be very careful if I were you. In police school, I happened to be first in my class in both judo and karate.�

�If you could manage to stop talking long enough to listen,� Da Silva said through clenched teeth, �I intended to ask you how you would like to move your car and permit this ridiculous interview to end. I happen to have work to do.�

�Oh? Certainly.� She smiled at him sweetly. �I only hope you perform your work better than you drive, Captain.�

�Senhora!�

�Good-bye, Captain. Desculpa qual-quer coisa.�

This standard apology for inconveniencing someone was so patently false that it left Da Silva speechless. So this was his thanks for having been so pleasant the night she drove him from the airport, was it? This was his reward for trying to keep the present discussion on a gentlemanly level, for maintaining � in the face of unwarranted slander � the chivalry of which the Da Silvas were so justifiably proud, eh? Well!

He watched as she climbed into her car with a swirl of skirt that momentarily revealed an extension of excellently shaped leg; she backed from the gate post expertly, swung the car about, and drove past him with her hand raised in a faintly sardonic salute. With a black scowl on his face, Da Silva climbed into his Jaguar, straightened it out, and continued into the parking lot, pulling into a slot reserved for ambassadors with a jerk that not only brought a protesting shriek from the Jaguar�s innocent brakes, but also undoubtedly violated several more articles of Section 14.

He marched up the steps, straight-armed the double doors at the top, and gave the poor receptionist a look that caused her to think that Captain Da Silva had mistakenly confused her with some enemy of the public. She hastened to verify his appointment and send him on his way before he started taking out the handcuffs or possibly even his gun. The secretary of the minister was also taken aback by the sinister appearance of the captain when he stamped into her office; she hurried to inform the minister of his expected visitor on the intercom, opened the door hastily for the captain, and then quickly closed it as he strode in.

The minister of foreign affairs rose, moving around his enormous desk, coming forward with his hand outstretched. He was a heavy-set man of Da Silva�s height, with iron-gray hair and dark eyes set deep in sockets beneath a jutting brow. His face was rugged, made up of sharp planes that culminated in a jaw as rigid as granite. He grasped the captain�s hand in a grip that was both strong and friendly.

�Ah, Captain Da Silva! It�s been a long time; several years, I believe. Not since that affair of your friend Bailey. How have you been?�

�Fine, sir.�

The piercing eyes studied the face before him. �Well, Captain, you�ll pardon me, but you certainly don�t look it. What�s the trouble? You seem disturbed. Anything to do with the case?�

Da Silva shook his head. �No, sir. It�s... it�s something personal.�

�Ah?� The minister returned to his desk and seated himself, waving Da Silva to a chair across from him. He waited until his guest was seated and then leaned back, tenting his fingers, smiling at the other. �A woman, eh?�

�No, sir. It�s just that�� Da Silva suddenly relaxed, answering the other�s smile with a rather rueful grin. �Yes, sir. But not in the sense you mean.�

�I didn�t know I meant it in any particular sense,� the minister replied. He smiled once again, and then leaned forward, erasing his smile instantly, getting down to business. �Well, Captain, for the time being, I�m afraid you�ll have to put your personal problems out of your mind. What about the bridge?�

Da Silva frowned, bringing his mind back to the reason for his visit, studying the rugged face, the sharp eyes. �May I ask you several questions first, sir? I didn�t have an opportunity to talk to you personally before I went out there.�

The minister nodded. �Of course.�

�Well, sir, the first one is this; Why did they ever build a bridge out there in the middle of nowhere in the first place? The nearest civilization � if you want to call it that � is that small village, and that�s eighteen kilometers away, and not even on a map. To be honest, I had no idea there was a bridge up there in the jungle until I was given this assignment.�

�You didn�t know?� The minister considered him calmly. �There wasn�t any particular secret about it. We�re building many bridges and roads and airfields in places where there aren�t any people.� He shrugged. �Why? Why did we build Bras�lia, or the highways from Bras�lia to Bel�m and to the south? Precisely because there wasn�t anything there, Captain. And we wanted to put something there.�

He swiveled his chair, staring somberly out of the window at the bustle of the crowded city spread below, and then swung back, frowning thoughtfully across the desk.

�I�m sure another question in your mind is what a bridge at the far end of the Mato Grosso � but still well within our national borders � has to do with the Foreign Office. Well, Captain, let me explain. To begin with, you know as well as I do � as well as all Brazilians do � that our country needs to develop the interior. We can�t continue to crowd our growing population into the few major cities along the coast nor can we afford to continue to feed them by using all of our few exportable resources to pay for the importation of food. And just for this reason of developing the interior was Bras�lia built, and the Bel�m highway, and the new airfields, and so forth.

�Now, regarding this particular bridge and its reason for being there and its connection with the Foreign Office � our government has concluded arrangements with the Japanese government for a large settlement of new immigrants to move to that part of the Mato Grosso. Our tests show that the soil can be quite productive once the land is cleared. Contrary to popular belief, the climate is not too bad, the annual rainfall is ample but not excessive, and there are no hostile Indians there. The animals should not be any more of a problem than they have been in other sections that have been developed, and less than in many. And the rivers in that area can furnish transport, as well as provide fish for food. We feel that once this particular settlement is established, by judicious locations of highways we can develop quite an agricultural community there, capable not only of feeding itself, but also of contributing greatly to the economy of Brazil as a whole. The arrangements for these immigrants and their settlement on the land naturally come under our jurisdiction. Once they are completely settled, of course, they�ll pass to another department.�

He paused, as if to see whether Da Silva was keeping up with his explanation, studied the captain�s face a moment, and then continued, satisfied.

�This particular bridge happens to be important because the �gua Branca River that it crosses � crossed, I should say � is not navigable above the village of Santa Isabel. It was necessary to bridge it to provide access by means of a road we plan to build from the proposed settlement to Santa Isabel. From there on down to the Paran� the river can handle any size boat that would be required for some time.� He paused again. �Now do you understand, Captain?�

�Yes, sir.�

�Good. Then you can also understand our keen interest in knowing who destroyed the bridge, and what their purpose was. Was it to stop the settlement of these immigrants? Because whether it was or not, it succeeded, at least for the time being. We�ve been forced to cancel their arrival for at least eight months, the time our engineers calculate it will take to repair it. Actually, to rebuild it completely. Or was the bridge destroyed for a completely different reason? And if so, what?� He smiled, but there was no humor in the pained grimace. �It certainly wasn�t a student prank. It took time and trouble. And money.� He sighed; his sharp eyes studied Da Silva�s face. �Well, Captain, I�ve answered your questions. Now you answer mine. Who? And why?�

�Before I begin,� Da Silva said slowly, �I have one last question, sir. How did you happen to hear about the bridge�s being destroyed? So soon, I mean.�

�I suppose you could call it luck, except that I don�t believe in luck,� the minister said. �A VASP pilot, coming across from Juan Caballero in Paraguay thought he saw a helio signal from that part of the jungle; he left his course to investigate and saw the bridge was out. The helio signal must have been his imagination or possibly even a reflection from some part of the reinforcing steel of the bridge, but at least he saw its condition and reported it.� The heavyset man shrugged. �We would have known about it fairly soon, in any event. We were sending an engineering party out this week to begin laying in waterlines from the river to the settlement. Now, of course, they�ll also have to be postponed.� His voice became more official. �Well, Captain? About your investigation?�

Da Silva brought out a cigarette and lit it, using the time to organize his thoughts. He tossed the spent match into an ashtray on the desk and frowned unhappily.

�Well, sir, to be honest, we have very little. We know that in the dynamiting of the bridge there were at least two men involved��

�Why at least two?�

�Because one of them was killed in the explosion.� Da Silva�s nose wrinkled slightly. �I know, because I found and brought back with me parts of his body.�

The minister�s bushy eyebrows rose. �Parts?�

�Yes, sir. Actually a foot, ripped off just above the ankle, still in its shoe, and also what I think was a part of his arm. They were all I could find. They were caught beneath chunks of concrete where the urubus or the other animals couldn�t get at them. Still, the ants had already begun working on them, so I don�t know how much good they�ll be for identification. They�re being examined at the institute now; we�ll have to wait and see what they come up with. The shoe may be of some use; it was in fairly good shape. With luck we may be able to get the manufacturer, and through him, possibly even where it was sold. We�ll see. It was unusual up there; I mean, up there the standard footwear is either the accordion boot or nothing. This was a type of work shoe.� He smiled faintly. �For whatever good that is.�

The minister nodded slowly. �But somehow you don�t think it could have been one man�s work and that he might possibly have blown himself up with the bridge?�

�No, sir.� Da Silva was positive on this. �The dynamite was detonated from a spot about a hundred meters away, over the brow of the cliff � a safe place. I found bits of insulation where the wires had been scraped for attaching to the terminals. I also found bits of insulation on the bark of trees between this spot and the bridge pier that had been wired. That�s where the wires dragged past. And of course, the detonator itself wasn�t there.� Da Silva shook his head stubbornly, frowning at the end of his cigarette as if searching for the answer in the growing column of ash. His eyes came up. �My guess, sir, is that while there may have been more than one involved in this to begin with, right now we�re looking for one man.�

�Why only one man?�

�Because I don�t think there�s any doubt that he purposely blew the bridge while his partner was still there, having just hooked up the explosive. If I�m right, then he did it to eliminate a witness. And if he eliminated one, it�s logical to assume he�d eliminate any others who might have been along.� He scraped the ash into the ashtray and leaned back again. �That�s conjecture, of course. The second man�s death may have been an accident. There may have been a bad connection in the detonator; there are lots of things that can happen accidentally when you play with explosives. But I doubt it.�

�I see.� The minister frowned. �So, assuming you�re right, what else do you know about this man � the survivor � other than he�s rather bloodthirsty?�

�Well,� Da Silva said slowly, �we know if he left the place by himself, then he can pilot a plane, because that�s the way they got there, and that�s the way he left. I spent five miserable, uncomfortable � I spent five days there, and one day entirely just going over that airstrip foot by foot. I found where a plane had stood. Recently.� He shrugged. �Again, of course, it�s conjecture. A plane completely unconnected with the dynamiting may have used the airstrip for some completely disassociated reason, while the man we�re looking for may have come through the jungle on foot and left the same way. Carrying dynamite, a detonator, plus all the rest of his gear.� He shook his head. �Again I doubt it. By foot you�re at least eighteen kilometers from Santa Isabel, and until you get your highway through, I�d judge it to be two days, at least. And that�s if he didn�t mind being seen in the village. If he did, then God knows where he came from and where he went.�

�Unless, of course,� the minister said slowly, �it was somebody from that part of the country. Possibly somebody who resented the fact that we were interfering with the life he knew and liked��

�With a plane? And a friend who wore work shoes?�

�We don�t know about the plane.�

�And dynamite? And wire? And a detonator?� Da Silva shook his head. �Believe me, sir, I�d love to believe it, because up there, there can�t be more than a dozen people to interrogate. The way I see it, we have all Brazil to check out.�

The minister sighed. �Yes.� He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tented, thinking intently. �So, what do you have? A man who can pilot a plane flies there from some unknown place with at least one partner, dynamites the bridge, killing his partner in the process, and then flies off again.� His eyes came down. �Where did he go? And again � possibly to be repetitious � why did he do it?�

�We�re working on the �where� now,� Da Silva said, and slowly shook his head. �Frankly, I�m far from optimistic about coming up with a quick answer. From the marks I found, the plane would be a small one, but still large enough to make it as far as Rio without any trouble. We did, and we were in a much smaller plane. Which means he could have landed at any airport or private flying club � or even any flat field � between here and there.�

He smiled a bit grimly and leaned over, crushing out his cigarette.

�I don�t like to complain, especially not to a minister of the government, sir, but while it�s very nice to build airstrips all over the country as a means of developing the interior and while it�s fine to foster flying clubs left and right, because the airplane is to us what both the railroad and the highway together were to Europe and the United States, the fact remains that our control of private aircraft in this country leaves a hell of a � leaves a lot to be desired. Outside the major cities and the major airports, any owner or pilot of a private plane can take off and land where and when he wants without any flight plan whatsoever. In the interior, in fact, many of the private planes aren�t even registered. Nobody knows where they came from, and fewer people care.�

He held up a hand. �I know a lot of people would deny this; but it�s the truth, and I know it, and you know it, sir. Now add to this the fact that the place in the Mato Grosso where this bridge was blown is fairly close to both Bolivia and Paraguay � both of which could also do a lot more to control their private plane traffic � and what do you have?� He frowned unhappily. �It makes it a bit difficult on a policeman trying to locate a particular plane at a particular moment.�

The minister�s lips quirked; he straightened them out at once. �I�ll take that problem under advisement, Captain. But I hope that you�re not saying that because of this difficulty, you don�t have too much hope of success.�

�No, sir. I�m merely saying it won�t be easy.�

The minister�s voice subtly stiffened. �Easy or difficult, Captain, this case must be solved. We must know who destroyed that bridge and why they did it. That bridge was not destroyed by whim; it was blown up for a reason. We must know that reason.� His voice became dry. �We intend to rebuild it, but we can scarcely continue to rebuild it if somebody keeps blowing it up each time we do. It could become an endless project, and we have neither the time nor the money for that. Nor the patience.�

Da Silva sighed. �Yes, sir.�

�And I have faith in you to find the answer, Captain.�

The sigh that this brought forth was even deeper. �Thank you, sir.�

�So what are your plans, Captain?�

Da Silva contemplated the man across from him. The sunken eyes were demanding, allowing no evasion or excuse. For a few seconds the two men stared into each other�s eyes, and then Da Silva smiled faintly.

�Sir, we�ll do the best we can. We�ll keep checking on that plane, contacting airstrips where we have telegraphic or radio installations. If the institute can use the parts of the body I brought back to narrow down the time of his death, that might help. I don�t know how, but it might. At least we�d have a better time element to aim at. Right now, from what I saw at the airstrip and when this VASP pilot reported, it could have been anywhere within a week that the bridge was dynamited. Engineers studying the wreckage might do better, but that�s my guess. And a lot of planes take off and land at a lot of airports in Brazil in a week.� He thought a moment. �And of course, we�ll follow up on that shoe and see what we can get from that.�

He pondered a moment longer while the minister waited patiently. At last he looked up.

�After what you said, sir, we�ll also check on any groups who are openly critical of our immigration policies, Japanese or otherwise. We�ll try to determine if any of their members are registered pilots or have any particular knowledge of explosives. It�s a long shot, but I suppose it has to be done. Personally, I can�t see this as an organized effort � not with the killing of the partner � but never mind.� He thought a moment more and then looked up. �There�s just one thing in regard to this immigration theory � was it generally known? About the settlement of Japanese in this area, I mean? Was it ever officially announced? Mentioned in the newspapers?�

The minister raised one shoulder expressively. �Again, like the construction of the bridge, it was no secret. On the other hand, we seldom make official announcements about something of this sort. It�s too common; I doubt if the newspapers would even take notice of them at this date or even print them. After all, we�ve settled many groups from Indonesia in the interior of many states, and we�ve done the same thing with various groups of Japanese also in many states, including the Amazon. It�s more or less standard work in our department.�

He thought a moment. �However, we do publish a monthly bulletin outlining our progress for anyone interested, and these are distributed to libraries, embassies, and various departments of our own government. I�m not sure, Captain,� he added dryly, �that you don�t have copies yourself.�

�Possibly, sir.� Da Silva grinned. �Lately I�ve had trouble finding time to read my mail.� His grin faded. �In any event, sir, we�ll do the best we can.�

The minister came to his feet, indicating the interview was over, and came around the desk. Da Silva rose. The minister put a friendly hand on his arm.

�I�m sure your best will be enough to solve the case. Quickly, I hope. If there�s anything our department can do to help, let us know.�

�Yes, sir.� Da Silva smiled faintly and moved to the door. �There�s one thing you might do for me, sir. Wish me luck.�

No muscle moved in the minister�s rigid face. �I said before, Captain, that I don�t believe in luck. What I suppose I mean is that I never underestimate luck. It always seems to come to those who work for it.� His voice was dry. �I�m sure you�ll have your share.�

What you mean, Da Silva thought, looking into the piercing, deep-set eyes, is that I�d better arrange to have my share. Or probably end up warming a chair in some outlying precinct.

�Yes, sir,� he said evenly, and made his escape.

Santos Dumont Airport, built on a green wedge of land jutting into the blue waters of Guanabara Bay, presents to the air traveler a view unequaled for beauty, with the stark sides of Sugar Loaf rising in the foreground on one side of him, the tiny white buildings of Niter�i glistening across the water on the other, and the frequent sight of incoming ocean liners cutting a smooth wake in between. In addition to beauty, Santos Dumont has the distinction of being the most accessible airport in the world, being a mere five-minute stroll from the Avenida Rio Branco in the center of Rio de Janeiro.

To Captain Da Silva, however, these facts were unimpressive. The beauty was available elsewhere, and as for its accessibility, if he had had his way, all airports would have been built ten thousand miles from the nearest city, and access to them strictly forbidden by law. To Captain Da Silva the only advantage the airport presented was that guests to its mezzanine restaurant were permitted to remove their jackets, loosen their neckties, and eat in comfort � save, of course, for the occasional gusts that blew tablecloths and sometimes soup, as a plane warmed up on the runways beneath the open windows.

He came up the curved stairway from the main lobby, frowning thoughtfully at the marble steps beneath his feet as he reviewed his meeting with the minister. If mere motion meant work, then there was a lot of work to do, although in truth he could scarcely see in any of this labor a major possibility of coming up with an answer to that most simple of questions: Who went to the trouble of going way out there in the jungle to blow up a bridge that didn�t go anywhere in the first place? And, to quote the Minister, why? He sighed as he plodded upward. Possibly if he laid the whole story before Wilson, the American might come up with a suggestion. Wilson was an extremely acute person, and if his mind could be enticed from his newfound girlfriend, there was a good possibility that he would prove helpful.

He came to the top of the steps, surveyed the scene a moment, and then raised his bushy eyebrows in mild surprise. Rather than being seated at one of the tables in the large dining room, Wilson was hunched on a stool at the oval bar, frowning morosely into a glassful of brandy. Da Silva walked over and leaned on the bar beside him; Wilson looked up briefly and then returned to stare into his drink once again.

�Hello, Z�.�

Da Silva glanced across to the dining room and then back to his friend. �Why here at the bar? We�d better get a table before the place fills up.�

�I�m not hungry.� Wilson apparently decided that he had considered his drink long enough and that it was time now to do something about it. He brought it to his lips, drank it quickly, reached for the bottle, and then paused. The amenities of friendship suddenly seemed to occur to him. His eyes came up again. �You want a drink?�

�1942,� Da Silva said, and settled himself more comfortably on the stool next to Wilson. �August, as a matter of fact.�

�1942?�

�The last time I refused one,� Da Silva explained, and snapped his fingers for a waiter, indicating his need for an empty glass. He watched Wilson pour him a drink, took it, and then studied his friend sympathetically. �You want to tell me about it?�

�There�s nothing to tell,� Wilson said bitterly, and then proceeded to negate his own statement. �That fat-headed bartender and that imbecile at the hotel desk didn�t know what man Jill was following or anything else I was talking about. I waited around that lobby for her to return, for about a year��

�Anyway, maybe half an hour?� Da Silva said gently.

�Closer to forty-five minutes. Anyway, about that time I got the bright idea that maybe going back to Mario�s might be the answer, that she might have tried to get in touch with me there��

�In case she remembered the name of the place? Or your name, for that matter?�

Wilson pretended not to have heard; he seemed determined not to become any more disturbed than he already was. �Well, in any event there wasn�t any message at Mario�s, so back I went tramping to the hotel��

Da Silva grinned at him. �If I had known you were going to patrol the beach last night, I could have arranged to have the regular police taken off duty there and given something constructive to do.�

Wilson paid no attention, plodding grimly on. �Then, when I got back to the hotel, it seems she had come in in the meantime and had gone to bed, leaving instructions not to be disturbed. And no phone calls. The desk clerk said she was tired.� He looked up remembering something. �I very nearly gave your police something constructive to do � like arresting me � because I was going to knock her door down to see if she was really there. After knocking down the porteiro first, of course��

�But you thought better of it?�

�Yes,� Wilson said simply.

�And thank God for that!� Da Silva said fervently. �It would have meant my being wakened in the middle of the night to come down to get you out.� He sipped his drink and set his glass down, eying Wilson evenly. �And then?�

Wilson shrugged. �Then? Then I went home. And early this morning I called again. And she had already gotten up, had breakfast, and gone out. At eight!� His voice became bitter. �Can you imagine?�

�Easily,� Da Silva said. �She has insomnia. Or she didn�t want to miss the morning newspaper. Or they came in to clean the room and she didn�t care to watch. Or��

�Very funny!�

�Well,� Da Silva said, �I will admit that for two lovebirds, you two do seem to have trouble getting together. If I thought it would relieve you any, I�d tell you that the course of true love seldom runs smoothly. But,� he added hastily, seeing the look in Wilson�s eye, �I promise I won�t.� The sardonic look on his face disappeared as an idea came to him. �I�ll tell you what I will do, though. They say the best way to get a man�s mind off his problems is to present him with other problems. And I have a beauty for you.�

Wilson looked at him suspiciously. Da Silva shook his head.

�I�m serious. Last night you wanted to know what I was doing in the interior most of last week. Well, I�ll tell you. I was investigating a case there, and maybe you can help.� He hesitated a moment, organizing his thoughts. Wilson waited patiently.

�There�s a bridge up there � or there was � that crosses a river called the �gua Branca, and that means just what it says. White water � rapids and the works. Anyway, this bridge goes from nowhere to no place; it was built of solid concrete, and it�s a million miles in the jungle. Now, this bridge was built because our government is about to settle some Japanese immigrants in that area, and the bridge would give them access � first by some pretty lousy jungle trails, but eventually by a highway � to Santa Isabel, and from there on by river to the Paran�.� He studied Wilson carefully.

�Now, other than the possibility that someone wanted to prevent this settlement, can you give me one good reason why anyone would go to the trouble of flying up there � which is about the only way he could get there � at very great trouble, bringing along dynamite, planting it around the bridge piers, and blowing it up? Incidentally, killing a man in the process?� He waited a moment and then repeated himself. �Well? Can you think of one good reason?�

�Yes,� Wilson said flatly. �I can think of a very good one. Or at least a very good reason why I might have done it.�

Da Silva�s eyes lit up; he should have known that his American friend, lovesick or not, was still a very sharp brain. He leaned over intently. �And that is?�

�I�d do it just for the pleasure of blowing something up!� Wilson said savagely. �If I�d had a couple of sticks of dynamite last night at the Miracopa, this morning you�d be wrapping pieces of that porteiro in cellophane!�

Da Silva stared at him a minute and then leaned back.

�Thanks a lot. That�s really helpful.� He sighed. �Well, after that outstanding contribution to crime prevention, suppose we get a table while they still have a few available. After all, we don�t all work for the American Embassy. Some of us have work to do � especially in view of the help we get from you�� He broke off, frowning at Wilson. �What�s the matter with you?�

Wilson had raised himself on his stool, his hands supporting him on the bar. He was beaming over Da Silva�s shoulder, his entire attitude changed to one of excited joy.

�Jill!�

Da Silva swung about. A pretty blond girl had come to the top of the steps and was studying the tables of the dining room. Wilson came down from his stool, starting forward.

�Jill! We�re over here!� He turned back to Da Silva. �Z�! What are you waiting for? Get a table before they�re all gone!�

Da Silva contemplated his friend a moment helplessly, shrugged, and climbed down from his perch. He picked up the bottle and motioned the waiter to add their drinks to their table check. Holding the bottle, he came forward, studying the girl as he passed the pair, and then continued into the dining room. One thing he had to give Wilson credit for: he may have gone overboard, but at least he had picked a beautiful girl. True, her eyes were a deep blue in comparison with Astrea�s deep brown, and her blond hair was cut in a rather boyish bob, whereas Astrea wore her thick wavy hair almost shoulder-length. And Jill�s features were more patrician, her nose straighter, her cheeks more symmetrical than Astrea�s, whose nose was almost pug and who had a dimple on only one cheek. And just how did I remember all these things about Miss Alves? Da Silva wondered; I saw the girl only twice; and once I was half-asleep, and the other time I thought the only thing I noticed was her neck, which I wanted to twist. Apparently I must have noticed more...

Still there was no doubt that Miss Jill Howard was definitely an uva, worthy of any Brazilian�s whistle, and while possibly a bit less buxom than Astrea, still plenty worth Wilson�s adoration. How bright she might be was another matter, but something in the firm cut of the jaw and the widespread eyes made him think she might not be as addlepated as her actions that previous night made her appear. On the other hand, she could be twice as addlepated; with women it was difficult to tell. In any event, that was Wilson�s problem, not his.

He managed to find an empty table in a corner, set the bottle down, and then waited as Wilson came up, holding the girl protectively by the arm, as if to make sure she did not escape. There was a look of pure adoration in his eyes.

�Jill, this is Z� Da Silva, the man I told you about � the one we were supposed to have dinner with last night.� His eyes came up proudly challenging Da Silva to question his taste in women or the rationale of his being in love. �Z�, this is Jill Howard.�

The two accepted the introductions with brief nods. Wilson pulled a chair out for the girl, waited as she seated herself and unslung her shoulder-strap purse, and then sat down next to her, hitching his chair closer. Da Silva sank down across from them. The girl was looking at him gravely.

�You�re a major, or a lieutenant, or something, aren�t you, Mr. Z�? Mr. Wilson told me which, but I forgot. Do I call you by your title? Or just Mr. Da Silva? Was Z� your mother�s name? I never could manage to understand the way people in South America mix their mother�s name and their father�s name.� She paused suddenly, raising one hand to her mouth, looking contrite. �Oh, I�m sorry. I don�t know if you even speak English. I�m really sorry. You probably don�t understand a word I�m saying.�

Wilson grinned in delight. �That part is probably true, anyway. Jill, the man sitting across from you undoubtedly speaks English better than we do. His first name is Z�, which is a diminutive of Jos�. His mother�s name doesn�t matter; his father�s name was Da Silva. The Brazilians don�t use their parents� names the way the Spanish do, but rather the way we do. Z� is a captain of police. Does that clear the air?�

The girl nodded, continuing to study Da Silva curiously. �And what do I call him?�

�You call him Captain Da Silva.�

�All right. Captain Da Silva, do you always bring your own bottle to this restaurant? Why?�

�Because they might run out of my particular brand,� Da Silva explained gravely. �And also, of course, it�s much more economical.�

Wilson laughed. �He�s kidding you, Jill. You have to watch out for this man.�

�Oh?� Jill frowned slightly. �Why?�

�Never mind why,� Wilson said. His tone was light, but there was a touch of seriousness beneath it. He took a breath, changing the subject. �By the way, how did you find us here?�

�I asked at the embassy, and they said you were out to lunch and that you usually ate here. I wanted to come here anyway, so I looked for you.� She turned slightly in her chair, studying the busy room. �This is nice. I like breezy restaurants. If I lived in Rio, I think I�d eat here a lot, too.� Her eyes came back. �Do they give you glasses here? Of course, they must. I think I�d like a drink of that. What is it?�

�Portuguese brandy,� Wilson said, and snapped a finger for a waiter. He ordered glasses and then turned back to the girl. �Jill, what happened last night?�

She shook her head a bit dolefully, and then brushed her short hair away from her eyes. �I�m really sorry about last night. It was an awful mess, wasn�t it? I guess I made a fool of myself.� She suddenly smiled, a gamin smile that lit up her face; her eyes twinkled. �Actually, you know, nothing happened. The cabdriver started off so fast I thought he knew what I was talking about, and then I�m afraid I got a bit excited, so the poor man really had a time with me. I felt sorry for him. I guess I�m just lucky he didn�t throw me out of the cab any old place, but he was real nice. He brought me back to the hotel. I guess he figured that was the safest place to get rid of me.�

�More probably,� Da Silva said dryly, �he figured he�d taken the foreigner for about as big a bill as he could hope to collect on the flimsy excuse of not understanding.� He could not suppress a grin. �What about the horn? Did he blow it?�

�You know? I don�t know how to say �blow your horn� in Portuguese!� She thought a moment. �Oh, yes! He did blow it � every time he went through a red light. But that wasn�t because I asked him��

Wilson refused to be sidetracked. �What about the man you were following?�

�Oh, him? The poor man! He must have really thought I was crazy. I have no idea who he was, but he couldn�t have been the man I saw with Don in California.�

�Why not?�

�Because in the first place the man I saw in California was wearing sun goggles because he was sitting in a plane, and I didn�t really get a good look at him� � she stated this as if she considered it a reason, and followed it with a complete non sequitur. From her it almost sounded logical � �and anyway, it couldn�t have been the same man, because when I got back to the hotel, there was a cable from Don. He�s finishing up his job out there and coming to Rio to meet me sometime next week. It took him a little longer than he figured.� She beamed at the two men impartially. �Isn�t that nice?�

Wilson frowned. To him it seemed more than nice; it seemed quite coincidental. �And just how did he manage to find out what hotel you were staying at? Or even that you were in Brazil?�

She looked at him in surprise. �Well, once I got here, of course, I cabled Don�s office at the university where I was, just so he could get in touch with me.� Her tone sounded a bit hurt, as if Wilson had accused her of being forgetful or something equally ridiculous.

�Well, at least it solves that,� Da Silva said, and smiled at the girl. �Maybe we�ll be able to get some work out of Wilson, now. Where has your brother been working all this time?�

�I don�t know.� She raised her shoulders. �Some place with a long name. It must really be expensive to send cables down here; the names are so long.� She turned back to Wilson, looking repentant. �I�m afraid I really gave you a bad time last night, too. The man at the desk told me all about it. I�m awfully sorry. I guess sometimes I�m a little impulsive.�

�That�s quite all right,� Wilson said magnanimously.

Da Silva, eying his friend across the table, was amazed at the change in the man�s appearance since the girl�s arrival. He was also a bit surprised by Wilson�s easy acceptance of the girl�s statement that she was a little impulsive. This is a little? he thought. May the good Lord save me from the giant, economy-size impulsiveness, then!

Wilson moved aside to allow the waiter to place glasses on the table and then reached over, performing the duties of the host, pouring each glass full. He raised his own in a small gesture of a toast and then paused.

�What will we drink to?�

�How about drinking to eating lunch?� Da Silva asked pointedly.

Jill looked rather crestfallen. �Oh, I�m afraid I couldn�t do that,� she said quickly. �I�d really like to � honestly I would, because it would make up a little bit, at least, for last night � but I really don�t have time. My bags are downstairs now. I have to catch a plane in about twenty minutes.�

Wilson�s euphoric mood deserted him instantly; he set his glass down rather sharply. �A plane? Where to? I thought you said your brother was going to meet you in Rio?�

�He is,� Jill said calmly, and sipped her drink. �Um... This is good, but I don�t imagine you could drink too much of it. It�s strong.� Her eyes came up to meet Wilson�s. �I�m going to spend a few days in S�o Paulo. Everyone says it�s a city worth seeing, and I don�t know when I�ll ever get to Brazil again, so I think I ought to take advantage of being here, don�t you? If I get a chance, I�d like to see Bras�lia, too, but it depends on the time. Anyway, Bras�lia is probably too touristy, don�t you think?�

Wilson stared at her unhappily. �But I thought we could use this week for sight-seeing here in Rio. I thought we might get better acquainted, and��

�But we�re completely acquainted, Mr. Wilson.�

��and I thought you were coming to that New Year�s Eve party with me.� He turned to Da Silva almost as an afterthought. �By the way, you�re invited, too.�

�Thanks for telling me,� Da Silva murmured politely, and continued to watch the pair across the table. The girl sipped her drink for a moment and then nodded.

�Yes. It�s good, but too much would make me drunk. I�m afraid I don�t have a good head for liquor. But it really is good.� She smiled at Wilson brightly. �Oh, I�ll be back in time for the party. You told me where it was, at What�s-his-name�s place, in the Rua Something-or-other. I�ll meet you there.� She saw the stricken look on Wilson�s face and shook her head. �Oh, no! This time I have it all written down.� She reached to the empty chair beside her, picking up her large shoulder bag and rummaging in it for proof. Another idea interfered, and she allowed it to take over. �Wait! I have a picture of Don here someplace. After all the trouble we�ve both been to you, I wanted you to see it. I�ve got it here somewhere...�

Wilson refused to be sidetracked. His voice tried to sound stubborn without causing the slightest animosity. �I think it would be much better if I met you and took you to the party. That way��

�You know I don�t like being picked up,� she said a bit severely, and continued to dig into her purse. �Oh, dear � it�s here somewhere. Why do we women carry so much junk in our purses? Oh, well, I don�t suppose it�s really that important. I just thought you might like to see it.� She snapped her purse shut and pushed back her chair, coming to her feet.

�No, you sit still. Please. I really have to be going. Do I have my ticket? Of course, and my bags are already checked in downstairs. No, you stay here with Captain Da Silva and finish your drink. You can have the rest of mine, too. You gave me way too much, you know. It�s been nice meeting you, Captain Da Silva.� She reached across the table to shake his hand; he was surprised to find her grip firm. �Now I really must be going. Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Wilson. I�ll see you both at that New Year�s Eve party. I promise I won�t forget. If I get there before you, will they let me in? Oh, I�m sure they will. I�ll see you there, then. Good-by.�

With a bright smile she turned away, edging her way through the tables of the dining room, her purse held high. Wilson had half-risen in his chair; he sank back, shaking his head slowly. �She�s something, isn�t she?�

�Yes,� Da Silva agreed, and smiled. �She certainly is. Meeting her is like trying to count tissue paper in a hurricane. You should be happy she�s going away for a few days. I imagine a concentrated dose of that could prove fatal.�

�The trouble with you, my friend,� Wilson said with an air of superiority, �is that you have no romance in your soul.�

�The trouble with me,� Da Silva corrected him gently, �is that I have no lunch in my stomach.� He winked across the table and raised his hand to attract a waiter.

By three o�clock that afternoon, the Major steps in Captain Da Silva�s campaign to determine the who and the why of the bridge�s destruction had begun to take nebulous form. His immediate assistant, Ruy, was hard at work compiling � or rather, trying to compile � a list of organizations and individuals critical of the government�s immigration policies in general, as well as those whose opposition to Japanese immigration was specific. Lieutenant Perreira, much against his wishes � had been taken from a study of illicit pornographic literature, its examples and its dissemination � had been given the task of trying to catalog the numerous flying clubs as well as any unregistered airfields in an area that the captain knew, even as he gave the assignment, was far too large to hope for any accuracy. Still, Da Silva thought, one had to start somewhere, although it seemed sad that one couldn�t start from something as simple as a beginning. The proper way to solve this crime, in his opinion, would be to rebuild the bridge, plant a police agent there, wait until the structure was blown up again, and then nab the criminals in the act. It was doubtful, however, that the minister would accept this as a viable method.

He grinned at the thought, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his swivel chair, stretching his muscles and yawning deeply. One thing was certain; he had either to sharply reduce his cognac consumption at lunch or to rearrange his schedule to include a long nap each afternoon, because as it was, his mind was too fuzzy to permit any great bursts of genius. Maybe now that Wilson was free of Jill Howard for a few days � or at least free of the problem of her brother � he would settle down again and prove useful. In the past the American had been one of the brightest people Da Silva knew, and this case looked as if it could stand all the brilliance it could get.

He leaned forward to crush his cigarette to extinction just as the telephone at his elbow rang sharply. He yawned again, shrugged himself into a semblance of alertness, and picked it up.

�Yes?�

It was his own operator. �Captain Da Silva? Dr. Martins of the Medical-Legal Institute is on the line. Are you free to speak with him?�

Da Silva drew himself a bit more erect, his mind struggling up from his previous reverie. �Yes. Put him on.� He yawned once again, as if to get his sleepiness over and done with for the afternoon, and tried to concentrate. Maybe the institute had found something in the exhibits he had brought back, something that would give him a better basis for his investigation than he now had. And, he thought unhappily, they wouldn�t really have to find much to do that. The telephone clicked in his ear.

�Hello, Z�?�

�Jo�o? What have you got for me?�

�Several things� � the doctor�s voice sounded rather curious � �But the first one is a question. What did you do to get my girlfriend so interested in you in such a short time?�

Da Silva shook his head as if to clear it of any cobwebs remaining from lunch and frowned, puzzled. �Your girlfriend?�

�Well,� Dr. Martins said, considering the question fairly, �let�s say I�d like her to be my girlfriend. And until today I thought I had a fighting chance, but you seem to have cut me out. Nobody who says the things she said about you at lunch today can be anything but intrigued. And deeply.�

Da Silva�s forehead furrowed. �What on earth are you talking about?�

�I�m talking about Astrea Alves,� Jo�o said. His tone implied that the answer was obvious. �The girl who drove you home from the airport yesterday.�

For some reason unknown to himself, Da Silva felt a sudden tingle run along his spine. So the girl had been able to see the light in that unfortunate incident at the Itamarat�! In that case, he forgave her, too. He tried to sound calm, indifferent, but he could not prevent a slightly smug smile from creasing his cheeks. Jo�o at least could not note the smile.

�She talked about me?�

�From the martini to the wine � manhattan for me � and from the wine to the brandy.�

Da Silva used his foot as purchase against the desk to swing his chair about almost youthfully; one hand came up to run through his thick curly hair. That, in any event, hadn�t thinned with age.

�Oh? What did she say about me?�

Dr. Martins hesitated a moment, attempting to recall the exact words, as well as their proper order. It was as if he realized any inaccuracy here might easily lead to a charge of rival jealousy, and that would be unfortunate with an old friend.

�Well,� he said at last, speaking slowly and distinctly, �she said you were discourteous, uncouth, boorish, impolite, uncivil, unmannerly, and ill-bred. She also said a few more things, but as a gentleman, I refuse to repeat them.� He paused, making sure he hadn�t overlooked anything. �Oh, yes. She also said you don�t know how to drive a car.�

The boyish grin on Da Silva�s face remained frozen for several seconds, locked in a hideous grimace. It slowly faded as the muscles came back under control, changing into a ferocious glare.

�Oh, she did, did she? Well, you can tell Miss Alves for me, that when it comes to driving��

�Hold it!� The doctor�s peremptory tone forbade all further discussion along those lines. �If you and Astrea want to discuss your relative abilities at handling automobiles, please do it without me in the middle. I�ve done my Cupid stint for the day.�

�Fair enough!� Da Silva said coldly. �And now, if changing the subject doesn�t harm your purpose, what about those bits and pieces I brought back from the interior? Or have you been so busy discussing me with your � girlfriend � that you haven�t found time to get to them?�

�Oh, we got to them, all right,� Martins said airily. �In fact, we�re still killing ants in the laboratory. Why the devil didn�t you at least brush off your gruesome samples before wrapping them up?�

�Because I thought a few ants would add to the flavor,� Da Silva said, regaining his good humor once again. He grinned. �How was the smell when you finally unwrapped them? Pretty ripe?�

�Not bad. My friend, if you don�t get used to pretty ripe smells in this business, you�d better go out and find another line of work.� His tone changed, putting the lightness aside, becoming serious. �Are you ready for a report on those samples?�

�I�m ready. I�ve been ready since you got on the phone.�

�All right. The upper arm was useless, except to give some idea of the force of the explosion. I don�t even know why you brought it back. However, the foot and the shoe were something else. From the skin tone and the analysis of the retained blood, we definitely judge the man to be Brazilian. Also from the size, though that means less. If he followed the standard charts, he�d be about five foot five in height and should have weighed about one hundred and thirty-five pounds. The sole of the foot was heavily calloused; I�d say he was as accustomed to being without shoes as with them. Which, unfortunately, is not uncommon in our country. Again, a further indication of his being Brazilian and obviously not of the upper classes.�

Da Silva had dragged a pad into position and was busily scribbling notes. He paused, wide-awake now. �That would have been a good assumption, anyway. What about the shoe? Anything there that could be used for identification?�

�There�s a very good chance. It�s a fairly new heavy-duty type work shoe, manufactured by the Companhia Sap�tolan in Lavrinhos. They specialize in that type. All of the interior markings are still clearly visible, which is a break. The markings inside � are you writing this down?�

�I�m getting it. Go ahead.�

�Right. Inside is the name of the company and � for no reason that I can think of � the town, and then under it is the marking eighteen D � that�s the size, of course � and then just below that is the number two six four four. On the opposite side of the inside of the shoe there�s only one number � thirty-six A seven twenty-six. I tried to get hold of the factory, but you know what trying to reach Lavrinhos is by phone, so I checked instead with the Bata office here in town. They say that Sap�tolan is a small company that only makes work shoes, and that while different manufacturers use different methods of marking they�re sure the two six four four is a style number, and the other number is a lot number. If that�s true and if this Sap�tolan outfit keeps any sorts of records, you should be able to find out where and when it was shipped. And of course, if it went to a small store someplace, you may be able to find out who bought it.�

�Right.� Da Silva marked down the information and smiled; the pencil dangled, awaiting a return to action. �Of course, if it was shipped to a large department store, it might be a bit more difficult, but at least we�ve got something to get our teeth into. Thanks, Jo�o. You�ll send all this through in a regular report, I assume.�

�With all the useless copies. But don�t hang up yet. I�m not through.� A tinge of anticipation crept into the other�s voice. �There�s one other feature about the shoe that I think you may find rather interesting.�

�Oh?� The pencil was raised again. �What�s that?�

�Well,� said the doctor, pleased in advance with the reaction he was sure he would get, �for some odd reason that shoe gets a Geiger counter all excited.�

The pencil froze. A look of incredulity crossed Da Silva�s features.

�What!�

�You heard me,� Jo�o said, satisfied with the results of his surprise. �It makes the little gadget go beep-beep-beep like a hysterical Volkswagen. I thought you�d be pleased to know.�

Da Silva stared blankly at the bare wall across from him for several moments and then gave a deep sigh. ��Pleased� is scarcely the word. �Confused� would be a lot closer. Radioactive shoes? How the devil did they get radioactive? Or where?� He frowned at the instrument. �Are there any more little tidbits of information you�ve been saving for dessert?�

�No,� Jo�o said, almost regretfully. �I�m afraid that�s it.�

�Well! And again, well... At least it gives us something to think about, doesn�t it?� He nodded profoundly and answered his own question. �Yes. It certainly does.� He printed the word �radioactive� in large block letters on his pad, underlined it for emphasis, and tossed the pencil aside. �Well, thanks very much, Jo�o. If I ever manage to find out what this affair is all about, you�ll be the first to know.�

�You ought to put that promise on tape,� Dr. Martins said with mock disgust. �I get it every time I help you out. I suppose I�ll read about it in the papers like everyone else. Ciao, Z�.�

He hung up. Da Silva placed the receiver slowly back on its hook, leaned back in his chair, and automatically fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

Radioactive shoes... What was that supposed to mean? Where was one supposed to start with an oddball clue like that? He brought out a pad of matches, stared at it a moment as if wondering what they were for, and then took the unlit cigarette from his mouth, laying it aside and tossing the matches to the desk. Radioactive shoes... A good title for an avant-gard� ballet, possibly, set to discordant music, but other than this?

With whom could he check to get any ideas at all about the potential significance of radioactive shoes? One place, of course, would be the C.N.E.N.�� the Comiss�o Nacional de Energia Nuclear. They were supposed to comprise all the big brains in that field. And somewhere, if he wasn�t mistaken, he had a bulletin, or several, from that organization. He got to his feet and walked over to the file cabinet in one corner, opening it, running through the folders. To his great surprise it was filed under the letter C and even as he pulled it out, he made a mental note to congratulate Dona Dolores, his elderly and motherly secretary.

He spread the contents on his desk and sat down again, picking up one of the reports. The subject was one he didn�t faintly understand, but his main interest was not in that; he flipped to the last page, running his finger down the list of signatures, and then sat back, his finger on one name, a faint frown on his face. Dr. Jaime Nicoli... Could that possibly be the Dr. Nicoli whose family had the fazenda next to his uncle�s place in Duque de Caxias? As he recalled, his name had been Jaime... Da Silva�s nose wrinkled; as he also recalled, Jaime had given him his first plane ride and scared him to death doing acrobatics. And thought it very comical. He�d been studying some sort of science at the time at the university; had a clown like that actually graduated and gone on to become a member of the C.N.E.N.? Well, it would be easy enough to find out. And if it were the same man, at least he wouldn�t be speaking with a complete stranger.

With the decision made, he flipped back to the first page of the report, marked down the telephone number under the letterhead, and reached for the instrument.

There was the usual delay until his call was completed; at last a high feminine voice came on the line. �Al�? Commiss�o National de Energia Nuclear. Quem fala?�

�Hello,� Da Silva said, and hitched his chair closer to his desk. �This is Captain Jos� Da Silva, of the police. I wonder if you could connect me with Dr. Nicoli?�

The high voice hesitated, as if wondering how to break the bad news. �I�m sorry, Captain, but Dr. Nicoli just returned from a conference in Washington, and he�s resting this week in Teres�polis. During the holiday week. He won�t be back until after New Year�s.� The voice attempted to be helpful. �Can anyone else help you?�

�Um...� Da Silva reached for the list again, studying the names of the commission. He would have preferred to speak with someone familiar, even though it wasn�t a man he particularly liked, but he certainly had no intention of waiting a week to do so. Well, lacking Dr. Nicoli, he might as well start with the top. He selected the name of the commission�s president. �I�ll speak with Dr. Jair, then.�

The voice was heartbroken. �I�m sorry. He�s also away for the week. In Santos...�

A dark suspicion began to form in Da Silva�s mind. �Are any of the commission members in the city this week?�

�I�m sorry, no.�

And, he thought savagely, to whom were you referring when you asked if anyone else could help? �Thank you very much,� he said icily, and almost slammed the receiver back on its hook.

Who else might help? Wait a minute... As he recalled, Wilson had mentioned once that the U.S. Embassy had a minerals attach� connected with it. Possibly that gentleman might have some ideas. At least it was a chance. He picked up the telephone once again, dialing the familiar number, and waited impatiently as his call was shuttled through the normal, irritating routine. Finally, Wilson�s voice came on the line.

�Yes?�

�Hello, Wilson? This is Z�. Something�s just come up, and maybe you can help me on it. Didn�t you once tell me that your embassy now has a minerals attach� assigned to it?�

�That�s right. We have had for years, as a matter of fact. His name is Jack Crandall. Why?�

�Is there any chance of setting up a meeting with him? Possibly even this afternoon? I�ve got some questions he might help me with.�

�I don�t know if he�s around. I know he was on home leave, attending a class reunion at Colorado Springs among other things, but I don�t know if he�s back yet. Hang on. I�ll try to find out.�

Da Silva reached out, picking up the cigarette and then fumbling a match from the pad, managing to light it one-handed while he waited. A moment later Wilson was back on the line.

�His office says he�s back, but he�s up at Petr�polis at his summer place there for this week. He still has time left on his leave.�

�Damn!� Da Silva said savagely. �Doesn�t anyone work anymore?�

�Just you and me,� Wilson said soothingly. �About Jack, though, I�m sure he�ll be back by the end of the week. He�s the one giving that New Year�s Eve party, so I imagine he�ll be here.�

Da Silva sighed. �Well, I suppose that�s better than nothing. Do you suppose he�d mind taking a few minutes off from the party to talk to me? You did say I was invited, didn�t you?�

�You�re invited, all right. But I wouldn�t bet on any serious discussion at one of Jack�s parties. They get pretty hectic. Liquor flows like liquor. Especially on New Year�s Eve.�

�Oh? Why should that preclude discussion? You mean he gets drunk?�

�Not him,� Wilson said severely. �You!�

Da Silva laughed. �I�ll try to control myself. Well, thanks just the same. If I don�t see you sooner, I�ll see you there.�

�I�ll stop by and pick you up,� Wilson said, and sighed deeply. �At least I�ll be able to pick somebody up. Anyway, you don�t know where he lives.�

�Sure I do,� Da Silva said and grinned. �Jill told me. He lives on Rua Something-or-other. But you can pick me up anyway. I�ll see you.�

He hung up the receiver, his smile fading. Damn! Christmas week was no time to try to find people at their desks. Who else could he check on? The universities were closed, and if Jo�o Martins had had any ideas, he would have voiced them. Well, it looked as if the best he could do was to wait for this party. Of course, there was also this brother of Jill Howard, this Don... Hadn�t Wilson said he was some sort of geologist? But he also wouldn�t be back in Rio for another week.

His smile returned as he recalled the meeting with the girl at the airport restaurant. Poor Wilson! He really picked himself a prize chatterbox, a real nut! Well, in another week her brother would come from that place with the long name and take her off everybody�s hands, probably including Wilson�s, and if he hadn�t found any answers from anybody else before then, it wouldn�t hurt to get his ideas as well. In the meantime, there was other work to do.

He reached for the buzzer to call Ruy and get him working on the Companhia Sap�tolan, and then suddenly paused, his smile disappearing. If the universities in Brazil were closed for the week between Christmas and New Year�s, why wouldn�t the universities in the States also be closed? And if they were, who had been there to get Miss Howard�s cable with the name of her hotel in Rio, in order to forward it to her brother? Or, for that matter, in any case why hadn�t her brother�s cable been forwarded from the university instead of coming from some Brazilian town with a long name?

And even if her brother had known where she was, why hadn�t he telephoned rather than telegraphed? Almost every place in Brazil where telegraph lines had been strung now also sported telephones, usually with the lines dangling from the same stripped trees that served as poles.

He shrugged. There were many possible answers to this. Maybe the phone booth was too hot, or he didn�t have a token, or � most likely � he had tried to telephone and had given up after waiting three or four days for his connection to be completed. It took an extremely patient person to outwait a telephone operator in one of the interior towns.

Actually, there were probably an equal number of logical answers to the other questions as well, if he only had time to think about it, but at the moment he didn�t. He put the entire thought aside and pressed firmly on the buzzer for Ruy.

In his fourteen years as a professional hunter in the interior on the Mato Grosso, Anton Sverdlik had returned to his base at Santa Isabel de �gua Branca with some fairly rare finds, but nothing quite as rare as the wounded man one of his caboclo carriers had stumbled upon sprawled beneath a clump of brush near the site of the destroyed bridge. Anton had responded to the sharp, surprised call; he had been examining the jagged pinnacles of the shattered piers, but he instantly plunged into the forest in response to that cry. One look and he had immediately slipped his pack from his broad shoulders, laid aside his rifle, and knelt to examine the man while his carriers stood back, staring down gravely.

To Anton it was obvious that the man would present a problem, since the hunter had not planned to return to Santa Isabel for more than a week, but it was equally obvious that the wounded man would require better care than he was able to furnish from the small medical supplies he carried with him. Not that Santa Isabel boasted anything resembling a hospital or even a doctor, but it did have several Indian women, among them his own wife, who were quite adept at herbs. And the contents of Anton�s limited medical case had to last him until he took his next batch of skins downriver for sale four months hence.

He had therefore sprinkled the wound with a minimal calculated amount of his precious penicillin powder, padded it heavily with palm leaves, and wrapped it tightly with his spare shirt. This accomplished, he had handed his pack and rifle to one of the carriers and gently raised the unconscious man. Eighteen kilometers through the jungle was no easy task when unencumbered; with the need to avoid jarring the wounded man, it promised to be a nightmare. Still, there was little else to do, and the quicker the better. It would be a shame to arrive in the village and find his burden dead.

In Santa Isabel, on his own bed, in his own hut � and with as many of the villagers who could crowd their faces in at the door as witnesses � Anton prepared for the necessary operation. First, he had spoon-fed the feverish man as much pinga as he felt safe, and then he had injected him with one of his two morphine ampules. As he did so, he made a mental note to include a bottle of ether in his next list of supplies. Then, using a sterilized skinning knife, he had managed to remove the bullet from the shattered shoulder bone.

Fortunately, the arteries of man and wild animal bear close relationship to each other, and Anton was quite knowledgeable of the anatomy of animals. A final application of penicillin powder nearly depleted his supply but left him with the hope that no incurable infection might result. This accomplished, he had turned his patient over to his wife and the other two women who had assisted at the operation by holding the patient still under the knife. Anton had done all he could, and he was sure that his wife could handle the recuperative period as well as, if not better than, he could himself. He had therefore gathered his carriers once again from their huts, shouldered his supplies and guns, and returned to the jungle.

That had been a week ago, and Anton, curious about the fate of the man, had come back to Santa Isabel, cutting short his usual tour once again. He dropped his pack at the doorway and pushed into the darkened room, waiting until his eyesight became accustomed to the gloom, and then moved forward, smiling. It was pleasant to know that neither his efforts nor his drugs had been wasted; his patient was clear-eyed, staring up at him evenly. At sight of Anton, his wife rose silently from the chair at bedside, where she had been waving away flies, and moved to the doorway, retrieving the pack, taking it in the direction of the river and the washing rocks there. The large blond hunter sank down on the vacated chair, smiling proudly at the man on the bed, pleased to find him still alive.

�E como vai o senhor?�

The injured man attempted to sit up and winced in pain. Anton bent forward, easing the other to a comfortable sitting position, and then sat back again. The man frowned at him.

�Do you speak English?� There was a note of frustration in his voice. �Is there anyone around who speaks English?�

Anton understood enough, more from the tone than from the words. He shook his head and then tried his native Slavic tongue. It was instantly apparent that this was equally useless; he attempted his last alternative, French. �M�sieu parlez-vous fran�ais?�

A tremendous relief showed in the other�s face as he replied in the same language. �Thank God for parents who were old-fashioned enough to think all gentlemen should speak fluent French as a second language! And I always thought the only time I�d ever get to use it would be to impress waiters!� He smiled at the blond man facing him. �My God, it�s good to be able to communicate! I�m loaded with questions. I�ve been lying here going mad since I woke up nearly a week ago. What happened? And where am I?�

�You�re in Santa Isabel de �gua Branca.� Anton raised his broad shoulders. �What happened? We found you near the bridge, shot.� He studied the other�s face, carefully. �Were you responsible for destroying the bridge? Or rather, were you one of those responsible?�

�The bridge? Is it destroyed?� The man on the bed seemed to be trying to fit this into the entire confusing situation and then shook his head. �Why?�

�Why was it destroyed? Or why am I asking?� Anton hesitated a moment and then changed the subject. �We were camped in a ravine, a kilometer or less upriver from the bridge; the cougar comes there to drink at this time of year.� He noticed the questioning look and explained. �I�m a professional hunter, and while the cougar isn�t the best skin, in Uruguay and Argentina there�s a certain market.� He seemed to feel he was drifting from the subject. �In any event, we heard the explosion, and when it was light, about an hour later, we climbed up to investigate. And found you, purely by accident.� He studied the man on the bed curiously. �How did you come to be shot? We didn�t find your gear or any gun��

�I�� It suddenly occurred to the man on the bed that he was speaking with his benefactor. �I haven�t even thanked you yet for saving my life.�

Anton smiled and waved a thick finger in a typical Brazilian negative. �There�s no call for thanks. Anyone here in the interior would have done the same. Here we few humans are forced to rely on each other to a great extent. We have a common enemy � the jungle � which, oddly enough, is also our common friend.� His eyes remained steady on the other�s face; his tone indicated more polite interest than curiosity. �You, however, seem to have had an enemy that was quite human, and certainly no friend. Unless it was an accident?�

The young-looking freckled face hardened; his voice became harsh.

�It was no accident! Admittedly I was naive, but�� He stopped abruptly and then put the thought aside in favor of a more important one. He looked about the room, almost as if seeking some means of escape, and then back to the man beside him. �I have to get out of here. Or at least get a message out. I don�t suppose there�s any telephone? Or telegraph?�

Anton smiled gently. �Telephone? Telegraph? Here in Santa Isabel?� He chuckled, not at the discomfiture of his guest, but at the thought. �You haven�t been outside this room yet, so you don�t realize the extent � or lack of extent � of our village. Actually, it wasn�t even a village until I came here. I named it, and I�m rather proud of that. Until they started to build the bridge, and a few of the men came here to look over a possible road site, I�m sure nobody ever heard of us. We�re not on any map, and I doubt if Bras�lia even knows we exist. On the other hand,� he added soberly, as if wanting to be fair, �we also pay no taxes.�

The patient�s face had fallen. �Then where�s the nearest place with a telegraph line?�

Anton frowned in thought a moment, considering. He looked up. �P�rto Itapur�, I should imagine.�

�And how far is that?�

�Well, from here to the Rio Paran�, two days by canoe in good weather. Then another three or four days � maybe five � again depending on the weather. If you�re lucky, of course, you may run into a river steamer heading down toward Buenos Aires. You wouldn�t actually save much time that way � most of them tie up for the night � but you�d certainly save a lot of muscle.� One large hand came up abruptly. �By you, I don�t mean you. You�re in no shape to travel. Not for at least another week, I should judge.�

The patient didn�t attempt to argue the point; he was staring at the bright patch of sunlight beyond the door without actually seeing it, thinking. He looked up. �You think I�ll be able to travel in a week?�

Anton shrugged. �I should think so. We�ll have another look at that shoulder of yours in a minute, but I should think so.�

�I see... And the bridge � the place where you found me � is that near here?�

The large hunter smiled. �It�s near here as they measure distances in the Mato Grosso. It�s near here as a bird flies, but not as a man walks. Not in that jungle. It took a full two days to get you back here, but that was carrying you. It would be less, of course, if you could walk, but not really too much less.�

�Two days? You carried me?� The patient stared at Anton a moment in amazement and then brought his mind back to the plan he was forming. There would be plenty of time for both conversation and gratitude once he had arranged to get back to civilization. �Then if someone could send a telegram for me, from this � this P�rto whatever � a plane could come into that airstrip near the bridge and pick me up? In a week � or ten days, to be sure?�

Anton considered a moment and then nodded. �It could be done. Two weeks would be better.�

�We�ll make it ten days. If worse comes to worse, I�ll wait up there at the airstrip. The important thing is to get to a telegraph line. Could you��

�Go to P�rto Itapur�?� The big blond head shook. �No. To begin with, it would interfere with my schedule. As I said, I�m a professional hunter, and animals have habits the same as people. You might say there�s a season for animals to be in certain places, the same as there�s a season to go to Mar de Plata or the Riviera. For people, that is. I couldn�t afford the two weeks or more that it would take. And even more important, you�ll need me to get you to that airstrip.� He smiled at the disappointed face. �However, we have a man in the village who would be very glad to go, and he�s much more familiar with canoes than I am. In all my years here, I never did get to master the tricky things; my carriers handle that whenever I go downriver. But this man will send your telegram for you.�

�Telegrams,� the other said absently, adding the plural, and then glanced down at the rough gown he was wearing. �My clothes?�

�They�re safe. And also your wallet,� Anton added, and smiled apologetically. �I went through it, of course, but I didn�t learn much from it. And your money, I�m afraid, wouldn�t mean anything to the people here in the village.� He saw the sudden frown that crossed the other�s face and properly interpreted it. �Don�t worry. P�rto Itapur� has a bank. They�ll change your money into cruzeiros for the cables.�

�Fine.� The patient visibly relaxed, his hands smoothing the sheet that covered him. He glanced about the room and then back to the man beside him, smiling. It was a friendly smile that lit up his face, but it was also a bit apologetic. �There are a million questions I�d like to ask, such as what a man like you is doing here in the jungle � and I�m sure you have your questions, too. Like what I�m doing here in the jungle. And of course, I can�t thank you enough for everything you�re doing for me. But��

Anton understood; he came to his feet easily. �I know. You want me to get Carlos and get him started.� He smiled. �Fortunately, Carlos is one man who�s easy to find � his wife never lets him get too far from home. But for me, I�m sure she�ll let him make this trip.� He moved to the doorway, raising his hand in a small farewell salute. �I�ll be right back.�

The man on the bed smiled up at him.

�I�ll still be here,� he promised, and watched the other�s shadow unblock the doorway, allowing the yellow sunlight to stream in once again. And then he put everything else out of his mind to compose the telegrams he wanted to send.

Seen from the height of Da Silva�s Apartment, the wide beach of Copacabana twinkled in the hot night with scattered groupings of lit candles. There was something faintly foreboding, as well as beautiful, in the flickering pinpoints of light spread in little circles at odd intervals across the broad expanse of sand, each surrounded by a chanting coterie, the women in long white dresses, and the men in clean shirts and slacks; the shadows of the twisting figures danced grotesquely, intertwining on the hard sand.

After sunset the sweeping Avenida Atl�ntica normally faced a dark, deserted strip of beach, but tonight activity covered the wide stretch, for this was New Year�s Eve, and the macumba ceremony of Iemanj� was in the process of preparation. Along the patterned mosaic sidewalk that flanked the scene, curious couples either strolled or stood and watched; automobiles lined the curb, filled with spectators, while others drove along slowly, taking in the fascinating sight. There was a sense of excitement in the air, a feeling of tense expectation for the ancient ceremony to begin.

Wilson, leaning on the marble window sill and waiting for Da Silva to finish dressing, stared down at the sight without actually seeing it. Jill had returned to her hotel from S�o Paulo, because he had called to check, but as usual she was out and had not left a message. He only hoped she would really show up at the party, that she hadn�t forgotten the address, or lost it, or � which was equally possible � lost the purse containing it. It was odd how she would never let him pick her up or take her anywhere where they could be alone, but these were minor whims which time, he hoped, would cure. His thoughts were interrupted by Da Silva, coming from the bedroom carrying a string bowtie. The tall Brazilian walked over, peering down at the beach over Wilson�s shoulder.

�Some sight, eh?�

Wilson nodded. �It�s a funny thing,� he said slowly, �but in all the years I�ve been in Brazil, I never saw it before. Either some assignment out of Rio, or I was on home leave, or something. They float rafts of flowers out to sea at midnight, don�t they?�

Da Silva walked over to the wall mirror in the hallway, frowned at his image in the glass, and began the ritual of tie-tying. The frown was in anticipation of his normal difficulty with the task.

�Sometimes rafts; sometimes they just wade out into the ocean and throw flowers. Even some of their jewels, at times, depending on how much they get worked up.� He sighed in desperation at sight of the tangle about his neck and then pulled the thing loose, beginning again. �Damn all neckties!�

Wilson paid no attention to the complaint; it was one he had heard many times before. �It looks like it ought to be a field day for pickpockets.� He put the thought aside; tonight was not a night to think of police matters. �I know the ceremony is a part of macumba � which I know is something like voodoo � but I�m sorry to say I don�t know much more about it. I know tonight is dedicated to one of their gods, but frankly I don�t know which one.�

�It�s macumba, all right, and its similar to voodoo in a way. They all come from the same African root � macumba, voodoo, umbanda, quimbanda, gamb�... But tonight isn�t dedicated to a god. It�s a goddess. Iemanj�.�

As if at the mention of the hallowed name, the black strip of silk in Da Silva�s hand suddenly decided to cooperate; he hastily took advantage of its complicity and tugged the ends neatly even. He removed his hands warily, waiting. The tie remained presentable. He smiled. �That�s a good boy.� He picked up his white formal jacket and walked to the window, tapping Wilson on the shoulder. �Let�s get going. It�s after ten, and I�d like a few minutes with mine host before, as you say, I get too drunk to know what I�m saying.�

�It�s too early,� Wilson objected. �Jill won�t be there for hours. Nobody�ll be there for hours. Jack�s probably down at the beach himself, watching them get ready for the ceremony.� He took one look at Da Silva�s face and sighed. �All right, I�m coming. But I tell you it�s early.� He moved from the window. �Who�s Iemanj�?�

�The goddess we were talking about.� Da Silva locked the apartment door and led the way to the elevator. �She�s the equivalent in the macumba religion to Our Lady of the Conception. It�s interesting how they also have a trinity � Zambi, Oxal�, and Orixal�. Very similar to our own.� He opened the elevator door, waited until Wilson had entered, and then pressed the ground-floor button. �Iemanj� is the goddess of the sea and also the protector of families, so at midnight, when the New Year comes in, they offer her flowers. To propitiate her, I imagine.�

The elevator settled with its customary jerk an inch below the floor level. Da Silva tugged the door back, and the two men walked across the tiled lobby and down the steps to the street. They crossed between the slowly moving cars and began strolling along the beach side of the Avenida, seeing at closer range the swaying, chanting groups about the candlelit circles. Da Silva reached up a tentative hand to see if his necktie was still intact and then grinned.

�What they really need is a goddess of haberdashery � to keep neckties straight.�

Wilson was properly amazed. �You mean they don�t have a goddess of haberdashery?�

�It�s about the only one they don�t have,� Da Silva remarked, thinking about it. �They copied their gods from our saints, probably on the theory that it would lend their religion respectability in our eyes. And since we never had a saint for haberdashery, they didn�t have one to copy.� He moved aside to let a strolling group through and then returned to Wilson�s side, picking up the conversation. �Actually, it wouldn�t have helped. In the macumba religion they have what they call �x�s � copied from the demons mentioned in the Bible. And one of the �x�s, I imagine, has the full-time job of keeping neckties crooked.�

Wilson grinned at the explanation, but still glanced at the man beside him curiously. �You seem to know a lot about it.�

�Well,� Da Silva said, �macumba here in Brazil is a lot bigger than most people think. And if you�re going to be a policeman and deal with people, it�s good to know what motivates them. Which means you have to know a lot of things that embassy security officers don�t need to bother with.�

Wilson refused to be baited. �How is macumba fixed for a goddess of taxis? Or does one only walk in this religion?�

Da Silva paused to consult his wristwatch. �If it�s as early as you say, let�s walk. It�s only at Arpoador, and it�s remarkably pleasant tonight.� He tipped his head toward the beach. �Anyway, most of the cabdrivers in town are probably out there tonight.�

The two men walked along quietly, savoring the beauty of the evening. In the distance before them the activity lessened as the beach approached the Clube de Marimb�s that dominated the end of Copacabana. On the point beyond the grim walls of the Forte de Copacabana rose, silent and dark, guarding the sea entrance to the city.

At the end of Atl�ntica they turned into the Rua Francisco Otaviano; here the street was bare of pedestrians, although from the lighted windows above came the sounds of music and the noise of people well started on celebration. They marched along steadily, approaching the juncture with the beach road at Arpoador. In the far distance were the beaches of Ipanema and Leblon; far down the sand they could see again the flickering of candles as other groups gathered for the ceremony in that section of the city.

They paused at the corner and then turned down Francisco Bhering, the small street on which Crandall lived. The street ran from the main road down to a small cove hidden between sharp rock outcroppings on one side and the huge concrete buttresses that supported the south side of the fort. Wilson paused, glancing up at the darkened apartment building and then down at his wrist-watch.

�I told you we were too early. It�s not even eleven. The whole gang is probably watching the ceremony somewhere back in Copacabana or up ahead in Leblon.� He looked up. �Let�s walk down to the cove and kill some time.�

Da Silva nodded in agreement. The utter desolation of this one small inlet huddled in the midst of the bustling activity of the city had always intrigued him.

�I used to come here as a boy,� he said idly. �We used to lie on the rocks and spear � or, rather, try to spear � badego, or anything else that moved. I don�t remember actually ever getting anything.� He smiled. �We were positive that pirates had hidden treasures in the crevices of the rocks. All we ever found, of course, were empty Coca-Cola bottles.�

They were approaching the cove. Suddenly Wilson paused, staring ahead curiously through the darkness.

�That bunch down there will get tossed out of the macumba union. They don�t have any candles. Or women. And if they�re supposed to wait for midnight, they�re jumping the gun.�

Da Silva looked up from his reverie. Near the water�s edge in the tiny curve of deserted beach three men were bent, straining to move a small raft; even at that distance what appeared to be sprays of flowers could be seen scattered over a rough collection of boughs. There was nothing in the appearance of the raft to account for the extreme difficulty the men seemed to be having dragging it the last few feet to the water. Da Silva was suddenly alert, warned by some inner sense of trouble.

�People don�t float rafts from this cove; it�s too deserted, and the water�s too dangerous. There�s something wrong here. Let�s get down there and see what they�re up to.� He started across the sand with Wilson at his heels. �Here! You men!�

The three men swung around at the interruption, staring back through the night, startled. Two of them hesitated momentarily and then abandoned their labor; they backed away from the approaching pair a step or two and then turned, dashing frantically for the open water and the protection of the jagged rocks. The third had more respect for his assignment; he sprang around with a snarl, a knife suddenly flashing from his belt to his hand. Da Silva�s jaw tightened; he checked his stride, twisting sharply to one side. The long blade glinted as it swept by; the man crouched, his arm dropping, returning to the attack again. There was the barest hesitation, just long enough to allow his opponent to make a miscalculation, and then the man�s teeth gleamed as he suddenly plunged his arm forward and upward. With a muttered curse, Da Silva clamped an outraged hand on the wrist as it slid by, twisting viciously. There was a sharp, surprised cry of pain; the knife spun uselessly to the sand. Da Silva drew back a large, hard hand to teach this miser�vel what it was to draw a knife on a policeman, but a sudden evasive jerk of the sweating arm, and the man had torn loose and was running wildly for the shore. Da Silva slipped as he started in pursuit; the escaping man had joined his companions and the three were disappearing around the outcropping of rock, running half in and half out of the water. The tall detective pulled himself to his feet, panting, glaring at the fading forms.

�Damn new shoes!� He brushed sand from his jacket. �We�ll never catch them now!�

Wilson had abandoned his fruitless attempt to intercept one of the running men; he dropped to his knees beside the raft to see what had occasioned their desperation. He looked up at Da Silva with widened eyes, whistling in surprise.

�My, my! Did I say they didn�t have any women with them? Was I ever wrong! Look at this!�

Under the scattered camouflage of flowers on the raft lay the body of a nude girl, young and shapely. Her short blond hair was swirled to form a partial mask before her face, further hidden by a spray of blossoms, her rich, full breasts cushioned the motionless arms folded across her body. Da Silva dropped down beside her, bending close, listening to the faint rasp of breath that came from beneath the mass of hair. A sharp, recognizable odor came to him.

�She�s alive at least. Knocked out with lan�a-perfuma � perfumed ether. I hope that�s all that�s wrong with her.� He took a deep breath, staring across at Wilson. �Well, let�s get her out of here.�

Wilson nodded in agreement and scrambled about in the sand to retrieve the fallen knife. He began sawing at the ropes that bound her bare feet to the raft and then whistled again.

�No wonder they had so much trouble moving this thing. They must have about a ton of old iron tied to her feet. And I�ll bet they weren�t putting her in traction for a slipped disk, either!� The last cord parted with a snap. Wilson looked up and then frowned at the odd expression on his friend�s face. �What�s the matter?�

His eyes traveled from his companion�s face to the girl on the raft. Da Silva had removed the flowers and brushed the hair from the face. Wilson drew his breath in sharply, fighting shock.

�Jill!� A look of icy anger locked his face in a rigid mask. �Those miserable, dirty��

�Later,� Da Silva said tersely. �Let�s get her out of here!�

He slipped out of his white jacket, wrapped it as protectively as he could about the naked body, and lifted it easily. He had taken one step toward the sidewalk when Wilson laid an imperative hand on his arm.

�I�ll take her,� he said, his voice expressionless.

Da Silva nodded and handed the girl over. Wilson held her tenderly; his small frame masked a strength far greater than most people imagined. Beneath the icy calm of his face, a blinding fury at the person responsible for this thing fought with the disturbing pressure of the lush breasts against his chest, the feel of the smooth legs in his arms, and the occasional touch of her lips as they unconsciously brushed against his cheek.

They came to the corner where the small street joined the beach road, and Da Silva strode to the curb, raising his hand commandingly at the cars that passed. If anything, his posture speeded them on their way. Mouths opened, and faces assumed startled expressions at sight of the man with the unconscious form in his arms; but without exception each one jammed down on the accelerator, intent on not getting involved. Da Silva turned to Wilson with a grim look on his face.

�This is too much! I�ll show you how to hitchhike in this town!�

He suddenly stepped from the curb into the roadway, thrusting up an arm authoritatively into the headlights of a cruising car. The driver swerved violently, almost striking the tall, formally dressed figure; his brakes squealed indignantly as he slowed to a halt against the curb. An outraged head emerged from the open window of the car, the eyes wild, the voice snarling.

�Hey, louco! Are you crazy? What�s the matter with you?� The man was almost incoherent in his justified rage. �You want to get killed? Fine! Jump off a building! Don�t involve me!�

Da Silva moved over and bent down, thrusting a face into the one extended from the car that was twice as vicious and four times as tough.

�Police!� He made it sound as if he considered it an answer to the man�s questions to date and any further ones he might think up. He had the rear door open even as he spoke; he slid in, reached out to take the inert form from Wilson, held it while the other entered and slammed the door, and then handed the girl back. He leaned over in the direction of the speechless driver. �Hospital de Cl�nicas!�

�No.� Wilson�s voice was quiet though strained, but it dominated. �We�ll go to my place. She�s been enough of a sitting duck until now.� He looked at the driver. �Epit�cio Pess�a, on the Lag�a. We�ll show you the apartment.�

Anger had been replaced by fear on the face of the motorist. One man outside his car was one thing, but two inside was something else. �Look, mister, I don�t know what this is all about, but I don�t want any trouble. I�m a married man with a fam��

�Move!�

There was no arguing with either the tone or the expression on the small man�s face; besides, the other one � the big one � looked just as impatient. The brake was released convulsively; the car swung about in the wide street and headed in the proper direction. The driver glanced up apprehensively into the rear-view mirror.

�Was it a bad accident? Is she dead?�

Da Silva�s face was inscrutable. He closed his fist with the thumb upward and jerked it in the direction of his mouth; it was the standard Brazilian gesture for too much to drink. The driver relaxed slightly, and then his eyes widened as he noted in the rearview mirror the complete extent of the girl�s dishabille. Fear returned; his eyes moved in the mirror to Da Silva�s face.

�Look, mister, I don�t want trouble. Like I said, I�m��

Da Silva fixed a glowering eye on the mirror. The driver swallowed and returned his attention to handling his vehicle. There was obviously only one way to handle this situation, and that was to get it over with as quickly as possible. They swung through the dawdling traffic, swaying erratically, and cut into the Epit�cio Pess�a at the Jardim de Allah with squealing tires; the driver straightened the car and tramped on the gas. He passed the Cai�aras Club, swinging to parallel the lagoon, when Da Silva leaned forward, tapping him on the shoulder.

�Slow down. There it is � that building.�

The wheel turned instantly; the brake was applied at the same moment. Da Silva had the door open before they were completely stopped; he dropped down, came around the car to help Wilson descend with his burden, closed the car door, and then leaned down toward the driver.

�Thank you very much for your help, Senhor.�

The response to this gentility was a black look of bitter resentment, a clashing shifting of gears, and the roar of the car�s exhaust as it sped away. Da Silva looked after the vehicle a moment and then shook his head sadly.

�That�s the trouble with the world today,� he commented reproachfully. �No manners.� He shook his head again at the lack of politeness exhibited by the driver, sighed, and followed Wilson into the building.

They rode up the small elevator in silence. At the apartment door Wilson tilted his head slightly. �My apartment key. It�s in my jacket pocket.� Da Silva dutifully fished it out and opened the door; Wilson walked ahead of Da Silva, speaking over his shoulder. �You wait here. I�ll get her to bed. You�d better start calling doctors.� His voice was bitter. �God knows where you�ll find one tonight.�

He continued on into the bedroom, deposited the nude form on the bed, and pulled the jacket free from the smooth rounded hips. He leaned over, his jaw rigid and his pulses pounding, and dragged the covers up to the girl�s chin, leaving one arm free. His fingers found the pulse and held it; at the moment it appeared steady. He straightened up, staring down at the adored face. What if he and Da Silva had come along a few minutes later? What if they had stayed to watch the ceremony on the beach? Where would Jill be now? He forced the terrible thought away and walked back into the living room.

Da Silva was standing at the telephone, one hand holding the receiver, a finger of his other hand depressing the button, seemingly lost in thought. Wilson frowned.

�Well? Any luck yet?�

�I haven�t called anyone yet. I�m thinking...�

�About what?� Wilson asked impatiently.

�About this whole business.� The tall man replaced the receiver and walked to a chair beside the coffee-table, raising one hand to forestall any objection. �The girl will be all right for a few minutes, at least; she�s just been drugged. Let�s have a drink and see if we can�t think this thing out before we call a doctor or anyone else.�

He sat down, reaching for a cigarette from a pack on the table, and applied a match. Wilson frowned at him in indecision for a moment and then went to a bar in one corner, returning with a bottle and two glasses. He poured the drinks and handed one to Da Silva. The seated man nodded his appreciation, sipped the drink, and then leaned back, looking up at Wilson through a cloud of smoke.

�To begin with � and before you come out of your state of shock and needle me with it � it appears I was wrong to take this matter of Miss Howard and her brother so lightly. I might mention that the other day the same thought came to me, when I wondered about that telegram coming from the interior instead of from the university in California that had her forwarding address. Or why, instead of cabling, he hadn�t telephoned��

Wilson�s face darkened. He sat down abruptly opposite Da Silva and stared across the table. �I never thought of that.�

�I thought of it, but I didn�t do anything about it. I was too busy with more important things.� Da Silva�s tone was slightly bitter. He finished his drink and leaned forward, brushing ash from his cigarette. �In any event, it�s a little late to worry about that. Somebody sent her that telegram, and the purpose was to calm her down until they could get their grubby little hands on her. And get their grubby little hands on her they did.�

�But why?�

�Obviously, to keep her quiet. Real quiet. Why? A good guess is that it�s connected with her brother. Another good guess is that the man she thought she recognized at the hotel bar is the one she really thought he was. And he didn�t appreciate being recognized. Maybe when she wakes up, she can tell us. In the meantime, let�s try and use our heads.� He took a deep drag on the cigarette and crushed it out. �Let�s get back to tonight. To begin with, I don�t suppose you�d recognize any of those three unsavory characters we saw down at the cove, if you ever saw them again?�

Wilson shook his head. Da Silva sighed dispiritedly.

�Neither would I. It was too dark and it all happened too fast. So much for police training...� He leaned over and refilled his glass, frowning into the amber liquid and then raising his eyes. �However, let me ask you a question. If you paid a trio of thugs to tie a girl to a raft and shove her out into the ocean to drown, would you take their word for it that they had done it? Remember, if this thing had worked as planned, there wouldn�t have been any body floating around to be reported in the newspapers. Would you accept their word that they had fulfilled their contract?� He paused, eying Wilson carefully. �Especially with a girl whose body would certainly give any male assassin some very interesting second thoughts?�

Wilson was watching him closely. �No, I wouldn�t.�

�I agree,� Da Silva said, and nodded. �Now if I were hiring these people, I�d insist on a signed affidavit � difficult in this case, since I doubt if they can write � or else I�d be around somewhere where I could see the action myself.�

Wilson raised his glass and drank as he considered Da Silva�s statement. He set it down slowly. �Which means that whoever is behind this whole thing also saw our part in the matter... And you think he might well have followed us here.� He shook his head. �I don�t think so. I don�t think anyone followed us. I didn�t notice any car behind us when we got here or any that passed us, either.�

�Let�s be honest,� Da Silva said disgustedly. �Neither of us was thinking of being followed. We just weren�t thinking, period. All we wanted to do was get the girl to someplace safe.�

�We don�t even know he had a car.�

�He had a car,� Da Silva said positively. �They didn�t undress her in the hotel lobby.�

�And that�s another thing,� Wilson said, frowning. �Why did they undress her at all? Unless�� His face darkened at the thought.

Da Silva shook his head. �There were no signs of anything like that. They undressed her because clothing has a tendency to wash free of a body. It can float or be washed up on the shore. And identified.� He returned to his theory. �It seems logical to assume that we were seen, and the smart assumption to make now is that we were also followed. And that our nasty friend � or one of his equally nasty henchmen � is probably outside of this apartment right now, waiting for one of us to leave.�

Wilson stared at him. �Why on earth should he expect one of us to leave?�

�I didn�t say he expects it � he hopes for it.� Da Silva shrugged, but his eyes were bright. �What would be the first thing he�d expect us to do as soon as we got here? Call a doctor, obviously. And when the doctor came, of course, we�d open the door for him without any hesitation. Our nasty friend would be much more apt to brave the terrors of this apartment if only one of us were here to defend the girl. One might be taken by surprise, but two makes the odds considerably worse.�

�Granted,� Wilson said. �But still, why would one of us leave?�

�For any number of reasons. Maybe to go to a drugstore for some remedy before the doctor gets here. Maybe because one of us has a prior appointment. Maybe even � since he has no idea of our fine, virtuous characters � to leave the other alone with a beautiful, naked, and grateful girl, since three makes a crowd. I could give you a dozen maybes. The thing, though, is that in the meantime our nasty friend waits.�

�So let him wait,� Wilson said bitterly. �It�ll teach him patience.� He finished his drink and reached for the bottle of brandy. �He seems like the kind who could use any spare virtue going around.�

Da Silva leaned forward and clamped a firm hand over the top of the bottle. Wilson looked at him, surprised. Da Silva�s saturnine face could have been carved out of rock.

�We wouldn�t want the man to wait indefinitely,� he said softly. �That wouldn�t be polite. So you will please stop drinking and leave here immediately.� His tone was significant. �And conspicuously.�

Wilson frowned. �And leave you to do the hero act alone?�

Da Silva smiled gently. �I wasn�t expecting you to take a trip around the world when you left here. I was thinking more of a trip around the block, after posing on the front steps of the building � front view and profile � long enough to be identified. And then around the back and up the service elevator � or even the stairs � and in through the kitchen door.�

Wilson considered the plan a moment and then nodded, a faint smile on his face. �I like the whole idea. Except for one thing.� His smile disappeared. �I stay here with Jill. You go around the block.�

Da Silva considered him a moment and then nodded. �If you insist. The fresh air will do me good.� He came to his feet, walked out to the kitchen and unlatched the chain bolt, made sure the door was locked, and returned, slipping the key into his pocket. �If I find that chain bolt back in place when I try to get in, I�ll know that Jill has recovered and your baser instincts have taken over.� He glanced around. �How are you fixed for guns?�

�I�ll get you one.� Wilson rose and went into the bedroom, glancing down at the unconscious girl. Her breathing seemed to be steady, but there was a pasty look to her skin. For a moment he considered forgetting the entire scheme and calling a doctor, but he put the thought away. For the time being, at least, Jill appeared to be all right, and the surest way to keep her that way would be to trap the maniac who had done this thing to her. That is, he thought bitterly, if the bastard isn�t drinking in a bar twenty miles away from here right now. He shook his head at the uncomfortable thought, dug into the drawer of the nightstand for a revolver, picked Da Silva�s jacket from the bed, and returned to the living room.

Da Silva slipped into the jacket and dropped the revolver into a pocket. On second thought he withdrew it and tucked it under his belt, pulling the jacket straight over the bulge. �I don�t mind the man seeing me leave, and I don�t care if he thinks I�m portly; but I�d hate to have him think I�m one of those sloppy people who go around with sagging pockets.�

He winked at Wilson and moved toward the door; his image suddenly sprang at him from the wall mirror, and he paused, amazed. His bowtie, despite the exertions of the past hour, had not succumbed to the inducements of the ex� charged with messing up neckwear. He tipped a hand in silent sardonic congratulation to the neat bow in the glass, unlatched the door, and closed it quietly behind him.

Wilson frowned at the closed panel a moment and then moved back of the bar; a picture there was swung aside, and the safe that was disclosed was opened. He withdrew a second revolver, checked it carefully, and then relocked the safe, dropping the picture into place. He walked to the coffee table, dropping into a chair, laying the revolver down before him. The brandy bottle winked at him, but he shook his head. This New Year�s Eve was going to be a dry one, at least until the matter of Jill�s abductor was cleared up. A pity, but that�s how it went!

There was a burst of noise from one of the other apartments in the buildings; someone had turned on the radio, listened to it a moment, and then turned it down. He glanced at his watch; eleven forty-five. My Lord! Had all that hectic action taken place that quickly? Fantastic! It seemed ages since they had found Jill on the beach! He shook his head, reaching for the cigarette pack; there was the sound of a key being turned in the kitchen, the faint squeal of the hinge as the door was closed, followed by the rasp of the chain bolt being slid into place.

Wilson grinned, lit his cigarette, and shook out the match. Leave it to Da Silva not to waste time, probably didn�t trust him alone with the girl! Well, at least the trap was baited; now to see if the rats walked into it. He swung around to greet his friend and then froze, the grin locking itself on his lips a moment and then instantly disappearing. A short, fat stranger was smiling at him quite brightly from the kitchen doorway, a revolver held steadily in his hand. Behind him, in the shadows of the darkened kitchen, was the outline of a thinner companion.

The stranger advanced into the living room, walking stealthily, his sharp eyes studying the room carefully, checking it for the unexpected. Wilson sat rigidly, silently cursing himself and Da Silva equally and wholeheartedly. So their nasty friend would come up the front way, would he? Because what doctor ever came up the back! Some deduction! If it was any satisfaction to know the rest of the assumptions were correct, he failed to sense it. The trap had been baited, all right, but the trapper had been caught. Damn! Not only was Da Silva locked out by the chain bolt, but all their brilliance had done was to put Jill in an even worse position! Filho de m�e! What a sad pair of so-called detectives!

The short stranger seemed as satisfied with the appearance of the room as he was unperturbed by the black expression on Wilson�s face. He tipped his head over his shoulder. �That gun on the table. Get it.� His voice was low, almost musical. The thinner man slipped by him silently without blocking his line of sight, picked up the service revolver, checked it in a matter of seconds, and then stepped to one side, training the muzzle on the seated man. His rotund companion smiled proudly.

�Not bad, eh? You notice how he went about it? Chico�s getting to be quite professional � and only with me a relatively short time.� He tucked his own pistol into his pocket and shook his head sadly. �And just what were you planning to do with that gun? Shoot me?� His voice was mocking. �Dear, dear! I shouldn�t have liked that at all!�

Wilson�s jaw was locked painfully, his mind racing. He forced himself to sound harsh, a bit frightened.

�What do you think you�ll get out of this bit of thuggery? Breaking in to rob a man with a sick wife! What do you think you�ll find here that�s worth the effort?� A sneer was added to the harshness, a touch of bravado. �I don�t keep money in the house. The most valuable thing you could steal is my revolver, and you already have that.�

�Very touching,� said the fat man sadly. �A marvelous performance but � unfortunately � wasted. The lady in the other room is certainly not feeling well, that I�ll grant; but she is also certainly not your wife.� He glanced at his wristwatch and then walked over, seating himself almost daintily across from Wilson. �Eight minutes to midnight � that�s how long you have to live, you know. One might as well be comfortable while one waits.�

Wilson remained silent, seething. And where the devil was Da Silva? The very least he should have done was try to get in! Unless, of course, the two had taken care of Da Silva downstairs... The fat man smiled at him in quite a friendly fashion.

�In eight minutes � seven by now � I�ll tell you what we�re going to do. You are going to undress, and I shall turn on the radio and bring up the volume. Then we shall go into the bedroom, and you will crawl into bed with that beautiful girl. And in the lovely noise of all the good people of Rio celebrating the New Year�s, I shall shoot you both.� He beamed, as if hoping the other appreciated the cleverness of the scheme. �A man and a girl, nude, dead in bed together! A suicide pact? A jealous husband or lover? The newspapers should have a picnic! I�m afraid it will come as quite a shock for your friends.�

Wilson�s face was expressionless. �Why are you doing this?�

�Why?� The fat man shrugged delicately. �Because I�m paid to. You work for money; so do I. It�s my profession. I arrange to have people killed.� His face fell momentarily. �Admittedly, the three I hired to handle the raft did a very poor job, and I further admit that I dislike taking a direct hand in these matters; but at this stage, what can one do?� His tone seemed to invite Wilson to commiserate with him on the poor quality of help available in these difficult days; then it turned pensive. �Actually, I�m throwing you in for free; I won�t get an extra cruzeiro for you.�

�And if I paid you more than the other party?�

The fat man sounded genuinely shocked. �My dear sir! There is such a thing as honor, you know. Besides, one could scarcely stay in business very long on that basis.�

Wilson took a deep breath. �Wonderful! Well, since I�ll be dead in seven minutes � or probably five by now � do you mind telling me what this is all about? Who is paying you for this? And why?�

�My dear sir,� said the fat man chidingly, �you�ve been seeing too many movies! Giving you that information would gain me nothing, and all it would do to you is confuse you.� He glanced at his watch once again and then rose to his feet. �I think we should begin to get ready. The radio goes on in two minutes.�

Wilson eyed him evenly. �And if I refuse to cooperate?�

The fat man shrugged. �Then, of course, we shoot you where you are sitting and undress you later. A bit distasteful, but quite workable, I assure you.� One finger came up. �However, I should like to point out that in that case, Chico might well want to make love to your beautiful friend before we dispose of her. One could scarcely blame him. On the other hand, if you cooperate, we�ll shoot her first. You have my word of honor on it.� The faint smile returned. �That should clear your conscience, if nothing else.�

There was no doubt that behind the slightly sardonic smirk the obese man was in deadly earnest. Wilson swung his head toward the silent figure with the gun; as if in response to the gesture, the thin man moved one step to stand behind a heavy chair. So much for any chance of a surprise attack, Wilson thought bitterly, and slowly came to his feet. The fat man nodded in congratulation for this sensible attitude and walked over to the radio, twisting the dial.

There were a few seconds of silence, and then the instrument exploded with the ringing of bells and the wild honking of automobile horns; the voice of the announcer came on, jubilantly proclaiming the new year. Behind the high, excited voice there was a steady rumble of drums being beaten. They�re broadcasting from the beach, Wilson thought blankly; I never saw that ceremony, and now I never will. The fat man raised his voice above the din.

�Let�s get on with it. The racket won�t last forever, you know. Let�s get those clothes off��

An icy voice cut through the happy noise from the radio. �Let�s get our hands up, instead.�

The small thin man with the revolver spun about at the unexpected voice, automatically drawing himself into a crouch behind the chair, but he had lost the timing before he had begun. Da Silva shot him carefully and accurately through the mouth. The small head snapped back as if slapped; the body was flung to twist over an arm of the chair and then slide lifelessly to the floor. The fat man was pawing desperately at his jacket pocket, but before Da Silva could train his weapon, Wilson had thrown himself upon his tormentor, one hand clamping viciously against the pocket with the gun. The two men tottered a moment, locked together, straining, and then crashed to the floor, rolling over in a wild tangle of arms and legs. For an instant the eyes of the two combatants locked, as if searching each other�s for intent; the fat man�s fury seemed to dissipate as he read the message in the eyes glaring fiercely into his. He squirmed in a violent effort to escape; Wilson clamped him down, holding him. The tableau held for one fateful second, and then there was a sharp explosion. The man on the bottom twisted in a spasm of pain; his eyes came up, staring blankly at the man above him, and then he relaxed, accepting the pleasant freedom of death. Wilson rolled free and came to his knees, panting. Da Silva was glaring at him.

�That was deliberate!�

Wilson paid him no attention. He staggered erect, walked unsteadily to the coffee table and picked up the brandy bottle, bringing it to his lips, gulping the fiery liquid. He set the bottle down and glared back at his friend.

�And where in hell have have you been?�

Da Silva disregarded the question. He tossed the revolver onto the table, walked over and switched off the radio, and then came back. In the sudden silence of the room his voice was biting. �There was no need to kill him.�

Wilson�s eyes were still black with anger. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, sneering at the other. �What is this? Are you the only one with a license to kill in this town? Do you know what that son-of-a-bitch was going to do to Jill?�

Da Silva�s voiced remained cold. �I killed the other because there was no other way. There was no need to kill this one. Alive, I could have taken him apart, gotten him to talk. Dead � we�re right back where we were before.� He frowned down at the fallen figure a moment; the dead face returned his stare disinterestedly. Da Silvan sighed. �Well, there�s no use crying about it now.�

�If you�d have been here sooner�� Wilson began hotly, and then paused, remembering. �Where the devil did you come from, anyway? When I heard that chain bolt in the kitchen sliding into place and turned around to see him walking in, I figured I�d had it.�

Da Silva shrugged. �I started to come around the back when I saw two suspicious-looking characters who apparently had the same idea.� Despite his disappointment at the death of the potential witness, his usual humor was returning. �Knowing the weakness of Brazilian elevators, I figured all three of us would be too much weight for the mechanism, so I came up the front elevator, instead. I still had your key from when I opened the door for you, so��

�You had a key, and you still waited out in the hallway all that time?�

Da Silva studied the flushed face a moment and then shook his head.

�You�re still under shock. If I�d fumbled that key into the lock while those two were here, they would be discussing us right now, instead of us discussing them. Personally, I prefer it this way.� He smiled gently. �What I did � and I hope you�ll forgive me � was eavesdrop. By the way, the soundproofing of the doors in this apartment could stand a lot of improvement. Anyway, when your friend suggested that the noise of New Year�s would suit his purpose, it occurred to me that it would also serve mine. As it did.�

He bobbed his head modestly and then straightened his face. �And now, I suppose, we�d better do something about these two.� He squatted down beside the body of the fat man; Wilson took a deep breath.

�Do you know him?�

Da Silva shook his head. �No.�

�A professional killer walking the streets, and the police don�t know him?�

�If we knew him,� Da Silva said dryly, �he wouldn�t have been walking the streets.� He flipped open the jacket, staring at the neat, clean spot where the inside label had been removed, his eyebrows raised slightly. He patted the pockets and then ran his hands through them. They were empty. Other than a wad of cruzeiro notes, folded, the trouser pockets also revealed nothing. Da Silva came to his feet, frowning. �Very professional, indeed.�

He moved to the second body, squatting down, again beginning his search. Wilson moved with him, clearing his throat. �I remember the other one called him Chico.�

�Half the men in Brazil are probably called Chico. It�s a common enough nickname.� Da Silva withdrew a wallet from the hip pocket, laid it aside a moment, and continued his search. There was nothing else. He came to his feet, frowning, holding the wallet. �Chico, it appears, was not as professional as his boss. But the two of them, I must say, were extremely trusting souls for thugs.�

�What do you mean?�

Da Silva looked at him. �No car keys. Either they left them in the car, which is hard to believe in Brazil, or�� He moved to the window, glancing carefully from the edge of the drape to the street below. It was deserted. �If there was a third one, he�s long gone now.� He shrugged. �Well, let�s see what Chico carried around with him for papers.�

He flipped the wallet open, examining its contents. �Lived in Duque de Caxias...� He paused, an odd feeling coming to him. Why did the name of that small suburb seem to ring a bell? Sometime in the past few days the name of that town had come up. In connection with this case? He shook his head. Scarcely. As far as he had been concerned, this hadn�t even been a case until a few hours ago. He pushed the thought aside, returning to the papers.

�Franciso Vasconcellos � carteira de trabalho number such-and-such � oper�rio � laborer, that is... A copy of a receipt for an advance on his pay, complete with thumbprint and therefore legal, from the Caxias Construction Company...� He shook his head, turning to the crumpled body. �Chico, my friend, you should have stuck to construction work. Or picked another line of endeavor for moonlighting.� He returned his attention to the wallet, riffling through bills. �Five contos three hundred cruzeiros in money. Certainly no fortune today.� He peered into the other sections of the tattered billfold and then bent down, returning the billfold to its owner�s pocket. �Well, we�d better call and get the boys here from downtown. I don�t imagine you want these two cluttering up your living room as permanent guests.�

�And what about Jill?�

Da Silva had turned toward the telephone. He paused, thinking, and then nodded slowly.

�Yes... Whoever hired our unknown fat man is going to start wondering when he doesn�t get a report. And if, as I suspect, he knows where his fat man went, he may very well send a substitute. Whatever this is all about, it�s apparently big enough for a well-financed extermination campaign. In any event, I think the smart thing would be to get the girl to a safer place.�

�And where might that be?�

A faint smile creased Da Silva�s lips. �I think I know just the spot. Assuming we�re lucky, that is. After all, this is New Year�s Eve, and a lot of people don�t stay home tonight.�

�Who are you thinking of?�

�Nobody you know.� Da Silva thought a moment more, and then his smile faded slightly. �If we find her, though, we can kill two birds with one stone.�

Wilson was frowning at him. �What are you talking about?�

�You wanted a doctor to look at her, didn�t you? Well, if we find the girl I�m looking for, I�m sure we�ll find a doctor with her. Unfortunately,� he added to Wilson�s surprise, and walked morosely to the telephone.

New Year�s Eve was not Lieutenant Perreira�s idea of the best time to be assigned to duty at headquarters. He recognized, philosophically, that the duty had to fall to someone, but his philosophy did not extend to understanding why that someone had to be him. It was not that the eve of the new year was a particularly quiet time; quite the contrary. Under the influence of both pinga and religious fervor, some of the celebrants at the beach at times got out of control, and it was not uncommon to pick up a few bodies along with the empty bottles, gutted candles, remnants of camp fires, and other debris left on the beach to be revealed by dawn. And a steady parade of pickpockets together with their accusers � often foreigners � added to the burden of the night. Basically, however, had he been honest in his main objection to working that night, it would have been because he himself would have liked to have joined in the macumba ceremony along the water�s edge. Lieutenant Perreira was a good Catholic, but like many other Brazilians, he saw no reason not to cover his bets.

He had come on duty at eleven o�clock the evening before, and unfortunately the major activity at headquarters did not generally begin before three in the morning. Fortunately, however, the collection of pornography to which he had been previously assigned afforded him both a means of passing time, as well as the satisfaction of knowing he was contributing to the department. He was studying one of the pictorial exhibits with equal parts of admiration and disbelief when the telephone at his elbow rang. With a sigh at the interruption, he laid the picture aside and picked up the instrument.

�Yes? Hello? Lieutenant Perreira here.�

�Perreira? This is Captain Da Silva��

The lieutenant�s eyebrows went up in surprise even as he dutifully noted the time and marked it down on his pad together with the name of his caller. The captain had been off to a formal party that night; what could possibly have happened? With Captain Da Silva, Perreira thought, anything! �Yes, sir.�

�Two things. First, you know where Mr. Wilson�s apartment is, don�t you? On the Lag�a? Good. I want a wagon down here � to pick up two bodies.� Perreira�s eyebrows went up even farther, but he made no comment, merely scribbling faster. Da Silva�s deep voice continued, calmly and evenly. �They are to be taken to the Institute and identified. One has nothing visible on him for identification. The other has a wallet. In that wallet is a receipt copy with a thumbprint. If the thumbprint matches his own, we�ll know who he is. The institute can check the other out through any known criminals in or from Duque de Caxias or through any contact with the first one. Or any other way they want, as long as we get to know who he was. Is that clear?�

�Yes, sir.� Perreira paused, his pencil poised. �How were they killed?�

�Shot. Tell them down at the institute not to worry about ballistics. I have the guns that were used. All we want is positive identification: names, addresses, history � everything they can get. Allright?�

�Yes, sir.� Perreira marked it down and returned his attention to the phone. �You said there were two things.�

�Yes�� A slight change came into the captain�s voice. If Perreira had not known his superior so well, he would have said it was a touch of embarrassment. �You have the roster of all personnel there? With their addresses and telephone numbers?�

�Yes, sir.�

�I want the home addresses and telephone numbers of two of them. Jo�o Martins, of the institute, and� � there was the barest hesitation. Da Silva cleared his throat � �and Astrea Pinheiro Alves. She�s new in the department.�

�Yes, sir. Just a second.� Perreira reached out, dragging the large ledger from its place. He flipped it open and ran his finger down the list. �Here you are, Captain. Dr. Martins lives in Leblon, Rua Melo Franco three twenty-six.� He added the telephone number and flipped the pages backward. �Astrea Alves... Here it is. Rua Cinco de Julho sixty-one. That�s in Copacabana, Captain.�

�I know where it is. And the telephone number?�

Perreira read it off; Da Silva marked it down. �Thank you, Lieutenant. You get that wagon here right away, hear? I�ll wait for them, but I don�t feel like waiting all night. Understand?�

�Yes, sir.�

�Good.� That business over, Da Silva seemed to relax; at least the floor of Wilson�s apartment would be clean. Almost as an afterthought and completely automatically, he added, �Anything else new?�

�No, sir.� Perreira caught himself, suddenly remembering. �Wait a minute, Captain. There�s an envelope here in Ruy�s handwriting, addressed to you. On the outside it says, �Shoe, Institute, brought back by Captain D. S., Identification.��

At the other end of the line, Da Silva frowned. One problem at a time, he thought. Push, push, push! Work, work, work! He shrugged philosophically.

�I�ll tell you what, Lieutenant: you hang up and arrange for the wagon. And then call me back here at Mr. Wilson�s. You can read me Ruy�s report then. I don�t have anything else to do until the boys get here, which better be quick, and also� � a faint smile crossed the swarthy face � �I�m sure you don�t have much else to do at this hour except try to memorize those dirty books.�

�Sir!� Perreira was insulted. �You, personally, assigned me��

�The wagon!� Da Silva barked in a tone he was sure Perreira would recognize, and dropped the receiver decisively on the hook. He turned to face Wilson, who was just emerging from the bedroom with a worried look on his face. �How is she?�

The smaller man closed the bedroom door softly and shook his head. He sounded worried. �How long is that perfumed ether supposed to knock a person out?�

�I have no idea. I never tried it, myself.�

Wilson chewed his lip. �Her pulse seems to be getting a bit ragged, and she doesn�t look too good. I don�t like it. We�ve got to get a doctor for her or get her to a hospital in a hurry. I put a cold washcloth on her face, and she didn�t budge. I even tried slapping her��

Bushy eyebrows went up in simulated shock. �And not even engaged? Let alone married?�

�Damn it, Z�! If we put her in any danger by not calling a doctor��

Da Silva relented. �Just relax. We�ll have her in good hands in a matter of minutes. With luck, that is.� He consulted his scribbled notes, picked up the telephone again, and dialed a number. At the other end of the line the instrument rang and continued to ring. Da Silva suppressed a smile of satisfaction. �Well, they�re not at his place at least.�

�What?�

�Nothing.� He depressed the lever and raised it, waiting for the dial tone. This time he was slightly surprised to find himself a trifle breathless as he dialed the number and listened to the telephone at the other end begin to ring. Grow up! he commanded himself. You�re calling on a police matter; remember it. Still, he could not explain the disappointment he felt as the phone at the other end continued to ring without being answered. He was about to hang up when the receiver at the other end was finally raised.

�Hello?�

Da Silva grinned. How had he ever forgotten how intriguing that throaty voice was?

�Hello, Astrea? This is Captain Da Silva. Are you busy tonight?�

The sheer gall of the question almost left Astrea speechless � almost, but not quite.

�My dear Captain Da Silva! Do you mean you are calling me at one o�clock in the morning on New Year�s Day to ask me if I�m free this evening? Do you honestly believe that even if I had no date tonight that I�d consider one now? From anyone? Especially you? At an hour after midnight?�

�You don�t understand��

�We finally agree on something, Captain! As a matter of fact, Dr. Martins and I just got back from watching the beach ceremony and then only to let me clean up and change my clothes. Which I have just finished doing. And we are now about to leave again. With your kind permission.�

Da Silva�s temper rose a bit. How could he ever have forgotten just how irritating that husky voice could be?

�Now, just one moment, Astrea! I said you don�t understand, and you don�t! If you�ll just let me get a word in, there�s something important I want you to do for me. I�m going to bring a girl over to your apartment��

�Oh!� Her voice was furious. �I should have known it wasn�t me you wanted to see. You just want to use my apartment for one of your assignations, is that it?� She brought herself back under control, lowering her voice, willing it to sound impersonal. �I hate to interfere with romance, Captain, but I�m afraid the answer is no. What�s the matter with your own apartment? Curious neighbors?�

�Damn it, keep quiet!� Why was this woman able to irk him almost beyond control? �This is a police matter! Or, better yet � you say Jo�o Martins is there? Let me talk to him.�

�With pleasure, Captain. Only remember that I make the decisions about how my apartment is used.�

Da Silva winced as the receiver was apparently dropped from a height onto something hard. A moment later Jo�o Martins� voice was in his ear.

�Hello, Z�? What did I tell you the other day? That girl really has something for you � I�ve never seen her so angry! What on earth did you say to her? She marched out of the room��

�Jo�o! I don�t have all night! I need your help, and also Astrea�s.� Da Silva took a deep breath and recounted the events of the evening, from the rescue on the beach to the present position. �I want you to examine the girl and see if there�s anything you can do for her. And then I want her guarded. Constantly. A hospital is just too public and too dangerous. Somebody is going to a lot of trouble to keep her quiet. A policewoman is what we need, and a policewoman�s apartment. Not only to guard her, but also someone who can help her...� His voice trailed off

�Help her to the bathroom,� Martins said, understanding. �Of course. When will you be here?�

�I�m waiting for the wagon to pick up these two bodies. After that we�ll bring the girl over. And I�ll see to it we aren�t followed this time, too. All right?�

�It�s all right with me,� Dr. Martins said philosophically. �Going out with a girl who only wants to talk about another man � even when she only wants to insult him � is scarcely much fun anyway. I�ll explain to Astrea.�

�Good,� Da Silva said. �I�ll see you later.� He hung up; the telephone rang again instantly. He frowned and raised the receiver. �Hello?�

�Captain? Perreira here.� The lieutenant sounded slightly offended. �I�ve been trying to call you, but the line has been busy��

�I know. When will the boys be here?�

�They should be on their way now. About that envelope, Captain, Ruy walked in a few minutes ago. He can probably explain it better than me. I�ll put him on.� There was a brief pause, and then Ruy�s voice came on.

�Captain?� There was deep satisfaction in his tone. �About that shoe you gave me � we were able to identify the man who bought it. The manufacturer shipped it to a small store called Sapataria Flumenence, and they remember selling this particular pair to a man named Benjamin Sampaio, remembered it mainly because it was a rather small size and also because he paid cash for them, which I guess is very unusual for their customers. Most of them pay so much down and so much a week. Forever, I guess��

�We can�t all be rich,� Da Silva commented dryly. �Get on with it.�

�Yes, sir. Anyway, we started a checkup on this Sampaio. He was a dynamiter by trade��

Da Silva stared at the telephone. �A what?�

�A dynamiter. A blaster. This outfit he worked for specializes in building foundations, and a lot of them have to be prepared by blasting out rock. Sampaio was an expert.� Ruy wondered at the captain�s amazement. �We shouldn�t be surprised, Captain. After all, he was killed while he was blasting.�

�I know, I know,� Da Silva said impatiently. �It�s just that I never thought of dynamiting as being a legal profession, although obviously it is. What else?�

�Well, that�s about as far as we could get right now. We�ll go into his past record more thoroughly tomorrow � after the holiday � when the company offices are open. They�re called the Caxias Construction Company, out in Duque de��

�What!�

��Caxias,� Ruy finished, and stared at the instrument, mystified. �What�s the matter, Captain?�

�Hold it! Hold it! Let me think.� Da Silva glared at the floor, trying to encompass the information. Was it possible? The man killed at the bridge and a thug involved in the attack on the girl, both with a background of having worked for the same company... Coincidence? Very doubtful. But what could be the connection between the two affairs? Only this Don Howard; it was the only possible connection. But how? It had to be something to do with radioactive minerals, since Jill�s brother was a geologist and the shoes had been radioactive. Was it possible that Jill�s whole act had been a fake and that it was her brother who had arranged for the dynamiting of the bridge? He shook his head. That raft with its load of scrap iron hadn�t been any fake! And how could the brother have got in touch with this Sampaio if he�d never been in Brazil before? Or had he? The girl had said she hadn�t, but that didn�t necessarily mean her brother had never been there. Or that either one of them hadn�t for that matter. And did this Don Howard know how to fly a plane? Da Silva cursed himself silently. Damn it, why the devil hadn�t he questioned the girl more thoroughly that day at Santos Dumont? In fact, why the devil hadn�t he questioned her at all?

�Captain?�

Da Silva took a deep breath, coming to a decision.

�Ruy, listen and listen carefully. This may be extremely important. I want a complete report on this Caxias Construction Company � their directors, officers, stockholders, if they have any, and also all their employees. Down to the last laborer. Do you understand? Men, women, and children! And I want it right now!�

�Yes, sir.� Ruy hesitated a moment. �There�s just one thing, Captain. I have a brother in construction work, and I know a little about it. These companies, even the big ones, usually don�t have a large permanent staff. They have their engineers and estimators and a few field superintendents, plus their office help, but the oper�rios they generally pick up as they need them. Construction labor is mostly made up of floaters.�

�That�s true,� Da Silva admitted, and thought a moment more. �All right, then here�s what you do. Get a list of every job the company has worked on for the past year � no, make that the past two years � and a list of each man who worked on each job. When he started and when he left. And what he did. They�ve got to have those records someplace. And the regulars we talked about before, of course. All right?�

�Yes, sir. It�ll take time, though.�

�You have exactly two days,� Da Silva said evenly. �Somebody from the directoria ought to be available today, holiday or not. Find him, drag him out of bed if you have to, and get out to Duque de Caxias and start digging into those records. I want that information, and I want it fast. Hear?�

�Yes, sir!�

�Good. Get going.� Da Silva dropped the receiver on the hook and swung around. Wilson was watching him curiously.

�What�s up?�

Da Silva looked at him with a thoughtful frown. �Do you remember that day in the restaurant at Santos Dumont? The day we met Jill? You remember while we were waiting I told you about a bridge that had been blown up in the interior and a man killed in the process? Well, the man who was killed worked at one time or another for the Caxias Construction Company.�

Wilson stared at him and then jerked a thumb at the body of the thin man slumped at the foot of the chair.

�You mean the same company this one worked for?�

�That�s right.�

�And you don�t think it a coincidence.� It was a statement.

Da Silva shook his head. �I do not. It would be pretty miraculous, considering that the company is probably small, and probably doesn�t take on jobs more than forty or fifty kilometers from Caxias at the most. Besides, when you consider that Jill�s brother is a geologist missing somewhere in the interior and that the shoe of the man killed up there at the bridge was radioactive��

�What? You never told me that.�

�I never told you lots of things. In fact, I�ve kept a lot of secrets from myself. Because I never saw any connection until tonight.� His voice was bitter; he got to his feet and began pacing the floor. The body of the fat man barred his passage; he glared down at it. �And where the devil is that wagon?�

As if in answer to his question, the doorbell rang stridently. Wilson walked over and opened the door; two men in white uniforms stood there, a stretcher between their hands. Da Silva nodded in satisfaction.

�Good. All right, men, these are your customers.� He turned to Wilson. �Let�s get the girl ready for travel. We�ll let the ambulance follow us. When we get to the Cantagalo, it can block off the road for a while while we go through the pass. That ought to prevent anyone from trailing us. Your car�s in the garage?�

The two attendants were rolling the body of the fat man onto the stretcher; they came to their feet, studying the situation, trying to determine whether the effort of carrying two bodies at one time was greater or lesser than the effort of making two trips. Wilson walked over to the bedroom door and stood there, barring entrance.

�I�ll get Jill ready alone,� he said with an almost proprietary air. He saw the faint smile on Da Silva�s lips and defended himself bravely. �If your brain is finally beginning to work on this affair, I wouldn�t want you distracted.�

Captain Da Silva, alone in the living room of Astrea�s apartment while the others ministered to the unconscious girl in the bedroom, paced the floor restlessly, trying to put his thoughts together. The extremely odd circumstances surrounding the completely dissimilar, but undoubtedly connected, crimes kept teasing him. A small voice in the back of his head kept telling him he had as much information as he required to solve the case, but unfortunately, the small voice sealed its lips stubbornly and merely gave an idiot shrug when he turned on it and demanded to know what that solution was or even what facts he had that might lead to it.

He paused at the wide windows, staring down at the deserted street below for a moment, and swung around, probing the contents of the room as if he might find the answer there. One trouble was that he didn�t know enough about minerals or radioactivity; in fact, didn�t know anything about them. A second was that he didn�t know enough about Jill Howard; even if she gave them a story when she finally regained consciousness, could the story be believed? And the greatest distraction of all, of course, was the femininity of the room in which he stood, and the realization that it was Astrea�s home, and that he felt her presence even when she was not there.

As if in answer to the thought, the door to the bedroom opened, and Astrea emerged silently, softly closing the door behind her. Da Silva suddenly realized it was the first time he had ever seen her without her uniform. She was wearing an evening gown, filmy, but clinging; her hair was up, making her dusky beauty even more striking. She walked to the coffee table and bent down, taking a cigarette and lighting it with the table lighter before Da Silva could fumble a match from his pocket and perform the duty. She straightened up and studied the tall man as if reassessing him.

�I suppose I owe you an apology.�

Da Silva tried to calm the sudden urge he felt to take her in his arms. When did all this happen? he thought. I�ve seen this woman only twice before, and both times she irritated me � once I wanted to break her neck. And such a lovely neck, and attached to such lovely shoulders, attached... He brought his mind back to business.

�How�s Jill? Has she regained consciousness?�

�No, Jo�o is examining her now.� She seated herself, tipped her shoes off under the cover of the long gown, and tucked her feet under her. Her large brown eyes studied the face of the man above her. �She�s very pretty, isn�t she?�

Da Silva looked at her steadily. �Wilson thinks so.� His voice came from a throat suddenly dry; it seemed to him that his next words were spoken by someone else. �I don�t think she can hold a candle to you. Not for beauty or anything else.�

She dimpled. �Thank you, Captain.� She looked down almost demurely. �She also has a beautiful body.� Her head came up, her eyes twinkling. �Of course, you have no basis for comparison there.�

�No,� Da Silva agreed. There was something rueful in his tone; suddenly the two were grinning at each other like small children. The large man dropped into a chair across from her, leaning forward, suddenly feeling relaxed. �Look, let�s be friends for a while, eh? At least until this thing is over? After all, you�ll be guarding the girl, and I may have to drop in from time to time, and frankly, fighting with you distracts my mind from my job. And also, of course, it has to be poor therapy for a convalescing patient to hear us constantly screaming at each other.�

Astrea laughed, a warm husky laugh, contented. She bent forward, putting her cigarette away, and then leaned back again, studying his face with evident pleasure.

�Good. We�ll declare a truce. But on one condition � that you do drop in from time to time. Otherwise I�ll probably sit here all alone and imagine you doing all sorts of things, and then I�ll probably get nasty again.�

�Not alone,� Da Silva corrected, and smiled. �You�ll have the girl here, and Wilson will probably practically live here until we get an answer to this, and she�s out of here.�

�I know. And looking at the two of them together will make me imagine all the sorts of things I�ll think you�re doing.�

�And you wouldn�t like that?�

�I�d hate it,� Astrea said simply.

�Good,� Da Silva said with masculine satisfaction. �I��

There was the sound of the bedroom door being opened; Dr. Martins and Wilson came out, their faces troubled. For a split second Da Silva wondered what they were doing there, interrupting him in something he sensed to be very important, and then he remembered what they were all doing there. He came to his feet, shrugging his shoulders apologetically at Astrea, turning to face the doctor.

�Well?�

Dr. Martins looked at him thoughtfully. �You like to take chances, don�t you, Z�? They obviously gave her a heavy dose of sedative, most probably one of the barbiturates. She should have had immediate medical attention; right now she�s not in very good shape.�

�Her pulse was good, and��

�The dose hadn�t hit her fully at that time. I�ll tell you this, her pulse isn�t so good right now. However, I�m sure we can save her, but if you�d waited a few more hours...�

�What are you doing about it?�

�I called the hospital from the bedroom; they�re sending over a Byrd respirator and all the equipment I�ll need for intravenous treatment. And a trained nurse to stay with her. Astrea won�t be enough; she�ll need watching twenty-four hours.�

Wilson broke in. �Would she be better off in a hospital?�

�Possibly. From what you�ve said, though, there would be some danger involved, and I can get the necessary equipment here and set it up just as well. It�s all portable today, thank the Lord. Just pray there isn�t a power shortage for the respirator.�

Da Silva frowned. �How long will she be unconscious? When will she be awake enough to make a statement?�

Jo�o Martins considered him quietly for several seconds before answering. �I have no idea. It�ll be quite a while, though. That�s if she pulls through at all, though I�m fairly sure we got her in time. We�ll just have to wait and see.�

�She has to pull through,� Wilson said simply, and glanced at Da Silva. �I�m going to stay here, at least until the equipment comes and they get Jill settled. And probably after that, too. What are you going to do?�

Da Silva studied his friend�s face evenly. �There�s nothing useful you can accomplish by staying here. Dr. Martins will be here, and a trained nurse, and Astrea. I thought we might leave here and go to that party.�

�Go to a party? Tonight?� Wilson couldn�t believe his ears. �After all that�s happened? You must be out of your mind! If you want to get drunk��

�I want some information! And I don�t feel like waiting another week to get it! Or even another day!� Da Silva�s voice was purposely harsh, biting, trying to snap Wilson out of his black mood. Astrea, watching silently, suddenly decided that while it might be fun to twit the captain from time to time, she would not like to get him really angry. Da Silva�s eyes bored into Wilson�s. �I have a deadline from the ministry to get to the bottom of this thing, and sitting here mooning over an unconscious girl isn�t going to do anything except waste time! I want your minerals attach� to give me a fast ten-minute course in radioactivity. And I want you there to introduce me. All right?�

Wilson took a deep breath. �Sorry. Of course, we�ll go to Crandall�s.� He glanced at his watch. �I only hope they aren�t all so drunk by the time we get there that it�s a wasted trip.�

Da Silva relaxed, smiling. �In that case we�ll just have to get drunk with them. It�ll put our discussion on an even basis.�

�Or help us forget the whole miserable mess!� Wilson said with a sudden return to savagery, and turned abruptly toward the door.

One of the major problems concerning long holiday weekends, Captain Da Silva had always felt, was that criminals did not seem to take time off from their profession in the same manner as law-enforcement officials, and as a result the delicate balance between crime and punishment often tipped dangerously in the wrong direction at the ends of such periods. It was probably, he thought because their consciences bothered them for not punching clocks during the normal workweek, but whatever the reason, this weekend had been no exception. With a frustrated sigh at sight of the accumulation of papers on his desk, the captain took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and plunged in with Dona Dolores, his elderly secretary, at his side silently taking notes.

An hour passed before the sharp ring of the telephone broke into his concentration; he glanced at his watch and leaned over with a sigh of relief at the interruption, picking up the instrument.

A feminine voice was on the line. �Captain Da Silva?�

�Speaking.�

�One moment for the Itamarat�...�

Da Silva�s feeling of relief evaporated. He had been hoping to clear away some of the routine and then start putting his thoughts into some semblance of order before being tackled by the minister, but it seemed he was not to escape that easily. He cupped the receiver, turning to his secretary with a frown.

�Any word from Ruy?�

Dona Dolores shook her head; Da Silva scowled blackly and returned his attention to the telephone. The familiar deep voice came on the line. �Captain Da Silva.�

�Yes, sir.�

�I�ve been expecting to hear from you.�

Da Silva took a deep breath. �Well, sir, I don�t have anything definite to report yet.�

The minister refused to be put off with any statement that flimsy. The faintly sardonic tone he assumed seemed to say that experts from many foreign ministries had tried similar tactics and failed.

�Then what do you have that�s indefinite, Captain?�

�I�� Da Silva paused, his jaw tightening. All right, he thought savagely; if that�s the way you want it. �Well, sir, I have a lot that�s indefinite. The reason why the bridge was blown up is indefinite. Who did the job is also indefinite. The connection of Miss Jill Howard with the affair is indefinite. The��

�Who is Miss Jill Howard?�

�She�s a young lady somebody tried to kill because of her connection with the case. That�s our assumption, but that�s also indefinite. The connection of the Caxias Construction Company and some of their personnel with the affair is indefin��

�Who?�

�The Caxias Construction Company. They do building foundations. Sir,� Da Silva said candidly, �I have enough indefinite information to write six reports. I�m only waiting until some of it becomes definite before putting anything on paper.�

There was a brief pause, and then the minister chuckled.

�I�m glad to see you haven�t changed, Captain. I�m also glad to see you�re working actively on the case.� The humor disappeared, wiped away instantly. �I�ll expect some of these things to become definite enough for a report by the end of the week. Until then, Captain��

The telephone clicked in Da Silva�s ear with an ominous sound. Ht put down the receiver and stared at it a moment. One very good idea might be to go back into the jungle and do a bit more thorough search than he had the last time � maybe even interview the natives and see if any of them owned a detonator � and still be there by the end of the week. At least the minister wouldn�t be able to reach him by telephone. And if he didn�t come up with any definite answers, he could just stay up there; it would save the department the trouble of having to transfer him there. He sighed and returned his attention to his secretary.

�Where were we?�

She folded back her notebook, found her place, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again as the telephone rang once more. �Damn!� Da Silva said bitterly, and picked it up, barking into it. �Hello.�

�Captain Da Silva?� It was a man�s voice, soft, apologetic.

�Yes. Speaking.�

�This is Dr. Nicoli, of the C.N.E.N. I understand you called me the other day.� The apology in the voice deepened. �I�m sorry I was out of town. The long weekend, you know, and the heat in the city... Is there anything I can do for you?�

Da Silva raised his eyes to the ceiling imploringly. How many idiotic interruptions was he supposed to suffer? Why was it that Rio de Janeiro, plagued with so many problems, couldn�t be plagued with a strike of telephone personnel? At least until he could get his desk clear and get to work?

The soft voice seemed perturbed by the silence. �Senhor � I mean, Captain?�

�Sorry,� Da Silva said brusquely. �I was thinking of something else. No, Doctor, there isn�t anything I need right now. I wanted some information the other day, but fortunately I was able to get it without disturbing you.�

�I hope you weren�t put to any trouble because of my absence,� Dr. Nicoli said, sounding sincere. �Actually, my secretary could have gotten in touch with me if you�d told her it was that important. Just what was it in connection with, Captain?�

Da Silva looked at his secretary and raised his shoulders hopelessly. �It wasn�t anything important Doctor.�

There was a moment�s hesitation. �You understand, Captain, that we both � more or less � work for the government. Naturally, therefore, anything I can do to help��

�I quite understand, Doctor. I�ll remember. Good��

�I have to take a trip in a few days, and I�ll be away for the rest of the week; but after that I�ll be at your disposal, Captain.�

�Yes, sir. Well, good��

But Dr. Nicoli was not finished. �Da Silva,� he said slowly. �Jos� Da Silva... Is it possible, Captain, that we knew each other some years ago?�

�I�m afraid not, Doctor,� Da Silva said abruptly. �I�m a stranger to Rio, myself. Good-bye.�

He dropped the receiver in place, shaking his head. Even after all these years since he�d last seen Nicoli, the man still had the ability to irritate him simply by saying hello. A plague on him! he thought, and turned back to his secretary. �All right, let�s get back to work. For the tenth time, where were we?�

The interruption this time came not from the telephone but from the door being swung wide, bumping against a file cabinet. Da Silva looked up, irritated; Ruy stood there, a folder clutched in his hand. Da Silva�s black eyebrows bunched in a scowl.

�Where the devil have you been?�

�In Duque de Caxias, Captain. You said��

�I know what I said! What took you so long?�

�You said two days, Captain. I��

�So don�t pay any attention to what I say!� The sheer ridiculousness of his own statement came through to him; he suddenly relaxed, grinning. �Especially when I say something as stupid as that. What have you got?�

�What you asked me for, Captain. The list of the officers of the company, together with a list of the jobs the company contracted for over the past two years. Plus the men who worked on each job and the names and addresses of the office staff. They also changed quite a bit over the past two years, but I think I have them all. I had to dig out the old payroll records, and they keep them scattered all over the office in a dozen different files.�

He handed over the folder and stood back, proud of the job he had done. Da Silva cleared a space on his desk for it, opened it, and studied the first of the many pages. He flipped it over, going on to the second.

�It certainly looks complete enough. Half of the state of Rio must have worked for them at one time or another. I�d say you did a good job, Ruy. We�ll have to check out the lot�� His finger froze on one line.

�What!�

Ruy bent over, fearful that he might have made a mistake. �What is it, Captain?�

Da Silva was staring at the list, his face expressionless, his eyes narrowed. For several minutes the tableau held, with both Ruy and Dona Dolores watching him. At last the tall detective seemed to make up his mind. He closed the folder slowly and came to his feet, reaching for his jacket.

�I�m going out.� He shrugged himself into the garment, tugged his tie straight, and strode purposely to the door. �I don�t know when I�ll be back.�

His secretary stared at him. �But what about this work?�

�Ruy can handle most of it.� His hand clasped the knob; he looked at his assistant. �Anything you want to throw in the wastebasket is all right with me.�

Dona Dolores was still not satisfied, but then she seldom was. �But where will you be?�

Da Silva considered her evenly. His voice lowered almost conspiratorially.

�I�m going to a place where a man is going to ask me an important question. And I�m going to give him an honest answer.�

His secretary abandoned this line as being fruitless. �But what if there are any calls?�

He smiled grimly. �Just tear the phone out by the roots.� He closed the door firmly behind him and a moment later opened it again to thrust in his head. �Unless, of course, the calls happen to be from me.�

Anton Sverdlik slipped his pack from his shoulder, dropped it on the ground, and sat on it, rubbing his shoulders from force of habit where the straps had bitten in. In the open glade in which the two men found themselves, the huge trees seemed to lean back, trailing vines, exposing a blue patch of sky; the chatter and whisper of the jungle were all about them, but in the small open space it faded to form a background fitting into the peaceful mood of the forest. The huge hunter wiped sweat from his forehead and glanced up at the red-haired man standing beside him.

�Sit down. Rest awhile. We�re only a few hours from the airstrip at the most. How do you feel?�

�Pretty good.� The freckled-faced man lowered himself gingerly to the ground and then relaxed, grinning. �You did a pretty good job on me. I still can�t thank you enough.�

Anton shook his head. �I should thank you. You provided a very welcome break in the monotony of jungle living. Although, actually, it�s a monotony I enjoy. And had hoped to continue to enjoy...� He put the thought aside, looking up. �Also, of course, I�m going to miss our conversations, and the chess games.�

The red-haired man hunched forward, frowning at his companion.

�Why do you stay here? A man of your background � scientific, I know. I saw some of your books. If it�s money, I�m sure you could find something��

Anton laughed. �Money? No, my friend, it is not money. Actually, I suppose, my account in the Suisse Banque at Zurich would surprise many people. But really, what is money? Only something to buy what you want, and then later to discover that you didn�t really get what you bought, after all.� His face had fallen somber during his small speech; he shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the mood, staring around at the thick trees about them.

�Why do I stay here? Because I like it. I like the people here, and I like the solitude. About that bridge, you know � it threatened the solitude. Can you picture it? In a short while Santa Isabel a small village, and shortly a teeming trading center, and then in a while?� He threw his hands apart to demonstrate the immensity of the booming, bustling Santa Isabel. �Ah, me! So it goes. And its destruction, you know � the bridge, I mean � only to be rebuilt again, I�m sure. And from here, where? Amazonas? And then?�

He looked at the silent man waiting on his words.

�Why do I stay here? Because I prefer it to the life I led and count it worth trying to save. I don�t like the life I left. I don�t like the cutthroat competition necessary in today�s world to maintain a standard that values nothing in the first place. I don�t like hate, and I don�t like greed��

His companion interrupted him amusedly. �Wait a minute! It really isn�t all that bad.�

�No?� Anton considered him curiously. �And why were you shot, then? It certainly wasn�t part of the deal. The answer, of course, is simply greed.�

�But not everyone in the world gets shot��

�No,� Anton agreed. �Quite a few of them do the shooting.�

�But you�re an educated man, raised with certain standards of comfort. Yet you live up here in the wilderness without any of the decencies of life��

�You mean I have to go behind a tree to relieve myself?� The tall, blond hunter grinned sarcastically. �My friend � my young friend, if you�ll forgive me � there are many comforts more important in life than indoor toilets. We live primitively in Santa Isabel, yes. But we live decently, in the true meaning of the word.� He sighed. �I had hoped we might continue to live decently��

His words were drowned out; a faint humming in the air grew in volume. Suddenly it was above their heads; a small plane flashed past, low, but too swiftly to distinguish its markings. Its roar of power shook the small glade and then instantly faded as the thick foliage of the jungle muffled its sound.

The red-haired man came to his feet, turning to his companion in excitement. �It�s them! Those telegrams did get sent!� His voice became impatient. �Let�s go!�

�They�ll wait for you,� Anton said expressionlessly. He came to his feet, retrieved his pack, and slipped into it. He picked up his rifle, sighed once again, and led the way back into the thick of the jungle, thinking.

So Carlos had actually sent the telegrams. Well, well...

Captain Da Silva, sitting stiffly at attention before the familiar desk at the Itamarat�, stared evenly at the broad back of the minister. He was not surprised that even with his back turned, the minister could manage to express disapproval just in the rigid set of the massive shoulders and the tight grip of the veined hands locked behind his back. The silence in the room continued as the heavyset man frowned from the window; at last he turned and reseated himself, his stern face assessing the men before him.

�You realize, Captain, that whatever your reason or excuse, you still killed a member of a foreign embassy.�

Da Silva met the cold look steadily.

�I know, sir. I had no intention of killing him. I was aiming for his thigh; he fired and crouched just as I shot.� His face was expressionless. �The fact remains, sir, that he did dynamite that bridge and killed a man in the process. A Brazilian national�� Despite the seriousness of the discussion, a faint smile crossed his lips. �Nobody we�ll greatly miss down at headquarters, but still�� His face returned to its stoic, almost Indian gravity. �He also tried to kill a fellow American, and thought he had. Not to mention his shooting at me.�

�All of which I sincerely hope you can prove.�

�I can prove it, sir. The last thing he said to me was, �How in hell did you ever live?� I was wearing a mask � one of those rubber things they use in America to rob banks, and we use here for Carnival. I had it made from a picture of Dr. Howard I took from Miss Howard�s purse. Crandall thought he was shooting a man he�d already killed.�

�To begin with, I don�t know what you�re talking about, and beyond that let�s hope you have more proof than merely your word of a dead man�s statement,� the minister said gravely. �For example, suppose you convince me.�

�It�s scarcely necessary, sir.� There was the slightest touch of smugness in Da Silva�s tone. �Dr. Howard signed a complete deposition regarding the affair. I�m sure there�ll be no trouble from the American authorities.�

The minister�s frown darkened perceptibly.

�You know, Captain, at times you amaze me! For a man I consider to be highly intelligent, you have a wonderful knack at times for sounding stupid. I�ve read that deposition. It says that Crandall appeared at Howard�s office at this university campus, that he offered Howard a lucrative job for the time between holidays, that Howard thought it would be adventurous and accepted it, etc., etc., etc. It says Howard was told the matter was secret and not to mention it to anyone, including his family, etc., etc., etc. The deposition mentions minerals Crandall wanted him to evaluate as a confirmation of his own opinion, etc, etc., etc. And it goes on to say that for some unknown reason Crandall suddenly pulled a gun and shot him. And that he managed to get to the edge of the jungle, was found by a hunter, etc., etc., etc.�

The minister took a deep breath and then slowly expelled it.

�Now, Captain, will you tell me where this deposition says anything at all about Crandall dynamiting a bridge? Or killing a Brazilian? Or anything else that could excuse your shooting the man dead? The gravest accusation the deposition makes is an attempt on the life of a man who today is quite alive!�

The diatribe seemed to have taken the edge from the minister�s irritation. As he continued, he seemed calmer, more relaxed.

�Let me tell you something, Captain. Politics are not necessarily the result of reasoned judgment. Today, with your friend Wilson in the embassy knowing the facts and with the friendly situation between our two countries, the matter may well be accepted and written off. Tomorrow, new governments can appear in both Washington and Bras�lia, and the whole thing given a new face. Old accusations can be reopened. At such times it�s always nice to have a strong, airtight case in the files should it be needed.� He smiled, his lecture over. �All right, Captain, to get back to where we were. You convince me.�

Da Silva shook his head stubbornly. �By your own reasoning, sir, I don�t see how I can. There were no witnesses to the dynamiting.�

�Most crimes lack witnesses, but that doesn�t stop arrests. I suggest you try, in any event. To begin with, what made you suspect Crandall at all?�

�Sir, if I had any brains, I�d have pegged him the first time I met him,� Da Silva said flatly. �When I was asking him questions in his apartment, I asked him about the geological conditions in the neighborhood of Santa Isabel in the Mato Grosso, and he said, �On the �gua Branca?� That was a bad slip on his part, but he was lucky. I must have been blind, or rather, deaf. I certainly was sober enough. That name, Santa Isabel, doesn�t appear on any map, geological or otherwise. Only the people who live there or the very few who have been there know that�s what the village is called!�

�If I had the faintest idea of what you were talking about, Captain,� the minister said gently, �I might be more easily convinced. Or, at least, informed.�

�Yes, sir.� Da Silva smiled and then straightened his lips. �I�ll give you the story from the beginning.�

He began with his meeting with Wilson Christmas night, after his return from the dynamited bridge site, and carried the minister through all the events up to and including the attack on Jill Howard, her subsequent rescue, and the killings in Wilson�s apartment.

�One of the men involved, sir, worked for the Caxias Construction Company. The man who was killed in the jungle � his name was Sampaio � also worked for the Caxias Construction Company at one time as a dynamite blaster. And one of the jobs he had worked on was a summer house in Petr�polis for a Mr. Jack Crandall.� Da Silva paused a moment and then continued. �Incidentally, another job Sampaio happened to work on was the bridge itself. We found this out from International, the outfit that built the bridge.�

The minister was listening intently. Da Silva went on.

�That name, Jack Crandall, was the only tie I had between the Caxias Construction Company and someone connected with minerals and radioactivity, so naturally��

�Minerals?� The minister frowned. �Radioactivity?�

�I didn�t tell you about that yet, did I, sir? That shoe I brought back from the interior � the one we used to identify Sampaio � excited a Geiger counter. It had obviously been in contact with some radioactive material��

The minister sighed deeply. �I assume you�ll eventually make some sense of all this, Captain?�

�I�ll try, sir,� Da Silva said doggedly. �As I was saying, once I had a definite person to check on, a lot of things began to fall into place. Crandall was in the States at the time Howard was contacted; among other things he was attending a class reunion at Colorado Springs. That�s where the American Air Force Academy is. He was a pilot, which was essential for the job. We even found where he kept his plane, at the Petr�polis Air Club � quite openly. The storage space and the cockpit of the plane both excite a Geiger counter, incidentally. He graduated the academy, put in quite a few years in the Air Force, and when he was dropped for health reasons, he used his few mineralogy credits to get this job in the State Department. The fact is he really didn�t have much of a background for the job. He read enough to have the glib answers, but that was about all. He really needed Howard, especially when he was lucky enough to practically be handed a lovely deposit of one of the really valuable rare earths��

�Captain!� For several seconds the minister stared at Da Silva sternly and then shook his head, sighing hopelessly. �Rare earths, eh? Which you also haven�t mentioned up to now. I assume you�ll eventually connect all this up, too.�

�Yes, sir. I�ll try.� Da Silva frowned a moment in thought and then nodded as his original arguments against Crandall returned to him. �As I told you, sir, Miss Howard was tied to a raft with the intention of shoving her out to sink and drown in the ocean off Arpoador. My first thought was that she must have been undressed in a car and that someone in the car must have seen our rescue and followed us to Wilson�s apartment, even though we didn�t notice anyone. Once I was checking out Crandall, though, it struck me as far more logical that he simply took her to his apartment. It was the ideal place to drug her and also to watch the action. And in recognizing Wilson, he knew where we went without having us followed.

�Now, sir, add to that his slip about Santa Isabel, and the case against him stands out like a politician in a confession booth��

He suddenly reddened as his words came back to him. The minister smiled genially.

�Go on, Captain.� His deep-set eyes twinkled. �Let�s hope your analysis is as accurate as your similes. Or makes as much sense.�

�Yes, sir.� Da Silva took a deep breath. �Well, I knew Crandall was our man, but I really didn�t have anything in the way of proof that would stand up in court. Everything was conjecture; the only witnesses we might have had were all dead, and at that time I assumed that Dr. Howard was also dead, killed up there at the bridge together with Sampaio. And Miss Howard�s evidence � of recognizing a man she doesn�t even know she saw clearly back in the States � would have been laughed out of court. In fact, since she�s recovered, she says she didn�t even see the men who drugged her. So the only possible way I could conceive of getting him was to have him convict himself. That�s why I went through the business of having that mask made, looking like a man he thought he had already killed��

�Ah, yes.� The minister nodded. �You mentioned that mask way back at the beginning of your report. At least that part of your report connects up, although I�m far from sure with what. Let�s get back to those rare earths. What was he lucky enough to find that was worth the trouble � and the criminal action that he took?�

�Lutetium, sir. In an almost unbelievably rich concentration. According to Howard � and he�s considered one of the leading authorities, I�ve discovered � this particular ore was the highest concentration he had either seen or heard of. He��

�Lutetium?�

�As I said, sir, it�s one of the rare earths. Howard�s fame is mainly because he�s developed new methods of identifying rare earths in their combined form. He identified it.�

�And got shot for his pains,� the minister said dryly. His heavy fingers drummed the table. �And this lutetium � which I�ve never heard of � was valuable enough for this Crandall to do all these things?�

�High purity lutetium � after separation, of course � ranges in price up to five thousand dollars per pound, sir. Not per kilo; per pound. And where was it found?� Da Silva smiled ruefully. �I�m afraid I wasn�t very bright there, thinking of the jungle. Howard�s theory is that it�s along the chasm bank, probably uncovered by the excavation for the bridge footings.

�As I said, sir, Sampaio worked on that job. He probably saw this odd-looking ore, remembered a man he knew was a geologist, and brought samples home. Crandall flew up there to see what was what, had a hunch he had fallen into a � a gold mine, sir � but figured he�d better get someone with more knowledge than he had to verify it. He knew very well our Brazilian laws concerning uranium in any of its forms, and he knew that personal exploitation for him was out of the question. But he wasn�t going to let a little fact like that stand between him and a fortune.�

Da Silva leaned forward. �A long time ago you asked me why the bridge was dynamited. I believe now it was either to keep the immigration from flooding the area with people until Crandall had taken out what he wanted or even possibly to hide the scars of his excavation. I�m sure he knew about the potential immigration; he had access to the information.�

�He�d still have to sell the ore. And you say it has to be separated. Which, I should judge, takes fairly substantial equipment.�

�It does, sir. But in all probability he sold it to some middleman in some neighboring country, who eventually sold it someplace else. There are a lot of people who don�t ask questions where that much money is involved.�

The minister sighed. �I�m afraid that�s true. Well�� He came to his feet, holding out his hand. �Thank you, Captain. Of course, I�ll thank you more when I get your report and make some sense out of this entire affair.�

Da Silva also arose; he shook the strong hand a moment and then dropped it. �You mean I wasn�t clear, sir?�

�You were quite clear,� the minister said. �I would suggest, however, that in your written report you try to be, if possible, even clearer. Should we ever have to present it to any international tribunal for consideration, I should not want them to go through what I just went through.�

�Yes, sir.�

The minister held up his hand. �And just one last question, Captain, and I want an honest answer, regardless of what you put in your report. Are you sure your shooting of that man was accidental?�

�Positive, sir,� Da Silva said, and smiled faintly. It was actually more a grimace than a smile. �We had a three-hour ride back to Rio, and his body was practically in my lap the entire way.� He shook his head. �It doesn�t make for easy conversation. And believe me, sir, it doesn�t add to the pleasures of air travel.�

Captain Jos� Da Silva trotted rapidly up the curved steps leading to the mezzanine restaurant of the Santos Dumont Airport, turned in the direction of the dining room, and then grinned widely, raising a hand in enthusiastic greeting in the direction of one corner. Across the room, seated in the alcove, were five people, and the first thing he noted was that Astrea was among them. The fact that Dr. Martins was seated beside her did nothing to dampen his spirits; if anything, he felt a twinge of pity for the doctor. It must be tough, he thought sympathetically, to lose a girl like Astrea...

He was, of course, not at all surprised to see either Wilson or the Howards there; he had invited them. He squeezed between the crowded, buzzing tables of the dining room to the side of his friends, pulled up a chair, and dropped into it, noting the collection of bottles on the table. He recognized both the label and the water-white clarity of one and turned to Wilson, his eyebrows raising.

�Pinga? Is that the best you can offer our friends?�

�It�s not for them; it�s for me,� Wilson said morosely.

Da Silva studied the other�s face in puzzled fashion; in his own pleasure at seeing and being with Astrea, he had not previously noticed the look of abject misery on his friend�s normally placid countenance. He frowned.

�What�s the trouble?�

Wilson pointed wordlessly to the pair of sparkling rings on Jill Howard�s finger. The girl locked her other hand a bit more tightly about the arm of Dr. Howard and smiled at him in a slightly embarrassed manner.

�I suppose I owe you all an apology, especially poor Mr. Wilson, but I thought�� She tossed her head. �Well, if you want the truth, I thought if he thought I was just another jealous housewife named Mrs. Howard, probably down here in Brazil looking for a philandering husband, instead of being, well, a single girl��

�Then maybe I wouldn�t have been so ready to risk life and limb for you?� Wilson asked bitterly.

�Something like that,� the girl admitted, and turned quickly to her husband. �But I really acted quite properly, darling. I really did. I never let anyone pick me up for a date, or�� She suddenly blushed, remembering. �I know I was � well, undressed � when they rescued me; but I was unconscious, so that doesn�t count, does it? I mean, I didn�t know I was � was without clothes, so it wasn�t my fault, was it? And outside of that, I was very good.� She turned to Astrea for confirmation. �Wasn�t I?�

Don Howard grinned at Wilson sympathetically. �Don�t feel so sad, Mr. Wilson. I�ll admit she�s beautiful, but believe me, being married to her isn�t all that relaxing.�

Astrea smiled at the girl. �You were very good. Better than I would have been under the circumstances, believe me!� She turned to look across the table at Da Silva and Wilson. �And you two � some detectives! Jill has a mark on her finger from rings that had been removed. I saw it the first time I laid eyes on her.� Her smile concentrated on Da Silva. �And you had her purse for one whole day and didn�t see that all her papers were marked Mrs. Howard!�

�I�m a gentleman, remember?� Da Silva said with mock pride, and grinned back. �I took only what I needed from the lady�s purse. I closed my eyes to the rest.� He studied the bottles on the table once again. �No brandy? I�ll get a waiter. What are the rest of you having?�

�I�m afraid we can�t,� Dr. Howard said with sincere regret. �Our plane leaves in a very few hours, and Jill still has her packing to do. And I�m a week late at work already.� He came to his feet and helped his wife from her chair. His eyes studied the faces about the table. �Don�t get up. Please.� He hesitated a moment and then took a deep breath. �Well, you all know how much both Jill and I owe each and every one of you, and you also know that I know it. So I won�t make a television spectacular out of saying good-bye. I�ll just say we hope to see you all again some day, and in the meantime, au revoir.� He raised his hand in a salute of farewell and smiled. �And use my one word of Portuguese. Ciao.�

Wilson stared after the departing figures blackly. �His one word of Portuguese,� he muttered bitterly, �and that�s Italian!�

�Don�t be a poor loser,� Da Silva said severely. �It isn�t becoming.� He turned to Astrea and Jo�o Martins. �Children? I repeat my question. What are you drinking?�

Astrea shook her head slowly, watching him carefully. �I�m afraid we have to be going, too. Jo�o and I have a date for lunch, a reservation at Mesbla, and I�m afraid it�s only for two.�

Da Silva�s smile remained a moment, foolishly, and then disappeared. �A date? But I thought you and I��

Astrea interrupted quietly. �I had a lot of time to think in the four days since you said you�d get in touch with me � and didn�t.� Her voice was gentle, but there was a thread of steel beneath. �I decided I didn�t like being taken for granted. At least not to that extent. Or at least, not by you.�

�But��

�I�m sorry,� she said simply, and came to her feet. Jo�o Martins rose with her, taking her arm.

Da Silva set his jaw and came to his feet stiffly, his face a mask. �If that�s the way you feel��

�That�s the way I feel,� she said calmly, and turned. �Come, Jo�o.�

Dr. Martins decided to enter the discussion. �You know, Z�,� he said slowly, �I think I liked it better when she used to call you names.�

Da Silva watched the two depart and then sat down again heavily. Wilson leaned over.

�Don�t be a poor loser,� he advised softly. �It doesn�t help a damn.� He studied his companion�s face. �And now, how about some brandy? A Maciera Five-Star? Or do you want to follow my example and drown your sorrows in pinga?�

Da Silva awoke from his reverie. He raised a hand for a waiter.

�Brandy,� he said, and smiled faintly. �There�s no point in carrying martyrdom too far...�