The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Senator Hastings faced him calmly. “Three thousand dollars.”

  Wilson expected a greater reaction from Da Silva, but other than the faintest raising of his bushy eyebrows the tall detective remained emotionless. “Quite a bit of money. Do you have the diamond with you now?”

  The Senator nodded and reached into his jacket pocket, bringing forth a small box. “I had it in the Embassy safe. We stopped by and got it just now, which is why we were late.” His eyes flicked to Wilson as if he could still not understand the ease with which the nondescript man had managed access to the safe at that hour.

  “I see.” Da Silva pushed himself to his feet, disappeared a moment into his bedroom, and returned with a jeweler’s glass. He accepted the box, opened it, and removed the diamond, picking it up carefully in the fingers of one hand. Screwing the lens into his eye socket, he bent before the lamp and studied it carefully. Wilson and the Senator waited, the Senator with a faint smile on his face, Wilson with a slight frown.

  Da Silva straightened, hefted the stone a moment in his hand, and then returned the stone to the small box. He removed the jeweler’s lens from his eye, dropped it into his pocket, and handed the box back to the Senator. For several moments he stared at the floor thoughtfully; then, with a sigh, he lowered himself back into his chair and reached over for his glass. There was silence as he took a sip of his drink.

  “It’s a very fine stone,” he said at last, quietly. “An exceptionally fine diamond. At three thousand dollars you got quite a bargain, Senator. I would judge the true value to be at least twice that amount.”

  “I know,” the Senator said, a trifle complacently. He tipped his head in the direction of the silent but thoughtfully frowning Wilson. “Mr. Wilson didn’t believe me.” He smiled, relieved that the problem had been resolved. “Now, Captain, about the tax …”

  “I imagine,” Da Silva said slowly, “that you considered the possibility of a stone that valuable having been stolen? Particularly being offered for sale in the manner it was?”

  “Of course.” Senator Hastings met Da Silva’s gaze equably. “The jeweler who examined it had a list of stolen gems. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t anything this size even on the list. Which even precludes the possibility of its having been recut.”

  Da Silva nodded. The list was one which he also had in his office, and while he made a mental note to have the list rechecked, he was certain he would not find the diamond there. Stolen merchandise of that category did not end up being sold in such haphazard fashion. There was something very odd about the whole affair. “And who was the jeweler?”

  Senator Hastings named a company of utmost respectability. Da Silva nodded again, his face inscrutable. “This man who sold you the stone—did you happen to get his name, Senator?”

  The white-haired man cleared his throat. “Would you mind telling me why you want to know, Captain? After all, as the buyer the responsiblity for purchasing the stone is mine. If there wasn’t anything illegal involved—and you haven’t indicated to me that there was—I can see no reason to involve him in an investigation.”

  Da Silva’s almost Indian-like features broke into a wide grin; he was reading the mind of the man across from him quite accurately.

  “Please, Senator Hastings! I’m not trying to break up your bargain. But let’s be honest with each other. You know as well as I do that something out of the ordinary is going on when you pick up a diamond of that size and quality at that price.” His eyes peered at the other humorously, but there was an underlying steadiness about them that was not lost on the Senator. “My business, Senator, is looking into things that are out of the ordinary.”

  The handsome white-haired Senator stared into the smiling eyes of Da Silva for a moment, and then he broke into a grin, although it appeared a bit rueful.

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I guess there’s a bit of larceny in all of us, and I’m afraid mine was showing. It’s just that I hope any investigation won’t interfere with my taking the stone back with me.” Da Silva’s face did not change; it promised nothing. The Senator sighed. “Well, after all that, the truth is I don’t remember his name. He gave it to me, but frankly all these Brazilian names sound alike to—”

  He stopped abruptly, his face reddening. Da Silva laughed.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Senator. American names used to all sound alike to me. Could you tell me what he looks like?”

  Senator Hastings nodded. “I should judge about forty years old, about your height, but a bit heavier, I’d say. Black hair, tanned complexion; nice looking. He didn’t wear glasses, and he was well-dressed. And—oh, yes, he spoke English, of course. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to converse at all.”

  Da Silva stared at him evenly.

  “Other than the fact that he spoke English, Senator—and a lot of the people who work the hotels do that—you’re describing half the men walking along the Avenida Atlântica right this minute. There must have been something a bit more distinctive about him. Please try to remember.”

  Senator Hastings frowned in recollection. “He didn’t have a wooden leg, if that’s what you mean. I recall he had a widow’s peak, and … wait a minute! I remember his hand—his right hand. He had a very strange tattoo on the back of it.” He looked up to see Da Silva staring at him with a very odd look on his face. “What’s the matter?”

  “About forty? Black hair in a widow’s peak? About my size? And a tattoo on the back of his hand?” Da Silva’s voice was almost hypnotic as he repeated the details; his eyes had almost closed to slits. “Do you remember anything about the tattoo?”

  Senator Hastings nodded positively. “I certainly do. I don’t know why I didn’t remember it at once. It was most unusual, almost grotesque. Normally you expect to see an anchor, or a girl’s name in a heart, but this one was—”

  “A blue-eyed sea serpent drinking Coca-Cola …” Da Silva’s voice was dreamy.

  Senator Hastings stared at him. Wilson’s eyes had suddenly become bright.

  “It was a huge spider,” the Senator said. “It almost covered the entire back of his hand. And horribly realistic. It startled me. When you saw it closer, it even seemed to be puckered, as if the spider were biting into—” He paused and cleared his throat. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten it.”

  Da Silva sighed. “A pity. I was hoping it was a blue-eyed serpent …”

  “Why?”

  Wilson leaned over. “So it wouldn’t be the man Zé knows it is.” He turned to Da Silva. “Who is he?”

  “Well, he isn’t a street vendor.” Da Silva raised his brandy glass to eye level and stared into the amber depths of the liquid through half-closed eyes as if searching for an answer to something there. When he finally looked across at the others there was a wry smile on his face. “His name is Nestor Nelson Correia Carvalho. Very alliterative.” He sipped and set his glass down. “He’s my cousin.”

  “Your cousin?” Wilson was surprised. “You never told me about him.”

  “I don’t tell you everything. Especially things that are unflattering to my family, and that certainly includes Cousin Nestor …” His voice became thoughtful; he seemed to be talking to himself. “I wonder what Nestor is tangled up with now?”

  “Do you ever see him?”

  “Every now and then. About a year ago I saw him when Homicide had him on the carpet, but he managed to get out of that. And about six months ago Customs was interested in him. But he got out of that too. A pity about Nestor—he can be charming at times.” His eyes came up to the Senator. “I imagine you can confirm that, Senator.”

  “He seemed to be.”

  “He can be. We were good friends once. We roomed together at the University, and we even became good friends after the trouble there …”

  “Trouble? What happened at the University?”

  Da Silva sighed. His half-open eyes seemed to be peering into the past. “That tattoo was done to hide a knife scar. That’s why the pucker seems so re
alistic. Nestor has a rather macabre sense of humor.” He looked up. “In school one day I found my cousin taking something of mine, and in those days I wasn’t the calm, cool, collected person I am today, so—” He shrugged. “—I put a knife through his hand.”

  Senator Hastings looked startled.

  Wilson’s eyes twinkled. “Didn’t they teach you: ‘Who steals my purse steals trash’?”

  “Who steals my purse steals money,” Da Silva said flatly. “In any event, Nestor never felt any particular animosity. He’s rather a philosopher in his way. And I’m sure if he had caught me taking something of his, the knife would have gone in a lot further up.”

  He looked up, suddenly businesslike. “Well, enough of memory lane. If you’re not too busy, how would you like to look Cousin Nestor up and ask him a few simple questions?”

  Wilson nodded. “Good. Do you know where to get in touch with him?”

  “I know where he usually is at this hour.” Da Silva’s dark eyes twinkled. “I know where most of the Rio bad boys are at most hours.”

  Senator Hastings looked uncomfortable. “Do you want me along?”

  “If you don’t mind.” Da Silva looked at the white-haired man equably. “There won’t be any knife play tonight. Both Nestor and myself have grown more subtle. And it’s quite a respectable bar.” He paused, considering. “Well, as respectable a bar as you’d expect, with Nestor as the owner.”

  “You don’t understand,” Senator Hastings said patiently. He was finding Captain Da Silva quite different from what he had expected. “It’s simply that I really have no argument with the man. Plus the fact that I’m down here in an official capacity, and in my position …”

  Da Silva pushed himself to his feet. “I understand perfectly, Senator. You’re afraid there might be girls soliciting in the bar and word might get back to the Embassy …”

  “I beg your pardon?” The white-haired man was startled; then his handsome face broke into a smile. “You’re pulling my leg, Captain.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Da Silva said, and turned in the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He closed the bedroom door behind him, removed his jacket, and then went to a closet where he took a shoulder holster from a hook and slipped it on. His service revolver was in the night-stand drawer, and he checked it very carefully before dropping it into place. He shrugged his coat back on, buttoning it over the slight bulge. As he passed the dresser mirror he winked at himself somberly; a new case always seemed to inject just that slight amount of adrenalin into his blood stream that kept him alert and happy. And, he said to himself, if Cousin Nestor is involved in something, there isn’t any doubt that this is shaping into a new case.

  He came back to the living room to find his two guests on their feet and waiting at the door. Wilson’s eyes automatically noted the slight bunching of the jacket over the gun; his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. The Senator noted nothing. Da Silva opened the door, waited until the others had passed through, and then closed it, checking the lock behind him. Caution had paid him dividends in the past. As he led the way to the elevator his calm expression broke a bit, replaced by a faint frown.

  “I wonder what Cousin Nestor is tangled up with now?” he repeated softly to himself, and pressed the down button.

  “You said something?” Wilson asked.

  “I think I did,” Da Silva said, and smiled. “It’s just that I don’t know how right I might be. Or how wrong.”

  “That’s my boy …” Wilson said approvingly, and held the door open for the Senator and Da Silva to enter.

  IV.

  A Block south of Da Silva’s apartment, and just around the corner of Rua Duvivier and the Avenida Atlântica, Fat Paulo had managed to locate a parking space and an open bar, both within sight of the entrace to Da Silva’s apartment. At the moment he was leaning on the high marble bar counter, staring up the street morosely, bitterness filling his heart and a full glass of pinga filling his large hand.

  It was now eight o’clock and he still hadn’t eaten, although he had managed time for sufficient drinks at his various stops. This lack of a decent meal, however, was far from the main cause of his resentment at the way the evening was turning out.

  To begin with, after his initial call to Archimedes from the Rua Buenos Aires, he had succeeded in removing his car from the death’s grip which had held it in the Praça Mauá only at the expense of a creased fender. While the neutral observer would have been hard put to note this minor damage among the multitude of equal or worse scars, to Paulo it stood out with painful clarity. The dents and scratches he had inherited he had come to consider the patina of respectful age; this new damage did not fall into this category. And even more contributory to his bitterness was the conviction that he was wasting his time.

  His musing was interrupted by a nudge in his side. A young man, prepared for the evening with slicked-down hair and a relatively clean shirt, was requesting access to the telephone on the wall. Paulo moved aside with a grimace, returning to his thoughts. That was another thing, this constant telephoning to Archimedes. The first time—or actually the second, when he considered it—was when he reported that he was once again back in position in view of the building that housed the American Club, car and all. Then the second time—no, that would make it the third time—was when he had parked across the street from the American Embassy and watched his quarry disappear within with a stranger he had picked up at his party.

  Somehow this latter information had disturbed Archimedes greatly.

  “The American Embassy? In the Avenida Franklin Roosevelt?”

  “Yes.” Good God! How many American Embassies were there?

  “He and another man? Who?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I mean, what’s the other one like?”

  “I don’t know. I mean he’s—well, he’s pretty much like anyone else. He’s—”

  Archimedes had abandoned this useless line for a more important one. “What are they doing in the American Embassy at this hour?”

  Paulo’s patience ended, even with this one whom he had always secretly feared. “How in the name of the infant Jesus should I know?” What an idiotic question! “They didn’t tell me. Do you want me to ask him when he comes out?” The sarcasm disappeared from his voice. “Hold it! They’re coming out …”

  “Follow them!” The tone of Archimedes’ voice clearly indicated he had noted no revolt in the ranks, or if he had, he was disregarding it. “And call me, do you hear? I want to know where they go.”

  And off Paulo had gone again, downing his drink on the move, and jumping into his car to follow the cab the two men had taken. And now here they were in Copacabana, in this apartment, and maybe the second man lived here and they wouldn’t come out for hours and hours; and here he was, back in a bar waiting, and how long was he supposed to stay here anyway? Without eating? And without changing his clothes and going out on the town? And having to listen to some young kid conning some young girl on the telephone?

  Paulo downed his drink and shoved his glass wordlessly in the direction of the bartender. A refill came his way and he flipped a bill across from the pile of change before him.

  Three men suddenly appeared on the steps of the apartment building he was watching. Paulo straightened up, peering through the darkness up the street; his fingers tightened on his glass. There was no doubt—the tall white-haired man was immediately distinguishable, but this time he was accompanied by two men instead of one. He shook his head in a combination of wonder, fear, and disgust. If the cabelo-branco was going to pick up another escort every time he stopped somewhere, they were going to end up like a samba line, a fila marching down the street with him at the end. The thing was becoming ridiculous! He downed his drink, scooped up his change, and swung about, prepared to step from the bar to the sidewalk. Then he noticed that the three had descended the apartment steps and had turned in his direction. With a nod of self-satisfac
tion he turned back to the bar, watching the trio approach, prepared to wait until they had passed him before taking up the chase.

  A cone of light from an overhead street lamp bathed a portion of the sidewalk in a brighter pattern. The three men entered it, and suddenly Paulo felt his heart take a wild, uncomfortable jump. The new addition to those he had been trailing was a man he recognized very well—Captain José Da Silva! He had never met the captain in person, but he had met those who had, and he was willing to let it go at that. Suddenly all of Archimedes’ worrying and nagging made frightening sense. The white-haired man had undoubtedly suspected something and had brought the police into the business, and not just the police, but the most dangerous and toughest of them all! But how had the turista ever come to suspect? He hadn’t even taken the ship; he had never left the harbor. No one had spoken to him on board. How? Paulo turned away, hunching over his empty glass and bowing his head as the three passed the open bar. A cold feeling swept him, a combination of panic and fear.

  The three passed the bar, laughing about something. Paulo swung to the telephone. The slick-haired youth was murmuring something softly into it, obviously trying to convince some girl of something, doubtless improper. Paulo grasped the smaller one’s shoulder.

  “Pardon, but I have to use the telephone …”

  The youth looked at him coldly with dark, liquid eyes. “I’m using it.”

  Paulo’s jaw tightened. “I said—” His hand came up to the receiver; the youth’s fingers tightened convulsively upon it. The bartender’s eyes came up briefly and Paulo stepped back. A scene at this moment? With Da Silva but steps away? What could he have been thinking of? With a look of pure acid hatred which should have wilted the youth—but didn’t—Paulo charged out to his car. He fumbled the ignition key into place and then paused. The liquor he had drunk seemed to have drained from his veins, leaving him cold sober. Or at least so he thought, an erroneous conclusion reached by many before him. While his senses were undoubtedly more acute due to his profound shock, his judgment continued to be directed by his partially drugged brain.