The Diving Dames Affair - Leslie Peter - Страница 14
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"I should say it was very natural."
"You would, eh? Then you would not find it excessively unlikely that I'd know a bit more than the next man if those gentlemen were involved in anything?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Good. For I can tell you, Mr. Kuryakin, beyond any doubt, that there are twenty-eight sub-contractors employed on the construction of the San Felipe dam and the city of Getuliana - all hired through Moraes and his company. And every single one of 'em is a Thrush satrap!"
Illya whistled softly. "I see!" he said. "That does put a different complexion on the inquiry - and lend an air of urgency, too.'
"It does that. And I can tell you some other things, too. First, that the so-called D.A.M.E.S. has been hired by a consortium of these firms to assist with resettling peasants dispossessed by the dam; second, that their behavior in the up-state region has caused a lot of comment; third, that the city of Getuliana is far behind schedule in building - the locals say it is only a blind to cover the unscrupulous lining of pockets, but more informed gossip considers it a blind for something else… And the last point is Just a name: Wassermann."
"Wassermann?'
"Yes. A European financier who has settled here with great success. In economic circles here and in Sao Paulo, one talks, in money matters, of the Wassermann Test: if a given amount of capital has doubled itself within two years - then two to one it's a Wassennann project!"
"I see. What he has got to do with this dam, then?"
"He chiseled the concession to build the city and the dam from the government. The whole deal lies within his giving, as it were. And he gave it all to Moraes. That's all."
"No hard and fast news of my Mr. Williams?"
"He asked questions in Brasilia. He asked questions in Goias. He hired a car. It was returned - not by him. That's all."
"And the old man?"
O'Rourke spread his huge hands. "Who knows? They say there are an unusual number of American undesirables in the country, particularly up-country. And that these are balanced by bad men from other places. You can draw your own conclusions…. Now, let me write you a few notes with names, addresses and telephone numbers that you can memorize, and that will be all."
He pulled a small pad from an inside pocket and began scribbling on the topmost page. After half a minute, a thin, insistent piping sounded at the side of his chair.
He unhooked the tiny two-way radio and held it to his ear. "Yes," he said curtly. "What is it?... No, I'm busy at the moment - Oh. Yes. Yes, perhaps you'd better come in, Raoul. We're on the terrace."
As he finished writing and handed the sheets to Illya, the tall moustached man that the agent had seen in the office walked onto the roof garden.
"You'd better tell Mr. Kuryakin what you told me," O'Rourke said. "Raoul here keeps a watch on arrivals and departures at the airport and generally has a finger on the pulse, you know."
The tall man bowed and spoke directly to Illya. "The senhor may not know it, but he has been followed ever since he left the New York plane," he said softly in Spanish-accented Portuguese. "The watcher booked into the same hotel, parked opposite the police headquarters when you were there, followed you to the district office and tailed you back to the car rental place, busied herself with a water-oil-tire checkup during the time you spent inside, was three behind you in the queue at the library, and finally followed you on foot until you en countered the boss here."
"Busied herself," Illya said faintly. "You did mean that the tail was feminine?"
"But yes. The senhor can see for himself." Raoul strode to the edge of the terrace and parted the vines. "See - by the bookshop window on the other side of the court, occupying herself with the bin of secondhand volumes: a very beautiful young lady with dark hair..."
Chapter 6
A Lady Is Unmasked
BY THE TIME Illya had memorized the contents of the sheets given to him by O'Rourke and had taken his leave, it was almost dusk. The obvious thing to do now was to follow Solo to Brasilia as quickly as possible and try to pick up his trail near the dam. He went accordingly to the airline offices to inquire about planes.
And with him went the girl. Now that he knew he was being followed, the Russian watched her technique with interest - and it acted in some small way as a salve to his wounded professional pride to see how expert she was. She never hurried, she never dawdled, she never did anything obvious like staying too long at the wrong shop window, and yet she was always there; she was never close enough to notice, yet she was never too far behind to catch up and follow an unexpected move; she anticipated intelligently, after being already on the far side of the road before he had himself crossed; she varied her distance skillfully, and she made such masterful use of other people as cover that Kuryakin found it difficult to keep his eye on her for long enough to form an impression of her looks. Since he was determined that she should not realize he knew of her existence, he contented himself with occasional sideways glances at shop windows and occasional reflections from a cupped hand over a lens of his sunglasses. From what he could see, the girl was slender, about his own height, with a lean jaw-line and chiseled features thrown into dramatic relief by long dark hair drawn severely back by a crimson bandeau. Her suit was in some lightweight navy material with white revers, and she carried slung from one shoulder, unfashionably, a big white handbag on a strap.
To his surprise, the airline offices were shut. And so, he saw as he looked around, were the neighboring stores and offices.
"Excuse me," he said, stopping a passerby, "do you know if these shops - the airline office in particular - will be open again later?"
White teeth flashed in a dark face. "Open later?" a deep voice chuckled. "Tonight? Man, you must be jokin'!"
"But I thought... Usually they're open until..."
"Usually is other days. You must be out of your mind! Don't you know what day it is?" the man said, passing on with a wave of his hand.
Illya saw a modern hotel across the road and went into the foyer. There seemed to be an extraordinary number of laughing, chattering people about in noisy groups. Some of the women were wearing paper hats.
"Excuse me," he said to the reception clerk. "I wonder if you could possibly find out for me whether there is a plane tonight -"
"Tonight!" the clerk exploded. He reached under his counter and came up with a half full bottle of champagne. "Tonight is not for planes, senhor," he caroled.
"Have a drink. Be my guest - tomorrow we can think about airplanes" Strident giggling cut short his harangue and a group of teenage girls with linked arms infiltrated his cubbyhole to carry him away shouting and waving his bottle. Illya shrugged his shoulders and went out again. From behind him a burst of laughter and the sound of breaking glass were cut short by the closing of the swinging doors.
In the streets, now that he noticed it, there was an air of subdued excitement, a purpose and a direction to the knots of people hurrying all the same way. And there was a noise - distant, imprecise and exciting - that he suddenly realized he had been aware of deep in his subconscious for some time.
It was a composite, even a complex, sound… rising, falling, altering in pitch, almost hammering away at the threshold of hearing. And gradually, bit by bit, he came to separate the various components: there were voices, many many voices; there was the faint sound of musical instruments; there was clapping, cheering, shouting, laughing; there was the sound of multitudes of feet - and over and above everything there was a persistent muttering and thumping of hundreds of drums.
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