Twenty

“What is the woman’s name?”

“Joan Collins Stanwyk,” Fletch answered. ‘Room nine-twelve.”

Fletch was on his second guaraná when Teo appeared in the door of the bar of The Hotel Jangada. Even in shorts and a tennis shirt, the dignity of Teodomiro da Costa was absolute.

At the reception counter, Teo spoke with the same clerk with whom Fletch had spoken.

Fletch stood aside and listened.

Clearly, in Portuguese, Teodomiro da Costa introduced himself, explained the situation as he knew it and stated his request: that they be permitted to inspect Room 912.

Again, with all apparent courtesy, the desk clerk refused.

The conversation became more rapid. Teo said something; the desk clerk said something; Teo said something, smiling politely; the desk clerk said something.

Finally, drawing himself up, giving the desk clerk his hooded eye, Teodomiro da Costa asked the rhetorical question which is magic in Brazil, which opens all doors, closes all doors, causes things to happen—or not happen, according to the speaker’s wish—which puts people in their places: “Sabe com quem está falando?: Do you realize to whom you are speaking?”

The desk clerk withered.

He got the desk key to Room 912 and led the way to the elevator.

“Do you see anything amiss?” Teo asked.

While the desk clerk stood at the door of Suite 912, jangling the key in his hand, Teo and Fletch had searched through the living room, bedroom, bathroom, terrace as well as they could.

“Not a damned thing,” Fletch answered. “Except that Joan Collins Stanwyk isn’t here.”

The rooms were freshly made up, the bathroom undisturbed, the bed not slept in. Going through the drawers, closets, even going through the medicine chest and suitcases, and other immediately conceivable hiding places, Fletch had found no money, no jewelry.

“One thing is significant, Teo,” Fletch said. “Yesterday morning, Joan was wearing a tan slacks suit and a silk shirt. I cannot find the slacks suit and the shirt here in the suite.”

“She could have sent them to the hotel cleaners. You don’t know what other clothes she had.”

“Not likely. She wanted to move out of this hotel as soon as I brought money.”

“Then it is likely she disappeared somewhere between The Hotel Yellow Parrot and here.”

“Yes.”

Standing back on his heels at the door, the desk clerk rattled the key against its chain.

“What do we do now?” Teo asked. “You’re the investigative reporter, newly retired.”

“Check the hospitals, I guess.”

Teo thought a short moment. “There is really only one hospital where they would have brought anyone sick or injured between The Yellow Parrot and here. We can check that one out.”

Fletch said, “Let’s do so.”

“What do we do now?” Teo asked again.

They stood in the hospital lobby.

Teo had explained to the hospital administrator the disappearance of a blonde North American woman, in good health, more than twenty-four hours before, who had already been robbed of her money and identification.

The administrator clucked about Carnival, was most understanding although not alarmed, and permitted Teo and Fletch to walk through the seven floors of the hospital, checking the beds of every reasonable unit.

The administrator had said there were many people without identification in the hospital during Carnival. She would be grateful to have any of them identified.

“I don’t know.” Fletch’s eyes wanted to close in sleep, in discouragement, perhaps to think.

“I don’t see what else we can do,” Teo said.

“Neither do I.”

“Once in a while you have to let time pass….” Teo said.

“I guess so.”

“Let things right themselves.”

“She could be anywhere,” Fletch said. “Anything could have happened to her. Should I check all the hospitals in Rio?”

“That would be impossible! Then check all the hotels and hospitals and jails in Brazil, one by one? You can’t live so old!”

“I guess not.”

“Let time pass, Fletch.”

“Thank you, Teo. Sorry to keep you up.”

“You have done your best, for now.”

“Yes …” Fletch said, uncertainly. “I guess so.”