“Read it for yourself. That’s his history.”
Wilson took the sheets, straightening up to read them. His eyebrows raised. “Twelve known assassinations …” He read to the end; the room was silent until he had finished. When he handed the pages back to Da Silva his face was equally grim. “A bad boy, eh?”
“A real bad boy.”
“And yet,” Wilson said wonderingly, “he’s been here a week and nothing has happened yet.” He frowned. “Maybe he just decided to come home at this time. It doesn’t necessarily mean a connection with the O.A.S. meetings.”
“Nacio didn’t decide to come home just for fun,” Da Silva said darkly. “He’s been holed up somewhere—apparently in Europe, if he came over on a Portuguese freighter—and we had no idea where. And now he chooses this time to come back, and Rio to come back to, where every policeman knows him, and at a time we have an exceptionally active security in operation.” He shook his head worriedly. “No. He came here to do a job. And it would have to be a pretty big job; one that would pay enough to make him take the risk.”
“Has he ever done any political killing before?”
Da Silva shrugged toward the folder on the desk. “You read the record. Nacio is as apolitical as he is amoral. He couldn’t care less. He’s strictly a gun for hire. He’d kill his best friend if the price was right.”
“And you think he might be here in connection with Dorcas?”
Da Silva studied the map on the wall without seeing it. He swiveled his chair and stared at Wilson. “What I think is that he came here to do a killing. It might be Dorcas, or it might be someone else. The fact that he hasn’t killed anyone up to now—or at least that we know of—only leads me to believe even more that it’s in connection with the O.A.S. meetings, because most of those people are only now arriving.” He shook his head bitterly. “We’re really going to have to tighten up on security, and God knows how we can tighten up any more. Or where we’ll get the men. Or even what use it will be, especially against a professional like Nacio Mendes!”
“It could still be a private affair,” Wilson said slowly. “After all, someone must have hired him, and if I were a middleman arranging an assassination, I’d pick someone whose face isn’t as well known as you say this Nacio’s is.”
“And if I were a middleman hiring him, I’d get him to change his appearance.” Da Silva nodded thoughtfully. “And that’s an idea.… Ruy, get Jaime in here.” He looked up at Wilson. “Jaime is one of our police artists. And damned good. Let’s see what he can do for us.”
He leaned back, his eyes staring broodingly toward the darkened windows. “Somewhere in this town, Nacio Madeira Mendes is loose. The thought of trouble before was bad enough, but now it’s absolutely frightening.”
“How about his known haunts? I see the dossier says something about his having a piece of the Maloca de Tijuca.” His face reddened slightly. “I happen to know the place.…”
A faint smile appeared on Da Silva’s face. “You should be ashamed of yourself! It’s not the most reputable bar out on the beach. And the girls in back are certainly not the finest Rio has to offer.” His smile disappeared. “In any event, he sold his interest a year before we caught up with him. And besides, I doubt that he’d take any chance of showing up at a familiar place, not if the job he came to do is as big as I think it is. And of course,” he added bitterly, “we don’t have the men available to check the place out anyway.”
“I still think it might be worth it,” Wilson said stubbornly. “He had to go somewhere to get a weapon; I’m sure he wasn’t figuring on strangling his victim. He’s always used a gun. And he certainly didn’t bring one with him all the way from Lisbon. Or from the ship.”
“Which only means the thing was set up well ahead of time. Which makes the whole thing even more frightening.”
“How about his family? Or friends? Or known associates?”
Da Silva shook his head. “Nothing. I know, professional killers work through agents, middlemen who hire them and pay them off, but we’ve never been able to find out who hired him in the past. And we tried when we had him. He’s a tough little monkey. We—”
He broke off as the door opened. Ruy ushered in a tall thin man with a shock of white hair and sharp blue eyes, who carried a large tablet of paper under one arm. The newcomer nodded politely to the men in the room and seated himself comfortably at a chair beside the desk. One thin hand reached out and picked up the small photograph of the steward, studying it impartially. He compared it to the police photograph and then nodded.
“He’s lost weight.…”
He seemed to be talking to himself. He crossed his legs, settling the large pad against one thigh, and then closed his eyes almost to slits, staring at the picture.
Da Silva watched him. “Do you know what we want?” Jaime nodded absently, and then opened his eyes, beginning to sketch rapidly. The first drawing was a duplicate of the three-quarter profile of Nacio as shown in the small photograph. He nodded as he finished it, tore it off and placed it where he could refer to it, and then seemingly repeated it. This time, however, he added a mustache, studied it a moment, and then thickened it a bit. The shape didn’t seem to please him and he erased the corners, drawing them down a bit. Then, satisfied at last, he tore this sheet off and repeated the entire performance. The other men in the room watched him in silent admiration.
This time Jaime added eyeglasses, heavy-rimmed, studious frames, with thick bars going back to hook behind the ears. A thin hairline mustache was placed beneath the thin nose, and then broadened a bit. This sketch joined the rest, and he started once again. His thin fingers drew the outline of the familiar face once again with incredible speed and skill and then paused. The blue eyes came up inquiringly.
“What else might he use, Captain?”
Da Silva shrugged. “I have no idea. Put a hat on him. That widow’s peak is fairly distinctive.”
Jaime nodded in agreement and rapidly sketched in a hat. It was a straw hat, of the type most common in the hot climate. He placed a wide band about the brim and stared at it; on the pad Nacio looked off into the distance, debonair and scholarly. “What else, Captain?”
Da Silva sighed. “God knows. One of these ought to look like him, if he isn’t going around in a dress and a wig. We’ll have to work with these, I guess.” He smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Jaime.”
“Any time, Captain.” The thin man unfolded himself from the chair, nodded to the others, and left the room, softly closing the door behind him. Da Silva spread the sketches across his desk, studied them a moment, and then brought them together in a small pile.
“Ruy—copies of these at once to all precincts. With the usual information. And rush!”
“Right, Captain.” Ruy scooped up the pictures and left.
Wilson frowned. “Sometimes you puzzle me, Zé. Granted the sketches are a good idea, but do you mean you hope to pick him up on the offhand chance that someone from one of your precincts might run into him on the street and recognize him from those sketches?”
“It’s one of my hopes,” Da Silva said. “Why? Do you have a better idea?”
“No,” Wilson admitted. “But I think we—or rather, you—ought to cover more angles than that. I still think it would be worthwhile putting some men on that Maloca de Tijuca. He used to hang around there quite a bit, and at least it’s a smaller area than the whole city of Rio. What harm would it do?”
“No harm at all,” Da Silva agreed equably. “In fact, it’s a great suggestion. Now all we need is a suggestion as to where we—or rather, I—would get the men to do it. We’re more than a little strapped as it is.”
“Well, then,” Wilson said slowly, “would you mind if I sat around that bar tonight myself? After all, this motorcade you’re so worried about takes place tomorrow.…”
“The bar,” Da Silva asked idly, “or the rooms behind the bar?”
“The bar,” Wilson said firmly.
Da Silva studied
his friend’s face quizzically for several moments and then sighed. “Would it make a lot of difference if I told you I did mind?”
Wilson grinned. “Well, no.…”
“Then why ask?” Da Silva suddenly smiled, a rather curious smile, oddly contemplative. His fingers tented, tapping against each other. “As a matter of fact, knowing you, you might just be lucky.”
“Lucky? You mean, and run into him?”
“Possibly,” Da Silva said. His eyes were steady on Wilson’s face. “On the other hand you might be even luckier and not run into him. This man is a killer. I’m sure he’s here for an important killing. But I’m equally sure he wouldn’t mind tossing in a free one, if the free one happened to be a nosy police officer.”
“Worry not,” Wilson said, and grinned. “I’ll be circumspection itself. Well, take care of the store; I’ve got to be going. I want to get home and change into my bar clothes.” He opened the door and winked at the seated man. “And don’t ruin your eyes with all those reports.”
Da Silva grinned back at him. “I won’t. And don’t ruin your eyes staring at those girls. Or drinking that cheap pinga.”
The door closed behind Wilson. The smile was wiped instantly from Da Silva’s swarthy face. He listened to the receding footsteps until they had disappeared, and then dragged his telephone closer, dialing an internal number. The phone at the other end was lifted instantly.
“Lieutenant Perreira here.”
“Perreira? Da Silva. Senhor Wilson just left my office. He’ll be coming down in the elevator any moment. I want a man on him—a damned good man. And I want reports as often as possible. I’ll either be here or I’ll leave word where I can be reached.”
Lieutenant Perreira was puzzled. “Senhor Wilson? Of the American Embassy? Your friend? I thought—”
“Don’t waste time!” Da Silva said savagely, and slammed the receiver down. He stared at the telephone a few moments in deep thought, organizing his ideas, putting his plans into proper perspective, and then reached for the stack of small photographs once again. The picture of a man’s back, a man leaning against the rail, which had caught his attention on his first run-through, was extracted from the pile. He studied it with narrowed eyes a moment, and then reached into his drawer and withdrew the anonymous letter from Salvador de Bahia. It was clipped to the laboratory report he remembered as being quite detailed as to paper source, type of ink, and all the other useless details which had helped him not a bit. He folded the letter and the report, tucked the photograph in among them, and slid the lot into an envelope. This accomplished, he reached for the telephone once again, clicking the button for the central police department operator.
“Hello? This is Captain Da Silva. I want to put through a priority call to Captain Echavarria of the Montevideo police. Instantly! I’ll hold on.”
His thick fingers drummed impatiently on the desk as he waited; he closed his eyes, resting them, reviewing in his mind the many possibilities, both of error and of success. There were a series of clicks and weird whistles, interspersed at times with various languages, all spoken in that nasal tone which forever identifies the long-distance operators of this world. At long last the interlopers died away; Captain Echavarria came on the line. Da Silva’s eyes opened with a visible effort.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Echavarria? Ché, this is Zé Da Silva from Rio—”
“Zé! How goes it?”
“Not good,” Da Silva said honestly. “I think we’ve got trouble here, but there’s something you can do to help.”
“Anything!” Da Silva could see in his mind’s eye his heavyset friend in Montevideo waving one hand enthusiastically as he spoke. “Anything! You know that!”
“Thanks.” Da Silva bent over the telephone, speaking quickly. “Here’s the story: I’m having an envelope flown down to you. It should be there within two or three hours at the latest. It has a picture in it, and also a letter—hand-written. As well as a laboratory report on the letter, for whatever good it is. This is what I want you to do.…”
He spoke for several more minutes. At the other end of the line, Captain Echavarria nodded at regular intervals, one thick hand scribbling down his instructions on a pad.
“I understand. Of course, if the ship has sailed …”
“If it sailed, it’s in the River Plate on its way to Buenos Aires, or possibly there already. And you’ll have to be there anyway. And soon. Because I need the answers by tomorrow morning.”
Echavarria stared at the telephone. “By tomorrow morning?”
“That’s right,” Da Silva said grimly. “And very early tomorrow morning.”
Echavarria sighed. “We’ll do our best.”
“I know you will, and that’s good enough for me. Well, I’ll hang up and let you get to it.”
“And you’ll hear from me early tomorrow morning, one way or the other.”
“Right. And thanks again, Ché.”
“Anytime, Zé. Ciao.”
Da Silva placed the telephone back in its cradle and reached out, pressing the button on his desk. Ruy appeared almost at once. Da Silva handed him the envelope. “Ruy. This goes to Captain Echavarria at central police in Montevideo. He must have it within two hours. You will arrange a plane and take it personally. If there is any question about getting the police plane, you will telephone me from Galeão. Is that clear?”
“Right, Captain.”
Ruy took the envelope and disappeared. Da Silva smiled at the closed door with genuine affection: one of the best things about the organization he had built up was that they never questioned his instructions. His smile faded; of course, they didn’t always carry them out, either. But he knew Ruy would, or would advise him.
He put the thought of Ruy and his errand out of his mind and reached for the telephone once again. This call was going to be the most important of all, and the one which had to be handled just right. It would also be the hardest call of all to get results from. He took a deep breath and dialed the Hotel Gloria; the operator answered at the hotel and then quite routinely connected him to the desired extension. It was obvious from her bored tone that big names no longer served to excite her.
A weary voice answered the extension, speaking in Spanish. “Alô?”
Da Silva leaned forward, speaking slowly and clearly. “Hello. I should like to speak personally with Señor Juan Dorcas.”
“De parte de quien?”
“I am Captain Da Silva, of the Brazilian police.”
There was a slight hesitation. “I’m sorry, Captain, but Señor Dorcas has only just arrived, and is resting. He has left word that he wishes to speak with no one.” The speaker made no attempt to sound even faintly sorry.
“And I am equally sorry, señor,” Da Silva said with exaggerated politeness, “but I’m afraid the matter is imperative. I’m afraid I must insist on speaking with Señor Dorcas.”
The voice at the other end remained suave. “And I am more than equally sorry, señor, but I’m afraid that if you wish to insist, the proper manner is to do it through the Argentinian Embassy.” The telephone was firmly disconnected.
Da Silva stared at the instrument in his hand a moment and then hung up. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, his jaw hardening. It appeared that Señor Juan Dorcas’ staff did not understand what Captain Da Silva meant by the word “insist,” and this was one time when Da Silva had no intention of being misunderstood. He started for the door and then returned, picking up the telephone for the last time.
“Operator? This is Captain Da Silva. I’m leaving my office. I’ll be at the Hotel Gloria until you hear from me again. Yes. In the suite of Señor Juan Dorcas, of Argentina.…”
Six
For Nacio Madeira Mendes, the week that had passed since his return to his beloved Brazil had seemed endless. While he had long since developed the patience necessary for one in his selected profession, he had never developed any patience beyond this. To Nacio, waiting could be tolerated onl
y when it served a purpose, and he was far from convinced that in this case it did. And each day that passed made him more certain that the entire complicated scheme was unnecessary, and that his victim—whoever he might be—would have long since been dispatched had he been left to his own methods.
His daytime hours had been spent in complete boredom, for while he disagreed with his instructions, he still had no intention of jeopardizing his fee by going contrary to them. In addition, it would not have surprised him a bit if Sebastian had put a tail on him to make sure his instructions were carried on during the day. At night, of course, he was under the cold and sterile inspection of Sebastian’s girl. As a result life was monotonous. The Zoo, which he visited several times, certainly had no denizen more restless than he, nor one who paced the edges of his cage with more growing frustration.
Nor had the hours spent at the Serrador done anything to ease the situation. While Nacio was by nature a man who could control his emotions, including passion, where it served his purpose, the fact was that he had been without a woman for a long time, and living and sleeping in the same room with Iracema did nothing to help. However, any ideas he might occasionally have had regarding the girl had instantly been scotched by Iracema herself; and although she left a flimsy nightgown on a bathroom hook to be discovered by the room-maid in the morning, she actually slept in a severe pair of slacks and a full blouse, topped off by a long and sexless robe that, together with the uncompromising and slightly superior look in her dark eyes, successfully defied violation.
Many times in those days—and even more in the long and increasingly sleepless nights—Nacio had considered disregarding his instructions to the extent of visiting his old hangout at the Maloca de Tijuca on the beach. He had spent many happy hours there in better times, and for the first time was beginning to appreciate just how happy they had been. Certainly a drink there could do no harm; nor, he was sure, could any of the girls in the rooms back of the bar present any great threat, since they changed frequently, and it was doubtful if any of the old ones would still be around to remember him. Still, it would be a chance, and therefore each time the thought came to him, he thrust it away. Time for these things when the fee was earned and paid. Still, it was a shame.…
Always Kill a Stranger Page 9