On the Monday night before the day of the fateful motorcade, Nacio slumped in a soft chair before the television set attempting to concentrate on an old movie that had little to recommend it when it had first been produced by Vitagraph, and had not been improved by its more recent translation into Portuguese. It was no use; he bent over and twiddled with the knob, and was rewarded in quick succession by a woman either explaining or apologizing for a recipe, a busty and brave singer whose élan did not slacken as technicians dragged cables between her and the camera, and a man who kept searching confusedly through a stack of papers before him for the latest news.
It was too much! He leaned down and switched the set off, coming to his feet to prowl the room impatiently. Thank God tomorrow would see an end to this nonsense! His steel-rimmed glasses were on the dresser, as were the uncomfortable cheek-pads; he continually wore his mustache and gloves, and now he scratched at the heavy brush, irritated as always by the itching of the gum arabic, and even more irritated by the difficulty of doing a proper scratching job while wearing surgical gloves.
He glanced at his watch. Where on earth was Iracema? She was usually here long before this; as a matter of fact he normally found her in the room when he returned from having his evening meal. Could anything have happened to her? And, as a result, to the scheme? Which would have made his week of sacrifice a mockery? He shook his head violently, putting the thought aside. If anything were to have happened to the plan, it would have happened before this; nor would he still be free and undisturbed. No; the plan was safe. By now their routine was well-established and accepted at the hotel; on the few times they entered together the room clerk handed them their key automatically, and the elevator operators carried them to their floor without a second glance. Or at least a second glance at him; occasionally their second glances at Iracema had resulted in passing the proper floor.
There was a faint tap at the door, followed in a few seconds by the sound of a key in the lock. He hurriedly slipped his glasses into place and swung about to face the door, his gloved hands jamming themselves into the pockets of his dressing gown. Iracema pushed the door wide, smiling at him brightly, but he knew the smile was really for the benefit of the small bellboy who followed her into the room worshipfully, his arms loaded with gaily wrapped packages all bearing the mark of Mesbla’s, the leading department store in the city. The boy placed his load on the bed, accepted his tip and a grateful smile from the girl with a blush that clearly demonstrated which he considered the more valuable, and closed the door softly behind him. Nacio took off his glasses and glared at the girl, his irritation compounded by the fact that her smile had disappeared the moment the door had closed.
“Well?” His voice was harsh. “Where have you been? Out shopping? Is that all you have to do? You were supposed—”
Her abruptly raised hand cut off his complaint. She walked over, swaying, bent and switched on the television set. When the volume had risen enough to form a proper cover for any conversation, she straightened up coolly and looked at him.
“Yes?”
Nacio bit back the anger that automatically rose at the snub. He forced himself to speak calmly. “You were supposed to bring the rifle here tonight.”
She tilted her head toward the bed, her eyes mocking. “The gun is in those packages.” The sarcasm that tinged her voice brought a slow flush to his sallow face. “I couldn’t very well march through the hotel lobby with a rifle on my shoulder.”
He disregarded her sarcasm, moving toward the packages. Her voice stopped him.
“And don’t unwrap them now. Everything’s there; they’ll keep until tomorrow. Put them away in the dresser drawer.”
“I’ll do what I—”
He might just as well have kept silent. Her voice went on, curtly, as it always seemed to be when she spoke to him. “And I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”
Nacio clamped his jaws on the angry words that rose in his throat. It was a good thing the affair would be over and done with tomorrow; another day or another night with this—this—iceberg, and he would not want to be responsible for the results. He would either throttle her, or rape her! Or both! Good God, what an impossible woman!
She walked to her suitcase, her full hips swaying as usual, unlocked it and brought out her slacks and robe. Her eyes came up to study him evenly; she might have been looking at a piece of furniture. “And don’t play the television too loudly. I want to sleep.”
“Wait.” The word seemed to come from Nacio’s lips without volition. He took a deep breath. “Why do you talk to me the way you do? And look at me the way you do? As if I were some—some animal or something? You’re in this business as much as I am!” The anger that had been building in him for days threatened to come to the surface. “Who are you to act so much better than me? Or to act as if Sebastian is so much better than me?”
The expression on her face did not change at all. “Sebastian and you? There is no comparison.” She leaned back against the dresser, the robe folded over her arm, pressed against her bosom. “Sebastian is a man.…”
“A man?” Nacio stared at her. “Sebastian? Sebastian is a coward, a big, fat, good-looking coward. Who makes a living getting commissions for killing people, and then doesn’t have the nerve to do the jobs himself. You call this a man?”
“Yes.” Iracema looked at him evenly. “I know he’s a coward. That’s what makes him a man.” For the first time something approximating pity touched her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand that.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You see,” she went on slowly, “Sebastian needs me; he can’t face problems alone.”
Nacio grinned. “For the problems Sebastian faces, he needs me a lot more.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I knew you couldn’t understand. And there’s more. Sebastian took me from the rooms back of the Maloca de Tijuca over two years ago. He’s been good to me. I’ve been happy with him—”
“The Maloca!” The grin that had crossed the sallow face widened, tinged with evil, and also tinged a bit with anger. “And you sleep in that outfit, and alone?”
Iracema straightened up abruptly, her face hardening. It was evident she was sorry she had ever engaged in the conversation. “That’s right. And that’s the way it will always be.” She disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her.
Nacio stared at the closed panel; the sound of a shower being turned on came to him. A girl from the Maloca de Tijuca and he had slept alone for the past week! The sound of the shower increased; in his mind’s eye he could see her stepping out of her clothing, reaching up to push the shower curtain back, and then standing under the streaming water. It was the same picture that had formed in his mind for the past six nights, and it had been bad enough before he had known of her past. Now it was worse.
The sound of the shower stopped. Now she would be stepping out of the tub, her trim body glistening with tiny droplets of water, her hands stretching for a towel to stroke those lush curves, to rub here, to pat there … And then she would take a powder puff … There was a low growl in his throat at the thought. So great was his concentration on the vision in his mind that the sharp rap on the outer door of the room completely escaped his attention.
The knock on the door was repeated; louder and more insistent this time. He came out of his salacious dream, shaking his head vaguely to clear it, staring at the panel. Someone at the door? But who? He frowned; it was probably only the bellboy, inventing some idiotic excuse to see the lady of the room again. But still … He walked over and placed his head next to the panel.
“Who’s there?”
“Open up!”
No bellboy ever spoke in those tones, not to guests! His eyes narrowed instantly, swinging about the room as if seeking some means of escape; his hand reached automatically to the spot beneath his belt where a revolver would have been under standard conditions. The rap was repeated impatiently. He willed himself to calmness, thinking furiously.<
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“One moment …”
The steel-rimmed glasses were snatched from the dresser top and thrust into place; there was no time for the cheek-pads, which were swept into his pocket. He reached for the door and then realized he still had his gloves on. With a muttered curse he dragged them off and jammed them into his pocket on top of the cheek-pads. He’d have to worry about fingerprints some other time. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Two men stood in the opening confronting him, both bulky and with the unmistakable appearance of plain-clothes police. Nacio had seen them often enough in the past to recognize the type instantly. For an instant panic almost gripped him, but then he realized that had he been recognized they would not be standing there; they would be grappling with him. The thought eased his tension a bit, but he remained wary with the experience of years. The eyes of the larger of the two men studied him almost curiously, and then dropped to refer to a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up again.
“Dr. Carabello?”
“Yes?” He tried to make his voice normal, noncommittal, but despite himself it came out harsh, suspicious. “What is it?”
The man in front shouldered his way into the room. He held out a billfold opened to display an identification card, and then flipped it shut before Nacio could even study it, and thrust it into a hip pocket. “Sergeant Ramos. Police. Do you mind if we look around?”
Nacio’s jaw tightened. “Look around? For what?”
The detective stared at him with suddenly narrowing eyes; the reaction of this particular hotel guest was certainly different from the others he had checked that evening. He motioned abruptly to his partner, who came farther into the room, taking up a position that effectively blocked the doorway. Nacio realized his previous tone had been a mistake; he changed it, attempting to merely sound aggrieved. “What’s this all about?”
“It started out as just routine.” The black expressionless eyes were studying him evenly, but the hunched shoulders and the readiness of the large hands indicated suspicion. “I don’t know where it will end.” Ramos turned away, moving over to stand beside the bed, staring down at the packages there. “We’ll want to see what’s in those, and check out the rest of your things as well.”
Nacio’s body tensed. Damn that idiot Sebastian and his refusal to allow him a revolver! And damn his own stupidity in wasting time talking to the girl when he should have been assembling the rifle! At least with a weapon there might have been a chance to shoot his way to safety, instead of being trapped! Sergeant Ramos continued to contemplate the sallow face before him with hard suspicion.
“And, of course, we’ll want to see your carteira de identidade.”
There was the loud rasp of a bolt being slid back, and the bathroom door opened. All three men swung around at the sound. In the opening Iracema stood, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers rubbing them. “Darling, I’ve gotten some soap in my eyes. Could you—?”
The light behind her outlined her lush figure through the sheer nightgown; the deep slash at the neckline made no attempt to contain her full breasts. Nacio’s eyes widened.
“Darling—?” Iracema opened one eye to squint at him and then for the first time seemed to notice the two strangers in the room. With a feminine squeal she attempted to cover her charms as best she could, and then retreated in confusion, closing the bathroom door sharply behind her. Nacio turned, dazed, to find the two men grinning at him in a knowing manner. The larger of the two backed to the doorway, drawing his partner with him.
“I’m very sorry, Doutor. I hope you’ll forgive us. I don’t believe it will be necessary to take up any more of your time. Or that of your—ah—your senhora.” The other winked at him almost envyingly, and pulled the door closed behind them. Nacio dropped on the bed closest to him and rubbed his hand almost wearily over his face.
This time when the bathroom door opened, Iracema appeared in her usual nightgarb, covered as usual by the long robe. She walked to her bed and turned down the thin top cover, lay down, and drew it to her chin. When she spoke one might have thought there had been no incident with two detectives a few moments before. Her tone also closed the door on any further personal confidences.
“You can turn off the main light; the lamp is sufficient for the television. And keep the volume down. I’m tired and I want to get some sleep.” She looked up at him a moment calculatingly. “And you’d better get some sleep, too. We both have a busy day tomorrow, and it has to go right.” She rolled over and closed her eyes.
Nacio stared down at her. Sleep! After the narrow escape they had just had, not to mention the memory of that lovely vision standing in the bathroom doorway, made even more enticing for not having been completely nude? Sleep! The woman wasn’t human! His jaw tightened. Well, he was! He reached out, twitching the thin cover from the girl, reaching for the neck of the blouse beneath the robe. Iracema rolled over instantly, facing him; her eyes were icy. In her hand was a long needle that had been concealed at her side.
There was a moment’s silence. Then Nacio growled low in his throat and turned blindly toward the door. His hand was on the knob when Iracema spoke.
“Where are you going?”
He looked back at her a moment without answering, opened the door, and closed it softly behind him.…
From the bumpy sand road that led from the Gavea bridge along the deserted beach to terminate in the Maloca de Tijuca, the dim but gaily colored lanterns that gave the wide palm-studded grove an air of festivity, illuminated the huge three-sided compound of the maloca which was augmented by the soft, pulse-catching rhythm of a current carnival favorite coming from the largest of the thatched huts. Wilson, swinging his car through the wide vine-covered gates of the compound, felt amazed as always when he found himself in similar places that the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro offer. Here there was a feeling of being deep in the interior, far from any vestige of civilization, and yet just across the curved beach that formed the fourth side of the compound the lights of Copacabana beach twinkled in the distance, in competition to the eerie reflections of moonbeams dusting the tips of the low rippling waves that ran up to wash one edge of the clearing.
A lovely place, Wilson thought sincerely, and swung his ancient car around in the almost-empty parking lot to allow it to point outward and in the direction of the gate, should the necessity arise for a rapid departure. Not the most moral place in the world, the Maloca de Tijuca, he admitted to himself, but certainly one of the loveliest of the immoral places. Which may or may not explain its popularity among so many of the married men in this town, he added to himself with an inner smile. They may all be aesthetes, searching for beauty, he thought; and in a place like this, if you don’t find it in one place, you may in another.
He switched off the ignition, descended, and was about to lock the car when he thought better of it. Rather—and against all the tendencies so firmly ingrained in a Rio inhabitant—he even reached back and reinserted his key in the ignition slot. This action may, he conceded to himself, possibly cost me an automobile; on the other hand it might just save my life. Which, he added to himself with a smile, was a toss-up in values here in Brazil. He closed the door and walked lightheartedly toward the muted music coming from the largest of the thatched huts.
On the dim road just outside of the Maloca, Detective First Grade Pedro Armando Freire slowed down, nodded in satisfaction, and then continued to drive a few hundred yards farther along. The bumpy road ended in a rough circle; he swung about it so that his car was aimed once again in the direction of the city, eased the vehicle off the road into the blacker shadows beneath a thick stand of palm, and turned off the ignition.
Detective Freire found it difficult to understand why anyone would want to trail a man to a place like the Maloca, since his purpose in coming here could only be one, but on the other hand he had to admit that it was an easy assignment. The best thing, of course, was that a person could only leave on the one bumpy road, coming through the gate he coul
d see so clearly, which made trailing him a cinch. And, too, the music coming faintly from the compound was pleasant, and the breeze from the nearby ocean refreshing after the heat of the day.
He leaned back comfortably, prepared to enjoy his wait, and then leaned forward again, frowning. There was the sound of someone scuffling through the sand, coming across the dunes that separated the beach from the main highway. His frown deepened; anyone who came to the Maloca always came by car. He began to sit straighter and then leaned back again, chiding himself. The help, of course, would not be blessed with cars; they would naturally come to work by omnibus and cross the dunes from the main road as the shortest way to work. His theory was substantiated a moment later, for the shadowy figure that slipped across the road made no attempt to use the main gate but walked silently along the compound wall to disappear down the far side in the direction of the beach. Detective Freire knew there was a small doorway there for the use of employees, and he relaxed again, pleased both with his proper deduction and with its rapid confirmation. His fingers tapped out the quick rhythm of the music on the steering wheel as he waited patiently for his quarry to reappear.
His quarry, in the meantime, had entered the larger of the group of thatched huts. He was not surprised to find but one couple dancing in the dim room; the parking lot had suggested to him that the place would not be crowded. He seated himself at a table as far as possible from the large, exotic jukebox and waited for the bartender to note his presence, watching in the meanwhile the easy rhythm of the closely pressed couple. Their smooth execution of the dance evinced from him admiration, as well as a touch of envy. Wilson had been in the country many years and had mastered most of its mysteries, but the effortless ease with which a Brazilian danced the samba continued to evade him. There was a diffident cough at his elbow and he looked up to find the bartender waiting patiently at his side. Wilson smiled genially at the white-jacketed man.
Always Kill a Stranger Page 10