Captain Da Silva stuck his head in at the door to Lieutenant Perreira’s tiny office; his subordinate’s desk was unoccupied. Sergeant Ramos, wedged in the small space between the desk and the window, and sweating over his report, looked up gratefully. Any interruption in the laborious task of putting his thoughts to paper was always welcome. The thin ball-point pen he grasped was almost swallowed by his huge fist; he laid it aside and smiled at his superior.
“The lieutenant isn’t here, Captain. I think he’s trying to get some information for you.”
“All right. Tell him I’ll be in my office.”
“Sure. And Captain, how about that Freire deal?” The big man shook his head. “Rough, huh?”
“Real rough,” Da Silva said.
“It sure was. And Captain”—the sergeant dismissed the problem of his murdered co-worker in consideration of his own—“I could tell you what happened a lot easier than writing it.”
Da Silva’s thick finger aimed pointedly and positively at the pad on the table before Ramos; he closed the door behind him and walked down the hall to his own office. His elderly secretary automatically began to smile at him as he entered, and then wiped it off instantly in remembrance that a man in their department had been killed in the line of duty that day. He nodded and walked into his inner sanctum, hung his jacket on the back of his chair, and then slipped out of his revolver harness, laying it on the corner of his desk. He dropped into a chair and rubbed his shoulder. In the growing heat of the day a wide band of perspiration already showed where the leather straps had passed.
The artist’s sketches of Nacio Mendes were lying in the center of the desk blotter, where they had been returned after being reproduced. He shoved them brusquely to one side and reached for his intercom box, drawing it closer, pressing buttons to bring it to life and to give him the proper connection. When it began to sputter scratchily, he considered it ready.
“Captain Da Silva here. I want to be tied into the system.”
“All of it, Captain?”
“No, just the Radio Patrulha at the O.A.S. parade. And tie me into the microphone, also.”
“Right, Captain.”
The small box hummed statically, scratching and rising and fading. Da Silva adjusted a small knob and leaned forward. “Hello? Hello? What’s the matter with this damned thing?”
A voice came back, tinny and distorted by the apparatus. “Sim? Quem fala?”
“This is Captain Da Silva here. How are things going?”
“Fine, Captain. We’re just getting started now. From the Gloria.” Even over the deficiencies of the speaker system the next words came out sadder and more somber. “That was a terrible thing that happened to Freire, wasn’t it, Captain?”
“It was,” Da Silva said shortly and glowered at the box wondering why bad news always seemed to get around faster than good. “Where is your patrol car located?”
“About halfway down the line. There’re four cars ahead of us, not counting the television truck, and five more behind us. And six motorcycles in the escort in front of the motorcade and four more in the rear. And men along the way in the crowd, of course, plus the military police along the barriers.”
Which is about as much as one can do, Da Silva thought. “Is there much of a crowd?”
“Quite a few.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring, pleased with the audience, and then it fell slightly. “Nothing like we had when the fûtebol team came back from winning the World Cup, but plenty.”
“All right,” Da Silva said evenly. “You keep on in a normal way. I’ll be tuned in from here.”
“Right, Captain.”
The swarthy captain leaned forward, tuning the volume down to a less raucous screech, just as Perreira came through the doorway. Da Silva glanced up inquiringly; the young lieutenant shook his head.
“Nothing of interest, Captain. Not as far as people named Sebastian are concerned. Rape, yes; robbery, more than yes. In fact, you name the crime and we’ve got a criminal named Sebastian to match. But killing for profit?” The lieutenant shook his head. “It’s amazing how few people named Sebastian have gotten into trouble for that reason lately.”
“A pity,” Da Silva said dryly, and then looked at his subordinate with a sharper eye. “How about Pinheiro?”
Perreira glanced at the paper in his hand and then shrugged. “He’s back in this country, but there’s nothing to tie him to anybody. Or anything. He came in from Portugal by KLM about a month ago.”
“From Portugal?” Da Silva sat up, frowning. “You said he’d gone to Argentina!”
“He did. And from Argentina to Portugal. And from Portugal back home. Why?”
“Because Mendes came from Portugal, too.” Da Silva stared at the other a moment, his brow wrinkled. “Do you have any address for Pinheiro?”
“Just an old one,” Perreira said. “He used to live at the top of the Ladeira Portofino, off of the Rua Riachuelo. In Lapa. I’ve got the number here.” He shrugged and stared down at the slip in his hand. “It used to be Number Sixty-Nine, but he could have moved since then. We never got a conviction on the man, so he doesn’t have to report any changes to us.”
Da Silva started to mark it down when there was a tap on the door and Sergeant Ramos poked his head in. When neither of the occupants instructed him to leave, he properly construed it as permission to enter and shoved his huge bulk into the room. The wrinkled state of the sheaf of papers in his hand clearly showed the ordeal he had suffered in writing his report.
“Here’s that report, Captain. It doesn’t say much, because there wasn’t much to say.” He bent forward to drop the papers on the desk and then paused. “Hey! What’s Lover Boy’s picture doing here? What was he picked up for? Cohabiting?” A grin crossed his normally expressionless face. “Not that I blame him, with that dame.”
Da Silva frowned up at him. “What?”
“Him.” Ramos’ thick thumb stabbed in the direction of Nacio’s picture; the thin mustached face on the ink sketch seemed to stare back bitterly, as if accusing the sergeant of being a stool pigeon.
Da Silva sat up, electrified. “What! You’ve seen him?”
“Sure.” Ramos was surprised at the vehemence of his superior; he turned to Perreira to find the lieutenant staring at him with equal tenseness. “Up in Room 825 at the Serrador. Doctor Carabello. And his girl friend. It’s all in the report—”
Da Silva had come to his feet even as the other was speaking; he reached for his holster and his jacket in the same move. “Perreira, get a car! And—” He paused a moment. “Or better yet—” He bent forward, turning up the volume on the intercom. “Radio Patrulha?”
The thin metallic voice came on. “Sim?”
“How quick can you get over to the Serrador Hotel? Room 825. I want to detain anyone you find there!”
“I don’t know, Captain.” The voice was doubtful. “We’re stopped here now for some ceremony at the War Memorial, but we’d have to go all the way to the end of the Beira Mar to get off. The crowds are solid both sides. Unless—”
The voice broke off a moment, replaced by a flurry of scratchy static; when it resumed it was high and shrill, overwhelmed by the importance of events, its excitement communicating itself even over the inadequacies of the apparatus.
“Captain! Something’s happening up ahead! I think near the War Memorial!”
“What!” Da Silva bent closer, his eyes blazing. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. The motorcycle escort pulled away, and then the first car, but when the second car started up it pulled over; damned near hit the steps! I think there was an accident or something! The whole crowd is closing in!”
Da Silva exploded. “Well, damn it, don’t sit there! I want to know what happened! And to whom!”
“I’ll get right over there.…”
“And thank you very much,” Da Silva growled, and glared at the small box. Perreira was already on his feet, standing near the door.
&
nbsp; “I’ll get over to the Serrador, Captain. We’ll cover the streets all around the place.”
Da Silva held up his hand almost wearily. “Hold it. We don’t even know what happened. And if it’s what we both think, it’s too late now, anyway. We couldn’t possibly cover that maze of streets before he’d be away from there.” He swung back to the intercom, clamping his jaws to prevent his blasting into the small box. “Well? Well?”
A new voice answered him, deeply apologetic. “The sergeant’s on his way over there on foot, Captain. The car couldn’t possibly get through. The crowds are all around the car up there. The motorcycle police are trying to clear a space for the ambulance now—”
“What ambulance? Damn it, what happened?”
“I don’t know, Captain.…”
Da Silva opened his mouth and then slowly closed it again. Blasting at the man in the Radio Patrulha certainly wouldn’t help anything. He looked up at Perreira.
“Unless we want to wait here all day for news, we’re going to have to assume that whatever happened down there involved Nacio Mendes, and that he’s tied in with Sebastian Pinheiro somehow.”
“On what basis, Captain?”
“On the basis that we don’t have anything else,” Da Silva said bitterly. He frowned at the man above him. “Where does this Pinheiro live again?”
“I told you, Captain. On the top of the Ladeira Portofino, number sixty-nine.” Perreira shook his head doubtfully. “But that was over three years ago.”
“Then let’s just hope the housing shortage kept him there,” Da Silva said shortly. His thick fingers drummed on the desk. “That’s pretty open up there, isn’t it?”
Perreira understood him. “Up to the top it’s open. After that, of course, it’s all woods.” He studied his superior. “From the house you’d be able to see anyone coming up the ladeira.”
“And beyond it? Doesn’t it lead up the mountain?”
“That’s true.” Perreira thought a moment. “You could take a car up to Santa Tereza and leave it there, and then come down through the matto. But it would take a lot longer to get there that way.”
Da Silva frowned at the map on the wall a moment and then made up his mind. His dark eyes came up to meet those of his young lieutenant. “All right. You take two men and go up to Santa Tereza, and then come down from above. I’ll take Ramos, here, and go up the ladeira from Lapa.” A sudden thought came to him. “Wait a second—how about the backs of the houses along the ladeira?”
Perreira shook his head decisively. “Those houses are all built right up against the rock, Captain. It would be almost impossible to try to go up that way.”
“Or to go down,” Da Silva said slowly, and nodded in satisfaction. “All right; you get up there and cover the house from the top, from the woods. We’ll come up the front.”
Perreira looked unhappy. “You’ll be a sitting duck on those steps, Captain, if there’s any trouble …” One look at the expression that flashed across Da Silva’s swarthy face and he swallowed the balance of his words. “Yes, sir!”
“How long will it take you to get up there and get set?”
“From here, about forty-five minutes to an hour.”
“Then we’ll make it in an hour and fifteen minutes.” He checked his watch. “It’s ten thirty-five now. At eleven-fifty.” His jaw tightened. “We’ll drop in for lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” Perreira said, and closed the door behind himself.
Da Silva bent forward, twisting the knob of the intercom; his only reward was an increase in static. “Hello? Hello? What the hell’s the matter with this thing?”
“Sim?”
“Damn it! What’s the matter with you men down there? Are you tongue-tied or something? What’s happening down there?”
The voice of the other tried to appeal to the captain’s logic. “The sergeant isn’t back yet—”
“Great!” Da Silva said in disgust. “I’ll read about it in tomorrow’s newspaper!” He came to his feet, reaching for his holster, slipping it on. The telephone rang as he took his jacket from behind the chair; he picked it up, barking into it. “Yes?”
It was his secretary from the outer office. “An outside telephone call for you, Captain.”
“I’ll call them later,” Da Silva said brusquely, and prepared to hang up.
“But it’s from Buenos Aires—”
“Oh!” He tossed his jacket to one side and dropped back into his chair, dragging the instrument closer. “Hello? All right, I’ll wait.” His hand brought a pad closer and dug a pencil from a drawer while operators traded weird sounds in his ear. At last the line cleared and he leaned forward, his eyes bright.
“Hello? Echavarria? What?” He began to scribble furiously, nodding at the telephone. “What? Oh, good! Very good! The ship was already there? And you saw the captain? What? Good—very good.… And the note? It was? You’re sure? Wonderful! What? Yes, I’ve got it.” He finished writing and nodded to the far-off voice, his fingers twiddling the pencil. “Yes, I’ve got it. But you’re really sure about the note?”
The faint buzz of the voice as heard in the quiet room seemed to increase in intensity; Da Silva nodded again. “Fine. In fact, more than fine. If you’re satisfied, I am. What?” A faint smile came across his tired face. “Of course I’m lucky. It’s better than having brains any time. Right. And thanks a million. I’ll be in touch.”
He placed the instrument back on the hook and then stared at it for several moments, letting the last pieces of the puzzle drop neatly into their proper slots. Now, if Sebastian had only not moved his residence—and if, of course, he was the proper Sebastian—and if … A lot of ifs, he thought to himself, but on the other hand the thing made sense, and that’s what answered the motives of men. The scribbled notes were folded and tucked into his shirt pocket. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, tilting his head in the direction of the door; Ramos, who had been standing quietly to one side, only vaguely understanding what was going on, instantly understood the gesture. He nodded and opened the door for his chief; on the outside, with one hand poised to knock, stood Wilson.
The nondescript man lowered his hand almost apologetically and looked from Ramos to Da Silva.
“Hello, Sergeant. Hello, Zé. What’s all the excitement? I saw Perreira when I came in, and he looked like he was on his way to a fire. And you two look like you’re on your way to hold the ladder for him.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “Here’s that note I was telling you about, Zé.”
Da Silva finished slipping into his jacket, took the note and glanced at it, and then tossed it on the desk. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. We’re on our way—”
“Wait?” Wilson frowned. “You mean you’re not even going to check the handwriting?”
“No.” Da Silva smiled faintly. “I’ve got a theory, and if your note wasn’t written by Mendes, I’d have to throw it away. And right now there isn’t time for that.” He studied Wilson’s drawn face a moment. “You know, Wilson, you were in on this thing right from the beginning—in fact, you and your story about the man who disappeared from the ambulance were really the start of this case. So how would you like to be in on the ending?” He took a deep breath. “I hope.…”
Wilson studied him suspiciously. “What’s up?”
“Come on along and find out.” Da Silva took him by the arm and urged him in the direction of the door. “You may find it interesting.”
For a moment Wilson held back, and then allowed himself to be drawn toward the door. “Well, all right,” he said a bit doubtfully. “There’s just one thing, though …”
Da Silva stared at him. “And what’s that?”
“Well,” Wilson said, putting his hand to his head and wincing slightly, “if you’re going in a police car and feel like using the siren, do me a favor and play it softly.…”
Nine
Nacio Madeira Mendes, slowly climbing the Ladeira Portofino, reviewed for the fourth
or fifth time the steps he had taken once he had seen the small figure in the black Cadillac slam back against the side of the car, and had seen the look of incredulous shock flash across the small round face. There had been no time for further observation, nor had any been required. Nacio’s mind had coldly blanked out the frozen tableau caught in the tubular gunsight, and had turned instantly to the steps now necessary to be taken. Nor had his recollection of those steps uncovered any error or oversight.
The gun had been thrust deep beneath the bedclothes and a pillow tossed on top to disguise its outline; the armchair had been swung to a new position. His eyeglasses had been hooked into place, his revolver recovered from the dresser and tucked beneath his belt and his jacket buttoned over it; the doorknob of the room had been properly wiped when he left. All according to schedule. He even recalled with a touch of amusement the head poked inquiringly out of a door near his when he emerged, a head seeking the source of the strange noise; without breaking his stride he had pointed farther along the dim hallway and then had reached the stairway exit and was trotting down the steep concrete steps. The corridor below led to the employees’ entrance, and he had paused in the shadowed hall to strip his gloves from his hands and shove them deep into one pocket, and had then pressed with his shoulder against the heavy locking-bar, stepping out into the street.
The growing sound of a siren coming along the Beira Mar had echoed in the distance, no very unusual sound in Rio, identifying an ambulance he was certain would be of no use to his victim. He could picture the growing excitement and startled disbelief of the spectators stirring across the Praça Paris before the War Memorial, but here in the narrow Rua Senador Dantas no knowledge of the event had had time to penetrate. Nor had there been any further indication of the fateful event as he had calmly walked to the Lapa arches, marched beneath them into the Rua Riachuelo, and had eventually come to the Ladeira Portofino.
Always Kill a Stranger Page 14