He paused a moment on the ladeira, relaxing, leaning against the low stone railing that edged the steep stairs, staring off into the distance over the red roofs below. Eight days before, he had climbed those steps for the first time in over three years; cold, wet, uncomfortable, uncertain as to his future or the wisdom of having returned to Rio at that time or under those circumstances. Now, in the bright sunlight and the warm breeze, he was mounting them again, but this time with all doubts resolved. Now a job had been successfully accomplished, and a fee was waiting to be collected, a fee beyond anything he had ever dreamed of earning. Plans would have to be made for removing himself from the city as quickly as was consistent with proper safety, but for the moment these plans could wait. For the moment there was triumph to be savored and money to be counted, and if there was enough money to be shared with Sebastian, then there was also enough triumph to be shared as well. No harm could come from admitting to Sebastian that the scheme, which he had never liked too well, had indeed been quite good. Or at least, he added to himself, it had worked, and that was the only thing that counted.
He resumed his climb, taking his time, approaching the top of the stairs, anticipating the smile of welcome on Sebastian’s face, a smile he realized would be mostly self-congratulatory for having engineered the complicated plan, but a welcoming smile nonetheless. Even Iracema would be forced to demonstrate some sign of admiration. His eyes came up as he turned into the small areaway fronting the paneled door; a curtain dropped on one of the first-floor windows, swaying back into place. This time, it appeared he would not be kept waiting.
Nor was he. Even as he reached for the doorbell the door swung open in his face, but the welcoming smile he had anticipated from Sebastian was oddly missing. In its place was a frown so fierce, a glare so out of character for the large fleshy man, that for a moment a slight chill struck the smaller man. What on earth could be the matter with Sebastian? What could possibly have caused this reception? And then the explanation struck him. Of course! The murder of the police officer at the Maloca de Tijuca had undoubtedly hit the newspapers and the radio, and Sebastian would have known by now of his presence there the previous evening. So what! He shoved himself past the larger man, swaggering into the dim room. On the arm of a chair Iracema sat, her head turned down, her hair shadowing her face, her eyes staring at the rug. Nacio shook his head. Amateurs, he thought with an inner sneer; beginners! Did they honestly think the killing of the police officer more important that the successful assassination he had accomplished just a short while before? Or that he was so careless as to have left anything at either killing to lead to himself, or through him, to them?
He shrugged and swaggered into the room farther; the girl came to her feet and moved to the window, as if to keep a distance between them. Nacio smiled faintly. “How about a drink?”
Sebastian stared at him a moment as if in disbelief. When he spoke it was in a half-whisper, his voice almost barren of any emotion. “You fool … You incompetent idiot …”
Nacio looked up, his eyes narrowing, his thin lips tightening. Talk like this from anyone, but especially from a fat coward like Sebastian, was far from common. He bit back his temper, forcing himself to relax. Success had crowned the more important killing, and if Sebastian was irritated with the other, it was just too bad. There was no need to see each other ever again after today, and the fat man could stew in his memories.
“What did you say?”
“I said you were an incompetent idiot! An imbecile! That I had to go all the way to Lisbon to find!” The repetition of the insults seemed to have strengthened the deep voice; the large hands clenched and unclenched in anger.
Nacio stared at him a moment and then shrugged carelessly. “Those are pretty strong words, my friend.”
“Strong words?” Sebastian’s eyes widened at the other’s attitude; he almost sputtered. “Strong words?” His voice rasped in his throat as if speech were painful. “Three months in planning this thing—three months? More! Every last detail! And over five thousand conto spent in expenses—” His voice grew even more bitter. “Idiot things, like buying you a fake passport, and those fancy clothes you’re wearing. And you call it strong words when I don’t congratulate you for blowing the whole thing?” His large body leaned forward a bit; he seemed to be holding in an explosion with an almost superhuman effort.
“Blowing what thing?” Nacio suddenly laughed; the whole thing was too absurd. So it wasn’t the affair of the police officer that was bothering Sebastian after all; the poor stupid fat slob somehow seemed to have the crazy idea that he had missed his target! What foolishness! “What are you talking about?”
Sebastian gritted his teeth, hissing through them. “I’m talking about a radio announcement that came through less than five minutes ago, saying that despite an attack that had just been made upon him, Juan Dorcas of Argentina expects to address the opening session of the O.A.S. tomorrow morning! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Nacio’s laughter died instantly, replaced by an icy calm. He seemed to shrink into himself; the wary instinct of an animal defending himself against a threat suspected but not confirmed. “You’re crazy!”
“Am I?” A big thumb jerked angrily toward one corner of the room. “Am I? Would you like to hear it for yourself? There’s the radio over there; tune it in. Listen for yourself. It’s all they’re talking about; it’s on every station.”
“It’s impossible! I saw him when the bullet hit him!” Nacio’s eyes suddenly narrowed; his jaw clenched. So Sebastian was still trying to play games! “What are you trying to pull?”
“What am I—?” Words failed the larger man. “What am I—?”
“That’s right. I did the job and I want my money. And I want it right now!” Nacio’s hand crept toward his belt; his eyes were points of ice in his lean face. “So get it!”
“Get it? Get what?” Sebastian stared at him. “You want to be paid for costing me a fortune? For throwing away what I planned on so long and so carefully?”
The revolver suddenly appeared in Nacio’s hand. The time to end this charade had arrived; his surprise that Sebastian would attempt to pull something like this was tempered by the knowledge that no man could be trusted forever, and particularly not where a sum this size was involved. His voice hardened.
“You heard me. I want that money.”
Sebastian faced him, frozen, his widened eyes riveted on the revolver. “Where did you get that gun?”
“In a bag of popcorn! Come on! I did my part of the job and I intend to be paid for it.”
“Put down that gun—”
“I’ll put it down when I’ve been paid. Come on! I’m sure the money’s here in the house!”
At the window Iracema suddenly spoke. Her voice was dull, almost uninterested, as if the disappointment of the day had drained away the last of the vitality that had kept her going for the past week. “There are some men coming up the ladeira.… Strangers.…”
Nacio almost sneered at the pitiful attempt to draw his attention. Strangers never came to the top of the ladeira. Across from him Sebastian took a tentative step toward a table in one corner. The gun came up swiftly, rigidly.
“Stay where you are! Move away from that table!”
“They’re still coming,” Iracema said quietly, almost conversationally.
The disinterest, almost boredom, of her voice caused Nacio to waver a moment. He stepped quickly backward, toward the window, sweeping the girl aside with a stiff arm. The revolver came up, checking the larger man in place, before he chanced a quick glance about the edge of the curtain. There were men coming up the ladeira! Still, there was no reason to suspect they had anything to do with either him or Sebastian, or the house; there were other houses on the Portofino. But still, there was no doubt it was rare.
A frown appeared on his old-young face; he took a second glance, studying the men below with greater care, and then froze in rigid anger. One of the men he recognized; the watch
dog Sebastian had set on him the night before at the Maloca! He swung back, his face white with fury.
“So that was the idea, eh? I pull the job and then you have some of your boys take care of me, eh? So you keep the whole bundle. Well, if they take me, you won’t be around to watch!”
Sebastian took a step forward, staring at him as if he were mad. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this,” Nacio said quietly through clenched teeth. He raised the revolver and calmly pulled the trigger. The explosion rocked the room, mingled with the sudden terrified scream of the girl. The large man staggered back under the force of the bullet; his hands came up, fingers curled like talons, and then he lurched forward toward his assailant. The second bullet tore through his neck, swinging him about sharply; his hands groped blindly at the spurting blood, as if trying to hold life within him by sheer force, and then he crashed to the floor.
A whirlwind of thrashing arms and legs struck Nacio, driving him to his knees before he knew what had happened. He tried to twist loose, to bring up the gun again, but an infuriated Iracema was swarming over him, clawing at him madly with sharpened fingernails, her full body used to press him down; her breath was hot and sweet on his face. Her hands locked on the gun, tearing it brutally from his grasp. An almost insane continuous crooning came from her throat, more frightening than any sound Nacio could remember. With a supreme effort bordering on panic he thrashed about and finally managed to break the hold and squirm loose, coming to his feet in a wild stagger to make for the door.
The three men trudging warily up the long granite stairway, paused at the sharp flat cracks of the pistol shots, echoing in the narrow defile and resounding from the mountain above. Da Silva was the first to recover. He started up the remaining stone slabs at a run, his eyes bright, his revolver out and gripped tightly in his large hand. Behind him Wilson and Ramos clambered up the steep steps, panting, their eyes locked on the small house at the top.
The door they were watching as they climbed was suddently torn open; a disheveled figure appeared there, head jerking wildly from side to side in search of escape. The small spectacled man outlined against the black of the open doorway took the two steps necessary to reach the edge of the ladeira and then swung about, preparing to make a dash for the protection of the wooded serra above. Da Silva brought his gun up, shouting, but in that moment there were a series of sharp explosions from within the house. The figure jerked, twisted as if uncertain, and then slowly turned in a grotesque pirouette. It took a hesitant step, and then another, paused at the edge of the top step a moment as if considering the extensive view, tottered, crumpled, and came hurtling down the ladeira toward the three men pressed back in frozen shock against the low stone railing. It landed above them, bounced flaccidly twice, and came to a final rest against the wall, hands flung outward as if in supplication, face crushed cruelly into the crevice formed by the step and the rough stone wall. A small trail of blood instantly stained the pale stone, running from the hidden smashed face to trickle delicately to the step below.
Da Silva took the two steps to reach the body in a leap, bending down instantly to examine it; Wilson paused at his side, crouching, breathing heavily, one hand going automatically to his forehead to ease the pounding pain there. Sergeant Ramos went on up past his chief without awaiting instruction, bending low to take what little protection the short wall offered, jumping from step to step. There was a cry from the woods beyond the house and Lieutenant Perreira came running down from the green cover of the matto, followed by another man. They dashed across the open space, dodging from side to side, and then paused at the wall of the house, edging cautiously toward the corner.
Da Silva rolled the body over; it seemed to resist a moment as if resenting the invasion of its privacy, and then came heavily, arms flopping wide, slapping down at the stone step. The eyeglasses had smashed and were white circles of powdered glass skewed on the bloody face. Da Silva bent over distastefully and stripped them away. The unseeing eyes stared back at him; the thin lips dribbling blood were drawn back from the broken teeth. Da Silva made a small grimace of repugnance.
“It’s Nacio Mendes, all right.…”
There was a shout from the house above; Ramos was standing in the open doorway, tucking his gun into his holster, waving him to come up. Perreira and his companion had disappeared within the house. Da Silva straightened up slowly, replaced his gun in its holster, and then with a shake of his head stared up at the house.
“Let’s go.”
The dim shadows of the room, after the brilliant sunshine outside, caused the two men to pause as they entered, waiting until their sight had adjusted to the semi-twilight within. The sharp odor of cordite filled the room; wisps of smoke still eddied in the still air. The other three detectives were standing hesitantly to one side, their expressions an odd combination of professional interest in the dead man sprawled on the floor, and a certain sympathetic respect for the girl sitting beside it, cradling the bloody head in her lap. She made no sound at all, but merely continued to brush the wavy hair with her hand, stroking it gently, rocking back and forth in silent grief. Da Silva studied the dim room a moment and then walked over to a chair and picked up a small briefcase resting there; he opened it, stared into its empty depths, and then studied the manufacturer’s name impressed on the inside of the cover. He laid it aside, glancing at Perreira; the lieutenant nodded as he tipped his head toward the body.
“It’s Pinheiro, all right.” His voice was restrained, as if in respect for the girl’s wordless sorrow.
Da Silva nodded. He made his voice brisk, businesslike, in order to break the spell the scene was casting on its viewers. “All right. Let’s get her away from here. I’ll talk to her later at headquarters.” He frowned down at the spread-eagled figure. “And cover him up with something. And also cover the one down on the ladeira as well, until the wagon comes. The kids around this neighborhood see enough without having to see that.”
“Yes, sir.” Perreira muttered an instruction to his assistant and then bent to take the girl by the hand. She rose quietly, almost majestically, stared down at the dead body a moment, and then docilely followed Perreira to the doorway, unconsciously wiping her bloody hands against her thighs. The other detective took a serape from the couch and draped it as best he could over the dead man, and then followed the lieutenant to the door. Ramos picked up a small throw rug and also left the room, going down the steep ladeira toward the body wedged on the stone step.
Wilson, watching the scene from one side, stared down a moment at the shapeless mound on the floor and then raised startled eyes to Da Silva’s rigid face.
“My God! What on earth happened?”
“A disagreement,” Da Silva said dryly, and slowly shook his head. “An apparent difference of opinion. In which both lost.” He looked up. “It seems fairly clear that the girl shot Mendes, and most probably because Mendes shot Pinheiro. Why?” He shrugged humorlessly. “Maybe we’ll find out from the girl down at the Delegacia. And maybe not. I can’t really see it as being too important. Neither one of them will be missed.”
“And who is Pinheiro?”
Da Silva glanced at him curiously. “I keep forgetting you don’t know. He’s the Sebastian you wanted me to look for so desperately. Well, we managed to find him.” His eyes dropped to contemplate the body on the floor broodingly. “If you still want him, you can have him.”
Wilson squeezed his eyes shut a moment against the pain that was returning to split his head, and then opened them. “The man in the note, I gather. But who, exactly, is he?”
“Pinheiro?” Da Silva shrugged. “He is—or was, rather a middleman in arranging for people to be killed. A go-between. A one-man employment agency with enough contacts on both sides of the law to bring both a murderer and a victim together. A marriage-broker, in reverse. Who hired one assassin too many.” He brought his eyes up from the lump on the floor. “He is—or was—the one who arranged for Nacio M
endes to come back to Brazil.”
“But why?”
Da Silva stared at him. “Why? To kill Juan Dorcas, of course.”
Wilson shook his head impatiently and instantly regretted it. He waited until the pounding had subsided. “I don’t mean that, I mean, for whom? Who paid for the job?”
A faint smile touched the corners of Da Silva’s lips, a smile that did not extend to his brooding eyes. He studied Wilson’s pale face a moment, and then picked up the briefcase that had interested him before. “That’s right; you really don’t know, do you? Well, I don’t think this is a time for secrets. This was apparently used to bring the payoff, and the money isn’t here. And it has a Buenos Aires manufacturer’s name. So …”
He walked to the foot of the stairway leading above and called up it softly. In the quiet room his voice echoed clearly to the floor above, emotionless and steady.
“Senhor?” There was complete silence in the small house; in the distance the faint echo of a dying siren seemed to give an almost false touch of drama to the scene. Da Silva took a deep breath. “Senhor? I’m sure you hear me. I think you’d better come down now. I know you’re up there, and I think there has been enough killing for one morning.…”
Wilson was staring at him in surprise, as if the events of the past few moments had driven his tall Brazilian friend out of his mind. “Zé! What on earth—?”
Da Silva raised a hand sharply for silence without taking his eyes from the stairway. He stepped a bit closer to the foot of the stairs, calling again. His voice remained soft, but there was steel in the steady tones.
“Senhor? I know you’re there. If I am forced to come up and get you—”
There was silence for a moment, and then the hesitant scrape of a foot on the landing above. A man appeared on the steps, placing one neatly shod foot before him slowly, carefully, almost daintily descending. Da Silva moved to one side, twisting the switch of a lamp, his revolver rigidly held before him. In the cone of light that sprang up in the dim room the small body came into view a bit at a time. First the tiny feet in their highly polished shoes, then the short legs, then the round stomach and the arms held with his fists clenched tightly at his side, and finally the full fat face with the hairline mustache and the hair that seemed to be painted in place. He reached the bottom of the steps and stood quietly, watchfully, staring at the two men before him with wide liquid eyes.
Always Kill a Stranger Page 15