While he waited, the inspector contemplated, behind the reception desk, a bronze life-size statue of an Indian holding a spear and grimacing in rage.
“Who’s this a statue of?”
“Don’t know. I’ve been working at the palace for over twenty years, and when I came Ubirajara was already right there,” replied the doorman.
“May I see?” Mattos drew closer to read what was written on the base of the statue: Chaves Pinheiro, 1920.
On the other side of the reception area was another bronze statue, also life-size, by the same sculptor. Perseus freeing Andromeda, one hand on a sword, the other bearing the serpent-covered head of Medusa.
Mattos was beginning to feel irritated by the wait when the attendant reappeared, accompanied by a man wearing white linen, two-tone shoes, a pearl pin in his red tie. He seemed nervous and worried.
“I’m Inspector Valente, deputy chief of the presidential guard. At your service.”
“It’s not with you that I want to speak. It’s with your boss.”
“Unfortunately, he can’t see you at the moment. What is the topic, please?”
“It’s only with him.”
“Then that’s difficult.”
“I don’t think you understand. I’m conducting a police investigation and any failure to cooperate will be considered obstruction of justice.”
Noting the irritation in the inspector’s voice, which had caught the attention of others in the reception area, Valente explained that Lieutenant Gregório had been summoned by General Caiado de Castro and was at that moment in the Military Cabinet of the presidency. He asked the inspector to follow him.
They went to the canteen in the building that housed the personal guard.
“Everyone who works here is in the DPS . . . We’re colleagues, we want to cooperate,” said Valente.
“I know, I know.”
“Inspector Pastor was already here.”
“I’m working on a different investigation. I’m not interested in the Tonelero attack. I need some information from Lieutenant Gregório.”
“The chief hasn’t even been staying here,” Valente said confidentially.
Mattos noticed that a man in a white apron was furtively gesturing at him.
“The situation isn’t good,” continued Valente, “we don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Is there any place here where I can do an interrogation?”
“Here?”
“You said you want to cooperate.”
“Well, you can use my office.”
Mattos looked around and lowered his voice, as if about to tell a secret. “A woman in the neighborhood said that a member of the personal guard seduced her daughter. The description she gave me matches that man over there.”
“Manuel? He’s not a member of the guard,” protested Valente. “He’s a cook.”
“Better still. I want to interrogate the guy. Tell him to go with us to your office.”
“Manuel,” Valente called.
The cook approached.
“This here is Mr. Mattos, a police inspector. He wants to talk to you. Come with us.”
“What did I do?” asked Manuel, confused.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to discuss it with the inspector.”
When they entered Valente’s office, the inspector said that he wanted to speak to Manuel alone. Before leaving the room, Valente heard Mattos’s first question: “Do you know a girl named Ernestina who lives on Rua Silveira Martins?”
The inspector and the cook were now alone.
“Ernestina?”
“Her mother told me you seduced the girl,” said Mattos, almost shouting as he walked to the door, where he stopped, listening for sounds from outside.
“I don’t know anybody by that name.” Manuel’s confusion had increased.
“Don’t lie to me, or it’ll go worse for you,” shouted Mattos, his face turned toward the door. “Sit there.”
Mattos leaned his ear against the door. Then he went to where Manuel was sitting.
“All of that’s a pretext so no one will know the subject of our conversation,” said Mattos in a soft voice.
“You scared me,” said Manuel.
“You gave me a sign that you wanted to speak to me.”
“Yes, I did,” murmured Manuel. “They can’t know what I’m about to say; they’ll kill me if they find out.”
“Don’t worry, for all intents and purposes you’re a suspect in a statutory rape case, and that’s what my questions were about. The girl’s name is Ernestina.”
“I belong to the Lantern Club, but nobody here knows it. Gregório is involved in the death of Major Vaz. I saw him several times planning the crime with Climerio.”
“Why are you telling me these confidences?”
“Valente was here in the canteen when you arrived. I heard him say that you must be a Lacerda spy. And that the police force was infiltrated with Lacerda supporters.”
“After all, just what was it you wanted to tell me?” Mattos concealed his disappointment.
“They, Gregório and Climerio were whispering, but I could hear the words crow, get rid of him, and others. Gregório, Getúlio, they all hate Lacerda, because Lacerda is going to put an end to the sea of mud. It seems like Gregório is being held captive at Galeão airport.”
“Did you see Gregório the night of July 31?”
“What day of the week was the 31st?”
“Saturday.”
“I saw him on Sunday, conspiring with Climerio. Real early. It must’ve been around six in the morning. The man woke up early that day. The butler, Mr. Zaratini, said he saw Gregório in the garden at five in the morning.”
“Maybe he didn’t even sleep at all. Did Gregório have any visible injuries?”
“Injuries?”
“On his hand or anywhere else.”
“No, I didn’t see any injury on him.”
“He wears a large ring on his right hand. Did you see whether he had on the ring that Sunday morning?”
Manuel had noticed the ring before but couldn’t say whether or not Gregório was wearing the ring that day.
“You may go, but I’m going to want to question you again. I’m going to set up a confrontation with the girl’s mother,” Mattos shouted, opening the door.
Valente was standing in the hallway, near the door. He retreated.
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Mattos said. As he walked toward the door leading to the palace garden, he heard Valente say cynically, “Screwing little girls, eh, Manuel? Getting mixed up with jailbait?”
WHEN MATTOS RETURNED to the precinct, the guard at the door came to speak with him.
“Some guy wanted me to tell you that somebody is gonna shoot you . . .”
“Thank you.”
It was common for people to call the precinct with information of that kind. Neither the guard nor the inspector attributed any importance to the telephone message. The inspector might have paid more attention if he’d known it came from the numbers bankroller Ilídio. Not having been able to locate Old Turk to cancel the mission, and knowing that the inspector’s death would prevent his receiving Zé do Carmo’s sites, in addition to leaving him in bad straits with the numbers bosses, Ilídio had decided to protect the cop he earlier had wanted to assassinate.
But the inspector’s mind was tuned to other things. He called the home of Luciana Gomes Aguiar. She didn’t come to the phone.
“Madam said for you to speak with Mr. Galvão, her attorney.”
Mattos called Galvão.
“I’m going to lay my cards on the table for you, Mr. Galvão.”
Mattos related to Galvão the information he had been given by the doorman Raimundo, that a Negro had been in Gomes Aguiar’s apartment the night of the murder.
“He must be the killer, the thief—”
“Let me finish, counselor. Dona Luciana asked the doorman not to speak to anyone about that Negro.”
“Th
e doorman must be lying . . .”
“I have other proof that a Negro was in the apartment that night. I want your client to receive me or come here to the precinct to speak with me.”
“I don’t know if she would be willing to—”
“Mr. Galvão, I’m trying to save you from an unpleasant confrontation.”
“I’ll speak with her.”
“I can’t wait much longer, understand? I want to see her tomorrow at the latest.”
At noon the inspector’s shift ended. As always, he had signed the poverty papers and proofs of residence that the other inspectors had failed to expedite.
After turning over duty to Inspector Maia, who relieved him, Mattos took his Smith & Wesson from the drawer, placed it in his shoulder holster, and left.
A tall, dark-complexioned man with a mustache curling around the corners of his mouth followed the inspector to the bus stop. When Mattos caught the bus, the man did the same and sat two rows behind.
Mattos was followed to the door of his home, without noticing the tall man tailing him. In reality, spying on a policeman wasn’t a demanding task. In the days when he tried to organize the strike against overcrowding in the jails, members of the reserve from headquarters had shadowed him for weeks without his being aware of it.
When he entered his apartment, the phone was ringing.
A man with a hoarse voice, perhaps disguised behind a handkerchief, said slowly:
“Listen, sir, this isn’t a joke. There’s a guy trying to kill you. Keep your eyes open. He’s tall, dark, and has a mustache. A dangerous hired gun.”
Mattos heard the sound of the connection being cut. Immediately afterward, the doorbell rang.
The inspector unlocked the small peephole in the door. The face of a man, dark-complexioned, with a mustache, appeared.
“Sir, I’m here to report a crime.”
“Look for me at the precinct.”
“It’s about crimes committed by policemen in your precinct. I’m afraid to go there. I phoned you yesterday.”
The inspector closed the peephole. He opened the door.
“What’s all this, sir? You’re confusing me,” said the man when he saw the revolver in Mattos’s hand.
“Enter,” said Mattos.
“There must be some mistake.”
Mattos closed the door with his foot.
“I don’t understand,” said the visitor. “My name is Ibrahim Assad. I’m a commercial representative.”
“Turkish?”
“Lebanese. Second generation. I was born in Minas. Want to see my ID?” The man gestured with his left hand toward his inside coat pocket.
“Not just yet.”
There was a pair of handcuffs in the bookcase. Without taking his eyes off Assad, he got them. Mattos had never used the handcuffs and had lost his key. But that was a problem that could wait.
“Sit, on the floor.”
Assad sat.
“Take these cuffs.” Mattos threw the handcuffs to Assad, who caught them in the air using his left hand.
“Put one of them on your left wrist.”
“You can’t do this to me. I’m not a criminal,” protested Assad.
“If this is an arbitrary act on my part, I apologize in advance. Put on the handcuff the way I ordered. Close it. Now put the other ring around the ankle of your right leg. I said the right leg. Close it. Cross your legs and you’ll be more comfortable.”
Assad crossed his legs.
Mattos placed the revolver on the table. He took an antacid from his pocket and as he chewed it, observed the man sitting on the floor. The guy was calm and alert; he was also observing the inspector.
Mattos searched Assad. He took his ID card. The green wallet bore a silver design of the Brazilian coat of arms and the words, also silver: United States of Brazil. Federal District Police. Félix Pacheco Institute. Identification Card.
Mattos opened the small wallet. On one side: Register 749468. This wallet belongs to Ibrahim Assad Filho, born in Minas Gerais on August 12, 1912, the son of Ibrahim Assad and Farida Assad, Brazilian nationality, Rio de Janeiro, December 21, 1943. Over two stamps, a green one for three hundred réis and a red one for two hundred réis, was the signature José M. Carvalho, Director. On the other side of the card, a photo of Ibrahim Assad, next to the words Photograph invalid without Institute stamp; an impression of his right thumbprint, and the fingerprint file number: Series V.4333, Section V.2222; and Assad’s signature.
The FN pistol of shining black metal was under Assad’s right arm, in a white leather holster. Mattos examined the weapon. He ejected the bullet that was in the chamber.
“Did you come here to kill me?”
“No, sir. That’s absurd.”
“Then why did you invade my house?”
“Invade your house? Sir, you pointed a gun in my face and ordered me inside. I came to register a complaint.”
“What was the complaint?”
“Now I’m afraid to say anything. After the way you received me.”
“Your pistol had a bullet in the chamber.”
“A pistol always has to be like that, doesn’t it, sir?”
“That’s true.” Another antacid.
“Why do you go around armed? Since when does a commercial representative need to carry a weapon?”
“There’s a lot of outlaws running around the city. And I travel a lot. It’s a beauty, don’t you agree?”
“Who gave the order to kill me?”
“That’s absurd. I’m not here to kill you.”
“Who told you to come here . . . to visit me?”
“No one. The idea just came into my head, sir. I wanted to lodge a complaint against the corrupt cops in your precinct who take numbers money.”
“In general, people have nothing against the numbers game. Why’d you come here to make that accusation?”
“You misunderstood, sir. I’m not against the numbers game. I’m against corrupt policemen. Since they told me you’re an honest man, I decided to lodge my accusation with you.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“The judge will.”
Mattos’s stomach began to ache. He put the gun against Old Turk’s head.
“I can put a bullet in your head right now and toss your carcass in the Sapucaia landfill.”
“You’re not the kind of man who does such an awful thing.”
Mattos sat down in the chair in the living room.
“Could you get me a glass of water, please?”
Mattos called the precinct and asked for a patrol car.
He filled a glass with water from the filter and gave it to the handcuffed man.
ROSALVO HAD SET UP THE MEETING with his former colleague from Robbery and Theft at the Avenida dance hall, downtown.
Rosalvo, who liked dancing with the taxi-girls, arrived early. He bought a punch-card for the dances, sat down, ordered a gin and tonic, and watched the girls sitting along a row of chairs on one side of the room. He was especially interested in a mulatto woman, slim but not overly so, the protuberance of her rear end showed that she was well padded with flesh in the right place. Rosalvo liked mulatto women and justified that preference by claiming he was the “grandson of a Portuguese.”
He took the girl to dance a bolero.
“I’d like to take you home later,” said Rosalvo. He was a practical man and didn’t like to waste time on small talk.
“We’ll see about that later,” said Cleyde, the dancer. She was practical as well and sensed that she had latched onto an old sucker good for several punches on her card that night. The more punches, the more she earned.
When Teodoro arrived, Cleyde’s card had been punched six times, three boleros, two sambas, one fox trot. “I’ll be right back,” Rosalvo told the dancer at the end of the dance.
Rosalvo and Teodoro sat down at a special table chosen by the former. Teodoro apologized for being late.
His eye on Cleyde, who was now danc
ing with a fat bald man who had a diamond ring on his finger, Rosalvo said, “Let’s get right to it.”
“What’s that Inspector Mattos like?”
“A crazy troublemaker. Intelligent but naïve. A straight arrow, you know the type.”
“What’s your relationship with him?”
“He eats out of my hand.”
“Explain that.”
“He doesn’t trust anybody at the precinct but me.”
“What’s his interest in Senator Freitas?”
“What’s in it for me if I spill the beans?”
“A transfer to Vice.”
“He’s investigating the senator’s backroom deals.”
“The senator doesn’t make backroom deals.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Teodoro. Let’s skip the bullshit. You and me go back a long way.”
“Which backroom deals?”
“The Cemtex import license.”
“That by itself isn’t worth a transfer to Vice.”
“Mattos is also investigating more serious stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Article 121.”
“Article 121?” said Teodoro, surprised. “The senator isn’t the type to kill anybody. You’re sure? What homicide is it?”
Rosalvo hesitated. It was better not to talk about the murder of Paulo Gomes Aguiar just yet, hold on to a few trump cards.
“I still don’t know what the homicide is. But I’m sure that man’s investigating a 121 involving the senator.”
“Didn’t you say he eats out of your hand? How can you not know?”
“I’m being frank with you, I don’t know yet. But the man is going to have to call on me for help in the investigation. Like I said, Mattos doesn’t trust anyone else. Tell the senator that if it’s in his interest, and I think it is, I can ball up the investigation so bad that not a goddamn thing’ll come out of it.”
“But you haven’t said which 121 it is.”
“I don’t know yet. Yet. The senator must know, doesn’t he? Have you forgotten what you learned at the academy, Sherlock?”
The fat man with the diamond ring had sat down at one of the tables with Cleyde. They were drinking champagne. She had found a better sucker.
Crimes of August: A Novel: 5 (Brazilian Literature in Translation Series) Page 13