The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Another policeman joined him, hand on his holster, reaching for Da Silva’s arm. The swarthy detective came to his feet, his black eyes burning. The hand fell away as recognition came.

  “Captain!”

  “A car,” Da Silva said tightly. “He was shot from a passing car. One of you start checking the people here …” His eyes swung around to the other tables; a young couple was staring at the corpse in horrified disbelief from the only other occupied table. “Possibly them. Or the people in the apartments at the side …”

  The policeman stared at him; Da Silva’s jaw tightened. Both he and the policeman knew that no one in that crowd would admit seeing the ocean if they were bathing in it. Witnesses to crimes in Brazil usually suffer more discomfort than the criminal. “I know,” Da Silva said almost angrily, answering the unspoken thought. “Well, get to it, anyway!”

  He turned to the other one. “And you! Call this in right away. Get the technical people down here in a hurry, and tell them I said so!” He swung to Wilson, bending closer, speaking quietly and swiftly in English. “Get Hastings away from here. There’s no need to involve the Foreign Office in this thing.”

  “He can get back to the hotel alone,” Wilson said quietly. “I’m staying here with you.”

  “Get him back to his hotel! And then get back here.” He turned to the Senator who had come to his feet and was standing, supporting himself on the back of a chair, staring at the corpse with a shocked expression on his face. “I want you to go with Mr. Wilson.”

  Senator Hastings raised dazed eyes from the lifeless body sprawled so grotesquely on the sidewalk. “He said something before he died. What did he say?”

  “Nothing of any interest. Get back to your hotel, Senator. There’s no need for you to be involved in this.” Da Silva swung back to Wilson. “And see that the diamond gets into the hotel safe. I’m going to want to see it again, and I don’t want it missing.”

  Wilson looked at him steadily. “What did Nestor say before he died?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Wilson nodded and started to draw Senator Hastings away. One of the policemen looked at Da Silva inquiringly; the swarthy detective nodded abruptly. The policeman shrugged and thrust a space through the murmuring crowd; the two men worked their way through and disappeared. The crowd closed in again, staring.

  A siren sounded in the distance, keening mournfully. Da Silva turned to look at the body once again. A woman was kneeling beside it, placing candles at the head and feet. For a moment he thought to stop her and then desisted. The custom was too strong, and he knew she would not touch the body. He nodded to the uniformed man beside him and turned to the entrance of the bar. Inside, standing back against the doorway with a look of horror on his face, Mario waited. His cleaning towel was clutched tightly in his hands; his eyes were enormous in his small face.

  “All right,” Da Silva said to him quietly. “Let’s go back to that office in the rear. The last time I asked you a question you forgot that Senhor Nestor was even here. Let me see if your memory is as bad on other things.…”

  V.

  A tilted desk lamp on one corner of the cluttered desk threw a narrow block of yellow light across the scattered papers, illuminating the small office faintly. In the darkness the wedge of light cast sharp shadows along the walls. A filing cabinet in one corner appeared to be attempting to escape detection by its very rigidity and its obscure place in the shadows. A small fan on top of the filing cabinet pushed the hot air of the closed room about listlessly.

  A second corner was occupied by an easy chair. Nestor’s Panama hat lay there on the seat, flung such a short time ago together with a folded evening newspaper. Under the small window the room boasted a sofa stretched, its pillows worn and slightly askew. The walls were hung with photographs of semi-nudes that looked, Da Silva thought dully, much better for the generosity of the forgiving dimness.

  He sighed and dropped heavily into the swivel chair before the desk, pushing the gaping door closed with one foot. The room, silent before, seemed even quieter with this severance with the outside. Mario watched the door close with trepidation. He swallowed nervously, wetting his lips, and attempted a defense, although he did not know against what he needed to defend himself.

  “Captain. I don’t know a thing …”

  Da Silva swiveled gently, bringing the tall filing cabinet in the corner into focus. The boys from the lab would go through that in great detail. Every paper would be removed and numbered and listed and studied; every file would be noted and examined—for whatever good that would do. He sighed and swung back, returning his gaze to the pile of jumbled papers on the desk. The one on top carried the letterhead of a well-known liquor-distributing company. A bill. He shrugged. And what is the discount on a life taken without notice, without prior billing, without the necessity of arguing, haggling, or court action, but paid on the spot, instantly? Ten per cent? Fifteen per cent? And collectible when? And from whom?

  Mario tried to stand straighter, to demonstrate his complete disassociation from the terrible event by his stance.

  “Captain, believe me—I’m just a waiter. I only work here.…”

  Da Silva pushed his chair away from the desk and slid open the top drawer, staring almost blankly at the papers stuffed inside. Papers and papers, he thought—and more papers. Not by bread alone does man live, but mostly by papers—receipts, bills, documents, licenses, permits, stamps … And all these papers will have to be gone through as well, checked for any connection with shootings and murder and diamonds, or with anything else illegal. And then numbered and listed and studied. And then filed for endless weary years in some dank basement storeroom in some institution somewhere in Rio, gathering dust and eventually turning to moldy shreds, of interest to the rats and scorpions that lived there, but forgotten by everyone else; filed forever because who would have the temerity to assume the authority to ever throw them out? Jobs for everyone, he thought with bitter sadness—checking, storing, filing, forgetting. But mostly forgetting … He shook his head as if to clear it of his thoughts and closed the drawer.

  Mario tried to hide his growing desperation. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice attempting to be natural, logical, to explain a reasonable thing to a reasonable person.

  “Captain, please. Believe me, I’m just a waiter here …”

  Despite his fine intentions his voice had gone a bit higher. The silent, brooding man before him, with his black eyes staring into some unknown distance, was frightening.

  “Captain, Senhor Correia was just my patron, my boss. He hired me. Every day I come to work.” His hands accompanied his explanation with nervous gestures. “I take care of the bar and the customers outside, all by myself, until ten-thirty when a man comes on to help me. And when the place closes he goes off and I wash the tables and take them inside, I stack the chairs, and I put the bottles …”

  He swallowed again convulsively; it was painfully obvious that the man seated before him was not listening.

  Da Silva bent down, opening a lower drawer of the desk. More papers, more files. He stared at them, not really seeing them. Nestor, if you were going through my desk drawers, instead of my going through yours, would you feel the same blankness, the same unexplainable sense of loss? I know we were enemies, or at least on opposite sides of our lives, but still we shared the blood of our ancestors. Do you remember when you and I were just boys? On Grandfather’s fazenda? Long before University and fights and crime and policemen and bars and diamonds? Do you remember the horse we shared, the roan with one ear that wouldn’t stand up and the habit of shying to the right—always to the right? And visiting that neighbor’s farm and the young girl we both liked so much who lived there? How many years ago was it? And what was her name? Amelia, that was her name. And how do I remember that? God knows … Do you remember sharing our first cigarette, which you stole—or did I steal it?—from Grandfather’s desk? Do you remember when …

  “Capt
ain. Captain?”

  Da Silva shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. And now Nestor was dead, lying on the sidewalk outside unless they had already taken him away. His eyes came up to Mario’s, suddenly cold and hard, staring through the small man before him. He cleared his throat and spoke. His voice was harsh.

  “Mario!”

  “Captain?”

  “What do you know of this matter?”

  “I told you, Captain. I know nothing of it. Nothing!” The spread hands emphasized the sincerity of his denial; the small eyes attempted to gauge the effectiveness of the maneuver. “Nothing.”

  Da Silva appeared not to have heard. “I asked you a question, Mario. Answer it.”

  “I can’t answer it.” The nervous hands fluttered across the bar apron in an unconscious crossing of himself. “I swear, Captain. I’m just a waiter here.”

  Da Silva nodded as if to himself. His thin, strong fingers slid among the papers on the desk, spreading them, scattering them aimlessly. His eyes came up broodingly.

  “Mario, you have worked with my cousin for many years. You know everything about him, everything he was involved in. I want to know what was behind his being killed. You know and I want you to tell me. And I want you to tell me now.”

  “Believe me, Captain …”

  There was an apologetic tapping on the door. Mario’s small eyes fled to the panel as if amazed to find his prayers for an interruption—any interruption—answered so swiftly. Da Silva leaned over and twisted the knob. The head of one of the policemen poked in.

  “Captain, the technical squad is here. Lieutenant Perreira …”

  He was replaced by the lieutenant himself, a young but very capable officer. Perreira noted the white face of the waiter, huddling back against the wall, and the expression on Da Silva’s face. He spoke in a very official tone.

  “Captain, the men are here and at work.”

  “Good. You know what to do.” He thought a moment. “And, Lieutenant, his pockets … I want to see everything he had in his pockets or at least to get an inventory. Is it understood?”

  “It is understood.”

  “And don’t leave without seeing me. I’ll have other things for you to do. Plus the fact that I think I’ll have a customer for you in a few minutes.”

  Perreira looked across at Mario and nodded evenly. “Right.” He looked back at Da Silva. “And, Captain, there’s an American here who says you insist on seeing him …”

  Wilson peered over the lieutenant’s shoulder. Da Silva motioned him in and dismissed the lieutenant in the same gesture. Wilson came in quietly, closed the door behind him, taking in the interview scene at once. He walked to the sofa and lowered himself into it without speaking. Da Silva returned his attention to the sweating waiter.

  “All right, Mario. Let’s get back to you. Do you want to tell me what I want to know, or do you go down to the Delegacía and have it dragged out of you down there? The hard way?”

  Mario turned even more pale than he had been. He was familiar with the Delegacía, and he had no desire to renew its acquaintance. His fingers locked before him, twisting tautly. He wet his lips.

  “I know you, Captain. Everyone knows Captain Da Silva. You are fair, you are reasonable. Everyone knows that innocent people have nothing to fear from you …”

  “Innocent people, no.” Da Silva stared at the other with eyes as blank and hard as obsidian. “You, yes.”

  “I know nothing, Captain. I swear it.” Mario cast his eyes to the quiet, nondescript American sitting motionless on the couch. One look at the rigid face and he turned back, swallowing; there was certainly no help to be found there. “Captain, I swear on my mother’s name …”

  “On which of your mother’s names?” Da Silva looked at the other curiously, as if he were something under glass, and then amended his question. “Or rather, on which of your father’s names?” He shook his head decisively, indicating that his patience had at long last run out. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Captain!”

  Da Silva came to his feet slowly, almost laboriously, towering above the small waiter. He gripped the lapels of the white bar jacket, pulling the terrified face closer. His swarthy face was the more deadly for the complete calm on the surface.

  “Mario! You are a liar, a thief, a pimp, and a man who has strained my patience to the limit. And beyond. Your time is up. Do you tell me what I want to know, or do I take other steps?”

  Mario stared into the almost Indian features before him as if hypnotized; for several seconds he attempted to maintain his air of righteousness and then he wilted.

  “What would you like to know?”

  No muscle moved in Da Silva’s face. “Who killed my cousin?”

  Mario shook his head hopelessly; for the first time stark truth stood out in his voice. “Captain, I swear I do not know. Nor do I know why. He was a good patron; he was always fair to me. And he paid well. If I knew I would tell you …”

  Da Silva waited, staring into Mario’s frightened face. The small waiter screwed up his courage. “Maybe …”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Possibly they weren’t trying to kill Senhor Correia. Maybe they were trying to kill …” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Maybe they were trying to kill me? They weren’t.” Da Silva tightened his hands on the lapels of Mario’s jacket, almost drawing the short waiter from his feet. “Keep talking. Tell me about diamonds.”

  This time the look of complete surprise on the small waiter’s face was almost comical. “Diamonds?” He tried to force himself to think, well aware that he had no idea at all of what he was trying to think about. “They’re stones—precious stones …”

  Wilson strangled a cough; when the two glanced his way he was once more eying them calmly. Da Silva returned to Mario, shaking him roughly to get him back into the mood for interrogation.

  “And I suppose you know nothing about Anna-Maria?”

  “I swear, Captain, I don’t—” He paused, staring. “Anna-Maria?”

  “You heard me. Anna-Maria. My cousin mentioned her name just before he died. Who is she?”

  Wilson, on the sofa, raised his eyebrows slightly. Since his controlled snort he had been watching the scene before him with his usual detachment, like a spectator at a play. Neither Mario nor Da Silva were paying any attention to anything but the expression in each other’s eyes. Mario thought swiftly.

  “I know of no Anna-Maria, Captain …”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Da Silva’s patience ended. One hand freed itself of its grip on the lapel and swung back. Mario tried to pull loose, to raise a hand to protect himself. It was too late. Da Silva’s heavy hand slammed against the frightened face before him. Mario forced down a whimper.

  “Captain! Don’t! I’ll talk!”

  “Who is Anna-Maria?” The tone was deadly.

  “She—she works at the Caravelle Club. She dances …”

  The large hand was poised, inexorable in its promise of destruction. “She dances? I also dance. Who is she?”

  “She was—is—was Senhor Nestor’s friend.” Mario struggled with the correct tense. “I think they were living together.” The words came faster now, freer, as if jarred loose by the slap he had endured. Da Silva’s eyes were locked with the other’s.

  “And why didn’t you tell me this when I first asked you? Or did you enjoy being hit?

  “I had promised …” Mario searched hastily for an answer and thought he found one. “They weren’t married.”

  Da Silva snorted. “And where is this love nest?”

  “I don’t—” One look at the face a few inches from his own and Mario changed his mind. “In Leblon. On the Rua Igarapava.” The small, frightened waiter named a number and an apartment. “I think …”

  “You think!” Da Silva flung the man from him in disgust. Mario collided with the far wall, bounced back, and managed to catch his balance. He stood there trembling; his hand came up to rub
his cheek. Da Silva reached for the door and swung it open. The policeman had been there waiting. He came to attention.

  “Ask Lieutenant Perreira to come here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They waited in silence. Lieutenant Perreira’s head appeared in the open doorway. Da Silva nodded to him and then gestured in the direction of the small waiter, cowering near the wall.

  “This one,” Da Silva said coldly. “Downtown to the Delegacía. I want him turned inside out. I want to know all he knows about everything and everybody. And he speaks to nobody from the outside.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  Mario caught a sob in his throat. The Delegacía was no picnic area and he well knew it. Da Silva paid no attention. His head tilted in the general direction of the filing cabinet.

  “And I want this room gone over by the technical people—all the papers, files, everything. In the cabinet there, as well as in the desk. And on the desk. Is that understoood?”

  “It is understood.” Lieutenant Perreira hesitated. “What are we looking for in particular, Captain?”

  “Anything out of the ordinary. Or anything that can explain his murder. Or anything concerning diamonds …”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Or anything else unusual.” He turned to Wilson. “Let’s go.”

  A slight frown appeared on the lieutenant’s face. “This Senhor Nestor was your cousin, wasn’t he, Captain?”

  Da Silva paused. “He was.”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain. You go to church now? To pray for him?”

  “I go to a night club now,” Da Silva said with no expression in his voice, and led the way from the room.

  VI.

  FAT Paulo swung his car from the Avenida Atlântica into a side street, drew up to the curb, and sat there trembling, his thick fingers clenching and unclenching themselves spasmodically on the steering wheel. The ignition remained connected; the motor pulsed roughly, noisily, waiting patiently for instructions. Holy Mary, sweet and pure, Mother of God, what had he done?