“No,” Wilson said. “The way I figure it, the attendants didn’t want to admit they were speeding, but what actually happened was that they took a curve too fast and our patient simply went flying—”
“In this weather?” Da Silva shook his head. “He couldn’t go flying. The runways are closed.”
“Flying without runways. Flying under one’s own power. It has to be.” He looked at Da Silva in a superior manner. “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” He shrugged modestly. “Just a little thing I coined together with a friend of mine named Doyle.”
He had expected a smile from his friend, but instead Da Silva was looking at him in a curious manner. “The only question, of course,” the tall Brazilian said slowly, “is what is impossible.”
“That’s easy,” Wilson said, and leaned back in his chair. “Your suspicions about the C.I.A. and your friend Dorcas, for instance. Those are impossible.”
Da Silva said nothing; instead his jaw tightened slightly. His hands slid into his jacket pockets; one hand stroked the envelope there. Wilson studied the serious look on his friend’s face and then became equally serious.
“I have a feeling, Zé, that there’s something you’re not telling me.…”
Da Silva’s fingers tightened on the smooth envelope. It had arrived from Salvador de Bahia that morning addressed to the Security Division of the Foreign Office, and had only filtered through the system to arrive at his desk a few moments before he had left for lunch. It had been written in a small angular hand, had been both unsigned and undated. Its message was extremely succinct:
Juan Dorcas will be assassinated at the coming O.A.S. meetings. I leave it to your judgment which nation stands to gain the most by his death.
Da Silva studied his friend’s face evenly.
“I have a feeling,” he said slowly, “that there’s probably a lot neither one of us is telling the other.…” And he turned rather abruptly to give his order to the small waiter standing patiently at their side.
Three
In the latter years of the nineteenth century, the center of social activity in the then relatively small city of Rio de Janeiro was centered for the most part about the picturesque arches of the section called Lapa, at the juncture of the Rua Riachuelo, Mem de Sá, and the rest of the spider web of minor streets that also sought haven in the friendly atmosphere of the gay praça. In those days, many who preferred not to live too far away were forced by the configuration of the neighborhood to build their two-storied stucco homes on the rocky shelves that jutted from the serra above, and in many cases to join them with the winding Rua Riachuelo far below with ladderlike streets of granite steps, unmountable by the hansom cabs and fiacres of the day, or even by the high bicycles which were slowly beginning to gain favor among the more affluent.
Today, the Carioca, bound by the imagined necessity of living only where one may be delivered by automobile or omnibus, has abandoned these narrow climbing defiles to those hardy souls too poor to afford mechanical transportation, or to those few aesthetics who consider the low rental and excellent view worth the effort of getting home. And, of course, a few who fall into neither of these categories also live here, for the towering heights of the morro are seldom visited by strangers—such as police—since the climb is a long and arduous one.
Nacio Madeira Mendes, slowly making his way from one wide slippery step to the next up the steep Ladeira Portofino, had long since ceased to protect himself against the gusts of driving rain that had soaked him to the skin seconds after he had left the ambulance. His only hope was that Sebastian was at home, and had a change of dry clothing available, as well as a bottle of something warming, be it cognac, or even pinga. The water rushing down the incline of the granite steps swirled madly about his sodden shoes and several times nearly took him off balance. He paused momentarily to catch his breath and glance about, bracing himself against the onslaught of the torrent, and wiped his face more from force of habit than from any hope of benefit to be gained from the action. Below him the red tile roofs glistened wetly; across the stepped and tilted roofs the buildings of downtown Rio were lost in the gray mist of the driving rain.
He shook his head. The pleasure he had always thought to experience upon returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro after an absence of nearly three years was oddly missing; in his dreams he had somehow always pictured himself coming back on a day when the hot sun would be gleaming from the deep blue of the sea, and when warm winds would be ruffling the giant palm trees, lifting their fronds in welcoming gestures. It was not that he hadn’t remembered how it could rain in Rio—Deus me livre, how it could rain!—but it was only that somehow he had been sure he would come back on a day of good weather, and as a result felt a bit cheated. And even the slight pleasure of having outwitted a seemingly impossible situation by escaping the Santa Eugenia no longer gave him the feeling of calculated elation he had allowed himself once the helicopter was descending at Galeão Airport and he realized he was not going to be destroyed in the flimsy craft after all. If any pleasure could be garnered from the events of the morning at all, it could only have been when he managed to leave the ambulance, and this mainly because he had been sure at any moment they would skid into a lamppost, and that both he and the two maniacs in front would be crushed to bits.
The escape from the ambulance had been much easier than he had anticipated. He had been sitting in the back of the vehicle—for he had not tolerated lying down once his restrictive straps were removed—wondering at what point he should hammer on the front panel and get them to stop, when the ambulance had come roaring into the Frei Caneca to encounter a solid line of trucks trapped behind a stalled omnibus. Fortunately, the driver of the ambulance had managed to halt his careening charge in time. Even more fortunately he had jumped down to answer the reflections on his ancestry offered by one of the truck drivers who wearied of hearing a siren keen in his ear when he obviously was helpless to get out of the way. The ambulance driver had instantly been joined by his helper, who resented trucks and their drivers as a matter of medical principle, since he felt they prevented ambulances from attaining their true and predestined velocity. During the argument Nacio simply got out, closed the doors behind him, and moved swiftly around the nearest corner. No one saw him. The few people who were on the street at the moment were scurrying along with their heads bent against the rain, in no position to observe anything but their shoes, or the potholes in the sidewalk.
Nacio sighed, staring up at the apparently endless steps still waiting to be climbed, and then resumed his dreary march. One thing was certain; the job that Sebastian had for him had better be worth all the trouble and discomfort he had suffered. He was referring, of course, to the fee he would receive, and not to the nature of the assignment, for this had not only been understood, but had also been discussed in Lisbon. In any event, anyone who employed Nacio Madeira Mendes did so for one reason only, and that was to utilize the one true talent he possessed. There was nobody in Brazil, interior or urban, more accurate with a high-powered rifle than he; and extremely few with less compunction as to where it was aimed.
The broad steps narrowed as they neared the summit, as if the builders had tired of dragging the heavy slabs up the hill, and had also realized that the traffic at that level did not warrant any more labor than was necessary. Nacio managed the last of them and turned wearily into the semi-protection of the doorway to the last house on his left. Beyond him the thick matto of the mountain ran up to a spur and then disappeared in the eerie fog of the rain.
He pushed at the bell for several moments before the darkness of the house struck him; his head swiveled sharply, almost animal-like, in sudden concern that Sebastian might be away and that his long climb had been in vain. But then he saw the flicker of a candle behind the heavy curtains of the house below, and a sigh of relief escaped him. It was only one of the periodic breakdowns in the services of the Companhia de Light, prob
ably caused by the storm, or by an engineer pushing the wrong button. For some reason this assurance that his native city had not changed in his absence did nothing to soothe him; he withdrew his hand from the bell and pounded on the door instead, taking some of his pent-up frustration out on the peeling panel.
There was a slight twitch of a curtain at an upper window, and a few moments later the door opened to the restricted gap allowed by a chain bolt. In the opening an attractive girl in her late twenties stood, one hand behind her, as if demonstrating the possibility of a weapon for protection. Her large dark eyes took in the sodden figure, and then glanced down the deserted steps of the Ladeira before returning to his face warily. She pushed her thick hair back from her face, satisfied that this visitor offered no threat, unconsciously taking a slightly coquettish posture. Her voice was low and musical, although still slightly cautious. Visitors at this height were rare.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“Senhor Pinheiro. Is he in?”
She studied him a moment. “He’s sleeping.”
Nacio glowered, exploding. “Well, damn it, wake him up!” In the name of the sixteen saints blessed to Rio, was he expected to travel halfway around the globe and then stand out in a driving rain until Sebastian finished his beauty nap?
If he had hoped to impress the girl by either the harshness of his tone or the scowl on his face, he failed completely. There was a slight withdrawal in her appearance, but her black eyes continued to study his face with no expression at all.
“Wake him for whom?”
“Tell him that Nacio—” Nacio’s eyes narrowed a bit, flickering over the girl, over the empty doorway behind her, as if assessing every potential danger. “Tell him it’s a friend of his. From Lisbon.” A gust of wind drove water against the thin cover of his shirt; despite his intention to appear tough before this girl, he winced. “And tell him to hurry!”
“Momento.” The door closed slowly but firmly in his face.
He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders against the rain, staring bitterly down past the stepped red roofs. Far below, hazy in the rain, a car passed the entrance to the Ladeira, sheets of water spraying from its wheels. He shook his head angrily. What a day to come home! What a miserable day to come home! And how could the warm rain of Rio that he remembered so well manage to chill so unaccountably? And, even more important, what in the devil was keeping Sebastian?
There was a more prolonged wait this time, and then at last the door was eased back slowly, suspiciously, and then hastily relaxed to allow the chain bolt to be removed. A heavyset, handsome man in his late thirties stood in the doorway, brown hair tousled. Astonishment fought with sleepiness on his fleshy face.
“Nacio! How in the devil—?” Sebastian seemed to realize at last that it was raining, and that not only his guest but he, himself, could get wet. “But get in here first!”
The soaked man pushed himself brusquely across the threshold, disdaining the proffered hand; Sebastian paused to peer down the empty granite steps—it was apparently an ingrained habit—and then slammed the door and reset the chain. He turned to the girl, standing quietly and watchfully to one side.
“Iracema! Some candles from the kitchen! And a drink of something warm!” He turned back, reaching out, taking the other by the arm. “Nacio! You made it! I never expected …”
Nacio shrugged himself loose from the unwelcome hand and looked about the dim room as if determining upon which chair he might discard his wet clothing. Sebastian for some reason seemed to understand this vague gesture.
“And get out of those wet clothes. Iracema! A robe—” It occurred to him that the soaked man might easily cause one of his robes to shrink, or to fade. “Or better yet, a blanket.” He turned back to the waiting Nacio; the thin man’s lips were curled, as if he could read the other’s mind. “Get out of those wet clothes. All we need at this point is for you to get sick.”
Nacio smiled grimly. “Don’t worry about me. If I haven’t gotten sick listening to you for the past few minutes, I’ll never get sick.”
Sebastian chose to disregard the comment. “Get out of them anyway.” He nodded as another thought struck him. “And don’t worry about Iracema. She’s seen men before.”
“I’m sure.” Nacio peeled off his shirt and followed it with his clinging trousers. The girl appeared from the stairway, walking with an even sway, carrying a folded blanket; she placed it on a chair and left the room for the candles. With the barest turn to allow himself to remove his underclothes with some semblance of privacy, Nacio wrapped himself in the blanket. Its soft weight felt good. He turned to face Sebastian. “And how about that drink?”
“The drink? Oh, yes, the drink. Iracema—”
The girl was already returning, her full hips moving sensuously, her large breasts a lush promise behind her loose sweater. One hand dangled a bottle; the other carried several candles. Sebastian bent to provide glasses from a sideboard as the candles were lit; the girl came forward, poured the drinks, and then stood back. Nacio eyed her calm beauty with inner wonder that a person like Sebastian had ever manged to get a girl like that, and then dismissed the thought, sinking into a chair. There was a time and a place for everything, and the present moment was not for girls. Right now the time was for doing the job and getting paid for it. If the fee were decent, he could have all the girls he wanted. He sipped his drink and felt the headiness of the raw pinga ease away the last vestiges of his weariness.
“Ah … that’s better!”
Sebastian was frowning at him. “I’m certainly glad you made it, but how the devil you did I can’t imagine.”
Nacio looked at him with a curiosity suddenly tinged with suspicion. “Why all the surprise? You’re the one who came to Lisbon and—” He stopped abruptly, his narrowed eyes moving to lock themselves on the silent girl.
Sebastian smiled faintly. “It’s all right. You can talk in front of Iracema.”
“I’m sure.” Nacio’s cold eyes hardened. “But I won’t.”
Sebastian’s smile faded. “I said you can talk in front of her. She knows who you are and why you’re here.”
Nacio’s face froze. For a moment it appeared as if anger might explode, but then his expression became calculating as he studied the girl. She watched him evenly, as one watches an inanimate object, curious, but not particularly interesting. Nacio swirled the liquid in his glass a bit and then nodded.
“All right,” he said at last, slowly. “We have to start this discussion someplace, and I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any. Iracema knows why I’m here? Good. Now suppose you tell me.”
Sebastian shook his head. “First I want to know how you got here. I understood you were coming on the Santa Eugenia, and I’ve been checking on it every day.” He tossed his shot of pinga down his throat, grimaced at its harshness, and handed the empty glass to the girl for refilling, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “This morning I found out she wasn’t stopping in Rio.”
He took the replenished glass from the girl and dropped into a chair across from the watchful Nacio. Iracema came to sit on the arm of his chair, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder. Nacio studied her face; there seemed to be something almost maternal in the glance she was giving Sebastian; Nacio’s lip curled. The heavyset man drank and laid aside his glass. “And it’s just as well she didn’t dock.…”
Despite the soothing narcosis of the liquor a slow burning anger began to grow in Nacio. Just as well the ship didn’t dock? Just as well for whom? Maybe just as well for this overstuffed middleman of crime, too cowardly to do his own killing, sitting here in comfort with his overblown girl friend, while he had had to suffer to make it to shore. Some of the anger showed in his voice.
“What do you mean, just as well?”
“Just what I say.” Sebastian frowned at him, not understanding why Nacio appeared irritated. “I mean that every ship that has docked in Rio these past few days—freighter or
passenger liner—has been checked by the police from one end to the other. I mean if you had been aboard her and the Santa Eugenia had docked here, you would almost certainly be in the hands of the police right now.”
Nacio stared at him blankly, his anger disappearing. Sebastian nodded. “That’s right. So how did you get here?”
A slightly wolfish smile touched Nacio’s thin lips. “By the Santa Eugenia.” He shrugged. “When I found out they weren’t docking, I managed to get sick—sick enough so that the captain arranged to have me taken off the ship. By helicopter.” His grin widened. “Very simple.”
Sebastian shook his head slowly. “You were born with the luck of a seventh son. Let’s just hope you stay lucky.”
“Don’t worry about my luck.” Nacio reached over for the bottle, poured himself another drink, and tossed it down. He considered the bottle a moment and then placed it at arm’s length from the chair, as if indicating that the time for relaxation was over. “Anyway I’m here. So what’s the job? And regardless of what Iracema knows or doesn’t know, I still prefer to talk business with you alone.”
Sebastian leaned forward. “I told you before that Iracema knows about you and about the deal. In fact, she insisted on knowing all about you before she agreed to work with you.”
“Work with me?” The smaller man’s cold eyes became even colder. “I work alone. You know that.”
“Not on this job,” Sebastian said calmly. “On this job you work with Iracema. Because it’s necessary to the whole plan.”
“Then change the plan! I work alone.” His tone was flat. “And if I ever do work with anyone else, it won’t be a woman.”
Sebastian studied the thin tense face calculatingly. The larger man was well aware of the potential dynamite stored up in his smaller companion, but he was also aware that for the job he had been commissioned to complete, nobody could do it as well as Nacio Mendes.
“Listen to me, Nacio. This is the biggest thing I’ve ever had a hand in. This thing has been planned to the last—”
Always Kill a Stranger Page 4
