“Dull tonight, eh?”
The bartender nodded, bending over to wipe the already spotless table. “Every Monday. I don’t know why they stay open on Mondays.…” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice. He seemed to be saying that he did, indeed, know why they stayed open on Mondays; it was a vicious move on the part of a heartless management designed to see to it that he had only one day a week off, rather than two. He straightened up, dismissing his ill-fortune. “The senhor is expecting someone?”
“No,” Wilson said. “I’m alone.”
The bartender sighed. “The kitchen is closed.”
“I didn’t come for dinner,” Wilson said.
The bartender nodded, the usual formalities completed. “And what kind of girl does the senhor prefer?”
Wilson smiled at him. “Nor, tonight, did I come for a girl. What I would really like is a drink. An imported cognac. Preferably Maciera Five-Star, if you have it.”
The bartender stared at him intently for a moment, and then shrugged. There were, of course, mentally twisted people who got their kicks out of just visiting a place like this, although this one certainly didn’t look like one of those. It just went to prove that you never could tell. “Maciera Five-Star? I’ll see. If I don’t have any here, there may be some at the other bar, in the back.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said, and leaned back.
The bartender returned to his province, verified his stocks and discovered, as he had suspected, that Maciera Five-Star was not among them. He automatically checked the room before leaving; the couple glued together near the jukebox did not look as if they would require his services for awhile, if ever. He wiped his hands on his apron and pushed through the door that led to the deserted kitchen and thence to a second bar that was called upon on such busy nights as Fridays and Saturdays. He opened the door to the dimly lit room and then stopped, glaring. Some intruder was in the process of removing a bottle from one of the shelves.
“Hey, you! You’re not supposed to be in here!” He modified his tone a bit as the man turned. The owners were particular about how one addressed a guest, even a guest who was out of line. And this man was dressed as a guest might be dressed, and not as a sneak-thief. “I’m sorry, sir. This bar is closed. If you want service …”
His visitor frowned at him a moment. He was a medium-sized man with a heavy mustache, who was wearing steel-rimmed glasses. One hand came up to remove the glasses while two fingers of the other masked the mustache for a moment. The bartender’s eyes widened incredulously; he gasped.
“Nacio! What on earth—!”
Nacio glared at him. “Louder!” he growled savagely. “I wouldn’t want anyone out there not to hear you!”
The bartender dutifully lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, it was the shock.… What on earth are you doing here in Rio? I thought—I mean, I heard you were in Portugal.”
“I am,” Nacio said. He turned and brought the bottle closer, reached for a glass and poured himself a drink.
“And how did you get here? I didn’t hear you drive in.”
“A fairy godmother brought me.” Nacio drank and then gestured with his head. “From the highway. By bus.” The taste of the liquor was pleasant to him; the rich warmth of his choice spread through his body almost at once. How stupid of Sebastian to ban a drink! Which reminded him—He set down his glass and looked at the other calculatingly.
“I need a gun.”
“A gun?” The bartender wiped his hands against his apron; they had begun to sweat. “Look, Nacio, I don’t want any trouble. And besides, I don’t have—”
“You have a revolver under the bar out there,” Nacio said coldly. “You always had one there, and I’m sure you still have. And if you don’t want any trouble, don’t argue. Go in there and get it for me.” He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry; I’ll see that your boss gets paid for it.”
“But I keep that gun just in case—”
“Consider this ‘in case’!” Nacio’s voice was beginning to tinge with anger. He poured himself another drink, threw it down his throat, and jerked his head in the general direction of the wall. “Who’s out there?”
The bartender shrugged helplessly. “Just one couple, dancing—one of the girls and a fellow comes in here to see her regularly. And a single, some oddball. You know how dead it is here on a Monday.”
“An oddball?” Nacio’s eyes narrowed; he set his empty glass down on the bar slowly. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. A character. He’s alone, doesn’t expect anyone, doesn’t want a girl …” He suddenly remembered what had brought him here. “He wants Maciera Five-Star. Ah, here it is!”
Nacio’s hand clamped on his arm. “What does he look like?”
“How do I know what he looks like? Go into the kitchen—”
But Nacio had already dropped his arm and had slipped through the door to the kitchen. He slid back the door of the service hatchway the merest fraction and peered through it. Wilson, facing him across the room, was given a minute inspection. Nacio frowned and reached for the bartender’s arm once again as that one came through, bearing a bottle in one hand.
“How long has he been here?” It was a taut whisper.
“Ten minutes. Maybe five.”
“I see.” Nacio stood thinking a moment, and then made up his mind. “You go out there and give him his drink. And then bring me back the gun. And after that—”
“Yes?”
“After that you manage to go outside and find out what he’s driving.”
“But why?” The bartender was almost wailing. Three years this Nacio had been out of Rio, and now he had to come back on his shift! Why couldn’t he have returned when one of the other bartenders was on duty? “Look, Nacio, I don’t want any trouble.”
Nacio’s jaw tightened; his eyes glinted dangerously. “Then you’ll do what you’re told!” He pushed the other man brusquely. “Now, get going!”
Through the thin slit in the hatchway opening he watched the bartender pause at the bar, pour a drink shakily, and carry it over to Wilson’s table. He came back, wiping his hands furiously, and with an exaggerated air of innocence picked the revolver from beneath the bar and hid it under his apron. Nacio, watching him, seethed inwardly. Had anyone been paying attention, the idiot would certainly have been discovered! He waited until the bartender had come back through the kitchen door and then jerked the revolver from the reluctant hand that held it timidly forward. He checked it and stuffed it beneath his belt, and then buttoned his jacket tightly over the slight bulge. He jerked his head.
“Now I want to know what he’s driving.”
“But—”
“And don’t argue!”
The bartender shook his head in resignation, and slowly went back to the bar. He glanced about and then walked to the open doorway leading to the patio, attempting to appear casual; one cavernous yawn and he stepped out into the warm darkness. Through the slit in the hatchway window Nacio’s eyes flickered over the dancing couple and then returned to study the man sipping cognac at the other table.
Nacio frowned. A man alone in a place like this, who neither brought his own bed-partner nor requested one from the management—that in itself was quite unusual. And a man who managed to arrive so conveniently just a few moments before he himself did. His eyes ran over the relaxed figure. Certainly innocuous enough to outward appearance, and looking almost too harmless, and yet there was something about the man that led Nacio to believe he was actually neither. He nodded his head in growing conviction; this was exactly the type a miserável like Sebastian would use to follow and check up on him. The heavyset filho de mãe would have enough brains to pick someone he assumed Nacio would never suspect. Iracema had undoubtedly notified Sebastian the moment he had left the hotel room, and where was the first place someone would be sent to find him? The Maloca, of course!
Except for one little thing, Nacio thought, a cruel smile creasing his thin lips: they are still only lo
oking for me. They haven’t found me yet!
The bartender wandered in from the compound as vaguely as he had wandered out, and managed to reach the kitchen without actually breaking into a sprint. Nacio cast his eyes toward the ceiling imploringly, and then returned them to the white face before him.
“Well?”
The bartender took a deep breath. “He’s driving a Chevrolet, only five or six years old. Practically new. It’s turned around so it points at the gate. And it isn’t locked.” His voice betrayed his shock; he didn’t know what Nacio was so upset about, but he had to admit that this leaving a car unlocked in Rio de Janeiro was certainly a most suspicious circumstance. Especially one that was practically new. He looked at Nacio a bit slyly and then delivered his piéce de résistance. “And he’s left his keys in the ignition!”
Nacio nodded; he was not surprised. It was the only explanation that covered all the facts. Well! So Sebastian wanted to play games, did he? He smiled faintly, leaning forward.
“Now, look—this man will be wanting another drink soon. He’s planning on waiting here as long as he has to. So when he orders, you will serve him his Maciera. But in it you will put a knockout drop.”
The bartender opened his mouth to deny that a respectable establishment like the Maloca de Tijuca had such potions, and then closed it. Some other time and to some other person, but not to Nacio Mendes! He cleared his throat nervously. “And then you will steal his car?”
“Then,” Nacio said quietly, “I shall not steal his car. Then I shall leave you alone. Without even visiting your little playmates in the back.” His unhappiness at this turn of events was evident in his voice.
“But what will I do with him? He’ll fall on the floor! I can’t …”
Nacio thought quickly. “You will tuck him into his own car; you said it was unlocked. And then?” He shrugged humorously. “Forget about him. You close up at four. Go home and let the man who opens up in the morning worry about him.”
“But—”
The light humor that had appeared on Nacio’s face disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I said …” He paused, listening, and then glanced through the slit in the hatchway. Wilson was tapping in a polite manner on the table with the edge of his glass. Nacio turned back. “He wants another drink. You know what to do.”
He pushed the unhappy bartender toward the door, and then watched through his peephole. When the drink was finally delivered to Wilson’s table, it was done with far less nervousness than Nacio had feared, but then he remembered that the serving of knockout drops was not a rare occurrence at the Maloca. Quite often it was the only means of maintaining the peace and quiet so necessary to a respectable establishment of its kind, and the bartenders had all learned long since the most efficient manner of serving them.
Nacio watched with satisfaction as the drink slowly began to take effect. The sudden startled yawn, the rubbing of the eyes, the rather shocked blinking in a concentrated effort to focus—all spoke well for the effectiveness of the potion. He grinned down at the bartender, who had returned to his side.
“And one last thing—a note I want you to put in his pocket.”
He dug a pencil from an inner pocket of his jacket and looked about the kitchen for paper. An order pad lying on the serving pantry served; he tore a sheet loose, turned it over, and carefully printed a few words on the reverse side. He reread them with a grin, folded the slip and handed it to the white-jacketed man at his side. “You’ll tuck this in his pocket when he passes out. And make sure it doesn’t fall out when you put him in his car.”
The bartender stared at him reproachfully, as having interjected an unnecessary problem into his otherwise normal Monday chores. “I can’t handle him alone. Not into his car.”
Nacio’s grin was wiped away instantly. “I said—”
“But I can’t!” The stubbornness of the bartender’s tone indicated that he had gone as far as he was going, and that no threats could increase his strength. Nacio studied him with narrowed eyes and then gave in, albeit far from graciously.
“All right, then! I’ll help you with him. You get him to the doorway and I’ll meet you there, outside.” He glanced through the peephole once again. “And you’d better get out there before our friend really does fall on the floor.”
In his car in the black shadows of the palm grove, Detective Freire was beginning to get restless. He took a deep drag on the cigarette cupped in his hand and brought the glowing ash next to the dial of his wristwatch. A sigh escaped him. He hoped the American he was trailing was not one to spend the entire night at his pleasures. Not only was there no telephone available in the vicinity from which to call in his reports, but there was also no place around where he could get a cafezinho. He glanced about. There could be no harm in stretching his legs; he could always hear a car start from within the compound in plenty of time to get back behind his steering wheel.
He opened the car door, swung himself to the sandy road, and softly closed the door behind him. A beautiful night, he thought to himself, and walked quietly toward the entrance to the Maloca compound. From the shadows beside the gate he would be able to see the exotically colored lanterns and hear the music more clearly; in addition there was also the chance he might catch a glimpse of his quarry, and from that glimpse possibly even manage some conclusion as to his intentions for the rest of the evening.
He came to the entrance, glanced ahead a moment along the deserted road leading to the city, and then peered into the compound. For a moment he stared, frowning, puzzled, before he realized he was actually seeing two men helping—or rather, dragging—a third toward a car parked at an angle along one wall. His eyes studied the scene suspiciously, swung to the car in question, and then narrowed instantly and dangerously. The man being pulled senselessly between the other two was his quarry! His hand dove for his revolver, bringing it out; he stepped out into the clearing, advancing cautiously toward the trio grouped near the car door.
“You men!”
Nacio swung his head about, startled; the bartender gasped and released his hold on Wilson, who slid unconscious to the ground, his head resting against one tire. Detective Freire came closer, slowly gesturing with his gun.
“Step back. Farther. Against the car. Now turn around and lean on the fender.”
The bartender was making hysterical little sounds deep in his throat; he swung about hastily and bent over the worn metal, cursing the day he had ever met Nacio Mendes. Nacio continued to stand there, looking at the detective apologetically.
“I don’t know who you are, sir, or what business you have interfering, but you don’t understand. This man …”
Freire raised his gun slightly. “This is police business. And we’ll talk about it when you’ve turned around. Move!”
A flame of pure fury swept Nacio, though no sign of it showed on his tense, pale face. So Sebastian had not only been stupid enough to put a watchdog on him, but a watchdog the police were following! A watchdog that brought the police to him! The utter, vicious, miserable fool! He forced himself to calmness, to even hazard a deprecating smile.
“You still don’t understand, officer. This man took sick—”
Freire shook his head in impatience and moved forward, jamming his gun into Nacio’s stomach. It was a mistake, and one which would have been a great disappointment to his instructor at the Police Academy. A sudden twist and Freire found his gun arm locked, the weapon pointing uselessly behind his opponent, and the sharp pungent breath of Nacio in his face. A second later he felt the painful pressure of a second revolver pushing against his own stomach. The voice from the face inches from his own was icy and flat.
“Drop your gun!”
Freire’s fingers loosened his weapon; it fell without a sound to the ground. Nacio stepped back quickly, his own revolver steady, speaking harshly over his shoulder.
“You! Idiot! Stop leaning against the car and get our watchdog friend into it!” He stared with cruel satisfaction into the v
eiled eyes of the detective. “And you. You’re going for a walk with me. Along the beach.…”
The bartender paused in his task of raising the inert body of Wilson, raising horrified eyes. “Nacio! No!”
“Shut up!”
There was an unconscious gasp from Detective Freire; his eyes widened as he stared at the spectacled and mustached face before him. Nacio grinned at him viciously. “So you recognize me, eh? Don’t worry, my friend. It wouldn’t have saved you even if you hadn’t.…”
Nacio inserted the key in the lock and opened the door with the maximum of caution, glancing in. Iracema, still in her robe, was sitting in a chair facing the door; her head had fallen forward, her steady breathing indicating that sleep had interrupted her vigil. With a faint grin, Nacio tiptoed into the room and softly closed the door behind him; the small lamp the girl had left lit furnished him all the illumination he needed. He slid the revolver from its hiding place beneath his belt and placed it inside the top dresser drawer with care; the faint odor of cordite disappeared as he slid it shut. He silently began to undress.
He lowered himself cautiously onto the bed and slid beneath the thin top cover. Iracema’s breathing changed slightly, as if disturbed by some sound or sleeping thought, and then returned to its steady cadence. Nacio grinned at the still figure a moment; his adventure of the evening had acted as a tonic, sharpening his nerves for the task of the following day.
He smiled faintly and closed his eyes. So Sebastian had wanted to play games, eh? Fortunately, at the game of killing, he was the expert, or it might not have turned out so well. The pleasant thought remained with him for the few moments it took him to fall asleep.
Seven
Tuesday dawned clear and warm; from the window of the eighth-floor room at the Hotel Serrador the view was of unalloyed beauty. The Beira Mar drive and the curving bay framing the mountains in the background both sparkled with the combined efforts of a bountiful nature and an active Rio street-cleaning department. Nacio, standing there in his dressing gown, watched a city truck slowly make its way along the drive, pausing at suitable intervals to place down sections of wooden barricades which scurrying workmen instantly lined up along the curbs. Traffic was apparently being diverted from the drive south of the Hotel Gloria; the route selected for the motorcade lay bare under the growing heat of the bright sun. Nacio smiled grimly, nodding in satisfaction. The arena for his dramatic act was being prepared as well as if he were directing the operation himself.
Always Kill a Stranger Page 11
