“Sign?” Too late he remembered he had not placed the sign in position. “I’m sorry, senhor.…” She didn’t sound sorry at all; she sounded more accusing. She set her basket down and marched to the television set, turning its volume down to a whisper, and then turned to face him. “There is a sick man just two doors away, senhor. There really is no need to play the television so loudly.”
Nacio clenched his jaws on the outburst that almost escaped him. This was no time to argue with maids. “All right; you’ve turned it down. Now, will you please leave?”
She marched righteously to the door, retrieved her basket, and then paused, her myopic eyes taking in the room and its state of disarray. A means of placating her irritated guest occurred to her. “Would the senhor like me to straighten up the room, as long as I’m here?”
Nacio silently cursed all hotels, their employees, and especially interfering room-maids. “I would not like you to straighten up the room! I would like you to leave and allow me to be alone!”
She studied him with curiosity that changed to sympathy. “The senhor also does not feel well?”
Good God! What was it with this creature? Couldn’t she understand simple Portuguese? “I feel—” His eyes suddenly narrowed; he nodded. “It is true, senhora, I do not feel well. If you will just leave, I shall be able to lie down.”
She smiled, pleased by the accuracy of her diagnosis; her thin head bobbed on her neck like some idiot toy. “Then if I at least make up the bed, the senhor will be much more comfortable.” She took a step toward the bed; Nacio instantly intercepted her. She attempted to explain. “But, senhor, it will only take a moment.”
Nacio gritted his teeth. Words, apparently, were not enough for this stubborn imbecile! He took her by one arm almost roughly, and piloted her toward the door. “I shall be much more comfortable if you do what you are told, and leave!”
She pulled her arm free with a jerk, and sniffed. “I won’t be able to straighten up your room until this afternoon, then,” she said, making it a dire threat. Nacio clenched his fists; a cold light of viciousness burned in his eyes. The maid seemed to recognize that she had done everything in her power to help, but apparently the senhor did not wish to be helped. With a shrug at the ingratitude of some people, she backed from the room and closed the door behind her.
Nacio savagely jerked it open, slipped the sign on the knob, and almost slammed it shut, turning the lock viciously. He should have put the sign out when Iracema left, but it was just one more thing in the whole ridiculous and needlessly complicated scheme that had been overlooked! He dragged the armchair back into position and brought the gun from beneath the bedclothes. The television would have to remain muted, but that would certainly not save the little man! He brought the gun to his cheek once again and studied the situation at the Memorial.
It took a few seconds for his sight to adjust to the bright sunlight; and then he saw that the ceremony at the Memorial had apparently been a short one. The motorcycle police were already wheeling their vehicles back into the center of the road, bending forward to touch their sirens. The television camera truck had pulled to one side, prepared to continue its observation from a different angle. His telescopic sight found the blue Chrysler; its occupants were climbing in and settling themselves, smiling and talking. Nacio smiled coldly to himself. Despite all the interruptions, there was still plenty of time to complete his assignment. He shifted the gun slightly to encompass the black Cadillac behind.
The driver was already in position, his fingers stroking the steering wheel with professional patience. In the back seat the man on the near side swung about and sat down, raised himself slightly to adjust some fold in his jacket, and then dropped back again. Beyond him the small fat man was just entering the car, bending forward a bit awkwardly. Nacio’s finger was rigid on the trigger; his eye frozen to the telescope. The little man swung about with a visible effort, sank down in his seat, and then turned as if to speak with his companion.
The movement brought his breast pocket into sight. Nacio’s eyes were locked on his target; the gun held rigidly against his cheek might have been a part of him. His finger slowly, inexorably, pressed the trigger.…
Eight
A few hours earlier, on that same bright Tuesday morning, Captain José Da Silva rolled over in his comfortable bed and glowered angrily at the telephone; the instrument, unintimidated, continued its shrill ringing. With a muttered curse for the idiots who had invented the mechanical busybody, he reached over and lifted the receiver, growling into it.
“Yes?”
At the other end of the line, Wilson winced painfully. “Zé, do me a favor—don’t scream. Whisper. In fact, whisper quietly.…”
Da Silva shoved aside the cover, swinging his feet to the floor, slowly coming awake. He rubbed a large hand across his face to facilitate the process and then yawned. “Wilson? What an hour to call! I didn’t get to bed until after two this morning. Now what’s the matter?”
“Matter?” Wilson sounded bitter. “Not a thing. Only my head’s coming apart at the seams.”
A slow smile spread across Da Silva’s swarthy features. “Too much pinga? I tried to warn you.”
“And I thank you very much. Only you forgot to warn me about mickeys, and that’s what they fed me—”
“A mickey? Who? And why?”
Wilson started to nod and then thought better of it; the twinge of pain that shot from his neck to the top of his head almost made him lose his grip on his ice bag. “That’s an excellent question. When—and if—I ever recover, I expect to go back there and take that waiter by the scruff of his neck and get an answer to that very question.”
Da Silva’s grin faded. “What happened?”
“Well,” Wilson said, pressing his ice bag tighter against his head and turning from the glaring sunlight at his window, “I went out to this Maloca de Tijuca, parked in the parking lot, and went into the main bar. The place was empty except for one couple—it seems everyone in Rio gets moral on Mondays—and I had a drink and prepared to wait around. And …”
“And what?”
Wilson sighed. “And then I had a second drink. And that, it appears, was a major error, because the next thing I knew the room started to get fractious and jump around, and the lights started to get bright, and then they went out. And when I woke up, which was about half an hour ago, I was in my car outside, and the joint was closed. And my head …” He shuddered, preferring to try to forget his head.
“So?”
“So how I managed to make it home is going to remain one of the classic mysteries of all times. The Marie Celeste pales in comparison. I mention this in case you start getting reports of a dangerous drunk weaving along the Lagôa in an old Chevy.”
Da Silva nodded at the telephone in a polite manner, but his thoughts were anything but polite. Where the devil had Freire been? And why hadn’t he called in with a report? “I’ll remember. And just what would you like us to do about the affair? Send a squad car out to the Maloca and tear the joint apart?”
At the other end of the line Wilson stared at the telephone in amazement. “Do you mean you don’t wonder why they would slip a knockout drop to a perfect stranger? It doesn’t rouse the slightest curiosity? I know you’ve been on a sleep diet these past nights, but even so!” He leaned forward, as if in this manner to impress the man at the other end of the connection. “Look, Zé; we know this Nacio used to hang out in this place, and when I go looking for him, I suddenly get taken out of the action.” He started to shake his head and then winced. “There has to be a connection.”
“Why?” Da Silva asked curiously. “How would Nacio Mendes know who you were, or even what you looked like? When he made his escape, I don’t think you were even in Rio yet. Or if you were, I’m sure you two never went around in the same social circles. So why would he go to the trouble of arranging a mickey for you?”
“Do me a favor and don’t ask me my own questions.” Wilson sounded stiff. “I
just asked you why.”
“Unless,” Da Silva continued thoughtfully, “he did know you, or at least knew who you were. Possibly he had seen you in Washington …”
Only the knowledge that any sudden movement would prove painful prevented Wilson from exploding. “Honest to God, Zé! Are you still on that maniac C.I.A. kick?” Heavy sarcasm entered his voice. “And I suppose we hired him when he came begging for a job on his knees, and his method of expressing his gratitude is to feed us all knockout drops!”
“I wouldn’t know,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. For example, what action are you suggesting that we take? That we pull a bunch of policemen from their duty guarding the motorcade—all as a result of your unfortunate selection of drinks at the Maloca—and rush out there to waste their time searching the place and putting hot needles under the fingernails of that poor waiter?”
“I wasn’t suggesting …”
“And have him look at us with innocent baby-blue eyes and tell us that the pobre Americano simply couldn’t hold his liquor and passed out? And that as an act of compassion—and not to endanger inter-American relations—he put you in your car to sleep it off?”
“And I also suppose,” Wilson said, almost gritting his teeth, “that he decided to put the note in my pocket just to keep me warm. Certainly he wouldn’t want me to catch cold!”
Da Silva bent back and stared at the telephone. If Wilson’s assignment by his superiors in Washington was to confuse either him, or the issues, he was doing it in fine style. “What note?”
“That’s one of the things I called to tell you,” Wilson said. He sounded a bit smug, as if happy to have finally aroused Da Silva’s interest. “When I woke up from that mickey-induced fog, I had this note tucked in my jacket pocket, wrapped around my car keys, where I couldn’t miss it. And it simply said: ‘Sebastian—here’s your watchdog.’” He took a deep breath, almost of triumph. “And just what do you think of that?”
Da Silva reached over, picked a cigarette from the ever present package on the nightstand, and lit it. He drew in deeply and blew a wavering cloud of smoke toward the open window. “If you want an honest answer, I don’t know what to think of it. One answer, of course, is a romantic triangle. If someone thought you were a private detective who had followed him to the Maloca, then the note makes sense. After all, some people take their own dates to the Maloca, and I hear not all of them are married.”
“Except the only people I saw there were a couple who never stopped dancing all the time I was there. And I doubt if they even knew I was there. But just suppose Nacio was there and thought I was trailing him?”
“In that case,” Da Silva said slowly, “why would he address the note to someone named Sebastian? Who’s Sebastian? Certainly nobody in the police department that I know of.” A faint smile crossed his lips; he took a last puff on the cigarette and then crushed it out. “It isn’t a common American name, but I have heard it occasionally. Who do you have in your department, or up in Washington, named—”
“Hold it!” At the other end of the line Wilson started to shake his head hopelessly, and then instantly pressed the ice bag against it more tightly. Arguing with Captain José Da Silva was certainly no way to relieve a pounding headache. “Look, Zé, I know you’re tired, and I know you’ve got this crazy idea fixed in your brain—though I’m damned if I know why—but the fact remains I’m telling you the truth. And I’m sure it ties in with this Nacio Mendes.”
“On what basis?”
Wilson sighed. “God, you’re stubborn! Forget it; I was just trying to be helpful. As soon as the four aspirin I took begin to work, I’ll come down to your office.” The sarcasm returned to his voice. “I don’t suppose you’d mind terribly if we compare the handwriting on this note with any samples you might have in your folder of this Nacio’s handwriting, would you?”
“Not at all,” Da Silva said magnanimously. “Be my guest.”
“My, you’re sweet when you get up in the morning!” Wilson said bitterly, and hung up.
Da Silva frowned at the telephone a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then depressed the button. He released it and began to dial. The operator at central police took his call, transferred it to the proper extension, and began to ring. The telephone was lifted instantly; a bright and wide-awake voice answered.
“Lieutenant Perreira—”
“Perreira, this is Da Silva. How are things going?”
“All right, Captain. Everyone’s on the job, and for a change half of them didn’t report in sick. The motorcade is scheduled to start in about an hour, and all of our people are in place.”
“Good,” Da Silva said, and meant it. “And how about the reports on last night’s check-up?”
“Most of them are in, on your desk. Sergeant Ramos is writing his up now. He ought to be done pretty soon.” His voice remained cheerful, the result of having gotten a full eight hours sleep the night before. “I went through them. Nothing out of the way.”
“That’s good. I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed. And there’s one more thing—Why didn’t Freire report in?”
“Didn’t he call you? I assumed when he didn’t report to me that he was reporting directly to you. I’ll … Pardon me a moment, Captain …” There followed a few minutes of silence as Perreira spoke with someone in the office; when he came back on the line the light cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a savage anger. “Captain, we just got a report. Some kids playing out on the beach at Tijuca found a man’s body. They told a cop and he checked it out. It’s Freire.”
“What!”
“The body was about a hundred yards up the beach from the Maloca de Tijuca, if you know the place. He was shot. Just once.” The first burst of anger in his voice had been replaced by the cold official tones of a lieutenant reporting a crime to his superior. “Do you want us to pick up the man he was following? That American, Wilson?”
“No,” Da Silva said. “I just finished speaking with Wilson. He didn’t know he was being followed, and anyway it isn’t necessary. I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with it, and in any event he’s coming down to headquarters in a little while.” He took a deep breath, staring at the telephone, a harsh light in his dark eyes. So Wilson had somehow managed to stir up a hornet’s nest, even if he wasn’t aware of it. And as a result a good man was dead. He leaned forward. “Perreira, how many bad boys do we have around named Sebastian?”
Perreira accepted what seemed to be a change in subject without surprise; he knew Captain Da Silva and knew he never wasted his questions. “Sebastian what?”
Da Silva frowned at the telephone. Apparently too much sleep was as bad as not enough sleep for clogging the brain. “If I knew his last name I wouldn’t be asking you. I don’t know his last name. Just Sebastian.”
Perreira shook his head. “Just Sebastian, Captain? That’s a fairly common name. My guess would be quite a few. Is there anything else you can give me? A bad boy in what respect?”
“A very bad boy.” Da Silva studied the wall opposite him without seeing it. “He might have had something to do with Nacio Mendes, maybe sometime in the past, although I don’t recall that name anywhere in his dossier.”
“I saw the notice on Mendes,” Perreira said, and then sat up. “Do you think he could have been responsible for—?”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Da Silva said shortly. “I’m just trying to fit a man named Sebastian into the picture. He may be somebody who has some connection with killing in general—killing for profit, that is. Or he might have …” He paused. Or he might have what? A record for spitting on sidewalks, or parking in illegal zones such as the unloading dock for catering trucks at Santos Dumont? He rubbed his face wearily. “I don’t know. All I know is the name Sebastian.”
“I’ll check it out.” Perreira didn’t sound too sanguine.
“I wish you would. Or, wait a minute!” Da Silva leaned forward, frowning down at the rug. “What about Sebasti
an Pinheiro? Whatever happened to him? He was tied into a few killings.”
“Pinheiro? I haven’t heard of him for years. And there never was anything to tie him to Mendes that we could ever find. As a matter of fact,” Perreira added bitterly, “there was very little to tie him to anyone. He was a real cute one. We never did get a conviction, though I’m damned sure he arranged at least four killings I know of, and God knows how many I don’t know of.”
“True.”
“And anyway,” Perreira added thoughtfully, “I seem to remember a notice from Immigration about him. He left the country a few months ago; went to Argentina, as I recall. There wasn’t any basis for stopping him from traveling, but they still keep us informed.”
“But did he come back?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”
“Do that,” Da Silva said. “And also check on any other stray Sebastians that might fit the bill.”
“Right, Captain.” Perreira paused a moment. “And how about the Freire deal?”
Da Silva grimaced. “The usual, I suppose. Damn, I wish we weren’t tied up so much with this blasted O.A.S. thing! Although,” he added slowly, “I have a feeling that Freire’s murder was somehow part of it.”
“And you think this man Sebastian was somehow connected with it, Captain?”
“Yes,” Da Silva said, and was surprised to hear the word fall from his own lips. “Yes, I do.”
“Then in that case,” Perreira said with a coldness that was almost ferocious, “we’ll dig him out if we have to unearth every Sebastian this side of hell!” He seemed to realize suddenly that he had been bordering on the dramatic. “I’d better get right to it. Is there anything else, Captain?”
“That’s it,” Da Silva said, and hung up.
He got to his feet, beginning to shed his pajamas. Perreira was a good man, and if there was anything to be dug up on this new name, Sebastian, he would dig it out. If the name means anything as far as this case is concerned, he added sourly to himself; if Wilson isn’t just leading me around by my nose. He shook his head wearily. And, of course, if it isn’t too late as far as the O.A.S. meetings are concerned, even if it does mean something.…
Always Kill a Stranger Page 13
