“Good,” said the heavyset man, satisfied, and nodded. “Then suppose we get on with it, eh?”
He stepped over the body casually, moving to the side of the plane, swinging the narrow door open to lean over and rummage on the floorboards within. Two boxes were withdrawn, and a skein of wire tightly looped; a flashlight was removed from its clip near the pilot’s seat and slung from his belt. The heavier of the boxes was handed to his partner; he made one last inspection to be sure he had not forgotten anything and then closed the door against any animal intruders during their absence. The lantern was retrieved from its position near the nose wheel and held high, its beam steadily piercing the darkness, as the two men moved in the direction of the bridge.
At the edge of the chasm they paused. The heavier man directed the shaft of light into the gorge, studying the twisting path leading down past the bridge piers to disappear into the depths. The light was raised, traveling up the white columns to the concrete girders holding the roadway, and then brought down again to the base cut in rock. He nodded and set his burden on the ground.
“You take the lantern; you’ll need it.” He handed it to his companion and unhooked the flashlight from his belt, flicking the switch and laying it down beside the black box. He squatted down in the glow of light, fumbling with the brass terminals that studded the surface of the box. A knife was withdrawn from a pocket, opened, and used to skin the wires protruding from the skein. The other watched him in silence. Suddenly the squatting man paused, looking up with a dark frown.
“Well?”
The smaller man awoke from his reverie; he hurriedly picked up the lantern and the roll of wire. The shaft of light from the Coleman disappeared over the brow of the cliff, sending back wildly swinging shadows to crisscross the wall of trees and finally fade from sight. After the first uneven jerk the wire payed out more slowly, pausing every now and then as some obstacle on the treacherous path was overcome. The waiting man hummed a tune softly as he waited, feeling the strands of wire trail gently through his fingers. There was a longer pause, followed by a slight dragging on the wire. He calculated the amount remaining, subtracted it from the full skein, and nodded in satisfaction. He allowed the wire to slip free of his grip and turned, bringing his hands to the terminal-studded cover of the box.
“All hooked up, my friend?” he said softly to himself. “Well, we’ll soon find out. Ciao.” His white teeth suddenly gleamed in a harsh and humorless grin; without further hesitation he pressed heavily on the plunger of the box.
The bridge coughed diffidently, rising gently in the center as if to protest politely being disturbed in its slumber. There was a sudden reverberation from below, repeated again and again as the dull shock waves of the explosion rolled echoingly along the chasm walls seeking outlet. For a moment the bridge hesitated, poised under the moonlight, vainly attempting to comprehend the unwarranted attack, and then it conceded defeat, folding almost gracefully, collapsing, sliding toward the river below, and taking with it the few trees that had managed a precarious hold on the rocky walls. A hollow rumble marked its descent, ending in a faint crash; the naked abutments remained, shining in the moonlight like jagged white teeth in the black mouth of the fissure. The echo of the crash returned several times, fainter each time, and then at last faded shudderingly into silence. For a moment the jungle seemed to hold its breath, waiting, and then it exploded, voicing its displeasure at the frightening sound in a thousand growls and cries and screams.
The man at the detonator came slowly to his feet and moved to the edge of the chasm, playing the light from the flashlight down the rocky walls. The faint beam lost itself on the cloud of dust that had swirled up from the explosion and now hovered protectingly over the shattered piers. He listened awhile, intently, playing the beam back and forth, and then with a faint shrug returned to his box, squatting down and tugging at the wires that trailed below. They resisted a moment, and then what remained of them came along, wriggling silently up the canyon walls and through the underbrush. He wound them about the handle with expert ease, tucking the ends in neatly, and then came to his feet once again.
“You agreed with me, remember?” he said softly, addressing the swarthy little man buried below under tons of crushed concrete. “We really didn’t want a lot of witnesses, did we?”
He smiled at the thought and hefted the black box experimentally, as if deciding whether to throw it over the brink of the chasm or to take it back to the plane with him. It was doubtful that it would ever be found, and he knew it could never be traced to him; but there was still no need to take the chance. Dropped in another part of that vast jungle from the height of a flying plane, together with the attaché case, would be better. His grip on the handle tightened; he glanced at the shattered bridge once again.
“And also, my friend,” he added quietly with a smile, “while small, you still weighed close to sixty kilos yourself.”
The flashlight bobbed up and down as he tramped back across the field toward the waiting plane. The black box bumped against his leg with each step, like a pet who had performed well and clamored for recognition. It had been a full night, but one that had been well thought out, and its success, therefore, should not have been surprising. Still, one had to recognize the possibility of failure in bringing off the deaths of two men, both virtual strangers; but actually the plan had gone quite well. Of course, he might have waited until the plane had been loaded before disposing of the swarthy one—because now he would have to do it himself—but it might have been taking a chance. The little man might have started to think; this way was better. And, of course, there was still the job of disposing of the body beneath the plane, but that really was no major problem. It could be dragged to the cliff and dumped over to join the swarthy one and the remains of the bridge, or it could even be pulled to the edge of the jungle, much closer, and left to the mercy of the animals. Or it could even be left where it lay in the open field; the urubús would spot it from their wheeling observation points in the sky with morning’s first light, and would make short of it. For best results, in that case, the clothing would have to be removed first, but once the black scavengers had made their meal, there would be little left for identification.
He came to the plane and set the box on the ground, turning to duck under the wing, raising the flashlight, and then froze, drawing his breath in sharply, feeling a chill sweep his spine.
The body was gone!
For one moment his mind refused to encompass the fact, and then for another it attempted to rationalize the disappearance as being the work of one of the braver of the jungle cats, but he thrust the thought aside as quickly as it had come, as being unworthy of anyone clever enough to have planned as he had. The first cold feeling of panic conquered, he moved swiftly to the plane, revolver ready in his hand. He pulled the door open, inspecting the interior. As far as he could tell, nothing in the tiny cabin had been touched; the high-powered rifle clipped to the fire wall was still there, and that—obviously—would have been the first object of a search. With a frown he returned to the spot where the body had sprawled, bending down, training the flashlight on the bloodstained earth, and then noting the erratic trail of red drops wavering toward the thick stand of trees that walled off the airstrip. With a grunt of satisfaction, not untinged with amusement, he moved forward, following the trail to its end in the heavy brush, and then raised his voice, addressing the jungle.
“My friend”—his voice echoed hollowly in the open space; his grip on the raised weapon remained steady—“why not come out and be given a merciful death? A quick bullet?” He sounded—and was—sincere. “Believe me, the jungle is not a good way to die.”
There was a sudden chatter from a band of monkeys overhead, as if they were taking issue with his statement. He hesitated a moment longer, awaiting an answer, and then with a shrug returned to the plane. Armed and in good health, a stranger to these matos would be hard put to preserve life; unarmed and wounded merely meant that the jungl
e would quickly make up for his poor marksmanship. He tucked his revolver back into its holster, glanced over his shoulder once at the inhospitable forest behind, and began the task of loading the plane.
It was nearly dawn when he finished. He stood a moment, bathed in sweat, fighting for breath, and then hoisted himself wearily within the plane and buckled himself into his seat. First one motor and then the second whined shrilly before bursting into power, puffing clouds of gray smoke. The landing lights were switched on and responded, cutting through the darkness with twin splashes of light scattering themselves purposelessly in pools beneath the vibrating wings; he idled the motors for several minutes, checking the instruments, and then slowly pulled back on the throttles, bumping unevenly toward one end of the field.
As he swung the plane about for takeoff, the wing lights bathed the jungle’s edge, and he felt a certain touch of pity. He brought the motors up in speed, studying his instruments intently, and then his foot had released the brake and he was racing across the rough earth, bouncing unevenly. And then he was clear of the earth, joining the brighter moonlight and the cooler air, rising above the jungle, glancing down over his shoulder at the diminishing rectangle of the airstrip even as his hands automatically trimmed the ship for its extra weight.
He frowned. Not that the wounded man offered any danger; actually, had the man been conscious, he would have been far better off accepting the plea from the forest’s edge and coming out to be given a decent death. But that was not the point. It was simply that he hadn’t planned it that way. It just wasn’t the way he liked things to be.
Not neat, he chided himself sternly, and banked the plane gently toward the west, and the greater darkness there.
2
Captain José Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian police and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, dropped wearily from the wing of the small plane that had brought him back to Galeão Airport in Rio de Janeiro, and wordlessly reached back to accept from the pilot first an Army knapsack tightly strapped shut and then his well-worn suitcase. With a grunt of farewell that could not possibly have adequately expressed his irritation with his assignment, the pilot, the plane, and conditions in the world in general, he tramped across the concrete apron toward the police car parked—per his radioed instruction—in the shadows of the Air Force Administration Building. His four-day growth of beard itched maddeningly, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his ears buzzed from the combination of cabin noises which had convinced him, for the past six hours, that the crate in which he had been flying was about to bow to the inevitable logic of obsolescence and shake itself to pieces in midair. If any good were to be gleaned from the trip at all, he thought sourly, it was that the racket of creaking metal and laboring engine made the incessant and needlessly cheerful chatter of the pilot unintelligible.
The heavy heat of the runway came up to smother him. The sun, just sinking over the hills to the west, threw his shadow before him grotesquely, making monsters of his baggage, and then went on to tint the calm black waters of the bay with a shuddering swath of gold. In the far distance, beneath the watchful eye of Corcovado and its statue of Christ, the white buildings of downtown Rio lined up like tiny toy soldiers; the highest windows of the new apartments caught the slanting rays and reflected them, winking back in friendly manner. It was a sight that normally uplifted Captain Da Silva when returning to his beloved Rio de Janeiro, but at the moment his main concern was to get home, get out of his stiff, soiled clothing, take a hot and prolonged bath, and then sleep for a week.
The driver of the police car awaiting him was a more than normally attractive young lady, and at any other time Da Silva’s eyes would have widened appreciatively at such beauty; but at the moment he was having trouble merely keeping them open. She was dressed in the chocolate brown blouse and skirt of the recruit policewoman, but neither her rigid stance, drawn up to attention beside the open door of the car, nor the impersonality of the uniform, did much to hide the fact that she filled the stiff cloth excellently. Contrary to regulations, she was not wearing her prescribed cap, and her brown hair was thick and luxuriant; her dark eyes sparkled, and she smiled at him brightly as he came up to the car.
“Hello, Captain. I hope you had a nice trip.” Her voice was just a trifle throaty; at any other time Da Silva would have been fascinated by it. “And I’d like to wish you a very—”
Da Silva frowned at her, interrupting a bit brusquely. “Please, Miss—by the way, what’s your name?”
“Astrea, Captain. Astrea Pinheiro Alves. And I’d like to wish—”
“Astrea, do you know where Copacabana is?”
Her large brown eyes widened in surprise. “Of course, Captain.”
“And do you know where I live?”
“They gave me the address, of course—”
“Good. Then see if you can get me there as quickly as possible.” One hand came up abruptly, forestalling any comment. “And as quietly as possible, if you don’t mind. My ears have had all they can take for today.”
He leaned into the car, depositing his baggage in the rear seat, and then climbed into the front seat and closed the door behind him. His driver, her face red and her jaw set dangerously, got in behind the wheel and started the car, spinning the wheel viciously in the direction of the bridge leading to the Avenida Brasil and the distant city.
So this was the famous Captain Da Silva, was it? This was the man the other women talked about on their coffee breaks, eh? This—this—this uncouth boor! Well! This was the last time she’d ever accept any assignment involving him, that was sure! And to think she had looked forward to this assignment, had actually given up a day off to accept it! Well, it merely proved the dangers of being influenced by the judgment of others. It also proves you’re a fool, she told herself angrily, and concentrated on her driving.
By the time they came to the Rio Comprido just before the docks, the sun had sunk with that suddenness that marks the tropical night. Astrea leaned over and flicked on the parking lights and then applied the brakes as a traffic light glowed red in the growing darkness. She brought the car gently to a stop and glanced across at her passenger. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady. Still, she thought, with an unreasonable feeling that she was somehow betraying her merited irritation, despite his bad manners and his need for a shave and despite those caboclo clothes, there’s no denying he’s a damned attractive man. At least she could agree with the other women in the department on that. She studied the black curly hair, the bushy eyebrows, and the almost-brigand mustache badly in need of a trim, and then nodded. Yes, he was attractive; but so were a lot of other men. And a lot of other men were more polite and more attentive, too. For a moment she wondered how she might have reacted to the man had they met when the captain was less exhausted. Probably the same, she thought almost bitterly. A boor is a boor under any conditions.
There was the sudden blare of an impatient horn behind them; the captain’s eyes opened, startled at the sound, staring blankly into hers. In the confusion she put the car into gear and tramped on the gas. Captain Da Silva turned to stare out of the open window dully for several moments, yawned, and then leaned back, settling himself, closing his eyes again. His even breathing returned almost at once.
They came through the tunnel into Copacabana, turned into the Avenida Atlântica and drew up before his apartment at Pôsto 3. Da Silva came awake instantly, as if brought from his sleep by the cessation of movement; he yawned deeply and glanced at his wristwatch. His shaggy eyebrows rose dramatically at the remarkably little time it had taken them to arrive at an hour when normally traffic was stalled bumper to bumper throughout the long length of the city. He glanced across at his driver with appreciation.
“Very good time, Astrea. In fact, extraordinary. You must either know some short cuts I don’t, or my watch stopped.” His eyes studied the ornate entrance of the apartment building a moment, and he smiled dryly. “However, I think you’d be
tter drop me off at the side entrance. Seeing me dressed like this, the porteiro would probably toss me out. And I wouldn’t blame him.”
Astrea was quite sure the porteiro wouldn’t dare toss the captain out; this, when she thought about it, was a pity. The one possibility for their rapid arrival never occurred to him—that she was a very good driver. A true boor! With no expression on her face she put the car into gear and drove around the corner, stopping at the head of the ramp leading to the garage beneath the building. Captain Da Silva unfolded his six-foot frame to the sidewalk, dragged the knapsack and suitcase from the back seat, and then paused, holding the partially opened door, smiling pleasantly at the girl. Yes, she thought resentfully; you can look quite human when you want to. It’s a pity your manners aren’t as good as your smile.
“Thanks for the ride, Astrea.”
Her features remained wooden. “De nada, Captain.”
“And for the lack of conversation.” His brief nap from the airport seemed to have refreshed him, at least to some degree. He studied the girl’s slightly flushed face a moment speculatively. “Astrea, you aren’t married, are you?”
Her flush deepened. And, she thought resentfully, what business is that of yours? “Why, no, Captain.”
“I didn’t think so. And I’d be willing to gamble that you live alone, too. Don’t you?”
Despite herself, her eyes widened. “I do, but I don’t see how you could have known.”
“I’m a detective, remember?” Da Silva said, and nodded sagely. “You see, I recognize the breed. Only a single person, living alone, truly appreciates the beauty of silence. It’s marvelous, but you run into it all too seldom.”
His sudden grin robbed the words of any offense; he closed the car door firmly, raised a large hand in a salute that neatly combined appreciation and leave-taking, picked up his knapsack and suitcase, and turned into the building. Astrea stared after him with a mixture of emotions, not the least of which was confusion. A boor and a sarcastic one at that, but not stupid. And still, without a doubt, a very attractive one. She put the car into gear and slowly pulled away from the curb. A damned attractive one …
Always Kill a Stranger Page 17
