“… senhora … manda.…”
Wilson leaned back, frowning at the instrument, and then glaring as the only possible interpretation came to him. So that was the reason for the delay, was it? A woman? Three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, and Da Silva had to select the one day they were supposed to be off on a vacation hunting trip to pick up some girl? Wonderful! He bent closer to the set, determined to collect sufficient evidence to justify the dressing down he intended to give his errant friend, when his brain began to function at last. He shook his head violently, trying to fling off the effects of the brandy. His glare disappeared, replaced by sudden concern. One thing was certain: Da Silva would never have switched on his set just to advise the world that his delay was occasioned by a woman. Quite the contrary, in fact. Wilson calculated these facts and then nodded, pleased with his cerebrations, and also pleased that—bit by bit—he felt himself sobering up. Da Silva’s reason for resorting to the tired shortwave set obviously had to be something far more urgent.
His receiver was making squealing noises again. Wilson strained to separate them from the word sounds on the edge of his understanding, cursing the inadequacy of the car radio sender. He eased the serrated knob over to the right gently, cautiously, trying by excessive indulgence to get a semblance of cooperation from the set. Da Silva’s voice suddenly boomed through the room, loud and clear.
“… Morro dos Cabritos … Catatumbá.…”
Wilson’s frown deepened as he stared at the shortwave set. Catatumbá? That was the favela, the slum, just down the Epitácio Pessôa from his apartment building, the one the landowners on his side of the lagoon had been trying for years to get rid of, he thought. Without success, he added to himself. First, because the inhabitants had no place else to go, and second, because they numbered approximately thirty thousand, which was quite a bit more than the entire police force of Rio. Catatumbá was also, of course, the toughest favela in town. Maybe climbing half a mile to bring five gallons of water home in a converted oil tin had a tendency to toughen a person.
Wilson considered Da Silva’s words carefully. If the statement by his friend was supposed to be a message, it had escaped him. He concentrated on the set again, bending closer to the cloth-covered speaker, but all he could get now was unintelligible noise. Damn! Suddenly the static cleared, allowing another voice to be heard. It was quite faint, indicating the speaker was not near the horn ring; undoubtedly in the rear seat. It was a woman’s voice.
“… money?”
There seemed to be an interminable wait until he could get any of the replying words that were understandable. The disembodied voice sounded tough, it was undoubtedly Da Silva speaking.
“… always like … money.…”
Ah! So it wasn’t somebody asking Da Silva for money; they were offering it to him! And the captain seemed about to accept. If any message was supposed to be contained in this enigmatic and commercial exchange, Wilson frankly admitted it had missed him. Damn that cheap car radio anyway! Da Silva was undoubtedly giving him hint after hint, and all he could make out of it was a bouillabaisse of static! He tried increasing the volume of his receiver and, for his troubles, got a screeching yowl that almost deafened him. He hastily twisted the knob to the left and then brought it back up, slowly. The strategy seemed to work; Da Silva’s voice came back on again, clear for a change.
“… want the police.…”
Ha! Static immediately took over again, but now it wasn’t important; the message had finally come through! Da Silva was in trouble and wanted the police! How he had managed to get into trouble in the short time since they had spoken on the telephone was immaterial. If they ever have an Olympic event for getting into trouble, Wilson thought, the Brazilian team with Zé Da Silva at the helm is a definite gold medal possibility. In record time, too. He moved from the bar to the small stand holding the telephone, raising the receiver, dialing a familiar number. It rang once and was instantly answered.
“Captain Da Silva’s office.” It was Zé’s elderly and too efficient secretary. Wilson began to grin and then wiped the grin away.
“Dona Dolores? Is Lieutenant Perreira back from lunch yet?”
“Mr. Wilson?”
Despite himself, Wilson’s smile returned. So much for six years in Brazil and about two trillion Portuguese lessons, he thought ruefully. They’ll always recognize my voice on the telephone; I’ll never lose that Ohio accent. He shrugged. At least it’s nice that Washington isn’t aware of my language difficulty, he thought; I’d undoubtedly be third vice-consul at Newcastle-on-Tyne right now.
“Sim, senhora. Is Lieutenant Perreira back from lunch yet?”
“Lieutenant Perreira?” Dona Dolores sniffed, deservedly aggrieved. “He didn’t go out to lunch. He had a sandwich at his desk. From the cart.” Her tone specifically denied any responsibility for the health of those who bought sandwiches from the cart.
“May I speak with him, please?”
But Dona Dolores was far from through. Forced to transfer her motherly instincts to a substitute for a period of two weeks with little notice, she had managed to do remarkably well.
“He also had a soda from the machine. Orange, Mr. Wilson! Full of gas, not to mention sugar!”
“Dona Dolores! It’s rather urgent!”
Dona Dolores was not impressed. What was more urgent than health? “All right, Mr. Wilson.” Her tone advised him to see his doctor. “I’ll call him.…”
There was a click of another receiver being lifted, and a familiar voice came on the line. As always, Perreira sounded alert and sharp, mainly because he was. People who weren’t alert and sharp didn’t last long with Captain Da Silva, and Perreira had lasted with him for five years. The lieutenant’s voice was friendly, but curious.
“Mr. Wilson? How are you? I thought by now you and Captain Da Silva would be halfway up the serra on your way to Bananal. What’s the problem?”
“He never showed up at my place, but I picked him up on shortwave. From the taxi.…” Wilson reported what he had heard, not permitting himself to dwell on the inadequacies of the car radio. In a report of this nature, Wilson was infallible, superb. His memory never faltered, and his extensive training allowed him to place events into proper sequence with a remarkable ability to estimate time intervals between them. When he finished, Perreira frowned.
“You say he didn’t sound particularly perturbed?”
“Oddly enough, he didn’t. There still isn’t any doubt he was asking me to get in touch with the police. Of course, the reception from his car radio is awful, so I might be wrong, but I don’t think so.” He frowned at the telephone a minute, sobering up second by second, thinking. “Can you get somebody to locate him and help him? Do you know the number license plates he’s using? I think they’re from Guanabara.”
“They’re from Guanabara,” Perreira said with conviction, “but every rádio patrulha is familiar with Captain Da Silva’s taxi by sight. I’ll get the word out as soon as I hang up. What section of the city do you think he was in?”
“Well, you can check with the Catete garage as to the exact time he left there, can’t you? He was on his way to my place, so that should give you the route, although he said he was going to stop for radio tubes. But I’m sure he didn’t intend to go back downtown for them. My guess would be he was somewhere between Copacabana and here. That’s based on the fact he was heading this way, but the reception indicated he wasn’t close. And that’s the best I can offer.”
“Thanks. I’ll get right on it.” The receiver dropped. Perreira didn’t believe in wasting time.
Wilson replaced the receiver and turned back to the radio set, but it now responded to no persuasion, remaining mute. Either Da Silva had disconnected, or—a far more sobering thought—somebody had discovered the set and disconnected it for him. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Now he simply had to wait for the radio patrol cars to spot Da Silva’s taxi and come to his aid.
He returned
to the bar, pulling the stool out again, frowning at the bottle of cognac. He shrugged in resignation. It appeared his vacation was going to be delayed, which simply meant that they wouldn’t be requiring four bottles of Remy Martin in any event. Three, therefore, should obviously be plenty.…
Satisfied with this impeccable logic, Wilson seated himself on the stool, poured himself another drink, and relaxed, awaiting news.
Chapter 5
The cab Da Silva was following turned from the Avenida Atlântica into the Avenida Raínha Elizabeth, heading for Ipanema and Leblon, and Da Silva eased up on the accelerator, dropping back a bit, aware that traffic along that section of the beach would be less concentrated. The girl, should she think to investigate, might well spot him. Still by keeping at least two city blocks to the rear, one should well avoid the danger of being recognized. At that distance every cab in Brazil looked the same, with the exception of the new Volkswagens that had begun to make their appearance on the streets, and they didn’t look like automobiles, let alone taxis.
He swung from the Raínha Elizabeth into the Avenida Vieira Souto, keeping steady pace with his quarry, relaxed and at peace with the world—and then jumped nearly a foot, biting his tongue, as a siren exploded directly in his ear, its scream echoing wildly inside his skull. Startled—to say the least—he automatically swerved to the right side of the road to allow the ambulance or police car or whatever to race past him down the avenue on its business, but instead, the rádio patrulha responsible for his fright shot by and angled in immediately, its brake lights flashing red as it cut him off. Fuming, Da Silva jammed on his brakes, coming to a skidding halt, missing a collision by inches. With his radiator nudging the rear fender of the patrol car, he sat waiting for an explanation, his eyes frozen with anger. Ahead of him the cab he had been following quietly turned a corner and disappeared.
Two plainclothes policemen hopped out of the patrol car, guns drawn, and moved quickly and efficiently alongside Da Silva’s cab, one on each side. Without a glance at the glaring driver, and almost as if they had rehearsed the movement many times, they hesitated a split second and then, in unison, pulled open the rear doors and pointed their guns at the floor where somebody might have been crouching. There was a moment’s silent tableau as they stared at the empty space. Their eyes came up, studying the captain’s face. One look and they knew, somehow, that they had done something wrong.
“Are you two quite finished?” Da Silva’s quiet voice was all the more deadly for its very silkiness. “I don’t want to interfere in essential police business, but do you mind telling me the reason for nearly wrecking my car? I’ll overlook the fact that you nearly killed me in the process.”
One of the men—the braver of the two—attempted to explain.
“The dispatcher got a call from Lieutenant Perreira, Captain, saying you were in trouble. We had instructions to locate you and—” He swallowed. Whatever they had been instructed to do had obviously been a mistake.
“I see.” Da Silva turned off the ignition and climbed down. A few bathers across the road looked at the scene and then looked hastily away. They didn’t know what the poor cabdriver had done to merit so abrupt a halt on the part of the police, but they did know they didn’t want to be witnesses to any part of the matter. Witnesses usually spent more time in the xadrez than criminals. Da Silva marched to the patrol car, climbed in, and picked up the hand microphone.
“Hello? This is Captain Da Silva. I—”
“They found you, Captain?”
“They found me, so you can inform the rest of the cars in Rio of the fact, so I won’t keep being rescued interminably! And now, please get Lieutenant Perreira, from my office, and tie him into this call, would you?”
“Yes, sir!”
Da Silva waited, glaring at the wide avenue that stretched down the beach to eventually disappear, apparently, into the rock wall at the end. And where is my pretty lady now? he thought savagely. He brought his attention back to the hand set as a click announced Perreira’s presence on the line. The lieutenant sounded pleased.
“Captain? So they got to you in time, eh?”
“They got to me in time.” Captain Da Silva’s voice was under control, but Lieutenant Perreira frowned. It was a tone he knew and recognized; somehow he had done something foolish. But what? The captain continued calmly. “Actually, they got to me a little ahead of time. Who do I thank for my rescue?”
“Mr. Wilson, sir.” Perreira was not one to steal credit from the deserving, especially not in face of that tone. “He heard you ask for help on the shortwave. What was the trouble, sir?”
“Nothing that can’t wait to be discussed.”
Da Silva shook his head in disgust with himself. It was his own fault for turning on the radio when he knew it worked badly, and his alibi to himself at the time—that he wanted to have Wilson as a witness if necessary—was ridiculous. He did it as a gag, and like so many gags, it backfired. Well, no sense in crying over spilt shortwaves at this hour.
“What I wanted you for, Perreira—” He fished into his shirt pocket and came up with a crumpled slip of paper, unfolding it, reading the license number aloud. “Do you have it? It’s a cab. I want his regular pôsto; that’s all for now. If I need anything else on him later, I’ll let you know.”
“Right, Captain. But I thought—”
“What?”
“I mean, what about your vacation?”
“What vacation?” Da Silva asked sourly.
Perreira wisely dropped the subject. “I’ll get right on to the license bureau, Captain. Will you hold on?”
“I’ll wait.”
There was silence. The two large detectives from the radio patrol car stood on the curb, their pistols now holstered and covered by their jackets, scuffling their feet and looking at each other a bit foolishly. Captain Da Silva stared ahead unseeingly, still blaming himself for having lost the girl. Perreira finally came back on the line.
“The driver’s name is Alonso, Captain. Genêsio Alonso. His regular station is at the end of Leblon, where the Ataulfo de Paiva runs into the Dias Ferreira. Near the canal, there. Do you know where that is?”
“I know the stand there. It’s in a small bar, next to a bakery.” A second thought came to Da Silva just as he was about to hang up. No sense in waiting to get on with it. “One more thing, Perreira, and very important. I want you to get me a list of all cabdrivers in town who live in the Catatumbá slum. I want photostats of their license application, both sides—that’ll give me their picture and everything else I need.” He thought a moment more. “And I want the police record of each one, if he has one. Get the dope together as soon as possible and have Ruy bring it to Mr. Wilson’s apartment on the Lagôa. You know where it is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make it as fast as possible. Call Mr. Wilson and tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can. And to expect Ruy if he gets there ahead of me. And one last thing”—he smiled; the two detectives on the curb smiled with him. They didn’t know why any of the three were smiling, but they preferred to see the captain happy—“tell Mr. Wilson to leave a little of the Remy Martin.”
“Leave a little of the Remy Martin?” Perreira was puzzled.
“He’ll know what you mean,” Da Silva said. He hung up and climbed down from the car. He looked at the two large men at the curb and tilted his head politely in the direction of the patrol car. “Would you please—”
“Yes, sir, Captain!”
He walked back to his cab, climbed in, started the engine, and waited until the radio car had backed from the curb, noisily clashed gears, and driven hastily away. He released the clutch and headed down the beach; across the road the bathers watched his departure with curiosity, wondering just how much money freedom had cost him. Da Silva sighed. He supposed he’d have to wait around for the driver to come back from his delivery—assuming he didn’t pick up another fare on the way. Or else send a man out to wait for him. What a day! What a vacation!
<
br /> He turned off the beach road a block before the canal marking the unofficial southern limits of the city, cutting over to the Rua Ataulfo de Paiva, and swinging about to approach the line of taxis parked before the botequim that, together with its wall phone, served as their station. Several drivers were leaning on the tall marble counter, sipping coffee and chatting. Da Silva slowed down and then nodded in pleased surprise. The final taxi in the line was the one he was seeking, its driver slouched on the front seat reading a newspaper. Actually, it wasn’t too surprising; the girl simply lived in the neighborhood. Assuming, that is, that she hadn’t changed taxis again. In that case, of course—Da Silva refused to consider it.
He drove past the taxi rank, pulling to the curb far enough ahead to clearly indicate that he was not attempting competition. He walked back until he came to the last cab, bent down, and leaned in at the open window.
“Genêsio?”
The cab driver looked up from his paper, curious. “Yes?”
“What happened to that girl you picked up in Copacabana? Your last fare? Where did you drop her?”
Recognition appeared in the other’s eyes. He grinned, revealing stained teeth. “Oh, yes—you’re the guy whose cab she got out of. What did you try to do to her? What did you say?” His grin faded a bit, replaced by suspicion. “What’s it to you where I dropped her?”
Da Silva dug his wallet from his hip pocket, opened it to his identification, and thrust it under the other’s nose. “Let’s just say I’m curious. Just answer the question, then we can all go home. Where did you drop her?”
Alonso’s eyes moved from the picture on the ID card to the hard face before him; he sat up straighter, putting aside the newspaper. “What did she do?”
“She robbed a gas station.” Da Silva’s voice hardened. “Well?”
Genêsio Alonso still thought it most unfair of policemen to go about disguised, let alone disguised as cabdrivers. However, it came to him that this was not the time to register a complaint, nor this tough one the man to register it with.
The Xavier Affair Page 5
