“I dropped her at the Coronado Apartments. In the Avenida—”
“I know. Visconde de Albuquerque on the canal.” It was only three blocks from where they were. “Did she go in? Did she act as if she lived there?”
The driver shrugged. He wanted to be helpful, but how does one act to prove one lives someplace? He compromised. “She went in.”
Da Silva tried to think of more questions but couldn’t; the driver could only manage one, and that in a coaxing tone. “What did she really do?”
“She left her change at the supermarket,” Da Silva said, and marched back to his car, an angry light in his eye. The Coronado, eh? He climbed into the cab, drove around the corner and down two blocks, pulling up before a new, tall, luxurious apartment building. The Coronado was notorious as the home of the wealthiest kept women—or rather, he thought, putting the words in their proper sequence—the wealthiest home of kept women, in town.
So she belonged to somebody else; what had he expected? That a lovely body like that would sit in the rack unclaimed forever? He sighed. What a shame, and not in the usual sense of the word! What a pity! He could see that if he ever met this girl at that cocktail party he had been visualizing, he’d be there moonlighting as a waiter!
Despite his disappointment at discovering how the lovely girl lived, the thought of himself giving drinks to others made him smile. He climbed down and mounted the steps of the building, pushing into the ornate lobby, going to the mail desk in one corner. The gangling porter, resplendent in a uniform that fit him poorly, glanced up to judge his visitor, and then looked out of the window with concern.
“Somebody called a cab?”
His tone was worried. Normally he was asked to call cabs, and if people were calling cabs for themselves, possibly he was in disfavor. But then he remembered that he had been absent for a half hour and his face cleared, but only for a moment. His visitor was withdrawing a wallet from his pocket and a moment later was presenting him with a police badge.
“A girl,” Da Silva said. He slid the wallet back into his pocket. “She came in here within the last ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”
“She lives here?”
“I have no idea. I know she came in.”
The porter’s face cleared again; actually it became a trifle superior. How typical of the police to look for somebody they didn’t know in a place they didn’t know she was! In any event, he was in the clear.
“I just got in from the post office, Captain. Just this minute.” He gestured toward the unsorted pile of mail. “We have a box there. It’s a lot more certain than—”
Da Silva was uninterested in the routine of the apartment. “You might recognize her from her description. About a meter-seventy in height; weighing between fifty-five and sixty kilos—sixty at the most. Her hair is dark and curly, and she wears it shoulder length.” He was watching the porter’s thin face steadily. “Extremely beautiful.…”
The tinge of superiority in the porter’s voice was augmented by a touch of pity.
“I’m sure the captain knows of the Coronado Apartments. We have no ugly girls here. And they wear their hair differently every day.” He tried to be helpful. “If you knew her name.…”
Da Silva bit back his first sardonic reply; at least the porter had given him an idea. It wasn’t a particularly brilliant idea, but it was the first one of any kind he’d had for some time.
“Do you have a list of the occupants? Name and apartment?”
“Of course, Captain.” The porter rummaged in a drawer of the mail desk and finally unearthed what he wanted. He checked it over quickly and then handed it across the desk. “We give them to every new tenant in case she—I mean, in case they—want to know who their neighbors are.”
“Is it up to date?”
“Yes, sir. People don’t move between lease periods. Or, anyway—”
Da Silva disregarded him, glancing down at the list. It consisted in the main of names of single women, none of which looked familiar; as far as he could see the list was useless. Still, one of those names could well be hers; unless, of course, she was visiting. Possibly he could wait for her to reappear and have the porter identify her, but that could take a week. He sighed and folded the paper, tucking it into a pocket.
“Well.… Thank you.”
“De nada, Capitão.”
Da Silva stared at him a moment more, could think of nothing to be gained by continued contemplation of the ferretlike face beneath the gaudy cap, and walked out of the building abruptly. He climbed into his cab, started the engine, and then leaned over, glancing up at the smooth expressionless facade of the structure, knowing that somewhere within it was a girl he wanted very much to see again, and only partly for police reasons. Although why he wanted to see a girl only partly for police reasons, whose rent was being paid by another man, was more than he could understand.
He sighed mightily, shrugged, and then put the cab into gear, swinging about in the narrow street, heading north for the Lagôa and Wilson’s apartment.
Chapter 6
Wilson answered the door, swinging it wide and stepping aside with a slight flourish. His eyes studied Da Silva and the small paper bag the Brazilian carried.
“Well, hello. At long last, I might mention. Perreira called and gave me your message—including the unnecessary dig about the Remy Martin—and I took it like a little man. I’m proud of myself. And what’ve you got there? Lunch?”
“Prepare yourself for a shock,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “You’re right. I stopped at Bob’s and got some sandwiches. We won’t be eating on the road—as a matter of fact, God knows when we’ll be eating again.” He shouldered his way into the room, going to the bar, setting the bag down, raising the brandy bottle, holding it to the light.
“And I got here none too soon.…”
“Well,” Wilson said in defense, “if you’d have been here when you were supposed to, instead of getting yourself in a jam—from which, I might point out, I managed to rescue you and for which I still haven’t been thanked—” A second thought intruded on the first. “By the way, what did I save you from?”
“Not a fate worse than death. Let’s—”
“I sincerely hope not. Seriously, what was the jam?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until we’ve eaten.” Da Silva poured himself a brandy, drank it, nodded in agreement, and then poured another. “Very good stuff, even if it is French. A mixture of this and Reserva San Juan from Buenos Aires would really make a fantastic drink.” He looked at Wilson. “You’ll never appreciate your PX privileges until you don’t have them anymore and have to pay black-market prices for decent liquor like everyone else.”
Wilson tore open the bag and unwrapped a sandwich. He suddenly realized how hungry he was. He bit into the sandwich, chewed and swallowed appreciatively, and returned to the conversation. “You know contrabandistas? And don’t arrest them?”
Da Silva paused in the act of reaching for a sandwich, amazed at the complete naïveté of the question.
“And go thirsty?” The telephone rang before he could either develop the theme or unwrap the sandwich. Since he was closest to it he reached across and raised the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Captain?” It was Perreira. “About the cabdrivers living in the Catatumbá favela.…”
Da Silva frowned. “Don’t tell me there aren’t any?”
“There are three who live in the Catatumbá, but I thought before I sent Ruy over to the license bureau for photostats, I ought to call you. I don’t know why you want them, but I thought I ought to tell you first that one of the drivers who lives in the Catatumbá is an old friend of ours.…”
“Oh? Well, old friends are always the best, I say. Which old friend is this one?”
“Claudio Fonseca. You remember—”
“Do I remember old friend Claudio? Ah, yes!” Da Silva smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. “I remember him very well. And you were very right in ca
lling, because I don’t think we’ll have to bother Ruy or the bureau. Claudio will do very nicely.” He cupped the receiver, turning to Wilson. “Thank God for intelligent assistants.” He removed his hand from the instrument. “Is Claudio still driving on the day shift? From the same pôsto in the Praça Mauá?”
“Yes, sir. I already checked that out by phone.”
“Very, very good.” Da Silva was proud of the lieutenant, and his tone indicated it. “Then I suggest you drop by there and find him. Right now. And extend a personal invitation—from me—to stop in at Mr. Wilson’s apartment for a drink and possibly a chat. I’d also suggest you come with him, so he doesn’t get lost.”
“Yes, sir.” Perreira hesitated a moment. “We don’t have anything on Fonseca at the moment, Captain. Temporarily, at least, he’s clean.”
“You were right the first time. At the moment we don’t have anything on him. That’s not the same thing as being clean.”
“I know that, Captain,” Perreira said patiently. “What I meant was, how insistent can I be in—well, in inviting him?”
“Since we don’t have anything on him at the moment,” Da Silva said logically, “obviously you can’t press the issue. I’d say you shouldn’t be any more insistent than absolutely necessary. Just so long, of course, as Claudio doesn’t refuse.”
“I understand, Captain.” Perreira sounded in complete agreement with the solution. “He won’t refuse. Anything else?”
“No, that’s about all, I think. Make it—”
Wilson leaned over, interrupting. “Tell him to bring some mustard. We don’t have any in the house, and these all got ketchup.”
“—as soon as you can,” Da Silva concluded, and hung up. He picked up the last sandwich, placed it within the protective custody of his arm, and went back to unwrapping his first. “What difference does it make to you, mustard or ketchup? You’ve already had your share.” He bit into the sandwich and munched thoughtfully, looking at Wilson. “We shall shortly have company.”
“So I gathered.” Wilson searched the wrapper for a crumb and gave up. “I don’t imagine you want to explain what this is all about? Why, instead of being on a well-needed, well-deserved, and completely paid-for holiday, I’m sitting here watching you stuff yourself?”
“As a matter of fact, I do want to,” Da Silva said, and checked his wristwatch. He nodded. “We have at least half an hour before Perreira comes along with friend Claudio, and I’d like your ideas.” He completed his sandwich and tackled the second while Wilson waited with a patience that was close to saintly. When the last bite had been consumed and the second cognac put away, Da Silva lit a cigarette and leaned back on his stool.
“Well, while I’m not exactly sated, I guess starvation has been postponed for the moment.”
“Starvation possibly. Not curiosity.”
“Ah, yes.…” Da Silva glanced at his watch again, nodded, and frowned as he put his thoughts in order. The cigarette smoldered between his fingers; his eyes came up. “Well, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the Lagôa this noon.…”
He launched into his story with Wilson watching him quietly. The part regarding the shortwave set and the misunderstood broadcast might have been passed over quickly, except that Wilson would not allow it, insisting on interrupting.
“I’ve told you a thousand times to junk that damned radio!”
“Later. Right now I’m trying to satisfy your curiosity, remember? Do you want to hear the latest episode in ‘Da Silva, Boy Detective,’ or not?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not the faintest.”
“Well, in that case.…”
Da Silva smiled at him paternally and went ahead with his story. When he finally brought it to a conclusion, he sighed deeply.
“I will agree that if it hadn’t been for that shortwave fouling us up, I wouldn’t have lost her. But, actually, where would that have helped? She would have disappeared into an elevator before I could have gotten into the lobby, and I’d be about where I am now. The porter didn’t show up until later—”
“If he’s to be believed. Maybe a large tip.…”
Da Silva shook his head stubbornly. “I believe him. He did have the mail in an unsorted stack, and he didn’t look the type to lie.”
“You mean a porter who looked honest?”
“No, a porter who looked scared of the police.”
“Well,” Wilson said, “you still have John Doe.”
“That is right. We still have our young João Fulano.”
“And, assuming Claudio Fonseca cooperates—and I’m sure you’ll manage to convince him—you also have a place for Mr. Doe to bed down for a few days.”
“Equally correct.”
“Which only leaves one question—”
“Only one?”
“Only one at the moment. Why did it have to be a cabdriver? Living in the Catatumbá, I mean? All you wanted to do was borrow a shack for three or four days. Why did it have to be a cabdriver?”
Da Silva stared at him a moment, and then laughed.
“You’re right, of course. I guess I had so many cabdrivers on the brain, between mine and the one I was following—”
There was a short, sharp ring, identifying Lieutenant Perreira, who demonstrated economy at every level, including doorbells. Wilson climbed from his stool, walked over, and opened the door. The man standing in the hallway with the lieutenant hesitated a fraction of a second and then pushed into the apartment, a scowl on his face. He jerked his arm as if to free it of Perreira’s grip, although the lieutenant wasn’t touching him, and marched over to the bar. He was a stocky man with hulking shoulders, heavy arms, and a barrel chest that looked as if it had been inflated by a bicycle pump. A deep knife scar from some past disagreement puckered one side of his face. He swung his head around.
“Where is he? Where’s Da Silva?”
Da Silva smiled. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me so soon.”
Fonseca stared. “I didn’t recognize you. What the hell are you supposed to be got up as? Carnival isn’t until next month.” He suddenly remembered his grievance. “All right, Da Silva; what is this?” His voice was harsh, grating, as if the knife that had marked his face had also scarred his vocal cords. “You don’t have a damned thing on me, and we both know it. And anyway, if you want to talk to me, why drag me way out here? You’ve got an office in town.”
Da Silva smiled. “Relax, Claudio. I’m sure the lieutenant explained that this was purely a social visit.” He tipped his head congenially. “Have a drink.”
Wilson was about to go behind the bar for another glass when Fonseca, still glaring suspiciously, reached out, uncorked the bottle, and brought it to his lips. He swallowed once, paused for breath, swallowed again, and set the bottle back on the counter. There was nothing in his expression to indicate that either his suspicion or his feeling of grievance had been lessened by the alcohol. There was also nothing there, Wilson thought a bit resentfully, to indicate his appreciation of the quality liquor he had been gulping. Fonseca wiped his lips, still frowning.
“All right, Da Silva. What’s on your mind?”
Da Silva leaned back on his stool, viewing the other calmly. “How would you like enough money to take a short vacation? You and your wife and family—”
“I don’t have any wife and family. And you know it.”
“I haven’t seen you for a few months; how was I to know? Then you and your girlfriend. Say, up in Petropolis for a week. Some place cool in this heat. Or Teresópolis. With all expenses paid. And enough on the side to keep you out of mischief for a while.”
“And why would you give me money for a vacation? Or for anything else, for that matter?” His small eyes stared at the seated man belligerently. “I got a hunch I don’t want your money, Da Silva.”
Da Silva studied him evenly. “I don’t see why not. All I want to do is use your shack up on the Catatumbá for a while. Four days at the most.”
&n
bsp; Fonseca was honestly amazed.
“I knew I didn’t want your money. You’re planning a raid on somebody from the inside and planning on using my shack as a stakeout.” The thought was so idiotic that he almost laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding! Do you know how long I’d last if I ever bought a deal like that? You’d be picking me out of a canal inside of twenty-four hours. And you know it.” His tone became curious. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“How stupid do you think I am?” Da Silva sounded equally curious. “If that was my angle, I wouldn’t go to anyone who knew me, or knew I was a cop. I’d pick somebody without a record a mile long, and I’d make up a better story, too.”
“You haven’t given me any story, good or bad,” Fonseca said. He pulled a stool around and sat down facing Da Silva, reaching for the bottle. His expression this time, as he set the nearly depleted bottle down, at least indicated he knew he was drinking something better than his usual pinga. “What’s the pitch?’
Da Silva studied the scarred face a moment. He sighed.
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t told you, have I? And now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’m going to. But I’ll tell you this: it isn’t what you think. Nobody in the favela will have anything against you as a result. You’ve got my word on that.”
Fonseca frowned. When Da Silva gave his word on something, you could take it down to a bank and get a loan on it. He was a tough, miserable filho de mãe but in that respect he was honest. The trouble was he didn’t always give his word, and when he didn’t you couldn’t believe the pockmarked bastard any further than you could kick the Teatro Municipal uphill. Barefooted, Fonseca added to himself.
Da Silva suppressed a smile. He could almost see the tiny gears meshing in the other’s head. He waited patiently until his last statement had been firmly locked into position before continuing.
“And you’re not the only person living on the Catatumbá that has a cabin. So make up your mind if you want to rent it. And pick up a nice piece of change for doing it.”
The Xavier Affair Page 6
