“You mean you didn’t tell him?”
“I forgot. I had other things on my mind.” Da Silva moved to the door, opened it, stood framed there. “I’ll let you know how the interview goes, if it goes at all.”
“Do that,” Wilson said politely, and then paused. “You know, Zé, on the offhand chance that she may say something incriminating, you really ought to take me along. I’ve already told the Embassy I’ll be in next Monday and that I’m involved in a police case with you—just to protect my vacation, you understand. So you should use me, at least as a witness.” He studied the expression on Da Silva’s face and sighed, his eyes twinkling. “No; I guess if she says what you want her to say, the last thing you’d want around is a witness.”
“Now you’re earning your salary as a detective,” Da Silva agreed approvingly. He winked at the other, straightened his face, and softly closed the door behind him.
Chapter 9
It was a decided pleasure to be back in clean clothes again, Da Silva decided, with a trimmed moustache, a shaven face, neatly combed hair—or as neatly combed as his curly mop ever permitted. It was also a pleasure to be on his way to visit the lovely young lady who had involved him in the scheme in the first place. True, he still had to drive the cab instead of the Jaguar; in his mistaken belief that he was taking off on a vacation, the Jaguar had been sent to an automobile hospital for its annual checkup. And it was also true that tomorrow he would have to climb back into his dirty clothes and remain unshaven in order to visit his guest on the hillside, but that was tomorrow.
He pulled the cab into the curved parking area before the Coronado, unfolded himself to the pavement, and trotted up the three broad steps leading to the ornate lobby. He pushed through the swinging glass doors, nodded congenially to the porter, and moved to the elevator door. The porter was not at all impressed by the pleasant nod; all he knew was that this man was a stranger.
“Hold it! Who do you want to see?”
“Miss Vilares,” Da Silva said politely. “Apartment 1612.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be announced.” The uniformed sleeve reached in the direction of the house telephone. “Your name?”
“José, but my close friends call me Zé.” Da Silva’s tone was faintly apologetic; he moved from the elevators to the porter’s desk. “However, I’d prefer not to be announced, if you don’t mind.”
The porter sighed at the massiveness of the other’s ignorance. If people could walk in and out of the front doors of apartment buildings without being announced, what need would there be for porters? Obviously, none. It was a frightful thought.
“I’m sorry, but everyone must be announced. Your name, please?”
Da Silva’s feelings were hurt. “You don’t remember me? You don’t remember my name from my ID card? You’ve forgotten so soon?”
The porter studied the lean, swarthy features a moment in puzzlement, and then his eyes widened. His hand dropped away from the telephone. This filho de mãe of a policeman used every known type of disguise! Yesterday a taxi driver, and today made up as a gentleman! Still, the porter knew his rights and the rights of his tenants.
“You have a warrant, senhor?”
“A warrant? To call on an old friend?” Da Silva’s tone indicated that if a new ordinance had been passed requiring such a thing, he had not heard of it.
“One needs one if one wishes not to be announced,” the porter said flatly.
“And one definitely does not wish to be announced,” Da Silva agreed. He frowned slightly, trying to decide whether to use muscle or the threat of the delegacia, and then decided to use neither. To begin with, as far as he knew nothing illegal had as yet been perpetrated. Besides, it was too nice a day and he felt too good. Instead, he reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and extracted a bill.
“Let us say one merely wishes it as a favor.”
The gangling porter looked justifiably angry. It was extremely unfair to be asked to cooperate with the police through bribery, especially since refusal of the bribe was unthinkable. They were devils, these people! His fingers twitched the bill from Da Silva’s hand with a practiced motion. His voice was gruff.
“I wasn’t at the desk when you came in.”
“What desk?” Da Silva murmured with appropriate bewilderment and moved back to the self-service elevator under the reluctantly approving eye of the porter.
He rose smoothly through the core of the building. At the proper level the car decelerated evenly, stopping flush with the floor; the doors slid back silently, and he emerged into a hallway richly carpeted, whose walls were hung with oil paintings and watercolors of typical Brazilian scenes. A far cry from his own apartment hallway, he thought with a wry smile, and walked over to press the small button beside the door of Apartment 1612.
Through the door he could hear a musical chime, muted; a moment later the door had swung back and he was facing Romana. It seemed to him he had somehow forgotten, even in the brief span of twenty-four hours, just how lovely she was. Her face held the polite blankness of nonrecognition, but the expression did nothing to lessen the beauty of its olive symmetry. She was dressed in a light summer frock that emphasized the perfection of her full figure; the light from the window behind her outlined her long, shapely legs through the sheer material. Beyond the window the ocean could be seen, and in the distance the several small islands that guard the Leblon beach.
The girl peered at him with the indulgence one maintains for people who have made honest mistakes. And it was obviously a mistake, since her caller had not been announced.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong—”
“Hello, Romana.”
“—apartment—” She paused, startled at being addressed by name by this stranger. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled at her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? After all, as fellow conspirators.…”
There was a sharp intake of breath as recognition finally came; then her jaw hardened and a dangerous light came into her dark eyes. She opened her mouth to speak and then paused. There was a faint whir as the elevator cab started down, presumably to service another passenger. She glanced up and down the deserted hallway a moment, making up her mind.
“Come in here!” She closed the door behind them and remained, leaning against it, her hands behind her, clasped on the knob. “How did you find me?”
Da Silva pretended to think. “Telephone book, do you suppose?”
“This number is unlisted! And how did you find out my name?”
“I just picked the prettiest name I could think of—”
Romana realized her questions were as silly as his answers. There was only one important one. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Da Silva smiled in quite friendly fashion. “I merely came to report success. Chico is now nicely housed in the shack of a friend of mine named Claudio Fonseca on the Catatumbá favela. As ordered. Of course it isn’t as luxurious as the Xavier mansion, or”—he looked about the room approvingly, pleased to note the white rug and the piano, also white, in one corner—“as nice as this, either, but it was what you and Chico wanted. God knows why.…”
“You said he was going to stay in your place!”
“I’m afraid I fibbed about that,” Da Silva said apologetically. “But you seemed so desperate to believe I lived in a tough slum I could hardly disappoint you, could I?”
“And how did you know Chico’s name?”
“I watch tennis matches.” Da Silva’s tone dismissed the subject. He looked around. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down? Or offer me a drink?” He shook his head sadly. “Conspirators aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid. There was a time—admittedly, when you were a very small but still charming little girl—when fellow conspirators exhibited a certain camaraderie, a recognition of mutual interests.…”
Romana’s face had paled; she stared at him with wide eyes. “You’re no taxi driver. Who are you?”
“Your partner in crime, remember?” Da Silva wandered to the window and glanced down. “A beautiful view.…”
“Who are you?”
“I told you.” He turned around. “I’m your partner whether you want it or not. Now if you’d only tell me what I’m a partner in, I’d appreciate it.”
Romana stared at him, her jaw hardened again.
“It makes no difference who you are; if you think you’re going to get any more money just because you think you know something, forget it! In fact, if you aren’t out of this apartment in one minute, I’m going to call the police!”
Da Silva smiled. “I wouldn’t want to put you to all that trouble.…”
“It will be no trouble. It will be a pleasure.” She marched to the telephone and placed one hand on it. “Well?”
“I’m afraid you didn’t understand me,” Da Silva said gently. He reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and opened it to his identification card. He walked over to the girl and presented it for her inspection. She studied it a moment; her hand dropped from the instrument. She walked to a chair and sank into it numbly.
“A policeman! Of all the people.…” She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Da Silva fought down the desire to go to her and comfort her; instead he seated himself on the sofa across from her and waited patiently for her grief to end. When at last she looked up, he was rather unpleasantly surprised to see that rather than crying, she had been laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“A policeman!” She grinned mischievously. “Chico will love it—a policeman helping him!”
Da Silva forced himself to speak in a conversational tone. “A policeman helping him do what?”
“But I told you before. It’s an initiation into a secret society, a club.” She shook her head, her smile fading, vexed at his obtuseness. “I told you, don’t you remember, in the taxi?” Another thought intruded. “Why were you driving that taxi? I mean, if you’re a captain of police? Was it a disguise?”
“I’ll tell you about it some other time,” Da Silva said. “Someday at a cocktail party. Right now I’d still like an explanation for the humor, just because a policeman helped Chico, instead of a cabdriver.”
Her tone became confidential; she leaned forward.
“The authorities at the university are very much opposed to social fraternities; there have been some hazing accidents, and besides, they feel social fraternities are too snobbish. The only ones that are permitted are scholastic fraternities. So, you see, in a way Chico is going against the authorities, and that’s why it’s funny that someone in authority—like a policeman—should have helped him. Don’t you see what I mean?” She studied his face a moment and then made a move. “You just don’t have a sense of humor.”
“I’m afraid not,” Da Silva said, and came to his feet. He looked at her quietly a moment. “You realize, of course, that I really should inform the university authorities.…”
She rose from the chair gracefully, moving to his side, looking up into his eyes. Her full, rounded bosom pressed against his arm; her perfume was heady. “But you won’t.”
He smiled. “No. I won’t.”
“Good. In that case”—she smiled at him, a gamin grin—“I’ll offer you that drink you asked for before. What would you like?” She moved away from him, going to a small bar in the corner opposite the piano. “If I can find anything, that is. The maid’s gone for a week—” Her voice was slightly muffled as she bent to the shelf behind it. “Her mother is sick.…” Her voice died away as she seemed to hear her own words. She straightened up, her face suddenly taut, her eyes large. She wet her lips. “Come here. You’re awfully far away.”
Da Silva moved to the bar. They faced each other in silence. The maid was gone for a week, and Chico was in a shack on the Catatumbá.… Their hands met in the middle of the bar almost without volition; the girl’s fingers squeezed his larger hands with a strength he would not have suspected. Her voice was husky.
“You didn’t answer my question. What would you like.…”
For several moments there was silence, and then Da Silva bent forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. He straightened up, releasing his hands from her grasp, going to the door and opening it.
“Some other time,” he said quietly, and looked about the elegantly furnished apartment with no expression on his face. “And definitely some other place.”
She knew the reason but could not help but ask. “Why?”
“Chico,” Da Silva said. “He pays the rent here, doesn’t he?”
Romana’s eyes dropped; she seemed to be studying the white carpet. Then she raised her head, looking at him almost defiantly. “Yes.”
“Then that’s why it’ll be some other time and other place.”
“But where? And when?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet at that cocktail party,” Da Silva said evenly, and closed the door firmly behind himself.
Romana stared at the closed panel for several minutes before turning away. Then she shrugged. Certainly the captain was exciting, desirable, apparently everything she had thought she wanted in a man. More important, at the moment, was that she undoubtedly appealed to him in much the same way. No, Captain Da Silva could be controlled; it was evident in his dislike for what the apartment represented. On the other hand, where had Captain Da Silva been three months before, when that apartment represented the ultimate in a long climb from poverty? The Catatumbá, eh? Someday, at that cocktail party he mentioned, she’d tell him about favelas in general, and the Catatumbá in particular.…
In one of the small alcove booths that line the wall of the barroom of Mario’s restaurant in Copacabana, Da Silva sat across table from Wilson, his after-dinner glass of Reserva San Juan before him. In the dimness of the large room the mirror behind the long jacaranda bar reflected the famous collection of brandies that lined the glass. Da Silva cupped his straight glass—he refused a balloon glass, considering it an affectation—and smiled across the table at his American friend.
“An artist,” he said with admiration in which a touch of sadness was poorly concealed. “A consummate artist. Not to mention one of the loveliest. You should have heard that light, girlish laughter. Bernhardt in her prime couldn’t have done as well.” He smiled faintly, trying to put aside the unreasoning feeling of anger he had, thinking of the apartment.
“I gather, somewhat laboriously, that you doubt her veracity,” Wilson said indulgently. “Translation: that you consider her a liar. Which simply means her artistry couldn’t have been very convincing.” He raised his glass of cognac, properly admired its rich color, and sipped it. “Why do you doubt her? Don’t you believe in secret societies? They exist, you know. Complete with secret ear-pulling, secret handshakes.…” He frowned across the table. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No.” Da Silva raised his drink and downed it, putting aside the wonderful feeling of Romana’s strong hands locked on his. He even managed a smile. “No. You didn’t say anything wrong.”
Wilson had known him too long. “Are you sure you told me everything that happened this afternoon?”
“Everything important.”
“Then relax.” Wilson was sufficiently charitable to pass the evasion. “Just tell me why you don’t believe her.”
“Because she was frightened when she first saw me, and even more frightened when she discovered I was from the police,” Da Silva said simply. “Despite all that lighthearted laughter. She’s mixed up in something a lot more serious than even she thinks, I’m afraid.”
“You’re probably right,” Wilson agreed. “You often are. So where do you go from here? To Francisco Xavier the Elder and ask him if his son is in any trouble he knows of?”
“Not yet. I still don’t like Francisco Xavier. Actually”—he looked a bit grim, remembering the girl and the apartment—“at the moment I don’t particularly like Francisco the Younger, either. However, I’ll give him one break.
I won’t talk to his father until I’ve given him a chance to explain this thing. I’ll see him tomorrow morning, and if he persists in handing out this ridiculous story of a school society, then I’m afraid Daddy gets told.”
“Fair enough,” Wilson said. “And if you go to tell Daddy, take me along. I’ve been up on Catatumbá seeing how the poor people live; now I’d like to see how the other half lives.”
“The other half of one percent, you mean,” Da Silva said. “All right. I’ll pick you up in the morning around eight o’clock, and you can wait in the car while I take Chico his breakfast and talk to him. And if he gives me the same stupid story—”
“Which he will.”
“Which he may try to do,” Da Silva emended, and then shook his head sadly. “And may even succeed in doing, you know. Unless I can prove he’s involved in something criminal, either as a victim or a victee, if there is such a word, then he can probably tell me anything he wants, including to go to hell.” He sighed. “A name like Xavier is a nice cushion when a cop tries to get tough with you.…”
Da Silva, unshaven and dressed in old clothes for the occasion—although forgoing the torture to his eyes—halted about halfway up the hill to Fonseca’s shack to catch his breath. He pulled to one side of the narrow path to allow a small barefoot child to scamper past, climbing rapidly, a tin of water swinging dangerously from the thin hand. Either I’m getting old or I need more exercise, Da Silva thought; it’s pretty sad when you can’t keep up with little children. Especially when all he was carrying was a newspaper and a sack containing a pint of coffee and pãozinho com manteiga, the hot, buttered crisp roll the Brazilian enjoys for breakfast.
He turned from the path, taking advantage of the respite to admire the scene about him. The Catatumbá favela, in addition to filth, disease, danger, privation, hunger, and misery, also offered its inhabitants the finest view in all the city. Below him, the lagoon shone like a tiny mirror, reflecting back the cloudless sky, framed by the toy blocks of white apartment buildings, foreshortened when seen from above. Little ragged patches of green marked the fringe of palm trees viewed from the height. Beyond the blue water the green oval of the Jockey Club nestled in the curve of the mountains; the tilted aluminum roof of its deserted stadium glinted in the morning sun. Houses peeked from the heights surrounding the area, the access to each a mystery hidden in the thick foliage. A lovely day, Da Silva thought, and turned back to the path, somehow comforted by the beauty about him and the sun warm on his shoulders.
The Xavier Affair Page 9
