Fonseca’s shanty was one of the better ones on the rock, for although it was built of discarded lumber and faced with hammered-flat oil tins like all the rest, it boasted two rooms instead of one, and in addition had shutters to keep out the burning sunlight, which few others did. Da Silva pushed through the door, waited a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, and marched to a window, shoving the shutter back. In the increased light he set his paper sack and newspaper down on the small table and walked into the adjacent room, going to the bed, shaking the sleeping figure.
“Wake up! Breakfast!”
Which you don’t really deserve, Da Silva added to himself. He gripped the shoulder, shaking harder. Under that impetus the man in the bed rolled over, staring up blankly, almost in the manner of one who would have expressed resentment at the rough handling had he the energy. One hand slipped from his side, dangling to the floor. Da Silva’s eyes widened in shock; he strode to the window of the tiny room, flinging the shutters back almost viciously, returning instantly to the bed.
Chico Xavier, Filho, was still waiting for him, his open, unseeing eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hand still trailing the floor without feeling it. The blackened bruises on his throat gave clear evidence on how he had fared in his fraternity initiation.…
Chapter 10
Death is no stranger in a favela, nor does its presence strike fear in the hearts of the survivors. To most favelados death represents a release from the poverty and deprivation of the slums—true, not as desirable a release as the accumulation of enough money to return home to the Mato Grosso, or Ceará, but still a release. At its worst, death comes as little more than an inconvenience, at its best as a blessing, but in no case does it come as a surprise. And even if it did, what could be done about it? Nothing, so why bother?
Still, the favelado in general recognizes the right of his neighbor to allow himself to become emotional about death if he pleases; it is a part of the democracy of poverty. For this reason few were greatly affected by the bitter anger on the hard, tough face of the man carrying the limp body in his arms. People stepped aside sympathetically, allowing him free passage down the rocky path leading to the street below, and then closed in behind him, going about their business, feeling only a vague pity for one so impressed by the passing of an acquaintance.
Da Silva pushed past the ever present queue of ragged children and silent old women waiting their turn at the water faucets, crossing the broad avenue toward the waiting car. Wilson saw him coming and had the rear door open when he came up.
“What’s the matter with him? Sick?”
Da Silva laid the body carefully on the rear seat; Wilson stared and then looked at his friend. “He’s dead!”
“That’s right,” Da Silva said. His voice was flat, trying to hide the anger he felt
“But what happened? Who—”
“How the hell should I know?” Da Silva climbed into the front of the car, slamming the door behind him, twisting the ignition key viciously. Wilson barely made it back into the car in time; across the street those who were watching were doing so incuriously. Da Silva raced the motor a minute and then swung about, heading toward Humaitá and the Rua São Clemente as being the quickest way into the center of town.
“Maybe João Martins at the Instituto can tell us something. You couldn’t get a technical team up on the Catatumbá if you wanted—or if they wanted to go—but it looks to me like he was strangled. Without too much of a fight, from the looks of the shack.” His jaw clamped dangerously. “College prank, eh? Initiation, eh? I should have dragged him downtown as soon as he climbed into the car the day before yesterday. Him and his fancy girlfriend both!”
“Quit beating yourself,” Wilson said quietly. “On what charge would you have held them? Could you have held them?”
“What the devil difference does it make?” The swarthy Brazilian scowled blackly. He cut into the Rua Humaitá without waiting for the light to change, jamming down on the gas almost convulsively. A chorus of infuriated horns faded behind him. “I knew there was something crooked cooking after I’d been with the girl five minutes. And when I saw who the boy was, I knew something out of the ordinary was involved!”
“But you didn’t know what it was.”
“And how important is that? The fact is, if I’d have brought him into the station, he’d be alive now.”
“No,” Wilson said quietly. “If somebody hadn’t killed him he’d be alive now. That’s the fact.” He glanced across at Da Silva’s rigid profile. “Do you think one of the people in the favela killed him?”
“I can’t think of any reason why they should. Actually, I don’t know who killed him. Or why.” He stamped on the gas, drawing more power from the huge engine, skirting a truck and cutting back in with a rush that almost sent the larger vehicle onto the sidewalk. Wilson’s grip on the edge of the door tightened convulsively; he swallowed.
“Look, Zé. There’s no sense in bringing three bodies to the morgue.…”
Da Silva paid no attention; his jaw was clamped, his eyes narrowed. “And little Miss Vilares better dream up a better story than she fed me before. And rolling those big, brown eyes at a dumb policeman isn’t going to help her this time!”
“Rolling those big, brown eyes?”
Da Silva didn’t hear him. “And I just realized something else, too. Anyone in on the scheme may have known that Chico was holed up in the Catatumbá; he could or would have told them himself. But he thought he was going to stay at the shack of a man named José Maria Carvalho, and he didn’t know where the shack was in the favela. Only the girl knew he was really staying in Fonseca’s place. And she only knew because I was stupid enough to tell her!”
Wilson frowned. “That still wouldn’t tell her how to find the shack. I don’t imagine the favelados hand out information to strangers, certainly not just like that.”
“That’s true,” Da Silva admitted. “But for a pretty girl? Looking for her boyfriend?”
Wilson stared at him. “Are you suggesting she went up there and strangled him?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. It’s true it’s hard to picture her going into a favela, but she’s big enough and strong enough, if he were unconscious first.” He thought a few moments and shook his head. “No; I can’t really picture her going up there. She must have told someone else, and how they located the place is anybody’s guess. She must have sent somebody up there. But why? She didn’t seem to care where he was in the favela—she didn’t even care which favela he was in. Catatumbá was picked by me—out of thin air. She was just looking for a place to hide him for a few days. Until I opened my big mouth!”
“You’re contradicting yourself. If she didn’t ask you where he was—”
“She thought she knew where he was! Don’t you see?” His thoughts were far from his driving; his big hands handled the wheel automatically. They had turned into the Avenida Das Nacões-Unidas and were racing toward the center of the city. At their side, across a spit of the bay, Sugar Loaf towered over them. Da Silva sighed. “Well, we’ll drop Chico off with Dr. Martins at the morgue, and then we’re going to visit our smart Miss Vilares.”
“We?”
“This time, we. This time I take a witness. Or a chaperone, which I need more.”
He clamped his jaws shut and pressed the acclerator. They curved with the bay, rushing toward the skyline of the downtown section. A traffic light finally forced him to slow down and stop; he waited impatiently until the amber turned to green and then he cut the wheel over, turning into the Mem de Sá with an angry roar of exhaust. At the Rua do Lavradio he turned right with no appreciable lessening of speed, braked momentarily to permit entrance into the Institute grounds, and drew up with squealing tires beside an ambulance parked in the small paved yard. He had the door open even as he switched off the ignition, climbing down, slamming the door. He bent to the window.
“I’ll send out a couple of men to pick up the body. You stick around unti
l they collect him, and then I’ll meet you in João Martins’ office. You know where it is.’
He didn’t wait for a reply but trotted up the wide marble steps and pushed through the swinging door. A few minutes later two men appeared, leisurely carrying a stretcher. They waited until one had finished a cigarette and flipped it away after which they pulled the body from the rear seat, rolled it onto the stretcher, and carried it into a side entrance of the building. They paid no attention to Wilson. He shrugged and climbed down, closed the car door the attendants had left open, and started up the steps. His nose wrinkled automatically at the sharp odor of formaldehyde that greeted him; with a sigh he turned down the corridor leading to the familiar office of the director. Instead of being on their way to Goiás, here he was at the morgue! Da Silva’s blasted taxi had managed to get them involved in murder once again!
Da Silva was seated at Doctor Martins’ wide desk, leaning forward anxiously, using the telephone. He glanced up at Wilson and nodded without breaking into his conversation. It was evident from his side of the dialogue that he was connected with Lieutenant Perreira.
“… Apartment 1612. Coronado. That’s right. Her name is Romana Vilares. I’m going to call her, but first I want you to be sure and have men around the place. What I’m going to say to her shouldn’t make her run, but I like to be sure. I’d hate to have her try and catch a plane or a train—or even a bus or a taxi—before I get a chance to see her. I want a man on the sixteenth floor, outside her door, and another in the back hall of the sixteenth floor, near the steps, or as close to the steps as he can get and still see the kitchen door of the apartment. And another in the lobby with the porter just in case. He can identify her. And tell the men to use a little intelligence on this; there’s no reason for the other tenants to get involved or even know. So let’s try to be a little neat, shall we?”
Perreira apparently agreed with this sentiment over the phone, although Wilson, listening quietly, could not imagine any other position for the lieutenant to take. Da Silva nodded at the instrument.
“Right. When the radio cars are in place, one in the Visconde de Albuquerque and the other in Sambaiba covering the building in back and the garage entrance, call me back. I’ll wait for it here in Doctor Martins’ office. And make it quick.”
He hung up and twisted the swivel chair about, looking up.
“João is out someplace, but his assistant is getting started on the autopsy. Have a chair—we’ll wait until Perreira calls.” He drummed his fingers on the desk blotter, frowning. “I just hope she’s home.”
Wilson dragged a chair about; he had to unload an armful of technical journals from it before he could seat himself. “I thought you told me her number was unlisted.”
“I caught it when she was threatening to call the police.” He remembered the scene at the telephone and thrust the thought away almost angrily. She laughed, did she? He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. There aren’t any unlisted numbers as far as the police are concerned. You know that.”
“True.…” Wilson nodded, watching Da Silva with veiled eyes. “Now, what happens when you phone her and she decides to run for it?”
“I’m not going to say anything to make her run. I’m just going to say I saw Chico this morning—which I did—and that I’d like to talk to her about it. Which I do.”
“And if that makes her run?”
Da Silva slowly closed his fist and brought it down on the blotter. His eyes came up. “Then she’ll be making a major mistake. Because she’ll be picked up.”
“And if she says she was going out to buy some whiskey so you would have something to drink?”
Da Silva frowned. “What in the devil are you driving at?”
Wilson shrugged. “I just thought that if you picked her up in the hall of her apartment building, you’d never know, would you? I mean, if she was buying whiskey—or meeting somebody.…”
Da Silva thought a moment. He nodded slowly. “You’re right.” He glanced at his watch and scowled. “Damn! How long does it take to find a couple of radio patrol cars and get them off their tails? Or is everybody listening to a football match?” The phone rang in the middle of his complaint; he reached for the instrument quickly.
“Hello? What? Just one? Oh—well, that should do it. Keep trying for the other, but with three men we can get started. Put one in each hallway, front and back, and forget the porter. And something else—” He paused to stress the importance of what was to follow. “If she leaves the apartment after my call, don’t pick her up there. I want her followed to see if she meets anyone. What? He can pretend he’d been visiting another tenant and go down in the elevator with her. At least he shouldn’t lose her for that part of the tailing job.” The sarcasm disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But one very important thing: if there’s the slightest chance of losing her—if she looks as if she’s going into a hotel or a department store or a movie, or anywhere she might slip them, don’t take any chances. I want her picked up. What?” He listened a moment, his face diffusing with anger. “What the devil’s gotten into you, anyway? This is a murder case! Charge her with soliciting, charge her with blocking traffic—what the hell do I care what they charge her with? Just don’t lose her, that’s all!”
He started to hang up, muttering to himself, and then snatched the receiver back just in time.
“Perreira? One more thing—hang on to Fonseca a while longer, even though the boy won’t be using the place anymore. We can’t put a technical team up on the Catatumbá, and depending on the autopsy, I might want to go up there and check in more detail than I did this morning. If I do I won’t want Fonseca cluttering up the place. Right. I’ll wait three minutes and call the girl. Tell your people to be ready.”
He put the receiver back in place and leaned back, reaching into his shirt pocket for a cigarette and lighting it. The fingers of one hand returned to drumming the desk as he waited in silence; the second hand on his watch seemed to be struggling through glue. At last he nodded and looked up. “Here we go.” He crushed out his cigarette and pulled the telephone closer, dialing her number.
At the other end of the line the telephone rang without being answered. Da Silva frowned as he waited with growing impatience, tugging at his bushy moustache, staring at the desk blotter without seeing it, somehow feeling hampered by the girl in his job just because she wasn’t home. He knew it was unfair but made no attempt to change his attitude. Damn it, why wasn’t she home when he wanted her to be? He allowed the telephone to ring at least twenty times before abandoning it. He depressed the lever momentarily, released it, and dialed once again.
“Perreira? She isn’t home, and I know her maid is away for a week. I’ll try to call her again later, from my place. The other radio car’s there? Well, send it on its business. Take the one man off the sixteenth floor in the front and put him with the porter to identify her when she gets back.” He thought a moment. “Does the elevator from the garage stop at the first floor?” He knew that in many apartments of the nature of the Coronado, the garage elevator went directly to the upper floors. It was a means of privacy not illogical, considering the exorbitant rentals and the marital status of many of the occupants. “You don’t know? Well, find out, and if it does, leave the man on the sixteenth floor in the service hallway. The important thing is not to miss her if she comes in, and most certainly not to lose her if she comes in and then leaves again. And don’t be afraid to pick her up if anything looks chancy. Right.” He hung up and came to his feet. “These damn apartments you can sneak into through the garage!”
“At those prices, it’s the least a sugar daddy can expect.”
“I suppose so. Let’s go. I want to get out of these clothes.”
“And then?”
Da Silva shrugged. “Then I guess we visit Mr. Francisco Xavier, Senior. We can’t exactly keep the news from him forever.”
“I suppose not,” Wilson said. He tried to examine the brighter side. “
Well, at least I’ll finally get to see how the other half—of one percent, that is—lives.”
“Assuming he’s home,” Da Silva said. “Sometimes he works, you know. And his office doesn’t exactly demonstrate how the other half—wait a minute.” A thought had struck him; he reached for the telephone, dialing the Institute’s switchboard. A few minutes’ conversation with the operator, and he hung up. “That wasn’t a bad idea. We might as well find out where our man is.” He sat on the edge of the desk, waiting impatiently. The telephone rang at last; he raised it, listened a few moments, and thanked the girl. He hung up and came to his feet.
“You get your wish,” he reported. “Senhor Xavier is having a luncheon at his home for a dozen or so of his friends.”
Wilson’s eyes twinkled. “And we’re invited?”
“More or less,” Da Silva said with no expression. He turned toward the door. “At least, since he doesn’t know we’re coming, nobody can claim we’re uninvited.…”
Chapter 11
The wide, curved driveway of the walled home on the heights of Sumaré was filled with large, expensive cars. Da Silva parked the cab behind a new Lincoln Continental, and the two men climbed down and headed for the house. Behind them the taxi seemed to be trying to hide its shame in the shadow of the gleaming chrome of the car ahead. The chauffeurs were gathered in a gossiping group beside the Italian fountain that filled a small plaza in the driveway; they paid no attention to the cab. They had all been graduated from equal cars or worse, and had learned with their present success to be both democratic and tolerant. One never knew when one might have to return to driving a wreck like that.
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