“We both want the same thing, Senhor Xavier. And the fastest way to get it is by tracing the money. Good-bye.”
The two men let themselves out of the room, walking down the corridor and down to the cab in silence. Behind them the wealth of the estate somehow seemed a mockery. The two climbed into the car; Da Silva switched on the ignition and paused, turning to look at Wilson.
“Well? How do you like how the other half lives?” There was no humor in his voice.
Wilson shrugged. “Under different circumstances I’d say it was lovely. As it is today, though, I think I’d take Catatumbá.”
“Damn!” Da Silva let out the clutch. “Why in hell don’t people call the police?”
Wilson considered him curiously. “Would you have, in his place?”
“I don’t know.” Da Silva turned his attention to the curved driveway. “Probably not, though it’s pointless not to. They might help, and today it can’t do much harm. The chances of a kidnap victim being returned alive are damned small. Still, I suppose the family can’t admit that fact.…” He swung into the Estrada de Sumaré at the foot of the driveway, turning in the direction of the Avenida Paulo de Frontin as being the quickest way to the city. “Actually, however, none of these factors apply in this case.”
“No, they don’t,” Wilson agreed. “This case looks like Chico rigged his own kidnapping and it backfired. Unless he happened to get into an argument with somebody up on the hill.” He glanced across at Da Silva. “Which neither one of us believes.”
“Which neither of us believes. I don’t believe in wild coincidence where that much money is concerned.”
“True. Well, maybe the lovely Miss Vilares will be able to throw some light on the subject if she ever comes home. She—” He looked at De Silva. “What?”
“I said, Damn! I forgot to ask Perreira about Romana.”
“If there had been anything to report, he would have told you.” Wilson returned to his theme. “As I said, she can probably help if she wants to, but even without her help I think we can make certain deductions. To begin with, it looks highly probable that he was killed by a friend—”
Da Silva’s eyebrows rose. “A friend? You have a quaint idea of friendship.”
“I mean, obviously, not by a stranger.” Wilson refused to be baited. “It had to be an acquaintance. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ll go back to my first definition—a friend. There were obviously more people involved in the scheme than just Romana and Chico, and he wouldn’t bring anyone into the scheme who wasn’t a friend.”
“So if one of them got greedy for all that money and killed him,” Da Silva continued, “therefore he must be a friend. Q.E.D. One question: Why kill him before the money is collected? That’s taking quite a chance. And another question: According to that theory, the friend who picked up the money would be the most logical suspect. Obviously, he wouldn’t hand it to anybody—friend or not. His job would be to hand it to Chico.”
Wilson frowned. “You know, we’re working on the theory that Chico was the boss in this scheme. It could have been any one of them.”
“I doubt it.” Da Silva sounded positive. “Let’s keep working on that theory. Chico wouldn’t have accepted the role of victim in someone else’s scheme. Let’s get back to my questions. Well?”
“All right,” Wilson said. “Let’s take the first. He was killed when it was most convenient. Once the money was collected, he’d be out of the favela. Remember, they promised to return him within six hours. That would mean he would be out of the shanty on his way home in daylight. Actually, killing him wasn’t that risky. Other than Romana nobody knew where he was—how was anyone to know? Even if it was reported, it would be a John Doe killed in a favela, certainly nothing new.”
“I’ll accept that,” Da Silva said. “How about question number two?”
“Well, I must admit the one who picks up the money is the most logical suspect. Or else his neck could be on the chopping block, too!” They were threading down the winding road, perforce going slowly. Ahead of them small houses began to appear, the beginning of urban life in that section of the city. “Let me say this,” Wilson added. “If he isn’t the killer, I’d hate to be in his shoes.”
“Another question is, how many friends were in it with him? Chico, I mean. Let’s assume, just for the sake of argument, that Humberto Something delivered the note. Would he be the one assigned to pick up the money? Doubtful for two reasons.”
“You mean you’re beginning to answer questions instead of merely asking them?” Wilson sounded impressed. “All right; you’re up to bat.”
“Well, reason number one is that dropping off the note might possibly be laid at his door, at least circumstantially. If he is seen in the neighborhood of the bus depot when money is being bandied back and forth, somebody might just note the coincidence. Remember, they had to work on the assumption that the police would be called in.” A thought came to him. “The same thing is true of Romana. She did her part in arranging sleeping accommodations on Catatumbá; she won’t be picking up the money.” He smiled. “Thank God for amateurs! They love to divide responsibility.”
“You still haven’t given the second reason why it wasn’t Humberto.”
“Oh. Obviously because he didn’t have a car, remember? I can’t see them picking money up and then catching a cab. Or a bus, even at the bus station. My guess is they’re using the lockers there, or the checkroom.”
Wilson didn’t go into that. “So how many amateur plotters do we have?”
“Well,” Da Silva said, “by our count, a minimum of four. Chico, Romana, Humberto, and at least one more—the one to pick up the money. They may have more. Their scheme to pick up the money may require two men, or maybe even three.”
“True,” Wilson conceded. “They said dollars, and nothing larger than a five-hundred-dollar bill. Maybe Xavier filled the suitcase with pennies; that would fit the category. In that case they may even have four people, just to lift it.”
“Or two, exceptionally strong,” Da Silva added. His smile faded. “Well, let’s get on down to the bus depot and find out.” They had reached the straighter Avenida Paulo de Frontin; Da Silva pushed down on the gas pedal. The city rose about them almost mysteriously. “The only problem, of course, is to prove half of what we’re saying. Even after we find out.…”
Chapter 12
The new Central Bus Terminal at the end of the dock road was a vast improvement over the old one that had barely managed to operate in the Praça Mauá. A properly air-conditioned passenger waiting room had been provided in the new, modernistic building, with sanitary facilities that functioned and a restaurante-bar that served something more substantial than stale sandwiches and beer, and ample space had been made available outside to handle a good number of omnibuses. The space allotted for private automobiles, however, was roughly the same as before—none. Da Silva, therefore, pulled into the line of cabs parked at the taxi rank and descended in the midst of angry glares from the lounging drivers, all of whom were aware that the strange taxi did not belong at that pôsto. Da Silva glared back, and the drivers subsided. This thug made them remember the old adage of let live and live.
The two men crossed the driveway plaza, passing the huge vehicles angled in between the strict white lines; the omnibuses nuzzled the loading curb like patient horses eating at a trough. People climbed in and out of them as if with purpose; others wandered about the long platform in seeming desperation, as if lost. A loudspeaker suddenly burst into sound, intoning a series of destinations unintelligibly and fatalistically. Nobody paid the slightest attention. Da Silva smiled proudly, pleased that progress had not corrupted the Brazilian soul to the point of organization.
They came through the door into the bustling waiting room, the chill of the air conditioning strange and welcome. Da Silva looked around and nodded; his personal assistant, Ruy, was seated on one of the long benches looking more bored than anything else. Inspection of the large, no
isy room revealed no further familiar face. Alvaro, then, had received the “further instructions” apparently, and presumably was acting upon them. With Perreira close behind, Da Silva hoped. He walked over and sat down next to Ruy, extracting a cigarette from his shirt pocket and apologetically indicating his desire to borrow a light, speaking without moving his lips.
“Well?”
“They paged him the way you said they would,” Ruy said, matching the woodenness of his superior’s facial expression. He dug into his pockets, patted them again to be sure, and then raised his shoulders, indicating his disappointment at not being able to accommodate the other. “He went out the back way, by the buses, dropped off the bag, and walked to the taxi rank. Perreira—”
Despite himself, Da Silva lost his aplomb. “Dropped off the bag?”
“Yes, sir.” Ruy stared, puzzled both by the question and by the sudden abandonment of their masquerade. He had been enjoying it. “This Alvaro dropped the bag alongside the pile of luggage set out for loading on one of the buses. It looked like he was going someplace for a few minutes and then coming back in time to catch the bus. The lieutenant, together with Lemos and Madureiro, went after him. He told me to wait here for you. He said—”
Da Silva dropped all pretense of either secrecy or self-control. He could not help himself. He cursed long, loudly, fervently, and fluently. A crowd began to gather in hopes of seeing a fight, but when it became apparent only one of the two was angry, and that he intended to take it out solely in language, they drifted off. Da Silva banged his fist down on his knee; it was painful, but he didn’t care.
“God save me from stupid people!”
Ruy’s feelings were hurt; justifiably, he thought. They had received no instructions regarding the bag; just the man. For all they knew the man was shipping the bag to São Paulo by bus; it was a common means of sending parcels, assured, not too expensive, and fast.
“I’m sorry, Captain. What did we do wrong?”
“Not you! Me!”
“You, Captain?”
Da Silva forced down his anger at his own idiocy. It solved nothing and consumed time. “I don’t suppose anyone happened to notice at which bus queue he left the bag?”
“Yes, sir. It was the Viacão Cometa on loading dock four.”
Hope began to rise in Da Silva. “Did you notice where it was going?”
“Yes, sir. São Paulo. Dock numbers four through six are all São Paulo buses. They leave every hour. I know; I catch my bus to Grajaú from here every night.” Ruy took a breath and continued. “The one at dock four left at one o’clock, twenty minutes ago. I was watching it, wondering if Alvaro might get back in time, or if he was going to miss the bus, or if he was just shipping—”
But Da Silva was already on his feet, moving purposely toward the door. Ruy, taken by surprise, had jumped up and was hurrying to accompany him; Wilson kept pace at their side. Da Silva spoke to his assistant over his shoulder, even as he straight-armed the glass door. The heat on the platform seemed the greater for the comfort of the waiting room.
“Try to get hold of Perreira. Call the office and leave a message: he’s supposed to call in. And then stay here, in case he comes back. Tell him he’s wasting his time.” He raised a hand to Ruy and trotted out to the car. Wilson quickly slipped in beside him as Da Silva started the engine and swung the car sharply toward the street. “Dumb,” he said bitterly. “Dumb, dumb, dumb! Dumb! Stupid,” he added, as if wishing not to be misunderstood.
Wilson was not so sure he agreed.
“Don’t blame yourself. It was a beautiful scheme, that’s all—almost sure to fool anyone, the great Da Silva included.” A faint smile crossed his lips. “It just goes to prove that a university education isn’t as useless as some people claim. May this be a lesson to all dropouts.”
Da Silva wearied of waiting for a break in traffic; he cut into the street anyway, shooting across the intersection into the Avenida Brasil, heading toward the western edge of the city and the Dutra Highway leading toward São Paulo. He leaned forward, almost willing the cab to greater speed, and then leaned back to be more comfortable for the long chase ahead. He risked a glance at his friend.
“You’ve figured out how it worked?”
“I think so,” Wilson said. He took one look at the traffic through which they were cutting, tightening his grip on the edge of the window. “The biggest problem in arranging the safe transfer of money in a case like this isn’t how to pick up the money; it’s how not to pick it up. And still not lose it, of course. I mean, in case of an emergency how can you still be with the money and still not be connected with it? Well, these boys figured out a cute way of handling the situation.”
“Thanks to my stupidity.”
“Your stupidity had nothing to do with it. Thanks to their intelligence. Give them credit—they deserve it. The scheme was set up so that even if Perreira had been told to follow the bag instead of Alvaro, he’d still have had trouble.” Wilson considered a few moments and nodded. “The idea is really lovely. These Viação Cometa buses are sold out hours beforehand. All that was necessary was to buy a ticket well in advance—or tickets, depending on whether more than one member of the gang is riding the bus—and a few minutes before the bus leaves, simply telephone the messenger and tell him to leave the bag in the luggage line for the bus. At that point nobody, police included, can manage space on that bus without causing enough fuss to warn off a deaf imbecile, let alone a very astute plotter.”
“Right,” Da Silva said in complete agreement. He tried not to sound bitter. “It was a lovely scheme.”
“Not was. Is.”
“All right, is. Now, where is he going to get off?”
“Well,” Wilson said, “it won’t be São Paulo, obviously. Anyplace between here and there, I suppose.”
“I think we can spot it a little better than that. I agree he won’t wait until São Paulo. Police could be waiting there for whoever removed the brown bag from the bus. And remember, regardless of how sure Chico must have been that his father wouldn’t go to the police—and I’m sure he banked on that—the others weren’t that sure. They couldn’t afford to be. They had to act as if that money was being watched every minute. So I agree we rule out São Paulo. Besides, while it doesn’t mean too much, they said in the note that Chico would be home six hours after the money was picked up, which also rules out São Paulo. And the same reason for not waiting for São Paulo also applies to rest stops like Itatiaia or the Clube dos Quinhentos. Police could also be there, waiting. No, he’ll get off at some spot on the highway far from a town, a crossroads, maybe, or a gas station. Where he ducked his car earlier today, or where he has somebody waiting to meet him.”
“Right,” Wilson said. “Anyway—” He paused, wrinkling his nose, holding his breath. They were passing a leather tannery, and a row of urubús lined the roof and the walls about the factory; the stench was almost unbearable. Da Silva helped as much as he could by taking the car to an even greater speed, holding to the outside lane, passing everything on the road. Wilson was close to bursting by the time they returned to clean air.
“I’m going to have to stop smoking,” he said. “My wind is gone. Anyway, to get back to our exposition, if everything looks clear when he stops, he takes both his bag and the brown bag, and the bus driver locks the luggage compartment, climbs back into the bus, and goes merrily on his way. However, if anything looks fishy at all, our picker-upper simply asks for his own bag only—and he had to bring one to get the bus driver to open the luggage compartment—and he leaves the brown one. And then returns to town and writes Senhor Xavier another note, only more threatening this time.”
Da Silva nodded. “I think that’s about it.”
Wilson glanced at him. “One big problem, of course, is can you catch up with the bus? Twenty minutes is a lot of head start for one of those monsters, and they drive about the way you do.”
“I’ll catch him,” Da Silva said confidently. “I’ll catch
him on the serra. It’s fifteen miles from the bottom up the mountain to the plateau on top, and they have to crawl up it. I could pick up the entire twenty minutes right there.”
“If you don’t get behind a sand truck—”
“You’re thinking of the old days,” Da Silva said. “It’s two separate two-lane highways, now. One up and the other down.”
“You’re thinking of the old days,” Wilson retorted. “Like a week ago. Don’t you read the papers? The down highway is closed for repairs. After all, it’s about time. They finished it over a year ago.”
Da Silva disregarded the sarcasm. “I’ll still pick up all the time I need on the climb.”
“If our young genius doesn’t get off the bus before the climb starts—”
“This, no,” Da Silva said with assurance. “He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. He doesn’t want to do something to get people to remember him and getting off a Viacão Cometa before the serra would do just that. You can get a local bus as far as Barra de Piraí on top of the plateau, so who’s going to spend money for a Cometa when they can make the trip for half as much?”
“And you honestly think the other passengers would think of that?”
“The bus driver certainly would, since it would probably be the first time in his experience that anyone got off that soon. And the passengers would notice it, too.” He grinned. “The Brazilian doesn’t mind money being thrown away foolishly—though that really isn’t a good word, since he doesn’t consider beer or women foolish—but he bitterly resents anyone who throws money away needlessly.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Wilson said. “Mainly, of course, because I agree with the philosophy. I—” He paused, frowning.
Da Silva was slowing down for the barreira separating the state of Guanabara from the state of Rio de Janeiro. A uniformed policeman raised a gloved hand, waving them through. Da Silva glanced at Wilson just as he tramped on the gas, noticing the sudden look of distress.
The Xavier Affair Page 12
