The Xavier Affair

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “I said we weren’t that good friends—”

  “And didn’t you know that in order to go through with the scheme, someone had to deliver the ransom note? Of course someone had to write it, too. Did you write it?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You don’t know anything. We understand that. Just answer this question honestly: Did you write it?”

  The boy remained silent, watching Da Silva.

  “No answer? Well, forget the writing of the note. Let’s concentrate on the delivery. Someone had to deliver this ransom note; that’s logical, isn’t it? It figures, doesn’t it?”

  The boy merely stared at the other. Da Silva nodded, as if he had received an expected answer.

  “Someone had to take it up to the mailbox of the Xavier home and put it in with the other mail. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I—”

  “And you did it. You took it there and pushed it in with the other mail. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did, because you were seen. You also wrote the note, and it wouldn’t take too much trouble to prove it. Where did you get the typewriter? From your father’s study? From the school library? Once we start looking, how long do you think it will be until we find the typewriter you used? How many typewriters do you have access to?”

  The boy stared at him as if hypnotized.

  “Obviously you had access to enough. But we can find them all. And that ransom note was the start of the whole thing. Didn’t you know that? You must be stupid! That ransome note asking for half a million dollars was the heart of the scheme—not the original scheme, but the revised scheme—don’t you know that? Of course you knew it!”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “You didn’t know what?”

  “I meant, I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You know all about it. It wasn’t a bad idea until someone in the gang felt all of the money was a lot better than just a share. And as a result Chico is dead, and Ricardo. You didn’t know that?”

  “I—”

  “How much was your share?”

  “My—”

  “Was it to be divided into four parts? Five? Six? Who else rated a share besides you and Chico and Ricardo and Romana?”

  The boy bit his lip and stared at the wall.

  “Where did you get the tape recorder?”

  “Recorder? What tape recorder? I don’t know anything about—”

  “Then how else did you know the exact place Chico was staying? The exact shack? When you killed him?”

  “I didn’t kill him! Why would I kill him?”

  “I just finished telling you, for the money.”

  “I didn’t even know where he was!”

  “You didn’t know he was on the Catatumbá? You want me to believe that everyone knew except you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You didn’t go up on the Catatumbá last Tuesday night—the night before last—and grab Chico by the throat and choke him until he was dead? How did you get close to him before he got suspicious? Or did he get suspicious?”

  “I didn’t! No! No!”

  “You didn’t leave here Tuesday night and go up to the Catatumbá? Then where did you go after you left here?”

  “Here?” The boy paused, suspicious. “Here?”

  “Here. Don’t you know where you are?”

  “No—”

  “You don’t know that you’re in the apartment of a woman who was murdered last Tuesday night, a little before Chico was killed?”

  “Murdered—”

  “You don’t know that this is the apartment of Romana Mariana Vilares?”

  “Romana? Dead—”

  The boy’s face turned a dirty gray; his eyes rolled back. Slowly he began to lean sideways and then collapsed, sliding from the chair to the floor in a dead faint. Da Silva knelt beside him instantly; he felt the boy’s damp forehead with one hand while his other located the pulse and checked it. He looked up.

  “It isn’t a fake. Wilson, get some water, or a damp cloth. Perreira, give me a hand. Loosen his tie and belt; pull off his shoes. Let’s get him on the divan, there, with his head down. Come on.”

  Wilson was back with a wet towel and washcloth by the time the boy had been arranged on the sofa. Da Silva laid the towel along the throat; there was a hesitation that lasted several seconds, then a fumbling hand groped upward, seeking the source of the disagreeable cold dampness. Da Silva eased the heavy body erect, propping it up while he swung the feet to the floor, bending the body over so that the head hung between the knees. The large boy looked like a rag doll. Da Silva placed the wet cloth on the back of the boy’s neck and waited. Several minutes passed, before the boy straightened up, looking miserable.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Perreira, help him into the bathroom.” Da Silva waited until the two had passed into the hallway and turned to Wilson. “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think it was beautifully done. Questioning isn’t a pleasant thing at best, but unfortunately it has to be done.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Do you mean, is he guilty? I have no idea.”

  “Neither do I. I’m certainly not going to absolve him on the basis of a faint, genuine or not.” He frowned. “Just why did we figure him for innocent before?”

  “Because we figured if he left the note, he wouldn’t pick up the money. And he didn’t. And we figured if he didn’t pick up the money, he wouldn’t have any motive for killing Chico. He wouldn’t get his hands on the money that way.”

  “Unless he also planned on killing Ricardo. A sort of tontine; last man alive gets the suitcase. Well, we’ll try Ricardo on him for size; see if he had any ideas along the lines of taking care of Ricardo before Ricardo took care of himself. Any other ideas?”

  “No. But I think you may finally start to get some honest answers for a change.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Perreira was returning, one thick arm about the boy’s waist. Despite his hulking size, Humberto looked extremely young and vulnerable at the moment. The lieutenant helped to lower him slowly into a chair, waited a moment to be sure the boy was fit, and then returned to his position at the door, although his former air of alert vigilance had abated somewhat. Da Silva pulled a chair into position across from the boy so their eyes would be on the same level. He sat down.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better. I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t worry about it. All right, now. I want to hear all about it. Three people are dead as a result of that little prank, two murdered and one killed in a particularly messy automobile accident. Well?”

  Humberto wet his lips. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you kill Chico Xavier?”

  “I swear to God—”

  “Or Romana?”

  “As God is my witness!”

  Da Silva sighed. “How many were in the scheme?”

  “Just the four of us.”

  “Which leaves you the last survivor.”

  “I know.” It was said with a tone of guilt.

  “Whose idea was it? The entire scheme?”

  “Chico’s. He said—” Humberto stopped.

  “He said what?”

  “He said his father wouldn’t call in the police.”

  “If Chico hadn’t been killed, I don’t think he would have. Actually, he didn’t call us in—we called ourselves in. How was the money to be divided?”

  “You mean, how much to each one? Or where?”

  “First, how much.”

  “Ricardo and I were to each get one hundred thousand dollars. Chico and Romana were to keep the rest. Or split it. I don’t know about their arrangement.”

  “And where was this dividing supposed to take place?”

  “Out on the Barra de Tijuca, way at the end. It’s deserted there; nobody would notice us. We were going to
make up a swimming party; each one would have a beach bag to take our share home.”

  “And how were you going to get there? Do you have a car?”

  “No. Chico was going to pick me up.”

  “You’re sure Ricardo wasn’t going to pick you up?”

  “No. Chico. Why?”

  “When was this dividing supposed to take place?”

  “On Saturday, when we didn’t have classes. Chico thought the biggest part of the excitement at home would be over by then, also.”

  “And Ricardo was going to keep the money until then?”

  “He had a place at home he said was safe.”

  “And what did you think when you read that Chico had been killed?”

  “I thought—” Humberto paused a moment before continuing. “I thought I’d hear from either Romana or Ricardo. I didn’t know how to get hold of her, and when I called Ricardo, the maid said he wasn’t home.”

  “Did you think that the money would now be split three ways instead of four?”

  “I didn’t think about it. It would have been up to the others, also.”

  “Only now there aren’t any others. Didn’t you realize you were playing a fairly dangerous game?”

  Humberto seized on the word. “That’s it, it was just a game. The way Chico explained it—”

  “Except three people are dead. It was a game with poor odds, I’d say. Why did Chico do it in the first place?”

  “He hated his father.”

  “And did he think that taking money from his father would hurt him? One of the wealthiest men in Brazil?”

  “That was only part of it—”

  “What was the rest of it?”

  “He needed the money.”

  Despite himself, Da Silva stared. “Chico Xavier needed money?”

  “His father didn’t give him very much. Cash, I mean. He had charge accounts in a lot of places, but you can’t charge everything. And he needed it. At least that’s what he said.”

  “Why did he need it? What did he say? Did he gamble?”

  “He didn’t gamble. He said when he got the money, one of the things he was going to do was to set Romana up in an apartment—”

  “What?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “What!”

  “I’m not lying,” Humberto said, on the defensive. “It’s what he said.”

  Da Silva bent over in his chair, his eyes locked on the boy’s face inches from his own. “Are you telling me that Chico didn’t pay the rent for this apartment?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t. Chico didn’t even know where Romana lived. None of us did. She always met him outside; they went to hotels. We all thought she had a strict family, or something. That’s why Chico needed the money, you see. Or at least that’s what he said.…”

  “God!” The tall detective came to his feet, staring down at the boy, and then made a fist and struck himself on the forehead. “God, but I’m stupid! She told me Chico paid the rent, and I was just stupid enough to believe her!” He moved to the house phone on the wall, almost jerking it from its bracket, pressing the small button beneath it, looking at Wilson. “And don’t argue with me this time when I say I’m stupid!”

  The porter’s voice was on the line. “Sim?”

  “This is Captain Da Silva, here on that murder case. Who are the renting agents for this building? And what is their telephone number?”

  “The agents are Azulay and Pedroso. Their number? One moment—” The porter scrabbled in his little drawer. Was the captain already taking advantage of the poor woman’s death to try and get the apartment? All they needed was a policeman living there! On the other hand it could be for his girlfriend. That might even be an advantage. He located the business card and picked up the phone. “Captain? Their number is 96-5550.”

  “Thanks.” Da Silva dropped the one phone and walked to the other, reaching down, dialing. The others in the room waited quietly. There was a short interval and the telephone was answered; a man was on the line.

  “Azulay and Pedroso.”

  “This is Captain Da Silva of the police department. May I speak with someone in charge?”

  “You can speak with me. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like the name on one of your leases in the Coronado Apartments.”

  The man’s voice almost laughed at him. “I’m sorry. That information is confidential.”

  Da Silva took a deep breath. When he spoke again his voice had not raised in volume, but it seemed to have taken on a deadly edge that almost singed the wire.

  “Senhor, I should hate to think that I have not misunderstood you. Because if I have not, in just fifteen minutes I shall have a policeman, in uniform, stationed at every entrance to this building, and everyone who walks in or out, whether a tenant, a visitor, a tradesman, or anyone else, will be asked to furnish proof of identity.”

  “And how do I know you’re really from the police?”

  “You don’t, and I’m not going to waste the time proving it to you unless I have to, and if I have to, you’ll regret it. But if you feel holding back the name on a lease is worth the gamble that I’m not a policeman, you go ahead and take it.”

  “But even if you are a policemen, you can’t—”

  “I can and I will, and I’m getting tired of discussing it. A uniformed man at every entrance within fifteen minutes. It may be embarrassing to some people, especially when the list is printed in the newspapers, but—” His voice ended with a shrug in it.

  There was a brief pause; when the man spoke again his tone had changed. “You are quite correct, Captain. You misunderstood completely. What lease were you interested in?”

  “The one for Apartment 1612.”

  “One moment.…” There was a wait of several minutes before the man came back on the line. “I have the lease here. It’s signed by a Miss Romana Vilares.”

  “I know. I’m interested in who signed as fiador—guarantor. That’s right. Who?” His eyebrows raised. “Thank you. What? No, that’s all the information I need at the moment, senhor. Thank you very much.”

  He hung up, a faint smile on his face, and stood staring at the silent instrument, thinking. One hand came up to stroke his moustache, then he bent down, retrieving the telephone book from beneath the telephone table. Wilson’s patience ran out.

  “Well?”

  Da Silva looked up. “Well, what? I’ve got some calls to make.…”

  “Damn it, Zé! Don’t be cute! Who really paid the rent here?”

  “You’ll never believe it,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “A man named Miguel Alvaro.…”

  Chapter 17

  Wilson stared at him in amazement. “Alvaro!”

  “That’s what the man said.” Da Silva finally found the number in the telephone book he had been searching for; he put the book away and dialed. There were a few moments’ wait, an almost fewer moments’ conversation, and he hung up with a shrug. “That was the porter, the only one in the building. The offices of Xavier Companhia are closed today out of respect. The funeral is this morning—” He glanced at Humberto, frowning. “Weren’t you going to go?”

  “After my nine o’clock class. It’s jurisprudence.…”

  Da Silva avoided the obvious comment. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Anyway, it’s probably over by now. And then the chief mourners will undoubtedly end up at the Xavier mansion for a drink and a bit of buffet lunch.” He glanced at Wilson. “You didn’t think the wake was invented in Ireland, did you? We die down here a lot more frequently than they do.”

  “I didn’t think about it at all,” Wilson said. He came to his feet. “Let’s get over there and talk to this Miguel Alvaro.” He smiled, not a particularly happy smile. “As office manager of the Rio branch, I’m sure he’s one of the loudest lamenters. If not the loudest.”

  “Let’s get up there, indeed.” Da Silva turned to the seated boy, still pale from his ordeal. “Lieutenant Perreira has to stay here until the reg
ular man on duty here comes back from eating. That shouldn’t be very long. Then the lieutenant will drive you home. Give him your address and telephone number. When—and if—I need you, I want to know where you can be reached without delay. Is that clear? And I suggest you don’t make any trips without permission—my permission—for a while. Do you understand?”

  The husky lad seemed to have shrunk, to have become smaller. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Da Silva rewarded the boy for his cooperation with a smile and opened the apartment door, ushering Wilson before him. He raised a hand in a parting salute to the lieutenant and closed the door behind them. They rode the elevator in silence, passed the ill-dressed porter without salutation, and walked down the steps to the street. In the taxi Da Silva removed his jacket, located a shoulder holster in the varied arsenal beneath the front seat, and slipped into it. A police positive was checked for readiness and dropped into the leather funnel. He slid back into his jacket, shrugging it into position. Wilson looked hurt.

  “What about me?”

  “You won’t need one. I don’t think.” Da Silva smiled at him. “Actually, it’s just habit when I go up against a killer. I don’t think I need one either. Our man isn’t going to be carrying an arsenal to a funeral.” He buttoned his jacket and started the car. He swung across the small canal bridge at the Rua Igarapava, waited while an idiot truck swayed past, and turned into the far lane of the divided Visconde de Albuquerque, heading away from the ocean in the direction of the city and, eventually, the heights of Sumaré. He glanced over at Wilson. “Well? How do you see the lineup now?”

  “Now it’s fairly simple,” Wilson said in disgust. “Now even we can see it. The whole kidnapping scheme was Alvaro’s from the beginning. He had Romana suggest it to Chico, giving him all the good reasons for doing it, and also specifying Miguel Alvaro as the trustworthy messenger to deliver the money to the bus station. That was scheduled for Wednesday. Tuesday night he checks his little tape recorder and finds out where Chico is hiding, and that was that. Ciao, Chico.”

  “And why did he kill Romana?”