He bent his head, resting it on his shaking knuckles, closing his eyes. Jesus, tender infant of infinite mercy, why had he done it? Why? Why? It was true that there could be no doubt that Senhor Nestor had been about to betray the entire scheme to that miserable police captain, Da Silva. Not that Senhor Nestor lacked courage, but everyone knew this Da Silva and knew he got information from even the bravest when he so desired. So what other course had possibly been open?
Yet, even so, what had made him do it? What? He sat up, opening his eyes dazedly, swallowing, fighting down the nausea that rose in his throat, tasting again the sour bitterness of the pinga he had drunk, but never even faintly considering the pinga as having had anything to do with his action. He shook his head in misery and wiped a shaking hand across his face, trying by brute force to wipe away the memory that clouded his mind. His hand came away damp. He rubbed it viciously against his jacket and felt the revolver through the cloth of his pocket. His hand slid to it; it still felt warm to the touch. Why? Why? With a sudden compulsion he withdrew it and leaned over to replace it in the glove compartment, closing the compartment again quickly, as if by locking away the weapon he could also lock away the deed. And now? And now? Now what? Archimedes would have to be told. The thought brought his trembling back with a rush. The heat of the night seemed to be concentrated in his body; he raised a hand to stroke his sweating throat. What in the name of the beloved saints had ever made him do it?
He put the car into gear and pulled slowly away from the curb, driven by an unconscious knowledge that to remain in any one place for any length of time could be dangerous. The traffic light at the Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana was with him; it was just as well. His foot was locked on the accelerator, cruising him across at slow speed, his body reacting as if driven by some outside force. A lighted bar front registered on his brain. He found himself drawing up before the open doorway, staring at the empty chairs and tables, at the deserted interior. A telephone mounted on the wall both beckoned and repelled; the bottles reflecting themselves in the streaked mirror beyond the bar simply beckoned. His fingers found the ignition key and twisted it to off. With his mind mercifully blanked he climbed heavily from the car.
The bartender nodded to him and waited.
“Pinga.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears, as if he were listening to someone else speak, and that from a fading distance. A hand beside him was raised in the air almost without volition; he realized from its proximity and the blue of its sleeve that it was his own. “Wait … Make it a double.”
It tasted like water. The pungent aroma was missing, the sharp bite curiously lacking. And the usual rapid headiness of that much alcohol taken in two quick swallows, oddly enough, did not appear. Yet the sharp edge of his terror seemed to be diminished, the consequences of his terrible deed somehow less frightening. He stared at the telephone, threatening him from the wall, his mind forming excuses in advance. After all, he had been given the responsibility of salvaging their negócio from going down the drain after that white-haired American had inexplicably left the ship, and what else could he have done? What had he done that clearly did not have to be done? What would Archimedes have done had he been in his shoes? The same, he assured himself; the very same thing. There had been nothing else to do. He pushed his glass back across the marble top.
“Again …”
This time the pinga had a bit of taste, nor did his large hand shake as much as he lifted the glass. True, his cold soberness remained, but that was only to be expected in the circumstances, and he was relieved to note that his thinking processes were returning. Naturally he had shot Nestor—of course he had shot Nestor. The man had been on the verge of disclosing their entire scheme, which would have brought them all into the greatest of trouble, principally jail, not to mention the loss of money—which would have meant the loss of girls and the good living and—he stood a bit straighter as he suddenly realized—the loss of his car as well. Without the faintest doubt …
It was a pity in a way, of course. Nestor had been second-in-command of the organization and quite valuable to the scheme, but hadn’t somebody said somewhere that no man is irreplaceable? Someone did. Paulo didn’t know who had said it, but he was sure that somebody had; he knew he hadn’t thought of it himself. And it would have been far more disastrous to have allowed Nestor, in his craven fear, to tell everything to that devil Captain Da Silva. The fat would really have been in the fire then.
He raised his glass once again and was surprised to find it empty.
“Again …”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. This one had obviously been born with an empty leg and in all probability with empty pockets as well. Paulo properly interpreted the querying look and found that he had relaxed sufficiently to even smile in response to it. He put money on the bar and accepted his refilled glass with a pleasant smile. When he brought the glass to his lips this time he was pleased to discover the old familiar sharpness and taste to his drink.
Well, what was done was done, and worrying wouldn’t change it. And, more important, there were many things that would have to be done as a result. To begin with, the group would have to be reorganized; someone would have to do the work that Senhor Nestor had always performed. The division of the spoils would undoubtedly be different in the future, and looking at it dispassionately, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t come in for a greater share. It had been he, after all, who had saved the whole thing from failure in the first place. And the first of the many things that had to be done, of course, was to get Archimedes to contact the boss and get the reorganization started. And that required a telephone call. Well, fortunately the bar had a telephone within easy reaching distance, so let’s get on with it!
He dropped a coin into the slot and dialed slowly, carefully searching out the tiny numbers with his usual difficulty. A ringing in the distance came to him; he began to prepare himself. Something has come up, Archimedes, that will require you to—No. Now, Archimedes, the first thing I should like you to do—No, not that either. There’s been an accident—No, it was no accident.
The telephone was answered. He was rather surprised to discover he was being addressed by a female voice rather than by Archimedes himself and then giggled as he realized his mistake. One of these days he intended to meet the owner of that cool, impervious voice and see if he couldn’t warm it up in some way. But that could wait.…
“Senhor Archimedes, pôr favor.”
“Momento …”
There was the usual delay. Paulo leaned over, finished his drink with one gulp, and pointed an imperious finger at the empty glass. The bartender shrugged and reached for a bottle behind him once again.
“Hello?”
Paulo nodded to the bartender in thanks and turned his attention to the voice in his ear. “Archimedes? This is Paulo.”
The voice at the other end dropped, becoming vicious in its very quietness. “And where have you been? And why haven’t you called? I distinctly told you …”
Paulo stared at the receiver. Was this the way it was going to be? Was this the thanks he was going to get? “I am calling,” he said coldly. “Right now.”
Archimedes gritted his teeth. “You’re drunk!”
Paulo burped into the receiver, prepared for denial, but the other admitted defeat before the words came. “Forget it,” Archimedes said hopelessly. “Where did they go?”
Of all the ridiculous interruptions! “Where did who go?”
“The white-haired man and the one who was with him! The American who was supposed to take the ship!” Archimedes was seething; suddenly he paused. “Paulo, you are drunk!”
Paulo stared at the telephone with growing resentment. Drunk? Him? He had never been more sober! Then the reason for his exceptional sobriety came back to him with a rush and he put aside the discussion as being inconsequential. “Archimedes, I have to see you. It’s extremely important! I must see you. At once.”
There was a hopeless sigh from t
he telephone. “You are drunk! You know I can’t leave my post. You lost him, didn’t you?”
Paulo answered with justifiable pride. “I did not.” Again memory stepped in, goading him. “That’s why I have to see you, Archimedes, because I didn’t lose him …”
“You have to see me because you didn’t lose him?”
What were these constant childish interruptions, anyway? Who killed Nestor?—let me ask you that! Who had saved them all? Archimedes? What a dream! He, Paulo, had saved the situation with no help from the others! He cast an eye toward the bartender, but at the moment that one was gone, in all probability for more bottles of pinga. He shrugged and turned back to the telephone.
“I can’t discuss it over the phone. But take my word for it, I have to see you. It’s of the maximum importance.”
Archimedes snorted. “And I can’t get away! And let me decide what’s important and what isn’t. Just tell me where they went.”
All right! Paulo thought with sudden viciousness. If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you’ll get it, but don’t come crying to me later!
“First,” he said softly, breathing into the telephone with satisfaction, pleased with the sensation he knew he was about to cause, “the American and the man with him went to Copacabana and visited the apartment of a certain Captain Da Silva of the police …” There was a sudden gasp from the other end. Paulo bore down relentlessly, happy to shock the other.
“And then the three came down from Da Silva’s apartment and went down the street to visit Senhor Nestor at the bar …”
“What!”
Archimedes realized suddenly that he was speaking from an open hotel lobby. He forced his voice lower, although obviously with the greatest of effort. “They went to the bar? Are you sure?”
Paulo grinned at the telephone. That got him! “Of course I’m sure. I followed them.”
“But they couldn’t have seen Nestor,” Archimedes said thoughtfully. “I telephoned just after you called me the last time and he still wasn’t in.”
Paulo’s grin widened. “They saw him all right …”
Archimedes’ mind was churning. “And where are you now?”
Paulo looked about. “At the corner of Sá Ferreira and the Avenida Nossa Senhora. About three blocks from your hotel.”
“And at a bar, I assume! Well, stay there. I’ll be right over.” There was the barest of pauses. “And don’t drink any more, do you hear? Better wait in the car.”
Paulo waved this aside. “Just hurry.”
He found himself speaking to a buzzing sound in his ear. He shook his head to clear it and realized it was coming from the receiver in his hand. Archimedes had disconnected. With a smile he returned to the bar and hissed loudly for the bartender.
There were many things to do. Obviously he would move up in the organization, which would mean that a replacement for himself on the docks would be necessary. He tried to review the qualities of some of the luggage porters he knew on the docks, but their faces blurred in his mind and he gave it up. Plenty of time for that; if necessary he could even continue on the docks himself for a while, at least until things were settled. In fact, it might even be better—the docks were probably the most important assignment in the entire scheme. Even in his drunken state Paulo realized he would not fit into any of the categories of the organization that required élan.
A short beep on an automobile horn brought him from his reverie, and he realized that it was coming from his own car. He dragged his change from the counter and walked unsteadily out to the curb.
Archimedes, resplendent in his hotel uniform, was sitting behind the wheel, glaring at him. Paulo opened the car door carefully and slid into the empty seat, smiling with drunken geniality at the other. His smile was not returned.
“I thought I told you not to drink any more!” One look at the blurry face across from him and Archimedes abandoned this phase of the discussion as being pointless. He shook his head and leaned back, sucking in his anger. “All right, tell me what happened.”
“Sure.” Paulo hiccuped gently and then continued. “Well, like I told you, the three of them came out of this apartment in the Avenida Atlântica—where Da Silva lives, I guess—and then they came down the street until they got to Senhor Nestor’s bar …” He hesitated, frowning in memory. “I told you all this before. On the telephone.”
Archimedes gritted his teeth. “Tell me again.”
“All right.” Paulo was feeling magnanimous. “Well, the first time I drove past the bar they were sitting there at one of those little tables out on the sidewalk, ordering a drink, I guess. There wasn’t any place to park.” He sat and thought about this for a minute and then turned to Archimedes with real complaint tinging his voice. “Do you know, they’ve got these ‘No Parking’ signs posted every ten feet along the Avenida, but do you think anyone pays any attention to them? Anyone at all? Not a damned soul! Block after block, cars wedged in one right next to the other—”
“Will you get on with it!”
“Sure.” Paulo was willing; his evening had been completely disrupted anyway. He drew in a deep breath. “Well, I had to drive around the block, and by the time I got back there, this Da Silva was just coming out of the bar—the open part, you know—with Senhor Nestor and leading him to the table. Well, I knew right then we were sunk, and there still wasn’t any place to park! So I had to drive around that miserável block again, and all the way around my brain was working, believe me! So—” He paused. Archimedes had made a crude sound. “What?”
“Never mind. Go on.”
Paulo shrugged. “Well, when I came around the next time Nestor was just getting to his feet, and I knew that Da Silva had got to him. I knew he was going inside to get all the information to give to that filho de mãe, Da Silva, and that we were going to be sunk.”
Archimedes snorted. Taking time from his job, with the possibility of getting fired when his job was vital to the scheme, just to listen to this garbage! “And just how did you know that? For your information, Senhor Nestor wouldn’t give Da Silva the right time.”
Paulo grinned at him. “I don’t know if he ever would have before, but he certainly never will now. Or anything else. And if you have any money, you can bet on it …”
He leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and withdrew the revolver, fondling it almost tenderly. Archimedes stared at the gun as if hypnotized, refusing to understand the message his brain had delivered.
“Did you say …?” His voice was incredulous, still not sure he had heard correctly or had understood what he had heard.
“That’s right.”
“You shot Senhor Nestor? You shot Senhor Nestor?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a fool—a maniac …” The voice was low and despairing, hopeless in face of the devastating news. He stared at Paulo as if at an animal, strange and loathsome. “Why?” It did not seem sufficient. “Why?”
“Because he was going to talk,” Paulo explained reasonably.
Archimedes shook his head slowly, staring through the dirty windshield without seeing a thing, his mind numb with shock. “He would never have talked.”
“He would have talked, because I saw him.” To Paulo this statement made logical sense. With a bit more consideration he would have been prepared to swear he had even heard the betrayal. “You weren’t there, so you’re in no position to—”
“Shut up!” Archimedes closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against the nightmare that had developed out of nowhere. How had their wonderful and simple scheme gone so awry? Certainly there had been chances, but one took chances eating strawberries in Rio. What madness had ever possessed this fat, drunken monster beside him to kill anyone, let alone Nestor?
His eyes opened slowly and swung around, encompassing the gun.
“And put that gun away, you stupid fool!”
Paulo shrugged and dropped the gun into his pocket. After all, he had had time to become accustomed to
the facts; they were new to his companion. Archimedes attempted to think, to find an anchor onto which he could clutch, a point from which to begin the steps necessary to the slow rebuilding of their entire organization. But the finality of Nestor’s death—Nestor, his superior, the second-in-command … He shook his head; clear thought was impossible. One point did come through, though.
“You shot Senhor Nestor. And in front of a policeman …”
“He didn’t see me. Nobody saw me.”
It was stated as a plain fact, even though there was certainly no basis for the statement. And yet, Archimedes thought dully, the chances are that nobody did, or if they did, that they would never speak. There is a special Providence that watches over drunks and fools, and God knows Paulo is certainly both.
Paulo cleared his throat, getting down to more important business. “Archimedes, there are many things that must be done …”
“Keep quiet. Keep quiet!” The small man behind the wheel stared at his hands, still attempting to grasp the enormity of the disaster. “Let me think.” Suddenly one facet of the problem presented itself above the others; a name sprang into his mind and he looked up. “Anna-Maria …”
“What about her?”
“She’ll have to be told.”
“I’ll tell her.” Paulo suddenly pictured Anna-Maria and a further thought came to him. He had long envied Senhor Nestor that lush body, and now that Nestor was no more …
“You? You’ll tell her what? That you killed Nestor? You really are an idiot!”
“She doesn’t need to know that. That I shot him, I mean.” Paulo’s eyes were suddenly sharp and cold on the face beside him; he appeared to be more sober than circumstances warranted—or than he was. “Nobody knows I killed him. Except you …”
It suddenly came to Archimedes that he was sitting alone with an armed killer and that it was true indeed that he was the only one that knew, the only one, in fact, that Paulo might consider a threat. He forced his voice to become reasonable.
The Diamond Bubble Page 7
