The answer came from behind him. Da Silva straightened up and froze.
“A little bird told her. And just stand still.”
Fat Paulo stood at the closet door. His pistol trembled in his huge hand, but it was not due to fear. Time and an excess of pinga had finally caught up with Paulo and he had an abominable headache. In addition his stomach was recalling his last meal with dubious memories. He squinted mightily in a vain attempt to abate the pain that pounded relentlessly at his temples and waddled forward, remembering at least to keep a safe distance between himself and the disgusted-looking man before him.
“Turn around!”
Da Silva obediently turned. From a closet, by God! This was a good day all around! One of these days he ought to cut out those coupons at the back of a magazine and take a course in how to become a detective! The fat man in blue behind him squinted painfully once again; another part of the formula for handling an adversary suddenly came back to him, and as if by rote he repeated it faithfully.
“Get your hands up!”
Actually, Paulo thought, this should have been said before. First you had a man raise his hands, and then you turned him around. However, a man forgets, and since the result was the same, what difference did it make?
Da Silva’s hands went to the air. Paulo studied the situation judiciously and still found something lacking. He had the man turned with his back to him and his arms in the air, but something was missing. He tried to remember the movies he had seen and the radio shows he had heard, and suddenly it came to him. His eyes found those of the girl, staring at him wide-eyed over the tall detective’s shoulder.
“Take his gun!”
That was it; that was what he had temporarily forgotten. They always took the other man’s gun, and he should have remembered it, but at least it had occurred to him before any great loss had been suffered. He grinned to himself and then suddenly realized that the girl was still staring at him blankly. Did I forget something else? No, I didn’t—ah, yes, I did! He tilted his head toward her.
“It’s in his jacket. Inside, on the left side. Slide it out …”
Sweet perfume came to Da Silva as the girl pulled herself to her feet and approached him. He felt her hand softly and hesitantly cross his chest and come to rest on the holster under his arm. For a moment he had the idiotic impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her. One of these days, Da Silva, he told himself sternly, you will get shot! Deservedly. And today might well be that day.
“Drop it on the floor.”
Paulo was in the groove now, all routine remembered and faithfully being observed. The pistol dropped to the floor, muffled by the small throw rug there. Da Silva noted from the sound of Paulo’s voice that the fat man had also remembered to maintain a safe distance to the rear.
“Now—you—take two steps forward …”
Da Silva stepped. Paulo bent down swiftly, scooped the pistol into his large hand, and dropped it into a pocket of his blouse. He nodded to himself, satisfied that his television education could not be found wanting. His eyes found the girl.
“Now, get on with your packing.”
The girl’s eyes were worried and confused. “What are you going to do with him?”
It was exactly the question Paulo had been asking himself, but so impressed was he with his knowledgeable handling of the situation so far that he was sure he would eventually find the right answer. One thing was sure—it would not follow the ritual of the movies he remembered. There the good guys always managed to overpower the bad guys, and Paulo sadly recognized that an impartial observer would classify him among the wicked. His voice was blank as he answered.
“Never mind. Get on with your packing.”
He stood back, pistol steadier now. Da Silva waited quietly, feeling the tension in his raised arms grow into pain. The girl returned hesitantly to her packing; her dressing gown gaped fascinatingly as she bent over the small suitcase, folding garments and stowing them neatly within. Da Silva was sure that the fat man’s eyes were as riveted on the view as were his own, but he also knew that any attempt to take advantage of this diversion could easily prove foolish, if not fatal. Instead he cleared his throat and addressed the girl, trying to sound convincing.
“The police didn’t kill Nestor. You know that.”
Her eyes widened as she looked up from her task; for a moment he thought it was in response to his statement. Suddenly he realized he was wrong—quite wrong—but by that time it was too late. He tried to fling himself to one side, but the pistol butt caught him squarely above the ear, throwing him forward in a stumbling fall, exploding tremendous pain and swirling darkness in his head.
Paulo, pleased that he had come to a decision at last, and convinced that it was the correct one, stared down at the unconscious man on the floor a moment and then raised his eyes to the girl’s white, startled face. His hands were steady, his stomach seemed to be keeping the peace, and even his headache didn’t seem to be so bad now.
“Just keep packing,” he said quietly, authoritatively, and dropped the pistol almost negligently into his pocket.
Wilson, waiting in the ornate lobby below with increasing impatience, had long since tired of watching the desultory drip of the fountain or listening to the scraping of palm fronds across the deserted, darkened street. What on earth could be keeping Da Silva so long? Certainly, if the girl had not been home, you would think he would have descended immediately, and if she had been home, you would think he would have gotten whatever information there was to be had by this time. He grinned, remembering the voluptuous poster outside of the night-club entrance. On the other hand …
There was a faint whirring sound of elevator cable being reluctantly unwound. Wilson’s eyes went to the indicator above the door; it was inching downward from the fourth floor with little jerking motions. Wilson straightened up. It was about time! The indicator came to rest at the ground floor; the door hestitated a moment and then slid back. He recognized the girl immediately as she stepped hurriedly out; the large man in dirty blue dungarees who followed carrying a small suitcase was a complete stranger. Wilson’s eyes narrowed. Da Silva was conspicuously missing. He stepped forward, reaching for the girl’s arm, barring their passage.
“Pardon me …”
Paulo was in a hurry and in no mood for further interruptions. He looked up with a frown that changed to a look of hate. This short, almost faceless one he remembered; this was one of the three he had tailed and a friend of that policeman upstairs. With a muttered curse he dropped the suitcase and reached for his pocket.
Wilson swung the girl roughly in the direction of the large man in blue, but she stumbed over the suitcase, momentarily blocking him from following up his attack. The delay allowed Paulo time to remove the pistol and begin raising it, but Wilson swiftly stepped around the sprawled figure of the girl and Paulo found the pistol continuing its rise against his volition. Wilson had his wrist in a tight grip, lifting. For a second Paulo was surprised by the strength the smaller man exhibited; he made the mistake of wasting time in pulling against the inexorable pressure. Wilson’s other hand bunched itself and drove viciously into the large stomach straining against him.
Paulo gasped. The pistol clattered to the floor from nerveless fingers. The big hands dropped; his knees buckled. Wilson, with no time to lose, chopped sharply at the corded neck sagging before him. Paulo hung in the air a moment and then crashed nerveless to the floor; it was the bitter culmination to all the grandiose plans he had envisioned only hours before leaving the dock. There was a clatter of footsteps as the girl scrambled down the steps and out into the night, but Wilson had neither the time nor the intention of following her. He swiftly scooped up the revolver and tugged impatiently at the elevator door.
The ride to the fourth floor seemed interminable. When at long last the small cab arrived, Wilson dragged the door back with a curse and ran down the hallway. The door to the apartment was closed. He tugged at it fiercely a second and then stepped
back, raising the gun and firing obliquely at the lock. The door sprang open and Wilson was through.
Da Silva stared at him blankly from a half-seated, half-sprawled position against the wall. Wilson dropped to his knees beside him, instantly examining the thin welt of blood rising from behind one ear. He stared deep into the glazed eyes of his friend, searching for the signs of concussion.
“Are you all right?”
Da Silva attempted to raise his eyebrows at the question, but they were too heavy. Wilson came to his feet in an instant, trotted to the bathroom, and returned with a towel hastily soaked in cold water. He knelt again, applying it evenly to the wound. Da Silva winced.
“Are you all right?”
“I guess.” Da Silva started to shake his head; a rush of pain returned. “What happened?”
“You got slugged. Amateurishly, which can be the worst kind. Hold it a moment …”
Wilson wiped the blood away gently and then stared at the wound again. He sighed in relief. “You’ll live. Thanks to a sloppy assailant and a hard head.”
Despite his pain, a weak grin crossed the swarthy man’s lips. “It may look hard from up there, but from down here it feels soft. And mushy. Help me up.”
Wilson placed an aiding hand under Da Silva’s arm; the tall detective struggled to his feet and stood wavering a moment, blinking his eyes. He gave a shuddering sigh and stared about him.
“They got away …”
“Only the girl,” Wilson said. “Your fat friend is downstairs.” He looked at his friend in real concern. “We’d better get you to a doctor to see about that head of yours.”
“What do you mean, downstairs? Alone?”
“Alone with his memories if I haven’t forgotten my judo,” Wilson said a bit smugly. “Don’t worry—he’ll still be there when we want him, unless they’re picking up garbage at night in this neighborhood. Or unless somebody wanders down the street who—God knows why—might want him.”
“I want him,” Da Silva said, his jaw clenching. “According to the way I had it figured out, he’s the one that killed Nestor.”
“The way we had it figured out,” Wilson corrected. “All right, let’s go pick him up.”
Da Silva reached for Wilson’s arm and held it as they went to the door, walked down the deserted hallway, and entered the elevator. Wilson looked surprised as he pushed the down button. “You’d think people would stick their heads out of doors when they hear gunfire,” he said. “I just blew that door down.”
“Do they do that in the States?” Da Silva asked wonderingly. “Here in Brazil we never stick our heads out when we hear gunfire. Personally I think we’re smarter.”
“Or at least call the police,” Wilson objected.
The sound of a siren wailing dismally in the distance greeted them as they emerged at the ground floor. “I apologize to the people of Brazil,” Wilson said sincerely, and bent over the figure sprawled on its back on the floor. Suddenly his jocularity abandoned him; something in the manner in which the fat, flaccid figure was lying brought a cold look to his face. His fingers sought the wrist, they moved to the pulse in the heavy neck. Finding no reaction, he pushed up an eyelid. When he looked up at Da Silva his voice was expressionless.
“He’s dead …”
Da Silva stared down, trying to bring his scattered thoughts together despite the pain washing raspingly against the back of his eyes. The sound of the siren came closer, swinging about the corner at the canal, racing up the narrow street.
“We’re running out of people to interrogate …”
The police car swung into the curb; two uniformed men jumped from the car without either bothering to disconnect the siren. They paused, looked at each other a moment, and then finally one of them shrugged and returned to the car. He leaned over and pulled a switch. To Da Silva the silence was wonderful. The other nodded and mounted the steps, frowned as he saw the body, and turned to arrest the first one he saw. It was Da Silva.
“Captain!”
“This one,” Da Silva said, jerking a thumb downward and squinting into the eyes of the policeman. “I guess he goes to the Instituto.”
“Certainly.” The policeman hesitated. “Do I tell them why?”
“Tell them he died of a bad heart.” Da Silva turned to the silent Wilson at his side, switching to English. “Anyone who slugs a man behind his back certainly doesn’t have a good heart.”
“I agree,” Wilson murmured.
“I, too.” Da Silva turned back to the policeman. “Tell them I’ll be in touch with them tomorrow. Right now I’m going—”
His voice trailed into silence as an idea struck him. He wet his lips, trying to think clearly, and then dropped to his knees beside the corpse. The motion brought a rush of blood to his head; bright-red drops oozed from the cut behind his ear. The pain nearly blinded him, but it did not deter him. He fought down a surge of nausea until it had passed and then bent over the uncomplaining body. His fingers patted the pockets of the blue jacket, and he let out his breath in a sigh of triumph.
“Ah …!”
He reached into the pocket and withdrew a revolver, almost caressing it, but then the familiar feel to his hand made him examine it more closely. It was his own. He dropped it into his pocket and returned to the body, patting the pockets once again, and then pressing his hands along the flaccid flanks, searching. There was nothing of the bulk he was looking for. He shook his head and came to his feet slowly, frowning in disappointment.
“You,” he said to one of the policemen, “you stay with the body. We’ll call this in from the patrol wagon. While it drives me home …”
He turned and walked down the steps, climbed into the high body slowly, painfully. Wilson followed, prepared to help. The policeman climbed into the other side, switched on his radio, and gave the pertinent information. In almost the same motion he turned on the ignition, reached for the siren, and then changed his mind. He had a feeling Captain Da Silva would not appreciate noise on the way home.
They rode through the warm night with Da Silva staring gravely through the windshield but seeing nothing before him. At his apartment he climbed down slowly, nodded his appreciation to the driver, and walked heavily up the steps with Wilson’s hand on his arm. The elevator ride was also accomplished in silence, and it was not until he was inside his apartment that he finally spoke.
“Cognac!”
“First, another look at your head,” Wilson said. He led the pale man to a chair, eased him into it, and then disappeared into the bathroom for medication. It was only after he had Da Silva neatly bandaged that he got a bottle and glasses and proceeded to fill them to the brim. Da Silva started to lift his shakily to his lips and then set it down again untouched.
“Damn!” he said with disgust. “Damn!”
“Damn what?”
Da Silva picked up his glass again, this time sipping it. As he set it down he squinted at Wilson. “Our fat friend,” he said quietly. “If our theory was right—that he killed Nestor—then the gun he had should have been the one. But he must have given it to the girl …”
“Oh, that,” Wilson said. He reached into his pocket, brought out the revolver, and slid it across the table in Da Silva’s direction. “He had this on him, but I took it away from him.”
Da Silva just stared at him. “You didn’t happen to also get a confession, did you—one that you were planning on telling me sometime in the future?”
Wilson grinned. “No, he said very little.”
“He didn’t mention diamonds, for example?” Da Silva asked sarcastically.
The grin faded from Wilson’s face. “You know, I almost forgot about that in the face of what’s happened.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Da Silva said shortly. He reached down, pulled off his shoes, and then leaned back, retrieving his glass. He stared at the nondescript man across from him somberly. “Well, if you happen to remember anything else you forgot to tell me, just call me up.”
Wilson c
ame to his feet. “As subtle a way of getting thrown out as I’ve ever encountered,” he said with a grin. “I must remember it.” He set his glass down and walked to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Da Silva nodded, but his eyes were on the revolver lying on the coffee table, and his mind was far away. Diamonds and guns, and two dead so far. And the only thing that kept it from being three was the thickness of his skull—which never felt thicker. He sighed and reached for his glass.
VIII.
Papers flowed in an endless stream across Captain Da Silva’s desk at Interpol Headquarters the following morning. His office faced Guanabara Bay from the fifth floor of an edifice originally consigned to the Instituto De Estúdios Acedémicos, but some years past their budget had run out and had never been renewed, and after another year to discover the error the space had been turned over to Interpol, who sorely needed it. Since telephone directories in Rio are seldom if ever reprinted, Da Silva had often wondered how anyone ever managed to call him at his new location, but he was forced to admit that they did. It was probably, he thought, due to the native ingenuity of the Brazilian.
As quickly as he could he dealt with the mountain of reports. Jacket off and collar open to combat the growing heat of the day, he worked his way through the pile of papers which seemed to grow no smaller despite his efforts. He had stopped at a Farmácia on his way to work, and a narrow strip of adhesive tape now replaced Wilson’s more massive efforts as the only record of his misadventure the previous evening. That and—of course—the lingering remnant of his headache. The thought occurred to him that the American detectives he read about in cheap novels seemed to be in better physical shape than he was. Safes fell on them; hoodlums beat them to a pulp; trucks ran over them—or if not trucks, trains—and they went home, took a shower and changed clothes, cooked themselves some scrambled eggs, and were as good as new. Maybe I ought to start cooking myself scrambled eggs, he thought, and plunged back into his work.
The Diamond Bubble Page 9
