The Diamond Bubble

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  ITEM: From the report in his hand, Mario had talked long and loud, apparently—from the length of his deposition—throughout the entire night, but principally on topics which in the main would be of interest only to another waiter. The problems of those who serve the public were gone into thoroughly, but regarding his boss Nestor, or diamonds, or guns, or killings, he knew nothing. Anna-Maria he had met a few times, but he held no opinion regarding her at all, either as concerned her beauty, her dancing ability, or her relationship with the murdered Nestor.

  It had taken him some five hours to get all this off his small chest, and Da Silva threw the sheets aside with a small touch of admiration for the bravado displayed by the waiter. Whatever else Mario was, he was certainly not a coward. Courage and stubbornness had been his virtues, and he had probably suffered deservedly for the two. Da Silva was sure it had not been a pleasant night for Mario, down at the Delegacía.

  ITEM: A report on the contents of Nestor’s pockets. Approximately what I carry in my own, Da Silva thought sourly after studying it, and shoved it to one side. Except that I don’t carry that much money.…

  ITEM: Accident Form 64789J-X43B—Government Printing Office (slipped among the other papers on his desk by his motherly, solicitous secretary): Information Required on All Injuries Suffered By Service Personnel in All Categories Either On Duty or Off (If Off Duty Supplemental Form 5223Q Must Be Attached to This Form in Triplicate)—Time of Accident—Location of Accident—Details of Accident (Reverse Side Diagrams MUST BE FILLED OUT COMPLETELY)—Cause Of Accident …

  My sheer, complete, absolute, total, and devastating stupidity, Da Silva thought sourly, and shoved the form brusquely to one side. God save the man whose accident involved an injury to his writing hand! What would that poor devil do?

  ITEM: A packet of photographs, each of an individual, and obviously taken without his knowledge. A note from Lieutenant Perreira was attached and stated they had been found in Nestor’s desk and had been sufficiently unlike normal desk fare that they had been sent on to Captain Da Silva even before the completion of the inventory requested (which would follow). Da Silva studied the small photographs a moment and then pressed a button on his desk. An assistant hurried in from the outer office.

  “Ruy …”

  “Sim, senhor?”

  “These photographs. What do you make of them?”

  Ruy came over, accepted the packet, and went through them carefully, one by one. He had long since learned that when you gave Captain Da Silva an answer to a question, it was well to have considered all angles first, whether you understood them all or not.

  “Well, Captain, they are Polaroid positives and not from regular negatives.”

  Da Silva nodded. “Which means we won’t be able to identify them through any developing shop. What else?”

  Ruy frowned. “They all seem to have been taken from approximately the same place. On Copacabana Beach, of course—that stone bench, and that mosaic design in the sidewalk. It should be fairly easy to locate the point from which they were snapped. You can see where the mosaic sidewalk is broken here …” His finger pointed.

  “Although the mosaic sidewalk is broken about every twenty feet along Copacabana Beach,” Da Silva said. “Still, you’re right, of course. What else? What about the people?”

  “Tourists, without a doubt,” Ruy said firmly. “Those shirts …” He shuddered. “And the hats those women are wearing …”

  “Without a doubt,” Da Silva agreed, and sat in thought. At last his eyes came up. “Ruy, I want you to go down to the Immigraton Bureau in the Praça Mauá. Compare these faces with the photographs attached to the entrance-visa cards on file there. See if it is possible to identify any of these people.”

  “Right, Captain. If they’re tourists, Immigration will have them on file. The only question is, how old are these pictures? If I have to go back very far, they may not be in the Praça Mauá. If they’ve already gone to the archives, it may take some time.”

  “I have a feeling they’re fairly recent,” Da Silva said. “At any rate it’s worth a try. If you don’t find them there, let me know. I wouldn’t waste time on the archives.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  “And be back before lunch. Or at least call.”

  “Right.” And Ruy had left.

  ITEM: A bankbook in Nestor’s name, showing very large deposits at varying times, as well as substantial withdrawals, although the withdrawals were sufficiently smaller than the deposits to provide an increasing balance, which at the moment was quite respectable. A note from Lieutenant Perreira was attached and indicated that this was another item the lieutenant felt was sufficiently interesting to be presented before the completion of the entire inventory of the office.

  Da Silva studied the book. The dates particularly interested him; the deposits in all cases had preceded the withdrawals by one day, although there seemed to be no pattern to the deposit dates themselves. He leaned back in thought. Deposits and withdrawals, one day apart. A pay-off of some sort in all probability, but a pay-off for what? And to whom? And why?

  Da Silva sighed. At the moment only God knew the answers to those questions, and unfortunately, Da Silva thought, He doesn’t file reports. He placed it to one side and continued through the papers.

  ITEM: Identification of the corpse at the Instituto Medico-Legal as being that of one Paulo Raimundo Acâcio Aquilar, registered in the Identification Section of the Police under Carteira de Identidade No. 87-G942B. Occupation, porter on the docks, carrying Carteira de Trabalho No. M-88946. Address, such and such a street and apartment number in Ipanema. Scars, such and such. Time of death, approximately such and such. Autopsy result, no autopsy performed. Cause of death, heart failure. Plus other various official-sounding but useless information.

  Da Silva read the report twice, leaned over and dialed a number. When the telephone at the other end answered he asked to be connected with the police sergeant assigned to the Instituto. His connection was finally completed.

  “Sergeant—” His eyes sought the name at the bottom of the report. “Sergeant Plinio?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Captain Da Silva. I’m looking over your report on that tal Aquilar who was brought in last night. Why wasn’t an autopsy done on him?”

  “An autopsy?” The sergeant was surprised. “The policeman who brought him in distinctly said that you wanted it called ‘heart failure,’ so—”

  Da Silva smothered his grunt of annoyance. “Transfer me to the Director—wait! Before you do, what was in his pockets?”

  “I have the list right here …” There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the voice came back. “Keys—one of them looks like an automobile key—money …” A touch of admiration entered the voice. “Lots of money; sixty-two conto four-hundred and thirty cruzeiros, to be exact.” Da Silva frowned. It was a quantity of money that no dock porter ever carried, if he ever saw that much. The voice continued. “… his papers of identification, some pictures—dirty pictures, actually—and that’s about it. Oh yes. A little piece of paper in his watch pocket. It says, ‘Lay off A-stíngees.’ And that’s it.”

  Da Silva stared at the telephone, not sure he had understood correctly. The Brazilian pronunciation of American names often led to confusion. “What was the name on that piece of paper?”

  “A-stíngees. H-a-s-t-i-n-g-s.” There was a moment’s pause. “Is it a name?”

  “It’s a name.” One more thing to try and fit in. He sighed. “All right, let me talk to the Director.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The telephone traded clicks and buzzes in his ear. A secretary came on, listened to the request, and apparently went to lunch. Da Silva waited patiently and finally was rewarded.

  “Hello? Dr. Martins, here.”

  “Hello, Doctor. This is José Da Silva …”

  The voice at the other end turned cold. “Hello, Zé. What are you mixed in now?”

  Da Silva sighed. “I know—you
think I didn’t want an autopsy on that man. Actually, what happened was—” He stopped. To hell with explanations. “To make a long story short, I want one. The sergeant misunderstood,” he added lamely.

  “That’s good,” the Director said evenly, “because we did one anyway. I don’t run my department to suit the police. Or to provide alibis for the police. A man’s death—”

  “I know all about it,” Da Silva said wearily. “Well, he was killed in self-defense in any event.”

  “By a knife?” The doctor’s voice dripped sarcasm. “In the back?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Dr. Martins said coldly.

  Da Silva gripped the telephone harder, his mind racing. “João, listen to me! He was not killed by a knife. He was—” He paused. By a knife? It wasn’t possible. “Look, João, I searched him! I would have noticed!”

  “I’m not sure, unless you rolled him over,” Mertins said. “He was stabbed in the back with a very thin stiletto—not too much blood on the outside, but plenty on the inside.…”

  “I still don’t believe it,” Da Silva said stubbornly.

  “Possibly you’d like to take on my job and I’ll take on yours, Zé.” Dr. Martins was still feeling put-upon. “You say he wasn’t killed by a knife. Well, possibly you know better than we do; all we have is his body here. What do you have?”

  A headache, Da Silva thought dully. “All right, João. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” The voice changed, almost as if sympathy for his long-time friend was an emotion that could not be denied despite the provocation of the moment. “Do you mind telling me what it’s all about, Zé?”

  “I wish I knew,” Da Silva said honestly. “When I know, I’ll be glad to tell you.”

  “Which makes the twenty-seventh time, at least, that you’ve told me that, and that was the last I ever heard of any of them,” Dr. Martins said accusingly.

  “Count your blessings,” Da Silva muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said I’ll tell you all about it when I know,” Da Silva said. “I promise.” And hung up. God save me from well-meaning sergeants, he thought. And also from my big mouth. He reached for the next batch of papers.

  ITEM: Approval of an all-points bulletin form for the apprehension of one Anna-Maria Verdeiro, wanted for questioning in connection with murder; photograph attached, height one meter sixty-two, weight fifty-one kilos, hair morena, etc., etc.

  And if anyone notices her from this picture in her dancing costume, Da Silva thought sourly, I’ll be amazed. Well, maybe notice isn’t the word. They’ll notice her, all right—but I doubt if they’ll recognize her. He signed the form and slipped it into his Out basket.

  ITEM: Identification of the revolver submitted to Ballistics by Captain José Da Silva on the morning of May 17 (current). Manufacture: Mauser; caliber: .30; 85-grain bullets, lead; shell-lubricant “Lubaloy”; identification number 64421578. No record of weapon available in police files. No usable fingerprints. Weapon contained four used cartridges.

  Comparison photographs attached of bullet extracted from body of Nestor Correia Carvalho and test bullet fired from identified weapon. Equal scratches of .005 mm width, .0042 mm width, and .006 mm width at identical angles of 36.5 degrees, 39.4 degrees, and 84.7 degrees apart, plus other coincidences, all due to land rifling of a weapon. Fatal bullet lubricant insufficient for analysis, but spectrograph indicates of the “Lubaloy” type. Flatness of bullet due to apparant passage through bone.

  Opinion of captain in charge of Ballistics Department: definitely the murder weapon.

  So at least that much of the theory was correct: the fat man in blue dungarees had shot and killed Nestor. Or at least the gun he had in his possession did. But why? Over money? Over the girl? Over diamonds?

  And then, in turn, he had also been killed. Again, why? And when? And, of course, by whom? Wilson? Very doubtful. But then, who? Da Silva sighed, fingering the report. Well, at least we’re not looking for Nestor’s murderer; we’re looking for Paulo’s murderer, if that makes any difference. Plus the answers to a batch of pretty confusing questions.

  More papers, he thought glumly. It’ll end up with more papers; it always does. He slid the report to join the growing pile of similar ones accumulating on the corner of his desk.

  ITEM: Accident Form 64789J-X43B—Government Printing Office—Information Required on All Injuries Suffered By Service Personnel in All Categories Either On Duty or …

  Da Silva glared at his elderly secretary through icy eyes.

  “Senhora! Did you slip this—this—thing back into the pile when I wasn’t looking?”

  Her face froze in the quick hurt that comes, usually so deservedly, to the well-intentioned. “Now you listen to me, Captain Da Silva! An injury like that should be reported! One never knows what terrible aftereffects can come along weeks later, months later, years later …”

  He stared at her politely. “You mean, like spots before my eyes?”

  “Exactly! A concussion can be a very serious thing. It can lead to things one never expects. A friend of my cousin’s, poor soul, merely hit his head on the corner of a cupboard in the kitchen …”

  “Or like dizziness?”

  “Exactly! A head injury is not to be taken lightly. I knew a young girl once, a long time ago it’s true, but still—anyway, she bent down to pick up something, and there was this sharp edge …”

  “Or like deafness?”

  “Exactly! The inside of the head is a complicated apparatus, and I knew a woman once—”

  “Then may it be deafness,” Da Silva said pointedly, and dropped the form into the wastebasket.

  ITEM: A visit from Lieutenant Perreira. He seated himself easily beside Da Silva’s desk, fished out cigarettes for both of them, lit them, and leaned back comfortably.

  “Hello, Captain. Did you get the stuff I sent?”

  “The bankbook and the photos? I did.” Da Silva smiled at him. “What else did you find?”

  “Papers. We’ve got them all down the hall, going through them.” Lieutenant Perreira sighed. “Captain, I know this Nestor was a relative of yours, and believe me, I mean no disrespect, but this one was a pack rat. A crow. A raven. He collected papers the way a more intelligent person—pardon me, Captain, I don’t mean that the way it sounds—collects women. Or money.”

  “Stop apologizing,” Da Silva said. “I knew Nestor well enough. And I think he collected money as well. What else did you find?”

  Perreira shook his head. “If I stick on the job another month, I may be able to answer that. So far all I’ve found is bills. All paid, of course,” he added hastily, not wanting to throw aspersions of bad credit on the captain’s cousin. He stared out the window, recalling the mountain of paper awaiting him down the hall. “Mostly things for his yacht. Personally, I think the only thing he cared about was that yacht …”

  “Why?”

  “From the money he spent on it,” Lieutenant Perreira said patiently. “What do you spend money on, Captain?”

  “I see what you mean.” Da Silva grinned. “Where is his yacht, by the way?”

  “Up near Salvador, in Bahia. In Camamú, to be exact.”

  Da Silva sat up. “In Bahia? He loves his yacht so much and then keeps it four hundred miles away?”

  “He had a cottage there,” Perreira said. “Or at least he had rent receipts on one.” He thought a moment. “But I don’t think he spent much time there.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Papers again. Bills he’s paid with dates that indicate he’s almost always in Rio.”

  Da Silva sighed and crushed out his cigarette. “Well, keep at it. So far none of it makes any sense.” He looked up. “How about a safe? Or anything on diamonds?”

  “The bottom drawer of the file cabinet is a safe—one of those horizontal ones. I’ve got a man working on it right now.” He shook his head. “Nothing on diamonds.�
��

  “All right,” Da Silva said. “Keep me posted.”

  “Shall do,” said the lieutenant, and went off.

  ITEM: The return of Ruy with a big smile. And a hand-scrawled list of information clutched firmly in his hand.

  “I found them, Captain. All of them. Can you imagine?”

  “With ease,” Da Silva said dryly. “Let’s see what you have.”

  Ruy laid his packet of photographs down on the desk together with his handwritten list and began correlating the two. “This one—with the shirt like peacocks—that is a Mr. Miller. And this lady, with the blue hair, she is a Mrs. Hastings.” Ruy’s English was proper, his pronunciation correct. Da Silva’s eyebrows went up at the name, but Ruy noticed nothing, continuing enthusiastically.

  “A Mr. Bradley, a Miss O’Neil …”

  Da Silva frowned and held up a restraining hand. “All of them Americans?”

  “No, Captain. This one, for instance, is a Senhora Sanchez, from Buenos Aires. And this one—” He leafed through the photographs until he found the one he wanted. “A certain Marcel Biecy. From France. He arrived on the Louis Lumière on—let me see—a week ago. And this one is also not an American. He—”

  “Hold it.” Da Silva stared at the pile of papers on his desk without seeing them. Something was nagging at him. He looked up. “Did you mark down how and when each one arrived?”

  Ruy paused, looking a bit crestfallen. “No, Captain. I remembered the Louis Lumière, because I traveled on her once.” He screwed up his forehead in thought and then bent over his list. “Let me think … This one, I’m sure, was on the S.S. Brasil, and I’m sure this one too. One came from Portugal on the Vera Cruz, I think. And one on the Rio de la Plata …” He closed his eyes, trying to remember, and then gave up. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’ll have to go back.”

  “All right,” Da Silva said evenly. “And when you do, check where they are staying in Rio. What hotel, or at what friend’s address.”

  “Oh, I have that,” Ruy said, his enthusiasm returning as if by magic. But then it waned again and his face fell. “But I don’t know how much it means, Captain. They told me at Immigration that people put down any hotel if they don’t have a firm reservation.” His spirits revived a bit. “But I have what they put down on the entrance-visa card.”