VII.

The Caravelle Club exhibited all of the scientific planning necessary in these days of fierce competition to function successfully as a night club. The tiny tables were located within inches of each other but still managed to permit passage for waiters; the two-ounce shot glasses appeared to hold three ounces but actually held one; the lighting was economically reduced, the ornaments artificial, and the leftovers used judiciously. These elements undoubtedly helped to make the club a success, but even more effective was the floor show. The Caravelle Club was famous in Rio for the talent and beauty of its dancers, as well as for the clever settings in which they performed, and the management was well aware of this. Pictures of the lovely young ladies, daringly clad, were blazoned on cardboard in nearly lifelike photographs surrounding the small entrance. Da Silva and Wilson, descending from their cab, walked over and studied them admiringly.

“Well, well,” Wilson observed. “Well! Your cousin Nestor had very good taste!”

Da Silva’s bushy eyebrows went up in surprise. He glanced at his friend curiously. “You know which one she is?”

“I do not,” Wilson said with firmness. “But you have to admit that it doesn’t make much difference.”

Da Silva looked back at the photographs and smiled. “You’re right,” he said, and moved toward the entrance.

They pushed through the doors to be met in the dimly lit foyer by a tuxedoed gentleman carrying dinner menus almost as large as the posters outside. He counted Da Silva and Wilson carefully, arrived at the sum of two, and started to lead them inside with a flourish. Da Silva put out a restraining hand.

“We’re not staying. We’d just like to see one of your dancers, the one named Anna-Maria …”

The headwaiter frowned, but it was a practiced frown, perfected over time. The request was quite standard and therefore rated the standard answer. He allowed his frown to become tempered with a smile as false as the pearl studs on his dicky.

“I’m afraid that that is against the house rules. We do not allow—”

His eyes came up in feigned sympathy and then changed in expression as he considered the two men again. No mashers, these—this was the law and he knew it as he knew the size of a tip he was going to receive by the embarrassment of the donor. His eyes dropped to his watch and he knew he had been, miraculously, saved once again.

“Besides, they’re about to go on now.”

“We’ll wait in the bar.” Da Silva’s cool eyes slid over the man; he led the way into the main body of the club. The two men circled the outside ring of tables and seated themselves comfortably at the jacaranda bar set against one wall. The bartender paused in his chase of an elusive cockroach and looked at them expectantly.

“Cognac,” Da Silva said, and Wilson nodded in agreement. The bartender lifted a bottle carefully. His quarry was not there. He shrugged philosophically and poured the two glasses full. The two men looked around, accustoming their eyes to the gloom.

By the standards of Rio night life it was still quite early, yet the club was comfortably filled. At the far side of the room, across from them, a guitarist was seated with his head bent intimately over his instrument, playing easily and well, his soft music forming a light background to the quiet murmur of voices. Wilson sipped his drink and nodded to himself in satisfaction; he had been served good liquor and was faintly surprised. He put the thought aside and turned to the one which had been on his mind for some time.

“All right, Zé,” he said. “Who’s Anna-Maria? Exactly what did Nestor say before he died?”

Da Silva frowned. “He didn’t say much. Not nearly enough, in fact.”

He set his glass down and traced a scrawled design on the smooth surface of the bar. “His exact words were: ‘Zé, they shot me. Why?’ And then he repeated part of it. He said ‘Zé—why?’ And then he tried to sit up and he said: ‘Zé! My cousin! Anna-Maria! You have to—’” Da Silva shrugged and shook his head. “And that’s all he said.”

Wilson stared at him. “Not the most detailed dying message on record. Do you suppose …?”

“What?”

“Well, he mentioned this Anna-Maria. Do you suppose she could have done it? Lovers’ quarrels aren’t new.”

Da Silva shook his head. “I doubt it. He didn’t say her name that way. And it would be quite a coincidence that she picked the moment we were questioning him. And it isn’t the way a jealous or angry woman kills—at a distance, and from a car.”

“True,” Wilson conceded.

“Still,” Da Silva added, “her name is all we have to go on at the moment. She probably knows something about his business. Apparently they were living together.”

“If that waiter, Mario, was telling the truth.”

“If he wasn’t,” Da Silva said shortly, “then the Waiters’ Syndicate is going to lose a dues-paying member. By battered resignation.”

He reached for his glass and raised it. Almost as if in response to the gesture the guitarist strummed his instrument louder; the voices in the room faded in expectation. The two men looked up to see that a piano player and a drummer were also seated in the small alcove which was now dimly lit to show a beach background. Lights rippled realistically across water; palms swayed. The house lights darkened further. The rhythm of the small band changed to a samba. Four girls, dressed as Bahianas, came through a curtain, dancing. The beat was insistent, catching. Da Silva leaned over the bar, reaching out with one hand to tap the bartender on the arm.

He looked up from his hunt, eyebrows raised. “Senhor?”

“The dancers,” Da Silva said, tilting his head toward the small floor and raising his voice slightly to be heard over the music. “Which one of them is Anna-Maria?”

“Anna-Maria?” The bartender stared at the dancers. “She’s the one—” He paused, frowning, and then shook his head. “She isn’t there. I guess she didn’t come in tonight.”

He shrugged and started to move down the bar, returning to the chase. Da Silva caught at his arm.

“The check!”

The bartender sighed. At this rate the place would be overrun with cockroaches before he could get even one. “Senhor, the floor show has just begun …”

He raised his eyes. One look at the rigid face before him, even in the gloom, and he reached hastily for his pad. Some people liked dancing, and some didn’t; there was no arguing with tastes. Or customers, especially customers who frowned like this one. He scribbled an amount on the slip of paper. Da Silva slid money across the bar and went after Wilson, who was already pushing through the door. They hurried to the street. A taxi was standing idle at the curb, and Wilson had the door open in one move. The two jumped in. Wilson slammed the door in the same motion.

“Stupid!” Da Silva muttered bitterly.

The taxi driver stared at them, puzzled. “Senhor?”

“Rua Igarapava …” Da Silva fished his wallet out, shoving it forward to expose a badge. “And hurry!”

They shot into traffic, narrowly missing a parked car and three pedestrians. The driver, able to break the traffic laws legally for the first time in his life, had no intention of letting the opportunity go to waste. He pressed on the accelerator and looked over his shoulder.

“What number?”

Da Silva told him. The driver nodded casually and brought his attention back to the road. Miraculously they hit nothing during the maneuver. Wilson shuddered and looked at his companion.

“It’s really not too surprising,” he said quietly. “Somebody calling her to let her know about Nestor.”

“Who?” Da Silva demanded.

“Mario, for one. If they gave him his legal phone call down at the Delegacía …”

Da Silva stared at him. “Are you serious?” He stared out of the window of the swaying cab. “There’s only one person who could have called her.”

“The man who shot him,” Wilson said evenly. “Of course. But why?”

“How should I know why?” Da Silva’s tone was bitter. “How should I know anything? I’ve been acting as if Nestor died in an accident and we had all day to find out about it. Or as if he didn’t really die at all but just stumbled and hurt himself!”

Wilson, recognizing his friend in one of his rare moments of self-condemnation, wisely kept quiet. The cab shot down the beach road along Ipanema, whirling past more sane drivers, cutting in and out with a recklessness that even surprised the driver. They came to the canal at the end of the beach and turned the corner with screaming tires. The first block was Rua Igarapava, and the driver skillfully crashed the light to enter, honking back at the insulting screams that came to him from a driver he had almost forced into the canal. The black rock of the mountains loomed over him darkly as he increased his speed up the narrow inclined street and then just as swiftly braked before the apartment. He swung into the curb with a practiced flourish, flinging his passengers forward. Da Silva paid him with a momentary hesitation and a scowl that was received with complete calm. The two men stepped to the sidewalk.

The building was a four-story modern apartment with an open entrance that spilled light across the darkened curb, faintly washing the unlighted street with dappled shadows. A small fountain dribbled in the center of the lobby, apologetically testifying to the water shortage in Rio. Da Silva looked up and down the street; it was completely deserted, other than for a few cars angled in sharply to the curb. He turned to the slighter man at his side.

“You stay down here,” he said slowly. “She may try to come down the service elevator before I get into the apartment.”

“You don’t imagine she was in on it, do you? You just got through convincing me she couldn’t have been.”

“I don’t imagine anything,” Da Silva said shortly. “I’m just tired of being second-guessed, that’s all.” He looked at the other. “Would you know her if you saw her?”

Wilson nodded positively. “That I would. She’s the lovely creature who was on the sexy poster outside the club but unfortunately wasn’t on the dance floor.”

Da Silva’s rigid face relaxed into a faint smile. “I was afraid you wouldn’t have noticed that, but I should have known better.”

“Of course you should have known better,” Wilson said reprovingly, and smiled back.

Da Silva winked at him and stepped into the small self-service elevator and punched a button. The door eased itself shut; the little box lurched uncertainly upward. Someday, he thought to himself, some genius is going to invent a better means of getting from one floor to another. And probably call them stairs, he added, and grinned.

At the fourth floor the swarthy detective emerged, walked quietly down the hallway, and stood before a door. From behind the closed panel he could hear the murmur of muffled voices. His grin faded and he felt his nerves tighten and his senses alert themselves in recognized fashion. His hand went to his shoulder and he loosened his revolver, preparatory to withdrawing it. And then the voice changed to music and he realized he had been listening to a radio. And who’s nervous? he asked himself sarcastically and rapped sharply on the door.

The radio was cut off in mid-note. There was a moment’s silence and then a woman’s voice came, tremulous, from lips that were obviously pressed close to the join of the door.

“Who—who is it?”

For a moment Da Silva considered subterfuge and then changed his mind. His voice assumed the cold authority of officialdom everywhere. “Open the door. This is the police.”

“I don’t believe you. Go away …”

His big hand thundered imperatively against the panel. The noise brought her voice again, but even more hopeless against the inevitability of ultimate defeat. “Go away …”

He stood back and reached for his bunch of master keys, fitting the first to hand to the lock, but before he could even test its accuracy the door swung open suddenly in his face. The girl before him was pallid, desperate, with huge reddened eyes and trembling hands, none of which detracted at all from her beauty. She was holding her wrapper tightly against her as if the thin silken material might protect her from physical assault; it only served to accentuate her full bust and superb figure. Behind her on the divan a small suitcase was spread open; she had obviously been packing.

She stared at him dully, biting her lip.

“What do you want? What …?” Her voice was edging on hysteria.

“To talk to you,” Da Silva said calmly, and closed the door slowly, purposely avoiding staring at the woman and the breasts thrust aggressively toward him. His voice was held low and even, calculated to reduce the tension evident in her. “And to look around …”

He scanned the room slowly, noted the entrance hallway to the kitchen and bedrooms, and moved to face them, keeping the woman in view all the while. His eyes flickered to the suitcase and then rose again. “Where are you planning on going?”

She disregarded his question, her face working with emotion, and then, as if too tired to continue the uneven struggle, she collapsed on the divan beside the suitcase and buried her face in her hands. Da Silva waited quietly. When she finally looked up the anger seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a misery the tall detective would have sworn was sincere. Her voice was dull, almost curious, as if the answer she was seeking couldn’t be of too great importance no matter what it was.

“Why did you kill him?”

Da Silva raised his eyebrows in honest surprise. “We?”

“You. The police. Why did you kill him?”

He shook his head decisively. “We didn’t kill him.” Her words suddenly came back to him, making sense. His voice hardened. “Who said we did?”

The lovely mouth clamped shut, as if to deny having said anything at all. Da Silva’s voice hardened; he bent toward her, eyes no longer sympathetic. “That’s one question you’re going to answer! Who told you the police killed Nestor?”

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 came 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.