Chapter 11

The wide, curved driveway of the walled home on the heights of Sumaré was filled with large, expensive cars. Da Silva parked the cab behind a new Lincoln Continental, and the two men climbed down and headed for the house. Behind them the taxi seemed to be trying to hide its shame in the shadow of the gleaming chrome of the car ahead. The chauffeurs were gathered in a gossiping group beside the Italian fountain that filled a small plaza in the driveway; they paid no attention to the cab. They had all been graduated from equal cars or worse, and had learned with their present success to be both democratic and tolerant. One never knew when one might have to return to driving a wreck like that.

From the wide-columned porch of the Xavier home, the city of Rio appeared beyond the wall at the bottom of the lawn as if viewed from a low-flying plane, with Guanabara Bay a blue pond in the clear air, and the islands dotting it brown clumps placed haphazardly on its surface. The drop from the heights of the estate to the city below was represented by a series of stepped roofs interspersed with wild vegetation. Wilson stared about him curiously. The house itself, at first glance, did not appear as excessive in size as he had anticipated, nor did the carefully tended grounds and formal gardens—at least that portion within sight—seem past the realm of reason. Beyond the oasis represented by the home and grounds, the gray rock of the mountain took over, sweeping up to Tijuca peak. There was a fine air of wealth about the estate; Wilson attempted to compare its beauty with the filth of Catatumbá, but could not. Here, Catatumbá did not exist. Wilson was experiencing the same protective blindness that saved most wealthy Brazilians from their conscience.

The house was built of granite blocks laid one upon the other with studied carelessness, leaving the walls uneven and attractive. The windows were of leaded glass, wavering in the sunlight, protected by curved bronze grillwork. The redtiled roof sloped at various angles above the many levels, accommodating the architect’s Iberian effect. Da Silva pressed the button set in the wall beside the massive jacaranda door; deep chimes boomed faintly from within. As they waited, he watched his companion with a faint smile on his face, almost reading the other’s thoughts, but before he could make comment, the door opened silently.

The servant facing them was a very thin, very old man, Indian in appearance, with cavernous cheeks, deep-set black eyes, and a short stand of white hair. He was dressed in formal clothing and carried with him an air of ineffable dignity.

“Yes, gentlemen? Are you guests for lunch?”

“No,” Da Silva said. He extracted a card from his wallet, folded one corner in Brazilian fashion to show it was being presented in person and not through an intermediary, and handed it over. The servant studied it and then looked up politely. Da Silva smiled. “I should like to speak with Senhor Xavier, if I might.”

“Of course. Senhor Francisco is having cocktails with his guests in the rear garden, but I’ll advise him.” He stood aside, allowing them passage. “If you’ll just wait in here, please.…”

The entranceway in which they found themselves was large and uncarpeted, with floors that were also of stone; it was cool without being damp. The antique chairs set along the wall like sentinels were of dark jacaranda with fluted joiners and carved arms, and with hand-tooled leather backs and seats. The walls were decorated with large oils, surprisingly gay, and equally surprisingly with simple frames; the subjects were all of Brazilian scenes. From a window set ajar at the far end of the room came the murmur of voices from the garden beyond; an archway in the nearest wall led to the main dining room. Wilson moved over to the doorway, staring down at the long expanse of the table set for the luncheon.

“Zé—come here. Take a look at that tablecloth. Red and white lace. It’s something, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Da Silva walked over, smiling. “That’s because you don’t know enough wealthy Brazilians,” he said. “That isn’t lace. Those are rose petals, laboriously set one at a time and stuck down to form a pattern.”

“Rose petals?” Wilson stared. “How the devil does one eat without messing them up?”

“One doesn’t. After the first course the servants brush them all up and put down a regular linen cloth.” Da Silva nodded. “I’m telling you the truth. The idea is that the first impression of the table should establish a sense of beauty—or luxury, if that’s closer—to allow the guest to forget other problems and enjoy the meal.”

“In America we use cocktails for that,” Wilson said, smiling. His eyes went back to the table. “It must take a servant hours to do that.”

“It does, but that’s no problem.” Da Silva looked around. “I have a friend who has a place like this. Just he and his wife, no children. And they have twenty-five servants.”

“Twenty-five? You must be kidding!”

“I’m not,” Da Silva assured him, and explained. “After you pass a certain number of servants, then you start needing servants for the servants. Someone has to cook their food and wash and iron their clothes. The things starts getting out of hand.”

“But twenty-five!”

“It was twenty-five a year ago when I last saw him. With inflation, today he may have been forced to cut to twenty-four.” He smiled. “You see, servants are also a status symbol. If an acquaintance has twenty-five, and you have as much money as he does—you see?”

“No,” Wilson said frankly. “But I’ll take your word for it. Where the devil do they all live?”

“Some in, some out. A lot of them in favelas, I imagine. Some—” He paused, turning at the sound of footsteps approaching, dropping the subject. The tall, heavyset man coming up to them had not changed as much as he had anticipated in the twelve years since their last meeting, although there seemed to be an even greater controlled aggressiveness in the very quiet of the man. He was carrying Da Silva’s card in one hand. The swarthy detective took a step forward.

“Senhor Xavier—”

“This way,” Xavier said abruptly and turned aside, moving down an adjacent corridor to a door and throwing it open. They preceded him into the library; he closed the door, crossed to a deep chair behind the wide desk, and dropped into it. There was a slightly sardonic look on his face as he studied the card again and then flipped it to the polished surface of the desk. His eyes came up.

“So it’s Captain Da Silva now, eh? You’ve come up in the world since we last met.”

Da Silva nodded agreeably. The handsome face of the man across from him was much as he recalled; the hair was rather more gray, the voice a bit harsher, but otherwise time seemed to have been as generous to Francisco Xavier, Sr., as had fortune. Da Silva allowed his glance to move about the room, encompassing the richness of its furnishings, the stacks filled with books all colorfully jacketed, the obvious genuineness of the Portinari behind the man at the desk. He drew up a chair and sat; Wilson followed suit. Da Silva smiled at his host.

“In this world, Senhor Xavier, one must either go up, or go down. It is difficult to stand still.” He ignored the sudden glint of appreciation that appeared and instantly disappeared from Xavier’s eyes. “This is Mr. Wilson, an American friend of mine.”

Xavier acknowledged the introduction with a slight tilt of his head, and brought his attention back to Da Silva. “I’m rather busy right now, Captain. I have guests for lunch. So—if you don’t mind.…”

“Not at all,” Da Silva said smoothly. “It’s about Chico.”

“Chico?” The thick eyebrows rose in surprise, but it somehow seemed to be a surprise that was more simulated than genuine. “Is Chico in some sort of trouble?”

“Yes.” Da Silva leaned back in his chair, watching his host closely. “Has Chico been mixed up in anything—unusual—lately?”

Xavier brushed this aside. “Chico and I live our own lives. He’s a grown man. What kind of trouble is he in?”

“The worst trouble you can get in,” Da Silva said evenly. “He’s dead.”

“What!” Xavier stared.

“He’s dead,” Da Silva repeated quietly. “I’m sorry, Senhor Xavier. He was found in the Catatumbá favela less than two hours ago. He had been strangled—”

“Chico? In the Catatumbá favela? Impossible! What would he be doing there? It must be somebody else!”

“—strangled,” Da Silva continued patiently. “It’s Chico. I know him. His body is at the Medical-Legal Institute—the morgue. They’ll do an autopsy on him today; you should have his body by tonight, if you want to make arrangements.” He leaned forward. “Now, I’d like to ask my question again. Had Chico—”

He paused in surprise. Xavier seemed to be exhibiting more anger than sorrow; he was glaring at the wall across from him without seeing it, his fists clenched to show whitened knuckles. Da Silva exchanged glances with Wilson and then leaned forward again.

“Senhor Xavier? What is it?”

The heavyset man behind the desk came to a sudden decision. He leaned back, away from the desk, allowing the drawer to be pulled open. He reached in, extracting a letter, started to hand it across the table, and paused, his eyes sharp on Da Silva’s face.

“You’re sure it was Chico?”

“Positive. I belong to Fluminence. I know him.”

Xavier pushed the letter toward the other. “These are the people who killed him! The miserable—I had no intention of taking this to the police. To me it was a private matter. Now, of course, it’s pointless to pretend; you’ll need it. And there’ll be a reward.”

Da Silva reached over, taking the paper. Wilson came to stand behind him, reading over his shoulder. It was neatly typed, and read:

Francisco Xavier:

We have your son Chico. He’s been kidnapped and if you want to see him alive again, do what this letter says. If you get in touch with the police, or if you don’t follow every word of your instructions exactly, the boy gets killed.

We want half a million dollars for him, American, in cash. The largest banknote may not be larger than $500 and the bills better not be marked. The way you get the money to us is to follow these instructions:

You have a man working for you in your office named Miguel Alvaro. He is to take the money to the main omnibus station at the end of the Cais do Pôrto. The money is to be in a small suitcase and the suitcase is also not to be marked in any way, or conspicuous. He is to arrive there at exactly noon tomorrow—January 12th. He is to sit in the passenger waiting room as long as necessary. Sometime after he gets there he will be paged for a telephone call and given further instructions. If he is watched by the police it won’t help, but if there should be any trouble at all, say good-bye to the boy.

So just play it smart. You can afford the money, and you can raise it in dollars the way we want it, and you can do it in the time you have. We know that. So just do what you’re told to do and nobody gets hurt. Your son will be home within six hours after the money is finally picked up.”

Da Silva finished reading the letter and glanced at his watch. It was thirty minutes past noon. He looked up.

“Did Alvaro go down there with the money?”

“He’s down there now. What did you think?” Xavier’s clenched fist began to beat the desk top again, slowly; his dark eyes glittered. “Those miserable, murdering, filhos de—I did everything they asked! I even arranged this damned luncheon at the last minute, just so everything would look normal! Those murdering—”

Da Silva wasn’t listening. He leaned over the desk, picking up the phone, dialing the number of his office. He picked a cigarette from an open box on the desk and lit it while he waited. His secretary answered, slightly out of breath, and instantly transferred the call to Lieutenant Perreira without needless chatter. She knew her boss and recognized that tone of voice.

“Perreira here, Captain.”

“Perreira—I want you to get over to the bus station with three men—plainclothes. It’s the station at the end of the Avenida Rodrigues Alves, where it intersects Francisco Bicalho—across from the gas company. Right. There’s a man named Miguel Alvaro in the passenger waiting room. Hold it—” He cupped the receiver, looking across at Xavier. “What’s this Alvaro look like?”

“About thirty; well built. A good-looking man. He has a scar over one eye, but not a bad one. A little shorter than you, but muscular. Oh, yes; he has a streak of gray in his hair, very noticeable, like a birthmark. And a thin moustache.” He thought a minute. “He was wearing a sport shirt—I allow it in the office in this weather. And I think his suit was brown.…”

“That ought to be enough.” Da Silva repeated the description into the telephone, and looked up again. “And the suitcase?”

“A cheap brown one, cloth-covered. Like a million others.” His voice was bitter. “It’s what they wanted.…”

Da Silva disregarded this last, repeating the suitcase description to Perreira. “Don’t talk to him or even notice him. I want him watched, but neatly, if you know what I mean. He’ll be getting a phone call, if he hasn’t gotten it already. When he does he’ll probably leave, and when he leaves, you’ll be behind him. Have one man stay at the bus depot to fill me in when I get there, if you’re not there. With two extra men you shouldn’t have any trouble following him. If he settles anywhere, call Dona Dolores. We’ll use her for messages. All right? Then get going!”

He hung up and looked at Xavier. The man behind the desk was staring at his hands blankly, as if trying to encompass the situation fully. Da Silva shrugged. It was tough asking questions of a man at a time like this—even a man he disliked—but there was a job to be done.

“Senhor Xavier.” The other looked at him blankly. “First of all, who’s this Miguel Alvaro?”

“The office manager of my Rio branch. Why?”

“Is he reliable?”

“Miguel? Completely. Naturally,” Xavier added, in a tone that suggested the question was idiotic. Who hired unreliable office managers?

“I was wondering why he was picked for the job. I was wondering who would know that he worked for you.…”

“Who? Everybody who wanted to know. It wasn’t a secret.”

“I suppose not. And who would know that you could put your hands on that much money in dollars? At very little notice, and in the note size they demanded? Would Miguel, for example?”

“Miguel? He might, or he might suspect it, but I doubt he could be sure. He handles many confidential things for me, of course, and he knows I have the money.” Xavier shrugged. “But to think of Miguel is ridiculous.”

“Incidentally,” Da Silva said, unwilling to drop the matter, “how is it that you were able to raise the money that quickly? Half a million dollars is a lot of foreign currency for any bank to carry, isn’t it? Other than the Bank of Brasil?”

“In this particular case, no,” Xavier said, and spread his hands. “We’ve been preparing to make a rather substantial deal, payment for which was specified in dollars and approved by the Bank of Brasil. I’ve been buying exchange for some time, and my bank has been holding it.”

“I see. But who would know this?”

“Well, the câmbios where I’ve been buying dollars, of course. And my banker, obviously.”

“And your reason for limiting your foreign currency purchases to bills under the denomination of five hundred dollars?”

Xavier stared at him. “Because no câmbio has any bill any larger. Nor would they accept any bill any larger. The danger of counterfeit is too great.”

“I imagine so. And the name of your bank?” Da Silva suddenly looked up, struck with an idea. It was an idea that didn’t lead anywhere that he could see, but at least it was an idea. “Is it the Banco Mundial de Nova Iguaçu? The branch in the Avenida Vargas?”

“Yes.” Xavier looked faintly surprised. “How did you know?”

“It’s a popular bank.” Da Silva moved on. “How did you get this ransom note? And when?”

“It came in the post yesterday morning.”

“And I don’t suppose you handled it in such a manner as to preserve fingerprints?”

Xavier looked at him evenly. “If those filhos had kept their word, the police would never have seen that note.”

“I see.” Da Silva shook his head. Did people still think in this day and age that kidnapped victims were returned home on payment of a ransom? Victims the age of Chico, who could identify their kidnappers? He moved along. “Do you have the envelope?”

“Right here.” Xavier leaned back again, opening the desk drawer and withdrawing an envelope, and handed it over. Da Silva looked at it a moment. He raised his head, surprised.

“This came in the post?”

“That’s right. Yesterday morning.”

“Without a stamp? Or a cancellation?”

“What?” Xavier took the envelope back and studied it. His name and address were neatly typed on it, but there was no stamp or any other postal mark. “I didn’t even notice. It was with my other letters next to my plate at breakfast, in the middle of the stack.”

“Who brings in the mail?”

“Salvador. He’s the butler, the one who let you in today.” Xavier didn’t even bother to proclaim Salvador’s honesty or years of service. “If you want to talk to him—”

“Maybe later. I’m sure he didn’t plant it. Did you have any visitors yesterday morning? Around the time the mail came?”

“No. Well, he wasn’t exactly a visitor, but one of Chico’s friends was here about that time. He wanted to know where Chico was; I told him I didn’t know.”

“Did he say why he wanted to know?”

“Chico used to pick him up and drive him to school. Yesterday Chico didn’t pick him up.…” His voice died away.

“Nobody else was here?”

“No. I would have seen, too. I was on the patio reading the paper.”

“And Chico’s friend—his name?”

“I don’t know. Humberto something, I think. He’s in the law school, too.”

Da Silva recorded it in his memory automatically. Maybe it meant something and maybe not. He considered a few moments longer; there were hundreds of questions, but for the time being they would have to wait. Right now the important thing was to get down to the bus depot and find out if the money had been transferred yet, and how it had been handed over. And, of course, if possible to whom. He tilted his head toward Wilson, received a nod in agreement, and came to his feet.

“We’ll be on our way, Senhor Xavier. Sorry I had to bring such bad news. We’ll have more questions, I’m sure, but right now I want to get downtown and see if we can trace that money.”

“The money’s not important. What I want—”

“We both want the same thing, Senhor Xavier. And the fastest way to get it is by tracing the money. Good-bye.”

The two men let themselves out of the room, walking down the corridor and down to the cab in silence. Behind them the wealth of the estate somehow seemed a mockery. The two climbed into the car; Da Silva switched on the ignition and paused, turning to look at Wilson.

“Well? How do you like how the other half lives?” There was no humor in his voice.

Wilson shrugged. “Under different circumstances I’d say it was lovely. As it is today, though, I think I’d take Catatumbá.”

“Damn!” Da Silva let out the clutch. “Why in hell don’t people call the police?”

Wilson considered him curiously. “Would you have, in his place?”

“I don’t know.” Da Silva turned his attention to the curved driveway. “Probably not, though it’s pointless not to. They might help, and today it can’t do much harm. The chances of a kidnap victim being returned alive are damned small. Still, I suppose the family can’t admit that fact.…” He swung into the Estrada de Sumaré at the foot of the driveway, turning in the direction of the Avenida Paulo de Frontin as being the quickest way to the city. “Actually, however, none of these factors apply in this case.”

“No, they don’t,” Wilson agreed. “This case looks like Chico rigged his own kidnapping and it backfired. Unless he happened to get into an argument with somebody up on the hill.” He glanced across at Da Silva. “Which neither one of us believes.”

“Which neither of us believes. I don’t believe in wild coincidence where that much money is concerned.”

“True. Well, maybe the lovely Miss Vilares will be able to throw some light on the subject if she ever comes home. She—” He looked at De Silva. “What?”

“I said, Damn! I forgot to ask Perreira about Romana.”

“If there had been anything to report, he would have told you.” Wilson returned to his theme. “As I said, she can probably help if she wants to, but even without her help I think we can make certain deductions. To begin with, it looks highly probable that he was killed by a friend—”

Da Silva’s eyebrows rose. “A friend? You have a quaint idea of friendship.”

“I mean, obviously, not by a stranger.” Wilson refused to be baited. “It had to be an acquaintance. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ll go back to my first definition—a friend. There were obviously more people involved in the scheme than just Romana and Chico, and he wouldn’t bring anyone into the scheme who wasn’t a friend.”

“So if one of them got greedy for all that money and killed him,” Da Silva continued, “therefore he must be a friend. Q.E.D. One question: Why kill him before the money is collected? That’s taking quite a chance. And another question: According to that theory, the friend who picked up the money would be the most logical suspect. Obviously, he wouldn’t hand it to anybody—friend or not. His job would be to hand it to Chico.”

Wilson frowned. “You know, we’re working on the theory that Chico was the boss in this scheme. It could have been any one of them.”

“I doubt it.” Da Silva sounded positive. “Let’s keep working on that theory. Chico wouldn’t have accepted the role of victim in someone else’s scheme. Let’s get back to my questions. Well?”

“All right,” Wilson said. “Let’s take the first. He was killed when it was most convenient. Once the money was collected, he’d be out of the favela. Remember, they promised to return him within six hours. That would mean he would be out of the shanty on his way home in daylight. Actually, killing him wasn’t that risky. Other than Romana nobody knew where he was—how was anyone to know? Even if it was reported, it would be a John Doe killed in a favela, certainly nothing new.”

“I’ll accept that,” Da Silva said. “How about question number two?”

“Well, I must admit the one who picks up the money is the most logical suspect. Or else his neck could be on the chopping block, too!” They were threading down the winding road, perforce going slowly. Ahead of them small houses began to appear, the beginning of urban life in that section of the city. “Let me say this,” Wilson added. “If he isn’t the killer, I’d hate to be in his shoes.”

“Another question is, how many friends were in it with him? Chico, I mean. Let’s assume, just for the sake of argument, that Humberto Something delivered the note. Would he be the one assigned to pick up the money? Doubtful for two reasons.”

“You mean you’re beginning to answer questions instead of merely asking them?” Wilson sounded impressed. “All right; you’re up to bat.”

“Well, reason number one is that dropping off the note might possibly be laid at his door, at least circumstantially. If he is seen in the neighborhood of the bus depot when money is being bandied back and forth, somebody might just note the coincidence. Remember, they had to work on the assumption that the police would be called in.” A thought came to him. “The same thing is true of Romana. She did her part in arranging sleeping accommodations on Catatumbá; she won’t be picking up the money.” He smiled. “Thank God for amateurs! They love to divide responsibility.”

“You still haven’t given the second reason why it wasn’t Humberto.”

“Oh. Obviously because he didn’t have a car, remember? I can’t see them picking money up and then catching a cab. Or a bus, even at the bus station. My guess is they’re using the lockers there, or the checkroom.”

Wilson didn’t go into that. “So how many amateur plotters do we have?”

“Well,” Da Silva said, “by our count, a minimum of four. Chico, Romana, Humberto, and at least one more—the one to pick up the money. They may have more. Their scheme to pick up the money may require two men, or maybe even three.”

“True,” Wilson conceded. “They said dollars, and nothing larger than a five-hundred-dollar bill. Maybe Xavier filled the suitcase with pennies; that would fit the category. In that case they may even have four people, just to lift it.”

“Or two, exceptionally strong,” Da Silva added. His smile faded. “Well, let’s get on down to the bus depot and find out.” They had reached the straighter Avenida Paulo de Frontin; Da Silva pushed down on the gas pedal. The city rose about them almost mysteriously. “The only problem, of course, is to prove half of what we’re saying. Even after we find out.…”