Chapter 14

Da Silva, descending the narrow mountain road with a recklessness almost equal to that of the Ferrari racer, cursed aloud to skid about a sharp turn and see halfway down the slope before him a truck angled across the entire road. It was not that it was stalled; a steady curl of black smoke from its diesel puffed from its stack. Nor was its driver making any attempt to move it, but instead was standing at the edge of the sheer chasm, staring down. Da Silva stood on the brakes, shuddering to a halt, blasting with his horn. The only response this provoked was a finger pointing downward idiotically, as if in explanation. With a muffled curse the swarthy detective dragged back on the emergency brake to hold the car and threw the door open, prepared to take loud issue with the driver. He marched determinedly to the lip of the chasm, starting to talk before he got there, and closed his mouth abruptly as he looked down. Halfway down the sheer drop, the scrub that dotted the wall had been violated, beginning a ragged scar that fell the balance of the way, leading to a tiny red blob far below. Wilson came up, standing at his side, also staring soberly down at the wreckage. Da Silva’s eyes came up to the driver’s face.

“He must have lost his brakes.…” The driver was young and looked slightly sick. He rubbed a large calloused hand across his face. “He must have been doing two hundred kilometers at least when I saw him—on a steep hill like this one, too. Crazy! He hit the curb on his side of the road, bounced off the rock, hit the other curb, and”—he made a diving motion with one hand—“right down. He didn’t have a chance to jump or anything.…”

Da Silva accepted it. If the truck blocking the road had any official culpability in the accident, it would be almost impossible to prove. Besides, the Ferrari had lost all legal rights with its suicidal speed. He dug out his identification, presenting it. The driver whitened.

“I didn’t—”

Da Silva’s matter-of-fact tone calmed him down. “You’ll have to move your truck—you’re blocking traffic. Back it into that recess there again, and then stick around until the highway patrol officers get here. Tell them the story.”

He walked back to the taxi, leaning in, switching on the shortwave, and waiting a few minutes before beginning to speak into the horn ring. There was a sputter, instantly controlled, and he had his reply. He spoke once more, at greater length this time, and then switched the set off, motioning Wilson to get back to the car. Traffic was stopping; people were descending, lining the cliff, staring down blankly. The young truck driver had cleared his vehicle from the road and was back at the edge again, telling his story to whoever would listen, exhibiting an almost proprietary air about the disaster now that his first fright had been assuaged.

Da Silva climbed into the car as Wilson came up.

“Let’s go.”

Wilson stared at him. “But what about that—” His thumb completed the query. “And the suitcase?”

“What about them?” Da Silva turned on the ignition; Wilson hurriedly got into the car and slammed the door. “I talked to the barracks at Piraí; they’ll send a crew. They’ll need climbers and a tow truck with a winch and a damned long cable. They know what to do—they drag some idiot out of there about once a month. They figure it’ll take six to eight hours to get him out of there, and we just don’t have the time to waste waiting.”

“But the bag! There’s half a million—”

“They’ll get the bag. I told them about the money. Actually, it’s probably scattered over four hectares with the force of—” He paused, frowning.

“What’s the matter?”

Da Silva had maneuvered past the line of parked cars and was beginning to increase his speed. His frown deepened. “You’d think we would have seen something. Money, floating.… Or something.…”

“Maybe he really gave them pennies,” Wilson began flippantly. He changed his tone. “Maybe the bag didn’t split open until it hit. Maybe it still hasn’t split open. It may be under the car.” He looked across at Da Silva. “If we’d stick around.…”

Da Silva shook his head. “Right now it’s more important to get back to town. While we still have a few suspects left. Alive.”

The note of bitterness had returned to Da Silva’s voice. Wilson studied him in amazement.

“Don’t tell me you’re blaming yourself for this one, too?”

“If I hadn’t tried to be smart by sitting right on his tail.… Obviously he’d get suspicious of a taxi that could keep up with him at that speed.” He frowned. “I still don’t know what made him start off like a jackrabbit. Until then I don’t know what could have made him suspicious.…”

“His conscience did,” Wilson said shortly. “Forget it.” He dropped the subject. “What now?”

“Now? We get over to Miss Romana Vilares’ apartment. I asked the barracks to get hold of Perreira and have him meet us there. With a search warrant. And with those men back on the sixteenth floor, front and back. We’re through taking any chances. And from now on we’re going to do everything nice and legal.”

“But a search warrant? What do you expect to find?”

“Miss Vilares.” Da Silva smiled faintly. “After all, she’s our last suspect.”

He maneuvered the car expertly around the sharp turns; as they twisted ever lower, the heat of the wide valley came up to meet them. Banana plants edged the roadside here, their drooping, wide leafy fronds cringing back from the swirling dust of their passage. Palm trees appeared in greater profusion, usually hovering protectively about a mud shack set in a clearing. Wilson shook his head in disagreement with his friend’s last statement.

“We still have Humberto. Let’s not forget him.”

“I’m not forgetting him. It’s simply that we agreed he couldn’t be a suspect, remember?” He came about the final curve of the two-lane road, past the gasoline station-cum-restaurant that served as the bottom sentinel for the climb, and out onto the wide four-lane highway leading to the distant city. “There would be no way for him to know where to find Chico after I picked the boy up.”

“Unless Romana told him.”

“And why would she tell him, unless possibly they were in the thing together? In which case, taking the lovely Romana apart is still the right and proper thing to do.”

“And if she didn’t tell him?”

“Then that leaves her standing all alone in a very hot place.”

Wilson looked at his friend; there had been an almost reluctant tone to his last statement. Wilson decided to try to offer help.

“Fine,” he said, “except that we also eliminated her as a suspect, remember? We decided a lovely thing like that—and I’m speaking from hearsay—was too ladylike to go into a nasty old favela.”

“Maybe she forced herself.” Da Silva took a deep breath, held it a moment, and found himself smiling. “Wouldn’t it be cute if Humberto was simply a student who happened to wander into the Xavier place at a poor time? And if the red car you saw our friend from the bus bring out from behind that hummock actually turned toward São Paulo, and the red car we chased, and which is now four feet deep in the sand at the bottom of that drop, really belongs to a respectable counterfeiter bringing plates from Piraí?”

“And wouldn’t it be wonderful,” Wilson continued, getting into the mood, “if Santa Claus decided to bring you a Junior G-Man outfit for Christmas, complete with deerstalker hat and magnifying glass?” He suddenly remembered. “Forget the magnifying glass. You’ve already got one too many.”

Da Silva’s large hands tightened on the steering wheel. His light mood disappeared.

“Well, if she’s home, she’ll tell us the whole story. Who were involved, why they were involved—although obviously for money—and who dreamed up the scheme, and what part each was going to play. The whole scenario.”

“And if she doesn’t? Hot needles under the fingernails?”

“If she doesn’t, a good search of her place should give us what we want.” Da Silva’s voice was expressionless. “If she was the one who went to the Catatumbá to visit Chico, and if they had a falling out that eventually led to—to—” He didn’t attempt to finish. “Then we ought to get some idea from her apartment. Her wardrobe. I’m sure she wouldn’t go to the Catatumbá in a low-cut cocktail gown.”

“True.”

“And we also have the Institute to check. João Martins, or his assistant, may have come up with something in the autopsy to help.” He nodded, trying to look confident. “We’re not licked yet.”

“Just punch-drunk,” Wilson said, and lapsed into silence.

They continued to drive without conversation, each busy with his own thoughts. Da Silva was attempting to find some good reason not to suspect Romana, alone or companioned, for the elimination of her ex-lover. He realized, of course, that he could hardly blame her for the fatal drop of the red Ferrari into the canyon. Still, to be impartial, if one thing hadn’t led to another, and that other thing led to a third, the chances were that many people would be alive who were, instead, dead. And, he said to himself wearily, if we’re going to live with ifs, then if your grandmother had wheels, she could have classified as a sulky. Certainly she didn’t weigh much.…

Nova Iguaçu was passed; Da Silva didn’t even take the effort to point out the curve on which the Senhora Xavier had met death. Merití outskirts came and went, gimcrackery in their new pseudo-American semivillas, basementless and with dangerous porches. Their architect had once seen a movie involving Los Angeles and had been impressed by the stucco monstrosities that make up a large part of the dwellings there. Then the police barrier dividing the states, and they were on the Avenida Brasil, in the city proper, watching the buildings heighten along the road, the people increase in number as they approached the center. Behind them the sun was already beginning to seek the refuge of the western mountains; it occurred to them both simultaneously that not only had Senhor Xavier failed to invite them to his luncheon, but neither had anyone else. Including themselves.

The tunnel from the Catumbí to the Laranjeiras was negotiated; Botafogo was dark when they emerged, lighted only by the pearl necklaces of the streetlights strung along both sides of the wide avenue. Across the sharp spit of the bay that half-hid the Yacht Club, the giant electric sign proclaimed the news in moving letters. There was the soft salt smell of the ocean carrying over the bay, warm and mysterious, soothing the traffic inching along the Beira Mar intent on home.

Da Silva turned off into the São Clemente, approaching the bairro of Jardim Botânico and the southern edge of the city. Here traffic was more daring. It was the hour of dinner, and all those who had been held up in the giant city for one poor reason or good another were intent upon consolidating their excuses. He held his breath and pretended he was pure in heart. It seemed to work; he came into the Praça Santos Dumont unscathed and turned into the Avenida Visconde de Albuquerque. The familiar path to Romana’s apartment brought back memories of his visit with her. Was it only the day before? It was. And was he anxious to see her again? He was. And was it only because she undoubtedly had a lot of answers he needed as a policeman? Unfortunately, it was not.… Still, why should she have murdered Chico? For the money? She and Chico would have had more than half of it without murder; unless, of course, she had tired of Chico and come to prefer, instead, a partnership with the driver of the red Ferrari; but on that basis any two or more could have been in partnership with any other two or less. Consideration of the possible combinations could only lead to madness. Also, in killing Chico, Romana would have eliminated the man who paid for her expensive apartment. Would she have done it? Very doubtful.…

Still, somebody had killed Chico, and with the driver of the Ferrari dead—and logically eliminated from the role of murderer—suspects were becoming rare. For a college prank, the thing had certainly turned into a nightmare!

He noted the radio patrol car parked a block below the Coronado Apartments. He passed the building, drawing up behind the radio car, climbed down, and walked ahead. Perreira was sitting on the front seat, talking to the driver. At sight of his superior he opened the door and hastily climbed down.

“Captain.…”

“Hello, Lieutenant. Is she back yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure she couldn’t have come back without being seen? Up from the garage, for example?”

“Positive, Captain. She doesn’t have a car—” Perreira suddenly realized that people without cars can also take elevators from basement garages. “Even if she came up from the garage, I put those men back on the floors the way you wanted.” He shook his head positively. “No, sir. She hasn’t come back.”

“All right. You have the search warrant?”

“Yes, sir.” Perreira tapped his jacket pocket.

“Good. Then let’s go.”

Wilson joined the two; the three walked back up the street, climbed the steps of the luxurious apartment building, and walked into the lobby. The plainclothesman standing with the porter at the desk drew himself up. The porter merely scowled. It was past his hours of work, but the police wouldn’t let him go home, and he was sure they weren’t going to pay him overtime. What a deal! It was bad enough that apparently the lady in 1612 had broken the law, but much worse to have the place besieged by policemen. To the porter a few policemen went a long way.

Da Silva nodded to him coolly. “Hello. Do you have a master key? I want to get into 1612.”

The porter’s face hardened. He knew his rights. “Do you have a warrant?”

Perreira stepped up, presenting it. The porter was stunned. He took the ornate paper and stared at it, wishing—not for the first time—that he knew how to read well enough to interpret more than mail addresses or numbers. Were they taking advantage of his ignorance with this fancy paper? Was it really a search warrant? Not knowing what a warrant looked like certainly complicated things! Still, fortunately, it really made no difference. He had no key.

“I’m sorry, senhores,” he said, handing back the paper, “but porters aren’t allowed keys to the apartments. I have a key for the outer door and one for the garage. At the renting office they have master keys, but only there.”

“That’s quite all right,” Da Silva said pleasantly. “I’m sure we’ll manage somehow.” Perreira tucked the warrant back into his pocket. Da Silva caught the attention of the plainclothesman. “Should our little bird return while we’re inspecting her gilded cage, I’d appreciate it if you’d call up and announce her. They’re very fussy about people being announced in this place.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.” Da Silva led the way to the elevator and pressed the proper button. They rose in silence and emerged on the sixteenth floor. Wilson and Da Silva moved to the apartment door while Perreira said a few words to the man on duty before joining them. He looked about as Da Silva fumbled with keys.

“Quite a place!” The lieutenant’s voice was admiring. “Oil paintings in the hallways! How does anyone afford a place like this?”

“I wouldn’t want to shock you,” Da Silva said. He continued trying keys from his master set on the door, muttering under his breath. The third one caught; he pressed gently, and the door swung open. Da Silva smiled. “Gentlemen?”

He waited until they had entered and then closed the door behind them. Perreira stared about, even more impressed by the apartment than by the hallway. He wandered to the piano and was about to test it for sound when he seemed to realize they were not there for entertainment. With a sigh—for it was a beautiful piano—he came back to the business at hand.

“What are we looking for, Captain?”

Da Silva smiled faintly. “I have no idea.”

“Then why are we searching the place?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do.” Da Silva sounded sincere. “However, since we’re here, and we’ve gone to all the trouble of getting a warrant, we might as well use it. I want to go over this apartment with a fine-tooth comb. I want to see anything that looks the slightest bit out of the ordinary, and—naturally—anything that might tie into favelas in general and the Catatumbá in particular. Or tie in with Chico, though we ought to find plenty of that. Is that clear?”

“It’s as clear to us as it is to you,” Wilson said. He grinned. “I’ll take the kitchen. I just remembered we haven’t eaten today.”

“That’s a search warrant, not a license to pilfer,” Da Silva reminded him with a smile, and then nodded. “All right, you take the kitchen and after that the maid’s room. Perreira, you start in here and then take the dining room. I’ll take the hallway and the bedroom.’

“That figured,” Wilson said.

“Of course it figured,” Da Silva said loftily, and thought of something else, turning to Perreira. “I want to see any pictures—photographs—and all correspondence. Of any kind. O.K.?”

“Right, sir.”

“Then let’s go.”

The three men split up, Perreira starting in the living room by moving to a white escritoire behind the piano and sliding open the center drawer. Wilson and Da Silva moved to the hallway leading to the bedroom and, beyond, to the kitchen and the maid’s quarters. Da Silva, in the lead, flipped on the hall light and opened the door to the bedroom. Wilson, behind, waited for the captain to get out of his way. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Da Silva backed from the room, turning about. His face was white.

“Wilson.…”

“What’s the matter?”

“Romana.…”

The smaller man pushed past him, throwing the door wide, staring in growing shock. The room was lighted from several lamps; under their soft light the nude body on the bed was still beautiful, even in death, but the once lovely face was almost unrecognizable, blackened with suffused blood. The throat was a mass of discolored bruises.

Romana Vilares had been brutally strangled.