Chapter 15

To the mind of Captain Da Silva, in the warm, clean light of morning, with sky like polished aquamarine and a soft, fresh breeze from the sea, death was something that should not have to be tolerated, and especially the death by violence of Romana Mariana Vilares. Still, it had happened and could not be put back, and someone was going to pay for it. There was nothing melodramatic in this promise he made himself; the person who had strangled Romana Vilares was going to be found and punished. That was the one true, assured fact in a world filled with hesitations, deceptions, and just plain lies.

He pulled the taxi to the curb, jamming on the brake and switching off the ignition while Wilson climbed out, and then joined the smaller man on the sidewalk. They mounted the steps of the Coronado Apartments together, crossed the marble-floored lobby, entered the elevator side by side, and rode up in silence.

On the sixteenth floor they left the elevator and moved down the carpeted hallway to the apartment door. Da Silva pressed the button; there was a delay of a few seconds, before the door was opened. Da Silva nodded to the plainclothesman who had spent the night in the apartment, walked in with Wilson, and closed the door behind them.

“Any telephone calls?”

“No, sir.”

The swarthy detective, face rigid, glanced about the quiet room and slowly shook his head in disbelief. How could anyone as lovely, as vital, as Romana actually be dead? He clamped down on the thought. Enough of that! The job right now isn’t to mourn her but to avenge her. Wilson was watching him with understanding. Da Silva’s eyes returned to the plainclothes detective.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“No, sir.”

“Then go out and have some breakfast, and then get back here. There’s no need to rush.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

The door closed behind the man. Da Silva stared about the room again for a few moments and walked over, dropping into a chair. Wilson seated himself on the sofa, across from him, and leaned forward.

“Zé.…”

The black eyes came up, inscrutable. “What?”

“Why did you want to come back here? Just being here isn’t doing you any good. This is no time for memories. So why come back? The technical squad last night covered everything useful.”

“Did they?” Da Silva stared at him. “Ninety percent of the fingerprints they found were too smeared to be useful. And they can’t find any record of the ones that were clear.”

Wilson frowned at him. “You can’t very well expect them to manufacture unsmeared fingerprints. And it certainly isn’t their fault if the clear ones aren’t on record.”

“I realize that. I also realize they didn’t search the place as thoroughly as I would have liked. I just didn’t feel like staying here and doing it last night. After they took her away I just wanted to get out of here.” He shrugged. “Besides, where else would we go? What else would we do?”

“You haven’t forgotten Humberto, have you?”

“I haven’t forgotten him. Perreira is digging him out this morning.” Da Silva leaned back wearily, closing his eyes. The night before had not given him much sleep. “It was too late last night to check on the university, but Perreira is there now. He’ll find the boy and bring him here.”

“Unless Chico had ten friends, all named Humberto.”

“That he picked up and drove to class? Possibly. In that case Perreira will bring all ten.” Da Silva opened his eyes, rubbed his hand across his face, and came to his feet. “Well, sitting here won’t search the place for us. Let’s get to work.”

“Right,” Wilson said, and placed his hands on his knees, preparatory to levering himself erect. His eyes came up. “Do we have any better idea of what we’re looking for now that—” He paused.

“Now that Romana’s dead? Don’t be afraid to say it; we’ll all get used to living with it. The answer is still no.”

“There’s one thing,” Wilson said, rising. “I didn’t see any photographs around last night. You’d imagine she would have had a regular gallery of Chico around. I understand it’s fairly normal to boost the ego of whoever pays your rent.”

“I noticed that,” Da Silva said. He shrugged. “Mystery number two hundred. Whoever killed her may have taken them away, or destroyed them. But why?”

“Why, indeed?” Wilson said. “Maybe we’ll find them under the rug in the bathroom. I’ll take the bedroom this time. All right?”

“The technical squad went over the bedroom pretty thoroughly last night. Start with the maid’s room. The porter didn’t know anything about her, not even her name. If we can find out where she lives—or rather where her sick mother lives—we can locate her. And maybe she can tell us something. I’ll start in here.”

“Right,” Wilson said, and started to leave the room.

Da Silva turned toward the escritoire; the telephone rang sharply. Wilson froze. Da Silva moved to the small telephone table instantly, alert at once. He picked up the receiver softly, bringing it to his ear, making no sound. At the other end of the line he could hear breathing. He continued to wait, one hand cupped over the mouthpiece. At last, as he had hoped, the person at the other end spoke.

“Hello? Hello? Who’s being cute? Who’s playing games?”

Da Silva uncupped the receiver, disappointed. “Hello, João.”

“Zé? Is that you? It sounded like you. There must be something wrong with this damned phone.” He calmed down. “Anyway, how’ve you been? Sorry I missed you the other day.”

Da Silva answered Wilson’s unvoiced question. “João Martins, from the Institute.” He returned his attention to the instrument. “Yes, João? Do you have anything useful for us?”

“I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I doubt it,” Dr. Martins said. “Death was by strangulation, which was fairly evident. In both cases. I imagine you’ve already seen the autopsy report on the boy. That was sent over to you yesterday.”

“I haven’t seen it. I haven’t been in the office.”

“Well, there wasn’t anything startling in it. We estimate he’d been dead between four and eight hours when you brought him in, which would mean he’d been killed between midnight Tuesday and four in the morning Wednesday. The time element was a little harder to calculate in the girl’s case; it usually is after a greater length of time. But we judge she was killed roughly three to six hours earlier than the boy. Sometime early Tuesday evening to midnight at the latest. That’s far from accurate, and I know it covers a big span, but—”

“João!” Da Silva was staring at the telephone, his eyes wide open, now completely awake. “You mean the girl was killed first?”

“Almost certainly. In fact, certainly.”

“But that’s impossible—” Da Silva paused. “No, it isn’t impossible at all. It’s just—”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He took a deep breath. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until you get the report, but it won’t be much more than I’ve already told you. Strangulation in both cases. No sign of recent sexual molestation as far as the girl is concerned. Nothing in the stomach or brain of either to indicate a drugged state, if that’s of any use. And, as I said, we’re sure she died a few hours earlier than he did.”

There was a short silence while Da Silva digested this information and tried to think of further useful questions. At the moment, none came.

“Thanks, João.”

“Any time, Zé. Ciao.”

The telephone was disconnected. Da Silva set the receiver in place slowly, thinking. Wilson was watching.

“What’s this about the girl being killed first?”

“That’s what they say.” Da Silva stared at the carpet, his mind racing. He looked up. “Which might explain why there aren’t any pictures of Chico here.”

“How?”

“Suppose Chico came down here from the favela that night—” He paused, thinking, and then shook his head. “No.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well,” Da Silva said, “for one thing it’s pretty hard to postulate Chico coming down here and killing the girl, and then going back and being killed himself—”

“Why?”

“By the same method? Both strangled in the same manner?” Da Silva shook his head. “That’s asking a lot of coincidence. For the time being I think we’re better off concentrating on one killer for both of them.”

“I think we’re better off getting some facts before we start wasting time concentrating on anything,” Wilson said. “Let’s check this place out and see what we can find. And then let’s see what we can learn from Humberto and the maid, when and if we locate them. Then let’s see where we are.”

“Right,” Da Silva said. He moved to the escritoire again as Wilson disappeared down the hallway. The tall detective seated himself on the small bench before the scroll-edged desk and pulled open one of the narrow drawers, sliding his hand into it. The drawers had been left undisturbed the previous evening; with a man on watch there had been no great urgency in cataloging their contents, but Da Silva was still hopeful of discovering something that might give him some useful ideas. A few letters rewarded his searching hand; he withdrew them and studied them. They were addressed in a shaky, uneducated hand, each beginning: “Romana, minha filha.…” He set them aside. It was doubtful if any message from the girl’s mother would be significant at the moment. And the mother would have to be told, too. He forced down a slight shudder that ran through him, continuing with the desk.

Some bills were unearthed from the second drawer; he noted the dates. The apartment furnishings, or at least many of them, were apparently of fairly recent origin. These papers were also laid to one side, although he made a mental note to have either Ruy or Perreira speak with the shops—and what good that would be, he had a feeling, would forever remain a mystery, even to himself.

What he was basically interested in finding was an address book, or a list of names that might indicate the people Romana had known, the ones who might have visited her. And, visiting, killed her. Other possibilities than Humberto, who would be here shortly if Perreira was doing his usual job. Da Silva did not like to consider Humberto in the role of dual killer; he was the last possible suspect, and if he wasn’t guilty.…

He was about to start on the third drawer when he heard a faint call from the direction of the kitchen. He came to his feet and walked quickly down the hallway, through the kitchen to the maid’s room off a tiny rear entranceway. Wilson was sitting on the narrow, hard bed, smiling mischievously. Da Silva was in no mood for games.

“Did you call?”

“I certainly did.” The small, nondescript man came to his feet and walked over to the ancient wardrobe that took up almost a third of the tiny, windowless room. He took the door by the handle and swung it open, waving his hand toward the interior in the manner of a magician offering a rabbit for the audience’s approval.

“Voilà!”

Da Silva followed the dramatic motion of the languid hand. “What is it? Oh—no clothes.” He nodded; the nod suddenly developed into a yawn. He fought it into a semblance of control. “So she isn’t just visiting her mother. She’s gone.…”

Wilson stared at him. “That’s the least of it. Look at the top shelf. Easy! Don’t disturb the dust!” His smile returned, widening. “Now, my friend, have you ever had a maid who had enough room, in these two-by-four cracker boxes they call maid’s quarters, so she could avoid the use of a shelf? I never have.”

“Neither have I, but I don’t see—”

“You don’t see because you’re not looking,” Wilson said accusingly. “Look again.

Da Silva ducked his head a bit so that his eyes were almost on a level with the dusty shelf. The thick, gray curls of lint followed a pattern, heavier in a square section at the center, and with four round marks, equidistant, clean at the corners of a square. Da Silva noted them and nodded.

“She had something there, a box or something. With feet.…”

“A box? Feet?” Wilson looked at him in amazement, his smile gone. “You must still be asleep! She had more than a box. Look!” He swung the wardrobe door wider, pointing to a small hole just above shelf level on one side. Sawdust still dusted the edges of the perforation. “One thing is sure—the maid never did that. She’d have cleaned up, at least. Now look here.…” He squatted down, his finger moving along the edge of the floor molding. “See these holes? The tiny ones? They’re from wire staples. Now just follow along.…”

He straightened up and led the way into the adjoining kitchen, marking the small pairs of holes along the baseboard. They rose to follow the doorjamb on one side and then dropped on the other. Wilson’s finger kept watch on the irregular pattern; his running comment also kept pace as he led the way.

“Her box, as you call it, was electrical, and I never heard of anyone keeping a radio or television—assuming a maid down here could ever afford a television—on the shelf of a wardrobe. Nor did I ever hear of a maid sharp enough to do a wiring job like this.” His fingers noted the neat corners as the removed staples left a distinct pattern. “My own feeling is she didn’t do it.” He looked up over his shoulder, grinning. “I guarantee nobody would have thought anything at all of seeing those wires. He’d have automatically figured them for wires added to give more electrical outlets, or else telephone wires.…”

By now he had followed the line into the hallway. He pointed to its disappearance into a linen closet. “Scarcely the place for a telephone, eh?” The tiny line of perforations led behind a pile of towels, now tilted to one side. Wilson pulled the towels to one side, pointing. There were two small holes drilled in the walls, one on either side of the now-disturbed stack of towels. The smaller man nodded in satisfaction.

“And there you are. The hole on this side leads to behind the mirror in the bedroom. The one on this side leads to behind a picture in the dining room. Neat, eh?”

“The place was bugged! To a tape recorder!”

Wilson smiled. “Waking up, eh? About time. I think, my friend, that this explains why anyone in the world could have known that Chico was in Fonseca’s shack on the Catatumbá last Tuesday night.…”

“Not anyone,” Da Silva said slowly. “Only someone who managed to bribe Romana’s maid to keep a tape recorder in her room. Hidden. And who had a key—at least to the back door.”

“And who does that leave out? Other than you, me, and the President of the Republic?”

“It leaves out quite a few,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed. He closed the door to the linen closet and led the way into the living room, moving almost unconsciously to the bar. He bent down, and brought up a bottle and two glasses, and poured two drinks. He picked one up and carried it to the sofa, sitting down. Wilson preferred the bar and remained there, dragging a stool into position and mounting it. Da Silva sipped his drink and set it on the floor beside him.

“Let’s see what we have,” he said slowly. “Somebody bribed the maid to keep the tape recorder in her room. And probably also bribed her to disappear. Let’s take the recorder first. Why?”

“Well,” Wilson said, “the most logical one would be Chico, keeping an eye on his true love. Or an ear, to be more exact. On the other hand, we have to assume whoever planted the tape recorder was the same one who went to the trouble of taking it out. And taking out the wire and the staples, all in the hope of hiding the fact it had ever existed, although how he ever figured us to explain those holes in the linen closet wall, God knows. We also have to assume this was all done after the death of the girl—”

Da Silva interrupted. “Why do we have to assume that?”

“Well, we don’t,” Wilson conceded, “but let’s do it anyway, at least for the time being. Now, on that basis, since we’ve agreed that Chico probably didn’t kill the girl, it probably means that Chico didn’t plant the recorder. Right?”

“You have a lot of ifs and probably’s in that statement, but—to add one more—you’re probably right. Unfortunately.” He sighed. “What else do we have?”

“What did Dr. Martins tell you, other than the girl died first?”

“Not much. He said there was no sign of recent sexual molestation, and that neither autopsy showed signs of their being drugged. From that we can gather that the killer was fairly husky. Chico was thin, but he was wiry and strong. Tennis will do it. And Romana wasn’t a particularly small girl.”

“So we’ve got a strong killer who kept a tape of Romana’s life. That seems about as close to the ‘who’ as we can get for now. Next comes the why? And was it tied into this kidnapping gimmick?”

“It could be, I suppose. Or it could have been simply jealousy. Maybe Romana had a boyfriend before Chico. In fact, I’m sure she had many boyfriends in her life.”

“Well,” Wilson said, “let’s not get involved in them. We’ve got enough problems as it is. Every time we make one brilliant deduction, we rule out four previous brilliant deductions. We’re back to Humberto as last man on the totem pole, and I thought we ruled him out long ago.” He frowned. “By the way, what was our reasoning in ruling him out? To be honest, I don’t even remember.”

“To tell you the truth,” Da Silva said, “I don’t remember, either. I suppose we could reconstruct it, but we wouldn’t necessarily be right even if we did. We’ve been wrong on almost everything in the case up to now.” He considered his statement and amended it. “Well, maybe we haven’t been wrong so much as we haven’t been right.”

“We haven’t been anything,” Wilson began and then paused. There was a dull buzzing sound from the house telephone. Da Silva finished his drink and set his glass on the bar on his way to the instrument mounted on the doorjamb. He raised it.

“Hello?”

“Captain? Perreira here.” The lieutenant’s voice was distorted by the apparatus. “I’ve got this Humberto lad downstairs with me. Do you want me to bring him up now?”

“Keep him there a few minutes, and then bring him up,” Da Silva said. He disconnected, turning around. “It’s Perreira. He’s coming up with our elusive Humberto in a few minutes. Let’s plan how we’re going to handle him.”

Wilson nodded in agreement. “It’s going to be interesting to see his reaction to being brought to this apartment. Was Romana’s murder given any publicity? I didn’t hear anything on the radio this morning.”

“João usually keeps things quiet until the autopsy is finished, at least. We’ve lost a couple of killers by warning them too soon. But now that it’s over, I suppose the newspapers will be getting it.”

“But as of now, Humberto doesn’t know she’s dead?”

“Not unless he killed her.”

“Then my suggestion is to simply find out if he knows she’s dead. In a roundabout way, of course.”

Da Silva smiled. “Of course.” There was a short, sharp ring at the door. Da Silva moved over to it. “Here we go,” he said softly. “Ready or not.…”