CHAPTER 3

Wilson was well aware of his friend Da Silva’s attitude toward flying objects in which he was an unwilling passenger, and he therefore waited until their jet had reached cruising altitude before turning from his view through the small window; but when he looked at his companion he found the swarthy detective puffing on a cigarette and ruffling through the pages of the folder the Minister had given him. The thoughtful frown on the pock-marked face obviously had nothing to do with the perils of flying. Wilson’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise; he reached for a cigarette, lit it, and put aside the match.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Da Silva seemed startled from his reverie. “What?”

“I said, a penny for your thoughts.”

Da Silva looked at him, smiling. “You always were a spendthrift—although now that I think about it, you’re probably on expense account, so what do you care what you do with the American taxpayer’s money? Still, my old mother, Zé senior, always told me a penny earned is a penny saved, or vice versa. I never did get it straight.” He drew on his cigarette and spoke through a cloud of smoke. “Actually, I was thinking several things: first, how long it takes to get a drink on this plane; and secondly—after studying the pictures in this folder—how little getting shot through the head does to enhance a man’s appearance.”

He closed the folder, reached overhead to press the button for the stewardess, and turned back to Wilson. “I’ll let you earn your expense money back. What do you think?”

“About what?”

Da Silva shrugged. “About anything—the state of the nation, the high cost of living, the chances of Pelé buying Portugal and using it for a summer estate, or—if you insist—you might give me your opinion about those killings in Paraíso.”

“Oh, those?” Wilson paused as the stewardess stopped her little liquor wagon beside them. She turned off the light that had summoned her and looked at the two men inquiringly. Da Dilva, being closest, merely pointed. Wilson waited until they had both been served, and, holding his glass, went on, “Well, what I think is that maybe that old judge What’s-his-name up in Paraíso isn’t so wrong at that.”

“Isn’t wrong in what way?”

Wilson crushed out his cigarette and sipped his brandy. He lowered the glass and frowned.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve often thought how easy it would be to camouflage a murder—or, rather, lay off the blame for a murder onto the police—simply by hanging a sign around the dead man’s neck with the words ‘Death Squad’ on it.”

“Not one murder,” Da Silva pointed out in a reasonable tone. “Four.”

“Suppose,” Wilson went on, disregarding the interruption, “that you had it in mind to kill Citizen D for reasons that are not germane to our argument. Suppose also, since we’re supposing, that you aren’t too fussy about killing people in the first place—which is a reasonable assumption, since you have no qualms about dispatching Citizen D. How easy, therefore, to eliminate citizens A, B, and C first, and hang a bit of art work with ‘Death Squad’ on it around their necks. Then, when you finally got around to Citizen D, everyone would be bound to shake their little pointed heads and say, ‘My, my, there’s that nasty death squad at work again!’”

Da Silva shook his head.

“I know that’s the sort of theory that attracts mystery writers and security officers at consulates,” he said, “but it never made much sense to me. If you got picked up in the act of dispatching either Citizen A, or B, or C—none of which you really wanted to kill very much in the first place—Citizen D would laugh himself to death when they led you into the little green chamber and pointed out the electric chair. If that’s your only reason for thinking the judge was right and the police force of Paraíso are pure as driven snow, I’ll pass.”

“Oh, that isn’t the only reason,” Wilson said quickly. “You see, if those killings were really the work of a death squad, it would be the first time—as I’m sure you know—that they ever killed a foreigner.” He paused, thinking, and then added slowly, “Although I have to admit if they were knocking off people in order to clean up the place, they couldn’t have picked a better target than George Chaney.”

Da Silva looked at him with interest. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t have the rundown on Chaney in that folder?”

“Just his picture—which probably didn’t look much better in life—and a list of the contents of his pocket.”

“Then let me tell you about him,” Wilson said. “It’ll help to pass time. Mr. Chaney was not one of our nation’s better exports. Actually—for reasons which completely escape me—our government was trying to get him extradited back home. Personally, I would have paid him a modest sum each year to stay away. He was a fairly big man in the Organization; started out as a lowly enforcer and by hard work, diligent effort, and keeping his nose clean, fulfilled the American tradition and worked his way to the top. Or pretty close to the top. And then things went poorly, as they say, and he found himself on the run.”

Da Silva’s eyebrows raised. “From the mob?”

“No, no!” Wilson shook his head. “He was in with the mob; it was from us, from the good guys. Actually, from the IRS—the tax boys. He overlooked contributing his share toward paying my salary.” He smiled deprecatingly. “If he only knew how little it was!”

“And that’s the only reason he was on the run?”

“What do you mean, is that the only reason? That’s reason enough. If you don’t believe me,” Wilson said, “dig up Capone and ask him. Actually, in Chaney’s case there were a few other things: consorting with known criminals—one ex-Vice-President springs to mind—transporting girls over state lines, wearing brown shoes with a tuxedo—things like that, but the tax deal was the big one. So when the IRS came looking for him, he tied his few possessions into his solid-gold handkerchief and came away.”

“To Brazil.”

Wilson nodded. “He felt it a wise move, apparently.” He thought about it a moment and shrugged. “Just one more mistake in his life, I guess.”

Da Silva sipped his brandy, thinking. One thing didn’t make sense.

“The way you tell it,” he said thoughtfully, “this Chaney shouldn’t have been worrying about funds.”

“Far from it,” Wilson said with assurance. “He lived high; that much we know.”

Da Silva stared at his companion with a simulated surprise. “You keep your own citizens under Embassy surveillance?”

“Just certain ones, like George Chaney. To see they don’t get taken by street peddlers, or overcharged by dishonest cab-drivers.” Wilson changed the subject, bringing it back to its original direction. “Look at the roll he had on him when he was hit.” He paused and frowned. “Although, since he wasn’t robbed, I suppose it tends to support our theory that it really was a Death Squad job.”

Da Silva looked at him sardonically.

“It’s a good thing I have a few more, and better, reasons for that assumption. What makes you think that anyone—cop or not—who doesn’t worry about killing someone, would get conscience pangs about robbing him?” He shook his head. “No; my question about Chaney’s finances had to do with something else. If money wasn’t any problem, what was he doing in a place like Paraíso? I know the word means ‘Paradise’ in English, but my guess is that’s just geographer’s license.”

“He didn’t live in Paraíso. He lived in Rio, at the Beira Mar Hotel.” Wilson shrugged. “He may have gone up to Paraíso just to see the place. For a visit, maybe. As a tourist.”

“Or maybe to build a factory for making brown shoes to go with tuxedos,” Da Silva said sarcastically. “Let me ask you a question. If you found yourself in the United States with money in your pocket and any city in the country at your disposal for visiting, would you pick a place like, say, Youngs-town, Ohio?”

Wilson looked hurt. “Sir, you are speaking of my native state.”

“Well, would you?”

“In all honesty, no,” Wilson said. “I wouldn’t even pick it second.”

“Well, then,” Da Silva said, and finished his brandy. He reached overhead, pressing the button for the stewardess. The pretty girl came down the aisle pushing her cart; Da Silva saluted her rapid response with a bright smile. Once he and Wilson had been served, he leaned a bit into the aisle, watching her continue toward the front of the plane. He leaned back and raised his glass.

“To stewardesses. With good legs,” he said. “Where were we?”

“We were trying to figure out what Chaney was doing in a place like Paraíso,” Wilson said sternly. “Get your mind off girls. You must feel better about flying if you’re starting to get passionate in the air.”

“It’s the brandy,” Da Silva said, and sipped as if to prove his point. “Well, to get back to business. Chaney was your national; you tell me what he was doing in Paraíso—you had him under surveillance.”

“When I say we had him under surveillance, I don’t mean we had a man on his tail all the time. The answer to your question is, I have no idea what he was doing there. Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity,” Wilson went on, “you answer a question of mine. What’s wrong with the idea that these murders were done by other people—other than the police, I mean—and that Death Squad signs were hung around their necks as a put-off?”

Da Silva lit a cigarette and opened the folder in his lap.

“You mean beside the one I already gave you? Well, you haven’t read these reports, yet.” He tapped the top sheet of the open folder. “Of the four who were killed, the first one—two weeks ago—was a local character named Valdir Limeira, a professional gambler—”

“And your theory is he took the police chief in a poker game one night—”

“And you think you’re joking, but you might not be. In any event, gambling is against the law, whether it’s honored more in the breech than other laws. Anyway, his papers were intact, and his watch. That was on March 6—” He lifted some of the papers, consulting the ones beneath. “Then, three days later, on March 9, a man named Leopoldo Bethencourt came to Paraíso and on the tenth was found dead, with the sign around his neck. According to his business cards he had an export-import business in Recife. The third was named Manuel Assis Torres, and he came from Porto Alegre on the twelfth and was found dead the following morning. According to his papers he was a commercial photographer; his camera and other photographic equipment weren’t touched. The fourth was Chaney, who came to Paraíso on the seventeenth and was found dead the next day.” He closed the folder and looked at Wilson, somewhat like a professor encouraging a rather bright student. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well,” Da Silva said patiently, “what did the four of them have in common?”

“They were all killed—”

“I’m serious,” Da Silva said a bit sharply.

“In that case,” Wilson said, “they didn’t have anything in common as far as I can see. Or as far as we know so far. They came from different places on different days. Except for the gambler—apparently he came from Paraíso itself.”

“He did, and the others were from different places. And I want to know why they came there, and in time I expect to find out. But what else did they have in common?”

Wilson frowned at Da Silva in uncertainty. “Nothing that I can see. What are you driving at? What’s on your mind?”

Da Silva crushed out his cigarette and instantly lit another. He leaned back and tapped the folder with his forefinger.

“Just this,” he said. “My guess is that if the first one was outside the law, and the last one was outside the law, then I think it’s a fairly reasonable assumption to consider that the other two were also a little less respectable than their business cards would have us believe. Despite the Minister’s faith in their goodness. After all, anyone can have a card printed.”

Wilson shook his head half-admiringly.

“Man, when you get a theory you sure like to torture facts to make them fit! Is there anything in that folder to make you think that Torres or this Bethencourt were anything else but what they were supposed to be?”

“No,” Da Silva admitted. “But when a death squad comes into being, it’s usually because the police—or, rather, just a few of the police, thank God—think that punishment of lawbreakers by the courts is too slow, and that a helping hand from them—” He shrugged.

“So,” Wilson said sarcastically, “if a death squad killed them, therefore they must be criminals. And, of course, being criminals makes whoever killed them a death squad. Beautiful! I’ll bet you play solitaire with a marked deck. What happens to your lovely theory if you check out this Torres and Bethencourt and find out they’re exactly what their business cards claim them to be?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to dream up another theory,” Da Silva said, and grinned.

“And I’m sure you’ll manage,” Wilson said with disgust. He shook his head. “Has it ever occurred to you that each one of the four could have been killed by a different person for completely different reasons, and a sign hung around each neck just to give a stubborn thickheaded, intransigent detective, whose name escapes me at the moment, the basis for one more of his wild-eyed theories?”

“Why, no,” Da Silva said with a gentle smile. “It never occurred to me at all. Because, you see, all four were killed by exactly the same method—we call it modus operandi in the police—a bullet in the chest and one more, for luck, in the head.…”

“And I don’t suppose that a person, hearing of the method, couldn’t simply copy it?”

“I might point out,” Da Silva said evenly, “that the ones in the best position to know what method was used were the police themselves. And there was very little local or national publicity, as the Minister said. However, you didn’t let me finish: I was about to say”—he paused a moment for effect, a faint smile on his face—“that the bullets all match. They all came from the same gun.”

There was a short silence as Wilson digested this new fact. “Oh,” he said, and looked at Da Silva resentfully. “You cheat.”

“At times,” Da Silva said, and became serious. “Now, these four men were all killed by the same person or persons, certainly by the same gun. For the sake of argument, let’s assume I’m right and that they were all the type of person the death squads like to eliminate. Here we have four men from different parts of the country, all coming to Paraíso. Let’s ask the same question we asked about Chaney. Why did they go there?”

“A meeting, do you suppose?”

“On different days?” Da Silva asked sarcastically.

“I forgot,” Wilson said, not at all disturbed by his error. “I’m still not convinced your theory is right. I thought death squads always concentrated on Brazilians, and yet there is Chaney.…”

“There’s always a first time to expand,” Da Silva said, “and from what you tell me of Chaney, you have to admit he certainly had the credentials to join the club.”

“And not only that,” Wilson went on, as if Da Silva had not spoken, “there’s the matter of this Judge what’s-his-name—”

“Magalhães.”

“Magalhães. If what the Minister said was true, it seems hard for me to believe a death squad could, or would, operate in his territory.”

Da Silva glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because you just got through saying that death squads come into existence because a group of police think the regular courts are too slow in rendering judgment. Here’s a man who is the court, but he’s also the man who appoints the chief of police, so he really controls both sides of the table. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unless,” Da Silva said slowly, trying to fit Wilson’s reasonable objection into his theory, “the judge doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Wilson shook his head decisively.

“I doubt it. He’s supposed to be the big influence up there; large landowner, sits on the bench, appoints people to important jobs. He’s probably like some of the judges we had in our own West, years ago, people like Judge Roy Bean, for example. My guess is he knows everything that’s going on. We’re the ones who don’t.”

Da Silva found a better rationale. “There’s one way that makes sense, though,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s if the judge knows exactly what’s going on. If he heads up the gang.”

“Which is ridiculous on the face of it.”

“Why?”

“Because in that case I’d scarcely trust those reports you’ve got in that folder,” Wilson said flatly. “Remember, they came from the police up there. I doubt if they’d give any facts you could hang them with.” He thought a moment. “Anyway, why would the judge—or a death squad—or anyone else for that matter, knock off people from different parts of the country? What’s the matter with Paraíso? Is it so clean they have to import victims?”

Da Silva looked at Wilson and smiled. “I didn’t say I had all the answers.” He crushed out his cigarette. “Well, it looks as if we have our work cut out for us. First, we have to check on Torres and Bethencourt; then we have to find out what brought them to Paraíso in the first place, and why anyone wanted to kill them in the second. Also Chaney.” He frowned. “Did he do anything locally to irk somebody?”

“You still disregard the fact that if Chaney was killed by a death squad, he’d be the first foreigner killed by one? You also disregard the fact that it’s senseless for the judge to be the head of the courts and also the head of a death squad?”

“I’m not disregarding anything,” Da Silva said patiently. “It’s just that the death squad is the only thing that does make sense. As far as the judge is concerned, it’s true he could bring whatever sentence he wanted; but first he had to have a crime committed in his jurisdiction. And there were no charges that I know of against these men.”

“But—”

“And it isn’t just the Death Squad signs, either,” Da Silva went on steadily. “The victims weren’t robbed. They were all killed with the same gun. My guess is that they were all types a death squad could consider criminal. Now, can you give me any other explanation?”

“Not at this time.”

“And as for Chaney,” Da Silva went on, “and the fact that he was a foreigner; well, he could have been a case of mistaken identity. Although the thought of mistaken identity with someone who doesn’t even speak the language is hard to picture. Unless—” He paused and glanced over at Wilson. “Did he speak Portuguese?”

“I doubt it,” Wilson said, “but it’ll be easy enough to check out. The people at the Beira Mar would know. You check out Torres and Bethencourt, and have one of your men talk to the hotel staff; I don’t have the men. I’ll telex Washington this afternoon and see what I can get on Chaney from them. Maybe they can pick up something more on him in Vegas.”

“Good enough,” Da Silva said. “At least it’s the start of a program.”

“There’s just one thing,” Wilson went on, thinking about it. “From what Minister Wanderlay said, all a death squad would have to do to avoid exposure would simply be to go out of business. How they were wiped out in Rio and Sao Paulo?”

“They were wiped out,” Da Silva said soberly, “because some of the members simply got sick of the whole business of the senseless killings and reported it. In writing, naturally, and anonymously, as you can well imagine. They gave names, dates, and locations of past killings and accurately predicted future killings, which enabled us to be on the spot. Once we got a few of the top people, the organization fell apart.”

Wilson frowned unhappily.

“Are you saying that if this is the work of a death squad—and I’m still not convinced—that the only way we’re ever going to find out and nail them is to wait until one of them chickens out and blows the whistle?”

“Maybe,” Da Silva said, and shrugged. “I didn’t expect it to be easy.”

“Although,” Wilson added, “I suppose if we can get them to go out of business, whether we catch them or not, the Minister should be satisfied. The important thing to him is to have the killings stop.”

“But not to me,” Da Silva said harshly. “It would be like living with a bomb hidden someplace, waiting for it to go off.” He dismissed this solution with a brief wave of his hand, as not being worth discussing. “One of us will have to go to Paraíso and see what he can dig out up there, while the other one stays in Rio, at least for the time being, and tries to find out what connection these four men had with Paraíso, or the police up there, or even with each other if it comes to that.”

“And possibly the one who goes up there might also earn a nice sign around his neck, just for being nosy?”

“I’d recommend that whichever one of us gets the assignment,” Da Silva said dryly, “would try to be a little intelligent about his nosiness.”

Wilson laughed. “I gather you mean he should not go up there wearing his Interpol bowling shirt, and that he should use a safety pin to hold up his pants rather than his police shield—”

“Right,” Da Silva said, and smiled.

“I also gather, since your suggestions usually take the form of instruction, that I’m the one who drew the short straw?”

“I think so,” Da Silva said seriously. “I have the organization here to check out these men, and that part is better handled from Rio. You—” He paused a moment in thought and then nodded. “You can go up there as, say, the representative of some American industry who is considering locating in Paraíso. That would have a couple of advantages-you could meet Judge Magalhães without any suspicion, since he’d be a logical person to contact regarding possible land sites for your factory; and you’ll also be able to innocently ask him about those death squad killings that are upsetting your principals. That might be one way to open something up.”

Wilson nodded his approval. “That’s an idea. Tell me, do I speak my perfect Portuguese, or pretend I don’t know any? Like that time down in Urubuapá, with those two lovely brothers and that miserable snake? Of course that time you were my translator, and a pretty flakey one at that. Remember?”

“I don’ no never forgot heem, meester,” Da Silva said with a grin, and wiped it off. “No, this time you go in with your standard Americanized Portuguese. You’ll be the representative of one of the Stateside banks in Rio, representing the interests of an American manufacturing company which does not wish to be identified at this time. You ought to know enough people to arrange yourself a decent cover.”

“No problem,” Wilson said cheerfully. “And when will you be up?”

“When I get something to come up for,” Da Silva said. “Right now the job for me is in Rio.”

“Good enough. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so,” Da Silva said. “I’ll put people on Torres and Bethencourt as soon as I get back to the office today. And before you go up to Paraíso, instruct your office to let me have whatever comes in on Chaney.” He frowned. “It would make more sense if we could find some connection between those four victims.…”

“Why?” Wilson asked a bit ironically. “If they were all nasty, wouldn’t that be reason enough for your mythical death squad?”

“Those weren’t mythical dead bodies,” Da Silva said flatly, and looked over Wilson’s shoulder. All that was visible through the small oval window were fleecy clouds. “I hope this thing gets in on time. We have a lot of work to do.”

“I don’t know about you,” Wilson said, “but I know I have a lot to do. If I have to go up to some forlorn place in the middle of nowhere for an indeterminate sentence, I expect to spend this evening tasting the fleshpots of Rio. Building up a reserve, you might say; memories to buoy me up through the long celibate nights.”

Da Silva stared at him.

“You really don’t know much about small towns in the interior, do you?” he asked wonderingly. “They’re like small towns everywhere—except Ohio, possibly. They don’t have the wide assortment of entertainment we have in the big city, so they are forced to depend on the oldest and cheapest form of amusement. You won’t have any trouble. We’ll probably have to send a posse up there to drag you back.”

“If what you say is true, I’ll even forgive you that crack about Ohio,” Wilson said, and grinned.