CHAPTER 6

It took Wilson over an hour to get through on the telephone and be connected with Captain Da Silva’s desk, and the time spent in the steamy booth had done nothing to improve his temper. Had the delay been due to excessive verbal traffic between the two cities it might have been forgiven; but in this case nearly all of it was spent in trying to convince the local operator that he, Wilson, was an honest man, that he was calling collect because he did not have roughly four hundred telephone slugs and he was in a public booth, that collect calls were, indeed, legal and even commonplace in some places, and that the party at the other end would—on the honor of his mother and father—accept the call and, if properly billed, eventually pay for it. It had been a hard struggle and it showed in Wilson’s sweating face and the frayed edges of his usual good humor. He opened the door of the booth to get a breath of air, and then closed it. The call was finally coming through and it was difficult enough to hear through the interference without having to compete with the huge trucks rumbling by on the cobblestones outside. He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might aid his concentration and jammed the receiver more tightly against his ear.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Who’s this? Wilson?”

“What? Zé? Zé?”

“Wilson? Is that you? Hello?”

There was a click on the line and the interference magically disappeared. Da Silva’s voice seemed to boom in his ear.

“That’s better,” Wilson said, and heaved a sigh of relief. The thought of having spent a torturous hour in that sweatbox only to have the call inaudible had been frightening.

“The operator got off the line. It’s probably time for her coffee break,” Da Silva said shrewdly. “What’s new?”

“There’s been another one,” Wilson said, and opened his eyes. He was pleasantly surprised that his raised voice of a moment before had not brought a crowd to his rescue. “Another killing. Same MO.”

At his end Da Silva reached for a pad, frowning. “When?”

“He was found about an hour ago—make that two hours. I forgot I’ve been in this mummy case an hour. Down an old road near a lake, here.”

Da Silva was scribbling. “Name?”

Wilson consulted a piece of paper. “Joaquim Saldanha Valadares. Looking at him I’d say he’d been around forty, although I agree being shot in the head doesn’t make them any easier to identify—or even to admire. Address, Miracopa Palace, number 614, Rio de Janeiro. Well dressed; but living at the Miracopa you would expect it.”

“Physicals?”

Wilson looked surprised. “Why? We have his name and address. We’re not going out looking for him; we’ve got him right here.”

“For luck,” Da Silva said. “Physicals?”

Wilson sighed. “I’d say about one-eighty in weight, five-ten in height. He also has black hair, a small mustache, and a tiny mole on the back of his left knee. Now, if you’re through with the unimportant stuff, let me go on. He had a business card, or cards, rather, as well as his social ones. Address, Room 867 Edifício Rio Branco. Profession—if that’s the word—Talent Agent.”

Da Silva marked it down. “Any indication of how he got to Paraíso? Or why?”

“None.”

“Any idea of when he was killed?”

“The coroner estimates at least twelve hours, but that’s just a guess. Maybe he’ll be able to be more definite after an autopsy.”

“I gather his wallet was there, if his cards were. So he also wasn’t robbed?”

“He wasn’t. Plenty of money in his wallet. In fact, everything seems to be the same as the other victims—same sign, the shots in the chest and the head; everything. The bullets are in ballistics now, but I’d give odds they’ll match the others.”

Da Silva sighed. “No idea of when he got there? Or how?”

“Not yet, but they’re checking on the airlines and the hotels.”

“Well, let me know what they find. I’ll put somebody on checking out his home and office right away. I—” Suddenly Da Silva paused and frowned at the receiver. “Wait a second! Just how does a respectable representative of a Rio bank, visiting Paraíso to buy land for a respectable factory, get so much detailed information on a killing? And don’t tell me you read about it in the papers!”

Wilson cleared his throat a bit self-consciously. “I wanted to tell you about that, Zé—”

“Did you, now?” Da Silva said witheringly. “You wanted to tell me that you decided to tell everyone up there that you, too, were a nice police officer, just like them, and please, sir, could I have some information. I hope you picked yourself a good name—like J. Edgar Hoover.”

“He’s dead.”

“Which is what you’ll be if they have a real death squad up there and they figure you’re too nosy!”

“Well,” Wilson said a bit defensively, “I thought if there wasn’t a death squad, it wouldn’t do any harm; and if there was one, it might jolt them. Anyway,” he added, “I could scarcely stay up here walking up and down hills for a week, kicking at dirt, and trying to look like a buyer of land. This way I have an open door to the police.”

“Or to the morgue. Damn it, why did you do it?”

“Because I’m positive the judge is clean; that even if there is a death squad up here, he isn’t involved. The damage—”

“So you admit there might be a squad up there?”

“I didn’t say that! Anyway, the damage to the economy of the town is something he’s vitally interested in—”

Da Silva made a rude noise. Wilson disregarded it.

“He also claims—and at least I’m sure he believes it, whether it’s true or not—that every man up here is a friend of his, and why, he asks, would anyone want to hurt him? Yet Chaney’s body was dumped in his driveway—”

Trucks or not, Wilson had to open the door or risk suffocation. He slid it open, waving it back and forth to pump in air. At the other end of the line Da Silva frowned.

“What on earth was that?”

“Traffic,” Wilson said, and closed the door. “This is a booming place, friend. But what I was saying is that I’m sure we can eliminate the judge as suspect. And I’m beginning to doubt the whole death squad theory.”

“Beginning?”

“I mean, more and more.”

“Fine,” Da Silva said. “Then why are you calling from a public telephone instead of from your hotel room?”

“A simple precaution,” Wilson said. “A room clerk doesn’t have to be a member of the secret police just to be nosy. Anymore than a dead man with a sign around his neck has to be a victim of the police.”

“You admit, then, that at least the men are dead?”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic. I know the men are dead, but—”

“And that they did have signs around their necks, that they weren’t robbed, that they were killed by the same gun, and that they weren’t the most respectable citizens in the community?”

“Hold it!” Wilson said firmly. “Let’s not get carried away! Out of five victims, you can prove something illegal against two. Just two! That’s scarcely the statistic to support a theory, even for you!”

“We have something on three,” Da Silva corrected. He could not keep a touch of smugness from his voice. “Our friend Senhor Leopoldo Bethencourt with his export-import business in Recife, remember?”

“What about him?”

“Well,” Da Silva said, “it seems he did a lot more importing than he did exporting.”

Wilson frowned at the instrument. “You mean, smuggling?”

“I don’t mean trying to help our Ministry of Finance with the balance of trade,” Da Silva said sardonically. “Smuggling on a vast scale, and with Bethencourt dead, it seems his organization is in a bit of chaos. He kept too much of the business in his own hands, and now it’s up for grabs. In fact, the scramble has even brought the matter to the attention of those police who weren’t aware of it. Or to the attention of honest cops who were aware of it but weren’t able to do anything about it before. I gather, from what Pedroso said, that Bethencourt had the best of legal talent to keep him out of grief. You remember Arnaldo Pedroso?”

“The lieutenant of police at Recife? I certainly do,” Wilson said warmly. “He saved my pal Jimmy Martin’s life.”

“That’s right. He’s a captain now. I just finished speaking with him. He says that with Bethencourt’s death, the smuggling business—and it’s real big business up there—is going to be open for the taking, and he hopes maybe he can finally break it. Personally I doubt if you’ll break smuggling in that area—bend it maybe, but that’s about all. But that’s his affair. The main thing of interest to us is that he’ll try to find out why Bethencourt went to Paraíso.”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a lot of difference,” Da Silva said patiently. “The death squad got those men to go up there on one pretext or another, and I have a feeling once we know the reason, we’ll be a long way toward knowing who’s responsible and how to nail them.”

Wilson didn’t feel like arguing about death squads any more; all he wanted to do was to finish the conversation and get out of the hot phone booth and into a cold beer. “When are you planning on coming up here?”

“When I get enough information on those dead men to know just what made each one of them go to Paraíso in the first place. Limeira came from there, but the others didn’t. I’ve sent Ruy down to Porto Alegre to get what information he can on this Torres; Pedroso says he’ll get what he can on Bethencourt; and I’ll put Perreira on this new one, Valadares, right away. Plus I hope your office can give me something on Chaney as soon as possible. When I see some light, I’ll go up there.” He smiled grimly. “Each one of those victims was lured up there by the death squad. When I know exactly what bait they used, and why, then I’ll be up to find out who.”

“And what do I do in the meantime?”

Da Silva considered the instrument in his hand with amazement.

“When I used to ask my mother that on a rainy day, she told me to go sit on my thumb. What do you do? Kick dirt. Buy land. Build a factory. Or,” he added sarcastically, “if you really want to do something useful, why not continue to cultivate the police up there? Now that they think you’re J. Edgar Hoover? Up there they probably don’t know yet that he’s dead.” His voice became serious. “Look, Wilson. Someone on the police force in Paraíso got those men to go up there, whether your pal the judge thinks so or not, and whoever got them to go there obviously had to know them, or have some connection with them. Why did Chaney go up there, for example? He wasn’t Brazilian; he probably never even heard—”

“Chaney went to Paraíso to see Judge Magalhães,” Wilson said, suddenly remembering.

“What?” Da Silva sat more erect in his chair.

“That’s right. Apparently the judge is known for his attitude on asylum—which, incidentally, I don’t agree with, or at least not completely—but in any event, Chaney was fighting extradition and the judge granted him a writ permitting him to stay in Brazil. I don’t know if it was permanent or temporary, but it really doesn’t make any difference now. I forgot to mention it.”

“Judge Magalhães brought Chaney to Paraíso?”

“That’s right.”

“And you forget to mention it?”

“Don’t shout,” Wilson said reprovingly. “This connection isn’t all that good as it is. I forgot, that’s all. A few other things happened on the way to the phone booth, like Valaderes’ body being found, remember? Anyway,” he added. “Judge Magalhães is not—on my word as a seer and prophet—involved in this thing at all. In any way. I guarantee.”

“Or my money back, eh? Look, Wilson,” Da Silva said with a patience that was beginning to ebb, “let’s go back to basics, shall we? Somebody brought those men to Paraíso. To be killed. You now tell me that your old friend, the judge, did just that; that he was responsible for Chaney going up there. What do you need? A written confession?”

Wilson shook his head; it served to illustrate his attitude and also to free a few drops of sweat from his brow.

“Zé—listen. Forget your death squad theory as far as the judge is concerned. In fact, forget it altogether. I’ll go back to an old question of mine: Is Paraíso so short of bad boys that they have to import them as targets for their death squad?”

“And I’ll go back to an old question of mine,” Da Silva said stubbornly. “Were those men killed? With the same gun? Did they have signs around their necks? Were they criminals? Do death squads specialize in eliminating criminals? Had the men been robbed? Is there—”

“Hold it!” Wilson said firmly. “That’s six questions, not one. You owe me five.”

“Well? Ask them!”

Wilson sighed a bit helplessly. “I guess I’ll have to take a rain check. I can’t think of any at the moment.…”