CHAPTER 9

Clean from a hot shower, rested by a three-minute nap, comfortable in fresh tropical clothing, and relieved by the absence of telephone calls during his period of recuperation, Captain Da Silva strolled along the Avenida Atlântica in the direction of Mario’s. The famous restaurant, with its renowned collection of brandies from all over the world, was the captain’s favorite eating place, and he looked forward to an hour or so when crime and punishment would rank a weak second, in a bid for his attention, behind several Reserva San Juan brandies from Argentina, followed by a succulent filet accompanied by sufficient steins of ice-cold Brahma Chopp.

He pushed into the entrance and selected the door to the bar rather than directly to the restaurant, without conscious thought. He hesitated a moment to allow his eyesight to adjust itself to Mario’s idea of romantic bar lighting and was about to slip into a vacant booth, when a familiar voice intruded upon his pleasant reverie.

“Hello, Zé.”

Da Silva’s dreams of a quiet, peaceful, non-criminally oriented evening disappeared. He shook his head sadly, wondering why he hadn’t stayed home peacefully with a dry sandwich and a glass of water, watching something uplifting on television, like the latest soap opera. Wilson was looking up at him, smiling gently. Da Silva sighed helplessly and slid into the booth across from the American.

“You’re a hard man to keep in any one place,” he said dolefully. “Why aren’t you up in Paraíso?”

“Sitting on my thumb?” Wilson shrugged. “I kept falling off.”

“What about those girls I told you all small towns keep in hiding, saving them for the visitor from the big city?”

“A canard,” Wilson said. “I was there over half an hour and I wasn’t accosted once.”

“And how did you get here? You must have run for a plane as soon as I hung up. I thought I asked you to cultivate the police up there.”

“It’s not the planting season,” Wilson explained in a tone that suggested that if Da Silva knew anything about agriculture, he would have understood that without being told. “Anyway—”

He paused to allow a waiter’s arm to interpose itself between them, placing a glass containing Captain Da Silva’s favorite brand on the table. Da Silva nodded his thanks and picked up the glass. He looked at it a brief moment, drank it, and then tapped the glass on the table politely, indicating to the waiter that he would not refuse a refill. While waiting he reached across the table to extract a cigarette from Wilson’s packet of American-brand PX cigarettes. He lit it, tossed aside the match, and leaned back.

“That’s better,” he said, feeling a bit more prepared for the conversation before him. “Now, what were you about to say?”

“I was about to say that I came back to Rio because staying up there would have been a waste of time. The police up there are clean, my friend—clean. I’m convinced. They’re as puzzled about these killings as we are. I’ve met the judge, and his godson the chief of police, and I’m sure.”

Da Silva studied his friend while the waiter brought over the bottle. This time, after filling the glass, the waiter wisely left the bottle. Da Silva murmured his thanks and returned his gaze to Wilson.

“You discovered this in ten minutes?”

“I arrived last night and left this afternoon. Twenty hours.”

“You’re a genius. You know,” Da Silva went on slowly, taking his full glass and twisting it, “you could be right. I was thinking just this afternoon that the chances were we were on the wrong track—”

“That you were on the wrong track.”

“That I was on the wrong track if it pleases you,” Da Silva said, in no mood to argue. “After mature consideration I think that what probably happened to those men was that the five of them—Limeira, Bethencourt, Torres, Chaney, and Valadares—all committed suicide.” His hand came up abruptly, forestalling any interruption. “I know what arguments you will undoubtedly raise—how does it happen that the same gun was used in every case? And I reply, obviously because it was a suicide club, and they only used the one gun. Not that they couldn’t afford other guns, you understand, but because that would have been against the rules. Something like breaking the chain in a chain letter; it might have brought bad luck.”

He drew on his cigarette mightily and then crushed it out in the ashtray, after which he continued in the same grave fashion while Wilson watched with an apparently serious mien.

“Then, being the brilliant investigator you are,” Da Silva went on, “you will next ask—but then what happened to the gun after each one shot himself, with a ritual worthy of hara-kiri, first in the chest and then, while still sufficiently alive to do so, in the head? And I answer with unfailing logic, obviously the suicide club employs a gun steward who takes the weapon after each death to prepare it, Samurai fashion, and then to pass it on to the next member selected, possibly by drawing straws. Ah, you say, still not satisfied—since you always were a stickler—but why do they all go to Paraíso to kill themselves? To which I reply quite simply, why not? Why do the Japanese prefer Fujiyama when killing themselves? Why do Americans travel miles just to eliminate themselves by throwing themselves from the Golden Gate bridge? Possibly the members, out of local pride, cut cards and Limeira, who came from Paraíso—and probably cheats—won. Who knows? In time, once the facts are properly publicized, Paraíso may no longer require industry to prop up its economy. It may well become the undertaking capitol of Brazil, taking that honor away from Duque de Caxias.”

“I can see it now,” Wilson said dreamily. “People from all over the world making a pilgrimage to this modest little town in the northeast, just to scrag themselves. Charter flights”—he raised a finger—“one-way, naturally—at reduced costs for those of the faith. Hawkers on sidewalks—assuming they have sidewalks by that time—selling little pennants with ‘Paraíso-Mortuary Capitol of the World’ embroidered in gold thread against purple velvet. Little men, speaking behind their hands, touting the better locations for doing the dutch; bookmakers in opulent offices, taking bets on the number of victims per day, or per week …” He nodded. “It boggles the mind.”

“Exactly,” Da Silva said, and smiled. “What do you think?”

“Well,” Wilson said, smiling at last, “I think it makes as much sense as your first theory. More, in fact.”

“Take it or leave it,” Da Silva said. “That’s my contribution for today.” He rubbed his face wearily, his whimsical mood disappearing, the problems of the day coming back. He raised his drink, looking at Wilson. “What else happened up there?”

Wilson shrugged. “Nothing.”

“One thing I forgot to ask—how did Valadares get to where he was found? Or was he killed someplace else and taken there to hide?”

“It’s pretty hard to hide a man in the middle of the road,” Wilson said. “True, it’s pretty deserted at night, but with daytime traffic, people would keep running over him. No; he rented a car at the airport. The car was where he was found. It seems he drove it there. Don’t ask me why.”

“I won’t.” Da Silva drank and put his glass down. “What about fingerprints?”

“There weren’t any. Somebody must have heard they’re used for identification purposes and went and wiped them all away. Nasty—or unco-operative, at the very least.” Wilson shoved his glass away, getting down to business. “Let’s see what we really know, not what we’re just guessing at. We know all five were killed with the same weapon. We know at least all but one of them was a criminal of sorts—”

“All five. Torres was a blackmailer. He went up to Paraíso either to put pressure on a previous victim, or—more likely, since he took his camera equipment with him—to set up another victim.”

Wilson looked at him, interested. “Oh?”

“That’s right. And who told him there was somebody in Paraíso who might fit the role of potential victim?”

“I assume you mean, don’t ask that, either. All right, I won’t. Except—”

“Except,” Da Silva interrupted, “regardless of who tipped him off, the fact is that since all were criminals, they were all meat for a death squad.”

Wilson shook his head. “Will you forget the death squad a minute? You’ve got a one-track mind. Let’s stick with the facts we have and forget the things we’re guessing at—”

“Why should we forget a death squad?” Da Silva asked curiously. “Who else but the police knew about Bethencourt and his smuggling operation in Recife?”

“A lot of people,” Wilson said positively. “The people who delivered to him; the people who bought from him. The people who worked for him. Obviously he didn’t run the boats and unload the stuff and deliver the stuff and make collections for the stuff all by himself.”

“And Torres, the blackmailer in Porto Alegre? That wasn’t a gang operation. Only the police knew about him.”

“Other than his victims, of course,” Wilson pointed out, and could not help but sound a bit smug.

“And those same blackmailed victims also ran the boats and unloaded the contraband and made the deliveries for Bethencourt up in Recife?” Da Silva made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “No, senhor! The only person who knew those boys for what they were, or had any reason to kill them, would be the police.”

“In different cities?” Wilson asked. “You mean, the police in Paraíso killed these men as an accommodation to their fellow officers in Recife and Porto Alegre and Rio?” He shook his head admiringly. “That’s what I call real friendship. ‘No greater love hath man than he lay down somebody else’s life for his friends.’ Is that it?”

Da Silva frowned. “Don’t laugh. You might be right, you know. A national death squad …”

“Like the Lions or the Chamber of Commerce,” Wilson suggested with a smile. “Chapters in all major cities. Creamed chicken and peas plus a limp salad for lunch at the principal hotel every Wednesday.”

“I’m serious.” Da Silva leaned across the table. “You know, that could well be the answer. A national death squad.” He took a deep breath and reached for the bottle. “A national death squad,” he repeated. “I hate to think of it.”

“Or an international death squad if we want to expand our vistas,” Wilson said. “To explain Chaney. But even if there was an international, or even interterrestrial death squad, let alone a national death squad—and in my experience it’s hard enough to get two Brazilians together for an appointment let alone something like this—we keep coming back to the old stumper: Why Paraíso?”

Da Silva paused in pouring another drink and set the bottle down, frowning.

“It might not be so tough to get some of the more fanatical cops together for something like this,” he said slowly. “The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. And why Paraíso? Probably purely by accident. Remember that our gambler, Limeira, the first victim, lived there and was killed there. It may have occurred to the organization that it could well confuse any interested parties if all the victims were also killed there, and with the same gun.”

“A bit tough on the Paraíso chapter, though, don’t you think?”

“But the killings wouldn’t serve as an example to the criminal element unless they were all done in one place. If they were scattered, no one would pay any attention to them.”

“Except they didn’t get any publicity nationally,” Wilson said. “Who were they supposed to impress? Bad boys in Chicago? Liverpool?” He shook his head. “If you want my advice, you’ll forget about death squads altogether and go back to fundamentals.”

“Good enough,” Da Silva said equably. “Let’s go back to fundamentals. Let’s consider motive, to start with. Who gains from the death of these five men?”

“Not a bad question,” Wilson conceded, “and one I think we might well have asked a good while ago, rather than getting bogged down in this death squad nonsense. Well, who does gain?”

“The only ones I can think of at the moment are the respective communities, who should be planning dancing in the street in celebration,” Da Silva said, “and, of course, those members of the police force who no longer have to waste time picking them up, but can now return to more serious endeavors, like shaking down prostitutes, or swiping apples from fruit stands.”

Wilson had been paying no attention; he had been frowning at the tablecloth in deep thought. Now he looked up.

“Wait a second,” he said slowly. “We’re overlooking something fairly obvious and fairly important. These men all ran very profitable criminal operations. With them dead, there are going to be some very good openings in the table of organization. There are going to be large sums to be picked up.”

Da Silva’s eyebrows went up sardonically.

“That idea, my friend, came and was rejected some time ago. You’re suggesting that instead of a national death squad, there’s a national organization of seconds-in-command, who all decide to kill their bosses and take over? At the same time? In different cities?” He barely refrained from snorting. “And you think my theories are farfetched?”

“Wait a second,” Wilson said, in no way deterred from his idea. Even as he spoke, the picture seemed to clarify for him. “Suppose it wasn’t anyone working for these men; suppose it was one person, or a group, who has decided to organize crime in Brazil under one roof?”

“You mean like the Mafia?”

“I mean exactly like the Mafia! Look,” Wilson said, beginning to get excited by his idea, and leaning over the table to expound it more forcefully, “think of this: each man killed represented a different branch of crime. There weren’t two smugglers, or two blackmailers, or two gamblers, or two—”

“You mean, the thing wasn’t organized by Noah? We don’t have to worry about a flood?”

“Shut up! I’m serious. Don’t you see? The men who were killed were probably tops in their fields. If this new group—which I’ll call the Mafia for the time being for want of a better name—began by taking over those organizations, then they could grow from there.” He leaned back triumphantly. “Now, give me an answer to that!”

“I’ll trade you two answers for a cigarette,” Da Silva said with a smile and picked another one from Wilson’s pack. He lit up and considered his friend across the table. “Well, for answer number one, your theory makes mine look as if I’d borrowed it from Einstein. Take the example of Torres, our blackmailer, for a moment. As far as I know, the Mafia avoids blackmail like the plague, probably because it’s really not a very organizable thing. Either you have something on somebody or you don’t; it’s not something you can depend upon day after day, like the desire to gamble, or to take dope, or the itch for a girl.…”

His eyes were faintly mocking as he looked at Wilson. Wilson’s face was without expression. “Go on.”

“All right,” Da Silva said. “Answer number two: What about Chaney?”

“What about him?”

“Do you have an indication he was involved in any funny business here in Brazil? Any criminal activity? If he was, it never came to our attention. Did it to yours? After all, you had him under some sort of surveillance.”

“Well, no.…”

“So there you are. If these killings were done by some Mafia-type bunch, for whatever benefits they hoped to gain, they’re certainly going about it in a slipshod manner; and if they ever go public, I, for one, will not buy stock.” He shook his head. “That’s not the answer.”

“You wouldn’t believe anything was the answer except your hardheaded death squad theory,” Wilson said resentfully, and brushed the matter aside. “But, no matter. Where do we go from here?”

“Well,” Da Silva said slowly, “whether these killings are being done by a death squad or a Mafia-type gang—or just some college kids as part of an initiation—we can be sure of one thing—”

“And what is that, oh great all-seeing guru?”

“That, my disciple, is this: They don’t like nasty people, right? In fact, they kill them. Right?”

“Right.”

“So what would strike you as a good way to get next to them?”

Wilson considered the question and then nodded as if the answer had finally struck him.

“Of course! Since you look like a thug to begin with, and since you have the necessary papers to prove you’re a cop of sorts, your idea is to get in touch with these people—how, I haven’t figured out yet—and apply for membership in their little family, probably as the representative of Copacabana. You point out to them how you can also contribute to their laudable goals by nominating for extinction a wayward American, now disguising himself as the security officer of the Rio consulate. This way you worm your way into their confidence and bring them all to justice, preferably in time for the final reel. Right?” He looked at Da Silva a moment and then shook his head sadly. “You mean I’m wrong? I don’t win the free all-expense one-way ticket to Peoria for the annual corn dance?”

“I’m afraid you pay your own way,” Da Silva said. He looked around for their waiter. Now that his mind was made up and his plans were beginning to fall neatly into place, he wanted to move to the dining room, eat his filet as quickly as possible, and get moving. The evening still had activity to be gotten through. At the bar their waiter saw the turn of head, correctly interpreted it, and disappeared into the dining room to make the necessary arrangements. Da Silva, satisfied, turned back to Wilson. “That wasn’t a bad scenario, but I like mine better. I think I’d like to be invited to go up there, by persons unknown. And to get that invitation, it seems to me, one only has to have a bad enough reputation.”

Wilson sighed, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

“That’s what I was afraid was your idea,” he said. “Still, if nastiness is what it takes to bring our prey to the surface, I must say that you’re the perfect bait.…”