CHAPTER 15

The old judge straightened up from laying another log on the fire in the large stone fireplace and stood contemplating the flames a moment. “In the old days,” he said reminiscently, almost as if speaking to some inner self, “out in the sertão, we’d keep a campfire going long after we were through cooking supper, whether it was hot or cold that night. It wasn’t to keep off animals; it was for companionship. Something alive; something moving. A sort of security, I suppose. Hard to break the habit.” He turned his back to the fire, his hands spread to capture a warmth unnecessary in the room, and looked at Da Silva. “Are you feeling better, Captain?” He gestured toward the sideboard. “Would you like another brandy?”

In the sprawling living room, paneled with local woods and beamed with jacarandá, the climbing flames overcame the weak efforts of the several lamps, throwing highlights over the faces staring into the fire, bringing out Da Silva’s hawklike and Indian-type cheekbones, Isabela’s cameo profile, Wilson’s plain, unemotional features. Da Silva was sitting beside Isabela on a wide couch while Wilson was slumped in a deep chair to one side, watching the flickering of the flames through half-closed eyes. Da Silva looked up at the judge and shook his head.

“Thank you, no. I’m feeling much better.” He smiled and took a deep breath. “I guess I’m getting used to being alive again. It’s quite a sensation, coming back from the dead.”

Isabela looked at him and then faced the others. She seemed to be making a pronouncement. “I’m getting used to Zé being alive again, too,” she said simply, and gripped his arm more tightly, letting the others understand that she intended to continue being used to it for a long time.

Wilson smiled lazily in the girl’s direction.

“I hope it doesn’t bother you to discover that Zé is only a cop and not the romantic, dashing thief he pretended to be. He always pulls something like that, just to impress the girls. You’ll have to keep an eye on him.” The statement brought a thought in its wake. He looked at Da Silva. “And speaking of keeping an eye on people,” he added, “how about handing me back my bleeper?”

Da Silva frowned. “Your what?”

“My bleeper. You’ll find it attached to the back of your jacket lapel, right side. It looks like plain repair tape, but it’s got the power to be picked up half a mile away. And it’s charged to my personal account at the Embassy, so hand it over.” He saw the look on Da Silva’s face and smiled. “You didn’t honestly think I found you through clairvoyance, or second sight, did you? I know I’m a genius, but even us geniuses—or genii, take your pick—have our limits.”

Da Silva nodded, smiling. “So that’s what you were doing in that closet last night!”

“And you thought I was just a Peeping Tom! Ah, well, that’s just one more hypothesis you’ll have to abandon.”

“One more?”

“Right. Together with your offside death squad theory.”

Da Silva shook his head. “Abandoning that theory doesn’t bother me, although I wish you had left at least one of those two alive for questioning. But I grant those two weren’t police. I know that Emil Floriano certainly wasn’t.” He shuddered involuntarily, thinking of the situation not long before, and frowned at Wilson. “What made you disregard my instructions to check out Isabela?” There was a small intake of breath from the girl; Da Silva smiled at her momentarily and then brought his attention back to Wilson. “What made you come to Paraíso, instead?”

Wilson smiled faintly and waggled an index finger from side to side in the Brazilian gesture of negation.

“You keep thinking that just because this is your country, everyone in it has to follow your orders. Four things to remember, friend. One, slavery is a thing of the past. Two, Uncle Sam pays me my pittance and he’s the only one I take instruction from, if that. Or is it, if him? Actually, it’s really not anybody; I’m a free soul. Three, checking up on young ladies isn’t chivalrous, which you’d know if you paid more attention to your Boy Scout manual as a child. And four, of course, is that once I get the idea of being an American confederate in my head, it’s hard to get it out. Incidentally,” he added, “you haven’t thanked me yet for coming to your rescue; nor congratulated me on my foresight in bringing Judge Magalhães along. He is some pumpkins on a rifle, as we used to say back in my home state of Isabela.”

Da Silva smiled. “I thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What else bothers you?”

Da Silva frowned, taking the question seriously. “The whole case bothers me. Among other things, the motive behind the killings bothers me. Who stands to gain? We’ve ruled out individual members of the victims’ organizations trying to take-over; we’ve ruled out any Mafia-type gang trying to organize on a country-wide scale; and now we’ve ruled out a death squad. What are we left with?”

“A homicidal maniac?” Wilson offered, but his heart wasn’t in the suggestion.

Da Silva shook his head. “Neither one of us believes that, not with the planning that went on—sometimes seemingly unnecessarily complicated planning—to get the victims to come to Paraíso to be killed. A homicidal maniac would take his victims where he found them. And homicidal maniacs don’t work with confederates, and whoever is behind these killings had an organization that included Emil Floriano, for one, and that Bernardo we still have to give a last name to.”

“And speaking of that,” Wilson said, looking up at the judge, “what’s being done about it?”

“The two men are in the morgue and we’re sending the description and fingerprints of this Bernardo out, but you know what our fingerprint identification system is, here in Brazil.” The judge shrugged a bit helplessly. “It leaves a lot to be desired. If we only knew where he came from …”

“Wait a minute.” Da Silva frowned in recollection. “He said something. He said—no, it was Emil who said something about that. I remember, now. It sounded familiar when he said it, but I didn’t know why. Or particularly care, in the circumstances. I had other things on my mind; the filho had just recognized me. Anyway, he said—”

He suddenly stopped speaking and stared into the fire, his eyes wide. He looked as if he had suddenly become mesmerized. Then he slowly disengaged his arm from that of Isabela and bent his head, putting his face into his hands. Isabela stared at him, worried.

“Zé! Zé! Are you all right?”

“Let him alone,” Wilson said, and smiled. “That’s what passes for concentration with Captain Da Silva. Actually, he’s fine. Whenever his head finally starts to get its teeth into a problem—that’s not bad, you know?—he holds his head tightly, probably to keep any ideas from leaking out. But if you’re worried about it, don’t be. It doesn’t happen all that often.”

The others sat in silence, watching Da Silva’s bent head, a silence only broken when the judge bent to place another log on the fire and the flames crackled eagerly as they leaped to attack it. Then Da Silva sat more erect, his hands dropping. He looked at Judge Magalhães.

“Where’s the telephone?”

“In the kitchen. I’ll show you.” The judge frowned. “But who would you want to call at this hour?”

“Rio de Janiero. I’ve wasted a lot of time so far, and it’s about time I made some of it up. My men work twenty-four hours a day—or they do when they have to.” He came to his feet and followed the judge from the room, his face a frown, oblivious of the others. A few moments later the judge returned alone. Isabela looked at Wilson, puzzled.

“Does he get like this very often?”

“You just have to get used to it,” Wilson said. “It doesn’t usually last too long.” He shrugged lightly. “It’s better than chasing women.”

The judge stared at the doorway to the hall. “What do you suppose—?”

“When Zé Da Silva is in one of his deductive moods,” Wilson said, “I never suppose.” He brought out his cigarettes. “He’ll tell us in time. Of course,” he added, pausing in the act of lighting up, “if whatever idea has just struck him doesn’t work out, he won’t say a word. He’s very human that way.”

He placed the match into an ashtray and leaned back comfortably, but his eyes wandered to the doorway with curiosity. The fact was that when Da Silva was in one of his deductive moods, he usually came up with something, and Wilson knew it very well. He sat and smoked, trying to see some logical explanation that had escaped him, but it was a waste of mental effort.

A few minutes more and Da Silva was back. He walked into the room quickly, looking more alert, his eyes bright. He paused at the threshold and faced them all, a smile on his face.

“One nice thing—there’s no great sweat in getting a call through at this hour. The only trick is waking the local operator.”

“What’s new in Rio?” Wilson asked with mild curiosity. “How’s the weather? Any good plays opening?”

“Perreira doesn’t answer and I can’t imagine where he is at this hour,” Da Silva said, quite as if Wilson had not spoken, “but I got hold of Ruy. He’s one of my assistants,” he added for the benefit of the judge. “I put him to work on a lead.”

Wilson looked bored. “Could we ask what lead? Or would that be impertinent?”

“A very simple lead you should have seen,” Da Silva said evenly. “You were up here and I wasn’t; you spoke to the judge and I didn’t.” He turned to the judge. “Judge, I admit I haven’t been too bright on this case so far, but I think I’m coming out of it. I never asked the right questions before, and Wilson didn’t help—”

“Didn’t help?” Wilson sat erect. “I kept telling you to forget your crazy idea of a death squad—!”

“In any event,” Da Silva said, skipping any argument about his past theories, “let me ask you this: Chaney came to see you about a writ to avoid extradition. Correct?”

“That’s right,” the judge said, mystified.

“Who recommended him to you? I mean, I doubt that Chaney, being a foreigner, would have known of your reputation. He would have little chance of knowing how you felt about extradition and asylum. So someone must have recommended you, or sent him to you. Who was it?”

“Why—I don’t know.…”

“Let’s put it this way,” Da Silva said, not at all discouraged by the judge’s answer. “Who would have sent him to you?”

Judge Magalhães shrugged. “Any lawyer, I expect.”

“Exactly!”

“What’s ‘exactly’ supposed to mean?” Wilson asked.

“It means ‘exactly’!” Da Silva turned to face Isabela. “Those letters you wrote. How do you suppose someone got hold of them?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well,” Da Silva went on patiently, “where do you suppose your brother-in-law would keep them?”

“I don’t know.” Isabela looked confused. “I never thought about it.”

“Well, I just did, and it’s about time I started to think about things. Obviously your brother-in-law wanted to keep the letters—since he did, of course—but would he keep them at home?”

“Oh, not at home, surely! My sister—”

“Right. I agree, not at home. And to keep them in his office, or in a locker at his club, or anywhere else of that nature, could lead to inadvertent discovery and very possible embarrassment. But”—he turned a bit, raising a finger—“if they were in a safety-deposit box?” He smiled, but there was little humor in the smile.

“But what if they were?” Isabela asked, unsure of where the questioning was leading.

“Then,” Da Silva said evenly, “when your brother-in-law died, the man who undoubtedly would be able to gain access to the box most easily would be his lawyer.” He looked at the seated girl. “Who was his lawyer?”

“I don’t know.” Isabela thought a moment and then looked up, trying to be helpful. “I could probably find out from my sister.”

“Call her.”

“At this hour? She’ll think something is wrong, and she’ll worry—”

Wilson grinned. “Tell her you’re considering a paternity suit.”

Da Silva was not amused. “You don’t have to tell her anything,” he said patiently. “Ask her the name of the lawyer who handled her husband’s affairs after his death. If you think it’s necessary, tell her there’s nothing to worry about, that the information is for a friend, and that you’ll explain everything when you see her.”

Isabela came to her feet and looked at him.

“The kitchen is straight through the hall. The phone’s on the counter.” Da Silva watched the girl leave the room and turned back to the two waiting men. “Now! We wanted to know what all the victims had in common. I believe the connection was a lawyer—the same lawyer who recommended Chaney to the judge in order to get him to come to Paraíso, and the same man who got hold of Isabela’s letters and used them to blackmail her into helping get Valadares up here without her knowing why.”

Wilson snorted. “What’s this make? Theory number Seven hundred sixty-five? Series M?”

Da Silva frowned at him. “What’s wrong with the idea?”

“Well,” Wilson said expansively, “I’d make you the same offer you made me—two answers for one cigarette—except I can’t stand your brand. I admit there’s a certain cuteness in the argument for a lawyer as far as Valadares and Chaney is concerned, but what about Torres? And Limeira? And Bethencourt? They were all from cities a long way away from Rio. And secondly, was this unknown attorney also the legal representative of our dock thief, José Maria Carvalho? If he was, then J. M. Carvalho—as we intimates call him—never knew of it. Or if he did, he never told me.”

Da Silva shook his head stubbornly.

“I’m right and I know it! As far as the victims coming from different cities, most of the major firms based in Rio or Sao Paulo have clients throughout the country. The judge, here, can confirm that, although it certainly shouldn’t be necessary. Good Lord! Does your F. Lee Bailey just defend clients from Boston? I seem to recall his being in New Jersey on one case, and in Cleveland, and in Florida. A big attorney here would do the same, and my call to Ruy was to get him checking on exactly that, first thing in the morning. Crooks are always the first to spend money on high-priced legal talent. Besides, I didn’t say he had to be their lawyer, personally—all I said was that, being a lawyer, he knew them or knew of them.”

“And what about José M-for-Muddled Carvalho? Did he also go to the same lawyer for help? Behind my back? Or yours?”

“As for Carvalho,” Da Silvo said slowly, his mind speeding along, bringing him fuel for speech even as he spoke, “he was bait this lawyer of ours couldn’t refuse. This man needed another victim to speed things up, and Carvalho was practically served to him on a platter.” He smiled faintly. “You’re forgetting we invented Carvalho precisely to catch a fish, and you’re also forgetting we did just that. Somebody tried to kill me and came awfully close.”

“Are you sure they didn’t hit you on the head with a blunt instrument before the judge and I came along? What do you mean, the man needed victims?”

“Just that. You see,” Da Silva said, looking from one man to another, “if my theory of these killings—admittedly as of a few minutes ago, but my theory, nonetheless—is correct, then this man had to have victims. But he was smart enough to know—or at least to think—that there would be less fuss about a criminal being killed than a respectable citizen. So, since he had already decided to kill criminals, the idea of a Death Squad naturally came to him. It made a good cover; it even fooled me.”

Wilson refrained from making a rude noise, but with an effort.

“He decided to kill criminals—for fun?”

“Oh, no,” Da Silva said. “It would have served his purpose much better to have killed businessmen, respectable factory managers and such, but he was afraid that might bring on a really major investigation; whereas he thought that the death of Limeira, Torres, and company wouldn’t bring in the army, so to speak.” He spread his hands. “You see?”

“No,” Wilson said crossly. “I don’t see. Are we talking about the same case? People being killed in a town called Paraíso?”

Da Silva looked surprised. “Of course. Haven’t you been listening?”

Wilson overlooked the remark. “Then exactly why would this man kill these people? And, to come back to an old question, why in Paraíso? And if you value your life, don’t give me any ‘Why not Paraíso?’ stuff.”

“Certainly I won’t say ‘Why not Paraíso?’” Da Silvo said. “Paraíso was essential to the entire scheme. It was central. It was the basis of the matter.” He frowned. “You see, whenever we tried to go back to fundamentals, we always ended up asking, ‘Who gained?’ First we should have asked, ‘Who lost?’” He looked at Judge Magalhães. “Paraíso lost, didn’t it, Judge?”

“Very much,” the old judge said quietly. He was watching Da Silva intently, wondering where the discussion was leading.

“And that’s what it was all about,” Da Silva said simply. “To hurt the town of Paraíso. To get companies to abandon Paraíso. Or even more important than getting present companies to leave, to get new companies to shift their sights away from Paraíso and toward other locations. And the best man, of course, to be able to accommodate anyone in the matter of land in a new location, would be a lawyer. Right?”

Wilson stared at him unbelieving. “Oh, come on, Zé—!”

Da Silva went on stubbornly, convinced he was right.

“Don’t give me that ‘Oh come on!’ stuff! When I was with those two killers, Emil and his friend Bernardo, Emil said something to the other one, referring to me. He said something like, ‘You may have heard of Da Silva down in Novo Mundo.’ It came to me at a moment ago where I had heard that name before. Minister Wanderlay mentioned it as a competitor to Paraíso in the south; a town like Paraíso trying to develop into a major industrial park.” He looked at the judge. “Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true enough.”

Wilson stared at the two men incredulously. “Are you standing there, in all honesty, and asking me to believe all these killings were done merely to promote a real estate development?”

Da Silva studied his friend curiously. “You don’t consider it motive enough?”

“Not within eighteen blocks! You’re crazy!”

“Tell me something,” Da Silva said, his voice deceptively quiet. “If I told you those men were killed to collect their insurance, which amounted to, say, fifty thousand or a hundred thousand dollars each—would you believe that was a possible motive?”

“Well, at least I’d accept it as a more believable motive,” Wilson said, and waved a hand. “But to believe someone killed five or six men just to peddle some lots?” He shook his head. “Never!”

Da Silva turned to Judge Magalhães. “Judge, you’re something of an expert in land values. How much money is involved in what I’m talking about?”

Judge Magalhães’ face was rigid as he considered the implications of Da Silva’s statement. “Money? If our options for industrial properties were to be canceled and Novo Mundo were to pick them up—or even a portion of them?”

“Yes.”

“Millions of dollars,” the judge said slowly. “Many millions of dollars.”

Da Silva looked at Wilson. “And that isn’t motive?”

Wilson looked a bit uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose so, if you want to call it that.…”

“And what would you call it?”

“I mean, having people killed just in order to sell land?”

“I suppose,” Judge Magalhães said slowly, “that when you think about it, throughout history more people have been killed over land than for all the other reasons put together.” He thought a moment and then added, sadly, “From the time of Cain and Abel.”

Wilson was silent a moment; then he took a deep breath.

“It still sounds incredible, but I suppose it’s possible. But even if it’s true, how could you ever prove it? With the two we killed tonight gone—how could you ever get proof? Even assuming you could ever come up with a name to put to the man?”

“If we get his name, we’ll figure out a way to get him,” Da Silva said with a confidence he was far from feeling at the moment. “Right now, the important thing is to identify him. We’ll figure out how to get him convicted later.” He thought a moment and then looked up suddenly, an idea occurring to him. “Aren’t land sales registered? In Novo Mundo as well as anywhere else?”

“Of course!” Julge Magalhães said, and struck a fist into a palm. “They’re on the federal tax rolls, and they’re also listed in the deed transfers each month that go out to most agencies. I’m on the list. Wait a minute—I have them in my den.”

He came to his feet and disappeared into the hallway, a spring in his gait that had been missing for a long time. Da Silva pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, shook one loose, and brought up a match. He tossed the match into the fireplace and glanced at Wilson, but the nondescript American was staring into the flames, lost in thought. Minutes passed in silence; then the two men looked up.

“Gustavo Dorn—”

Judge Magalhães paused in the doorway. “That’s right,” he said, “but how did you know?”

“Know what?” Isabela asked, surprised. “All I was about to say was that Gustavo Dorn was my brother-in-law’s attorney.”

“He’s also the owner of record of most of the land around Novo Mundo,” the judge said heavily. “I know him well; I’ve been to his house in Gavea. He’s a cold man, tall and hungry-looking, with blond, almost white, hair. He tried to buy my land here, when there was first talk of an industrial complex here some years ago.”

Da Silva caught Wilson’s eye upon him and winked.