CHAPTER 16

The tip of an orange-red sun edged over the horizon, lighting the room, sending the shadow of the low stone window sill creeping across the beamed ceiling. There was a freshness to the early morning air; birds were waking, hens were cackling in the yard outside, the drone of a small plane could be heard as it climbed into the sky. Isabela was curled up on the sofa sound asleep; Wilson had taken the judge’s place before the fireplace, his hands behind him as if seeking warmth from a fire now reduced to tiny occasional flames licking half-heartedly at the remnants of the last charred log. Da Silva, coming into the room quickly, was the only one who looked halfway alert.

“Perreira—” he began, and then looked around. “Where’s the judge?”

“He’s not exactly a youth any more; and you’ve been on that phone for weeks. He excused himself and went to bed,” Wilson said, “which is what I’d do if I had any sense. And if I knew where the beds were in this place.” He yawned deeply and shook himself a bit, to wake up. “But he said he’d get the cook working on breakfast before he sacked in.” He looked at Da Silva anxiously. “Was there any activity in the kitchen while you were there, Zé? The rattling of pots and pans? The lighting of fires? The grinding of coffee? The breaking of eggs?”

“There was somebody there doing something,” Da Silva said shortly. “I didn’t notice. Perreira—”

“The important things in life slide right by you. I can’t imagine how you came to choose detection as a way of life.” Wilson sighed. “Well, let’s just hope it wasn’t the milkman in the kitchen. All right, now, what about Perreira?”

“If you’d quit interrupting, I’ll tell you. As I was going to say, Perreira still isn’t home, or anyway his phone doesn’t answer, but it isn’t important.” There was a touch of irritation in Da Silva’s voice; it wasn’t that he particularly needed Perreira at the moment, but he liked to know where his subordinates were, especially when the end of a case was approaching, and even more especially when he was feeling tired and a bit high-strung. “But Perreira doesn’t make any difference. Ruy got me the phone number. I didn’t want to wake him again, but he hadn’t gone back to sleep. He’d been checking on Emil Floriano with the delegacia, and if you want icing on your cake, Emil Floriano’s last gainful employment—because we keep track of such things with men on parole—was with a man named Gustavo Dorn. He worked for him, in fact, up until last night.”

“I’d cheer your brilliance,” Wilson said honestly, “except I’m afraid I’d fall asleep in the middle of a hurrah and you’d feel insulted.” He yawned again and rubbed his face into a form of wakefulness. “Maybe a decent meal will snap me out of it. As far as Perreira is concerned, my guess is he’s home and sleeping right through the telephone calls. Smart man.” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know why you wanted Perreira! He probably has the plane schedule in that notebook of his, together with the rest of the answers to life’s questions, and that would save you checking with the airport.”

“The plane for Rio leaves at eight—in three hours—which will give you ample time to stuff yourself with eggs or whatever,” Da Silva said shortly. “In any event, Ruy gave me the telephone number I wanted—which was unlisted as I had suspected—and I finally got through to Dorn—”

This woke Wilson up with a vengeance.

“Dorn? You spoke to Dorn?”

“I did. He—”

“Did he confess?”

“Keep quiet!” For the first time a faint smile crossed Da Silva’s swarthy face. “He wasn’t too happy at being awakened, but he managed to take it in stride when I told him my news.”

“I gather this is where I say, What news?”

“Exactly. First I allowed him to get the impression I was Bernardo, Emil’s friend, and fortunately it seems all previous contacts with Bernardo were not in person, so I didn’t even have to pretend a cold to disguise my voice. These lawyer types are so careful to reduce their criminal contacts to a minimum! Anyway, I told him that yes, we had indeed dispatched Jose Maria Carvalho, but that, unfortunately”—his eyes went automatically to the sleeping girl—“the girl raised a fuss and threatened to go to the authorities, so”—He shrugged—“we had to kill her, too.”

Wilson was watching him closely. “And what was his reaction to that?”

“His first reaction was fear we might have left the bodies together; he certainly didn’t want anyone getting the idea of a killing for passion. But I assured him we had loaded her body and sunk it in the lake, but that we had left Carvalho under the tower with a sign around his neck as per instructions. After that he seemed more philosophical about the girl.”

“Philosophical?”

“I mean,” Da Silva said, “he didn’t cheer, but he didn’t weep, either. He still didn’t quite understand, though, why this small detail should have warranted the disturbance of his slumber—you have a lot in common with Dorn, you know—until I explained that I was calling instead of Emil because while I could not speak for Emil—and in fact had to twist Emil’s arm for the unlisted telephone number—I myself had long since given up killing people for free, and that I expected to be paid for the girl. And soon.”

Wilson nodded. “How soon?”

“As soon as this morning’s plane lands in Rio,” Da Silva said quietly. “About noon today. I gave him to clearly understand that I would be quite irked should he not be waiting at the arrival gate, personally, with the proper amount of cash. The proper amount being, naturally, the same as was paid for Carvalho.”

Wilson studied his friend’s face a moment.

“And when, instead of Emil and a stranger named Bernardo getting off the plane at Santos Dumont, Mr. Dorn sees Isabela coming down the steps followed worshipfully by a reasonable facsimile of the late J. M. Carvalho, what is Dorn supposed to do? Panic?”

“That or something similar is my hope,” Da Silva said with a touch of smugness. “And just to cover the possibility, Ruy will have the airport pretty well covered with police.”

Wilson shook his head. “It might work, but I doubt it very much.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s full of holes, that’s why. If this Dorn is as smart as he’s supposed to be, he’ll know something’s funny. For one thing, he’ll know instantly that the call from Bernardo was a fake as soon as he spots Isabela. And he may even come to the correct conclusion that Emil and Bernardo are hors de combat—either in the jug or, preferably, in the morgue where they can’t talk. And, since neither Carvalho nor Isabela has ever seen him in person, nor know him by name, all he has to do is go away from there quietly.”

“Somebody knows him, and he knows that,” Da Silva said stubbornly. “That phone call he just got wasn’t any dream, and he’s aware of that! If we dragged him in, how would he explain that?”

“A practical joke,” Wilson said easily. “Some drunk, or some joker, called him in the middle of the night with a long story about killing some girl and putting her body in some lake, and wanting a payoff about something. So Dorn claims he merely played along with the gag to humor the nut. And how are you going to prove otherwise?”

“And if it’s all a gag, why does he show up at Santos Dumont to meet the plane?” Da Silva snorted in derision.

“If he shows up.”

“He’ll show up! I heard him on the phone—you didn’t.”

“All right,” Wilson said agreeably. “Supposing he does show up? Maybe that proves he’s guilty to you and me, but we’re already convinced of his guilt. And, after all, planes leave Santos Dumont every ten minutes. He simply claims he had business in São Paulo and was going to catch the Ponte Aérea there this morning and come back this afternoon. That would even explain why he had no luggage. So how do you prove from his being at the airport that he was waiting to meet a plane from Paraíso?”

Da Silva stared at his friend for a long moment and then sighed.

“I hope you’re wrong, because I still think it’s a good idea. Or at least it’s the only idea I’ve come up with so far to trap him. Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t have any ideas at the moment, good or bad,” Wilson said, and then corrected himself. “Or, rather, the only good idea I have is to eat. Shall we wake Isabela?” He looked down at the sleeping girl. “The eternal dilemma—to sleep or eat! Well, let her get some more rest, at least until we finish. Then if there’s any left over, we’ll wake her.”

“You’re all heart—the part that isn’t stomach,” Da Silva said with disgust, and went to shake the sleeping girl.

By dint of a shoving that earned him a threatening scowl from a bulky man, a sniff from an elderly-dowager type and a look of disappointment from a comely stewardess—the latter being the only one that even faintly disturbed him—Da Silva managed to be the first to step from the plane when the door of the prop plane was swung wide at Santos Dumont airport in Rio de Janeiro. By prearrangement, Isabela was to be the last person to descend, well-screened by Wilson, although Da Silva had small fear of Dorn attempting anything at the crowded airport Still, once it became apparent to the lawyer that the call to him the night before had been a trap—which would be as soon as he saw Isabela emerge from the plane—who knew what the man might try? After all, he had five murders on his record—seven, to his own mind—so if he thought himself threatened, he might well try something foolish. Da Silva found himself gripping the revolver in his pocket more tightly.

There was a relatively small crowd waiting at the Arrivals gate; they stood watching the approaching passengers, each searching for a familiar face. A few found them and waved wildly, shouting, but the majority remained quietly expectant. A small plane, taxiing from the parking space toward a runway paused to allow the arrivals to cross its path to the terminal; those waiting at the gate put hands to hats and hair against the prop wash of the small plane. The sun beat down mercilessly on the entire scene. Da Silva, coming closer to the gate, would have liked very much to remove his jacket, but the necessity, real or imagined, to keep his hand on his gun prevented him from doing so. He scanned the people at the gate as he came closer, swung his head for some sign of Ruy or his men, and then knew this to be foolish. Ruy and his men would be well out of sight, watching, but well hidden. Or at least they had better be! He brought his attention back to the people at the gate.

What had the judge said? A cold man, tall and hungry-looking—which could mean many things, but probably included being thin. Not an uncommon phenomenon in Brazil, unfortunately. But the judge had also said the man had almost white hair, which was far rarer. And he would probably be well dressed, with jacket and tie despite the weather, in keeping with his position in life. Da Silva studied the people at the gate as he approached, and then bit back a triumphant smile as he spotted his man.

Dorn was standing to one side near the edge of the open door leading into the terminal proper, his eyes searching the approaching passengers for some sign of Emil and his associate. The cold, impersonal glance considered Da Silva a brief moment and then passed on without further concern. Da Silva noted the one hand bunched tightly within Dorn’s jacket pocket, much as his own. So Dorn was also armed, eh? Not surprising, under the circumstances, but one more factor to consider. Da Silva stepped out of the line, looking backward, as if for a separated companion; to his relief, Isabela had still not appeared at the plane’s doorway. Even as he looked he saw Wilson finally appear at the door, and he swiftly turned back to note Dorn’s expression when he finally caught sight of the girl. Then Da Silva frowned in amazement.

Dorn was staring in horror at nothing at all. Then he withdrew the hand holding the gun and tried to raise it. Da Silva found his own hand with his gun out, but before he could bring it to bear on the man before him, Dorn was clawing at his chest, the gun dangling from a finger; then he was crumpling to the ground, his face twisting in pain, blood staining his white linen suit and covering the hand held so tightly against the wound.

There was a moment’s tableau, people standing frozen in shock, no one’s surprise being more acute than that of Da Silva himself; then someone noted the swarthy tough-looking man with the gun in his hand standing mere yards from the victim, and there was a sharp cry of outrage from the men in the doorway. Before Da Silva could either explain or defend himself, hands were striking at him, tearing his gun from him, beating at him, hammering his upraised arms; feet were kicking at him, voices cursing. And then Ruy was there with his men, and Wilson had reached his side, battering his way through the crowd that had formed about him. Da Silva heard Ruy’s loud voice, “Stand aside! Police here! Stand away!” and felt himself being dragged from the crowd and hustled to one side. He pulled himself loose from the helping hands with an angry jerk and stared at Ruy as he straightened his clothes.

“What happened?”

“He—he was shot, sir.”

“I know that! But what happened?”

It was a stupid question and Da Silva knew it even as he asked it. He, himself, had been the closest and had seen nothing. He took his gun, offered by an unknown plainclothesman, and tucked it away in his belt holster; then he walked over to Dorn’s fallen body, tugging his jacket straight. The people who had attacked him moments before were fading rapidly from sight; they had struck at him with the best of intentions, but the best of intentions were what paved the road to the delegacia when a policeman was struck, even if in error. Though who would have guessed that a tough like that would be a cop? It wasn’t fair! Da Silva knelt by the sprawled body, checking it for signs of life. He came to his feet.

“He’s dead. Cover him with something until the wagon comes.”

“Yes, sir,” Ruy said helplessly. “I—”

“Captain!” Da Silva turned; a plainclothesman was hurrying up. He held a long old-fashioned rifle in his hand. “This was over on the edge of the tarmac, Captain. It has a silencer on it. It’s been fired recently; you can smell it.”

Da Silva took the gun from the officer and studied it; then he raised his eyes past the group of police surrounding him. A small plane was just moving to the end of the shorter of the two runways; as he watched, it apparently received clearance for takeoff from the tower and began its run. The whine of the propellers grew as the plane raced down the concrete, and then it was lifting itself into the air, heading out over the bay. It banked sharply under Sugar Loaf and raised itself higher into the empty sky, growing smaller and smaller as it left the flight pattern and disappeared toward the northeast. Da Silva brought his eyes down from the small dot and handed the rifle back to the officer.

“Take it down to headquarters,” he said. “Put it on my desk. But it had nothing to do with this affair.”

The plainclothesman looked at him in astonishment. “Sir?”

“The man who was killed pulled a gun on me and I had no choice but to shoot,” Da Silva said evenly, and stared the man in the eye. There was a moment’s hesitation; then the man sighed.

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t worry about it too much,” Da Silva said coldly. “He was responsible for five deaths. Murders.”

He turned back to Wilson. Behind the nondescript American, Isabela was standing, having arrived in time to hear his conversation. She was staring at him with horror in her eyes. He studied the girl for a moment and read the answer to his unspoken question in the disgust on her face. What had he once said to Wilson? You couldn’t construct omelets without destroying eggs. How true! Still, Isabela should have realized before now that police work sometimes included violence, often to save the innocent. He looked away from the accusing eyes, speaking to Ruy.

“Ruy—this lady is Senhora Castro. See that she gets taken home.” He turned his back on Isabela, not wanting to see the expression of distaste any longer, looking at Wilson. “Let’s go upstairs and have a drink, shall we? I know I could use one.…”

“That judge is quite a guy,” Wilson said reminiscently, staring into his drink. “I wonder if he flew the plane, or if it was one of his godsons. No matter; he’s still quite a guy. Not a man to take chances, that’s sure. I’ll take his gun back next time I go up to Paraíso, which I think I’ll do next time I get leave. It’s nice up there and I never did get a chance to check out those girls you claim are all over the place up there.” He looked up and noted the expression on Da Silva’s face “Take it easy,” he said. “She’ll change her mind. Or you will, if I know you,” he added softly.

“I—”

“Captain?”

Da Silva looked up from his drink to see Lieutenant Perreira standing almost at attention at his side. He pushed his glass to one side and glowered at the man; at last he had someone to take his frustrations out on.

“And just where in hell have you been lately?”

Perreira looked hurt. “Me, Captain? On the assignment you gave me! Night and day! And with success, too, I might mention. Ruy said on the car radio that you were here, so I thought I’d come and report here and save time.” He looked about a bit self-consciously; people were staring at him. “May I sit down, sir?”

Da Silva waved a hand. Perreira pulled up a chair alertly and sat down quickly. He seldom sat in the captain’s presence, but this was, after all, a bar and not an office. Besides, he did have good news. He pulled his bulky notebook from a pocket and opened it to the proper place.

“About Valadares, Captain,” he said, unable to keep a note of triumph from his voice, “I told you somebody at one of the airports might have seen somebody getting on the plane with him, and they did! Got on the plane with him here at Santos Dumont the afternoon he flew to Paraíso. It was a woman and they were holding hands! I’ve got her description right here. She—what’s the matter, Captain?”

“He drank something the wrong way,” Wilson said, and raised a hand for the waiter, even as he smiled approvingly at Da Silva. “That’s better. Laugh it off if you can’t get rid of it any other way. But be careful how you spill good liquor.…”