Chapter 3

The brightly lit facade of the Mirabelle Hotel threw its reflected glow upon the empty pavement of the Avenida Atlantica, now damp from the faint sea fog that was slowly rolling in from the rustling ocean lost in darkness beyond the barrier of the sandy beach. It was past midnight, and the traffic had slowed down to a few well-spaced cars hurrying by, seeking to reach home before the full force of the fog swept down and closed off vision. Their tires sucked at the wet pavement hungrily, sounding sticky in the quiet night. The sharp clacking of an occasional pair of high heels patrolling the darkness were the only other sounds.

Parked a block above the Mirabelle and facing north in the direction of the city stood the battered taxi with the mechanically interesting horn ring. Two blocks below the hotel, facing south, a gaily dressed Brazilian lounged at the wheel of a long, low Jaguar. To pass the time the drivers of these two parked cars were talking to each other by radio.

“This is boring,” Wilson said, and his voice reflected his words. His finger toyed with the dashboard switch. “This is the second night in a row; I’m about ready to leave you to your own devices and call it quits.” He paused, and when his voice came back on the air again its tone had livened. “Or possibly I’ll take this taxi racket seriously. I’ve turned down about eight fares so far tonight, but there are three girls coming along now that I think…”

“Relax, boy.” Da Silva’s voice came through roughly, distorted as usual by the instrument, but Wilson could hear the chuckle behind the words. “I can see every move you make. Be patient; just be patient. When this is all over, I promise you can use the cab for a week. Everything you earn will be yours. Including tips.” “Including women?”

“Including everything. I’ll even buy the gas.”

Wilson yawned. “How much longer do we hold down the fort tonight?”

“One more hour and we’ll call it off. If they are going to make a move, they ought to make it at a reasonable hour. If they want us to be around, that is.” The voice became more serious. “One more hour and owe’!! call it a night.”

“And for just how many more nights do we keep up this let’s-wait-for-curfew-to-ring routine?”

The seriousness in the other’s voice became more profound. “I wish I knew. I don’t imagine it will be long, but I honestly wish I knew. This is Wednesday; they pulled that cute little stunt with Moraes in Sao Paulo a week ago tonight. Don’t worry; something has to break soon.”

“I should hope so. I’m getting calluses on my you-know-what.” The voice of Wilson suddenly tensed. “Hold it. A couple of king-sized cars just pulled up to the side-street entrance of the hotel.”

Da Silva’s voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in his tone. “I see them. Packards. Who drives Packards these days?”

“Undertakers,” Wilson said. “Two men in the front seat of each. It’s too dark to make out anything else at this distance. By the way, nobody seems to want to get out. They must have heard that the beds are hard.”

“I think this is it!” Da Silva said, excitement creeping into his voice. “Just a minute! I’m sure of it now; here come the leading characters!”

Mathais and Ari were coming down the steps of the hotel entrance; Mathais handed Ari carefully into the rear seat of the first car, and then looked quickly up and down the street. He hesitated, went back to talk to the driver of the second car for a moment, and then returned, spoke softly to his driver, and entered, taking his place beside Ari. The man beside the driver reached back through the open window and swung the door shut.

The cars took off in tandem, turned into Avenida Atlantica in the direction of the city, and gained speed. Wilson threw his car into gear and cut in behind the second Packard. His radio suddenly crackled.

“I’ll turn around and come up behind you,” Da Silva’s voice said, firm and authoritative. “I think this is really it! This time, for the love of God, don’t lose them!”

“Roger, Wilco, Joseph, and Mary,” said Wilson succinctly, and reached forward to switch off the radio. He settled determinedly behind the wheel, concentrating on his driving.

The fog was increasing in intensity; the street arcs along the Avenida wore sparkling halos. They passed wedge-shaped shafts of light thrown out from hotels and bars and apartment entrances; Wilson flashed a quick glance in the rearview mirror, but it was impossible to say whether or not Da Silva had come up with him. On the other hand, he thought with some compensating satisfaction, it should be difficult for those in front to know they had a tail!

At the Avenida Princesca Isabel the procession turned left, swinging away from the ocean, heading for the twin tunnels, each of which gave one-directional traffic between Copacabana and Botafogo and the city. The glow of fluorescent lights in the downtown side gleamed ghostly in front of Wlson as he approached the arched mouth through the fog. In front of him the taillights of the trailing Packard blinked into brilliance as the driver slowed for the entrance. Wilson gently applied pressure to his brake pedal, and they entered the tunnel at a moderate speed.

A bus suddenly rocketed by at Wilson’s side, glistening with drops of water, its driver intent upon finishing his run and getting home as quickly as possible. In the flickering lights of the tunnel, the yellow sides of the swaying bus loomed ominously; Wilson pulled to one side, braking slightly. In that instant the car ahead seemed to leap forward in a sudden burst of speed, and without conscious thought, Wilson stamped fiercely on the accelerator. Without warning, the Packard then sharply braked and began to twist, as if in difficulty, weaving back and forth across the narrow tunnel. The yellow bus screamed past, its driver visibly cursing as he shot into the night and disappeared. The wet tires of the battered taxi behind tried their best to hold the pavement, squealing bravely in the attempt, but in the narrow passage there was just not enough room. As if in slow motion he saw his skidding car sliding toward the Packard; the rear fender of the other loomed larger and larger before him; he felt the sickening shock of contact as he pulled the wheel fiercely to one side. The impact threw him against the tiled wall; the entire side of the car scraped along, shrilling wildly. One tire, finally gripping a dry spot in the roadway, completed the disaster; the cab swung about in a wide arc, bounced off the wall with a shattering crash, and rocked to a shuddering stop, blocking the passage of the tunnel completely. From the interior of the crumpled hood a jet of hot water and steam sprayed against the cracked windshield.

Da Silva, coming up fast behind, saw both the intention and the accident, but without stopping to investigate he braked to a stop, thrust his Jaguar brutally into reverse, and shot backwards out of the tunnel. A car coming up behind skidded wildly to miss him, and entered the tunnel with its driver looking over his shoulder screaming imprecations. Da Silva paid no attention.

Once clear of the entrance, he swung the wheel sharply to the left and went bouncing over the center strip, coming down heavily over the curb to enter the uptown side of the tunnel with his superchargers roaring. He was fortunate in facing but one lone car hurrying home to Copacabana; this fled to one side with lights flashing and horn echoing hollowly in the enclosed space. Da Silva kept to one side, shooting through the narrow tunnel with his hand pressed steadily on the horn, his foot madly flickering the floor switch for his headlights.

At the exit of the tunnel he slowed momentarily as he bumped back across the center strip to his own lane. He cast one quick glance back at the steaming wreck piled across the mouth of the tunnel and then, without hesitation, swung once again in the direction of the city, stamping on the gas pedal.

But the road ahead was clear. The fog here had lifted enough to see the glaring cyclop eye winking down impersonally from each light pole; they illuminated a deserted pavement. With a vicious muttered curse, Da Silva tightened his grip on the steering wheel, increasing his speed. But he knew with a sinking feeling, even as he shot past the empty shining sea wall and the silent dripping palms, that he had lost his quarry.