Five

Even at twelve-thirty, quite early by Brazilian standards, the mezzanine restaurant of the Santos Dumont Airport was beginning to crowd. Wilson pushed his way through the closely set tables, ignoring the combination clatter of silverware, hum of voices, and roar of aircraft that came from the runways beneath the open windows, until he managed to locate Da Silva seated alone near the railing overlooking the main floor of the long, modern building. He swung a chair back from the table and sat down, grinning at his friend. Da Silva merely glared back.

“This is your idea of noon sharp?”

Wilson looked at him innocently. “You mean I’m late?” He shook his head in wonder. “I knew if I stayed around here long enough, some of the national habits would rub off.” He looked across the table curiously. “By the way, how does it feel to be on time for a change?”

“Terrible,” Da Silva admitted, and found himself smiling despite himself. “I know I wouldn’t like it as a steady diet.” He turned in his chair, snapping his fingers loudly for a waiter, his smile fading. “We’re going to have to make it short today, though. I left my desk piled to the ceiling with work. And I want to get a few more things organized before tonight. I’d also like to get some sleep tonight if I can.”

“How are things going, by the way?” Wilson’s voice contained only polite interest, but his eyes were extremely steady on his friend’s face. “Any incidents over the weekend?”

“No,” Da Silva said, “but we really didn’t expect any. The period we’re most concerned with starts tomorrow with that pointless motorcade, and lasts until these meetings are over. And also the man I’m most worried about, our friend Dorcas, won’t arrive until this evening. After which, whether he knows it or not, he’s going to be covered like a nut sundae.” He thought a moment. “Or whether he likes it or not.”

He suddenly realized that no waiter was responding to his finger-snapping and reached out in a predatory manner, grasping a passing waiter by the arm. He ordered their usual cognac and then turned back to Wilson.

“Now, what was on your mind that was so important that you arrived here a half-hour late to tell me?”

Wilson looked across the table a moment and then leaned forward. “Do you remember that character that got lost from one of Stranger’s Hospital’s ambulances last week?”

Da Silva stared at him. “Who?”

Wilson remained patient. “You must remember. It was about a week ago—the last time we had lunch together. In the middle of that terrible storm, remember? Our ambulance picked him up and he was gone by the time they got him to the hospital?”

“Oh!” Da Silva nodded, the incident returning to his mind. A faint grin creased his lips. “Now I recall it. He was the advanced appendix case. The one we decided would be suffering from double pneumonia or flat feet when you found him. And also flying. Well, with all those clues you should have found him, and from that glint in your eye I gather you did.”

“No,” Wilson said quietly, “we didn’t find him. We didn’t even look for him. But I have a strong feeling that you will. And with all the men you can muster.”

“You? Meaning me?”

“You, meaning the entire Brazilian police force, in all its pristine glory.”

Da Silva stared at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Overlooking your obvious ignorance as to what the word ‘pristine’ means—not to mention ‘glory’—just why should the Brazilian police waste time on this obvious nut? And even if we managed to catch him, what crime would we charge him with? Leaving the scene of an ambulance?” The thought seemed to amuse him; he snapped his fingers. “I have a better one. We arrest him for failure to pay his fare on a public vehicle.”

“If you’re through trying to be cute,” Wilson said coldly, “I’ll tell you why. Because he happened to be a sailor, and the Air Force people were the ones who delivered him to our ambulance. From Galeão Airport,” he added significantly.

Da Silva frowned at him and then looked up as a waiter bent to place a bottle and two tall-stemmed glasses on the table. The swarthy Brazilian acknowledged the service with a thankful nod, and then poured the two glasses full. He started to push one across the table and then hesitated. When he spoke his voice reflected his doubts.

“Wilson, are you sure the reason you were late wasn’t because you stopped in a bar some place? You sound as if you may have had a couple too many as it is.”

Wilson nodded, not at all perturbed. “Exactly what I thought when Dona Ilesia relayed the information to me.” He reached across the table, retrieving his drink, and then bent forward, his voice serious. Da Silva, from long experience with the smaller man, listened carefully. When Wilson assumed this attitude, it was usually wise to pay attention.

“This man,” Wilson said quietly, turning his glass between his thin fingers and watching Da Silva’s face closely, “was a sailor—a steward—on a freighter called the Santa Eugenia. The ship was originally scheduled to dock here in Rio, but because of the storm, and because the ship was in bad balance because of its cargo, the captain decided to pass up both Rio and Santos and go directly to Montevideo.” He brought his glass to his lips, sipped, and set it down. “Well, just after the captain came to this decision—and had a notice posted to the effect for the benefit of the crew and the passengers—this steward supposedly became deathly ill. Suddenly and with no previous warning.…”

Da Silva was listening closely now. “And?”

“And the captain, afraid of taking any chance that a sailor might die on him, and unable to dock, got in touch with the Sea Rescue Squad here by radio, and they sent out a helicopter and brought the man to shore. They had already called for an ambulance—”

Da Silva’s eyebrows had risen. “They brought him ashore in a helicopter in the middle of that storm?”

“That’s right.”

Da Silva shuddered; it was not acting. “Better him than me! The thought of being in any aircraft, but especially a helicopter in that weather!” He grimaced and then looked up. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

“Well, that’s about it. They picked him up, brought him ashore, and delivered him to the Stranger’s Hospital Ambulance at Galeão.”

Da Silva stared at him intently a moment and then upended his drink. He reached for the bottle. “And from the ambulance he disappeared on the way to the hospital.”

“Exactly.” Wilson nodded and leaned back. “I thought you might find it interesting.”

“Damned interesting.” Da Silva stared at the bottle a moment and then slowly refilled his glass. He studied the amber liquid as if trying to see a clear motive in the depths of the cognac. “It would be a rather neat way to get into the country without going through the formality of Customs, or Immigration …”

“Or the police, either, if it comes to that,” Wilson added.

“Especially when we were checking out all airplanes and ships from top to bottom. It would be a very cute gimmick, indeed. Unless, of course”—Da Silva frowned—“the man really was sick and needed attention.”

“You knocked holes in that argument the other day,” Wilson objected. “You pointed out that no man who was genuinely sick was going to leave an ambulance, especially in the middle of that storm.”

“That’s true,” Da Silva admitted. “But that was before I knew about his coming ashore by helicopter. It’s hard to believe that any man would do that unless he had a desperate reason.”

“Exactly,” Wilson agreed softly. “But that desperate reason doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad appendix.…”

“I suppose not.” The swarthy face frowned; the black eyes came up. “By the way, where did you get all this information?”

Wilson shrugged. “The captain of the ship cabled the Air Force to find out how the man was, and the Air Force called the hospital. All very delicado and routine. And the hospital called me, since they had no idea of how to explain a lost patient, and apparently felt that trustees did. And then once the facts finally clicked in my brain—”

“You checked back.”

“Right.” Wilson raised his glass, smiled at it, and then drank it. He reached for the bottle. “And found that the ship was still docked in Montevideo, unloading, and its personnel were available for questioning.”

“And this questioning was done by whom?”

Wilson looked at him steadily. “By Interpol, if you must know. Not by the C.I.A.”

“I see.” Da Silva’s face was expressionless. “And what was this mysterious steward’s name?”

Wilson dug into a pocket and brought out some papers. He leafed through them and finally extracted one. “Here it is. On the ship’s manifest he was listed as Cacarico. Z. Cacarico.”

“What!”

Wilson stared at him. “Do you know him?”

The somber expression changed to a broad, but slightly rueful grin. “Whoever this character is, he either has a sense of humor or he’s smart enough to pick a name that probably few Portuguese recall if they ever knew it. For your information, Cacarico was a rhinoceros in the São Paulo zoo who was elected in a write-in campaign some years ago to the House of Representatives.”

Wilson looked interested. “And how did he do?”

“They wouldn’t seat him. I forget now if it was because he wouldn’t swear allegiance to the flag, or because he couldn’t salute it. Or maybe because he might represent too much competition to the other solons.”

Wilson shook his head sadly. “Well, that’s politics.”

Da Silva’s smile faded. “Whatever it is, it seems to put the finish on any arguments of mine. Anyone who comes into this country the way this one did, with a name obviously picked from the blue, especially in times such as these, certainly does rate being picked up by the police.” He glanced at his watch and started to rise. “And today don’t tell me we haven’t eaten because I know it. And resent it. But, also knowing the Brazilian police, I think we ought to get them started on the job as soon as possible.”

“A fine way to talk about your colleagues,” Wilson said chidingly. “Sit down and relax. The plane from Montevideo won’t be in for at least another four hours. We’ll have lots of time for a good meal—if they’ve got one here—and you can still spend a few hours at your desk before they arrive.”

“Whose plane from Montevideo?”

“Well,” Wilson said slowly, “that’s a bit hard to say. Officially, of course, it was assigned to the delegates to the conferences beginning tomorrow. Unofficially, I suppose it belongs to the American people. In any event, since no one was using it, I’m afraid I arranged to have it fly down to Montevideo. A blow to the crew, since they probably figured they had a week’s unearned vacation to investigate the beaches and fleshpots, but that’s the way it goes.”

“I’m sorry I put it that way.” Da Silva sounded anything but sorry. “I meant, what plane?”

“What plane? Why, the one with the pictures, of course,” Wilson said cheerfully.

“Pictures?” Da Silva smiled across the table, but it was a taut smile, and there was steel beneath the softness of his voice. “You know, Wilson, I have an odd feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”

“You noticed that, eh? Well, as usual, you’re right. I’m trying to tell you the chances are good that we have some pictures of the man we’re talking about.”

“Pictures?”

Wilson shrugged. “Photographs, anyway. If you were expecting oils, I’m sorry. But even these are a break, because the descriptions the Interpol man down there got from the crew were about as useful as pockets on a shroud. A composite of what they told him would have resulted in a man anywhere from four to eight feet tall.”

“How about fingerprints?”

“After almost a week? Not on that ship. But, as I say, we got a break with the pictures. Or anyway, maybe. The captain was cooperative enough, but he barely remembered they had a steward, let alone what he looked like. To him a steward was just a body in a white jacket; and, of course, a statistic to be checked when it got sick. However—”

“Well, let’s hear it!” Da Silva was close to barking. “Don’t drag it out into an eight-part serial!”

“Calma,” Wilson said evenly, and then grinned. “After all, I did all the work, so let me have the fun of telling it my way.” He took a deliberate drink and set his glass down. “As I was saying, it seems the first mate, a promising lad named Miguel, bought himself a fancy Japanese camera in Funchal when they stopped there, and after that he took quite a few candid shots around and about the ship—two rolls, as a matter of fact. He thinks—mind you, he doesn’t know for sure—but he thinks our elusive steward may have unconsciously figured in some of them.”

“He thinks? Why doesn’t he simply look at the pictures?”

“I can tell you’re upset,” Wilson said. “Not thinking clearly. Obviously because they haven’t been developed yet. The ship hasn’t been in any one port long enough to get them back from a processor. He was planning on having them done in Buenos Aires.”

“I see,” Da Silva said slowly. “Instead of which we’ll develop them for him—free of charge—in our police laboratory here.”

“Right!” Wilson said, and smiled at him proudly. The character of his smile changed slightly. “Actually, I didn’t know it would be free of charge, but I think it’s a nice gesture.”

Da Silva considered him seriously. “Just one question,” he said slowly. “Granting you used your head this morning, and did a nice bit of follow-up, just how do you expect this to clear your C.I.A. of my nasty accusations?”

“Well,” Wilson said a bit expansively, “if this suspicious steward is uncovered through my efforts—and I have faith in you to do it—and if he should prove to be one of the bad guys, and if all this walking hand-in-hand into the sunset comes about through my modest efforts, then”—he raised his shoulders, but the light tone of his voice had somehow diminished—“then, obviously, it has to clear the C.I.A. of any suspicion, at least in connection with him. Because otherwise why would I do it?” He became completely serious. “Look, Zé; I don’t deny that there might be a try at Dorcas. There has been in the past. But if there is, we have nothing to do with it. I want that understood. And that’s why I’ve been breaking my back trying to dig up anything that might identify, and at least—well, say disarm—any potential assassin.”

Da Silva looked at him wonderingly.

“You are marvelous!” he said with admiration. “You are absolutely incredible. Fantastic! I love the way that brain of yours works. I especially love the way you assume I never heard of the word ‘decoy’ or any of its thesaurian synonyms.” He leaned forward. “I’m not saying I don’t want to see these photographs of yours, because I do. What I’m saying, simply, is this: if the United States feels it imperative to uplift us poor ignorant heathens, why do they insist on sending us such unimpressive things as money? Or wide-eyed youngsters to build us ice hockey rinks in the middle of the Amazon jungle? Why don’t they simply send us more Wilsons?”

Wilson considered him with a jaw that was tightening perilously. For several moments there was a charged silence at the table. Then Wilson took a deep breath and forced himself to smile.

“More Wilsons?” he asked, and then shook his head. “Why? You don’t know what to do with the ones you already have.…”

He turned abruptly and raised his arm for the waiter.

The late afternoon sun, flooding Da Silva’s fifth-floor office in the old Instituto de Estudios Academicos, slanted insidiously through the Venetian blinds and threw bars of shadow across the city map that covered one full wall of the room. Under the blaze of light the various colored pins all assumed the same shade of burnished gold, losing identity. Da Silva walked over, drew the blinds, and then walked back to his post beside the map. The two detectives waiting for him watched their boss stolidly.

At one side Wilson sat quietly, watching the repeat of a performance he had witnessed since dropping off the negatives some half-hour before. Some long hours of subjective thought had removed most of the anger he had felt at lunch; under similar conditions he knew he would have acted much as Da Silva was acting. And watching Da Silva delegate the various jobs and cover the possible trouble sources, he wondered if he would act as efficiently.

Da Silva’s finger reached toward the map and then retracted. He smiled wearily.

“You don’t need a map to know where the Hotel Serrador is. At any rate, that’s your assignment for tonight. Every room, but first and principally, the rooms that face the bay. And the ones on the upper floors—above the fourth. If you have time, the rest of the rooms as well, but first those. I want to know—” He shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone through this often enough with you before. You both know what we’re looking for.”

Sergeant Ramos nodded slowly. He was a man as large as Da Silva, with even wider shoulders; his almost Indian features showed no emotion. His jaws chewed steadily on a wad of gum; his large hands were jammed into his pockets. His companion, equally large and tough-looking, stood back a step and waited.

“All right,” Da Silva said. “Get something to eat and then get to it.”

Sergeant Ramos paused in his gum chewing and cleared his throat. “It’s going to take quite a while, Captain. How late do we work?”

Da Silva’s eyebrows went up dangerously. Sergeant Ramos hastened to clarify his question. “I don’t mean that, Captain. I mean, how late are we supposed to disturb people?”

“Oh.” Da Silva frowned at the floor for several moments. “Midnight, I suppose. Of course some of the guests won’t even be in by then, and you’ll probably wake some others, but that’s unfortunate. Try to cover as many as you can, and be as diplomatic as possible. But check them out just the same. All right?”

“Right, sir.”

Ramos marched from the room, followed quietly by his partner a step behind. Da Silva walked over and dropped into the swivel chair back of his paper-strewn desk. He rubbed the back of his neck a few moments to relieve the tension, and then leaned over and pressed a button on his desk. The door popped open immediately; his young aide, Ruy, stood rigidly in the doorway.

“Captain?”

“Those two rolls of pictures Senhor Wilson gave you,” Da Silva said evenly. “They’ve been in the lab for over half an hour now. What the devil are they doing with them? Tinting them for Christmas presents?”

“They said they’d let me know—”

“The devil with what they said! Go down there and stand on their backs until they’re ready!”

“Yes, sir!”

The door closed smartly behind the young man. Wilson came to his feet, walking over to stand beside the desk, speaking sympathetically. “Take it easy, Zé. Relax.”

“Relax? I’ll relax when this business is over.” The tall, swarthy Brazilian leaned back in his chair, thinking. “You know, I think when this next week is over, I really will relax. I think I’ll take a week off and go up to the fazenda. Do some hunting and fishing. Get some decent rest.” He smiled up at the man at his side. “How about taking some of your vacation and joining me?”

“Me?” Wilson grinned at him. “You may have me behind bars by then, remember?”

“True.” Da Silva appeared to think about it. “Well, for that week I’ll arrange a parole for you.”

“In that case I’ll be happy to.”

“Good. We’ll—”

The door opened to admit Ruy; the young man crossed the room and handed an envelope to Da Silva. The tall detective sat straighter in his chair, reaching over to flip the button on his desk lamp. He tipped up the envelope, took the two small packs of photographs that slid out, and started going through the first pack. Wilson bent over while Ruy looked down over his superior’s other shoulder.

Da Silva glanced at the first, slid it behind the others, and looked at the second. He grunted. “He may have a good camera, but you’d never know it from these pictures.”

“That’s what the lab said took so long, Captain,” Ruy explained. “The pictures on that roll were all overexposed. The lab said it was common on board ship with amateurs.”

Da Silva looked up at Wilson sardonically. “So do me a great favor the next time you dig up a deal like this. Make sure your photographer is a bit more professional.”

“Consider it done,” Wilson said, and watched as Da Silva returned his attention to the stack of photographs. He flipped aside those that merely showed bits of the ship and a few that failed to show even this much, and then paused as he came to one that had more detail. A faint frown crossed his face; he reached into a drawer and brought out a magnifying glass, bringing it closer to the picture. Wilson leaned farther forward. As far as he could see it only showed the back of a man leaning over the rail of the ship; the small amount of profile scarcely served for identification. In the background a hazy sea extended to fill the frame.

“What is it, Zé?”

Da Silva studied the picture for several moments with narrowed eyes, and then shook his head slowly. “Nothing. For a moment I thought …” He shrugged and slid the picture under the pile, continuing to study the others one at a time. The first photograph came back to view; he tossed the pack aside and reached for the second packet.

“Ah. This is better. Apparently when he came to his second roll of film he decided to read the book first.”

The pictures in the second roll had improved greatly in quality, if not in subject matter. Poorly framed shots of the deck and some of the cargo still showed too much sky and sea; the composition was amateurish, but at least the pictures themselves were sharp and clear. Da Silva went through them one at a time, slowly studying each one before sliding it to the rear of the pack. At his side Wilson began to fear his efforts had been wasted.

Then suddenly Da Silva’s fingers tightened on a newly exposed photograph; he leaned forward, his eyes alive. Ruy, bending over his shoulder, let out a gasp. Wilson leaned over.

“Who is he, Zé?”

Da Silva drew the picture closer, but there was no doubt at all in his mind. The small photograph showed a man in a white steward’s jacket dumping a pail of garbage over the taffrail. Sea gulls poised behind the ship, frozen in the air; the curling wake was clearly discernible. The man’s face was turned three-quarters toward the camera, but it was obvious he was unaware of being photographed. The high widow’s peak, the sharp nose, the thin lips, were instantly identifiable.

Da Silva looked up at Ruy, his eyes sharp, his voice conveying his urgency. “His dossier!”

“Yes, sir!” Ruy disappeared from the room. Wilson stared down at the photograph and then at Da Silva’s intent expression.

“Who is he, Zé?”

Da Silva stared at the picture, his eyes narrowed, and then looked up. “This is a man named Nacio Madeira Mendes. A professional killer. Who escaped while on his way to prison three years ago.” His eyes went back to the picture. His voice was even, but deadly. “So dear Nacio is back with us again.…”

Ruy came hurriedly back into the room and laid a folder on Da Silva’s desk. The grim-faced detective flipped it open. Clipped to the back of the cover was a pair of large police photographs, front and profile, with fingerprint classifications printed below. He slipped it loose and laid it on his desk, leafed through the sheets in the folder a moment, and then picked out the top two, handing them up to Wilson.

“Read it for yourself. That’s his history.”

Wilson took the sheets, straightening up to read them. His eyebrows raised. “Twelve known assassinations …” He read to the end; the room was silent until he had finished. When he handed the pages back to Da Silva his face was equally grim. “A bad boy, eh?”

“A real bad boy.”

“And yet,” Wilson said wonderingly, “he’s been here a week and nothing has happened yet.” He frowned. “Maybe he just decided to come home at this time. It doesn’t necessarily mean a connection with the O.A.S. meetings.”

“Nacio didn’t decide to come home just for fun,” Da Silva said darkly. “He’s been holed up somewhere—apparently in Europe, if he came over on a Portuguese freighter—and we had no idea where. And now he chooses this time to come back, and Rio to come back to, where every policeman knows him, and at a time we have an exceptionally active security in operation.” He shook his head worriedly. “No. He came here to do a job. And it would have to be a pretty big job; one that would pay enough to make him take the risk.”

“Has he ever done any political killing before?”

Da Silva shrugged toward the folder on the desk. “You read the record. Nacio is as apolitical as he is amoral. He couldn’t care less. He’s strictly a gun for hire. He’d kill his best friend if the price was right.”

“And you think he might be here in connection with Dorcas?”

Da Silva studied the map on the wall without seeing it. He swiveled his chair and stared at Wilson. “What I think is that he came here to do a killing. It might be Dorcas, or it might be someone else. The fact that he hasn’t killed anyone up to now—or at least that we know of—only leads me to believe even more that it’s in connection with the O.A.S. meetings, because most of those people are only now arriving.” He shook his head bitterly. “We’re really going to have to tighten up on security, and God knows how we can tighten up any more. Or where we’ll get the men. Or even what use it will be, especially against a professional like Nacio Mendes!”

“It could still be a private affair,” Wilson said slowly. “After all, someone must have hired him, and if I were a middleman arranging an assassination, I’d pick someone whose face isn’t as well known as you say this Nacio’s is.”

“And if I were a middleman hiring him, I’d get him to change his appearance.” Da Silva nodded thoughtfully. “And that’s an idea.… Ruy, get Jaime in here.” He looked up at Wilson. “Jaime is one of our police artists. And damned good. Let’s see what he can do for us.”

He leaned back, his eyes staring broodingly toward the darkened windows. “Somewhere in this town, Nacio Madeira Mendes is loose. The thought of trouble before was bad enough, but now it’s absolutely frightening.”

“How about his known haunts? I see the dossier says something about his having a piece of the Maloca de Tijuca.” His face reddened slightly. “I happen to know the place.…”

A faint smile appeared on Da Silva’s face. “You should be ashamed of yourself! It’s not the most reputable bar out on the beach. And the girls in back are certainly not the finest Rio has to offer.” His smile disappeared. “In any event, he sold his interest a year before we caught up with him. And besides, I doubt that he’d take any chance of showing up at a familiar place, not if the job he came to do is as big as I think it is. And of course,” he added bitterly, “we don’t have the men available to check the place out anyway.”

“I still think it might be worth it,” Wilson said stubbornly. “He had to go somewhere to get a weapon; I’m sure he wasn’t figuring on strangling his victim. He’s always used a gun. And he certainly didn’t bring one with him all the way from Lisbon. Or from the ship.”

“Which only means the thing was set up well ahead of time. Which makes the whole thing even more frightening.”

“How about his family? Or friends? Or known associates?”

Da Silva shook his head. “Nothing. I know, professional killers work through agents, middlemen who hire them and pay them off, but we’ve never been able to find out who hired him in the past. And we tried when we had him. He’s a tough little monkey. We—”

He broke off as the door opened. Ruy ushered in a tall thin man with a shock of white hair and sharp blue eyes, who carried a large tablet of paper under one arm. The newcomer nodded politely to the men in the room and seated himself comfortably at a chair beside the desk. One thin hand reached out and picked up the small photograph of the steward, studying it impartially. He compared it to the police photograph and then nodded.

“He’s lost weight.…”

He seemed to be talking to himself. He crossed his legs, settling the large pad against one thigh, and then closed his eyes almost to slits, staring at the picture.

Da Silva watched him. “Do you know what we want?” Jaime nodded absently, and then opened his eyes, beginning to sketch rapidly. The first drawing was a duplicate of the three-quarter profile of Nacio as shown in the small photograph. He nodded as he finished it, tore it off and placed it where he could refer to it, and then seemingly repeated it. This time, however, he added a mustache, studied it a moment, and then thickened it a bit. The shape didn’t seem to please him and he erased the corners, drawing them down a bit. Then, satisfied at last, he tore this sheet off and repeated the entire performance. The other men in the room watched him in silent admiration.

This time Jaime added eyeglasses, heavy-rimmed, studious frames, with thick bars going back to hook behind the ears. A thin hairline mustache was placed beneath the thin nose, and then broadened a bit. This sketch joined the rest, and he started once again. His thin fingers drew the outline of the familiar face once again with incredible speed and skill and then paused. The blue eyes came up inquiringly.

“What else might he use, Captain?”

Da Silva shrugged. “I have no idea. Put a hat on him. That widow’s peak is fairly distinctive.”

Jaime nodded in agreement and rapidly sketched in a hat. It was a straw hat, of the type most common in the hot climate. He placed a wide band about the brim and stared at it; on the pad Nacio looked off into the distance, debonair and scholarly. “What else, Captain?”

Da Silva sighed. “God knows. One of these ought to look like him, if he isn’t going around in a dress and a wig. We’ll have to work with these, I guess.” He smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Jaime.”

“Any time, Captain.” The thin man unfolded himself from the chair, nodded to the others, and left the room, softly closing the door behind him. Da Silva spread the sketches across his desk, studied them a moment, and then brought them together in a small pile.

“Ruy—copies of these at once to all precincts. With the usual information. And rush!”

“Right, Captain.” Ruy scooped up the pictures and left.

Wilson frowned. “Sometimes you puzzle me, Zé. Granted the sketches are a good idea, but do you mean you hope to pick him up on the offhand chance that someone from one of your precincts might run into him on the street and recognize him from those sketches?”

“It’s one of my hopes,” Da Silva said. “Why? Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” Wilson admitted. “But I think we—or rather, you—ought to cover more angles than that. I still think it would be worthwhile putting some men on that Maloca de Tijuca. He used to hang around there quite a bit, and at least it’s a smaller area than the whole city of Rio. What harm would it do?”

“No harm at all,” Da Silva agreed equably. “In fact, it’s a great suggestion. Now all we need is a suggestion as to where we—or rather, I—would get the men to do it. We’re more than a little strapped as it is.”

“Well, then,” Wilson said slowly, “would you mind if I sat around that bar tonight myself? After all, this motorcade you’re so worried about takes place tomorrow.…”

“The bar,” Da Silva asked idly, “or the rooms behind the bar?”

“The bar,” Wilson said firmly.

Da Silva studied his friend’s face quizzically for several moments and then sighed. “Would it make a lot of difference if I told you I did mind?”

Wilson grinned. “Well, no.…”

“Then why ask?” Da Silva suddenly smiled, a rather curious smile, oddly contemplative. His fingers tented, tapping against each other. “As a matter of fact, knowing you, you might just be lucky.”

“Lucky? You mean, and run into him?”

“Possibly,” Da Silva said. His eyes were steady on Wilson’s face. “On the other hand you might be even luckier and not run into him. This man is a killer. I’m sure he’s here for an important killing. But I’m equally sure he wouldn’t mind tossing in a free one, if the free one happened to be a nosy police officer.”

“Worry not,” Wilson said, and grinned. “I’ll be circumspection itself. Well, take care of the store; I’ve got to be going. I want to get home and change into my bar clothes.” He opened the door and winked at the seated man. “And don’t ruin your eyes with all those reports.”

Da Silva grinned back at him. “I won’t. And don’t ruin your eyes staring at those girls. Or drinking that cheap pinga.”

The door closed behind Wilson. The smile was wiped instantly from Da Silva’s swarthy face. He listened to the receding footsteps until they had disappeared, and then dragged his telephone closer, dialing an internal number. The phone at the other end was lifted instantly.

“Lieutenant Perreira here.”

“Perreira? Da Silva. Senhor Wilson just left my office. He’ll be coming down in the elevator any moment. I want a man on him—a damned good man. And I want reports as often as possible. I’ll either be here or I’ll leave word where I can be reached.”

Lieutenant Perreira was puzzled. “Senhor Wilson? Of the American Embassy? Your friend? I thought—”

“Don’t waste time!” Da Silva said savagely, and slammed the receiver down. He stared at the telephone a few moments in deep thought, organizing his ideas, putting his plans into proper perspective, and then reached for the stack of small photographs once again. The picture of a man’s back, a man leaning against the rail, which had caught his attention on his first run-through, was extracted from the pile. He studied it with narrowed eyes a moment, and then reached into his drawer and withdrew the anonymous letter from Salvador de Bahia. It was clipped to the laboratory report he remembered as being quite detailed as to paper source, type of ink, and all the other useless details which had helped him not a bit. He folded the letter and the report, tucked the photograph in among them, and slid the lot into an envelope. This accomplished, he reached for the telephone once again, clicking the button for the central police department operator.

“Hello? This is Captain Da Silva. I want to put through a priority call to Captain Echavarria of the Montevideo police. Instantly! I’ll hold on.”

His thick fingers drummed impatiently on the desk as he waited; he closed his eyes, resting them, reviewing in his mind the many possibilities, both of error and of success. There were a series of clicks and weird whistles, interspersed at times with various languages, all spoken in that nasal tone which forever identifies the long-distance operators of this world. At long last the interlopers died away; Captain Echavarria came on the line. Da Silva’s eyes opened with a visible effort.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Echavarria? Ché, this is Zé Da Silva from Rio—”

“Zé! How goes it?”

“Not good,” Da Silva said honestly. “I think we’ve got trouble here, but there’s something you can do to help.”

“Anything!” Da Silva could see in his mind’s eye his heavyset friend in Montevideo waving one hand enthusiastically as he spoke. “Anything! You know that!”

“Thanks.” Da Silva bent over the telephone, speaking quickly. “Here’s the story: I’m having an envelope flown down to you. It should be there within two or three hours at the latest. It has a picture in it, and also a letter—hand-written. As well as a laboratory report on the letter, for whatever good it is. This is what I want you to do.…”

He spoke for several more minutes. At the other end of the line, Captain Echavarria nodded at regular intervals, one thick hand scribbling down his instructions on a pad.

“I understand. Of course, if the ship has sailed …”

“If it sailed, it’s in the River Plate on its way to Buenos Aires, or possibly there already. And you’ll have to be there anyway. And soon. Because I need the answers by tomorrow morning.”

Echavarria stared at the telephone. “By tomorrow morning?”

“That’s right,” Da Silva said grimly. “And very early tomorrow morning.”

Echavarria sighed. “We’ll do our best.”

“I know you will, and that’s good enough for me. Well, I’ll hang up and let you get to it.”

“And you’ll hear from me early tomorrow morning, one way or the other.”

“Right. And thanks again, Ché.”

“Anytime, Zé. Ciao.”

Da Silva placed the telephone back in its cradle and reached out, pressing the button on his desk. Ruy appeared almost at once. Da Silva handed him the envelope. “Ruy. This goes to Captain Echavarria at central police in Montevideo. He must have it within two hours. You will arrange a plane and take it personally. If there is any question about getting the police plane, you will telephone me from Galeão. Is that clear?”

“Right, Captain.”

Ruy took the envelope and disappeared. Da Silva smiled at the closed door with genuine affection: one of the best things about the organization he had built up was that they never questioned his instructions. His smile faded; of course, they didn’t always carry them out, either. But he knew Ruy would, or would advise him.

He put the thought of Ruy and his errand out of his mind and reached for the telephone once again. This call was going to be the most important of all, and the one which had to be handled just right. It would also be the hardest call of all to get results from. He took a deep breath and dialed the Hotel Gloria; the operator answered at the hotel and then quite routinely connected him to the desired extension. It was obvious from her bored tone that big names no longer served to excite her.

A weary voice answered the extension, speaking in Spanish. “Alô?”

Da Silva leaned forward, speaking slowly and clearly. “Hello. I should like to speak personally with Señor Juan Dorcas.”

“De parte de quien?”

“I am Captain Da Silva, of the Brazilian police.”

There was a slight hesitation. “I’m sorry, Captain, but Señor Dorcas has only just arrived, and is resting. He has left word that he wishes to speak with no one.” The speaker made no attempt to sound even faintly sorry.

“And I am equally sorry, señor,” Da Silva said with exaggerated politeness, “but I’m afraid the matter is imperative. I’m afraid I must insist on speaking with Señor Dorcas.”

The voice at the other end remained suave. “And I am more than equally sorry, señor, but I’m afraid that if you wish to insist, the proper manner is to do it through the Argentinian Embassy.” The telephone was firmly disconnected.

Da Silva stared at the instrument in his hand a moment and then hung up. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, his jaw hardening. It appeared that Señor Juan Dorcas’ staff did not understand what Captain Da Silva meant by the word “insist,” and this was one time when Da Silva had no intention of being misunderstood. He started for the door and then returned, picking up the telephone for the last time.

“Operator? This is Captain Da Silva. I’m leaving my office. I’ll be at the Hotel Gloria until you hear from me again. Yes. In the suite of Señor Juan Dorcas, of Argentina.…”