Six

For Nacio Madeira Mendes, the week that had passed since his return to his beloved Brazil had seemed endless. While he had long since developed the patience necessary for one in his selected profession, he had never developed any patience beyond this. To Nacio, waiting could be tolerated only when it served a purpose, and he was far from convinced that in this case it did. And each day that passed made him more certain that the entire complicated scheme was unnecessary, and that his victim—whoever he might be—would have long since been dispatched had he been left to his own methods.

His daytime hours had been spent in complete boredom, for while he disagreed with his instructions, he still had no intention of jeopardizing his fee by going contrary to them. In addition, it would not have surprised him a bit if Sebastian had put a tail on him to make sure his instructions were carried on during the day. At night, of course, he was under the cold and sterile inspection of Sebastian’s girl. As a result life was monotonous. The Zoo, which he visited several times, certainly had no denizen more restless than he, nor one who paced the edges of his cage with more growing frustration.

Nor had the hours spent at the Serrador done anything to ease the situation. While Nacio was by nature a man who could control his emotions, including passion, where it served his purpose, the fact was that he had been without a woman for a long time, and living and sleeping in the same room with Iracema did nothing to help. However, any ideas he might occasionally have had regarding the girl had instantly been scotched by Iracema herself; and although she left a flimsy nightgown on a bathroom hook to be discovered by the room-maid in the morning, she actually slept in a severe pair of slacks and a full blouse, topped off by a long and sexless robe that, together with the uncompromising and slightly superior look in her dark eyes, successfully defied violation.

Many times in those days—and even more in the long and increasingly sleepless nights—Nacio had considered disregarding his instructions to the extent of visiting his old hangout at the Maloca de Tijuca on the beach. He had spent many happy hours there in better times, and for the first time was beginning to appreciate just how happy they had been. Certainly a drink there could do no harm; nor, he was sure, could any of the girls in the rooms back of the bar present any great threat, since they changed frequently, and it was doubtful if any of the old ones would still be around to remember him. Still, it would be a chance, and therefore each time the thought came to him, he thrust it away. Time for these things when the fee was earned and paid. Still, it was a shame.…

On the Monday night before the day of the fateful motorcade, Nacio slumped in a soft chair before the television set attempting to concentrate on an old movie that had little to recommend it when it had first been produced by Vitagraph, and had not been improved by its more recent translation into Portuguese. It was no use; he bent over and twiddled with the knob, and was rewarded in quick succession by a woman either explaining or apologizing for a recipe, a busty and brave singer whose élan did not slacken as technicians dragged cables between her and the camera, and a man who kept searching confusedly through a stack of papers before him for the latest news.

It was too much! He leaned down and switched the set off, coming to his feet to prowl the room impatiently. Thank God tomorrow would see an end to this nonsense! His steel-rimmed glasses were on the dresser, as were the uncomfortable cheek-pads; he continually wore his mustache and gloves, and now he scratched at the heavy brush, irritated as always by the itching of the gum arabic, and even more irritated by the difficulty of doing a proper scratching job while wearing surgical gloves.

He glanced at his watch. Where on earth was Iracema? She was usually here long before this; as a matter of fact he normally found her in the room when he returned from having his evening meal. Could anything have happened to her? And, as a result, to the scheme? Which would have made his week of sacrifice a mockery? He shook his head violently, putting the thought aside. If anything were to have happened to the plan, it would have happened before this; nor would he still be free and undisturbed. No; the plan was safe. By now their routine was well-established and accepted at the hotel; on the few times they entered together the room clerk handed them their key automatically, and the elevator operators carried them to their floor without a second glance. Or at least a second glance at him; occasionally their second glances at Iracema had resulted in passing the proper floor.

There was a faint tap at the door, followed in a few seconds by the sound of a key in the lock. He hurriedly slipped his glasses into place and swung about to face the door, his gloved hands jamming themselves into the pockets of his dressing gown. Iracema pushed the door wide, smiling at him brightly, but he knew the smile was really for the benefit of the small bellboy who followed her into the room worshipfully, his arms loaded with gaily wrapped packages all bearing the mark of Mesbla’s, the leading department store in the city. The boy placed his load on the bed, accepted his tip and a grateful smile from the girl with a blush that clearly demonstrated which he considered the more valuable, and closed the door softly behind him. Nacio took off his glasses and glared at the girl, his irritation compounded by the fact that her smile had disappeared the moment the door had closed.

“Well?” His voice was harsh. “Where have you been? Out shopping? Is that all you have to do? You were supposed—”

Her abruptly raised hand cut off his complaint. She walked over, swaying, bent and switched on the television set. When the volume had risen enough to form a proper cover for any conversation, she straightened up coolly and looked at him.

“Yes?”

Nacio bit back the anger that automatically rose at the snub. He forced himself to speak calmly. “You were supposed to bring the rifle here tonight.”

She tilted her head toward the bed, her eyes mocking. “The gun is in those packages.” The sarcasm that tinged her voice brought a slow flush to his sallow face. “I couldn’t very well march through the hotel lobby with a rifle on my shoulder.”

He disregarded her sarcasm, moving toward the packages. Her voice stopped him.

“And don’t unwrap them now. Everything’s there; they’ll keep until tomorrow. Put them away in the dresser drawer.”

“I’ll do what I—”

He might just as well have kept silent. Her voice went on, curtly, as it always seemed to be when she spoke to him. “And I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”

Nacio clamped his jaws on the angry words that rose in his throat. It was a good thing the affair would be over and done with tomorrow; another day or another night with this—this—iceberg, and he would not want to be responsible for the results. He would either throttle her, or rape her! Or both! Good God, what an impossible woman!

She walked to her suitcase, her full hips swaying as usual, unlocked it and brought out her slacks and robe. Her eyes came up to study him evenly; she might have been looking at a piece of furniture. “And don’t play the television too loudly. I want to sleep.”

“Wait.” The word seemed to come from Nacio’s lips without volition. He took a deep breath. “Why do you talk to me the way you do? And look at me the way you do? As if I were some—some animal or something? You’re in this business as much as I am!” The anger that had been building in him for days threatened to come to the surface. “Who are you to act so much better than me? Or to act as if Sebastian is so much better than me?”

The expression on her face did not change at all. “Sebastian and you? There is no comparison.” She leaned back against the dresser, the robe folded over her arm, pressed against her bosom. “Sebastian is a man.…”

“A man?” Nacio stared at her. “Sebastian? Sebastian is a coward, a big, fat, good-looking coward. Who makes a living getting commissions for killing people, and then doesn’t have the nerve to do the jobs himself. You call this a man?”

“Yes.” Iracema looked at him evenly. “I know he’s a coward. That’s what makes him a man.” For the first time something approximating pity touched her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand that.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You see,” she went on slowly, “Sebastian needs me; he can’t face problems alone.”

Nacio grinned. “For the problems Sebastian faces, he needs me a lot more.”

She shook her head slowly. “No. I knew you couldn’t understand. And there’s more. Sebastian took me from the rooms back of the Maloca de Tijuca over two years ago. He’s been good to me. I’ve been happy with him—”

“The Maloca!” The grin that had crossed the sallow face widened, tinged with evil, and also tinged a bit with anger. “And you sleep in that outfit, and alone?”

Iracema straightened up abruptly, her face hardening. It was evident she was sorry she had ever engaged in the conversation. “That’s right. And that’s the way it will always be.” She disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her.

Nacio stared at the closed panel; the sound of a shower being turned on came to him. A girl from the Maloca de Tijuca and he had slept alone for the past week! The sound of the shower increased; in his mind’s eye he could see her stepping out of her clothing, reaching up to push the shower curtain back, and then standing under the streaming water. It was the same picture that had formed in his mind for the past six nights, and it had been bad enough before he had known of her past. Now it was worse.

The sound of the shower stopped. Now she would be stepping out of the tub, her trim body glistening with tiny droplets of water, her hands stretching for a towel to stroke those lush curves, to rub here, to pat there … And then she would take a powder puff … There was a low growl in his throat at the thought. So great was his concentration on the vision in his mind that the sharp rap on the outer door of the room completely escaped his attention.

The knock on the door was repeated; louder and more insistent this time. He came out of his salacious dream, shaking his head vaguely to clear it, staring at the panel. Someone at the door? But who? He frowned; it was probably only the bellboy, inventing some idiotic excuse to see the lady of the room again. But still … He walked over and placed his head next to the panel.

“Who’s there?”

“Open up!”

No bellboy ever spoke in those tones, not to guests! His eyes narrowed instantly, swinging about the room as if seeking some means of escape; his hand reached automatically to the spot beneath his belt where a revolver would have been under standard conditions. The rap was repeated impatiently. He willed himself to calmness, thinking furiously.

“One moment …”

The steel-rimmed glasses were snatched from the dresser top and thrust into place; there was no time for the cheek-pads, which were swept into his pocket. He reached for the door and then realized he still had his gloves on. With a muttered curse he dragged them off and jammed them into his pocket on top of the cheek-pads. He’d have to worry about fingerprints some other time. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Two men stood in the opening confronting him, both bulky and with the unmistakable appearance of plain-clothes police. Nacio had seen them often enough in the past to recognize the type instantly. For an instant panic almost gripped him, but then he realized that had he been recognized they would not be standing there; they would be grappling with him. The thought eased his tension a bit, but he remained wary with the experience of years. The eyes of the larger of the two men studied him almost curiously, and then dropped to refer to a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up again.

“Dr. Carabello?”

“Yes?” He tried to make his voice normal, noncommittal, but despite himself it came out harsh, suspicious. “What is it?”

The man in front shouldered his way into the room. He held out a billfold opened to display an identification card, and then flipped it shut before Nacio could even study it, and thrust it into a hip pocket. “Sergeant Ramos. Police. Do you mind if we look around?”

Nacio’s jaw tightened. “Look around? For what?”

The detective stared at him with suddenly narrowing eyes; the reaction of this particular hotel guest was certainly different from the others he had checked that evening. He motioned abruptly to his partner, who came farther into the room, taking up a position that effectively blocked the doorway. Nacio realized his previous tone had been a mistake; he changed it, attempting to merely sound aggrieved. “What’s this all about?”

“It started out as just routine.” The black expressionless eyes were studying him evenly, but the hunched shoulders and the readiness of the large hands indicated suspicion. “I don’t know where it will end.” Ramos turned away, moving over to stand beside the bed, staring down at the packages there. “We’ll want to see what’s in those, and check out the rest of your things as well.”

Nacio’s body tensed. Damn that idiot Sebastian and his refusal to allow him a revolver! And damn his own stupidity in wasting time talking to the girl when he should have been assembling the rifle! At least with a weapon there might have been a chance to shoot his way to safety, instead of being trapped! Sergeant Ramos continued to contemplate the sallow face before him with hard suspicion.

“And, of course, we’ll want to see your carteira de identidade.”

There was the loud rasp of a bolt being slid back, and the bathroom door opened. All three men swung around at the sound. In the opening Iracema stood, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers rubbing them. “Darling, I’ve gotten some soap in my eyes. Could you—?”

The light behind her outlined her lush figure through the sheer nightgown; the deep slash at the neckline made no attempt to contain her full breasts. Nacio’s eyes widened.

“Darling—?” Iracema opened one eye to squint at him and then for the first time seemed to notice the two strangers in the room. With a feminine squeal she attempted to cover her charms as best she could, and then retreated in confusion, closing the bathroom door sharply behind her. Nacio turned, dazed, to find the two men grinning at him in a knowing manner. The larger of the two backed to the doorway, drawing his partner with him.

“I’m very sorry, Doutor. I hope you’ll forgive us. I don’t believe it will be necessary to take up any more of your time. Or that of your—ah—your senhora.” The other winked at him almost envyingly, and pulled the door closed behind them. Nacio dropped on the bed closest to him and rubbed his hand almost wearily over his face.

This time when the bathroom door opened, Iracema appeared in her usual nightgarb, covered as usual by the long robe. She walked to her bed and turned down the thin top cover, lay down, and drew it to her chin. When she spoke one might have thought there had been no incident with two detectives a few moments before. Her tone also closed the door on any further personal confidences.

“You can turn off the main light; the lamp is sufficient for the television. And keep the volume down. I’m tired and I want to get some sleep.” She looked up at him a moment calculatingly. “And you’d better get some sleep, too. We both have a busy day tomorrow, and it has to go right.” She rolled over and closed her eyes.

Nacio stared down at her. Sleep! After the narrow escape they had just had, not to mention the memory of that lovely vision standing in the bathroom doorway, made even more enticing for not having been completely nude? Sleep! The woman wasn’t human! His jaw tightened. Well, he was! He reached out, twitching the thin cover from the girl, reaching for the neck of the blouse beneath the robe. Iracema rolled over instantly, facing him; her eyes were icy. In her hand was a long needle that had been concealed at her side.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Nacio growled low in his throat and turned blindly toward the door. His hand was on the knob when Iracema spoke.

“Where are you going?”

He looked back at her a moment without answering, opened the door, and closed it softly behind him.…

From the bumpy sand road that led from the Gavea bridge along the deserted beach to terminate in the Maloca de Tijuca, the dim but gaily colored lanterns that gave the wide palm-studded grove an air of festivity, illuminated the huge three-sided compound of the maloca which was augmented by the soft, pulse-catching rhythm of a current carnival favorite coming from the largest of the thatched huts. Wilson, swinging his car through the wide vine-covered gates of the compound, felt amazed as always when he found himself in similar places that the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro offer. Here there was a feeling of being deep in the interior, far from any vestige of civilization, and yet just across the curved beach that formed the fourth side of the compound the lights of Copacabana beach twinkled in the distance, in competition to the eerie reflections of moonbeams dusting the tips of the low rippling waves that ran up to wash one edge of the clearing.

A lovely place, Wilson thought sincerely, and swung his ancient car around in the almost-empty parking lot to allow it to point outward and in the direction of the gate, should the necessity arise for a rapid departure. Not the most moral place in the world, the Maloca de Tijuca, he admitted to himself, but certainly one of the loveliest of the immoral places. Which may or may not explain its popularity among so many of the married men in this town, he added to himself with an inner smile. They may all be aesthetes, searching for beauty, he thought; and in a place like this, if you don’t find it in one place, you may in another.

He switched off the ignition, descended, and was about to lock the car when he thought better of it. Rather—and against all the tendencies so firmly ingrained in a Rio inhabitant—he even reached back and reinserted his key in the ignition slot. This action may, he conceded to himself, possibly cost me an automobile; on the other hand it might just save my life. Which, he added to himself with a smile, was a toss-up in values here in Brazil. He closed the door and walked lightheartedly toward the muted music coming from the largest of the thatched huts.

On the dim road just outside of the Maloca, Detective First Grade Pedro Armando Freire slowed down, nodded in satisfaction, and then continued to drive a few hundred yards farther along. The bumpy road ended in a rough circle; he swung about it so that his car was aimed once again in the direction of the city, eased the vehicle off the road into the blacker shadows beneath a thick stand of palm, and turned off the ignition.

Detective Freire found it difficult to understand why anyone would want to trail a man to a place like the Maloca, since his purpose in coming here could only be one, but on the other hand he had to admit that it was an easy assignment. The best thing, of course, was that a person could only leave on the one bumpy road, coming through the gate he could see so clearly, which made trailing him a cinch. And, too, the music coming faintly from the compound was pleasant, and the breeze from the nearby ocean refreshing after the heat of the day.

He leaned back comfortably, prepared to enjoy his wait, and then leaned forward again, frowning. There was the sound of someone scuffling through the sand, coming across the dunes that separated the beach from the main highway. His frown deepened; anyone who came to the Maloca always came by car. He began to sit straighter and then leaned back again, chiding himself. The help, of course, would not be blessed with cars; they would naturally come to work by omnibus and cross the dunes from the main road as the shortest way to work. His theory was substantiated a moment later, for the shadowy figure that slipped across the road made no attempt to use the main gate but walked silently along the compound wall to disappear down the far side in the direction of the beach. Detective Freire knew there was a small doorway there for the use of employees, and he relaxed again, pleased both with his proper deduction and with its rapid confirmation. His fingers tapped out the quick rhythm of the music on the steering wheel as he waited patiently for his quarry to reappear.

His quarry, in the meantime, had entered the larger of the group of thatched huts. He was not surprised to find but one couple dancing in the dim room; the parking lot had suggested to him that the place would not be crowded. He seated himself at a table as far as possible from the large, exotic jukebox and waited for the bartender to note his presence, watching in the meanwhile the easy rhythm of the closely pressed couple. Their smooth execution of the dance evinced from him admiration, as well as a touch of envy. Wilson had been in the country many years and had mastered most of its mysteries, but the effortless ease with which a Brazilian danced the samba continued to evade him. There was a diffident cough at his elbow and he looked up to find the bartender waiting patiently at his side. Wilson smiled genially at the white-jacketed man.

“Dull tonight, eh?”

The bartender nodded, bending over to wipe the already spotless table. “Every Monday. I don’t know why they stay open on Mondays.…” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice. He seemed to be saying that he did, indeed, know why they stayed open on Mondays; it was a vicious move on the part of a heartless management designed to see to it that he had only one day a week off, rather than two. He straightened up, dismissing his ill-fortune. “The senhor is expecting someone?”

“No,” Wilson said. “I’m alone.”

The bartender sighed. “The kitchen is closed.”

“I didn’t come for dinner,” Wilson said.

The bartender nodded, the usual formalities completed. “And what kind of girl does the senhor prefer?”

Wilson smiled at him. “Nor, tonight, did I come for a girl. What I would really like is a drink. An imported cognac. Preferably Maciera Five-Star, if you have it.”

The bartender stared at him intently for a moment, and then shrugged. There were, of course, mentally twisted people who got their kicks out of just visiting a place like this, although this one certainly didn’t look like one of those. It just went to prove that you never could tell. “Maciera Five-Star? I’ll see. If I don’t have any here, there may be some at the other bar, in the back.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said, and leaned back.

The bartender returned to his province, verified his stocks and discovered, as he had suspected, that Maciera Five-Star was not among them. He automatically checked the room before leaving; the couple glued together near the jukebox did not look as if they would require his services for awhile, if ever. He wiped his hands on his apron and pushed through the door that led to the deserted kitchen and thence to a second bar that was called upon on such busy nights as Fridays and Saturdays. He opened the door to the dimly lit room and then stopped, glaring. Some intruder was in the process of removing a bottle from one of the shelves.

“Hey, you! You’re not supposed to be in here!” He modified his tone a bit as the man turned. The owners were particular about how one addressed a guest, even a guest who was out of line. And this man was dressed as a guest might be dressed, and not as a sneak-thief. “I’m sorry, sir. This bar is closed. If you want service …”

His visitor frowned at him a moment. He was a medium-sized man with a heavy mustache, who was wearing steel-rimmed glasses. One hand came up to remove the glasses while two fingers of the other masked the mustache for a moment. The bartender’s eyes widened incredulously; he gasped.

“Nacio! What on earth—!”

Nacio glared at him. “Louder!” he growled savagely. “I wouldn’t want anyone out there not to hear you!”

The bartender dutifully lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, it was the shock.… What on earth are you doing here in Rio? I thought—I mean, I heard you were in Portugal.”

“I am,” Nacio said. He turned and brought the bottle closer, reached for a glass and poured himself a drink.

“And how did you get here? I didn’t hear you drive in.”

“A fairy godmother brought me.” Nacio drank and then gestured with his head. “From the highway. By bus.” The taste of the liquor was pleasant to him; the rich warmth of his choice spread through his body almost at once. How stupid of Sebastian to ban a drink! Which reminded him—He set down his glass and looked at the other calculatingly.

“I need a gun.”

“A gun?” The bartender wiped his hands against his apron; they had begun to sweat. “Look, Nacio, I don’t want any trouble. And besides, I don’t have—”

“You have a revolver under the bar out there,” Nacio said coldly. “You always had one there, and I’m sure you still have. And if you don’t want any trouble, don’t argue. Go in there and get it for me.” He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry; I’ll see that your boss gets paid for it.”

“But I keep that gun just in case—”

“Consider this ‘in case’!” Nacio’s voice was beginning to tinge with anger. He poured himself another drink, threw it down his throat, and jerked his head in the general direction of the wall. “Who’s out there?”

The bartender shrugged helplessly. “Just one couple, dancing—one of the girls and a fellow comes in here to see her regularly. And a single, some oddball. You know how dead it is here on a Monday.”

“An oddball?” Nacio’s eyes narrowed; he set his empty glass down on the bar slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. A character. He’s alone, doesn’t expect anyone, doesn’t want a girl …” He suddenly remembered what had brought him here. “He wants Maciera Five-Star. Ah, here it is!”

Nacio’s hand clamped on his arm. “What does he look like?”

“How do I know what he looks like? Go into the kitchen—”

But Nacio had already dropped his arm and had slipped through the door to the kitchen. He slid back the door of the service hatchway the merest fraction and peered through it. Wilson, facing him across the room, was given a minute inspection. Nacio frowned and reached for the bartender’s arm once again as that one came through, bearing a bottle in one hand.

“How long has he been here?” It was a taut whisper.

“Ten minutes. Maybe five.”

“I see.” Nacio stood thinking a moment, and then made up his mind. “You go out there and give him his drink. And then bring me back the gun. And after that—”

“Yes?”

“After that you manage to go outside and find out what he’s driving.”

“But why?” The bartender was almost wailing. Three years this Nacio had been out of Rio, and now he had to come back on his shift! Why couldn’t he have returned when one of the other bartenders was on duty? “Look, Nacio, I don’t want any trouble.”

Nacio’s jaw tightened; his eyes glinted dangerously. “Then you’ll do what you’re told!” He pushed the other man brusquely. “Now, get going!”

Through the thin slit in the hatchway opening he watched the bartender pause at the bar, pour a drink shakily, and carry it over to Wilson’s table. He came back, wiping his hands furiously, and with an exaggerated air of innocence picked the revolver from beneath the bar and hid it under his apron. Nacio, watching him, seethed inwardly. Had anyone been paying attention, the idiot would certainly have been discovered! He waited until the bartender had come back through the kitchen door and then jerked the revolver from the reluctant hand that held it timidly forward. He checked it and stuffed it beneath his belt, and then buttoned his jacket tightly over the slight bulge. He jerked his head.

“Now I want to know what he’s driving.”

“But—”

“And don’t argue!”

The bartender shook his head in resignation, and slowly went back to the bar. He glanced about and then walked to the open doorway leading to the patio, attempting to appear casual; one cavernous yawn and he stepped out into the warm darkness. Through the slit in the hatchway window Nacio’s eyes flickered over the dancing couple and then returned to study the man sipping cognac at the other table.

Nacio frowned. A man alone in a place like this, who neither brought his own bed-partner nor requested one from the management—that in itself was quite unusual. And a man who managed to arrive so conveniently just a few moments before he himself did. His eyes ran over the relaxed figure. Certainly innocuous enough to outward appearance, and looking almost too harmless, and yet there was something about the man that led Nacio to believe he was actually neither. He nodded his head in growing conviction; this was exactly the type a miserável like Sebastian would use to follow and check up on him. The heavyset filho de mãe would have enough brains to pick someone he assumed Nacio would never suspect. Iracema had undoubtedly notified Sebastian the moment he had left the hotel room, and where was the first place someone would be sent to find him? The Maloca, of course!

Except for one little thing, Nacio thought, a cruel smile creasing his thin lips: they are still only looking for me. They haven’t found me yet!

The bartender wandered in from the compound as vaguely as he had wandered out, and managed to reach the kitchen without actually breaking into a sprint. Nacio cast his eyes toward the ceiling imploringly, and then returned them to the white face before him.

“Well?”

The bartender took a deep breath. “He’s driving a Chevrolet, only five or six years old. Practically new. It’s turned around so it points at the gate. And it isn’t locked.” His voice betrayed his shock; he didn’t know what Nacio was so upset about, but he had to admit that this leaving a car unlocked in Rio de Janeiro was certainly a most suspicious circumstance. Especially one that was practically new. He looked at Nacio a bit slyly and then delivered his piéce de résistance. “And he’s left his keys in the ignition!”

Nacio nodded; he was not surprised. It was the only explanation that covered all the facts. Well! So Sebastian wanted to play games, did he? He smiled faintly, leaning forward.

“Now, look—this man will be wanting another drink soon. He’s planning on waiting here as long as he has to. So when he orders, you will serve him his Maciera. But in it you will put a knockout drop.”

The bartender opened his mouth to deny that a respectable establishment like the Maloca de Tijuca had such potions, and then closed it. Some other time and to some other person, but not to Nacio Mendes! He cleared his throat nervously. “And then you will steal his car?”

“Then,” Nacio said quietly, “I shall not steal his car. Then I shall leave you alone. Without even visiting your little playmates in the back.” His unhappiness at this turn of events was evident in his voice.

“But what will I do with him? He’ll fall on the floor! I can’t …”

Nacio thought quickly. “You will tuck him into his own car; you said it was unlocked. And then?” He shrugged humorously. “Forget about him. You close up at four. Go home and let the man who opens up in the morning worry about him.”

“But—”

The light humor that had appeared on Nacio’s face disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I said …” He paused, listening, and then glanced through the slit in the hatchway. Wilson was tapping in a polite manner on the table with the edge of his glass. Nacio turned back. “He wants another drink. You know what to do.”

He pushed the unhappy bartender toward the door, and then watched through his peephole. When the drink was finally delivered to Wilson’s table, it was done with far less nervousness than Nacio had feared, but then he remembered that the serving of knockout drops was not a rare occurrence at the Maloca. Quite often it was the only means of maintaining the peace and quiet so necessary to a respectable establishment of its kind, and the bartenders had all learned long since the most efficient manner of serving them.

Nacio watched with satisfaction as the drink slowly began to take effect. The sudden startled yawn, the rubbing of the eyes, the rather shocked blinking in a concentrated effort to focus—all spoke well for the effectiveness of the potion. He grinned down at the bartender, who had returned to his side.

“And one last thing—a note I want you to put in his pocket.”

He dug a pencil from an inner pocket of his jacket and looked about the kitchen for paper. An order pad lying on the serving pantry served; he tore a sheet loose, turned it over, and carefully printed a few words on the reverse side. He reread them with a grin, folded the slip and handed it to the white-jacketed man at his side. “You’ll tuck this in his pocket when he passes out. And make sure it doesn’t fall out when you put him in his car.”

The bartender stared at him reproachfully, as having interjected an unnecessary problem into his otherwise normal Monday chores. “I can’t handle him alone. Not into his car.”

Nacio’s grin was wiped away instantly. “I said—”

“But I can’t!” The stubbornness of the bartender’s tone indicated that he had gone as far as he was going, and that no threats could increase his strength. Nacio studied him with narrowed eyes and then gave in, albeit far from graciously.

“All right, then! I’ll help you with him. You get him to the doorway and I’ll meet you there, outside.” He glanced through the peephole once again. “And you’d better get out there before our friend really does fall on the floor.”

In his car in the black shadows of the palm grove, Detective Freire was beginning to get restless. He took a deep drag on the cigarette cupped in his hand and brought the glowing ash next to the dial of his wristwatch. A sigh escaped him. He hoped the American he was trailing was not one to spend the entire night at his pleasures. Not only was there no telephone available in the vicinity from which to call in his reports, but there was also no place around where he could get a cafezinho. He glanced about. There could be no harm in stretching his legs; he could always hear a car start from within the compound in plenty of time to get back behind his steering wheel.

He opened the car door, swung himself to the sandy road, and softly closed the door behind him. A beautiful night, he thought to himself, and walked quietly toward the entrance to the Maloca compound. From the shadows beside the gate he would be able to see the exotically colored lanterns and hear the music more clearly; in addition there was also the chance he might catch a glimpse of his quarry, and from that glimpse possibly even manage some conclusion as to his intentions for the rest of the evening.

He came to the entrance, glanced ahead a moment along the deserted road leading to the city, and then peered into the compound. For a moment he stared, frowning, puzzled, before he realized he was actually seeing two men helping—or rather, dragging—a third toward a car parked at an angle along one wall. His eyes studied the scene suspiciously, swung to the car in question, and then narrowed instantly and dangerously. The man being pulled senselessly between the other two was his quarry! His hand dove for his revolver, bringing it out; he stepped out into the clearing, advancing cautiously toward the trio grouped near the car door.

“You men!”

Nacio swung his head about, startled; the bartender gasped and released his hold on Wilson, who slid unconscious to the ground, his head resting against one tire. Detective Freire came closer, slowly gesturing with his gun.

“Step back. Farther. Against the car. Now turn around and lean on the fender.”

The bartender was making hysterical little sounds deep in his throat; he swung about hastily and bent over the worn metal, cursing the day he had ever met Nacio Mendes. Nacio continued to stand there, looking at the detective apologetically.

“I don’t know who you are, sir, or what business you have interfering, but you don’t understand. This man …”

Freire raised his gun slightly. “This is police business. And we’ll talk about it when you’ve turned around. Move!”

A flame of pure fury swept Nacio, though no sign of it showed on his tense, pale face. So Sebastian had not only been stupid enough to put a watchdog on him, but a watchdog the police were following! A watchdog that brought the police to him! The utter, vicious, miserable fool! He forced himself to calmness, to even hazard a deprecating smile.

“You still don’t understand, officer. This man took sick—”

Freire shook his head in impatience and moved forward, jamming his gun into Nacio’s stomach. It was a mistake, and one which would have been a great disappointment to his instructor at the Police Academy. A sudden twist and Freire found his gun arm locked, the weapon pointing uselessly behind his opponent, and the sharp pungent breath of Nacio in his face. A second later he felt the painful pressure of a second revolver pushing against his own stomach. The voice from the face inches from his own was icy and flat.

“Drop your gun!”

Freire’s fingers loosened his weapon; it fell without a sound to the ground. Nacio stepped back quickly, his own revolver steady, speaking harshly over his shoulder.

“You! Idiot! Stop leaning against the car and get our watchdog friend into it!” He stared with cruel satisfaction into the veiled eyes of the detective. “And you. You’re going for a walk with me. Along the beach.…”

The bartender paused in his task of raising the inert body of Wilson, raising horrified eyes. “Nacio! No!”

“Shut up!”

There was an unconscious gasp from Detective Freire; his eyes widened as he stared at the spectacled and mustached face before him. Nacio grinned at him viciously. “So you recognize me, eh? Don’t worry, my friend. It wouldn’t have saved you even if you hadn’t.…”

Nacio inserted the key in the lock and opened the door with the maximum of caution, glancing in. Iracema, still in her robe, was sitting in a chair facing the door; her head had fallen forward, her steady breathing indicating that sleep had interrupted her vigil. With a faint grin, Nacio tiptoed into the room and softly closed the door behind him; the small lamp the girl had left lit furnished him all the illumination he needed. He slid the revolver from its hiding place beneath his belt and placed it inside the top dresser drawer with care; the faint odor of cordite disappeared as he slid it shut. He silently began to undress.

He lowered himself cautiously onto the bed and slid beneath the thin top cover. Iracema’s breathing changed slightly, as if disturbed by some sound or sleeping thought, and then returned to its steady cadence. Nacio grinned at the still figure a moment; his adventure of the evening had acted as a tonic, sharpening his nerves for the task of the following day.

He smiled faintly and closed his eyes. So Sebastian had wanted to play games, eh? Fortunately, at the game of killing, he was the expert, or it might not have turned out so well. The pleasant thought remained with him for the few moments it took him to fall asleep.