Eight

A few hours earlier, on that same bright Tuesday morning, Captain José Da Silva rolled over in his comfortable bed and glowered angrily at the telephone; the instrument, unintimidated, continued its shrill ringing. With a muttered curse for the idiots who had invented the mechanical busybody, he reached over and lifted the receiver, growling into it.

“Yes?”

At the other end of the line, Wilson winced painfully. “Zé, do me a favor—don’t scream. Whisper. In fact, whisper quietly.…”

Da Silva shoved aside the cover, swinging his feet to the floor, slowly coming awake. He rubbed a large hand across his face to facilitate the process and then yawned. “Wilson? What an hour to call! I didn’t get to bed until after two this morning. Now what’s the matter?”

“Matter?” Wilson sounded bitter. “Not a thing. Only my head’s coming apart at the seams.”

A slow smile spread across Da Silva’s swarthy features. “Too much pinga? I tried to warn you.”

“And I thank you very much. Only you forgot to warn me about mickeys, and that’s what they fed me—”

“A mickey? Who? And why?”

Wilson started to nod and then thought better of it; the twinge of pain that shot from his neck to the top of his head almost made him lose his grip on his ice bag. “That’s an excellent question. When—and if—I ever recover, I expect to go back there and take that waiter by the scruff of his neck and get an answer to that very question.”

Da Silva’s grin faded. “What happened?”

“Well,” Wilson said, pressing his ice bag tighter against his head and turning from the glaring sunlight at his window, “I went out to this Maloca de Tijuca, parked in the parking lot, and went into the main bar. The place was empty except for one couple—it seems everyone in Rio gets moral on Mondays—and I had a drink and prepared to wait around. And …”

“And what?”

Wilson sighed. “And then I had a second drink. And that, it appears, was a major error, because the next thing I knew the room started to get fractious and jump around, and the lights started to get bright, and then they went out. And when I woke up, which was about half an hour ago, I was in my car outside, and the joint was closed. And my head …” He shuddered, preferring to try to forget his head.

“So?”

“So how I managed to make it home is going to remain one of the classic mysteries of all times. The Marie Celeste pales in comparison. I mention this in case you start getting reports of a dangerous drunk weaving along the Lagôa in an old Chevy.”

Da Silva nodded at the telephone in a polite manner, but his thoughts were anything but polite. Where the devil had Freire been? And why hadn’t he called in with a report? “I’ll remember. And just what would you like us to do about the affair? Send a squad car out to the Maloca and tear the joint apart?”

At the other end of the line Wilson stared at the telephone in amazement. “Do you mean you don’t wonder why they would slip a knockout drop to a perfect stranger? It doesn’t rouse the slightest curiosity? I know you’ve been on a sleep diet these past nights, but even so!” He leaned forward, as if in this manner to impress the man at the other end of the connection. “Look, Zé; we know this Nacio used to hang out in this place, and when I go looking for him, I suddenly get taken out of the action.” He started to shake his head and then winced. “There has to be a connection.”

“Why?” Da Silva asked curiously. “How would Nacio Mendes know who you were, or even what you looked like? When he made his escape, I don’t think you were even in Rio yet. Or if you were, I’m sure you two never went around in the same social circles. So why would he go to the trouble of arranging a mickey for you?”

“Do me a favor and don’t ask me my own questions.” Wilson sounded stiff. “I just asked you why.”

“Unless,” Da Silva continued thoughtfully, “he did know you, or at least knew who you were. Possibly he had seen you in Washington …”

Only the knowledge that any sudden movement would prove painful prevented Wilson from exploding. “Honest to God, Zé! Are you still on that maniac C.I.A. kick?” Heavy sarcasm entered his voice. “And I suppose we hired him when he came begging for a job on his knees, and his method of expressing his gratitude is to feed us all knockout drops!”

“I wouldn’t know,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. For example, what action are you suggesting that we take? That we pull a bunch of policemen from their duty guarding the motorcade—all as a result of your unfortunate selection of drinks at the Maloca—and rush out there to waste their time searching the place and putting hot needles under the fingernails of that poor waiter?”

“I wasn’t suggesting …”

“And have him look at us with innocent baby-blue eyes and tell us that the pobre Americano simply couldn’t hold his liquor and passed out? And that as an act of compassion—and not to endanger inter-American relations—he put you in your car to sleep it off?”

“And I also suppose,” Wilson said, almost gritting his teeth, “that he decided to put the note in my pocket just to keep me warm. Certainly he wouldn’t want me to catch cold!”

Da Silva bent back and stared at the telephone. If Wilson’s assignment by his superiors in Washington was to confuse either him, or the issues, he was doing it in fine style. “What note?”

“That’s one of the things I called to tell you,” Wilson said. He sounded a bit smug, as if happy to have finally aroused Da Silva’s interest. “When I woke up from that mickey-induced fog, I had this note tucked in my jacket pocket, wrapped around my car keys, where I couldn’t miss it. And it simply said: ‘Sebastian—here’s your watchdog.’” He took a deep breath, almost of triumph. “And just what do you think of that?”

Da Silva reached over, picked a cigarette from the ever present package on the nightstand, and lit it. He drew in deeply and blew a wavering cloud of smoke toward the open window. “If you want an honest answer, I don’t know what to think of it. One answer, of course, is a romantic triangle. If someone thought you were a private detective who had followed him to the Maloca, then the note makes sense. After all, some people take their own dates to the Maloca, and I hear not all of them are married.”

“Except the only people I saw there were a couple who never stopped dancing all the time I was there. And I doubt if they even knew I was there. But just suppose Nacio was there and thought I was trailing him?”

“In that case,” Da Silva said slowly, “why would he address the note to someone named Sebastian? Who’s Sebastian? Certainly nobody in the police department that I know of.” A faint smile crossed his lips; he took a last puff on the cigarette and then crushed it out. “It isn’t a common American name, but I have heard it occasionally. Who do you have in your department, or up in Washington, named—”

“Hold it!” At the other end of the line Wilson started to shake his head hopelessly, and then instantly pressed the ice bag against it more tightly. Arguing with Captain José Da Silva was certainly no way to relieve a pounding headache. “Look, Zé, I know you’re tired, and I know you’ve got this crazy idea fixed in your brain—though I’m damned if I know why—but the fact remains I’m telling you the truth. And I’m sure it ties in with this Nacio Mendes.”

“On what basis?”

Wilson sighed. “God, you’re stubborn! Forget it; I was just trying to be helpful. As soon as the four aspirin I took begin to work, I’ll come down to your office.” The sarcasm returned to his voice. “I don’t suppose you’d mind terribly if we compare the handwriting on this note with any samples you might have in your folder of this Nacio’s handwriting, would you?”

“Not at all,” Da Silva said magnanimously. “Be my guest.”

“My, you’re sweet when you get up in the morning!” Wilson said bitterly, and hung up.

Da Silva frowned at the telephone a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then depressed the button. He released it and began to dial. The operator at central police took his call, transferred it to the proper extension, and began to ring. The telephone was lifted instantly; a bright and wide-awake voice answered.

“Lieutenant Perreira—”

“Perreira, this is Da Silva. How are things going?”

“All right, Captain. Everyone’s on the job, and for a change half of them didn’t report in sick. The motorcade is scheduled to start in about an hour, and all of our people are in place.”

“Good,” Da Silva said, and meant it. “And how about the reports on last night’s check-up?”

“Most of them are in, on your desk. Sergeant Ramos is writing his up now. He ought to be done pretty soon.” His voice remained cheerful, the result of having gotten a full eight hours sleep the night before. “I went through them. Nothing out of the way.”

“That’s good. I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed. And there’s one more thing—Why didn’t Freire report in?”

“Didn’t he call you? I assumed when he didn’t report to me that he was reporting directly to you. I’ll … Pardon me a moment, Captain …” There followed a few minutes of silence as Perreira spoke with someone in the office; when he came back on the line the light cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a savage anger. “Captain, we just got a report. Some kids playing out on the beach at Tijuca found a man’s body. They told a cop and he checked it out. It’s Freire.”

“What!”

“The body was about a hundred yards up the beach from the Maloca de Tijuca, if you know the place. He was shot. Just once.” The first burst of anger in his voice had been replaced by the cold official tones of a lieutenant reporting a crime to his superior. “Do you want us to pick up the man he was following? That American, Wilson?”

“No,” Da Silva said. “I just finished speaking with Wilson. He didn’t know he was being followed, and anyway it isn’t necessary. I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with it, and in any event he’s coming down to headquarters in a little while.” He took a deep breath, staring at the telephone, a harsh light in his dark eyes. So Wilson had somehow managed to stir up a hornet’s nest, even if he wasn’t aware of it. And as a result a good man was dead. He leaned forward. “Perreira, how many bad boys do we have around named Sebastian?”

Perreira accepted what seemed to be a change in subject without surprise; he knew Captain Da Silva and knew he never wasted his questions. “Sebastian what?”

Da Silva frowned at the telephone. Apparently too much sleep was as bad as not enough sleep for clogging the brain. “If I knew his last name I wouldn’t be asking you. I don’t know his last name. Just Sebastian.”

Perreira shook his head. “Just Sebastian, Captain? That’s a fairly common name. My guess would be quite a few. Is there anything else you can give me? A bad boy in what respect?”

“A very bad boy.” Da Silva studied the wall opposite him without seeing it. “He might have had something to do with Nacio Mendes, maybe sometime in the past, although I don’t recall that name anywhere in his dossier.”

“I saw the notice on Mendes,” Perreira said, and then sat up. “Do you think he could have been responsible for—?”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Da Silva said shortly. “I’m just trying to fit a man named Sebastian into the picture. He may be somebody who has some connection with killing in general—killing for profit, that is. Or he might have …” He paused. Or he might have what? A record for spitting on sidewalks, or parking in illegal zones such as the unloading dock for catering trucks at Santos Dumont? He rubbed his face wearily. “I don’t know. All I know is the name Sebastian.”

“I’ll check it out.” Perreira didn’t sound too sanguine.

“I wish you would. Or, wait a minute!” Da Silva leaned forward, frowning down at the rug. “What about Sebastian Pinheiro? Whatever happened to him? He was tied into a few killings.”

“Pinheiro? I haven’t heard of him for years. And there never was anything to tie him to Mendes that we could ever find. As a matter of fact,” Perreira added bitterly, “there was very little to tie him to anyone. He was a real cute one. We never did get a conviction, though I’m damned sure he arranged at least four killings I know of, and God knows how many I don’t know of.”

“True.”

“And anyway,” Perreira added thoughtfully, “I seem to remember a notice from Immigration about him. He left the country a few months ago; went to Argentina, as I recall. There wasn’t any basis for stopping him from traveling, but they still keep us informed.”

“But did he come back?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”

“Do that,” Da Silva said. “And also check on any other stray Sebastians that might fit the bill.”

“Right, Captain.” Perreira paused a moment. “And how about the Freire deal?”

Da Silva grimaced. “The usual, I suppose. Damn, I wish we weren’t tied up so much with this blasted O.A.S. thing! Although,” he added slowly, “I have a feeling that Freire’s murder was somehow part of it.”

“And you think this man Sebastian was somehow connected with it, Captain?”

“Yes,” Da Silva said, and was surprised to hear the word fall from his own lips. “Yes, I do.”

“Then in that case,” Perreira said with a coldness that was almost ferocious, “we’ll dig him out if we have to unearth every Sebastian this side of hell!” He seemed to realize suddenly that he had been bordering on the dramatic. “I’d better get right to it. Is there anything else, Captain?”

“That’s it,” Da Silva said, and hung up.

He got to his feet, beginning to shed his pajamas. Perreira was a good man, and if there was anything to be dug up on this new name, Sebastian, he would dig it out. If the name means anything as far as this case is concerned, he added sourly to himself; if Wilson isn’t just leading me around by my nose. He shook his head wearily. And, of course, if it isn’t too late as far as the O.A.S. meetings are concerned, even if it does mean something.…

Captain Da Silva stuck his head in at the door to Lieutenant Perreira’s tiny office; his subordinate’s desk was unoccupied. Sergeant Ramos, wedged in the small space between the desk and the window, and sweating over his report, looked up gratefully. Any interruption in the laborious task of putting his thoughts to paper was always welcome. The thin ball-point pen he grasped was almost swallowed by his huge fist; he laid it aside and smiled at his superior.

“The lieutenant isn’t here, Captain. I think he’s trying to get some information for you.”

“All right. Tell him I’ll be in my office.”

“Sure. And Captain, how about that Freire deal?” The big man shook his head. “Rough, huh?”

“Real rough,” Da Silva said.

“It sure was. And Captain”—the sergeant dismissed the problem of his murdered co-worker in consideration of his own—“I could tell you what happened a lot easier than writing it.”

Da Silva’s thick finger aimed pointedly and positively at the pad on the table before Ramos; he closed the door behind him and walked down the hall to his own office. His elderly secretary automatically began to smile at him as he entered, and then wiped it off instantly in remembrance that a man in their department had been killed in the line of duty that day. He nodded and walked into his inner sanctum, hung his jacket on the back of his chair, and then slipped out of his revolver harness, laying it on the corner of his desk. He dropped into a chair and rubbed his shoulder. In the growing heat of the day a wide band of perspiration already showed where the leather straps had passed.

The artist’s sketches of Nacio Mendes were lying in the center of the desk blotter, where they had been returned after being reproduced. He shoved them brusquely to one side and reached for his intercom box, drawing it closer, pressing buttons to bring it to life and to give him the proper connection. When it began to sputter scratchily, he considered it ready.

“Captain Da Silva here. I want to be tied into the system.”

“All of it, Captain?”

“No, just the Radio Patrulha at the O.A.S. parade. And tie me into the microphone, also.”

“Right, Captain.”

The small box hummed statically, scratching and rising and fading. Da Silva adjusted a small knob and leaned forward. “Hello? Hello? What’s the matter with this damned thing?”

A voice came back, tinny and distorted by the apparatus. “Sim? Quem fala?”

“This is Captain Da Silva here. How are things going?”

“Fine, Captain. We’re just getting started now. From the Gloria.” Even over the deficiencies of the speaker system the next words came out sadder and more somber. “That was a terrible thing that happened to Freire, wasn’t it, Captain?”

“It was,” Da Silva said shortly and glowered at the box wondering why bad news always seemed to get around faster than good. “Where is your patrol car located?”

“About halfway down the line. There’re four cars ahead of us, not counting the television truck, and five more behind us. And six motorcycles in the escort in front of the motorcade and four more in the rear. And men along the way in the crowd, of course, plus the military police along the barriers.”

Which is about as much as one can do, Da Silva thought. “Is there much of a crowd?”

“Quite a few.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring, pleased with the audience, and then it fell slightly. “Nothing like we had when the fûtebol team came back from winning the World Cup, but plenty.”

“All right,” Da Silva said evenly. “You keep on in a normal way. I’ll be tuned in from here.”

“Right, Captain.”

The swarthy captain leaned forward, tuning the volume down to a less raucous screech, just as Perreira came through the doorway. Da Silva glanced up inquiringly; the young lieutenant shook his head.

“Nothing of interest, Captain. Not as far as people named Sebastian are concerned. Rape, yes; robbery, more than yes. In fact, you name the crime and we’ve got a criminal named Sebastian to match. But killing for profit?” The lieutenant shook his head. “It’s amazing how few people named Sebastian have gotten into trouble for that reason lately.”

“A pity,” Da Silva said dryly, and then looked at his subordinate with a sharper eye. “How about Pinheiro?”

Perreira glanced at the paper in his hand and then shrugged. “He’s back in this country, but there’s nothing to tie him to anybody. Or anything. He came in from Portugal by KLM about a month ago.”

“From Portugal?” Da Silva sat up, frowning. “You said he’d gone to Argentina!”

“He did. And from Argentina to Portugal. And from Portugal back home. Why?”

“Because Mendes came from Portugal, too.” Da Silva stared at the other a moment, his brow wrinkled. “Do you have any address for Pinheiro?”

“Just an old one,” Perreira said. “He used to live at the top of the Ladeira Portofino, off of the Rua Riachuelo. In Lapa. I’ve got the number here.” He shrugged and stared down at the slip in his hand. “It used to be Number Sixty-Nine, but he could have moved since then. We never got a conviction on the man, so he doesn’t have to report any changes to us.”

Da Silva started to mark it down when there was a tap on the door and Sergeant Ramos poked his head in. When neither of the occupants instructed him to leave, he properly construed it as permission to enter and shoved his huge bulk into the room. The wrinkled state of the sheaf of papers in his hand clearly showed the ordeal he had suffered in writing his report.

“Here’s that report, Captain. It doesn’t say much, because there wasn’t much to say.” He bent forward to drop the papers on the desk and then paused. “Hey! What’s Lover Boy’s picture doing here? What was he picked up for? Cohabiting?” A grin crossed his normally expressionless face. “Not that I blame him, with that dame.”

Da Silva frowned up at him. “What?”

“Him.” Ramos’ thick thumb stabbed in the direction of Nacio’s picture; the thin mustached face on the ink sketch seemed to stare back bitterly, as if accusing the sergeant of being a stool pigeon.

Da Silva sat up, electrified. “What! You’ve seen him?”

“Sure.” Ramos was surprised at the vehemence of his superior; he turned to Perreira to find the lieutenant staring at him with equal tenseness. “Up in Room 825 at the Serrador. Doctor Carabello. And his girl friend. It’s all in the report—”

Da Silva had come to his feet even as the other was speaking; he reached for his holster and his jacket in the same move. “Perreira, get a car! And—” He paused a moment. “Or better yet—” He bent forward, turning up the volume on the intercom. “Radio Patrulha?”

The thin metallic voice came on. “Sim?”

“How quick can you get over to the Serrador Hotel? Room 825. I want to detain anyone you find there!”

“I don’t know, Captain.” The voice was doubtful. “We’re stopped here now for some ceremony at the War Memorial, but we’d have to go all the way to the end of the Beira Mar to get off. The crowds are solid both sides. Unless—”

The voice broke off a moment, replaced by a flurry of scratchy static; when it resumed it was high and shrill, overwhelmed by the importance of events, its excitement communicating itself even over the inadequacies of the apparatus.

“Captain! Something’s happening up ahead! I think near the War Memorial!”

“What!” Da Silva bent closer, his eyes blazing. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. The motorcycle escort pulled away, and then the first car, but when the second car started up it pulled over; damned near hit the steps! I think there was an accident or something! The whole crowd is closing in!”

Da Silva exploded. “Well, damn it, don’t sit there! I want to know what happened! And to whom!”

“I’ll get right over there.…”

“And thank you very much,” Da Silva growled, and glared at the small box. Perreira was already on his feet, standing near the door.

“I’ll get over to the Serrador, Captain. We’ll cover the streets all around the place.”

Da Silva held up his hand almost wearily. “Hold it. We don’t even know what happened. And if it’s what we both think, it’s too late now, anyway. We couldn’t possibly cover that maze of streets before he’d be away from there.” He swung back to the intercom, clamping his jaws to prevent his blasting into the small box. “Well? Well?”

A new voice answered him, deeply apologetic. “The sergeant’s on his way over there on foot, Captain. The car couldn’t possibly get through. The crowds are all around the car up there. The motorcycle police are trying to clear a space for the ambulance now—”

“What ambulance? Damn it, what happened?”

“I don’t know, Captain.…”

Da Silva opened his mouth and then slowly closed it again. Blasting at the man in the Radio Patrulha certainly wouldn’t help anything. He looked up at Perreira.

“Unless we want to wait here all day for news, we’re going to have to assume that whatever happened down there involved Nacio Mendes, and that he’s tied in with Sebastian Pinheiro somehow.”

“On what basis, Captain?”

“On the basis that we don’t have anything else,” Da Silva said bitterly. He frowned at the man above him. “Where does this Pinheiro live again?”

“I told you, Captain. On the top of the Ladeira Portofino, number sixty-nine.” Perreira shook his head doubtfully. “But that was over three years ago.”

“Then let’s just hope the housing shortage kept him there,” Da Silva said shortly. His thick fingers drummed on the desk. “That’s pretty open up there, isn’t it?”

Perreira understood him. “Up to the top it’s open. After that, of course, it’s all woods.” He studied his superior. “From the house you’d be able to see anyone coming up the ladeira.”

“And beyond it? Doesn’t it lead up the mountain?”

“That’s true.” Perreira thought a moment. “You could take a car up to Santa Tereza and leave it there, and then come down through the matto. But it would take a lot longer to get there that way.”

Da Silva frowned at the map on the wall a moment and then made up his mind. His dark eyes came up to meet those of his young lieutenant. “All right. You take two men and go up to Santa Tereza, and then come down from above. I’ll take Ramos, here, and go up the ladeira from Lapa.” A sudden thought came to him. “Wait a second—how about the backs of the houses along the ladeira?”

Perreira shook his head decisively. “Those houses are all built right up against the rock, Captain. It would be almost impossible to try to go up that way.”

“Or to go down,” Da Silva said slowly, and nodded in satisfaction. “All right; you get up there and cover the house from the top, from the woods. We’ll come up the front.”

Perreira looked unhappy. “You’ll be a sitting duck on those steps, Captain, if there’s any trouble …” One look at the expression that flashed across Da Silva’s swarthy face and he swallowed the balance of his words. “Yes, sir!”

“How long will it take you to get up there and get set?”

“From here, about forty-five minutes to an hour.”

“Then we’ll make it in an hour and fifteen minutes.” He checked his watch. “It’s ten thirty-five now. At eleven-fifty.” His jaw tightened. “We’ll drop in for lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” Perreira said, and closed the door behind himself.

Da Silva bent forward, twisting the knob of the intercom; his only reward was an increase in static. “Hello? Hello? What the hell’s the matter with this thing?”

“Sim?”

“Damn it! What’s the matter with you men down there? Are you tongue-tied or something? What’s happening down there?”

The voice of the other tried to appeal to the captain’s logic. “The sergeant isn’t back yet—”

“Great!” Da Silva said in disgust. “I’ll read about it in tomorrow’s newspaper!” He came to his feet, reaching for his holster, slipping it on. The telephone rang as he took his jacket from behind the chair; he picked it up, barking into it. “Yes?”

It was his secretary from the outer office. “An outside telephone call for you, Captain.”

“I’ll call them later,” Da Silva said brusquely, and prepared to hang up.

“But it’s from Buenos Aires—”

“Oh!” He tossed his jacket to one side and dropped back into his chair, dragging the instrument closer. “Hello? All right, I’ll wait.” His hand brought a pad closer and dug a pencil from a drawer while operators traded weird sounds in his ear. At last the line cleared and he leaned forward, his eyes bright.

“Hello? Echavarria? What?” He began to scribble furiously, nodding at the telephone. “What? Oh, good! Very good! The ship was already there? And you saw the captain? What? Good—very good.… And the note? It was? You’re sure? Wonderful! What? Yes, I’ve got it.” He finished writing and nodded to the far-off voice, his fingers twiddling the pencil. “Yes, I’ve got it. But you’re really sure about the note?”

The faint buzz of the voice as heard in the quiet room seemed to increase in intensity; Da Silva nodded again. “Fine. In fact, more than fine. If you’re satisfied, I am. What?” A faint smile came across his tired face. “Of course I’m lucky. It’s better than having brains any time. Right. And thanks a million. I’ll be in touch.”

He placed the instrument back on the hook and then stared at it for several moments, letting the last pieces of the puzzle drop neatly into their proper slots. Now, if Sebastian had only not moved his residence—and if, of course, he was the proper Sebastian—and if … A lot of ifs, he thought to himself, but on the other hand the thing made sense, and that’s what answered the motives of men. The scribbled notes were folded and tucked into his shirt pocket. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, tilting his head in the direction of the door; Ramos, who had been standing quietly to one side, only vaguely understanding what was going on, instantly understood the gesture. He nodded and opened the door for his chief; on the outside, with one hand poised to knock, stood Wilson.

The nondescript man lowered his hand almost apologetically and looked from Ramos to Da Silva.

“Hello, Sergeant. Hello, Zé. What’s all the excitement? I saw Perreira when I came in, and he looked like he was on his way to a fire. And you two look like you’re on your way to hold the ladder for him.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “Here’s that note I was telling you about, Zé.”

Da Silva finished slipping into his jacket, took the note and glanced at it, and then tossed it on the desk. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. We’re on our way—”

“Wait?” Wilson frowned. “You mean you’re not even going to check the handwriting?”

“No.” Da Silva smiled faintly. “I’ve got a theory, and if your note wasn’t written by Mendes, I’d have to throw it away. And right now there isn’t time for that.” He studied Wilson’s drawn face a moment. “You know, Wilson, you were in on this thing right from the beginning—in fact, you and your story about the man who disappeared from the ambulance were really the start of this case. So how would you like to be in on the ending?” He took a deep breath. “I hope.…”

Wilson studied him suspiciously. “What’s up?”

“Come on along and find out.” Da Silva took him by the arm and urged him in the direction of the door. “You may find it interesting.”

For a moment Wilson held back, and then allowed himself to be drawn toward the door. “Well, all right,” he said a bit doubtfully. “There’s just one thing, though …”

Da Silva stared at him. “And what’s that?”

“Well,” Wilson said, putting his hand to his head and wincing slightly, “if you’re going in a police car and feel like using the siren, do me a favor and play it softly.…”