“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.”