“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.”