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!”