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.
Seven
Tuesday dawned clear and warm; from the window of the eighth-floor room at the Hotel Serrador the view was of unalloyed beauty. The Beira Mar drive and the curving bay framing the mountains in the background both sparkled with the combined efforts of a bountiful nature and an active Rio street-cleaning department. Nacio, standing there in his dressing gown, watched a city truck slowly make its way along the drive, pausing at suitable intervals to place down sections of wooden barricades which scurrying workmen instantly lined up along the curbs. Traffic was apparently being diverted from the drive south of the Hotel Gloria; the route selected for the motorcade lay bare under the growing heat of the bright sun. Nacio smiled grimly, nodding in satisfaction. The arena for his dramatic act was being prepared as well as if he were directing the operation himself.