It was impossible! He squeezed his eyes shut and then hurriedly opened them again, bringing the rifle up to position. But there was no doubt; the man in the sights of his rifle was the same one who had unwittingly helped him to escape the Santa Eugenia; the small fat man with the globular face and the painted hair; the passenger named Dantas — or Dumas or Dortas or something like that!
His jaw tightened; his eyes narrowed. Let God explain to the man when he arrived in heaven the irony of his having aided his own assassin, because regardless of everything else, this man was going to die! The men in the rear seat had risen, preparing to descend. Nacio’s lips twisted cruelly; the sight was raised once again, his finger once again began its slow pressure on the trigger.
There was a sudden knock on the door, sharp, peremptory, audible even over the blasting of the television. His head jerked up, startled by the interruption; he stared at the door panel in momentary confusion, dazed by his sudden transformation from the bright sunlight of the Beira Mar to the dim shadows of the room. He waited, his hands locked to the smooth barrel of the gun. Had he actually heard a knock? He had; for it was repeated, once — quickly, as if to give warning — and then there was the sound of a key being inserted in the lock.
His frozen muscles released themselves; with a swift movement he thrust the gun beneath the disheveled bedclothes; the armchair was kicked to a less suspicious position in the same movement. The door swung back; a hand reached in to flick on the overhead light. Nacio came to his feet, staring in growing fury at the uniformed figure of an elderly room-maid peering at him through thick glasses. One stringy arm carried a basket loaded with bottles and brushes.
Nacio took a step toward her, glowering, his anger even greater for the relief of knowing the intruder was not more dangerous. “What do you mean by walking in here this way? Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”
“Sign?” Too late he remembered he had not placed the sign in position. “I’m sorry, senhor...” She didn’t sound sorry at all; she sounded more accusing. She set her basket down and marched to the television set, turning its volume down to a whisper, and then turned to face him. “There is a sick man just two doors away, senhor. There really is no need to play the television so loudly.”
Nacio clenched his jaws on the outburst that almost escaped him. This was no time to argue with maids. “All right; you’ve turned it down. Now, will you please leave?”
She marched righteously to the door, retrieved her basket, and then paused, her myopic eyes taking in the room and its state of disarray. A means of placating her irritated guest occurred to her. “Would the senhor like me to straighten up the room, as long as I’m here?”
Nacio silently cursed all hotels, their employees, and especially interfering room-maids. “I would not like you to straighten up the room! I would like you to leave and allow me to be alone!”
She studied him with curiosity that changed to sympathy. “The senhor also does not feel well?”
Good God! What was it with this creature? Couldn’t she understand simple Portuguese? “I feel—” His eyes suddenly narrowed; he nodded. “It is true, senhora, I do not feel well. If you will just leave, I shall be able to lie down.”
She smiled, pleased by the accuracy of her diagnosis; her thin head bobbed on her neck like some idiot toy. “Then if I at least make up the bed, the senhor will be much more comfortable.” She took a step toward the bed; Nacio instantly intercepted her. She attempted to explain. “But, senhor, it will only take a moment.”
Nacio gritted his teeth. Words, apparently, were not enough for this stubborn imbecile! He took her by one arm almost roughly, and piloted her toward the door. “I shall be much more comfortable if you do what you are told, and leave!”
She pulled her arm free with a jerk, and sniffed. “I won’t be able to straighten up your room until this afternoon, then,” she said, making it a dire threat. Nacio clenched his fists; a cold light of viciousness burned in his eyes. The maid seemed to recognize that she had done everything in her power to help, but apparently the senhor did not wish to be helped. With a shrug at the ingratitude of some people, she backed from the room and closed the door behind her.
Nacio savagely jerked it open, slipped the sign on the knob, and almost slammed it shut, turning the lock viciously. He should have put the sign out when Iracema left, but it was just one more thing in the whole ridiculous and needlessly complicated scheme that had been overlooked! He dragged the armchair back into position and brought the gun from beneath the bedclothes. The television would have to remain muted, but that would certainly not save the little man! He brought the gun to his cheek once again and studied the situation at the Memorial.
It took a few seconds for his sight to adjust to the bright sunlight; and then he saw that the ceremony at the Memorial had apparently been a short one. The motorcycle police were already wheeling their vehicles back into the center of the road, bending forward to touch their sirens. The television camera truck had pulled to one side, prepared to continue its observation from a different angle. His telescopic sight found the blue Chrysler; its occupants were climbing in and settling themselves, smiling and talking. Nacio smiled coldly to himself. Despite all the interruptions, there was still plenty of time to complete his assignment. He shifted the gun slightly to encompass the black Cadillac behind.
The driver was already in position, his fingers stroking the steering wheel with professional patience. In the back seat the man on the near side swung about and sat down, raised himself slightly to adjust some fold in his jacket, and then dropped back again. Beyond him the small fat man was just entering the car, bending forward a bit awkwardly. Nacio’s finger was rigid on the trigger; his eye frozen to the telescope. The little man swung about with a visible effort, sank down in his seat, and then turned as if to speak with his companion.
The movement brought his breast pocket into sight. Nacio’s eyes were locked on his target; the gun held rigidly against his cheek might have been a part of him. His finger slowly, inexorably, pressed the trigger...
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?”