“Perreira, this is Da Silva. How are things going?”
“All right, Captain. Everyone’s on the job, and for a change half of them didn’t report in sick. The motorcade is scheduled to start in about an hour, and all of our people are in place.”
“Good,” Da Silva said, and meant it. “And how about the reports on last night’s check-up?”
“Most of them are in, on your desk. Sergeant Ramos is writing his up now. He ought to be done pretty soon.” His voice remained cheerful, the result of having gotten a full eight hours sleep the night before. “I went through them. Nothing out of the way.”
“That’s good. I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed. And there’s one more thing — Why didn’t Freire report in?”
“Didn’t he call you? I assumed when he didn’t report to me that he was reporting directly to you. I’ll... Pardon me a moment, Captain...” There followed a few minutes of silence as Perreira spoke with someone in the office; when he came back on the line the light cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a savage anger. “Captain, we just got a report. Some kids playing out on the beach at Tijuca found a man’s body. They told a cop and he checked it out. It’s Freire.”
“What!”
“The body was about a hundred yards up the beach from the Maloca de Tijuca, if you know the place. He was shot. Just once.” The first burst of anger in his voice had been replaced by the cold official tones of a lieutenant reporting a crime to his superior. “Do you want us to pick up the man he was following? That American, Wilson?”
“No,” Da Silva said. “I just finished speaking with Wilson. He didn’t know he was being followed, and anyway it isn’t necessary. I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with it, and in any event he’s coming down to headquarters in a little while.” He took a deep breath, staring at the telephone, a harsh light in his dark eyes. So Wilson had somehow managed to stir up a hornet’s nest, even if he wasn’t aware of it. And as a result a good man was dead. He leaned forward. “Perreira, how many bad boys do we have around named Sebastian?”
Perreira accepted what seemed to be a change in subject without surprise; he knew Captain Da Silva and knew he never wasted his questions. “Sebastian what?”
Da Silva frowned at the telephone. Apparently too much sleep was as bad as not enough sleep for clogging the brain. “If I knew his last name I wouldn’t be asking you. I don’t know his last name. Just Sebastian.”
Perreira shook his head. “Just Sebastian, Captain? That’s a fairly common name. My guess would be quite a few. Is there anything else you can give me? A bad boy in what respect?”
“A very bad boy.” Da Silva studied the wall opposite him without seeing it. “He might have had something to do with Nacio Mendes, maybe sometime in the past, although I don’t recall that name anywhere in his dossier.”
“I saw the notice on Mendes,” Perreira said, and then sat up. “Do you think he could have been responsible for—?”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Da Silva said shortly. “I’m just trying to fit a man named Sebastian into the picture. He may be somebody who has some connection with killing in general — killing for profit, that is. Or he might have...” He paused. Or he might have what? A record for spitting on sidewalks, or parking in illegal zones such as the unloading dock for catering trucks at Santos Dumont? He rubbed his face wearily. “I don’t know. All I know is the name Sebastian.”
“I’ll check it out.” Perreira didn’t sound too sanguine.
“I wish you would. Or, wait a minute!” Da Silva leaned forward, frowning down at the rug. “What about Sebastian Pinheiro? Whatever happened to him? He was tied into a few killings.”
“Pinheiro? I haven’t heard of him for years. And there never was anything to tie him to Mendes that we could ever find. As a matter of fact,” Perreira added bitterly, “there was very little to tie him to anyone. He was a real cute one. We never did get a conviction, though I’m damned sure he arranged at least four killings I know of, and God knows how many I don’t know of.”
“True.”
“And anyway,” Perreira added thoughtfully, “I seem to remember a notice from Immigration about him. He left the country a few months ago; went to Argentina, as I recall. There wasn’t any basis for stopping him from traveling, but they still keep us informed.”
“But did he come back?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”
“Do that,” Da Silva said. “And also check on any other stray Sebastians that might fit the bill.”
“Right, Captain.” Perreira paused a moment. “And how about the Freire deal?”
Da Silva grimaced. “The usual, I suppose. Damn, I wish we weren’t tied up so much with this blasted O.A.S. thing! Although,” he added slowly, “I have a feeling that Freire’s murder was somehow part of it.”
“And you think this man Sebastian was somehow connected with it, Captain?”
“Yes,” Da Silva said, and was surprised to hear the word fall from his own lips. “Yes, I do.”
“Then in that case,” Perreira said with a coldness that was almost ferocious, “we’ll dig him out if we have to unearth every Sebastian this side of hell!” He seemed to realize suddenly that he had been bordering on the dramatic. “I’d better get right to it. Is there anything else, Captain?”
“That’s it,” Da Silva said, and hung up.
He got to his feet, beginning to shed his pajamas. Perreira was a good man, and if there was anything to be dug up on this new name, Sebastian, he would dig it out. If the name means anything as far as this case is concerned, he added sourly to himself; if Wilson isn’t just leading me around by my nose. He shook his head wearily. And, of course, if it isn’t too late as far as the O.A.S. meetings are concerned, even if it does mean something...
Captain Da Silva stuck his head in at the door to Lieutenant Perreira’s tiny office; his subordinate’s desk was unoccupied. Sergeant Ramos, wedged in the small space between the desk and the window, and sweating over his report, looked up gratefully. Any interruption in the laborious task of putting his thoughts to paper was always welcome. The thin ball-point pen he grasped was almost swallowed by his huge fist; he laid it aside and smiled at his superior.
“The lieutenant isn’t here, Captain. I think he’s trying to get some information for you.”
“All right. Tell him I’ll be in my office.”
“Sure. And Captain, how about that Freire deal?” The big man shook his head. “Rough, huh?”
“Real rough,” Da Silva said.
“It sure was. And Captain” — the sergeant dismissed the problem of his murdered co-worker in consideration of his own — “I could tell you what happened a lot easier than writing it.”
Da Silva’s thick finger aimed pointedly and positively at the pad on the table before Ramos; he closed the door behind him and walked down the hall to his own office. His elderly secretary automatically began to smile at him as he entered, and then wiped it off instantly in remembrance that a man in their department had been killed in the line of duty that day. He nodded and walked into his inner sanctum, hung his jacket on the back of his chair, and then slipped out of his revolver harness, laying it on the corner of his desk. He dropped into a chair and rubbed his shoulder. In the growing heat of the day a wide band of perspiration already showed where the leather straps had passed.
The artist’s sketches of Nacio Mendes were lying in the center of the desk blotter, where they had been returned after being reproduced. He shoved them brusquely to one side and reached for his intercom box, drawing it closer, pressing buttons to bring it to life and to give him the proper connection. When it began to sputter scratchily, he considered it ready.