“Captain Da Silva here. I want to be tied into the system.”
“All of it, Captain?”
“No, just the Radio Patrulha at the O.A.S. parade. And tie me into the microphone, also.”
“Right, Captain.”
The small box hummed statically, scratching and rising and fading. Da Silva adjusted a small knob and leaned forward. “Hello? Hello? What’s the matter with this damned thing?”
A voice came back, tinny and distorted by the apparatus. “Sim? Quem fala?”
“This is Captain Da Silva here. How are things going?”
“Fine, Captain. We’re just getting started now. From the Gloria.” Even over the deficiencies of the speaker system the next words came out sadder and more somber. “That was a terrible thing that happened to Freire, wasn’t it, Captain?”
“It was,” Da Silva said shortly and glowered at the box wondering why bad news always seemed to get around faster than good. “Where is your patrol car located?”
“About halfway down the line. There’re four cars ahead of us, not counting the television truck, and five more behind us. And six motorcycles in the escort in front of the motorcade and four more in the rear. And men along the way in the crowd, of course, plus the military police along the barriers.”
Which is about as much as one can do, Da Silva thought. “Is there much of a crowd?”
“Quite a few.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring, pleased with the audience, and then it fell slightly. “Nothing like we had when the fûtebol team came back from winning the World Cup, but plenty.”
“All right,” Da Silva said evenly. “You keep on in a normal way. I’ll be tuned in from here.”
“Right, Captain.”
The swarthy captain leaned forward, tuning the volume down to a less raucous screech, just as Perreira came through the doorway. Da Silva glanced up inquiringly; the young lieutenant shook his head.
“Nothing of interest, Captain. Not as far as people named Sebastian are concerned. Rape, yes; robbery, more than yes. In fact, you name the crime and we’ve got a criminal named Sebastian to match. But killing for profit?” The lieutenant shook his head. “It’s amazing how few people named Sebastian have gotten into trouble for that reason lately.”
“A pity,” Da Silva said dryly, and then looked at his subordinate with a sharper eye. “How about Pinheiro?”
Perreira glanced at the paper in his hand and then shrugged. “He’s back in this country, but there’s nothing to tie him to anybody. Or anything. He came in from Portugal by KLM about a month ago.”
“From Portugal?” Da Silva sat up, frowning. “You said he’d gone to Argentina!”
“He did. And from Argentina to Portugal. And from Portugal back home. Why?”
“Because Mendes came from Portugal, too.” Da Silva stared at the other a moment, his brow wrinkled. “Do you have any address for Pinheiro?”
“Just an old one,” Perreira said. “He used to live at the top of the Ladeira Portofino, off of the Rua Riachuelo. In Lapa. I’ve got the number here.” He shrugged and stared down at the slip in his hand. “It used to be Number Sixty-Nine, but he could have moved since then. We never got a conviction on the man, so he doesn’t have to report any changes to us.”
Da Silva started to mark it down when there was a tap on the door and Sergeant Ramos poked his head in. When neither of the occupants instructed him to leave, he properly construed it as permission to enter and shoved his huge bulk into the room. The wrinkled state of the sheaf of papers in his hand clearly showed the ordeal he had suffered in writing his report.
“Here’s that report, Captain. It doesn’t say much, because there wasn’t much to say.” He bent forward to drop the papers on the desk and then paused. “Hey! What’s Lover Boy’s picture doing here? What was he picked up for? Cohabiting?” A grin crossed his normally expressionless face. “Not that I blame him, with that dame.”
Da Silva frowned up at him. “What?”
“Him.” Ramos’ thick thumb stabbed in the direction of Nacio’s picture; the thin mustached face on the ink sketch seemed to stare back bitterly, as if accusing the sergeant of being a stool pigeon.
Da Silva sat up, electrified. “What! You’ve seen him?”
“Sure.” Ramos was surprised at the vehemence of his superior; he turned to Perreira to find the lieutenant staring at him with equal tenseness. “Up in Room 825 at the Serrador. Doctor Carabello. And his girl friend. It’s all in the report—”
Da Silva had come to his feet even as the other was speaking; he reached for his holster and his jacket in the same move. “Perreira, get a car! And—” He paused a moment. “Or better yet—” He bent forward, turning up the volume on the intercom. “Radio Patrulha?”
The thin metallic voice came on. “Sim?”
“How quick can you get over to the Serrador Hotel? Room 825. I want to detain anyone you find there!”
“I don’t know, Captain.” The voice was doubtful. “We’re stopped here now for some ceremony at the War Memorial, but we’d have to go all the way to the end of the Beira Mar to get off. The crowds are solid both sides. Unless—”
The voice broke off a moment, replaced by a flurry of scratchy static; when it resumed it was high and shrill, overwhelmed by the importance of events, its excitement communicating itself even over the inadequacies of the apparatus.
“Captain! Something’s happening up ahead! I think near the War Memorial!”
“What!” Da Silva bent closer, his eyes blazing. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. The motorcycle escort pulled away, and then the first car, but when the second car started up it pulled over; damned near hit the steps! I think there was an accident or something! The whole crowd is closing in!”
Da Silva exploded. “Well, damn it, don’t sit there! I want to know what happened! And to whom!”
“I’ll get right over there...”
“And thank you very much,” Da Silva growled, and glared at the small box. Perreira was already on his feet, standing near the door.
“I’ll get over to the Serrador, Captain. We’ll cover the streets all around the place.”
Da Silva held up his hand almost wearily. “Hold it. We don’t even know what happened. And if it’s what we both think, it’s too late now, anyway. We couldn’t possibly cover that maze of streets before he’d be away from there.” He swung back to the intercom, clamping his jaws to prevent his blasting into the small box. “Well? Well?”
A new voice answered him, deeply apologetic. “The sergeant’s on his way over there on foot, Captain. The car couldn’t possibly get through. The crowds are all around the car up there. The motorcycle police are trying to clear a space for the ambulance now—”
“What ambulance? Damn it, what happened?”
“I don’t know, Captain...”
Da Silva opened his mouth and then slowly closed it again. Blasting at the man in the Radio Patrulha certainly wouldn’t help anything. He looked up at Perreira.
“Unless we want to wait here all day for news, we’re going to have to assume that whatever happened down there involved Nacio Mendes, and that he’s tied in with Sebastian Pinheiro somehow.”
“On what basis, Captain?”
“On the basis that we don’t have anything else,” Da Silva said bitterly. He frowned at the man above him. “Where does this Pinheiro live again?”
“I told you, Captain. On the top of the Ladeira Portofino, number sixty-nine.” Perreira shook his head doubtfully. “But that was over three years ago.”
“Then let’s just hope the housing shortage kept him there,” Da Silva said shortly. His thick fingers drummed on the desk. “That’s pretty open up there, isn’t it?”