Perreira understood him. “Up to the top it’s open. After that, of course, it’s all woods.” He studied his superior. “From the house you’d be able to see anyone coming up the ladeira.”
“And beyond it? Doesn’t it lead up the mountain?”
“That’s true.” Perreira thought a moment. “You could take a car up to Santa Tereza and leave it there, and then come down through the matto. But it would take a lot longer to get there that way.”
Da Silva frowned at the map on the wall a moment and then made up his mind. His dark eyes came up to meet those of his young lieutenant. “All right. You take two men and go up to Santa Tereza, and then come down from above. I’ll take Ramos, here, and go up the ladeira from Lapa.” A sudden thought came to him. “Wait a second — how about the backs of the houses along the ladeira?”
Perreira shook his head decisively. “Those houses are all built right up against the rock, Captain. It would be almost impossible to try to go up that way.”
“Or to go down,” Da Silva said slowly, and nodded in satisfaction. “All right; you get up there and cover the house from the top, from the woods. We’ll come up the front.”
Perreira looked unhappy. “You’ll be a sitting duck on those steps, Captain, if there’s any trouble...” One look at the expression that flashed across Da Silva’s swarthy face and he swallowed the balance of his words. “Yes, sir!”
“How long will it take you to get up there and get set?”
“From here, about forty-five minutes to an hour.”
“Then we’ll make it in an hour and fifteen minutes.” He checked his watch. “It’s ten thirty-five now. At eleven-fifty.” His jaw tightened. “We’ll drop in for lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” Perreira said, and closed the door behind himself.
Da Silva bent forward, twisting the knob of the intercom; his only reward was an increase in static. “Hello? Hello? What the hell’s the matter with this thing?”
“Sim?”
“Damn it! What’s the matter with you men down there? Are you tongue-tied or something? What’s happening down there?”
The voice of the other tried to appeal to the captain’s logic. “The sergeant isn’t back yet—”
“Great!” Da Silva said in disgust. “I’ll read about it in tomorrow’s newspaper!” He came to his feet, reaching for his holster, slipping it on. The telephone rang as he took his jacket from behind the chair; he picked it up, barking into it. “Yes?”
It was his secretary from the outer office. “An outside telephone call for you, Captain.”
“I’ll call them later,” Da Silva said brusquely, and prepared to hang up.
“But it’s from Buenos Aires—”
“Oh!” He tossed his jacket to one side and dropped back into his chair, dragging the instrument closer. “Hello? All right, I’ll wait.” His hand brought a pad closer and dug a pencil from a drawer while operators traded weird sounds in his ear. At last the line cleared and he leaned forward, his eyes bright.
“Hello? Echavarria? What?” He began to scribble furiously, nodding at the telephone. “What? Oh, good! Very good! The ship was already there? And you saw the captain? What? Good — very good... And the note? It was? You’re sure? Wonderful! What? Yes, I’ve got it.” He finished writing and nodded to the far-off voice, his fingers twiddling the pencil. “Yes, I’ve got it. But you’re really sure about the note?”
The faint buzz of the voice as heard in the quiet room seemed to increase in intensity; Da Silva nodded again. “Fine. In fact, more than fine. If you’re satisfied, I am. What?” A faint smile came across his tired face. “Of course I’m lucky. It’s better than having brains any time. Right. And thanks a million. I’ll be in touch.”
He placed the instrument back on the hook and then stared at it for several moments, letting the last pieces of the puzzle drop neatly into their proper slots. Now, if Sebastian had only not moved his residence — and if, of course, he was the proper Sebastian — and if... A lot of ifs, he thought to himself, but on the other hand the thing made sense, and that’s what answered the motives of men. The scribbled notes were folded and tucked into his shirt pocket. He came to his feet and reached for his jacket, tilting his head in the direction of the door; Ramos, who had been standing quietly to one side, only vaguely understanding what was going on, instantly understood the gesture. He nodded and opened the door for his chief; on the outside, with one hand poised to knock, stood Wilson.
The nondescript man lowered his hand almost apologetically and looked from Ramos to Da Silva.
“Hello, Sergeant. Hello, Zé. What’s all the excitement? I saw Perreira when I came in, and he looked like he was on his way to a fire. And you two look like you’re on your way to hold the ladder for him.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “Here’s that note I was telling you about, Zé.”
Da Silva finished slipping into his jacket, took the note and glanced at it, and then tossed it on the desk. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. We’re on our way—”
“Wait?” Wilson frowned. “You mean you’re not even going to check the handwriting?”
“No.” Da Silva smiled faintly. “I’ve got a theory, and if your note wasn’t written by Mendes, I’d have to throw it away. And right now there isn’t time for that.” He studied Wilson’s drawn face a moment. “You know, Wilson, you were in on this thing right from the beginning — in fact, you and your story about the man who disappeared from the ambulance were really the start of this case. So how would you like to be in on the ending?” He took a deep breath. “I hope...”
Wilson studied him suspiciously. “What’s up?”
“Come on along and find out.” Da Silva took him by the arm and urged him in the direction of the door. “You may find it interesting.”
For a moment Wilson held back, and then allowed himself to be drawn toward the door. “Well, all right,” he said a bit doubtfully. “There’s just one thing, though...”
Da Silva stared at him. “And what’s that?”
“Well,” Wilson said, putting his hand to his head and wincing slightly, “if you’re going in a police car and feel like using the siren, do me a favor and play it softly...”
Nine
Nacio Madeira Mendes, slowly climbing the Ladeira Portofino, reviewed for the fourth or fifth time the steps he had taken once he had seen the small figure in the black Cadillac slam back against the side of the car, and had seen the look of incredulous shock flash across the small round face. There had been no time for further observation, nor had any been required. Nacio’s mind had coldly blanked out the frozen tableau caught in the tubular gunsight, and had turned instantly to the steps now necessary to be taken. Nor had his recollection of those steps uncovered any error or oversight.
The gun had been thrust deep beneath the bedclothes and a pillow tossed on top to disguise its outline; the armchair had been swung to a new position. His eyeglasses had been hooked into place, his revolver recovered from the dresser and tucked beneath his belt and his jacket buttoned over it; the doorknob of the room had been properly wiped when he left. All according to schedule. He even recalled with a touch of amusement the head poked inquiringly out of a door near his when he emerged, a head seeking the source of the strange noise; without breaking his stride he had pointed farther along the dim hallway and then had reached the stairway exit and was trotting down the steep concrete steps. The corridor below led to the employees’ entrance, and he had paused in the shadowed hall to strip his gloves from his hands and shove them deep into one pocket, and had then pressed with his shoulder against the heavy locking-bar, stepping out into the street.