The growing sound of a siren coming along the Beira Mar had echoed in the distance, no very unusual sound in Rio, identifying an ambulance he was certain would be of no use to his victim. He could picture the growing excitement and startled disbelief of the spectators stirring across the Praça Paris before the War Memorial, but here in the narrow Rua Senador Dantas no knowledge of the event had had time to penetrate. Nor had there been any further indication of the fateful event as he had calmly walked to the Lapa arches, marched beneath them into the Rua Riachuelo, and had eventually come to the Ladeira Portofino.
He paused a moment on the ladeira, relaxing, leaning against the low stone railing that edged the steep stairs, staring off into the distance over the red roofs below. Eight days before, he had climbed those steps for the first time in over three years; cold, wet, uncomfortable, uncertain as to his future or the wisdom of having returned to Rio at that time or under those circumstances. Now, in the bright sunlight and the warm breeze, he was mounting them again, but this time with all doubts resolved. Now a job had been successfully accomplished, and a fee was waiting to be collected, a fee beyond anything he had ever dreamed of earning. Plans would have to be made for removing himself from the city as quickly as was consistent with proper safety, but for the moment these plans could wait. For the moment there was triumph to be savored and money to be counted, and if there was enough money to be shared with Sebastian, then there was also enough triumph to be shared as well. No harm could come from admitting to Sebastian that the scheme, which he had never liked too well, had indeed been quite good. Or at least, he added to himself, it had worked, and that was the only thing that counted.
He resumed his climb, taking his time, approaching the top of the stairs, anticipating the smile of welcome on Sebastian’s face, a smile he realized would be mostly self-congratulatory for having engineered the complicated plan, but a welcoming smile nonetheless. Even Iracema would be forced to demonstrate some sign of admiration. His eyes came up as he turned into the small areaway fronting the paneled door; a curtain dropped on one of the first-floor windows, swaying back into place. This time, it appeared he would not be kept waiting.
Nor was he. Even as he reached for the doorbell the door swung open in his face, but the welcoming smile he had anticipated from Sebastian was oddly missing. In its place was a frown so fierce, a glare so out of character for the large fleshy man, that for a moment a slight chill struck the smaller man. What on earth could be the matter with Sebastian? What could possibly have caused this reception? And then the explanation struck him. Of course! The murder of the police officer at the Maloca de Tijuca had undoubtedly hit the newspapers and the radio, and Sebastian would have known by now of his presence there the previous evening. So what! He shoved himself past the larger man, swaggering into the dim room. On the arm of a chair Iracema sat, her head turned down, her hair shadowing her face, her eyes staring at the rug. Nacio shook his head. Amateurs, he thought with an inner sneer; beginners! Did they honestly think the killing of the police officer more important that the successful assassination he had accomplished just a short while before? Or that he was so careless as to have left anything at either killing to lead to himself, or through him, to them?
He shrugged and swaggered into the room farther; the girl came to her feet and moved to the window, as if to keep a distance between them. Nacio smiled faintly. “How about a drink?”
Sebastian stared at him a moment as if in disbelief. When he spoke it was in a half-whisper, his voice almost barren of any emotion. “You fool... You incompetent idiot...”
Nacio looked up, his eyes narrowing, his thin lips tightening. Talk like this from anyone, but especially from a fat coward like Sebastian, was far from common. He bit back his temper, forcing himself to relax. Success had crowned the more important killing, and if Sebastian was irritated with the other, it was just too bad. There was no need to see each other ever again after today, and the fat man could stew in his memories.
“What did you say?”
“I said you were an incompetent idiot! An imbecile! That I had to go all the way to Lisbon to find!” The repetition of the insults seemed to have strengthened the deep voice; the large hands clenched and unclenched in anger.
Nacio stared at him a moment and then shrugged carelessly. “Those are pretty strong words, my friend.”
“Strong words?” Sebastian’s eyes widened at the other’s attitude; he almost sputtered. “Strong words?” His voice rasped in his throat as if speech were painful. “Three months in planning this thing — three months? More! Every last detail! And over five thousand conto spent in expenses—” His voice grew even more bitter. “Idiot things, like buying you a fake passport, and those fancy clothes you’re wearing. And you call it strong words when I don’t congratulate you for blowing the whole thing?” His large body leaned forward a bit; he seemed to be holding in an explosion with an almost superhuman effort.
“Blowing what thing?” Nacio suddenly laughed; the whole thing was too absurd. So it wasn’t the affair of the police officer that was bothering Sebastian after all; the poor stupid fat slob somehow seemed to have the crazy idea that he had missed his target! What foolishness! “What are you talking about?”
Sebastian gritted his teeth, hissing through them. “I’m talking about a radio announcement that came through less than five minutes ago, saying that despite an attack that had just been made upon him, Juan Dorcas of Argentina expects to address the opening session of the O.A.S. tomorrow morning! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Nacio’s laughter died instantly, replaced by an icy calm. He seemed to shrink into himself; the wary instinct of an animal defending himself against a threat suspected but not confirmed. “You’re crazy!”
“Am I?” A big thumb jerked angrily toward one corner of the room. “Am I? Would you like to hear it for yourself? There’s the radio over there; tune it in. Listen for yourself. It’s all they’re talking about; it’s on every station.”
“It’s impossible! I saw him when the bullet hit him!” Nacio’s eyes suddenly narrowed; his jaw clenched. So Sebastian was still trying to play games! “What are you trying to pull?”
“What am I—?” Words failed the larger man. “What am I—?”
“That’s right. I did the job and I want my money. And I want it right now!” Nacio’s hand crept toward his belt; his eyes were points of ice in his lean face. “So get it!”
“Get it? Get what?” Sebastian stared at him. “You want to be paid for costing me a fortune? For throwing away what I planned on so long and so carefully?”
The revolver suddenly appeared in Nacio’s hand. The time to end this charade had arrived; his surprise that Sebastian would attempt to pull something like this was tempered by the knowledge that no man could be trusted forever, and particularly not where a sum this size was involved. His voice hardened.
“You heard me. I want that money.”
Sebastian faced him, frozen, his widened eyes riveted on the revolver. “Where did you get that gun?”
“In a bag of popcorn! Come on! I did my part of the job and I intend to be paid for it.”
“Put down that gun—”
“I’ll put it down when I’ve been paid. Come on! I’m sure the money’s here in the house!”
At the window Iracema suddenly spoke. Her voice was dull, almost uninterested, as if the disappointment of the day had drained away the last of the vitality that had kept her going for the past week. “There are some men coming up the ladeira... Strangers...”