Nacio almost sneered at the pitiful attempt to draw his attention. Strangers never came to the top of the ladeira. Across from him Sebastian took a tentative step toward a table in one corner. The gun came up swiftly, rigidly.
“Stay where you are! Move away from that table!”
“They’re still coming,” Iracema said quietly, almost conversationally.
The disinterest, almost boredom, of her voice caused Nacio to waver a moment. He stepped quickly backward, toward the window, sweeping the girl aside with a stiff arm. The revolver came up, checking the larger man in place, before he chanced a quick glance about the edge of the curtain. There were men coming up the ladeira! Still, there was no reason to suspect they had anything to do with either him or Sebastian, or the house; there were other houses on the Portofino. But still, there was no doubt it was rare.
A frown appeared on his old-young face; he took a second glance, studying the men below with greater care, and then froze in rigid anger. One of the men he recognized; the watchdog Sebastian had set on him the night before at the Maloca! He swung back, his face white with fury.
“So that was the idea, eh? I pull the job and then you have some of your boys take care of me, eh? So you keep the whole bundle. Well, if they take me, you won’t be around to watch!”
Sebastian took a step forward, staring at him as if he were mad. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this,” Nacio said quietly through clenched teeth. He raised the revolver and calmly pulled the trigger. The explosion rocked the room, mingled with the sudden terrified scream of the girl. The large man staggered back under the force of the bullet; his hands came up, fingers curled like talons, and then he lurched forward toward his assailant. The second bullet tore through his neck, swinging him about sharply; his hands groped blindly at the spurting blood, as if trying to hold life within him by sheer force, and then he crashed to the floor.
A whirlwind of thrashing arms and legs struck Nacio, driving him to his knees before he knew what had happened. He tried to twist loose, to bring up the gun again, but an infuriated Iracema was swarming over him, clawing at him madly with sharpened fingernails, her full body used to press him down; her breath was hot and sweet on his face. Her hands locked on the gun, tearing it brutally from his grasp. An almost insane continuous crooning came from her throat, more frightening than any sound Nacio could remember. With a supreme effort bordering on panic he thrashed about and finally managed to break the hold and squirm loose, coming to his feet in a wild stagger to make for the door.
The three men trudging warily up the long granite stairway, paused at the sharp flat cracks of the pistol shots, echoing in the narrow defile and resounding from the mountain above. Da Silva was the first to recover. He started up the remaining stone slabs at a run, his eyes bright, his revolver out and gripped tightly in his large hand. Behind him Wilson and Ramos clambered up the steep steps, panting, their eyes locked on the small house at the top.
The door they were watching as they climbed was suddently torn open; a disheveled figure appeared there, head jerking wildly from side to side in search of escape. The small spectacled man outlined against the black of the open doorway took the two steps necessary to reach the edge of the ladeira and then swung about, preparing to make a dash for the protection of the wooded serra above. Da Silva brought his gun up, shouting, but in that moment there were a series of sharp explosions from within the house. The figure jerked, twisted as if uncertain, and then slowly turned in a grotesque pirouette. It took a hesitant step, and then another, paused at the edge of the top step a moment as if considering the extensive view, tottered, crumpled, and came hurtling down the ladeira toward the three men pressed back in frozen shock against the low stone railing. It landed above them, bounced flaccidly twice, and came to a final rest against the wall, hands flung outward as if in supplication, face crushed cruelly into the crevice formed by the step and the rough stone wall. A small trail of blood instantly stained the pale stone, running from the hidden smashed face to trickle delicately to the step below.
Da Silva took the two steps to reach the body in a leap, bending down instantly to examine it; Wilson paused at his side, crouching, breathing heavily, one hand going automatically to his forehead to ease the pounding pain there. Sergeant Ramos went on up past his chief without awaiting instruction, bending low to take what little protection the short wall offered, jumping from step to step. There was a cry from the woods beyond the house and Lieutenant Perreira came running down from the green cover of the matto, followed by another man. They dashed across the open space, dodging from side to side, and then paused at the wall of the house, edging cautiously toward the corner.
Da Silva rolled the body over; it seemed to resist a moment as if resenting the invasion of its privacy, and then came heavily, arms flopping wide, slapping down at the stone step. The eyeglasses had smashed and were white circles of powdered glass skewed on the bloody face. Da Silva bent over distastefully and stripped them away. The unseeing eyes stared back at him; the thin lips dribbling blood were drawn back from the broken teeth. Da Silva made a small grimace of repugnance.
“It’s Nacio Mendes, all right...”
There was a shout from the house above; Ramos was standing in the open doorway, tucking his gun into his holster, waving him to come up. Perreira and his companion had disappeared within the house. Da Silva straightened up slowly, replaced his gun in its holster, and then with a shake of his head stared up at the house.
“Let’s go.”
The dim shadows of the room, after the brilliant sunshine outside, caused the two men to pause as they entered, waiting until their sight had adjusted to the semi-twilight within. The sharp odor of cordite filled the room; wisps of smoke still eddied in the still air. The other three detectives were standing hesitantly to one side, their expressions an odd combination of professional interest in the dead man sprawled on the floor, and a certain sympathetic respect for the girl sitting beside it, cradling the bloody head in her lap. She made no sound at all, but merely continued to brush the wavy hair with her hand, stroking it gently, rocking back and forth in silent grief. Da Silva studied the dim room a moment and then walked over to a chair and picked up a small briefcase resting there; he opened it, stared into its empty depths, and then studied the manufacturer’s name impressed on the inside of the cover. He laid it aside, glancing at Perreira; the lieutenant nodded as he tipped his head toward the body.
“It’s Pinheiro, all right.” His voice was restrained, as if in respect for the girl’s wordless sorrow.
Da Silva nodded. He made his voice brisk, businesslike, in order to break the spell the scene was casting on its viewers. “All right. Let’s get her away from here. I’ll talk to her later at headquarters.” He frowned down at the spread-eagled figure. “And cover him up with something. And also cover the one down on the ladeira as well, until the wagon comes. The kids around this neighborhood see enough without having to see that.”
“Yes, sir.” Perreira muttered an instruction to his assistant and then bent to take the girl by the hand. She rose quietly, almost majestically, stared down at the dead body a moment, and then docilely followed Perreira to the doorway, unconsciously wiping her bloody hands against her thighs. The other detective took a serape from the couch and draped it as best he could over the dead man, and then followed the lieutenant to the door. Ramos picked up a small throw rug and also left the room, going down the steep ladeira toward the body wedged on the stone step.