Wilson, watching the scene from one side, stared down a moment at the shapeless mound on the floor and then raised startled eyes to Da Silva’s rigid face.
“My God! What on earth happened?”
“A disagreement,” Da Silva said dryly, and slowly shook his head. “An apparent difference of opinion. In which both lost.” He looked up. “It seems fairly clear that the girl shot Mendes, and most probably because Mendes shot Pinheiro. Why?” He shrugged humorlessly. “Maybe we’ll find out from the girl down at the Delegacia. And maybe not. I can’t really see it as being too important. Neither one of them will be missed.”
“And who is Pinheiro?”
Da Silva glanced at him curiously. “I keep forgetting you don’t know. He’s the Sebastian you wanted me to look for so desperately. Well, we managed to find him.” His eyes dropped to contemplate the body on the floor broodingly. “If you still want him, you can have him.”
Wilson squeezed his eyes shut a moment against the pain that was returning to split his head, and then opened them. “The man in the note, I gather. But who, exactly, is he?”
“Pinheiro?” Da Silva shrugged. “He is — or was, rather a middleman in arranging for people to be killed. A go-between. A one-man employment agency with enough contacts on both sides of the law to bring both a murderer and a victim together. A marriage-broker, in reverse. Who hired one assassin too many.” He brought his eyes up from the lump on the floor. “He is — or was — the one who arranged for Nacio Mendes to come back to Brazil.”
“But why?”
Da Silva stared at him. “Why? To kill Juan Dorcas, of course.”
Wilson shook his head impatiently and instantly regretted it. He waited until the pounding had subsided. “I don’t mean that, I mean, for whom? Who paid for the job?”
A faint smile touched the corners of Da Silva’s lips, a smile that did not extend to his brooding eyes. He studied Wilson’s pale face a moment, and then picked up the briefcase that had interested him before. “That’s right; you really don’t know, do you? Well, I don’t think this is a time for secrets. This was apparently used to bring the payoff, and the money isn’t here. And it has a Buenos Aires manufacturer’s name. So...”
He walked to the foot of the stairway leading above and called up it softly. In the quiet room his voice echoed clearly to the floor above, emotionless and steady.
“Senhor?” There was complete silence in the small house; in the distance the faint echo of a dying siren seemed to give an almost false touch of drama to the scene. Da Silva took a deep breath. “Senhor? I’m sure you hear me. I think you’d better come down now. I know you’re up there, and I think there has been enough killing for one morning...”
Wilson was staring at him in surprise, as if the events of the past few moments had driven his tall Brazilian friend out of his mind. “Zé! What on earth—?”
Da Silva raised a hand sharply for silence without taking his eyes from the stairway. He stepped a bit closer to the foot of the stairs, calling again. His voice remained soft, but there was steel in the steady tones.
“Senhor? I know you’re there. If I am forced to come up and get you—”
There was silence for a moment, and then the hesitant scrape of a foot on the landing above. A man appeared on the steps, placing one neatly shod foot before him slowly, carefully, almost daintily descending. Da Silva moved to one side, twisting the switch of a lamp, his revolver rigidly held before him. In the cone of light that sprang up in the dim room the small body came into view a bit at a time. First the tiny feet in their highly polished shoes, then the short legs, then the round stomach and the arms held with his fists clenched tightly at his side, and finally the full fat face with the hairline mustache and the hair that seemed to be painted in place. He reached the bottom of the steps and stood quietly, watchfully, staring at the two men before him with wide liquid eyes.
Wilson turned to Da Silva, frowning in amazement. “And who the devil is this?”
“This?” Da Silva was considering the little man with almost clinical detachment. “This is a hungry, vicious, ungrateful little monster with large ambitions. Who might have gotten away with it if he hadn’t tried to be cuter than he is. And who caused the death of three men, one of whom worked for me and will be missed...”
The small man opened his mouth as if to say something and then closed it, locking his jaw. The large swarthy man before him was frightening in his very lack of emotion. The fat face was pallid; beads of sweat began to form on his broad forehead. Wilson stared from the perspiring face to Da Silva’s narrowed eyes and stony expression.
“But, who—?”
“You want an introduction? Of course.” Da Silva turned to the small pale man and tipped his head slightly in a grotesque parody of politeness. “This is Senhor Wilson, of the American Embassy, and a very close friend of mine.” His head moved, contemplating Wilson.
“And this animal” — his voice remained the same — “is Senhor Alvinor Dorcas, brother of Juan Dorcas, but unfortunately for him and his plans, not at the moment his brother’s heir...”
Ten
Wilson watched his friend Captain José Da Silva push his way through the crowded tables of the Santos Dumont restaurant; he leaned over and poured a glass of cognac to the brim, and then carefully placed it across the table in position for ready consumption. Da Silva, arriving, removed his jacket with a profound sigh of relief, draped it over the back of his chair, and dropped into his seat. He noticed the glass before him and reached for it gratefully. Wilson frowned.
“You might at least say hello first.”
Da Silva paused with the glass halfway to his lips. “Hello.” He finished the drink, wiped his lips, and shook his head reproachfully. “And never interrupt a man in the midst of a delicate operation. I might have spilled some of it.”
“Sorry.” Wilson shook his head forlornly. “You appreciate the injustice of it all? I set up a scene expecting thanks, and end up apologizing. It happens every time.”
“But I do thank you,” Da Silva insisted. “I needed that drink.”
Wilson studied his friend a moment and then reached for the bottle. “They’re all gone?”
Da Silva nodded happily. “Every last little one. And about time. The final bunch left from Galeão about half an hour ago. After the head of their delegation made a touching speech about the hospitality of our fair country, and the beauty of our wonderful city.” He shook his head envyingly. “It must be wonderful to be a policeman in some place where diplomats don’t look for an excuse to visit. Some place like Kamchatka, for example.”
“Or Pittsburgh,” Wilson added, and grinned. “So now you can go back to taking your jacket off at lunch again.”
“Right.” Da Silva winked at him. “And about time for that, too. I was beginning to walk lopsided, and my maid complained that my jackets kept sliding off the hangers. My tailor also threatened suicide; he claimed I was frightening off custom.” He leaned back, staring out of the large windows benevolently. “What a lovely day!”
“You sound relaxed,” Wilson commented.
“Completely.”
“Then, in that case,” Wilson said slowly, “you might finally get around to clueing me in on that Dorcas case. You never did, you know. After you picked up brother Alvinor, you shut up like a clam. And this is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you since.”
“That’s right,” Da Silva said slowly, and looked up thoughtfully. “I keep forgetting that you people didn’t hire Sebastian, after all. Well, where do you want me to start?”
“How about at the beginning?”
“A reasonable request,” Da Silva agreed equably, and then paused to put his thoughts in order. “Well, once upon a time there were two brothers named Juan Dorcas and Alvinor Dorcas, who bore an extraordinary resemblance to each other, but who otherwise had little in common. Alvinor was used to play and fun, while brother Juan—”