“I’ll help you take care of her. Can I come by your apartment now?”
“Come, I miss you.”
If I lie down, this feeling will go away, he thought.
He left the apartment door open, so Salete could enter without his having to get up. He went to the bedroom and lay down. He slept.
He awoke to Salete’s voice:
“Mattos, are you there? What happened here? A fire?”
“I’m in the bedroom.”
“My god, you’re so pale,” said the girl.
Mattos tried to get up from the bed but couldn’t. His clothes and hair were soaked with sweat.
“Who set fire to the place?”
“I did. But call someone to take care of it, please.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting my ulcer to play a trick on me right now. I called you here. . I wanted to — But that can wait. I think I need to go to the hospital now.”
“Are you going to have to be operated on?”
“I think so.”
“Are you going to die?”
“No. Get that little package wrapped in silk paper on the night table. It’s for you. Careful opening it.”
Salete opened the paper.
“Good heavens! I can’t believe it. Is it what I think I’m seeing?”
“Yes.”
“A scab from your injury. .”
“I kept it all these days for you to take to that macumba woman.”
“She’s not a macumba woman.”
“Whatever. But first you’re going to help me get to the hospital. Here’s the address; my doctor said I should go there if I started feeling really bad. Afterwards I’ll come back here to wait for Alice. She should arrive tomorrow or the next day. Explain everything to her. Treat her well.”
Salete sat down beside Mattos on the bed. She pressed the inspector’s head to her breast.
“Open your eyes, my love, just a little.”
Mattos opened his eyes.
“You see this?” Salete showed him the paper Mattos had given her. “Look what I’m doing with the scab.”
Salete wadded up the paper and threw it on the floor, as if throwing a stone.
“I’ll put it in the trash later,” she said.
In reality the paper no longer contained the scab, which Salete had placed in the compact in her purse.
Mattos closed his eyes again. He was still sweating profusely. But his stomach didn’t ache. He didn’t even feel heartburn.
“Get the disk on top of the record player, please, and put it on. It says Elixir of Love on the cover. I feel like listening to a bit of it before we leave for the hospital.”
Salete went to the living room and did as Mattos had requested. She turned the volume up to a level that the inspector could hear in the bedroom.
At that instant the front door opened and a tall, powerfully built black man entered the room.
“Is Inspector Mattos in?”
“He’s back there. Who are you?”
“He doesn’t know me,” said the black man, closing the door.
Salete ran to the bedroom, followed by the black.
“Alberto,” shouted Salete, “there’s a man here looking for you.”
Mattos opened his eyes.
“Are you Inspector Mattos?” the black man asked softly.
“Yes,” said Mattos, sitting up with difficulty. He felt, along with strong vertigo, a sensation of euphoria. He had finally found the Negro.
“Inspector Alberto Mattos?” the other man insisted.
“I have something that belongs to you,” said the inspector.
Mattos, with great effort and closely watched by the black man, stuck his hand in his pocket and took out the gold ring.
“Take it. It’s your ring.”
Chicão took the ring, checked the letter F engraved on its inside. He put the ring on his finger.
“I’d lost this ring. I know where you found it.”
“In the bathroom of the guy you killed at the Deauville Building.”
Mattos got up, leaning on Salete.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Paulo Machado Gomes Aguiar on the first of August.”
Chicão calmly fingered the ring.
“Are you sick?”
“He has a stomach ulcer,” said Salete.
“I had an uncle die from a perforated ulcer,” said Chicão.
Supported by Salete, Mattos left the bedroom and went to the living room table where the telephone was. He picked up the phone. Hesitated. I’m not a cop anymore, he thought. I’m going to go back to being a lawyer, when I get out of the mess I’m in. I should tell this guy, Go away, Francisco Albergaria, and if you need a lawyer look me up.
Suddenly the volume of the record player increased powerfully.
Mattos turned and saw Chicão beside the record player pointing a revolver at him.
“Say goodbye to your girl,” shouted Chicão, to be heard above the sound of the record.
Mattos looked at Salete. She was the last thing he saw. He fell to the floor, killed by Chicão’s shot.
“Alberto, Alberto!” Salete kneeled beside Mattos’s body.
“I hate killing a beautiful woman,” said Chicão.
Salete looked at the assassin, surprised. “Do you think I’m beautiful? Really?”
Both spoke loudly in order to be heard over the music and singing coming from the record player.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to your face.”
“Thank you,” said Salete, closing her eyes.
Chicão placed the gun barrel over Salete’s left breast and pulled the trigger.
He turned down the sound on the record player. He identified the singers’ Italian words. He recalled the songs he’d learned during the war. He hummed “mamma son’ tanto felice” for a few seconds; then he stopped and listened to the opera. Music, any music, always moved him. There were times during the war when he cried listening to Neapolitan songs.
It was a pity, but he had to leave; he couldn’t stay for the record to finish.
Without looking back at the dead bodies, he left, leaving the music playing.
A FEW MINUTES LATER, the gunman Genésio, brother of Teodoro of Senate security, arrived at Mattos’s apartment.
The door was ajar, and from inside came the sound of singing, which made Genésio hesitate, not knowing what to do. Then the music suddenly stopped. Genésio took his old but reliable Parabellum from his belt, and cautiously opened the door.
Seeing the bodies on the living room floor, the first thing he did was to shut the door. Then he verified that both the man and the woman were dead.
He searched the coat hanging on a chair and found the police ID of Inspector Alberto Mattos. He checked the photo on the ID against the features of the dead man. He put the ID back in the coat.
Genésio left the apartment, shutting the door.
He caught a taxi and went to the Hotel OK on Rua Senador Dantas, downtown.
Teodoro and Senator Vitor Freitas’s aide Clemente were waiting for him in the hotel bar, drinking.
“Did you do the job?” Teodoro asked.
“Alberto Mattos is dead. I checked his identity card. I also had to kill a girl who was with him. But I’m not gonna charge for that.”
“Want a whiskey?” asked Clemente.
Genésio looked around. “I don’t drink that crap. Does this place have a good cane rum?”
“I don’t know. I can ask.”
“Let it go. I want my money. I’m gonna hit the road.”
Clemente handed Genésio a bundle wrapped in brown paper.
“A hundred thousand. You can check it.”
“No need. Goodbye, brother.”
“The senator’s going to be happy, isn’t he?” said Teodoro after Genésio left.