There was no doubt that behind the slightly sardonic smirk the obese man was in deadly earnest. Wilson swung his head toward the silent figure with the gun; as if in response to the gesture, the thin man moved one step to stand behind a heavy chair. So much for any chance of a surprise attack, Wilson thought bitterly, and slowly came to his feet. The fat man nodded in congratulation for this sensible attitude and walked over to the radio, twisting the dial.
There were a few seconds of silence, and then the instrument exploded with the ringing of bells and the wild honking of automobile horns; the voice of the announcer came on, jubilantly proclaiming the new year. Behind the high, excited voice there was a steady rumble of drums being beaten. They’re broadcasting from the beach, Wilson thought blankly; I never saw that ceremony, and now I never will. The fat man raised his voice above the din.
“Let’s get on with it. The racket won’t last forever, you know. Let’s get those clothes off—”
An icy voice cut through the happy noise from the radio. “Let’s get our hands up, instead.”
The small thin man with the revolver spun about at the unexpected voice, automatically drawing himself into a crouch behind the chair, but he had lost the timing before he had begun. Da Silva shot him carefully and accurately through the mouth. The small head snapped back as if slapped; the body was flung to twist over an arm of the chair and then slide lifelessly to the floor. The fat man was pawing desperately at his jacket pocket, but before Da Silva could train his weapon, Wilson had thrown himself upon his tormentor, one hand clamping viciously against the pocket with the gun. The two men tottered a moment, locked together, straining, and then crashed to the floor, rolling over in a wild tangle of arms and legs. For an instant the eyes of the two combatants locked, as if searching each other’s for intent; the fat man’s fury seemed to dissipate as he read the message in the eyes glaring fiercely into his. He squirmed in a violent effort to escape; Wilson clamped him down, holding him. The tableau held for one fateful second, and then there was a sharp explosion. The man on the bottom twisted in a spasm of pain; his eyes came up, staring blankly at the man above him, and then he relaxed, accepting the pleasant freedom of death. Wilson rolled free and came to his knees, panting. Da Silva was glaring at him.
“That was deliberate!”
Wilson paid him no attention. He staggered erect, walked unsteadily to the coffee table and picked up the brandy bottle, bringing it to his lips, gulping the fiery liquid. He set the bottle down and glared back at his friend.
“And where in hell have have you been?”
Da Silva disregarded the question. He tossed the revolver onto the table, walked over and switched off the radio, and then came back. In the sudden silence of the room his voice was biting. “There was no need to kill him.”
Wilson’s eyes were still black with anger. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, sneering at the other. “What is this? Are you the only one with a license to kill in this town? Do you know what that son-of-a-bitch was going to do to Jill?”
Da Silva’s voiced remained cold. “I killed the other because there was no other way. There was no need to kill this one. Alive, I could have taken him apart, gotten him to talk. Dead — we’re right back where we were before.” He frowned down at the fallen figure a moment; the dead face returned his stare disinterestedly. Da Silvan sighed. “Well, there’s no use crying about it now.”
“If you’d have been here sooner—” Wilson began hotly, and then paused, remembering. “Where the devil did you come from, anyway? When I heard that chain bolt in the kitchen sliding into place and turned around to see him walking in, I figured I’d had it.”
Da Silva shrugged. “I started to come around the back when I saw two suspicious-looking characters who apparently had the same idea.” Despite his disappointment at the death of the potential witness, his usual humor was returning. “Knowing the weakness of Brazilian elevators, I figured all three of us would be too much weight for the mechanism, so I came up the front elevator, instead. I still had your key from when I opened the door for you, so—”
“You had a key, and you still waited out in the hallway all that time?”
Da Silva studied the flushed face a moment and then shook his head.
“You’re still under shock. If I’d fumbled that key into the lock while those two were here, they would be discussing us right now, instead of us discussing them. Personally, I prefer it this way.” He smiled gently. “What I did — and I hope you’ll forgive me — was eavesdrop. By the way, the soundproofing of the doors in this apartment could stand a lot of improvement. Anyway, when your friend suggested that the noise of New Year’s would suit his purpose, it occurred to me that it would also serve mine. As it did.”
He bobbed his head modestly and then straightened his face. “And now, I suppose, we’d better do something about these two.” He squatted down beside the body of the fat man; Wilson took a deep breath.
“Do you know him?”
Da Silva shook his head. “No.”
“A professional killer walking the streets, and the police don’t know him?”
“If we knew him,” Da Silva said dryly, “he wouldn’t have been walking the streets.” He flipped open the jacket, staring at the neat, clean spot where the inside label had been removed, his eyebrows raised slightly. He patted the pockets and then ran his hands through them. They were empty. Other than a wad of cruzeiro notes, folded, the trouser pockets also revealed nothing. Da Silva came to his feet, frowning. “Very professional, indeed.”
He moved to the second body, squatting down, again beginning his search. Wilson moved with him, clearing his throat. “I remember the other one called him Chico.”
“Half the men in Brazil are probably called Chico. It’s a common enough nickname.” Da Silva withdrew a wallet from the hip pocket, laid it aside a moment, and continued his search. There was nothing else. He came to his feet, frowning, holding the wallet. “Chico, it appears, was not as professional as his boss. But the two of them, I must say, were extremely trusting souls for thugs.”
“What do you mean?”
Da Silva looked at him. “No car keys. Either they left them in the car, which is hard to believe in Brazil, or—” He moved to the window, glancing carefully from the edge of the drape to the street below. It was deserted. “If there was a third one, he’s long gone now.” He shrugged. “Well, let’s see what Chico carried around with him for papers.”
He flipped the wallet open, examining its contents. “Lived in Duque de Caxias...” He paused, an odd feeling coming to him. Why did the name of that small suburb seem to ring a bell? Sometime in the past few days the name of that town had come up. In connection with this case? He shook his head. Scarcely. As far as he had been concerned, this hadn’t even been a case until a few hours ago. He pushed the thought aside, returning to the papers.
“Franciso Vasconcellos — carteira de trabalho number such-and-such — operário — laborer, that is... A copy of a receipt for an advance on his pay, complete with thumbprint and therefore legal, from the Caxias Construction Company...” He shook his head, turning to the crumpled body. “Chico, my friend, you should have stuck to construction work. Or picked another line of endeavor for moonlighting.” He returned his attention to the wallet, riffling through bills. “Five contos three hundred cruzeiros in money. Certainly no fortune today.” He peered into the other sections of the tattered billfold and then bent down, returning the billfold to its owner’s pocket. “Well, we’d better call and get the boys here from downtown. I don’t imagine you want these two cluttering up your living room as permanent guests.”