“And what about Jill?”
Da Silva had turned toward the telephone. He paused, thinking, and then nodded slowly.
“Yes... Whoever hired our unknown fat man is going to start wondering when he doesn’t get a report. And if, as I suspect, he knows where his fat man went, he may very well send a substitute. Whatever this is all about, it’s apparently big enough for a well-financed extermination campaign. In any event, I think the smart thing would be to get the girl to a safer place.”
“And where might that be?”
A faint smile creased Da Silva’s lips. “I think I know just the spot. Assuming we’re lucky, that is. After all, this is New Year’s Eve, and a lot of people don’t stay home tonight.”
“Who are you thinking of?”
“Nobody you know.” Da Silva thought a moment more, and then his smile faded slightly. “If we find her, though, we can kill two birds with one stone.”
Wilson was frowning at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You wanted a doctor to look at her, didn’t you? Well, if we find the girl I’m looking for, I’m sure we’ll find a doctor with her. Unfortunately,” he added to Wilson’s surprise, and walked morosely to the telephone.
10
New Year’s Eve was not Lieutenant Perreira’s idea of the best time to be assigned to duty at headquarters. He recognized, philosophically, that the duty had to fall to someone, but his philosophy did not extend to understanding why that someone had to be him. It was not that the eve of the new year was a particularly quiet time; quite the contrary. Under the influence of both pinga and religious fervor, some of the celebrants at the beach at times got out of control, and it was not uncommon to pick up a few bodies along with the empty bottles, gutted candles, remnants of camp fires, and other debris left on the beach to be revealed by dawn. And a steady parade of pickpockets together with their accusers — often foreigners — added to the burden of the night. Basically, however, had he been honest in his main objection to working that night, it would have been because he himself would have liked to have joined in the macumba ceremony along the water’s edge. Lieutenant Perreira was a good Catholic, but like many other Brazilians, he saw no reason not to cover his bets.
He had come on duty at eleven o’clock the evening before, and unfortunately the major activity at headquarters did not generally begin before three in the morning. Fortunately, however, the collection of pornography to which he had been previously assigned afforded him both a means of passing time, as well as the satisfaction of knowing he was contributing to the department. He was studying one of the pictorial exhibits with equal parts of admiration and disbelief when the telephone at his elbow rang. With a sigh at the interruption, he laid the picture aside and picked up the instrument.
“Yes? Hello? Lieutenant Perreira here.”
“Perreira? This is Captain Da Silva—”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows went up in surprise even as he dutifully noted the time and marked it down on his pad together with the name of his caller. The captain had been off to a formal party that night; what could possibly have happened? With Captain Da Silva, Perreira thought, anything! “Yes, sir.”
“Two things. First, you know where Mr. Wilson’s apartment is, don’t you? On the Lagôa? Good. I want a wagon down here — to pick up two bodies.” Perreira’s eyebrows went up even farther, but he made no comment, merely scribbling faster. Da Silva’s deep voice continued, calmly and evenly. “They are to be taken to the Institute and identified. One has nothing visible on him for identification. The other has a wallet. In that wallet is a receipt copy with a thumbprint. If the thumbprint matches his own, we’ll know who he is. The institute can check the other out through any known criminals in or from Duque de Caxias or through any contact with the first one. Or any other way they want, as long as we get to know who he was. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Perreira paused, his pencil poised. “How were they killed?”
“Shot. Tell them down at the institute not to worry about ballistics. I have the guns that were used. All we want is positive identification: names, addresses, history — everything they can get. Allright?”
“Yes, sir.” Perreira marked it down and returned his attention to the phone. “You said there were two things.”
“Yes—” A slight change came into the captain’s voice. If Perreira had not known his superior so well, he would have said it was a touch of embarrassment. “You have the roster of all personnel there? With their addresses and telephone numbers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want the home addresses and telephone numbers of two of them. João Martins, of the institute, and” — there was the barest hesitation. Da Silva cleared his throat — “and Astrea Pinheiro Alves. She’s new in the department.”
“Yes, sir. Just a second.” Perreira reached out, dragging the large ledger from its place. He flipped it open and ran his finger down the list. “Here you are, Captain. Dr. Martins lives in Leblon, Rua Melo Franco three twenty-six.” He added the telephone number and flipped the pages backward. “Astrea Alves... Here it is. Rua Cinco de Julho sixty-one. That’s in Copacabana, Captain.”
“I know where it is. And the telephone number?”
Perreira read it off; Da Silva marked it down. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You get that wagon here right away, hear? I’ll wait for them, but I don’t feel like waiting all night. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” That business over, Da Silva seemed to relax; at least the floor of Wilson’s apartment would be clean. Almost as an afterthought and completely automatically, he added, “Anything else new?”
“No, sir.” Perreira caught himself, suddenly remembering. “Wait a minute, Captain. There’s an envelope here in Ruy’s handwriting, addressed to you. On the outside it says, ‘Shoe, Institute, brought back by Captain D. S., Identification.’”
At the other end of the line, Da Silva frowned. One problem at a time, he thought. Push, push, push! Work, work, work! He shrugged philosophically.
“I’ll tell you what, Lieutenant: you hang up and arrange for the wagon. And then call me back here at Mr. Wilson’s. You can read me Ruy’s report then. I don’t have anything else to do until the boys get here, which better be quick, and also” — a faint smile crossed the swarthy face — “I’m sure you don’t have much else to do at this hour except try to memorize those dirty books.”
“Sir!” Perreira was insulted. “You, personally, assigned me—”
“The wagon!” Da Silva barked in a tone he was sure Perreira would recognize, and dropped the receiver decisively on the hook. He turned to face Wilson, who was just emerging from the bedroom with a worried look on his face. “How is she?”
The smaller man closed the bedroom door softly and shook his head. He sounded worried. “How long is that perfumed ether supposed to knock a person out?”
“I have no idea. I never tried it, myself.”
Wilson chewed his lip. “Her pulse seems to be getting a bit ragged, and she doesn’t look too good. I don’t like it. We’ve got to get a doctor for her or get her to a hospital in a hurry. I put a cold washcloth on her face, and she didn’t budge. I even tried slapping her—”
Bushy eyebrows went up in simulated shock. “And not even engaged? Let alone married?”