Da Silva didn’t feel like listening to a run-down of all the restaurants in Copacabana; he knew most of them, to his sorrow. “And where’s his barbershop?”
“Downstairs. In this building. Second floor.” Pasmado looked at him, curious. “Why?”
“I need a trim. Which one was his barber?”
“Armando, himself. He’s the owner.”
“Always the best for Valadares, eh?” Da Silva smiled a humorless smile and came to his feet. He brought out his wallet, extracted a card, and laid it on the desk before the seated man. Pasmado picked it up gingerly, as if it might have been dipped in curare. Da Silva gestured toward the small bit of cardboard. “That’s my card. If you hear anything, or remember anything useful, get in touch. We want to know why Valadares went to Paraíso, and if he didn’t go alone, we want to know with whom.”
Pasmado remained silent, looking at the card. Da Silva walked to the door.
“And don’t leave town without permission,” he said evenly. “I can arrange it so our delegacia here can make São José dos Campos look like a convent.”
He closed the door behind him. Pasmado stared at the closed door. That’s what you say, he thought sourly. You ain’t never been to São José dos Campos...
Chapter 8
Lieutenant Perreira was standing in the small band of shade surrounding the Edifício Rio Branco, waiting, when the captain walked out of the building to meet the heat of the day. There was a touch of sadness in the lieutenant’s manner, for although he had been proven right and his superior wrong, Perreira would have preferred it the other way. Two things that Da Silva received from his assistants without demanding it were loyalty and respect, and none of his people liked to give the captain bad news. Besides, his reception of bad news was often unpredictable.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Perreira said, actually sounding sorry, “but there’s no plane that goes from Porto Alegre to Rio to Recife and then on to Paraíso, not on any airline.”
Da Silva considered him wonderingly. “You managed to check out all the airlines in fifteen minutes?”
“They have a book sir, an Official Air Guide, it’s called. It has all the schedules of all the airlines.” Perreira’s faithful battered notebook came out and was opened. His finger found the proper place, miraculously, Da Silva always thought. “Here it is, sir. There’s only one line that flies from Rio nonstop to Paraíso — that’s Vasp — and none that fly non-stop from Porto Alegre. Vasp also flies non-stop from São Paulo, but that wasn’t on our list. I just got it to—”
He realized the captain was looking at him with a faint frown and hurried on.
“Here’s what you wanted, sir. Varig comes the closest to hitting all the cities, but it misses Paraíso. They have a flight that originates in Porto Alegre — that’s their headquarters — and stops at Rio, Salvador, Recife, Forteleza, and São Luis, but that flight continues on to Belem. To get to Paraiso you have to get off in Recife and catch a feeder line to Paraíso, and that’s a long wait. If you get off in São Luis — which only makes sense if you’re coming from the north, like Belem, there’s a connection on the Paraense line, twice a day; but nobody in this case would have been coming from the north, would they, sir? And why go from Recife to São Luis and then have to practically come back again?”
“You still got all that in just fifteen minutes?”
“It was all on one page, sir,” Perreira said, but he still looked pleased.
“What you’re saying,” Da Silva said, “is forget any connection with airlines or pilots, is that it?”
“Just about, sir.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time on it. I’ve got another job for you — probably as useless as the last one. Yesterday morning Valadares left his office, supposedly to get a haircut, at about eleven. His schedule was to get a trim and then go to lunch. He usually ate his lunch at his hotel, the Miracopa in Copacabana, when he didn’t stay in town. I’ll check out the barbershop — it’s right in the building here — but I want you to go out to the Miracopa and ask around to see if he really had lunch there. If he did, I want to know if he ate alone, or if anyone came with him, or joined him. And I want to know how he acted; if he was nervous, or anything. If he didn’t eat there, try some of the other restaurants around there; the better ones. Mario’s, for example, or Sorrento’s. They all ought to know him by name.”
“Yes, sir. Is that all?”
“That’s it.”
“Yes, sir.” The notebook was snapped shut and slid into a pocket.
“But don’t spend too much time on it. It’s probably also a waste of time. I’ll see you back at the office.”
“Right, sir,” Perreira said smartly, and went out into the street to flag down a taxi. Da Silva watched him enter a cab and then turned to go back into the building. And what did he hope to gain by checking Valadares’ barber? He brought a hand unconsciously to his own shaggy hair as if wondering whether he might not improve the time by getting a trim himself, and then shrugged the thought away. Work, work, work!
He took the stairs rather than the elevator, and found the barber pole of Armando’s shop immediately upon reaching the landing. He pushed through the swinging glass door to face four quickly smiling barbers and three manicure girls, all idle, their attention diverted from their magazines by his entrance. One of the barbers came to his feet smartly, laying aside his newspaper, but Da Silva shook his head.
“Armando.”
The barber took it in good grace and reseated himself. A heavy-set man, the eldest of those present, laid down a magazine and came to his feet. He started to reach for an apron, but Da Silva took him by the arm and walked him a bit away from the others.
“Police,” he said quietly, and showed his warrant card.
Armando studied it and looked at him calmly; his conscience was clean.
“It has nothing to do with you,” Da Silva said, although there was no indication from Armando that he had the slightest fear it did have anything to do with him. Six curious heads watched them a moment and then ducked back into their magazines as he glanced in their direction. The swarthy detective turned back to Armando. “You have a customer named Valadares. Do you remember him?”
“Of course,” Armando said, wondering curiously what trouble his favorite customer had gotten himself into.
“He was in here yesterday?”
“Yes,” Armando said, mystified. “He comes every week.”
“Always at the same time? Or the same day?”
“It varies,” Armando said, his bafflement at the line of questioning increasing. “He calls first and makes an appointment.”
“And what time was his appointment yesterday? What time did he leave?”
Armando gave up trying to understand. “Yesterday? I don’t remember, exactly. I can check my appointment book — wait!” Inspiration came. “I remember. It had to be just before noon, because he asked one of the manicurists to go to lunch with him. He was struck with her, and—” He spread his hands in explanation, and also as if in wonder that anyone should have done so.
“Oh?” Da Silva looked up, inspecting the three girls sitting at their respective tables, each pretending to be interested in her magazine. The captain had to agree with Armando; whatever other virtues Valadares might have possessed, his taste in women was awful. “Which one?”
“Oh, not one of those!” Armando said, almost raising his voice to a level which might have been heard by the girls and misinterpreted-or interpreted, for that matter. He instantly lowered it; good manicurists were hard to find. “Velma, the one at the end, the red-head, was out for a few days. The agency sent a replacement. That was the one Senhor Valadares was taken with.”