“What was her name?”
“Bettina.”
“Bettina what?”
“I don’t know.” For the life of him Armando could not understand this constant harping on the last names of manicurists. “They aren’t on any payroll; they just work for the tips they collect, so I don’t ask. Is it important?”
“It might be,” Da Silva said, and frowned at the floor a moment. A second thought came, brought on by the first. “She didn’t come in today? Did she call?”
“She was all through,” Armando said disdainfully. “I was about to fire her, anyway. A manicurist?” He raised his shoulders. “She must have learned in an auto-repair shop. Senhor Valadares did me a favor by taking her away before I threw her out, or before I had to open a first-aid clinic for her clients. A manicurist? That agency should be ashamed!”
Da Silva wondered why he was here in this very average barbershop, asking very average and stupid questions about a manicurist. Start off on one of these little detours in an investigation and the first thing you knew you were so far off the trail you needed a compass and six weeks’ supplies to get home. The chances were that Valadares simply saw a potential recruit for his houses, or an interesting companion for a few hours dalliance, and did what came naturally. Still, there was the undeniable fact that his body had been found a thousand miles away less than twenty-four hours after taking the manicurist to lunch. Up to that point she had been the last person to see Valadares alive, so she might well remember if he had mentioned the reason for his going on his one-way trip, or if he had said anything about going, or had met anyone while they were lunching.
Besides, he thought with a sigh, if I wasn’t here asking average and stupid questions of this Armando, I’d undoubtedly be somewhere else asking someone else equally stupid and average questions. The deductive method! he thought with an inward grimace, and went back to Armando.
“Do you have this Bettina’s address at home?”
“No.”
“What agency sent her?”
This was information Armando had and which he was happy to give. He only hoped the police went there and lifted the agency’s license for fraud. “The Fluminense Employment Agency,” he said with satisfaction. “They’re on Almirante Barroso.” His exuberance faded. “I don’t know the number.”
“We’ll find it.” Da Silva scribbled the information on the back of one of his cards. Unlike Perreira he did not like to disturb the neat line of his jacket by jamming miscellanea such as notebooks into the pockets; his belt-clip holster bulged enough. He paused and considered the barber thoughtfully, trying for one final average, stupid question.
“Did Senhor Valadares say anything about any trips while you were working on him?”
“Trips?” Armando shook his head. “He said he wanted me to do a good job because he had to attend a reception at the Yacht Club last night.” He looked faintly amused. “It was just a joke with him.”
Da Silva’s eyebrows rose. “The reception at the Yacht Club?”
“No, no,” Armando said hastily. “I mean, telling me to do a good job. He knew I always did a good job.” His eyes came up to consider Da Silva’s black mop of unruly hair as if wondering how he would tackle it if given the opportunity, and he added, “And fast.”
Da Silva disregarded the offer. So Valadares had canceled out an affair at the Yacht Club in favor of going to Paraíso for the sole purpose, apparently, of being killed. A rather poor choice when one considered, Da Silva thought, even though the Yacht Club receptions were nothing to get excited about. Maybe the whole bunch — Torres, Bethencourt, Chaney, et al — were members of a suicide club, he thought sourly, and searched for more stupid questions to ask. Only one came to him.
“Would any of these other girls know where this Bettina lived?”
Armando shook his head decisively. “Not a chance. I don’t think any of them spoke two words to her the whole week she was here. They resented her — not for her ability as a manicurist, believe me, but because—” He shrugged again. “You know. The men all went to her table. But you can ask them, if you want.”
“I don’t think so,” Da Silva said. He glanced at the card with the employment agency address on it, and then tucked the card into his pocket. Begin by interviewing the manicurists and he’d end up in Merití talking to their husbands and mothers, and in a day or two he’d be so far from the case he’d have forgotten what it was he’d started out to learn. He nodded to Armando. “Well, thanks for the information.”
For a brief moment Armando wondered if possibly he should tell the detective about Senhor Dorn, who had wished Senhor Valadares to make the acquaintance of that terrible manicurist, but then Armando realized it was a very unimportant thing with which to bother a busy captain of police. Besides, he had been raised with the proper philosophy that only a fool volunteered anything, especially information, and particularly to the police. It was also always better to ask questions than to answer them.
“Just what trouble has Senhor Valadares gotten himself into?” he asked. It was not an entirely unselfish query; the loss of a weekly customer would be felt.
Da Silva paused at the door. “The very worst kind,” he said soberly. “He’s dead...”
“The waiter said the two of them looked like they were teen-agers in love,” Perreira told his superior, happy at the thought of the emotion. It was the way he always pictured himself acting with the girl of his dreams, when and if. he ever found anyone who wasn’t repulsed by his battered face. He checked his bulky notebook to make sure he did not omit any important details. “They sat at table eighteen — that’s out by the pool, but off in a sort of alcove to one side. More private, like. The waiter said Valadares always asked for that table when he was with a girl. The waiter said they rubbed legs and held hands.”
They sounded like a couple of romantic crickets, Da Silva thought sourly. The afternoon was beginning to wear on him, and he was starting to look forward to his shower and his first predinner cognac, not to mention his dinner itself. He also had the feeling he was not only wasting his own time, but that of his subordinate. “What did she look like?”
“The waiter said she was gorgeous, sir. Gorgeous!”
Da Silva was not overly impressed. He had had waiters in his time who had thought shad roe was gorgeous. He began to tap his fingers on his desk blotter, never a good sign. “I hate to strain your descriptive ability,” he said with deceptive quietness, “but was she tall gorgeous, short gorgeous, thin gorgeous, fat gorgeous, blonde gorgeous, morena gorgeous, cross-eyed gorgeous, or what?”
“Oh!” The lieutenant sounded hurt. “I have her description right here, sir. I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Well, get around to it,” Da Silva said shortly. “It’s five o’clock and I didn’t have any lunch.”
The fact that Perreira had also missed lunch had not been mentioned, but the lieutenant knew the captain was aware of the fact. “Yes, sir.” The notebook was referred to again. “I don’t think it will be too useful, though. According to the waiter, she was about five foot three or four, built like Marta Rocha — perfect — with black hair worn shoulder length, dark skin but very smooth, he said, black eyes, a big dimple on each cheek, very white teeth, and beautiful legs.” He looked up apologetically. “I say it won’t be very useful because while I was there about two-thirds of the girls in the pool answered that description.”