“She didn’t know anything about who this prospect might be up there in Paraíso? Or who gave him the tip? Torres didn’t say anymore about it than that?”
“That’s all he said, I guess. She didn’t know anything more, sir.”
Da Silva frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Ruy! I want copies of the pictures found in that safety-deposit box. With as much identification as the police can put on any or all of them. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve already got a set of the pictures. I really had to push to get them, and they’re supposed to be confidential. First thing in the morning I’ll try to get names to go with the pictures, but my guess is that if I get any it won’t be from the blonde. She’s so surprised to find she was in those pictures, she’s practically speechless. And going to stay that way, is my guess. Anything else you want down here before I come home?”
“I can’t think of anything at the moment,” Da Silva said, “but if I do, I’ll get in touch. Does our desk here know the name of your hotel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s it, then,” Da Silva said, and bit back a yawn. “I’m going home. If anything of importance comes up, I’ll either be there or at Mario’s on the beach having dinner.” He thought a moment, and added, “And don’t call for the next hour, not even if the Chief of Police down there confesses personally to the murders. I’m going to have a drink and be taking a shower.”
“Right, sir,” Ruy said, and heard the receiver at the other end placed in its cradle. He also planned on going back to his hotel for a drink and a shower; he only wished that the luscious secretary from the pictures in his pocket, and now languishing in jail, had been available to have one or both with him...
Chapter 9
Clean from a hot shower, rested by a three-minute nap, comfortable in fresh tropical clothing, and relieved by the absence of telephone calls during his period of recuperation, Captain Da Silva strolled along the Avenida Atlântica in the direction of Mario’s. The famous restaurant, with its renowned collection of brandies from all over the world, was the captain’s favorite eating place, and he looked forward to an hour or so when crime and punishment would rank a weak second, in a bid for his attention, behind several Reserva San Juan brandies from Argentina, followed by a succulent filet accompanied by sufficient steins of ice-cold Brahma Chopp.
He pushed into the entrance and selected the door to the bar rather than directly to the restaurant, without conscious thought. He hesitated a moment to allow his eyesight to adjust itself to Mario’s idea of romantic bar lighting and was about to slip into a vacant booth, when a familiar voice intruded upon his pleasant reverie.
“Hello, Zé.”
Da Silva’s dreams of a quiet, peaceful, non-criminally oriented evening disappeared. He shook his head sadly, wondering why he hadn’t stayed home peacefully with a dry sandwich and a glass of water, watching something uplifting on television, like the latest soap opera. Wilson was looking up at him, smiling gently. Da Silva sighed helplessly and slid into the booth across from the American.
“You’re a hard man to keep in any one place,” he said dolefully. “Why aren’t you up in Paraíso?”
“Sitting on my thumb?” Wilson shrugged. “I kept falling off.”
“What about those girls I told you all small towns keep in hiding, saving them for the visitor from the big city?”
“A canard,” Wilson said. “I was there over half an hour and I wasn’t accosted once.”
“And how did you get here? You must have run for a plane as soon as I hung up. I thought I asked you to cultivate the police up there.”
“It’s not the planting season,” Wilson explained in a tone that suggested that if Da Silva knew anything about agriculture, he would have understood that without being told. “Anyway—”
He paused to allow a waiter’s arm to interpose itself between them, placing a glass containing Captain Da Silva’s favorite brand on the table. Da Silva nodded his thanks and picked up the glass. He looked at it a brief moment, drank it, and then tapped the glass on the table politely, indicating to the waiter that he would not refuse a refill. While waiting he reached across the table to extract a cigarette from Wilson’s packet of American-brand PX cigarettes. He lit it, tossed aside the match, and leaned back.
“That’s better,” he said, feeling a bit more prepared for the conversation before him. “Now, what were you about to say?”
“I was about to say that I came back to Rio because staying up there would have been a waste of time. The police up there are clean, my friend — clean. I’m convinced. They’re as puzzled about these killings as we are. I’ve met the judge, and his godson the chief of police, and I’m sure.”
Da Silva studied his friend while the waiter brought over the bottle. This time, after filling the glass, the waiter wisely left the bottle. Da Silva murmured his thanks and returned his gaze to Wilson.
“You discovered this in ten minutes?”
“I arrived last night and left this afternoon. Twenty hours.”
“You’re a genius. You know,” Da Silva went on slowly, taking his full glass and twisting it, “you could be right. I was thinking just this afternoon that the chances were we were on the wrong track—”
“That you were on the wrong track.”
“That I was on the wrong track if it pleases you,” Da Silva said, in no mood to argue. “After mature consideration I think that what probably happened to those men was that the five of them — Limeira, Bethencourt, Torres, Chaney, and Valadares — all committed suicide.” His hand came up abruptly, forestalling any interruption. “I know what arguments you will undoubtedly raise — how does it happen that the same gun was used in every case? And I reply, obviously because it was a suicide club, and they only used the one gun. Not that they couldn’t afford other guns, you understand, but because that would have been against the rules. Something like breaking the chain in a chain letter; it might have brought bad luck.”
He drew on his cigarette mightily and then crushed it out in the ashtray, after which he continued in the same grave fashion while Wilson watched with an apparently serious mien.
“Then, being the brilliant investigator you are,” Da Silva went on, “you will next ask — but then what happened to the gun after each one shot himself, with a ritual worthy of hara-kiri, first in the chest and then, while still sufficiently alive to do so, in the head? And I answer with unfailing logic, obviously the suicide club employs a gun steward who takes the weapon after each death to prepare it, Samurai fashion, and then to pass it on to the next member selected, possibly by drawing straws. Ah, you say, still not satisfied — since you always were a stickler — but why do they all go to Paraíso to kill themselves? To which I reply quite simply, why not? Why do the Japanese prefer Fujiyama when killing themselves? Why do Americans travel miles just to eliminate themselves by throwing themselves from the Golden Gate bridge? Possibly the members, out of local pride, cut cards and Limeira, who came from Paraíso — and probably cheats — won. Who knows? In time, once the facts are properly publicized, Paraíso may no longer require industry to prop up its economy. It may well become the undertaking capitol of Brazil, taking that honor away from Duque de Caxias.”