“I can see it now,” Wilson said dreamily. “People from all over the world making a pilgrimage to this modest little town in the northeast, just to scrag themselves. Charter flights” — he raised a finger — “one-way, naturally — at reduced costs for those of the faith. Hawkers on sidewalks — assuming they have sidewalks by that time — selling little pennants with ‘Paraíso-Mortuary Capitol of the World’ embroidered in gold thread against purple velvet. Little men, speaking behind their hands, touting the better locations for doing the dutch; bookmakers in opulent offices, taking bets on the number of victims per day, or per week...” He nodded. “It boggles the mind.”
“Exactly,” Da Silva said, and smiled. “What do you think?”
“Well,” Wilson said, smiling at last, “I think it makes as much sense as your first theory. More, in fact.”
“Take it or leave it,” Da Silva said. “That’s my contribution for today.” He rubbed his face wearily, his whimsical mood disappearing, the problems of the day coming back. He raised his drink, looking at Wilson. “What else happened up there?”
Wilson shrugged. “Nothing.”
“One thing I forgot to ask — how did Valadares get to where he was found? Or was he killed someplace else and taken there to hide?”
“It’s pretty hard to hide a man in the middle of the road,” Wilson said. “True, it’s pretty deserted at night, but with daytime traffic, people would keep running over him. No; he rented a car at the airport. The car was where he was found. It seems he drove it there. Don’t ask me why.”
“I won’t.” Da Silva drank and put his glass down. “What about fingerprints?”
“There weren’t any. Somebody must have heard they’re used for identification purposes and went and wiped them all away. Nasty — or unco-operative, at the very least.” Wilson shoved his glass away, getting down to business. “Let’s see what we really know, not what we’re just guessing at. We know all five were killed with the same weapon. We know at least all but one of them was a criminal of sorts—”
“All five. Torres was a blackmailer. He went up to Paraíso either to put pressure on a previous victim, or — more likely, since he took his camera equipment with him — to set up another victim.”
Wilson looked at him, interested. “Oh?”
“That’s right. And who told him there was somebody in Paraíso who might fit the role of potential victim?”
“I assume you mean, don’t ask that, either. All right, I won’t. Except—”
“Except,” Da Silva interrupted, “regardless of who tipped him off, the fact is that since all were criminals, they were all meat for a death squad.”
Wilson shook his head. “Will you forget the death squad a minute? You’ve got a one-track mind. Let’s stick with the facts we have and forget the things we’re guessing at—”
“Why should we forget a death squad?” Da Silva asked curiously. “Who else but the police knew about Bethencourt and his smuggling operation in Recife?”
“A lot of people,” Wilson said positively. “The people who delivered to him; the people who bought from him. The people who worked for him. Obviously he didn’t run the boats and unload the stuff and deliver the stuff and make collections for the stuff all by himself.”
“And Torres, the blackmailer in Porto Alegre? That wasn’t a gang operation. Only the police knew about him.”
“Other than his victims, of course,” Wilson pointed out, and could not help but sound a bit smug.
“And those same blackmailed victims also ran the boats and unloaded the contraband and made the deliveries for Bethencourt up in Recife?” Da Silva made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “No, senhor! The only person who knew those boys for what they were, or had any reason to kill them, would be the police.”
“In different cities?” Wilson asked. “You mean, the police in Paraíso killed these men as an accommodation to their fellow officers in Recife and Porto Alegre and Rio?” He shook his head admiringly. “That’s what I call real friendship. ‘No greater love hath man than he lay down somebody else’s life for his friends.’ Is that it?”
Da Silva frowned. “Don’t laugh. You might be right, you know. A national death squad...”
“Like the Lions or the Chamber of Commerce,” Wilson suggested with a smile. “Chapters in all major cities. Creamed chicken and peas plus a limp salad for lunch at the principal hotel every Wednesday.”
“I’m serious.” Da Silva leaned across the table. “You know, that could well be the answer. A national death squad.” He took a deep breath and reached for the bottle. “A national death squad,” he repeated. “I hate to think of it.”
“Or an international death squad if we want to expand our vistas,” Wilson said. “To explain Chaney. But even if there was an international, or even interterrestrial death squad, let alone a national death squad — and in my experience it’s hard enough to get two Brazilians together for an appointment let alone something like this — we keep coming back to the old stumper: Why Paraíso?”
Da Silva paused in pouring another drink and set the bottle down, frowning.
“It might not be so tough to get some of the more fanatical cops together for something like this,” he said slowly. “The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. And why Paraíso? Probably purely by accident. Remember that our gambler, Limeira, the first victim, lived there and was killed there. It may have occurred to the organization that it could well confuse any interested parties if all the victims were also killed there, and with the same gun.”
“A bit tough on the Paraíso chapter, though, don’t you think?”
“But the killings wouldn’t serve as an example to the criminal element unless they were all done in one place. If they were scattered, no one would pay any attention to them.”
“Except they didn’t get any publicity nationally,” Wilson said. “Who were they supposed to impress? Bad boys in Chicago? Liverpool?” He shook his head. “If you want my advice, you’ll forget about death squads altogether and go back to fundamentals.”
“Good enough,” Da Silva said equably. “Let’s go back to fundamentals. Let’s consider motive, to start with. Who gains from the death of these five men?”
“Not a bad question,” Wilson conceded, “and one I think we might well have asked a good while ago, rather than getting bogged down in this death squad nonsense. Well, who does gain?”
“The only ones I can think of at the moment are the respective communities, who should be planning dancing in the street in celebration,” Da Silva said, “and, of course, those members of the police force who no longer have to waste time picking them up, but can now return to more serious endeavors, like shaking down prostitutes, or swiping apples from fruit stands.”
Wilson had been paying no attention; he had been frowning at the tablecloth in deep thought. Now he looked up.
“Wait a second,” he said slowly. “We’re overlooking something fairly obvious and fairly important. These men all ran very profitable criminal operations. With them dead, there are going to be some very good openings in the table of organization. There are going to be large sums to be picked up.”
Da Silva’s eyebrows went up sardonically.
“That idea, my friend, came and was rejected some time ago. You’re suggesting that instead of a national death squad, there’s a national organization of seconds-in-command, who all decide to kill their bosses and take over? At the same time? In different cities?” He barely refrained from snorting. “And you think my theories are farfetched?”