“Zé! Zé! Are you all right?”
“Let him alone,” Wilson said, and smiled. “That’s what passes for concentration with Captain Da Silva. Actually, he’s fine. Whenever his head finally starts to get its teeth into a problem — that’s not bad, you know? — he holds his head tightly, probably to keep any ideas from leaking out. But if you’re worried about it, don’t be. It doesn’t happen all that often.”
The others sat in silence, watching Da Silva’s bent head, a silence only broken when the judge bent to place another log on the fire and the flames crackled eagerly as they leaped to attack it. Then Da Silva sat more erect, his hands dropping. He looked at Judge Magalhães.
“Where’s the telephone?”
“In the kitchen. I’ll show you.” The judge frowned. “But who would you want to call at this hour?”
“Rio de Janiero. I’ve wasted a lot of time so far, and it’s about time I made some of it up. My men work twenty-four hours a day — or they do when they have to.” He came to his feet and followed the judge from the room, his face a frown, oblivious of the others. A few moments later the judge returned alone. Isabela looked at Wilson, puzzled.
“Does he get like this very often?”
“You just have to get used to it,” Wilson said. “It doesn’t usually last too long.” He shrugged lightly. “It’s better than chasing women.”
The judge stared at the doorway to the hall. “What do you suppose—?”
“When Zé Da Silva is in one of his deductive moods,” Wilson said, “I never suppose.” He brought out his cigarettes. “He’ll tell us in time. Of course,” he added, pausing in the act of lighting up, “if whatever idea has just struck him doesn’t work out, he won’t say a word. He’s very human that way.”
He placed the match into an ashtray and leaned back comfortably, but his eyes wandered to the doorway with curiosity. The fact was that when Da Silva was in one of his deductive moods, he usually came up with something, and Wilson knew it very well. He sat and smoked, trying to see some logical explanation that had escaped him, but it was a waste of mental effort.
A few minutes more and Da Silva was back. He walked into the room quickly, looking more alert, his eyes bright. He paused at the threshold and faced them all, a smile on his face.
“One nice thing — there’s no great sweat in getting a call through at this hour. The only trick is waking the local operator.”
“What’s new in Rio?” Wilson asked with mild curiosity. “How’s the weather? Any good plays opening?”
“Perreira doesn’t answer and I can’t imagine where he is at this hour,” Da Silva said, quite as if Wilson had not spoken, “but I got hold of Ruy. He’s one of my assistants,” he added for the benefit of the judge. “I put him to work on a lead.”
Wilson looked bored. “Could we ask what lead? Or would that be impertinent?”
“A very simple lead you should have seen,” Da Silva said evenly. “You were up here and I wasn’t; you spoke to the judge and I didn’t.” He turned to the judge. “Judge, I admit I haven’t been too bright on this case so far, but I think I’m coming out of it. I never asked the right questions before, and Wilson didn’t help—”
“Didn’t help?” Wilson sat erect. “I kept telling you to forget your crazy idea of a death squad—!”
“In any event,” Da Silva said, skipping any argument about his past theories, “let me ask you this: Chaney came to see you about a writ to avoid extradition. Correct?”
“That’s right,” the judge said, mystified.
“Who recommended him to you? I mean, I doubt that Chaney, being a foreigner, would have known of your reputation. He would have little chance of knowing how you felt about extradition and asylum. So someone must have recommended you, or sent him to you. Who was it?”
“Why — I don’t know...”
“Let’s put it this way,” Da Silva said, not at all discouraged by the judge’s answer. “Who would have sent him to you?”
Judge Magalhães shrugged. “Any lawyer, I expect.”
“Exactly!”
“What’s ‘exactly’ supposed to mean?” Wilson asked.
“It means ‘exactly’!” Da Silva turned to face Isabela. “Those letters you wrote. How do you suppose someone got hold of them?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“Well,” Da Silva went on patiently, “where do you suppose your brother-in-law would keep them?”
“I don’t know.” Isabela looked confused. “I never thought about it.”
“Well, I just did, and it’s about time I started to think about things. Obviously your brother-in-law wanted to keep the letters — since he did, of course — but would he keep them at home?”
“Oh, not at home, surely! My sister—”
“Right. I agree, not at home. And to keep them in his office, or in a locker at his club, or anywhere else of that nature, could lead to inadvertent discovery and very possible embarrassment. But” — he turned a bit, raising a finger — “if they were in a safety-deposit box?” He smiled, but there was little humor in the smile.
“But what if they were?” Isabela asked, unsure of where the questioning was leading.
“Then,” Da Silva said evenly, “when your brother-in-law died, the man who undoubtedly would be able to gain access to the box most easily would be his lawyer.” He looked at the seated girl. “Who was his lawyer?”
“I don’t know.” Isabela thought a moment and then looked up, trying to be helpful. “I could probably find out from my sister.”
“Call her.”
“At this hour? She’ll think something is wrong, and she’ll worry—”
Wilson grinned. “Tell her you’re considering a paternity suit.”
Da Silva was not amused. “You don’t have to tell her anything,” he said patiently. “Ask her the name of the lawyer who handled her husband’s affairs after his death. If you think it’s necessary, tell her there’s nothing to worry about, that the information is for a friend, and that you’ll explain everything when you see her.”
Isabela came to her feet and looked at him.
“The kitchen is straight through the hall. The phone’s on the counter.” Da Silva watched the girl leave the room and turned back to the two waiting men. “Now! We wanted to know what all the victims had in common. I believe the connection was a lawyer — the same lawyer who recommended Chaney to the judge in order to get him to come to Paraíso, and the same man who got hold of Isabela’s letters and used them to blackmail her into helping get Valadares up here without her knowing why.”
Wilson snorted. “What’s this make? Theory number Seven hundred sixty-five? Series M?”
Da Silva frowned at him. “What’s wrong with the idea?”
“Well,” Wilson said expansively, “I’d make you the same offer you made me — two answers for one cigarette — except I can’t stand your brand. I admit there’s a certain cuteness in the argument for a lawyer as far as Valadares and Chaney is concerned, but what about Torres? And Limeira? And Bethencourt? They were all from cities a long way away from Rio. And secondly, was this unknown attorney also the legal representative of our dock thief, José Maria Carvalho? If he was, then J. M. Carvalho — as we intimates call him — never knew of it. Or if he did, he never told me.”
Da Silva shook his head stubbornly.
“I’m right and I know it! As far as the victims coming from different cities, most of the major firms based in Rio or São Paulo have clients throughout the country. The judge, here, can confirm that, although it certainly shouldn’t be necessary. Good Lord! Does your F. Lee Bailey just defend clients from Boston? I seem to recall his being in New Jersey on one case, and in Cleveland, and in Florida. A big attorney here would do the same, and my call to Ruy was to get him checking on exactly that, first thing in the morning. Crooks are always the first to spend money on high-priced legal talent. Besides, I didn’t say he had to be their lawyer, personally — all I said was that, being a lawyer, he knew them or knew of them.”