“And what about José M-for-Muddled Carvalho? Did he also go to the same lawyer for help? Behind my back? Or yours?”
“As for Carvalho,” Da Silvo said slowly, his mind speeding along, bringing him fuel for speech even as he spoke, “he was bait this lawyer of ours couldn’t refuse. This man needed another victim to speed things up, and Carvalho was practically served to him on a platter.” He smiled faintly. “You’re forgetting we invented Carvalho precisely to catch a fish, and you’re also forgetting we did just that. Somebody tried to kill me and came awfully close.”
“Are you sure they didn’t hit you on the head with a blunt instrument before the judge and I came along? What do you mean, the man needed victims?”
“Just that. You see,” Da Silva said, looking from one man to another, “if my theory of these killings — admittedly as of a few minutes ago, but my theory, nonetheless — is correct, then this man had to have victims. But he was smart enough to know — or at least to think — that there would be less fuss about a criminal being killed than a respectable citizen. So, since he had already decided to kill criminals, the idea of a Death Squad naturally came to him. It made a good cover; it even fooled me.”
Wilson refrained from making a rude noise, but with an effort.
“He decided to kill criminals — for fun?”
“Oh, no,” Da Silva said. “It would have served his purpose much better to have killed businessmen, respectable factory managers and such, but he was afraid that might bring on a really major investigation; whereas he thought that the death of Limeira, Torres, and company wouldn’t bring in the army, so to speak.” He spread his hands. “You see?”
“No,” Wilson said crossly. “I don’t see. Are we talking about the same case? People being killed in a town called Paraíso?”
Da Silva looked surprised. “Of course. Haven’t you been listening?”
Wilson overlooked the remark. “Then exactly why would this man kill these people? And, to come back to an old question, why in Paraíso? And if you value your life, don’t give me any ‘Why not Paraíso?’ stuff.”
“Certainly I won’t say ‘Why not Paraíso?’” Da Silvo said. “Paraíso was essential to the entire scheme. It was central. It was the basis of the matter.” He frowned. “You see, whenever we tried to go back to fundamentals, we always ended up asking, ‘Who gained?’ First we should have asked, ‘Who lost?’” He looked at Judge Magalhães. “Paraíso lost, didn’t it, Judge?”
“Very much,” the old judge said quietly. He was watching Da Silva intently, wondering where the discussion was leading.
“And that’s what it was all about,” Da Silva said simply. “To hurt the town of Paraíso. To get companies to abandon Paraíso. Or even more important than getting present companies to leave, to get new companies to shift their sights away from Paraíso and toward other locations. And the best man, of course, to be able to accommodate anyone in the matter of land in a new location, would be a lawyer. Right?”
Wilson stared at him unbelieving. “Oh, come on, Zé—!”
Da Silva went on stubbornly, convinced he was right.
“Don’t give me that ‘Oh come on!’ stuff! When I was with those two killers, Emil and his friend Bernardo, Emil said something to the other one, referring to me. He said something like, ‘You may have heard of Da Silva down in Novo Mundo.’ It came to me at a moment ago where I had heard that name before. Minister Wanderlay mentioned it as a competitor to Paraíso in the south; a town like Paraíso trying to develop into a major industrial park.” He looked at the judge. “Is that true?”
“Yes, it’s true enough.”
Wilson stared at the two men incredulously. “Are you standing there, in all honesty, and asking me to believe all these killings were done merely to promote a real estate development?”
Da Silva studied his friend curiously. “You don’t consider it motive enough?”
“Not within eighteen blocks! You’re crazy!”
“Tell me something,” Da Silva said, his voice deceptively quiet. “If I told you those men were killed to collect their insurance, which amounted to, say, fifty thousand or a hundred thousand dollars each — would you believe that was a possible motive?”
“Well, at least I’d accept it as a more believable motive,” Wilson said, and waved a hand. “But to believe someone killed five or six men just to peddle some lots?” He shook his head. “Never!”
Da Silva turned to Judge Magalhães. “Judge, you’re something of an expert in land values. How much money is involved in what I’m talking about?”
Judge Magalhães’ face was rigid as he considered the implications of Da Silva’s statement. “Money? If our options for industrial properties were to be canceled and Novo Mundo were to pick them up — or even a portion of them?”
“Yes.”
“Millions of dollars,” the judge said slowly. “Many millions of dollars.”
Da Silva looked at Wilson. “And that isn’t motive?”
Wilson looked a bit uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose so, if you want to call it that...”
“And what would you call it?”
“I mean, having people killed just in order to sell land?”
“I suppose,” Judge Magalhães said slowly, “that when you think about it, throughout history more people have been killed over land than for all the other reasons put together.” He thought a moment and then added, sadly, “From the time of Cain and Abel.”
Wilson was silent a moment; then he took a deep breath.
“It still sounds incredible, but I suppose it’s possible. But even if it’s true, how could you ever prove it? With the two we killed tonight gone — how could you ever get proof? Even assuming you could ever come up with a name to put to the man?”
“If we get his name, we’ll figure out a way to get him,” Da Silva said with a confidence he was far from feeling at the moment. “Right now, the important thing is to identify him. We’ll figure out how to get him convicted later.” He thought a moment and then looked up suddenly, an idea occurring to him. “Aren’t land sales registered? In Novo Mundo as well as anywhere else?”
“Of course!” Julge Magalhães said, and struck a fist into a palm. “They’re on the federal tax rolls, and they’re also listed in the deed transfers each month that go out to most agencies. I’m on the list. Wait a minute — I have them in my den.”
He came to his feet and disappeared into the hallway, a spring in his gait that had been missing for a long time. Da Silva pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, shook one loose, and brought up a match. He tossed the match into the fireplace and glanced at Wilson, but the nondescript American was staring into the flames, lost in thought. Minutes passed in silence; then the two men looked up.
“Gustavo Dorn—”
Judge Magalhães paused in the doorway. “That’s right,” he said, “but how did you know?”
“Know what?” Isabela asked, surprised. “All I was about to say was that Gustavo Dorn was my brother-in-law’s attorney.”
“He’s also the owner of record of most of the land around Novo Mundo,” the judge said heavily. “I know him well; I’ve been to his house in Gavea. He’s a cold man, tall and hungry-looking, with blond, almost white, hair. He tried to buy my land here, when there was first talk of an industrial complex here some years ago.”