Da Silva caught Wilson’s eye upon him and winked.
Chapter 16
The tip of an orange-red sun edged over the horizon, lighting the room, sending the shadow of the low stone window sill creeping across the beamed ceiling. There was a freshness to the early morning air; birds were waking, hens were cackling in the yard outside, the drone of a small plane could be heard as it climbed into the sky. Isabela was curled up on the sofa sound asleep; Wilson had taken the judge’s place before the fireplace, his hands behind him as if seeking warmth from a fire now reduced to tiny occasional flames licking half-heartedly at the remnants of the last charred log. Da Silva, coming into the room quickly, was the only one who looked halfway alert.
“Perreira—” he began, and then looked around. “Where’s the judge?”
“He’s not exactly a youth any more; and you’ve been on that phone for weeks. He excused himself and went to bed,” Wilson said, “which is what I’d do if I had any sense. And if I knew where the beds were in this place.” He yawned deeply and shook himself a bit, to wake up. “But he said he’d get the cook working on breakfast before he sacked in.” He looked at Da Silva anxiously. “Was there any activity in the kitchen while you were there, Zé? The rattling of pots and pans? The lighting of fires? The grinding of coffee? The breaking of eggs?”
“There was somebody there doing something,” Da Silva said shortly. “I didn’t notice. Perreira—”
“The important things in life slide right by you. I can’t imagine how you came to choose detection as a way of life.” Wilson sighed. “Well, let’s just hope it wasn’t the milkman in the kitchen. All right, now, what about Perreira?”
“If you’d quit interrupting, I’ll tell you. As I was going to say, Perreira still isn’t home, or anyway his phone doesn’t answer, but it isn’t important.” There was a touch of irritation in Da Silva’s voice; it wasn’t that he particularly needed Perreira at the moment, but he liked to know where his subordinates were, especially when the end of a case was approaching, and even more especially when he was feeling tired and a bit high-strung. “But Perreira doesn’t make any difference. Ruy got me the phone number. I didn’t want to wake him again, but he hadn’t gone back to sleep. He’d been checking on Emil Floriano with the delegacia, and if you want icing on your cake, Emil Floriano’s last gainful employment — because we keep track of such things with men on parole — was with a man named Gustavo Dorn. He worked for him, in fact, up until last night.”
“I’d cheer your brilliance,” Wilson said honestly, “except I’m afraid I’d fall asleep in the middle of a hurrah and you’d feel insulted.” He yawned again and rubbed his face into a form of wakefulness. “Maybe a decent meal will snap me out of it. As far as Perreira is concerned, my guess is he’s home and sleeping right through the telephone calls. Smart man.” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know why you wanted Perreira! He probably has the plane schedule in that notebook of his, together with the rest of the answers to life’s questions, and that would save you checking with the airport.”
“The plane for Rio leaves at eight — in three hours — which will give you ample time to stuff yourself with eggs or whatever,” Da Silva said shortly. “In any event, Ruy gave me the telephone number I wanted — which was unlisted as I had suspected — and I finally got through to Dorn—”
This woke Wilson up with a vengeance.
“Dorn? You spoke to Dorn?”
“I did. He—”
“Did he confess?”
“Keep quiet!” For the first time a faint smile crossed Da Silva’s swarthy face. “He wasn’t too happy at being awakened, but he managed to take it in stride when I told him my news.”
“I gather this is where I say, What news?”
“Exactly. First I allowed him to get the impression I was Bernardo, Emil’s friend, and fortunately it seems all previous contacts with Bernardo were not in person, so I didn’t even have to pretend a cold to disguise my voice. These lawyer types are so careful to reduce their criminal contacts to a minimum! Anyway, I told him that yes, we had indeed dispatched José Maria Carvalho, but that, unfortunately” — his eyes went automatically to the sleeping girl — “the girl raised a fuss and threatened to go to the authorities, so” — He shrugged — “we had to kill her, too.”
Wilson was watching him closely. “And what was his reaction to that?”
“His first reaction was fear we might have left the bodies together; he certainly didn’t want anyone getting the idea of a killing for passion. But I assured him we had loaded her body and sunk it in the lake, but that we had left Carvalho under the tower with a sign around his neck as per instructions. After that he seemed more philosophical about the girl.”
“Philosophical?”
“I mean,” Da Silva said, “he didn’t cheer, but he didn’t weep, either. He still didn’t quite understand, though, why this small detail should have warranted the disturbance of his slumber — you have a lot in common with Dorn, you know — until I explained that I was calling instead of Emil because while I could not speak for Emil — and in fact had to twist Emil’s arm for the unlisted telephone number — I myself had long since given up killing people for free, and that I expected to be paid for the girl. And soon.”
Wilson nodded. “How soon?”
“As soon as this morning’s plane lands in Rio,” Da Silva said quietly. “About noon today. I gave him to clearly understand that I would be quite irked should he not be waiting at the arrival gate, personally, with the proper amount of cash. The proper amount being, naturally, the same as was paid for Carvalho.”
Wilson studied his friend’s face a moment.
“And when, instead of Emil and a stranger named Bernardo getting off the plane at Santos Dumont, Mr. Dorn sees Isabela coming down the steps followed worshipfully by a reasonable facsimile of the late J. M. Carvalho, what is Dorn supposed to do? Panic?”
“That or something similar is my hope,” Da Silva said with a touch of smugness. “And just to cover the possibility, Ruy will have the airport pretty well covered with police.”
Wilson shook his head. “It might work, but I doubt it very much.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s full of holes, that’s why. If this Dorn is as smart as he’s supposed to be, he’ll know something’s funny. For one thing, he’ll know instantly that the call from Bernardo was a fake as soon as he spots Isabela. And he may even come to the correct conclusion that Emil and Bernardo are hors de combat — either in the jug or, preferably, in the morgue where they can’t talk. And, since neither Carvalho nor Isabela has ever seen him in person, nor know him by name, all he has to do is go away from there quietly.”
“Somebody knows him, and he knows that,” Da Silva said stubbornly. “That phone call he just got wasn’t any dream, and he’s aware of that! If we dragged him in, how would he explain that?”
“A practical joke,” Wilson said easily. “Some drunk, or some joker, called him in the middle of the night with a long story about killing some girl and putting her body in some lake, and wanting a payoff about something. So Dorn claims he merely played along with the gag to humor the nut. And how are you going to prove otherwise?”
“And if it’s all a gag, why does he show up at Santos Dumont to meet the plane?” Da Silva snorted in derision.
“If he shows up.”
“He’ll show up! I heard him on the phone — you didn’t.”
“All right,” Wilson said agreeably. “Supposing he does show up? Maybe that proves he’s guilty to you and me, but we’re already convinced of his guilt. And, after all, planes leave Santos Dumont every ten minutes. He simply claims he had business in São Paulo and was going to catch the Ponte Aérea there this morning and come back this afternoon. That would even explain why he had no luggage. So how do you prove from his being at the airport that he was waiting to meet a plane from Paraíso?”