Chapter 3
Wilson was well aware of his friend Da Silva’s attitude toward flying objects in which he was an unwilling passenger, and he therefore waited until their jet had reached cruising altitude before turning from his view through the small window; but when he looked at his companion he found the swarthy detective puffing on a cigarette and ruffling through the pages of the folder the Minister had given him. The thoughtful frown on the pock-marked face obviously had nothing to do with the perils of flying. Wilson’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise; he reached for a cigarette, lit it, and put aside the match.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Da Silva seemed startled from his reverie. “What?”
“I said, a penny for your thoughts.”
Da Silva looked at him, smiling. “You always were a spendthrift — although now that I think about it, you’re probably on expense account, so what do you care what you do with the American taxpayer’s money? Still, my old mother, Zé senior, always told me a penny earned is a penny saved, or vice versa. I never did get it straight.” He drew on his cigarette and spoke through a cloud of smoke. “Actually, I was thinking several things: first, how long it takes to get a drink on this plane; and secondly — after studying the pictures in this folder — how little getting shot through the head does to enhance a man’s appearance.”
He closed the folder, reached overhead to press the button for the stewardess, and turned back to Wilson. “I’ll let you earn your expense money back. What do you think?”
“About what?”
Da Silva shrugged. “About anything — the state of the nation, the high cost of living, the chances of Pelé buying Portugal and using it for a summer estate, or — if you insist — you might give me your opinion about those killings in Paraíso.”
“Oh, those?” Wilson paused as the stewardess stopped her little liquor wagon beside them. She turned off the light that had summoned her and looked at the two men inquiringly. Da Dilva, being closest, merely pointed. Wilson waited until they had both been served, and, holding his glass, went on, “Well, what I think is that maybe that old judge What’s-his-name up in Paraíso isn’t so wrong at that.”
“Isn’t wrong in what way?”
Wilson crushed out his cigarette and sipped his brandy. He lowered the glass and frowned.
“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve often thought how easy it would be to camouflage a murder — or, rather, lay off the blame for a murder onto the police — simply by hanging a sign around the dead man’s neck with the words ‘Death Squad’ on it.”
“Not one murder,” Da Silva pointed out in a reasonable tone. “Four.”
“Suppose,” Wilson went on, disregarding the interruption, “that you had it in mind to kill Citizen D for reasons that are not germane to our argument. Suppose also, since we’re supposing, that you aren’t too fussy about killing people in the first place — which is a reasonable assumption, since you have no qualms about dispatching Citizen D. How easy, therefore, to eliminate citizens A, B, and C first, and hang a bit of art work with ‘Death Squad’ on it around their necks. Then, when you finally got around to Citizen D, everyone would be bound to shake their little pointed heads and say, ‘My, my, there’s that nasty death squad at work again!’”
Da Silva shook his head.
“I know that’s the sort of theory that attracts mystery writers and security officers at consulates,” he said, “but it never made much sense to me. If you got picked up in the act of dispatching either Citizen A, or B, or C — none of which you really wanted to kill very much in the first place — Citizen D would laugh himself to death when they led you into the little green chamber and pointed out the electric chair. If that’s your only reason for thinking the judge was right and the police force of Paraíso are pure as driven snow, I’ll pass.”
“Oh, that isn’t the only reason,” Wilson said quickly. “You see, if those killings were really the work of a death squad, it would be the first time — as I’m sure you know — that they ever killed a foreigner.” He paused, thinking, and then added slowly, “Although I have to admit if they were knocking off people in order to clean up the place, they couldn’t have picked a better target than George Chaney.”
Da Silva looked at him with interest. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have the rundown on Chaney in that folder?”
“Just his picture — which probably didn’t look much better in life — and a list of the contents of his pocket.”
“Then let me tell you about him,” Wilson said. “It’ll help to pass time. Mr. Chaney was not one of our nation’s better exports. Actually — for reasons which completely escape me — our government was trying to get him extradited back home. Personally, I would have paid him a modest sum each year to stay away. He was a fairly big man in the Organization; started out as a lowly enforcer and by hard work, diligent effort, and keeping his nose clean, fulfilled the American tradition and worked his way to the top. Or pretty close to the top. And then things went poorly, as they say, and he found himself on the run.”
Da Silva’s eyebrows raised. “From the mob?”
“No, no!” Wilson shook his head. “He was in with the mob; it was from us, from the good guys. Actually, from the IRS — the tax boys. He overlooked contributing his share toward paying my salary.” He smiled deprecatingly. “If he only knew how little it was!”
“And that’s the only reason he was on the run?”
“What do you mean, is that the only reason? That’s reason enough. If you don’t believe me,” Wilson said, “dig up Capone and ask him. Actually, in Chaney’s case there were a few other things: consorting with known criminals — one ex-Vice-President springs to mind — transporting girls over state lines, wearing brown shoes with a tuxedo — things like that, but the tax deal was the big one. So when the IRS came looking for him, he tied his few possessions into his solid-gold handkerchief and came away.”
“To Brazil.”
Wilson nodded. “He felt it a wise move, apparently.” He thought about it a moment and shrugged. “Just one more mistake in his life, I guess.”
Da Silva sipped his brandy, thinking. One thing didn’t make sense.
“The way you tell it,” he said thoughtfully, “this Chaney shouldn’t have been worrying about funds.”
“Far from it,” Wilson said with assurance. “He lived high; that much we know.”
Da Silva stared at his companion with a simulated surprise. “You keep your own citizens under Embassy surveillance?”
“Just certain ones, like George Chaney. To see they don’t get taken by street peddlers, or overcharged by dishonest cab-drivers.” Wilson changed the subject, bringing it back to its original direction. “Look at the roll he had on him when he was hit.” He paused and frowned. “Although, since he wasn’t robbed, I suppose it tends to support our theory that it really was a Death Squad job.”
Da Silva looked at him sardonically.
“It’s a good thing I have a few more, and better, reasons for that assumption. What makes you think that anyone — cop or not — who doesn’t worry about killing someone, would get conscience pangs about robbing him?” He shook his head. “No; my question about Chaney’s finances had to do with something else. If money wasn’t any problem, what was he doing in a place like Paraíso? I know the word means ‘Paradise’ in English, but my guess is that’s just geographer’s license.”
“He didn’t live in Paraíso. He lived in Rio, at the Beira Mar Hotel.” Wilson shrugged. “He may have gone up to Paraíso just to see the place. For a visit, maybe. As a tourist.”
“Or maybe to build a factory for making brown shoes to go with tuxedos,” Da Silva said sarcastically. “Let me ask you a question. If you found yourself in the United States with money in your pocket and any city in the country at your disposal for visiting, would you pick a place like, say, Youngs-town, Ohio?”