The furnishings of the small waiting room were shiny with age, mementos of another generation; stiff hand-tooled leather over heavy jacarand�, thick hand-carved legs on solid tables. The embossed metal ceiling was of a type Chaney had not seen since his Chicago boyhood, and then only in barbershops. The only decoration on the plastered walls were large land plats, with scribbled markings in red crayon covering the various sections; Chaney had tried to entertain himself by looking at them, but the contoured maps were unintelligible. Despite the lateness of the hour and the assurance, or at least hope, of a cooling breeze outside, the small room was sweltering � the windows having been painted shut many years before � and the small fan that struggled listlessly but noisily in one corner did little to bring relief. A single bulb tried but failed to hide the inadequacies of the room in shadow. A fly droned angrily, trying to beat itself past the streaked glass of the sealed window to the night outside, although any but the most myopic of insects should have known better than to hope for escape through that great unwashed barrier.

In a sturdy chair that could have graced a fazendeiro�s ranch or an auctioneer�s showroom, beside an even sturdier table covered with old newspapers and volumes filled with land titles in Portuguese � and therefore as unintelligible to him as the land subdivisions on the walls � George Chaney yawned and wondered what the devil was taking the old man so long. It had to be a pretty screwed-up country where a man had to go damn near a thousand miles just to get a simple paper signed. Well, in all honesty, he had to admit it wasn�t all that simple a paper, but you�d surely think that in a city the size of Rio de Janeiro he could have gotten the same service without having to make a trip halfway across the blasted country! Still, he paid good money to Dorn for advice, so it would be stupid not to follow it. In Vegas he knew his way around, but he was smart enough to know that here in Brazil he still had a lot to learn.

He yawned again and looked around. How anyone who couldn�t afford a better office than this could possibly have the drag Dorn said this old man had, was hard to see. Although he had to admit he hadn�t seen anything in the whole crummy town that was much better. Brand-new factories, the size of Stateside plants, and one hell of a large hospital, all noted on his way from the Airport Hotel, plus what had to be a modern school � all set in the middle of what looked like a Hollywood back-lot imitation of Virginia City around 1888. Crazy!

He glanced at his watch for the tenth time. On top of everything else, if the old man dragged his feet much longer, he wouldn�t have time to stop at the hotel for his bags and still get over to the airport terminal in time for the last flight back to Rio, and he certainly didn�t feel like sleeping in that lumpy bed another night. He scowled and started to drum his thick fingers on the table, wondering if he should disregard instructions and bust into the old man�s inner office; he was saved the decision, for the door he had been silently willing to open finally did, and a middle-aged woman emerged. She closed the door behind her and came toward him. Chaney came to his feet, a wide-shouldered, middle-aged man in a three-hundred-dollar suit. He looked at the woman half-angrily.

�Well! About damn time!�

The woman was not at all bothered either by the look on his face or by his language. �The judge has other affairs besides yours,� she said calmly. Her English was quite good.

�And why at night?�

�Because the judge is a busy man. In the mornings he conducts his business, and he holds court most afternoons. Evenings are the only time he�s free for clients such as yourself.�

�All right, all right!� Chaney realized he was the one who was now wasting time. �You got the papers?�

�Here.� The woman handed him several sheets of legal-looking documents. �You�re to sign where the X is marked.� She saw the instant suspicion that flashed across Chaney�s hard face and smiled faintly, a bit derisively. �They�re in English.�

Chaney was far from intimidated. �Better safe than sorry,� he said harshly, and took the papers, studying them carefully, his big hands half-crumpling each page as he read it, word for word. At last he nodded, satisfied, and reached into his pocket for a pen. He signed the papers, leaning over the table, and then straightened up, handing the papers back. �You sure this will stick?�

�I beg your pardon? I�m afraid I didn�t��

�I said, are you sure this will do the trick?�

�These papers are quite legal,� the woman said stiffly, �if that is what you mean.�

�That�s what I mean,� Chaney said. Now that the papers were all properly prepared he was feeling a lot better. �You got to admit the character has himself a good cover, though,� he went on, looking about the room. �Normally I don�t come into a joint looks like this to go to the john.� He looked at his watch. �Okay. What�s next?�

�The judge will notarize them and send them to the capitol for filing. A copy will be sent to you. You can leave now.�

�And what�s the tab?�

�The tab?�

�The slug. The payola. The charge. What do I owe?�

�Oh. That will also be mailed to you after filing.� She turned toward the inner office and then paused, her hand on the knob, looking at him in a cool superior manner. �And this office is no cover, as you put it. This has been the judge�s office for almost fifty years. When he was the only lawyer in this part of the interior.�

�Well, hooray for him,� Chaney said sardonically, but the woman had already disappeared into the other office, closing the door decisively behind her. Chaney looked at the closed panel a moment, frowning. And you could bet your shirt the bill the old man would send him would probably curl his hair, but what the hell. Paying off was a part of life, like breathing, he thought, and headed for the outer door.

The noise of the busy downtown street flowed about him as he pushed his way to the crowded sidewalk. The rough-looking men about him elbowed their way past, many wearing guns in holsters or tucked into the waistbands of their loose trousers. Chaney�s lip curled. These characters had to be seeing too many TV Westerns. Shades of Tombstone and the O.K. Corral, a hundred years later! Chances are anyone shot off one of those guns, everyone would be under the nearest table. A bunch of clowns! Well, he thought, at least the town had come up with the answer to his problem, and that was all that mattered.

Now, to see if there was any chance of grabbing off a cab; there had to be at least one taxi in the dump, he thought, with an inward grin, because he had caught one from the Airport Hotel to the judge�s office. He looked around and then hurriedly started to cross the cobbled street. It seemed this was turning out to be his lucky day all around, because a taxi was there, just opposite, discharging a passenger. He jostled his way past a group of men standing by the curb, chancing a reprimand and not worrying about it very much, and then had to step back quickly, out of the way of a jeep careening along without lights. He wished now he had taken more trouble to learn the language of the country, or at least enough to call out and restrain the cab, but then he saw it was not necessary. The exiting passenger had apparently noticed his approach and was politely holding the cab door open for him, as if to prevent the driver from escaping.

At his arrival the passenger stepped back, gesturing toward the open door, smiling pleasantly, inviting Chaney to enter. One gentleman in the crowd anyway, Chaney thought, and nodded his head. And decently dressed for a change, which seemed to be rare in this dump. He muttered his usual approximation of �Thank you� in Portuguese and climbed in, at the same time saying, �Airport Hotel� in that raised voice usually reserved for the hard of hearing or those too stupid to speak English. He turned to close the door and found that his well-dressed Samaritan had climbed in after him and was closing the door with one hand while the other hand was pressing something durable and quite familiar into Chaney�s ribs through the cloth of his neatly tailored jacket pocket. The cab took off at once.

For a moment Chaney was too startled to speak; then he growled deep in his throat. Who did these two-bit punks think they were dealing with? Back home in Vegas he�d have their ears for penwipers for a dumb stunt like this! Well, it wasn�t Vegas, that was true, but even so it was a dumb stunt. Trying a stick-up on him! Dumb bastards to begin with � how much cash did they think he carried in these days of credit cards? And on a trip of just a couple days to a different town? Still, by their crummy standards he supposed the amount in his wallet would look like a young fortune to them. A pity he didn�t have any muscle in this cruddy place or he�d have some of the boys look them up and pound some sense into their thick skulls. It was a pretty sad day when anyone in a decent suit of clothes and with a shirt that didn�t have ring-around-the-collar couldn�t climb into a cab without getting mugged. Christ, this was as bad as New York!

�All right, you bright bastards,� he said harshly. �Take the dough and go out and buy the Mets! And thank your stars you don�t play in my ball park or you�d talk through bandages a month for this. Okay, the billfold�s in my left butt pocket. Leave the credit cards if you know the difference from lottery tickets; they ain�t no use to you. That�s if either one of you clowns knows enough English to even know what the hell I�m talking about!�

To his surprise the man with the gun pressed into his side made no motion for the wallet, and it was evident it was not from any fear that Chaney might make a move if he did so. The man also spoke English, accented but completely understandable, at least sufficiently to respond. �Keep quiet,� he said, and punctuated his brief sentence with a sharp prod of the gun. He spoke to the driver, switching to Portuguese. �Emil � the fazenda; the driveway. You know where.�

The driver nodded in lieu of speaking and speeded up the taxi.

Chaney frowned and tried to concentrate. It was not the first time he had faced a gun, and while he didn�t particularly like it, that part of the deal didn�t worry him, or at least not for the time being. It could still be a stick-up, of course, and they could be waiting until they could get him in a place where they could search him for any goodies he might not keep in his wallet, but it didn�t seem to smell like a heist. But if it wasn�t a stick-up, what was it? Probably, he concluded, a case of mistaken identity. Certainly nobody down here had any reason to put out a contract on him, or not at least that he could see, and back home he was clean as a whistle. Well, maybe not clean with Washington and the garbage brains in the IRS, but clean clean with the boys in Vegas. And anyway, Washington didn�t come after a guy with a rod; or at least not yet. Or at least not the tax department; what the CIA or the FBI did was maybe something else again, but they certainly had no reason to push him. Not, he admitted to himself, that they always needed a reason, but if these two clowns were part of any U. S. Government apparatus, then the hiring practices in Washington were even lousier than usual.

Something local? But why, for Christ�s sake? He hadn�t stepped on any toes. Christ, he didn�t know more than half-a-dozen characters in the whole country. Since he got here he�d kept his nose spotless; he had enough grief without trying to stir up any local headaches. He hadn�t even laid a finger on any broad who wasn�t a professional, so these characters couldn�t be working for no steamed-up husband. Weird!

Unless, of course, it wasn�t a rub-out after all. Suddenly the answer came to him � a kidnaping! He thought it had been some six or seven years since there had been a kidnaping of a foreigner in Brazil; he knew it was fairly common in Argentina, and it was even catching on at home, but he had been under the impression it had been pretty much wiped out in Brazil. In Argentina, in fact, some oil company put up fourteen million bucks, they said, for some character, but he couldn�t remember what had happened in that case. He knew some tire company sprung for three or four million for some clown who ran their office, although Chaney always figured both figures had to be strictly from the public relations department. Who paid out dough like that just to save a guy from getting scragged?

But he, Chaney, didn�t work for any big company � and the people who he used to work with, not for, wouldn�t put up a nickel to save their mothers from white slavery, let alone a guy who was retired from the organization. So what did these monkeys think they were going to get out of him? Sure, if they kept their demands within reason, he had dough of his own and he might spring for a little, but if these clowns were thinking in those paint-card numbers, they were dealing from a short deck. Ten grand maybe he�d offer, and maybe even go as far as twenty if he really had to; it wouldn�t hurt the bankroll, and it was still undoubtedly more scratch than these clowns saw in their whole lifetimes. But that was it, if they laid on the floor and screamed with disappointment.

Chaney stared through the window of the cab, watching the lights of the town dwindle as they approached the outskirts. Factories could be seen set far back from the road, huge spotlights illuminating the perimeters of their property; ahead of the speeding taxi the strings of vertical lights outlining the refinery cracking towers were now visible, topped by the gas flame issuing from the tallest stack like an eternal beacon. Chaney made no attempt to protest the steady pressure of the gun in his side. These characters had to be amateurs and it never paid to excite amateurs, especially when they had guns. Amateurs usually had nervous fingers; although he had to admit that the man beside him seemed about as nervous as four cubic feet of set concrete. Still, look at him calling the other guy by name � Emil. That was the kind of dumb thing amateurs were always doing. Sure, he didn�t speak their language, but hell! Emil was Emil in sixteen languages, including the Italian.

Chaney looked out at the passing landscape, surprised that he could recognize some of it. This was the same road he had taken from the Airport Hotel, not that it made any difference. He put aside consideration of the outside world and instead tried to recall all he had heard of past kidnapings in this part of the world. Usually, as he recalled, the guys putting on the snatch did so to raise dough for some local mob, but that was their affair. Chaney had no interest in politics. What he did remember, though, was that all the victims � or almost all of them � once they were freed, claimed they had been treated pretty good, considering. Even guys who had been held a long time. Of course, some of them had been blindfolded, but not all of them, even those who had gotten a good gander at their kidnapers, like he had. But most of them were so happy to get loose they hadn�t even tried to prosecute. Well, these two-bit punks would discover George Chaney was a lot different. Maybe he would have let them put the bite on his billfold and let it go at that, but if they stuck him for any real dough with this kidnaping bit, he�d find some boys in Rio, one way or another, look these monkeys up, and when he found them he�d turn them upside down, shake them a little, and count the scratch that fell out of their pistol pockets. And finding them shouldn�t be all that much sweat. Emil, eh? Dumb, dumb!

The refinery was passed, shadowed hulks of tank trucks lined up before the illuminated pumps like a litter feeding at a sow�s belly, guzzling only to disgorge a few hours later in the early morning at some p�sto de gasolina, or some factory storage tank. Beyond, he could see the lights of the airport and the neon sign on top of the hotel. The tower was a lighted tiara hanging in the darkness, and the runways stretched between rows of flashers to disappear into the night. The roar of a jet could be heard rising to a crescendo, and even as they neared they could see the plane free itself from the ground and hurl itself over them into the sky.

A sudden thought came to Chaney and he frowned darkly. If this was a kidnaping, who had fingered him? Dorn? Not a chance � Dorn was one guy who knew his spot with the boys back at Vegas and knew he wasn�t worth anything as a hostage; or at least nothing worth while. The judge? He put the thought away. More important than who had fingered him was the bigger question � why? Anyone who knew him knew the mob wouldn�t put up a plugged dime for him, so why? Why?

It just had to be a case of mistaken identity; nothing else made sense. Unless they just took a chance that any guy wearing a three-hundred-dollar suit had to be loaded, but that didn�t make any sense, either. Brazil had to be as full of fourflushers as Vegas, and who pulled a snatch on the basis of any meatheaded reasoning like that? No. They had to have him confused with somebody else � another American, of course. Maybe one of the VIPs from one of the factories they had passed. Coca-Cola, maybe; or General Electric. Well, he thought, relaxing a bit on the uncomfortable cab seat, he�d find out soon enough. He just hoped they had something decent to drink where they were taking him. He could use it after a day like this one!

Beyond the airport they came to a large arch to one side of the road, covering the entrance to another road, this one unpaved, leading apparently to some estate or other. The driver slowed enough to take the turn into the smaller road without undue strain on the cab, cutting beneath the arch, speeding up as soon as they were past. The road wound through darkness, bumpy and badly banked, with tall stands of trees on either side cutting off visibility; and then they were through the small woods and onto a type of plain, with faint lights in the distance, indicating a settlement of sorts. The lights grew brighter as they neared, outlining a large ranch, its independent buildings more evident the closer they got. The main building was now clearly discernible. Well, Chaney thought with some satisfaction, not bad! It didn�t look like he was going to suffer overly during his incarceration. Anyway, it had to be better than some of the slop joints he�d stayed in on his way up from Chicago�s slums; and also, he thought, you don�t run a spread like this without plenty of help, a lot of it female, and at least one of the girls ought to look halfway decent and be open to a simple business proposition. He smiled at the thought, and congratulated himself on his cool, his ability to make the best of the situation � until, of course, he was free to dig these clowns up and teach them not to horse around with George Chaney. He leaned back, savoring the pleasant thought of his eventual revenge, and then was suddenly thrown forward.

The driver had inexplicably braked. He leaned forward and cut the ignition. Chaney straightened up, suddenly wary, frowning. In the silence, the sounds of the night and the country came clearly, blending with music he could now hear coming faintly from the main house; there were the soft cries of invisible birds, the whisper of water tumbling over rocks in a nearby creek, the sudden scurry of some small animal, startled by their invasion. It was all very idyllic and suddenly very chillingly frightening.

The man beside Chaney sat still while the driver reached beneath the dashboard of the taxi and extracted a gun. He checked it under the dash lights and climbed out, coming to open the rear door on Chaney�s side. He stood behind it and, with a small wave of the muzzle, invited Chaney to get out. The gun in Chaney�s ribs repeated the invitation with a sharp prod.

�Outside,� said the man beside him.

Chaney swung around, scowling. �What the hell is this?�

�Outside.� This time it was more a jab than a prod and came close to being painful. There was a definite finality about it.

Chaney stumbled through the open door and straightened up. In the near distance the lights from the fazenda beckoned welcomingly; the music, gay and lilting, promised far more pleasant distractions than the two men facing him. Beyond the lights from the house, the reflection of the refinery against the low hanging clouds could be seen. For a moment Chaney considered making a break for it, but he knew this would be suicidal. He didn�t know the terrain, and the lights from the car were blinding him. Anyway, you didn�t get amateurs excited or present them with a situation which didn�t leave them an out. You talked to them. In a language, of course, that they could understand.

The man who had been sitting next to Chaney had stepped from the car and was standing a safe distance from him, watching him with an expressionless face, as if trying to read his mind. Chaney swung around to face him, suddenly sure this was all a mistake, and equally sure of the proper approach to resolve it.

�Look,� he said calmly, reasonably, �you guys pulled a bull, that�s all. I don�t know who you think you grabbed, but you grabbed the wrong guy, is all. It�s happened before; it�ll happen again. My name is Chaney; I don�t work for any big company and nobody would give a dime for me. But what the hell, I�m not broke. Make a decent price and we�ll deal. I want to get out of here.�

�There�s no mistake,� the man said quietly.

�Look,� Chaney said, getting a bit irritated with this thickheadedness. �You�re telling me somebody gave you guys a contract on me? I don�t believe it. There�s no reason.�

�Get over in front of the headlights,� the man said.

Chaney moved over without really being aware of it, for now he was angry.

�Okay,� he said. �If somebody gave you clowns a contract on me, tell me the tab and I�ll double it. With the names thrown in, of course. But if it�s a snatch on your own, you�re wasting your time. You think sending my monogrammed tie, or even my ear, is going to get any one of the boys in Vegas to shell out one red cent, you�ve got the wrong gang. They couldn�t care less. But me, I�ve got some dough. Me, personally. And I know when the other guy has the best hand. I�ll pay off. How much were you guys going to ask for me?�

The man he was facing suddenly snaked an arm from his sleeve, exposing a wrist watch. He glanced at it in the reflected light from the headlights of the car. �If you know how,� he said evenly in his accented English, �you have just one minute to say your prayers.�

Chaney stared. A cold hand seemed to squeeze his chest. These crazy clowns were crazy! Insane! It suddenly occurred to him there was a good chance he was going to get killed. Him!

�I tell you, you guys got the wrong man,� he said hoarsely. It seemed to him he was a mere spectator at the affair; he seemed to be standing to one side listening to some stranger plead for his life in a voice he didn�t recognize. �You�ve made a mistake. My name is Chaney, George Chaney. I can prove it. Look in my billfold. I�m from the States. I�m a U.S. citizen. I live in Rio, at the Beira Mar Hotel, room 1205. It�s the truth. I�m no tourist. They�ll tell you at the hotel. I don�t work for any big company. My name is Chaney, George Chaney. I�ve got lots of dough in my safety-deposit box in Rio. I�ll pay you guys what you want. But I�m the only one can get into the box. You shoot me and you don�t get a dime. Nobody else will give you a dime. And nobody else can get into my box. You�ve made a mistake. I don�t know who you think you�ve got, but my name is Chaney, George Chaney. Look in my billfold. I�m a U.S. citizen. I�m no tourist. I live here permanently. I only came to this town��

The man with the gun had been carefully watching his wrist. Now his eyes came up from his watch. �That�s your one minute,� he said calmly, and raising his gun, fired it.

The bullet struck Chaney in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. He caught his balance with an effort, unable to believe this was actually happening to him, wondering in some dim recess of his brain why it was happening to him. There was no answer. Chicago, Buffalo, Cleveland, Vegas � and to die down here in some hole in the northeast of Brazil? It made no sense. The pain was spreading, becoming unbearable. He found himself on his knees without knowing how he got there.

�You clowns � guys � are making a mistake. My name is Chaney, George Chaney. I live�� The pain was growing, flooding his body as it radiated from his chest; it blocked further speech. He had never known anything could hurt so much! The man with the gun walked closer, holding the smooth muzzle against Chaney�s temple. Even in the heat of the night it felt cold, cold. Chaney stared through glazing eyes, uncomprehending, unbelieving. The trigger was pulled once; a blinding explosion of pain and colored brilliant lights, intermingled and memory shattering, sent Chaney sprawling onto his back in the path of the car, under the impersonal probing headlights.

The man with the gun sighed and slipped the weapon into a clip holster beneath his jacket. The driver also tucked his gun away and approached the body. He stared at it a moment and then rolled it over with his boot, putting effort into it to move the heavy body; then he crouched beside it, reaching for the exposed bulging hip pocket. A faint smile crossed his thin face.

�He was so anxious to be robbed��

�Stop it!� The other man gripped the driver by the shoulder with authority and dragged him erect. �Don�t touch a thing.�

�Why not?� the other man protested. �Who knows how much he had on him? I�ll leave plenty. I�ll even leave his watch.�

�You�ll leave it all,� the man said firmly. �You idiot! How would you like to go the same route he did? Do you think he was killed just to buy you a few more beers?�

�But��

�No �buts�!�

The driver was silent. His partner in the crime reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. He brought out a sheet of paper, crudely hand-printed, with a loop of string stapled to each side at the top, making it into a sort of flimsy placard. He squatted down and rolled the body back to its original position, sightlessly facing the sky. He brought the arms and legs together and then propped the sagging body enough to slide the string over the thick neck, and then let the heavy body slump back to the road. He stood up. The driver moved closer, looking down with no expression at their work of the past thirty minutes, and the sign the flaccid body now wore around its neck.

Under the white beam of the depressed headlights the sign was clearly visible. A skull and crossbones had been poorly sketched in black against the gray of the cheap paper, and beneath it in blood-red letters was a crudely printed legend. It read:

Captain Jos� Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva, member of the Brazilian Federal Police assigned to the Rio de Janeiro district and liaison officer between that organization and Interpol, had nothing against his nation�s new capitol Brasilia, other, of course, than if one didn�t have all the time in the world to waste, the only way to get there was to fly, and airplanes headed a long list of things the captain heartily disliked. The list also included coral snakes, fat women in slacks, heavy traffic, bad brandy, and cocktail parties without pretty girls. Other than these and a few additional minor aversions and phobias, Captain Da Silva would have been the first to admit he was the most equable, mild-mannered, agreeable, tolerant, and generally lovable person in the world.

Certainly most women would have agreed. They found his six feet of athletic physique attractive; they thought his being under forty years of age and still single, intriguing; they considered his smile, a white flash of even teeth against his almost Indian-copper skin, to be gay and boyish; they found his swarthy, pock-marked face, with its bushy black mustache and topped by his black curly hair, to be romantic in the manner that swashbuckling brigands were romantic. A violently opposing vote would most certainly have been cast by those members of the Rio underworld who had had the misfortune of facing a scowl on that tough, pock-marked face, or an accusing glare from those piercing black eyes � not to mention those who had felt the captain�s wrath in more physical form, such as his strong right hand.

At the moment, though, Captain Da Silva was neither scowling nor smiling; with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of brandy on the small tray before him, he was trying his best to be as brave as possible about the almost assured disaster that was certain to result when the plane in which he was flying to the capitol attempted to land in a few minutes if the tragedy didn�t occur earlier. True, the turbines were humming along smoothly, the weather was perfect with the sky over the planalto its usual deep clear blue, with scattered puffy white clouds so stationary as to seem painted against an azure backdrop. Nor was there the slightest sign of panic among the stewardesses or passengers. Still, Da Silva was not deceived. In the course of his career he had been forced to fly in airplanes many times, and it was only logical that his luck had to run out some time. He only felt profoundly sorry for those other passengers who had had the misfortune of taking the same flight as himself.

He brushed ash into the ashtray, took another sip of brandy, and looked down, trying to postpone thoughts of the inevitable crash as long as possible. He had to concede that the capitol city over which they were now flying, at a constantly lessening altitude, was indeed spectacular when seen from this lower height, both for its heroic concept and its vast spaces, as well as for the remarkable architecture, which was just now becoming discernible beneath them. Still, in his beloved Rio de Janeiro one could get an equally fine view, or better, just by driving up to Corcovado or Vista Chineza; one didn�t have to risk life and limb just to enjoy a view.

He put the thought aside to return to one that had puzzled him since the command to appear in Brasilia had first crossed his desk the day before: Why was he being asked to present himself to the Minister of Business and Industry with minimum delay? Normally, in the old days when he had been summoned to the Itamarit� � the Foreign Office � he had usually known why; it was usually to receive a reprimand. But this time he had no idea at all. He had nothing to do with either Business or Industry, so why the meeting with that particular minister? God alone knew; He, apparently, was saving His strength for the coming crash. Well, Da Silva thought, the chances were it won�t be for a reprimand, and then became aware that a stewardess was at his side, waiting for him to finish his drink. She gestured overhead; the light above his seat advised him to follow instructions as they were about to land. He crushed out his cigarette, finished his drink and handed the glass to the girl with a smile, and was in the process of tightening his seat belt, when he suddenly stopped smiling.

The jet reactor had changed pitch querulously; the horizon suddenly changed location, tilting sickeningly without warning. Da Silva swallowed and gripped the armrest tightly, feeling a sort of perverse satisfaction in the accuracy of his prediction. Strange bumps and grinds came from somewhere in the nether regions of the craft; the angle of the plane was reversed as suddenly as before, tipping the passengers in the opposite direction, and then the plane seemed to miraculously manage to level itself, but too late! They were falling, with the airport runway coming up swiftly to smash at them. Da Silva gripped the armrest tightly and closed his eyes, not wishing to see the actual disintegration; there was a gentle bump and he opened his eyes to find the airplane rolling sedately toward the distant terminal. It paused long enough to snort disdainfully in a backward direction, and then rolled on under better control. Da Silva released his death�s grip on the armrest and took a deep breath. The successful flight meant nothing and he knew it; it merely increased the chances of disaster on the next flight. One couldn�t argue with probabilities and statistics.

The door of the jet was swung open from the outside and the passengers emerged into the brilliant sunshine, shading their eyes, edging their way down the steep aluminum stairway, ladened with hand luggage and magazines, starting to trail antwise across the tarmac toward the shaded building. The stewardess at the plane�s exit smiled at Da Silva brightly.

�Good-bye. I hope you enjoyed the flight.�

�As always,� Da Silva said, for he was a man who did not believe in lying when the truth would serve as well. He nodded a bit formally, for while there was no one on earth who admired stewardesses more � on earth � all thoughts of romance left him when aloft. He had often wondered at the stories of horseplay between pilots and stewardesses in the cockpit during flight; it seemed to him incredible that anyone could concentrate on sex when there were thirty-five thousand feet of empty space between them and the hard ground.

He came down the stairs and paused to look around. An official-looking limousine was drawn up not far from the plane, in an area where private vehicles were seldom if ever permitted. A uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the car, leaned inside a brief moment, as if receiving instructions, and then straightened up. He noted Da Silva, nodded as if in confirmation, and then hurried toward him, touching his cap.

�Captain Da Silva?�

Da Silva was pleasantly surprised at being so quickly recognized. To his knowledge he had never personally met the present Minister of Business and Industry, Dr. Jorge Wanderlay. Well, the captain thought with a touch of his usual modesty, the Minister probably saw my picture in the Rio newspapers, or maybe that time in Manchete. He nodded to the chauffeur.

�Right.�

�If you�ll come with me, sir��

Da Silva obediently followed the man to the limousine, aware as he did so that the other passengers undoubtedly were wondering what Important Personage had shared their flight without their knowledge. Da Silva unconsciously stood a bit more erect; the chauffeur opened the rear door of the limousine and stepped back smartly, almost at attention. Da Silva bent forward. The Minister of Business and Industry, Dr. Wanderlay, was sitting in the center of the rear seat; the sharp features, tight lips, stern jaw and brush of stiff white hair, cut military style, were all quite familiar from the television screen or the newspapers; he was usually posed before a ribbon, scissors in hand, prepared to inaugurate a new factory or power plant. But it was the man on the jump seat, smiling at him in friendly fashion, who caught Da Silva�s attention and solved the problem of how he had been so quickly recognized. A wide smile of delight crossed the captain�s face; since an abra�o in the restricted space was difficult, he contented himself by extending his hand.

�Wilson!�

�Hello, Z�.� Wilson took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly.

The Minister cleared his throat authoritatively. �If you�ll get into the car, Captain.�

�Yes, sir.� Da Silva climbed in; the Minister slid over a bit, making room for him on the rear seat. The chauffeur stepped forward to close the door, but rather than move around to the driver�s seat, he remained standing stiffly at the door, as if on guard. The Minister saw Da Silva�s faint look of surprise and properly interpreted it.

�You�ll be taking the next plane back to Rio with Mr. Wilson, so I thought we could talk here as well as at my office. Better, I suppose.� He glanced at Wilson a moment and then brought his steady gaze back to Da Silva. �So you two know each other?�

�Very well, sir,� Da Silva said, and smiled broadly. �Wilson and I have been involved in a good many cases together over the years.�

�Oh?� If the Minister thought it strange that a man in the relatively innocuous position that Wilson held � Security Officer for the American Consulate in Rio, a job normally concerned with visitors from the States who lost passports, or sailors from American ships who got drunk and ended up in Brazilian jails � should have worked on cases involving Da Silva�s particular branch of the police, he did not comment further on it. Da Silva, well aware of the true status of the nondescript-looking Mr. Wilson, did not press the matter. He just knew that the stocky Wilson, with his bland features, his sandy hair, and his pale eyes, and with his uncanny ability to appear unnoticed in any group, had saved his life several times, and there was no one he preferred to have beside him in a tight position than the quiet American. He didn�t know what had brought him to Brasilia, but he was just happy that the two of them were apparently going to work together again. He became aware that the Minister was speaking to him.

�Well, to get to business, Captain. What do you know about Para�so?�

�I beg your pardon?�

�I said Para�so.� There was a momentary glint of humor in the steady blue eyes, surprisingly not out of place on the stern face. �Not heaven, Captain � the city.�

Da Silva frowned. If he had taken the trouble to list all the potential questions a Minister of Business and Industry might throw at a captain of police, this one would have been at the bottom of the list. Or below.

�Para�so?� he said slowly, trying to dig into the recesses of his memory to see what he really did know about the place. �It�s a small town in the northeast � in Cear� State, I think � where the government is trying to build an industrial city. Or they were some years back. It got quite a bit of publicity when it was launched several years ago, but I haven�t read much about it lately.�

�Have you ever been there?�

Da Silva shook his head. �No, sir.�

�Good! Do you have any contacts with the police there?�

Da Silva wondered at the word �good� but merely shook his head.

�No, sir. But I�m sure I could arrange any contacts you might want, if�� He stopped short. He was even more sure that a Minister of the Republic could arrange any police contacts he wanted anywhere in the country without his humble aid. Da Silva repeated his opening words and let it go at that. �No, sir.�

�Good!� said the Minister, again to Da Silva�s surprise. �Well, gentlemen, before I get down to our problem, let me tell you something about Para�so, since you apparently know very little. In the first place, it is in Piau�, not Cear�, although it�s quite close to the state line, as well as being close to Maranh�o. Secondly, it is far from having been dropped as a government project; that �small town� as you called it, now has over two hundred thousand inhabitants, and if our plans for the city are fulfilled, we can easily envision Para�so doubling its population within ten years.�

He turned to Wilson and his voice took on the timbre of an enthusiast. Da Silva, listening, suddenly remembered that the old man had come from that part of the northeast himself.

�Mr. Wilson, let me explain the vital importance of this industrial city � and, Captain, you listen closely, too, because what I am about to say is very important. Para�so used to be a crossroads village, the center of a struggling cattle-raising area. But Para�so is located in what we call, in Portuguese, caatinga � scrubland � not good for anything except raising cattle, and not especially good even for that. When the drought comes � as it does every six or eight years � then the cattle die and the people starve. Some of them, those who can, some of the men, go to the big cities � Recife, Salvador, Rio, S�o Paulo � and only swell the unemployment rolls there and add to their own misery as well as that of others. And even when the rains come again, many of the cattle are so weak by that time that they drown. And even in the best of times you could not put more than three head of cattle on a hectare of land in the caatinga � that�s about one head per acre, Mr. Wilson � whereas we can put ten head per hectare on ranches within a two-hour drive from Rio, near the slaughterhouses and near the market. But I�m getting off the track; what I�m trying to say is that in the old days the situation for the people in that area wasn�t very good. But now��

He paused a moment, as if for effect, and then went on.

�Now, with a city like Para�so � which is an industrial park on a rather large scale � conditions have improved immeasurably for those who live there. They live decently, with proper hospitals and schools; the factories furnish good housing; they don�t have to worry any more about droughts, or dying cattle, or starving children.�

Da Silva, listening, could understand what the industrial development of an area in the northeast could mean to the Minister of Business and Industry; he could even understand what it could mean to the development of the country in general and to the welfare of the people who lived there in particular. What he could not understand was what it had to do with the police. Still, listening to the old man was interesting. It was questionable in his own mind, though, whether or not working on an assembly line was really more satisfying to the people of that part of the northeast than taking their chances with the bounty of an admittedly stingy Mother Nature, although he was sure the women and children had to prefer their new life. The Minister was continuing, his gaze moving metronome fashion between his two listeners.

�There are other attempts at industrial parks in Brazil of course, imitations of Para�so; cities like Novo Mundo and Industrianopolis in the south, but our efforts have been concentrated on Para�so. Twenty years ago, or even fifteen, anyone suggesting an industrial park of this size � or any size, as far as that goes � in the northeast of Brazil, would have been called insane. But things have changed. First, the hydroelectric-power project on the S�o Francisco River made cheap power available for the first time. Secondly, water isn�t a matter of luck, good or bad, that it used to be; we bring water in from the Rio Pr�to and the Rio Grande and store it in a man-made lake. We�ve extended the Salvador-Paulistana railway to Para�so and continued it to the S�o Luis line, so that rail shipments are possible to ports to the north in Maranh�o, to the east to Forteleza, or to the south to Bahia, with connections on to Rio. And we�re building a highway that will eventually connect with the Bras�lia-Belem road. We�ve built a pipeline from S�o Luis and a refinery in Para�so; the city will eventually become the largest petrochemical complex in South America. If��

He paused, a finger in the air, and turned to Da Silva.

�That �if is where you come in, Captain. At present there is a threat to the continued growth of the city, and that threat brings it into your domain. You�ve probably been sitting here wondering what all this has to do with you. Very much, Captain. In the past two weeks four people have been killed � murdered � in Para�so. The fourth was an American, which is the reason for Mr. Wilson�s involvement and his being present here today.�

Da Silva frowned. People were being killed every day of the week in Rio, Chicago, Paris, London, and just about everywhere else in the world, and he was surprised that a Minister of Business and Industry should worry about it. If anything, it seemed more a problem for the law enforcement agencies of government. Besides, if in a town the size of Para�so � which was, after all, still a frontier town, despite its modern factories and its advanced technology � only four people had been killed in a period of two weeks, it had to be the cleanest city in Brazil, or anyway, in the northeast. He felt he had to mention that fact.

�Pardon me, sir,� he said, �but with that population, four homicides in two weeks isn�t a very startling statistic. Especially in what amounts to a frontier town. Actually, on that basis our record in Rio is pretty bad. We have about twelve times that population, and between twenty and twenty-five times that homicide rate��

Minister Wanderlay waved the captain to silence.

�I have no idea how many homicides were committed in Para�so in the past two weeks, or how many people died in traffic or drowned in the lake, for that matter,� he said a bit sardonically. �Many more than four, I�m sure. As you say, it�s still a frontier town�� He turned to Wilson. �It�s something like your far west a hundred years ago, Mr. Wilson; I understand that Australia also has places like it.� He turned back to Da Silva. �And if these four men had been killed in barroom fights, or in a card game, or even over a woman � or even to be robbed, Captain � I wouldn�t have asked that you be brought up from Rio. But these men didn�t die those ways, nor was any one of them robbed; as a matter of fact, all of them except one had a considerable amount of money on him, and they all had their watches and personal papers untouched. One even had a very expensive camera and light meter, and they were intact. However, these four men did have one thing in common.� He paused significantly. �They all had a very familiar handprinted sign around their necks, which read��

�Esquadr�o de Morte,� Da Silva said. His face was without expression, but his jaw had tightened and his eyes narrowed.

�Exactly.� The Minister was watching Da Silva closely.

�A death squad.� Da Silva shook his head. �I�d thought we had grown up more! I thought we were done with that sort of vicious idiocy. Or at least I had hoped so.�

�We all did. But it seems there�s a resurgence,� the Minister said quietly. �And in Para�so, of all places; and now of all times!�

Wilson entered the conversation for the first time.

�The information the embassy sent to us at the Rio consulate about Chaney�s death didn�t say anything about any death squad. And I didn�t see anything in the papers to that effect.�

�We try to keep these matters out of our own newspapers as much as possible, and generally we�re successful,� Dr. Wanderlay said, and raised his shoulders a bit helplessly. �However, we can�t keep it out of the foreign press. How they get hold of such items I don�t know, but they do. And there have been repercussions already. We happen to be in the process of negotiating certain investments with large industrial groups through their various government representatives here, and we�ve had inquiries about these killings. And the inquiries indicate the principals are disturbed by them; greatly disturbed.�

�I know the death squads and I don�t like them,� Da Silva said evenly. �They�re a bunch of rogue police who want to make their own justice. Vigilantes. But I still can�t see what something that internal in Brazil should have to do with foreign companies or foreign governments.� He studied the Minister�s face. �Sir, how can four people being killed in a city that small � or that big, if you prefer � really have any influence in determining either a government or even a company policy?�

Minister Wanderlay considered Da Silva evenly. �Tell me, Captain � how much of an economist are you?�

Da Silva smiled faintly, prepared for the usual reprimand but unable to see any basis for it. �Why, not at all, sir.�

�I suspected as much,� the Minister said, and leaned toward the other man a bit, speaking in all seriousness. �Do you have any idea, Captain, what just a few kidnapings did to foreign investments in Argentina? Oh, I know there were some killings, all supposedly political, but just the kidnapings, even when the victims weren�t touched, sent foreign investments nose-diving. Can you imagine what damage was done to the Argentinian economy by just three or four kidnapings?�

�Well, I can imagine, sir��

�I doubt you can,� Minister Wanderlay said dryly. �Do you know what terrorism did to foreign investments in Uruguay?� His shoulders came up. �Did I say foreign investment? It did almost as much damage to local investment. I doubt there�s a major businessman in those countries who doesn�t feel himself threatened, and he�s a local. Captain, do you know what the drop in tourism to Buenos Aires or Montevideo has been lately, because visitors are afraid of being kidnaped? Foolish? If you don�t believe me, ask the tourist boards of those countries!�

�I��

�Or the number of people who always used to go to Santiago or Baraloche and now give it a wide berth because they aren�t sure they might not be arrested on some trumped-up charge? Stability is what people want, Captain. Stability! Believe me!�

�I believe you, sir. I�� Da Silva shrugged apologetically. �I guess it didn�t occur to me.�

�Well, Captain, it has occurred to a lot of other people. Foreign governments and foreign investors like stability where they invest, and I, for one, don�t blame them. And the appearance � or, rather, reappearance � of a group that holds itself above the law, and which, in addition, has the power of arms and a certain degree of authority to use those arms, is frightening to them. And to me. The death squads start off by claiming the law is too slow in dealing with criminals; then they move on to being above the law; and finally wind up determining who in their opinion is a criminal in the first place. Or who deserves death � also in their opinion � even if he isn�t a criminal. There�s no reason to believe any of the four men who were killed by the death squad in Para�so were criminals, for instance.�

Da Silva frowned. �What?�

�That�s right,� Minister Wanderlay said, and tapped a folder on the seat beside him. �What little we have on the men � the four victims � is in this folder. You can take it with you. There�s nothing in what has been uncovered so far to indicate the police wanted any one of the four.� He shook his head. �It�s frightening.�

�I know, sir.�

Minister Wanderlay nodded. �I know you do, Captain. I know you were involved in breaking up the death squad in Rio. That�s exactly why I asked for you on the case. Remember, gentlemen, Brazil is a major country today, and a growing one. We are also a responsible country, and responsible countries do not tolerate vigilante groups. And the plain and economic fact is that unless the Death Squad is wiped out in Para�so, it is going to damage our program for the industrial expansion for the city. That is a fact. Companies have already indicated an unwillingness to complete negotiations already in progress; they are looking elsewhere for factory sites; if the atmosphere of violence were to continue � violence by a death squad � it is more than possible even present companies would begin to pull their top management people out, just as they did in Argentina and Uruguay. And all the work we�ve put in these past many years would all be wasted.�

Da Silva had been thinking. He looked at the Minister.

�But, sir, with all the power the government has, can�t the police force up there be thoroughly and openly investigated? And cleaned out? From top to bottom, if necessary?�

The Minister shook his head. �No. To begin with, Captain, how do you prove a man is a member of a death squad? You should know better than most. If nobody talks, all he has to do is stop his killing and go on doing the job he is paid to do, and who would be the wiser? Actually, unless he�s caught red-handed in the act, which isn�t very likely to happen, how do you bring a case against him? And you don�t disband an entire police force with the resultant confusion and, I�m sure, the resultant increase in ordinary crime, because a mere three or four � or possibly even only two � members of the force are mentally sick people.�

He held up a hand abruptly as if Da Silva had been about to interrupt, which the captain had not been about to do at all. Captains did not interrupt Ministers of the Republic if they wanted to continue to be effective.

�Actually, Captain,� Minister Wanderlay went on, �to carry your idea to its logical conclusion � and I�m sorry to state this has been suggested by some quite responsible people, or otherwise responsible, perhaps I should say � we would send the army in, or its equivalent in security forces, and have ourselves a wholesale cleaning. Which could and possibly would result in quite a minor civil war.� His white eyebrows rose slightly. �Do you honestly believe, Captain, that that sort of action would reassure the companies and the governments we are discussing?�

�I wasn�t suggesting��

�Well, I don�t,� the Minister continued, quite as if Da Silva had not spoken. �What has been decided, in place of that foolish idea, is to give the job to one man. You.� A brief humorless smile quirked the thin lips. �I�m told you have your own methods of solving problems. That you don�t always go by the book. Well, you�ll be dealing with people who also don�t follow rules. Use your own judgment. Do you have any questions?�

�Yes, sir. What�s been done so far?�

Wanderlay shrugged. �We�ve informed the commercial divisions of the various embassies of the countries involved that we are quite cognizant of their fears, that we are doing everything in our power to clear up the situation as expeditiously as possible.� The brief smile lit his face once again and then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. �Whatever else we lack in government, our ability to use official language remains intact.�

Da Silva shook his head. �I didn�t mean that, sir. I mean, what�s been done in the town itself? Granted, the army wasn�t sent up there, or any major security forces, and I agree it was better that way, but surely someone spoke with the authorities up there? The police chief, at least; they were murders, no matter who committed them, and they fall into his domain. What reaction was gotten?�

There was a long pause. Minister Wanderlay seemed to be considering his answer carefully. At last he sighed.

�The big power in Para�so is a judge, a federally appointed judge. His name is Magalh�es, Gen�ro Magalh�es. He�s a man of considerable influence up there, and the largest individual landowner in the state. He�s a strong supporter of the government, and up there he�s boss. He appoints the police chief, among other appointments. He�s also�� The Minister hesitated and then went on. ��he�s also an old friend of mine. I spoke with him personally. He swore to me that none of the men in the local police department were involved. He said he�d done a thorough investigation after the first killing, and said he really dug into it after the second and the third. He said he was convinced someone was merely using the police as scapegoats for their own purposes.�

�And do you believe him, sir?�

�If I believed him,� Minister Wanderlay said, and there was a bit of sadness in his voice, �I wouldn�t have asked you to take over the investigation.� He handed over the folder. �Good luck, Captain...�

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, Z� 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 Pel� buying Portugal and using it for a summer estate, or � if you insist � you might give me your opinion about those killings in Para�so.�

�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 Para�so 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 Para�so 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 Para�so? I know the word means �Paradise� in English, but my guess is that�s just geographer�s license.�

�He didn�t live in Para�so. He lived in Rio, at the Beira Mar Hotel.� Wilson shrugged. �He may have gone up to Para�so 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?�

Wilson looked hurt. �Sir, you are speaking of my native state.�

�Well, would you?�

�In all honesty, no,� Wilson said. �I wouldn�t even pick it second.�

�Well, then,� Da Silva said, and finished his brandy. He reached overhead, pressing the button for the stewardess. The pretty girl came down the aisle pushing her cart; Da Silva saluted her rapid response with a bright smile. Once he and Wilson had been served, he leaned a bit into the aisle, watching her continue toward the front of the plane. He leaned back and raised his glass.

�To stewardesses. With good legs,� he said. �Where were we?�

�We were trying to figure out what Chaney was doing in a place like Para�so,� Wilson said sternly. �Get your mind off girls. You must feel better about flying if you�re starting to get passionate in the air.�

�It�s the brandy,� Da Silva said, and sipped as if to prove his point. �Well, to get back to business. Chaney was your national; you tell me what he was doing in Para�so � you had him under surveillance.�

�When I say we had him under surveillance, I don�t mean we had a man on his tail all the time. The answer to your question is, I have no idea what he was doing there. Now that I�ve satisfied your curiosity,� Wilson went on, �you answer a question of mine. What�s wrong with the idea that these murders were done by other people � other than the police, I mean � and that Death Squad signs were hung around their necks as a put-off?�

Da Silva lit a cigarette and opened the folder in his lap.

�You mean beside the one I already gave you? Well, you haven�t read these reports, yet.� He tapped the top sheet of the open folder. �Of the four who were killed, the first one � two weeks ago � was a local character named Valdir Limeira, a professional gambler��

�And your theory is he took the police chief in a poker game one night��

�And you think you�re joking, but you might not be. In any event, gambling is against the law, whether it�s honored more in the breech than other laws. Anyway, his papers were intact, and his watch. That was on March 6�� He lifted some of the papers, consulting the ones beneath. �Then, three days later, on March 9, a man named Leopoldo Bethencourt came to Para�so and on the tenth was found dead, with the sign around his neck. According to his business cards he had an export-import business in Recife. The third was named Manuel Assis Torres, and he came from Porto Alegre on the twelfth and was found dead the following morning. According to his papers he was a commercial photographer; his camera and other photographic equipment weren�t touched. The fourth was Chaney, who came to Para�so on the seventeenth and was found dead the next day.� He closed the folder and looked at Wilson, somewhat like a professor encouraging a rather bright student. �Well?�

�Well, what?�

�Well,� Da Silva said patiently, �what did the four of them have in common?�

�They were all killed��

�I�m serious,� Da Silva said a bit sharply.

�In that case,� Wilson said, �they didn�t have anything in common as far as I can see. Or as far as we know so far. They came from different places on different days. Except for the gambler � apparently he came from Para�so itself.�

�He did, and the others were from different places. And I want to know why they came there, and in time I expect to find out. But what else did they have in common?�

Wilson frowned at Da Silva in uncertainty. �Nothing that I can see. What are you driving at? What�s on your mind?�

Da Silva crushed out his cigarette and instantly lit another. He leaned back and tapped the folder with his forefinger.

�Just this,� he said. �My guess is that if the first one was outside the law, and the last one was outside the law, then I think it�s a fairly reasonable assumption to consider that the other two were also a little less respectable than their business cards would have us believe. Despite the Minister�s faith in their goodness. After all, anyone can have a card printed.�

Wilson shook his head half-admiringly.

�Man, when you get a theory you sure like to torture facts to make them fit! Is there anything in that folder to make you think that Torres or this Bethencourt were anything else but what they were supposed to be?�

�No,� Da Silva admitted. �But when a death squad comes into being, it�s usually because the police � or, rather, just a few of the police, thank God � think that punishment of lawbreakers by the courts is too slow, and that a helping hand from them�� He shrugged.

�So,� Wilson said sarcastically, �if a death squad killed them, therefore they must be criminals. And, of course, being criminals makes whoever killed them a death squad. Beautiful! I�ll bet you play solitaire with a marked deck. What happens to your lovely theory if you check out this Torres and Bethencourt and find out they�re exactly what their business cards claim them to be?�

�Then I guess I�ll have to dream up another theory,� Da Silva said, and grinned.

�And I�m sure you�ll manage,� Wilson said with disgust. He shook his head. �Has it ever occurred to you that each one of the four could have been killed by a different person for completely different reasons, and a sign hung around each neck just to give a stubborn thickheaded, intransigent detective, whose name escapes me at the moment, the basis for one more of his wild-eyed theories?�

�Why, no,� Da Silva said with a gentle smile. �It never occurred to me at all. Because, you see, all four were killed by exactly the same method � we call it modus operandi in the police � a bullet in the chest and one more, for luck, in the head...�

�And I don�t suppose that a person, hearing of the method, couldn�t simply copy it?�

�I might point out,� Da Silva said evenly, �that the ones in the best position to know what method was used were the police themselves. And there was very little local or national publicity, as the Minister said. However, you didn�t let me finish: I was about to say� � he paused a moment for effect, a faint smile on his face � �that the bullets all match. They all came from the same gun.�

There was a short silence as Wilson digested this new fact. �Oh,� he said, and looked at Da Silva resentfully. �You cheat.�

�At times,� Da Silva said, and became serious. �Now, these four men were all killed by the same person or persons, certainly by the same gun. For the sake of argument, let�s assume I�m right and that they were all the type of person the death squads like to eliminate. Here we have four men from different parts of the country, all coming to Para�so. Let�s ask the same question we asked about Chaney. Why did they go there?�

�A meeting, do you suppose?�

�On different days?� Da Silva asked sarcastically.

�I forgot,� Wilson said, not at all disturbed by his error. �I�m still not convinced your theory is right. I thought death squads always concentrated on Brazilians, and yet there is Chaney...�

�There�s always a first time to expand,� Da Silva said, �and from what you tell me of Chaney, you have to admit he certainly had the credentials to join the club.�

�And not only that,� Wilson went on, as if Da Silva had not spoken, �there�s the matter of this Judge what�s-his-name��

�Magalh�es.�

�Magalh�es. If what the Minister said was true, it seems hard for me to believe a death squad could, or would, operate in his territory.�

Da Silva glanced at him with raised eyebrows. �Why?�

�Because you just got through saying that death squads come into existence because a group of police think the regular courts are too slow in rendering judgment. Here�s a man who is the court, but he�s also the man who appoints the chief of police, so he really controls both sides of the table. It doesn�t make any sense.�

�Unless,� Da Silva said slowly, trying to fit Wilson�s reasonable objection into his theory, �the judge doesn�t know what�s going on.�

Wilson shook his head decisively.

�I doubt it. He�s supposed to be the big influence up there; large landowner, sits on the bench, appoints people to important jobs. He�s probably like some of the judges we had in our own West, years ago, people like Judge Roy Bean, for example. My guess is he knows everything that�s going on. We�re the ones who don�t.�

Da Silva found a better rationale. �There�s one way that makes sense, though,� he said thoughtfully. �That�s if the judge knows exactly what�s going on. If he heads up the gang.�

�Which is ridiculous on the face of it.�

�Why?�

�Because in that case I�d scarcely trust those reports you�ve got in that folder,� Wilson said flatly. �Remember, they came from the police up there. I doubt if they�d give any facts you could hang them with.� He thought a moment. �Anyway, why would the judge � or a death squad � or anyone else for that matter, knock off people from different parts of the country? What�s the matter with Para�so? Is it so clean they have to import victims?�

Da Silva looked at Wilson and smiled. �I didn�t say I had all the answers.� He crushed out his cigarette. �Well, it looks as if we have our work cut out for us. First, we have to check on Torres and Bethencourt; then we have to find out what brought them to Para�so in the first place, and why anyone wanted to kill them in the second. Also Chaney.� He frowned. �Did he do anything locally to irk somebody?�

�You still disregard the fact that if Chaney was killed by a death squad, he�d be the first foreigner killed by one? You also disregard the fact that it�s senseless for the judge to be the head of the courts and also the head of a death squad?�

�I�m not disregarding anything,� Da Silva said patiently. �It�s just that the death squad is the only thing that does make sense. As far as the judge is concerned, it�s true he could bring whatever sentence he wanted; but first he had to have a crime committed in his jurisdiction. And there were no charges that I know of against these men.�

�But��

�And it isn�t just the Death Squad signs, either,� Da Silva went on steadily. �The victims weren�t robbed. They were all killed with the same gun. My guess is that they were all types a death squad could consider criminal. Now, can you give me any other explanation?�

�Not at this time.�

�And as for Chaney,� Da Silva went on, �and the fact that he was a foreigner; well, he could have been a case of mistaken identity. Although the thought of mistaken identity with someone who doesn�t even speak the language is hard to picture. Unless�� He paused and glanced over at Wilson. �Did he speak Portuguese?�

�I doubt it,� Wilson said, �but it�ll be easy enough to check out. The people at the Beira Mar would know. You check out Torres and Bethencourt, and have one of your men talk to the hotel staff; I don�t have the men. I�ll telex Washington this afternoon and see what I can get on Chaney from them. Maybe they can pick up something more on him in Vegas.�

�Good enough,� Da Silva said. �At least it�s the start of a program.�

�There�s just one thing,� Wilson went on, thinking about it. �From what Minister Wanderlay said, all a death squad would have to do to avoid exposure would simply be to go out of business. How they were wiped out in Rio and S�o Paulo?�

�They were wiped out,� Da Silva said soberly, �because some of the members simply got sick of the whole business of the senseless killings and reported it. In writing, naturally, and anonymously, as you can well imagine. They gave names, dates, and locations of past killings and accurately predicted future killings, which enabled us to be on the spot. Once we got a few of the top people, the organization fell apart.�

Wilson frowned unhappily.

�Are you saying that if this is the work of a death squad � and I�m still not convinced � that the only way we�re ever going to find out and nail them is to wait until one of them chickens out and blows the whistle?�

�Maybe,� Da Silva said, and shrugged. �I didn�t expect it to be easy.�

�Although,� Wilson added, �I suppose if we can get them to go out of business, whether we catch them or not, the Minister should be satisfied. The important thing to him is to have the killings stop.�

�But not to me,� Da Silva said harshly. �It would be like living with a bomb hidden someplace, waiting for it to go off.� He dismissed this solution with a brief wave of his hand, as not being worth discussing. �One of us will have to go to Para�so and see what he can dig out up there, while the other one stays in Rio, at least for the time being, and tries to find out what connection these four men had with Para�so, or the police up there, or even with each other if it comes to that.�

�And possibly the one who goes up there might also earn a nice sign around his neck, just for being nosy?�

�I�d recommend that whichever one of us gets the assignment,� Da Silva said dryly, �would try to be a little intelligent about his nosiness.�

Wilson laughed. �I gather you mean he should not go up there wearing his Interpol bowling shirt, and that he should use a safety pin to hold up his pants rather than his police shield��

�Right,� Da Silva said, and smiled.

�I also gather, since your suggestions usually take the form of instruction, that I�m the one who drew the short straw?�

�I think so,� Da Silva said seriously. �I have the organization here to check out these men, and that part is better handled from Rio. You�� He paused a moment in thought and then nodded. �You can go up there as, say, the representative of some American industry who is considering locating in Para�so. That would have a couple of advantages-you could meet Judge Magalh�es without any suspicion, since he�d be a logical person to contact regarding possible land sites for your factory; and you�ll also be able to innocently ask him about those death squad killings that are upsetting your principals. That might be one way to open something up.�

Wilson nodded his approval. �That�s an idea. Tell me, do I speak my perfect Portuguese, or pretend I don�t know any? Like that time down in Urubuap�, with those two lovely brothers and that miserable snake? Of course that time you were my translator, and a pretty flakey one at that. Remember?�

�I don� no never forgot heem, meester,� Da Silva said with a grin, and wiped it off. �No, this time you go in with your standard Americanized Portuguese. You�ll be the representative of one of the Stateside banks in Rio, representing the interests of an American manufacturing company which does not wish to be identified at this time. You ought to know enough people to arrange yourself a decent cover.�

�No problem,� Wilson said cheerfully. �And when will you be up?�

�When I get something to come up for,� Da Silva said. �Right now the job for me is in Rio.�

�Good enough. Anything else?�

�I don�t think so,� Da Silva said. �I�ll put people on Torres and Bethencourt as soon as I get back to the office today. And before you go up to Para�so, instruct your office to let me have whatever comes in on Chaney.� He frowned. �It would make more sense if we could find some connection between those four victims...�

�Why?� Wilson asked a bit ironically. �If they were all nasty, wouldn�t that be reason enough for your mythical death squad?�

�Those weren�t mythical dead bodies,� Da Silva said flatly, and looked over Wilson�s shoulder. All that was visible through the small oval window were fleecy clouds. �I hope this thing gets in on time. We have a lot of work to do.�

�I don�t know about you,� Wilson said, �but I know I have a lot to do. If I have to go up to some forlorn place in the middle of nowhere for an indeterminate sentence, I expect to spend this evening tasting the fleshpots of Rio. Building up a reserve, you might say; memories to buoy me up through the long celibate nights.�

Da Silva stared at him.

�You really don�t know much about small towns in the interior, do you?� he asked wonderingly. �They�re like small towns everywhere � except Ohio, possibly. They don�t have the wide assortment of entertainment we have in the big city, so they are forced to depend on the oldest and cheapest form of amusement. You won�t have any trouble. We�ll probably have to send a posse up there to drag you back.�

�If what you say is true, I�ll even forgive you that crack about Ohio,� Wilson said, and grinned.

When Joaquim Saldanha Valadares first started in his chosen profession at the tender age of twenty, he selected each girl personally, broke her in himself � naturally � and brought her along as quickly as he felt proper for her fullest development and greatest profit potential. But now that he had prospered to the extent of twenty-six houses in fourteen cities, all of the highest caliber, and all run from his headquarters in Rio de Janeiro, he found � unfortunately � that it was impossible to give the hiring of new talent that personal touch so often recommended by most business consultants. Instead, Valadares had on his payroll an assortment of people for that purpose; spotters in hospitals for unwed mothers, doctors who specialized in illegal abortions, as well as many bartenders, those psychologists of the people who could spot in an instant which nervous female drinker was potential fare for the vast organization Valadares ran, or which amateur hustler would happily trade the outdoors for the indoors.

Still, whenever Joaquim Valadares had an opportunity to do a personal job of recruiting, he was far from unwilling to do so. He only wished he had more time for that most necessary phase of the business.

A prime target for such consideration, to his way of thinking, was the girl working over some man�s hand at manicurist table number three, when he arrived for his usual weekly appointment at his regular barbershop. She was new, a black-haired beauty, with the full, rounded breasts and slender waist that Joaquim favored; with dimpled cheeks, cameo features, smooth dark skin, and even dimpled elbows, an attribute that Valadares � as well as many of his clients � felt added sexiness to a girl. Much better, he thought, than Velma, the woman she had replaced at table three; Velma had to be thirty if a day, and looked as if she were constantly worried � about her four children, possibly. Well, may she stay home with them indefinitely, he thought, and sat down in a chair, reaching for a magazine, although he knew he would be doing little reading with the girl to look at instead.

Armando, his barber, glanced over. �I�ll just be a moment, Senhor Valadares.�

�No rush,� Valadares said, and was pleased that the girl looked up at mention of his name. Could it be that he knew her from someplace? No way, he thought. Who would ever have forgotten that one?

The girl dropped her eyes again to her work, but there was a slight quirk to her lips, a restrained smile, that indicated clearly she knew he was staring at her and did not find it objectionable. And why should she, Valadares thought? After all, he was only thirty-eight � forty-two, if you insisted on the truth, but even that wasn�t very old � and he was in fine shape and not bad-looking, if he said so himself. And it had to be apparent to this girl, or any girl, that just from his appearance he was far from poverty-stricken. And since nobody in the shop knew any more about him or the source of his income than that he was a regular client and obviously not broke, there was no danger the girl might have heard something about him from the other girls � although she did not really look the type to mix with a bunch of hags like the others. A loner, and all the better.

He was about to follow up by taking the place of the man just rising from her table, when Armando tapped him on the arm and he felt himself being led to a chair. He seated himself, waited until the protective apron had been fastened neatly about his neck and Armando had taken scissors from the sterilizer, and then twisted his head to look at the barber.

�Who�s the new girl, Armando?�

Armando shrugged. �A replacement for just this week,� he said. �Sent from the agency. Velma has a bad cold, although she sounded all right when she called in.� He shook his head as he waited for his customer to put his head right for him to start work. �That agency should be ashamed! She�s terrible at her job, if you want the truth.�

Valadares looked over at the girl and was pleased to see that from this angle he was able to note a long extension of perfect leg, including a generous portion of thigh. He wet his lips and spoke to the barber without taking his eyes from the girl.

�What�s her name?�

Armando frowned. It was impossible to trim hair if the head refused to maintain the proper position, and if the mouth kept opening and closing. Still, Senhor Valadares was a good customer, so he tried hard to remember. At last it came to him. �Bettina,� he said.

�And her last name?�

Armando looked honestly surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that manicurists had last names at all. �I don�t know,� he said at last, half-apologetically, and then added, as if in expiation, �Velma�s been here four years, and I don�t know hers. And Maria at table two three years and I have no idea. Why?�

�I was just wondering,� Valadares said, and leaned back finally allowing Armando to get to work. �Do a good job. I have a reception at the Yacht Club tonight.�

The barber nodded, clipped for a moment, then he paused to lean closer, speaking into Joaquim�s ear. �Do you want her to give you a manicure? She�s free. Although,� he added, straightening up, �if you�ll take my advice, you�ll take one of the other girls. This Bettina is awful!�

�But beautiful,� Valadares said softly, and wet his lips as if in anticipation.

Armando shrugged and clipped a little more. �If you say so, senhor. Do you want her over here?�

�No,� Valadares said, and twisted to look at Armando over his shoulder, almost getting the scissors in his ear. �Do you mind if I ask her to go out to lunch?�

�Mind? Why should I mind? You can take her out to lunch and keep her out from now on,� Armando said sourly. �I was going to fire her today, anyway, before she drove all my customers away. She uses more iodine than nail polish!�

�Good!� Valadares said with satisfaction and leaned back, this time closing his eyes and allowing Armando to get on with the job. Against the screen of his eyelids he could picture the girl looking at him, admiring him; his fantasy took him past lunch, to dinner � in his apartment � and beyond the intimate dinner, by candle light, of course, with her decollete revealing mouth-watering delights, to the comfort of his circular bed and the mirrored walls and ceilings... It was a breath-taking vision, and he hoped it all came true. A girl like this, he added to himself, in an attempt to be practical, would easily fit into the best house in S�o Paulo, if not in Rio, itself.

Behind him Armando clipped and trimmed, coming at last to the end of his chore. He shaved the neck and cheeks, patted lotion onto the glowing pink skin, and whisked off the apron with a flourish. He accepted his tip graciously � the haircut itself went onto a monthly bill � and watched Valadares walk to the manicurist�s table and bend down to speak to the girl. She smiled, then looked at Armando questioningly. He nodded abruptly and watched as the girl came to her feet with a wide smile it was evident left Valadares with a dry mouth.

�I�ll be right with you,� the girl said in a low voice, and her husky tone contained the hint of a promise that sent blood coursing to Joaquim�s groin. She was back in moments, and Valadares was pleased to see her taste in clothes was far better than he had hoped for. He changed his mind as to the restaurant they would frequent; this one would look good anywhere. It would be at the pool of the Miracopa Palace, just beneath his apartment. And maybe he wouldn�t have to wait for dinner; there was nothing in his schedule for that afternoon that couldn�t wait...

He took the girl�s arm proprietorially and escorted her out, well aware of the jealous looks from the other customers directed at him, the envious looks directed at the girl from the other manicurists, and the slightly lascivious looks cast by all the barbers except Armando. That one looked after them with no expression on his face at all; forty years of marriage and seven children with large appetites and loud voices had dulled him to the finer points of romance. He sighed and started to call his next customer when the sudden jangle of the telephone diverted his attention. He picked it up.

�Armando�s Barber Shop,� he said, his tone capitalizing the words. He listened a moment and then nodded. �Yes, Senhor Dorn, this is him speaking.� He listened a moment more and then nodded again. �Yes, sir. He was here but he just left. What? Yes, sir, he did. Where did they go?� He shrugged. �I don�t know, Senhor Dorn. What? Yes, sir, senhor.�

He listened a moment more and then hung up, making a face toward the barber on the next chair.

�Now we�re a dating bureau,� he said sourly, enigmatically, and motioned the next customer to seat himself.

From the top of the long sloping hill, the caatinga surrounding the city of Para�so spread itself before the two men in panoramic fashion. With the rains of the recent weeks, the brown earth had sprung to life; the ground was carpeted with amaryllis, umb� and colorful mulung�, startling with their large vermilion flowers, dotting the rolling terrain. In the distance the city itself could be seen, ancient red-tiled roofs competing with flat apartment-building water tanks for precedence; the gardens surrounding the Hospital das Cl�nicas a green oasis on the east end of the town, the spire of the church in the Pra�a Miguel Couto, the highest point in the city, reflecting back the sun. People moved in the cobbled streets like ants at that distance; beyond the town the lake ran in a westerly manner, the tall transmission towers skirting it like matchstick construction when seen from that far away. To the south, above the distant airport, a small plane droned incessantly in the clear pale sky like a tiny angry bird.

At Wilson�s side, an older man also surveyed the area, but with an air of pride. He was a tall man, almost painfully thin, with a certain agelessness, and with the high leathery cheekbones of the caboclo. With his battered leather hat held by a thong beneath his chin, his leather jacket over a faded shirt, and his worn trousers stuffed into his accordion boots, he looked as if he would have been much more at home on a horse than standing, feet straddled apart, beside his dusty jeep.

�From there,� the old man said, and pointed, �up that ridge to that large mulung� with the red flowers, along the top to those rocks, down that little gully to the fence, and back along the fence to where we are. That�s the section I showed you on the plat. Twenty-five hundred hectares. All of it or a part, if you need less, but nothing smaller than a thousand hectares. It�s too valuable a parcel to split smaller.�

Wilson felt he had to at least try to act the part of a potential land purchaser. He shifted his brief case to his other hand, wishing that the exigencies of his role did not require him to wear a tie and jacket in the growing heat of the day. He also wished he had not been so taken with the Stanislavski method and had not loaded his brief case with several pounds of books dealing with title searches, especially since he had not had an opportunity as yet to unveil them for the old man�s admiration.

�And the price?� he asked. That had to be one of the basic queries.

�Twelve thousand cruzeiros per hectare.�

�That�s?�

�Roughly eight hundred dollars an acre,� said the old man, taking pity on him. He had dealt with the representatives of American companies before.

In his mind Wilson tried to remember if his friend at the First National Bank�s Rio branch had mentioned anything about what a reasonable price for land in this part of the country might be; he wished he had memorized some of the hints he had been given, rather than foolishly depending upon his own intuition. The old man seemed to read a different meaning into Wilson�s prolonged silence.

�It�s a good price,� he said, and stared out over the vast distances visible from their position on the hill. �Land is the only thing worth fighting for, worth having. It�s the only true value there is. It�s better than diamonds; it�s better than gold. You can�t eat diamonds or gold, but you can always eat from the land, and people know it, so its value always rises. And it�s always there, much more valuable than whatever walks over it or stands on it.� He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Wilson. �When the cattle are gone � as they are gone now � and when the factories are gone � as they, too, will be gone some day � the land will still be here. Much more valuable than now, much more valuable than anything that ever stood on it.� He seemed to come back to earth. �It�s a good price,� he repeated vaguely.

�I hadn�t been thinking of that,� Wilson said, remembering another question, this one certainly on his friend�s unwritten list. �Is water available?�

�How much do you need?�

A good question, Wilson thought. At the moment he would have been happy with a glassful, plus some ice cubes. �Not a great deal,� he said, temporizing, �but some.� Inspiration came. �For the boilers.�

�A reasonable amount of water can be furnished, yes,� the old man said, and stared off in the direction of the lake. �Water for production processes, or for cooling, has to be allocated and most of it must be pumped back to the lake after use. Water is still a problem here.� He raised a gnarled hand abruptly. �But it doesn�t diminish the value of the land!�

Wilson nodded and remembered another question. �And power?�

�We have ample power for most requirements. How much do you need?�

If Wilson knew little about water, he knew less about power. Water, at least, was measured in recognizable units and was visible; but power was doled out in things like amps or volts or whatever, all completely unintelligible, and seemed to be invisible, appearing when buttons were pressed. Still, he didn�t want to be ridiculous.

�Mostly for lighting and for a few small machines,� he said, proud of himself for his answer. �Most of the work is handwork.�

�But you still require boilers?�

�Just for�� Wilson stopped dead. Not for heating, obviously, not in that climate. �I�m afraid I can�t answer that question,� he said with an honesty that had been lacking until then.

�Product is a secret, eh? Well, we understand that,� the old man said. �It�s just that we�d like to know your exact requirements as soon as you feel you can divulge them. But there�s no problem. The city will run the power lines to the edge of your property; you�d have to take it from there.�

Wilson nodded and looked about. Above, in the empty sky, an urub� wheeled, searching the land below but finding nothing for its appetite. Below the hill on which they were standing, the road to S�o Luis ran straight between factories, each planted with flowers and grass, giving the landscape a neat checkerboard effect. For a moment Wilson wished he was actually there to buy property; it seemed a shabby thing to play this charade with the old man. But time was passing and there was work to do, shabby or not. He turned to the old man.

�Judge,� he said, �let me ask you a question. This site seems to be choice. How does it happen to be available? I would have imagined this tract would have been one of the first places to be sold.�

Judge Magalh�es stared off into the distance for several moments before answering, as if wondering what to say. At last he sighed. �It is choice. And it was sold � or at least optioned for a very long time, by a very large company, at a good price. But the option was canceled just a few days ago.� He raised his shoulders.

Wilson frowned. �Why?�

�You�d have to ask them.�

�Could you tell me who they are?�

Judge Magalh�es looked at Wilson with curiosity. �Why?�

�Well,� Wilson said, now finally seeing the direction he wanted to lead the conversation, �if there�s some reason they didn�t want the land, some reason that might also influence my principals, then quite obviously we would like to discuss the matter with them before closing.�

�There�s nothing wrong with the land,� the old man said a bit testily. �What can be wrong with land? Look at it. Walk over it. If you wanted it for a farm, or you wanted to sink a well for water, I�d be the first to tell you, you were wasting your time. But you say you don�t need much water, and you certainly don�t intend to farm it, or raise cattle on it, so what can be wrong with the land?�

�Still,� Wilson said � and he felt a bit proud of himself at his defense of his principal�s interests � �why did they cancel? Was it the Death Squad killings?� For a moment he wondered if he had gone too fast. The judge�s face lost all expression. Wilson went on quietly. �In any event I intended to speak to you about that. The papers at home have been comparing Para�so with Argentina, and my principals have been a little concerned...� He allowed his voice to drift to silence.

For a long time there was no reply. The old judge stared off into the distance, as if trying to retain a memory of the vast land before him should he see it no more. Then he turned to Wilson, studying the shorter man�s face, seeking out the eyes.

�There is no Death Squad in Para�so,� he said quietly; and then added with bitterness. �I only wish there were.�

Wilson frowned. �I beg your pardon?�

�I said, I only wish there were. Then we could dig them out and get rid of them!� The old man suddenly took Wilson by the arm with a surprisingly strong grip and swung him to face the town. �Look down there. That�s my town. My town. I practically built it. I was born here and the only time I was away was to go to school. I came back as soon as I graduated in the law, still a young boy, because you could do it then, and that was more years ago than you might think. I appointed the police chief; he�s my afilhado � my godson. I know every man on the police force personally; I�ve known them since they were children. They�re my friends. They wouldn�t do this to me. They wouldn�t do it to themselves!�

�Wouldn�t do what to who?� Wilson asked. He had the strange feeling that he must have missed something in the old man�s impassioned speech; a line or two must have escaped him.

One thin hand swung in a circle, encompassing the land, sweeping the horizon, even while the other hand retained its fierce grip on Wilson�s arm, locked there.

�Look down there. All the land that does not have factories on it is mine. I�m a rich man. But look at me; I�m a very simple man. I do not need the money. With the money I build hospitals and schools. Our city taxes are negligible � we keep them low to induce companies to come here and give work to the people. We�ve been able to improve life in Para�so a thousand per cent in the past fifteen years! You cannot imagine what it was like fifteen or twenty years ago, or how life has changed here. And among the people who have benefited are our police, of course. They also have families who get sick and need the hospitals; they also have children who go to the schools. They know what these killings are doing to the community; they know there�s a chance that the factories will move someplace else, that the American managers will be transferred; and they�re doing their best to solve these killings. And they will!� He shook his grizzled head fiercely. �Hang a sign around a dead man�s neck and it automatically has to be the police who killed him! Ridiculous!� He squeezed Wilson�s arm with his thin fingers and stared at the younger man intently. �Well, isn�t it?�

On the surface it would seem so, Wilson thought, but still�

�And another thing,� the judge went on, as if convinced his argument was too cogent for actual rebuttal, �every man on the police force is a friend of mine, a personal friend. This man Chaney � he was an American, like you � whoever killed him left his body in the driveway to my ranch! To my ranch! Would anyone do that to a friend? Well, would they?�

A man, of course, doesn�t always know who his friends are, or his enemies, Wilson thought. �I suppose not,� Wilson said, now sure of his direction and willing to exaggerate a bit in the interest of learning something. �You know, I knew George Chaney.�

There was a moment�s silence while the old man studied Wilson�s face. Then he loosened his grip on the smaller man�s arm; his hand fell to his side. His face lost all expression.

�You aren�t here to buy land, are you?�

�I��

�You came up here to try and find out what happened to your friend, didn�t you?�

�He wasn�t my friend,� Wilson said abruptly. There were limits to how far he could allow the truth to be stretched, especially with this old man. He looked at the judge and decided to junk at least a part of Da Silva�s program. �Yes,� he said simply. �I�m not here to buy land. I�m an American security officer, working with the Brazilian police. We�re trying to get to the bottom of these killings. My name is Wilson.�

He reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet, opening it to expose his identity card. He handed it over. The judge studied it a moment before handing it back.

�I was fairly sure,� he said calmly. �You didn�t ask the right questions about the land. And you didn�t even argue price. Although,� he added, �the price was good. Very good.� He smiled faintly, but there was little humor in the smile. �Well, I�m glad.�

�Glad?� It seemed an odd thing for the old man to say. �Why?�

�Because if you decided to tell me who you really are, then I guess you don�t believe I�m personally involved in any of these killings. And if I�m not involved, then Para�so and my police aren�t involved, either. It would be impossible to have a death squad up here that I didn�t know about.�

Wilson was far from sure of this. �Still,� he said, �four men were killed here, all of them with the same gun, and none of them were robbed. And they did have Death Squad signs on their necks�� As he spoke he could hear Da Silva giving the same arguments, arguments that had failed to convince him at the time. �And there�s no other reason for killing them that we can see.�

�And if our police up here wanted to hide the fact that they were all killed with the same gun, or even that they had these Death Squad signs on them when they were found,� the judge said shrewdly, �who would have been the wiser? That�s something Jorge Wanderlay can�t seem to get through his head, by God! I�ve known him since we were boys together, and now he thinks I�m either a damn fool or a damn liar!� He shook his head and then looked down at Wilson. �Well, sir, what can I do for you?�

�I�d like to work with your police, of course��

�That�s easy enough.�

�And I�d like to try to find out what brought Chaney to Para�so in the first place.�

�Oh?� Judge Magalh�es looked surprised. �He came to see me. There wasn�t any secret about it.�

No secret about it, Wilson thought sourly, except nobody bothered to mention it before. �Could I ask what he came to see you about?�

�Of course. He wanted a writ that would give him a stay,� the judge said. �Certainly you must have known the United States Government was trying to get him extradited back there?�

�I knew, of course,� Wilson said, and frowned. �But � to come all the way up here for a judge�s writ? I would have thought it would be just as easy to get one in Rio, or S�o Paulo.�

�I doubt it,� the judge said dryly. �In fact I know it�s not true. I happen to have quite a reputation for being opposed � some say violently � to the entire concept of extradition. I always have been and I always will be. The claim is that asylum is granted, but for political offenses only; but with a change in government � and not just in Latin America � what is a political offense one day can easily be called a criminal offense the next if it suits someone�s purpose. Definitions change with the change in interests. The only way to safeguard asylum in all cases is to refuse extradition in all cases.�

�But isn�t extradition a matter of government policy?�

�It is, but it is exercised through the courts.� Judge Magalh�es smiled faintly. �I have many friends in government. My decision would not have been challenged.�

�I see. You know, of course,� Wilson went on, �that George Chaney was a criminal?�

Judge Magalh�es sighed. �He may have been; nobody presented me with a brief outlining the charges. But in jurisprudence, Mr. Wilson, the principle is often stressed that it is better that some guilty go free than that one innocent should suffer. I happen to believe in this principle strongly.� He shrugged. �It is not always an easy decision, but that is my view.�

Wilson smiled. �I�m not here to argue Brazilian jurisprudence with you, Judge. I know even less about it than I do about buying land for factories. At least you�ve given me the answer to the question as to what Chaney was doing in Para�so.� The thought prompted another question. �You didn�t happen to have had any legal connection with the others. Torres, or Bethencourt, or the one from Para�so?�

�His name was Limeira. No. I never had them before me, and never heard of any of them before they � died.�

A further thought struck Wilson. �Getting back to Chaney, do you suppose there might have been someone who didn�t agree with your position on extradition? Who thought that a man like Chaney should be � well, eliminated?�

�You�re back to the idea of a death squad,� the judge said accusingly. �I�ve been trying to tell you�!�

�I didn�t necessarily mean a death squad...�

�Then what did you mean?� The judge looked Wilson in the eye; it occurred to the younger man that he would hate to come up against this man on the bench if he were guilty of anything serious. �If you want the truth, Mr. Wilson,� the judge went on, his voice stern, �the people who would have been most upset by my writ, I should think, would be the people who wanted him punished in the first place. The United States officials.�

This charge, at least, was an easy one to answer.

�Except,� Wilson pointed out, �at the time of Chaney�s death, nobody outside of your office knew the writ had been granted. And even if they did, it could scarcely explain the other three killings. With the same gun.�

�I never hinted that the killings were connected; you did,� the judge said, and then smiled a sad smile. �We aren�t working at cross-purposes, Mr. Wilson; our interests are really the same. But we have to learn to trust each other. And while we�re doing so, I hope the killings stop and stay stopped.�

He glanced at the sun calculatingly.

�Lunchtime. We�ll eat at my place.� He started to climb into the jeep when there was a sharp buzz from within the vehicle. The old man grinned at Wilson. �Two-way radio,� he said. �Never had anything like that when we rode horses. It took somebody two weeks to find you out in the matto if there were any messages.� He finished climbing in and picked up the microphone, flipping a switch. �Yes?�

The voice at the other end, transmitting, came in fast, excited. �Judge�!� The words that followed were drowned in an ocean of static. The judge waited patiently, staring at the set.

�Told the boy fifty times don�t talk with your mouth against the mike,� he said, half to himself, and waited until the noise died. �Now listen! Repeat all that and do it slow! And do it with your mouth where I told you to put it. You sound like a caitet� pulling its feet out of mud!� He looked up and winked at Wilson. The voice dutifully came back, quieter this time, and with proper enunciation.

�Judge, another body has just been found. Down by the lake, on the side of the transmission towers. There was the same sign around his neck, and he was killed the same way. A bullet in his body and another one in his head. We haven�t his identification yet because we haven�t touched him. What should we do?�

The old man sat and stared. His face was like carved jacarand�. �Where are you now?�

�Right here, at the lake. It�s under Tower X-57; that�s about the tenth one from the S�o Luis road; on the Madeira property. In that � well, you know � that lover�s lane.�

The judge�s eyes lifted to stare through the streaked windshield, as if he were trying to see all that distance to the spot where the body had been found. �Wait there,� he said quietly. �I�ll be right along.� He hung the microphone on its hook and looked at Wilson, his face expressionless; his wrinkled hand reached for the ignition. �That was my godson. Looks as if our lunch is going to be delayed.�

�Looks as if,� Wilson said soberly, and climbed in beside the old man.

It took Wilson over an hour to get through on the telephone and be connected with Captain Da Silva�s desk, and the time spent in the steamy booth had done nothing to improve his temper. Had the delay been due to excessive verbal traffic between the two cities it might have been forgiven; but in this case nearly all of it was spent in trying to convince the local operator that he, Wilson, was an honest man, that he was calling collect because he did not have roughly four hundred telephone slugs and he was in a public booth, that collect calls were, indeed, legal and even commonplace in some places, and that the party at the other end would � on the honor of his mother and father � accept the call and, if properly billed, eventually pay for it. It had been a hard struggle and it showed in Wilson�s sweating face and the frayed edges of his usual good humor. He opened the door of the booth to get a breath of air, and then closed it. The call was finally coming through and it was difficult enough to hear through the interference without having to compete with the huge trucks rumbling by on the cobblestones outside. He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might aid his concentration and jammed the receiver more tightly against his ear.

�Hello? Hello?�

�Who�s this? Wilson?�

�What? Z�? Z�?�

�Wilson? Is that you? Hello?�

There was a click on the line and the interference magically disappeared. Da Silva�s voice seemed to boom in his ear.

�That�s better,� Wilson said, and heaved a sigh of relief. The thought of having spent a torturous hour in that sweatbox only to have the call inaudible had been frightening.

�The operator got off the line. It�s probably time for her coffee break,� Da Silva said shrewdly. �What�s new?�

�There�s been another one,� Wilson said, and opened his eyes. He was pleasantly surprised that his raised voice of a moment before had not brought a crowd to his rescue. �Another killing. Same MO.�

At his end Da Silva reached for a pad, frowning. �When?�

�He was found about an hour ago � make that two hours. I forgot I�ve been in this mummy case an hour. Down an old road near a lake, here.�

Da Silva was scribbling. �Name?�

Wilson consulted a piece of paper. �Joaquim Saldanha Valadares. Looking at him I�d say he�d been around forty, although I agree being shot in the head doesn�t make them any easier to identify � or even to admire. Address, Miracopa Palace, number 614, Rio de Janeiro. Well dressed; but living at the Miracopa you would expect it.�

�Physicals?�

Wilson looked surprised. �Why? We have his name and address. We�re not going out looking for him; we�ve got him right here.�

�For luck,� Da Silva said. �Physicals?�

Wilson sighed. �I�d say about one-eighty in weight, five-ten in height. He also has black hair, a small mustache, and a tiny mole on the back of his left knee. Now, if you�re through with the unimportant stuff, let me go on. He had a business card, or cards, rather, as well as his social ones. Address, Room 867 Edif�cio Rio Branco. Profession � if that�s the word � Talent Agent.�

Da Silva marked it down. �Any indication of how he got to Para�so? Or why?�

�None.�

�Any idea of when he was killed?�

�The coroner estimates at least twelve hours, but that�s just a guess. Maybe he�ll be able to be more definite after an autopsy.�

�I gather his wallet was there, if his cards were. So he also wasn�t robbed?�

�He wasn�t. Plenty of money in his wallet. In fact, everything seems to be the same as the other victims � same sign, the shots in the chest and the head; everything. The bullets are in ballistics now, but I�d give odds they�ll match the others.�

Da Silva sighed. �No idea of when he got there? Or how?�

�Not yet, but they�re checking on the airlines and the hotels.�

�Well, let me know what they find. I�ll put somebody on checking out his home and office right away. I�� Suddenly Da Silva paused and frowned at the receiver. �Wait a second! Just how does a respectable representative of a Rio bank, visiting Para�so to buy land for a respectable factory, get so much detailed information on a killing? And don�t tell me you read about it in the papers!�

Wilson cleared his throat a bit self-consciously. �I wanted to tell you about that, Z闔

�Did you, now?� Da Silva said witheringly. �You wanted to tell me that you decided to tell everyone up there that you, too, were a nice police officer, just like them, and please, sir, could I have some information. I hope you picked yourself a good name � like J. Edgar Hoover.�

�He�s dead.�

�Which is what you�ll be if they have a real death squad up there and they figure you�re too nosy!�

�Well,� Wilson said a bit defensively, �I thought if there wasn�t a death squad, it wouldn�t do any harm; and if there was one, it might jolt them. Anyway,� he added, �I could scarcely stay up here walking up and down hills for a week, kicking at dirt, and trying to look like a buyer of land. This way I have an open door to the police.�

�Or to the morgue. Damn it, why did you do it?�

�Because I�m positive the judge is clean; that even if there is a death squad up here, he isn�t involved. The damage��

�So you admit there might be a squad up there?�

�I didn�t say that! Anyway, the damage to the economy of the town is something he�s vitally interested in��

Da Silva made a rude noise. Wilson disregarded it.

�He also claims � and at least I�m sure he believes it, whether it�s true or not � that every man up here is a friend of his, and why, he asks, would anyone want to hurt him? Yet Chaney�s body was dumped in his driveway��

Trucks or not, Wilson had to open the door or risk suffocation. He slid it open, waving it back and forth to pump in air. At the other end of the line Da Silva frowned.

�What on earth was that?�

�Traffic,� Wilson said, and closed the door. �This is a booming place, friend. But what I was saying is that I�m sure we can eliminate the judge as suspect. And I�m beginning to doubt the whole death squad theory.�

�Beginning?�

�I mean, more and more.�

�Fine,� Da Silva said. �Then why are you calling from a public telephone instead of from your hotel room?�

�A simple precaution,� Wilson said. �A room clerk doesn�t have to be a member of the secret police just to be nosy. Anymore than a dead man with a sign around his neck has to be a victim of the police.�

�You admit, then, that at least the men are dead?�

�You don�t have to be sarcastic. I know the men are dead, but��

�And that they did have signs around their necks, that they weren�t robbed, that they were killed by the same gun, and that they weren�t the most respectable citizens in the community?�

�Hold it!� Wilson said firmly. �Let�s not get carried away! Out of five victims, you can prove something illegal against two. Just two! That�s scarcely the statistic to support a theory, even for you!�

�We have something on three,� Da Silva corrected. He could not keep a touch of smugness from his voice. �Our friend Senhor Leopoldo Bethencourt with his export-import business in Recife, remember?�

�What about him?�

�Well,� Da Silva said, �it seems he did a lot more importing than he did exporting.�

Wilson frowned at the instrument. �You mean, smuggling?�

�I don�t mean trying to help our Ministry of Finance with the balance of trade,� Da Silva said sardonically. �Smuggling on a vast scale, and with Bethencourt dead, it seems his organization is in a bit of chaos. He kept too much of the business in his own hands, and now it�s up for grabs. In fact, the scramble has even brought the matter to the attention of those police who weren�t aware of it. Or to the attention of honest cops who were aware of it but weren�t able to do anything about it before. I gather, from what Pedroso said, that Bethencourt had the best of legal talent to keep him out of grief. You remember Arnaldo Pedroso?�

�The lieutenant of police at Recife? I certainly do,� Wilson said warmly. �He saved my pal Jimmy Martin�s life.�

�That�s right. He�s a captain now. I just finished speaking with him. He says that with Bethencourt�s death, the smuggling business � and it�s real big business up there � is going to be open for the taking, and he hopes maybe he can finally break it. Personally I doubt if you�ll break smuggling in that area � bend it maybe, but that�s about all. But that�s his affair. The main thing of interest to us is that he�ll try to find out why Bethencourt went to Para�so.�

�What difference does it make?�

�It makes a lot of difference,� Da Silva said patiently. �The death squad got those men to go up there on one pretext or another, and I have a feeling once we know the reason, we�ll be a long way toward knowing who�s responsible and how to nail them.�

Wilson didn�t feel like arguing about death squads any more; all he wanted to do was to finish the conversation and get out of the hot phone booth and into a cold beer. �When are you planning on coming up here?�

�When I get enough information on those dead men to know just what made each one of them go to Para�so in the first place. Limeira came from there, but the others didn�t. I�ve sent Ruy down to Porto Alegre to get what information he can on this Torres; Pedroso says he�ll get what he can on Bethencourt; and I�ll put Perreira on this new one, Valadares, right away. Plus I hope your office can give me something on Chaney as soon as possible. When I see some light, I�ll go up there.� He smiled grimly. �Each one of those victims was lured up there by the death squad. When I know exactly what bait they used, and why, then I�ll be up to find out who.�

�And what do I do in the meantime?�

Da Silva considered the instrument in his hand with amazement.

�When I used to ask my mother that on a rainy day, she told me to go sit on my thumb. What do you do? Kick dirt. Buy land. Build a factory. Or,� he added sarcastically, �if you really want to do something useful, why not continue to cultivate the police up there? Now that they think you�re J. Edgar Hoover? Up there they probably don�t know yet that he�s dead.� His voice became serious. �Look, Wilson. Someone on the police force in Para�so got those men to go up there, whether your pal the judge thinks so or not, and whoever got them to go there obviously had to know them, or have some connection with them. Why did Chaney go up there, for example? He wasn�t Brazilian; he probably never even heard��

�Chaney went to Para�so to see Judge Magalh�es,� Wilson said, suddenly remembering.

�What?� Da Silva sat more erect in his chair.

�That�s right. Apparently the judge is known for his attitude on asylum � which, incidentally, I don�t agree with, or at least not completely � but in any event, Chaney was fighting extradition and the judge granted him a writ permitting him to stay in Brazil. I don�t know if it was permanent or temporary, but it really doesn�t make any difference now. I forgot to mention it.�

�Judge Magalh�es brought Chaney to Para�so?�

�That�s right.�

�And you forget to mention it?�

�Don�t shout,� Wilson said reprovingly. �This connection isn�t all that good as it is. I forgot, that�s all. A few other things happened on the way to the phone booth, like Valaderes� body being found, remember? Anyway,� he added. �Judge Magalh�es is not � on my word as a seer and prophet � involved in this thing at all. In any way. I guarantee.�

�Or my money back, eh? Look, Wilson,� Da Silva said with a patience that was beginning to ebb, �let�s go back to basics, shall we? Somebody brought those men to Para�so. To be killed. You now tell me that your old friend, the judge, did just that; that he was responsible for Chaney going up there. What do you need? A written confession?�

Wilson shook his head; it served to illustrate his attitude and also to free a few drops of sweat from his brow.

�Z� � listen. Forget your death squad theory as far as the judge is concerned. In fact, forget it altogether. I�ll go back to an old question of mine: Is Para�so so short of bad boys that they have to import them as targets for their death squad?�

�And I�ll go back to an old question of mine,� Da Silva said stubbornly. �Were those men killed? With the same gun? Did they have signs around their necks? Were they criminals? Do death squads specialize in eliminating criminals? Had the men been robbed? Is there��

�Hold it!� Wilson said firmly. �That�s six questions, not one. You owe me five.�

�Well? Ask them!�

Wilson sighed a bit helplessly. �I guess I�ll have to take a rain check. I can�t think of any at the moment...�

Captain Jos� Da Silva hung up the telephone and swung his chair to stare from the window of his office on an upper floor of a building in the Rua Dom Manuel in Rio de Janeiro. Before him the beauty of Guanabara Bay spread itself, from the Santos Dumont airport to the rocky walls of Sugar Loaf; a small car crept bravely along the spiderlike cables toward the summit; an ocean liner, one of the last of the breed and proud of it, steamed majestically into the harbor. It was all quite picturesque, but the captain saw none of it. One more death in Para�so � one more victim of the Death Squad up there. But was it one more link in a chain building toward eventual conviction of someone; or just one more hurtle in the path? It was one thing to chide Wilson for his faith in Judge Magalh�es, but Da Silva knew Wilson and knew how rarely the American erred in his evaluation of people.

The captain sighed and returned to the telephone, dialing an internal number. The telephone was answered at once. The captain instructed his assistant, Lieutenant Perreira, to appear before him without stopping to read a book or have a cafezinho, and Perreira, knowing the captain well, was at the side of the desk almost before the captain had hung up.

�Sir?�

�There�s been another Death Squad killing at Para�so,� Da Silva said quietly without looking up. He studied the notes he had taken. �Supposedly a talent agent. Lived at the Miracopa Palace, apartment 614. He also had an office in the Edif�cio Rio Branco, number 867.� He looked up at last. �You know the building?�

�Yes, sir. It�s that round-faced building on the corner of the Rio Branco and the Avenida Presidente Wilson.� Perreira was writing in his notebook, a bulky affair; Da Silva had always wondered how the lieutenant ever got it into his pocket. Perreira paused and looked up. �The building�s half-empty now, but some of the movie distribution companies still have offices there and some of the airlines have their offices on the street level in the building.�

Da Silva never questioned where Perreira got his facts; the lieutenant seemed to collect trivia with remarkable ease, and most of it came in handy more often than not. Which is what it took to be a good investigator, Da Silva thought � luck in the trivia you remembered.

�That�s the place. I want everything you can find out about the man. Why did he go to Para�so in the first place? He was found this morning, but it seems he was killed last night. When did he leave Rio? Did he leave alone? What business did he have there? And � very important � I want to know if he really was a talent agent, whatever that�s supposed to be, or if he was in one of the rackets, which is what I suspect if he�s to follow the formula.� He stared at his assistant. �Understand?�

�Yes, sir,� Perreira said, scribbling madly.

�And quickly.�

�Yes, sir.� Perreira finally got it all down. He looked up. �His name, sir?�

Da Silva referred to his notes again. �Valadares. Joaquim Saldanha Valadares. Age about forty��

�Valadares? Joaquim Valadares?�

Da Silva looked up in surprise. �You know him?�

�If there aren�t two men named Joaquim Saldanha Valadares,� Perreira said with satisfaction � although whether the satisfaction was because he knew the name or because the man was dead was not certain � �then I sure do know that filho de mae! Or at least I know who he is. I never had the pleasure of meeting him in person.� Perreira rubbed one heavy fist against his tattered notebook, indicating how much he would have liked to have met the man, preferably in a dark alley.

�So who is he?�

�When I was in Vice,� Perreira said, �we had a dozen leads to that one, but we could never prove anything. As far as I know the filho was never even arrested, let alone convicted. So Valadares is dead!�

�Yes, he�s dead,� Da Silva said with a patience he was beginning to lose. �So who is he?�

�He is � or was � the biggest cafet�o in Brazil,� Perreira said. �Houses in every major city in the country, all run out of Rio; girls from Venezuela, Bolivia, Argentina � and not just from South America. And they were high-class places � none of this cheap ten-cruzeiro stuff. He was also cute. We�d close an apartment in the Rua Rainha Elizabeth in the morning, and he�d have the same girls working out of an apartment in the Barrata Ribeiro the same afternoon and manage to get word to the clientele, too. Organized! I have to give him credit for that.�

�He was organized,� Da Silva said dryly. �Somebody disorganized him last night.� He looked at Perreira with a touch of satisfaction. �So that makes four out of the five who were bad boys. Let Mr. Wilson argue against a death squad with those statistics!� He drummed his fingers on the desk while Perreira waited patiently; at last the captain looked up. �Perreira, can you think of any reason why Valadares would go up to Para�so?� One reason came to him by himself. �Did he have a place up there?�

�You mean with girls, sir? I don�t know, but probably.�

�Well, I�ll get Wilson working on that angle the next time I speak to him. It�ll give him something to do with his time, rather than kicking dirt.� He grinned at the thought, and then straightened his face. �Well, forget about checking on Valadares; I�ll do whatever needs to be done now that we know who he was. How were you doing on Chaney when I called you in?�

Perreira went back to his notebook, flipping pages.

�Here it is, sir,� he said. �Well, he didn�t speak Portuguese, so it�s a good thing they speak English at the Beira Mar. Nobody at the hotel knows anything about his business; he was pretty much of a loner��

�What about phone calls?�

�A few, but no toll calls, sir.� He shrugged. �And the Beira Mar isn�t a hotel where the operator listens in on calls, sir.�

�Visitors?�

�None that were remembered, sir. I asked.�

Da Silva looked up. �No girls?�

�Not that anyone at the hotel remembers, sir. I asked about that especially.� A sudden thought struck Perreira. �Say, that�s an idea, sir! Maybe this Chaney was in the habit of visiting some of the girls in some of Valadares� places. Maybe that�s the connection between them.�

�That might be fine as far as Chaney is concerned,� Da Silva said a bit sarcastically, �but it would be a little far for Torres to come. All the way from Porto Alegre just for a girl? They must have houses there.�

�I�m sure,� Perreira said, �and Valadares probably owned all of them or at least some of them.� He swallowed and added, �sir,� as if to take some of the sting out of telling his superior something he should have thought of himself.

Da Silva smiled. �Don�t let a person off when he acts stupid or you�ll never make captain.� His smile faded to be replaced with a frown. �It�s a thought, but it doesn�t feel right. I keep coming back to that same question � why Para�so? If the connection between these men were girls and houses, why were they all killed in Para�so? Why were they all brought to Para�so? Because they were, and I know it. No. There�s another connection.� He looked at Perreira. �What is it?�

Perreira racked his brain for something to say. He hated to be found wanting when the captain wanted answers, but this time he was truly blank. �I don�t know, sir,� he said at last, and then added for lack of anything better., �The only thing I can think of is they all went up there by plane...�

Da Silva thought about it a moment. �I wonder... Perreira, get your notebook.�

Perreira wondered what he had said to make the captain wonder. �Yes, sir.�

�I want you to find out if the four men � Torres, Chaney, you know � all flew up to Para�so with the same airline. Or with the same pilot.�

�Look sir,� Perreira said, now sorry he had opened his big mouth in the first place, �it would be almost impossible. I�m not sure any one airline even services all those cities, and if they did, would different airlines transfer pilots that quickly? I mean, would Cruzeiro do Sul, for example, have a pilot on the Porto Alegre run one day, and then would that same pilot show up, say, on Vasp, flying from Rio to Para�so a few days later? Or to the Recife-Para�so run a week earlier? Pardon me, sir, but it seems a little farfetched.�

�It may be,� Da Silva admitted. �Still, suppose Cruzeiro do Sul, or any other line, had a flight that started in Porto Alegre, say. Suppose it stopped in Rio, then went on from Rio to Recife, and from Recife it stopped at Para�so. Then the pilot would hit each town at a different hour, but that same pilot could hit each city on his run. And if he made the run regularly, he might well have picked up each of our victims and brought them to Para�so.� He came to his feet. �Come on. I�ll walk you over to the Edif�cio Rio Branco. While I�m checking out Valadares� office there, you can go around to the airlines around there and see if any of the personnel ever heard of Chaney, or of anything else helpful. Find out about their pilots. I�ll meet you downstairs later.�

Perreira looked puzzled. �Sir � why does a pilot for the connection between the victims seem better to you than a call girl?�

Da Silva smiled gently. �It doesn�t.�

�You mean, we�re reaching?�

�Exactly,� Da Silva said, �except in this business the secret of success isn�t to say you�re reaching � at least not to a superior. You merely say you�re being thorough...�

Lieutenant Perreira was standing in the small band of shade surrounding the Edif�cio Rio Branco, waiting, when the captain walked out of the building to meet the heat of the day. There was a touch of sadness in the lieutenant�s manner, for although he had been proven right and his superior wrong, Perreira would have preferred it the other way. Two things that Da Silva received from his assistants without demanding it were loyalty and respect, and none of his people liked to give the captain bad news. Besides, his reception of bad news was often unpredictable.

�I�m sorry, Captain,� Perreira said, actually sounding sorry, �but there�s no plane that goes from Porto Alegre to Rio to Recife and then on to Para�so, not on any airline.�

Da Silva considered him wonderingly. �You managed to check out all the airlines in fifteen minutes?�

�They have a book sir, an Official Air Guide, it�s called. It has all the schedules of all the airlines.� Perreira�s faithful battered notebook came out and was opened. His finger found the proper place, miraculously, Da Silva always thought. �Here it is, sir. There�s only one line that flies from Rio nonstop to Para�so � that�s Vasp � and none that fly non-stop from Porto Alegre. Vasp also flies non-stop from S�o Paulo, but that wasn�t on our list. I just got it to��

He realized the captain was looking at him with a faint frown and hurried on.

�Here�s what you wanted, sir. Varig comes the closest to hitting all the cities, but it misses Para�so. They have a flight that originates in Porto Alegre � that�s their headquarters � and stops at Rio, Salvador, Recife, Forteleza, and S�o Luis, but that flight continues on to Belem. To get to Paraiso you have to get off in Recife and catch a feeder line to Para�so, and that�s a long wait. If you get off in S�o Luis � which only makes sense if you�re coming from the north, like Belem, there�s a connection on the Paraense line, twice a day; but nobody in this case would have been coming from the north, would they, sir? And why go from Recife to S�o Luis and then have to practically come back again?�

�You still got all that in just fifteen minutes?�

�It was all on one page, sir,� Perreira said, but he still looked pleased.

�What you�re saying,� Da Silva said, �is forget any connection with airlines or pilots, is that it?�

�Just about, sir.�

�Then let�s not waste any more time on it. I�ve got another job for you � probably as useless as the last one. Yesterday morning Valadares left his office, supposedly to get a haircut, at about eleven. His schedule was to get a trim and then go to lunch. He usually ate his lunch at his hotel, the Miracopa in Copacabana, when he didn�t stay in town. I�ll check out the barbershop � it�s right in the building here � but I want you to go out to the Miracopa and ask around to see if he really had lunch there. If he did, I want to know if he ate alone, or if anyone came with him, or joined him. And I want to know how he acted; if he was nervous, or anything. If he didn�t eat there, try some of the other restaurants around there; the better ones. Mario�s, for example, or Sorrento�s. They all ought to know him by name.�

�Yes, sir. Is that all?�

�That�s it.�

�Yes, sir.� The notebook was snapped shut and slid into a pocket.

�But don�t spend too much time on it. It�s probably also a waste of time. I�ll see you back at the office.�

�Right, sir,� Perreira said smartly, and went out into the street to flag down a taxi. Da Silva watched him enter a cab and then turned to go back into the building. And what did he hope to gain by checking Valadares� barber? He brought a hand unconsciously to his own shaggy hair as if wondering whether he might not improve the time by getting a trim himself, and then shrugged the thought away. Work, work, work!

He took the stairs rather than the elevator, and found the barber pole of Armando�s shop immediately upon reaching the landing. He pushed through the swinging glass door to face four quickly smiling barbers and three manicure girls, all idle, their attention diverted from their magazines by his entrance. One of the barbers came to his feet smartly, laying aside his newspaper, but Da Silva shook his head.

�Armando.�

The barber took it in good grace and reseated himself. A heavy-set man, the eldest of those present, laid down a magazine and came to his feet. He started to reach for an apron, but Da Silva took him by the arm and walked him a bit away from the others.

�Police,� he said quietly, and showed his warrant card.

Armando studied it and looked at him calmly; his conscience was clean.

�It has nothing to do with you,� Da Silva said, although there was no indication from Armando that he had the slightest fear it did have anything to do with him. Six curious heads watched them a moment and then ducked back into their magazines as he glanced in their direction. The swarthy detective turned back to Armando. �You have a customer named Valadares. Do you remember him?�

�Of course,� Armando said, wondering curiously what trouble his favorite customer had gotten himself into.

�He was in here yesterday?�

�Yes,� Armando said, mystified. �He comes every week.�

�Always at the same time? Or the same day?�

�It varies,� Armando said, his bafflement at the line of questioning increasing. �He calls first and makes an appointment.�

�And what time was his appointment yesterday? What time did he leave?�

Armando gave up trying to understand. �Yesterday? I don�t remember, exactly. I can check my appointment book � wait!� Inspiration came. �I remember. It had to be just before noon, because he asked one of the manicurists to go to lunch with him. He was struck with her, and�� He spread his hands in explanation, and also as if in wonder that anyone should have done so.

�Oh?� Da Silva looked up, inspecting the three girls sitting at their respective tables, each pretending to be interested in her magazine. The captain had to agree with Armando; whatever other virtues Valadares might have possessed, his taste in women was awful. �Which one?�

�Oh, not one of those!� Armando said, almost raising his voice to a level which might have been heard by the girls and misinterpreted-or interpreted, for that matter. He instantly lowered it; good manicurists were hard to find. �Velma, the one at the end, the red-head, was out for a few days. The agency sent a replacement. That was the one Senhor Valadares was taken with.�

�What was her name?�

�Bettina.�

�Bettina what?�

�I don�t know.� For the life of him Armando could not understand this constant harping on the last names of manicurists. �They aren�t on any payroll; they just work for the tips they collect, so I don�t ask. Is it important?�

�It might be,� Da Silva said, and frowned at the floor a moment. A second thought came, brought on by the first. �She didn�t come in today? Did she call?�

�She was all through,� Armando said disdainfully. �I was about to fire her, anyway. A manicurist?� He raised his shoulders. �She must have learned in an auto-repair shop. Senhor Valadares did me a favor by taking her away before I threw her out, or before I had to open a first-aid clinic for her clients. A manicurist? That agency should be ashamed!�

Da Silva wondered why he was here in this very average barbershop, asking very average and stupid questions about a manicurist. Start off on one of these little detours in an investigation and the first thing you knew you were so far off the trail you needed a compass and six weeks� supplies to get home. The chances were that Valadares simply saw a potential recruit for his houses, or an interesting companion for a few hours dalliance, and did what came naturally. Still, there was the undeniable fact that his body had been found a thousand miles away less than twenty-four hours after taking the manicurist to lunch. Up to that point she had been the last person to see Valadares alive, so she might well remember if he had mentioned the reason for his going on his one-way trip, or if he had said anything about going, or had met anyone while they were lunching.

Besides, he thought with a sigh, if I wasn�t here asking average and stupid questions of this Armando, I�d undoubtedly be somewhere else asking someone else equally stupid and average questions. The deductive method! he thought with an inward grimace, and went back to Armando.

�Do you have this Bettina�s address at home?�

�No.�

�What agency sent her?�

This was information Armando had and which he was happy to give. He only hoped the police went there and lifted the agency�s license for fraud. �The Fluminense Employment Agency,� he said with satisfaction. �They�re on Almirante Barroso.� His exuberance faded. �I don�t know the number.�

�We�ll find it.� Da Silva scribbled the information on the back of one of his cards. Unlike Perreira he did not like to disturb the neat line of his jacket by jamming miscellanea such as notebooks into the pockets; his belt-clip holster bulged enough. He paused and considered the barber thoughtfully, trying for one final average, stupid question.

�Did Senhor Valadares say anything about any trips while you were working on him?�

�Trips?� Armando shook his head. �He said he wanted me to do a good job because he had to attend a reception at the Yacht Club last night.� He looked faintly amused. �It was just a joke with him.�

Da Silva�s eyebrows rose. �The reception at the Yacht Club?�

�No, no,� Armando said hastily. �I mean, telling me to do a good job. He knew I always did a good job.� His eyes came up to consider Da Silva�s black mop of unruly hair as if wondering how he would tackle it if given the opportunity, and he added, �And fast.�

Da Silva disregarded the offer. So Valadares had canceled out an affair at the Yacht Club in favor of going to Para�so for the sole purpose, apparently, of being killed. A rather poor choice when one considered, Da Silva thought, even though the Yacht Club receptions were nothing to get excited about. Maybe the whole bunch � Torres, Bethencourt, Chaney, et al � were members of a suicide club, he thought sourly, and searched for more stupid questions to ask. Only one came to him.

�Would any of these other girls know where this Bettina lived?�

Armando shook his head decisively. �Not a chance. I don�t think any of them spoke two words to her the whole week she was here. They resented her � not for her ability as a manicurist, believe me, but because�� He shrugged again. �You know. The men all went to her table. But you can ask them, if you want.�

�I don�t think so,� Da Silva said. He glanced at the card with the employment agency address on it, and then tucked the card into his pocket. Begin by interviewing the manicurists and he�d end up in Merit� talking to their husbands and mothers, and in a day or two he�d be so far from the case he�d have forgotten what it was he�d started out to learn. He nodded to Armando. �Well, thanks for the information.�

For a brief moment Armando wondered if possibly he should tell the detective about Senhor Dorn, who had wished Senhor Valadares to make the acquaintance of that terrible manicurist, but then Armando realized it was a very unimportant thing with which to bother a busy captain of police. Besides, he had been raised with the proper philosophy that only a fool volunteered anything, especially information, and particularly to the police. It was also always better to ask questions than to answer them.

�Just what trouble has Senhor Valadares gotten himself into?� he asked. It was not an entirely unselfish query; the loss of a weekly customer would be felt.

Da Silva paused at the door. �The very worst kind,� he said soberly. �He�s dead...�

�The waiter said the two of them looked like they were teen-agers in love,� Perreira told his superior, happy at the thought of the emotion. It was the way he always pictured himself acting with the girl of his dreams, when and if. he ever found anyone who wasn�t repulsed by his battered face. He checked his bulky notebook to make sure he did not omit any important details. �They sat at table eighteen � that�s out by the pool, but off in a sort of alcove to one side. More private, like. The waiter said Valadares always asked for that table when he was with a girl. The waiter said they rubbed legs and held hands.�

They sounded like a couple of romantic crickets, Da Silva thought sourly. The afternoon was beginning to wear on him, and he was starting to look forward to his shower and his first predinner cognac, not to mention his dinner itself. He also had the feeling he was not only wasting his own time, but that of his subordinate. �What did she look like?�

�The waiter said she was gorgeous, sir. Gorgeous!�

Da Silva was not overly impressed. He had had waiters in his time who had thought shad roe was gorgeous. He began to tap his fingers on his desk blotter, never a good sign. �I hate to strain your descriptive ability,� he said with deceptive quietness, �but was she tall gorgeous, short gorgeous, thin gorgeous, fat gorgeous, blonde gorgeous, morena gorgeous, cross-eyed gorgeous, or what?�

�Oh!� The lieutenant sounded hurt. �I have her description right here, sir. I hadn�t gotten around to it yet.�

�Well, get around to it,� Da Silva said shortly. �It�s five o�clock and I didn�t have any lunch.�

The fact that Perreira had also missed lunch had not been mentioned, but the lieutenant knew the captain was aware of the fact. �Yes, sir.� The notebook was referred to again. �I don�t think it will be too useful, though. According to the waiter, she was about five foot three or four, built like Marta Rocha � perfect � with black hair worn shoulder length, dark skin but very smooth, he said, black eyes, a big dimple on each cheek, very white teeth, and beautiful legs.� He looked up apologetically. �I say it won�t be very useful because while I was there about two-thirds of the girls in the pool answered that description.�

�I wondered what took you so long.� Da Silva thought a moment and then reached into his pocket, bringing out his card. �She was a manicurist working at that barbershop. She was temporary, sent by this employment agency. Her first name is Bettina, but that�s all we have. The barbershop is Armando�s in the Edif�cio Rio Branco, and she was sent over there about a week ago. We want her full name, address, and anything else they have on her.�

�Yes, sir,� Perreira said. �But, why?�

Da Silva looked at his assistant in surprise. Usually Perreira was sharper than that. �What do you mean, why?�

�Well, sir � do you have any reason to suspect her of anything?�

�We�re not trying to arrest her,� Da Silva said impatiently. �We�re trying to follow the man�s movements from yesterday in Rio de Janeiro � where nobody had any idea he was planing to leave town, and where in fact he had plans to attend a reception in the evening � to Para�so, a thousand miles away, where he was shot and killed some time last night. We�ve traced him as far as the girl. From what we can learn from her, I hope we can go forward, closing some of the gaps.�

�Except that the people on the plane he took, or people at the airport in Para�so when he arrived, had to see him later than the girl,� Perreira said stubbornly. Whenever Perreira got his back up he dropped the �sir.� �After all, according to the waiter he left the Miracopa about two-thirty, and that left him only one flight he could have caught � Vasp flight 872, non-stop to Para�so. Why waste time on the girl? Let me check directly with the airline. It�s a shuttle flight, so there�s no reservations and the tickets are like bus tickets, without names or anything, but the stewardess may remember him. I doubt they have that many passengers, and it was only yesterday. If that doesn�t work, I can go up to Para�so and check the airport personnel there. Somebody should remember him, and if they do, maybe they can also remember who met him there.�

Da Silva sighed and rubbed his face. It was getting late and Perreira was probably right. Following the girl would probably be one more trail into the weeds, like checking the other manicurists and their families.

�All right,� he said wearily. �Forget the girl for the time being. See if the stewardess or any other of the crew remembers him, or remembers seeing someone meet him.�

�Right, sir,� Perreira said, willing to restore the title now he was satisfied he had saved himself a lot of unnecessary legwork. �I�ll get right to it.�

�And get in touch with me if you find anything at the airport here,� Da Silva said, and came to his feet. He stretched mightily, trying to loosen his chair-bound muscles, and came out of it with a little shudder. Age, he thought, and put the unpleasant thought away. �I�m going home��

The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. Home, is it? he thought unhappily, and sat down in his chair again, reaching for the instrument. Perreira waited respectfully. Da Silva raised the receiver. �Yes?�

It was the switchboard. �Captain Da Silva? Ruy calling from Porto Alegre...�

�Put him on.� Da Silva tipped his head toward the door, dismissing Perreira. He watched the lieutenant leave, closing the door silently behind himself, and then brought his attention back to the telephone. They may not be getting anywhere, he thought wearily, but in not getting anywhere they were certainly covering a lot of ground. The line remained silent. �Damn it? Is there anyone on this line? Hello?�

Ruy came on. �Hello? Captain?�

Da Silva relaxed. �Speaking.�

�Good. About that Torres, sir��

�Wait a second.� Da Silva propped the receiver between his shoulder and his ear and dug into a drawer, bringing out of a series of folders; they were the result of the separation of the data furnished by the Minister in Brasilia, plus very little new. Da Silva pulled one folder from the rest and shoved the balance to one side, opening the one he had selected. �Torres. Professional photographer. All right, what about him?�

There was deep satisfaction in Ruy�s voice. �Just that whoever shot him rates a medal in my book!�

�Why?� Da Silva asked without excessive interest. The fact that Torres was no loss to society had already been so firmly established in his mind that learning any collaborating details was slightly anticlimactic. �Was he that bad a photographer?�

�Not that bad � that good,� Ruy said, pleased with his ready turn of phrase. �The only thing is, it seems he took pictures of people who didn�t know they were being photographed.�

Da Silva nodded. �Blackmail, eh?�

�That�s right, sir. The police say they suspected him for a long time � there were rumors, talk, but no real proof, and none of his victims would charge him, you know. But when he got himself killed, the police here got a court order at once to open his safety-deposit box. And they found all the proof they needed.�

�So all they have to do now is dig him up and convict him.� Da Silva frowned at the telephone, thinking. Blackmail was, indeed, as good a reason to kill a man as any that existed; but to kill Torres without getting your hands on the incriminating evidence was usually considered poor planning on the part of the blackmailee. Still, the police were probably the best custodians of the damaging material � unless, of course, the material in the safety-deposit box was something implicating the police themselves. That was an idea � was it possible that Torres might have been blackmailing someone on the Para�so police force? Or Judge Magalh�es himself? Hold it, he warned himself sternly, you�re beginning to reach. He went back to Ruy.

�Ruy � have you been able to find out what made Torres decide to go to Para�so in the first place? Was he from there, originally? Did he know anyone up there?�

�I talked with his secretary � ex-secretary now, I guess you�d have to call her,� Ruy said, ��and incidentally a beautiful dish, if you ever saw one. Lovely, lovely�!�

�Wait a second.� Da Silva frowned. An idea had suddenly come. �She wouldn�t be about five feet three, would she, with black hair, black eyes, dimples�?�

�Down in this part of the country? She�s blonde, closer to six feet tall, and she looks like those posters outside of the Municipal when they�re running one of those German operas � only what this babe�s got aren�t breastplates; they�re the real thing. Why?�

�Forget it,� Da Silva said. Anyway, Bettina would have to have her own private plane to get around the way he was scheduling her. �Go on with what you were saying.�

�Sure. Well, I was talking to his ex-secretary,� Ruy said, �and it seems this Torres had a legitimate front, a regular photography business � portraits, industrial photography, even an occasional assignment from a small newspaper down here, a weekly, that doesn�t have its own staff. He was a busy guy, anyway enough to warrant a couple to help � the secretary, who handled the front desk and the books, in addition to other chores, and a man in the lab. The man in the lab swore to the police he didn�t know what was going on, but I have a feeling a few years in the jug down here may make him remember a few things. The girl � well, like I said, I had a chance to talk to her in jail��

�In jail?�

�Yes, sir. It seems she was in quite a few of those pictures the police found in the safety-deposit box. She�d lie like a politician to save herself, but I think she was telling me the truth about Torres.�

�What did she say?�

�She said he came in that morning looking like a tico-tico na fub�; all that grain just for a little bird like him, and the farmer off someplace else. He told her he had to go up to Para�so right away; there was a good prospect there he�d heard about, and the deal wouldn�t wait. She said she was sure he�d never heard of Para�so before � he was born in Santa Catarina and grew up between there and Rio Grande do Sul, in Porto Alegre, in fact. Anyway, he took his best camera, film, filters, light meter, and took off. And the next day the police came around to the shop and told her he�d been shot up there. She really wasn�t too surprised, she said,� Ruy went on. �She said she always knew one day he�d try some tricks with someone who wouldn�t stand still.�

�She didn�t know anything about who this prospect might be up there in Para�so? Or who gave him the tip? Torres didn�t say anymore about it than that?�

�That�s all he said, I guess. She didn�t know anything more, sir.�

Da Silva frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk.

�Ruy! I want copies of the pictures found in that safety-deposit box. With as much identification as the police can put on any or all of them. Understand?�

�Yes, sir. I�ve already got a set of the pictures. I really had to push to get them, and they�re supposed to be confidential. First thing in the morning I�ll try to get names to go with the pictures, but my guess is that if I get any it won�t be from the blonde. She�s so surprised to find she was in those pictures, she�s practically speechless. And going to stay that way, is my guess. Anything else you want down here before I come home?�

�I can�t think of anything at the moment,� Da Silva said, �but if I do, I�ll get in touch. Does our desk here know the name of your hotel?�

�Yes, sir.�

�That�s it, then,� Da Silva said, and bit back a yawn. �I�m going home. If anything of importance comes up, I�ll either be there or at Mario�s on the beach having dinner.� He thought a moment, and added, �And don�t call for the next hour, not even if the Chief of Police down there confesses personally to the murders. I�m going to have a drink and be taking a shower.�

�Right, sir,� Ruy said, and heard the receiver at the other end placed in its cradle. He also planned on going back to his hotel for a drink and a shower; he only wished that the luscious secretary from the pictures in his pocket, and now languishing in jail, had been available to have one or both with him...

Clean from a hot shower, rested by a three-minute nap, comfortable in fresh tropical clothing, and relieved by the absence of telephone calls during his period of recuperation, Captain Da Silva strolled along the Avenida Atl�ntica in the direction of Mario�s. The famous restaurant, with its renowned collection of brandies from all over the world, was the captain�s favorite eating place, and he looked forward to an hour or so when crime and punishment would rank a weak second, in a bid for his attention, behind several Reserva San Juan brandies from Argentina, followed by a succulent filet accompanied by sufficient steins of ice-cold Brahma Chopp.

He pushed into the entrance and selected the door to the bar rather than directly to the restaurant, without conscious thought. He hesitated a moment to allow his eyesight to adjust itself to Mario�s idea of romantic bar lighting and was about to slip into a vacant booth, when a familiar voice intruded upon his pleasant reverie.

�Hello, Z�.�

Da Silva�s dreams of a quiet, peaceful, non-criminally oriented evening disappeared. He shook his head sadly, wondering why he hadn�t stayed home peacefully with a dry sandwich and a glass of water, watching something uplifting on television, like the latest soap opera. Wilson was looking up at him, smiling gently. Da Silva sighed helplessly and slid into the booth across from the American.

�You�re a hard man to keep in any one place,� he said dolefully. �Why aren�t you up in Para�so?�

�Sitting on my thumb?� Wilson shrugged. �I kept falling off.�

�What about those girls I told you all small towns keep in hiding, saving them for the visitor from the big city?�

�A canard,� Wilson said. �I was there over half an hour and I wasn�t accosted once.�

�And how did you get here? You must have run for a plane as soon as I hung up. I thought I asked you to cultivate the police up there.�

�It�s not the planting season,� Wilson explained in a tone that suggested that if Da Silva knew anything about agriculture, he would have understood that without being told. �Anyway��

He paused to allow a waiter�s arm to interpose itself between them, placing a glass containing Captain Da Silva�s favorite brand on the table. Da Silva nodded his thanks and picked up the glass. He looked at it a brief moment, drank it, and then tapped the glass on the table politely, indicating to the waiter that he would not refuse a refill. While waiting he reached across the table to extract a cigarette from Wilson�s packet of American-brand PX cigarettes. He lit it, tossed aside the match, and leaned back.

�That�s better,� he said, feeling a bit more prepared for the conversation before him. �Now, what were you about to say?�

�I was about to say that I came back to Rio because staying up there would have been a waste of time. The police up there are clean, my friend � clean. I�m convinced. They�re as puzzled about these killings as we are. I�ve met the judge, and his godson the chief of police, and I�m sure.�

Da Silva studied his friend while the waiter brought over the bottle. This time, after filling the glass, the waiter wisely left the bottle. Da Silva murmured his thanks and returned his gaze to Wilson.

�You discovered this in ten minutes?�

�I arrived last night and left this afternoon. Twenty hours.�

�You�re a genius. You know,� Da Silva went on slowly, taking his full glass and twisting it, �you could be right. I was thinking just this afternoon that the chances were we were on the wrong track��

�That you were on the wrong track.�

�That I was on the wrong track if it pleases you,� Da Silva said, in no mood to argue. �After mature consideration I think that what probably happened to those men was that the five of them � Limeira, Bethencourt, Torres, Chaney, and Valadares � all committed suicide.� His hand came up abruptly, forestalling any interruption. �I know what arguments you will undoubtedly raise � how does it happen that the same gun was used in every case? And I reply, obviously because it was a suicide club, and they only used the one gun. Not that they couldn�t afford other guns, you understand, but because that would have been against the rules. Something like breaking the chain in a chain letter; it might have brought bad luck.�

He drew on his cigarette mightily and then crushed it out in the ashtray, after which he continued in the same grave fashion while Wilson watched with an apparently serious mien.

�Then, being the brilliant investigator you are,� Da Silva went on, �you will next ask � but then what happened to the gun after each one shot himself, with a ritual worthy of hara-kiri, first in the chest and then, while still sufficiently alive to do so, in the head? And I answer with unfailing logic, obviously the suicide club employs a gun steward who takes the weapon after each death to prepare it, Samurai fashion, and then to pass it on to the next member selected, possibly by drawing straws. Ah, you say, still not satisfied � since you always were a stickler � but why do they all go to Para�so to kill themselves? To which I reply quite simply, why not? Why do the Japanese prefer Fujiyama when killing themselves? Why do Americans travel miles just to eliminate themselves by throwing themselves from the Golden Gate bridge? Possibly the members, out of local pride, cut cards and Limeira, who came from Para�so � and probably cheats � won. Who knows? In time, once the facts are properly publicized, Para�so may no longer require industry to prop up its economy. It may well become the undertaking capitol of Brazil, taking that honor away from Duque de Caxias.�

�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 �Para�so-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 Para�so 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 Para�so 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 Para�so 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 Para�so?�

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 Para�so? 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 Para�so 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?�

�Wait a second,� Wilson said, in no way deterred from his idea. Even as he spoke, the picture seemed to clarify for him. �Suppose it wasn�t anyone working for these men; suppose it was one person, or a group, who has decided to organize crime in Brazil under one roof?�

�You mean like the Mafia?�

�I mean exactly like the Mafia! Look,� Wilson said, beginning to get excited by his idea, and leaning over the table to expound it more forcefully, �think of this: each man killed represented a different branch of crime. There weren�t two smugglers, or two blackmailers, or two gamblers, or two��

�You mean, the thing wasn�t organized by Noah? We don�t have to worry about a flood?�

�Shut up! I�m serious. Don�t you see? The men who were killed were probably tops in their fields. If this new group � which I�ll call the Mafia for the time being for want of a better name � began by taking over those organizations, then they could grow from there.� He leaned back triumphantly. �Now, give me an answer to that!�

�I�ll trade you two answers for a cigarette,� Da Silva said with a smile and picked another one from Wilson�s pack. He lit up and considered his friend across the table. �Well, for answer number one, your theory makes mine look as if I�d borrowed it from Einstein. Take the example of Torres, our blackmailer, for a moment. As far as I know, the Mafia avoids blackmail like the plague, probably because it�s really not a very organizable thing. Either you have something on somebody or you don�t; it�s not something you can depend upon day after day, like the desire to gamble, or to take dope, or the itch for a girl...�

His eyes were faintly mocking as he looked at Wilson. Wilson�s face was without expression. �Go on.�

�All right,� Da Silva said. �Answer number two: What about Chaney?�

�What about him?�

�Do you have an indication he was involved in any funny business here in Brazil? Any criminal activity? If he was, it never came to our attention. Did it to yours? After all, you had him under some sort of surveillance.�

�Well, no...�

�So there you are. If these killings were done by some Mafia-type bunch, for whatever benefits they hoped to gain, they�re certainly going about it in a slipshod manner; and if they ever go public, I, for one, will not buy stock.� He shook his head. �That�s not the answer.�

�You wouldn�t believe anything was the answer except your hardheaded death squad theory,� Wilson said resentfully, and brushed the matter aside. �But, no matter. Where do we go from here?�

�Well,� Da Silva said slowly, �whether these killings are being done by a death squad or a Mafia-type gang � or just some college kids as part of an initiation � we can be sure of one thing��

�And what is that, oh great all-seeing guru?�

�That, my disciple, is this: They don�t like nasty people, right? In fact, they kill them. Right?�

�Right.�

�So what would strike you as a good way to get next to them?�

Wilson considered the question and then nodded as if the answer had finally struck him.

�Of course! Since you look like a thug to begin with, and since you have the necessary papers to prove you�re a cop of sorts, your idea is to get in touch with these people � how, I haven�t figured out yet � and apply for membership in their little family, probably as the representative of Copacabana. You point out to them how you can also contribute to their laudable goals by nominating for extinction a wayward American, now disguising himself as the security officer of the Rio consulate. This way you worm your way into their confidence and bring them all to justice, preferably in time for the final reel. Right?� He looked at Da Silva a moment and then shook his head sadly. �You mean I�m wrong? I don�t win the free all-expense one-way ticket to Peoria for the annual corn dance?�

�I�m afraid you pay your own way,� Da Silva said. He looked around for their waiter. Now that his mind was made up and his plans were beginning to fall neatly into place, he wanted to move to the dining room, eat his filet as quickly as possible, and get moving. The evening still had activity to be gotten through. At the bar their waiter saw the turn of head, correctly interpreted it, and disappeared into the dining room to make the necessary arrangements. Da Silva, satisfied, turned back to Wilson. �That wasn�t a bad scenario, but I like mine better. I think I�d like to be invited to go up there, by persons unknown. And to get that invitation, it seems to me, one only has to have a bad enough reputation.�

Wilson sighed, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

�That�s what I was afraid was your idea,� he said. �Still, if nastiness is what it takes to bring our prey to the surface, I must say that you�re the perfect bait...�

�Instant notoriety. That�s what I said,� Da Silva said over his shoulder and continued to prepare drinks for his guests. He handed Wilson a pony of brandy, crossed the living room to hand his other guest Luis Rangel, a gin and tonic, and took his own after-dinner brandy to his chair and sank into it, looking across the room. �Well?�

Rangel, managing editor of the newspaper Correio de Manha, sipped his gin and tonic and stared back equably. It sounded as if his old friend and usually reliable news source, Captain Da Silva, had changed in character. This pushing for publicity was not like him at all.

�What do you want with instant notoriety?� he asked curiously, his newsman�s nose sensing a story. �Don�t we give you enough play in the papers as it is? In fact, our board at its last meeting decided we should reduce personal coverage in favor of��

�Not for me!� Da Silva was irritated that his friend should misunderstand his motives so completely.

�Oh? Then for whom?�

�For a man named Jos� Maria Carvalho.�

�I see.� Rangel nodded; on his small body the movement was similar to a bird bobbing its beak. He sipped his drink again, placed his glass on the small table beside him, removed a handkerchief from his top jacket pocket and lightly patted his lips, but his eyes never left the face of his host. The eyes were pitch black and quite alert. �I don�t suppose this Jos� Maria Carvalho could possibly be any relation to Captain Jos� Maria Carvalho Santos Da Silva?�

�Heaven forbid!�

�And you said �notoriety� and not just �publicity�?�

�Exactly,� Da Silva said, pleased that he had been so clear, and lit a cigarette.

�I see.� Rangel drank again and again patted his lips delicately with his handkerchief. It appeared to be an effeminate gesture as he did it, but Da Silva knew very well that the small Rangel, while still a reporter, had taken on the most desperate of Rio�s underworld without fear where a story would result. Rangel tucked his handkerchief away, straightening the corners, and then brought his attention back to his host. �Just what did this Jos� Maria Carvalho do to deserve the attention of our newspaper? I gather, from your use of the word �notoriety,� that whatever it was he did was not particularly nice?�

�He�s an extremely unworthy character,� Da Silva assured him, �and one any country, including ours, would be better off without.�

�Unworthy in exactly what way?�

�He steals,� Da Silva said solemnly. �Worst, he doesn�t even steal, himself; he has a gang that steals for him. He�s the main force behind the pilferage from the Santos docks, among other things.� He paused to think a moment and then shook his head. �No, let�s leave it at that. He�s guilty of a hundred other things, but��

�He smokes too much, he drinks too much, and he can�t be trusted within a block of a woman,� Wilson interposed, his face expressionless.

��but let�s just go after him for running the dock racket in Santos,� Da Silva finished, paying no attention to Wilson. �You can stress the amount of pilferage that goes on, on the docks, in your article; it all eventually comes out of the pockets of the Brazilian people��

�And,� Wilson added, cutting in, �it makes a nice sum which should be attractive to anyone who might want to take it away from this Jos� Maria Carvalho.�

�Forget that part,� Da Silva said, and frowned disapprovingly at Wilson. �Just stick to the fact that this Carvalho is a thief on a very major scale.�

�Odd,� Rangel said, not smiling. �I was under the impression that the Santos docks were one of the most competently policed docks in the world. From what information we have at the paper, I would have said that stealing on any major scale there was next to impossible.�

�Ah!� Da Silva raised a finger dramatically. Wilson was relieved to see that at least his friend refrained from tapping his nose with the finger; in a histrionic mood there were few limits to Da Silva�s capabilities. �You see? That impression is just because you don�t know! Everyone believes there�s no stealing on the Santos docks. That�s precisely why this Carvalho gets away with it. And anyway,� he added, relaxing a bit and brushing ash from his cigarette, �if everyone knew all about the stealing, it would scarcely be news when you exposed it, would it?�

�True,� Rangel said, and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. If it was a game, he was fully prepared to join in; he was sure he would be given the rules if it became necessary. Still, normal precautions were in order. �You understand, of course, Z�, that a newspaper has to be very careful of libel suits��

�No problem, I assure you. I guarantee. Besides, I expect you to allege, suggest, quote certain-private-sources, and so forth. This isn�t your first expose, for heaven�s sakes.�

�Besides,� Wilson added, �this Carvalho is basically a coward. Confront him with the truth and the chances are he�ll flee�� he paused, thinking, �to Para�so?�

Da Silva frowned, considering it. �Maybe. I suppose it�s a possibility. I�m not sure.� He thought about it a bit longer and then shook his head. �No, probably not. Not without a good and logical reason. Damn! We keep coming back to that same damn question! Why Para�so?�

Rangel had been listening to this exchange with a frown that grew more puzzled by the moment. He could understand his old friend�s desire to be labeled a thief � under a pseudonym � because it was obviously a trap of some sort; what he could not understand were all the side references.

�What�s Para�so?�

�Nothing. Forget it,� Da Silva said, and dropped the matter. He looked across the room, remembering his duties as a host. �Can I refresh your drink?�

�No, thanks.� Rangel stared at Da Silva. �Z�, are you really serious about this?�

Da Silva stared back. �Do you think I dragged you down here at this hour of the night to play games? Of course I�m serious. And I want this story spread all over the country, not just in your one paper, and not just in Rio. You�ve got the contacts in radio and television; you know people in the wire services. Get them to push the story if only as a favor to you. I want it spread around, and fast!�

Rangel shrugged. �If we print it, it�ll be picked up by everyone; papers, magazines, and the media as well. After all, we are the Correio de Manha.� He dug into an inner pocket, bringing out a notebook and a thin gold pencil. Unlike Perreira�s rubberband-restrained wad of paper, this notebook was bound in fine leather and the corners were delicately decorated with gold. The newspaperman turned the pencil carefully, and then examined the extended lead much in the manner of a physician checking a hypodermic needle. Satisfied that his instruments were ready for the operation, Rangel looked up. �First of all, the description of the man.�

�Of course. In fact, that�s most important. Well,� Da Silva said, as if he had been thinking about it, �he�s about my height and weight. In fact, he looks like me. Handsome��

Wilson snorted.

�Handsome, I said,� Da Silva went on, not at all perturbed by Wilson�s uncouth sound, �around six feet tall, maybe one-ninety in weight; generally a fine figure of a man��

�Who wears his hair short, plastered down with grease,� Wilson added.

Da Silva stared. �What?�

�And who is clean shaven,� Wilson went on implacable. �No mustache.�

�What!�

�Short hair and no mustache,� Wilson repeated firmly. �We wouldn�t want him to look too much like another person whose vanity has allowed him to get his picture into the media as often as he could. A mistake in identity could waste us valuable time.� He thought a moment while the distasteful idea sank into the captain�s head. �He might also sport a distinctive scar on his face,� Wilson added helpfully. �Something genuine, I would think. Which I�d be only too happy to arrange, if desired.�

�No mustache...� Da Silva sighed musingly. �I suppose it makes sense, and a different hair style isn�t a bad idea. But I honestly can�t see him as the type to put grease in his hair. Or ever get into enough trouble � he couldn�t handle � where a scar might result. He strikes me as being more the dark-glasses type. A sort of Tarc�sio Meira. Suave, you know, but reserved, as befits a man who shuns the limelight.�

Wilson looked at Da Silva with a grin. Rangel, taking notes, paused and looked up. �Which will it be? Scar or no scar? Grease or no grease?�

�No grease; no scar.�

Rangel noted it. �And where does he live?�

Da Silva looked surprised. �Santos, of course.�

Rangel frowned. �And nobody has ever seen him there? Doesn�t that seem a bit farfetched?�

�No. He��

�Yes,� Wilson said positively. �It sounds preposterous. Where he lives is S�o Paulo, where you could hide an army. When he has to go to Santos he drives down and back the same day � it�s only an hour�s run. Still,� he added, �we don�t want him never to be around Santos. Make him the retiring type; but your intrepid reporters have been able to get telephoto shots of him in various places around Santos. Shots,� he added slowly, �that lack enough clarity to allow a reader to identify the man at close range.�

Da Silva nodded, pleased with the idea.

�You can get pictures of him coming out of one of those bars down by the Pra�a Guilherme Bacia, looking as if he�d just concluded a deal to steal one of the Moore-Mac ships; or at the docks themselves, speaking with a crude type � Wilson can play that role � or in a relaxed mood, taking a drink in the garden at the Parque Balne�rio.�

�With an American confederate,� Wilson added.

Da Silva shook his head. �No American confederate.�

�Why no American confederate?� Wilson sounded irked.

�Because we don�t want to scare them off by looking like a gang.�

Rangel had been waiting, a trifle bored. �American confederate or no?�

�No,� Da Silva said, his tone closing the matter. �Now, what about an address in S�o Paulo?�

�We ought to be a bit subtle,� Wilson said. He still wasn�t happy at not being the American confederate, but he was willing to let it go for the time being and give his all to their efforts. �Let them do a little work in getting the address, or the phone number.� He looked at Rangel. �You have any place we could put up in S�o Paulo? Your newspaper, I mean?�

�We maintain an apartment, yes.� Rangel thought about it a moment and brightened. �It would be a good place, actually. There are often different people staying there, so the neighbors have long since stopped paying attention to anyone they see in the hallway.�

�Except,� Da Silva pointed out, �how many people know it�s an apartment rented by the Correio de Manha, and not by Jos� Maria Carvalho?�

�Damn few,� Rangel said flatly. �We�ve hidden a lot more disrespectable people there than J. M. Carvalho. Just don�t tell the cops.� He went back to his pad. �What else?�

�That should do it,� Da Silva said. �Somebody is bound to try and worm the address from your paper � I hope � and we might have a very important lead.� He frowned at Rangel. �How soon can you get this rolling?�

The little newspaperman methodically noted the intended use of the apartment, tucked the notebook away, and then carefully turned the pencil to retract the lead; he made the operation seem both intricate and a little intimate. Only when the pencil had been neatly clipped into his inside jacket pocket did he look up, and then only to shrug.

�How soon? A week; two weeks...�

�A week? I thought you were a daily!� Da Silva shook his head decisively. �No, senhor! If I wanted to serialize this thing I would have asked my friends at Manchete, or Cruzeiro, or had Victor Civita put it in a picture book for children. I want this in the Correio de Manha the day after tomorrow, on the front page, under a banner headline that says something like �Dock Racket Exposed!� or �Scandal on Santos Pier!� or something like that. And I want it to be a long article, detailed, and startling; the stuff people normally read O Globo to get. You know, I wouldn�t be surprised if this even built up your circulation.� He thought a moment and came up with an addition. �And I want the headline to be in the size type you use when nations go to war. Is that clear?�

Rangel sighed hopelessly. �Day after tomorrow?� Even for an editor accustomed to unreasonable demands from stockholders, this was patently unfair. �It�s impossible.�

�What do you mean, impossible?� Da Silva demanded. �It isn�t even improbable! The day after tomorrow.� His voice was unrelenting. �Pretend we�re a national bank crisis. Or a fire in an orphanage.�

Rangel was staring at him stubbornly. �We want to do this right, don�t we? It has to be a good article, well-written, and that takes time. And then there�s the matter of the pictures; they have to be taken in Santos if they�re to have any degree of authenticity at all, and we go to press at eleven at night.� Rangel glanced at his wrist watch. �Tomorrow�s edition is just starting to roll now.�

�So you have a full twenty-four hours,� Da Silva said calmly. �What more do you want?� He looked over at his desk with the covered typewriter on it. �You can write it here. Now. You used to be a newspaperman before they kicked you upstairs, weren�t you?�

�We�ll even help you with it,� Wilson said generously. �We can probably come up with some additional details we�ve forgotten to brief you on.�

�No thanks!� That was all he needed, Rangel thought, to get additional details from this pair. They�d probably add a Chinese spy, a ravishing Indonesian slave girl, not to mention a car chase and a prison escape. �I�ll write it at the office.� He saw the look in Da Silva�s eye and added with a sigh, �All right. Tonight.�

�Good!� Da Silva said, his smile forgiving all past hesitation. �Then the first thing tomorrow we can catch a plane � your paper has a plane, I know � and go down to Santos with a photographer and get those pictures. How long does it take to snap a few pictures, fly them back to Rio, develop them and print them? The day after tomorrow is liberal,� Da Silva said, his tone of voice chiding Rangel for his pessimism. �It�s a pity you�re not an afternoon paper; we could get it out tomorrow.�

Rangel came to his feet. �We�ll try.� He straightened the creases in his trousers, staring down at them sadly, although it was hard to tell if his lugubrious expression was due to the wrinkling of his suit or to the exigent deadline. Suddenly he looked up. A rather disturbing thought had just come to him, and he wondered how he had ever come to overlook it before. That Da Silva and his golden tongue!

�One thing I forgot,� he said. �What about the authorities in Santos? What reaction will our paper get from, say, the prefeito, or the chief of police, if we print a story that someone is stealing the Santos docks blind?�

�What can he say?� Da Silva asked, as if amazed by the question.

�What do you mean, what can he say? He can come to our board and raise so much general hell that��

�Look! If the policing down there is so bad that a man like this Jos� Maria Carvalho is able to walk away with half the docks, what can a chief of police say? He ought to get down on his knees and thank the Correio de Manha for bringing it to his attention.�

�Damn it, Z�! I�m serious! We could get into a lot of trouble if��

Da Silva saw the stricken look on Rangel�s face and laughed.

�I�m only joking. Don�t worry. The chief there is Paulo Bombeba, and he�s an old and good friend of mine. I�m sure that after I explain what we�re trying to do, he�ll be only too happy to co-operate.�

Rangel didn�t seem overly convinced. �I hope so...�

�Believe me. Don�t worry,� Da Silva said reassuringly. He came to his feet and walked Rangel to the door, his arm around the small newspaperman�s shoulders. �I�ll get hold of Bombeba right away if I have to wake him at home � or I�ll get him at his girlfriend�s apartment, which is more likely. But I�ll get hold of him tonight and straighten everything out. You can be assured.�

�Okay,� Rangel said, feeling better.

�You just go down to the office and write that story. And make it strong meat. We want this Jos� Maria Carvalho to draw fire, so we want to leave a strong scent.�

The newspaperman in Rangel took over. Even though it was all imaginary, he determined to make the exposure of Carvalho a major story. With Da Silva squaring the authorities in Santos, he would be in the clear. He smiled at his old friend.

�We�ll make it strong. I just hope it works.�

�As do we all,� Da Silva said. �We�ll see you at the Santos Dumont airport at eight in the morning. You can show us your story while we�re flying down.�

�Right,� Rangel said, and strode away on his uplift heels.

Da Silva closed the door softly behind the small man and walked to the bar, stifling a yawn. �One last drink and then to sleep. You can go home anytime,� he said. �It�s been a long day and we have an even longer one ahead of us tomorrow. I just hope their company plane isn�t a Piper cub.�

Wilson frowned. �But what about your call to Santos? To this Bombeba?�

Da Silva paused in the act of pouring his nightcap and turned to consider Wilson over his shoulder. This time the expression of amazement on his pock-marked face was genuine.

�Did you take me seriously when I said I was going to call Bombeba? Did you really think I was about to warn the Santos police department that this Jos� Maria Carvalho story is a hoax, when we may well have a member of a national death squad in the Santos department? We�re trying to scare them out with this story, not scare them off.� He shook his head in disbelief. �How na�ve can you get?�

Wilson stared at him. �But what about your friend Rangel and the Correio de Manha? They could get into a lot of trouble printing charges that aren�t true!�

Da Silva shrugged. �One of the culinary tragedies of life is that you can�t generate omelets without breaking eggs.�

Wilson shook his head slowly. �I don�t think I�ll ever get to really understand you, Z�!�

�I wouldn�t stay up nights worrying about it,� Da Silva said, and carried his drink back to his chair. He sat down and sipped. �I�ll make it up to Rangel with a scoop when � and if � we ever break this case. And anyway,� he added a bit defensively, �I�m not so sure that story might not do some good. It has nothing to do with us or our case, but I�d be very much surprised if those docks are really as free of pilferage as Rangel and Paulo Bombeba think. As Gertrude Stein would have said if she�d thought of it, a dock is a dock is a dock, whether it�s in Port Said, New York, or Santos...�

The rain descended steadily, vertical unwavering sheets that gave no sign of diminishing. It obscured the deserted Gavea golf course below the cantilevered porch, blocking the usual view of a beach crowded with microscopic bathers, hiding the tubular grandeur of the Hotel Nacional so modern against the sea and the ancient rocks that marked the entrance to the Avenida Niemeyer. At the end of the long veranda the small sugar-water feeders were unattended; the hummingbirds that normally hovered there, tippling endlessly, had disappeared, victims of the pitiless rain.

Gustavo Dorn, leaning on the railing of the protected porch, wondered if he should instruct the maid to move his breakfast setting from the veranda to the dining room, and then decided against it. The veranda was well protected by its chalet-type roof, and Dorn liked the rain. There was a strength in the element that Dorn admired; an unremittance, a ruthless implacability that aroused in Dorn a kindred sense of power. He smiled at the feeling of comradeship with the rain, almost as one would at a trusted and trustworthy ally, and went to sit down at the set table, reaching for the morning journal even as his foot found and pressed the floor bell for the maid.

Gustavo Dorn was a tall man, well-built, with sharp features, thin lips, almost colorless eyes, and with his graying blond hair cut in the latest fashion, longer than usual, nestling almost sensuously against his small ears. He accepted the orange juice the girl brought, sipped and then drank it, and then unfolded the newspaper while he waited for his usual hot rolls and coffee. His eye caught the subhead that covered the two left-hand columns, passed on automatically to the right-hand headings from accustomed habit, and then returned with sharp attention to the article he had bypassed before. With a frown he studied the heading and then moved to the article beneath it, reading with intensity. The maid appeared with his coffee and rolls, placed them at his elbow, and then stood back, wondering why her employer was not eating. Then, with a shrug, she padded back into the kitchen. People who preferred reading to eating were beyond her ken � as, indeed, was reading itself.

Dorn finished the portion of the article on the front page and quickly turned to the inner page where the story was continued and terminated. This portion of the article boasted photographs, taken necessarily from a distance, since the object was unaware of the camera�s scrutiny, and therefore understandably indistinct to begin with; they were made more indistinct in normal newspaper fashion by the quality of the paper. Still, the photographs were unimportant to the idea that had sprung almost full-blown into Dorn�s sharp mind as soon as he had grasped the significance of the article. The name was unfamiliar, and Dorn was proud of his memory for names; still the name was as unimportant as the photographs. He took one final glance at the photographs and went back to the article. He read it to its conclusion, returned to the first page and reread it completely, painstakingly, from start to finish. Then he placed the newspaper to one side of the table momentarily and stared out at the rain, but this time without either seeing or feeling any kinship with the continuing downpour.

Just the man! Made to order. He would fit in with the others like nesting spoons, with, of course, one small difference, the difference being that he had never heard of this one before. What was the man�s name? Jos� Maria Carvalho. Dorn poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it, unaware that it was cool, a condition that normally would have earned the cook a sharp reprimand regardless of whether it had been her fault or not. Dorn put aside the cup, took out a small penknife, and carefully slit the article from both the inner and outer pages, photographs included. He folded the two clippings and slid them into his wallet. Then he came to his feet and walked purposefully into the living room, moving to the telephone on the bookcase. He raised the receiver, dialed a number, and waited. The telephone at the other end was answered almost immediately; the cheeriness in the answering voice was so patently false that Dorn wondered if possibly the girl shouldn�t be fired.

�Dorn, Pireles and Verdeiro. Good morning.�

�Ilsa, this is Senhor Dorn. Is Senhor Pireles in yet?�

�Yes, sir. He came in about fifteen minutes ago.�

�Let me speak to him.�

It did not occur to Dorn to say �please� nor did it occur to the telephone operator to expect it. She merely plugged in a line, depressed a switch, and went back to her novela. Dorn tapped one thin finger restlessly against the receiver as he waited; waiting was not something he did well. Then he stood a bit more erect as the phone was answered.

�Senhor Pireles� office.�

Too damn many secretaries; too many intermediaries, Dorn thought with irritation, and dropped the matter in typical fashion. He recognized that the newspaper article had brought about his tension, not the matter of excessive secretaries. He took a deep breath.

�This is Senhor Dorn. Put Senhor Pireles on the line.�

�Yes, sir!�

There was a brief pause and then the voice of Dorn�s partner was heard. �Hello, Gustavo. Do you want me in your office?�

�I�m not in my office. I�m still at home. I won�t be in until later, if at all.�

�But the Souza case��

�You can handle it. You know as much about it as I do.� Dorn�s tone dismissed the Souza case completely. �I can�t get in this morning.�

Sympathy entered Pireles� voice; he was a hypocondriac, himself. �Are you ill?�

�No�� Dorn suddenly realized that the quickest way to keep Pireles quiet was to satisfy him. �I mean, not really ill, but not too well, either. A cold, you understand. This constant rain, you know.� For a moment he considered a cough to enforce his story, and then dropped the idea at once. He didn�t have to explain to Pireles, for God�s sake! �Is Emil��

�Well, stay in bed,� Pireles said helpfully. �Take lots of liquids and bundle up well. Sweat, that�s the answer.�

�Yes,� Dorn said briefly. �Is Emil there?�

�I imagine so. Lemonade is good��

�Tell Emil I have some errands for him. Have him drop out to the house.�

�All right. Hot milk isn�t bad, but sometimes it constipates, which isn�t so good. No beer, of course; sometimes that can be even worse the other way��

�Pireles! Did you hear what I said about Emil?�

�Of course,� Pireles said, wondering why Dorn always used that tone with him, as if he were an idiot.

�Then tell him I want to see him. This morning,� Dorn said, and hung up. What a fool that Pireles was! Still he was the ideal junior partner, like Verdeiro; they both had excellent reputations, handled the cases given them with skill if not with imagination, and did not ask questions about things that did not concern them. He put the thought of his partners aside and raised the instrument again, dialing once more. This time there was a brief wait before the telephone was answered.

�Al�?�

�Senhora Castro, por favor.�

�Momentinho.�

There was another wait. Dorn stared out over the porch at the rain; at least he wouldn�t be going out this morning, but fortunately his business could be handled by telephone. Emil would have to dig up his friend again, but a call should arrange that. Then there was a feminine voice on the line, not that of the maid.

�Hello?�

�Hello, Isabela. Do you know who this is?�

There was a sharp intake of breath. �What do you want?�

�A favor, is all��

�No! Wait...� There was a short hiatus and then the girl was back on the line. �I�ve sent the maid to the corner. Now, what do you want?�

�I told you � a small favor.�

�And I said �no�! I did what you called a favor for you once, and I haven�t slept well since! So good-bye. And don�t call me any more.�

�I wouldn�t hang up if I were you,� Dorn said quickly. He smiled as the sound of her quiet breathing continued to come through the receiver. �Good. I�m glad to see you�re being sensible.�

�Look,� the girl said intently, �I have no intention of getting involved again, ever, not to the slightest degree.�

Dorn sighed, a sigh loud enough to communicate itself through the line. �But you will, of course. You see, it isn�t a matter of getting involved again; it�s a matter of being involved at all. And you are. There is no death penalty in Brazil, as you know, but you would go to prison for as long as anyone else. And just think of those pretty dimples becoming deep wrinkles, and think of no pretty gowns, and think of��

�I don�t have to think of anything,� the girl said decisively. �I have my letters back and that�s an end to it.�

Dorn shook his head sadly. �I�m afraid you�re laboring under a misapprehension. You have the originals of your letters back, but not, I�m happy to say, your Xerox copies.�

�Copies!�

�You sound surprised. Of course, copies. You�ve heard of Xerox, haven�t you? Ah, the advance of communications!� The amusement disappeared, replaced by a hardness Isabela had met before. �So let�s stop playing games.�

There was a brief pause; then the girl said bitterly, hopelessly, �Who are you, anyway? What kind of a monster are you, anyway?�

�Monster, me? You�re quite wrong. As to who I am, I�m the man who has some letters you were foolish enough to write. Don�t call me names; you wrote them, not me.�

�I could go to the police��

�My dear Isabela Andrea Castro,� Dorn said, and the truth was in his voice, �to begin with, you don�t know me and you never will. And if I thought for a moment you could have been, or still could be, the slightest threat to me, do you honestly believe you would still be alive and well?� He shook his head, almost as if the girl could see him, and then smiled deprecatingly, charmingly. �But why talk of such unpleasant things? It�s a simple enough favor I want, and there�s no danger. My lord! From his picture in the paper, the man even looks halfway decent. You might even enjoy his company before you bring him up to Para�so.�

There was a long pause and then Isabela spoke. Her voice was dead. �What�s his name? And where does he live?�

�Ah, that�s better. You see, the argument was all for nothing. His name is Carvalho � Jos� Maria Carvalho. He has an apartment in S�o Paulo. I�ll get his address for you some time this morning.�

�But who is he?�

�A thief,� Dorn said, and his voice had lost all expression. �A man who steals from the docks.� He shrugged. �Does it make any difference to you? I�ll be in touch with you once I�ve gotten his address. I�ll also arrange the � ah, the affair � so that this time you won�t have to be a witness. All right?� He sounded as if he thought he should be thanked for this humaneness. �Then all you have to do is get him up to Para�so.�

One final question came to Isabela, one that had always bothered her. �Why does it necessarily have to be Para�so?�

Dorn smiled at the instrument humorlessly. �Why not?� he said quietly, and hung up.

Wilson listened to the telephone with a patience that was fast running out; and the rain drumming on the windows-rain which had accompanied them to S�o Paulo � did little to improve his mood. Across the room, Da Silva, stretched out comfortably on a couch, watched and listened, pleased it was Wilson on the phone rather than himself.

�No, senhor,� Wilson said politely, �it�s all a mistake, I assure you. Yes, senhor, this is the residence of Jos� Maria Carvalho, but the story in the newspaper was a complete exaggeration, I assure you. No, senhor, I would never call a newspaper a liar; one can only ask for trouble that way, but an exaggeration it was, senhor, I assure you. You can check with the police if you doubt my word, senhor. You will find that Senhor Carvalho has no police record at all � or practically none � I assure you. Well, of course if you wish to put whatever you are referring to in a letter, I�m sure that Senhor Carvalho will read it, but I assure you�� He paused a moment, listening. �Then you do that, senhor. Yes. Good-bye.�

�You handled that very well,� Da Silva said dryly. �I assure you.�

Wilson turned from the telephone to look at Da Silva resentfully. �The next one who asks who I am, answering for you, gets told I�m your parole officer. That was insurance company number ten, and we haven�t been here three hours, yet.� He frowned curiously at his friend. �Tell me, Senhor Carvalho, did you really steal an anchor from the Santa Clara at one time?�

�It�s a foul lie invented by my jealous enemies down at the Santos docks,� Da Silva said, hurt. �One of my helpers happened to be walking along the pier��

�And the anchor just followed him home.�

�Exactly.�

�Anchors like that can be a traffic hazard��

�Quiet!� Da Silva said, all pretense of whimsy gone. He brought his fingers up to pull at his mustache and discovered its loss. It did not make him feel any better to think it might have been shorn in a wasted cause. �How long do we keep up this idiotic charade? This insurance company bit has certainly fouled up the detail!�

�Not to mention the two national magazines that have called asking for personal interviews, and the writer who wanted your help on a plot to get into the strong room of the Queen Elizabeth,� Wilson said. �Plus the fact that I�m waiting for the police to drop in momentarily.�

Da Silva smiled humorlessly. �Having the police drop in is just what I�m hoping for.�

�Still on that death squad kick, are you? On a national scale?� Wilson walked to the small bar in one corner and began to pour himself a drink. �One thing I have to give you credit for, Senhor Carvalho � you have stick-to-it-iveness.� He raised his glass. �To my theory, right or wrong. May it always be right, but right or wrong � my theory!� He drank.

�I haven�t heard a better one from you,� Da Silva began, and then paused as the telephone rang.

�Your turn,� Wilson said. �I�m busy.�

�We should have arranged an answering service or a recording,� Da Silva muttered savagely, and swung his feet from the couch. He stood up and strode angrily across the room.

�And don�t shout,� Wilson advised helpfully. �You catch more flies with honey than with��

�Shut up,� Da Silva said darkly, and picked up the instrument, barking into it. �Yes?�

�Senhor Carvalho?�

Da Silva instantly bit back his first angry reply. Nobody with a husky, sexy, feminine voice like that could possibly be interested in stolen truck tires or disappearing crated sewing machines, could they? And if not, why would she be calling?

�This is Senhor Carvalho speaking.�

From the bar, Wilson looked across the room curiously, intrigued by the change in tone, by the sudden docility. Da Silva winked at him. �What can I do for the senhora?�

�A moment of your time, perhaps?�

Or an hour or a day or a month, probing the invitation implicit in that lovely voice, Da Silva thought � but with eyes wide open. It should be fun asking her what business a nice girl like her had calling an unmitigated ruffian like Jos� Maria Carvalho. Still, there was the chance she was something like his own secretary, Dona Dolores, whose voice on a telephone usually had strangers thinking in terms of soft music and softer pillows, but who was, in fact, a grandmother who liked to eat fattening foods and who looked it. On the other hand, of course, it was also possible his caller didn�t look like Dona Dolores at all.

Da Silva smiled at the telephone. �Regarding what, senhora?�

�I... I�d rather discuss it in person, if I might?�

Might she! �Of course. Where would you like to meet?�

There was the barest hesitation. �Your apartment? I�m � I�m not far away.�

Da Silva winked at Wilson again, and then straightened his face. He sincerely believed that the expression on a person�s face affected the tone of voice he used, and he didn�t want to scare this one away. �Of course, senhora. Would fifteen minutes be too early?�

�It would be fine. I�ll be there.� There was almost a kiss in the breathless final words; the telephone receiver was hung up softly, almost caressingly.

Da Silva put the receiver in place and looked at Wilson. �Bingo! Or anyway,� he added, �maybe.�

�Who was that?�

�That, my friend, was a girl with a voice so sexy she could have led the Pied Piper of Hamlin right into the water after his rats. But I�m afraid you won�t get a chance to find out, because she wants to talk to me alone. In private. So I suggest you take a long walk. I think they�re playing some old Sherlock Holmes movies at the museum in the park; you might go there and possibly pick up some pointers.�

Wilson frowned. �A girl? Working for an insurance company?�

�Possibly. Possibly not. Let�s not forget why we came up here in the first place. And this isn�t the first time a girl has figured in this affair, don�t forget.�

�You�re thinking of that manicurist who had lunch with Valadares before he went off and got himself killed in Para�so? Isn�t that stretching things a bit? What would a manicurist from Rio be doing in S�o Paulo calling on Jos� Maria Carvalho?�

�I have no idea. What would anyone from anywhere be doing calling on Carvalho? All I know is they sell airplane tickets from Rio to S�o Paulo to anyone with the fare. They even sold some to us, remember?� Da Silva glanced at his wrist watch. �You ought to be on your way. Let�s not cut it too fine, shall we? And you�d better telephone before you come barging back.�

�I know the whole routine,� Wilson said with a touch of superiority. �I had a roommate in college.�

He winked at Da Silva and closed the door behind him. Da Silva smiled after him a moment and then looked around the room. It wasn�t that he hadn�t seen it before; actually for the past few hours he had done little except answer the telephone and study his surroundings, but he hadn�t considered the room in the same context. Looking at it now he had to admit that the Correio de Manha did its guests well; there was ample liquor, a soft couch, pictures on the wall no young lady could object to, and a proper selection of lighting fixtures capable of developing and maintaining any desired degree of romantic dimness � or illumination, either, if some idiot wanted to read. There was also a fine stereo. He walked over, put the machine to work exuding a properly gelatinous melody, and walked into the kitchen to get ice cubes. Once these were on the bar he stared at them as if willing them to tell him what else was needed. Crackers and cheese? Hold it, he told himself sternly; this isn�t that convention of insurance brokers. This is business, of a sort, but not that kind of business.

He lit a cigarette and walked over to the wall mirror in the hallway, studying himself in it. He tried to remember if Rangel�s article had said anything to indicate that this Carvalho was overly susceptible to women. No matter; it was a good assumption that a handsome, suave, and daring � such as faced him in the glass � crook like Carvalho was bound to be. He considered shaving, although he didn�t need it, and then turned to listen. The knock at the door had been almost timid. He winked at himself in the mirror and went to the door, swinging it wide. And then stood staring.

The girl facing him was as lovely as any he had ever seen, and he wished now that even if he hadn�t shaved he had at least changed his shirt, even though it did not need changing. True, she had the dimple that Perreira had said the manicurist at the Hotel Miracopa had, and, also true, her hair was dark and shoulder length and her eyes were large and luminous � but if Perreira was under the impression that half the girls in the Miracopa swimming pool looked the same, Perreira needed glasses. This one looked as if she was made of dreams, woven together with the love of past memories, clothed with�

�May I come in?�

Da Silva came out of his poetic trance, smiling apologetically. �I�m sorry. I was thinking of something else. Of course, come in. Let me have your coat.� He took it from her, a thin raincoat, laid it almost reverently across the back of a chair and turned back. �Would you care to also take off your jacket?� He suddenly noted that the little jacket was obviously her only top garment, and that it protected a lovely architecture. He grinned. �Sorry. Come in and sit down. Can I get you a drink?�

�No, thank you.� The girl came into the room slowly, selected a chair near the window, and sat down almost shyly. Da Silva closed the door, refrained with an effort from bolting it, and then walked over to take a seat on the sofa on the side nearest the girl. Her reason for being there, or under whose direction, was unimportant at the moment; the fact was she was there.

�What can I do for you?�

She looked at him a bit anxiously. �Are you Jos� Maria Carvalho?�

�That�s right.�

�You�� The girl hesitated a moment. �You don�t look like the pictures in the newspaper...�

�Newspapers!� Da Silva smiled deprecatingly, and shrugged, forgiving newspapers their bad photography in view of the fact they had been the catalyst bringing him together with this lovely. �And your name?�

�Isabela.�

�Just Isabela?�

She hesitated a moment and then said, �Isabela �ndrea Castro.� This was said a bit defiantly, and for a moment Da Silva wondered why. What he could not know was that it was simply that the girl had decided giving her correct name was easier than inventing one, especially in view of the fact that this stranger would not be around to remember it in a day or two. It was a cold-blooded view, but everyone had to worry about his own skin. And he was a criminal...

�Isabela �ndrea,� Da Silva said musingly. His tone indicated that if and when he ever had children he would name them Isabela and �ndrea in that order, whether they were girls or boys. �You are from S�o Paulo?�

�No.� She smiled at him, a strained smile, and Da Silva restrained a desire to go over and run his hands through her hair. �I just came here today in the hopes of talking to you. That article in the newspaper...�

�Yes? What about the article?�

�My company thought��

�Your company?� So it seemed this lovely girl was not the lovely girl from the Miracopa and Armando�s, but was a lovely girl indeed interested in stolen truck tires and missing sewing machines. What a pity! Still, his idea of the newspaper article hadn�t been so bad at that; otherwise they might never have met.

�Yes,� she said. �The company I work for. Maritime Indemnity and Casualty.�

He had already known it was coming, but it was still a disappointment. She really didn�t have to be the girl from the Miracopa; she could have been from the national death squad anyway. Or from a magazine; he was getting tired of insurance representatives. �You�re an insurance agent, then.�

�In a way, only.� She shrugged self-deprecatingly. �I�m just a secretary in one of our branch offices, but if I can be � well, be successful in this assignment, maybe...�

She let it trail off, her large eyes begging him to understand the importance to her of the success of her mission. An increase in pay? A key to the lady�s washroom? Marriage to the son of the boss? For a moment Da Silva felt sorry that he was not, indeed, Jos� Maria Carvalho, Stealer of Things from Docks, just so he could assist her in her assignment.

�I see. And?�

�It�s just that my company�� She paused, looking as if she might start blushing at any moment. Her eyes came up, defiant, daring him to laugh at her because of her femininity. �They thought a girl might be more persuasive than a man...�

And you work for a smart company, Da Silva thought admiringly.

�Persuasive about what?�

Isabela hesitated a moment longer and then took the plunge.

�You know what I mean.� Her eyes studied his impassive face. �There was a large shipment of radio parts due to a major factory in our area. And it was � well, missing from the dock warehouse in Santos. Our company has it insured for its full value, and we�d � well, we�d be willing to pay a reasonable percentage of the cost to get them back.� Her hand came up to forestall any obvious objection, although Da Silva was perfectly willing to listen to her husky voice without interrupting. �Oh, we�re not saying you had anything to do with taking them you understand. It�s just that we feel with your connections on the docks you might be able to locate these parts. I mean, we�d like to hire you as a sort of investigator to get them back, no questions asked. For a fee, of course. A percentage.�

If we�re going to play the role, then I suppose I�ll have to mouth the lines, Da Silva thought. He waved aside the circumspection as being needless, getting down to the meat of the transaction.

�How large a percentage?�

The girl looked embarrassed. �I wasn�t given the authority to negotiate on the matter of the exact percentage.�

Da Silva stared at her. �Then, if you�ll pardon me, why did they send you? I�ll be glad to give your company a letter saying you could probably persuade anyone to do anything at any time, but if, once you have that person persuaded, you can�t make any final deals � what�s the point?�

She smiled, and Da Silva felt himself melt.

�All I�m supposed to do is to persuade you to come back with me and speak with the people in our branch office. They�re the ones with the proper authority. They�ll make the deal.�

�I see. And where is this branch office?�

�You probably never heard of the place,� she said lightly, as if trying to sound modest for the town; but beneath that air of lightness there was a profound nervousness. The authorities had kept the story of the killings out of the newspapers, but it was very possible that, through his criminal contacts, this man knew all about the town and the killings. And if he became suspicious of her motives, he looked plenty tough enough to be difficult. �It isn�t a big place,� she said deprecatingly, �but we have a lot of industry there. It�s called Para�so...�

She waited to see if there was any reaction, but other than polite interest there was none that she could see. Subconsciously Da Silva knew he had been waiting for the revelation since her arrival, and equally subconsciously he had been preparing for it.

�Para�so?� he said, and his great disappointment that this lovely, desirable girl should be part of a murdering death squad was well masked by the natural curiosity he displayed as he went on. �No, I never heard of it. Where is it?�

The girl visibly relaxed. You�re a great little actress in the middle of Act One, Da Silva thought with a bitterness he kept well concealed, but you should learn not to flinch at the curtain lines. He wished he could get up, go to the bar and pour himself a triple brandy, but he knew he wouldn�t. He also knew he wouldn�t turn her over his knee and spank her, as one would a naughty child, although she obviously deserved it. But it would be so nice consoling her after a spanking, and kissing away her tears...

�It�s in Piau� state,� she said. �Near both the Maranh�o and Cear� borders��

Da Silva came back to earth. �That far away, eh?�

�It isn�t far at all, not by plane. Oh, I suppose it�s in what you could once have called the �backlands� but Para�so is really quite a growing city. You�ll be surprised when you see it.� I�ll bet I will, Da Silva thought. In fact, surprise isn�t the proper word; struck speechless might be closer. How did a girl like you ever get tangled in a web like this? Isabela glanced at her wrist watch. �You know, we could even go up tonight. If we left now, we could catch the last flight from Congonhas. I could call Para�so from the airport and I�m sure our manager wouldn�t mind waiting late for us at the office, or even coming to meet us at the airport.�

I�m sure, Da Silva thought. �Tonight?� He smiled and shook his head. �I�m not much for traveling by air at night.� He did not mention that he wasn�t particularly overjoyed by traveling by air in the daytime, either; it didn�t seem too germane to the conversation. �But tomorrow morning I�d be quite willing to go with you to this � what is it?�

�Para�so. But it must be at night.� Isabela seemed to realize this may have sounded a bit odd. �The manager is out all day calling on accounts,� she said. �He�s only available at night. And you wouldn�t want to spend all day in Para�so with nothing to do.�

Not a bad recovery, Da Silva thought, and gave her three points. �All right,� he said. �We�ll make it tomorrow night, then. That will at least give me twenty-four hours to work up courage.�

Isabela looked disconsolate. �I really would prefer to make it tonight. I... well, I expected to go back tonight so I didn�t bring a bag, or make any hotel reservation, and I expect they�re very difficult to get.� She smiled at him touchingly. She really did want to go to Para�so; she wanted to get the whole business over with as soon as possible. �I guess I overrated my ability to persuade.�

�Not at all,� Da Silva said gallantly. �You just underrated my cowardice.� He looked at her idly, but he was watching for her slightest reaction as he added, �Of course, you could go back tonight, and I could come up tomorrow...�

�Oh, no!� Isabela sat more erect and then forced herself to relax, separating the hands that had been clasped too tightly in her lap. She smiled. �I mean, in that case I probably wouldn�t get the credit for your coming to make the deal, you know. No, I have to come with you.�

And if I couldn�t think of a better excuse in five minutes, I�d swear off being a liar, Da Silva thought. It seemed she got paid for the ones she personally led to slaughter; so much per head, you might say. Still, her excuse was pitiable � if one could feel compassion for the bellwether intent upon leading one down the chute. On the other hand there was no reason not to get as much information as he could in the time allotted to him before putting his head on the block. He might, he conceded, even enjoy himself in the process, if only he could forget for a while that he would be enjoying himself with a murderess. He leaned toward her, smiling.

�I�ll tell you what we�ll do. If you�re from a small town, you�ll certainly enjoy a night in a big city like S�o Paulo. I know a little place for drinks I�m sure you�ll like, and then to Fasano�s for dinner and dancing, and then�� He shrugged. �We�ll find someplace for a nightcap.�

�But��

�You mean, a place for you to stay tonight? I know most of the hotel people in town. After all, I sell them back a lot of their imported tablecloths and napkins.� He smiled, taking the sting from the admission, while he thought that with the contacts of the Correio de Manha, a simple hotel room should be no problem. �What do you say? Then tomorrow we can go to Para�so and everybody will be happy. All right?�

Indecision was written plainly on her face. This was something the unknown man on the telephone had not given instructions on. Still, refusal to go along with Carvalho might result in his not going to Para�so at all and that would be disastrous to her. There was also the rationalizing thought that spending the evening with this Carvalho would prevent him from exercising any curiosity. True, Maritime Indemnity and Casualty was a genuine enough company, but the branch in Para�so was a figment of the imagination of the man on the telephone, and a simple call was all that was needed to expose that fact.

�All right,� she said, and forced herself to blank her mind to the thought of dancing in the arms of a man who would be dead, the following night, through her agency. Don�t think about it, she told herself angrily; don�t think about it. Don�t think about it...

�Good!� Da Silva said enthusiastically, and came to his feet. �You pour yourself a drink for starters while I put on a tie and jacket.� He disappeared into an inner room and returned a moment later, pulling his necktie straight. He started to shrug himself into his jacket just as the telephone rang. Not another damned insurance company at this hour! he thought with disgust, and marched over to pick it up.

�Yes?�

It was Wilson. �Is the lamp all lit and trimmed in the window? Is all forgiven? Can the wandering boy come home again?�

�No.�

�Oh! Congratulations,� Wilson said, �although from the speed with which you answered, plus the sharpness of your usually dulcet tones, I gather you did not have to come running from the bedroom to get the phone.�

�That�s right,� Da Silva said, and put his mind, always active, into high gear. There was a very good chance that Isabela also spoke English, but that was still the language he intended to use. His voice was expressionless as he went on with the line that had come into his head, brought on by the exigencies of the situation. �What? Well, in that case I might be interested.� He covered the mouthpiece and looked at the girl, shrugging apologetically. �Business...�

She nodded her understanding and returned to the magazine she had found under the end table beside her chair. Da Silva noted the perfect profile, the full lips seen from the side, promising a rich harvest to some lucky man, and then became aware that Wilson was speaking. He reluctantly brought his attention back to his conversation.

�What?�

�I said, I�m sure you�d be interested,� Wilson repeated cordially, �but is the girl interested?�

�At least I think it�s worth investigating.�

�I couldn�t agree with you more if I knew what you were talking about,� Wilson said, and grinned at the telephone. �I gather you�re trying to get across some little bit of vital information while the little lady is practically sitting in your lap.�

�Well, that�s true, of course.�

�Fine. Now that we have the story line straight, what is it you�re trying to get across?�

�That�s right. The ship is at the new Hog Island in the Bahamas at present. Do you know the place?�

�I knew it when it was still Hog Island,� Wilson said, �before the advance of civilization in the form of slot machines, crap tables, and Keno made a more beauteous name imperative. What you are referring to, of course, is Paradise Island, and what you are saying, in your roundabout way, is something about Para�so. Right?�

�Of course the deal is legitimate. I resent�!�

�So we have that much straight,� Wilson said with satisfaction. �You know? This is fun. Remind me to propose you for the Consulate�s charade club � we�ll make you an honorary American every Wednesday night. What else?�

�The ship? It�s the Petty Pace. Are you familiar with it? I admit it�s old, but it�s still quite serviceable.�

�Petty Pace? Old?� Wilson frowned at the wall of the telephone booth, trying not to be distracted by the graffiti there, which claimed physical prowess to one Jo�o which was difficult to believe. �You lost me there. Petty Pace? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Is it something that sounds like lace? Mace?�

�Of course it�s old,� Da Silva said with a touch of asperity. �I just told you so. But it�s serviceable, I said. It won�t shake itself to pieces.�

�Ah! Shake is the operative word, and since I�m sure you don�t mean Shake and Bake, we�ll accept Shakespeare. Petty Pace? Why didn�t you say so? I played Macduff in college, wooden sword and all. �Tomorrow and a few more tomorrows, creeps on this petty pace to the something, something of recorded time. And all our yesterdays�� You�re trying to say that tomorrow you plan on going to Para�so, I gather. It could scarcely be yesterday.�

�That�s the deal.�

�In the interests of saving time and not taxing my erudition beyond its admittedly limited capacity,� Wilson suggested, �suppose I just ask questions and you answer �yes� or �no.� All right?�

�That sounds like a reasonable condition.�

�That wasn�t exactly a �yes� or �no� but I�ll let it go. First, are you planning on going up with the girl?�

�Yes.�

�Is she our manicurist from Rio?�

�I don�t know, but probably.�

�I hope if you get her to bed you wear your bulletproof pajamas. Are you going up to Para�so with her at her suggestion?�

�Yes.�

�Well, at least the article in the Correio wasn�t as useless as we were beginning to think!�

�As you were beginning to think.�

�As we were both beginning to think, but we won�t quibble. What plane are you planning on taking? Wait, that can�t be answered �yes� or �no,� although you haven�t been paying attention to that, anyway. Let�s try a few � is it the early plane?�

�Probably not.�

�Well, which?�

�It isn�t decided yet.�

�What do you have to do? Sleep on it? And what am I supposed to do? Get up there first and wait for you? Or try to catch the same plane as you? Or follow � which would mean I�d probably get there just in time to point the ambulance the way to the morgue, since I know where it is?�

�None of them,� Da Silva said. �Although I agree you should go as soon as you determine the shipping dates. December would be too late and February would be too early...�

�Which even I can figure would make January just right. January? Janeiro? You mean, Rio de Janeiro?�

�That�s smart.�

�You want me to go back to Rio? Why, for God�s sake?�

�Yes,� Da Silva said, sounding as if he�d given the matter ample thought. �I agree that investigation of this Edgar is essential, but don�t underestimate him. He�s tough. Don�t let the fact that he wrote poetry fool you.�

�Now you�ve gone completely off the track!� Wilson declared. �Edgar? Poetry?�

�It was a while ago, I admit��

�Good grief! Edgar? Poetry? A while ago?� Wilson would have thrown up his hands had the dimensions of the booth allowed. Then light came. �I�ve got it! Poe!� His enthusiasm waned. �What the devil does Poe have to do with�?�

�No! Not him. It wasn�t that long ago, and the syndicate was in on it!�

Wilson sighed. �Not Poe. Probably doesn�t even sound like Poe. But it�s Edgar, who writes poetry, and the syndicate has something to do with it�� True light dawned this time, but he approached his discovery with a caution born of previous failure. �Don�t tell me you mean Edgar Guest, for God�s sake!�

�I knew you�d come to see it my way.�

�How did you ever hear of Edgar Guest? You should have been in knee pants around his era. Anyway, what does Edgar Guest have to do with � oh! You mean your guest?�

�That�s right.�

�Let�s see if we can put this all together and come out with Mother,� Wilson said. �Are you trying to say you want me to go back to Rio to investigate the girl?�

�Exactly.�

�I gather you have some reason to think she comes from there?�

�The goods would have to be labeled, of course. I know that doesn�t guarantee the contents, but at least it�s an indication.�

�All right, so her clothes have labels. Her name, of course, would also be useful.�

�Ah, yes! Him!� Da Silva had been expecting the question and was proud to be prepared for it. �Actually, you ought to know him; he comes from the capitol of your home state. And he�s definitely the boss.�

Wilson sighed a bit plaintively.

�You know,� he said, �a little bit of this is fun, but it also goes a long way. At home when we play this, at least we have refreshments. And these booths aren�t air conditioned, you know. Capitol of my home state? That�s Columbus. That would make the boss Ferdinand, right? Don�t yell � I was just kidding. You mean Isabela, right?�

�So far. He lives in the Doria Apartments. First floor.�

�Doria, doria. What�s a doria? A dory? Is Doria her second name? Her last name?�

�I�m afraid I can�t accept that,� Da Silva said sternly.

�Doria... maybe you ought to jump that and go on. Or, wait; the only bell that rings is the �ndrea Doria...�

�I�d say that was satisfactory.�

�All right. Her name is Isabela �ndrea. That�s all?�

�No, no! I think you should avoid Cuba in all cases. With the political conditions there, keeping our assets convertible would be a problem. Don�t you agree? Or do you want to sleep on it?� That ought to give Wilson something to conjure with, Da Silva thought with satisfaction.

�What I�d like to sleep on is my own trundle bed,� Wilson said, and stared at the graffiti on the wall. Was it possible that Maria, at 23-6792, really did all those things? �All right, we�ll go to work on that, now. Cuba � convertible � sleep on it? Message received! Her name is Isabela �ndrea Castro, or my name isn�t Wilson. Right?�

�Very good!�

�Just one final question,� Wilson said. �Why are you intending to go up to Para�so and make like a target for them, in the first place? Why not simply take the girl back to a delegacia in Rio and shake her � like in Shakespeare � until some information comes loose?�

�Because it�s quite likely the cargo we�re expecting may be in a different hold, which would mean a great waste of time.�

Wilson shook his head stubbornly. �What do you mean! She has to be in it up to her ears. The information isn�t in any other hold; it�s in her pretty little head. And a few hours in a Rio police station ought to ease it out of her!�

�I�ll take it under advisement, but I doubt I�ll change my mind.�

�I still don�t like the idea of your going up to Para�so without your American confederate...�

�Well,� Da Silva said with finality, �that�s the way it�s got to be!�

�Okay,� Wilson said helplessly. �I also gather, then, that you�re spending the evening with her. In which case, since I�ve already missed the last plane back to Rio, I suppose you�d prefer I spend the night elsewhere than the apartment?�

�It would be better,� Da Silva said, and glanced at the waiting girl. He turned back to the telephone, sounding brusque. �We�re wasting a lot of time on a simple proposition. Check into it and get in touch.�

�All right,� Wilson said. �And if you don�t hear from me before you catch your plane, I�ll be in the Jardim da Luz, third bench from the left. I�ll be the one with last week�s copy of Time for a pillow.�

�That should suit you comfortably,� Da Silva said solemnly, and hung up. He pulled his jacket straight and smiled at the girl. �Business, business! Well, shall we go?�

From the gardened patio surrounding Fasano�s, on the balcony of the Pr�dio Nacional located on the Avenida Paulista, high on a hill in the center of the city, the lights of the vast metropolis spread to the horizon. Da Silva and Isabela, arm in arm, leaned on the broad stone railing and drank in the night in silence. Far beneath them, the tunnel of the Avenida 9 de Julho ingested and discharged an endless stream of automobiles, their headlights white trails illuminating the snakelike curves leading to the Anhangaba�. The city sparkled before them as far as they could see, an awe-inspiring sight, throwing a warm glow of light against the low-hanging clouds. Behind them, in the dim restaurant, soft music pulsed. Isabela tightened her arm in his almost convulsively.

�It�s lovely.�

�It is.�

He took his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one loose for Isabela and took one himself. He managed to locate his lighter without releasing his arm, lit the two cigarettes, put away the lighter, and then pointed with his glowing cigarette.

�A long time ago,� he said, speaking reminiscently, �before this Pr�dio Nacional was built, and when this part of S�o Paulo was all old mansions and shade trees instead of concrete and apartment houses, Fasano�s was down there, in the penthouse of an old office building in the center of town. I remember all the elevators to the building were closed at night, except one that went up to Fasano�s on the roof. I knew the place very well. It had a narrow balcony � nothing like this patio � but it did allow one to go outside on a summer�s night and look out over the city, although there wasn�t anything like the city we have now to look over.� He smiled. �I remember they had a ma�tre d� who could make the world�s best crepes suzette from the world�s cheapest and rawest cognac. The management loved him because of the economy, and the clientele forgave him because of the taste. He was an artist. A Hungarian.� He shook his head almost sadly. �That was a long time ago. It makes me feel old just to remember it.�

�You�ll never be old,� she said impulsively, and then clamped her jaws tight as the import of her words came to her. She took a deep breath and then found to her surprise that she was speaking thoughts she had meant to keep concealed. �What made you become what you are?�

�What I am? What am I?�

In for a cruziero, in for a conto, Isabela thought, and faced him.

�You know what I mean. What made you decide to make your living the way you do?�

Da Silva looked at her quizzically. �You mean, stealing from the docks? You can say it; I don�t mind. Although it�s only fair to point out that nobody has proved it, yet.� He shrugged. �What makes anyone earn his living the way he does? What�s the story about the prostitute? Just luck, I suppose.�

�I�m serious!�

�So am I. What made you decide to be an insurance agent?�

�Let�s stay with you. What makes you steal for a living? You�re... you�re educated, intelligent...� She almost said �handsome� but bit it back. �You�re interesting to be with. You�re just a nice guy. Why? You could make a living more-more��

�More legitimately? I suppose I could. Why?�

�I mean � don�t you have any ambition?�

�It depends upon what you mean by ambition,� Da Silva said. �I certainly make more money than � well, let�s say a run-of-the-mill insurance man, for example.�

�That�s not what I mean by ambition!�

�You mean, don�t I want to get ahead in my chosen profession? Move to bigger docks, larger ports�?�

�Damn you, I�m serious!�

Da Silva looked down at her, his face a mask. �Why?�

For a moment she stared back at him; then she turned her head, staring down at the city. She took a deep breath. �Who did you take to Fasano�s when it was down there?� she asked. �Who did you take there, that long time ago?�

�Girls,� he said, and smiled a bit sadly. �Girls unfortunately now long forgotten.� He looked down at her turned-away profile, noting the smooth skin of her cheek, the sharp patrician outline of her nose, the broad brow, the firm chin. �Why do we forget people we like?�

�I don�t know. Because it�s safer than remembering them, I suppose.� There was a strange bitterness in her voice.

Da Silva raised an eyebrow. �Is there someone in particular you�re trying not to remember at the moment?�

�No. Yes...� She loosened her arm suddenly and crushed out her cigarette. �It�s getting late. We should go.�

�Not yet. It�s early.�

�It�s late and you haven�t arranged a hotel for me, yet.�

�Ah, yes � that hotel! Well, let�s have one last dance, and then we�ll go out for that nightcap I promised you. At the Captain�s Bar � best piano in town. Or it was fifteen years ago.� He smiled at her. �There�s no rush; we�re not going until the last plane tomorrow. That means we can sleep as late as we like. But not too late, because I know a restaurant in Santo Amaro for lunch that you�ll enjoy. And another nice place for dinner. After which I�ll let you get me into that night flight to whatever-the-town-is.� His smile broadened. �Greater love hath no man but he alloweth himself to be strapped into one of those box kites pilotedeth � if there is such a word � by the ex-taxi drivers they use for night runs.�

If he expected his whimsy to get a similar response from the girl, he was doomed to disappointment. She took a deep breath and pulled away from him abruptly.

�I want to leave,� she said evenly. �Now.�

�Fine,� Da Silva said agreeably. �Where do you want to go?�

�To your apartment.�

His air of levity disappeared. He looked at her steadily. �Do you mean that?�

�Yes.� She gestured toward the restaurant. �Pay the bill. I�ll meet you at the elevator.�

He looked at her a moment more and then turned away, going toward the restaurant proper. Isabela looked out over the lighted city as if seeing it for the first time, and then walked slowly toward the bank of elevators around the corner of the gardened patio.

They rode down in silence, his hand touching her elbow lightly, trying to demonstrate protectiveness without assuming any degree of possessiveness. The doorman sprang to attention.

�Taxi, sir?�

�No,� Isabela said before Da Silva could speak. She turned to him. �I want to walk for a while.�

Da Silva nodded, slipped a bill into the doorman�s hand, and took her arm. They turned down the wide sidewalk of the Avenida Paulista, under the few spreading trees that had managed to survive the inroads of civilization. Their footsteps were the only sounds in the night, other than the occasional whine of a taxi rushing past, its headlights dimmed, or the quieter whisper of the traffic on the busier streets of the city down below. Street lights angled down, lighting each face a brief moment and then leaving them in shadow as they walked beyond the scope of each l& they walked on, arm in arm, each busy with his own thoughts. Above them, stars came out as the rain clouds moved farther away. So intent was Da Silva on his own thoughts that for a moment he did not realize that Isabela had spoken.

�I�m sorry,� he said. �I was thinking.�

�That�s all right. I just said that you�re nothing like what I had imagined you�d be.�

�Oh? And what did you think I�d be like?�

�You know. Rough. Tough. Dressed in loud clothes. Uneducated. You know,� she said, quite out of nowhere, �you�re a very good dancer?�

Da Silva laughed; it was a welcome relief from the dour thoughts he had been thinking. �Is being able to dance the sign of the well-educated man?�

�I didn�t mean to say that,� Isabela said quietly.

�What did you mean to say?�

There was a long silence; then Isabela took a deep breath. �Nothing.�

They walked in silence for several more long moments, then Da Silva said quietly, �You said I�m nothing like what you imagined I�d be like. Well, you�re not what I imagined you�d be like, either. But you�re exactly what I hoped you�d be like.�

�You never knew I existed.�

�I knew somebody like you had to exist. But I never thought I�d be lucky enough to meet her.�

Isabela tightened her grip on his arm and drew him toward the curb.

�Let�s take the taxi now, please?�

The vast sprawling city of S�o Paulo fell away below, its tiny lights scattered to the horizon and shimmering like stars under the vibration of the propeller-driven plane until a formless cloud bank slid between the earth and the plane, blotting out even the tenuous thread of reality represented by the outlined streets and parks of the metropolis. One nice thing about getting to the end of the case, Da Silva thought, will be a cessation, at least temporarily, of air flight; he seemed to have spent the greater part of the past week flying from one place to another. And this one an ancient prop job, probably just waiting for him to take it before falling down, bereft of a decent load of passengers and equally bereft of a bar. Did the Companhia Viac�o A�rea de S�o Paulo � Vasp � expect people to risk their lives without liquid courage? Apparently they did.

He loosened his seat belt with a sigh of resignation, brought out his cigarettes, and glanced over at Isabela. The girl sat rigid, her lovely face expressionless, staring down the aisle; for she had insisted upon Da Silva taking the window seat as being safer from any assassins who might have boarded the same plane, and Da Silva had humored her rather than argue. This one was going to be formidable in the argumentation department, he thought with an inward smile, but she was also worth it. He offered her a cigarette but she refused. He lit his own and looked at the girl quizzically.

�What�s the matter?�

�You know. I wish we weren�t going to Para�so.�

�Now, look,� Da Silva said patiently, �we�ve been all over that. This affair has to be cleared up sometime, and it might as well be now. If someone wants to kill me, they�re going to kill me eventually, unless I stop them first. My best chance is to find out who they are and take care of them before they take care of me. And that means going up to Para�so and meeting them. Besides,� he added, �you don�t want those letters hanging over your head forever, do you?�

�The letters don�t matter.� She looked at him, her gaze a combination of tenderness and anger at him for threatening something important in her life. There also seemed to be a quality of memorization in her concentration, as if she felt she might not have the original to refer to in the future. Then she turned away, as if she were revealing too much in her eyes. �I don�t want you killed.�

�At least we agree on that.�

�Don�t joke,� she said sharply, turning back. �How do you think you can stop them?�

�I have ideas. Where is this Airport Hotel they said they�d meet us at?�

�It�s very close. Actually,� she said, �it�s a part of the terminal building itself, but there�s no entrance from one to the other on the inside. You have to leave the terminal by the front and walk to the hotel along the road. There�s a walkway there.�

�Good,� Da Silva said, and reviewed the plan that had occupied him for the better part of the day; actually, the plan was simple enough, it was simply in repeating it to himself endlessly, in lieu of anything else to think about, that had taken the full day. He had wondered at first why the lake had not been selected again, and then shrugged this off. It really made no difference. Chaney had been left in the driveway to this judge�s home; Valadares at the lake. Apparently the killers had no fetish as far as location was concerned. He found himself thinking aloud.

�They certainly wouldn�t try anything inside the terminal itself, or between the terminal and the hotel. Or in the hotel itself, neither in the lobby, or anywhere else in the hotel. It would be foolish with people around, and these people aren�t foolish, whatever else they are. No; what they�ll do is continue the pretense of an insurance deal. They�ll meet us in the lobby of the hotel with the story that they can only close the deal at their office, and then they�ll take me in their car��

�They�ll take us.�

Da Silva shook his head decisively. �Not us. Me. Alone. Once you walk into that hotel lobby and they show up, you turn me over and after that you�re out of the deal. You can wait for me there in the lobby � it shouldn�t take long � or you can arrange a room for us and wait for me there.�

�No! I�ll��

�Keep quiet! You�ll do what I say, or you�ll get us both killed.� She looked at him in surprise; in the twenty-four hours they had spent together he had never exhibited this sharpness, although Isabela had often felt him capable of it. He went on more quietly, but just as decisively. �I expect there will be shooting, and the less people in the neighborhood the fewer people might get hit.� He dropped the subject of her participation so abruptly she knew he would not be swayed. �You did say you heard them give Valadares a minute in which to say his prayers?�

�Yes,� she said quietly, her face grim at the memory. �They gave it to him, too. This man stood there, looking at his watch, while the other man held the gun on him. Then the man with the watch said �Your time is up� and shot him. Valadares was still pleading with them when he was killed.�

�One minute, eh?� Da Silva�s voice was musing. He added, mostly to himself, �They take chances, these boys.�

�They�ll search you first...�

�I�m quite sure.� That thought had, naturally, occurred to him. They would, of course, quickly find the gun in the shoulder holster, and probably the one clipped to the belt holster at the small of his back. Both guns were loaded, in case they were examined, but they were still decoys. What they would not think to look for on a Stealer from the Docks � especially after finding both a weapon and an auxiliary � would be the tight-fitting ankle holster with its small but deadly gun there; nor would they have the slightest reason to suspect the knife in its sheath in his jacket sleeve, available with the raising of his arm, and with which he was lethal at a distance up to thirty feet.

So they always gave a minute�s grace after taking away any artillery, eh? That ought to be ample time, although the tricky part would be not to kill them, or at least not to kill them both. They were undoubtedly small fry, hired guns; the important thing was to get the man at the top, the man behind the whole business � most likely Isabela�s man on the telephone � and for that at least one of the thugs had to be alive. As well as he, himself, he remembered; it wouldn�t do to get himself killed just when he had met Isabela. He relaxed and smiled at the girl gently.

�Don�t worry. Try to get some rest.�

�Rest?� She looked at him in surprise. �How can you think of rest at a time like this?�

�Easily,� he said, and tilted his seat back. He took her hand and squeezed it. �There�s no sense in making a deal when you�re overtired; these insurance company small-town managers will take advantage of you every time.� He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it, and then let the clasped hands drop to the armrest. �Wake me before we get in,� he said, and closed his eyes. Odd, he thought just before he drifted off to sleep, maybe the thought of danger helps me relax on airplanes. Or maybe romance...

The old judge straightened up from laying another log on the fire in the large stone fireplace and stood contemplating the flames a moment. �In the old days,� he said reminiscently, almost as if speaking to some inner self, �out in the sert�o, we�d keep a campfire going long after we were through cooking supper, whether it was hot or cold that night. It wasn�t to keep off animals; it was for companionship. Something alive; something moving. A sort of security, I suppose. Hard to break the habit.� He turned his back to the fire, his hands spread to capture a warmth unnecessary in the room, and looked at Da Silva. �Are you feeling better, Captain?� He gestured toward the sideboard. �Would you like another brandy?�

In the sprawling living room, paneled with local woods and beamed with jacarand�, the climbing flames overcame the weak efforts of the several lamps, throwing highlights over the faces staring into the fire, bringing out Da Silva�s hawklike and Indian-type cheekbones, Isabela�s cameo profile, Wilson�s plain, unemotional features. Da Silva was sitting beside Isabela on a wide couch while Wilson was slumped in a deep chair to one side, watching the flickering of the flames through half-closed eyes. Da Silva looked up at the judge and shook his head.

�Thank you, no. I�m feeling much better.� He smiled and took a deep breath. �I guess I�m getting used to being alive again. It�s quite a sensation, coming back from the dead.�

Isabela looked at him and then faced the others. She seemed to be making a pronouncement. �I�m getting used to Z� being alive again, too,� she said simply, and gripped his arm more tightly, letting the others understand that she intended to continue being used to it for a long time.

Wilson smiled lazily in the girl�s direction.

�I hope it doesn�t bother you to discover that Z� is only a cop and not the romantic, dashing thief he pretended to be. He always pulls something like that, just to impress the girls. You�ll have to keep an eye on him.� The statement brought a thought in its wake. He looked at Da Silva. �And speaking of keeping an eye on people,� he added, �how about handing me back my bleeper?�

Da Silva frowned. �Your what?�

�My bleeper. You�ll find it attached to the back of your jacket lapel, right side. It looks like plain repair tape, but it�s got the power to be picked up half a mile away. And it�s charged to my personal account at the Embassy, so hand it over.� He saw the look on Da Silva�s face and smiled. �You didn�t honestly think I found you through clairvoyance, or second sight, did you? I know I�m a genius, but even us geniuses � or genii, take your pick � have our limits.�

Da Silva nodded, smiling. �So that�s what you were doing in that closet last night!�

�And you thought I was just a Peeping Tom! Ah, well, that�s just one more hypothesis you�ll have to abandon.�

�One more?�

�Right. Together with your offside death squad theory.�

Da Silva shook his head. �Abandoning that theory doesn�t bother me, although I wish you had left at least one of those two alive for questioning. But I grant those two weren�t police. I know that Emil Floriano certainly wasn�t.� He shuddered involuntarily, thinking of the situation not long before, and frowned at Wilson. �What made you disregard my instructions to check out Isabela?� There was a small intake of breath from the girl; Da Silva smiled at her momentarily and then brought his attention back to Wilson. �What made you come to Para�so, instead?�

Wilson smiled faintly and waggled an index finger from side to side in the Brazilian gesture of negation.

�You keep thinking that just because this is your country, everyone in it has to follow your orders. Four things to remember, friend. One, slavery is a thing of the past. Two, Uncle Sam pays me my pittance and he�s the only one I take instruction from, if that. Or is it, if him? Actually, it�s really not anybody; I�m a free soul. Three, checking up on young ladies isn�t chivalrous, which you�d know if you paid more attention to your Boy Scout manual as a child. And four, of course, is that once I get the idea of being an American confederate in my head, it�s hard to get it out. Incidentally,� he added, �you haven�t thanked me yet for coming to your rescue; nor congratulated me on my foresight in bringing Judge Magalh�es along. He is some pumpkins on a rifle, as we used to say back in my home state of Isabela.�

Da Silva smiled. �I thank you.�

�You�re welcome. What else bothers you?�

Da Silva frowned, taking the question seriously. �The whole case bothers me. Among other things, the motive behind the killings bothers me. Who stands to gain? We�ve ruled out individual members of the victims� organizations trying to take-over; we�ve ruled out any Mafia-type gang trying to organize on a country-wide scale; and now we�ve ruled out a death squad. What are we left with?�

�A homicidal maniac?� Wilson offered, but his heart wasn�t in the suggestion.

Da Silva shook his head. �Neither one of us believes that, not with the planning that went on � sometimes seemingly unnecessarily complicated planning � to get the victims to come to Para�so to be killed. A homicidal maniac would take his victims where he found them. And homicidal maniacs don�t work with confederates, and whoever is behind these killings had an organization that included Emil Floriano, for one, and that Bernardo we still have to give a last name to.�

�And speaking of that,� Wilson said, looking up at the judge, �what�s being done about it?�

�The two men are in the morgue and we�re sending the description and fingerprints of this Bernardo out, but you know what our fingerprint identification system is, here in Brazil.� The judge shrugged a bit helplessly. �It leaves a lot to be desired. If we only knew where he came from...�

�Wait a minute.� Da Silva frowned in recollection. �He said something. He said � no, it was Emil who said something about that. I remember, now. It sounded familiar when he said it, but I didn�t know why. Or particularly care, in the circumstances. I had other things on my mind; the filho had just recognized me. Anyway, he said��

He suddenly stopped speaking and stared into the fire, his eyes wide. He looked as if he had suddenly become mesmerized. Then he slowly disengaged his arm from that of Isabela and bent his head, putting his face into his hands. Isabela stared at him, worried.

�Z�! Z�! 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 Magalh�es.

�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 Z� 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 Magalh�es 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 Para�so, 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, Jos� 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 S�o 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.�

�And what about Jos� 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 Para�so?�

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 Para�so? And if you value your life, don�t give me any �Why not Para�so?� stuff.�

�Certainly I won�t say �Why not Para�so?�� Da Silvo said. �Para�so 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 Magalh�es. �Para�so 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 Para�so. To get companies to abandon Para�so. Or even more important than getting present companies to leave, to get new companies to shift their sights away from Para�so 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, Z�!�

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 Para�so in the south; a town like Para�so 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 Magalh�es. �Judge, you�re something of an expert in land values. How much money is involved in what I�m talking about?�

Judge Magalh�es� 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 Magalh�es 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 Magalh�es 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 Magalh�es 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.�

Da Silva caught Wilson�s eye upon him and winked.

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, Z�? 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 Jos� 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 S�o Paulo and was going to catch the Ponte A�rea 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 Para�so?�

Da Silva stared at his friend for a long moment and then sighed.

�I hope you�re wrong, because I still think it�s a good idea. Or at least it�s the only idea I�ve come up with so far to trap him. Do you have a better idea?�

�I don�t have any ideas at the moment, good or bad,� Wilson said, and then corrected himself. �Or, rather, the only good idea I have is to eat. Shall we wake Isabela?� He looked down at the sleeping girl. �The eternal dilemma � to sleep or eat! Well, let her get some more rest, at least until we finish. Then if there�s any left over, we�ll wake her.�

�You�re all heart � the part that isn�t stomach,� Da Silva said with disgust, and went to shake the sleeping girl.