Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

“I called the police. . and then Mr. Claudio.”

“What time was it?”

Silence. Rosalvo came into the pantry.

“Was it eleven?”

“Eleven? No. . I don’t remember.”

“You’re lying, Nilda.”

The maid started to cry.

“There’s no reason for you to cry. Calm down. I’m not going to do anything to you. All you have to do is stop lying. If you’ll stop lying, I have no quarrel with you. You said your master wakes up early. Let’s say you took him breakfast at eight o’clock. You found your master dead. You didn’t know what to do, and you remembered his cousin and called him, and he told you to wait, not to do anything, that he was on his way. Then the cousin arrived with the lawyer, that short guy with the deep voice, and the short guy told you to wait a little longer before calling the police, and you did as you were told. Isn’t that how it was?”

“Yes.”

“You can stop crying. I’m not mad at you.”

“The Inspector is a gentleman, not some kakistocrat,” said Rosalvo.

“Between the time you discovered the body and you called the police, more than three hours went by.”

“And there’s the crux,” said Rosalvo.

“I want you to tell me what your master’s cousin and the lawyer did during that time.”

Finally, Mattos managed to untangle Nilda’s thoughts and discover what had happened. Galvão and Aguiar had taken some time to get there. Meanwhile, Nilda told the cook and the pantryman what she had found, but neither had the courage to go see their dead master. When the visitors arrived, they went immediately to the bedroom but remained there only briefly. Nilda did not go in with them. Aguiar came out of the room very nervous, and Galvão told him several times to stay calm and asked Nilda to prepare a strong cup of coffee. When she brought the coffee, Aguiar was sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands, as if he were crying. Galvão had made several phone calls, mentioning Dona Luciana’s name a few times.

“I’m not going to be arrested?” asked Nilda, seeing the inspector jotting down her name in his notebook.

“No, you’re not. Maybe I won’t even need you. Relax, send in the cook.”

Neither the cook nor the pantryman knew anything useful.

“Get me a glass of milk, please,” Alberto Mattos told the cook.

“Would you like some cookies?”

“No, thanks. Just the milk.”

Mattos had just finished talking to the pantryman when the crime-scene team arrived. The forensic specialist was Antonio Carlos, a technician whom Mattos respected for his knowledge. The inspector told Antonio Carlos that Galvão and a cousin of the victim had entered the room and asked him to check whether some clue could have been destroyed.

“I can’t believe Galvão would do such a thing,” the technician said.

“Not even to protect a client?”

“Now that I think about it, I don’t know. . A lawyer is a lawyer. .”

The crime-scene team took photographs, lifted fingerprints and trace evidence from the statuette, the doors, the telephone, the night table. Together with the inspector they opened drawers and closets, bundled up the material to be taken away — the sheets, the dead man’s clothes hanging on the back of a chair, a small address book in glossy leather, and the bar of soap with hairs.

“This stays with me, for the time being,” said Mattos, putting the address book in his pocket.

The men from the meat wagon carried off the dead man in a dirty, battered metal box. The technicians left with them.

“Can I leave?” asked Rosalvo. “Today’s the wife’s birthday.”

“Go.”

The pantryman in the rear of the room cleared his throat.

“May we go?”

“I think you’d better wait for the lady of the house to get back from Petropolis.”

When he left, Mattos spoke with the daytime doorman. At six o’clock he had gotten off work and was replaced by Raimundo Noronha. But Raimundo had already left.

“Tell him to show up at the precinct as soon as he can, to talk to me.”

Arriving at the precinct, Mattos entered the occurrence in the blotter and handed over duties to Inspector Maia, who would relieve him. At that moment, Commissioner Ramos, who rarely appeared at the precinct on Sundays, came into the room.

“Everything okay on the shift, Mr. Mattos? Anything special?” asked Ramos.

“It’s all in the blotter,” replied Mattos drily.

Ramos picked up the book. “A homicide. . Ah, an important man. . A big shot. . Does the press know yet?”

Galvão must have called him, Mattos thought.

“By a person or persons unknown. .” continued Ramos. He laid the book back on the desk. As he always did when undecided or nervous, he fidgeted with his law school ring — gold, with a ruby center, and on the sides highrelief figures of the scale of justice and the tablets of the Ten Commandments.

“You have any clues?”

“I’m going home. When I discover anything, I’ll let you know.”

Mattos got the revolver he always kept in a drawer when he was on duty, placed it in the holster at his waist, and left.

GREGÓRIO WAS SUMMONED to the phone several times but answered only three calls, after lunch.

The first call: “It’s about the Cexim license. I need to talk to you no later than today.”

“I can’t today,” Gregório replied.

“It’s extremely important, Lieutenant. It’s better for us to meet. Mine isn’t the only interest at stake. Yours is too.”

“Don’t push it, Magalhães. I’m not in a good mood today.”

“I’m not pushing anything, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that something serious has happened. The CEO of Cemtex—”

“Today’s Sunday, I can’t do anything. In a little while I’m going to the Jockey Club with the president. Call me tomorrow,” said Gregório drily, hanging up.

The second call: “When’s the job going to get done?”

“One day soon,” answered Gregório. “Let’s take it easy, I don’t want to run any useless risks.”

“If something happens with you — which I don’t believe, because I know you act with the prudence necessary to avoid any complications — I’ll deposit the money abroad in your name. You’ll be a rich man. Very rich. Trust me, the way I’m trusting you.”

The third call: “When are you going to blast the man?”

“One day soon, Mr. Lodi.”

Euvaldo Lodi was a federal deputy and an important leader in the Federation of Industries.

At three in the afternoon, the head of the president’s military cabinet, General Caiado de Castro, arrived at the Catete Palace. A short time later the secretary of finance, Oswaldo Aranha, arrived. Both were shown into the president’s office. Shortly before four o’clock, the presidential entourage, made up, among others, of the general and the secretary, got into the automobiles waiting in the palace gardens. Major Dornelles sat beside the driver in the car carrying the president and his wife, Dona Darcy.

Gregório gave instructions to the special police escorts, then gestured to Dornelles that the motorcade could get under way. His car, occupied by three other members of the personal guard, was immediately behind the president’s. Preceded by the motorcycles of the escorts in their red berets, the entourage left through the palace gates onto Rua do Catete, heading for the hippodrome in Gávea.

As Gregório feared, the president was booed when the announcer at the Jockey Club, on the loudspeakers, made his arrival known. The president pretended not to hear the jeers coming from the special stands. From the regular seats came no applause, no support. So that’s how the people treat Mr. Getúlio? thought Gregório. After all the sacrifices he’s made and goes on making for the poor and humble?