He turned and ran up the path.
Shouting, young men ran after him. Tripping over each other, almost all the men and children who had been following Fletch joined the pursuit. Yelling, some lifting their skirts up, many of the women pursued Gabriel Campos as well.
Shrieking Gabriel Campos! Gabriel Campos! tall old Idalina Barreto went after him in her rapid, sturdy pace, losing ground in the midst of this marathon.
Fletch sat on a nearby rock.
Dor de estomago … de cabeca … febre … nausea.
A few meters away, Laura Soares was in a group of women from the favela. They were all talking at once. Most of them were pregnant and therefore could not join in the pursuit of Gabriel Campos.
Laura was asking questions. She kept looking across at Fletch.
Higher up in the favela, the chase was still going on. On a road along a ridge, Fletch saw Gabriel Campos running between the houses. Easily one hundred people were streaming after him. He had a good lead on them.
Idalina Barreto’s high, shrill shriek dominated all other sounds. “Gabriel Campos! Gabriel Campos!”
From somewhere down in the depths of the favela came the sound of a samba drum.
After a while, Laura came over to Fletch. She stood over him a moment without speaking.
Fletch said, “I’m awfully tired. And I still have to call Sergeant Barbosa of the Rio police.”
Laura said, “His name is Gabriel Campos.”
“I heard.” He looked up to where Idalina Barreto was. The old lady had climbed far fast. “I hear.”
“The women say he was your friend when you were boys. He, one other boy, and the Gomes brothers. Who are the Gomes brothers?”
“Idalina’s brothers.”
“See?” she said. “You do know.”
“I was told, Laura. Yesterday. I was told.”
“You taught them all the skill of capoeira. Of everyone, Gabriel learned the best. After you were killed, he was master of the capoeira school of Escola Santos Lima. For years, he was famous for it. One year, he was even Mestre Sala.”
“I see. He wanted Janio—his teacher—out of the way.”
“He was placed on the board of directors of the samba school.”
“He would never have had such honors if Janio were alive.”
Laura made some sign in the dust with the tip of her sandal.
“I must get sleep.” High in the favela, the pursuit, the shouting continued. Fletch said, “I wonder what they will do with him.”
“I don’t want to know. How, why did you pick out Gabriel Campos? You must tell me.”
“You mean, did Gabriel Campos murder Janio Barreto forty-seven years ago?”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.” Beyond exhaustion, Fletch stood up from the rock. “But I do know that, disguised as a goat, last night he tried to slit my throat.”
Thirty-four
“I forget if you said if you have ever been to New Bedford, Massachusetts.” Sergeant Paulo Barbosa asked.
“No,” Fletch said into the phone. He sat heavily on his bed in The Hotel Yellow Parrot. “I have never been to New Bedford, Massachusetts.”
Laura had gotten Sergeant Barbosa on the line. Placing the call had seemed too complicated to Fletch in his sleepless condition.
“It is very nice in New Bedford, Massachusetts,” Sergeant Barbosa told him again. “Much too cold, of course, for me. When you go back to your country, you must visit New Bedford, Massachusetts.” Fletch noticed the presumption that sooner or later everyone does go back to his country. It was the same presumption Idalina’s father made of Janio Barreto. “You must visit my cousin’s gift shop in New Bedford, Massachusetts. She has everything in her gift shop that every other gift shop has.”
“All right.” Fletch’s head was nodding. “I promise.”
“That would be very nice. Now, about that North American woman you lost…”
Fletch’s eyes popped open. “Yes?”
“I don’t think we have found her.”
“Oh.”
“What we have is a telephone call from the mayor of a very small town on the coast, south of here three hundred kilometers. The town of Botelho. It is very nice there. Very sealike. It is on the ocean. You should visit there anyway.”
“Yes,” Fletch said drowsily. “I’ll visit there, too. I promise I will.”
Laura was pulling the drapes closed against the sunlight. She had already stripped for bed.
“The mayor of Botelho said that on the weekend, Saturday, I think it was, a North American woman showed up there in Botelho.”
“Perhaps somebody told her she should visit.”
“Very likely. It is a nice place. I have taken my wife and children there.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
“A very nice time.”
“Good.”
“The mayor said this woman just wandered around for the afternoon by herself, on the beach and so forth, you know?”
“An American tourist—”
“After dark, she went into the very excellent seafood restaurant they have there. I brought my wife and children to eat there.”
Kneeling before him, Laura was taking off Fletch’s sneakers and socks.
“Was it good?”
“Excellent. This woman ate her dinner.”
“A North American woman tourist went to a small resort town—”
“Botelho.”
“Botelho, yes. Spent the afternoon on the beach and then had dinner in a seafood restaurant.”
“Yes, that’s right. After dinner, she said nothing. Instead of paying she went straight into the kitchen and began washing dishes.”
Laura pushed Fletch onto his back and began taking off his shorts.
“That’s not Joan Collins Stanwyk.”
“She’s been there ever since. Two days. Washing dishes. Eating. The man who owns the restaurant has given her a little bed to use.”
“Joan Collins Stanwyk never washed a dish in her life. She wouldn’t know how.”
“She is a blonde North American or English lady. She speaks no Portuguese.”
“How old is she?”
Kneeling over him on the bed, Laura was taking off his shirt. The telephone wire went through the sleeve.
“Quite young, the mayor says. Slim. In her twenties. Maybe her mid-twenties.”
“Sounds to me like some female derelict from the Florida Keys washed up on a Brazilian beach.”
“Botelho. The beach is very nice there.”
“I’m sure.” Laura was sliding Fletch’s legs under the sheet. “Why did the mayor of Botelho call the Rio police about this lady?”
“Saturdays a tour bus from Copacabana hotels stops in Botelho. The mayor thought she might have gotten off the bus. So he called this police station. He asked if we were looking for a murderess of her description.”
“A murderess?”
“Truth, he doesn’t know where she came from. Or why. Botelho is a small town. He is a small mayor.”
Finally in his bed, to sleep, Fletch thought a moment. Then he said, “I don’t think so, Sergeant. Joan Collins Stanwyk didn’t have any cash on her, but she is a wealthy, responsible lady, a lady of great dignity. She has many options open to her. All the options in the world. I can’t see her ever going to a resort and getting a job washing dishes in a fish-and-chips joint.”
“Fish-and-chips? Ah, you are speaking London English.”
“Anyway, Joan Collins Stanwyk is in her thirties.”
“I didn’t think this would be the lady.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“Topsy-turvy. Do you remember what I said about topsyturvy?”
“In fact, I do.”
“This is a very topsy-turvy world. Twenty-seven years I have served with the Rio police. Believe me, I have seen topsyturvy.”
“I’m sure you have. Thanks for being in touch with me, Sergeant.”
Laura was in the bed beside Fletch.
“So,” she said, “they have not found the woman you are looking for.”
“No. Just some English-speaking woman has showed up washing dishes in some fish restaurant down the coast.”
Into the dark, Laura said, “The police just want you to think they are doing something about the disappeared lady.”
“Probably.” He turned on the bedside light.
“What are you doing?”
“Just calling The Hotel Jangada,” Fletch said. “See if she has returned.”
“Want me to help you?”
“This one I can do myself,” he said. “I’ve been practicing.”
At The Hotel Jangada, Room 912 did not answer.
The desk clerk said Mrs Joan Collins Stanwyk had not checked out.
Nor had she picked up the note Fletch had left for her.