— And so you drove him?
Yes I drove him there, and to tell the truth I even went into the front yard with him, I did this of my own free will without him forcing me in any way, because I didn’t like the idea of hanging around outside the gates while he went off on that dangerous errand all alone.
— Excuse me, but put like that it sounds like a grand act of generosity on your part. Couldn’t it be that at the time you were thinking more of all the money you might get out of this robbery?
Maybe yes, I’ll be frank about it. I work all day long as an electrician and earn a pittance, my home is in a basement which my wife has tried to doll up with flower-patterned curtains, but in winter the walls ooze with damp, it’s an unhealthy place. And I’ve got a baby only a few months old.
— So how did your friend Monteiro make out?
He switched on the office lights as if he owned the place and told me to stay where I was, that he’d see to the rest of it. So I didn’t move and took no part in the robbery. He went through the drawers until he found the codes to open the containers and then went out into the yard. I sat at the desk, I was waiting for him and didn’t know what to do, so I thought I would make a free telephone call to Glasgow.
— Excuse me, but are you telling me you actually called Glasgow from the offices of the Stones of Portugal?
Yes, I’ve got a sister who emigrated to Glasgow and I hadn’t heard from her for five months. You know, to call Glasgow costs quite a bit, and my sister has a little mongoloid girl, which gives her a lot of problems.
— Please go on.
While I was on the phone I heard the noise of a car, so I hung up and nipped into the little storeroom with a folding door where the vacuum cleaner is kept. At that moment Damasceno came in from the back yard and the Green Cricket and his gang entered by the front door.
— What do you mean by “his gang?”
Two members of the Guardia Nacional who never leave his side.
— Did you recognize them?
One of them yes, his name is Costa, he’s got an enormous swollen belly because he has cirrhosis. The other I don’t know, a young kid, maybe a recent recruit.
— And what happened.
Damasceno was carrying four packets of drugs wrapped in plastic. He realized that I’d done a disappearing act and faced up to the Green Cricket.
— And what did the sergeant do?
He began to hop on one leg and then the other as he does when he’s mad, then he began to stutter, because as I told you when he’s angry he stutters, and you can’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth.
— Then what?
He stuttered away and said: “you son-of-a-bitch that stuff is mine.” I could see him through the crack in the screen door. Then the Green Cricket grabbed the packets of stuff and did an incredible thing.
— What was that?
He opened one of them with a clasp-knife, he literally ripped it open, and shook the whole contents out on Damasceno’s head. He said: son-of-a-bitch, I baptize you. Do you realize what that means? He was throwing away millions and millions.
— What next?
Damasceno was covered with powder, as if he’d been snowed on, and the Cricket was really nervous, hopping from side to side like a devil, in my opinion he’d had a fix.
— How d’you mean?
That he’d had a fix. The Cricket sells the stuff, but every so often he takes it too, and he has bad stuff, like some people have bad wine, and he wanted to bump off Damasceno there and then.
— Please make yourself clearer: bump off Damasceno in what sense?
The Cricket had pulled out his pistol, he was hysterical, he pointed it at Damasceno’s temple and then at his belly and yelled: son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to kill you.
— Did he fire?
He fired all right but the shot went high, it hit the ceiling, if you go to the offices of the Stones of Portugal I bet you’ll be sure to find a hole in the ceiling, he didn’t kill him because his men intervened and deflected the shot, and he put the pistol back in its holster.
— What next?
The Cricket realized he couldn’t kill him there on the spot, but that doesn’t mean he’d cooled off. He gave Damasceno a kick in the balls that doubled him up, then kneed him in the face, just like in the movies, and he started kicking him again and again. Then he ordered his gang to carry Damasceno to the car, they’d reckon up with him when they got him to the station.
— What about the packets of drugs?
They tucked them into their jackets, loaded Damasceno into the car and set off for Oporto. They were all mad with rage, like wild beasts that had smelt blood.
— Do you want to tell us anything else?
The rest is up to you. Next morning Damasceno’s body was found by a gypsy on a piece of waste ground, he had been beheaded as you know. And now it’s my turn to ask you a question: what conclusions can you draw from all this?
AND THIS IS THE question your correspondent wishes to put to all his readers.
Fourteen
DONA ROSA’S PENSION WAS quiet at that time of day. The few guests had not yet returned. In the lounge the television, at very low volume, was broadcasting a gossip program until it was time for the news.
“Let’s see if the news mentions it,” growled the lawyer.
The sheer bulk of the man overflowed from one of the padded armchairs in Dona Rosa’s sitting-room, he drank water and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He had only just arrived and had sat down in silence in the lounge, while Dona Rosa rushed off unbidden to fetch him a bottle of fizzy mineral water.
“I’ve just come from the Public Prosecutor’s offices,” he added, “the first interrogations have already taken place.”
Firmino said nothing. Dona Rosa, moving on tiptoe, gently adjusted the antimacassars on the armchairs.
“Do you think the news will mention it?” repeated the lawyer.
“I think so,” replied Firmino, “but we’ll see how.”
It was in fact the first item, an informative coverage which really took everything from the press, especially the interview given by Torres to Acontecimento, and stating that this was all they could disclose for now because of the secrecy imposed during preliminary investigations. In the studio was the inevitable sociologist who provided an analysis of violence in Europe, spoke of an American film in which a man was decapitated, and arrived at conclusions verging on psychoanalysis.
“But what’s all this got to do with it?” asked Firmino.
“Just chit-chat,” commented the lawyer laconically, “oh yes they’re falling back on the secrecy thing, what do you say to inviting me to dinner? I feel a real need to relax.”
He turned to Dona Rosa.
“Dona Rosa, what is the house offering this evening?”
Dona Rosa showed him the menu. The lawyer made no comment but appeared satisfied, for he got up and beckoned to Firmino to follow him. The dining-room was still in darkness, but the lawyer switched on the lights as if he owned the place and chose the table he wanted.