Carioca Fletch (12 page)

The boy grabbed Fletch’s arm. He hobbled along with Fletch, speaking rapidly, softly, insistently.

Fletch shook the boy off and got into his MP.

On his wooden leg, the ten-year-old Janio Barreto ran after Fletch’s car, calling to him.

“
Bom dia
,” Fletch said to the formally dressed desk clerk at The Hotel Jangada. “There is a problem.”

Instantly, the man was solicitous. He put his forearms on the reception counter and folded his hands. “Are you a guest of this hotel?”

“I am staying at The Hotel Yellow Parrot.”

The desk clerk was only a little less solicitous. The Hotel Yellow Parrot was a good hotel, too, more traditional, not so flashy. All the good hotels in Rio de Janeiro exactly doubled their rates during Carnival.

Fletch had already telephoned Room 912 on the house phone, gone to the door, checked out the breakfast and pool areas. No sign of Joan Collins Stanwyk. The note he had left for her was
still in the Room 912 box behind the reception desk.

He spoke slowly and distinctly: “Someone who is staying at your hotel, a North American woman named Mrs Joan Stanwyk, talked to me yesterday morning at about this time, at my hotel. We arranged to meet almost immediately here, for breakfast. She was to walk from there to here. All I had to do was to get something from the safe of The Hotel Yellow Parrot, shower, change clothes (I had been jogging), and follow her in my car. I left The Hotel Yellow Parrot about a half hour after her, and drove straight here. She did not answer the house phone. She did not answer when I knocked on her door. She was not in the breakfast room, the terraces, the swimming pool areas, the bar. She still doesn’t answer. I’m afraid something must have happened to her.”

The desk clerk smiled faintly at this story of a jilted lover. “There is nothing we can do, Senhor. We must respect the privacy of our guests. If the lady does not wish to see you, or hear from you …” Raising his hands from the counter, he shrugged.

“But, you see, she needs something from me. Money. She had been robbed of everything.”

Again the man shrugged.

“I left her a note.” Fletch pointed to the note still in its slot behind the man. ‘The note is still there.”

“People change their plans rapidly in Rio during Carnival.” The man smiled. “Sometimes they change their whole characters.”

“Will you let me into her room, please?” Fletch had already tried to jimmy the lock to Room 912. It was an advanced lock, designed for only the most advanced burglars. “I worry that something must have happened to her. She may need help.”

“No, sir. We cannot do that.”

“Will you go yourself?”

“No, sir. I cannot do that.”

“Will you send a maid in?”

“It’s Carnival.” The desk clerk looked at the lobby clock. “It is early. People sleep odd hours. They do not want disturbance.”

“She’s been missing twenty-four hours,” Fletch said. “It is now a police matter.”

The man shrugged.

Fletch said, “
Onde é a delegacia
?”

“Is there a police officer who speaks English?”

“Spik Onglish,” the police officer behind the tall desk said. “Quack, quack.”

Fletch turned his head so a younger police officer down the counter could hear him. “Anyone here who can speak English?”

Down the counter, the younger officer picked up a phone, dialed a short number, and spoke into it.

After he hung up, he held the palm of his hand up to Fletch, either ordering him to stop or suggesting he wait.

Fletch waited.

The lobby of the police station was filled with regretful revelers. On the floor and along the bench sat and lay men and women of all shapes, sizes, colors, in nearly every state of dress and undress, sleeping, trying to sleep, blinking slowly, holding their heads. Some of the revelers were in Carnival costumes, now in tatters: a queen; a mouse; ironically, a magistrate. One hairy man, asleep with his mouth open, was dressed only in bra, panties, and garter belts. A fat woman, eating cookies from a bag, was dressed as the Queen of Sheba. Five or six of the men had cuts and bruises on their heads; one had a nasty long cut down the calf of his leg. Even with no glass in the windows, the room smelled putrid.

While Fletch waited, a man dressed only in tank trunks entered. A long-handled knife stuck into the area between his chest and his shoulder. He walked perfectly well. With dignity, he said to the police officer at the high counter, “
Perdi minha máquina fotográfica
.”

From the bottom of a flight of stone stairs, a heavy police officer beckoned Fletch to come to him.

“My name is Fletcher.”

The man shook hands with him. “Barbosa,” the man said,
“Sergeant Paulo Barbosa. Are you North American?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sergeant heavily led Fletch up the stairs. “I have been to the United States. To New Bedford, Massachusetts.” He led Fletch into a little room with a desk and two chairs. The sergeant sat in the chair behind the desk. “I have cousins there, in New Bedford, Massachusetts.” He lit a cigarette. “Have you been to New Bedford, Massachusetts?”

“No.” Fletch sat down.

“It is very nice in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Very sealike. It is on the sea. Everyone there fishes. Everyone’s wife runs a gift shop. My cousin’s wife runs a gift shop. My cousin fishes.” The sergeant brushed cigarette ashes from his shirt when there were no cigarette ashes on his shirt. “I truly believe the Portuguese bread is better in New Bedford, Massachusetts than the Portuguese bread in Rio de Janeiro. Some of it. Ah, yes. New Bedford, Massachusetts. I was there almost a year. I helped my cousin fish. Too cold there. I could not stand the cold.”

The man sat sideways to the desk, not looking at Fletch. “Are you enjoying Carnival?”

“Very much.”

“Ah, to be young, handsome, healthy in Rio during Carnival! Can you come closer to heaven? I remember.” Then he brushed cigarette ashes off his shirt which were truly there. “And rich, too, I suppose.”

In a corner of the room behind the desk was a gray steel filing cabinet, with three drawers.

“It must be a busy time for the police.”

“It is,” the sergeant agreed. “We get to enjoy Carnival very little. Everything goes topsy-turvy, you see.” He smiled at Fletch, slyly proud of this idiom. “Topsy-turvy. Men become women; women become men; grown-ups become children; children become grown-ups; rich people pretend they’re poor; poor people, rich; sober people become drunkards; thieves become generous. Very topsy-turvy.”

Fletch’s eyes examined the typewriter on the desk. It was a Remington, perhaps seventy-five years old.

“You were robbed….” the sergeant guessed.

“No,” Fletch said.

“You were not robbed?”

“Of course I was robbed,” Fletch said. “When I first came here.” The sergeant seemed to be relieved. “But I am not bothering you with such a small, personal matter.”

The man smiled happily, in increased respect for Fletch. He turned and faced Fletch, now ready to listen.

Again, slowly, carefully, Fletch told Sergeant Paulo Barbosa the facts of his meeting Joan Collins Stanwyk at The Hotel Yellow Parrot, arranging to bring money to The Hotel Jangada, as of course she had been robbed, to have breakfast with her … her not being at the hotel yesterday or today … not picking up the note he had left for her…

Another cigarette was dropping ashes on the sergeant’s shirt. He was quick to brush them away.

“Ah,” he said, “Carnival! It explains everything.”

“This is not a crazy lady,” Fletch said. “She is a woman of many responsibilities. She is a healthy, attractive blonde woman in her early thirties, expensively dressed—”

“Topsy-turvy,” the sergeant said. “If you say she is not a crazy lady, then during Carnival, she becomes a crazy lady! I know! I have been on this police force twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven Carnivals!”

“She has been missing for over twenty-four hours.”

“Some people go missing all their lives! They come to Brazil because they go missing from some place else. Don’t you know that?”

“Not this lady. She has a magnificent home in California, a daughter. She is a wealthy woman.”

“Ah, people during Carnival!” The sergeant puffed on his cigarette philosophically. “They are apt to do anything!”

“She could be kidnapped, mugged, hurt, run over by a taxi.”

“That is true,” the sergeant said. “She could be.”

“It is very important that we find her.”

“Find her?” The sergeant seemed truly surprised at the suggestion. “Find her? This is a huge country! A city of nine million
people! Tall buildings, short buildings, mountains, tunnels, parks, jungles! Are we supposed to look on top of every tall building and under every short building?” He sat forward in his chair. “At this time of year, everyone becomes someone else. Everyone wears a mask! There are people dressed as goats out there! As porpoises! Tell me, are we to look for a goat, or a porpoise?”

“For a blonde, trim North American woman in her early thirties….”

“Topsy-turvy!” the sergeant exclaimed. “Be reasonable! What can we do?”

“I am reporting the disappearance of a female North American visitor to Brazil—”

“You’ve reported it! If she walks into the police station, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her!”

“I don’t see you taking notes,” Fletch said firmly. “I don’t see you making up a report.”

The sergeant’s eyes grew round in amazement. “You want me to type up a report?”

“I would expect that, yes.”

“I should type up a report because some North American woman changed her plans?”

“A report should be filed,” Fletch insisted. “Any police force in the world—”

“All right!” The sergeant opened his desk drawer.” I’ll type up a report! Just as you say!” He took a key from his desk. “You want me to type up a report, I’ll type up a report!” Standing, he went to the filing cabinet and inserted the key into its lock. First he looked in the top drawer, then the middle drawer. “Anything to keep the tourists happy!”

From the bottom drawer, he took out a typewriter ribbon. It appeared to be just about as old as the typewriter.

The sergeant blew dust off the typewriter ribbon.

“Never mind.” Fletch stood up.” I get the point.”

From a telephone kiosk on the sidewalk outside the police station, Fletch called Teodomiro da Costa.

Teo answered the phone himself.

“Teo? Fletch. I knew if you were asleep, your houseman would tell me.”

“I have to wait for some Telexes from Japan. I am preparing to sell some yen.”

“Teo, that woman I mentioned to you yesterday morning, the North American, is still missing. The note I left for her at The Hotel Jangada has not been picked up. She has no money, no identification. I have been to the police. They tell me there is nothing they can do. The people at The Hotel Jangada will not let me into her room. She may be very sick, Teo, or—”

“Of course. I understand. I think the first thing is to inspect her room. She was a healthy woman, you say?”

“Very healthy. Very sensible.”

“Where are you now?”

“Outside the police station.”

“I’ll meet you at The Hotel Jangada.”

“Teo, you’ve been awake all night.”

“That’s all right. This could be a very serious matter, Fletch. Just let these Telexes arrive, and I will be right there.”

“Thanks, Teo. I’ll wait in the bar.”

“What is the woman’s name?”

“Joan Collins Stanwyk,” Fletch answered. ‘Room nine-twelve.”

Fletch was on his second
guaraná
when Teo appeared in the door of the bar of The Hotel Jangada. Even in shorts and a tennis shirt, the dignity of Teodomiro da Costa was absolute.

At the reception counter, Teo spoke with the same clerk with whom Fletch had spoken.

Fletch stood aside and listened.

Clearly, in Portuguese, Teodomiro da Costa introduced himself, explained the situation as he knew it and stated his
request: that they be permitted to inspect Room 912.

Again, with all apparent courtesy, the desk clerk refused.

The conversation became more rapid. Teo said something; the desk clerk said something; Teo said something, smiling politely; the desk clerk said something.

Finally, drawing himself up, giving the desk clerk his hooded eye, Teodomiro da Costa asked the rhetorical question which is magic in Brazil, which opens all doors, closes all doors, causes things to happen—or not happen, according to the speaker’s wish—which puts people in their places: “
Sabe com quem está falando?:
Do you realize to whom you are speaking?”

The desk clerk withered.

He got the desk key to Room 912 and led the way to the elevator.

“Do you see anything amiss?” Teo asked.

While the desk clerk stood at the door of Suite 912, jangling the key in his hand, Teo and Fletch had searched through the living room, bedroom, bathroom, terrace as well as they could.

“Not a damned thing,” Fletch answered. “Except that Joan Collins Stanwyk isn’t here.”

The rooms were freshly made up, the bathroom undisturbed, the bed not slept in. Going through the drawers, closets, even going through the medicine chest and suitcases, and other immediately conceivable hiding places, Fletch had found no money, no jewelry.

“One thing is significant, Teo,” Fletch said. “Yesterday morning, Joan was wearing a tan slacks suit and a silk shirt. I cannot find the slacks suit and the shirt here in the suite.”

“She could have sent them to the hotel cleaners. You don’t know what other clothes she had.”

“Not likely. She wanted to move out of this hotel as soon as I brought money.”

“Then it is likely she disappeared somewhere between The Hotel Yellow Parrot and here.”

“Yes.”

Standing back on his heels at the door, the desk clerk rattled
the key against its chain.

“What do we do now?” Teo asked. “You’re the investigative reporter, newly retired.”

“Check the hospitals, I guess.”

Teo thought a short moment. “There is really only one hospital where they would have brought anyone sick or injured between The Yellow Parrot and here. We can check that one out.”