'What would they fit?'
'Nothing I can think of other than a Webley.'
'A what?'
'A Webley. It's a British service revolver. They were made by the thousands and used in the trenches during the First World War. These cartridges, though, aren't antiques. Look, no corrosion. They're recent reloads.'
Hector put his nose close to the drawer and sniffed.
'Nitro solvent,' he said, 'and gun oil. Offhand, I'd say the revolver was kept here too. But, if it was, what happened to it?'
'Maybe the killer took it,' Silva said.
'Why would he?'
'Maybe because he had to leave his. 22 to make it look like a murder/suicide, and he needed another gun?'
'For what?'
'I wonder…'
Sergeant Menezes appeared at Silva's elbow and interrupted his ruminations. 'You guys are something else,' he lisped with admiration in his voice. 'Without you, the son of a bitch would have gotten away with it. I wish I could be a fly on his wall when the colonel finds out we really needed you guys after all. He's gonna be pissed.'
The last word came out 'pithd.' Menezes had come over to their side. His enthusiasm was beginning to carry him away.
'Now, let's go through it together, okay? The way I figure it, the same guy who killed Father Gaspar, and forced him to sign that bullshit confession, must have killed the bishop, too.'
'That's what you think, is it?' Silva said.
The sergeant looked hurt. 'Well… yeah, sure. Why else would he force Father Gaspar to slander himself?'
'Libel himself,' Hector said.
'Huh?'
'Slander is spoken. Libel is written. It was a written confession, so if it wasn't true it would be libel, not slander.'
'If it wasn't true? What do you mean by that?' Sergeant Menezes said indignantly. 'It's as plain as the nose on your face. You just got through proving it. He didn't kill himself. Whoever forced him to write that confession did. Don't tell me you believe any of that crap?'
'As a matter of fact,' Silva said, 'I do.'
'That he had his manservant kill the bishop? Come on, Chief Inspector. He wouldn't do anything like that. He was a priest, for Christ's sake.'
Chapter Forty-nine
For the second time in seven hours, a ringing telephone jarred Silva awake. He rubbed his sticky eyes, put the receiver to his ear, and grunted.
'Chief Inspector Silva?' Father Angelo's distinctive rasp.
Silva cleared the phlegm from his throat. 'What can I do for you, Padre?'
'We need to talk.'
'About?'
'I don't want to discuss it over the phone. I'm leaving now to meet Orlando Muniz in the breakfast room of your hotel. How about nine o'clock, in the same place?'
Silva glanced at the bedside clock, blinking to bring the numbers into focus. He'd have half an hour to get ready. He threw the sheet aside and put his feet on the floor.
'All right. What do you want with Muniz?'
'It's a personal matter. Take a table. I'll come to you when I'm done.'
In Cascatas, things follow the rhythm of the countryside. Nine o'clock is late for a country breakfast, so most of the hotel's guests had already gone about their business by the time Silva and his nephew arrived.
Near one of the windows, a middle-aged couple was lingering over their coffee. Arnaldo, back from his trip to Riberao, had taken a place in the middle of the room. Orlando Muniz, seated alone and devouring an omelet, was in the far corner opposite the door. The couple ignored them. Arnaldo waved. Muniz stopped chewing just long enough to give them a hostile nod. The fazendeiro had brought two of his capangas. They were leaning against the wall near his table.
'Good trip?' Hector said, slipping into a seat next to Arnaldo.
Arnaldo nodded.
'A little over seven hours, out and back,' he said, and bit into a pao frances heaped with guava jam.
Silva gestured for the hovering waiter to pour him coffee. 'Black,' he said.
Arnaldo raised an eyebrow. Silva normally took his coffee with milk.
'You look like hell,' Arnaldo said.
'So do you.'
'Yeah, but I look like hell all the time. Besides, I've been driving all night. What's your excuse?'
'Up most of the night.'
'So what? I hear you old guys need less sleep.'
Silva snorted. Arnaldo was only two years younger than he was and both of them knew it.
'Gaspar and that guy Euclides are dead,' Hector said. 'Shot. Both of them.'
Arnaldo gave a low whistle. 'Any suspects?'
'Not yet,' Silva said and flicked his eyes in the fazen- deiro's direction. 'How long has he been in here?'
'Not long. Maybe ten minutes.' Arnaldo popped the last morsel of bread into his mouth and washed it down with some cafe com leite. 'He came over here before he sat down. Asked me what the hell I was doing here.'
'What did you tell him?'
'That I was having breakfast, which happens to be the truth. So then I asked him what the hell he was doing here.'
'And?'
'He's waiting for Father Angelo. Said the old guy called him. Told him he had information about his son's murder. Wanted to meet him here,' Arnaldo glanced at his watch, 'at nine. Yep, there he is. Only about five minutes late.'
Silva looked over his shoulder.
Angelo Monteiro, a lighted cigarette in hand, was standing in the doorway. He nodded and smiled at the three federal cops, then focused on Muniz.
The capangas stopped leaning against the wall and moved a little closer to their boss. Muniz pointed at the chair in front of him. Father Angelo crossed the room and took it. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other. Then the priest deliberately reached across the table and ground out his cigarette in what remained of Muniz's omelet.
Muniz reddened and started to say something, but Father Angelo didn't wait for him to finish. He leaned forward and spoke. The hand he'd been using to hold his cigarette left the table and crept down to his lap.
Suddenly, Muniz's face contorted in fury. His hand, too, dropped out of sight. Less than a second later there was a sharp report.
Father Angelo's chair tipped over backward, spilling him onto the floor. He clapped his hands to his abdomen. Muniz's hand came out from under the table, gripping a revolver. The fazendeiro sprang to his feet, put the still smoking muzzle up against the black fabric of the priest's cassock and fired again.
The sudden violence took all three of the federal cops by surprise.
Arnaldo was the first to react.
'Drop it,' he said, drawing his Glock.
