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, “
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.”
