Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 6. Whole No. 283, June 1967

The Photographer and the Columnist by James Holding

Once again Manuel Andradas, the Photographer — the paid assassin of the Big Ones, the Corporation, the professional killer who preferred to think of himself as a “nullifier.” Andradas had two loves — photography and money; and much as he loved his work (photography, you understand, not filling), he loved money more. Andradas was a man who always heard the rapping of opportunity, the knock on the door — and opportunity never had to knock twice for the Photographer...

Manuel Andradas licked his lips in anticipation — not of the killing itself (he took no pleasure in that) but of the money it would bring him.

“How much?” he asked Rodolfo.

Rodolfo sipped inky coffee from a small cup. With a touch of malice he made no attempt to hide, he said, “One million cruzeiros, Photographer.” His long lips lifted.

Manuel stiffened. “It is an insult.”

“Do not start that again,” Rodolfo said, “about being underpaid and how reliable you are. This time the Big Ones have no paying client. There is no profit to us, you understand. It is all out-of-pocket expense.”

“Oh. The Corporation itself wishes somebody nullified?”

“Exactly,” Rodolfo said. “Hence the smaller fee.”

“It should be larger, not smaller,” Andradas argued sullenly. “After all, for someone who is a danger to the Big Ones themselves—”

“Enough.” Rodolfo held up a hand. “One million is the price. Take it or leave it.”

Manuel emptied his coffee cup. He lifted his muddy brown eyes to Rodolfo. And as he did so, it suddenly came to him with the shattering impact of absolute truth, never before suspected, that Rodolfo was holding out for himself a part of the money the Big Ones had authorized him to pay Manuel for this murder. One million — it was meager pay, even for the Corporation. A mere $450, North American!

Manuel reined his temper. He had but two gods, money and photography, and the greater of these was easily money. To bilk him of money, therefore, was the unforgivable offense. Could it be that Rodolfo had also taken a commission on Manuel’s past services, too?

A searing rage churned in him at the thought. Rodolfo! That cowardly jackal who inhabited the very lowest kennel in the house of the Big Ones! And yet so arrogant and complacent in his role of lackey for the Corporation that he dared to withhold the honestly earned wages of a conscientious craftsman like the Photographer! It was intolerable.

Yet Manuel kept his anger hidden. One million, though admittedly meager, was still one million.

Looking into the Photographer’s expressionless eyes, Rodolfo was reminded for an uneasy moment of a bushmaster he had once tried to stare down through the glass of a snake pen at Butantan Institute. To conceal a shiver of distaste, even of fear, he shrugged and repeated, “Take it or leave it, Photographer.”

Manuel hooked his thumb under the strap of the camera case he carried over his shoulder and pretended to reflect. He said at length, “I take it.”

Rodolfo laughed. “I knew you would.”

“Who is it, then?”

The name and address, written by Rodolfo in a childish untidy scrawl on the edge of the cafe menu, were instantly committed to the Photographer’s excellent memory.

Rodolfo tore the menu into tiny fragments and put the fragments in his pocket.

As a rule, Manuel Andradas sedulously avoided detailed knowledge of the victims he was to assassinate (although he preferred the word “nullify”). But this was different. He said, “What has he done to the Big Ones?”

Rodolfo shook his head. “Just kill him, Photographer. What he has done is our business, not yours.”

Manuel shrugged. “How soon?”

“As soon as possible. The matter is of great urgency.”

Andradas nodded. “I will call you afterward.”

“Do not call me tonight.” Rodolfo showed rotten teeth in a lewd smile. “There is a beautiful new dancer in the chorus line of The Three Swords—” He broke off as their waiter approached, and Rodolfo paid for their cafezinhos.

When the waiter left, Manuel said with little interest, “A new dancer? She has been kind, I hope.”

“More than kind.” Rodolfo licked his lips.

“Then I will call you tomorrow if I finish the job by then.”

“I am flying to Recife on Corporation business early tomorrow,” Rodolfo said with an air of importance. “I will be back here Thursday morning. Call me then, eh?”

“All right.”

“Don’t put off the job till then, though. As I told you, it is urgent. The Big Ones are concerned.”

“You can count on me,” said Manuel. He stood up. “Half in advance, please.”

When they shook hands outside the cafe, Rodolfo left a thick pad of crisp, inflation-born 10,000-cruzeiro notes in Manuel’s hand. Then he walked away down the Rua do Ouvidor with the insolent gait of a monkey.

Manuel stared after him stolidly, though anger was still a turmoil within him.

Less than an hour later he had identified the apartment house in which his intended victim lived. It was shiningly new — a tall balconied finger of glass and tile that rose gracefully on stilts over its own parking area at street level. The name Enrico Pallas was on a card above a mailbox labeled 12-A in the elevator lobby. By telephoning several times from a public booth down the street, Manuel ascertained that Pallas was not at home — at least, nobody answered his telephone. So Manuel took the self-service elevator to the 12th floor.

There he discovered in less than a minute that the lock on the door to apartment 12-A yielded with pathetic ease to one of his skeleton keys, thus assuring him easy entrance when he should require it. After checking to make sure the door was not fitted with an inside bolt or chain, he relocked it quietly without entering the apartment.

He then inspected the corridor that bisected the 12th floor and separated the entrances to apartments 12-A and 12-B from those of 12-C and 12-D. The corridor smelled of frying meat. Someone was cooking an early dinner in 12-D. At the end of the corridor nearest 12-A, just beyond the tiny elevator lobby, he found a metal firedoor leading to a flight of steep firestairs.

Briefly he debated secreting himself behind the firedoor or inside Pallas’ apartment and awaiting Pallas’ return. Rodolfo had said the matter was urgent. But positive identification was more important than speed; one did not become the trusted nullifier of the Corporation in Rio by killing the wrong pigeons.

So Manuel returned to the street, bought an evening newspaper at a nearby kiosk, and retired to a bench across the avenue from the apartment to wait. Running an eye up the impressive facade of the building and marking the twelfth-floor windows, he wondered again what Enrico Pallas had done to arouse the lethal anger of the Big Ones.

In the fading light of late afternoon he leafed through his newspaper, reading nothing, but examining with a critical professional eye the photography exhibited in the half-tone illustrations. On page 7, the entertainment page, at the head of a night-life column called Rio Ramblings, an inch-square cut of a man’s head attracted his attention. It was a photograph of a spectacularly ugly man with bald head, emaciated face, slightly crossed eyes, and no visible upper lip, although the lower lip, full and thick, came up to clamp repulsively against the base of a fleshy nose.

Beside the cut, a byline leaped out at Manuel. By Enrico Pallas.

Manuel’s hands twitched infinitesimally. The newspaper rattled slightly. So, he thought. A newspaper reporter, then. A columnist. A café-society scandalmonger. This is the man I am to nullify. With great interest he read Enrico Pallas’ column, feeling suddenly a smug awareness of destiny’s benign interest in his welfare. Only the last paragraph of Rio Ramblings was at all enlightening. It read:

Manuel chuckled. Small wonder the Big Ones had seen fit to call for the immediate services of the Photographer! This Senhor Pallas was sniffing hungrily at their heels, it seemed; attempting to suborn their staff; threatening to expose the individuals who made up the organization.

He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the bench beside him. His momentary amusement at the ambitious plans of Enrico Pallas gave way once more to a brooding contemplation of Rodolfo’s perfidy. For a long time he sat motionless on the bench, watching the building entrance but thinking of Rodolfo.

It was after eight o’clock and almost dark when a foreign sports car of ancient vintage turned into the parking area under the apartment house with a squeal of worn rubber. Manuel saw a man get out and walk toward the elevator well. There was no mistaking the shockingly ugly face revealed by the elevator light. It was Enrico Pallas. Two minutes later a light came on in the front windows of 12-A on the 12th floor. Enrico Pallas was now at home. But for how long, Manuel asked himself. Did not night-club columnists spend their nights in night clubs? Assuredly.

He hastened at once, therefore, to the telephone booth he had used before and made two calls.

The first was to the supper club known as The Three Swords.

A deliberately provocative female voice answered his call. “The Three Swords,” it said. “You wish a reservation?”

“I do not,” Manuel answered. “Can you tell me the name of your new dancer in the chorus line?”

“I am sorry we are not permitted to give out the addresses or telephone numbers of our artistes.”

“I don’t want her address or telephone number,” Manuel growled. Then he tried to sound romantic. “I merely want to know her name so that I can send her some flowers backstage as a token of my admiration.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” The girl on the phone laughed. “Her name’s Maria Campos. It’s listed on the program.”

“How was I to know which name was hers?” Manuel said. And he hung up.

Then he called Enrico Pallas’ apartment. Almost at once a man’s voice answered the telephone. “Hello. Enrico Pallas here,” it said. The words had a certain liquid blurring, no doubt caused by the man’s deformed mouth. “Who is this?”

“I prefer not to give my name,” Manuel spoke solemnly. “I am calling about your offer of a reward in today’s Rio Ramblings.”

“Yes? What about it?”

The Photographer went to the heart of the matter at once. “I can supply you with the verifiable lead you are so anxious for, Senhor Pallas.”

There was a moment of silence during which Manuel could hear the man’s breathing quicken over the wire. When Pallas spoke, however, it was with an attempt at calm. “You interest me greatly, Senhor,” he said cautiously. “What information do you have?”

“It is quite valuable, I believe. How much is the reward?”

“For what, specifically?”

“For putting you on the track of an active member of the Big Ones.”

“Ah!” Pallas’ voice reflected excitement despite his efforts to maintain a businesslike tone. “A million cruzeiros for that. But it must be genuine. It must produce results, you see?”

“It will. You have my word for that. And my niece’s, too.”

“Your niece’s?”

“Yes. She is a dancer. And she has recently been led, poor innocent, into a liaison with an admirer who frequents the club where she dances. Last night, to her horror, she discovered quite by accident that this man is a member of the Corporation.” Manuel brought this out baldly.

Pallas said after a pause, “Your niece’s lover is a member of the Corporation? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

“Yes. Exactly. And the reward?”

“Forget the reward for a moment. Who is your niece’s lover?”

“I don’t know.” Manuel permitted a thread of regret to color his tone.

“You don’t know! Then why in God’s name are you calling me?”

“I speak for my niece, Senhor. Please listen to me. Naturally, she is terrified, knowing all at once that her friend is one of the Big Ones — a criminal, an evil man, perhaps a murderer. She reads your column, you see.” Manuel threw this in slyly, uncertain whether Pallas was susceptible to flattery.

“Half a million people read my column,” Pallas snapped. “What has that to do with it?”

“Only that my niece believes herself to be in a very dangerous position now, do you see? She came to me this morning, weeping, seeking comfort and advice. Her parents are dead, you understand. She would tell me nothing about this man, not even his name — except that he is definitely one of the Corporation. I didn’t, of course, know how to advise her, poor child — that is, until I saw your column this afternoon in the newspaper.”

Pallas laughed. “You thought you would muscle in on a nice fat reward, is that it?”

“I merely thought,” said the Photographer with dignity, “that your reward might furnish my niece with the funds she would need to withdraw safely from her liaison with this — this criminal.”

“What does she need funds for?”

“The plane fare to Buenos Aires,” said Manuel simply. “Or to Montevideo, where she can get work dancing. She would have to leave Rio at once — you understand that, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.” Pallas paused. “Are you offering to advise your niece to confide in me, then? To tell me her lover’s name for the reward? Is that your suggestion?”

“You are very astute. Yes. Just that. But if you could tell her the reward is of half a million only—” Manuel spoke anxiously — “she will still think it a fortune.”

“And you would collect the other half million, is that it?”

“Why not? I am arranging matters, am I not? I will guarantee, Senhor Pallas, that my niece will meet you tomorrow night wherever you say — she sleeps in the daytime, you understand — and tell you the name of her lover and what he looks like. Thus, you will be able to identify him absolutely and have him followed secretly until he leads you to other members of the Corporation — if that is how you want to handle it.”

“Never mind how I want to handle it,” Pallas said. “All I want is the man’s name and description from your niece.” For a moment Manuel thought that any suspicions Pallas may have entertained about the veracity of the story had been laid to rest by Manuel’s obvious greed for half the reward. Then Pallas added thoughtfully, “That is, if you have a niece. And this is not just a confidence trick.”

“I assure you I have a niece. And it is not a confidence trick. I have promised to send my niece to see you tomorrow night, have I not? And if she fails to convince you, you need not give her one-half of the reward. Is that not true?”

“I suppose it is.”

“Well, then. You must have the reward ready to give her at once if her information satisfies you,” Manuel said. “Tomorrow night. Because she will have to fly from Rio instantly to escape the vengeance of the Big Ones, eh?”

Caustically Pallas said, “And when must I have your half of the reward ready?”

“At the same time. Tomorrow night. I will meet you as soon as my niece leaves you.”

Impatiently Pallas said. “I must have some facts, some verifiable facts, before I can make any deal with you.”

“What facts? I will not reveal my name. I told you that.”

“You said your niece is a dancer in a night club. Right? Tell me the name of the night club.”

“The Three Swords,” Manuel replied promptly.

“The Three Swords,” said Pallas more amiably, “is a part of my nightly beat. All right. So far, so good. And what is your niece’s name? That is another fact I must have.”

“Since she is my sister’s daughter,” said Manuel, “her name is not mine. I can therefore tell it to you. It is Maria Campos. Have you heard of her, perhaps?”

Pallas whistled. “Yes, I have. She is quite beautiful. I have seen The Three Swords’ floor show a dozen times.”

Manuel said, “Maria is not without beauty, true. But alas, all it has gotten her is a lover who is a criminal.”

“How did your niece find out that her boy friend is a Big One? You told me that it was by accident.”

“So she said. But she did not tell me how.”

After an appreciable hesitation Pallas said, “All right, whoever you are. Tomorrow night.”

Manuel drew a slow breath. Pallas was hooked. “Where?” asked Manuel.

“At my apartment?”

“That might be best. Any more public place would be dangerous for her. She must avoid any possibility of being seen with you. You can understand that.”

“What time can you have her here, then? It is 12-A, Corcovado Apartments, by the way.”

“Would midnight be convenient? She can leave the supper club between her early and late shows and not be missed for several hours — except by her lover, perhaps, should he happen to be at the club tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be waiting for her at midnight. You are sure you can persuade her to come?” The way he said “persuade” showed he would have preferred to say “force.”

“Not a doubt of it. She is desperate for a way to rid herself of this man. She will be there, never fear.”

“All right. Anything more?”

“Nothing,” said Manuel, “except please remember to have the money in cash — all of it. I shall give you and my niece an hour in which to express your gratitude to each other for mutual favors—” he deliberately put innuendo into the words — “before I arrive to collect my share. Va bem?”

“Va bem,” said Pallas.

When Manuel heard the humming of the dead line in his ear, he slowly replaced his own receiver. Then unconsciously he flexed his fingers, like a pianist who wishes to ease his joints before tackling a difficult composition.

The next evening, knowing that Rodolfo was safely in Recife, Manuel himself attended the early show at The Three Swords. Grudgingly he admitted that Rodolfo and Senhor Pallas had been right. Maria Campos was beautiful.

When the chorus finished its last number, he sent a note backstage to her. Written in an untidy childish scrawl amazingly like the handwriting with which Rodolfo decorated the edges of menus while giving Manuel his assignments, it read:

When the waiter nodded to him that the note had been delivered into the hands of Maria Campos, and that she had questioned neither its source nor its penmanship, Manuel glanced at his wrist watch. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Unhurriedly he paid his bill, took up his camera case, and left The Three Swords. There was ample time for him to reach the Corcovado Apartments before Maria Campos; ample time to conceal himself behind the firedoor on the 12th floor and check over his camera before the columnist and the dancer confronted each other at midnight.

On Thursday morning Manuel met Rodolfo by appointment in a small cafe overlooking Ipanema Beach. Although it was only noon the beach was already crowded.

Rodolfo ordered cafezinho and said, “Well?”

“It is done,” Manuel answered. “Senor Pallas met with a regrettable accident last night.”

“So I heard on the radio. He fell twelve stories from his balcony into the street, did he not?” Rodolfo grinned and clicked his tongue. “Too much to drink perhaps.”

“He was quite sober when I visited him shortly after midnight,” Manuel said. “See for yourself.” He passed a small print to Rodolfo.

Shielding it with his hands, Rodolfo inspected it. It showed Senhor Pallas sitting in one of his own leather armchairs, his eyes closed, his incredible mouth hanging open. He might have been asleep, save for the unnatural angle at which his bald head lolled loosely on his neck.

“What an ugly brute!” murmured Rodolfo who was no beauty himself. “We are well rid of him. Did you have any trouble?”

“None at all. Except that I had to wait behind a firedoor in his corridor for almost an hour.”

“Why was that?”

Something changed in Manuel’s eyes. “A woman was with him until after midnight.”

Rodolfo grinned. “A last fling before the end. Lucky man.”

“Lucky, all right. She was beautiful, truly beautiful.”

Rodolfo showed interest.

“Yes. A crazy one, though,” remarked Manuel.

“Crazy? Why crazy?”

“I listened at Pallas’ door several times during her visit.”

“You peeping Tom!”

“No, I could not see, but I could hear a little. She was boasting to Pallas that one of her lovers was a member of the Corporation.”

Rodolfo sat erect in his chair. “What! Why should she boast of such a thing? Even if it were true?”

“It was hard to hear through the door. I am quite sure, however, that Pallas was offering her money to reveal this other lover’s name. At least that was the impression I got.”

Although his coffee cup clattered a little when he set it back in its saucer, spilling a few drops, Rodolfo asked calmly enough, “And did she tell Pallas this other lover’s name?”

Manuel Andradas spread his hands in a gesture of ignorance. “Somebody came up in the elevator just then, and I had to skip back to my firedoor,” he said. “Do you think it likely she told him?”

“I do not,” said Rodolfo almost too positively. “And I’ll tell you why. First, she couldn’t possibly know for sure that any man, even a lover, was a member of the Corporation. All members are sworn to silence in the matter on pain of death, as you know. And second, even if she had such information, she’d be a fool to sell it. The Big Ones repay such carelessness with certain death. As she must realize if she has any intelligence at all.”

“Perhaps,” said Manuel trying to be helpful, “she was just an innocent. Teasing Pallas a little. Trying to make him jealous with her talk of a lover among the Big Ones.”

Rodolfo was contemptuous. “One does not usually tease a prominent newspaper columnist in just that way. Nor does a newspaper reporter usually offer money to be teased.”

“Is that what Pallas was? A newspaper reporter?” Manuel feigned surprise. “Well, no matter. He has been nullified now. And whether the dancer told him the name of her lover really makes no difference, eh? Will you show your superiors my photograph and bring me the rest of my money?”

“As usual,” said Rodolfo absently. He was lost in thought. Finally he said, “Did you overhear the dancer’s name by any chance?”

“No.”

“You are sure?”

“Of course I am sure. Why are you so concerned about her, Rodolfo? Pallas is dead.”

“The woman is not, I might point out. If she sold information once, or even considered doing it, she could do so again. Always providing she has information. I would like to be sure of her identity, that is all. This could be vital to the security of the Big Ones. Don’t you see that?” The Photographer detected a growing uneasiness in Rodolfo’s voice.

“But you just said you thought it extremely unlikely she sold Pallas any information.”

“True. But I need to be certain.” Rodolfo ordered another cafezinho for each of them. “You said you saw the woman?”

“I told you — unbelievably beautiful.”

Rodolfo said, “Did she look at all familiar? Had you ever seen her before?”

“She was a perfect stranger to me. I wish I did know her. She would make a magnificent model. Such a slender waist, stately carriage, entrancing face. Oh, she was a real knockout, Rodolfo. Here, look at her.” With an air of the greatest candor Manuel brought out of his inside jacket pocket a snapshot. “I took this picture of her as she was leaving Pallas’ apartment last night. Maybe you know who she is, Rodolfo.” He handed the photograph across the table.

While Rodolfo examined the picture, his head bent, Manuel recalled with quiet pleasure the small comedy he had witnessed the previous night just before he snapped that picture through the half-open firedoor.

Dressed in a floor-length white evening gown that enhanced her beauty, Maria Campos had knocked on Pallas’ door at midnight exactly. And when Pallas had eagerly thrown the door wide, she had asked in a timid voice, “Senhor Pallas?” although anyone familiar with his picture in Rio Ramblings could not possibly have mistaken him.

“Your servant,” Pallas had replied with a bow. “Come in, Maria.”

Maria said, “You are so sweet to invite me to come to your party, Senhor.” She entered the apartment, then noticing the lack of party noises, she hung back. “It is a party? Rodolfo said—”

“Rodolfo?” Pallas raised his eyebrows, puzzled.

“Yes, Rodolfo. His note said you were giving a party and to meet him here.”

“Oh.” Pallas beamed, a horrible grimace with him. “Your uncle. Is that Rodolfo?”

Maria drew herself up. “You are pleased to joke, Senhor.” There was ice in her voice. “Where is Rodolfo, if you please?”

“I do not know any Rodolfo, honey. Unless he is the man whose name you are going to sell me for half a million cruzeiros.” Manuel, behind his firedoor, grinned at how scrupulously Pallas was keeping their bargain.

Maria’s mobile features had first expressed bewilderment, then dismay. She was thoroughly at sea. She stared at Pallas, then checked the number on the apartment door behind him. As for Pallas, he continued to smile at her, urging her to enter. And Maria smiled back — a smile of embarrassment for this repulsive stranger, of apology, censure, and anger, all mixed up together. Yet a smile nevertheless. And Manuel’s camera had caught the scene neatly at the very moment when Maria Campos was saying “I’m afraid there has been some mistake, Senhor.”

Then she had turned on her rhinestone heel and gone back to the waiting elevator. There they were in the snapshot — the columnist and the dancer, he in the doorway, she in the corridor; both smiling like friends (or lovers?); both faces in perfect focus; even the number on the door was clearly visible.

Rodolfo raised his eyes from the print in his hand. He said, clearing his throat, “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “It would be a sinful waste to kill her needlessly, would it not? I think you were mistaken, Photographer, in what you thought you heard through the door.”

Manuel shrugged indifferently. “Perhaps,” he conceded. He was savoring Rodolfo’s torment with a blank face but a joyous heart. The snapshot, incontrovertible evidence that Maria Campos had visited Enrico Pallas for some purpose last night, had shaken Rodolfo badly. His arms trembled. He worried his lips with his teeth. Undoubtedly, Manuel surmised, Rodolfo was groping desperately in his memory for any chance word of his, any careless action, that could have hinted to Maria Campos that he was one of the Big Ones. Manuel had never seen Rodolfo so obviously agitated.

It was time for the coup de grâce.

Obligingly Rodolfo fed him the cue. “She must be an innocent,” he muttered once more. “For how could she possibly know that her boy friend is a member of the Corporation?”

Manuel suddenly struck himself lightly on the forehead. “I am a dolt!” he exclaimed. “Of course. That is what she meant by her parting words to Pallas last night!”

“What did she say?” Rodolfo had trouble with the simple phrase.

Manuel replied with the air of a tolerant man-of-the-world, “She made some laughing reference to lovers who talk in their sleep...”

Rodolfo sagged, all the starch gone out of him. A faint greenish pallor crept under the tan of his cheeks. Distraught, he thrust Manuel’s photographs into a pocket. He lifted his eyes to Manuel as though it was a physical effort to raise them. They contained both apology for guilt and mute acknowledgement of it. He spoke in a strained whisper. “We... we must kill her after all then.”

“We?”

“You. Please. She is your next assignment.”

“Good,” said Manuel. “I can use the money.” He played the farce out to the end. “But we don’t know who she is, do we?”

“She is Maria Campos, a girl in the chorus line at The Three Swords,” Rodolfo said in a dead voice.

“You know her after all?”

“I know her.”

“How curious,” said Manuel. He paused. “Then you must be the lover she meant, eh?”

Rodolfo said nothing, so the Photographer went on sympathetically, “Then we certainly must nullify her quickly. She is a threat to us all, Rodolfo.”

Placidly then he sat back in his chair and waited for Rodolfo’s inevitable question — the question he himself was usually forced to ask.

It came at last. “How much?” asked Rodolfo.

The Photographer smiled. “Two million should cover it,” he said, “if you want a quick, quiet, reliable job.”