The Fall Guy

by Ritchie Perry

  This wasn’t a bluff and Joao knew it. He was well aware I’d almost certainly kill him whether he talked or not but, like any other man, he wanted to postpone the moment for as long as possible. At the count of eight I clicked back the hammer and this was when Joao’s nerve broke. He’d had eight long seconds to visualize the bullet cruising through his cranium and the prospect failed to appeal to him.

  ‘They’ll be back in about a week,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘You still have two seconds to explain why they’ll be away for so long,’ I informed him without removing the gun.

  ‘They’ve gone to Santos,’ Joao explained quickly, sensing I didn’t believe him. ‘They’re going to ship out all the cocaine they have in stock, then lie low for two or three months while they completely overhaul the organization. You and your friends have them worried.’

  ‘You’re trying to tell me the cocaine is shipped out through Santos?’

  Once again I made no effort to mask the disbelief in my voice. Santos was my adopted town, the dock area was my centre of operations and smuggling was my business yet I’d never heard of any significant traffic in cocaine. Belem was the cocaine port.

  ‘That’s right,’ Joao affirmed, desperate to convince me. ‘Gordinho is very security conscious. He thought it safer to have the operation dispersed.’

  ‘How often have Biddencourt and Gordinho been to Santos before?’ I asked, slipping in the trick question. ‘Do they supervise every shipment?’

  Joao started to shake his head, stopping almost immediately, his face contorted with a grimace of pain.

  ‘Neither of them have been there before,’ he said once he’d recovered. ‘As I said, there are special circumstances. This is the biggest shipment so far.’

  Thoughtfully I took the gun away from Joao’s head, reluctantly conceding that what he’d told me made sense. The huge volume of trade at Santos would make the smuggling of drugs child’s play, could also account for my not having heard rumours about its existence, and it would be far faster than shipping direct from Rio Grande, with the added advantage of being a long way from base. The only snag was the immense distance involved, the thousands of miles from the Amazon down to Rio Grande and then back to Santos. Normally prohibitive transport costs would have made the undertaking financially unsound, even allowing for the fantastic profit margin on cocaine, but this problem disappeared for someone who had a controlling interest in an airline connecting every major Brazilian city, someone like Gordinho, for example. If Joao had told me Gordinho had visited Santos at any time in the period I’d been a resident there I would have known he was lying. As it was I suspected he was telling me the truth.

  ‘There are just two more things I need to know,’ I said. ‘Whereabouts in Santos can I find Biddencourt and Gordinho and how is the cocaine taken out of the country?’

  Nervously Joao licked his bruised lips.

  ‘The cocaine is concealed in bags of coffee,’ he told me. ‘It travels on a British ship, the Arcadia.’

  I nodded my head in recognition. The Arcadia wasn’t a ship I’d had dealings with but I did know it was on a regular run between Santos and Liverpool. ‘And where do I find your bosses?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Joao replied, fear in his eyes.

  As a reward the gun went back to his ear and I treated him to a disbelieving glare.

  ‘It’s true,’ he protested desperately. ‘I swear it’s the truth.’

  It wasn’t worth my trouble to press the point. Santos was home ground and if the men I was after were there I’d have no trouble in finding them.

  ‘I don’t know why but I’ve decided to believe you,’ I told Joao, rising to my feet.

  ‘What about me?’ Joao asked, his voice unsteady because he already knew the answer.

  My answering smile wasn’t designed to reassure him.

  ‘I answered all your questions,’ he persevered.

  That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘You’re no use to me anymore.’

  I shot Joao twice, the two bullets striking him in the chest before he could start pleading for his life. Shooting a bound, defenceless man wasn’t something I could ever be proud of but it wasn’t likely to cause me many sleepless nights. All my insomnia would come from thinking about what had been done to Lydia.

  *

  People suffering from shock should be kept nice and warm in bed, not ferried around the countryside in a van, but the circumstances surrounding Lydia’s case precluded a conventional approach. Dressing her didn’t take me very long as there wasn’t much to dress her in and Lydia was co-operation itself. She didn’t have a tail to wag, otherwise she behaved with the utmost obedience, and this broke me up more than any of my previous experiences at the farmhouse. Violent emotion was something I’d always associated with Lydia, lapdog behaviour was completely alien to her nature.

  ‘Wait here,’ I told her once she was bedded down in the back of the Kombi. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She gave no sign of acknowledgement but she made no move to follow when I left, placidly content to remain in her warm cocoon of blankets. With me I took one of the two cans of petrol in the back of the vehicle. Half of it I sloshed around in the laboratory, the rest went into the kitchen. Before Fd driven the Kombi out of sight of the farmhouse flames were already shooting through the wide open windows.

  *

  Although the nearest hospitals were in Pelotas or Rio Grande I headed for Porto Alegre, a good six or seven hours away, my decision based on two considerations. The first was the certainty that any delay in delivering Lydia to hospital would be more than balanced by the superior treatment she was likely to receive in Porto Alegre, the second was more personal. Not having seen any newspapers I couldn’t tell what the public reaction had been to my disappearance en route to Rio Grande jail the previous day but common sense told me it was a town to avoid, that the police chief there might relish having my head mounted above his mantelpiece as a trophy. I already had enough troubles without venturing into the lion’s den.

  The major factor working against my crusade to stay out of police hands was the paucity of good roads in the province of Rio Grande do Sul. Without any road maps to assist me I was committed to the main road between Rio Grande and Porto Alegre, an obvious highway for the authorities to concentrate upon. I had to hope they thought I was motivated solely by the desire to escape. This should place the main search towards the Uruguayan border in the south, the traditional route for fugitives, be they criminal or political.

  Whatever the actual police dispositions, luck was with us and I wasn’t halted once on the long, tiring drive. It took me half an hour to work out exactly where I was, after this it was merely a question of bypassing Pelotas and driving along the sun-baked roads. For her part Lydia lay inert in the back, completely unaware of all passing countryside and perfectly content to leave all the decisions in my hands.

  Callous as the thought undoubtedly was, there was no escaping the fact that she was a major liability, as well as being a hell of a responsibility. My problem was I couldn’t just walk into a hospital with a woman bearing unmistakable marks of assault and rape, then expect to stroll out again without questions being asked, especially in view of my own state. There were always policemen loitering around the larger hospitals and, in my disreputable condition, it was more than likely I’d be picked up for questioning, even without my Rio Grande notoriety to fall back on. On the other hand I had no intention of entrusting Lydia to the tender mercies of the trainee doctors at a small Pronto Socorro. Stories about them were legion and I, personally, knew of one man who had been treated for pyorrhoea, losing half his teeth before an X-ray disclosed a hairline fracture of the jaw. This might be great training for would-be doctors but it wasn’t so good for patients suffering from anything more complicated than a headache.

  Darkness had fallen before we reached the outskirts of Porto Alegre and when we ran into Novo Hamborgo, one of the satellite towns ringing t
he city, my mind was made up. In a back street I parked outside a quiet bar, braved the inquisitive stares of the handful of customers inside and placed a phone call.

  ‘Hallo. Who is it?’

  Melanie’s voice was far from friendly. She disliked being interrupted during business hours.

  ‘It’s Philis,’ I informed her.

  A pregnant pause ensued, surprisingly shattered by Melanie’s peal of laughter.

  ‘Public enemy number one himself,’ she spluttered. ‘I suppose you know every policeman in the state is looking for you.’

  ‘I thought they might be. That’s why I need your help.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Melanie said firmly, giving me no chance to explain. ‘In my business I can’t afford to become involved with your kind of trouble.’

  ‘Hold on a second, Melanie,’ I protested. ‘I thought Otto was a friend of yours.’

  With mention of Otto I had Melanie hooked and it didn’t take her long to assess the implications.

  ‘Was the man you killed in Rio Grande connected with Otto’s disappearance?’ she asked.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘And what’s happened to Otto?’

  ‘He’s been murdered,’ I said bluntly. This was a brutal way of breaking the news to her but I didn’t have time to lead up to it gently. By now the other people in the bar were whispering together in between shooting suspicious glances at me. ‘I can’t tell you more over the phone. The important thing is that Lydia’s with me and she’s hurt. Badly. She has to get to hospital quickly and for obvious reasons…’

  ‘How soon can you be at the club?’ Melanie broke in.

  ‘In about three quarters of an hour,’ I decided after a moment’s calculation.

  ‘Park outside in the road. You have got transport, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. A blue and cream Kombi.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be waiting when you arrive.’

  There was a decisive click of the receiver at Melanie’s end. I had to hand it to her — once her mind was made up she didn’t waste time on idle chatter.

  *

  It was nearer to an hour later when I drew up outside the club’s driveway. Instantly Melanie emerged from the shadow of the hedge, before I’d even switched off the motor, and slid into the front seat beside me. Lydia lay in the back, paying no attention to the new arrival, but Melanie was far from tranquil. There weren’t many things she hadn’t seen or experienced but the double blow she’d suffered — first the news of Otto’s death, now the shock of seeing Lydia’s condition — broke through her defences. I was no comfort to her, it was as much as I could do to keep myself under control, let alone shoulder another emotional burden. She had to sort things out for herself, the same way I’d had to.

  Tersely I gave her the bones of my story and, when I parked a couple of hundred yards away from the hospital, Melanie had regained a measure of composure. Like me, she had a well-compartmented mind. However great the hurt she could absorb it, rationalize and tuck it away for future reference while she went on with the business of day-to-day living. Crying was for times when there was nothing more important to do.

  ‘How will you handle things at the hospital?’ I asked, hoping to assist her return to practicality.

  ‘It should be simple,’ Melanie answered, gaining strength with every minute. ‘I shall say Lydia is a friend of mine, which is true, and that I found her wandering like this outside the club. Even if the police know she was with you in Rio Grande I’ve sufficient pull to stop them challenging the story.’

  I nodded in agreement. This was far from being a watertight or particularly convincing story but it was a hell of a sight better than anything I could have managed on my own.

  ‘Before I go, though,’ Melanie continued, delving in her outsize handbag, ‘I brought along a couple of things I thought you might need.’

  The tiny, pearl-handled pistol was superfluous and unlikely to stop a charging mouse at a greater range than six feet, the wad of money she pressed into my hand was a different matter altogether. I shoved both gifts into the glove compartment before turning back to Melanie.

  ‘Thanks, Melanie,’ I said quietly, underplaying my gratitude because no words could express it adequately. ‘I’ll cable the money to you from Santos.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Philis,’ Melanie replied brusquely, a catch in her voice. ‘And don’t worry too much about Lydia. I’ll look after her. Just make sure you catch the bastards responsible.’

  *

  Watching Melanie half carry Lydia into the hospital I felt as if someone had just removed the Eiffel Tower from my shoulders. With Lydia delivered into safe hands I’d returned to a situation I relished, the kind where my sole responsibility was to myself.

  The first priority was clothes but simply going into a shop to buy some in the morning was out of the question. The attention my bizarre, battered appearance had attracted while I’d been phoning Melanie had warned me against unnecessary exposure, especially as my photograph must have figured prominently in the local newspapers. Nor did I fancy the risks involved in stealing some. A substantial part of my wardrobe should still repose in room 609 at the Hotel Broadway, together with my spare shaving gear and a fully equipped bathroom. With a convenient fire-escape leading past the window the set-up was too tempting to pass by. The police, of course, would have been through the room but I’d paid for a week in advance and they wouldn’t have been authorized to remove any of my possessions. Whatever I might be accused or suspected of, so far I hadn’t been convicted of any crime.

  Nevertheless, I didn’t go in blind, preferring to drive slowly past the front of the hotel before I committed myself. There was no sign of police outside or in the foyer and this was all the encouragement I needed. With the Kombi safely parked in a side street behind the hotel I made my devious way to the back yard. The fire-escape was of the type where the last section was counter balanced, theoretically designed to prevent its use for felonious purposes, and it took me all of thirty seconds to prove how effective a deterrent this was.

  For half an hour I really indulged myself, soaking neck high in the bath until I felt up to gingerly scraping the thick stubble from my face and putting on some clean clothes. The bed looked the epitome of comfort, a real temptation, but, reluctantly, I decided this would be carrying audacity too far. It was far safer to drive out of town before I rested. A few hours’ sleep, then I’d travel un into Santa Caterina state and catch a bus to Sao Paulo. From there Santos was little more than an hour’s drive away.

  It all seemed so easy until, a flight down the fire-escape, luck completely deserted me. One minute I was padding quietly downwards in the sheltering darkness, the next I was shielding my eyes to protect them from the merciless glare of the spotlight.

  ‘This is the police,’ a voice informed me, distorted by the megaphone. ‘We have you completely surrounded.’

  Chapter 8

  As a trap it was a complete fiasco, as bad as anything the Keystone cops had managed to achieve on celluloid. If the police had waited quietly in the shadows until I’d reached the ground they could have seized me without any difficulty. Instead, the officer in charge had preferred to do things in style, doubtless thinking of the next day’s press coverage, and had alerted me while I was still five stories up. There was even an open window beside me and I dived through it fast, intent on being out of sight before anyone started shooting. As I came out of my forward roll recovery across the carpet, a manoeuvre which did absolutely nothing for my kidneys, the bedside lamp clicked on, revealing a balding, middle-aged man cosily tucked up in bed with a girl who couldn’t have been a day over thirteen. When he saw my gun the man immediately ducked his head under the sheets, whinnying with fear, and the girl didn’t seem to be particularly upset by my hurried departure from the room.

  To my considerable relief the corridor was deserted, although a babble of noise from the surrounding rooms showed plenty of people had been woken up by
the disturbance outside. Uncertain about my best move, I started down the stairs, realizing this was no permanent solution. Inevitably, at some time in the near future, I would bump into the police coming up and that would be that. On the other hand, hiding was equally out of the question for, if necessary, the police would tear the hotel apart to find me. Two flights down I abandoned the stairs, uncomfortably aware of the footsteps approaching from the other direction.

  The long, green carpeted corridor I was running along was still unpopulated but this state of affairs wasn’t likely to last and I was seriously considering whether the wisest course was to surrender when inspiration struck me, appropriately enough in the shape of a Roman Catholic priest. As I rounded the corner a bare five yards away from him he’d just unlocked the door to his room and he looked up in surprise at the wild apparition bearing down on him. My reactions were on the instinct level. One hand grabbed his collar, the gun went up under his nose and I bundled him inside the room, kicking the door closed behind us.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ I panted, ready to clobber him if he tried to shout, ‘but I need your clothes. Just do as I say and you won’t be hurt.’

  Enough liberal churchmen had been killed in Brazil over the past few months to dispel any doubts he might have had about clerical immunity and the priest accepted the situation philosophically, which was just as well. It was bad enough stealing his vestments without ruining all my hopes of redemption by laying violent hands on him. While he undressed I was busy tearing up a sheet which I used to bind and gag him once he was down to his underwear. All this he endured with almost stoical calm, even accepting the further indignity of being carried into the bathroom.

  Acutely conscious of the growing hubbub outside I hastily pulled on the priest’s robes over my own clothes. Examining myself in the mirror I had to admit the disguise couldn’t have been bettered, even if black wasn’t my colour. In particular I was thankful for the mores of a country which not only made sunglasses a standard item of dress but could see nothing strange in wearing them on the darkest night. This was a custom I’d sneered at on many occasions in the past, now, endowed with new authority, I blessed the habit. The shades, combined with the hat, did a lot to conceal my battered features.