Before I threw in the part which I hoped was going to save me a great deal of strenuous, unpleasant work I gave Pepe an opportunity to mull over the things I might do to him. If his complexion had deteriorated any further he would have been well on the way to becoming the world’s first grey Indian.
‘The other alternative strikes me as being far more satisfactory for both of us,’ I continued, judging he’d had long enough to elaborate his nightmares. ‘To put it in a nutshell, you co-operate voluntarily and I guarantee to let you go. Think the proposition over.’
Leaving, him to his thoughts I went through to the kitchen to brew myself a cup of coffee, no doubts clouding my mind as to what his decision would be. When I returned Pepe was looking a lot healthier, although he still seemed capable of crapping himself at the drop of a hat.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’ he asked shakily, before I could seat myself.
There was no satisfactory answer to this, and he knew it, but he was so tensed up he had to ask.
‘Apart from my word of honour as an English gentleman, which isn’t worth a damn to anyone, there’s no absolute guarantee I can give. To be quite frank, I don’t care a hoot whether I have to kill you or not. You’re of no importance at all, just a hired, mindless sadist. I do mind about your bosses, though, and if you help me to get them I’ll be grateful, so grateful I shan’t bother to kill you. Play this the hard way and you have my solemn promise that you’re a dead man as soon as I’ve extracted the information I’m after.’
There was only one thing Pepe could say and he said it.
‘I’ll co-operate,’ he told me, after only the slightest hesitation.
His faith in my word wasn’t great but, from his point of view, he was on to a hiding to nothing. Like Joao before him, his relish for torture was restricted to the aggressor’s role.
‘That’s easy to say,’ I pointed out. ‘Just remember one thing. Try anything clever, anything at all, and our bargain is off.’
Pene licked his lips nervously.
‘I’ll tell the truth,’ he promised. ‘I swear it.’
‘You’d better,’ I said grimly, although I believed him implicitly. He would have betrayed his own mother to save his skin. ‘For a start you can tell me where to find Biddencourt and Gordinho.’
‘They’re staying at different hotels,’ Pepe replied hastily, desperately eager to convince me of his good faith. ‘Gordinho is at the Hotel Santos and Biddencourt is staying at the Inglaterra.’
‘That sounds reasonable. How many men have they got with them in Santos?’
‘There’s only me. They didn’t anticipate any trouble.’
‘Only you?’
Pepe nodded so I threw the half full cup of black coffee into his lap, regardless of what it would do to my sofa. The coffee had cooled sufficiently not to scald Pepe but it was hot enough to make him shriek with pain. Of a sudden he was twitching again.
‘What did you do that for?’ he protested shrilly, looking as though he might burst into tears. ‘It is the truth.’
‘Like hell it is. What about the cover business, Lima Filhos? You’re not going to convince me that’s a ghost outfit.’
‘You’ve got it wrong,’ Pepe pleaded. ‘As far as the staff there is concerned they think it’s a legitimate coffee firm. They don’t know anything about the cocaine.’
Belatedly I regretted wasting the coffee. I was feeling thirsty and I suspected Pepe was telling me the truth.
‘All right,’ I conceded. ‘When will Biddencourt and Gordinho be expecting to see you again?’
‘Not until tomorrow night,’ Pepe answered, patently relieved by the change of subject. ‘We’re all meeting together at ten.’
‘You’ve no duties during the day then?’
‘Not tomorrow. Biddencourt has to go to Lima Filhos to plant the cocaine in the coffee and Gordinho has business of his own. The only reason I’m seeing them at all is because they’re closing shop for a while and I have to collect my money.’
‘Exactly what is Gordinho’s business?’ I asked curiously. If Gordinho was expanding his interests in Santos I wanted to hear about it.
‘He’s bought a place called the Casa Branca. He plans to convert it into a hotel. That’s where we’re supposed to be meeting tomorrow night.’
‘The Casa Branca?’
The name rang a bell but for the moment I couldn’t think why.
‘Yes, it used to be a restaurant.’
Then I had it. Like Rio de Janeiro, Santos was cramped in area by the steeply rising hills behind the city, restricted to the narrow coast plain, and several blocks of more resistant rock had been left isolated by the centuries of erosion, intruding on the city proper. One of the smaller outcrops necessitated the road tunnel connecting the beach with the main commercial centre but two larger pillars of rock on the Sao Vicente side dominated Santos, rising hundreds of feet above the buildings below. Enterprising businessmen had commissioned minor engineering miracles, driving tortuous, spiral roads up the almost sheer cliff sides and establishing restaurants at the summit. Both of them possessed breath-taking views, with Santos and its wonderful beaches spread out beneath them, but, despite the roads, difficulty of access had hampered trade. To reach the restaurants prospective customers had to face radiator boiling climbs in bottom gear, then brood about the efficiency of their brakes during the meal, afraid to drink because they still had to brave the trip down. One of the restaurants had survived, without doing the business its site and cuisine merited, but the other, the Casa Branca, had folded a couple of years back. Apparently Gordinho now intended to reopen it as a hotel and, provided he lashed out on a chair lift, there was no reason why it shouldn’t be a great success.
Now I knew where to find Biddencourt and Gordinho, either at their hotels or the Casa Branca, there were no more questions I wanted to ask Pepe, for the time being anyway. Accordingly, I went through to the bathroom and collected a slab of sticking plaster from the medicine chest. When he saw what I had in my hand Pepe began quaking again.
‘I’ve told you everything you wanted to know,’ he quavered. ‘You said you’d let me go.’
‘That’s right,’ I agreed, jamming the plaster over his mouth. ‘Just as soon as I’ve dealt with Biddencourt and Gordinho.’
*
With my prisoner securely strapped to the frame of the bed in the maid’s room I took a quick shower before seeing how Rosa was. A damp towel draped round my waist, I quietly opened my bedroom door and stuck my head into the darkened room. In the dim light coming through the open shutters I could see Rosa curled up in the middle of the double bed, breathing regularly and generally displaying all the manifestations of sleep. Noiselessly I began to shut the door again, only to be interrupted by Rosa’s voice.
‘Hey,’ she said sleepily. ‘Where do you think you’re sneaking off to? I’m waiting for my pound of flesh.’
Chapter 11
At some point during the night my subconscious must have started churning over the question of what the hell I intended to do because when I woke up I knew, positively, that I’d lost interest in killing Biddencourt and Gordinho. Certainly the prospect of them dying painfully and unpleasantly didn’t bother me at all, I just couldn’t think of a good enough reason to shoot them myself. Everything I’d done up to and including the capture of Pepe I could accept without regret but the idea of gunning down the two men in cold blood, which was the way it would have to be done, struck me as completely wrong. Not morally wrong, mind you, just absolutely pointless.
My far from chaste night with Rosa had had a powerful influence on my mental about turn, although there’d been no febrile attack of guilty conscience. What had happened to Lydia hadn’t turned me into a hermit. I could still make love to Rosa and enjoy it in the same way I’d made love to her, and other women, when Lydia had been whole and well. The fact I loved Lydia, albeit in my own peculiar fashion, was just that, a basic completely apart from casual copulatio
n. Monogamy had been invented to give every male a fair crack of the whip, not because it was an immutable principle of life, and it was no more reasonable than expecting a man to live on an exclusive diet of fried Brussels sprouts.
Nevertheless, once I accepted the proposition that sleeping with Rosa couldn’t harm Lydia it was difficult to believe killing Biddencourt and Gordinho would do anything to help her. The damage had been done and it was up to the doctors to help her, not me, and if killing the men responsible for her condition would do nothing to assist Lydia who the hell would it be of value to? Certainly not Otto because he was dead and nothing I did could change this.
Just the same something had to be done, I couldn’t turn my back and walk away. The cocaine smuggling wasn’t my concern because whatever happened to Biddencourt and Gordinho there would always be people peddling drugs but the knowledge that what had been done to Lydia and Otta could be repeated on other victims made some action essential. And, equally important, there was also the personal factor. From the moment Biddencourt had confronted me at the farmhouse I’d needed to make him realize life just wasn’t that easy, that he couldn’t do what he’d done by divine right, that he didn’t enjoy immunity from the laws governing other men. At first I’d thought killing him was the logical response, now I’d lost a great deal of my enthusiasm.
The problem was to dream up a satisfactory alternative. Rosa had left while I was still asleep, off to work at the Zanzibar, and, once I’d checked Pepe was safe and sound, I spent the rest of the morning reposing in bed, thinking hard with a bottle of Bacardi close to hand. Unless Pepe had been lying, which I couldn’t believe, at ten that night I’d have Biddencourt and Gordinho cooped up at the top of a bloody great mountain with one narrow, winding road as their only line of retreat. Given this situation there had to be something my brilliant, incisive brain could come up with.
Calling in the police didn’t seem any better an idea than it had the previous day — Gordinho had far too much money for this solution to work — so I was left with Collins. When he’d asked for my assistance I’d given him the brush off, even laid violent hands on him at the football stadium, now I reconsidered my position. Presumably Collins was being paid to smash the cocaine operation and I’d lost all my objections to his earning his money. As soon as Serge phoned in I’d get him to inform Collins about the Casa Branca.
*
Serge didn’t contact me until two in the afternoon, by which time I was on the point of abandoning constructive thought in favour of unrestricted Bacardi drinking. Saved by the telephone bell I wrapped a towel round my waist and went to answer the summons. The Russian sounded distinctly apologetic.
‘I’ve lost him,’ he announced. ‘I’ve been waiting for him to come out of the hotel all morning. About half an hour ago I went in to check. The desk clerk said he left really early, before I was back on duty. If I’d had any sense I would have gone in a long while ago.’
To express my annoyance I resorted to basic English, of which I had an excellent command. Somewhat naturally Serge thought my anger was directed at him. ‘Im sorry, Philis,’ he said contritely.
‘Don’t be,’ I answered. ‘You couldn’t be expected to maintain a twenty-four hour watch by yourself. In fact you did well to stay with him for as long as you did. Have you managed to learn anything at the hotel?’
‘Your friend is an Englishman named Peter Collins,’ Serge told me, relieved that he could be of some use. ‘He booked in the day before yesterday for an indefinite stay. According to his passport he’s a journalist.’
‘Anything else?’ I asked, not wanting to disappoint Serge by admitting I’d known most of this before.
‘Not really. The desk clerk told me Collins made a phone call to London last night. It was to a man called Pawson.’
Serge’s report might provide useful confirmation of what I already knew but he’d still failed in the most vital part of his mission. Collins was on the loose, his whereabouts a mystery, and although I’d exonerated Serge from the blame I was certain I wouldn’t have lost him in similar circumstances. If I’d needed to catch up on some beauty sleep I would have slipped the desk clerk a substantial bribe to alert me in the event of Collins departing before I was ready. Serge would probably have done the same if he’d been a man of means but he must have been held back by the knowledge that it was my money he’d be using. Scrupulous honesty sometimes had its drawbacks.
‘Collins has to be found by nine o’clock tonight,’ I told Serge, keeping my other thoughts to myself. ‘I’ll phone the Indaia and leave a message for him; you get down to the General Camera and have a scout around there, especially the Arcadia. Recruit any help you think you need, expense is no object. When you find Collins tell him where to contact me, say it’s urgent.’
‘And if I don’t manage to find him?’
‘In that case ring me at nine,’ I instructed him, ‘but for God’s sake try not to let that happen. If necessary put every tart in the zona on my payroll.’
‘OK, I’ll do my best.’
On this score I had no doubts, only that seven hours might not provide sufficient time for Serge’s best to be good enough.
*
It was another scorchingly hot day, not that it was ever anything else during a Santos summer, with the lowering, oppressive humidity making conditions ten times worse. Midway through the afternoon came the deceptive, dead calm indicating the onset of a really big storm and I closed the balcony doors, jamming the sofa against them. Then came the wind, rushing in from the sea in a steady eighty mile an hour gale, the torrential rain hard on its heels. Less than half an hour later it was all over, the weather back where it had started even if the streets were flooded. There’d be another big storm within twenty-four hours and perhaps the next one would do something to clear the air instead of just threatening to blow in my balcony windows.
At least the storm did something to break the nervous monotony of waiting for Collins to contact me. Cooking a couple of steaks for Pepe and myself filled in some more time, then I devoted my attention to the second half of the Bacardi bottle, diluting it with Coca Cola although I was too much on edge to be in danger of getting drunk. I carefully nurtured my optimism, telling myself Collins was bound to be found, but nine o’clock came and when the phone rang it was Serge again.
‘You haven’t found Collins?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t,’ Serge admitted. ‘I know a lot of places he’s been and I know he’s looking for you but that’s all. What do you want me to do? Keep on looking?’
‘Do just that and try a few prayers while you’re about it. When you do run him down you can forget about my apartment, I’ve a message for him instead. Do you know where the Casa Branca is? It’s the restaurant at the top of the Sugarloaf or whatever it’s called, the one that was closed down.’
‘I know where you mean.’
‘Good. Well, that’s where I’ll be, all night if necessary. Tell Collins I should have a couple of people with me that he’d like to meet. They ship coffee on the Arcadia, make sure you mention that. OK?’
‘I’ve got it,’ Serge said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, and I’m not so sure Collins will like this part, especially if he’s been hiking round Santos all day. Tell him he’ll have to walk up to the Casa Branca. If anything should go wrong at my end it wouldn’t be wise for him to advertise his arrival.’
For the first time that day I heard Serge laugh.
‘I’ll tell him,’ he promised.
*
Lighting a Louis XV I walked through to the maid’s Balcony. It was getting dark and from the tenth floor elevation the lights of the city were below but to see the Casa Branca I had to crane my neck back and look upwards, right up to the summit of the towering hunk of rock erupting from the orderly pattern of houses. Biddencourt and Gordinho were in residence all night. For the first time I could remember lights were blazing from the ex-restaurant and if I’d possessed a p
air of binoculars I might have been able to see them. Since Collins had decided to go a-roving I’d have to go up there after all, to hold Biddencourt and Gordinho until he chose to make an appearance. According to Pepe they were already on edge and it might well take only one unforeseen incident to start them running. Like Pepe not arriving on schedule, for example.
Grunting at the exertion, I lifted Pepe from the bed, carted him through into the living-room and threw him on the sofa. When I’d untied him I retreated to an armchair.
‘You’ve just under half an hour to re-start your circulation and get dressed,’ I told him. ‘Then we’re going for a drive.’
‘Where to?’ Pepe asked suspiciously, grimacing with pain as he rubbed his wrists and ankles.
He was still displaying a lamentable lack of faith, probably thinking I intended to drop him in the harbour.
‘The Casa Branca. You’ve an appointment to keep.’
Although Pepe bent his head and continued rubbing I was convinced I’d glimpsed a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. It could just have been relief but I still didn’t like it. I far preferred Pepe scared, worrying about his life expectancy, because in this condition he was less likely to try anything cute. Now, although the nervousness remained, the craven cowardice of the previous night had completely disappeared. Try as I might I couldn’t think why, or how a trip to the Casa Branca could possibly help him. During the trip my gun wasn’t going to move six inches from his spine and I was the last person Biddencourt or Gordinho would expect to see. Nevertheless my uneasiness increased in direct proportion to Pepe’s gain in confidence. Laughing at myself I risked leaving Pepe for a minute while I collected the little popgun Melanie had given me. Stuck in my waistband under the sports shirt it pressed uncomfortably against my backbone but at least it was some form of insurance, however poor.
*
We left for the Casa Branca shortly after half past nine, Pepe driving while I sat behind him. Before we started I’d made my attitude known, promising Pepe that a single slip would be rewarded with a bullet in the head, no matter where we were. Pepe received the message loud and clear and displayed exemplary conduct as we drove towards our objective, working our way across the system of draining canals. When we began the winding climb up to Gordinho’s latest acquisition I hunkered down on the floor, keeping the gun pressed against the back of the driving seat. Apparently Gordinho had instructed Pepe to hire a car for the trip and I didn’t want anyone up above to realize he had company. As a bonus the manoeuvre also effectively prevented me from watching the road, something I was thankful for as it certainly wasn’t designed for people with weak nerves. At no point on the ascent was there room for two cars to pass in anything approaching comfort and if a motorist did have the misfortune to meet a vehicle traveling in the opposite direction the alternatives to a head on crash weren’t exactly inviting. Pull to the right and the car was heading straight for a rock wall, veer to the left and the prospect was even worse. The drop was sheer only in a few places, otherwise it was a forty-five degree slope of rock and scree with very few chances of halting the car’s progress before it was back at sea level. On our little excursion there was no danger of other traffic but the road still wasn’t the safest place in the world to be and I was relieved when the DKW spluttered its way on to the acre or so of flat ground at the top.
The Fall Guy Page 17