Always Kill a Stranger

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Wilson frowned at the telephone, his good spirits waning. Had he been interrupted in the middle of one idiotic conversation only to fall into another? It would be quite unusual, since Dona Ilesia was normally the most level-headed of women, but on a day like today, anything was possible.

  “The Air Force? About a sailor?” He stared at the instrument in his hand with a puzzled expression. “What does the Air Force have to do with sailors?” His tone implied that he would also like to know what the whole thing, or even any part of it, had to do with him.

  “You don’t understand, Senhor Wilson.” Dona Ilesia took a deep breath and tried again. “The captain of this ship, this freighter Santa Eugenia, has cabled them from Montevideo asking how his steward is getting along. And naturally they called me. Twice. And I don’t know what to tell them.”

  Wilson shook his head as if to clear it of fog, or the effects of too much liquor. “And you’re quite right, Dona Ilesia—”

  “Quite right? About what, Senhor Wilson?”

  “About my not understanding.” He clenched the receiver tightly, trying to make some sense of her words. “Since the hospital is involved somehow, the only thing I can imagine is that this sailor you’re talking about was, or is, a patient. I still don’t see where the Air Force comes into it, or why the captain of this freighter didn’t cable the hospital directly to find out about his man—”

  “Because he wouldn’t know which hospital had him. I mean, which hospital the Sea Rescue Squad would send the man to, once they got him to land. After all, there are over twenty hospitals in Rio. They might have sent him to—”

  “Ah!” Wilson drew a deep breath and smiled as the pieces of the mystery began to fall into place. He felt justifiably proud of having managed to make sense from the garbled clues he had been furnished. “Now I think I see what happened. You’re saying the Sea Rescue Squad took a sick sailor from this ship and then sent him to us; or rather, to you. And now his captain has arrived at his next port, and being the humanitarian he is, wants to know how he’s getting along. Actually,” he added, thinking about it, “not an unreasonable request. So what’s the problem?”

  “But—”

  “Ah!” Wilson said, going further in his analysis. “You’re worried about security, and whether it’s involved. What nationality was this ship?”

  “Portuguese, but—”

  “Portuguese, eh? Not Russian, eh? Well, in that case tell them what they want to know.”

  “But I can’t tell them!” Dona Ilesia was almost wailing. “You still don’t understand, Senhor Wilson! He never got to the hospital. He’s the one that disappeared from our ambulance.” Her voice changed subtly, becoming slightly accusing, as if in this manner to somehow share the blame. “You should remember, Senhor Wilson. You were there when I came into the Trustees’ meeting and told you all about it.”

  “Oh? Ah! So that’s the one, eh? I see.…” At long last the thing made sense. Why hadn’t the woman given him all the facts in the first place? He thought about the problem a moment and then nodded. “Well, I can see your problem. It’s a bit embarrassing, of course, but I suppose we can’t exactly keep it a secret. At any rate, no longer. Well, we’ll simply have to tell them the man never got to the hospital. I don’t see how they can hold us accountable in any way; he obviously got out of the ambulance of his own volition. So tell them …” He paused, frowning at his desk, trying to frame a possible answer in properly diplomatic language.

  “Tell them what, Senhor Wilson?”

  “I’m thinking. Let me see … Tell them that this sailor—”

  The expression on his face suddenly froze as the full import of the supervisor’s words came to him. His eyes came up to stare at the wall opposite, without seeing either its poor paint job or the modernistic daub selected by the Ambassador’s wife. A sailor? Taken from a ship at sea by the Sea Rescue Squad? Brought to land and placed in an ambulance without the blessings of either the police or Immigration? And then conveniently disappearing from the vehicle?

  “Senhor Wilson? Are you there? You were saying?”

  He came to life, his mind still racing. One hand tightened convulsively on the telephone receiver while the other reached swiftly for a pencil and then dragged a lined pad into place before him. “Don’t tell them a thing!” He realized his voice had risen and forced it lower. “Don’t tell them anything. I’ll handle the entire matter.” He lifted the pencil and lowered his voice even further, trying to sound noncommittal. “Now, who called you from the Air Force?”

  “A certain—One moment, please. I have it written down.” There was a brief pause. “Here it is. A Major Barbosa, from the Sea Rescue Squad. Their offices are at the military base, across from Galeão Airport. Would you like their telephone number?”

  “Please.” Wilson scrawled it down and then underlined it sharply. He thought a moment, shook his head, then nodded, and finally returned his attention to the telephone. “And the sailor’s name?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have it. This Major Barbosa didn’t—”

  “All right. Don’t worry about it; it’s not important. What was the name of the ship’s captain; the one that called—or cabled, rather? And the name of the ship again?”

  Dona Ilesia sounded even more apologetic, particularly in view of Mr. Wilson’s readiness to assist. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the captain’s name either. But”—her voice brightened—“I remember the ship was called the Santa Eugenia. They couldn’t stop at Rio because of the storm, but now that they’ve docked at Montevideo, the captain—I wish I could remember his name!—naturally wanted to know—”

  “Naturally,” Wilson said, cutting smoothly into the flow of words. He stared at his pad, wondering what other information he might elicit, and then decided he had gotten all he could get from the hospital supervisor. “I think that’s all I’ll need, then. I’ll take care of everything. And thank you.”

  “I owe you the thanks, Senhor Wilson. I really appreciate this.” Dona Ilesia’s relief was clear in her voice. “I honestly didn’t know what to tell this major. As you know, this is the first time in the history of Stranger’s Hospital that anything like—”

  “I’m sure,” Wilson said hastily. “And thank you again.”

  But Dona Ilesia was not finished. “—this ever happened. I hated to bother you, because I know how busy a man like you must be, especially working at the American Embassy, but I tried to reach Senhor Weldon first, and they told me he was out at Gavea playing golf.”

  “He usually is,” Wilson said idly, and then realized that this was no way to break off a conversation. He cleared his throat authoritatively. “Just don’t worry about a thing, Dona Ilesia. That’s what trustees are for.” And at long last we know what they’re for, he said to himself, and placed the receiver firmly back on its cradle.

  He swiveled his chair and stared at the wall in deep concentration, reviewing the facts she had given him. A sailor taken by helicopter from a ship in mid-ocean, brought to shore and delivered to an ambulance.… The whole thing, of course, might be exactly what it purported to be, a foreign sailor suffering from a bad appendix who panicked at the thought of being operated on in a strange place by strange doctors. On the other hand, there was also the chance that it was not. And in any event, the proper man to get in touch with under the circumstances would be his old friend Captain Zé Da Silva.

  He reached for the telephone again and then became aware that he was not alone. The gentleman from Zenia, Ohio, was clearing his throat in a manner that clearly indicated his resentment at being disregarded. Wilson flashed him a rueful smile to calm him, erased it immediately, and lifted the receiver.

  “Mary, would you please get Captain Da Silva?”

  “You mean that beautiful hunk of man? Get him? I’d love to, boss, but he—”

  “On the telephone, Mary! And we can discuss your problems some other time.”

  “Well, all right.…”

  He sat waiting impatie
ntly, his fingers drumming restlessly on the desk. The man across from him glowered at this continued rudeness, but Wilson paid him no attention. One smile was enough, especially with a nuisance like this one. At last the instrument gave him the connection he wanted and he took over from his secretary, leaning over his desk and speaking with intensity.

  “Zé? This is Wilson. I—”

  “Wilson?” At the other end of the line, Da Silva leaned back in his desk chair and smiled genially at the telephone. An assistant, waiting at his side with a pile of reports, was waved to wait. A conversation with his American friend was always relaxing, and after the stack of reports he had gone through that morning, a little relaxation would be welcome. Besides, a conversation with any member of the American Embassy staff at the present might also prove fruitful. “How are you? What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s—” Wilson glanced across his desk and then dropped into Portuguese. “It’s something I’d rather not discuss on the telephone. But it might be very important. How about dropping your work awhile and meeting me some place?”

  Da Silva glanced at the wall clock in his office, made an addition of ten minutes for its normal error, and frowned. He had always thought the police department had purchased the clock at an auction from an old English pub. “Can it wait until lunch? I think I can break away for awhile around noon. We can meet at Santos Dumont. Same place, same time.”

  “Unfortunately, the same food.” Wilson stared at the instrument. “I’d really like to make it sooner. Or wait! That might be even better. It will give me time to do some checking.”

  “Checking? On what?”

  “On disapproving one of your wild theories about one of the organizations I belong to.”

  Da Silva grinned at the telephone. “I’m sometimes wild, but my theories never are. Take all the time you want, and I wish you the best of luck. I’ll see you at noon.”

  “All right,” Wilson said, “but this time you’ll have to break all your rules and be prompt. I think I’ve run across something that might be very interesting. And very hot.”

  “Is she anyone I know?”

  “I’m serious. Be prompt.”

  “I’m always prompt.” Da Silva considered his words and then made a concession. “However, today I’ll be even prompter. How’s that?”

  “That’s fine. Let’s also hope it’s true. I’ll see you at noon, then. Ciao.”

  He depressed the button of the telephone in preparation for making another call, and then became aware that his visitor by now was glaring at him in full-blown anger, and even beginning to sputter. Wilson sighed and withdrew his hand from the instrument.

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—er—um; I’m sorry, sir, but something quite important has come up. I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up for awhile.” A better solution to the problem occurred to him. “Tell me, sir, how much longer do you plan on being in Rio?”

  “Only two days more.” It was almost a bark.

  “Oh? Ah, fine! I mean, we might still be able to find time to discuss the matter. Why not give all the information to my secretary? I’ll call her.” He clicked the button several times and then spoke into the instrument. A moment later Mary appeared in the doorway, glancing sympathetically at her boss. Wilson rose to his feet.

  “Mary, this is Mr.—um—this is a gentleman from Ohio who would like to give you some notes regarding a problem of some sort at the Miracopa Hotel. I wonder if you might—”

  “Of course, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Thank you.” Wilson held his hand out to his guest; the businessman from Zenia barely touched it. Wilson smiled. “It’s been a great pleasure, sir. Always pleased to be of assistance to a fellow American. What we’re here for, actually. I’m sorry we couldn’t chat longer.”

  His visitor merely growled deep in his throat.

  “And have a good trip home, sir. Good-bye.”

  Mary took the small man gently but firmly by the arm and led him from the room. Wilson’s forced smile disappeared the minute the door closed on the disgruntled gentleman from Ohio, and he dropped back into his chair, reaching for the telephone again. Good God! What was the man’s complaint? That the telephone operators at the Miracopa Hotel didn’t speak English? Wilson tried to picture a Brazilian complaining to his consulate in New York that the help at the Statler didn’t speak Portuguese, and then wiped the incident from his mind. He clicked the button.

  “Mary? Put me on an outside line and tell the operator there will be a series of overseas priority calls. And they have to be completed fast.” A faint smile spread across his face. “I have a luncheon date with your dream man, Captain Da Silva, and I’d hate to be late.…”

  Five

  Even at twelve-thirty, quite early by Brazilian standards, the mezzanine restaurant of the Santos Dumont Airport was beginning to crowd. Wilson pushed his way through the closely set tables, ignoring the combination clatter of silverware, hum of voices, and roar of aircraft that came from the runways beneath the open windows, until he managed to locate Da Silva seated alone near the railing overlooking the main floor of the long, modern building. He swung a chair back from the table and sat down, grinning at his friend. Da Silva merely glared back.

  “This is your idea of noon sharp?”

  Wilson looked at him innocently. “You mean I’m late?” He shook his head in wonder. “I knew if I stayed around here long enough, some of the national habits would rub off.” He looked across the table curiously. “By the way, how does it feel to be on time for a change?”

  “Terrible,” Da Silva admitted, and found himself smiling despite himself. “I know I wouldn’t like it as a steady diet.” He turned in his chair, snapping his fingers loudly for a waiter, his smile fading. “We’re going to have to make it short today, though. I left my desk piled to the ceiling with work. And I want to get a few more things organized before tonight. I’d also like to get some sleep tonight if I can.”

  “How are things going, by the way?” Wilson’s voice contained only polite interest, but his eyes were extremely steady on his friend’s face. “Any incidents over the weekend?”

  “No,” Da Silva said, “but we really didn’t expect any. The period we’re most concerned with starts tomorrow with that pointless motorcade, and lasts until these meetings are over. And also the man I’m most worried about, our friend Dorcas, won’t arrive until this evening. After which, whether he knows it or not, he’s going to be covered like a nut sundae.” He thought a moment. “Or whether he likes it or not.”

  He suddenly realized that no waiter was responding to his finger-snapping and reached out in a predatory manner, grasping a passing waiter by the arm. He ordered their usual cognac and then turned back to Wilson.

  “Now, what was on your mind that was so important that you arrived here a half-hour late to tell me?”

  Wilson looked across the table a moment and then leaned forward. “Do you remember that character that got lost from one of Stranger’s Hospital’s ambulances last week?”

  Da Silva stared at him. “Who?”

  Wilson remained patient. “You must remember. It was about a week ago—the last time we had lunch together. In the middle of that terrible storm, remember? Our ambulance picked him up and he was gone by the time they got him to the hospital?”

  “Oh!” Da Silva nodded, the incident returning to his mind. A faint grin creased his lips. “Now I recall it. He was the advanced appendix case. The one we decided would be suffering from double pneumonia or flat feet when you found him. And also flying. Well, with all those clues you should have found him, and from that glint in your eye I gather you did.”

  “No,” Wilson said quietly, “we didn’t find him. We didn’t even look for him. But I have a strong feeling that you will. And with all the men you can muster.”

  “You? Meaning me?”

  “You, meaning the entire Brazilian police force, in all its pristine glory.”

  Da Silva stared at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Overlook
ing your obvious ignorance as to what the word ‘pristine’ means—not to mention ‘glory’—just why should the Brazilian police waste time on this obvious nut? And even if we managed to catch him, what crime would we charge him with? Leaving the scene of an ambulance?” The thought seemed to amuse him; he snapped his fingers. “I have a better one. We arrest him for failure to pay his fare on a public vehicle.”

  “If you’re through trying to be cute,” Wilson said coldly, “I’ll tell you why. Because he happened to be a sailor, and the Air Force people were the ones who delivered him to our ambulance. From Galeão Airport,” he added significantly.

  Da Silva frowned at him and then looked up as a waiter bent to place a bottle and two tall-stemmed glasses on the table. The swarthy Brazilian acknowledged the service with a thankful nod, and then poured the two glasses full. He started to push one across the table and then hesitated. When he spoke his voice reflected his doubts.

  “Wilson, are you sure the reason you were late wasn’t because you stopped in a bar some place? You sound as if you may have had a couple too many as it is.”

  Wilson nodded, not at all perturbed. “Exactly what I thought when Dona Ilesia relayed the information to me.” He reached across the table, retrieving his drink, and then bent forward, his voice serious. Da Silva, from long experience with the smaller man, listened carefully. When Wilson assumed this attitude, it was usually wise to pay attention.

  “This man,” Wilson said quietly, turning his glass between his thin fingers and watching Da Silva’s face closely, “was a sailor—a steward—on a freighter called the Santa Eugenia. The ship was originally scheduled to dock here in Rio, but because of the storm, and because the ship was in bad balance because of its cargo, the captain decided to pass up both Rio and Santos and go directly to Montevideo.” He brought his glass to his lips, sipped, and set it down. “Well, just after the captain came to this decision—and had a notice posted to the effect for the benefit of the crew and the passengers—this steward supposedly became deathly ill. Suddenly and with no previous warning.…”