“Protecting their interests to what extent?” Da Silva asked curiously. “Are you saying that an American citizen can come down here and break our laws as he sees fit and get away with it? Because you’re protecting him? Or because the extradition treaty has a lot of fine print—which I admit it does?”
“Of course he can’t!” Wilson shook his head in disgust and then suddenly looked up. “Broke your laws?”
Da Silva nodded.
“But you said—”
“Of course, he may have also broken your laws, but that’s your problem.”
“Now I’m really confused,” Wilson said. “If the man committed a crime in the United States—and I assume from what you said he stole some bonds up there—how can you arrest him down here for breaking your laws? Under the terms of the extradition treaty?”
Da Silva grinned at him. “I didn’t say anything about the extradition treaty—you did. Anyway, it doesn’t make any difference; we have no intention of extraditing him. We intend to show him how foolish he was to escape being jailed in the United States. Much as I love Brazil, I have to admit our penitentiaries leave a lot to be desired. Poor rodent control and food almost as bad as this place.” He continued to smile evenly at Wilson through the smoke of his cigarette. “I’ll give him a week at Sao João dos Campos and I’ll bet he wishes he was in Leavenworth—or even Dannemora.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed; his fist on the table clenched unconsciously. “Hold it, Zé. Are you saying you plan on arresting an American for a crime he committed in the United States and trying him and jailing him—assuming he’s convicted—here in Brazil?”
Da Silva nodded complacently. He took one last puff of his cigarette and crushed it out. “In this case, we do. Because in his hurry to clean out the cupboard, our friend happened to take some Brazilian bearer bonds with him, which were there in escrow, but still legally the property of the Brazilian Government.” He leaned back. “And that, my friend, makes him subject to our law. And subject to arrest and trial by us the minute he steps off that plane.” He thought a moment. “Actually since it’s a Brazilian airline, even while he’s on that plane.”
Wilson stared at Da Silva a moment. The argument had taken most of the wind out of his sails. “If he’s guilty, that is.”
“That’s for the courts to decide,” Da Silva said calmly. “The New York police seem to think he is. At least they sent us a cablegram that arrived about midnight—and got me out of bed this early—to say just that.”
“But the United States also has a claim,” Wilson objected.
Da Silva grinned. “Possession is nine tenths of the law, and we’re going to possess him.” He shrugged. “You had him and lost him—is that our fault?”
There was a moment’s silence. Wilson sighed helplessly. “What a day! Up before even the cockroaches, a breakfast that would poison a cannibal, and now this! Whoever he is, and guilty or not, he’s bound to scream to the Embassy for help as soon as you pick him up, and I’m going to be stuck! As Security Officer I’ll have to look into it and waste a hell of a lot of time with it.”
“Look into it to your heart’s content,” Da Silva said politely. “We don’t intend to hide him away. All we intend to do is to arrest him, bring him to trial, and if he’s found guilty, put him away. Under our laws. For a crime committed against our country.” He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Do you mind?”
Wilson reached across the table for the bottle of cognac, a brooding look on his face. “Under the circumstances, I don’t suppose I can. At least without more information. I’ll have to get in touch with the Embassy and tell them what to expect.” He sighed deeply. “Damn! And I wanted to keep the next few days free for Jimmy. He won’t like being stranded in a strange town his first day here, but what the hell can I do? At least I’ll get him through customs and registered into his hotel, and then I’ll just have to leave him to his own devices for a while.”
“Jimmy?”
“Jimmy Martin, the fellow I’m meeting. He’s—”
“James Durwell Martin?” Da Silva’s tone was suddenly deadly serious.
“Yes. He—” The full import of Da Silva’s knowledge of the complete name suddenly struck Wilson. There was a moment’s silence as he stared at the other with widened eyes. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with scarcely contained anger. “You’re crazy!”
There was honest sympathy on the swarthy face of the tall Brazilian detective. “I’m sorry, Wilson—but that’s the man’s name.”
Wilson exploded. “You are absolutely out of your mind! Jimmy Martin? Supposed to suddenly be an international criminal? It’s impossible. Absolutely impossible! I’ve known Jimmy for years, and it’s ridiculous to suppose he’d take one thin dime that didn’t belong to him, let alone a portfolio of bearer bonds.” He snorted at the idiocy of the accusation. “Hell! I’ll bet anything you like he doesn’t even know what bearer bonds are.”
The black bushy eyebrows went up. “Working in a bank, and he doesn’t know what bearer bonds are?”
“Working in a bank? He—” It suddenly occurred to Wilson that he had no idea at all where Jimmy Martin had been working, nor what Jimmy Martin knew or didn’t know, nor what Jimmy Martin might have learned in the past six years, including the value of bearer bonds as well as the plane schedules to Brazil. His hand held the bottle of cognac rigidly a moment as if to squeeze information from it; then he slowly pushed it away from him. It looked as if the day was going to be filled with things to do, and a clear head would be far better for doing them.
Da Silva read his friend’s mind accurately. He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. We have no intention of railroading him. He’ll get a fair trial.”
Wilson shook his head stubbornly, miserably. “After sitting in a lousy jail for God alone knows how many months waiting for his trial.” He looked up. “This whole thing is wrong—you know that, don’t you, Zé?”
“Wrong in what way?”
“He’s innocent. I know the man.”
Da Silva shrugged. “I don’t try them and I don’t sentence them. I just arrest them.”
Wilson seemed to absorb this without even hearing it. His jaw hardened. “Zé—you know me. This man saved my life once. I’m not going to let him down. I’m going with you when you pick him up, and I’m staying with you when you take him downtown. And I won’t stand still for your trying to jump him from delegacía to delegacía to keep him out of sight while I’m arranging legal help for him. And also, none of this no-bail nonsense! Do you understand?”
Da Silva eyed him evenly. “We’ve been together on a lot of cases,” he said quietly. “I’ve always been glad you were on my side, and I’m sorry you’re taking this attitude now. But this man is going to be treated just as any other suspect would be: no better and no worse. He may be a friend of yours, but he’s an enemy to us, according to our laws.”
“But—”
“And that’s exactly the way it would be in the States if our positions were reversed. And you know it.”
He suddenly put up his hand, cutting into Wilson’s reply. The overhead loudspeaker had broken into violent squawks again, which Da Silva somehow seemed to be able to understand. He nodded his head, listening to the echoing sounds; the speaker cut off as quickly as it had begun. In the silence that followed, Da Silva drained his glass quickly, hissed loudly for the waiter, and rose to his feet.
“Here we go,” he said quietly, withdrawing a bill from his wallet and placing it on the table. “Varig Flight 906 is finally coming in.”
THREE
The giant glistening jet crept across the airport apron whining piteously, wheeling after the tiny man waving it into position with his red flashlight, snuffling at him suspiciously. It braked to a final halt, rearing back slightly as if startled by the sharply dropped arm. The ground crew hastily ran the cantilevered metal staircase into position as if by their alacrity they could somehow make up for the delay in the plane’s arrival. The aluminum stair
way nestled almost affectionately against the sloping maternal side of the huge airliner. An attendant trotted quickly up the steps and unlatched the curved door with a slight flourish, swinging it wide. The stewardess leaned out and handed him a folder, brushing her dark hair from her eyes. He took the papers, leaned forward to say something undoubtedly indelicate in her hear, and then with a wave and a grin trotted back down again. The stewardess laughed and stepped back out of sight. Da Silva moved forward, prepared to mount the staircase, but Wilson’s hand on his arm deterred him.
“Look, Zé—”
“What?”
“There’s no sense in making a Chinese fire drill out of this. I’ll point him out to you. There’s no need to embarrass him in front of a planeful of people.” He frowned at Da Silva. “This whole thing is a damned-fool mistake anyway.”
Da Silva looked at him with faint wonder. “You don’t have to point him out. Did you really think they forgot to send along a description?” He paused, considering, and then nodded sardonically. “All right. We’ll do it your way. We wouldn’t want to jeopardize Brazilian-American relationships by picking up a crook in public.”
Wilson bit back an angry reply. He looked up. Above them the passengers were slowly emerging like slightly befuddled moths crawling from some gigantic cocoon, blinking a bit at the brilliance of the Rio sun after the dimness of the cabin, hampered by the heavy overcoats made necessary by their departure from New York in below-freezing weather, hitching their books and magazines and overnight bags and other gear to more stable, if less comfortable, positions as they edged their way warily down the steep aluminum steps. They all exhibited that faint air of embarrassed bravado that always marks the passenger who has successfully touched ground after any air flight. A few scattered cries of welcome came from the small group that now lined the upper balcony of the terminal building; waving hands there were rewarded by squinting eyes that blinked painfully in the glaring sunlight, and shoulders that shrugged apologetically to indicate that the degree of overloading prevented more appropriate reply. Luggage was being delivered Caesarean-fashion from the swollen belly of the monster; fuel trucks were rolling into place to feed its enormous appetite; men in overalls clambered bravely over its wings and tweaked its tail; a station wagon marked with the name of a famous Rio restaurant attempted to thread its way through the mob of attendants that swarmed about the plane. The heat of the day was growing, spreading an invisible blanket of heavy, damp air through which all had to struggle equally.
Da Silva and Wilson were posted beside the bottom step, staring carefully upward at each travel-weary face as it descended. The passengers stepped to the firmness of the apron with relief, paused uncertainly to orientate themselves, and then staggered off in the direction of the building, barely glancing at the two men as they passed. The line wavered from the plane to the cool dark shadows of the terminal. They look like drunken ants on a forest trail, Da Silva suddenly thought; if the leader turned around and walked into the bay, they would all undoubtedly follow. He sighed. The poor souls all looked so tired. How much more relaxed the faces of criminals apprehended at dockside after a pleasant ship’s cruise!
The last of the queue edged his way from the plane; the stairway slowly cleared of the descending passengers. In the narrow opening above appeared the uniformed figures of the ship’s flight crew. The pilot, copilot and engineer paused in the doorway to speak to the cluster of stewardesses, laughed at something someone said, and then began to descend, each encumbered by his flight bag in one hand and his ever-present raincoat in the other. Da Silva frowned in sudden perturbation and swung to Wilson; the smaller man shrugged to indicate his equal puzzlement. Da Silva’s jaw tightened dangerously. He stepped forward, barring the way of the pilot, who was leading his crew down the steps.
“Captain?”
The young man glanced up, a frown of annoyance at this interruption crossing his face. He was tired. For ten long hours he had fought poor weather, suffered an unexpected and irritating delay in Recife, sweated out a suspicious-sounding reactor from Port of Spain to Belém, and—worse than anything else—had gone through the ennui that was a built-in part of his job. At the moment all he wanted was to clear customs quickly and get to his hotel for some rest. Let the crew that would take their place handle interruptions like this. His voice indicated a good part of how he felt. “Yes? What do you want?”
“I’m from the police. Have all of your passengers disembarked?”
The pilot stared at him blankly. Was he being delayed for nothing better than to listen to stupid questions such as this? My God! “Of course they’ve all disembarked! Do you think the crew would be leaving the plane with passengers still aboard?” He began to step to the apron, prepared to shoulder Da Silva to one side. “Now, may I go?”
Da Silva paid little attention to the tone and less to the request. His eyes were cold and hard. He stood still blocking the other’s passage; the pilot was forced to step back. “Are the lavatories checked before the crew disembarks?”
The pilot looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in frustration. “Obviously.”
“I see.” The tall, swarthy detective put out his hand. “And may I see your passenger manifest, please?”
The pilot had always known that the police were not too bright, but this lack of intelligence was really something. “The passenger manifest? It’s already gone inside. They take it from the plane before passengers are allowed to—”
The chief steward, from his position behind and above the flying crew, leaned down, one hand supporting him on the aluminum railing. “Hey, Choni! I’ll bet—”
The pilot frowned at this familiarity in public. “What?”
The steward nodded, convinced that he was right. “I’ll bet it’s got something to do with that passenger in Recife.”
A look of enlightenment temporarily removed the scowl from the young pilot’s face. He turned back to Da Silva. “The steward is probably right. Is all this in regard to a man named Martin?”
Both Wilson and Da Silva tensed. “Yes. What about him?”
The look of disgust returned to the pilot’s weary face; this time it was not directed at the police, but at passengers in general. If it weren’t for passengers, he thought, flying airplanes might not be too bad. “We paged him for fifteen minutes—held up the flight while they called him on the loudspeaker. In English,” he added, to be sure it was understood that they had left no stone unturned. “We even had the lavatory checked there.” He shrugged. “Anyway, he never showed up. We waited as long as we could, and then we left.”
“And why did you stop in Recife?”
“Why did we stop in Recife?” This was really too much! The pilot shifted his heavy flight bag to his other hand and smiled sweetly. “Because it happens to be a scheduled stop. For the same reason we stop at Port of Spain and Belém and Rio, and at—”
“Was this Martin booked through to Rio? Or Recife?”
The pilot glanced back at the other crew members, almost savoring the idiocy of the question, and then returned his eyes to Da Silva’s granite face. “Yes, sir. He was booked through to Rio. Otherwise why should we hold up a flight in order to wait for him in Recife? We don’t usually wait for passengers who get off the plane at their proper stop.”
“And a man can get off the plane at a place other than his destination and not have to go through customs? Or the police check?”
The pilot would have spread his hands helplessly had he not been encumbered by his bag and raincoat. “He can, but don’t blame me. The rules for passengers in transit are not set by the airline nor by the crew. They simply walk through to the waiting room.” He looked sardonically apologetic. “I’ll put in a complaint about the procedure if you want.”
The crew were grinning at each other at the pilot’s witty responses to the policeman’s ridiculous questions. Da Silva glowered darkly. He knew as well as the others that his questions weren’t particularly bright, but he could
n’t think of any questions more intelligent. He hesitated a moment and then swung around, raising a hand. One of the uniformed men on the police truck sprang down and hurried over.
“Sir?”
“There will be luggage on this plane in the name of Martin. James Martin. I want to see it in the airport manager’s office.” He raised his eyes coldly to the slightly smirking face of the pilot. “The airplane captain, here, will be very pleased to assist you in locating it.”
The smile faded abruptly from the thin face. “Now see here! You have no authority …”
Da Silva stared at him. Before that icy look the other closed his mouth. The tall detective turned away and walked swiftly in the direction of the terminal building; Wilson hurried to catch up. The crew were still grinning, but this time at the discomfiture of their chief. Wilson came up to Da Silva’s side.
“Now what?”
“Recife!” Da Silva muttered blackly. “Of all the goddamned disorganized lack of intelligence! Ten to one the police at Recife were never notified. Or at Belém, or anywhere else. A man buys a ticket to Rio, therefore he has to go to Rio! Of all the idiotic …!”
He pushed past the customs guard, shoved through the swinging doors to the large waiting room, and tramped angrily across the terrazzo floor, his jaw set. He twisted the knob of the manager’s office, marched in, and walked across the office to pick up the telephone on the desk, returning the surprised welcome of the airport manager with only a brusque nod. He dialed the operator and waited.
“Hello? Hello? I want to be connected with the Delegacía Policial Central in Recife. I want to speak with whoever is in charge at this hour. Yes, that’s right. What? My name is Da Silva and I am a captain of police. What? The number here is 68-89-01. Yes. What?” He listened to the operator for a few moments and then exploded.
The Shrunken Head Page 21