The Shrunken Head

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “No, madam—or miss, whichever it is! You listen to me! There will be no delay, either of six hours or of six minutes. You will interrupt one of the present calls and you will give me the line. No, madam, I do not care how important they are or how long they waited for a line. You will tell them that this is an emergency, a police emergency.… No, madam, I will not wait to talk to the supervisor. I will wait only for my call to go through immediately, or—” his voice dropped chillingly—“or I will have this call traced and discover just who is giving me all this trouble with endless arguments, and then …” He paused significantly.

  And then what? Wilson thought with an inner smile. He had walked over and was leaning against one corner of the manager’s desk. Then what will you do? Drop lightning on them? Fortunately the necessity never arose. Da Silva nodded at the instrument.

  “Good,” he said. “I thank you for your cooperation.” He cupped the receiver in one large hand and winked at the airport manager and Wilson. The outburst seemed to have relieved his anger and to have restored his good humor. “Telephone operators! And airline personnel! As soon as somebody gets in a position of authority with the public …” A series of voices mingled unintelligibly on the line, interspersed with various clicks, groans, and weird howls. One finally dominated—it was the Recife operator. Da Silva opened his mouth to speak and then discovered that the Rio operator would be only too happy to handle the details for him; it was quite evident that having decided to cooperate she was going all the way. He relaxed. At last an authoritative voice came on the line, alternately fading and gaining in strength over the distance.

  “Lieutenant Pedroso here. Who speaks?”

  Da Silva nodded in pleased satisfaction. Pedroso was a man he knew, liked, and respected. He removed his hand from the mouthpiece of the instrument. “Pedroso? Arnaldo? Da Silva here, from Rio. Can you hear me?”

  “Barely. Who speaks?”

  “Da Silva, from Rio.”

  “Da Silva? Zé Da Silva?” The voice became enthusiastic, albeit still weak from the connection.

  “Yes. I—”

  “You are here in Recife? Wonderful! When did you get in?”

  “I am not there in Recife. I am in Rio. I need—”

  “Oh.” The voice clearly demonstrated disappointment but then regained its enthusiasm. “And how are you? How is your mother?”

  “Everyone is fine. What I’m calling about—”

  “She’s a very remarkable woman, your mother. Do you remember the last time I was in Rio and you took me out to your mother’s house? I remember we were talking about—”

  Da Silva cast his eyes ceilingward and then brought them back to the telephone. “Arnaldo! We can discuss my family some other time. Right now I need some information.” He spoke loudly and clearly, attempting by enunciation and volume to overcome the deficiencies of the Brazilian telephone service. “A man named Martin, M-A-R-T-I-N, James Martin, arrived in Recife on Varig Flight 906, sometime early this morning. He was booked from New York through to Rio, but he left the flight at Recife. Without his luggage. We want—”

  “Mar-tin?” Pedroso pronounced it in the Latin style.

  “No. Mar-tin. With the accent on the first syllable. James Martin. Do you have it now?”

  “Wait a second. Hold it.” There was a little click as the telephone was laid down on the hard desk, followed by several moments’ silence. When the lieutenant’s voice returned to the line there was profound satisfaction in it. “James Martin. You know, Zé, I thought the name sounded familiar.”

  Da Silva’s eyes lit up. He gripped the receiver more tightly. “You received notification from the New York police that he was on that plane? And to pick him up?”

  “The New York police? No. We—”

  “Then from the Rio police?”

  “From no police. We—”

  “Then why is it familiar?”

  Despite his deep affection for Da Silva, Pedroso almost exploded. “If you’ll let me get a word in, Zé, I’ll tell you! It’s familiar because an attaché case, a briefcase, was found out on the beach, and it had one of these little name tags on it—and the name was James Martin.”

  “Found on the beach?”

  “Yes. Some character, a drunk who sleeps out there, I guess, says he was walking along when he saw it. I’m sure he would have kept it and then tried to sell it—it’s made out of good pigskin—only it had blood on it, and he got scared. So he—”

  “Blood?”

  “That’s right. So he turned it in to the patrol car that goes out that way every couple of hours. I guess he knew that if he tried to sell a bloody briefcase we’d hear about it, and he would have been in a jam.”

  “Did he see anything?”

  “Not a thing. He says the beach was quiet—nobody around—and this bag lying on the sand,”

  “Any sign of a fight?”

  “The patrol car says there was some more blood on the beach, but no sign of any real struggle, although I suppose that doesn’t mean too much; the sand is pretty scuffled-looking anyway.”

  “And the briefcase,” Da Silva went on, “what was in it?”

  “Nothing. It was empty. Just this tag with the name on it. Do you want me to send it down to you?”

  “Hold on a moment.” Da Silva placed his hand over the mouth of the receiver and looked at Wilson somberly. “They found an attaché case on the beach up at Recife. It has Martin’s name on it. And blood.”

  Wilson had moved away from the desk and was standing watching the other tensely. “I heard what you said.” He thought a moment. “Tell them to hold the briefcase. I’m going up there.”

  Da Silva nodded and spoke into the telephone again. “Arnaldo—hold the case there, and send some men out to the beach to keep people away from where it was found. And put out the word on this Martin—airport, bus station, the docks—everywhere. We want him. Here’s his description.” He rattled it off. Wilson, listening, wondered at the other’s ability to retain detail so clearly. It was definite that Da Silva had not needed Wilson to point the man out to him. Da Silva paused a moment and then continued. “And, Arnaldo, I’m coming up there. I’ll be there—” he glanced at his wristwatch and then realized that his arrival also depended on airline schedules—“as soon as I can get there. I’ll have a call put through to you as soon as I leave. You’ll meet me at the airport?”

  “Of course. With pleasure. But what’s it all about?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. In the meantime, see if you can pick him up. Até logo.”

  He hung up, thought a moment, and then swung to the airport manager, who had been watching the scene quietly and curiously from behind his broad desk. “When’s the next plane for Recife?”

  The manager’s eyes went to the clock on the wall. He calculated. “Air France in an hour, if it left Buenos Aires on time. If not, your best bet would probably be the Varig flight for London; it stops at Recife. That’ll be out of here about ten.”

  “Get me a reservation on the first one to leave, will you? Or on both, if necessary. And once I leave, call Recife—Lieutenant Pedroso. All right?” The manager nodded. “Thanks.” Da Silva picked up the telephone again and dialed his home number.

  “Make those reservations for two,” Wilson said to the manager, and moved to the door. “I’ll make my calls from outside. I’ll be right back.”

  Da Silva nodded and spoke into the telephone to his maid. “Maria? Captain Da Silva here. That bag I keep packed—I want it at Galeão Airport as soon as possible; it must be here within an hour. Have the garage boy bring it in a cab. He can drive the Jaguar back.” That would get action; the garage boy delighted in driving the Jaguar, if only within the confines of the garage. Da Silva thought a moment more. There was always the possibility …

  “And, Maria, my passport. In the drawer of my desk. Yes, that’s right.” He hung up, satisfied that his instructions would be carried out to the letter. Maria had long since ceased to be surprised by
anything her employer did, and least of all by the hours he kept or the unexplained absences that somehow seemed to be an essential part of his job; she was satisfied to work for a man like Captain Da Silva and not to ask questions. Had there been more men like this in her native state of Ceará, she would probably never have left it.

  There was a hesitant tap on the door. Da Silva walked over and opened it. The uniformed policeman standing in the doorway lowered his eyes to the suitcase in his hand and then raised them again, his glance alert, his chest out.

  “There was only the one bag in that name, Captain.”

  “Good.” Da Silva took the bag and then looked at the man. “You will now go back and inform the sergeant that you can all return to barracks. Our man was not on the plane.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man saluted and withdrew, nearly bumping into Wilson on his way out. Wilson closed the door behind him and walked over. Da Silva lifted the bag to the desk, laid it on its side, and pressed the latches. It had not been locked; under the pressure of its contents the lid sprang ajar and the tall Brazilian detective folded it back. He bent over the nearly arranged clothing, studying it a moment, and then began carefully to unpack the case. He pressed the shirts on top between his hands to determine if they held anything folded within them and then laid them aside. The handkerchief and socks were treated similarly. A pair of pajamas followed, revealing a neatly folded suit beneath. Da Silva took out the jacket, ran his hands through the pockets, and then picked up the trousers, shaking them out and holding them up. Wilson frowned at him.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Da Silva shrugged. “Nothing.” He looked up. “Would this be his size?”

  Wilson studied the pair of trousers a moment and then nodded. “Just about. Why?”

  “For no reason. I just like to check everything.”

  He folded the trousers and put them aside, studied the labels inside the jacket a moment and then laid it over the pile of clothing accumulating on the desk. At the bottom of the suitcase were a couple of paperback novels and a fitted case, and below that just the bare lining of the case. He riffled the pages of the books, unzipped the case and studied the contents, and then zipped it shut again. Da Silva turned his attention to the two small pockets in the cover of the case. One contained some folded neckties, and he placed these with the rest of the booty and plunged his hand into the other pocket. He grunted in partial satisfaction as he brought out a small photograph.

  Wilson came to stand beside him, studying the picture over his shoulder. It was one of those snapshots obviously taken by a street photographer, and it showed a man with a girl on his arm, striding along an avenue. Wilson nodded his head.

  “That’s New York. Fifth Avenue in the Fifties. There’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral behind them.”

  Da Silva was looking at the two people in the picture. The man was hatless and stocky and he had a broad smile on his face; his hands were in his overcoat pockets and the camera had caught him with one foot partially lifted, taking a step. The girl’s head was turned toward the man, her long hair streaming to one side; she seemed to be questioning him about something. The wind had whipped her coat open, revealing a figure that even on that small scale was obviously generous.

  Da Silva turned to Wilson. “Is that Martin?”

  Wilson took the photograph from his hand to inspect it at closer range. “It isn’t too clear, but that’s Jimmy, all right. Older than I remember him, but still Jimmy.”

  “And the girl?”

  Wilson shrugged. “I haven’t any idea.”

  Da Silva took the picture again and studied the back; it carried the name of a studio and a small date in one corner. The picture had been taken about six weeks earlier. Beneath it Jimmy had written in his broad scrawl, “Me and the doll.” Da Silva looked at the front again a moment and then tucked the picture into his pocket. He replaced the clothing in the suitcase, snapped the lid shut, and looked at Wilson with a sigh.

  “Nothing of any great help there.”

  “Of course there isn’t anything of great help there,” Wilson said. His eyes were stony. “What did you expect? A written confession? Damn it, this whole thing is a big mistake. Something’s happened to Jimmy—the fact that he didn’t come to Rio, and that blood on his briefcase … And all you can think about are those damned bonds! Which I know he never stole in the first place.” He glowered. “All this business of telling that lieutenant in Recife to watch the buses and the planes …”

  Da Silva raised his eyebrows. “Our orders are to pick him up and to recover the bonds. What did you think we were going to do?”

  “You might have told your friend to check on hospitals!”

  A faint smile crossed the saturnine face of the tall detective. “Don’t worry. Pedroso will check hospitals, hotels, restaurants, bordellos, bars, movie houses, libraries, and a lot of other places. I told you, we’re out to pick this man up.”

  “And the blood doesn’t impress you,” Wilson said, trying to keep his voice from rising. “Or the fact that his empty briefcase was found out on the beach.”

  “Frankly,” Da Silva said, “no. Or rather, it impresses me but not in the way I think you mean.” He glanced at his wristwatch and then back at the rigid face of the smaller man. “Since we’ve got quite a few hours until we finally get to Recife, how about declaring a truce and forgetting the subject for a while?”

  “Forgetting!”

  “And going up to the bar, right now?”

  “So you can build up some Dutch courage for the flight?” Wilson’s voice was bitter.

  Da Silva’s stern face broke into a grin. “That doesn’t sound like a very trucelike tone,” he said with mock reproval, and then he nodded. “But, since you asked an honest question, I’ll give you an honest answer. Yes.”

  Buy Brazilian Sleigh Ride Now!

  About the Author

  Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.

  Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1963 by Robert L. Fish

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

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  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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