The Dead Man's Brother

by Zelazny, Roger

  I waited outside her door, listening. Her radio was playing—a piece of an opera I did not recognize. I heard no other sounds.

  Five or six minutes later I heard her walking about. Then came the sound of running water and the clinking of dishes and cutlery.

  Softly, I knocked.

  Her face broke into a smile when she opened the door and saw me, a smile that immediately reversed itself.

  "You’ve been hurt!" she observed, reminding me of something Eugene O’Neill once said concerning the emergence of appropriately trite words at times of pain and emotion.

  "I cut myself shaving," I said, pushing away her hand and stepping inside.

  She followed me to the sofa and watched me flop down.

  "Coffee?" she asked. "I have some hot."

  "Yes. Please."

  While she fetched it I adjusted my position, arm behind my head, so that I would not stain her upholstery.

  I watched her move about. She was wearing brown slacks and sandals, a white blouse, a dark apron printed with a peaceful harvest scene. Her long hair was brushed and shiny now, her face clean and composed. Moving on, I also saw that the apartment was now in trim shape.

  While much better to look at, her face had a certain clamp-jawed determination about it which made me cast her as one of the Furies. While it was good to see that she seemed physically normal again, I was not unhappy over her probably still bruised feelings either. They might come in handy.

  But she smiled again, faintly, when she brought the coffee.

  "Our situations seem reversed," she said. "What happened?"

  I ignored her question and asked, "Has anyone phoned or stopped by since last night?"

  "No," she said. "No one."

  "What about you? Did you go out or phone anybody?"

  "Only the gallery," she said, "to tell them I was not able to come in today."

  I lit a cigarette, leaned over the coffee cup.

  "Your head!" she exclaimed. "You need a doctor!"

  "I could use one," I told her. "But not now."

  She held her thumb and forefinger about three inches apart as she leaned forward.

  "It is about this long," she said, "and it looks deep. You should probably have stitches. I did not realize—"

  "You should see it from this side," I said, gulping coffee. "Listen. There is no time now. I am in danger. Someone just tried to kill me. The only reason I can see for it is my interest in Claude. Since you are my source of information on the subject, I believe that you are in danger also. I have no idea how they learned about me so quickly or who they are. I am going to fade from the scene now, though, and I think you had better come with me."

  "I do not understand," she said. Then she indicated my head. "But that is real enough. You feel that we are in immediate danger?"

  I nodded.

  "Every minute that we stay here—in this place, in this town. In this country, for that matter. That is why I want you to pack two suitcases immediately and be ready to leave with me in fifteen minutes."

  "That is impossible," she said, meeting my eyes for a moment, then nodding, "but I will do it.

  "You are somewhat conspicuous," she added.

  "I’ll clean up while you get your things together."

  "There is blood on your jacket and shirt. Your trousers are torn and stained."

  "I can’t go back to my hotel to change. Someone may be watching for me now."

  She looked away, then said, "Claude left a gray jacket here. He was about your size."

  "Oh? He liked to run around in civvies?"

  "When we were together, yes."

  "Did he leave anything else?"

  "Just some handkerchiefs, hose and underwear that were in the wash. An extra pair of shoes that would not fit in his bag."

  "I see. Yes, if you would get me the jacket and hunt up a couple of safety pins for my pantleg, I’ll start getting ready."

  I sat up straight. I ingested more smoke and coffee and tried to translate them into thought.

  I had a pocketful of travelers checks, a small amount of Italian currency, assorted credit cards and a thousand dollars, U.S., in a money belt I wear when I travel. For a time, therefore, there would be no pressing need for cash. My passport, fortunately, was still in my pocket. No problem there. I was in a position to move quickly.

  I watched Maria rummage through her closet, emerging at last with a dark, shaggy jacket that looked as if it would do nicely. She brought it to me, and as I tried it on for size she asked me, "Where is it we are going?"

  "Brazil," I replied. "Not a bad fit."

  "Brazil? To see Claude’s brother?"

  "Most likely. The answers are probably where the money is, and he happens to be in the same place. By the way, do you have his address?"

  "No, but I have his telephone number. Claude wrote it in my directory."

  "São Paulo?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Get it, find those pins and go pack."

  She hesitated.

  "Ovid," she said, "I trust you, or I would not be going with you. But I want to know more about this. What is happening, and why are you involved? Why was Claude killed? For the money he took?"

  "I do not know why Claude was killed," I said, "though I am certain it has something to do with the money. This is one of the things we must find out."

  "How much was it, Ovid? How much did he take?"

  "Three million dollars, give or take a few cents."

  She drew away from me, then sat down and stared at the floor.

  "I do not believe you," she said finally. "They audit those records. There are many ways to check. A man would be found out—quickly."

  "Claude was found out. That’s why he ran. Also, he was very clever and in a position of extreme trust. That’s why it took them so long to find out."

  "So much money…" she said. "It is fantastic."

  "Yes."

  "Why was there no mention in the papers? Or on television?"

  "The Church is keeping it quiet. Bad publicity."

  "What is your part in all this?"

  "Too long a story," I said, shaking my head. "It will have to wait."

  She smiled as she turned away.

  "It is good to know that he was the best," she said.

  It took us more than fifteen minutes to get ready. It took a little over twice that time. I spent a large part of it soaking, sponging and rinsing my scalp. I succeeded in removing most of the blood, but I also got the thing to bleeding again several times. I finally staunched it with a wad of toilet tissue which I left in place till we were ready to go. Regretting the lack of a hat, I settled for slicking my hair back to cover the offending area. I pinned the tear in my pantleg and sponged off most of the dirt. I tried soap and water on my shirtfront, but once a bloodstain always a bloodstain. I would have to keep the jacket buttoned.

  A telephone call assured us two seats on a morning flight out. We called for a cab then and locked up the apartment. Emil Bretagne’s number in my pocket, I hefted both suitcases—the lighter in my right hand—and we started down the stairway, me leading. We had made the turn at the landing and were partway down the second when we heard the distant ringing of a telephone.

  "It’s mine," she said, turning. "I can tell. Should I get it?"

  "Go ahead," I said, "and you’re still sick, you haven’t seen me and you’re not planning any trips."

  She nodded and hurried back. I continued on to the next landing, rested the luggage and my arms, waited. There was no one at the foot of the next stair.

  As I debated lighting another cigarette, I heard a door slam overhead, then the sound of descending footsteps.

  "Nobody," she said, swinging into sight. "There was no one there when I answered it."

  "Was there a dial tone or a click?"

  "No. Just silence."

  "Any sounds of breathing, shuffling of feet—little noises?"

  "I could not tell. I was breathing rapidly myself. Possibly, though."


  "Come on," I said, hefting the suitcases and moving toward the stair. "Is there another door to this place?"

  "At the rear of the basement," she replied. "What is wrong?"

  "Later," I said, moving fast as I could.

  There came a tingling in the soles of my feet, the palm of my hands and the nape of my neck. As I reached the ground floor and headed toward a door Maria indicated at the rear of the hall, I noticed that my mouth had already gone dry. I read somewhere that this is a very old reflex, a device to help kill your scent when fleeing predators. It is instructive to consider the body’s attitude toward a few thousand years of civilization.

  I slowed when I reached the door, let Maria open it, find the switch and lead the way down toward the faint light that occurred. The steps were rickety and steep. The single light bulb hung like a dirty piece of fruit above a tool-cluttered table. We picked our way among damaged furniture, broken appliances, filthy cartons tied with dusty cords, a bust of Mussolini and stacks of moldering periodicals, occasionally encountering an untenanted spider web.

  At last we reached a door, which Maria unbolted with some effort. I led the way up a crumbling brick stair and into a wide alley, illuminated here and there by the spillage from rear windows.

  "Which way?" I asked. "I don’t want to make it easy on them."

  "Go right," she said. "What was it about the phone call?"

  "My evening began that way, and three men are dead already."

  "Did you…?"

  "Yes. Two of them."

  She guided me up the alley and into a side alley then, silently.

  After several more turnings, I was not certain as to my direction. I was cold and my shoulder throbbed each time my heel struck the ground. My headache kept my mind off it part of the time, though.

  A few rats hurried to avoid us. The sound of traffic was a faraway thing. I counted two hundred more paces, then said, "Wait."

  I lowered the suitcase to the ground. I stood panting and rubbing my shoulder. My armpits were damp and my feet were sore.

  Suddenly I felt her hand on my own. Her touch was cool.

  "You are shaking," she said. "You were hurt and you are tired. I will take the suitcases now."

  "Just let me catch my breath," I said.

  But she picked them up and I did not protest. I was not sure how far I could have gotten with them.

  "How much farther to a main drag?" I asked, following her.

  "Oh, it is not far," she said.

  But she lied. At least, it seemed a good distance before we emerged on a lighted street and I was cheered by the sight of people and the passage of traffic.

  "There is a café in the middle of the next block," she said, turning left.

  "Good."

  It was a quiet, neighborhood bar, only partly filled. We took a corner table near the door and stashed the luggage behind us.

  "Quickly," I said, "get to the phone and call the police. Give them your name and address and tell them you think someone is trying to break into your apartment. Then hang up. We may be able to discomfort the enemy. Then call us a cab."

  "Very good," she said, and left me.

  I ordered two brandies in her absence and drank hers too, before she returned. I ordered two more and lit a cigarette.

  "All right," she said, sliding into the seat across from me, "I’ve done as you said."

  "Good."

  "What is going on?" she whispered. "You never used to get involved in things like this, Ovid. Million dollar thefts…Killings…"

  "I know—and I don’t much like the idea now. It’s too late, though. Something I’ve done has apparently scared somebody besides myself. It seems you’re included—because of Claude, because of me. You were safe till I showed up, though, so I must be the catalyst. Why, I don’t know—and I need to know. I’ve been searching my mind, going over everything I’ve done since I arrived in Rome, and I can’t find the answer. Maybe I’m too sleepy, or it’s something too obvious. We have to find out though, so we can stop whoever it is before they reach us. That means we have to run now, keep them at a distance until we can strike back."

  "You mean, kill them?"

  "If necessary," I said, "though I hope something less strenuous will suffice."

  "Will they pursue us out of the country, d’you think?"

  I took a sip of my brandy.

  "My guess is yes," I said. "If they find out where we are, I’m sure they’ll make another try. If it is so important as to warrant drastic action, they will be looking for us. The thing has international ramifications and the trail leads to Brazil."

  "You are certain of this?"

  "Fairly."

  "Then we may be heading toward something even worse than what we seem to be leaving behind."

  "Possibly. But this time I’m forewarned."

  "They will be, too—and you say they almost got you tonight."

  "That’s right."

  "What saved you?"

  "Luck. A gun jammed."

  She dropped her eyes and stared at my hands. Her hair was somewhat out of place, her face soft in the dim light of the table lamp. At that moment, I realized she looked quite lovely.

  She glanced up and smiled self-consciously when she realized I was staring at her.

  "Luck," she said, then raised her glass in a small salute.

  A moment later, her face clouded once more.

  "Did you know either of them?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Who was the third?"

  "A man named Martinson," I began, then wondered how much I should tell her. I trusted her, but—Well, she was a part of the thing and I was not certain where all her edges met with the rest of the picture. I could see no real reason for not telling her, but then I saw no reason for telling her either. When it came to the fact that I was an unwilling shill for the CIA, she had no real need to know.

  "…he was a friend," I finished. "I was visiting him when they came for the hit."

  "Oh," she said. "Then it is a matter of vengeance also?"

  "Hardly," I said, "now. There were only the two of them. They’ve paid."

  Her eyes flashed, something primeval, and she licked her lips twice as I gave her an abbreviated version of what had occurred. A childhood filled with vendetta chronicles? A passion for elementary justice? Or just plain violence? I could not tell. But her face had become more animated, had changed completely from the Madonna-like aspect she had worn moments earlier. She had cursed softly when she realized the significance of the dead telephone.

  "I hope the one in the car was the man in Lisbon," she said.

  I took another sip of brandy and sat there, wave after gratifying wave of numbness washing over me, in the coat of the dead man I had come to Rome to find, until the cab came for us and I forced my bones erect, unwilling last-minute Lazarus, and into the world again.

  *

  I’d slept, in the cab that took us to the airport, in the rim-less peace symbol that slit the Atlantic skies. Maria had shaken me awake for breakfast; I had growled, mumbled, eaten, taken two aspirins, leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes again. Somewhere there had been a small nightmare which I could not remember. There had been no problem in obtaining the tickets, we had stashed the luggage and made ourselves inconspicuous till flight time. We had opted to remain in the terminal rather than ride around in a cab or take a room for the intervening hours—the idea being that even if we were spotted there, we would be safer with lots of humanity around us. No one apparently spotted us; or if someone did, all the things I hated about airports had rendered him impotent. Maria had removed her makeup, bound her hair beneath a scarf, donned glasses and hidden behind a book. We sat near to each other, though not together, while we waited, and I managed to doze behind a newspaper. Between then and boarding, when the shops were opened again, we obtained a small flight bag, shaving equipment, several handkerchiefs, a beret and a cheap, blond wig. While they were not much, the last two were the best items I c
ould come up with in the way of disembarkment uniforms.

  Now came a gentle nudge.

  "Do you want another cup of coffee?" Maria was asking.

  "Yes, please," I said, opening my eyes and raising my cup.

  After I took several sips, she said, "Did you know that you snore?"

  "Only when I can’t sleep on my side," I said. Which is how I always do it, unless the alternative is unavoidable.

  I sighed, lit a cigarette and stared out the window, hoping she would take the hint. I did not feel like talking.

  She did, as moments later I heard the flutter of a magazine in her lap.

  I do not like having to trust anybody, and I had thus far been forced to make an exception in her case. I had had no opportunity to check on her Lisbon story. For a time now, I would have to operate on the assumption that it was correct. Though I wanted details, I was in no position to get them. I would have to trust to my own feelings that a girl who had once hinted that she felt some affection for me, who now shared a peril with me, could be trusted. Shaky. Full of holes. But it was all I had.

  I speculated as to my own status. For all I knew, the corpses of Martinson and his killer might not have been discovered yet. I had left the place closed up, and if no one had seen me firing after the car, it was possible that they were still where I had left them. With my fingerprints all over the place and the tape of our conversation on the recorder, of course.

  …which meant that the Roman authorities would be wanting me for questioning, at least.

  On the other hand, the embassy would be notified, which might result in their arranging to have things kept quiet while they screamed to Foggy Bottom for advice.

  …which, of course, would result in some clucking and preening, as the chicken eventually marched in, perched on Collins’ desk and laid its egg.

  Either way—by Roman cops or the CIA—the passenger lists for outgoing flights would be checked. As my passport bore my name, so did the passenger list. But the initial chores of finding the dead man and identifying me as the person wanted would have delayed them sufficiently, I hoped, for me to have landed and faded by then.

  I had wanted out of Italy before I ventured any contact with the CIA again. They had done such a lousy job taking care of me, as well as their own man, that a communications lag seemed a good idea. For all I knew, the information leak that had led to the killing could be in their own shop. Whatever, I was not about to extend any trust in their direction.