The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “What should I do, stay home and play with my grandchildren?” He looked at them without seeing them. “That was in 1931. We were a large family, a happy family. I had my wife, two sons, my father, two uncles on his side—his brothers, you know. I had an aunt and an uncle on my mother’s side, plus I don’t know how many cousins. How many is that? I don’t know…. Anyway; three dead in the streets…” He was staring at the past, alone. “No. was not always fat. For years I couldn’t eat enough. I ate everything; everything…. But I could work, I was strong. I was little but I was strong; I could work. Six years. Six years in the Zwangsarbeitslager! But I was strong, or I’d have gone up the chimney long ago….” His eyes slowly cleared, returning to the room from the haze of the past; he looked at Da Silva almost blindly. “You think you know my dossier? Someday I will tell you…”

  He fought the bitterness and won, sighing and rubbing his face. “Well, anyway, I am involved. We spent the last three years and a good deal of money developing this Mr. Hans Busch. He is quite real to many people, at least by name. Only his face is unknown; that was necessary. Maybe it is all for nothing, I don’t know. But we did… This Mr. Busch is a Nazi through and through, and if he had not escaped to Brazil when he did, he might very well have been deported to Germany for his sins….”

  He paused and stared grimly at the other two. “And you?” he asked, directing his question to Da Silva. “How did you ever get involved in a cloak-and-dagger affair like this? You are not a Jew.”

  Da Silva stared down at the hunched, bitter man on the couch. “I could answer as you answered,” he said quietly. “I could simply say, ‘I am a Brazilian.’ But it wouldn’t make sense to anyone except another Brazilian. My dear friend Ari, you don’t know Brazil, but when you do you will know why I am involved.” He became aware of the unlit cigarette in his hand and flung it into the wastebasket, seating himself at Ari’s side in almost the same motion.

  “Let me tell you something about Brazilians,” he said. “We have never been in concentration camps, and we have never put others in them. And with God’s help, we never will.” He paused, selecting his words with care. “We Brazilians are foolish, playful, happy, improvident, reckless, gay; what you will. But we are not intolerant.” He turned his head to me silent listening man beside him, suddenly feeling strongly the need to be understood. “You see, most of us can’t afford to be. My family has been here in Brazil for over two hundred years. My first ancestor who came here, came from Portugal, and went into the interior. Our family started there. It was a long time until these first settlers began bringing their women with them from home. So how much Indian blood do I have? How much Negro, or Dutch? I may be part Jewish for all I know. I haven’t the faintest idea!

  “Today my family is a known family in Brazil; if you will pardon my lack of modesty, we are a very well-known. family, a great family. But can those of us who have the honor to belong to this great family be anti-Indian, for example? Or anti-Negro? Or anti-Dutch?” He laughed shortly. “We Brazilians are in no position to be anti-anyone! We might very well be cutting our own throats! Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

  Ari looked up at him wonderingly. “I think I understand.”

  “You will understand better when you have been here longer.” Da Silva rose, smiling down on the other in compassion. A twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Though I confess,” he added slowly, “that my sister would die before she admitted anything but the purest of Portuguese blood in her veins. But even she would never be able to understand discrimination against anyone for race, or color, or religion.” He sighed deeply, and changed the subject with that rapidity that never ceased to confuse even his most intimate colleagues. “Well,” he said, “that’s that! Now let us see where we stand. An, you return to your hotel. It should not be too long before they begin falling over your feet. And I shall be Big Brother, but not to such a degree as to frighten the little men away. We shall see what we shall see!”

  “And how will we be able to contact one another?”

  Da Silva frowned. “No confidential phone calls from the Mirabelle, my friend Ari! You were put there because an unusual number of their guests seem to come from either Santa Catarina or Rio Grande do Sul. And because if you ask for whiskey in German, you always seem to get the legitimate stuff.” He smiled broadly. “I suppose, in the best tradition of cloak-and-dagger, we should have a password.

  Something dramatic and unintelligible, like the name Wilson.”

  Ari got to his feet, smiling, getting into the mood of the game. “Why not the name Murray?”

  Da Silva grinned. “Wonderful! It would be the perfect example that they also serve who only sit and do nothing. However, much as I should like to give Mr. Murray two opportunities in his life to be useful, I’m afraid I shall have to let this one slide.” He frowned in sudden seriousness. “I think the best idea would be for me to bring you in for questioning every now and then. I won’t be able to do it very often, but I hope that we won’t have to.”

  He walked Ari to the door, his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder in a gesture of intimacy. “Well,” he said, “that’s that, then. Good luck.”

  Ari paused, his hand on the knob. “And my passport?”

  Da Silva laughed. He took the document from his pocket and passed it over with a slight bow. “All in perfect order, Mr. Busch. Goodbye and good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Ari said, his fingers tightening on the knob, reluctant to leave the warm friendliness of the room. He turned to the silent nondescript man seated at the enormous desk. “Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Before you leave, Mr. Schoenberg,” said the quiet man, twisting a pencil in his fingers, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.” He raised a hand hurriedly. “Nothing official. Simply out of curiosity.”

  “Certainly,” Ari said, puzzled. He stepped back from the door.

  The nondescript man played with the pencil in his hand as he spoke. Exactly what was the reason for that briefcase chained to your wrist, Mr. Schoenberg? You might have known it was bound to arouse suspicion.”

  “But it was meant to,” Ari said. “Not suspicion, exactly, but curiosity. I wanted them to remember me and my briefcase, but only, of course, after I had cleared customs and gone to the hotel. When they read about the embezzlement, I wanted everyone to remember the man with the briefcase chained to his wrist.” He almost sounded apologetic. “The news release was not supposed to be made until this afternoon; somebody slipped up.”

  “When I heard about it,” Da Silva said, “I had to work fast I thought it odd that you would want to be searched, and that is the only conclusion I could come to at first when the release came. But when I saw you…” He laughed.

  “Another question, Mr. Schoenberg,” the quiet man continued, almost as if nobody had spoken. “When Zé’s friend Mr. Gunther searched you, were you wearing a money belt? Or anything under your clothes that might have served to hold money?”

  He was puzzled. “A money belt? No.”

  “And one more question, possibly a foolish one. Was there ever two million dollars? Was there ever, in fact, any money at all?”

  Da Silva laughed. “Wilson is a fan of the late Mr. Belasco,” he said to Ari. “He seems to feel, and I am forced to agree, that an actual two million dollars would have added a nice touch of reality to the situation.”

  “No,” Ari said, wondering where the questioning was leading. “No, there was never any money at all.”

  “Then where is it?” Wilson asked.

  “Where is what?” Da Silva said, looking at his friend with astonishment. “Where is money that never existed?”

  “Exactly.” Wilson laid the pencil down carefully. “Look, Zé; I don’t know how intelligent your friend Mr. Gunther is, but it would be pretty hard for a customs guard to search a man and overlook two million dollars. It makes quite a bundle, you know, even in big notes. Now; you say that if it had been there, Mr. Gunther would have overlooked it. What I
say is that, not being there, it would be impossible to overlook.”

  Da Silva struck himself on his forehead with his clenched fist. “You’re right, of course! I was too clever.”

  Ari looked from one to the other. “But I don’t understand.”

  “Quite simple,” Da Silva said, disgusted with himself. He reseated himself. “Wilson is saying that we have convinced them, at least for the time being, that the money left New York. But it wasn’t in your bag, and it wasn’t in your briefcase. And Gunther knows it wasn’t on your person. Had you been wearing a money belt, our customs friend may have thought he was helping you whisk it away under my nose, but since there was nothing under your jacket except you, they know that this isn’t the case.”

  He shook his head. “They probably think your thing with the briefcase was a blind, and merely meant that you had an alternate and better way to get the money into the country. Mr. Wilson is saying, in his quiet but accurate manner, that if we really want to convince them that you have this two million dollars, we shall have to do more than show them where it isn’t.”

  Ari came further into the room, worried. “But how?”

  “I have no idea,” Da Silva said glumly, staring at his shoes, but no longer with the air of being their proud owner. There was a few moments’ silence. Then Da Silva sat up straight, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Or maybe I do. But it means night work. Overtime, without pay.”

  The others watched him as he leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “How does this sound? Imagine you are listening to this on the Radio Nacional.” He let his voice drop to the unemotional tone of a newscaster. “Sometime last night,” he said gravely, “a mysterious figure was seen lugging a heavy bundle from the darkened hangars of Pan American Airways at Galeao Airport. Despite the best efforts of the customs and the airport police, who fired—no, make that, who shouted—at the thief, he effected his escape to a car in which an accomplice was waiting. As of this hour, the police have no clue as to the identity of the thief. Pan American officials who were called immediately to the scene of the daring robbery made a complete search of their premises, but state that nothing belonging to the company is missing. Police feel that possibly the thief was disturbed before he could open the company safe, but are unable to explain the bulky package he was seen to be carrying.” He looked at Wilson, his eyes twinkling. “How does it read, accomplice?”

  “Now wait a minute, Zé! You are not going to pull me into this thing!”

  “Listen to him,” Da Silva said in simulated disgust. “If it hadn’t been for him we would have all been home hours ago!”

  “Now look, Zé. This is no affair of mine. Count me out.”

  “I would suggest your car,” Da Silva said thoughtfully. “Mine has been giving me trouble lately. Something with the transmission, I think.”

  “No car and no Wilson,” Wilson said shortly, getting to his feet. “I’m leaving right now for dinner.”

  “An excellent idea,” Da Silva said agreeably. “We can discuss the details much better over some good food.” He opened the door and ushered the other two out. “I’ll show you another exit to the street,” he said to Ari, grasping the smaller man’s arm in friendship. “They may have followed you from the hotel, and your long delay here would get them wondering. Let them think they missed you.” He turned back to Wilson as they walked to the elevator. “Where would you like to eat?”

  “I’m eating alone.”

  “Practically alone. In fact, if you like, I’ll even do all the talking.” He winked at Ari, and in a sotto voce that carried clearly, added, “I told you he wouldn’t hinder us too much!”

  Chapter 5

  The reporters were waiting, cold drinks in hand, when Ari returned from the Embassy. They glanced at the unprepossessing figure incuriously, and he might easily have escaped their attention except that one, more enterprising or less thirsty than the others, was waiting at the desk when he asked for his room key. In an instant he was surrounded by a group talking excitedly in three languages; none of it made sense to him. He noticed a photographer hurriedly adjust his lens and raise his camera with the air of a hunter making a snapshot; he flung his arm before his face just as the light exploded. He felt very tired and nervous, confused by the babble; his heart seemed to be pumping in a peculiar fashion, and he only wanted to reach his room quickly. The noise of the crowd about him made him dizzy; he tried to push through, blinding himself to the pressure of bodies bearing against him and fingers clawing at his jacket.

  There was a sudden burst of outraged Portuguese, a firm hand on his elbow, and he found himself being piloted through the crowd to the elevator. Another flash of light from a hastily raised camera only succeeded in recording the nape of his neck. The elevator door shut, cutting away the noise of the lobby, the open protesting mouths of the reporters, the startled gaze of the other guests. His arm was released, and he stared in wonder at the tall man beside him.

  “Your pardon, Herr Busch,” said the other apologetically in German. “I am the manager of the hotel.” Ari noted the reddish brush of hair fringing a bald head, the heavy, almost theatrical eyebrows, the square white porcelain blocks of teeth. “I realize that you have had a hard day. I am here to help you. If you wish, I shall make some excuse to the newspaper people.” He paused questioningly, his eyebrows shooting up onto his forehead; Ari could only nod. “Then,” began the manager, but the elevator came to a smooth halt and the doors slid back. They left the wideeyed operator and turned down the hall. “Then,” continued the other suavely, “if you wish I can have your telephone calls held until tomorrow.”

  He leaned forward and inserted a master key in the lock, swinging the door wide for Ari to enter. The light switch was pressed; Ari sank to the bed gratefully. The manager blocked the doorway, looking solicitous. “I realize there will be many who might wish to disturb your, ah… your vacation,” he said, much as if the words had been forced from him by circumstances unfortunately beyond his control. “I assure you that we will do everything in our power to see that you are not bothered. If you wish it, that is, if you wish it,” he added hastily.

  “I would certainly appreciate it,” Ari said, wishing the man would take his teeth and his eyebrows elsewhere so he could lie back against the inviting pillow.

  “The dining room now,” said the manager, out of nowhere, rubbing his cheek with one finger and staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “I’m afraid…” He came to sudden resolution, clarifying his non sequitur. “If the Herr might care to dine with me in my private apartment…?”

  “I would really prefer…” Ari began desperately, and then paused in sudden thought. One had to begin sometime. After all, it was why he was here. And also, one had to eat. He looked at the manager with the faint smile of deprecation reserved for small kindnesses. “Or possibly the Herr Manager might care to dine with me, here, in this apartment?”

  “Of course! The halls and elevators!” The voice admitted its stupidity in not recognizing this obvious fact. “But…” Embarrassment crept into his tone. “I had invited a friend, yes? An official…”

  “Perhaps another time, then,” Ari said, beginning to feel better, and also beginning to enjoy the match. He saw the doubtful hesitation, waited until the exact moment, and then added dubiously, “Or perhaps your friend would care to join us?”

  “Excellent!” cried the manager, raising his eyebrows in delight. “Excellent! I can assure the Herr that my friend is not of the police….” He frowned as if he had inadvertently said something in poor taste, and then hurried on, solicitous once more. “But the Herr will undoubtedly wish to rest first! At ten, then? Ten o’clock is all right? And of course, for the account of the hotel!” This last was said so fiercely that Ari almost smiled. The door slowly closed behind the bowing figure, the face disappearing last into the gloom of the corridor, like the gradual fading of the Cheshire Cat with a mouthful of sugar cubes.

  Ari slid the bolt and fell back on the bed. It had been a
very busy day, a very busy day indeed, and he was exhausted. Nor was he through; the thought of the dinner ahead was tiring, even though he was sure it would be of interest as well as use to their overall plan. I wonder who this official, not of the police, might be, he thought. Well, we shall soon see. At least we are on our way; the three years of preparation will soon prove themselves to have been useful, or they shall soon prove their tragic waste. He was pleasantly reassured by the thought of Da Silva and Wilson; one thing, he was no longer alone. He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes. A faint breeze whispered through the room; he slept.

  Chapter 6

  He woke at nine-thirty, automatically, somehow pleased that this inexplicable mechanism still functioned, and also pleased that there had been no dreams. It was a good sign. He went into the bathroom and washed his face in the tepid water that ran from the cold-water tap, shook his head to clear it of the last remnants of sleep, and returned to the bedroom. Considering changing his shirt, he opened his bag and stood staring at the contents in thoughtful satisfaction. The evidences of search were slight but unmistakable. I suppose they didn’t know how soon I would get back, he thought with a sigh that was half pleased, half annoyed. At any rate, you might think they would have tried to be neater.

  There was a discreet knock at the door. He closed the bag and went over to admit a white-jacketed waiter wheeling in a table set for three. “O gerente vem logo,” the waiter said, and dodged back into the hallway to reappear with three folding chairs carried awkwardly in one arm, and an ice bucket clutched manfully in the other. From the bucket, champagne bottles lolled, their necks neatly swathed in white napkins. “Com licenga.” The waiter swallowed the words, well aware he was speaking a nonunderstood tongue, and disappeared, closing the door carefully behind himself. Another rap succeeded this exit immediately. Grand Central Station, Ari thought, and opened the door once again.