The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  This time it was the manager, who bowed himself in, teeth flashing brilliantly. Bowing oneself out is relatively simple, Ari could not help but think as he acknowledged the greeting, but bowing oneself in requires talent, if you don’t wish to appear like a carpenter’s rule being awkwardly folded. He does it very well.

  “Ah, good evening, Herr Busch,” said the manager in a tone of voice that indicated both surprise and appreciation that Ari had not completely disappeared since their last meeting. He went over and examined the table expertly, silently moved a fork a fraction of an inch, and then proceeded to withdraw a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. “A drink while we wait, yes?” he said with forced joviality. “My friend should be here very soon.” He twisted the wire free as he spoke and gently manipulated the cork with practiced fingers. There was a sharp plop and the cork, expertly directed, flew out of the window. The manager quickly filled two glasses; a tiny puff of smoky vapor from the bottle dampened his fingers.

  “Local champagne,” he said, carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin, his face falling tragically. Then he brightened. “But really, not so bad.” He offered one of the glasses to Ari with a flourish. This man has a face of rubber, Ari thought, accepting the glass. I wonder what he looks like when he is asleep.

  “Your health,” said Ari pleasantly.

  “To a long and happy stay in Brazil,” replied the manager sententiously. He sipped and set his glass down, automatically placing it upon the glass dresser top to avoid marking the furniture. “By the way, I’m afraid I never even introduced myself.” His chuckle was self-insulting. “My name is Mathais. Herbert Mathais. If there is anything I can do for you during your stay here, I am yours to command!”

  “You are very kind,” Ari began, when another knock came at the door. Mathais waved Ari aside grandly and opened it. A broad smile creased his face.

  “My friend, Herr Gunther,” he said, ushering another man into the room. Ari moved over slowly to shake hands.

  “Herr Gunther?” he said with a surprise he did not actually feel. “But we have met!”

  “Herr Busch?” said Gunther. He turned to Mathais reproachfully. “But you did not tell me that we were dining with Herr Busch!”

  “You know each other?” The attempt to inject a tone of puzzlement came close to being successful.

  “But of course! Herr Busch passed through customs while I was on duty.” He turned apologetically to Ari. “You must please forgive us, Herr Busch, for the embarrassment you were caused. Believe me when I say it is not our habit to treat visitors so poorly.”

  Mathais was pouring champagne and at this statement his eyebrows went out of sight. “They treated Herr Busch poorly?” he asked in a voice that pictured thumbscrews and the Iron Maiden. “Why did they do that?”

  I suppose they had little time for rehearsal, Ari thought; but even so, it is really such Schmaltz. He almost giggled at the thought of the word, and spoke quickly to recover. “A misunderstanding,” he said lightly. He took his glass and seated himself negligently in the largest chair in the room, as if it were his right. He raised his glass slightly in Gunther’s direction. “This Captain Da Silva. Just who is he?”

  This time Gunther’s sneer was genuine. “Da Silva?” he said sourly. “He’s in Interpol. International Police. A busybody. As if we need his help to do our job!” He was sincerely annoyed. He turned to Mathais. “He also removed Herr Busch’s passport!”

  “But this will never do!” Mathais cried. He had seated himself on one corner of a folding chair, and he jumped to his feet as if ready to rush rights out and rectify this terrible error at once.

  “No, no!” Ari laughed. “It was returned.” He patted his breast pocket a bit boastfully. “A misunderstanding, I really assure you.” The nap had refreshed him, and the wine was relaxing. This was promising to be fun.

  “Returned?” Gunther sounded surprised. “Captain Da Silva returned it? Your passport?”

  “Not Captain Da Silva,” Ari explained, as if the matter were of no importance. “The American Embassy returned it.” He finished his champagne with a final sip and stared at the little bubbles that still clung to the sides of the glass. “I should judge this Da Silva finally realized he had no actual authority for holding it; or more likely his superiors knew he had overstepped himself and wanted no trouble.” He held out his glass to Mathais, who rushed to refill it. Well, well, Ari thought, watching the bubbles pulse upwards in his glass. I am positive they knew I went to the Embassy today; I wonder why all these histrionics.

  “A pity I did not know of this,” the manager said unctuously. “I have a little influence and I might have been of some help.” He set the empty bottle to one side and at once selected another and began to open it. “I imagine the American Embassy also made some difficulties. You were gone so long….” He allowed the words to fade into his sudden concentration on dislodging the cork. There was another loud plop and he filled Gunther’s glass and his own.

  Ach, so? Ari thought. “Oh, no,” he said calmly. “There was no delay. As a matter of fact, I imagine I was there less than ten minutes.” Inspiration struck him. “Afterwards, I had some rather important arrangements to make….” He sipped his wine slowly and then, obviously, changed the subject. “One must give credit where it is due,” he said magnanimously. “In the matter of passports, we must admit the Americans are quite efficient.”

  “Important arrangements?” Mathais began to ask, and then changed his mind. “You are not a stranger to Brazil, then? You know people here, yes?”

  “A few. One always needs to know a few.”

  “Yes,” Mathais said helplessly. The manager was saved the necessity of thinking of the next question, for at this moment there was a rap at the door, and two waiters came wheeling in their dinner. “Ah,” cried Mathais, bounding to his feet in relief, once more mine host. He turned to his guest, his enthusiasm immediately fading. “You like avocado?” he asked anxiously. Ari assured him that he did. The manager’s voice became more sepulchral. “And shrimp?” Ari nodded. “The duck I can positively guarantee,” said the manager with more confidence. Fernandel could take lessons from this one, Ari thought.

  The waiters were directed peremptorily; they sat down to eat. The meal was excellent; Ari discovered that he was very hungry. The others seemed to pluck at their food uninterestedly, but Ari ate steadily and with obvious enjoyment. With coffee came liqueurs, and after this, cigars. They relaxed in chairs while the waiters piled everything on the carts and wheeled them away. It has been years since food tasted so good, Ari thought, puffing gently on his cigar. It must be the satisfaction that comes from starting a new and important job, he thought; or possibly appetite is enriched by the thought of successful embezzling. Taking money from others without being caught seems to be the formula for a healthy hunger; embezzling has its points. He knocked his ashes into his ash tray and burped politely. I wonder, he thought, what comes now.

  “You plan to stay long in Brazil?” Mathais asked, his manner that of one who makes polite conversation.

  Ari puffed on his cigar, savoring it. “I honestly have no idea. This is my first visit to Brazil, you know. The little I have seen of it seems very beautiful. I think I might enjoy spending some time here.”

  “Your first visit?” Mathais said, almost objecting. “But you said you knew some people….”

  “You would enjoy the South,” Gunther interposed positively.

  “It is much more simpatico.”

  “Simpatico?”

  “It is a word we use very much here in Brazil,” Mathais explained, relieved, his teeth flashing. “You would say gemutlich. And any place is simpatico if one has enough money.” He added this last with all the authority of one making an original statement.

  “But is Rio always as hot as it was today?” Ari objected, idly watching the smoke curl negligently from his cigar. “Beautiful, yes. But today…” He shook his head. “Today was hot!”

  “In the South it
is never hot,” Gunther said stubbornly. “In Santa Catarina,. for example, it…”

  “Yes,” Mathais said, answering Ari and paying no attention to the sudden flush that appeared on Gunther’s face at this interruption, “Rio is beautiful, but it is also hot. Sao Paulo, now…” He puffed majestically; Gunther subsided sullenly. “Do you know Sao Paulo? A pity. Now, should you be thinking of going to Sao Paulo, perhaps I can be of assistance. Hotels, for example…”

  “I have been thinking possibly of getting an apartment,” Ari said idly. He smiled at Mathais. “No criticism of hotels, you understand, but… You see, it is possible that I may stay in Brazil for a while.” He took them into his confidence with a diffident smile; they nodded.

  “In Rio?” Gunther asked.

  Ari shrugged. “If it is always this hot, maybe Sao Paulo…”

  “On this I can definitely help you,” Mathais said positively, “I happen to have a friend in Sao Paulo, a man of much substance. Actually, he is—” Gunther shot him a glance—”a man of great importance. I am sure he could be most useful to you.”

  Ari nodded thankfully. So Sao Paulo seemed to be the headquarters; it was good to know. One step forward, at the least. “You are most kind,” he said, wiping his ashes into the tray at his elbow with precision. “When I am ready to go I shall let you know, yes? However—” he shrugged, “—for the next few days I believe I shall relax and enjoy your Rio de Janeiro. It is beautiful; I should like to see all of it.”

  The telephone rang as he finished speaking; he looked askance at Mathais. “It must be for me,” the manager said worriedly, lifting the receiver. “I left definite instructions…” He listened to the voice at the other end with a faint frown on his face. “For you,” he said, handing the instrument to Gunther with a touch of surprise. Ari watched them both; they seemed quite honestly perturbed by the call.

  Gunther was listening intently. A faint buzz at the other end could be heard clearly as the caller spoke. The customs official replied rapidly in Portuguese and then listened with concentration to the answer his words had invoked. He nodded to the instrument as if the caller were there in person, spoke a few words more in tense interrogation, listened, and slowly replaced the receiver on the hook.

  “I’m afraid I must go,” he said, eying Ari with a strange mixture of caution and respect. “There has been some trouble at the airport.”

  “Trouble?” Mathais cried. “What trouble? An accident?”

  “No; a robbery.”

  “A robbery? The, ah… the thieves escaped?”

  For seconds Gunther withheld his reply, looking at Ari with smiling speculation. Then with no inflection at all, he said, “Yes. They escaped.”

  “A shame,” Ari said, arising and smiling with relief. “A shame. I am most sorry that you must go, but I understand.

  “I will go down with you,” the manager said to Gunther, also rising and straightening the creases in his trousers carefully. “Besides, it is very late, yes? I am sure that Herr Busch must be most tired of our company by this time.” His toothy smile robbed his words of either offense or meaning.

  Ari bowed slightly from the waist. “It was a wonderful meal,” he said, happy to be honest. “I thank you very much. You must be my guest another time.” He puffed smoke rapidly from his cigar to demonstrate both his enjoyment and his sincerity.

  “I will have the chambermaid arrange the Herr’s apartment,” Mathais said, looking about the room anxiously. Ari assured him that the morning would be fine; that the room would do until then.

  “If the Herr says so,” Mathais said dubiously, and led the way into the hall. They all shook hands again at parting, that stiff one-up-and-one-down of the European, and Ari closed the door softly behind him.

  Well, it did not go too badly, he thought with satisfaction, undressing slowly for bed. Da Silva would have been proud of me tonight. As I am proud of him, he thought, remembering the telephone call. That had been pure luck. He felt relaxed and pleasantly full of good food as he peeled back the covers and slipped thankfully into bed. It had been a complicated day, a long day; but all in all a very good day. Maybe the dreams will not come tonight, he thought hopefully. Maybe they were just my punishment before for not having done anything. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep happily. Tonight he was suddenly sure that the dreams would not come.

  Chapter 7

  In the manager’s apartment on the second floor of the hotel, Mathais and Gunther sipped cognac.

  “So he got it in,” Mathais said shortly. He was a far different man from the scraping, bowing, smiling-Buddha manager with the trick eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Gunther answered.

  “Very clever.” He sipped.

  Gunther shrugged indifferently.

  “And with no help from you.”

  At this, Gunther bridled. “There was nothing I could do. What could I have done? Even if he had had it with him? With Da Silva there and all!” The unfairness of the accusation stung him. “I had no idea of how he intended to bring it in. If you knew, you should have told me!”

  “Ah,” Mathais said, almost with satisfaction. “That’s where the man is clever!” He lifted his glass slightly, as if in toast to Busch’s cleverness. “I didn’t know. Nor did anybody.”

  “So don’t blame me,” Gunther said crossly.

  “I’m not blaming you,” Mathais said soothingly. “In any event it’s not important. At least we know the money is here in Brazil.”

  “I still don’t know how he managed to arrange it,” Gunther said thoughtfully. “Pan American…” He reviewed the people he knew at Pan American, the office people, the hangar crew. He shook his head. “He must be far sharper than he looks.”

  “Well,” Mathais said. “Of course.”

  “I know,” Gunther said stubbornly. “But still. It must have been exceptionally well organized.”

  “He must have a lot of faith in the people he works with,” Mathais said dryly. “I am sure that I wouldn’t trust you with two million dollars.”

  “He probably pays them better than I get paid,” Gunther said sourly, absently. “Another thing. I wonder how he got away from Da Silva’s watchdogs long enough to arrange the thing.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine that would be too hard,” Mathais said, swirling the brandy glass in his fingers. “There has been a man across the side street from the hotel all afternoon who has ‘policeman’ written all over him. He doesn’t look like the type it would be difficult to slip.” Gunther shook his head stubbornly in disagreement. “Don’t underestimate Da Silva.”

  Mathais smiled, a cold smile. “I don’t underestimate anybody. And particularly, I do not underestimate Mr. Busch.” He looked across at the other sardonically. “After all, he gave the slip to the entire New York police department.”

  “That’s true,” Gunther admitted grudgingly.

  “And the fact is,” Mathais added negligently, “Busch did get the money into Brazil. Which was not as easy as people might think.”

  Gunther nodded. “That is also true. But exactly where is it?”

  Mathais shrugged. “At the moment, that is not important.” He got to his feet and replenished the glasses. He raised his in a toast. “To two million dollars!” He shook his head in profound admiration and drank. He set his glass down and turned to Gunther. “You will let the people in Sao Paulo know?”

  “I’ll call them tomorrow. I don’t know if the boss is there; I think he is traveling in the South. But in any event he should be back by the end of the week.” He sipped his glass. “I’ll call tomorrow.” He paused, wondering. “Do you think he’ll stay in Brazil?”

  “Who, Busch? Of course he’ll stay in Brazil,” Mathais said positively. “Where else would he go? There aren’t many places left with no extradition these days. And also, he can’t keep taking his money in and out of countries. He was lucky this time. No; he’ll stay. He came to stay; I’m sure of that.”

  “In Rio?”

  “Or Sao
Paulo. It really makes no difference. Two million dollars! It is what we have needed!” He looked across at Gunther. “You will call Sao Paulo?”

  “I said I would.” There was resentment in the tone; the resentment of the unappreciated.

  “Just don’t forget to,” Mathais said rudely. He stood up, yawning deeply, his entire attitude indicating that the discussion was at an end. “Well,” he said, seeing the other still sitting and drinking, “Drink up!” Gunther swallowed his brandy hastily and got to his feet, barely suppressing his indignation. Mathais waited impatiently until the other had left, still muttering; then he closed the door softly behind the departing man. “Two million dollars,” he said to himself with a smile as he went into his bedroom. “Two million dollars

  Chapter 8

  In Wilson’s small bachelor apartment overlooking the quiet Lagoa de Freitas, the nondescript man and Da Silva were also sipping cognac.

  “My dear Wilson,” Da Silva was saying, squinting at his brandy glass from the depths of the couch. “You would do me a very great favor by having a good mechanic go over your car. When I came through that fence and heard that starter grinding endlessly, I thought I would have heart failure. I thought we were finished.”

  “My dear Ze,” Wilson retorted, stung out of his normal calm. “You would do me an even greater favor by leaving me completely out of your crazy schemes!” He snorted. “In all honesty, do you really believe that robbing, or pretending to rob, an airport, is the best way to convince people that this Schoenberg actually brought that money into Brazil?”

  “I don’t know if it was the best way,” Da Silva said calmly, “but I’m certain that it was the quickest. We saw Mr. Schoenberg a little better than six hours ago; I would be wilting to bet that a report of our little escapade is all over Rio at this very moment.”