The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Well, possibly,” Wilson conceded reluctantly. “But…”

  “No but; and no possibly. Definitely,” Da Silva said lazily. He studied his cognac glass once again, holding it to the light. “My dear Wilson,” he said, “you would think that, with PX privileges, you could afford to drink a better brand of brandy than this.”

  “Zé,” Wilson said, paying no attention to Da Silva’s remark, are you honestly convinced that there is a real conspiracy here in Brazil to rebuild the Nazi party?”

  “Wilson,” Da Silva said, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “you are changing the subject.” He studied his glass again. “Now, with PX privileges, if I had been so lucky as to be born an American, I would get Remy Martin. Or, if they were out of it…”

  “Ze!” Wilson said in a dangerous tone.

  “My dear Wilson,” Da Silva said, pretending amazement. “The unicorns, you recall? The griffins? Just this afternoon, you wanted no part of this operation.”

  “That’s right,” Wilson said, his voice slightly tinged with bitterness. “I didn’t want any part of it. But who dragged me in? You did! So now at least answer my question. And seriously. Are you honestly convinced that there is a conspiracy in this country to rebuild the Nazi party?”

  “All right.” Da Silva sat up. “You want an honest answer, here it is. Yes, I am. I am convinced. Completely.” He thought a moment before continuing. “Let me put it to you this way: I won’t say that the rebuilding could be termed a rebirth of the Nazi party, in the sense that the Nazi party is the same National Socialist German Worker’s party of years ago. But as far as I am concerned, it comes to the same thing. This group has the same aims, the same methods, and therefore to me they represent the same danger.” He put his glass down almost violently; Wilson recognized the signs of his friend’s conviction. He leaned back in silence, waiting for the revelations he knew would come.

  “Let me tell you a little story,” Da Silva said, leaning forward and staring at Wilson intently. “This is a story that happened a long, long time ago. Long before you came to Brazil.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Wilson waited patiently for him to continue.

  “About eight years ago,” Da Silva said finally, “I received a very interesting visit from a man named Goetz. I hadn’t been in the service too long at that time, and maybe I took things a bit too seriously. Anyway, I took what this man told me seriously, and I haven’t gotten over it yet.” He inhaled again, letting the smoke drift from his nose as he spoke.

  “This Goetz was a giant of a man, twice as big as me; he came in looking like a laborer, older than God and three times as tough. My first reaction was to throw him out of the office—if I could—until he started to talk. After he talked for five minutes, I knew I had a job, for as long as it lasted; until it was cleaned up.

  “This Goetz was German-born, living in the south of Brazil, which is where most of the Germans emigrated back in the twenties. Anyway, he told me of a meeting that had been held in a chacara—a coffee fazenda near Itapeva in the State of Sao Paulo, away back in 1939. Before the war. The chacara was owned by an old friend of his, a man named von Roesler.” He smiled at Wilson’s start.

  “Interesting, eh? You recognize the name?”

  “I was an observer at Nuremberg,” Wilson said, almost stiffly. “Of course I recognize the name. But it could hardly be the same.”

  “Of course it couldn’t be the same. But wait. Let me tell you. It was actually an uncle.” He arose, filled his glass, and reseated himself. “The meeting, however, was held by the nephew. By Captain Erick von Roesler himself, speaking, apparently, in the name of the SD.”

  “Colonel,” Wilson interrupted, almost automatically.

  “In 1939, captain. In any event, it appears that this Goetz was not much in favor of either the program or the personalities of the Third Reich, and he stormed out of the meeting. And later he told me all about it, as well as telling me who was present at the time.”

  Wilson stirred in his chair. “And just when did he tell you all this?”

  “In 1952.”

  “And why had he waited so long?”

  “I can only tell you what he told me. He said that old von Roesler was his oldest friend; that he was sure that the old man had nothing to do with the meeting, other than providing the meeting place, and he was sure that even this had been forced on him. The two of them, Goetz and the old von Roesler, had come to Brazil together from Germany in the early twenties, he said. When the old man died, he came up to Rio and told me the whole story. He had simply waited until there could be no repercussions against his friend.”

  “And what was the meeting about?”

  Da Silva set his glass down slowly, and then looked Wilson directly in the eye. “The meeting,” he said slowly, “was to form a Nazi party group in Brazil.”

  Wilson threw up his hands involuntarily. “My dear Zé,” he said, controlling a smile with an effort. “You have to remember that this was far from uncommon in those days. They did the same thing in almost every country in the world.”

  Da Silva nodded his head. “I know. But most of the groups they formed in those days were quickly broken up. Or were broken up later, either during or after the wear.” He looked at Wilson speculatively. “This group never was. Remember that. But let me tell you the rest of the story.” He lit another cigarette from the end of the first, and continued.

  “I made inquiries, of course, but thirteen years is a long time. There was no indication that the nephew had ever returned to Brazil; when the old man finally died in 1952 the property was sold to the neighbor who had the next farm, and joined to that fazenda. A neighbor, by the way, who was also present at that meeting.”

  Wilson interrupted. “What happened to the money from the sale? Who got it?”

  “It was banked in Switzerland in the name of a niece, Monica von Roesler.”

  “And has the money ever been taken out?”

  Da Silva shook his head. “That we have never been able to find out. The bank wouldn’t say, and we can’t force them to tell us. But it really isn’t important; the farm didn’t bring any great price, and with the depreciation in the cruzeiro since then, nobody will ever get rich on it. However, let me tell you why I think this meeting in Brazil was different from the meetings that we both know were held in many countries at that time for the same purpose.”

  Wilson raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “It ways some of the people who were at the meeting. And remember what I said before; this is one group that was never broken up.” He sat up straighter, ticking the names off on the fingers of one hand.

  “One. Goetz, of course. He died, by the way, in ’55, a fact I only learned much later. And of course, von Roesler, the old man, I’m not counting them.

  “Two. The neighbor who later bought the farm, when the old man died. His name is Gehrmann. He’s pretty old now; still lives on the fazenda. To tell you the truth, as far as we know he is pretty inactive in everything, including politics.

  “Three. A man named Riepert, from Parana, Goetz told me that Riepert left this famous meeting together with him, also in discord. I later spoke with Riepert himself, and he told me he never saw any of the others again except the old man, and then they only played chess and never discussed the meeting. We think he was telling the truth.” He paused to get up and refresh his glass.

  “So far,” Wilson said as he waited, “you haven’t made out much of a case. Two who are dead, one who was in disagreement with the group, and one who, by your own opinion, is and was inactive.”

  “Wait,” Da Silva said, reseating himself. “I haven’t finished.” He suddenly smiled. “Dessert always comes last, you know.” He resumed his count.

  “Four. A man named Gunther. A Santa Catarina schoolteacher, a rabid fan of Adolf Hitler, and the father of our friend from customs.

  “Five. A man who was, at the time, an importer and exporter, but who later found politics more interesting. Named Wilhe
lm Strauss….” He smiled at Wilson’s barely concealed start. “Yes, my dear Wilson, the very same. Now our notorious Deputado Strauss from the State of Sao Paulo. You probably recall his campaign to limit immigration, particularly from Europe. From certain countries in Europe, specifically. Let us be honest; it was meant to bar Jews, and it failed. You may also recall his support for the various shirt groups that have sprung up over the years. A man making an honest mistake?” He smiled bitterly. “Well, possibly. I won’t say no. But I also won’t forget that he was at that meeting back in 1939.” He switched hands and continued counting as Wilson looked thoughtful.

  “Six. A man named Johann Lange, from Rio Grande do Sul…” He smiled again. “Familiar? You remember his name? That’s right; he was the one who supported Stroessner not so long ago. His ranch comes right up against the Paraguayan border. We’ve had an eye on him for a long time. Not all of his house guests come equipped with entry visas for Brazil.” He dropped his hands. “True, one thing may not have anything to do with the other, but the fact remains that he was another one at that meeting. Plus, of course, Captain Erick von Roesler himself, in person.” He looked up suddenly, his eye gleaming. “Not an imitation. Anyway, that’s the lot. What do you think?”

  Wilson sipped his cognac, his brow furrowed. “You never mentioned this before,” he said.

  “We never discussed it before. If you want to see the complete dossier on each and every one of them, I have it in my office safe. But for what I need, I also have it here.” He tapped his forehead significantly.

  “Well, there is no doubt that it is interesting,” Wilson said slowly, “but scarcely conclusive. The fact that people were at a meeting over twenty years ago doesn’t prove to me that they are organized for a conspiracy today.”

  “In looking for an organization that is functioning in Brazil today,” Da Silva said, leaning forward in utter seriousness, “we can scarcely overlook the fact that an organization existed before dedicated to the same ends, even if it did exist over twenty years ago. Particularly when some of the people involved are the same. No, I am sure that the organization never changed, that it continued to exist always. What I am wondering is if the organizer of the group is the same.”

  “The organizer? But you say that von Roesler organized the group.”

  “Exactly.”

  Wilson held up his hand in protest. “Now wait, Ze. Von Roesler disappeared in August of 1944. There is no evidence at all that he is still alive, let alone in Brazil. In those closing days of the war, many people disappeared and were presumed dead.”

  “Presumed.”

  Wilson shook his head. Many were killed in those days, unidentified. It was complete confusion; people disappeared, changed their identities, died under different names. In some places in those days at the end, officers were even killed by their own troops. Many SD men tried to escape by changing uniforms, and died without any identification whatsoever.”

  “And a lot more lived than died! Look, Wilson; I don’t state it as an irrefutable fact, only as a possibility. This group was organized shortly before the outbreak of war by von Roesler himself, and during the war they were quite active. After the war they quieted down—they didn’t disappear, or go out of business, they merely quieted down. Then, a few years later, they began activity again. And nobody knows where von Roesler is, or if he is alive or dead. I only state it as a possibility that he may be here.”

  “Do you mean to say,” Wilson asked slowly, “that, assuming von Roesler is still alive and in Brazil—and there is no proof whatsoever that this is true, or even possible—that he waited all these years to start a new movement?”

  Da Silva frowned stubbornly. “It is not a new movement; it is an old movement! With the same people. And I only said it was a possibility, not a fact!” He looked at Wilson almost morosely. “And even if von Roesler is dead, or in China, or posing as a security officer in the U. S. Embassy under the name of Wilson, the fact remains that a rebirth of Nazism is taking place in this country! That is a fact; and while we know a lot of the little wriggling arms that crawl about, we don’t know the head that joins them.” He looked at his wrist watch. “One thing I’m sure we will both agree on: it is late. We’ve had a big day.” He rose to his feet. “In any event, we shall see.”

  Wilson rose with him, moving toward the door. “Ze, do you honestly believe there is any possibility that this story of Hans Busch and two million dollars could bring out the head man? Whoever he is?”

  Da Silva shrugged. “At least it is a hope. I don’t imagine they are rolling in money. In fact, it is probably this lack of funds that has kept their development as slow as it has been. It’s a hope.”

  “You have someone watching Schoenberg?”

  “Three.” Da Silva laughed. “One very obvious. Two less obvious, I hope.” He looked at Wilson, smiling. “I’ll talk to you about that, too, one of these days.”

  “When do you expect to see him again?”

  Da Silva lifted his shoulders in a typically Latin gesture. “Not until I have to,” he said. “We’ll wait and see what develops from our shocking attack on the airport and Pan American.” He looked at his wrist watch again and stifled a yawn. “Well; I enjoyed a very nice evening. We must do it again soon.”

  Wilson grinned. “Not too soon, I hope,” he said, starting to close the door. Da Silva’s hand caught it in a last-minute gesture, holding it back for a moment.

  “About your car,” he said seriously. “You really ought to have somebody look at that carburetor of yours.”

  Wilson laughed. “You know I love Brazil,” he said, “but one thing we must all admit. There isn’t a mechanic in this whose country who could be trusted to properly change a tire.”

  “I know a good one,” Da Silva said. “Works for a stolen-czar ring. If he can’t fix your carburetor, at least he’ll change it for one from another car.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Wilson said, smiling. He swung the door closed, hearing Da Silva’s chuckle from the other side.

  Chapter 9

  Four days had passed, and Ari was dining with the hotel manager, Herr Mathais, in the sedate restaurant of the hotel. It was a quiet evening with few guests present, and the ones who were there paid no attention to the two men in the corner alcove caught between the main room and the curve of the balcony.

  The restaurant was on the first floor of the hotel, overhanging the veranda, and giving out on a magnificent view of the moonlight-sprinkled bay spread beneath their window. The food was excellent; Ari had found his appetite again and was getting, if anything, fatter than ever. His little blue eyes were beginning to hide behind rolls of fat, but their sharpness never diminished.

  They lingered over their coffee, watching the play of moonbeam on wave, pleasantly relaxed in the magic of the warm evening breeze. “No,” the manager was saying, “I don’t believe Brazil is so different in this respect. When you arrived, of course, you were of interest to all the reporters, but that is only natural. And that was four days ago. Reporters are only interested in the things that happen at the moment; there is nothing deader than yesterday’s news.” He laughed, and as always when he uttered one of his vast repertoire of cliches, his face stretched in all directions. “I doubt if they will bother you now.”

  Ari nodded politely, but his mind was elsewhere. It was time that something happened, time for contacts to be made, further contacts beyond this boring manager and the stupid customs man. If they had been waiting for the novelty to wear off so that contact could be made without exciting the notice of reporters, or the curious, then that time had arrived.

  “Rio is a very lovely city,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “but I’ve seen most of the things of interest. And it continues to be hot.” He stared out of the open window in a bored fashion. “I think I may possibly do some traveling….”

  “Traveling?” The manager’s voice was almost alarmed.

  He continued to look out over the water, hesita
ting, dangling the bait. “You mentioned Sao Paulo. Do you think…?”

  “Sao Paulo? You would love it!” the manager said in positive relief. “And there I am definitely in a position to help you! I have a very good friend there; he is not without influence.” He smiled elastically. “Definitely not without influence. When are you thinking of going?”

  “Soon,” Ari said, overwhelmed by the effusive response to his simple statement, but also extremely satisfied. They seemed anxious for him to meet this person in Sao Paulo; he was equally anxious. With the reporters leaving him alone, it seemed that the time was ripe to move on to the next step.

  Mathais leaned forward confidentially; they had become good friends in the past few days. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “you are not unknown here.” Ari’s raised eyebrows brought an immediate definition of this statement. “No, no!” the manager said in a whisper that was almost vehement. “I was not referring to… I was referring to your feelings about—” he looked around him” about, ah… Jews!” He surveyed the room again, his rubber face running a gamut of secretive expressions. “Nor,” he added explosively, “does everyone disagree with you!” He apparently reconsidered this statement and found it weak, or at least indecisive. “I mean,” he said, quiet once again, looking Ari in the eye, “there are many who agree with you.”

  “Of course many people agree with me,” Ari said disdainfully.

  “I mean,” said the manager, attempting to put significance into his tone, “here in Brazil!”

  Ari looked at him searchingly. “Just what are you trying to say?”

  The manager once again looked about him before leaning closer. “There is an organization here that I think you should meet,” he said. “I think it would be to your mutual benefit to talk with them. In Sao Paulo. This friend I told you about…” His voice trailed off; his eyes quickly darted over his shoulder.