The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  The road ahead was clear of traffic. They swung around the curves, weaving dangerously, but the taillights they had been following were no longer in sight. Da Silva sat in grim silence, gripping the door handle with a hand of iron, staring rigidly ahead into the empty darkness.

  There was a fork at the bottom of the hill where the Avenida Niemeyer came spiraling down from the rock. The leg to the right swung off in a wide curve that followed the foot of the mountain away from the ocean; the left fork followed the beach, then swung away, coming back once again to parallel the ocean. “Left,” Da Silva said briefly, scanning the road ahead. And as Wilson swung the wheel, he added, “The other just goes back over the pass into town. They wouldn’t take that.”

  They came around a curve past the Gavea Golf Club, the tires whining, shooting between the high hedges that lined the road. The club was dark except for a watchman’s light; high on the mountains above, lights glimmered from a ledge where the Canoas Night Club perched. Wilson slowed down as they rolled into the Praga Sao Conrado, and Da Silva, seeing a moving light on the road above, came to a sudden decision. “Up towards Canoas,” he said quickly; Wilson turned up the hill without stopping, accelerating hard.

  Ahead of them the taillights grew brighter; they were gaining rapidly. Suddenly Wilson slammed on the brakes, squealing to a halt. “That’s a new car, double taillights,” he said briefly. He swung the car about, braked, reversed, and headed down the hill again. “Those aren’t our boys.”

  “Damn!” Da Silva said with feeling. They paused at the Praga again, the engine panting as if anxious to be off on the chase again. Da Silva stared thoughtfully at the road that wound off and disappeared toward Joa and the Barra de Tijuca; and then back again to the darkened highway leading back to Rio. Wilson waited patiently, his hands poised alertly on the steering wheel.

  “One chance!” Da Silva said suddenly. “Start back toward town. But go slowly.” Wilson put the car into gear, turned left around the traffic island of the Praga, and began retracing their path. “The next right,” Da Silva said suddenly, and Wilson swung the wheel easily. They left the highway, following a dirt road that led to the beach. They bumped along slowly; at the end the road curved right, bordering the sand of the beach. The shadows of parked cars well spaced could be seen in the dusky moonlight.

  “Lovers’ lane,” Da Silva said shortly. He stared ahead. “Just one chance that they may have pulled in here.” He looked ahead through the tunnel of their headlights. “Drop down to your parking lights. Drive along slowly, as if you were looking for a place to neck.” Wilson leaned forward and pushed a button. Da Silva eased his revolver from a shoulder holster and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a flashlight which he quickly flipped on and off to test. They slowly passed several cars whose occupants paid no attention to the invasion of their privacy. The road was ending. Then, beyond the other cars, and at a considerable distance, one more car stood, its nose pointed toward the sand. It was a black Chevrolet, and even in the weak glow of their parking lights they could see the silhouettes of more heads inside than was customary for lovers’ lane parkers.

  “Luck!” Da Silva said with deep satisfaction. “Don’t slow down; not more than you are now. Pull past them and turn around and come back slowly. When we are just opposite them, cut the lights altogether and stop. Quickly!” He took the revolver from his pocket, gripping it loosely; his other hand held the flashlight. Wilson maneuvered the car about expertly, and started back. “Now!” Da Silva said almost viciously, and in one motion he was out of the car and had swung open the rear door of the other.

  “Police,” he said briefly, coldly, flashing the light over the startled faces inside, in no way indicating the satisfaction he felt at seeing the white face of Ari wedged between the other two in the back seat. His revolver was conspicuous in his other hand; his voice was the hard voice of authority. “What’s going on here?”

  There was a frozen silence. “Well?” Da Silva flicked the revolver up ominously.

  “We were just talking,” said a heavy-set man sitting to Ari’s left, his hand still gripping Ari’s arm tightly. His voice was sullen; he tried to pull his head back from the glare of the flashlight, but Da Silva swung it up to follow the heavy face. “We were just talking. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Talking about what?” Da Silva asked coldly. “The next bar you intend to hold up? Your next stick-up?” He waved his gun. Out. All of you. Out. And don’t try to get cute.” He stepped back to allow the others to alight; in the widening area of his flashlight they could see Wilson sitting negligently in the seat of the other car, a revolver draped across the sill. They came out quietly, pushing Ari with them.

  “All right,” Da Silva said. “Turn and lean against the car. And don’t move.” There was the sudden whining of a starter; lights flashed up as a pair of lovers decided that there was too much activity in these parts for proper concentration; Da Silva paid no attention.

  “How do we know you’re police?” one of his captives began.

  “Because I say so,” Da Silva said. He waved his revolver in their faces; they all hastily leaned against the side of the car, except Ari, who had not understood a word of the exchange but sensed that this was no time for talking. “You too,” Da Silva said, slamming Ari back against the fender. He leaned over against the car side like the others, feeling Da Silva’s hands parting his pockets, running down his legs, his heart pounding. Over his shoulder he saw the same operation being repeated with the others. Another motor sprang into life as others in the vicinity decided to find more peaceful surroundings for their rendezvous. The headlights of the departing car swung briefly over the astounding scene of four men leaning over the side of a car while another with a revolver searched them, but there was no outcry, nor voiced complaint. There was only the sudden gunning of a motor as its driver decided to leave hurriedly.

  Da Silva took a revolver from one man before him, and a large hunting knife from another. Stepping to the deserted car, he swung his flashlight about the interior, and then, leaning down, he picked a sharp dagger-type knife from its place of concealment between the floor mat and the base of the rear seat. He slipped the weapons into his jacket pocket and stepped back, breathing heavily.

  “Just talking, eh?” he said in deep sarcasm. “Well, we’re all going back to town, back to the delegacia. Just to convince you all that I’m really a police officer! And there you‘ll get all the chance you want to talk, I promise you!” He paused, staring at them coldly. “And just to see that there is no funny business, suppose we split you big talkers up!” He grasped Ari roughly by the arm, tossing him toward the car in which Wilson sat watching with interest. “The rest of you get into your car and drive ahead of us. Slow. Remember, I said slow! There will be a gun on you all the way. When we get to Leblon, stop your car and stay inside. The first time the door opens, somebody gets shot.” He looked at them icily. Understand? All right; let’s go!”

  He threw Ari roughly into the back seat of his car and climbed in behind. Wilson’s gun remained fixed on the others while they climbed back into their car with angry faces, turned the car about, and began the bumpy ride back to the highway. There was no attempt on the part of the leading car to speed or escape. At the highway they turned right, creeping toward the entrance to the Avenida Niemeyer. Where the road led up the spiraled rise to the Niemeyer, cut in rock. Da Silva leaned forward close to Wilson’s ear; he slowed momentarily, and the first car, still moving slowly, disappeared around the first curve of the ledged road. With a sharp swing, Wilson turned his car toward the fork that led over the pass and stamped heavily on the accelerator. In a minute they had sped into the hills.

  Da Silva returned his revolver to the shoulder holster and threw the flashlight onto the front seat. “And now,” he said, leaning back comfortably and lighting a cigarette. “Just what in the devil was that?” He turned toward Ari, whose face was drained of color, and whose hands were
trembling uncontrollably.

  “They were going to kill me,” Ari whispered in a voice wound tight with hysteria; a crazy light flickered in his eyes. “They were going to kill me!”

  “I doubt that,” Da Silva said calmly, attempting by his relaxed manner to ease the terror that lay so openly on the other’s face. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke waft gently from his nostrils. “I doubt that.”

  “No. No! They were really going to kill me!” Ari looked numbed, as if he were going to cry without knowing exactly why. He looked down at his twisted hands, almost whispering to himself. “They were going to kill me!”

  “Relax,” Da Silva said kindly. “Why should they want to kill you?”

  Ari looked at him, his face twitching with emotion. “They were Jews,” he said miserably. “They were Jews! Israeli Jews.”

  “What?”

  Ari nodded. “Israeli Jews. They were going to kill me. Jews…!” His voice died away in the unfairness of it all.

  Da Silva looked thoughtful. “That’s one thing we hadn’t counted on. You didn’t say anything?”

  Hysteria took over. “What could I say? Do you think they would have believed anything I said? Me? They would believe me?” He twisted his fingers tightly together in shock, shaking his head drearily. “They wouldn’t believe me. They were going to kill me.”

  “Well, they didn’t kill you,” Da Silva said, brutally trying to bring the little man out of his crisis of nerves. “And I doubt if they will try again!” He puffed calmly on the cigarette. “Did they ask any questions?”

  “They wanted to know who I was.” He was almost sobbing.

  “They seemed to think I was somebody else… oh, not Ari Schoenberg, but somebody in the Nazi party. They were going to make me tell…” He looked up at Da Silva in blank-eyed wonder. “What could I have told them?”

  Da Silva reached over and patted his shoulder tenderly. “It’s all over,” he said, smiling in a friendly fashion. “It’s all over. Don’t think about it. You’re safe. But,” he added slowly, watching Ari out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge the proper subject to relieve the terror that lay waiting to explode in the other’s eyes, “it does look as if we had better move faster than we have. Mr. Busch seems to have more enemies than we counted on.” He looked at the little man shrewdly. “No contacts as yet?”

  The startling blue eyes looked at him dumbly. “No what?”

  “Contacts.” The tall, saturnine man smiled at him quickly, as if sharing a secret. He leaned forward again, patting the trembling leg. “Talk about it. What’s happened this past week? Tell me. You’ll feel better.”

  Ari looked at the tanned face before him, pulling his thoughts together. In a daze he began to describe his activities during the past four days. As he talked, he found to his surprise that the tension seemed to ease; he actually found himself considering their problem rather than the cold horror he had felt at the possibility of facing death at the hands of his own people. “In Sao Paulo,” he heard himself say. “They want me to meet somebody in Sao Paulo. I was planning on going there in a few days.”

  “They were probably waiting until you became less of a celebrity,” Da Silva said shrewdly. “Or possibly waiting until somebody returned who was away traveling.” He thought a while and then turned to the driver. “Better drop me off at my car,” he said. “Well try to speed things up.” He turned to Ari. “Do you feel all right for more action tonight?”

  Ari nodded dumbly. “I feel better.”

  “Good. We’ll speed things up, then. I’ll take you to your hotel personally. When we get there, let me do the talking.” He turned back to their driver. “Jardim de Allah, then.”

  For the first time, Ari noticed that their driver was the nondescript man he had met at the American Embassy.

  “Mr. Wilson,” he said in surprise. “I can’t thank you enough.

  “Thank Zé,” Wilson said, but there was a compassion in his voice that surprised the old man. Wilson turned past the Jockey Club and headed for the Jardim de Allah, his eyes smiling kindly at Ari in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 11

  It was after midnight when they finally came into the Mirabelle Hotel. Da Silva was holding Ari’s arm almost as if the old man were under arrest. The lobby was deserted; Mr. Mathais, the manager, was standing at the porter’s desk, speaking on the telephone. As soon as he saw them he dropped the phone on the hook and hurried forward.

  “Herr Busch!” he cried with relief, his eyebrows twisting ferociously. “You are all right?” He looked up at Da Silva and his manner changed; stiffened. “What is the matter?” he asked coldly.

  Da Silva smiled negligently, dropping Ari’s arm in the manner of one releasing something contaminated. He looked at the two of them with faint contempt. “When Mr. Busch first arrived in Rio,” he said quietly, “I explained to him that at times this could be a naughty city. Apparently he forgot my advice.” He turned to Ari, a look of disgust on his face. “You may not always be so lucky, Mr. Busch. Someday I may not be around to save your neck. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave Brazil?” He paused and added significantly, “After paying your taxes, of course?”

  “But what happened?” Mathais cried frantically.

  “I was kidnapped,” Ari said dully. “Captain Da Silva rescued m e.”

  “Kidnapped?” Mathais was almost jumping. “Who? Why?”

  “Some of Mr. Busch’s Jewish friends apparently decided to become irritated with him,” Da Silva said sarcastically. “They do not seem to share everyone’s enthusiasm for his politics.”

  “Jews?”

  “They were Jews,” Ari said, his face white as he recalled the terrifying ride, the brutal hand on his arm, the glitter of the knife in the moonlight. “They were going to kill me.”

  “I doubt that,” Da Silva said to the two of them with the tone one takes with a child awakening in the night with tales of dragons. “They were probably only going to reason with you.” He looked at Ari and Mathais with scarcely-concealed loathing. “I’m not sure that I shouldn’t have let them go ahead! For your own good, Mr. Busch, I suggest that you seriously consider my first proposition. Why don’t you leave Brazil? There seem to be people here who don’t want you around.” He glanced at his wrist watch, frowning at the late hour. “On our terms, of course. Telling us where the money is. Think it over.” He waved a hand at them almost flippantly and sauntered toward the door.

  A sudden flame seemed to burn through the little man standing nervously at the porter’s desk. “You can’t frighten me!” Ari called after him in a burst of temper. “I’m not afraid of you! And I’m not afraid of Jews!” Da Silva stopped and looked back at the little man almost curiously. “I’m not!” Ari cried hysterically. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  Da Silva watched this exhibition with a half-smile. “The story of my life,” he said with a shake of his head. “Nobody is afraid of me!” He started to chuckle, and let it grow into a loud laugh. The porter stood at his desk watching everything with open mouth. Mathais grasped Ari’s arm and tried to draw him away, but the little man seemed wound up, shaking; his voice trembled. “I’II leave Brazil when I want! Leave me alone! I’m not afraid of you!”

  Da Silva started forward, worried by this sign of hysteria; then, shrugging his shoulders, he pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel and disappeared into the night. Mathais led the still-muttering Ari to a chair in one corner of the lounge and called hastily for brandy.

  “What happened, for God’s sake!”

  Ari sighed, and told him everything, starting with their conversation at dinner. For the effect he wished to create, the exact truth was perfect; in his nervous state it was impossible to doubt the truth of his story. “Jews!” he ended viciously. “They were going to kill me!”

  Mathais nodded sympathetically, shaking his head. “You must leave Rio,” he said decisively. “You must go to Sao Paulo. You will be safe there.” He drank his glass of brandy in one gulp.
“And something must be done about this Da Silva. He is too curious.”

  Ari looked at him apathetically. “At least he saved my life.”

  “Not because he wanted to,” Mathais pointed out. “Only because he wanted to know where…” He changed the subject. There was no need to bother Herr Busch with the problem of Captain Da Silva; the poor man had enough on his mind. Da Silva would be taken care of without the necessity of Herr Busch even knowing.

  “Tomorrow,” Mathais suggested, “or better yet, the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow you must rest. I shall arrange plane passage and hotel space for you tonight, yet. And write you a letter of presentation to my friend.” He glanced at the wall clock; there were telephone calls to make. The suave consideration of mine host returned. “You had better go to bed. You have had a terrible time. But in Sao Paulo there will be nothing to worry about.” His eyebrows assumed terrible proportions. “I guarantee it!” Even in all of his weariness Ari could not help but look at the manager curiously. How Deutschland can you get? Ari thought. He arose slowly.

  “I agree it would be best.” He sighed deeply, and also looked at the clock. “You have been most kind. The plane you arrange—not too early in the morning, yes?”

  They shook hands before departing, again the tight saw-like motion, and Ari walked slowly to the elevator, his head beginning to pound. Behind him he left a very pleased hotel manager hurriedly dialing a telephone.

  Caprice Paulista

  Chapter 1

  The long low car swung into the gasoline station, radio blaring stridently. The man curled comfortably in the corner of the front seat seemed to sleep blissfully despite the blast of music issuing from the dashboard. The driver, a tall, deeply tanned, smooth-shaven Brazilian, slid from behind the wheel, ordered the attendant to fill the tank and check the oil, and then went about the car gently kicking the tires. His brilliantly flowered shirt excited no attention; what had once been the distinctive badge of the American tourist had become, through the persistent medium of Hollywood and Technicolor, the standard uniform of mediocre informality throughout the world. The same, unfortunately, was true of his aviation-type dark sunglasses.