The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  While his car was being serviced the tall man went to a Coca-Cola machine, withdrew a bottle and tilted it to his lips, idly watching the traffic whizz by as he drank. If he patted his lips in the fashion of one accustomed to drying a mustache after partaking of liquids, it was not such a movement as excited either curiosity or notice from the busy attendant.

  When the car was finally ready, the tall man paid his bill, swung back behind the wheel with athletic ease, and roared off down the highway. The sun had been up and at work for several hours, and the day was beginning to show the result of this effort in mounting heat. The driver swung the small side window to an angle that allowed the warm breeze to play briskly across his face, and stepped up his speed. A huge signboard advertising motor oil flashed past; beneath a picture of a grinning automobile thirstily drinking from a golden can, an arrow pointed in the direction he was traveling. “Sao Paulo,” said the arrow, “400 kilometers.” The driver nudged his companion sharply and the other slowly opened his eyes.

  “My dear Zé,” said Wilson, straightening with a deep yawn and eying Da Silva with undisguised rancor. “You drag me out of a comfortable bed at some ungodly hour, frighten me half to death by having shaved off your mustache, throw me in your car with no explanation whatsoever, and then you don’t even have the decency to let me catch up a bit on my sleep!”

  “There is a time for everything,” Da Silva said brightly.

  Without his mustache he appeared years younger; his strong white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. “When I picked you up, Wilson, my son, I was in the midst of a dramatic escape. Even you will admit that that is certainly no time for fancy speeches and lengthy explanations. Now, however, that we have foiled the dastardly intentions of the minions of law and order, and are well free of their foul clutches, other times have come!”

  “Like the time for explanations?” Wilson asked curiously.

  Da Silva laughed gayly, shaking his head. “Like the time to appreciate nature. Look at the sunlight glistening on the waves below; notice the beautiful cloud banks ahead of our brave airplane! Think of the drink we shall take together at Belém, think of the wonders we shall see tonight in Dakar, and the food we shall eat tomorrow in Paris! Wilson, my friend, there is no place in the world to appreciate nature like Paris!”

  Wilson hunched back into his corner, closing his eyes. “When the mood passes, Zé, please wake me again.

  There’s no point in both of us dreaming with our eyes open.”

  “Up, up!” Da Silva cried happily. “The lark’s on the wing; God’s in His heaven; all’s right, more or less, with the world!”

  Wilson sat back up, looking at his friend in disgust. “You have no idea how obnoxious you can be when you get all boyish and exuberant. And that shirt! Are you trying to look American? And without your mustache.” He examined his companion critically, his head cocked to one side. “You know, in this light, you look like an aging juvenile delinquent. Is that supposed to be a disguise?”

  “Not supposed to be. Is. Is. And very effective, too. You have to admit it completely fooled you.”

  “‘Fooled’ isn’t exactly the word. ‘Frightened’ would be closer. Or maybe ‘horrified.”’ Wilson lit a cigarette and gazed at Da Silva calmly. “Would it be a breach of palace security to ask just where we are going?”

  “I told you.” Da Silva sounded hurt. “Belém, Dakar, Paris. In the order named. With a one-hour stopover in each airport. For gasoline, I imagine, since they must have W.C.’s aboard.” He swung the wheel, hurtling the car recklessly around a truck that had pulled half off the pavement with a flat tire; he smiled wickedly. “Also watch out for air pockets!”

  “Belém, Dakar, Paris?” Wilson asked, quietly.

  “Exactly! You finally got it!”

  “Byway of Sao Paulo?”

  Da Silva looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t mention that place, or I’ll know you’ve been peeking!”

  Wilson sighed. “All right, Ze,” he said patiently. “When you get playful I know something has broken. What?”

  Da Silva smiled at him gently, his eyes dancing behind the dark glasses. “I’ve been trying to tell you. My leave has been canceled. I have drawn the fascinating assignment of checking up on several cases of completely unimportant people who are thought to have illegally immigrated from France to Brazil.” He winked broadly. “This is rather interesting, especially when you consider that immigration into Brazil is practically open. Except for two-headed giraffes.” He sighed deeply. “At any rate, I have orders to report to Paris immediately to work with the French branch of Interpol on this grave breach of law.”

  Wilson sat up straight. “When do you leave?”

  Da Silva suddenly blasted his horn at a slow-moving furniture van and passed it in a screaming burst of speed. “You really haven’t been listening to a world,” he said reproachfully. “I left early this morning. By now I imagine I should be coming into Belém de Pará.” He grinned. “I mean, by now I am coming into Belém de Pará.”

  Wilson studied the strong face of his companion, now smiling faintly at the windshield, his large hands firm on the wheel. “Do you think you can get away with it?” he asked quietly.

  Da Silva grinned again. “This is one sure way to find out.”

  “You think that someone is trying to get you transferred off the Busch case?”

  Da Silva took his eyes from the road a moment and glanced at Wilson blandly. “I should consider it a possibility.” He returned his attention to the highway winding beneath them. “You must admit it is interesting that the assignment happened to come at this particular moment. And that it should just happen to deal with immigration. Now, I wonder who could possibly have arranged that?”

  Wilson looked at him speculatively. “You think it was Strauss.”

  The restraint was too much for Da Silva’s explosive nature. He snorted, dropping his sarcasm. “I’m sure it was Strauss; I know it was! With all of the usual Teutonic subtlety!” He curved the car around a bus laboring up a hill. “Immigration is one of his pet projects; it would be no problem for him to arrange a transfer like this.” He looked across at Wilson seriously. “Do you still doubt my theory?”

  “Your theory?”

  “The meeting back in 1939, remember?”

  Wilson shrugged this subject off; his mind was on things more important to him at the moment. “But, Zé, won’t they know you didn’t go to Paris?”

  “Not for a while. I have friends too, you know. Reports, cables, and all of the paper work we all love so well will come through on schedule, at least for the time being.” He sighed. “Let’s hope we can clear this Busch affair up before then.”

  Wilson stared at the firm set of his friend’s face. “Zé,” he said quietly, “why do you do it? You’re a policeman, under orders, ducking out on an assignment given you by your superiors.”

  “My superiors haven’t the faintest idea of why they were asked to assign me to Paris,” Da Silva replied stubbornly.

  “That’s not the point,” Wilson said, “and you know it.”

  Da Silva looked at him, his face a mask, a brown granite block with flat eyes that looked at Wilson and through him, far beyond. “Don’t care,” he said flatly. “I’m a man, too. Under more important orders. From much higher up. That’s the assignment I can’t leave.”

  He turned back to the wheel abruptly, concentrating on his driving. They stopped once again for gasoline at Sao Jose dos Campos, in the State of Sao Paulo, caught a quick sandwich while the car was being serviced, and left as soon as it was ready. The sun was high now, past the meridian, and there was no longer a breeze; the area was sweltering. Wilson had thrown his jacket into the rear seat of the car, and now loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.

  “You might at least have let me take along a clean shirt,” he said resentfully.

  “They sell shirts in Sao Paulo,” Da Silva said dryly. Then he smiled. “Or you might stop by and visit the Deputado Strauss. H
e ought to have quite a collection of shirts. All colors.”

  He leaned back and accelerated the car. They roared on toward Sao Paulo.

  Chapter 2

  The sleek Convair leaned gently into the cross winds rising from the Santos range, slipping easily into the landing pattern for the Sao Paulo airport. Huge factories on neatly landscaped grounds swept beneath the descending wings; the geometrically blocked skyline of the city, reflecting the eastern rays of the morning sun, suddenly tilted sharply, and then straightened. Now a residential area flowed beneath the flowered wheels, small square houses on brown dirt lots with tiny people discernible. The nasal whining of a motor within the plane startled Ari; he glanced out to see the flaps scooping downwards, felt the checked rush in the air. Stained concrete swirled madly beneath, fleeing wildly; he felt a soft lurch as the plane touched down. They were at Congonhas Airport, in Sao Paulo.

  He assumed his place in the taxi queue, remembering clearly the line-up for Immigration when he had arrived in Rio. Just one week ago, he thought; one short week. Is it possible? The hollow voice echoing its litany of arrivals and departures in the main hall behind him served as background to his feeling of belonging. I’m growing up, he thought, that’s what it is. And quite a thing, too, at my age. I am becoming what I might have been, had I not lost thirty years. His bag suddenly appeared in the hands of a porter who scarcely seemed physically capable of handling it. A tip changed hands, a cab door opened in his face, his bag was taken from him and deposited within, a hand on his arm, a car door slammed. They were rolling toward the city. He leaned back, relaxing, certain now of his capacity to handle whatever came up.

  Herr Mathais had arranged rooms for him at the Hotel Clemente, a modern residential hotel on the Avenida Angelica. There he was greeted with pleasant but cold efficiency by a desk clerk who obviously was not familiar with either his name or reputation. His fear of encountering the same effusive attention he had suffered at the Mirabelle proved to be unfounded; Herr Mathais, despite his dramatic appearance, was no fool.

  Once his bag had been placed in his room, and the bellboy had quietly withdrawn, Ari took up the telephone and put through a call to the number neatly printed on the back of the envelope Mathais had given him. As he waited for the call to be completed, he reached down and slipped off his shoes. It was extremely warm and he wriggled his toes appreciatively.

  “Sim?” It was a woman’s voice, obviously a secretary.

  He leaned forward, speaking quickly in German. “This is Herr Busch calling. have a letter for Deputado Strauss, to be delivered in person. From a mutual friend in Rio. I wonder if it might be possible to speak with the Deputado himself?”

  The voice answered smoothly in German. “Herr Busch? One moment while see if the Deputado is in. Please hold the line.” There was a moment’s silence; Ari took advantage of the pause to wriggle his toes some more. He was feeling very good. A deep voice suddenly boomed in his ear.

  “Herr Busch! This is a very great pleasure!”

  “Herr Strauss? Likewise. Herr Mathais was kind enough to give me a letter of introduction—” “The voice waved this aside with grandiose disdain. There was no need for a letter, really. While have not had the pleasure of meeting the Herr Busch in person, am more than familiar with the Herr in the ways that count! You must have lunch with me. Today, yes?” There was a pause. “I shall come by your hotel in thirty minutes, yes? It is all right?”

  “You are most kind, but really, I could meet you—”

  “Nonsense! It is my pleasure to pass your hotel.”

  “If you wish it, then it is my pleasure, too.”

  “I do wish it. Thirty minutes, then, yes? Auf wiedersehen.”

  “Auf wiedersehen.”

  It occurred to Ari as he hung up and started for the bathroom that he had forgotten to mention the name of his hotel to the Deputado, and for an instant he started back toward the telephone. Then he stopped, smiling grimly. The Deputado, he was suddenly sure, not only knew his hotel and room number, but probably the size of his hat. He turned back to the bathroom.

  Thirty minutes later he was standing at the large glass window of the lobby when a long Cadihac drew up at the entrance. He walked to the front of the marquee as a chauffeur sprang down to open the rear door. A heavy-set blond giant, of indeterminate age, leaned forward from the back seat, waving him in. “Herr Busch?”

  He smiled and entered the car. They shook hands as the driver put the Cadillac into gear and smoothly entered traffic. Ari reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, producing his letter of presentation, handing it to his companion. Strauss stuffed the envelope into his pocket negligently, smiling.

  “Well, well,” he said happily. “This is your first trip to Brazil?”

  Ari assured him it was.

  “And you like it?”

  “Very much,” Ari said. He glanced about him, noting the luxurious appointments of the Cadillac.

  “This is a very beautiful car.”

  “For my use as a Deputado,” Strauss said immediately.

  “Government.” He smiled deprecatingly. “Unfortunately, not my own.” He looked at his wrist watch. “You are anxious to eat at once?”

  “Not particularly,” Ari said. “Why?”

  “A stop I must make first, if you honestly do not mind.”

  “It is perfectly all I right.”

  “You are most kind.” Strauss leaned forward, speaking to the driver in Portuguese, and then leaned back again. Despite his bulk, there was a certain grace about him, the grace of controlled power. There is nothing effusive about this one, Ari thought; and very little that is subtle. He can be brusque, and also very tough. But somehow he lacks something that I would sense, or that I would recognize, if he were the leader of the group. I wonder what it is?

  They drew up before a small factory building in a rundown neighborhood. The buildings here were low and ramshackle, running almost to the rutted roadway; bare patches of brick under the broken and dirty cement facing showed great age and poor care. At one side of the building in front of which they had stopped, an oily driveway led through tottering wooden gates to an unloading platform piled with debris. A faint clacking noise came from within, monotonous and depressing. Strauss descended and held the door back for Ari.

  “Please,” he said. “I should like you to come too, if you do not mind.” Ari got down, wondering, and followed the large man into the building.

  In the gloom of the interior he could see several flatbed presses, two hand-operated card presses, and the usual clutter of the small-job printing shop. Seen from the inside the building seemed even smaller; the ancient and battered machinery filled it. Rickety cabinets holding type leaned drunkenly against one wall; tables for pulling proofs and pounding forms were placed haphazardly about. The shop looked as if it had not been swept for weeks; rubbish lay under the tables and around the machines.

  A young boy in a filthy apron stood feeding a hand press under the single bulb that gleamed faintly in the room. His eyes were half closed against the fumes of a cigarette pasted in one corner of his mouth, and his arms swayed in automatic rhythm to the slapping of the platen. He paid no attention to his visitors. They stood in silence watching this operation for a moment, then Strauss touched Ari on the arm and they turned aside into a small office set under a stairway.

  Strauss reached up to the wall and switched on a light; a naked bulb dangling from a twisted cord lit the messy room with brutal clarity. It was a tiny office with barely room to move about in. A roll-top desk covered with papers filled one corner; another table littered with more papers and magazines took up most of the remaining space. The calendars on the wall were stained and crooked; an old typewriter leaning askew with one corner caught on a pile of catalogues completed the inventory of debris; it was all indescribably shabby.

  Strauss sat down heavily in a plain chair and motioned Ari to the wobbly armchair before the desk. He waved his arms about in disgust, watching Ari under fir
m eyebrows. “You see it,” he said quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, ‘You see it.’ Our propaganda center. We are supposed to work with this; to produce results with this.” He shook his leonine head fiercely. “If it were not so tragic, it would be a joke.”

  Ari sat silent, afraid of not knowing what to say. His eyes passed over the pitiful confusion of the room and returned to the other. Strauss leaned forward impressively.

  “Herr Busch, I am not like the others,” he said, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the small, elderly man balanced precariously on the edge of the swivel armchair. “I speak out with what I have on my mind. I know who you are and the work you have done. I am proud of the work you have done. And I am also envious of the work you have done. But, Herr Busch—” a thick finger sprang in the air for emphasis—“if you had been forced to work as we have, you could not have accomplished what you did!”

  Ari gazed about him. “It is not much, it is true.”

  “Not much? It is nothing! It is worse than nothing!” The thick hands scrabbled through the papers that cluttered the table until they unearthed a trade magazine for the graphic arts. He picked it up, rimed through the pages to an advertisement offering a complete, modern printing plant for sale and slapped the folded page down in front of Ari. “Do you see this? This is what we were promised!” He jerked his hand contemptuously toward the clacking press outside. “This is what we have! And have had for ten years! It is not possible!”

  Ari studied the beautifully illustrated cuts in the advertisement. “How much would a factory like this cost?” he asked quietly.

  Strauss shrugged. “I have the quotation around somewhere, but it is an old one. It would probably cost much more today. But that is not the point; that is the least. No; that is not true, it is not the least. But it is only a part.” His eyes fixed the man before him. “Herr Busch, we must be frank with each other. We need money if we are to do the work that must be done; and much money.”