The Fugitive

  Ari studied the man before him dispassionately. “Everyone needs money, Herr Strauss. And everything needs money. And the work goes on in many places. Not just in Brazil.”

  Strauss looked at the little man before him. The icy blue of the eyes showed a strength belied by the narrow shoulders, the potbelly. “Yes,” the Deputado admitted politely. “But you are in Brazil. And you have money.”

  The blue eyes showed no emotion. “I fail to see…”

  The heavy hand was raised in conciliation. “Herr Busch, if you will pardon me, your efforts in the United States were well done, although, to be honest, it is difficult for us here to determine just how effective they were.”

  “They were effective.” Ari stared about the office with disdain. “Much more so than anything I have seen since coming here.”

  “Without doubt. I did not mean to deride, believe me. But, Herr Busch, if we had the necessary money, we could do much more. And this is the country from which the work must be directed. Note what I say, Herr Busch: not could be, or might be, but must be.”

  “Ach, so? And why must it be directed from here?”

  “Because…” For the first time Strauss seemed at a slight loss for words. He came to a decision. “Because here, Herr Busch, we have the nucleus of a real rebirth of our glorious party!”

  “What do you mean by nucleus?”

  But Strauss had said all that he was walling to say at the moment. He stood up, smiling. “We shall discuss it again some other time, yes? And now, lunch?”

  Ari looked up at the huge figure towering over him. “Please sit down, Herr Strauss. We are in the midst of a discussion; let us carry it forward a bit. Lunch can wait.” The other looked at him with a touch of surprise and more than a touch of respect, and then reseated himself. No, Ari thought with certainty, he is definitely not the head of the group. He lacks authority; the poor soul also lacks ruthlessness.

  “Herr Strauss,” he said coldly, “you speak of wanting to discuss this thing frankly. I agree. I happen to be in a position where I have some money; and I am sure that you realize that my interest in rebuilding the party is as great as anyone’s interest. However, Herr Strauss, do you have any idea of how many people try to get their hands on money, using any excuse that comes to mind?” He shook his head sadly. Strauss sat listening quietly.

  “No, Herr Strauss. My sympathies are well known. How easy it must appear to simply appeal to these sympathies and presto!—money! I am not a fool. My money is available for the work I believe in, but not on anybody’s say-so. I am not attempting to be insulting, please believe me, but you must be able to understand exactly where I stand.”

  Strauss studied the little man judiciously. The blue eyes stared into his steadily. Finally the big man shrugged.

  “Herr Busch,” he said slowly, “I understand exactly what you mean. I also am no fool. I do not know what you would require in the way of proof….” He thought a bit. “Herr Busch. You recall a certain Captain Da Silva?”

  “Yes, of course I remember Captain Da Silva. Too well.”

  Strauss smiled. “Well, at this moment he is on his way to Paris. He was too curious; and also he was becoming a nuisance. With my influence, I was able to arrange another assignment for him. Do you believe me?”

  Ari sighed. “I’m afraid you do not understand me, Herr Strauss. If you say you arranged a transfer for this Captain Da Silva, of course I believe you.” He paused. So Da Silva had been taken out of the game! A cold feeling of being alone swept him momentarily, but he forced it away. “however, I must continue to be frank. You have told me nothing so far that would lead me to give any money to you or to whatever group you represent. Please believe me. I am not trying to be either stubborn or insulting. I am only being careful. And honest.”

  Strauss sat with his big head bowed in deep thought.

  Finally he looked up. “Herr Busch, I must discuss this with others, you understand.”

  “As you wish.” Ari rose slowly, brushing his lapel. “And now, lunch?”

  Strauss lumbered to his feet, bulking in the tiny office. He leaned over and picked up the trade magazine, still folded to the beautiful advertisement of the modern printing plant. “Should I bring this along?” he asked, looking at Ari questioningly.

  “I don’t think so,” Ari said, smiling coldly. “No, I really don’t think so.”

  Chapter 3

  The intimate little cocktail party given by the Jules Richereaus in their small apartment on the Rua Augusta was coming to a close. There had been only four couples present, plus the Deputado Strauss, who had just dropped in for a moment. The Deputado had mingled freely with the guests, all of whom he knew, and at the moment was speaking with an old acquaintance who bought and sold coffee; they stood in the middle of the floor, uttering the standard clichés about the influx of Colombian and African beans in the world market. The general drift for the door had begun; Madame Richereau was fluttering about, seeing that the final details of the leave-taking were properly handled, explaining to all with a sad shake of her shoulders that it was a pity her husband had been unexpectedly called away and could not have been there to enjoy their company.

  The guests, representing the best elements of liberal Brazilian society, were standing in the hallway, pecking dutifully at the cheek of their hostess. Strauss and his companion moved slowly toward the door, still talking; the coffee broker bowed politely to Madame Richereau. Strauss suddenly muttered something unintelligible, smiled selfconsciously, and moved down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. The hall door closed on the last of the guests, and Strauss stepped quickly to a closed door around a bend in the hallway, and tapped upon it in a particular way.

  The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Von Roesler, after once again closing it, returned and seated himself imperiously behind a desk. These rare cocktail parties, from which M. Jules Richereau unfortunately always seemed to be called away by the sudden pressure of business, were the only means by which he and Strauss could manage to meet without exciting notice. This, at least, was von Roesler’s idea; in the past months he had developed a mania for secrecy that had, Strauss felt, complicated their work unnecessarily.

  There was another special knock on the door and Strauss opened it to admit Monica. She slipped in and locked the door behind her. She seated herself unobtrusively as Strauss returned to his corner chair and lit a huge cigar.

  “Well?” von Roesler said impatiently.

  “I don’t think it went badly,” Strauss said, eying his cigar with the appreciation of a connoisseur. “He has the money, which is the important thing. And he intends it for our program. It is only…”

  “Only what?”

  Strauss studied his cigar carefully, choosing his words. “Well, it is only that he… what shall I say? He is very cautious.”

  “Cautious? In what way?”

  The Deputado laid down his cigar and told them of his meeting with Ari. “But there is really no problem,” he finished. “If you meet with him, there is no doubt but that he will provide the money for us.”

  “Meet with him? You must be crazy! No!”

  Strauss looked at von Roesler in amazement, then transferred his gaze to Monica with a question in his eyes; she turned her head, staring at the floor.

  “No?” Strauss asked in disbelief.

  “No! I meet with no one!”

  “But—”

  Von Roesler slammed the desk with his open hand. “It is final. I meet with no one!”

  “But, Colonel—” Once, in a fit of comradeship engendered by a particularly friendly meeting, plus the effects of several shared cocktails, Strauss had made the mistake of calling von Roesler “Erick.” He would not quickly forget the tirade that followed.

  Von Roesler looked at him coldly. “We will not discuss it further. If he has money and we need it, arrange that we get it. That is all.”

  “But how, Colonel?”

  The mad eyes stared at him with no expression.
“That is your problem.”

  Strauss shook his head as if to clear it. The meeting was certainly not going as he had imagined it would go. “Does the Colonel at least have some suggestion…?”

  “Take it from him. If he will not give it, take it!”

  “Take it from him? Pardon me, Colonel, but you do not understand. He is a friend. He is one of us.”

  “He is not one of us. We have no friends. This Busch, what did he do during the war?” The holocaust of Hamburg spread before his inner eye. They are all enemies, all betrayers. Only I, only I…

  Strauss looked at Monica helplessly; she kept her eyes averted. “I have no idea, but… Take it from him? How?”

  The eyes facing him lost their madness momentarily, but not their hardness. The voice almost sneered. “It is a shame you spent the war years in Brazil. If you had been in the Fatherland, you would not have to ask. You would know!”

  “I wasn’t in the Fatherland; I was here. Following your orders.” The resentment in his voice was apparent. He looked at von Roesler blankly. “I still don’t know what you want. I know him, and he knows me. How do you suggest we get the money away from him? Kidnap him?”

  The tinge of sarcasm was lost on von Roesler; the madness was back. “I do not care how. Kidnap him if you wish. Hold him for ransom.” He paused, thinking, then nodded. “is really an excellent suggestion. It is precisely what you shall do. Kidnap him. Hold him for ransom.”

  Strauss almost threw his hands up in hopelessness. “I was only—” “An excellent suggestion.” The eyes studied him dispassionately. “You can arrange the necessary people? They must not be anyone connected with our movement.”

  Strauss sat up straight. “I was not speaking seriously.”

  There was a sudden vicious gleam of humor in the eyes of the other. “But I am. It was your idea, and I am agreeing with it. You will kidnap him and hold him for ransom. For two million dollars.”

  “But—”

  “It is an order. You can arrange necessary people?”

  Strauss sighed. “I can arrange thugs,” he said with distaste, “but this is not the way to handle this. If you would only consent to meet with this Herr Busch…”

  “No!” The slam of the heavy hand on the desk was absolutely final. “I have told you before: I meet with nobody!” He stood up abruptly, indicating that the meeting was over. Strauss also stood up, staring at his cigar hopelessly. With a brief nod he opened the door and walked out; Monica followed, leading him toward the front door of the apartment.

  “He is mad!” Strauss muttered. He turned to Monica in appeal. “Busch is our friend. He has done more in the last few years than any of us, than all of us together. Is this how we should treat him?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “He is mad!”

  “He is frightened,” Monica said sadly. “Ever since Eichmann was picked up, he sits there, refusing to leave the house, refusing to meet anyone.”

  “This is a mistake,” Strauss said with sudden conviction. “I feel it; I know it. This is a very bad mistake!”

  “But he is our leader,” Monica said simply.

  “But really!” Strauss almost cried aloud in his disappointment. “Kidnap him! It’s ridiculous! How? Not only why do we do this silly thing, but how? In a crowded city, how?” He almost struck his head in frustration. “If only he would see him, only for a minute…”

  Monica hesitated, then drew him into the living room, still disheveled from the recent party. She pulled him down onto a couch, holding his arm possessively, speaking with conviction. “He will not see anyone,” she said. “It is useless to think along those lines. But as far as kidnapping is concerned, I think I know how.” She spoke breathlessly, not releasing his arm, pulling it firmly against the warm curve of her full breast. He leaned back passively; she began to explain her idea rapidly.

  Chapter 4

  Carnival was here; it was only the first afternoon of the insane, gay festival, but already all formality had gone by the board; a wild madness invaded the heavy air, a sense of complete relaxation and to-hell-with-it-allness. Ari sat wedged at a small table in the noisy hotel bar, enjoying an aperitif, completely at ease, smiling broadly at nothing at all, feeling himself to be a part of the twirling mob that engulfed him. Girls in little abbreviated skirts blew confetti in his face; young men with grotesquely painted mustaches and all manner of comic costumes sprayed ether from small pressurized bottles in all directions; from the street outside the open window came the sound of rhythmic syncopated bands, and the shuffling of people dancing, the cry of people singing. Ari sat there in pure enjoyment; what a wonderful people, what a wonderfully mad holiday!

  A couple came lumbering happily through the crowded bar; the man was gigantic and dressed in a tight Tyrolean costume of patterned shirt, short breeches, stockings and a small feathered cap; the woman, large herself, was dressed in typical French peasant style, her tilted-eared cap rising high over her golden hair, her blouse pleasantly filled, her full skirts falling in ruffled folds to her sabots. She was pulling the man along behind her boisterously; they bumped through the tables, heading for the bar. They were squeezing past Ari’s table when the man suddenly pulled up short, causing the woman to stagger.

  “Strauss!” she cried in a half-drunken giggle. “Come on! I want a drink!”

  “Herr Busch!” Strauss cried, tightening his grip on the woman’s hand and dragging her back to the table. “What a pleasure!” His eyes were already bright with the effects of drink, and the effects of Carnival spirit. Ari attempted to pull himself to his feet, but the pressure of the crowd was too great. “Jeanne!” Strauss cried. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine!” He looked about. “Here. Take this chair; I will get another!”

  The woman sat down at once, immediately reaching over for Ari’s aperitif and drinking it down in one gulp. Strauss swung a chair neatly from beneath the noses of the occupants of the next table and fell into it before they could complain. He enfolded Ari in a great bear hug, calling loudly to the waiter at the same time. Ari was overwhelmed.

  “Carnival, Carnival!” Strauss cried in a gay voice. “It is wonderful, no? Yes?” He paused, considering which had been correct, then dismissed the whose thing, remembering his duty. “Herr Busch, this is Madame Richereau. Jeanne, an old friend, Herr Busch.” He spoke in French; they fell into the same tongue. In the cacophony of sound that arose like a wave from all sides, every language of the civilized world could be heard.

  “I want a drink!” Madame Richereau’s sudden announcement was made in a belligerent tone. She stared at Ari archly. “You wonder, perhaps, where is M. Richereau? I will tell you; during Carnival, my sweet, we go our separate ways. It is the custom.” She hiccuped gently, then stared at Ari blankly and continued vaguely, “Yes, during Carnival it is the accepted custom….” Then she turned, waving wildly at a waiter and returning her attention to Ari all in one gesture. “Monsieur Busch, you are cute. Strauss, my sweet, Monsieur Busch must come to my party tonight. I insist. It is an order!”

  Strauss lolled back in his tiny chair happily. “Your orders, Madame, are my commands!” He suddenly laughed at the idiocy of this, turning in his chair to Ari for appreciation of the mot.

  Ari laughed delightedly. “I should love to come, Madame, but I am afraid that I have no costume.”

  “No costume? It is of the least!” She dismissed this excuse with a negligent wave of her jeweled hands. “It is nothing! I have at least three left over!” She hiccuped while considering her arithmetic. “No, four. No, no! Three.” She turned swiftly even as she spoke, catching the arm of a waiter with predatory skill, and ordered three drinks. Turning back, she blinked at Ari carefully. “Where was I? Oh yes, you want a costume. What would you like to be?” Her head perched to one side, looking at Ari birdlike. “A sultan?” She shook her head. “But I’m afraid that one would be too big; you would drown in it. I know! A woman! A beautiful, sexy, rounded woman!” She collapsed with laughter, clapping her hands. “I
have a delicious can-can for you; you will be a riot!”

  Ari laughed with her; her sudden guffaw was infectious, booming through the bar. “Please, not as a woman,” he said, giggling helplessly. “Anything but that!”

  “But you would be lovely as a woman,” she said, pouting prettily. “I’m sure you must have beautiful legs.” She bent over, peeking beneath the table. Ari continued to giggle.

  “I’ll take the third,” he said, “whatever it is!”

  Madame considered this statement and found it puzzling. “The third what?” she said. Enlightenment suddenly came.

  “The third costume!” She clapped her hands at her own cleverness, and then her face fell. But it is a comic prisoner, “she explained sadly,” all striped, like in the penitentiary. Last year everybody had one; this year they may be a trifle declasse.”

  “It will do fine. I shall be a comic prisoner,” Ari said, happy for her that the problem had been finally resolved.

  Madame Richereau suddenly climbed to her feet, and then mounted her chair, supporting herself with one hand against the chair back, her other hand pointing wildly. “Strauss!” she cried. “Our waiter gave our drinks to that table over there! Call him over! Make him give us our drinks!” She suddenly stepped down from the chair and started plowing her way through the crowd. “If you won’t, I will!” she called back determinedly over her shoulder. Strauss rolled with laughter.

  “A character, no?” he said, gasping, wiping his eyes. “Yes?” He thought about it and resolved not to get in that trap again. “And her parties are famous; you will love it!”

  “She won’t forget the costume?” Ari asked with an anxious smile.

  “She forgets nothing!” Strauss cried. “Except her husband!” He laughed so hard at this that he was forced to bold onto the table for support. Madame fought her way back, gripping a waiter firmly by the arm. “I don’t know what you would do without me,” she said archly as the waiter set their drinks upon the table. She turned to Ari with forced gaiety. “Now don’t forget! Nine o’clock at the Fasano Roof! You must ask for my table!” She swallowed her drink in one gulp without sitting down, leaning on Strauss in a possessive fashion, smiling brightly at Ari. “You’ll have your costume delivered tonight, so don’t sorry,” she said. She eyed him pensively. “Although I still think you would make a delicious can-can girl!”