The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  But his companion did not answer; his fingers suddenly clamped themselves fiercely on the larger man’s thigh. “In back!” Jorge whispered excitedly. “The one who just dropped off, the one in white! Look, he’s coming to talk to the driver!”

  “It’s him! My God,” Luis said in an almost reverent tone, “here we are, watching the bus station, and he drops off right in our laps from a Pau de Arara!” He reached for the door handle, but the smaller man grabbed at his arm.

  “Wait! Not here!”

  Luis stared at him in astonishment. “Why not?”

  Jorge’s voice was a queer blend of triumph and fierce hatred. “Because I say so!”

  “But he’ll get away!”

  “He won’t get away! Believe me, he won’t get away! I said not here; there are fifty people around, you fool!”

  “But—”

  “Shut up! I’m thinking.” There was a few seconds’ pause; Jorge’s lips were moving as if he were talking to himself. “He’ll take a cab, and we’ll follow him.”

  “But—”

  “I said, shut up!” The small head never turned; the tiny eyes were fixed on the two men talking idly at the truck’s hood. He saw the driver pat the hood, watched the man in white laugh and wave goodbye. Jorge’s teeth gleamed in the darkness in silent mirth. “Laugh, eh?” he said softly. “We’ll see who laughs last tonight, friend!”

  “Jorge, I think we ought to—”

  “Shut up!”

  Luis sank back. He wondered at times why he always took orders from Jorge; he was the elder, wasn’t he? And he knew he could easily have broken his younger brother in half. But he also knew that, first of all, Jorge had brains and he did not; and second of all, he knew that deep down in his heart he was afraid of Jorge. The only satisfaction he could draw was that he did not know anyone who was not afraid of Jorge. Even Armando … His big foot found the clutch; he pushed the gear lever in and out of first gear experimentally. The man in white had crossed the road and was speaking with one of the cab drivers there. He reached eagerly for the ignition key, but Jorge’s thin fingers clamped on his wrist.

  “Wait! Not until he gets into a cab.”

  “But—”

  The smaller man didn’t answer but tightened his grip on the huge wrist. They waited silently, watching the man in white. The smaller man seemed perched even higher on the seat of the car, as if poised for instant flight. Luis breathed softly, caught up in the success of their mission, his eyes glittering in the dark. The ignition key almost seemed a thing alive under his taut fingers. His hairy hand was wrapped around the plastic-covered steering wheel. One drink too much, Luis thought; this one in white took one drink too much, and then he talked. And lucky for us, or we’d still be sitting back in Urubuapá waiting for the roof to fall in and not even knowing it. He grinned in the black interior of the car and lifted the gear lever back and forth, in and out of gear.…

  The man in white looked carefully about the deserted Praça and then crossed the avenue to approach the cab rank that faced the only open bar. Small marble-topped tables were scattered about the mosaic sidewalk before the doors; the drivers were sprawled about the tiny tables listening to the radio which someone had tuned loud enough to raise the dead. The heat of the city smothered them; there was no breeze. Two of them were deep in a game of dominoes; several others were watching idly. No one paid any attention to the potential customer looking at them pointedly.

  “Cab?”

  No one looked up. His huge fist bounced on the table, scattering dominoes. There was a sudden movement to object, but one look at the towering figure and set, hard face and it was abandoned. “I said, cab?”

  An elderly driver at an adjoining table looked up. “Which zone?”

  “South. Copacabana.”

  The driver folded his newspaper and arose. “I’ll take you.”

  They threaded their way through the silent tables. “Second cab in line.” The drivers behind sat glaring in his direction, the scattered dominoes fitting in nicely with the mosaic sidewalk beneath their feet, but the man in white slid into the front seat of the cab beside the driver, paying them no attention.

  They pulled away from the Praça, the driver nursing his ailing engine until it reached a semblance of smoothness. He pushed his flag down and stared woodenly through the milky glass of the windshield.

  “Any particular route, senhor?”

  The man in white thought. He knew he could not have been seen, but still it would be foolish to take any chances at this point. He had taken enough chances already; if he had stayed sober that night, there would never have been the necessity to take any chances. He pressed the package under his arm and smiled. Better stick to the back streets, though.

  “Yes,” he said. “Turn up Avenida Vargas, then down Riachuelo, over through Lapa, and pick up the old tunnel.”

  The driver stared at him, surprised. “The old tunnel? Along the ocean is much quicker.”

  The large man eyed him coldly. “You asked me and I told you. And I’m paying. So let’s not have any arguments, eh?”

  The driver shrugged but remained silent and settled down to his route. The car behind followed, maintaining distance, lights extinguished.

  Luis was still shaking his head in wonderment. “What incredible luck!” he muttered. “My God! Waiting for him at the bus station and he drops off a Pau de Arara, right into our laps! What fantastic luck!”

  “Don’t lose him,” Jorge advised grimly. “Or it’ll be bad luck for you!”

  Luis smiled contemptuously. Behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, or behind the handle of a knife, his confidence always returned; even Jorge no longer seemed as threatening. “Lose him? In that bucket of bolts? We may have to push him to get him where he wants to go.”

  “Where he wants to go and where he’s going are two different places,” Jorge said with quiet viciousness. Through the rear window of the leading car he could see the outline of their quarry’s head. He turned and spat.

  They turned into Rua Riachuelo; the street at this hour was deserted. Luis glanced over at his brother. “How about here?” he asked. “Do we take them here?”

  “We don’t take them,” Jorge said shortly. “We take him. And not here; when he drops the cab. When he’s alone. I told you before we don’t start anything in front of witnesses.”

  “O.K., O.K.,” Luis said hastily. He ran through a traffic signal to keep the cab in sight, drew up to a more reasonable distance, and settled down to the chase. In the car ahead the driver glanced once again in his rear-view mirror and turned to his passenger. There was a touch of fear in his voice.

  “The senhor will pardon me, but I think we are being followed.”

  “What!”

  It was a shock; even after thirty or more hours of constant vigilance, it was a terrible shock. The man in white swung about and stared at the black car holding an even distance behind them, maintaining their sedate pace. The two heads were vague in the dark shadows, but he suddenly had no doubts. He could feel the chill settle on his skin; his stomach tightened into a painful knot.

  “Turn down the first side street,” he said harshly, his voice choking in his throat. He swung the rear-view mirror to give him sight. “Go around the block …” The cab turned the first corner even as he was speaking, his fear communicated to the driver. In the mirror he saw the glint of street lights reflected from the high hood of the other car as it swung with them. He turned to the driver, desperate, almost pleading. “Can you lose them? For ten thousand cruzeiros can you lose them?”

  The driver shook his head despairingly. Ten thousand cruzeiros was a lot of money, and he was as anxious as his passenger to be rid of the unknown threat behind them. “No, senhor, I can’t. It is not possible in this car, and when the streets are empty …”

  But the man in white had stopped listening after the first word. With a conscious effort he fought off the sickening panic that was sweeping him; there had to be a solution. He pounded his big
fist on his knee. Why had he gone out and gotten drunk in Urubuapá? Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut? They would never have known … never! But they did, and they were right behind him. Stop this, he thought; stop this and think! A sudden possibility sprang into his mind, full-blown; he clenched the driver’s shoulder painfully.

  “The first all-night bar,” he said through his teeth. “Where there’s a telephone. And you will wait for me—do you hear?”

  The driver swallowed. “I will drop you, senhor. There will be no charge.” His hand crept toward the meter flag. “I want no trouble.”

  “If you wait there will be no trouble. If you don’t …” The man in white suddenly leaned across the steering wheel and took a folder of documents from the driver’s shirt pocket. The driver reached up in a futile grab for them, the cab swaying dangerously as he did so, but the man in white had already settled back, slipping the papers into his pocket.

  “Here now! Give me …!”

  “You will get them back. Plus ten conto. When we get where I’m going. This way I know you’ll wait for me. Now, quickly—a bar!”

  They slowed up before a lighted front, but a heavy foot pressed over the driver’s and the car speeded up. “Not here,” said the man in white grimly. “Further down, in Lapa. Where there are people.” The cab went on. In the car behind Jorge grinned cruelly, as if he could read the mind of his quarry.

  The street curved; the arches of Lapa appeared before them. “There,” said the man in white, pointing. The driver applied his brakes, his face sullen. The man in white had the ignition key in his hand before the car had come to a full stop. “Relax,” he said harshly. “And wait.”

  Luis, in the car behind, also applied his brakes. “They’re stopping,” he said doubtfully. “He knows we’re following him.”

  “Of course he knows we’re following him.” Jorge smiled coldly. “He’s known for some time. Good! Let him worry a bit. Let him sweat.”

  “Do we take him now?” The huge hand reached for the door handle, but the smaller man caught it.

  “No. I said when he’s alone. Have a cigarette and relax; the night’s young.” He leaned back, watching the bar front and the cab parked ahead.

  “But he’ll get away! He went into that bar! He’ll—”

  “He won’t go anywhere; where would he go? I can see him in the bar mirror. He’s telephoning.”

  “He’ll go out the back! Jorge, for God’s sake! What’s gotten into you?”

  “Shut up! I can see him; he’s telephoning, I tell you.”

  “So he’s calling for help! I’m taking him now!” He twisted the door handle; this time the slap across his wrist was vicious.

  “Luis.” Jorge’s voice had dropped; it was cool and almost conversational. It was the tone that Luis feared the most. “One more stupid move on your part and you are out of the deal. Is that clear? I’m handling things and you’ll do as I say!” He smiled. “Let him call for help. Who will he call who can help him? Nobody can help him.” He slipped a revolver from his pocket and laid it negligently on the car seat. Luis leaned back reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the lighted bar front. Jorge is making a mistake, he thought desperately; he’s making a big mistake.

  Inside the bar the man in white was at the telephone, dialing. The white-tile walls were blinding after the dark of the street; he closed his eyes for a second and then opened them hurriedly. If they take me here I’m lost, he thought. But with those two having coffee at the bar, and the driver outside, and that character asleep in the corner, they won’t. They’ll wait until I’m alone. I hope. He listened to the distant ringing impatiently, his collar suddenly tight, his hands clammy.

  The phone was finally answered. “Hotel Pernambuco. Boa noite.”

  He forced himself to speak calmly, evenly. “Reception, please.”

  He waited some more, listening to another ringing. They’re right outside, he thought. Beyond that door, waiting. It doesn’t seem possible; how did they ever find me? Nobody knew where I was going, or how … I didn’t even know myself until last night at the docks when that Pau de Arara came rolling past, and I managed to catch it. Fool that I am, he thought bitterly; if I had only kept my mouth shut! I had it all, right in my hands! I … The phone at the other end was finally lifted.

  “Reception here. Can I help you?”

  He forced all thoughts from his mind, concentrating on his scheme. “I am speaking for the Americo-Brazilian Airlines,” he said smoothly into the telephone. “You will forgive our calling at this late hour, but one of our American directors, a Mr.—” His eye fell upon a bar bottle facing him across the small marble counter—“Drury, William Drury, just cabled that he will arrive from Miami on the early-morning flight. Is it possible to reserve a room for him? In the apartments? It must be a very fine room, you understand.” That should sound sincere enough, he thought.

  “Americo-Brazilian? Certainly. An apartment, you say? One moment, please.” There was a pause; then the voice came back on the line. “We can let you have apartment 502; it faces the pool. I’m sure it will be satisfactory.”

  “Fine. That’s for tomorrow.”

  “That’s right, sir. What was the name again, please?”

  “Drury. William Drury.” He spelled it, glancing at the bottle on the bar as he did so. This is idiotic, he thought. This is hopeless. But I have to try something; I can’t just let them take it away from me without even attempting something.…

  “Thank you. It is reserved. Good night, sir.”

  He hung up, dropped some coins on the bar, and walked quickly back to the cab. The counterman did not look up from his labor of slicing bread; the two drinking coffee continued to discuss football. The drunk asleep in the corner remained silently propped against the wall. So normal, he thought bitterly. A block behind, the other car sat silent and ominous, like a blind animal waiting to pounce by sound or smell. He slipped into the front seat beside the grim driver and nodded.

  “Hotel Pernambuco in Copacabana.”

  “And the keys? And my documents?” The driver was seething.

  The man in white handed them over and reached into his pocket. “Relax,” he said in a dead voice. “They don’t want you. They want me.” He counted out money and handed it over. The driver stuffed it into his trouser pocket together with his papers and leaned against the door, feeling the pressure of the wad pushing against his thigh, safe from grabbing hands. “Now,” said the man in white, staring broodingly through the windshield, “when we get to the hotel you will wait in front. For ten minutes. With your flag down, as if you were waiting for me to return. After ten minutes you can go where you like. Is that clear?”

  “You are from the police, senhor?”

  The man in white stared at him silently. “No,” he said at last. “I am not from the police. But you will do as I say, or you will regret it.”

  The driver hunched over his wheel, swinging about the arches of Lapa and down toward Catête. Certainly I will wait ten minutes in front of the hotel, he thought sourly. Like I will wait ten minutes at the scene of an accident so I can spend a month in prison as a witness. The man in white suddenly reached over the sun visor and took down a pencil that was tucked there, fumbled through his pockets for paper, and finally unearthed the receipt for return to Urubuapá. On the back he marked down the name “William Drury” so as not to forget, slipped the paper back into his watch pocket, and returned the pencil in place. The driver said nothing, concentrating on getting this fare delivered and out of his cab as quickly as possible.

  The man in white no longer bothered even to look behind at the car trailing them or even to press against the package in his jacket pocket. There was no longer any pleasure in the contact; he was in a bad spot and he knew it.

  They came through the old tunnel; the gloomy sweating walls and the tiny light bulbs emphasized the desolateness of the hour and the hopelessness of his situation. He shivered. The car behind closed in; Jorge had reached forward and turned on the
parking lights as if to advise the man ahead that the game was almost up. Rua Siquiera Campos was ahead and they followed it, turning with the streetcar tracks toward the ocean.

  Traffic began to appear. There is no hour of the day or night when Copacabana is as completely deserted as the heart of the city. The traffic light at Avenida Copacabana was changing to red as they approached; a streetcar and several cars began to inch forward across the intersection in anticipation of the green. The driver eased up on the gas pedal, preparing to apply his brakes. Then, with a sudden movement, the man in white slammed his foot hard over the driver’s on the gas pedal and tramped down.

  The driver swung hard at the wheel, too frightened and startled by the surge of speed to even think, and they shot around the sudden clanging and honking of infuriated motormen and drivers, rocking back into the far side of the street, streaking for the beach. The driver fought to pry his foot loose. His hands were frozen on the wheel; fear caused him to whimper softly in his throat. Death faced them; the street ended at the beach, and beyond the avenue there the squat stone benches that lined the sidewalk loomed solid and frightening.

  But the man in white eased the pressure in time. His large hand reached up to shove the steering wheel around. They screamed into the Avenida Atlantica, rolling madly, bounced against the far curb, and swayed back. Then the inexorable pressure came back on the foot and they were fleeing down the deserted asphalt, the ancient engine pounding, the tires squealing dangerously.

  “Not yet!” the man in white whispered to no one in particular. “Oh, not yet!” His teeth shone in a sudden violent smile. His hand still pressed on the wheel, his fingers biting into those of the terrorized driver. “Changed my mind,” he said in that awful mad whisper of desperation. “You will drop me when we slow down. Do you hear?” His foot forced even greater speed from the laboring engine. “And you will go on and you will not stop. You will go on and you will not wait, do you hear?” At that moment the large foot was lifted; the frightened driver braked, bringing them in a sickening swoop to the curb. The man in white had the door open before they stopped.