The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Why don’t we go in together?” Wilson suggested. “Save time. It will also look more official. A demonstration of the co-operation between two friendly governments in war and peace.”

  “Need assistance, eh?” Da Silva smiled broadly. “Oh well, all right. You did buy lunch.”

  They entered the ornate lobby together, requested the manager, and were shortly seated in comfortable chairs before a gigantic desk in a large, luxurious office that might, Da Silva could not help but think, have added at least two apartments to the premises during the rush season. The manager was a stocky man, dressed in the manner of managers, and with an eye like a stethoscope. He accepted their introductions with a bit of dubiousness; he could imagine nothing sufficiently serious about the attack the previous night to warrant a combined call from Interpol and the security officer of the American Embassy. However, to be on the safe side, he offered them cigars, which were refused. He then leaned back and broke the growing silence by clearing his throat prior to speaking.

  “The police have been here, of course,” he said in a voice that subtly accused his visitors of lack of prescience. “A radio patrol, at least. They took some notes, but I seriously doubt if anything will be done. There wasn’t anything taken, you see.…” This last was said accusingly, as if the police, somehow, were at fault.

  “I know,” Da Silva said calmly. “However, we have to check to see that nothing involving my department is … er, involved. Your hotel is the leading accommodation for foreign guests in the city, you know.” The manager unconsciously sat a bit higher, nodding at this deserved compliment. Da Silva continued suavely. “Then, if you don’t mind … Is the night porter around?”

  “He is for the time being, but he won’t be for long!” said the manager, glowering darkly, and reached over to touch a button on his desk. He spoke into a small box and leaned back. “We hire two people for the night shift because we feel that two people are necessary, not to let them take advantage of us and slip off when nobody is watching!” He cleared his throat, coming back from his dream of night porters hanging by their thumbs. “I asked him to come in when your office called and said you’d be by. He’s been waiting.”

  Both Da Silva and Wilson nodded understandingly and leaned back to wait the arrival of the night porter. The walls were covered with the autographed pictures of the various world-famous artists who had performed in the night club of the hotel; a wealth of bare skin seemed to be the main costume employed in the exposures. Fame, Da Silva thought, smiling to himself. You’re cute kids, but let us be honest: anywhere except on the stage of a famous hotel’s night club and we’d have most of you in for medical examinations.

  The door opened hesitantly, and a young, pleasant-faced man entered nervously. He was dressed in street clothes, obviously his best, and a wide strip of adhesive covered one side of his forehead. He waited in the doorway, balancing first on one foot and then on the other, while he glanced at the two visitors and then at the manager with something like trepidation.

  “Come in,” Da Silva said with a pleasant smile. “Sit down. Now, I know you’ve told your story before, probably several times, but I’d appreciate it if you could go through it just once again. Everything.” He spread his hands expansively. “What happened, when, who, and all the rest.”

  The young man seated himself gingerly on the edge of the chair, still watching the manager as if for permission. A curt nod from the frozen face behind the desk unlatched his tongue and he began to speak, his hand automatically stroking the bandage on his forehead.

  “It was about four in the morning,” he said hesitatingly. “There were two men. One was a big son—a big guy, really big; the other was small, but he looked pretty mean. Real mean, as a matter of fact. They came in—”

  “Which way did they come?” Da Silva asked. “From the pool and the apartments, or from the street?”

  “From the street. Through the main doors. They looked like they’d been in a fight; the little guy had blood on his shirt. They got me at first—they sure didn’t look like guests, all tough and bleeding like that. I mean all bloody like that. Anyway, by the time I smarted up and reached for a phone the little mean guy had a gun on me.” He swallowed. His fingers were twisting in his lap. “Anyway, I thought they wanted the money in the cash drawer. There isn’t very much, just enough to make change for the waiters and the cab drivers. But they wanted the safe opened. I … I …” He paused, looking miserable, as if by opening the safe he had betrayed some sacred trust. But then the thought that nothing had been stolen seemed to occur to him and to relieve him somewhat.

  “I opened it,” he went on, his eyes avoiding the cold face of the manager. “They shoved me to one side arid started to go through all of the guest’s envelopes. They didn’t seem to be looking at any of the stuff inside, and they passed over a lot of jewelry and money.…” His voice indicated that he found this puzzling. “They started throwing the envelopes on the floor and digging deeper into the safe. I figured they were busy and made a break for the telephone, and one of them—the little guy—he slugged me.” He swallowed again. “When I come to, they were both gone.”

  “And nothing was taken?”

  “No, sir. Nothing. We keep a list in the desk of the envelope numbers and we checked them right away. I couldn’t stop them,” he added in a non sequitur that searched for understanding. “They had a gun pointed at me.”

  Da Silva nodded placid agreement. “I know. I’ve had guns pointed at me. I don’t like them. They scare me.” He turned to the manager. “You keep large sums in the safe?”

  The manager shook his head. “Not in that safe. That’s just for guests who come in late from parties and want to leave a ring or something in the safe until the next day.” He sniffed. “That’s why the porters are allowed to have the combination.”

  “I see.” The tall detective turned back to the waiting night porter. “These two men—were they Brazilian, do you know? Or do you think?”

  “Oh yes, sir. At least I think so. They spoke Portuguese regular, just like us.”

  “Were they from Rio, do you think? Cariocas?”

  The clerk paused, trying to remember. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Actually, they didn’t talk much.”

  “Didn’t say anything?”

  “Just told me to open the safe.” He coughed delicately. “And they swore a lot.” His tone seemed to indicate that swearwords were pretty much the same in both Rio and São Paulo. Da Silva nodded again.

  “How old would you judge them to be?”

  The night porter frowned, judging. “Pretty old. Middle-aged, anyway. About thirty, at least.”

  Wilson smothered a grin, but Da Silva went on with his questioning equably. “Do you think you would recognize them if you ever saw them again?”

  For the first time the nervousness vanished, replaced by a hard line of the lifted jaw and a stiffening of the voice. “I’ll say I would!”

  “You gave the police their full description?”

  The young man gulped, his nervousness returning. He had hoped that these two were from the police, but from this last question it did not appear so. Then they could only be from the hotel directorate; it was what he had feared. He swallowed.

  “Yes, sir. I told them just what I told you.”

  Da Silva nodded. “I see. And where was the receptionist during all this?”

  The young man blanched. This was really the question they had been leading up to. His eyes tried to avoid not only the manager but also the calm, pock-marked face confronting him.

  “He … he wasn’t there. He’d … gone to … to the toilet, I think.”

  The manager muffled his snort out of respect for his position, but his eyes clearly indicated what he thought of this excuse. Da Silva nodded in an understanding fashion. There was a few moments’ silence. Wilson glanced at Da Silva, concluded that his friend was finished, and then leaned over.

  “Tell me,” he said, while the young man stiffened a
t this attack from a new direction, “were you the one to take a reservation from Americo-Brazilian Airlines last night?”

  “A reservation? Me? No, sir.”

  “It must have been the receptionist, then. Is he here in the hotel at the moment?”

  “He’s right outside. I’ll send him in if you want.” The young man had risen hurriedly, anxious to make his escape from this inquisition.

  “If you would.”

  Da Silva added his thank you as the young night porter disappeared; his eyes lifted to find the manager looking at the closed door blackly.

  “Toilet!” said the manager scathingly. “I’ll toilet the two of them! Too many bars around here that stay open all night! I’ve suspected for a long time …!”

  Wilson held up his hand to silence him as the night receptionist entered. This one was as nervous as the night porter had been; he avoided the manager’s eye, accepted a seat dubiously as if it might be booby-trapped, and sat rigid and waiting, his face flushed. Wilson broke the silence, looking across at Da Silva.

  “My turn,” he said in English and then turned to the receptionist. “I wonder,” he went on, switching to fluent Portuguese so evenly that his remark to Da Silva blended right in, “I wonder if you could tell us the story about this reservation for a Mr. William Drury?”

  Had Wilson been watching Da Silva he would have noticed the sudden start at mention of the name, as well as the narrowing of eyes filled with swift thought. Wilson, however, was bent in a kindly manner toward the receptionist, whose eyebrows had gone up at the question. This was a query far removed from anything he had expected. Da Silva also leaned forward intently, watching the receptionist keenly.

  “Drury? William Drury? The reservation?” His voice indicated his profound relief at this line of interrogation, although it also indicated his puzzlement that this routine matter had been brought up at all. It was obvious that he did not know that Mr. Drury was a fictitious name or that the reservation had not been taken up. He shrugged. “Nothing, sir. Americo-Brazilian Airlines called last night and made a reservation for one of their American directors. That’s all, sir.”

  “And the package?”

  “The package? Oh, you mean the package that the man left for Mr. Drury?” There was no understanding the vagaries of people or their methods of arriving at a point. He knew he was in trouble for having stepped out for a short beer the night before; why all these round-about questions? “Some man came in about two-thirty in the morning and asked to leave a package for Mr. Drury. I told him Mr. Drury hadn’t registered yet, but if he left the package we’d deliver it as soon as he did. He marked it and I put it in the mail rack.” He looked puzzled. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Not a thing,” Wilson began, but Da Silva interrupted smoothly. He had been listening to this story with increasing interest, and he now held up his hand.

  “This man,” he said quietly. “The one who left the package. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Wilson stared at him, but he knew Da Silva and recognized the seriousness of the other’s expression. The tall detective was onto something. The receptionist smiled, the first smile either of the nervous employees had attempted.

  “Oh yes, sir. I’ve a very good memory for faces. After all, it’s necessary when one is in reception …” His smile faded as he suddenly realized it was very possible he was no longer in reception. “He was a big man …” He paused, arranging the details in his mind.

  “Dressed in a white suit?” Da Silva prompted gently. Wilson gasped.

  “Yes, sir. He was as tall as you, and heavier. Like you say, he was dressed in a white suit. I remember it was pretty wrinkled. You don’t see as many white suits as you used to, even in summer.” He seemed to realize he was drifting from the main current of the questioning and fell silent.

  “Is this him?” Wilson’s jaw tightened as Da Silva handed over a photograph. The receptionist’s breath caught as he stared at the picture. His face whitened; he looked sick.

  “He … he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s dead. He’s in the morgue on a stainless-steel shelf and that’s the way he looked when they brought him in. Or worse. They may have cleaned him up a bit.” Da Silva bored in. “Is that the man who left the package for Mr. Drury?”

  Wilson was watching the scene closely; his face was a mask, but behind the mask were smoldering thoughts. So his old friend had been giving him the rib, eh? Knew nothing about this William Drury or the package, eh? He glared at Da Silva, but the tall detective continued to keep his eyes fixed on the white-faced receptionist.

  “Well, is that him?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s him.” He continued to stare at the gruesome picture until Da Silva leaned over and gently extracted it from his fingers.

  “I think that’s all. Thank you.”

  The receptionist got to his feet slowly, wonderingly. The questioning hadn’t been at all what he had expected. The man in white was dead; how horrible! But he had had nothing to do with that. The man in white had only been someone who came in and left a package, as so many did. And he had taken it and filed it; certainly you couldn’t fire a man just for that …

  “Before you go,” Wilson said quietly, “did anyone else see this man give you the package? Where was the night porter when this man in white came in?”

  Here it was! These hotel directors had only been playing with him about the package … although the picture was truly of the man in white, and the picture showed he was dead … certainly they didn’t think he or the night porter had anything to do with that … but this quiet, nondescript director is waiting for an answer … He cleared his throat uneasily. “I think he … he was in the toilet.”

  Da Silva stifled a grin, but Wilson remained as pokerfaced as ever.

  “Thank you. That’s all.”

  The receptionist walked quickly to the door, opened it with as much dignity as he could muster, and closed it softly behind him.

  “Toilet …!” the manager muttered balefully.

  “We’ll take that package now,” Wilson said, paying no heed to the manager’s grumbling. “I’ll give you a receipt for it, but I’m afraid we’ll have to take it with us.”

  “Of course.” The manager pushed another small button and gave the small box further instructions. A uniformed messenger came in almost at once and laid a package on the desk. Wilson was scribbling rapidly.

  “For the time being,” he said, arising and handing over the receipt, “it would be better if nothing were mentioned of this matter. If anyone calls to claim this package, simply take his name and then let me know. Or Captain Da Silva. Is that understood?”

  The manager nodded indifferently. Even the fact that the man who had left the package was now in the morgue did not seem to greatly impress him. He was simply waiting for the two detectives to be out of his office before dealing with two night employees who couldn’t stay at their posts when nobody was watching them.

  Da Silva also arose. His geniality was gone; he looked at the manager narrowly, reading the other’s mind. “And I shouldn’t fire those two men too quickly,” he said, the coldness of his eyes biting into the other. “We may want to talk to them again. And being lazy, I wouldn’t want to run all over town looking for them. I’d prefer to find them both right here.”

  The manager opened his mouth, held it in that position for a second, and then closed it. Da Silva watched this performance with stony eyes; then, picking up the package, he handed it to Wilson and opened the door.

  “Thank you,” he said coldly, and closed the door behind them. They left a dead silence behind them, but Wilson broke it before they were past the doors leading to the curved driveway.

  “Holding out, eh, friend?” he said tightly. “Just what—”

  “Hotel managers!” Da Silva said with a wink. “You’d think they never had to go to the toilet.” He held the car door open for Wilson. “You know,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe they don’
t at that. That might explain that stuffy look they all seem to have.”

  “Zé …!” Wilson’s voice was dangerous. “How did you know—”

  “You know what?” Da Silva said eagerly, crawling into his side of the car. “Let’s go over to your apartment and have a drink. Suddenly I’m thirsty.”

  Wilson crawled into the car and reached over, his fingers biting into the tall man’s sleeve.

  “I’m going to kill you, Da Silva,” he said between his teeth. “Dead! It will be a crime that even you could solve, except that you are going to be the victim. And do you know why it will be easy to solve? Because I’m going to be found jumping up and down on your body!” He slammed the car door viciously.

  Da Silva nodded agreement and pulled into traffic. “That’s the best way, up and down,” he said. “That’s the way I always jump myself. Sideways tires you out too much. And also,” he added thoughtfully, “sideways involves a certain problem of balance. For example …”

  “Zé!”

  Da Silva looked at him in simulated surprise. “What’s the matter? What are you all upset about? I told you I’d help you, and I have. What’s your complaint?” He suddenly grinned, clapping Wilson on the back without in any way reducing his weaving speed through the late-afternoon traffic. “All right, relax! We got a very welcome and unexpected break, is all. Let’s go over to your place and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Tell me about it now!” Wilson was prepared to be stubborn, but his pose was disrupted by having to jam his foot against an imaginary brake as his companion swerved around a slow file of cars and swooped into Avenida Rainha Elizabeth, avoiding collision with a taxi by scant inches. “My God, Zé!”

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” Da Silva said. They had come out onto the ocean road at Arpoador and he slackened speed somewhat, savoring the cool breeze of the open ocean. “I told you about this body in the morgue. Well, the reason I didn’t just turn him over to Homicide and forget about it was that I found a paper in his pocket. One that our intrepid Homicide police had overlooked. It said—wait a second. Hold the wheel a second and I’ll show you.”