The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  The fact that another was steering did not in any way affect the pressure Da Silva maintained on the accelerator, and Wilson wove precariously through the lanes of traffic while the tall detective fished his wallet from his pocket and extracted a crumpled piece of paper.

  “Here you are,” he said, handing over the paper and taking command of the car again from Wilson’s sweaty hands. He looked down at the steering wheel. “What did you do? Spit on this thing while I wasn’t looking?”

  But Wilson was studying the paper intently, holding it by the edges. “Evaristo Machado Omnibus Line,” he read. “A receipt for something or other.” He turned it over and stared. “William Drury!” He glanced over at Da Silva perplexedly. “William Drury? So that’s how you knew, eh? But I still don’t understand it.”

  Da Silva swung from the ocean road, turning into the Avenida João Pessoa. A red traffic light held them up; he took the paper from Wilson and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Look at it this way: let’s suppose there is no William Drury. He doesn’t exist. Except, let’s say, as a name scrawled on that package you have and also on a piece of paper I find in the pocket of a man found dead on Gávea Beach. Then we discover, through the medium of our receptionist friend with the weak kidneys, that the same man in whose pocket we find this name is the one who left the mysterious package marked with this name.”

  The light changed; he shifted gears and shot off. “Where was I? Oh yes—the name. A name, I might point out, that apparently doesn’t belong to anyone. So let’s think a bit further. Let’s suppose our friend in the morgue invented the name William Drury just for the purpose of leaving a package somewhere safe.”

  “Oh, brother!” Wilson said.

  But Da Silva paid him no attention; his mind, whirling along at star speed, was far ahead. “Now let’s imagine that someone—or rather, some two—were looking for this package, and don’t ask me why. They catch up with our friend, ask him most impolitely where the package is, and he doesn’t tell. Maybe he died before he told, which would indicate a courage considerably superior to mine. Or maybe he said he left it at the Pernambuco but failed to say he left it for Mr. William Drury. Or maybe they saw him leaving the Pernambuco.” He shrugged. “Maybe an angel came down and whispered in their ear; I don’t know. But in any event, once our friend was beyond being able to furnish any useful information, these two came back to the hotel to get the package. Not having any imagination, it never occurred to them that it might be in a mail rack. To them anything that valuable automatically went into a safe, and therefore …” He grinned. “Q.E.D. Our friend in the morgue was murdered by a little man, mean-looking, plus a big man. Any questions?”

  “Brother!” Wilson said with feeling. “Speak of having imagination! You could start with a damp bar rag and build up a distillery! A man leaves a package and then turns up murdered. Therefore, says the great Da Silva, he must have been murdered because of the package. And why? Because if not, where is Mr. William Drury?” He snorted. “Outside of the fact that the clerk could have gotten the name wrong, or the airline wrong, Mr. William Drury at this moment may be looking for his package at the Miramar Hotel, because they got their lines crossed. Really, Zé! I suppose if your dead man had bought a pack of cigarettes before being murdered, you’d pin the thing on Mr. Chesterfield himself.”

  “I know this,” Da Silva said stubbornly. “Two very odd things happened at the Pernambuco Hotel last night, and I’m no great believer in coincidence. You’re forgetting the robbery. Think about that a moment: two men hold up a hotel, get the safe open, and then don’t take anything. Is that normal?” He shook his head. “A hotel where a man leaves a package for someone who doesn’t exist. It’s only luck that they didn’t find it. No, to me the whole thing is clear. It’s all tied together. And the thing that ties it together is this.” He reached over and nudged the package in Wilson’s pocket.

  Wilson withdraw the package and held it loosely, studying the crude printing of “William Drury” on one side. “And just exactly what do you think this is?” he asked.

  “Something valuable enough to cause them to kill a man,” Da Silva said. “Let’s wait until we get up to your place and we’ll find out.”

  Wilson hefted the package in his hand speculatively. “But what’s your idea? I’d guess drugs, myself.” A twinkle came into his eye. “How about a little bet? Loser buys lunch tomorrow, and not at the airport. I say it’s drugs. What’s your guess?”

  Da Silva grinned. “Fair enough. I say it isn’t drugs.”

  “Oh no!” Wilson objected. He shook his head decisively. “Let’s give the poor sucker American at least a fighting chance. There are lots of things that aren’t drugs. Blackmail letters, for example, or gold bars. Or old bottle caps, or even button shoes. Lots of things. Take your choice.”

  “Wait a second,” Da Silva said in a simulated righteousness. “You made the offer. Now you’re trying to back out of it.”

  “Let’s not be ridiculous,” Wilson said. “If that’s the way you want it, at least give me odds. I still say it’s drugs, but your way I want odds. Ten to one, let’s say.”

  Da Silva maneuvered past a stalled truck and swung around the curve past the pass and the favelas, past the concrete skeleton of an unfinished apartment. At their side the Lagoa de Freitas spread to a distant view of the Jockey Club and the mountains behind, rising to the majestic peak of Corcovado. Sculling crews from one of the local clubs were working out in the lagoon, their shadows flashing ahead of them in the late-afternoon sun.

  “Tell you what I’ll do,” Da Silva said at last. “If that package contains drugs, I’ll buy you a lunch for one week, wherever you say. If it doesn’t, you buy me one cognac, PX stock, in your apartment right now. Anything else and all bets are off.”

  “Fair enough,” Wilson conceded with a grin. “I may lose, but it’ll be the first time I ever lost with the odds.”

  “You can’t ask more than that,” Da Silva agreed pleasantly, and pulled up before Wilson’s apartment building. The two men got out of the car and entered the lobby, Wilson fishing his keys from his pocket while Da Silva rang for the elevator. As they waited, Da Silva reached over and took the package from Wilson’s pocket, balancing it speculatively in his hand.

  “Something wrong?” Wilson asked as they got into the elevator.

  “Not a thing. On the contrary. You can pour that drink right now. One thing’s certain: these aren’t drugs.”

  Wilson opened the door of the apartment, ushered his guest inside, and then walked over to the bar. “And how do you deduce they aren’t drugs, Captain?” he asked sardonically. “X-ray eyes?”

  But Da Silva was serious. “Look, Wilson. How much would you guess this package weighs? Ten ounces? Twelve ounces? Less a few for the wrapping?” He shook his head. “It couldn’t possibly hold enough value in drugs to account for the insane chances those two took last night.”

  Wilson brought over the cognac with two glasses and began to pour.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, bending over the low coffee table. “Heroin, uncut, runs pretty high. A pound of uncut heroin would be enough to warrant cutting more than one throat. Or even half a pound.”

  Da Silva shook his head. “Of course it’s got value. But remember that they passed up the money and jewels in that safe. It would have to be much more valuable.” He thought a moment and then shook his head again. “Anyway, we don’t have that much of a drug problem here. Some marijuana, but in general the hard stuff doesn’t have much appeal. And ten or twelve ounces of marijuana is scarcely reason to kill a man. I could probably pick that much growing within two blocks of here.”

  “But the drug problem here is growing,” Wilson said. “Growing dangerously. You know that.” He set the brandy bottle on the table and fell into a chair opposite his guest, reaching for his glass. “And if it isn’t drugs, then what’s your guess? Counterfeit plates?”

  Da Silva snorted. “Made of what? Aluminum? And also, to counterfe
it what? Cruzeiros? In competition with the Government?” He lifted his glass in a mock toast to his companion. “Well, here’s to our bet. I’m in the process of collecting, so I can’t lose.” He drank and, placing his glass on the table, reached for the package.

  “All right,” he said calmly. “Let’s settle it.”

  His strong thin fingers snapped the cord and stripped it away. The paper unfolded itself stiffly, revealing a cardboard box. Da Silva folded the paper carefully and laid it aside with the string for future examination and then returned to the box itself. It was a nested carton, of the type usually used for chocolates, and Wilson leaned forward in interest as Da Silva picked up the cover and shook it slightly to dislodge the bottom section. It stuck for a moment and then came loose with a jar, falling to the table, spilling its contents onto the glass table top before them.

  For less than a second Da Silva stared before the thing lying half out of the box registered on his startled brain. Then, with a wild cry, he flung himself violently backward, his hand automatically catching up the brandy bottle as a weapon. His heel caught on the rug, tripping him, but even as he fell he was twisting, his face taut, the bottle spilling brandy down his arm, his arm raised to strike. But then he paused, for there had been no movement; nothing. Suddenly aware of the brandy gouting down his arm, he upended the bottle and crept warily closer.

  “Um coral! Déus me livre!” He swallowed. “A coral! Stuffed!”

  Wilson was roaring with laughter. “My God, Zé!” he gasped. “I never saw anything so funny in my life!”

  “Funny?” Da Silva suddenly raised the bottle in his hand to his lips and drank deeply before setting it down once again, this time on the floor. He pushed himself to his feet, shaking. “Funny? You’ll never know how close you came to needing a new table!” A fit of shuddering caught him and he fought to bring it under control. “A coral! My God!”

  Wilson was still laughing. “You should have seen yourself, Zé. White as a sheet. Scared by a little thing like that!”

  Da Silva’s chest heaved, still fighting for breath and control. His face was ashen. “Scared? Afraid? My God, yes! Terrified!” He reached for the brandy bottle again and sucked at it desperately. Setting the bottle unsteadily on the table, he fell into a chair and stared at the small rigid head, the open beady eyes. “If that thing had been alive, the chances are that one or the other of us—or both—would be dead right now. Does that answer your question, friend?”

  Wilson’s laughter ended abruptly. “Dead?”

  Da Silva nodded somberly, his dark eyes never leaving the still, semi-coiled form half in and half out of the cardboard box. “If that had gotten to us, and they move pretty fast. That’s the deadliest snake we have in Brazil, and believe me, we have some beauties.” He shook his head in wonder, breathing deeply as his control slowly came back. “God! A coral! I’ve never had a fright like that in my life!”

  Wilson leaned forward to look closer. “It seems pretty tiny to be as deadly as you say.”

  “It’s big enough and deadly enough. Take my word for it.” Da Silva lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His hands were still twitching. He stared in morbid fascination at the small red and black banded form and then, reaching over with the box cover, he nudged the stiff little body. The snake balanced a moment on the top of the box and then slithered out, falling on the glass top of the table, the glittering eyes fixed unwinkingly on the two men. Despite himself, Da Silva pulled back, almost in alarm.

  “Well, it’s dead and stuffed,” Wilson finally said and shrugged, his eyes beginning to twinkle. “All that fuss about nothing. I’ll get a dustpan and toss it down the incinerator.”

  “You’ll what?” Da Silva looked up in amazement. “You’ll throw it down the incinerator? What’s the matter with you? This is evidence. A man was killed for this!”

  “Now wait, Zé!” Wilson stared at his friend with astonishment. “You built up quite a romantic story before, but a snake? A man was killed for a dead and stuffed snake? That’s really carrying this mountain-out-of-molehill affair pretty far!” He reached over and prodded the small curled body on the table; it slid away as if attempting to avoid the contact. “I’ll admit that if the package had contained drugs, or diamonds, or something valuable, I might have gone along with your theory. But a snake? What’s the connection? Look, Zé, a man got killed. The same man left a package at a hotel. And the hotel was later robbed. And the package wasn’t taken. And we have it. And it holds one dead snake.” He shook his head. “You’re really reaching when you try to make a feature article out of those facts!”

  “I tell you he was killed for this package,” Da Silva insisted stubbornly. He studied the snake some more. “Wait a second! Wilson, get me a razor blade!”

  Wilson shrugged, but he went into the bathroom and brought out a safety razor, extracting the blade as he came. Da Silva took it gingerly, tipped the tiny form over with a pencil from his jacket pocket, and searched the rounded body for stitches. On the underside of the patterned skin the edges of a nearly invisible cut had been neatly sewn; with a steady hand Da Silva snicked each thread and used the corner of the razor blade to pull them loose. Wilson watched the operation silently. When the threads were loose, Da Silva caught one corner of the thin skin with the blade and delicately tugged at it. It rolled back, curling slightly at the edges.

  Wilson bent down, peering closely. “What’s there?”

  Da Silva took the pencil and poked gently in the mass of stuffing that spilled out. He probed back and forth for several seconds and finally looked up.

  “Nothing!” he said in disappointment. “Sawdust!”

  “Fine!” Wilson straightened up, stretching. “I hope you’re satisfied. Now can I throw him away?”

  But Da Silva was staring off into space, his dark eyes brooding. The pencil waved gently in his fingers, like a tiny baton in the hands of an orchestra leader conducting a slow movement.

  “I won’t have time to get home,” he said slowly. “I’ve got to go to the office and then I’m going down to the bus station at Praça Mauá and check on this Evaristo Machado line. Maybe the driver will remember something.” He looked up at Wilson. “If you could put this in your safe until morning, I’d appreciate it. I’ll take it off your hands in the morning.”

  Wilson stared at him. “When you get one of your ideas, you’re certainly hard to move,” he said almost admiringly. He leaned over the table, reaching for the tiny coiled form there, and then wrinkled his nose. “In my safe? This thing stinks!”

  “Just until tomorrow morning.” Da Silva poured himself another brandy, gulped it down, and then stood, quiet and tall, staring at the snake.

  “So you won’t be at the party tonight? I was hoping you would come.”

  “Not tonight. I’ll be busy.” He waited as Wilson scraped the snake with traces of sawdust inexpertly back into the bottom of the box and then fitted the cover in place. The balance of the sawdust he swept to the floor, leaving it for the maid to clean.

  “Where’s that paper?”

  Wilson looked up from his task. “What paper?”

  “The one I gave you in the car. With the name on it. And the bus line.”

  “In your shirt pocket.” Wilson walked behind the bar, carrying the package gingerly. He swung a picture away from the wall, twisted the combination, and then slipped the cardboard box from sight in the wall safe. Da Silva watched him twirl the knob to lock it and then walked with him to the door.

  “The whole thing is screwy,” Wilson said in a complaining tone of voice. “I admit that it’s queer to find a man carrying a dead snake in his pocket, but I could probably find ten reasons for it if I had to. I think you’re making too much out of it. I don’t see a connection.”

  “You don’t?” Da Silva paused with his hand on the knob, remembering the morgue and the loose arm that refused to lie still under the bloody sheet. “You didn’t see him. You didn’t see the man who was carrying that package after they were th
rough with him.”

  His dark eyes looked beyond Wilson, staring at the wall. “But I did.”

  THREE

  Senhor Adhemar Santos de Monteiro, recent civilian appointee as head of Brazilian Interpol and Da Silva’s immediate superior, was short, dumpy, and quite vague in appearance. He made an impressive picture seated behind his large desk, but only because he had a special chair which enabled him to rest his elbows on his blotter without appearing to be climbing out of a hole. It must not, however, be thought that Senhor Monteiro received his appointment without merit; he had contributed heavily to the current incumbent’s campaign fund and had relatives on his wife’s side with more money than they knew what to do with.

  Da Silva, seated opposite his chief and trying to read intelligence in the reflection from the thick spectacles, sighed patiently. He had repeated his story several times, but it still did not seem to have penetrated.

  “You keep coming back to the dead man and the dead snake, Captain,” Monteiro said, almost complainingly. A sudden idea seemed to strike him. “Do you mean you suspect that the same person killed them both?”

  God! Da Silva thought bitterly. Where do they come from? Why couldn’t this one have been appointed head of fisheries in Matto Grosso? “No, sir,” he said. “It’s simply that I feel there are things in this case that warrant further investigation.”

  “But we’re pretty busy, Captain,” Monteiro pointed out, and then ruined everything by adding, “We are, aren’t we?”

  “Not too busy, sir. I’ve explained about the paper I found in his pocket and the fact that he went to a lot of trouble to conceal that snake. Plus that rather odd robbery at the Pernambuco. I think we ought to check into it further.”

  “Ah!” said Senhor Monteiro, as if Da Silva had unwittingly given him the weapon he needed. “But that’s just the point, isn’t it? It really doesn’t have anything to do with our department, does it? Dead snakes? Or even dead men? That is, unless they’re foreigners, of course,” he added hastily.