The Fugitive

  Da Silva forced himself to calmness. “We don’t know that it doesn’t have anything to do with our department, sir,” he said slowly. “We won’t know unless we check into it further.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Probably just a waste of time, Captain.” He attempted to sit higher in his chair and failed. “Time, Captain, is not to be wasted. I’m sure you can understand that. No, I can’t see it as anything for us.”

  Da Silva stared at him. “You don’t mind, sir, if I check into it further on my own time?”

  “Your own time? Can any of us in Interpol call our time our own?” He cleared his throat suddenly, as if realizing he might be inviting an answer. “Well … I suppose there would be no harm in spending a few days on it. If we’re really not busy, that is.” His little hand shot up in the air. “But I’ll expect reports, Captain. Regular reports. Written, of course, with the standard number of copies.”

  “Yes, sir.” Da Silva rose to his feet, quickly and gratefully. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

  “Do that.” Senhor Monteiro considered also standing and decided against it. “And if there is anything I can do to help, Captain, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Nothing.” The pudgy hand brushed aside this merited appreciation. “What I’m here for, after all.”

  What you are here for, Da Silva said to himself viciously as he closed the door behind him, is to keep that high-chair from blowing away in a mild breeze. Ah, well—politics. He trotted down the broad stairs of the Central Police Building, slowly regaining his humor. There was work to be done, and that always eased his irritations.

  The omnibus station in the Praça Mauá handles the majority of the scheduled bus lines that radiate like tangled vines from Rio de Janeiro to the many small suburbs that border the giant city. Offices in general free their prisoners at five o’clock, and from then until eight each evening the platforms swarm with confused and struggling humanity, squirming madly in their effort to return to the relative peace of their homes. After nine, however, the majority of commuters have finally managed to batter their way aboard either their own or at least some transportation, and the station in the later hours is fairly deserted except for rare intercity traffic. Captain Da Silva, therefore, found one of the ticket windows empty and, leaning down, rapped until he irritated the clerk into attention.

  “Pardon me,” Da Silva said politely, pushing his hat back from his dark, curly hair, “does the Evaristo Machado Bus Line come into this station?”

  The clerk stared at him impatiently. Non-customers with idiotic questions were the greatest bane of his existence. The second greatest were legitimate customers. “What line?”

  “The Evaristo Machado.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Then could you please tell me …” But the clerk had already turned away in complete disinterest.

  “You!” said Da Silva in a voice so sharp that the clerk turned back with a snarl to deliver himself of a biting reprimand, but he found himself facing a police badge and he swallowed instead.

  “Now!” said Da Silva bluntly, slipping the badge back into his pocket. “You will stay right there and answer my questions, or we’ll go down to the delegacia and see if we can open you up there!” He pushed himself erect, glowering at the clerk; the smaller man behind the grill-work had to lean over in order to look up at the stern face.

  “Ye … yes, sir!”

  “Now,” Da Silva said with satisfaction, “this Evaristo Machado Bus Line. If it doesn’t come into this station, where could it come to?”

  “Where?”

  “What station?” Da Silva’s voice tightened.

  The clerk blanched. “There is no Evaristo Machado Bus Line,” he said fervently, more than anxious to please. “We know all of the bus lines in the country; we have to.” He paused, thinking hard, trying to help. “It might be one of the independents from one of the small towns around here. Nova Iguaçú, maybe, or Caxias, or someplace like that.” He frowned. “The starter outside on the platform, or one of the drivers … maybe they could help you.” He stared at Da Silva alertly, eager for more questions, eager to be of further assistance, extremely uneager to visit the delegacia, particularly in company of this large man.

  Da Silva stared back. In addition to air conditioning and morgues, he also hated the cavalier treatment afforded the public by so many people behind counters. A proper punishment for this one occurred to him and he pulled one of his photographs from his pocket.

  “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  “Please.” The clerk reached out, smiling, and pulled the picture to him for study. His smile faded; the sight made him shudder, but he did not dare cease inspection too soon. After a proper interval he shoved it back across the counter; his face was white.

  “No, sir. I never saw him before.”

  “Are you sure? Take another look.”

  The clerk closed his eyes queasily. “I’m sure.”

  Da Silva shrugged, put the picture back in his pocket, and began to turn away with a smile. A further question came to him and he swung back, his face serious once more. The clerk was immediately watchful, bending down alertly.

  “How far could a person get,” Da Silva asked thoughtfully, “on a return passage worth thirty conto?”

  “Return from where?”

  “Say from Rio?”

  “Thirty thousand cruzeiros?” The clerk was relieved by the innocence of the question, but also properly amazed. “A return? Only a return? That would have to be at least a fifty-conto round-trip passage. At the least.” He shook his head. “Even Recife wouldn’t be anywhere near that much. Are you sure you mean by omnibus? There’s no place you can go from Rio that would be that expensive.”

  Da Silva nodded his thanks and turned away once more, shaking his head in disgust at his own stupidity. Of course, he should have realized that there was something odd about a return passage worth thirty conto. You could go to Buenos Aires by jet for less than that amount. The affair became more confusing every minute, but by the same token it also became more interesting.

  The platform beyond the office was deserted except for the starter, an old man seated lazily on a hard wooden bench, yawning and scratching himself. He looked up, bright-eyed, at his visitor; any break in the monotony was welcome.

  “Good evening,” Da Silva said pleasantly. “I wonder if you could help me. Have you ever heard of a bus line called the Evaristo Machado?”

  The old man shook his head slowly. “No, sir.”

  Da Silva frowned. “Well, that’s that, then.”

  The old man held up his hand in sudden thought. “Wait a second. There’s a young fellow by that name who runs a Pau de Arara down from somewhere on the São Paulo coast. He drops over and has coffee with me sometimes when he gets in. But it isn’t a bus line at all; it’s just a Pau de Arara.” He shook his head sadly. “No, it isn’t a bus line. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “A Pau de Arara?” Suddenly it began to make sense. “Where does he stop, do you know?”

  “Over on the other side of the Praça.” The old man got to his feet, walked to the open end of the platform, and pointed. “Over there, along the rail. That’s where almost all of them stop. Maybe one of the fellows over there could help you.”

  Da Silva took his picture from his pocket and showed it to the old man. “Did you ever see this man before?”

  The old man looked at him shrewdly. “You are from the police?”

  Da Silva nodded. The old man fished out a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then carried the picture to one of the platform lights. He bent over it and whistled.

  “Puxa!” he said admiringly. “Someone certainly didn’t like this one!”

  “I guess not,” Da Silva said. “Ever see him before?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t remember. I see thousands every day.” The old man continued to study the picture
with appreciation for several minutes before handing it back. “They don’t look like this one, though.”

  Da Silva smiled and slipped a bill into the old man’s hand. With a wave and a word of thanks, he left the platform at the open end and crossed the wide street to the dockside. A large passenger liner was tied up at the first wharf opposite the Touring Club, and lights from the towering decks flooded the area. A band on deck was playing Brazilian music in a distinctly American manner; people were crowding the rail, throwing confetti and pompoms of colored paper down to their friends below. Along the high grilled fence that separated the dock area from the Praça a band of ragged adults and wide-eyed children were watching this animation solemnly.

  Da Silva approached the first of a line of battered, open trucks; the driver was lost in the shadows of his lifted hood, tinkering with the motor by flashlight, humming along with the ship’s band. Da Silva tapped him on the shoulder and he withdrew his head, scratching his nose on his wrist to avoid grease.

  “Evaristo Machado?”

  The driver studied him carefully a moment before deciding it was safe to answer. “Third or fourth truck down. A Chevy.” He leaned over the fender of his truck, calling loudly, “Evaristo! Someone here for you!”

  “Grácias a Déus!” A young man came hurrying up. “Finalmente!” He paused uncertainly as he saw Da Silva; it was obvious he had been expecting another. “Yes, sir?”

  “Are you Evaristo Machado?”

  “Yes, sir.” It was said hesitatingly.

  “Did you write this?” Da Silva took a paper from his wallet and handed it over. The driver of the first truck offered his flashlight, watching this unusual affair with curiosity.

  “This? No, sir.”

  Da Silva looked down perturbed, then reversed the paper. “Not that; this.”

  The young man read his own handwriting slowly, as if for the first time. His face fell in anticipation of trouble, the usual result of the unknown. He hesitated.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, sir. I wrote it. Is something wrong?”

  Da Silva took him by the arm and led him further down the fence. The driver of the leading truck looked disappointed at being left out of the conversation but shrugged philosophically and bent over his motor.

  “I’m from the police,” Da Silva said quietly. “I want you to look at a picture and tell me if it is of the same man you gave this receipt to.” He took a pencil flashlight from his pocket, shining it down on the photograph. The young man gasped.

  “He’s dead …”

  “Yes, he’s dead. Is he the one?”

  The young man looked sick. “Yes.” He looked up in misery. “Do I have to give back the thirty conto? I didn’t ask for it; he offered it. He wanted me to wait for him. He said he’d be back by eight this morning. I’ve been waiting all day …”

  “No,” Da Silva said kindly. “You don’t have to give back the thirty conto.” The young man stirred with at least partial relief. “I just want you to tell me everything you know of him.”

  “I don’t know anything of him. He got on at Urubuapá, down by the docks. He came running out; I almost missed him. He wanted to come to Rio, and he paid me and climbed up in back. When we stopped at Merópolis, where we come out onto the Dutra, he talked to me and said he wanted to come back with me—or rather, he said he wanted to come back as far as where we cross the Santos road. He said his business in Rio would take only a few hours. He offered me thirty conto to wait …” The young face was raised defiantly. “I didn’t ask him for it; he offered it to me. And I insisted on giving him a receipt. That receipt there.”

  “And you did right,” Da Silva said. “Do not worry about the money; it is yours. What time did you arrive in Rio?”

  “We got here about two in the morning. Here in the Praça.”

  “I see. And where did he go after he left you?”

  “Over there.” The young man pointed. “He crossed the Praça toward that bar. It’s the only one that stays open after midnight.”

  “And that’s the last you saw of him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t see him take a cab?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t wait around.” He cleared his throat. “What … what happened to him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Da Silva paused, thinking. “You never saw him before? In Urubuapá, for example?”

  “No, sir. We get a lot of strangers there; it’s a small place, but we get a lot of fishermen, and people stopping by the docks for gasoline for their boats, or coming in for provisions or beer to take back to the islands off the coast.”

  “The islands?”

  “Yes, sir. There are a lot of islands off Urubuapá, and people live on some of them. Or camp there. It’s not like a small town in the interior where everybody knows everybody else. We get a lot of strangers.”

  “I see,” Da Silva said. He looked around; the noise from the boat deck of the liner was increasing. Lines were being cast off; tugs were nosing at the ship impatiently. Passengers waved madly; the band played frantically. The contrast to the dull, shadowy corner of the Praça and the weary line of broken-down trucks was startling. I should be up there getting drunk, Da Silva thought, and forced his attention back to the waiting figure before him. “Where can I get in touch with you if I want to ask you any further questions?”

  “At Urubuapá. Or here. I only go from there to Rio, or sometimes—rarely—to São Paulo. I don’t go into the interior.” He shrugged. “It’s a small town. Everyone there knows me.”

  “All right,” Da Silva said. “Don’t discuss this with anyone, either the drivers here or any of your passengers. Nor in Urubuapá, not even with your family. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. I won’t say anything. What could I say?” He looked up. “Can I go now? I mean, can I leave the city now?”

  “You can go.” The large detective smiled at the young man. “And boa viágem.”

  The young man nodded vaguely and then walked slowly back to his truck, tapping people who stood along the fence and motioning silently to the truck. The thirty conto was still his, but somehow the pleasure of it had largely disappeared. For some reason he thought of the girls in the little houses back of the Avenida Vargas, and he was suddenly glad that he had not visited them the night before.

  Da Silva stowed the slip of paper back in his wallet but kept the photograph in his jacket pocket for easy access. As he started to cross the Praça again in the direction of the bar he nodded to himself in satisfaction. Little by little he was gathering information; eventually the pieces would start falling into place. And then the satisfaction disappeared. The little snake … when would he be able to fit that into the picture?

  The radio of the all-night bar was blaring as always; the whining voices of a caipira duet gained over the faint sounds of the shipboard band now playing from the middle of the bay. He paused on the curbstone, looking about. It was almost certain that the man in white had taken a cab; at that hour any other conveyance would have been uncertain. The cab drivers were seated near the doorway of the bar, and he walked over and sat at a table where one of the drivers, elderly and alone, was reading his paper. The driver looked up inquiringly as Da Silva simply laid his badge on the table. The driver’s face hardened. He folded his paper deliberately and pushed it to one side.

  “Yes?”

  “Last night,” Da Silva said. “Do you recall a man dressed in a white suit taking a cab from this rank? About two in the morning?”

  The driver watched him coldly and then shrugged. “A man in a white suit? How should I remember? We’re in and out all night.”

  “A big man,” Da Silva persisted patiently. “As big as I am. This man.” He laid his photograph on the table.

  “Puxa!” The driver looked up, eyes narrowing, thinking. This didn’t look like anything to get mixed up in, but still, the police could be very rough with people who withheld information.

  “Well?
”

  The driver shrugged; it was pointless to lie. “Yes, he was here.”

  “Who drove him?”

  The driver stared at him. “I did.”

  This was luck. Da Silva slipped his badge and picture back in his pocket and leaned back. “Relax,” he said easily. “Let’s have something to drink and you can tell me all about it.”

  The driver’s eyebrows went up at this beneficence; it was far from usual in a police interview, but on the other hand, his conscience was clear. They called over the waiter and ordered two batidas. It was not Da Silva’s favorite drink, but the thought of drinking the brand of cognac exhibited on the dirty bar was impossible; and it was obviously the driver’s drink and most guaranteed to aid him in telling his story.

  “Well,” said the driver, wiping his lips and shivering a bit from the first sharp tang of the lemon, “he came in. He wanted to go to Copacabana; I took him. We started off—oh yes, he wanted to go the long way around—so I turned up Vargas, and then we were followed …”

  “Followed?” Da Silva leaned forward with interest. “Who followed you?”

  “Two men. He wanted me to try and lose them, but …” He sighed disconsolately. “In my heap I couldn’t lose a streetcar. Anyway, then he stopped in a bar to telephone, and when he came back …” He told of their ride to Copacabana, the mad dash past the traffic light, the man descending, running for the hotel. And his being stopped later by the two men who had been on their trail.

  “What did they look like?”

  “I didn’t see the one who was driving very well. The one that stopped me—they cut me off, and this one came out and opened the door of my cab—well, he looked like a mean little bastard. With a gun …”

  “You didn’t report it? To the police?”

  The driver merely looked at him sardonically, and Da Silva changed the subject. “What kind of a car were they driving?”

  Here the driver was on safer ground. “A 1948 Buick, four-door. A private car. It had a twisted bumper; the car must have hit something sometime. Painted black, a fairly recent repaint. Not a very good job.”