Always Kill a Stranger

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “No. Not this time. This time we do it just as I’ve outlined it. Because this time it’s essential that you don’t get caught and talk.” He seemed to realize that his words implied that at previous times it had been less essential; he spread his hands apologetically. “You know what I mean. The people involved in this are paying this fantastic sum to be damned sure they do not become connected with it in any way, and the best assurance of that is for you not to be caught. And the best way not to be caught is to follow the scheme. If you have any changes or improvements, I’m more than willing to listen to them. But the basic scheme stands. Well?”

  “Well, I suppose the thing could work …”

  “Good.” Sebastian took this as acceptance and came to his feet. “Then if you’d like to get cleaned up and dressed, the bathroom and your clothes are upstairs. I’ll help you with the mustache and the cheek-pads and the rest of your gear. Then you can play with the gun until you’re satisfied with it. And tonight we’ll go over the whole thing again—or again and again if necessary—until we all have clearly in mind just what you’re supposed to do.”

  “Fair enough.” Nacio came out of his chair, drawing the blanket about his lean body. He looked over at the girl, running his eyes slowly and almost insultingly over her charms. “You haven’t said much.”

  Only the faintest heightening of her color indicated her resentment of his inspection. She smiled at him in a disdainful manner. “I only talk when I have something to say.”

  Nacio studied her a moment more. “I’ll appreciate that in the hotel,” he said abruptly, and started for the stairs. Suddenly he paused, frowning, looking back over his shoulder at Sebastian.

  “Just one last question. You talk about what each one of us is to do to earn this big money. Iracema will be at the Gloria, spotting the man for me. I’ll be at the Serrador doing the job. Just what will you be doing?”

  The heavyset man smiled; for the first time it seemed to be a genuine smile. The fingers of one fleshy hand rubbed themselves together in a standard Brazilian gesture.

  “Me?” he said. “I’ll be doing the most important part of the entire job. I’ll be arranging to get paid for it.…”

  Four

  The storm, with brief interludes, racked the area for another three days and then—apparently deciding it had scrubbed Rio’s craggy face enough and that the spectacular city was now presentable for her auspicious Inter-American visitors—abruptly moved off to the north to attempt the same tactics with Belo Horizonte. Its place was immediately taken by a battery of street cleaners, who fought the debris of mud, broken orange crates, and discarded construction lumber that had washed down from the favelas above and lodged against the seawalls, covering the patterned mosaic sidewalks of most low-lying streets. True, the street cleaners concentrated their efforts entirely on that portion of the city which the O.A.S. delegates were most likely to visit, but only because this was the most logical thing to do. After all, why accustom the Carioca to clean boulevards and debris-free avenues when he would only litter them again in a short time? Besides, under that burning tropical sun the mud would soon be transposed to dust and presumably blown away; and the orange crates and lumber would be snatched back by the slum-dwellers long before the attendants of the cleaning trucks could arrive to commandeer those valuable items for themselves.

  Mr. Wilson, driving home that Friday evening from the American Embassy after a particularly frustrating and unproductive day, came through the tunnel that led from Botofogo into Copacabana, swung from the Avenida Princesa Isabel into the Avenida Atlântica, and then hastily braked to avoid running into the bottleneck of traffic that stretched ahead of him as far as he could see. He shifted to neutral to preserve the worn transmission of his five-year-old car, and swayed in jerky rhythm with his asthmatic motor, trying to let the soft evening breeze and the always pleasant sight of the sea pulsing under the full tropical moon wash away the aggravations he had been forced to suffer that day.

  To begin with, a stenotypist brought down early from Washington to ensure accurate and unbiased transcriptions of the forthcoming O.A.S. conferences, had occupied two hours of his afternoon by tearfully insisting that she had been pinched on the street by—of all things—a native! It had taken Wilson the greater portion of this wasted time trying to understand why anyone would want to so flatter the woman, and the balance to assure her with a straight face that it undoubtedly was part of a sinister campaign aimed at rattling the nerves of stateside stenotypists, and that she could best serve the interests of her country by pretending to overlook the incident. And she had been followed by a rotund businessman from Zenia, Ohio, who had maintained a bit angrily that when any hostelry of the advertised eminence of the Hotel Miracopa failed to provide water for a guest of his importance, it could only be because they wished to insult citizens of the United States, and just exactly what was the Security Officer going to do about it?

  The line of traffic on the Avenida Atlântica edged forward a bit and then, startled by its own temerity, instantly subsided again. Wilson braked automatically, sighed, and from force of habit raised his eyes to the window of an apartment building on the further corner of the next block. To his surprise a light shone at the familiar upper-floor window, which suggested to him that either his rather explosive friend Captain Da Silva was unaccountably at home, or that the apartment was being ransacked by some exceptionally careless thieves. On the slim chance that the former situation obtained, he angled for the curb in search of a parking place. He had nothing planned for the evening and possibly he could have dinner with his old friend. Or even if Da Silva were busy, a drink would still ease some of the tensions of the day and pass time until traffic subsided.

  He managed a location between a no-parking sign and a fire hydrant, locked the car, crossed the wide sidewalk and tramped up the five steps that led to the building lobby. The automatic elevator carried him jerkily to the proper floor; he walked down the tiled corridor and leaned on the bell. There was a long wait, sufficient to make him wonder if, perhaps, his second premise might not have been the correct one, and then at last the door swung back. Da Silva, draped in a towel and dripping freely, stared at him a moment and then stood aside, gesturing his welcome with a tilt of his head.

  “Hi. Come on in.” He stepped back, dragging the towel about himself a bit more securely. “You caught me in the shower. Have a drink while I get dressed.” He moved toward an inner door. “I just came home for a breather. I have to get back downtown again.”

  Wilson nodded, wandered over to the bar, brought forth a bottle and two glasses, and proceeded to fill them generously. He raised his voice to carry into the next room. “Too bad; I was hoping we could eat together.” His tone became curious. “Exactly how many hours are you working these days, Zé?”

  Da Silva answered from the bedroom. “These days? Twenty-six. Or maybe twenty-eight and they go so fast they only seem like twenty-six. It could also be thirty—I never was very good at arithmetic.” He came back into the room in his shorts, carrying trousers and a shirt, and pulled them on. A wall mirror allowed him to comb his thick curly hair into a relative semblance of order. He padded to the bar, still barefooted, and accepted the glass Wilson had provided for him. He winked at the nondescript man in a congenial manner, raised the glass in a small gesture of appreciation, and then drank. He put down his glass, smiling gratefully.

  “That’s better. I’ve been so busy the last few days I haven’t even had time for my normal drinking. Or even for my abnormal drinking. It’s a good thing you came along to handle the bar chores.”

  “Any time,” Wilson said magnanimously. He carried his glass to the coffee table and dropped into a low chair while Da Silva returned to the bedroom for his shoes and socks. The barefooted man came back, retrieved his glass from the bar, and then sat down opposite Wilson to finish dressing. Wilson took a small sip of his drink and studied his friend with a faint smile.

  “Why the long hours, Zé? It’s quite
un-Brazilian, you realize. You might start a trend that could cause you to become the most hated man in the country, if it were ever traced to you, that is.” Another possibility seemed to strike him. “Or is it simply that you’ve become curious as to how we working folks live?”

  Da Silva looked up, affronted. His heavy black eyebrows rose dramatically. “This from an officer of the American Embassy? Whose hours begin at noon and end at one P.M., during which time they are permitted to go out for lunch? And are given PX privileges as a reward for this extraordinary devotion to duty? Please!”

  “I’m serious.” Wilson’s smile faded. “Why do you have to go back to work tonight? You look worn out.”

  “Don’t let it fool you,” Da Silva said, and grinned. “It’s only a disguise. Behind this façade of weariness lies utter exhaustion.” His grin was interrupted by a sudden and deep yawn. He shook his head. “I guess I’m so tired I don’t even make good nonsense.”

  Wilson studied him. “So why go back? Is there anything special on the fire?”

  Da Silva looked at him a moment curiously, and then shook his head. “Nothing special. It’s just that the O.A.S. meeting will start before we know it, and we still have a lot of checking to do.”

  “And they couldn’t do it without you?”

  “Let’s say I’d hate to think so. I’m too old to look for another job.” Da Silva bent forward, studying his large shoes, wondering what there was about them that bothered him. The solution came to him; he leaned over, completed tying the laces, and then fell back again in his chair. “There’s still a lot to do. We heard today that our mutual friend Juan Dorcas will be arriving with his retinue in a few days; he’s been out of Argentina for the past month or two on a vacation or something, but he’s expected back, and he’ll be here, so naturally—”

  “Traveling? Where?”

  Da Silva stared at him sardonically. “Why don’t you ask that question of your head office? I’m quite sure you’ve had a man on his tail ever since he left.”

  “And I’m quite sure we haven’t.” Wilson shook his head hopelessly. “You’re really stubborn. And still looking under the rug for some of our big, bad C.I.A. agents.…”

  Da Silva grinned. “If you’re an example, I don’t suppose they have to be particularly big. And as far as being bad is concerned, I’m sure they’re all very sweet to their mothers.” His grin faded abruptly. “In any event, Dorcas will be here in a few days, and I want to be sure that no misguided patriot—of any country, including you-know-who—decides to violate our hospitality by doing anything foolish.”

  Wilson sighed. It was obvious that nothing he could say could convince Da Silva he was wrong. “And how’s it been going so far?”

  Da Silva shrugged. He reached into the inlaid box on the table, extracted a cigarette, and lit it, shaking the match out almost absentmindedly. “Oh, we’ve picked up a few people I’m glad will be behind bars during the meetings. If for no other reason than that I won’t have to worry about them. And, of course, we also have a fair bag of known pickpockets down at the Delegacia.” He paused a moment, thinking about his last statement, and then grinned widely. “Which is a bit foolish on our part, when you stop to think about it.”

  “Foolish?”

  “Certainly.” Da Silva sat up a bit, his normal puckish humor returning. “With all the foreign visitors we’re going to have in Rio in the next week, these light-fingered boys we’ve got locked up could be bringing in some of that foreign exchange our country needs so desperately. And just think”—he brought one strong finger up abruptly for emphasis—“if they held these meetings in a different country each year, and if the local pickpockets were given proper latitude and even encouragement, in a short time the entire problem of foreign exchange for all of Latin America might be solved.”

  “But that would mean having more meetings,” Wilson objected. “I thought the other day we’d decided on doing away with meetings and using closed television instead.”

  “Only after our budgets are balanced,” Da Silva said. “Once that’s accomplished we could do away with these O.A.S. meetings altogether.”

  “You know, that’s really not a bad idea at all,” Wilson said approvingly. He pretended to think about it. “We could disband the diplomatic corps completely, and replace them all with skilled pickpockets—”

  Da Silva’s bushy eyebrows shot up in shock. “What do you mean ‘we,’ American? Whose pockets do you think are going to have to be picked if this idea of mine is going to work?” He started to smile but ended up with a cavernous yawn instead.

  Wilson’s lighthearted manner disappeared. “Really, Zé; how important is this checkup tonight? You’re beat. You need rest.”

  “How important?” Da Silva crushed out his cigarette and remained staring at the ashtray as if seeking some answer there. His eyes came up, studying Wilson. “You never know if you don’t do it. But this much I’ll say—for the information of any interested parties—we’re going all out on this, and anyone with any odd ideas would be well advised to reconsider them. Because we’re checking out every building between the Hotel Gloria and the Municipal, and we also intend to hit every hotel and any other potential trouble spot.” He shook his head. “It’s amazing how many alleys and windows and doorways and rooftops there are in a city this size. You don’t really give it much thought until you have the job of making sure none of them are dangerous.”

  Wilson was regarding him stonily. “I assume you consider you’ve given me a message?”

  Da Silva looked surprised. “You? As a matter of fact, I’ve thought for a long time that this apartment might be bugged; my message was for anyone who might be listening.”

  He pulled himself to his feet and reached for his jacket, hanging from the back of a chair. He shrugged himself into it, waited until Wilson was ready, and walked with him to the door.

  “All right,” Wilson said quietly. “There’s no sense arguing with you. But you’d be ahead of the game by getting some sleep tonight, instead.”

  “Sleep?” Da Silva looked at him curiously. “When I get tired I’m afraid my English suffers. What is this word ‘sleep’?”

  “It’s what I’m going home to get plenty of,” Wilson said. “It’s also the excuse for saying my prayers first, which will give me a chance to pray that you come to your senses about the C.I.A. And also,” he added, considering, “a chance to pray that I don’t have another day like I had today.” He considered his companion critically. “It’s also something you need badly.”

  Da Silva reached for the doorknob. “What I badly need,” he said seriously, “is for these meetings to end and for all of the delegates to go back home. Preferably in one piece.…”

  Whatever prayers Wilson offered, or to Whomever he offered them, it was apparent the following Monday morning that at least a portion of them had not been answered. The small businessman from Zenia, Ohio, was back in his office at the American Embassy at nine o’clock sharp, and the patient Security Officer was doing his best to demonstrate interest in his visitor’s latest complaint.

  It appeared that the Hotel Miracopa not only insulted its American guests by failing to provide water for their necessities, but it went much further. Either the telephone operators did not speak English, which was surely a studied slight to the many Americans staying there; or else (as the rotund man from Zenia truly suspected) they actually did speak English but pretended not to, which certainly posed an even more suspicious circumstance. Lost in the limbo of this Laocoönian logic, Mr. Wilson could only manage to nod in an interested manner at regular intervals, and wonder if his entire day was going to be decimated in this same pointless fashion. One good thing, of course, was that no native had pinched the small man from Zenia.

  The telephone at his elbow suddenly rang, temporarily saving him from the inevitable question as to what was he going to do about it. Wilson picked the instrument from its cradle, doing his best to appear casual, and not like a drowning man reaching for a
drifting life-raft. He shrugged his apologies for the interruption, cutting off the high nasal voice, and turned his attention to the telephone.

  “Hello? Yes?”

  His secretary answered from her desk in the outer office. “Hi, boss. Do you want to be saved?”

  “Profoundly,” Wilson said, and thanked the Lord he had been smart enough to pick Mary as a secretary over those more shapely—and even more secretarially talented—applicants.

  “Then you’re in. It’s Dona Ilesia from the Stranger’s Hospital. Crisis number one for the day has just struck. She wonders if you might be free to discuss it with her.”

  “Free,” Wilson said wholeheartedly, “and deeply grateful. Put her on.”

  He cupped the receiver and smiled in a pained fashion at his guest. “I’m sorry, but this shouldn’t take too long.”

  The businessman subsided grumpily, resisting with effort the temptation of speaking his mind. Cavalier treatment, it seemed, was not limited to the local hotels. After all, if an American citizen couldn’t receive priority at his own embassy, it clearly seemed to be a situation about which something should be done.

  There was a loud click as the call was transferred through the switchboard; the hospital supervisor’s voice came on the line. She sounded a bit nervous. “Senhor Wilson?”

  “Falando. Que posso fazer p’ra Senhora?”

  His visitor’s eyebrows shot up in evident alarm; he seemed to find it highly irregular—if not actually subversive—to have an American official speak in a foreign language, especially in the haloed precincts of the Embassy itself. Somebody, his glare said, was certainly going to hear about this! Wilson, reading the other’s mind, felt a twinge of pity for the Ambassador, and bit back a smile.

  At the other end of the line, Dona Ilesia hesitated uncertainly; when she finally spoke, her voice was troubled. “I dislike bothering you, Senhor Wilson, but I honestly don’t know what to do. The Air Force has been through to me twice this morning, once when I first came in and again just a few minutes ago. About this sailor—”