Always Kill a Stranger

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Da Silva was listening closely now. “And?”

  “And the captain, afraid of taking any chance that a sailor might die on him, and unable to dock, got in touch with the Sea Rescue Squad here by radio, and they sent out a helicopter and brought the man to shore. They had already called for an ambulance—”

  Da Silva’s eyebrows had risen. “They brought him ashore in a helicopter in the middle of that storm?”

  “That’s right.”

  Da Silva shuddered; it was not acting. “Better him than me! The thought of being in any aircraft, but especially a helicopter in that weather!” He grimaced and then looked up. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “Well, that’s about it. They picked him up, brought him ashore, and delivered him to the Stranger’s Hospital Ambulance at Galeão.”

  Da Silva stared at him intently a moment and then upended his drink. He reached for the bottle. “And from the ambulance he disappeared on the way to the hospital.”

  “Exactly.” Wilson nodded and leaned back. “I thought you might find it interesting.”

  “Damned interesting.” Da Silva stared at the bottle a moment and then slowly refilled his glass. He studied the amber liquid as if trying to see a clear motive in the depths of the cognac. “It would be a rather neat way to get into the country without going through the formality of Customs, or Immigration …”

  “Or the police, either, if it comes to that,” Wilson added.

  “Especially when we were checking out all airplanes and ships from top to bottom. It would be a very cute gimmick, indeed. Unless, of course”—Da Silva frowned—“the man really was sick and needed attention.”

  “You knocked holes in that argument the other day,” Wilson objected. “You pointed out that no man who was genuinely sick was going to leave an ambulance, especially in the middle of that storm.”

  “That’s true,” Da Silva admitted. “But that was before I knew about his coming ashore by helicopter. It’s hard to believe that any man would do that unless he had a desperate reason.”

  “Exactly,” Wilson agreed softly. “But that desperate reason doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad appendix.…”

  “I suppose not.” The swarthy face frowned; the black eyes came up. “By the way, where did you get all this information?”

  Wilson shrugged. “The captain of the ship cabled the Air Force to find out how the man was, and the Air Force called the hospital. All very delicado and routine. And the hospital called me, since they had no idea of how to explain a lost patient, and apparently felt that trustees did. And then once the facts finally clicked in my brain—”

  “You checked back.”

  “Right.” Wilson raised his glass, smiled at it, and then drank it. He reached for the bottle. “And found that the ship was still docked in Montevideo, unloading, and its personnel were available for questioning.”

  “And this questioning was done by whom?”

  Wilson looked at him steadily. “By Interpol, if you must know. Not by the C.I.A.”

  “I see.” Da Silva’s face was expressionless. “And what was this mysterious steward’s name?”

  Wilson dug into a pocket and brought out some papers. He leafed through them and finally extracted one. “Here it is. On the ship’s manifest he was listed as Cacarico. Z. Cacarico.”

  “What!”

  Wilson stared at him. “Do you know him?”

  The somber expression changed to a broad, but slightly rueful grin. “Whoever this character is, he either has a sense of humor or he’s smart enough to pick a name that probably few Portuguese recall if they ever knew it. For your information, Cacarico was a rhinoceros in the São Paulo zoo who was elected in a write-in campaign some years ago to the House of Representatives.”

  Wilson looked interested. “And how did he do?”

  “They wouldn’t seat him. I forget now if it was because he wouldn’t swear allegiance to the flag, or because he couldn’t salute it. Or maybe because he might represent too much competition to the other solons.”

  Wilson shook his head sadly. “Well, that’s politics.”

  Da Silva’s smile faded. “Whatever it is, it seems to put the finish on any arguments of mine. Anyone who comes into this country the way this one did, with a name obviously picked from the blue, especially in times such as these, certainly does rate being picked up by the police.” He glanced at his watch and started to rise. “And today don’t tell me we haven’t eaten because I know it. And resent it. But, also knowing the Brazilian police, I think we ought to get them started on the job as soon as possible.”

  “A fine way to talk about your colleagues,” Wilson said chidingly. “Sit down and relax. The plane from Montevideo won’t be in for at least another four hours. We’ll have lots of time for a good meal—if they’ve got one here—and you can still spend a few hours at your desk before they arrive.”

  “Whose plane from Montevideo?”

  “Well,” Wilson said slowly, “that’s a bit hard to say. Officially, of course, it was assigned to the delegates to the conferences beginning tomorrow. Unofficially, I suppose it belongs to the American people. In any event, since no one was using it, I’m afraid I arranged to have it fly down to Montevideo. A blow to the crew, since they probably figured they had a week’s unearned vacation to investigate the beaches and fleshpots, but that’s the way it goes.”

  “I’m sorry I put it that way.” Da Silva sounded anything but sorry. “I meant, what plane?”

  “What plane? Why, the one with the pictures, of course,” Wilson said cheerfully.

  “Pictures?” Da Silva smiled across the table, but it was a taut smile, and there was steel beneath the softness of his voice. “You know, Wilson, I have an odd feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”

  “You noticed that, eh? Well, as usual, you’re right. I’m trying to tell you the chances are good that we have some pictures of the man we’re talking about.”

  “Pictures?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Photographs, anyway. If you were expecting oils, I’m sorry. But even these are a break, because the descriptions the Interpol man down there got from the crew were about as useful as pockets on a shroud. A composite of what they told him would have resulted in a man anywhere from four to eight feet tall.”

  “How about fingerprints?”

  “After almost a week? Not on that ship. But, as I say, we got a break with the pictures. Or anyway, maybe. The captain was cooperative enough, but he barely remembered they had a steward, let alone what he looked like. To him a steward was just a body in a white jacket; and, of course, a statistic to be checked when it got sick. However—”

  “Well, let’s hear it!” Da Silva was close to barking. “Don’t drag it out into an eight-part serial!”

  “Calma,” Wilson said evenly, and then grinned. “After all, I did all the work, so let me have the fun of telling it my way.” He took a deliberate drink and set his glass down. “As I was saying, it seems the first mate, a promising lad named Miguel, bought himself a fancy Japanese camera in Funchal when they stopped there, and after that he took quite a few candid shots around and about the ship—two rolls, as a matter of fact. He thinks—mind you, he doesn’t know for sure—but he thinks our elusive steward may have unconsciously figured in some of them.”

  “He thinks? Why doesn’t he simply look at the pictures?”

  “I can tell you’re upset,” Wilson said. “Not thinking clearly. Obviously because they haven’t been developed yet. The ship hasn’t been in any one port long enough to get them back from a processor. He was planning on having them done in Buenos Aires.”

  “I see,” Da Silva said slowly. “Instead of which we’ll develop them for him—free of charge—in our police laboratory here.”

  “Right!” Wilson said, and smiled at him proudly. The character of his smile changed slightly. “Actually, I didn’t know it would be free of charge, but I think it’s a nice gesture.”

  Da Silva considered him se
riously. “Just one question,” he said slowly. “Granting you used your head this morning, and did a nice bit of follow-up, just how do you expect this to clear your C.I.A. of my nasty accusations?”

  “Well,” Wilson said a bit expansively, “if this suspicious steward is uncovered through my efforts—and I have faith in you to do it—and if he should prove to be one of the bad guys, and if all this walking hand-in-hand into the sunset comes about through my modest efforts, then”—he raised his shoulders, but the light tone of his voice had somehow diminished—“then, obviously, it has to clear the C.I.A. of any suspicion, at least in connection with him. Because otherwise why would I do it?” He became completely serious. “Look, Zé; I don’t deny that there might be a try at Dorcas. There has been in the past. But if there is, we have nothing to do with it. I want that understood. And that’s why I’ve been breaking my back trying to dig up anything that might identify, and at least—well, say disarm—any potential assassin.”

  Da Silva looked at him wonderingly.

  “You are marvelous!” he said with admiration. “You are absolutely incredible. Fantastic! I love the way that brain of yours works. I especially love the way you assume I never heard of the word ‘decoy’ or any of its thesaurian synonyms.” He leaned forward. “I’m not saying I don’t want to see these photographs of yours, because I do. What I’m saying, simply, is this: if the United States feels it imperative to uplift us poor ignorant heathens, why do they insist on sending us such unimpressive things as money? Or wide-eyed youngsters to build us ice hockey rinks in the middle of the Amazon jungle? Why don’t they simply send us more Wilsons?”

  Wilson considered him with a jaw that was tightening perilously. For several moments there was a charged silence at the table. Then Wilson took a deep breath and forced himself to smile.

  “More Wilsons?” he asked, and then shook his head. “Why? You don’t know what to do with the ones you already have.…”

  He turned abruptly and raised his arm for the waiter.

  The late afternoon sun, flooding Da Silva’s fifth-floor office in the old Instituto de Estudios Academicos, slanted insidiously through the Venetian blinds and threw bars of shadow across the city map that covered one full wall of the room. Under the blaze of light the various colored pins all assumed the same shade of burnished gold, losing identity. Da Silva walked over, drew the blinds, and then walked back to his post beside the map. The two detectives waiting for him watched their boss stolidly.

  At one side Wilson sat quietly, watching the repeat of a performance he had witnessed since dropping off the negatives some half-hour before. Some long hours of subjective thought had removed most of the anger he had felt at lunch; under similar conditions he knew he would have acted much as Da Silva was acting. And watching Da Silva delegate the various jobs and cover the possible trouble sources, he wondered if he would act as efficiently.

  Da Silva’s finger reached toward the map and then retracted. He smiled wearily.

  “You don’t need a map to know where the Hotel Serrador is. At any rate, that’s your assignment for tonight. Every room, but first and principally, the rooms that face the bay. And the ones on the upper floors—above the fourth. If you have time, the rest of the rooms as well, but first those. I want to know—” He shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone through this often enough with you before. You both know what we’re looking for.”

  Sergeant Ramos nodded slowly. He was a man as large as Da Silva, with even wider shoulders; his almost Indian features showed no emotion. His jaws chewed steadily on a wad of gum; his large hands were jammed into his pockets. His companion, equally large and tough-looking, stood back a step and waited.

  “All right,” Da Silva said. “Get something to eat and then get to it.”

  Sergeant Ramos paused in his gum chewing and cleared his throat. “It’s going to take quite a while, Captain. How late do we work?”

  Da Silva’s eyebrows went up dangerously. Sergeant Ramos hastened to clarify his question. “I don’t mean that, Captain. I mean, how late are we supposed to disturb people?”

  “Oh.” Da Silva frowned at the floor for several moments. “Midnight, I suppose. Of course some of the guests won’t even be in by then, and you’ll probably wake some others, but that’s unfortunate. Try to cover as many as you can, and be as diplomatic as possible. But check them out just the same. All right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  Ramos marched from the room, followed quietly by his partner a step behind. Da Silva walked over and dropped into the swivel chair back of his paper-strewn desk. He rubbed the back of his neck a few moments to relieve the tension, and then leaned over and pressed a button on his desk. The door popped open immediately; his young aide, Ruy, stood rigidly in the doorway.

  “Captain?”

  “Those two rolls of pictures Senhor Wilson gave you,” Da Silva said evenly. “They’ve been in the lab for over half an hour now. What the devil are they doing with them? Tinting them for Christmas presents?”

  “They said they’d let me know—”

  “The devil with what they said! Go down there and stand on their backs until they’re ready!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The door closed smartly behind the young man. Wilson came to his feet, walking over to stand beside the desk, speaking sympathetically. “Take it easy, Zé. Relax.”

  “Relax? I’ll relax when this business is over.” The tall, swarthy Brazilian leaned back in his chair, thinking. “You know, I think when this next week is over, I really will relax. I think I’ll take a week off and go up to the fazenda. Do some hunting and fishing. Get some decent rest.” He smiled up at the man at his side. “How about taking some of your vacation and joining me?”

  “Me?” Wilson grinned at him. “You may have me behind bars by then, remember?”

  “True.” Da Silva appeared to think about it. “Well, for that week I’ll arrange a parole for you.”

  “In that case I’ll be happy to.”

  “Good. We’ll—”

  The door opened to admit Ruy; the young man crossed the room and handed an envelope to Da Silva. The tall detective sat straighter in his chair, reaching over to flip the button on his desk lamp. He tipped up the envelope, took the two small packs of photographs that slid out, and started going through the first pack. Wilson bent over while Ruy looked down over his superior’s other shoulder.

  Da Silva glanced at the first, slid it behind the others, and looked at the second. He grunted. “He may have a good camera, but you’d never know it from these pictures.”

  “That’s what the lab said took so long, Captain,” Ruy explained. “The pictures on that roll were all overexposed. The lab said it was common on board ship with amateurs.”

  Da Silva looked up at Wilson sardonically. “So do me a great favor the next time you dig up a deal like this. Make sure your photographer is a bit more professional.”

  “Consider it done,” Wilson said, and watched as Da Silva returned his attention to the stack of photographs. He flipped aside those that merely showed bits of the ship and a few that failed to show even this much, and then paused as he came to one that had more detail. A faint frown crossed his face; he reached into a drawer and brought out a magnifying glass, bringing it closer to the picture. Wilson leaned farther forward. As far as he could see it only showed the back of a man leaning over the rail of the ship; the small amount of profile scarcely served for identification. In the background a hazy sea extended to fill the frame.

  “What is it, Zé?”

  Da Silva studied the picture for several moments with narrowed eyes, and then shook his head slowly. “Nothing. For a moment I thought …” He shrugged and slid the picture under the pile, continuing to study the others one at a time. The first photograph came back to view; he tossed the pack aside and reached for the second packet.

  “Ah. This is better. Apparently when he came to his second roll of film he decided to read the book first.�
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  The pictures in the second roll had improved greatly in quality, if not in subject matter. Poorly framed shots of the deck and some of the cargo still showed too much sky and sea; the composition was amateurish, but at least the pictures themselves were sharp and clear. Da Silva went through them one at a time, slowly studying each one before sliding it to the rear of the pack. At his side Wilson began to fear his efforts had been wasted.

  Then suddenly Da Silva’s fingers tightened on a newly exposed photograph; he leaned forward, his eyes alive. Ruy, bending over his shoulder, let out a gasp. Wilson leaned over.

  “Who is he, Zé?”

  Da Silva drew the picture closer, but there was no doubt at all in his mind. The small photograph showed a man in a white steward’s jacket dumping a pail of garbage over the taffrail. Sea gulls poised behind the ship, frozen in the air; the curling wake was clearly discernible. The man’s face was turned three-quarters toward the camera, but it was obvious he was unaware of being photographed. The high widow’s peak, the sharp nose, the thin lips, were instantly identifiable.

  Da Silva looked up at Ruy, his eyes sharp, his voice conveying his urgency. “His dossier!”

  “Yes, sir!” Ruy disappeared from the room. Wilson stared down at the photograph and then at Da Silva’s intent expression.

  “Who is he, Zé?”

  Da Silva stared at the picture, his eyes narrowed, and then looked up. “This is a man named Nacio Madeira Mendes. A professional killer. Who escaped while on his way to prison three years ago.” His eyes went back to the picture. His voice was even, but deadly. “So dear Nacio is back with us again.…”

  Ruy came hurriedly back into the room and laid a folder on Da Silva’s desk. The grim-faced detective flipped it open. Clipped to the back of the cover was a pair of large police photographs, front and profile, with fingerprint classifications printed below. He slipped it loose and laid it on his desk, leafed through the sheets in the folder a moment, and then picked out the top two, handing them up to Wilson.