Always Kill a Stranger

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  He turned from the window, returning to the gun he had just finished assembling, picking it up and caressing it once again. It was, indeed, a beauty. It seemed to him as he slid his hands over the stock almost sensuously, that it was even more lovely than when he had first handled it at Sebastian’s house. The balance was perfect; the fine-grained wood had been polished by some previous loving owner until its patina gave the surface the smooth feeling of glass, or of soft skin. He slid the telescopic sight into place and locked it, and then stood well back in the shadows of the room, raising the gun, bringing it to bear on the War Memorial.

  The angular modern figures postured in frozen metal before the gaunt tower of the memorial sprang into sudden sharp outline; an overalled workman, sweeping the broad patio in a last-minute bit of housekeeping, seemed to be but inches from his eye. Nacio’s gloved fingers touched a knurled knob, bringing the cross-hairs into focus. He lowered the sight slightly, bringing the sight to bear on a tattered breast-pocket of the blue denim coverall, following it evenly as it swayed in unconscious rhythm with the movement of the broom. The gloved finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger and then relaxed. With a smile he lowered the gun, nodding to himself. With that clarity of light, and with that excellent equipment, he knew there wouldn’t be the slightest problem in completing his assignment successfully.

  Behind him, Iracema watched his performance through the mirror of the dressing table. Her cheeks were still slightly flushed with anger as she recalled waking with a stiff neck to find the missing Nacio snoring, a beatific smile upon his face. She thrust the thought aside and completed her toilet, dabbing lightly at the corners of her full lips with a bit of tissue. Time enough for explanations when the three of them were all together at Sebastian’s after the event. Her hand paused in the act of discarding the tissue; after the event, what Nacio had done the night before would matter little. They would each take their share and disband, and the tensions of the past week would soon be forgotten in the vast horizons that would open with that much money at their disposal.

  She swung about on her stool, studying the man before her. Nacio met her eye squarely, grinning. He was quite aware that she attributed his cheerfulness to a liaison the evening before that had not—unfortunately—occurred; he was also aware that, for some unknown reason, there seemed to be a bit more feeling in her eyes. He was, however, astute enough to suspect it had nothing to do with him as an individual, but only reflected her growing anxiety regarding the job as the moment of accomplishment finally approached.

  She looked at him steadily. “How do you feel?”

  His grin widened. With the gun in his hands he seemed a different man, more assured, less affected by her presence. “If you mean am I nervous, the answer is no. This isn’t my first job, you know.”

  “I know.” Her eyes studied him evenly. “But it’s the most important job you’ve ever done.”

  He looked at her sardonically. “To the men I’ve killed, all of my jobs have been of equal importance.”

  “And to you?”

  “To me?” He shrugged. “To me they’ve been of equal unimportance. To me a job is a job.”

  “Except that this one pays more money than you ever dreamed of.”

  “I know. And I’m sure it will also pay you and Sebastian more than you ever dreamed of, as well.”

  “It will.” She came to her feet rather abruptly, as if indicating that that phase of the discussion was ended. Her eyes studied the room carefully. “I’m going now. I’ve got everything I want in my purse; the rest of my things stay here. You’d better start getting ready yourself.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. She reached for her purse. “I’ll call you from the Gloria as soon as the motorcade leaves, to tell you which car he’s in, and in which seat. Be sure to keep the telephone free.…”

  Nacio looked at her with a faint smile. And who’s nervous now? He hadn’t used the telephone since they had been there, and obviously wouldn’t be using it at such a crucial moment. Iracema colored slightly as she read his thought, but chose to disregard it. “And don’t forget the television. Any program except—”

  “I know. Any program except music.” He laid the gun on the bed and straightened up. “You’d better be going.”

  “Yes.” She moved toward the door and then paused. “And the knob; wipe it off on your way out. And be sure to put out the sign for the maid not to disturb you.” She hesitated a moment, as if torn by the desire to repeat all of the instructions once again, and then forced herself to refrain. Her eyes came up.

  “Good luck.” The door closed quickly behind her.

  Nacio stared after her with a faint sneer on his lips. Good luck! Somehow it was the wrong thing to say. As a professional assassin he gave small thought to the problems of his victim, but it still struck him as being out of place to wish good luck for a killing. And besides, luck didn’t enter into it; it was strictly a matter of skill.

  He sighed thoughtfully. Maybe it was just as well that nothing had come of their spending almost a week together in the same room; even with her cooperation it would probably have been like going to bed with a piranha. In a way he felt sorry for Sebastian; that maternal feeling of hers would one day swallow him up. Still, that was Sebastian’s problem and not his. His problem was to do the job properly and get away with a whole skin; wait until the excitement had died down, and then figure out how to spend that fabulous fee. Which shouldn’t be any harder than the killing itself, he thought with a grin. Certainly no harder than the killing the previous evening, and that had been no problem at all. The one with the problem would be Sebastian; his share of the fee would buy him the girl.

  With a shake of his head at the thought of the strange people one was forced to associate with in the course of a job, he slipped out of his dressing gown and slowly began to dress.

  The crowds were forming two and three deep about the low wooden barricades; military police in their faded brown uniforms and their oversized helmets were stationed every twenty or thirty yards along the inside of the barrier, facing each other at rigid parade rest, their hands locked behind them, but within easy reach of their holstered guns. From the recessed window above, Nacio studied the scene, his eyes carefully calculating distances and potential problems. Between the hotel and the Beira Mar stretched the Praça Paris, a green band of foliage and formal gardens; a few trees at the southern end of the Praça blocked portions of his view of the route, and the same held true of sections to the north of the War Memorial. But the important part of the route was open; those vital yards that stretched to the immediate sides of the stark structure. He clenched and unclenched his fists, relaxing his fingers, staring down thoughtfully. A television truck passed slowly along the deserted avenue, its camera weaving from the roof like the antennae of some strange monster searching out prey.

  Nacio glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock—Iracema should be calling very soon. His hand patted his jacket pocket; his glasses were in place. His cheek-pads were also in place, a bit uncomfortable, but necessary to save time at the moment of his departure. A glance about the room assured him that all was in order according to the plan; he nodded and wandered to the window, frowning down. The crowds had increased at the barricades, and cars were beginning to pull to the curb of the adjoining drive, prepared to risk the displeasure of the police in order to see the visiting delegates at close hand.

  The telephone suddenly rang. Nacio walked to the nightstand, reaching for the instrument. A small electric current touched his nerves, the tingle of anticipation that always prefaced a job; it passed in the same moment and he brought the instrument to his ear, not at all surprised by his own composure.

  “Hello? Irace—”

  A heavy, deep voice cut in, anxiety apparent in its tone. “Hello? Is this Dr. Carabello?”

  The unexpectedness of the voice wiped away Nacio’s smugness in an instant; his fingers tightened on th
e cold plastic. His voice was harsh. “Who’s this?” Who on earth could it be? What could have happened to Iracema that another was calling in her place? Any trouble at this late date could spell disaster.

  The voice at the other end hurried on, anxious to avoid interruption, to save time. “This is the portaria of the hotel. We have a very sick man in the hotel, a guest—on your floor, actually—and we’ve called an ambulance, but I’m sure the senhor realizes how long they delay, and since the poor man is only a few doors away from your room, we were wondering if you might be so kind—”

  “A sick man?” He stared at the telephone, honestly puzzled. A sick man? What on earth did he have to do with sick men? Why come to him with sick men? Especially in this crucial moment when Iracema would be telephoning from the Gloria?

  “A very sick man, I’m afraid.” On this point the deep voice was positive. “And since you happen to be the only doctor registered in the hotel at the moment, we thought …” The voice trailed off, its message completed.

  Nacio nodded. Of course; he was supposed to be a doctor. An idiot idea in the first place, but too late to do anything about that now. Now the only thing was to get this pest off the telephone, and fast!

  “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely, still irritated by the unexpected call. “I’m afraid I’m not that kind of a doctor. I’m a—” He paused, thinking rapidly. What kind of a doctor could he be and still safely refuse to treat a sick man? The first thought that came to him was of a veterinarian, but somehow his pride would not allow it. Fortunately a substitute occurred to him before his pause might seem suspicious to the other. “I’m a dentist, senhor.”

  Disappointment fought with apology in the other’s voice. “A dentist? Then I’m very sorry we troubled you, Doutor. Unless, of course, you happen to be acquainted with a medical man …”

  “I’m sorry. I know no one in Rio.” Nacio set the telephone firmly in place. And there was even a bit of luck connected with that, he suddenly thought—if the man had been suffering from an infected tooth, I would have been on that blasted phone for another ten minutes trying to get out of it! He started to smile at the thought and then hurriedly picked up the telephone as it rang again.

  Iracema’s voice came on, low and bitter in its denunciation. “You fool! You … you … you irresponsável! You were told not to use the telephone! I’ve been calling …”

  “Save it,” Nacio said wearily. “It was the portaria. They called me. They thought—”

  “Never mind who called who! We’ve wasted enough time as it is. The motorcade must be halfway there by now.” It suddenly occurred to Nacio that her anger was actually motivated by nervousness; that the girl was close to hysterics. Amateurs, he thought with disgust, and paid close attention to her words. “The man you want is sitting in the second car of the fila. There’s a motorcycle escort first, and then a television camera truck, and then the line of cars. He’s in the second one, an open Cadillac, black. He’s in the back seat, on the side toward the bay. Do you understand?”

  Nacio nodded. “What does he look like?”

  “There’s no time for descriptions. The second car, back seat, on the side of the bay—the side away from you. Is that clear?”

  “The second car in the fila after the television truck, a black Cadillac, open; the back seat—”

  He was talking to a dial tone. He set the instrument back into its cradle and moved quickly to the window. The procession was plainly in view, slowly approaching the War Memorial from behind the curtain of foliage that screened the southern approaches of the Beira Mar. The wind caught the high wail of the police sirens, carrying it on the breeze in undulating waves to his window. He nodded and dragged one of the large armchairs from its accustomed place before the television set, swinging it beside the bed. The wide back would serve as an excellent steady for his arm when he fired the shot.

  He dropped to the bed and reached for the rifle before he suddenly remembered the television. He came to his feet; two steps and he had twisted the small knob. He waited with growing impatience for the set to warm up, his eyes moving between the blank eye of the screen and the open window with its distant view of the approaching motorcade. There was the sudden sound of a pistol shot; despite himself he flinched. The picture tube came alive, accompanied by the sound of thudding fists and the blur of men fighting in a saloon. He nodded in profound satisfaction and adjusted the volume higher; exactly the proper program for the purpose, and a good omen. Which is always a pleasant thing, he thought, and returned to the bed and the rifle.

  The armchair served perfectly, as he had checked before; it allowed just the right angle without being uncomfortable. He rested one elbow on it and slowly brought the loaded rifle into position, peering along the foreshortened barrel in the direction of the distant barricades with their crowds of people. They wanted a show, and for those hundreds directly before the Memorial, he would provide them with one they would never forget! The telescopic sight was almost at proper adjustment; the policemen on the escorting motorcycles leaped into the eyepiece, their vehicles appearing to be stunted by the distorted depth of focus, their handlebars weaving awkwardly at the unaccustomed slow pace. Their intent expressions were clearly discernible before the stark framing of the outer cross-hairs.

  The motorcycle policeman in the lead suddenly raised a gloved hand commandingly, and in the same motion veered slightly toward the curb; other motorcycles appeared beside him, pulling up, feet braking their slow motion against the pavement. The motorcade had begun to arrive at the War Memorial.

  Nacio nuzzled the gun against his cheek, drawing comfort from its smoothness, moving it slowly in a brief arc to encompass the cars behind the escort. The best time, of course, would be as the motorcade paused at the curb, and the delegates prepared to step down to attend the ceremony. As they rose to leave their cars, the man he wanted would make a perfect target.

  His eye noted the first car behind the television truck—an eight-passenger Chrysler, dark blue in color, probably rented by the Foreign Office for the occasion from some funeral parlor. The telescopic sight inspected its occupants briefly; a momentary feeling of omnipotence clutched him. Consider this, he said silently to the men in the dark Chrysler: were you the ones I was paid to kill, even now you would be slumping against the side of the car, blind to the startled milling of the crowd, deaf to the confusion. But you are fortunate; the man I want is not in your car. Still, he thought suddenly, every man’s head lies in the cross-hairs of some hidden weapon, and none of us avoids the shot forever.…

  The round circle of his tubular view moved slowly to the second car. It was, indeed, a black Cadillac, and Nacio’s lips twisted grimly. Now that the moment was upon him, he seemed in the grip of some cold, inexorable force, directing his movements, controlling even his thoughts. The black cross-hairs crept past the hood of the Cadillac; the driver came into view, one hand shifting the gear lever, the fingers of the other tightening on the wheel as he turned toward the curb. Nacio’s fingers tightened slightly on the trigger of the gun as he started to ease the weapon in the direction of the occupants in the rear seat. The figure on his side of the car was gesticulating, his back hunched; Nacio disregarded him and touched the nob of the sight ever so slightly, shifting the rifle to follow the slow movement of the car. Now was the time! He brought the sight to bear on the right breast pocket of his victim’s jacket; his finger tightening steadily on the trigger, and then froze as he stared in utter disbelief at the familiar features.

  It was impossible! He squeezed his eyes shut and then hurriedly opened them again, bringing the rifle up to position. But there was no doubt; the man in the sights of his rifle was the same one who had unwittingly helped him to escape the Santa Eugenia; the small fat man with the globular face and the painted hair; the passenger named Dantas—or Dumas or Dortas or something like that!

  His jaw tightened; his eyes narrowed. Let God explain to the man when he arrived in heaven the irony of his having aided his own a
ssassin, because regardless of everything else, this man was going to die! The men in the rear seat had risen, preparing to descend. Nacio’s lips twisted cruelly; the sight was raised once again, his finger once again began its slow pressure on the trigger.

  There was a sudden knock on the door, sharp, peremptory, audible even over the blasting of the television. His head jerked up, startled by the interruption; he stared at the door panel in momentary confusion, dazed by his sudden transformation from the bright sunlight of the Beira Mar to the dim shadows of the room. He waited, his hands locked to the smooth barrel of the gun. Had he actually heard a knock? He had; for it was repeated, once—quickly, as if to give warning—and then there was the sound of a key being inserted in the lock.

  His frozen muscles released themselves; with a swift movement he thrust the gun beneath the disheveled bedclothes; the armchair was kicked to a less suspicious position in the same movement. The door swung back; a hand reached in to flick on the overhead light. Nacio came to his feet, staring in growing fury at the uniformed figure of an elderly room-maid peering at him through thick glasses. One stringy arm carried a basket loaded with bottles and brushes.

  Nacio took a step toward her, glowering, his anger even greater for the relief of knowing the intruder was not more dangerous. “What do you mean by walking in here this way? Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”