Always Kill a Stranger

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  De Silva tramped down the ramp to the garage area and smiled affectionately at his red Jaguar sports convertible parked in its usual slot next to the washrack. The sloped windshield seemed to return his glance a bit coldly, as if expressing justified resentment at not having been included in whatever adventure the captain was returning from. Da Silva shrugged at it apologetically, winked at it for good measure, set the suitcase down, and punched the button for the small self-service elevator.

  He rode to his floor amid the usual whining of cables, pleased that he had returned to Rio at an hour when the electricity was not cut off. He let himself into the silent apartment, switching on the light and dropping his suitcase where Maria, his day maid, could find it and pack it for whatever subsequent trip might be required. The knapsack went into a closet which he then locked; too much work had gone into collecting those exhibits to take any chance with them. Not that they were very illuminating, he admitted to himself sadly, and then put all thought of the knapsack and its contents away. When the police laboratory had finished with them and he took his report to the minister at the Foreign Office, it would be time enough to think about it.

  A brief glance about revealed a pile of accumulated mail on the coffee table, but at the moment he was in no mood for examining it; in any event most of them were undoubtedly bills. Instead, he walked through the living room and dropped wearily onto the bed, savoring its welcome comfort. A far cry, he thought, from that damned rope hammock slung where the insects seemed to be the thickest and where every animal in the Mato Grosso had seemed to come to investigate his presence.

  He yawned deeply and leaned down to pull the heavy accordion boots from his feet, wriggling his toes gratefully at their freedom. How many hours had he spent in that damned Army plane? So-called plane, rather? Six? It ought to go down on his commendation record as bravery above and beyond the call of duty; if not as foolhardiness above and beyond the good sense a man was born with. Six hours wedged in a two-seater propeller-driven cigar box probably originally built by the Wright brothers themselves, and possibly one of their rejected models at that, and piloted—he was certain—by an ex-cabdriver who had undoubtedly turned to flying after losing his license for reckless driving. With cause.

  He rubbed one hand wearily across his face, pressed on the back of his neck several times to relieve the tension there, and then dragged off the checkered shirt he had been wearing. A faint breeze puffed in at the window, easing the heat of the room, partially drying the sweat on his shoulders. A good hot bath and a good night’s rest might make him feel human; and in the morning a welcome half hour in the barber’s chair being scraped and shorn into a semblance of civilized man once again. He sighed, torn between the lovely thought of the bath and the unpleasant fact that it entailed getting up from the bed; the sharp ring of the telephone resolved the problem. He stared at it, startled by the sound, and then slowly shook his head. Civilization undoubtedly had its advantages, such as hot baths and barbers, but it also had its drawbacks. At least in the jungle of the Mato Grosso this particular beast with its queerly shaped head, its ten eyes, its long snaking tail and its raucous cry, had been pleasantly absent.

  The telephone, unimpressed by either the insulting comparison or the philosophical concept, rang again. With a hopeless sigh Da Silva reached over and picked it up.

  “Hello? Yes?”

  “Zé?” The voice combined annoyance and relief. “Where in the devil have you been?”

  Da Silva grinned at the instrument, relaxing. If he had to be interrupted by a telephone call, at least he minded it less if the call were from his old friend Wilson, of the American Embassy. The small nondescript man who ostensibly held the position of security officer at the embassy, but who actually represented several agencies seldom discussed—if admitted—by his government, also served Interpol; he and Da Silva had worked on many cases together and had become fast friends in the process. Da Silva leaned back against a pillow, pulling the receiver with him.

  “I’ve been away. Obviously. What’s new with the American colony in Rio? Still keeping you busy finding their lost passports or complaining about the water shortage?”

  Wilson refused to be drawn into banter. Da Silva could picture him, with his sandy hair, his almost colorless eyes, and his ability to sound stubborn without any change in his facial expression at all. “You didn’t answer my question. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for four or five days. I even dropped you a note in the mail. Or don’t you read your mail?”

  Da Silva thought of the pile on the coffee table. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet. I thought it might be something to keep me busy on dull evenings—”

  “And I called your office a dozen times, but the way they clammed up, I thought maybe they’d taken away your political rights.”

  “Don’t say it, even joking,” Da Silva said fervently, and swung his legs to the bed, stretching out comfortably, settling himself. He dragged the pillow into a new position and welcomed its soft pressure against his head. “My office clams up, as you put it, because that’s what they’re paid to do. And so seldom accomplish. If you really want to know, though, I’ll tell you. I’ve been hunting.”

  “Hunting?” Wilson sounded suspicious. “Why would they refuse to tell me you went hunting?”

  Da Silva shrugged humorously. “Maybe they’ve finally gotten trained. According to the rule book, they’re supposed to be circumspect when I go to the bathroom. In this particular case, it may have been because I wasn’t hunting animals. Although there were plenty of them around in the neighborhood.” He smiled faintly, remembering. “Anyway, this time I was hunting people.”

  “Oh?” There was a momentary pause. “Why?”

  “Because they were naughty people. Obviously.”

  “And how did you do?”

  “Poorly,” Da Silva admitted ruefully. “I didn’t get one.” He thought a moment and then revised his statement, the smile fading from his face. “That’s not exactly true. I got a part of one. Wrapped in cellophane and plastic—tightly—packed in an army knapsack and locked in my front closet.”

  “Sounds absolutely lovely,” Wilson said. “I hope for the sake of the neighbors you have it packed in dry ice—”

  “It doesn’t smell too bad. Not the way I’ve got it wrapped. Anyway, it only has to last until I get it to the Institute tomorrow.”

  “And what happens when they open it?”

  “That’s their problem,” Da Silva said. “Anyway, they’ve got air conditioning, and I don’t.”

  “Just remind me not to go into your closet for the next couple of weeks,” Wilson said. “Just where did you happen to find the part of this one?”

  “You wouldn’t know if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “All right,” Da Silva said equably. “I’ve been visiting the interior of our fair country. I’ve been roughly eighteen kilometers from a crossroads in the mato known to everyone in those parts—possibly ten people, nine of them Indians—as Santa Isabel de Água Branca. Known only to them, I might mention. I never heard of it until I got the assignment; it isn’t on any map. It also isn’t as big as its name, at least not when seen from the air.” He smiled faintly. “Does that answer your question?”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Wilson sighed, conceding defeat. “You’re right; I still don’t know. And I gather from your tone that when you want me to know, you’ll tell me.”

  “True.”

  “Well,” Wilson said, getting back to the matter on his mind, “the important thing is that you’re back. I need your help. Suppose we meet at Mario’s for dinner. I’ll even pick up the tab.”

  “Dinner?” Da Silva frowned; the word had a faintly remembered ring. Now that he considered it, he hadn’t eaten since eight that morning, and then only farinha and coffee, taken under the wing of the plane while the usual morning mist cleared from the airstrip. However, at the moment, given a choice between food and sleep,
the calories had to take second place.

  His frown cleared. “I’ve got a better idea—why don’t we meet for breakfast tomorrow morning? Or maybe even the day after tomorrow, depending on how long I sleep? I’m exhausted.” He thought a moment and then clenched his argument for not leaving the apartment. “Besides, I can’t go out tonight. It’s impossible. I need a shave and all the barbershops are closed.”

  “Of course, they’re closed,” Wilson said with exaggerated patience. “It’s Christmas Day. Or rather, Christmas night.”

  “Christmas?” Da Silva frowned. “Are you sure?” He sat up slightly, staring at the telephone in surprise. “So that’s why there wasn’t any traffic in town!” He thought a moment more. “And I’ll bet that’s what she was trying to say to me at the airport? She was trying to wish me a Merry Christmas!”

  “When you leave a subject, you really leave it, don’t you?” Wilson said, almost admiringly. “I don’t know who ‘she’ is, but if it clears the air, I’ll do it for her. Merry Christmas. All right?” Wilson paused. “Now—where were we? Ah, yes. We were talking about barbershops. Well, you can shave yourself. You have a razor, don’t you?”

  “Certainly. The maid uses it to cut string and scrape paint off glass.” Da Silva shook his head at the other’s abysmal ignorance. “Whoever heard of a Brazilian shaving himself? Especially a Brazilian with a mustache?”

  “I have no idea,” Wilson said, sounding both honest and unconcerned. “I suppose I could find out if it’s vital.” He dropped his light tone. “Come on, Zé. Get cleaned up and meet me at Mario’s. It’s important. I need your help. I want you to meet somebody.”

  “You need my help to meet somebody?”

  “Damn it, Zé, don’t be cute!”

  “I’m not being cute. I’m just tired.” Da Silva proved it by yawning elaborately. “So bring him up here. If Maria didn’t throw a party while I was gone, I ought to still have some liquor around.”

  “It isn’t a him,” Wilson said patiently. “It’s a her. And a lovely her, too.”

  “And you call yourself a friend?” Da Silva sighed and shook his head. “When I’m feeling fine, rested, clean, and charming, you introduce me to Senators, ambassadors, kindly clergymen, and the like. When I’m so tired I can hardly see, let alone sparkle, you want to introduce me to lovely ladies. What kind of system is this?”

  “In this particular case it’s a good system,” Wilson said coldly. “I’d just as soon you didn’t exert your overwhelming Brazilian charm on this particular lady, anyway.”

  There was a note in his voice that caused Da Silva to raise his bushy eyebrows quizzically. “Ah? Do I hear aright? Do my unfailing detective instincts point me in the right direction? Do I note in your voice an indication that the indomitable Wilson has finally met the woman of his life?”

  Wilson laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I can say this—if we spend all night talking on the telephone, the chances are that neither one of us will meet her. At least not on time.” His voice became serious again. “Well? She said she’d meet me at Mario’s at eight. Are you joining us or staying home?”

  “You don’t leave me much choice. I can’t very well pass up an opportunity to meet the woman who’s finally broken down that famous Wilsonian reserve, can I? I’ll be there, but I don’t promise to stay awake.” Da Silva grinned at the instrument. “I’ll meet you in the bar. First one there orders the drinks.”

  “Make it the tables outside,” Wilson suggested. “I don’t want to miss her. She doesn’t know Rio.”

  “Good enough. Even better, in fact,” Da Silva agreed expansively. “I’ve eaten so many meals outdoors lately that I’d probably get claustrophobia with walls around me. If you could arrange some mosquitoes, I’ll really feel at home.”

  “You’ll take flies and be happy,” Wilson said coldly, and then grinned. “I’ll see you at eight, then.”

  “Right,” Da Silva said. “I’ll be the one who’s sound asleep.”

  “Just keep your brain awake,” Wilson said with sudden sobriety, and hung up.

  3

  Mario’s Restaurant had rarned its Reputation as Captain Da Silva’s favorite dining spot in Copacabana for many good reasons. To cite the most cogent, it was handily located a few blocks from his apartment, the food was excellent and the service adequate—which is about the best one can hope for in Rio de Janeiro—and the cocktail lounge with its high-walled booths was maintained in an obscurity properly conducive to either solitary thought or unsolitary romance, whichever was on the docket at the moment. In addition, and most important of all, behind the long jacaranda bar was exhibited the finest collection of brandy in all Brazil, and each bottle was what the Brazilians call ligítima—meaning that one did not have to question the validity of the label. This, in itself, marked Mario’s as a rarity in that city of readily adjustable virtue.

  Captain Da Silva, relaxed from a steaming bath and both pleased and surprised that he felt as wide-awake as he did, strolled along Avenida Atlântica in the direction of the famous bistro, happy that Wilson had called him. Nearly a week in the jungle certainly called for some recompense, and what better than an hour or so with friends and a good drink to hand? Unless, of course, he thought, it might be sleep? Even the torture of removing his wiry beard with a razor that had served its apprenticeship dislodging paint and severing string had done little to depress his spirits. The feeling of clean clothing against his skin was also welcome, and the fact that the sidewalks were almost deserted—a very rare situation along the beach—added to his sense of freedom. To his right, as he walked slowly along the wide mosaic sidewalk, the foaming tips of waves served as a wavering boundary, limiting humans to the confines of the land, but graciously allowing them to share in the benefits of the offshore breeze with its touch of coolness in the humid night.

  The lights of Mario’s shone ahead; as he approached, he saw Wilson emerge from the restaurant door and seat himself at one of the scattered tables that occupied half the sidewalk before the curtained window of the bar. Except for the American, the tables were empty. Wilson watched calmly as Da Silva came up with a smile of welcome and sank gratefully into a chair.

  “Hello, Zé. You’re on time for a change. What happened?”

  “It was come while I was still awake, or not come at all.” Da Silva’s smile changed to a frown. “I thought the first one here was to order drinks?”

  “I just got here myself. I—”

  “And where’s your date?”

  “She’ll be here any minute.” Wilson tipped his head toward the restaurant door. “I just called her hotel, and they said she’s already left.”

  Da Silva shook his head sadly. “Wilson, my friend, there’s a lot you’ve got to learn about romance. A gentleman picks a lady up at her hotel; he doesn’t arrange to meet her at some other place. Particularly in a strange town.”

  Wilson shook his head back. “Zé, my friend, there’s a lot you have to learn about this particular girl. When she says she’ll meet you someplace because she doesn’t want you to pick her up, then you meet her there, and you don’t pick her up.”

  “Ah!” Da Silva nodded. “Headstrong, eh?” He looked sad. “A bad trait, you realize.”

  “Not headstrong. Capable.”

  Da Silva shrugged. “Capable, headstrong—it’s the same thing.” He glanced at his watch. “One thing, at least, she’s feminine all right. It’s almost eight o’clock now.”

  “She’ll be here on time,” Wilson said, and contemplated the other with a slight air of superiority. “She isn’t Brazilian, you know. She’s American. She’ll be here.”

  Da Silva stared at him in amazement. “Brazilian or American, she’s a woman, isn’t she? Or at least that’s the impression you’ve been trying to give me. Wilson, my friend, if you are seriously thinking about this girl—or any girl—take a lesson from the old master. Time with a woman is strictly a matter of opinion. And this has nothing to do with national traits. Women are i
nternational in this.”

  “Look who’s talking! When were you ever on time?”

  “Once,” Da Silva said. “I was four at the time and hadn’t learned to read a clock—”

  He twisted in his chair, rapping sharply on the curtained window behind him; it was the accepted method at Mario’s to induce a waiter to hazard the dangers of the great outdoors. A swarthy face appeared at the glass, tugging the curtain aside, studying the situation, and then disappeared. A moment later a white-jacketed figure appeared with a tray, two glasses, and a bottle of Maciera Five-Star; the desires of these two well-known customers were both standard and familiar. Wilson poured the drinks carefully, sliding one across the table to his companion. Da Silva raised it in a small salute.

  “Saúde. And Merry Christmas.”

  Wilson accepted the toast with a nod, drank, and then sighed.

  “You know,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “somehow it never seems like Christmas in a place where all you can see are warm beaches and palm trees.” He stared out across the dark ocean. “I guess the one thing I’ll never get used to in this climate is Christmas without snow, without cold weather, or the sound of sleighbells—”

  “Sleighbells?” Da Silva eyed his friend sardonically. “Pardon me. Do you mean sleighbells on the radio or as background sound effects on television? Prerecorded?”

  Wilson grinned. “Maybe I went too far in my enthusiasm. Anyway, you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you think you mean,” Da Silva said equably. “But what you actually mean is that it couldn’t possibly seem like Christmas in a climate this comfortable, without slush, and wet feet, and a bad case of the sniffles—”