Carnival of Spies

by Robert Moss

  “You there! What are you doing?” a new voice challenged him. Harry saw a young officer in a red cap advancing between the trees and kicked the knife away into a pool of shadow under the shrubbery.

  “This man is a thief,” Maitland announced to the policeman. “He’s been stealing from the guests. Find Senhora Mackenzie and ask her to make the identification.”

  His tone was sufficiently haughty and his tailoring so faultless that the young police officer swallowed any objections. He left the semiconscious Caterpillar in charge of one of his men and set off in search of Stella. Harry calculated that her condition might divert the policeman for a good few minutes more.

  The groans had stopped. Harry rushed to the reptile house and found it padlocked. He pressed his ear to the door. He could hear a faint, rasping sound from within. It might have been somebody’s hoarse breathing. He crept around the corner of the pavilion and peered in through a small window, streaked with dirt. Not enough light filtered through for him to make out anything very clearly. He could identify some of the glass cages, a cactus plant or two, a hairy thing on the floor just below him that must be one of the rodents or small animals the Doctor fed to his pets. A careless keeper must have let it out by mistake.

  Then Harry realized that what he was staring at was not an animal. It was Desmond Wild’s astonishing mail-order toupee.

  He tapped on the window pane. “Desmond?”

  He was rewarded with another groan, fainter than before.

  He went back to the door and examined the padlock more closely. It was stout but badly rusted. With his penknife he soon managed to prise it open.

  He found Desmond Wild lying on his belly, sweating hard, with a nasty blue pallor about his face.

  “Harry — thank God—”

  “What happened?” Harry managed to roll him over and got his back propped up against a planter.

  “Bloody snakes—”

  Maitland could see the bite marks now, at least two sets of them, on the left hand, and another at the side of the neck. He slashed at the neck wounds with his pocket knife and tried to suck out the poison, spitting blood over the concrete floor.

  “Too late—” Wild moaned. “Got to stop them—”

  Was he talking about the pit vipers? Between his ministrations, Harry glanced carefully around the darkened pavilion. He saw no sign of a snake on the loose.

  He repeated his exercise on Wild’s hand, wondering how long it took a double dose of the jararaca’s venom to finish a man. There was only one hope: that Doctor Alcibiades had an antidote ready to hand. He must find the mayor at once. Desmond Wild was already delirious.

  “Fluminense,” he was raving, as if he were barracking at a football game. “Fluminense.”

  “Hang on, old man. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  Maitland hastened back inside the villa. As he headed towards the library, he thought he could guess at least part of what must have happened. Wild had stuck his nose into something, and Alcibiades — or one of his guests had gone to desperate lengths to silence him. He knew that by going directly to the mayor, he risked exposing himself to similar treatment. But Wild’s life was at stake.

  “Ah, there you are, Maitland! Where in damnation do you think you’re off to? I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”

  It was Major Mackenzie, lurching along the hallway. He seemed in only a marginally steadier condition than Stella. For once Harry was delighted to see him. It would be no bad thing to have a witness. There was surely a limit to the number of guests who could vanish at the mayor’s party.

  “How are you, Major? Why don’t we both go and pay our respects to our host?”

  “That’s all very well, but about my buses—”

  “I think he’s in the library.”

  Harry took the major’s arm and escorted him, protesting, up the corridor to the library door, which was now closed.

  Without hesitating Maitland turned the knob. As he swung the door open, he sensed that the whole scene inside had been frozen. An extraordinary group was assembled within those panelled walls, and every member of it was staring at the intruders. There was Doctor Alcibiades, of course, his back to the bay window; Admiral Cavalcanti and two men from the General Staff; Captain Schmidt and the German attaché; and Courtland Bull, who was stretched out on a studded leather chesterfield, holding up a cigar between finger and thumb as if he had been using it to emphasize a point.

  Doctor Alcibiades was addressing the group in an overdramatic voice, and Harry had no doubt that he had embarked on this soliloquy for the benefit of the new arrivals.

  “The name of the disease derives from a Latin poem of the sixteenth century,” the mayor was saying. “A poet-physician called Fracastorius invented a shepherd called Syphilis who was cursed with the pox because — so we are told — he raised forbidden altars on the hill. An engaging conceit. Wouldn’t you agree, Major Mackenzie?”

  “Well, I, er—” The Major took refuge in a mild coughing fit.

  “Are you enjoying the party, Harry?”

  “Very much so, Doctor. I’m sorry to intrude, but one of your guests needs urgent medical attention. He seems to have been bitten by a snake.”

  The men in the library mastered themselves pretty well, assuming they had something to hide. Their faces expressed the appropriate blend of curiosity and concern. But Harry noticed that the mayor exchanged a quick glance with Admiral Cavalcanti before saying, “I’ll come at once.”

  As they left the library, Harry saw Cavalcanti pick up the telephone.

  Major Mackenzie was flustered. “What’s this about snakes?” he demanded. “And what is my wife doing with that policeman?”

  There, indeed, was Stella, hanging on the shoulder of a Special Police lieutenant.

  “It’s some frightful mix-up,” she yawned. “I think it’s to do with the buses.”

  They all trooped along behind Harry and the mayor, who stopped to unlock a small room that smelled like a laboratory and removed a vial from a glass case.

  If this was an antidote, it came too late to help Desmond Wild. Doctor Alcibiades felt the journalist’s pulse, rolled back his eyelids and pronounced him dead.

  He then made a great show of searching for a viper, presumably escaped from one of the containers.

  “I can’t think what your friend was doing messing about in here,” he remarked to Harry. “These reporters like to pry into everything.”

  Maitland picked up Wild’s hairpiece and arranged it on top of his skull. It looked slightly more realistic now that the poor fellow was dead.

  “I’m afraid we shall all have to wait for the coroner,” the mayor informed them. This was obviously absurd, with the police already on the scene of what appeared — at least to the Mackenzies — to be a tragic accident. Doctor Alcibiades was trying to detain them for his own purposes. The major started to protest.

  “I’ll just go and call Desmond’s wife,” Harry announced in the midst of Mackenzie’s outburst.

  “I didn’t know Wild was married,” Alcibiades said warily.

  “Oh, he never showed her in public much.” Harry raised an imaginary glass to his lips. As he hurried back to the villa, he saw an officer in white dress uniform — Cavalcanti — striding off towards the stables and the private parking area. Harry avoided the library and returned to the main salon, which was fast emptying. He used the phone in the front lobby to call Colonel Plinio, who answered at the second ring.

  “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Harry? I can’t talk to you now.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The shooting has started. It seems the Reds at Praia Vermelha can’t tell the time.”

  “Well, it’s started here, too. One man is dead. The admiral left in a hell of a hurry.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no time for that now.” He could see Doctor Alcibiades watching him. Fortunately, the mayor had been detained by some of his other guests
. “What does Fluminense mean to you?”

  “It’s a football club.”

  “Yes, but is there some other significance?”

  “Well, some Cariocas think it’s a religion, like Manchester United fans. It’s an odd time to be talking about it, Harry.”

  Fluminense. It had been Desmond Wild’s last word. And according to Johnny, it was the logo on the jersey that Boy Scout had been wearing when he came to collect his submachine gun. Was there a link?

  “Where is the Fluminense Club?”

  “Harry—”

  “This could be important.”

  “All right. Surely you’ve seen it. The club is just behind the Guanabara Palace.”

  “That must be it!” Maitland exclaimed.

  “I simply don’t have time for this.”

  “Meet me there as fast as you can. If you can’t make it, send me some of your best men and tell them to look out for me.”

  He hung up and was out the door before the mayor caught up with him. He tried to slow his step as he weaved through the crowd of leave-takers among the fountains. He heard a voice calling his name but ignored it. There was safety in the crowd. Surely Alcibiades would not risk ordering the guards to stop him in front of so many people who knew him.

  He got out into the street and ran east, towards his car. Nobody tried to stop him. He jumped behind the wheel, and the Beast roared away in the direction of the presidential palace. He took the avenue along the embankment and saw a company bus hurtle past, heading for Praia Vermelha.

  They were going to kill the president. He was sure of it now. It had also dawned on him that Prestes’ crowd were not the only people who were plotting a coup. There were at least two conspiracies, not one; Doctor Alcibiades was the hinge between them.

  There were troops out in force in front of the little barracks across the street from the German Embassy. As Harry cruised up the Rua Farani toward the palace, he saw an official car coming through the gates. The marine guards saluted; one of them stepped out into the road and waved for Harry to stop and let the limousine pass. He recognized the War Minister in the back. The government was starting to take things in hand.

  He slipped the Beast into gear. Glancing into the rearview mirror, he saw an American car behind him. The driver turned in at the gate. One of the marines came up to question him. The guard looked in the back of the car and saluted smartly. Harry could see the white dress uniform, the soft, blurred features that lay too much to one side, as if a sculptor moulding the head from clay had tired of his work and pushed it away with the flat of his hand. It was Admiral Cavalcanti, and the marines were letting him through.

  There’s nothing I can do about it, Harry told himself. If he tried to explain his suspicions, even Colonel Plinio would think him insane.

  He drove to the end of the street, rounded the corner and pulled up near the members’ entrance to the Fluminense Club. The sidewalk was deserted. The door to the club was locked, the windows shuttered and barred. His pen knife would not work this time. There was no sign of life inside the main building. He walked up the street, inspecting the high fence. It might be possible to shimmy over and get into the grounds.

  I’m probably making a complete fool of myself, he thought.

  He made a tentative jump at the fence, got a hand on the ledge, but was nicked by something sharp — probably broken glass — and let himself fall back.

  At the same instant a truck came screeching around the corner. The driver swung up onto the pavement, so that Harry had to flatten himself against the wall to avoid getting hit. Half a dozen men in civilian clothes tumbled out of the back. Harry looked at the odds and decided to leave his gun in his pocket. It was better to try to bluff his way out. But if this was Boy Scout’s mob, that would not be easy.

  A black sedan double-parked next to the Beast.

  To his relief, Harry saw Colonel Plinio get out.

  “I’ll handle this one,” he shouted to the men who were menacing Maitland with their pistols.

  “Breaking and entering, Harry?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “O ye of little faith. Allow me to introduce Doctor Mota, the manager of the club.”

  Harry shook hands with a tall, saturnine man with slicked-down hair. The club manager did not look amused at being rousted out at two in the morning.

  “I told Doctor Mota that you had information about a break-in,” Plinio said.

  As the manager fumbled with a bunch of keys, the colonel asked in a whisper, “What’s all this about a dead man?”

  Harry explained what had happened to Desmond Wild. “And Cavalcanti went straight from the mayor’s house to the palace,” he added. “I saw him go inside.”

  “What of it? A patriotic officer, guarding his president from a Red revolt? The admiral’s trying to make his comeback, that’s all. I hope you’re not wasting our time.”

  Doctor Mota had managed to open the door. He led them into the trophy room, where he satisfied himself that nothing was missing.

  “I can’t think what else anyone would want to steal.”

  “If we wanted to get into the palace from here, how would we do it?” Harry asked.

  “There’s a door on the basement level,” the manager reported. “But it’s locked and bolted from the other side. The president’s secretary has the key.”

  “Will you show us where it is?”

  Their heels clattered on the stone steps. There was a strong odour of chlorine and wet towels, but no indication that anyone had been down there since nightfall. The manager kept switching on lights.

  The door to the palace gardens certainly looked like a formidable obstacle. It was lined with sheet steel. Harry noticed a faint smell of oil, as if the hinges had been lubricated not long before.

  He tried the handle. The heavy door swung open silently, and they looked out across sculpted gardens towards the pillared facade of Guanabara Palace.

  “It’s unthinkable!” Doctor Mota exclaimed. “And where are the guards?”

  “I think I see one of them,” Harry remarked. He pointed to a pair of boots jutting out from under a clump of bushes.

  The colonel’s men pulled the body out into the moonlight. The marine had been stripped to his underwear.

  “He’s been garrotted,” Maitland announced, inspecting the thin red line around the neck. “Piano wire, I should think.”

  Colonel Plinio turned to one of his men. “Euclides, go back into the club and telephone the president’s secretary. Tell him we’re coming in.”

  “What if they’re already holding the palace?” Maitland interrupted. “Remember, at least one of the attackers is wearing marine uniform.”

  Plinio thought about this for an instant and said, “You’re right. We’ll have to chance it.” He detailed Euclides to call for reinforcements and to check the state of affairs at the guardhouse at the street entrance to the palace.

  “You’d better clear out,” he said to Maitland. “This business isn’t for foreigners.”

  “Not on your life. Who brought you here in the first place?”

  Colonel Plinio’s retort was swallowed up by a sudden burst of fire from the palace.

  “Stay behind me,” he instructed Harry. Then they were all running along flagstoned paths, splitting into two groups at the foot of the terrace, where two broad flights of steps led up to the top.

  A bullet whined past Harry’s ear, and he looked up and saw a pretty, dark-haired girl taking aim at him from an upstairs window.

  “Comunistas miseraveis!” she screamed above the shooting. “Communist bastards!”

  Harry recognized the president’s younger daughter. “Don’t shoot!” he called up.

  The First Family appeared to have barricaded itself on the second floor. A gun battle was raging around the main staircase. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the thick pall of smoke; some of the drapes had caught fire. Men in marine uniforms and a few in civilian clothes were trying to stor
m the stairs. They were being held off by a smaller group on the landing, in the same medley of attire. Neither the attackers nor the defenders seemed sure whose side Plinio’s men were on, and the policemen were equally confused.

  There was a pause in the shooting while everyone tried to assess the new odds.

  “Look at that one!” Maitland pointed to one of the marines crouched in the stairwell. “He’s wearing street shoes!”

  “Give yourselves up!” Plinio ordered the attackers, using his best baritone. “Your cause is lost!”

  This was received with a volley of fire that failed to drop a single policeman. The colonel’s men took cover behind the furniture and blazed away as if they were in competition to see who could exhaust his ammunition first.

  “Where’s the rest of the guard?” Plinio muttered.

  “You might also ask, where is Cavalcanti?” Harry responded.

  Caught in a crossfire, the attackers soon lost their fight. Several made a run for the doors, were wounded or intercepted and gave themselves up. There was a young one, a better shot than the rest, who seemed bent on holding out.

  He had crawled away to reasonable cover behind the banisters and winged two of Plinio’s men. But soon he was the only one left fighting. There was a door behind him, now riddled with bullet holes. He had not yet tried to use it for escape.

  “I’ll bet that’s Escoteiro,” Harry whispered to Plinio. “Let’s try to take him alive. If you cover me, I’ll try to get around behind him.”

  Crouched low, Harry made a zigzag dash for the corridor behind the staircase. He found a terrified maidservant who showed him how to get into the drawing room on the far side of the staircase.

  He saw that the drawing room door opened inwards. He turned the handle and was gingerly pulling it towards him when several bullets splintered the wood. One of them cut a neat slit in the sleeve of his dinner jacket. He threw himself to the floor.

  At the same instant the door flew towards him, just missing his head, and a solid weight dropped on his shoulders. The reek of blood and urine filled his nostrils. He rolled onto his back and found himself clutching Boy Scout’s head to his chest. The boy terrorist stared at him out of one glassy eye. The other had been blown away. Harry’s hands were sticky with blood and grey matter and ooze that he did not care to analyse. He started to wriggle free of the body, trying not to throw up.