"Would you answer those questions for me, Mister Timura?" he asked, producing a pencil and notebook from inside his coat. "Just for the record."
"Certainly," I said. "We were staying at a hotel in Santos called The Plaza."
"We?"
"My wife and I. In fact, we are still registered there. We only drove up here for the afternoon."
"I see," he said, making a note. "Then of course there must be witnesses?"
"The clerk who checked us in was also on duty when we went out to dinner later. We stopped to ask him about a restaurant we wanted to try and he told us they had good food. He was still on duty when we returned later, and we spoke with him briefly then. The restaurant was called Two Sails, and I heard our waitress addressed as ‘Rita’ several times."
"What time did you check in?"
"Around sundown. I didn’t look at my watch."
"What time did you return from dinner?"
"Sometime between ten and eleven, I’d say."
"What did you do then?"
"We went to bed."
"You remained there till morning?"
"Yes."
"Where had you been before you checked into The Plaza?"
"In Piracicaba. We came down on the train."
"How long were you there?"
"A year. We had a furnished apartment. Our lease came up and we decided to travel rather than renew it, now we are not tied down."
"I see. What was the address?"
I gave him a phony one and he wrote it down. Then he closed the notebook and put it away.
"That seems to cover everything," he said, smiling. "Thank you for your cooperation. Oh, one more thing. Just to tie all the ends together, may I see some identification?"
I grinned.
"I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that," I said. "When I was partway up here I discovered I had left my wallet behind at the hotel."
As I said it, I could not but exult slightly, knowing that Maria’s purse was in the rear seat of the car with the tools.
"No matter," said Morales, rising and glancing toward Maria. "Your story sounds quite plausible. I am not a traffic patrolman, that I should be concerned about your not having your driver’s permit with you."
I nodded, trying to look sheepish.
"Thank you, Mrs. Bretagne, for your time," he said. "I shall telephone you as soon as there is something to report. If things go slowly, I shall still call you in a few days, to tell you so."
She rose, looking brave.
"Thank you, Inspector—and your men."
He nodded, turned and extended his hand in my direction.
"Mister Timura."
I rose and shook it.
"Inspector."
As I did this, Victor stumbled and lurched against me.
"Sorry," he said, then, "Oh. You must have checked the wrong pocket. Your wallet is there."
I controlled my face and patted my hip pocket.
"You’re right. So it is," I said. "Thank you."
I flipped an ash into the ashtray and waited. Nobody else moved.
"Would you be so kind as to produce it, Mister Timura?" Morales asked.
The cage door clanged shut, and any pacing I did now would be of a purely ritualistic nature.
So I opened my coat very slowly, letting him see there was no gun inside, withdrew my U.S. passport and handed it to him.
He studied the photo and the description, glancing up at me several times as he did so. Then he leafed through it, closed it and passed it back.
"I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us," he said. "There are a few more questions which have occurred to me."
I nodded.
"Very well."
He glanced at Maria then. I could not see the look he gave her, but she rose to her feet.
"Thank you for the drink," I said to Mrs. Bretagne, who was looking quite frightened now. "Tell Emil I’m sorry I missed him. I hope everything gets straightened out soon. It’s nice to have met you."
She nodded sharply and looked away.
Morales gestured and his men escorted us outside. They searched us on the far side of the cars, out of sight of the house.
"You will ride in the rear of my car," he said. "Dominic will drive yours. Give him the keys."
I did this, and we entered his vehicle. It had looked like an ordinary four-door Chevy sedan from the outside, but there were no door handles on the interior in back and an elaborate metal mesh affair that clung to the roof looked as if it could be swung down to further isolate us. They did not lower it, however.
Morales took the passenger’s seat and Victor made a show of passing him a .38 revolver. He lowered it to his lap without taking his eyes off me.
Before Victor could enter on the driver’s side, Dominic reappeared with Maria’s purse and my bag of tools. These were passed inside and Victor followed. Morales searched through both and shook his head slowly.
"You are planning to repair something?" he asked, smiling.
I shrugged.
"You never can tell when something might go wrong."
He chuckled.
"I am about to flatter you, Mister Wiley," he said. "I am certain that I have heard of you. It was years ago, but a name like yours tends to stick in one’s head. I am not certain as to the details, but I believe it involved Spain and some missing paintings. A lookout request perhaps."
"You have a good memory."
He beamed.
"Thank you. I have heard nothing in recent years, though. Have you been in jail?"
"No," I said, "and I was cleared in the matter you referred to."
"I believe you," he said. "It would be stupid to lie to me when you know that I will check everything you say, and I do not believe that you are stupid."
Victor had started the engine and we were moving around the oval now.
"You have not yet told me that it is all a misunderstanding," Morales said, "and that you can explain everything."
I sighed.
"It is, but I can’t," I said.
"How unfortunate. That Timura business was not really bad, though, for a spur-of-the-moment thing."
"Thank you."
"Did you break in there last night?"
"No. We really were in Santos, at the Plaza, under the name Timura. The thing will check out, as I described it."
"I rather thought it might. How far back will I have to go?"
"It stops about there."
"Then what?"
"I haven’t decided yet."
We were on our way toward the bridge by then.
"It does not matter," he said. "We will give you time to think about it and we will repeat the question."
His gaze shifted to Maria.
"…unless your—companion wishes to answer it now," he added.
Maria shook her head.
"She talks even less than you," he observed.
I nodded.
"All right. There may be some unpleasantness, though," he said. "I cannot be with you at all times if the questioning should be of long duration."
"Are we under arrest?" I asked. "If so, what are the charges?"
He raised his hand.
"We merely wish to question you concerning an illegal entry and possible larceny," he said. "You must admit, in all fairness, that you are very suspicious characters."
"That’s true," I acknowledged, "but for all the wrong reasons. We knew nothing of the crime. We only wanted to see Emil Bretagne."
He rattled my tools in their bag.
"With these?"
"I would like to speak with a representative of the United States government," I said, "and Maria with an Italian one."
"I should think so," he said.
We crossed over the bridge.
VII.
It was not exactly the same as in the States.
After a brief conversation with Morales, a husky, bluejowled, young man received the contents of all my pockets and sent me to be photog
raphed. I was separated from Maria at that point.
My trio of arresters vanished during the picture-taking, and two other men conducted me to a dirty, barred room and locked me in. They refused to answer any of my questions. They did, however, permit me to keep my belt and shoelaces, which at least allowed for comfortable pacing.
We had been driven way out in the boondocks, and the station, precinct, office or whatever, appeared to be the converted main building of an old farm-complex. My toilet facilities consisted of a bucket in the corner, and there was a jug of water beside my cot. Otherwise, the room was bare. Its one window looked out on a flat area of perhaps a hundred feet, where the weeds had been scythed down, followed by many acres of wild shrubs and tangling vines, with some trees way off in the distance. I found myself more than a little depressed.
They did not feed me dinner, but I was not especially hungry. I had been doing what they had probably wanted me to do; i.e., thinking. This, in turn, made me feel the way they must have wanted me to feel: scared.
The whole setup smelled as badly as the bucket.
Morales had produced police identification at my request, and he acted like a cop. The desk man had made the elaborate display of his credentials, and he seemed a meticulous fellow.
But no one had been in uniform, and the flunkies had been unnecessarily quick when it came to shoving and seizing arms and shoulders.
And the place did not look like any station I had ever been in. There was no flag, no dusty photos of judges, politicians, supercops on the walls…
And while I was supposedly there for questioning, and they had not seemed particularly busy, I had not been asked a single question yet.
I had been caught in a series of lies and cover-ups under very suspicious circumstances, they had doubtless discovered the lockpicks in the lining of my wallet and if they had checked with the authorities at the most recent place of departure indicated on my passport, they may or may not have been told that I was wanted for questioning in connection with three killings. New York—if they had checked there—might have mentioned my recent involvement in the Bernini case. I could not even guess as to my actual status on that one.
I could see no reason for the delay in questioning me.
…Except to throw a scare into me.
I wondered about them—their motives, their purposes. They were not behaving the way good cops should, and I did not like the alternative this suggested.
I stretched out on the cot and watched the room grow dark. There was a wall fixture bearing a single bulb which had long ago burnt out, a featureless skull streaked with dirt. I had a drink of the water. I kicked off my shoes. I clasped my hands behind my head.
I was a U.S. citizen. I had not committed the crime under investigation. Once they realized this and saw that I knew nothing about it, they would have to let me go.
Wouldn’t they?
*
I was shaken awake, and once I’d made the mistake of opening my eyes they were assaulted by a beam of light. I shielded them, but my arm was taken and I was half-dragged to my feet.
"What…?" I began.
"You will come with us," said the man with my arm.
"Let me get my shoes."
"Forget your shoes. Come!"
They conducted me back to the front room. Its only illumination was a reading lamp on the desk of the blue-chinned man, who sat studying or pretending to study the contents of a manila folder. They showed me to a chair and retreated to positions somewhere behind me. We were the room’s only occupants.
I sat there for perhaps ten minutes before he looked up and pretended to become suddenly aware of my presence.
"Ah! Mister Wiley!" he said. "You do acknowledge that Ovid Wiley is your correct name, do you not?"
"Yes," I said, and cleared my throat.
"I would like your help in clarifying some matters."
"Gladly."
"Then I would like to know why you and your companion were using false names."
"The reason," I said, "is because she is not my wife. I try to be as discreet as possible in certain matters."
"Admirable," he said, tapping his pencil against the blotter. "Why did you present yourself at the home of Mister Bretagne and attempt to deceive his wife as to your actual identity?"
Back in my cell, I had decided how far I would go on that one. It represented one of the few occasions in my life when I was unable to come up with a good lie. I simply could not think of a plausible alternative for what I was really attempting. I had to settle for a part of the truth, as much as it might nettle my bosses.
"It is a bit complicated," I said, managing to fight down a near-irresistible impulse to burst out into maniacal laughter at the words. "First, I’ve never met Emil Bretagne. I don’t know him from Adam. I went to his place to obtain information concerning his brother."
"Brother?" His pencil paused on the upswing.
"Claude Bretagne, a priest who worked at the Vatican."
He reversed the pencil and began scribbling on a legal-size pad.
"Claude was murdered," I said, "four days ago. In a hotel room in Lisbon. I was in Rome at the time. I am an art dealer, and I was on a buying trip which would bring me to Brazil after I left Europe. Claude and I had mutual friends. Maria is one of them. With all due respect for Portuguese authorities, there are limits to the amount of time and effort that can be expended in any one case— particularly that of a stranger in one’s country. It was known that Claude kept in pretty close touch with his brother. So, since I was headed this way and have some background in investigative matters, we thought it might be worthwhile for me to speak with Emil—to see whether Claude might have mentioned anything in his letters that would prove useful. We weren’t certain that Lisbon would pursue matters this far."
"Who, specifically, is this ‘we’ of whom you speak?"
"Maria, some of his priest friends and his boss—Monsignor Zingales of the Prefecture of Economic Affairs, Office of Administration for the Patrimony of the Holy See."
"Please repeat that, slowly," he said.
I did, and he wrote it down.
"This Monsignor—he suggested this on his own? Or in his official capacity?"
"So you were actually doing this as a favor, rather than as an authorized representative."
"That’s right."
"And you brought this girl with you…"
I smiled.
"She was willing to come. I have nothing against combining business with pleasure."
"…and that explains the assumed name. Very neat. Your story can easily be checked, you know."
"If it will help to get us out of here any sooner, I’ll be glad to pay for the telephone calls."
"That will not be necessary," he said, making another note.
He leaned back in his chair then, picked up half a cigar from a cast iron ashtray, lit it and stared at me. He pulled his nose a few times, then asked, "You wish to smoke?"
"Yes."
He fumbled in a drawer, located my cigarettes and matches, made a sharp gesture with his head.
One of the guards approached, took them and brought them to me. I lit one and looked about for an ashtray.
"Use the floor," he said. "Now, about the breaking and entering at Mister Bretagne’s place…" He paused and puffed his cigar slowly. "We sent a man to Santos. The desk clerk and the waitress both identified you from your photos and supported your story of being where you said you were last night."
I began to smile and he raised a hand.
"This of course does not preclude your having departed the hotel by its rear entrance during the night and driven up here," he said. "Or, for that matter, you might have done it before going to Santos. Mrs. Bretagne was gone all day, and we have no way of knowing precisely when the crime was committed. However, your story has a surface appearance of the truth at this point."
"That’s something anyway. How much longer are you going to keep us here?"
"I cannot an
swer that," he said. "The decision is not mine to make."
"When may I speak to a representative of the United States government? And Maria to one of hers?"
He shook his head.
"Again, I have no say in the matter and I can tell you nothing."
"All right," I sighed. "I understand."
"Do you have any knowledge of anyone else who might have committed the crime?"
"None whatsoever."
"Could you venture any guesses that might be of help to us?"
"Of course not. How could I?"
"Inspector Morales thinks you have a shady background."
"Even if he were right in his guesses about things that might have happened long ago," I said, "there would still be no tie-in here."
He returned his attention to the folder. I smoked and waited. It occurred to me that he had run out of questions and was mulling over what I had said so far.
"Excuse me," I said.
He looked up immediately.
"Yes?"
"Something has been bothering me. Namely, the fact that no one seems to know where Emil Bretagne is. Not even his wife. Does he go away like that often?"
"Mister Bretagne is not under investigation. You are."
"It just sounds rather odd. That’s all. You’d asked for a guess, and I was looking for some guessing material."
He appeared somewhat mollified.
"I understand that he does make several business trips a year," he said.
"Without telling his company where he is going?"
"I understand that he has a fairly free hand in what he does."
"What does he do?"
"I believe he is an investment counselor."
"Access to other people’s money," I mused, "and no raised eyebrows when he wants to travel. Now no one knows where he is. When they do it in the States, they usually head for South America. Where do Brazilians go? Switzerland?"
He snatched his cigar from his mouth and stood.
"Mister Bretagne is a highly respected businessman! A patriot!" he snarled. Then, to the guards, "Take him back to his cell! And give me his cigarettes and matches! He may start a fire!"
I thought the last bit rather petty, as I handed them over. Still, I had gotten what I had been fishing for.
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