The Xavier Affair

by Fish, Robert L. ;

“What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  Da Silva’s attention was back on the road; he was shifting into fourth gear. “You don’t like what?”

  “Well,” Wilson said with obvious reluctance, “I hate to spoil a good theory, but do you remember a while ago we had it all figured out that the most likely one to kill Chico was the one picking up the money?”

  “So?”

  “So now we’ve just decided that the one picking up the money is prepared to leave the little brown suitcase on the bus in case of anything suspicious, and try again some other time. If he killed Chico, he knows the body won’t stay undiscovered very long, and probably won’t stay unidentified very long. Which means that if he leaves the money now, he may well be leaving it forever. Which I don’t think he’d do.”

  “Maybe he’s willing to take the chance.”

  “I doubt it,” Wilson said. “It’s quite a chance to take, considering that if he hadn’t killed Chico, he’d have his share of the half million. Guaranteed.” He shrugged disconsolately. “Therefore, for my money, he didn’t kill Chico. Q.E.D.”

  “You’re probably right,” Da Silva said, and shook his head. “We’ve already accepted the fact that the one who left the note wouldn’t pick up the money, so that lets out Humberto. Assuming he was ever in. You know? This thing is beginning to sound like that man with the rowboat, the duck, the fox, and the bag of grain.” He thought a moment. “It’s also beginning to sound like we’re running out of suspects.”

  “Not quite,” Wilson said. “There could be another in the gang we don’t know about. Or, of course—” He paused.

  “I know. Romana. And she hasn’t been home this morning or this afternoon, at least as of a few minutes ago.” He shook his head. “Personally, I’m getting the feeling we’ve taken some erroneous assumptions and managed to develop them into utter confusion.”

  Wilson sighed. “Maybe we’ll know more when we grab our friend with the money. Incidentally, how do we grab him?”

  “The same way you followed Chico and me up the hill at the Catatumbá—with binoculars. I have a pair in the glove compartment. When we get within sight of the bus, I’m going to drop back and you’re going to keep them in sight with the glasses. When they stop, we stop. When they go, we go. We’ll be too far away for the money picker-upper to have any reason to be afraid—at least, not of us. Then—”

  “Hold it!” Wilson shook his head, more in pity than in anger. “You’ve got to be crazy! How are you going to keep a bus in sight with binoculars? On a road like this, and with these hills? You’ll come around a curve and be on top of them!”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yes. Why don’t we just stay on their tail? Nobody is going to be suspicious of a taxi.”

  “They’ll be suspicious of a taxi that looks like this one and still manages to keep up with a Viacão Cometa on the flat,” Da Silva said positively. “No; we’ll do it my way. We know he won’t be carrying more than one bag—of his own, that is—”

  “Hold it all over again! In the first place, I’ll never be able to tell the color of a suitcase at that distance, and even if I could, suppose the first passenger who gets off happens to take two bags, one of them brown? And later turns out to be a respectable counterfeiter from Piraí? What do we do? Follow him home and then apologize when we open his brown bag and only find plates?”

  “Very comical!”

  “I’m serious! The way you have it figured the only people we have to worry about are the ones who take either one or two bags from the luggage compartment. This only eliminates commercial travelers and large families, you understand. Also—”

  “Look, Wilson,” Da Silva said, with a patience he was far from feeling, “ninety-five percent of the people on that bus are going all the way through to São Paulo. Very few of them are going to leave the bus before then, and any who do are almost sure to get off at one of the regular rest stops. If anyone except our money picker-upper gets off along the highway, just pray it’s an old lady with children.”

  “And just suppose you’re wrong?”

  “Then I guess we’ll just have to think of something else,” Da Silva said coldly. “Get the binoculars.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilson said with exaggerated meekness, and reached for the glove compartment.

  Chapter 13

  On the rearmost seat of the gleaming Viacão Cometa, slowly grinding its way up the tortuous mountain road, Ricardo Caravelas sat with his head twisted, staring blankly out of the back window. One hand was on top of his head, gripping his short hair tightly; the knuckle of a finger on the other hand was between clamped teeth. His mind was seething with self-denunciation, his heart was beating unnaturally, and his hands were sweating. How and why had he ever gotten involved in the entire, horrible mess? Classes started yesterday; why wasn’t he at the university? What was he doing on this stupid bus?

  Behind him the road snaked downward, flanked on one side by the abrupt rise of the mountain and on the other by cliffs that disappeared into the unseen void with stomach-tightening suddenness, covered with thin scrub, a vertical catanduva, strangely out of place in this lush land. A long line of traffic trailed them obediently, like ducklings behind a goose. He turned his head, bringing his damp palms down to press against his knees, staring to the front. Ahead, the road was clear. Beneath them, in the luggage compartment, that damned brown bag.…

  His jaw was clenched; how had he ever gotten so involved? And why? He didn’t need the money; he didn’t even need a part of it. And if he spent it in any large quantity, everyone who knew him would know. And how would he spend it? His allowance was more than adequate and would continue throughout his life, increasing as he grew older and other members of the family departed. He had the assurance of an excellent position in the law firm of his godfather when he was graduated, and the income from that endeavor would be apart from his share in the family estate. The girl whom he was engaged to marry was lovely and wealthy in her own right. So why in the devil had he ever gotten involved in the first place?

  There was, of course, no answer. It could have been the early hour, that morning at Gavea; or the double gin-tonic—tonics, he silently amended—or it could have been … what? What possible excuse could he offer to himself, let alone the police? What excuse would the police accept? None, and he knew it. None, and if he were in their position lie wouldn’t accept any, either. The old animal-spirit gag wouldn’t help on this one, and he knew that, too. So?

  The bus reached the summit, hesitated as if catching its breath while the driver changed gears, and then began rolling. The wide, curved roads here, approaching the cutoff for Piraí, swung along the small reservoirs and past the odd-shaped hillocks that characterized the edge of the plateau; the bus increased in speed, beginning to leave its brood of less majestic vehicles behind. Ricardo forced himself to put aside his feeling of desperation, of negativism. It aided nothing, especially now; now was the time to think, to use his head. There had to be a way out, but what? Forget that attitude, he commanded himself almost viciously; think positively! There are many ways out; which one shall I take?

  It seemed to work. For the first time since leaving the terminal in Rio, his mind actually began to concentrate on solutions rather than merely repeating problems. For one thing, he could return the money—except, he realized, that wouldn’t really solve anything. Or absolve anything, either. And it would probably ease the police problem of tracing him. He could, of course, take the brown bag to the delegacia and confess, saving the police the trouble of tracing him. He shook his head; somehow neither of those ideas seemed to be the answer, but at least he was beginning to think.

  What other possibility? Well, he could get off the bus near Volta Redonda, at the side road where the car was hidden, and simply leave the brown bag on the bus. Forget about the money. Pretend it didn’t exist, that Alvaro hadn’t left it at the terminal. Ricardo’s eyes narrowed as he considered the idea. Was it
possible that Romana had been around the terminal when Alvaro dropped the bag off, watching, checking? Or Humberto? He hadn’t seen them, but that didn’t mean anything; he hadn’t been looking for them. Another thought suddenly came to him, making the matter unimportant. He couldn’t leave the money on the bus and tell them any silly story about Alvaro’s failure to appear. The brown bag would be opened in the unclaimed luggage section of the São Paulo depot, and the news would hit the papers and the radio in about five minutes.

  Or—he frowned, considering another idea carefully—he could take the brown bag from the bus, and on his way back to Rio he could pull into one of the recesses on the mountain road reserved for cars in trouble, and when the road was clear in both directions, he could simply drop the bag over a cliff. The chances of its being discovered for some time would be extremely rare; nobody climbed around those barren depths. There was no reason to. And if anyone did stumble on the suitcase, how many people would take a discovery like that to the police? Nobody. And then, of course, he could tell the others that Alvaro failed to leave the bag. It would lead to other problems, it was true, but for now, he thought, let us stick to one problem at a time.

  He glanced out of the window at his side and came to with a start. The complicated involutions of his thoughts had taken more time than he realized. They were well past the cutoff to Piraí and were nearing the bottom of the hill leading to the turn for Volta Redonda. It was a good thing he had waked up! He reached up, grasping the bell cord, tugging on it; the opaque sunglassed eyes of the driver rose to the mirror, facing him. Ricardo came to his feet, mumbling an apology to his seat neighbor, squeezing into the aisle. He swayed to the front of the bus and bent down, studying the landscape, and then pointed ahead. He was suddenly calm, assured—or at least resigned—pleased that he had a plan. He recognized it was no true solution, but at the point things had reached there were no true solutions.

  He pointed again, silent, and the driver began to apply the brakes.

  “This is ridiculous!” Wilson made no attempt to hide his irritation; he tried once more to focus the binoculars. “After Taubaté, fine—the road there is like an arrow. But here? Either you don’t see them at all, or you’re right on top of them and don’t need any binoculars. Not to mention trying to focus these things while you’re bouncing all over the road. If they ever stop short around a curve we’ll probably run right up their exhaust!”

  Da Silva had a deaf ear for the complaints. “Just be damned sure it’s a Viacão Cometa we’re following,” he ordered, “and not another bus line. Or a moving van.”

  “It’s a Cometa. I’m not sure of anything else, but I’m sure of that.”

  “You’re doing just fine.” One would never have known it from the wooden tone. “Just keep watching.”

  “Watching what?” Wilson sounded disgusted. “I saw them at the top of the serra, and about twice in the ten miles since. The only thing I’m sure of is that we haven’t passed them.” The nondescript man dropped the glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If you won’t get close enough to see them without this portable observatory, how would you like to do the spyglass bit? While I pilot?”

  “We haven’t time to change. Just keep watching!”

  “Why in hell don’t they pad these eyepieces?” Wilson muttered. “I’ll have to tell people I walked into a door.” He brought the glasses back into position and suddenly hunched forward excitedly. “Zé! His taillight’s on—I think he’s stopping! Damn! Try to keep this thing steady, will you?” He brought the binoculars down, shaking his head. “They went around a curve, but I’m pretty sure he was stopping. His taillight was on too long just to be slowing down for something.”

  Da Silva nodded. “This would be around the logical place. I’m slowing down. Keep watching.”

  “Right.” Wilson raised the binoculars again; the cab rounded a curve, traveling slower. Wilson suddenly sat up. “Zé—I see it; it’s stopped.” Da Silva instantly hit the brakes, pulling the car off the road, beneath them the motor pulsed steadily, awaiting further orders. Ahead, faint in the distance, he could see the tiny red pinpoints of the brake lights, and the vague outline of something which, to the naked eye, could be either a bus or a barn.

  “Well?”

  “I think it could well be our boy.” Wilson sounded amazed by the whole thing. “It’s a young lad, in his twenties, I’d say. Crew cut, moustache, sports clothes … standing alongside the bus waiting for his luggage … driver’s opening the compartment door.…” Wilson’s voice became troubled. “Hey, he’s taking out more than two bags; he’s got about six out already … no, that’s all right, he was taking them out to get at the ones in back. Now we’re all set … two suitcases, one middle-sized, one small; the rest are being loaded back in. I can’t tell the colors, but I like the quantity.” He grinned. “As per schedule.”

  “Bingo!” Da Silva sounded profoundly satisfied.

  “Plus Jackpot. Unless we’re wrong, of course.” Wilson twisted the knob, sharpening the focus, and nodded in pleased fashion. “There, that’s better. The driver’s climbing back in.…”

  “And the boy?”

  “He’s taking a bicycle out of one of the bags—”

  “What?”

  “Just joking; don’t get excited. He’s still standing there. There goes the bus.…”

  Da Silva saw the two tiny red pinpoints wink out. Wilson’s voice was like that of an announcer describing an exceptionally slow sports event. “He’s still standing there. Probably waiting to make sure the bus is really on its way and that he hasn’t been followed or watched. Or waiting for someone to pick him up. No; now our boy is finally moving … he’s walking toward us … he—” Wilson frowned. “He disappeared. There must be a roadway of some sort cut into that hummock up there, or behind it. With the glasses it looked like he was swallowed up.”

  “That’s where his car is,” Da Silva said with barely concealed triumph. “Keep watching.”

  Wilson treated both the statement and the needless advice with the lofty contempt they merited.

  “I should hope his car is there,” he said. “It would be a pity after all our brilliant deductions to see him come out of there on a mule. Or not at all. It would—” He paused and leaned forward, his tone admiring. “Wilson and Da Silva, stand and receive the Alcoholics Anonymous accolade with palm for Detectives of the Year! There’s half a car peeking out of the hummock, waiting for traffic to pass. It looks like a red sports car, fire-engine red. Now he’s clear. He’s turning this way.…”

  Da Silva had only been waiting to learn the car’s direction. He twisted the steering wheel sharply to the left, paused to let a large truck lumber by, and then swung across the road, heading toward Rio, driving slowly. Wilson had set the glasses down on the seat and was studying him.

  “Do you plan to stop him here?”

  “And take a chance of being rammed and killed if he doesn’t know how to handle a car?” Da Silva shook his head, his eyes on the rear-view mirror. “No. We’ll follow him and take him down on the flat.”

  “We don’t follow him by binocular, I hope,” Wilson said hastily. “Going down the mountain I’ll lose an eye.”

  “No,” Da Silva said tightly. “From now on we stay right on his tail. If he knows we’re following him, I couldn’t care less. Let him think about it until we pick him up. Down in the flat the road’s wide enough. We’ll get him there. And then we’re going to examine his luggage!”

  “Ah, yes,” Wilson said. “And if we only find some shirts, size fourteen? Or a set of counterfeiter’s plates?”

  “Then we apologize.” Da Silva’s eyes were glued on the mirror, watching the traffic. “Where the devil is he? Ah, here we are. Let’s go!”

  A low red convertible sports car, top down, went by, its driver—now properly sunglassed—seemingly relaxed at the wheel. In the narrow luggage space behind him, wedged in with the folded hood, two suitcases poked out. Da Silva continued to dawdle impatiently while a second
car also passed him, and then pressed down viciously on the accelerator, gaining velocity. He shot by the intervening car, gripping the steering wheel lightly, feeling the vibration of the power beneath them pulse in his hands. Ahead, the red convertible rapidly enlarged as the distance between them dwindled. Da Silva dropped his speed to match that of the sports car and stayed behind, suddenly frowning as he studied the lines of the car ahead. Wilson noticed his change of expression.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s a Ferrari up there. A racer; a model I didn’t recognize at first.”

  “But it can’t beat the taxi, can it?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  Wilson sighed helplessly and reached for the glove compartment that he had just finished closing. “Don’t tell me—I know. Back to the glasses.…’

  “No,” Da Silva said tightly. “I always wanted to see what I could do against a Ferrari, and this is as good a time as any—”

  “Down a mountain?” Wilson was aghast.

  Da Silva paid no attention. “Anyway, he looks a little young to even know how fast a car he has, or to know what to do about it. And so far he hasn’t been pushing the speed.”

  “Because he doesn’t want to come to the attention of the police,” Wilson suggested.

  “Well,” Da Silva said with a touch of sadness in his voice that was belied by his faint smile, “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.…”

  In the car ahead Ricardo Caravelas was feeling better by the minute. It suddenly occurred to him that his panic on the bus before had simply been the result of an overlong period of abstinence, something he had always warned himself against. The brief drink he had taken from the bottle in the car before putting the top down was already furnishing proof of that. What had he been so bothered about? What had frightened him so? The bright sun was warm on his back; here on the planalto the breeze was much cooler and drier than in the valley below; it washed his tanned face almost sensually. What was there to worry about?