It came to him that in addition to its being a beautiful day, he had only to reach behind him to touch half a million dollars. And not a soul in the world to prove he had it. Throw it over a cliff? Why? True, he didn’t need it at the moment, and he couldn’t spend it right away, but who knew what the future held? Throw it over a cliff? Crazy! Share it? Even crazier. It served all of them right for dragging him into their miserable scheme in the first place!
He smiled, pleased with the logic of his rationalization. No; take the suitcase someplace and hide it, and then claim that Alvaro had failed to show up with the money. His eyes narrowed. What if they had been watching at the bus terminal? Not an honorable thing to do, checking on a person, but a man had to recognize the possibility of dishonor in the world. Still, the answer was simple: hide the money someplace and just take the empty suitcase back. Tell them that was what Alvaro had left in the terminal. If they said he should have noticed the light weight of the bag, he could easily deny it. He hadn’t touched the bag until he had gotten off the bus, and it was too late then. Anyway, who knew how much half a million dollars weighed? Actually, the suitcase hadn’t been as heavy as he would have expected from that much money.…
He frowned thoughtfully at the white concrete unwinding before him. He should have checked the suitcase, he supposed, but he hadn’t wanted to waste any time hanging around the spot where the bus had dropped him off. It was deserted, true, but in that rugged country anyone could have been watching him without his knowledge. Much better to get on his way quickly. Once he was down the mountain, in the flat, there were many side roads he could take to a spot isolated enough for an inspection. He relaxed at the thought, picturing that much money, leaning back comfortably in the corner formed by the leather seat and the door, enjoying the day and the reassuring headiness of the whiskey. Another drink would be lovely, but later. Once the money was hidden someplace—anyplace—there would be plenty of time for drinks.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed with amused condescension the battered vehicle behind him, laboring to maintain the speed of the Ferrari. The minor conceit intrigued him, causing him to smile. For a moment he thought to give the small convertible a burst of power, just to demonstrate to the poor soul behind the potential of a Ferrari racer, but then he changed his mind. Why take the chance of being picked up for speeding when everything was going so well? Let the coitado taxi driver think he had a car as fast as a Ferrari racer; what harm did it do? He glanced back again, and the really terrible condition of the ancient abortion rattling behind was too much for his distorted sense of humor. He had been picked up and given tickets for speeding before, and several times when he had suitcases in the car, on trips, and had the police ever asked to open them? Never. So what chance would there be in teaching that lopsided junk heap behind to show a little respect for its betters? Not too much. With a wink toward the rear-view mirror, Ricardo patted the dash panel’s upholstered shelf and then tramped on the gas.
The sudden burst of speed jammed him back against the spongy cushion; the wheel was alive in his hand, squirming as they flashed around the curves, trembling in anticipation on the straightaway; the whole car was alive, anxious to defend its name, to please him, its owner. The wind whipped at him, tousling his hair, spurring him on. He laughed with the pure joy of speed and life, and glanced in amusement into the mirror. His laugh faded abruptly and then disappeared. The battered taxi was the same distance behind him as before!
All right! A comic, eh? With a souped-up heap, eh? A back-alley-garage Fangio, a poor man’s Stirling Moss, eh? Well, friend, shall we quit playing games? This is called a Ferrari, and not without reason! He bent over, cutting in the superchargers and then leaned back again, smiling, but a grim smile this time. His eyes flickered from the weaving road to the speedometer as his foot slowly pressed down on the gas pedal; the needle trembled as it climbed higher on the dial. One hundred forty kilometers, one hundred fifty, one sixty.… His eye took a split second to check the rear-view mirror, and he suddenly knew. It was as if an ice-cold hand had suddenly gripped his stomach and twisted cruelly.
This was no ordinary taxi. No taxi on earth could go that fast; no new one, let alone a mutilated wreck like that. Nor was it merely an accident that the men in it were following him. This was no friendly race; they were after him, and he knew it for the truth, and not just his panic-induced imagination trying to frighten him. They were after him, and after the suitcase. They knew everything! Who they were was immaterial; whether from Senhor Xavier or the police was unimportant. They were after him, and that’s all that counted. With a taste of bitterness in his mouth, the more acrid for his previous euphoria, he bent to the grim business of escaping. Maybe he didn’t know how to be a criminal, but he knew how to drive a car, and he had a Ferrari racer under him. He’d beat them yet!
One hundred and seventy kilometers per hour, one hundred eighty, one hundred eighty-five.… The buffeting of the wind was no longer playful, its chill no longer refreshing; the sun seemed less bright, more distant. One hundred ninety, one hundred ninety-five.…
His last glimpse of the taxi had shown no gain; now he thrust all thought of his pursuer from his mind, abandoning the mirror, concentrating on the twisting road and on a plan that had edged itself into his consciousness. The rounded hummocks shot past, the road was ingested beneath him and spewed out behind. The suitcase … well, now at least, there was no question of what to do, no choice. It had to be disposed of, thrown from a cliff, but without the action’s being seen. Maybe on the level the taxi could keep up with him, but on the serra it would be impossible. He had the superior air foil, the lower center of gravity, the better weight distribution, the wider racing tires, and he had no doubt at all that he was the better driver. All these would help him take the mountain road downward much faster than the car behind. He nodded, his face rigid with concentration, and moved to the next step.
He would have to find a place on the descent where there was a sufficiently long, straight run that he could see traffic ascending, long enough so he could cut into the upcoming lane, fling the suitcase over, and then get back to his own lane in time. Even without other traffic to see him—and the mountain road carried a constant stream of cars and trucks—he would need at least a lead of a kilometer to be free of observation from his pursuer. The sharp curves and the blind corners on the downgrade would help him gain time, but he would still have to slow down; obviously, neither of the cars would be coming down at the speeds they were now maintaining. The top of the serra was less than ten kilometers away by now, and it would be almost impossible to gain much lead before then. It would have to be done on the dangerous descent.…
He reached behind him with one hand, fumbling for the small bag, working it loose; the car swayed erratically as he attempted to guide it with the one hand on the wheel. He only hoped the men in the car behind could not see what he was doing. The suitcase resisted a moment and then slid free. He dragged it hastily over the back seat and let it fall, instantly bringing his hand back to the wheel. Fooling around at two hundred kilometers an hour! A man had to be crazy! He would have liked to reach up and wipe the sweat from his face, but he did not dare abandon the wheel a second time.
He was all set now, or as set as he would ever be. He realized there was almost no chance of being able to jettison the bag without being seen, but he also knew there was no other chance. Had anyone mentioned his family to him at that moment, or the university, or his fiancée, he would not have known who or what they were. The world was this tiny speeding car; the future a small bag being thrown over a cliff. He did not even remember the crime, or how or why he was here; the nightmare sequence had led to this point, and there was only one way for it to go. He could not help but check the rear-view mirror. His eyes widened; he had gained nearly half a kilometer! And the car behind was swaying recklessly. Ricardo grinned, a painful, half-mad grin. Maybe he could do it yet! The chances were a hundred to one against, but wouldn’t it be s
omething if he made it? What could anyone say if he was caught and he didn’t have the bag? A mistake? What could they do? A summons for speeding? He dropped the dream as being both foolish and dangerous at the moment and leaned forward, coaxing more speed from the Ferrari.
The road curved into the last familiar bend; beyond it the drop at the edge of the plateau began sharply, before easing into a more gradual slope. A truck was just ahead of him, creeping toward the lip of the descent. To pass on the blind side was dangerous, foolhardy, but there was no question in Ricardo’s mind. He braked slightly even as he shot past, rising slightly in his seat and then settling down again, somehow not at all surprised to find no traffic facing him. I’m going to make it, he thought, suddenly sure; I’m actually going to make it! That truck I passed will hold them back unless they’re as desperate as I am, and nobody in this world is as desperate as I am!
He put aside the thought of the men behind him and concentrated on the twisting road he was maneuvering. A sharp corner was coming; he waited until the last moment, braked quickly, released, half-skidding about it, and stared in surprise, his mind automatically encompassing the scene before him as one unit. The road ahead was clear for its full length, a good kilometer to the next bend; some truck or bus below was undoubtedly holding up the traffic. The only vehicle visible was a trailer truck partially jutting from one of the roadside recesses, probably getting water. It was a moment for instant decision, and Ricardo took it instantly; it had to be now or never. One hand reached for the bag’s handle even as the other twisted the wheel of the speeding car slightly to bring it to the outer lane and the edge of the chasm. The driver of the truck would probably see him, but who was going to ask him about it? Anyway, there would never be a better moment. He risked a quick look into the rear-view mirror, saw nothing behind, and brought his eyes back to the road, raising the bag. The hand with the bag froze; the eyes filled with sudden horror.
Ahead, the trailer truck was emerging from the recess, slowly, inexorably, continuing its uphill climb, cutting into the outer lane, completely blocking the road. With a horrified curse, Ricardo dropped the bag, jamming on the brakes, his hands locked to the wheel for control. The Ferrari slewed sharply, pulling back into the inner lane, shuddering violently in its vain attempt to stop. It climbed the low curb, struck the wall of damp ledge on the mountain side, and bounced out of control across the road. The curb there completed the disaster; the left front tire blew and the small convertible skidded across the narrow dirt rim of the cliff, hesitated momentarily as if to admire the wide panoramic view, and then dropped into the void. Ricardo felt himself lifted free, unaccountably light and terrifyingly weightless, and then the Ferrari smashed at him, mercifully killing him and carrying his body with it as it fell. The suitcases seemed to slowly float as they followed. In the air, high above, two urubús began to circle slowly, waiting.…
Chapter 14
Da Silva, descending the narrow mountain road with a recklessness almost equal to that of the Ferrari racer, cursed aloud to skid about a sharp turn and see halfway down the slope before him a truck angled across the entire road. It was not that it was stalled; a steady curl of black smoke from its diesel puffed from its stack. Nor was its driver making any attempt to move it, but instead was standing at the edge of the sheer chasm, staring down. Da Silva stood on the brakes, shuddering to a halt, blasting with his horn. The only response this provoked was a finger pointing downward idiotically, as if in explanation. With a muffled curse the swarthy detective dragged back on the emergency brake to hold the car and threw the door open, prepared to take loud issue with the driver. He marched determinedly to the lip of the chasm, starting to talk before he got there, and closed his mouth abruptly as he looked down. Halfway down the sheer drop, the scrub that dotted the wall had been violated, beginning a ragged scar that fell the balance of the way, leading to a tiny red blob far below. Wilson came up, standing at his side, also staring soberly down at the wreckage. Da Silva’s eyes came up to the driver’s face.
“He must have lost his brakes.…” The driver was young and looked slightly sick. He rubbed a large calloused hand across his face. “He must have been doing two hundred kilometers at least when I saw him—on a steep hill like this one, too. Crazy! He hit the curb on his side of the road, bounced off the rock, hit the other curb, and”—he made a diving motion with one hand—“right down. He didn’t have a chance to jump or anything.…”
Da Silva accepted it. If the truck blocking the road had any official culpability in the accident, it would be almost impossible to prove. Besides, the Ferrari had lost all legal rights with its suicidal speed. He dug out his identification, presenting it. The driver whitened.
“I didn’t—”
Da Silva’s matter-of-fact tone calmed him down. “You’ll have to move your truck—you’re blocking traffic. Back it into that recess there again, and then stick around until the highway patrol officers get here. Tell them the story.”
He walked back to the taxi, leaning in, switching on the shortwave, and waiting a few minutes before beginning to speak into the horn ring. There was a sputter, instantly controlled, and he had his reply. He spoke once more, at greater length this time, and then switched the set off, motioning Wilson to get back to the car. Traffic was stopping; people were descending, lining the cliff, staring down blankly. The young truck driver had cleared his vehicle from the road and was back at the edge again, telling his story to whoever would listen, exhibiting an almost proprietary air about the disaster now that his first fright had been assuaged.
Da Silva climbed into the car as Wilson came up.
“Let’s go.”
Wilson stared at him. “But what about that—” His thumb completed the query. “And the suitcase?”
“What about them?” Da Silva turned on the ignition; Wilson hurriedly got into the car and slammed the door. “I talked to the barracks at Piraí; they’ll send a crew. They’ll need climbers and a tow truck with a winch and a damned long cable. They know what to do—they drag some idiot out of there about once a month. They figure it’ll take six to eight hours to get him out of there, and we just don’t have the time to waste waiting.”
“But the bag! There’s half a million—”
“They’ll get the bag. I told them about the money. Actually, it’s probably scattered over four hectares with the force of—” He paused, frowning.
“What’s the matter?”
Da Silva had maneuvered past the line of parked cars and was beginning to increase his speed. His frown deepened. “You’d think we would have seen something. Money, floating.… Or something.…”
“Maybe he really gave them pennies,” Wilson began flippantly. He changed his tone. “Maybe the bag didn’t split open until it hit. Maybe it still hasn’t split open. It may be under the car.” He looked across at Da Silva. “If we’d stick around.…”
Da Silva shook his head. “Right now it’s more important to get back to town. While we still have a few suspects left. Alive.”
The note of bitterness had returned to Da Silva’s voice. Wilson studied him in amazement.
“Don’t tell me you’re blaming yourself for this one, too?”
“If I hadn’t tried to be smart by sitting right on his tail.… Obviously he’d get suspicious of a taxi that could keep up with him at that speed.” He frowned. “I still don’t know what made him start off like a jackrabbit. Until then I don’t know what could have made him suspicious.…”
“His conscience did,” Wilson said shortly. “Forget it.” He dropped the subject. “What now?”
“Now? We get over to Miss Romana Vilares’ apartment. I asked the barracks to get hold of Perreira and have him meet us there. With a search warrant. And with those men back on the sixteenth floor, front and back. We’re through taking any chances. And from now on we’re going to do everything nice and legal.”
“But a search warrant? What do you expect to find?”
“Miss Vilares.” Da S
ilva smiled faintly. “After all, she’s our last suspect.”
He maneuvered the car expertly around the sharp turns; as they twisted ever lower, the heat of the wide valley came up to meet them. Banana plants edged the roadside here, their drooping, wide leafy fronds cringing back from the swirling dust of their passage. Palm trees appeared in greater profusion, usually hovering protectively about a mud shack set in a clearing. Wilson shook his head in disagreement with his friend’s last statement.
“We still have Humberto. Let’s not forget him.”
“I’m not forgetting him. It’s simply that we agreed he couldn’t be a suspect, remember?” He came about the final curve of the two-lane road, past the gasoline station-cum-restaurant that served as the bottom sentinel for the climb, and out onto the wide four-lane highway leading to the distant city. “There would be no way for him to know where to find Chico after I picked the boy up.”
“Unless Romana told him.”
“And why would she tell him, unless possibly they were in the thing together? In which case, taking the lovely Romana apart is still the right and proper thing to do.”
“And if she didn’t tell him?”
“Then that leaves her standing all alone in a very hot place.”
Wilson looked at his friend; there had been an almost reluctant tone to his last statement. Wilson decided to try to offer help.
“Fine,” he said, “except that we also eliminated her as a suspect, remember? We decided a lovely thing like that—and I’m speaking from hearsay—was too ladylike to go into a nasty old favela.”
“Maybe she forced herself.” Da Silva took a deep breath, held it a moment, and found himself smiling. “Wouldn’t it be cute if Humberto was simply a student who happened to wander into the Xavier place at a poor time? And if the red car you saw our friend from the bus bring out from behind that hummock actually turned toward São Paulo, and the red car we chased, and which is now four feet deep in the sand at the bottom of that drop, really belongs to a respectable counterfeiter bringing plates from Piraí?”
The Xavier Affair Page 14
