The Xavier Affair

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  He waited until a second stewardess had seated him, then fastened his seatbelt and tried to peer through the small window to see if the person he was expecting had made it to the airport in time, but the rain beating against the double glass made sight impossible. There was finally the slam of a door behind him and the whine of a reactor starting up, followed in seconds by the other reactor. He clenched his attaché case tightly, awaiting the first motion of the dreaded trip, and then felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned with a slightly curious smile; the smile held for a moment and then faded, replaced by a frown.

  “Well, well!” he said expressionlessly. “One more good reason not to patronize the airlines. The things you run into! What in the devil are you doing here?”

  “Come, come!” Wilson said chidingly, wiping the rain from his face. “What kind of hospitality is this? I change all my plans this afternoon, dash home madly to pack, make it to the airport with about one second to spare, almost break my neck to get here all because you so evidently wanted me to join you on this case—and this is the thanks I get?” He dropped into the seat next to Da Silva and fastened his seatbelt.

  “Because I wanted you to join me on the case?”

  “Don’t act surprised,” Wilson said. “Don’t pretend you weren’t expecting me. That long story at lunch today was merely for the purpose of tantalizing me, of whetting my appetite. Which,” he added, wishing to be honest, “it did.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I trotted right back to the office and checked up on that little matter of the good ship Porto Alegre—which I’m sure you knew I’d do—and what do you think?”

  “I think you have a great imagination.”

  “Thank you,” Wilson said, and smiled. “But I wasn’t fishing for compliments. What I meant was that I discovered certain facts which you failed to give me at lunch.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that the majority of the jewelry stolen that fateful evening belonged to American nationals.”

  “Of course it did,” Da Silva said dryly. “I didn’t even think it needed mentioning. Brazilian women buy jewels to wear, not to keep in ship’s safes.”

  “If you say so,” Wilson said equably. “Anyway, I also learned that the loss was covered, almost in its entirety, by American insurance companies. Naturally, when I pointed these facts out to the Ambassador, he agreed instantly that the matter was of grave interest to the American government.” He spread his hands. “Hence my presence. Q.E.D.”

  “Quixotic, Erroneous, and—probably—Drunk.”

  “I’d be more apt to call it Quite Excellent Dedication—to Duty, that is, if we need another ‘D’,” Wilson began.

  He paused because his companion was paying him no attention. The plane had taxied to the end of the runway and was now prepared to take off. There was an increased whine from the reactors as the instruments were checked, the great sleek plane straining at the leash; then they were off into that wall of darkness, bumping roughly on the runway, swaying slightly in the heavy cross wind as they gathered speed. Suddenly the trembling stopped: They were airborne. The pilot responded to this triumph over gravity by tilting the nose of the plane almost vertical. Da Silva swallowed, counted to ten, and opened his eyes. To his amazement he was not only still alive, but in the short time since takeoff they had traversed the thick rainclouds and were lifting through deep black-blue skies beneath a quarter moon with the lights of Rio only the faintest glow beneath the swirling clouds below. The light over their heads went out; he loosened his seatbelt without removing it, pressed the button for the stewardess, and lit a cigarette a bit shakily.

  “May we get back to business?” Wilson asked politely.

  “If I ever stop smoking—which I sincerely hope to do one of these days, because it’s a nasty, filthy habit, and bad for the health as well,” Da Silva said feverishly, “it’ll have to be the day I stop flying.”

  “Or the day I lose PX privileges, more likely,” Wilson commented. “Anyway, as I was saying—to get back to the slight matter of the SS Porto Alegre— this is not only an American case as well as a Brazilian one, it also happens to be an Interpol one. Which also explains why I’m here. As you well knew I would be.”

  “Yes, you’re here.” Da Silva sighed. “I don’t suppose—”

  He paused as the stewardess answered his ring. When Reserva San Juan had been ordered—available on a flight originating in Buenos Aires—he leaned back in silence until the stewardess had lowered the trays from the seats before them and placed their glasses on them. Wilson looked at him.

  “You were saying?”

  “I was saying, I don’t suppose in your research this afternoon you happened to uncover the fact that the rainy season in Rio by coincidence corresponds to the dry season in Barbados, did you?”

  “You’re being insulting,” Wilson said sternly, and grinned. “I always knew it …”

  Da Silva picked up his glass and shook his head wonderingly.

  “Your record for misunderstanding, I’m happy to report, is still intact. I didn’t want you on the case, believe me. However.” He sipped and turned to the man beside him. “Well, since you’re here, and apparently here officially, you might as well be useful. What else did you dig up this afternoon?”

  “Not a thing,” Wilson said, leaning back and studying the ceiling. He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought I’d done a good day’s work in just getting travel money out of the embassy fiscal officer before he shoved off for his daily cocktail party. Anyway, since you’ve been on the case longer than I have—by fifteen years—I’ll defer to your judgment. Although,” he added pleasantly, “it did strike me—since you claim not to have wanted me along—that if one plans on trailing a man, it is generally conceded that two are better at it than one. Which you would know if you ever studied your Police Manual. Or even Agatha Christie.”

  “True,” Da Silva admitted. “It helps, of course, if those doing the trailing know what the man they are trailing looks like. Or sounds like.” He pulled his attaché case around in his lap, snapping it open, reaching inside to pick up an envelope. “Here are some recent pictures of Mr. William Trelawney McNeil.”

  “Good,” Wilson said. He took them, studying them. “How recent?”

  “They were taken today. About the time we were having lunch, or a little earlier, if the clock on the wall there is accurate, which I doubt. They were developed and flown down from Recife late this afternoon.” The brandy was relaxing him, as was the conversation; the smoothness of the flight was also helpful to his mood. He smiled. “I didn’t think anyone would be interested in fifteen-year-old mug shots of the man, but if you want them I can cable for them from Port-of-Spain.”

  Wilson shook his head absently, even as he moved one picture behind the other. Da Silva, watching, was well aware that the smaller man was carefully memorizing every feature of the prisoner he was studying. Wilson marked the proud tilt of the large black head, the neatness of the close prison cut of the kinky hair, the musculature of the well-kept body. He nodded and handed them back.

  “Well,” he said, “he certainly didn’t let himself get run down in prison. He looks as tough as they come, and not afraid of God, Devil, or Da Silva.”

  “He doesn’t know me yet,” Da Silva said, and grinned. His grin disappeared. “Oh, he’s tough, all right.”

  “What did you say about sound?”

  Da Silva handed him a pair of earphones from his attaché case; Wilson slipped them on and watched as Da Silva slid a casette into a small battery-operated tape-recorder. There were several moments of silence and then the conversation.

  “‘McNeil.’”

  “‘Yes, sir.’”

  A long pause and then: “‘McNeil. You get out of here in two weeks. You’ve done your fifteen years—’”

  The tape ran on. Wilson listened to the end of the casette, and when it began to repeat itself he reached over, switched off the set, and removed the earphones. He watche
d as Da Silva stowed the gear away in the attaché case; his voice was curious when he spoke.

  “What’s this business about him slugging a doctor?”

  Da Silva shrugged. “All I know is that it was his only infraction. It was during a typhoid epidemic, which unfortunately isn’t a very uncommon event here. The doctor wanted to give him an injection and he popped the doctor in the nose.”

  “But, why?” A thought came. “Maybe he doesn’t like needles.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like doctors,” Da Silva observed. “At any rate, he pulled down two weeks in solitary for it. But otherwise he was a good boy, just like the tape says.”

  “The tape also says he’ll be followed constantly. Is the tape being honest about that?”

  “As honest as tapes can be.”

  Wilson thought a bit and then nodded.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “He’d expect to be followed, anyway. So if somebody is doing it openly and obviously, then we—you and me—follow him from in front. Is that it?”

  “More or less.”

  “You never got any hint in all his years in prison where he might have put the stuff?”

  “None.” Da Silva sipped his brandy and set the glass down, twisting it idly on the formica of the tray. “And it wasn’t for lack of trying. We didn’t put hot needles under his fingernails—not that I think it would have done one much good—but Storrs questioned all four of them rather thoroughly, and it didn’t get him anyplace. In prison their cells were bugged for a very long time with no results whatsoever.” He frowned in memory. “As a matter of fact, they even took motion pictures of the four of them in the exercise yard with a telephoto lens and had expert lip-readers study them, but no dice. At no time did any one of them refer either to the robbery, or the jewels, or anything else even remotely helpful.”

  “How about the ship’s librarian?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  Da Silva stared at him with lifted eyebrows.

  “What do you think they talked about? What would you talk about if you were in prison for fifteen years?”

  “Girls.”

  Da Silva nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what they talked about.”

  Wilson finished his brandy and snubbed out his cigarette. He frowned at the empty glass, thinking. Da Silva respected his thoughts, remaining silent. At last Wilson looked up.

  “Fifteen years in prison … The first thing McNeil is going to be interested in, as we’re both agreed, is girls. It would be very helpful if we had a girl working with us. Someone from Interpol. Someone he might spill his little heart out to.” He grinned. “Because I hope you don’t expect me to put on a wig and play the part.”

  Da Silva smiled back at him.

  “McNeil’s been in prison fifteen years; it may have affected his brain, but his eyes are all right.” His smile became mischievous. “Your idea isn’t a bad one—”

  “Thank you.”

  “—even if it isn’t original.” Da Silva reached into a pocket of his attaché case and brought out another envelope. “Here. Try this one on for size.”

  Wilson slid a pair of photographs from the envelope. His eyes widened at sight of the one on top. The picture was of a girl, chocolate in color with wavy black hair reaching her shoulders, a deep dimple in one cheek, brilliant teeth against the mahogany tone of her skin, and twinkling black eyes. He whistled lightly between his teeth.

  “Wow! Where did you find her?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but turned to the second. This one gave a view of her figure in an evening gown, standing straight and winking provocatively into the camera; her ample cleavage almost caused Wilson to forget to check the face to make sure it was the same girl. It was. He envied the photographer. Da Silva reached over and removed the pictures gently, putting them away. Wilson took a deep breath.

  “My Lord, she’s lovely! Who is she?”

  “Stop drooling,” Da Silva said sternly. “Remember your good old Ohio upbringing. Also your blood pressure.” He snapped the attaché case closed. “Her name is Diana Cogswell. She was born in Barbados, educated there through Queen’s College for girls, after which she took a job in England.”

  “And she’s in Interpol?”

  “She is. And she’s going to work with me—with us, now, I suppose—on this case. She asked for the assignment, since she knows Barbados, and when they sent me her record—and her pictures—I certainly had no objections.”

  “I can see why not!”

  “I said, stop drooling!” Da Silva smiled at him. “Now do you believe me when I said I honestly wasn’t trying to induce you to help me on this case today at lunch?”

  “I believe you. I’d be crazy not to.” Wilson grinned. “By the way, where and when do we meet this dish?”

  Da Silva’s smile faded. Unconsciously he looked at his watch.

  “In Trinidad, I hope. She was scheduled to meet me at the airport in Rio; we were supposed to take the plane together. But she didn’t show. She was coming in from Lima on a flight leaving there this morning, but either she missed her flight from there, or the storm held her up back in Rio. Maybe she couldn’t get a cab from town.” He shrugged. “We’ll try to have the pilot cable back to my office and see if we can’t arrange to meet her in Port-of-Spain. We’ll wait for her there.”

  “Forever, if necessary,” Wilson said fervently, raising a hand with his empty glass in it for the stewardess’ attention. Da Silva aided this effort by ringing the bell.

  “Let’s hope it won’t be quite that long,” he said. “I’d like her to be well established in Barbados with a good cover before Mr. William Trelawney McNeil is returned to his native heath.” Da Silva watched the stewardess refill his glass, nodded to her pleasantly in thanks, and raised his glass in a slight gesture of a toast once she had left. “Well, here’s to Mr. McNeil’s eyesight. If Miss Diana Cogswell doesn’t have him eating out of her hand in a week, he has to be blind.”

  Wilson had lowered his glass and was staring thoughtfully down the aisle.

  “I’m not so sure,” he said slowly.

  “Eh?”

  “I said, I’m not so sure. I think,” Wilson said, coming to a conclusion with a twinkle in his eye, “that Miss Cogswell met you at the plane at Galeão on schedule, and I think she’s had us—if not eating—at least drinking out of her hand for the past hour or so. So how blind does that make us?”

  Da Silva frowned at him a moment uncomprehendingly and then looked down the aisle. Their stewardess was watching them with just the faintest smile on her pretty dark brown face. Da Silva looked at Wilson a moment, reddened in embarrassment, and then swallowed his drink hastily.

  “Blind is no word for it,” he said, and looked shamefacedly at his seat companion, aware of the scrutiny from down the aisle. “Well,” he said, “don’t just sit there, Wilson! Hide me!”

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  About the Author

  Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health preve
nted him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.

  Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1969 by Robert L. Fish

  Cover design by Jason Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-0082-6

  This 2015 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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