The Dead Man's Brother (11 page)

Nothing. I was alone.

I lay there shivering and aching for several moments before I climbed to my feet. I dusted off my clothing, wiped my face and hands with my handkerchief and ran my comb though my hair. I almost screamed at the last. Once my comb was in my hand, my reflexes had taken over. But my hand was no longer its usual self. I settled for a light brushing back with my fingertips.

Then came the old one foot after the other business as I turned right, heading away from the corner where the smashup occurred.

Between silent curses, walking, I was able to think once more, as my spinal nerves slowly returned control of things to my forebrain.

Three dead men, two of them by my hand, behind me; a fourth, the priest, getting stiffer in Lisbon; a fifth, Carl Bernini, whose choice of a deathbed had served to get me into this thing…

That was one thought.

Now an attempt had been made on my life. Which made no sense at all. I knew nothing that would so jeopardize anyone that he should consider my removal necessary. I eliminated coincidence from my calculations. I simply could not believe that my visit with Martinson just happened to coincide with the time when someone was planning to remove his name from the list of the living. No. I had been sitting quietly in the living room and the man with the gun had come to me, as if he had expected to find me there.

But if it was me he was after, why not go for me sometime when I could be found alone? Ditto for Martinson, if he were the only target. A double killing is always more risky than a single one.

It indicated they were after both of us, and the only reason I could see for a combination like that would be an assumption that I had something important to tell him and had gone there to do so. It had become necessary to destroy the information at that point.

Information. I needed it now, to keep alive. Someone had already drawn a line through my name, stuck a pin in my doll and driven a nail into my coffin.

That was thought number two.

I walked for perhaps twenty minutes before I began making my way back toward the main thoroughfare. By then, the sound of sirens was a thing of the past.

I crossed the street immediately when I reached it and began making my way south. After a time, I located a cab, decided against returning to my hotel, gave the driver a fake address several blocks from Maria’s place and closed my eyes.

I once spent a day looking after my sister’s kids. I took them presents to keep them amused and settled down with a book I was reading. Only I had made the mistake of giving my nephew Timmy a toy drum. After a couple hours, I gave him my pocketknife and told him that drums were usually filled with candy. This solved the problem for a small while, and I still remember shaking my head and telling him, "Yours was one of the ones that wasn’t."

My head was a toy drum with no sweets inside.

*

I walked past Maria’s place several times, pausing periodically to skulk in doorways. I spent a good half-hour doing this. Passing beneath the window before which she had spent so much time the previous evening, I could see that her apartment was lighted. No one else seemed to be surveying the place.

Finally, I entered her building, hoping she had gotten everything out of her system and wasn’t off on another bender. I wanted her full, fast, sober cooperation in what I suspected was necessary to preserve both our lives.

No one below, no one on the stair, the landings empty…

I waited outside her door, listening. Her radio was playing—a piece of an opera I did not recognize. I heard no other sounds.

Five or six minutes later I heard her walking about. Then came the sound of running water and the clinking of dishes and cutlery.

Softly, I knocked.

Her face broke into a smile when she opened the door and saw me, a smile that immediately reversed itself.

"You’ve been hurt!" she observed, reminding me of something Eugene O’Neill once said concerning the emergence of appropriately trite words at times of pain and emotion.

"I cut myself shaving," I said, pushing away her hand and stepping inside.

She followed me to the sofa and watched me flop down.

"Coffee?" she asked. "I have some hot."

"Yes. Please."

While she fetched it I adjusted my position, arm behind my head, so that I would not stain her upholstery.

I watched her move about. She was wearing brown slacks and sandals, a white blouse, a dark apron printed with a peaceful harvest scene. Her long hair was brushed and shiny now, her face clean and composed. Moving on, I also saw that the apartment was now in trim shape.

While much better to look at, her face had a certain clamp-jawed determination about it which made me cast her as one of the Furies. While it was good to see that she seemed physically normal again, I was not unhappy over her probably still bruised feelings either. They might come in handy.

But she smiled again, faintly, when she brought the coffee.

"Our situations seem reversed," she said. "What happened?"

I ignored her question and asked, "Has anyone phoned or stopped by since last night?"

"No," she said. "No one."

"What about you? Did you go out or phone anybody?"

"Only the gallery," she said, "to tell them I was not able to come in today."

I lit a cigarette, leaned over the coffee cup.

"Your head!" she exclaimed. "You need a doctor!"

"I could use one," I told her. "But not now."

She held her thumb and forefinger about three inches apart as she leaned forward.

"It is about this long," she said, "and it looks deep. You should probably have stitches. I did not realize—"

"You should see it from this side," I said, gulping coffee. "Listen. There is no time now. I am in danger. Someone just tried to kill me. The only reason I can see for it is my interest in Claude. Since you are my source of information on the subject, I believe that you are in danger also. I have no idea how they learned about me so quickly or who they are. I am going to fade from the scene now, though, and I think you had better come with me."

"I do not understand," she said. Then she indicated my head. "But that is real enough. You feel that we are in immediate danger?"

I nodded.

"Every minute that we stay here—in this place, in this town. In this country, for that matter. That is why I want you to pack two suitcases immediately and be ready to leave with me in fifteen minutes."

"That is impossible," she said, meeting my eyes for a moment, then nodding, "but I will do it.

"You are somewhat conspicuous," she added.

"I’ll clean up while you get your things together."

"There is blood on your jacket and shirt. Your trousers are torn and stained."

"I can’t go back to my hotel to change. Someone may be watching for me now."

She looked away, then said, "Claude left a gray jacket here. He was about your size."

"Oh? He liked to run around in civvies?"

"When we were together, yes."

"Did he leave anything else?"

"Just some handkerchiefs, hose and underwear that were in the wash. An extra pair of shoes that would not fit in his bag."

"I see. Yes, if you would get me the jacket and hunt up a couple of safety pins for my pantleg, I’ll start getting ready."

I sat up straight. I ingested more smoke and coffee and tried to translate them into thought.

I had a pocketful of travelers checks, a small amount of Italian currency, assorted credit cards and a thousand dollars, U.S., in a money belt I wear when I travel. For a time, therefore, there would be no pressing need for cash. My passport, fortunately, was still in my pocket. No problem there. I was in a position to move quickly.

I watched Maria rummage through her closet, emerging at last with a dark, shaggy jacket that looked as if it would do nicely. She brought it to me, and as I tried it on for size she asked me, "Where is it we are going?"

"Brazil," I replied. "Not a bad fit."

"Brazil? To see Claude’s brother?"

"Most likely. The answers are probably where the money is, and he happens to be in the same place. By the way, do you have his address?"

"No, but I have his telephone number. Claude wrote it in my directory."

"São Paulo?"

"Yes."

"Good. Get it, find those pins and go pack."

She hesitated.

"Ovid," she said, "I trust you, or I would not be going with you. But I want to know more about this. What is happening, and why are you involved? Why was Claude killed? For the money he took?"

"I do not know why Claude was killed," I said, "though I am certain it has something to do with the money. This is one of the things we must find out."

"How much was it, Ovid? How much did he take?"

"Three million dollars, give or take a few cents."

She drew away from me, then sat down and stared at the floor.

"I do not believe you," she said finally. "They audit those records. There are many ways to check. A man would be found out—quickly."

"Claude was found out. That’s why he ran. Also, he was very clever and in a position of extreme trust. That’s why it took them so long to find out."

"So much money…" she said. "It is fantastic."

"Yes."

"Why was there no mention in the papers? Or on television?"

"The Church is keeping it quiet. Bad publicity."

"What is your part in all this?"

"Too long a story," I said, shaking my head. "It will have to wait."

She smiled as she turned away.

"It is good to know that he was the best," she said.

It took us more than fifteen minutes to get ready. It took a little over twice that time. I spent a large part of it soaking, sponging and rinsing my scalp. I succeeded in removing most of the blood, but I also got the thing to bleeding again several times. I finally staunched it with a wad of toilet tissue which I left in place till we were ready to go. Regretting the lack of a hat, I settled for slicking my hair back to cover the offending area. I pinned the tear in my pantleg and sponged off most of the dirt. I tried soap and water on my shirtfront, but once a bloodstain always a bloodstain. I would have to keep the jacket buttoned.

A telephone call assured us two seats on a morning flight out. We called for a cab then and locked up the apartment. Emil Bretagne’s number in my pocket, I hefted both suitcases—the lighter in my right hand—and we started down the stairway, me leading. We had made the turn at the landing and were partway down the second when we heard the distant ringing of a telephone.

"It’s mine," she said, turning. "I can tell. Should I get it?"

"Go ahead," I said, "and you’re still sick, you haven’t seen me and you’re not planning any trips."

She nodded and hurried back. I continued on to the next landing, rested the luggage and my arms, waited. There was no one at the foot of the next stair.

As I debated lighting another cigarette, I heard a door slam overhead, then the sound of descending footsteps.

"Nobody," she said, swinging into sight. "There was no one there when I answered it."

"Was there a dial tone or a click?"

"No. Just silence."

"Any sounds of breathing, shuffling of feet—little noises?"

"I could not tell. I was breathing rapidly myself. Possibly, though."

"Come on," I said, hefting the suitcases and moving toward the stair. "Is there another door to this place?"

"At the rear of the basement," she replied. "What is wrong?"

"Later," I said, moving fast as I could.

There came a tingling in the soles of my feet, the palm of my hands and the nape of my neck. As I reached the ground floor and headed toward a door Maria indicated at the rear of the hall, I noticed that my mouth had already gone dry. I read somewhere that this is a very old reflex, a device to help kill your scent when fleeing predators. It is instructive to consider the body’s attitude toward a few thousand years of civilization.

I slowed when I reached the door, let Maria open it, find the switch and lead the way down toward the faint light that occurred. The steps were rickety and steep. The single light bulb hung like a dirty piece of fruit above a tool-cluttered table. We picked our way among damaged furniture, broken appliances, filthy cartons tied with dusty cords, a bust of Mussolini and stacks of moldering periodicals, occasionally encountering an untenanted spider web.

At last we reached a door, which Maria unbolted with some effort. I led the way up a crumbling brick stair and into a wide alley, illuminated here and there by the spillage from rear windows.

"Which way?" I asked. "I don’t want to make it easy on them."

"Go right," she said. "What was it about the phone call?"

"My evening began that way, and three men are dead already."

"Did you…?"

"Yes. Two of them."

She guided me up the alley and into a side alley then, silently.

After several more turnings, I was not certain as to my direction. I was cold and my shoulder throbbed each time my heel struck the ground. My headache kept my mind off it part of the time, though.

A few rats hurried to avoid us. The sound of traffic was a faraway thing. I counted two hundred more paces, then said, "Wait."

I lowered the suitcase to the ground. I stood panting and rubbing my shoulder. My armpits were damp and my feet were sore.

Suddenly I felt her hand on my own. Her touch was cool.

"You are shaking," she said. "You were hurt and you are tired. I will take the suitcases now."

"Just let me catch my breath," I said.

But she picked them up and I did not protest. I was not sure how far I could have gotten with them.

"How much farther to a main drag?" I asked, following her.

"Oh, it is not far," she said.

But she lied. At least, it seemed a good distance before we emerged on a lighted street and I was cheered by the sight of people and the passage of traffic.

"There is a café in the middle of the next block," she said, turning left.

"Good."

It was a quiet, neighborhood bar, only partly filled. We took a corner table near the door and stashed the luggage behind us.