The Dead Man's Brother (13 page)

When we neared the city’s outskirts, we bore to the left, following the map, and we eventually entered a suburban residential area. About ten minutes later, we came to a small shopping complex and stopped there for lunch. I visited a hardware store afterwards and purchased some tools I thought might come in handy. I was not going to let something like absence of the owner keep me out of Emil Bretagne’s place.

We continued on then, in a generally southern direction, and the residences began to grow larger and the distances between them greater. This progression continued as we drove on, and although the day grew warmer, increasing numbers of massive, roadside trees cast sufficient shade to compensate for it. Traffic eventually thinned to the point where we encountered other vehicles only occasionally.

Soon it became difficult to tell whether we were passing residences or sections cleverly landscaped to hide them. We continued to trust the map and wound our way through the rolling, colorful landscape until we came to a marker that proclaimed Emil’s street. Turning there, we passed through more of the same and decided after a while that we had missed the place.

I was beginning to think of turning back to try it again when Maria spotted the upper portions of a house, high and far off the road to our left.

I slowed, seeking a driveway, and through a sudden gap in the trees saw that the house was a large, two-story place set on the crest of a small hill. The road curved, kept curving, almost seemed to be making a physical effort to hurry us on past a narrow driveway that suddenly appeared to the left. I hit the brakes then and regarded a post that stood beside it, bearing a small sign that contained a single word: Bretagne.

Turning, I proceeded down a mixture of white gravel and red soil that quickly bore us out of sight of the road. After a few moments, I heard running water and came to be driving beside a small stream. Further along, we came to a sturdy wooden bridge, gate bar upraised, and crossed over. Then it was upward, with several switchbacks, and into an oval—a flagpole and flower beds on its island—before the house itself. Two cars were parked there.

We parked near them, and having rehearsed our stories earlier, we headed up the walk prepared to tell them.

The door was opened partway by a small, dark, fat girl who seemed out of breath and partly crouched. When I took a step forward, she drew back, eyes widening, and the door moved several inches in our direction.

"My name is Paul Timura," I said, "and this is my wife, Madeleine. Is Mister Bretagne in?"

"No," she said. "He is away."

"Oh my," I said. "That
is
too bad. I hope his wife is in?"

She paused a moment, then opened the door and admitted us into a dark, cool entrance hall with a stained glass skylight.

"Please wait," She said, and vanished through the nearest of several low archways. There followed a murmur of voices, though I could not distinguish what was being said.

"I am frightened," Maria whispered.

"Why?"

"There is money here. Power too, perhaps. I did not know that Claude’s brother was wealthy. If he wanted to, he could cause us more trouble."

I squeezed her hand, releasing it when I heard footsteps approach.

The girl appeared in the archway and said, "Come this way, please."

We followed her into a sitting room done up in French Provincial, which always makes me uneasy. Three men and a woman stood and faced us as we entered. The woman was small-boned, pale and around fifty. Her platinum hair looked as if it had just been set and she wore her makeup well. I found myself wondering how she had looked twenty years ago. She was still quite attractive.

"Mister Timura…?" she said, an uncertain smile on her lips, quick lines of puzzlement traced about her eyes.

"Yes," I said. "Paul Timura. This is my wife, Madeleine. I met Emil some time ago, on business, and we hit it off pretty well. We exchanged addresses, but we never did get together again. I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and say hello."

"I am afraid that he is out of town," she said.

"I knew I was taking a chance, but it was a nice morning for a drive in the country."

She continued to smile and indicated a short, pudgy man whose tinted glasses did not conceal the puffiness about his eyes, nor their thick frames the fact that he lacked eyebrows. He had thin hair, wore a comfortable looking lightweight suit and his handshake was firm.

"This is Inspector Morales," she said, "and—his assistants."

"Victor and Dominic," he supplied. "I am pleased to meet you, Mister Timura." He nodded at Maria. "…and your lovely wife," he finished.

I shook hands with the other two—darker, larger, younger, more heavily muscled—and we mumbled the usual pleasantries.

Turning again to Mrs. Bretagne, "I am sorry to have interrupted you," I said. "I really should have telephoned —but it was one of those spur-of-the-moment things. If you will just give your husband my best wishes when he returns, we won’t keep you from your company…"

I edged back a pace. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

"Oh no," she said. "Their call was professional, not social, and we’ve just about finished. Please be seated. Rose will bring you drinks. What would you care for?"

"Well—" I glanced around the room. No glasses were in sight. "Anything," I said. "Perhaps a beer."

Maria nodded.

"A beer, also," she said.

"Very good. And bring me a scotch and ginger ale," she told the girl. "Are you sure you gentlemen won’t have anything?" she asked the three.

"Quite sure," said Morales, retreating toward the chair he had vacated. "We are still on duty. It is a rule."

We seated ourselves. Morales was studying me quite closely.

"Where are you from, Mister Timura?" he inquired.

"Piracicaba," I replied, making it sound more conversational than his question. "I hope that nothing serious has happened here."

"I am afraid that something did," he said. "There was a robbery."

"Oh? How unfortunate."

I turned toward Mrs. Bretagne.

"I’m very sorry," I said. "What was stolen?"

"I don’t know," she replied. "I wish that I did."

Morales tamped a cigarette on the edge of his fist. Dominic struck a light for him as he raised it to his lips.

"What happened," he explained, "is that someone broke in last night and forced Mister Bretagne’s safe. Mrs. Bretagne has no idea what he kept in it, and he is unavailable at this time."

"Terrible!" I said, mentally adding a curse for whoever had beaten me to it. "The man must have been awfully quiet."

"Ah!" he said, expelling smoke and narrowing his eyes. "This is the interesting part. The night before last, Mrs. Bretagne received a telephone call from a man who identified himself as her husband. It seemed a long distance call, for the connection was poor. Also, the conversation was quite brief. Also, the caller said that he had contracted a cold. Enough! She believed it to be her husband and she did as he said."

"Yes," she interrupted. "I had not seen him for a time and the trip sounded like a good idea. It has been a long while since we had anything like a vacation together."

I lit a cigarette of my own as Morales went on:

"He asked her to meet him at a hotel in Brasilia the following day—yesterday. He said that they had just been invited to a wonderful party—government officials, officers, celebrities—and that he wanted her there with him. He said they might stay for several days afterwards."

"So I gave Rose time off and flew to Brasilia," she said.

"Only we had no reservations at that hotel and there were no messages for me. I took a room and waited. I must have phoned every other hotel in the city, to make certain I had not misunderstood. But there were no reservations, no messages at any of them…"

She paused a moment, looking as if she were about to cry.

"Then I phoned some friends we have in Brasilia," she continued, "and they helped me inquire around town. There was no such party planned! The whole thing was a lie! I was sick and humiliated. I would not even stay overnight in that town! I took an evening flight back and got home quite late. Then I learned that it was more than just an evil joke. While I was away, the house had been burglarized!"

She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and turned away while she did things to her eyes and nose with it.

"I’m terribly sorry," I said. "We chose a wretched time to drop by, and I hope you’ll forgive us. We had no way of knowing…"

Rose arrived at that moment and I seized my beer and took a swallow, grateful for the diversion.

The fact that Emil’s whereabouts were not even known to his wife was interesting. The fact that someone had taken advantage of the situation as he did was even more interesting. The nature of the object or objects stolen or sought was positively intriguing.

"Any fingerprints?" I asked Morales.

"None that we were able to locate," he said.

"Sounds professional," I observed.

"I think not," he said, shaking his head. "It was cleverly set up, yes. But the safe itself was opened quite crudely. It was an older model, and it should not have proved too difficult for an experienced safe man. Whoever did it, though, literally tore the thing apart. He employed a variety of power tools, and he made a number of false starts.

"By the way," he said, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, "where did you say you had met Emil?"

"Rio," I replied.

"I see. What was the subject of your mutual interest?" he asked, his tone becoming less conversational.

"I was trying to sell him an insurance policy," I said. "He was interested, but not enough to buy. So we dropped the subject and just sat around talking. We had dinner together, had a very enjoyable evening."

"What company are you with?"

"I
was
with an agency," I said. "Bundsky and Company. They are no longer in business."

"Oh. Who are you with now?"

I ransacked my mind for something unverifiable. The last thing I needed now was a smart cop, even if he was curious for all the wrong reasons.

"I am writing a book," I said.

"For whom?"

"For any publisher who is willing to pay for it."

"Oh."

"Did you find any clues at all?" I asked, in a quick effort to direct the conversation away from myself.

"I am afraid not," he said. "He cleaned up after himself quite thoroughly, and there do not appear to have been any witnesses to anything unusual hereabouts."

"How unfortunate," I said, forcing the faintest of smiles. "I hope that he had adequate insurance coverage."

He seemed to lose a momentary struggle against it, and then smiled himself.

"I do not know," he said, shrugging. "A recovery, an arrest, a conviction—these are my aims. I am still at the information-gathering stage. For instance, I’m asking everybody—even people of somewhat remote connection with the family—such questions as, ‘Where were you last night? What were you doing? Who were you with?’ "

"Very thorough," I said, nodding. "Very thorough."

All eyes focused upon me for a moment then: Maria’s, betraying nothing, but looking to me for some sign; Mrs. Bretagne’s, with sudden speculation and nascent fear; Dominic’s and Victor’s, like those of hunting hounds who know their prey will soon break cover; Morales’, dark and placid, patiently expectant, like those of an ikon.

"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.