The Dead Man's Brother (14 page)

They did not feed me dinner, but I was not especially hungry. I had been doing what they had probably wanted me to do;
i.e.
, thinking. This, in turn, made me feel the way they must have wanted me to feel: scared.

The whole setup smelled as badly as the bucket.

Morales had produced police identification at my request, and he acted like a cop. The desk man had made the elaborate display of his credentials, and he seemed a meticulous fellow.

But no one had been in uniform, and the flunkies had been unnecessarily quick when it came to shoving and seizing arms and shoulders.

And the place did not look like any station I had ever been in. There was no flag, no dusty photos of judges, politicians, supercops on the walls…

And while I was supposedly there for questioning, and they had not seemed particularly busy, I had not been asked a single question yet.

I had been caught in a series of lies and cover-ups under very suspicious circumstances, they had doubtless discovered the lockpicks in the lining of my wallet and if they had checked with the authorities at the most recent place of departure indicated on my passport, they may or may not have been told that I was wanted for questioning in connection with three killings. New York—if they had checked there—might have mentioned my recent involvement in the Bernini case. I could not even guess as to my actual status on that one.

I could see no reason for the delay in questioning me.

…Except to throw a scare into me.

I wondered about them—their motives, their purposes. They were not behaving the way good cops should, and I did not like the alternative this suggested.

I stretched out on the cot and watched the room grow dark. There was a wall fixture bearing a single bulb which had long ago burnt out, a featureless skull streaked with dirt. I had a drink of the water. I kicked off my shoes. I clasped my hands behind my head.

I was a U.S. citizen. I had not committed the crime under investigation. Once they realized this and saw that I knew nothing about it, they would have to let me go.

Wouldn’t they?

*

I was shaken awake, and once I’d made the mistake of opening my eyes they were assaulted by a beam of light. I shielded them, but my arm was taken and I was half-dragged to my feet.

"What…?" I began.

"You will come with us," said the man with my arm.

"Let me get my shoes."

"Forget your shoes. Come!"

They conducted me back to the front room. Its only illumination was a reading lamp on the desk of the blue-chinned man, who sat studying or pretending to study the contents of a manila folder. They showed me to a chair and retreated to positions somewhere behind me. We were the room’s only occupants.

I sat there for perhaps ten minutes before he looked up and pretended to become suddenly aware of my presence.

"Ah! Mister Wiley!" he said. "You do acknowledge that Ovid Wiley is your correct name, do you not?"

"Yes," I said, and cleared my throat.

"I would like your help in clarifying some matters."

"Gladly."

"Then I would like to know why you and your companion were using false names."

"The reason," I said, "is because she is not my wife. I try to be as discreet as possible in certain matters."

"Admirable," he said, tapping his pencil against the blotter. "Why did you present yourself at the home of Mister Bretagne and attempt to deceive his wife as to your actual identity?"

Back in my cell, I had decided how far I would go on that one. It represented one of the few occasions in my life when I was unable to come up with a good lie. I simply could not think of a plausible alternative for what I was really attempting. I had to settle for a part of the truth, as much as it might nettle my bosses.

"It is a bit complicated," I said, managing to fight down a near-irresistible impulse to burst out into maniacal laughter at the words. "First, I’ve never met Emil Bretagne. I don’t know him from Adam. I went to his place to obtain information concerning his brother."

"Brother?" His pencil paused on the upswing.

"Claude Bretagne, a priest who worked at the Vatican."

He reversed the pencil and began scribbling on a legal-size pad.

"Claude was murdered," I said, "four days ago. In a hotel room in Lisbon. I was in Rome at the time. I am an art dealer, and I was on a buying trip which would bring me to Brazil after I left Europe. Claude and I had mutual friends. Maria is one of them. With all due respect for Portuguese authorities, there are limits to the amount of time and effort that can be expended in any one case— particularly that of a stranger in one’s country. It was known that Claude kept in pretty close touch with his brother. So, since I was headed this way and have some background in investigative matters, we thought it might be worthwhile for me to speak with Emil—to see whether Claude might have mentioned anything in his letters that would prove useful. We weren’t certain that Lisbon would pursue matters this far."

"Who, specifically, is this ‘we’ of whom you speak?"

"Maria, some of his priest friends and his boss—Monsignor Zingales of the Prefecture of Economic Affairs, Office of Administration for the Patrimony of the Holy See."

"Please repeat that, slowly," he said.

I did, and he wrote it down.

"This Monsignor—he suggested this on his own? Or in his official capacity?"

"So you were actually doing this as a favor, rather than as an authorized representative."

"That’s right."

"And you brought this girl with you…"

I smiled.

"She was willing to come. I have nothing against combining business with pleasure."

"…and that explains the assumed name. Very neat. Your story can easily be checked, you know."

"If it will help to get us out of here any sooner, I’ll be glad to pay for the telephone calls."

"That will not be necessary," he said, making another note.

He leaned back in his chair then, picked up half a cigar from a cast iron ashtray, lit it and stared at me. He pulled his nose a few times, then asked, "You wish to smoke?"

"Yes."

He fumbled in a drawer, located my cigarettes and matches, made a sharp gesture with his head.

One of the guards approached, took them and brought them to me. I lit one and looked about for an ashtray.

"Use the floor," he said. "Now, about the breaking and entering at Mister Bretagne’s place…" He paused and puffed his cigar slowly. "We sent a man to Santos. The desk clerk and the waitress both identified you from your photos and supported your story of being where you said you were last night."

I began to smile and he raised a hand.

"This of course does not preclude your having departed the hotel by its rear entrance during the night and driven up here," he said. "Or, for that matter, you might have done it before going to Santos. Mrs. Bretagne was gone all day, and we have no way of knowing precisely when the crime was committed. However, your story has a surface appearance of the truth at this point."

"That’s something anyway. How much longer are you going to keep us here?"

"I cannot answer that," he said. "The decision is not mine to make."

"When may I speak to a representative of the United States government? And Maria to one of hers?"

He shook his head.

"Again, I have no say in the matter and I can tell you nothing."

"All right," I sighed. "I understand."

"Do you have any knowledge of anyone else who might have committed the crime?"

"None whatsoever."

"Could you venture any guesses that might be of help to us?"

"Of course not. How could I?"

"Inspector Morales thinks you have a shady background."

"Even if he were right in his guesses about things that might have happened long ago," I said, "there would still be no tie-in here."

He returned his attention to the folder. I smoked and waited. It occurred to me that he had run out of questions and was mulling over what I had said so far.

"Excuse me," I said.

He looked up immediately.

"Yes?"