The Fugitive

Chapter 1

The long low car swung into the gasoline station, radio blaring stridently. The man curled comfortably in the corner of the front seat seemed to sleep blissfully despite the blast of music issuing from the dashboard. The driver, a tall, deeply tanned, smooth-shaven Brazilian, slid from behind the wheel, ordered the attendant to fill the tank and check the oil, and then went about the car gently kicking the tires. His brilliantly flowered shirt excited no attention; what had once been the distinctive badge of the American tourist had become, through the persistent medium of Hollywood and Technicolor, the standard uniform of mediocre informality throughout the world. The same, unfortunately, was true of his aviation-type dark sunglasses.

While his car was being serviced the tall man went to a Coca-Cola machine, withdrew a bottle and tilted it to his lips, idly watching the traffic whizz by as he drank. If he patted his lips in the fashion of one accustomed to drying a mustache after partaking of liquids, it was not such a movement as excited either curiosity or notice from the busy attendant.

When the car was finally ready, the tall man paid his bill, swung back behind the wheel with athletic ease, and roared off down the highway. The sun had been up and at work for several hours, and the day was beginning to show the result of this effort in mounting heat. The driver swung the small side window to an angle that allowed the warm breeze to play briskly across his face, and stepped up his speed. A huge signboard advertising motor oil flashed past; beneath a picture of a grinning automobile thirstily drinking from a golden can, an arrow pointed in the direction he was traveling. “São Paulo,” said the arrow, “400 kilometers.” The driver nudged his companion sharply and the other slowly opened his eyes.

“My dear Zé,” said Wilson, straightening with a deep yawn and eying Da Silva with undisguised rancor. “You drag me out of a comfortable bed at some ungodly hour, frighten me half to death by having shaved off your mustache, throw me in your car with no explanation whatsoever, and then you don’t even have the decency to let me catch up a bit on my sleep!”

“There is a time for everything,” Da Silva said brightly. Without his mustache he appeared years younger; his strong white teeth flashed in a sudden smile. “When I picked you up, Wilson, my son, I was in the midst of a dramatic escape. Even you will admit that that is certainly no time for fancy speeches and lengthy explanations. Now, however, that we have foiled the dastardly intentions of the minions of law and order, and are well free of their foul clutches, other times have come!”

“Like the time for explanations?” Wilson asked curiously.

Da Silva laughed gayly, shaking his head. “Like the time to appreciate nature. Look at the sunlight glistening on the waves below; notice the beautiful cloud banks ahead of our brave airplane! Think of the drink we shall take together at Belem, think of the wonders we shall see tonight in Dakar, and the food we shall eat tomorrow in Paris! Wilson, my friend, there is no place in the world to appreciate nature like Paris!”

Wilson hunched back into his corner, closing his eyes. “When the mood passes, Zé, please wake me again. There’s no point in both of us dreaming with our eyes open.”

“Up, up!” Da Silva cried happily. “The lark’s on the wing; God’s in His heaven; all’s right, more or less, with the world!”

Wilson sat back up, looking at his friend in disgust. “You have no idea how obnoxious you can be when you get all boyish and exuberant. And that shirt! Are you trying to look American? And without your mustache.” He examined his companion critically, his head cocked to one side. “You know, in this light, you look like an aging juvenile delinquent. Is that supposed to be a disguise?”

“Not supposed to be. Is. Is. And very effective, too. You have to admit it completely fooled you.”

“ ‘Fooled’ isn’t exactly the word. ‘Frightened’ would be closer. Or maybe ‘horrified.’ ” Wilson lit a cigarette and gazed at Da Silva calmly. “Would it be a breach of palace security to ask just where we are going?”

“I told you.” Da Silva sounded hurt. “Belem, Dakar, Paris. In the order named. With a one-hour stopover in each airport. For gasoline, I imagine, since they must have W.C.’s aboard.” He swung the wheel, hurtling the car recklessly around a truck that had pulled half off the pavement with a flat tire; he smiled wickedly. “Also watch out for air pockets!”

“Belem, Dakar, Paris?” Wilson asked, quietly.

“Exactly! You finally got it!”

“By way of São Paulo?”

Da Silva looked at him suspiciously. “Don’t mention that place, or I’ll know you’ve been peeking!”

Wilson sighed. “All right, Zé,” he said patiently. “When you get playful I know something has broken. What?”

Da Silva smiled at him gently, his eyes dancing behind the dark glasses. “I’ve been trying to tell you. My leave has been canceled. I have drawn the fascinating assignment of checking up on several cases of completely unimportant people who are thought to have illegally immigrated from France to Brazil.” He winked broadly. “This is rather interesting, especially when you consider that immigration into Brazil is practically open. Except for two-headed giraffes.” He sighed deeply. “At any rate, I have orders to report to Paris immediately to work with the French branch of Interpol on this grave breach of law.”

Wilson sat up straight. “When do you leave?”

Da Silva suddenly blasted his horn at a slow-moving furniture van and passed it in a screaming burst of speed. “You really haven’t been listening to a word,” he said reproachfully. “I left early this morning. By now I imagine I should be coming into Belém de Pará.” He grinned. “I mean, by now I am coming into Belém de Pará.”

Wilson studied the strong face of his companion, now smiling faintly at the windshield, his large hands firm on the wheel. “Do you think you can get away with it?” he asked quietly.

Da Silva grinned again. “This is one sure way to find out.”

“You think that someone is trying to get you transferred off the Busch case?”

Da Silva took his eyes from the road a moment and glanced at Wilson blandly. “I should consider it a possibility.” He returned his attention to the highway winding beneath them. “You must admit it is interesting that the assignment happened to come at this particular moment. And that it should just happen to deal with immigration. Now, I wonder who could possibly have arranged that?”

Wilson looked at him speculatively. “You think it was Strauss.”

The restraint was too much for Da Silva’s explosive nature. He snorted, dropping his sarcasm. “I’m sure it was Strauss;

I know it was! With all of the usual Teutonic subtlety!” He curved the car around a bus laboring up a hill. “Immigration is one of his pet projects; it would be no problem for him to arrange a transfer like this.” He looked across at Wilson seriously. “Do you still doubt my theory?”

“Your theory?”

“The meeting back in 1939, remember?”

Wilson shrugged this subject off; his mind was on things more important to him at the moment. “But, Zé, won’t they know you didn’t go to Paris?”

“Not for a while. I have friends too, you know. Reports, cables, and all of the paper work we all love so well will come through on schedule, at least for the time being.” He sighed. “Let’s hope we can clear this Busch affair up before then.”

Wilson stared at the firm set of his friend’s face. “Zé,” he said quietly, “why do you do it? You’re a policeman, under orders, ducking out on an assignment given you by your superiors.”

“My superiors haven’t the faintest idea of why they were asked to assign me to Paris,” Da Silva replied stubbornly.

“That’s not the point,” Wilson said, “and you know it.”

Da Silva looked at him, his face a mask, a brown granite block with flat eyes that looked at Wilson and through him, far beyond. “I don’t care,” he said flatly. “I’m a man, too. Under more important orders. From much higher up. That’s the assignment I can’t leave.”

He turned back to the wheel abruptly, concentrating on his driving. They stopped once again for gasoline at São José dos Campos, in the State of São Paulo, caught a quick sandwich while the car was being serviced, and left as soon as it was ready. The sun was high now, past the meridian, and there was no longer a breeze; the area was sweltering. Wilson had thrown his jacket into the rear seat of the car, and now loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.

“You might at least have let me take along a clean shirt,” he said resentfully.

“They sell shirts in São Paulo,” Da Silva said dryly. Then he smiled. “Or you might stop by and visit the Deputado Strauss. He ought to have quite a collection of shirts. All colors.”

He leaned back and accelerated the car. They roared on toward São Paulo.

Chapter 2

The sleek Convair leaned gently into the cross winds rising from the Santos range, slipping easily into the landing pattern for the São Paulo airport. Huge factories on neatly landscaped grounds swept beneath the descending wings; the geometrically blocked skyline of the city, reflecting the eastern rays of the morning sun, suddenly tilted sharply, and then straightened. Now a residential area flowed beneath the lowered wheels, small square houses on brown dirt lots with tiny people discernible. The nasal whining of a motor within the plane startled Ari; he glanced out to see the flaps scooping downwards, felt the checked rush in the air. Stained concrete swirled madly beneath, fleeing wildly; he felt a soft lurch as the plane touched down. They were at Congonhas Airport, in São Paulo.

He assumed his place in the taxi queue, remembering clearly the line-up for Immigration when he had arrived in Rio. Just one week ago, he thought; one short week. Is it possible? The hollow voice echoing its litany of arrivals and departures in the main hall behind him served as background to his feeling of belonging. I’m growing up, he thought, that’s what it is. And quite a thing, too, at my age. I am becoming what I might have been, had I not lost thirty years. His bag suddenly appeared in the hands of a porter who scarcely seemed physically capable of handling it. A tip changed hands, a cab door opened in his face, his bag was taken from him and deposited within, a hand on his arm, a car door slammed. They were rolling toward the city. He leaned back, relaxing, certain now of his capacity to handle whatever came up.

Herr Mathais had arranged rooms for him at the Hotel Clemente, a modern residential hotel on the Avenida Angelica. There he was greeted with pleasant but cold efficiency by a desk clerk who obviously was not familiar with either his name or reputation. His fear of encountering the same effusive attention he had suffered at the Mirabelle proved to be unfounded; Herr Mathais, despite his dramatic appearance, was no fool.

Once his bag had been placed in his room, and the bellboy had quietly withdrawn, Ari took up the telephone and put through a call to the number neatly printed on the back of the envelope Mathais had given him. As he waited for the call to be completed, he reached down and slipped off his shoes. It was extremely warm and he wriggled his toes appreciatively.

“Sim?” It was a woman’s voice, obviously a secretary.

He leaned forward, speaking quickly in German. “This is Herr Busch calling. I have a letter for Deputado Strauss, to be delivered in person. From a mutual friend in Rio. I wonder if it might be possible to speak with the Deputado himself?”

The voice answered smoothly in German. “Herr Busch? One moment while I see if the Deputado is in. Please hold the line.” There was a moment’s silence; Ari took advantage of the pause to wriggle his toes some more. He was feeling very good. A deep voice suddenly boomed in his ear.

“Herr Busch! This is a very great pleasure!”

“Herr Strauss? Likewise. Herr Mathais was kind enough to give me a letter of introduction—”

The voice waved this aside with grandiose disdain. “There was no need for a letter, really. While I have not had the pleasure of meeting the Herr Busch in person, I am more than familiar with the Herr in the ways that count! You must have lunch with me. Today, yes?” There was a pause. “I shall come by your hotel in thirty minutes, yes? It is all right?”

“You are most kind, but really, I could meet you—”

“Nonsense! It is my pleasure to pass your hotel.”

“If you wish it, then it is my pleasure, too.”

“I do wish it. Thirty minutes, then, yes? Auf wiedersehen.”

“Auf wiedersehen.”

It occurred to Ari as he hung up and started for the bathroom that he had forgotten to mention the name of his hotel to the Deputado, and for an instant he started back toward the telephone. Then he stopped, smiling grimly. The Deputado, he was suddenly sure, not only knew his hotel and room number, but probably the size of his hat. He turned back to the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later he was standing at the large glass window of the lobby when a long Cadillac drew up at the entrance. He walked to the front of the marquee as a chauffeur sprang down to open the rear door. A heavy-set blond giant, of indeterminate age, leaned forward from the back seat, waving him in. “Herr Busch?”

He smiled and entered the car. They shook hands as the driver put the Cadillac into gear and smoothly entered traffic. Ari reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, producing his letter of presentation, handing it to his companion. Strauss stuffed the envelope into his pocket negligently, smiling.

“Well, well,” he said happily. “This is your first trip to Brazil?”

Ari assured him it was.

“And you like it?”

“Very much,” Ari said. He glanced about him, noting the luxurious appointments of the Cadillac.

“This is a very beautiful car.”

“For my use as a Deputado,” Strauss said immediately. “Government.” He smiled deprecatingly. “Unfortunately, not my own.” He looked at his wrist watch. “You are anxious to eat at once?”

“Not particularly,” Ari said. “Why?”

“A stop I must make first, if you honestly do not mind.”

“It is perfectly all right.”

“You are most kind.” Strauss leaned forward, speaking to the driver in Portuguese, and then leaned back again. Despite his bulk, there was a certain grace about him, the grace of controlled power. There is nothing effusive about this one, Ari thought; and very little that is subtle. He can be brusque, and also very tough. But somehow he lacks something that I would sense, or that I would recognize, if he were the leader of the group. I wonder what it is?

They drew up before a small factory building in a rundown neighborhood. The buildings here were low and ramshackle, running almost to the rutted roadway; bare patches of brick under the broken and dirty cement facing showed great age and poor care. At one side of the building in front of which they had stopped, an oily driveway led through tottering wooden gates to an unloading platform piled with debris. A faint clacking noise came from within, monotonous and depressing. Strauss descended and held the door back for Ari.

“Please,” he said. “I should like you to come too, if you do not mind.” Ari got down, wondering, and followed the large man into the building.

In the gloom of the interior he could see several flatbed presses, two hand-operated card presses, and the usual clutter of the small job-printing shop. Seen from the inside the building seemed even smaller; the ancient and battered machinery filled it. Rickety cabinets holding type leaned drunkenly against one wall; tables for pulling proofs and pounding forms were placed haphazardly about. The shop looked as if it had not been swept for weeks; rubbish lay under the tables and around the machines.

A young boy in a filthy apron stood feeding a hand press under the single bulb that gleamed faintly in the room. His eyes were half closed against the fumes of a cigarette pasted in one corner of his mouth, and his arms swayed in automatic rhythm to the slapping of the platen. He paid no attention to his visitors. They stood in silence watching this operation for a moment, then Strauss touched Ari on the arm and they turned aside into a small office set under a stairway.

Strauss reached up to the wall and switched on a light; a naked bulb dangling from a twisted cord lit the messy room with brutal clarity. It was a tiny office with barely room to move about in. A roll-top desk covered with papers filled one corner; another table littered with more papers and magazines took up most of the remaining space. The calendars on the wall were stained and crooked; an old typewriter leaning askew with one corner caught on a pile of catalogues completed the inventory of debris; it was all indescribably shabby.

Strauss sat down heavily in a plain chair and motioned Ari to the wobbly armchair before the desk. He waved his arms about in disgust, watching Ari under firm eyebrows. “You see it,” he said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, ‘You see it.’ Our propaganda center. We are supposed to work with this; to produce results with this.” He shook his leonine head fiercely. “If it were not so tragic, it would be a joke.”

Ari sat silent, afraid of not knowing what to say. His eyes passed over the pitiful confusion of the room and returned to the other. Strauss leaned forward impressively.

“Herr Busch, I am not like the others,” he said, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the small, elderly man balanced precariously on the edge of the swivel armchair. “I speak out with what I have on my mind. I know who you are and the work you have done. I am proud of the work you have done. And I am also envious of the work you have done. But, Herr Busch—” a thick finger sprang in the air for emphasis — “if you had been forced to work as we have, you could not have accomplished what you did!”

Ari gazed about him. “It is not much, it is true.”

“Not much? It is nothing! It is worse than nothing!” The thick hands scrabbled through the papers that cluttered the table until they unearthed a trade magazine for the graphic arts. He picked it up, rimed through the pages to an advertisement offering a complete, modern printing plant for sale and slapped the folded page down in front of Ari. “Do you see this? This is what we were promised!” He jerked his hand contemptuously toward the clacking press outside. “This is what we have! And have had for ten years! It is not possible!”

Ari studied the beautifully illustrated cuts in the advertisement. “How much would a factory like this cost?” he asked quietly.

Strauss shrugged. “I have the quotation around somewhere, but it is an old one. It would probably cost much more today. But that is not the point; that is the least. No; that is not true, it is not the least. But it is only a part.” His eyes fixed the man before him. “Herr Busch, we must be frank with each other. We need money if we are to do the work that must be done; and much money.”

Ari studied the man before him dispassionately. “Everyone needs money, Herr Strauss. And everything needs money. And the work goes on in many places. Not just in Brazil.”

Strauss looked at the little man before him. The icy blue of the eyes showed a strength belied by the narrow shoulders, the potbelly. “Yes,” the Deputado admitted politely. “But you are in Brazil. And you have money.”

The blue eyes showed no emotion. “I fail to see...”

The heavy hand was raised in conciliation. “Herr Busch, if you will pardon me, your efforts in the United States were well done, although, to be honest, it is difficult for us here to determine just how effective they were.”

“They were effective.” Ari stared about the office with disdain. “Much more so than anything I have seen since coming here.”

“Without doubt. I did not mean to deride, believe me. But, Herr Busch, if we had the necessary money, we could do much more. And this is the country from which the work must be directed. Note what I say, Herr Busch: not could be, or might be, but must be.”

“Ach, so? And why must it be directed from here?”

“Because...” For the first time Strauss seemed at a slight loss for words. He came to a decision. “Because here, Herr Busch, we have the nucleus of a real rebirth of our glorious party!”

“What do you mean by nucleus?”

But Strauss had said all that he was willing to say at the moment. He stood up, smiling. “We shall discuss it again some other time, yes? And now, lunch?”

Ari looked up at the huge figure towering over him. “Please sit down, Herr Strauss. We are in the midst of a discussion; let us carry it forward a bit. Lunch can wait.” The other looked at him with a touch of surprise and more than a touch of respect, and then reseated himself. No, Ari thought with certainty, he is definitely not the head of the group. He lacks authority; the poor soul also lacks ruthlessness.

“Herr Strauss,” he said coldly, “you speak of wanting to discuss this thing frankly. I agree. I happen to be in a position where I have some money; and I am sure that you realize that my interest in rebuilding the party is as great as anyone’s interest. However, Herr Strauss, do you have any idea of how many people try to get their hands on money, using any excuse that comes to mind?” He shook his head sadly. Strauss sat listening quietly.

“No, Herr Strauss. My sympathies are well known. How easy it must appear to simply appeal to these sympathies and presto! — money! I am not a fool. My money is available for the work I believe in, but not on anybody’s say-so. I am not attempting to be insulting, please believe me, but you must be able to understand exactly where I stand.”

Strauss studied the little man judiciously. The blue eyes stared into his steadily. Finally the big man shrugged.

“Herr Busch,” he said slowly, “I understand exactly what you mean. I also am no fool. I do not know what you would require in the way of proof...” He thought a bit. “Herr Busch. You recall a certain Captain Da Silva?”

“Yes, of course I remember Captain Da Silva. Too well.”

Strauss smiled. “Well, at this moment he is on his way to Paris. He was too curious; and also he was becoming a nuisance. With my influence, I was able to arrange another assignment for him. Do you believe me?”

Ari sighed. “I’m afraid you do not understand me, Herr Strauss. If you say you arranged a transfer for this Captain Da Silva, of course I believe you.” He paused. So Da Silva had been taken out of the game! A cold feeling of being alone swept him momentarily, but he forced it away.

“However, I must continue to be frank. You have told me nothing so far that would lead me to give any money to you or to whatever group you represent. Please believe me. I am not trying to be either stubborn or insulting. I am only being careful. And honest.”

Strauss sat with his big head bowed in deep thought. Finally he looked up. “Herr Busch, I must discuss this with others, you understand.”

“As you wish.” Ari rose slowly, brushing his lapel. “And now, lunch?”

Strauss lumbered to his feet, bulking in the tiny office. He leaned over and picked up the trade magazine, still folded to the beautiful advertisement of the modern printing plant. “Should I bring this along?” he asked, looking at Ari questioningly.

“I don’t think so,” Ari said, smiling coldly. “No, I really don’t think so.”

Chapter 3

The intimate little cocktail party given by the Jules Richereaus in their small apartment on the Rua Augusta was coming to a close. There had been only four couples present, plus the Deputado Strauss, who had just dropped in for a moment. The Deputado had mingled freely with the guests, all of whom he knew, and at the moment was speaking with an old acquaintance who bought and sold coffee; they stood in the middle of the floor, uttering the standard clichés about the influx of Colombian and African beans in the world market. The general drift for the door had begun; Madame Richereau was fluttering about, seeing that the final details of the leave-taking were properly handled, explaining to all with a sad shake of her shoulders that it was a pity her husband had been unexpectedly called away and could not have been there to enjoy their company.

The guests, representing the best elements of liberal Brazilian society, were standing in the hallway, pecking dutifully at the cheek of their hostess. Strauss and his companion moved slowly toward the door, still talking; the coffee broker bowed politely to Madame Richereau. Strauss suddenly muttered something unintelligible, smiled self-consciously, and moved down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. The hall door closed on the last of the guests, and Strauss stepped quickly to a closed door around a bend in the hallway, and tapped upon it in a particular way.

The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Von Roesler, after once again closing it, returned and seated himself imperiously behind a desk. These rare cocktail parties, from which M. Jules Richereau unfortunately always seemed to be called away by the sudden pressure of business, were the only means by which he and Strauss could manage to meet without exciting notice. This, at least, was von Roesler’s idea; in the past months he had developed a mania for secrecy that had, Strauss felt, complicated their work unnecessarily.

There was another special knock on the door and Strauss opened it to admit Monica. She slipped in and locked the door behind her. She seated herself unobtrusively as Strauss returned to his corner chair and lit a huge cigar.

“Well?” von Roesler said impatiently.

“I don’t think it went badly,” Strauss said, eying his cigar with the appreciation of a connoisseur. “He has the money, which is the important thing. And he intends it for our program. It is only...”

“Only what?”

Strauss studied his cigar carefully, choosing his words. “Well, it is only that he. what shall I say? He is very cautious.”

“Cautious? In what way?”

The Deputado laid down his cigar and told them of his meeting with Ari. “But there is really no problem,” he finished. “If you meet with him, there is no doubt but that he will provide the money for us.”

“Meet with him? You must be crazy! No!”

Strauss looked at von Roesler in amazement, then transferred his gaze to Monica with a question in his eyes; she turned her head, staring at the floor.

“No?” Strauss asked in disbelief.

“No! I meet with no one!”

“But—”

Von Roesler slammed the desk with his open hand. “It is final. I meet with no one!”

“But, Colonel—” Once, in a fit of comradeship engendered by a particularly friendly meeting, plus the effects of several shared cocktails, Strauss had made the mistake of calling von Roesler “Erick.” He would not quickly forget the tirade that followed.

Von Roesler looked at him coldly. “We will not discuss it further. If he has money and we need it, arrange that we get it. That is all.”

“But how, Colonel?”

The mad eyes stared at him with no expression. “That is your problem.”

Strauss shook his head as if to clear it. The meeting was certainly not going as he had imagined it would go. “Does the Colonel at least have some suggestion...?”

“Take it from him. If he will not give it, take it!”

“Take it from him? Pardon me, Colonel, but you do not understand. He is a friend. He is one of us.”

“He is not one of us. We have no friends. This Busch, what did he do during the war?” The holocaust of Hamburg spread before his inner eye. They are all enemies, all betrayers. Only I, only I...

Strauss looked at Monica helplessly; she kept her eyes averted. “I have no idea, but... Take it from him? How?”

The eyes facing him lost their madness momentarily, but not their hardness. The voice almost sneered. “It is a shame you spent the war years in Brazil. If you had been in the Fatherland, you would not have to ask. You would know!”

“I wasn’t in the Fatherland; I was here. Following your orders.” The resentment in his voice was apparent. He looked at von Roesler blankly. “I still don’t know what you want. I know him, and he knows me. How do you suggest we get the money away from him? Kidnap him?”

The tinge of sarcasm was lost on von Roesler; the madness was back. “I do not care how. Kidnap him if you wish. Hold him for ransom.” He paused, thinking, then nodded. “It is really an excellent suggestion. It is precisely what you shall do. Kidnap him. Hold him for ransom.”

Strauss almost threw his hands up in hopelessness. “I was only—”

“An excellent suggestion.” The eyes studied him dispassionately. “You can arrange the necessary people? They must not be anyone connected with our movement.”

Strauss sat up straight. “I was not speaking seriously.”

There was a sudden vicious gleam of humor in the eyes of the other. “But I am. It was your idea, and I am agreeing with it. You will kidnap him and hold him for ransom. For two million dollars.”

“But—”

“It is an order. You can arrange necessary people?”

Strauss sighed. “I can arrange thugs,” he said with distaste, “but this is not the way to handle this. If you would only consent to meet with this Herr Busch...”

“No!” The slam of the heavy hand on the desk was absolutely final. “I have told you before: I meet with nobody!” He stood up abruptly, indicating that the meeting was over. Strauss also stood up, staring at his cigar hopelessly. With a brief nod he opened the door and walked out; Monica followed, leading him toward the front door of the apartment.

“He is mad!” Strauss muttered. He turned to Monica in appeal. “Busch is our friend. He has done more in the last few years than any of us, than all of us together. Is this how we should treat him?” He shook his head in bewilderment.

“He is mad!”

“He is frightened,” Monica said sadly. “Ever since Eichmann was picked up, he sits there, refusing to leave the house, refusing to meet anyone.”

“This is a mistake,” Strauss said with sudden conviction. “I feel it; I know it. This is a very bad mistake!”

“But he is our leader,” Monica said simply.

“But really!” Strauss almost cried aloud in his disappointment. “Kidnap him! It’s ridiculous! How? Not only why do we do this silly thing, but how? In a crowded city, how?” He almost struck his head in frustration. “If only he would see him, only for a minute...”

Monica hesitated, then drew him into the living room, still disheveled from the recent party. She pulled him down onto a couch, holding his arm possessively, speaking with conviction. “He will not see anyone,” she said. “It is useless to think along those lines. But as far as kidnapping is concerned, I think I know how.” She spoke breathlessly, not releasing his arm, pulling it firmly against the warm curve of her full breast. He leaned back passively; she began to explain her idea rapidly.

Chapter 4

Carnival was here; it was only the first afternoon of the insane, gay festival, but already all formality had gone by the board; a wild madness invaded the heavy air, a sense of complete relaxation and to-hell-with-it-allness. Ari sat wedged at a small table in the noisy hotel bar, enjoying an aperitif, completely at ease, smiling broadly at nothing at all, feeling himself to be a part of the swirling mob that engulfed him. Girls in little abbreviated skirts blew confetti in his face; young men with grotesquely painted mustaches and all manner of comic costumes sprayed ether from small pressurized bottles in all directions; from the street outside the open window came the sound of rhythmic syncopated bands, and the shuffling of people dancing, the cry of people singing. Ari sat there in pure enjoyment; what a wonderful people, what a wonderfully mad holiday!

A couple came lumbering happily through the crowded bar; the man was gigantic and dressed in a tight Tyrolean costume of patterned shirt, short breeches, stockings and a small feathered cap; the woman, large herself, was dressed in typical French peasant style, her tilted-eared cap rising high over her golden hair, her blouse pleasantly filled, her full skirts falling in ruffled folds to her sabots. She was pulling the man along behind her boisterously; they bumped through the tables, heading for the bar. They were squeezing past Ari’s table when the man suddenly pulled up short, causing the woman to stagger.

“Strauss!” she cried in a half-drunken giggle. “Come on! I want a drink!”

“Herr Busch!” Strauss cried, tightening his grip on the woman’s hand and dragging her back to the table. “What a pleasure!” His eyes were already bright with the effects of drink, and the effects of Carnival spirit. Ari attempted to pull himself to his feet, but the pressure of the crowd was too great. “Jeanne!” Strauss cried. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine!” He looked about. “Here. Take this chair; I will get another!”

The woman sat down at once, immediately reaching over for Ari’s aperitif and drinking it down in one gulp. Strauss swung a chair neatly from beneath the noses of the occupants of the next table and fell into it before they could complain. He enfolded Ari in a great bear hug, calling loudly to the waiter at the same time. Ari was overwhelmed.

“Carnival, Carnival!” Strauss cried in a gay voice. “It is wonderful, no? Yes?” He paused, considering which had been correct, then dismissed the whole thing, remembering his duty. “Herr Busch, this is Madame Richereau. Jeanne, an old friend, Herr Busch.” He spoke in French; they fell into the same tongue. In the cacophony of sound that arose like a wave from all sides, every language of the civilized world could be heard.

“I want a drink!” Madame Richereau’s sudden announcement was made in a belligerent tone. She stared at Ari archly. “You wonder, perhaps, where is M.

Richereau? I will tell you; during Carnival, my sweet, we go our separate ways. It is the custom.” She hiccuped gently, then stared at Ari blankly and continued vaguely, “Yes, during Carnival it is the accepted custom...” Then she turned, waving wildly at a waiter and returning her attention to Ari all in one gesture. “Monsieur Busch, you are cute. Strauss, my sweet, Monsieur Busch must come to my party tonight. I insist. It is an order!”

Strauss lolled back in his tiny chair happily. “Your orders, Madame, are my commands!” He suddenly laughed at the idiocy of this, turning in his chair to Ari for appreciation of the mot.

Ari laughed delightedly. “I should love to come, Madame, but I am afraid that I have no costume.”

“No costume? It is of the least!” She dismissed this excuse with a negligent wave of her jeweled hands. “It is nothing! I have at least three left over!” She hiccuped while considering her arithmetic. “No, four. No, no! Three.” She turned swiftly even as she spoke, catching the arm of a waiter with predatory skill, and ordered three drinks.

Turning back, she blinked at Ari carefully. “Where was I? Oh yes, you want a costume. What would you like to be?” Her head perched to one side, looking at Ari birdlike. “A sultan?” She shook her head. “But I’m afraid that one would be too big; you would drown in it. I know! A woman! A beautiful, sexy, rounded woman!” She collapsed with laughter, clapping her hands. “I have a delicious can-can for you; you will be a riot!”

Ari laughed with her; her sudden guffaw was infectious, booming through the bar. “Please, not as a woman,” he said, giggling helplessly. “Anything but that!”

“But you would be lovely as a woman,” she said, pouting prettily. “I’m sure you must have beautiful legs.” She bent over, peeking beneath the table. Ari continued to giggle.

“I’ll take the third,” he said, “whatever it is!”

Madame considered this statement and found it puzzling. “The third what?” she said. Enlightenment suddenly came. “The third costume!” She clapped her hands at her own cleverness, and then her face fell. “But it is a comic prisoner,” she explained sadly, “all striped, like in the penitentiary. Last year everybody had one; this year they may be a trifle déclassé.”

“It will do fine. I shall be a comic prisoner,” Ari said, happy for her that the problem had been finally resolved.

Madame Richereau suddenly climbed to her feet, and then mounted her chair, supporting herself with one hand against the chair back, her other hand pointing wildly. “Strauss!” she cried. “Our waiter gave our drinks to that table over there! Call him over! Make him give us our drinks!” She suddenly stepped down from the chair and started plowing her way through the crowd. “If you won’t, I will!” she called back determinedly over her shoulder. Strauss rolled with laughter.

“A character, no?” he said, gasping, wiping his eyes. “Yes?” He thought about it and resolved not to get in that trap again. “And her parties are famous; you will love it!”

“She won’t forget the costume?” Ari asked with an anxious smile.

“She forgets nothing!” Strauss cried. “Except her husband!” He laughed so hard at this that he was forced to bold onto the table for support. Madame fought her way back, gripping a waiter firmly by the arm. “I don’t know what you would do without me,” she said archly as the waiter set their drinks upon the table. She turned to Ari with forced gaiety. “Now don’t forget! Nine o’clock at the Fasano Roof! You must ask for my table!” She swallowed her drink in one gulp without sitting down, leaning on Strauss in a possessive fashion, smiling brightly at Ari. “You’ll have your costume delivered tonight, so don’t worry,” she said. She eyed him pensively. “Although I still think you would make a delicious can-can girl!”

“No, no! A prisoner will be fine,” Ari said, laughing.

“One thing,” she said, eying him critically, “at least it will fit you better.” She turned to Strauss impatiently. “Drink up! We have lots of bars to visit yet.” She waved goodbye to Ari and began leading Strauss away, bellowing with laughter, waving weakly behind him.

Chapter 5

The costume was delivered at eight o’clock that night; Ari had almost given up hope of its arrival. He stood in the bedroom with the door locked and undressed slowly. The long tight sleeves of the costume covered his scarred tattoo mark adequately, but the cuffs were a trifle short and for some reason suddenly worried him. He stripped off the blouse and put on a long-sleeved undershirt with tight cuffs beneath the gaudily striped prison jacket; it was warm, and the ends of the undershirt sleeves extended a bit beyond the uniform, but he felt safer. The rest of the costume followed rapidly; when he was all dressed with the little striped beanie on his head, he stepped before the mirror and reviewed himself critically. He slipped on the small domino mask and studied himself again, suddenly doubling over with laughter. For one night at least, he thought, I shall forget this terrible business and have myself a good time. This time, he said to his image in mock severity, I really don’t know who you are. He tapped the striped beanie, firming it at an outrageous angle on his head with comic authority.

He made sure that his wallet was in the rear trouser pocket of the uniform, and then stepped outside into the corridor, locking the door behind himself carefully. He was sure that he would excite no comment in the elevator; going up to his room from the bar he had found himself in the company of a bosomy Pierrot, a chorus girl complete with cigar and mustache, a squat Indian whose accouterments included tennis shoes as well as bow and arrow, and a heavily made-up Chinese. Even the elevator operator had bowed to the spirit of the occasion by wearing a little organ-grinder-monkey’s cap, held beneath his chin by a wispy elastic which he snapped back and forth at each floor.

The elevator door slid open and he stepped within. The little operator smiled happily and snapped his cap quickly up and down. He grinned under his domino and leaned comfortably back against the car wall. Tonight was going to be fun; tonight was a vacation, a welcome respite from the terrible necessity of his assignment. Tonight was Carnival! Carnival in Brazil! He clenched his hands in tense enjoyment, eager to be out of the moving car, eager to get to the party.

They came to a slithering halt somewhere below the first floor; the operator inexpertly jockeyed his car into an approximation of the level and shoved down on the lever that opened the door. Ari started to hurry across the crowded and colorful lobby toward the taxi rank, when he found his way barred by three outlandish figures of varying size.

They were dressed as Keystone cops; under their high bucket helmets, tight rubber masks grimaced in distorted expressions. The smallest had an idiot look, with rubber tongue lolling insanely from one corner of the mouth, the bulging eyes hanging out of their pouched sockets at odd angles; the middle-sized one had a mask that frowned in deep perpetual anger, with thick curving eyebrows that framed the glaring eyes; the tallest looked brightly alert, with a happy smile, rosy cheeks, and full lips. Their dark blue uniforms were all much too large, hanging on them like tents; the badges that announced their authority were located somewhere in the vicinity of their stomachs and were the size of soup plates. On their feet they wore huge shoes in a particularly clashing shade of grayish green, and their hands were covered with oversized white work gloves that splayed out spastically.

At the sight of the prisoner-striped figure hurrying across the lobby, they drew themselves up in a burlesque attitude of cops-and-robbers. Every move they made, each motion they undertook, was in outrageous pantomime, but the interpretation of their antics was obvious to all of the people who had suddenly paused in the lobby to watch this comedy.

What have we here? the smallest could be seen to cry in shocked surprise, his idiot face drooling at the lobby crowd, his rubber tongue bobbing elastically.

The rubber face of the middle-sized policeman was fixed in an expression of righteous anger, but the attitude of the expressive body was one of mock horror. An escaped prisoner! But this will never do! He threw his gloved hands over his ears and doubled over in pretended shock. He peeked at Ari from beneath his legs. Everyone in the lobby had stopped to watch; they were all laughing delightedly.

And then the hand of the largest flew up, resolving the problem. I will handle it! was clear in his attitude. He stepped forward in a strutting imitation of police authority the world over. His head turned drolly, the rubber mask grimacing happily at the crowd that had formed to watch the horseplay. The people in the lobby roared; Ari tried to push past, irritated at the thought of being late for the party.

A long arm detained him while a gloved band suddenly curved and descended in an indescribably comical gesture to scratch in bewilderment on a solid helmet. But do we have a warrant? could be clearly understood from the puzzled hesitation of the blue-uniformed figure. He paused anxiously, rolling his eyes as his strong hand continued to grip Ari, halting him.

The others flung their hands in the air in gestures of dismay, their gloves flaying the bright atmosphere of the lobby with motions of tragic failure. No warrant? There was an ineffable sadness in their manner, but then the tallest brightened. His figure even seemed to enlarge with a happy solution he had discovered. He dragged a pair of handcuffs from his voluminous pocket and swung Ari toward him, appearing to advance on him with little dancing steps. He rolled his eyes; it was plain that he had discovered something even better than a warrant. His companions clasped their gloved hands to their hearts in the profoundest admiration; their masked faces bobbed madly. The sobbing laughter of one spectator overcome by the performance haw-hawed loudly through the giggles, causing even more laughter from the people watching this playful insanity.

The handcuffs were firmly snapped. The tallest of the policemen rose to full height, coming up onto the tips of his slapstick shoes, and flung his white-gloved hand dramatically toward the door. His fellow Keystone cops obeyed him instantly, slinking in a bent-kneed walk to the door and holding it open. The largest of the policemen turned at the door, his happy face rubberly pleased with their reception, his gloved hand still tightly gripping his striped prisoner. He paused and bowed deeply to the watching crowd in the lobby.

The people inside doubled over with hilarity; a few beat their hands together in frantic applause. A pistoled and bearded pirate, accompanied by a rather husky harem girl, pushed past the three comic police as they stood with their captive taking bows in the doorway; the three all stood alertly to one side and then, as a team, gave deep clown-type curtsies to the exiting couple, dragging their unwilling prisoner through the routine. Then, with a final bow to the applauding audience in the hotel lobby, they pulled their comic prisoner to the street.

Once outside, they led him quickly but firmly to a waiting roadster with the top down, and thrust him into the back seat. “No tricks, Mr. Busch,” said the tall policeman into his ear in a deep voice that carried no tone of burlesque. “You can scream or yell all you want, but nobody will pay the slightest attention.” He unlocked the handcuffs and slid into the back seat of the car beside Ari while the two lessersized Keystone cops got into the front, the idiotically-masked junior member driving. With a final wave to the remnants of their audience who had come out under the hotel marquee to bid them adieu, they pulled away from the hotel and out into the slow-moving traffic.

Behind them another open car pulled away from the curb, a fiercely frowning pirate at the wheel. At his side a rather bulky harem girl slid a hand into a well-concealed pocket of her voluminous trousers, managed, with much maneuvering, to extract a package of cigarettes, and lit one with an air of relief. The pirate drove casually, seemingly watching with interest the shuffling crowd that marched on the sidewalk or chanted in the middle of the streetcar tracks alongside of their car.

“Cute?” Da Silva asked out of the side of his bearded mouth.

The harem girl at his side lifted aside his veil and neatly spat a shred of tobacco between two groups of dancing Carnival celebrants, and then eyed the frayed end of the cigarette critically. He dropped the veil back in place and turned to the pirate. “Extremely neat,” he said equably. “A masterful piece of artistry. The gangsters in your country are endowed with many talents.”

“Gangsters?” Da Silva laughed abruptly. Traffic had slowed in their front, and his bumper was almost touching the back of the car ahead. He could even see Ari turning his head frantically, and the firm grip on the little man’s arm still maintained by the tall Keystone cop with the happy face. “That, my dear Wilson, is none other than the famous Andreas Moraes and Company. I’ve seen their pantomime before.”

“Andreas Moraes?”

Da Silva scratched at his heavy beard in irritation before answering. “Andreas Moraes. He could have been a top star of the Companhia Nacional de Comedia if he didn’t always have such a lot of larceny in his soul.”

Wilson turned to him, puzzled, shifting his ample bosom to accompany the movement. “You mean it is really only a gag?”

Da Silva shook his head. “No. I don’t believe it is only a gag. Not when they picked on Ari. I don’t believe that much in coincidence.” He looked at Wilson seriously. “I’ve heard a lot of odd stories about this Moraes and his morals and his politics; and a lot more about his constant need for money.” He shrugged. “I give him the benefit of the doubt; I think he’s only doing a job. What I want to know is, who is he doing the job for?” He put the car into gear again and edged forward, once more coming to rest a bit behind the car ahead. A group of snake-dancing Indians representing one of the clubs had swept through traffic, hips rolling in all directions, stopping all movement of cars.

Wilson smiled behind his veil. “This is, without the faintest doubt, the screwiest tailing job I’ve ever seen,” he said, smiling at Da Silva. “Not much chance of their getting away. Our only problem is to avoid running over them.” He looked ahead at the car in front, saw Ari suddenly rise and a strong hand slam him back into his seat. The raucous noise of a three-piece band composed of drum, cymbal and trumpet made it impossible to hear the hot words he could see being exchanged in the car ahead. “We can even practically hear every word they say.”

“I can imagine what they are saying,” Da Silva said, also smiling. He sat at the wheel of the idling car, staring across the five or six feet that separated him from his quarry. “I imagine that our friend Ari is getting a bit weary of being snatched every time he goes out of doors.”

Wilson suddenly puffed forcefully, and his veil wafted up over his face. He scratched his nose contentedly. “I can’t understand how these harem girls stand their life,” he said reflectively. “Everything else I can understand, but not this veil thing.” He tugged the flimsy piece of cloth back into place as the car edged forward a few more feet. “You know,” he said idly, “this fellow Schoenberg is really kidnap-prone. Somebody ought to hang a bell on him.”

“Somebody ought to hang a bell on the people who keep trying to kidnap him,” Da Silva said reasonably. “It would make it easier for us.” He scratched at his beard again. The car ahead inched forward a few feet and then stopped. He grasped Wilson’s arm. “Well, well, well,” he said with a chuckle. “Look at that! Maybe we won’t have to make like heroic Marines dashing to the rescue after all!”

Wilson sat erect and pushed his veil aside, peering ahead. A dancing group from one of the Carnival clubs, all attired in brightly striped prison uniforms, had been winding their way down the street when they noticed one of their fellows in the car ahead. He seemed to be arguing with his fellow passengers, all of whom were attired as police. The dancing group immediately stopped their jingling rhythm and swarmed about the parked car enthusiastically.

The first mistake the driver of the roadster made was to attempt to press through the crowded street, for this was manifestly impossible. His second mistake was even worse; he began to beat at the surrounding crowd with his white-gloved hands. Ari immediately stood up and tried to step over the side of the car, but his companion jerked him down again. A roar came from the striped crowd, a roar composed equally of pleasure at the thought of tumbling even pseudo-policemen into the gutter, and the satisfying thought of rescuing one of their members from a spot where he obviously didn’t wish to remain. The tall Keystone cop in the back seat with An suddenly realized the seriousness of the situation and, rising to his feet, began his pantomime performance, but he was too late. The striped mob about the car were displeased by the slapping hands and in no mood to be placated by histrionics.

“My, my,” Da Silva murmured, slipping the car into neutral and setting the hand brake. “This is a change!” He grinned at his unveiled companion. “This is one of the times when I’m proud to be a Brazilian,” he said. “Brazil! Carnival! I love you!”

Wilson, who had intelligently left his package of cigarettes on the seat beside him instead of reburying it in the multiple pleats of his harem pants, now lit one and leaned forward, watching the activity in their front with glee. “There should be a charge for this,” he said happily, “Best show I’ve seen since the old Mack Sennett days!”

The crowd of prison-uniformed Carnival dancers now surrounded the car in front, and were beginning to get out of hand. Anger, that delicate emotion that always lies so close to the surface of jangled nerves, even though those nerves be jangled with joy, now swept the crowd. Enraged by the pushing and slapping hands, the mob suddenly decided to overturn the car and see what came out. But their loyalty required that their fellow prisoner be freed first; one of the larger dancers swung himself into the back seat and calmly lifted Ari, depositing him in the forest of arms that were raised to receive him. This done, he jumped back to the street and joined with his fellows in destroying this car that had insulted them.

The little potbellied figure in the prisoner suit did not wait to see the final act of his rescue; as soon as the helping hands dropped from his arms, he darted off through the crowd and was soon lost to sight.

Da Silva turned to Wilson, smiling happily. “And so,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye, “as the sun sinks slowly in the west, and our Jaguar pulls silently, more or less, away from the curb, we say, ‘Farewell to the entertaining Keystone Cops.’ And their open roadster!” He put the car into reverse, looking back over his shoulder. “This seems to be no place for a peace-loving man,” he added. “Shall we go?”

Chapter 6

It was a grim-faced group that had gathered in the locked room of the Richereau apartment in the small hours of the following morning. A sudden request by Madame Richereau to some of her guests to stop by after the party at the Fasano Roof for a nightcap — a request whispered in their ears while dancing — had somehow managed to include Strauss, and somehow managed to exclude Ari. He, having enjoyed himself immensely, had taken a cab back to his hotel, after having regaled everyone with a story of his ludicrous capture and even more ludicrous release. His eyes had sparkled as he told of his adventure, but they had swept the faces of the guests very carefully, also.

Now the last celebrant of the apparently inexhaustible crowd had finally filed reluctantly to the elevator, still singing drunkenly; now Deputado Strauss had somehow managed to remain behind, escaping this exodus in his search for the bathroom; now they were once more seated across from von Roesler. The room also contained a visitor from Rio de Janeiro; a large clown whose mask had been pushed up and out of the way to reveal the heavily eye-browed and whitely toothed Herr Mathais. Von Roesler sat glowering at the three of them, his hands pressed violently into the pockets of his bathrobe, as if to contain by force his displeasure.

“It was a mistake,” Strauss was saying defensively. His big fingers rolled his little feathered cap about with faint nervousness. “I knew at the time it was a mistake. I said it was a mistake.”

“It was bad luck,” Monica said quietly, “running into a club with the same costumes.”

Mathais sat quietly. Not having been involved in the fiasco, he sat back and watched the others with an expressionless face.

Von Roesler sneered, eying them all with impartial disgust. “There is no such thing as bad luck,” he said, his eyes marching steadily from one to the other, a professor on a lectern propounding basics to poorly prepared students. “There is only bad planning. It was a stupid idea from the beginning, trying to take him in front of a roomful of people!”

Strauss could not help himself. “It was a stupid idea from the beginning,” he muttered under his breath.

Von Roesler looked up at this interruption. “What? Did you say something?”

The big man looked up from his feathered cap. “You should have met with him,” he said doggedly. “None of this would have happened if you had met with him.”

Von Roesler dismissed this as pure negativism. “And now what do you intend to do?” It was a statement more than a question, but Strauss chose to interpret it as a query.

“Well, one thing I don’t think we should do,” he said, “is to attempt any more kidnappings!”

“No?” von Roesler said sarcastically.

“I agree with Strauss,” Mathais suddenly said from his chair in the corner. He spoke in a firm, positive voice. Of the three of them, he seemed the least afraid of, or impressed by the bathrobed man behind the desk. “He was picked up twice, once in Rio and once here in São Paulo. The one in Rio can be explained; actually it helped us. But it will be very hard to explain the one in São Paulo.” He shrugged. “This Herr Busch is no fool. One day Strauss asks him for money and he refuses; the next day he is kidnapped. What do you imagine he is going to think?”

“I was against it from the beginning,” Strauss began, but Monica broke into me conversation.

“There is no point in repeating that stupid statement endlessly,” she said with irritation. “It was an idea and it didn’t work. Let’s not talk about it any more.”

“I just want to make sure that we don’t decide to try it again,” Strauss insisted stubbornly.

“Again I agree with Strauss,” Mathais said. “If there should be any more of these attempts, the only thing we will accomplish is to frighten him away from Brazil. He’ll simply leave.”

“And leave the money?” von Roesler sneered.

“He brought the money in, right under our nose, and we don’t know how,” Mathais said boldly, looking von Roesler in the eye. “I’m sure he can take it out again, probably also under our nose, and we still won’t know how he managed.” His glance never wavered. “You all continue to think that Herr Busch is a fool. I know him, and I tell you that he is far from a fool.”

Strauss nodded his head emphatically. “I also know him and I agree. I tried to tell everybody...” His voice trailed into silence under the withering contempt of Monica’s sideways look.

“All right!” Von Roesler was beginning to lose his temper. The madness that ebbed and flowed in him seemed to be at a standstill at the moment. His voice was firm. “So he isn’t a fool! All right!” His voice became gently sarcastic. “You gentlemen seem to know what shouldn’t be done; possibly you might care to express your suggestions as to what should be done!”

Strauss stared stubbornly at the little feathered hat he continued to twist between his fingers. It was clear that he had his ideas but was hesitant to present them. Mathais was not so bashful.

“Certainly,” he said coolly. “It is very simple. We go back to Strauss’s original idea. Which, of course, was the reason I arranged for Herr Busch to come to São Paulo in the first place.” He spread out his hands. “You merely meet with him.”

The explosion they had all been tentatively expecting did not materialize. Von Roesler sat silent, looking from one to the other. Even as they watched he seemed to age a bit, to become a bit smaller, even to shrink a bit into the folds of his bathrobe. When he finally spoke his voice seemed to have even become a bit querulous. They watched this change with amazement.

“It is very easy for you all to talk,” he said, his face beginning to twitch as the madness crept warily back to the edges of his mind. “Meet him! Meet him! But where?” He looked at them craftily. “They are waiting for me to come out of this apartment; don’t you know? They have been waiting for years; I know they have! They almost got Busch, and who is Busch? Nobody! What was Busch ever? Nothing! And yet they almost got Busch.”

“Meet him here,” Mathais said soothingly. “Meet him in this apartment. Then you won’t have to go out.”

“Meet him here?” The crazed voice was scandalized. “Here? Bring him here, when they must be following him every minute, watching every move he makes? Bring him here? Let him lead them to this apartment?”

“If you agree to meet him,” Strauss said in a quiet, reasonable tone, “a meeting place that is safe can easily be arranged.”

The mad eyes swung blindly away from them, wandering tragically along the walls, past the heavily draped windows, over the locked door. “I thought my destiny was always Brazil,” he said, speaking in a soft crooning tone to some hidden corner of his brain, the past beginning to swirl like his pipe smoke through the gossamer web of his thoughts. He giggled. “Safe? What is safe?” The insane laughter faded and he looked at them blankly, through them, beyond them. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I had a map on my desk at Buchenwald, a map of Brazil. I looked at it every day, studied it, pored over it. I thought my destiny was here in Brazil. Here. I was sure that my destiny was here.” He sighed, suddenly weary of it all. “And now I find myself locked in a small room, worse than a prisoner...”

“Your destiny is in Brazil,” Monica said swiftly, quietly, attempting to bring the wandering mind back into focus. “Here in Brazil. Maybe meeting with Herr Busch is that destiny, Erick.”

“And the meeting place is no problem,” Mathais interposed smoothly without a break, not wishing to allow time for the attention of the other to escape back into the nebulous past. “If you don’t want to meet him here in the apartment, I can easily arrange a suite at one of the hotels here in São Paulo.” A gleam of sanity briefly returned. The voice hardened. “Not in São Paulo. I will not meet him in São Paulo.” He leaned forward, appealing to the intelligence of them all. “Don’t you see? They are here in São Paulo. Now. Can’t you understand?”

“A suite at the Mirabelle in Rio, then,” Mathais said equably, calmly. “You will be safe there.”

The gleam once again faded, he seemed to shrink again. “Locked rooms,” he murmured faintly. “Always locked rooms...” He looked up pathetically. “Must I meet with. him?”

“We need the money,” Mathais said quietly.

“We promise you we will arrange a place that is safe from... from... from them,” Strauss added with embarrassment. Monica sat silent, her fingers twisting, her eyes filling with tears.

“Then I will meet with him!” The figure behind the desk seemed to draw strength from the decision. He looked at them all fiercely. “But not in São Paulo. In Rio!” He stood up abruptly; the weak figure that had sat in his place but a moment before had disappeared to be replaced in an instant by the old Erick von Roesler, Colonel in the justly famed and justly feared SD. They watched this metamorphosis in astonished silence.

He turned to Mathais, the old tone of command strong in his voice. “You will arrange it. Consider yourself in command. You will arrange a place that is safe; not indoors, not in any locked room. I leave it to you to arrange.” He turned sharply toward the others, continuing to speak to Mathais. “When all arrangements are completed, you will communicate with Herr Strauss; he will manage to let me know.” He looked at them coldly; it was dismissal. The meeting was over.

Monica saw them out of the apartment, her eyes bright with tears, her thoughts far away. In the automatic elevator, descending slowly, Strauss finally found words. “You know, of course,” he said absently, “the man is mad. Completely mad.” He turned to Mathais as if seeking support.

Mathais smiled at him icily. “Of course.”

“But...”

“But we need the money.” The door opened mechanically, depositing them in a deserted lobby. They stepped out.

“But do you think—” Strauss hesitated for words — “do you think that if he meets with Busch he will... he won’t... that he’ll act all right?” he finished in a rush.

Mathais looked at him. “Von Roesler is the only one who can convince Busch to part with that money. He’ll act all right. He’ll have to!” He turned toward the door, but Strauss caught his arm.

“How will you get Busch to go back to Rio?”

Mathais smiled grimly. “That will be no problem. Leave it to me. We have all wasted too much time trying to be subtle in this entire affair; I’ll simply tell him the man he wants to contact will meet him in Rio on such-and-such a day.”

Strauss still did not seem to be satisfied. “But a meeting place... If it isn’t just right, von Roesler may refuse to go.”

Mathais patted him on the arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry about the meeting place,” he said. “I know just the spot. It will be perfect.”

They pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the deserted street. In the distance the faint sounds of continuing Carnival revelers came beating softly on the early morning air.

“At least,” Strauss said vaguely, “Da Silva won’t be around to complicate things.”

“You handled that very well.” Mathais dismissed the subject abruptly, looking at his wrist watch. Strauss caught the hint.

They shook hands briefly. “Auf wiedersehen.”

“Auf wiedersehen,” Mathais replied. And added, “And don’t worry about the meeting. I know just the place for it. It will be perfect.”