The Fugitive

Chapter 1

Da Silva and Wilson stood on the broad marble steps of the Instituto Medico-Legal in the hot afternoon sun, staring silently at each other. Wilson’s head carried a wide bandage; his left arm swung stiffly from a silken sling.

“It’s von Roesler, all right,” Wilson said quietly. “I’ll send his fingerprints off this afternoon, but I don’t think there is any doubt.” He stared at his companion’s rigid face. “You were right, of course, all along.”

“I was late, of course, all along,” Da Silva said bitterly. He stared back over his shoulder at the tall bronze doors of the Instituto. “It was Ari who was right all along. Even at the end...”

Wilson touched the tall man’s shoulder with his free hand, in compassion. “You cannot take a thing like this personally. You did everything you could have done.”

Da Silva sighed, forcing his mind away from the battered, smiling body that he had so recently left behind, lying in peaceful oblivion in his narrow tier in the Medico-Legal. A thought that had lain dormant below the surface of his mind for some time now arose. He turned to Wilson somberly. “And the report? How will it go?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll have to put in a report, you know. He was an American citizen. And what will your report say? Will it be another case of endless revenge by a Jew against a Nazi? Must we end up, after all this, with what would amount, in the eyes of so many blind people, to another Eichmann case after all?”

Wilson looked surprised. “Another Eichmann case? They were both Nazis, don’t you remember?” His voice was gentle. “As far as I am concerned, Herr Busch and Colonel Von Roesler had a terrible accident. Or possibly they committed suicide.” He looked calmly into Da Silva’s eyes.

“It could be that their consciences bothered them.”

Da Silva looked down at the bandaged man beside him, his warm eyes full of thankful appreciativeness. “Very good.”

He turned away again, sighing deeply, shrugging. “Little Ari Schoenberg took care of the beast’s head; I’ll take care of the wriggling fingers and toes that were left behind!” There was grim promise in his tone of voice.

“How?” Wilson asked curiously.

Da Silva smiled, a hard smile. “I don’t know. Maybe they will all be bothered by consciences. Possibly they will all commit suicide.” He laughed angrily, slapping Wilson on the back. “Don’t look so shocked.” He patted Wilson more gently this time. “Don’t be worried. I said I don’t know. I don’t know what I will do. But it will be taken care of; that I promise!”

They left the wide steps, beginning to walk slowly down the street, accommodating their pace to Wilson’s slight limp. At the corner they paused and Da Silva looked back at the Instituto, the morgue, where the tattered remains of Ari’s body lay. “When this is all over and forgotten,” he said softly, “I’ll take his body from wherever they put it and have it buried in the Jewish Cemetery here in Rio. I think that is what he would have wanted.”

They turned the corner into the Avenida. Ahead of them, across the little spit of bay with tumbling waves, the sheer cone of Sugar Loaf rose in the bright sunlight. A tiny car pulled its way along the fine cables, struggling toward the summit.

Da Silva tore his eyes away from it and turned to Wilson, suddenly smiling in his old carefree style.

“There is one punishment that Mathais, Strauss, Gunther, and all of the others will suffer,” he said almost happily, “a punishment that is worse than any I could possibly inflict upon them!”

Wilson looked at him with raised eyebrows, questioningly.

“The money!” Da Silva said with a bitter chuckle. “The money! The two million dollars! Here it is, in Brazil, somewhere; here it is with no owner, theirs for the taking! But where? You see, now that Herr Busch is dead, nobody knows!”

He put his hand under Wilson’s arm, helping him to cross a side street. They paused as traffic swept by them; then, with the street clear, they crossed and continued down the avenue, basking in the afternoon sun and the warm satisfaction of their friendship. In the distance, Sugar Loaf looked calmly down, endless and eternal, its peak fronting the sky majestically.