The Dead Man's Brother (18 page)

VIII.

Donald Mason was his name. He was in his late forties, I’d say, and his black hair was only lightly sprinkled with gray. His dark eyes were steady, his movements slow and deliberate. He was well-tanned, and there was a reassuring air of competency to his clipped, Boston accent.

It was early afternoon and the two of us sat in a small office at the American Consulate, a bright day’s traffic making noises below the window.

It was two days after our release. I had telephoned the Consulate that same afternoon, identified myself as a U.S. citizen connected with a certain government agency and requested a meeting with a security officer. I added that it was urgent, gave my name and telephone number and hung up. Then Maria and I had ordered dinner from room service and waited in our room.

It was early evening before Mason called. It was a long distance call. From where, he didn’t say. We’d made arrangements and met in that same office that following morning. I had told him the whole story then. He had listened, then said that he would check into it and get back in touch.

Now we were there again, a little more rested.

Now he was telling me that it was all over.

"You mean I am not wanted in connection with the killings in Rome?" I asked.

"That is correct. Our people are handling that investigation, with the cooperation of the Italian authorities. The Italians might put it the other way around, but it amounts to the same thing."

"Any luck yet?"

"There have been no arrests so far."

"What about Father Bretagne’s death?"

"We have been assisting the Portuguese authorities in looking into the matter."

"Anything there?"

"No arrests yet."

"What is my status in connection with Carl Bernini’s murder?"

"You appear to be off the hook."

"The agency cooperation with New York authorities? Or is it the other way around? I forget."

"Let us say you are pretty much out of the picture now, and the investigation continues."

"Any arrests?"

"No."

"What about our storm trooper treatment by Inspector Morales?"

"There is an Inspector Morales on the local force, and he fits your description. However, he denies the entire story. He says he has never heard of you or Maria. His department backs him up, to the extent that their records show nothing concerning your being arrested or held for questioning."

"Is he the one investigating the Bretagne robbery?"

"Yes."

"I gave you a description of the building where we were held and a map showing its location. What’s there?"

"A deserted farm, with a main building more or less fitting your description."

"Signs of recent occupancy?"

"Some."

"Who owns the place?"

"An old couple, living in a retirement hotel in Poços de Caldas. They’ve had the place up for sale for some time now."

"What about the license number I gave you?"

"It’s police, all right. And the car is assigned to Morales."

"So?"

"It stops there. Anybody could write down his license number and describe an old building. It’s your words against his, and he’s theirs and you and Maria are foreigners. You certainly don’t look as if you’ve been abused recently."

"Do you believe Morales’ story?"

"Of course not. I’m just telling you to forget about it."

"That will take a lot of forgetting."

"Take the rest of your life if you care to."

"Thanks. What about Emil Bretagne? Has he turned up yet?"

"No."

"You
are
looking for him, aren’t you?"

"Ovid…"

"Yes?"

"You do not seem to understand what I have been saying. It does not matter whether he is being sought or whether he is found. Not to you. Not now. I have just accepted your final report. You are out of the picture now. I thank you on behalf of the agency. You are free to go about your own business as you would."

"That’s just peachy keen," I said. "Do you mind telling me what it is that I have accomplished for you?"

"I would like to," he said.

"—but I have no need to know?" I finished.

He nodded.

"That, basically, is it," he said.

I nodded back.

"I understand. Very well. Since you can do nothing for me and you want nothing more from me, I guess that about winds things up. Doesn’t it?"

"I’d say so. What are your plans now?"

I shrugged.

"Since I’m here, I might as well enjoy it—see some of the sights, visit the galleries and museums. Things like that. Why?"

"Just curious," he said. "I would hate to see you get involved in any more difficulties—now that it would serve no useful end."

"Are you trying to tell me that it would be dangerous for me to remain here?"

"No, I was not implying that at all. You can find danger anywhere if you go looking for it."

"I see," I said. "I wasn’t planning on hunting for any. Why don’t you tell me where I can find it, so I’ll know what places to avoid?"

He smiled, showing teeth almost too perfect to be his own.

"The thought simply occurred to me," he said, "that you might have become so involved in this thing that you would wish to follow through on it on your own. I would recommend against this."

"I wouldn’t know where to begin," I said, returning his smile and lighting a cigarette. "No, I intend only to spend a couple of weeks visiting this lovely country, then return to the States, pick up the reins of my business and sell my story to
Rolling Stone
."

His smile went away.

"I would not joke that way," he said, slowly, softly.

"Of course you wouldn’t. You’re an employee. But then, I’m not joking. Somebody, somewhere, should be interested enough to at least pay me for my expenses on this trip. I make out, but I’m hardly what you would call wealthy. This running around is costing me and hurting the gallery."

The edge went out of his voice.

"I believe your expenses are reimbursable," he said.

"Nobody said anything to me about it," I said. "But in addition to my expenses, I lost what business I could have been doing."

"I am certain something can be worked out. Submit your bills for the trip and an estimate of your losses to the man who will get in touch with you about a month after your return. He will take care of the matter. Does that sound satisfactory?"

"I suppose."

"Give me a definite answer. We get enough bad press without you adding this to it."

"All right: yes. My answer is yes."

"Good."

He sighed.

"Now I believe we have covered everything," he said.

"It seems that way."

He rose and extended his hand. I took it and shook it.

"Thank you," he said, "and I apologize for not being able to specify for what. I doubt that I will ever see you again. So have a pleasant vacation and a good trip home."

"Thank you."

As I turned away and headed toward the door, he added, "Good luck."

*

Maria and I dined that night at an overpriced fish house that the guy who wrote the guidebook claimed was good. For me, it was an obscure sort of celebration. I was free of something, according to Mason. No matter that I did not understand what that something was. It had influenced my actions for the past several weeks, gotten me shot at, shuttled between countries and beaten up. Now that phase of my existence was ended, according to Mason, and this seemed to warrant an evening in an overpriced fish house.

Physically, I was feeling fairly normal again. My feelings toward large, impersonal organizations with lots of power were unchanged, but then I’ve always been an anarchist. Now, but for two promises, I was free to tend my gallery.

Maria either did not remember, did not care or had dismissed as hysterical my ravings about the CIA during the worst stages of our questioning. Just as well, that. Our connection was meaningless to me, and such things are generally difficult to explain. An inquiry by an Italian official had gotten her the same story I had received concerning Morales. I had telephoned the Bretagne place. The first time, the maid had checked and told me Mrs. Bretagne was unavailable. The second time she simply hung up. I filled my mouth with fish and thought of Kafka.

Maria had just finished asking me her what-are-wegoing-to-do-now? question for the sixth or seventh time and I was preparing a variation on my wait-a-while-andlet-me-think answer, when I heard my name spoken, prefaced by a polite obscenity.

Walter Carlon’s hand fell upon my shoulder as I turned.

"…and well-met," he finished.

"Don’t I know you from somewhere?" I said, shaking his hand.

"Maria, you’re looking well," he said.

"Thank you," and she smiled.

"May I join you?"

"Sit down," I said. "How long have you been in town, Walt?"

"Got in the day before yesterday," he told me. "Came up from Rio. Spent a couple days there. Galleries and the Press Club, mostly. Then I heard there was a lot of good stuff being shown here."

He lowered himself into a chair and sighed.

"There’s a lot to see. My feet are killing me."

I nodded and grunted a noncommittal reply. He returned his attention to Maria.

"Too bad about your boss," he observed.

"What?" she said, "Bruno?"

"Yes. You mean you hadn’t heard?"

"No. What happened?"

"Auto accident. A little over a week ago. I was at the funeral."

We had stopped eating. Maria’s face was tight, and she was staring at him. He dropped his eyes.

"Hell of a way to start a conversation at dinner," he said. "I thought you knew. Sorry."

"How did it happen?" I asked.

"Just like I said. He was up in the hills and he went off the road. Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel."

"I take it there were no witnesses?"

"No."

"Had he been drinking?"

"I don’t know, but
I’m
about to." He turned and ordered a drink from an approaching waiter. "Let’s talk about something else, huh?"

I nodded and resumed eating. Maria did the same.

"You know, you’re what brought me here," he said.

"Oh? How?"

"That night in Rome, talking about Brazil," he said. "You got me to thinking about it. I’d been wanting a change of scene, and I didn’t feel like visiting the States. So I packed up and came here."

"How do you like it?"

"Fine! I’ve seen tons of stuff by Portinari that I never knew existed—and Camargo, Bandaira, Scliar, Elsas, Carybé, Eurydice. Great! You were right. I’m glad I came. I felt like doing a year’s worth of columns yesterday. Don’t you feel like spending at least a month in the Museum of Contemporary Art?"

"I haven’t been there yet."

He laughed.

"Really," he said.

"I’m not joking," I told him. "I haven’t seen it."

"What have you found that is so much better?"

"Nothing."

"I don’t understand."

"Neither do I. We’ve been locked up for days and interrogated

by maniacs."

"You mean kidnapped? One of those terrorist things?"

"That explanation seems as good as any."

His brows worked themselves together as he studied me.

"You’re not joking?"

"No. I’m bitter as all hell."

"Did you report it to the American Embassy?"

"Of course. No satisfaction there."

"That’s terrible!"

"We agree."

"What was it like?"

"Not now. I’m eating."

"But what did they want? How did it happen?"

"We were just lucky enough to visit the home of a guy named Emil Bretagne the morning after it had been burglarized. We gave some so-called cops a phony story, and that’s how it all started."

"Bretagne," he said, nodding. "No wonder."

I glanced up.

"What do you mean, ‘No wonder’?"

"Well, everybody wants him."

I lowered my fork.

"How so?"

"My God! Don’t you read the newspapers?" He paused to accept his drink, sample it and ask for a menu. "He is a much sought-after man," he said then.

"Why?" Maria inquired.

"Money," he said, gesturing simply. "The story broke while I was in Rio. He was a big wheel at the place where he worked—Investment Director or something like that."

"Bassenrut," Maria said.

"Yes, that’s the outfit. He’s been gone a couple weeks now. He did a lot of traveling, keeping tabs on their investments, so nothing seemed unusual about his taking off on another trip. It was several days before they got wind of what he was up to—and then they wasted several more days trying to be discreet about it. By then it was too late. He moved very fast and was able to clean out some accounts and liquidate a few assets before they could freeze him out."

I had to swallow before I could sigh.

"How much did he get?" I asked.

He received his menu at that point, glanced at it, ordered. Then he looked at me and shrugged.

"Some of the guesses run into the millions," he said. "Bassenrut hasn’t given any figures. They may not be able to."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled.

"Not paying your taxes is a great tradition in this country, and enforcement of the tax laws is nowhere near as efficient as it is in the States. I understand some outfits down here keep four sets of books."

"Four?"

"One for the officers themselves, one for the shareholders, one for foreign investors and one for the government. Now if Bassenrut had something like this going, they wouldn’t be too quick to start specifying accounts and amounts."

"And Emil, I take it, had access to whatever books they kept?"

"Hell! He was in charge of their accounting department!"

"Sounds like a talented fellow."

"Second in his class at Harvard Business School."

"Only second?"

"Yes. But they kept the honors in the family. His younger brother was first. He didn’t go into the business world, though. He became a priest."

"And the whole business is common knowledge?" I said.