The Eldorado Network (50 page)

Luis heaved himself up. A car was approaching. By its lights he saw what he run into: a railwayman, cycling to work. The car slowed. Luis looked for the taxi and found it just as it moved off. The railwayman was staggering to his feet, cursing. Luis seized his bicycle and dragged it around.

He ran with it, got one foot on a pedal, gave a last, huge thrust, and swung his leg over the crossbar. Sounds of rage and pain followed him. His right kneecap ached like hell.

He pedalled furiously.

The corner where the taxi had stopped was a junction with a main road. Luis didn't stop. He raced into the stream of traffic, heard the scream of car tyres behind him, and swung the bicycle into a long, fast curve. Horns blared in the night, but by then he was pedalling hard, threading between and across vehicles, praying that his wheels wouldn't get trapped in a tramline. His brakes didn't work. His lights didn't work. The saddle was far too low. And it was raining very hard.

He caught up with the cab just as he was losing hope, afraid that it had turned off. He got close enough to note it's number-plate, then dropped back a length or two. They were on a wide avenue leading into the city but it was thick with traffic; keeping pace with the taxi was not difficult.

He had a fright when they reached a large and un-square square with half-a-dozen exists: in the free-for-all, the taxi-driver zigged and zagged until Luis had to chase him through the narrowing gap between a bus and a delivery truck. He made it, at the price of more bellowing horns, and earned himself a straightforward run along another avenue. The rain plastered his hair and made him blink, and a traffic policeman shouted angrily. Luis concentrated grimly on staying with the taxi. They were both waiting at traffic lights when he saw that his trouser-leg was getting caught in the unguarded chain. He dragged the trouser free and tucked it inside his sock, fouling his hands with oil. Not just oil: there was blood too, from a cut finger. He sucked it and swallowed. The lights turned green.

Soon the taxi turned left, away from the shopping centre, and they went downhill, towards the river. The traffic was thinner here and Luis had to work harder; but without any brakes the only way he could stop was by letting both feet skid along the ground, so there was a danger in going fast, too. His legs and arms were aching when the taxi turned the last corner and pulled up outside a small stone building. The place stood on its own, on the uphill side of a street that had been terraced out of the slope. Luis turned his face away as he rattled past the taxi. Below was the chilly glitter of the Douro.

He rode on until he was safe in the darkness, stopped, and looked back. His man was unlocking the front door while the taxi U-turned and cruised away. The door shut. A breeze came wandering through the blackness and flicked invisible drops into Luis's face.

He knew one thing: whatever he did next, it had to be planned, calculated and methodical. Ever since they left the bank he had been acting on impulse, improvising. Now it was time to get organised.

For three minutes he stood in the wet and draughty night, reviewing the problem, analysing the known facts and preparing possible courses of action. After three minutes he was shivering and his teeth were chattering.

All the possible courses of action appeared to be equally use-less. He threw the bicycle behind some trees and walked briskly to the house.

It wasn't just a house; it was an office, or maybe a shop. It had a big front window with a closed Venetian blind, and a brass plate beside the door read C.A.P. Lda.

Luis rang the bell. It made a woolly sound, as if the rain had got into it. After five seconds he beat on the door. There was no porch to protect him. He hopped stiffly from foot to foot, and beat on the door again. A light came on and it occurred to him, too late, that other people might live here too. The door opened. It was his man, now coatless. 'Sim? O que e que deseja?' he asked sharply.

'You have my letter,' Luis said in English. The man stared. Luis stared back. Inside the house an enormous dog padded into view: some kind of mastiff or wolfhound.

'Who are you?' the man asked.

'Luis Cabrillo. Who are you?' Luis suddenly sneezed. He was shivering again. The dog came up and looked at him with interest.

'Good heavens, you're soaked to the skin. Have you had an accident?'

'Not yet,' Luis said. It wasn't an intelligent answer but it was the best he could do. The man's accent puzzled him: not English, but not Portuguese, either. The dog dropped its head and sniffed his hand. 'Well, you can't stand out there all night,' the man said. 'Come here, Bruno!'

Bruno escorted them into the house. They crossed a bare hallway and went into the front room. It extended the full depth of the building and everywhere Luis looked he saw a cutting   instrument:    axes,   cleavers,    billhooks,   knives, scythes; they were stacked around the walls by the dozen, glinting and gleaming, brand new and alarmingly sharp. Luis hated sharp-edged tools. The very thought of a cut-throat razor made him fidget and hunch his shoulders. He felt horribly unsafe in this room. No matter where he stood, something sharp was pointing at his back.

'What name did you say?' the man asked. He seemed. quite calm; just curious.

'Luis Cabrillo. I followed you from Lisbon. You have my letter, you took it from the bank, and I want to know why.' Luis kept turning as the man strolled across the room. There was something strange about his eyes, Luis and a feeling he had seen them before . . . No, not the eyes, but the expression.

'You followed me here? All the way from Lisbon?' He gave an astonished chuckle. 'And it's all about some letter, you say?'

'You took my letter. It's probably in your briefcase now.'

'You may well be right. I have a great number of letters in my briefcase, most of which I collected from my bank in Lisbon. I haven't even looked at them yet, but if yours is amongst them, Mr . . . uh . . .'

'Cabrillo.'

'Mr Cabrillo, then either it's an order for three dozen meat cleavers, or the bank has made a mistake.'

He smiled, took a handkerchief from his cuff, and blew his nose. Bruno got bored and went and sprawled in a corner.

Luis began to feel the rot of uncertainty eat into him. 'What were you doing in Lisbon?' he asked.

'Business. C.A.P. stands for Cozinha, Agriculture, e Pesca. Cooking, farming and fishing. Each involves cutting things down or cutting things up. We supply the cutters. May I ask what you were doing in Lisbon, Mr . . .' He tapped his forehead to bring the" name back. 'Sorry. Cabrillo.'

'You have my hat. Why did you take my hat?'

It sounded like a silly question, a simpleminded question. For a split second Luis's brain faltered and he couldn't remember why his hat mattered. He realised that he was very tired; he wanted to sit down, better yet to lie down; but he dared not to move from the centre of this room. His clothes clung to him. He noticed that his right trouser leg was still tucked inside his sock. The lights seemed pain fully bright.

'You're bleeding,' the man said. 'Have you hurt yourself?' Luis remembered his finger and held it up. The end was slippery with blood. 'It's nothing,' he said.

It may be nothing to you but it's making a nasty mess of my carpet,' the man said. It was true: there were red drops soaking into the grey pile. 'You stay there,' he said, and started up an open staircase leading to the floor above. 'I really don't know what you're doing here,' he said as he went, 'but we can't let you go around like that.'

Luis held his palm underneath his finger to catch the drips, and yawned. He felt dreadful. If this man looked in his briefcase, found the letter and gave it back, the only course would be to apologise and agree that the bank had made a mistake, which was probably the case. The black hat. meant nothing; quite possibly this man had lost a black hat, once, and when the bank said . . . Luis yawned again and looked at the display of weapons all around him. That was another thing: the fellow had had plenty of chance to grab a hatchet and brain him. Instead of which here he was, walking carefully downstairs so as not to spill the hot water on his tray of cut-finger treatments. 'Stay, Bruno,' he growled as the dog raised its head. 'You should have told me about that finger,' he said. 'I'm not terribly concerned about the carpet, but. . .'He put down the tray and picked up the hot water. 'No, it's not for you,' he told Bruno. 'He hasn't been fed yet,' he said. 'My fault. Now then, let's get the dirt out.'

Luis held his finger straight and braced himself for the sting of iodine. Only a sudden tightening of the man's finger-tips, and a sharp whiff of something harsher than iodine, saved Luis's eyes. He ducked as the contents of the bowel were hurled where his face had been. The stink of

ammonia fouled the air. The man was halfway up the stairs before Luis recovered and gave chase. Bruno charged after them both, baying deafeningly. Luis lashed out at the dog with his leg and missed. The man had disappeared when he got to the top but he heard a key rattle in a lock and flung himself at the door. It banged open and smashed the man in the face. He let out a croak of pain and staggered back. Luis barged in and grabbed for him, but Bruno, still baying hard, galloped between Luis's legs and he fell over.

The man ran to a metal desk. He was shouting something, an appeal or a threat, it was impossible to say which: he was gasping for breath and blood was splattering from his nose. Luis began heaving himself up as Bruno, in full, hoarse cry, completed a lap of the desk and collided with him and knocked him down again. By the time Luis had shoved the great hound aside, the man was dragging out desk drawers in a desperate search for something.

A terrible dread of what that something might be gave Luis a fresh burst of energy. The man dodged away from him, blood falling in a long, broken dribble, and seized a deep wooden tray, loaded with papers. As Luis closed in he flailed the tray with furious speed from side to side. Papers flew everywhere and the tray cracked Luis's knuckles. He roared. Bruno welcomed the competition and barked more thunderously than ever. As Luis backed away from the flailing tray, Bruno leaped up and tried to lick his face. Luis staggered under the weight and the man flung a glass inkpot. It struck just above the right eye, on the bone. The clammy fire of pain raged through his head.

For a second or two Luis was senseless. When Bruno's racket penetrated his brain it had a hysterical edge which kept repeating itself like a duplicate shriek. His head cleared and he saw that the man was on his knees, cursing, trying to force a very small key into the lock of a desk drawer. His fingers were wet with blood. It was a double nightmare now: Luis could see the key slipping and stumbling while his own body, drained of strength, refused to move. At last the key turned, the drawer was yanked out and dumped. The man gave a cry of despair which was straight from the jungle. Luis gaped. Bruno galloped joyously up and down the room, skidding on the turns.

The man groped for the last desk drawer.

Luis watched him tug at the handle and felt himself hamstrung by fear. Then the drawer moved an inch, and Luis moved too, lurching forward as if wading. There was a big typewriter on the desk. He got both hands on it, raised it shoulder-high, and swung it at the man's bowed bead. The machine crashed against his ear and knocked him sprawling until his knuckles touched the wall. He lay still, only the blood from his nostrils moving. After a while that stopped too.

Luis sat on the floor and rested his head on the desk. It was very quiet. He wondered why, and looked up. Bruno saw him look, and came padding across the room. Luis blinked into the dog's eyes. He was crying something in his mouth, a gift. Luis let him drop it in his hand. It was the glass inkpot. Bruno's ears pricked and he gave one soft bark. He wanted Luis to throw it for him. 'Oh, for God's sake,' Luis muttered.

Bruno recognised the tone of voice. His ears drooped and foe went away to sniff the bloody face«by the wall.

When he felt strong enough, Luis crawled over there too. The man was dead; already the blood on his lips and chin was turning black and crusty. Luis crawled back to the desk. He and Bruno looked inside the last drawer. It contained a telephone. 'Oh Jesus,' Luis moaned. He had murdered a man who had simply been trying to call for help. It had all been a huge, appalling blunder. He tugged the drawer all the way out. Lying behind the telephone was an automatic pistol, a Luger. It was fully loaded. Luis closed his eyes and sagged with relief.

He took Bruno for a walk and found the bathroom. He snipped naked and washed off all the dust and sweat, the dirt and oil and blood. His finger began bleeding again, and there was a long cut over his eye. He found a medicine cabinet and stuck plaster dressings on the cuts. His right knee was swollen from the bicycle collision. Bruno licked it.

They padded into the bedroom. Luis got into fresh socks and underwear and put on a dressing gown. The other room was a kitchen, where he rewarded himself with a large brandy. Then back to the office.

The brandy turned out to have been a wise precaution. The first shock came when he searched the body and discovered that the dead man's name was Krafft. Alfred Krafft. Luis covered the lower half on the face and squinted at the eyes. Now that he knew what to look for, the likeness was unmistakable. Those were Otto Krafft's eyes. Good God Almighty.

Alfred Krafft's filing cabinets produced the second shock. One of them was half-full of carbon copies of intelligence reports. They were addressed to 'Tomcat' in Madrid, and they were signed 'Eagle'.

Luis made himself a couple of sandwiches, brought the brandy bottle, and read everything that Eagle had ever written. Bruno lay beside him, his massive head on his lap. One of the most recent reports was all about the British light-alloy industry and how well it was doing, especially in Scotland. Luis groaned. Bruno cocked an eye, in case he needed help.

So that was what it was all about. Luis heaved a sigh, and drank what was left in his glass in a toast to the sprawled corpse. Bad luck, Alfred. And bad luck, Otto.