The Long escape Read online

  "He was married for about fifteen years, under the name of Robert R. Parker, to a woman in Pasadena, California. He deserted her five years ago, obtained an American passport by swearing to United States citizenship, journeyed around Central and South America for a time to conceal his trail, and came to Chile. He left with his wife the properties I spoke of yesterday, but the law of the country in which they lived makes it impossible for her to dispose of them without his consent as long as he is alive. I was instructed to persuade him to communicate with his wife's lawyer or to bring back sufficient evidence to prove to the courts that he is dead."

  Don Rodolfo made three billiards while I was talking. He missed the fourth one. I chalked my cue and took over.

  "What can you tell me about Robert R. Parker?" I said.

  "He was my brother. His name was Roberto Ruano. Parker was our mother's name. He left Chile as a yoting man and went to the States, where, as you say, he married. I did not hear from him while he was eone. I knew nothing of him, not that he was alive or dead, until he came back. He did not talk much of himself, except to say that his life had been unhappy and he wished to avoid discovery by his wife. He would not discuss it further. I helped him buy a fundo, a farm, near Melipilla, a small town fifteen or twenty leagues southwest of here. He died there shortly after his return. His body lies on his farm, the Hacienda Quilpue."

  "How did he die?"

  "We do not know, for sure. He was in the habit of riding alone over his farm. One time he did not return. When he was found, his horse lay dead beside him, a bullet through its skull. The bullet had come from my brother's pistol, which was empty. We think that the horse fell—it was a remote, dangerous part of the fundo —and injured both itself and him. He would have put it out of its misery and then used the other shots in the pistol to try to attract help. It did not come in time to save him."

  "He did not keep a bullet for himself, perhaps?"

  "That we do not know. It was nearly two weeks before he was found. The buzzards had done things to him which made the exact manner of his death impossible to discover."

  The old man's voice was as level as ever. But I straightened up from missing my billiard in time to see his face.

  I said, "I am sorry to distress you, don Rodolfo. It is my duty to learn all there is to know."

  "Do not distress yourself on my account. I am at your service."

  "It is your play."

  He ran a string of ten smooth billiards together like falling off a log.

  It was a nice, neat, believable story, so far. Not a bug in a carload. I said, "Did you ever consider that your brother might have been murdered?"

  "It was considered by the authorities. I do not believe it, myself. He had no enemies. Nor friends."

  "You can not know what enemies he made while he was aAvay, don Rodolfo. And men have been killed for the money they carried in their pockets."

  "It is a possibility."

  "He was a wealthy man?"

  "Yes. Our money came from the nitrate fields. In

  the old days, before the Germans learned to— hacerlo — there is an English word ..."

  "Synthesize."

  "Yes. Before the Germans learned to synthesize, there was great wealth in the nitrate fields. Even afterwards, profits could be made. He himself had done all the work of developing the family holdings, which were in his name—he was the elder son, you understand, and the properties came* to him from my father—but we shared the income. When he returned, money was waiting which I had held for him in trust. It was more than enough to buy the funclo and provide for his old age—even had his old age not been so brief."

  He missed the eleventh billiard by a hair off the fourth cushion, and clicked his tongue.

  "My eye is failing. Fito does not give me enough practice."

  "For that, I am grateful. The properties descended to you, then?"

  "By Chilean law. He had no other heirs."

  "There is the wife in California."

  He watched me make a billiard. Two billiards. Three billiards. Four. It v.'as one of my longest strings.

  He said slowly, "My brother told me that he left her well provided for. I do not think she has any just claim

  against pioj)crtics which have been in my family for generations."

  "She will certainly be well provided for if the matter of title to the California properties is clarified. That is the reason—the only reason—I am here in Chile."

  He didn't say anything to that.

  While I was gnawing over what he had told me, he ran out his string. Then we had brandy which a muchacho brought down to iis from upstairs. I didn't know if any more billiards were coming up, and I was ready to bite off another chew.

  "You will help me obtain the evidence I need to prove your brother's death, don Rodolfo?"

  "Certainly. I am at your service."

  "Who found the body?"

  "A vaquero on his farm."

  "Who identified it?"

  "The vaquero first. I saw it later."

  "You are certain of the identification? I say this because you mentioned the buzzards. . . ."

  "I am certain. There was—enous^h—remaining;—for me to be sure."

  His face was stony.

  "It lies on the fundo now?"

  "Yes. There is a small graveyard."

  "Under what name was he buried?"

  "His own. Roberto Ruano Parker."

  "How will I be able to prove that Roberto Ruano Parker of Chile and Robert R. Parker of California were the same?"

  He thought about it.

  "I will give you a paper under oath that they were the same person."

  "That will help. Who else knew of his identity?"

  "My son and my daughter."

  "Not dona Maria?"

  "No. She knows only that he was in the States for a long time. She knows nothing of his—other life. I do not wish her to know more than she does."

  "There is no need for her to know. Will your son and your daughter also give me a paper under oath?"

  There w^as the faintest hesitation before he answered. "If you wish it."

  "In the event your affidavits are not sufficient for the purposes of my client, will you give me authority to have the body disinterred?"

  He frowned at me.

  "What purpose would that serve? He has been dead more than four years. By this time ..."

  "I have a report of a medical examination which includes a chart of his teeth. It would be certain identification."

  He didn't answer.

  I said, "I realize how distasteful the thought must be to you, don Rodolfo. I suggest it only because the afTi-davits may not satisfy California legal requirements. If they do, nothing further will be necessary. If they do not, I will need your co-operation."

  He said slowly, "I hope that the affidavits will serve. My brother did not talk much of his life in the States, but I know that he wished to escape it completely. From what you tell me, he had much of which to be ashamed. His shame will be my family's shame if his grave is publicly opened and it becomes known that he was a wife-deserter and a liar under oath. He was not entitled to claim United States citizenship. He was puro Chileno, as I am." Don Rodolfo lifted his old grandee's head. "I should not like to shame my family. We are proud— too proud, perhaps."

  "I will do everything possible to save your pride. Can I count on your help, if it becomes necessary?"

  "we will see."

  He trounced me two more games of billiards, each time apologizing for his own good luck and complimenting me on my excellent game, as a caballero should. His home was mine to use whenever I liked. He was going to give me cards to the Club de la Union, the Club de Septiembre, and a couple of others. He was

  going to break his back, seeing that I had a real bang-up time while I was in Chile, and tomorrow he and the kids would meet me at the United States consul's office to make out the affidavits. We didn't talk any more about opening his brother's grave.

>   After the billiards, we joined Maria Teresa and her mother upstairs. Fito had gone out. We sniffed another brandy, talked for a while, and I left.

  Maria Teresa went to the door with me a2:ain. We stopped off in the big front sala to wait while the maid brought my hat.

  I said, "I'd like to ask you and your father and mother to go to dinner with me tomorrow, if you have no other plans."

  "My father and mother never go out. But I'll tell them you asked."

  "How about you?"

  She didn't hesitate a minute.

  "I'd like it. Will you wait until I ask my father?"

  I said I'd wait. She went to check with the old man.

  While I waited, I looked at the statues. Also the pictures. Some of them seemed to be pretty good stuff, and some were just things that belonged to the family, portraits of grandpa and Aunt Minnie and the others. There weren't any of the old man's private production.

  One picture, a small photograph in a gilt frame, stood

  on a tabic near the door. I was holding it in my hand when Maria Teresa came back.

  "Yes," she said. "What time will you call for me?"

  "Seven-thirty?"

  My voice must have shown something. She looked surprised when she said seven-thirty was fine. I held out the photograph.

  "Who is this?"

  She laughed.

  "I've grown a lot, haven't I? I was four years old when that was taken."

  "You were a pretty child."

  "Thank you."

  I put the picture down. We said good night.

  Back at the hotel I got the Parker stuff out of my bag and looked at the kid's picture I had framed with cellophane.

  It was Fito, all right. I w^ould have known they were brother and sister even if the two photographs hadn't had the same style, the same pose, the same solemn, scrubbed little-kid look. I hadn't recognized Maria Teresa only because she looked like Mapy Cortes. I had stared so hard and so often at her brother's picture as a small boy that the features had fixed themselves in my mind, so that although I hadn't been able to

  recognize him behind the mustache and twenty years of growing up, I could see the resemblance in her.

  But why had Uncle Roberto, who had not thought enough of his brother to write a letter in twenty years, carried his nephew's picture with him so long and so faithfully before losing it in the front seat of the Buick?

  I was sure getting plenty to chew on as I went along.

  Next morning I sent another cable off to Adams. At first I tried to code it, in case the Rnanos had pipelines of their own which led to the cable office, but it got too complicated. I thought, what the hell, if they were checking me that close, the sooner we got out in the open the better.

  I sent the cable straight. It was expensive. It read:

  AM ON TRAIL. PARKER, ALIAS, REPORTED DEAD HERE SEVERAL YEARS AGO. CAN OBTAIN AFFIDAVITS TO SUBSTANTIATE IDENTITY', BUT EXPECT OPPOSITION TO DEMAND FOR EXHUMATION OF BODY FOR EXAMINATION. DON't KNOW WHAT IS COOKING BUT SUSPECT SOMETHING SCREWY. WILL YOU ACCEPT AFFIDAVITS SUBTANTIATING FACT OF DEATH OR SHALL I INQUIRE FURTHER INTO FACTS. EMPHASIZE THAT AM QUESTIONING AFFIDAVITS ON HUNCH ONLY. REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS AND ADDITIONAL 25OO EXPENSE MONEY CARE HOTEL CARRERA HERE IF FURTHER INVESTIGATION DESIRED. IN LATTER CASE, SUGGEST YOU REPLY WITH SIMPLE STATEMENT THAT AFFIDAVITS ARE INSUFFICIENT FOR YOUR PURPOSE AND AUTHORIZE FURTHER EXPENDITURE.

  The last part was so that I would get something with which to squeeze don Rodolfo if I had to. The extra twenty-five hundred bucks wasn't essential at the moment, but I might need it sooner or later, and I was half hoping that it might scare Adams into calling me off with the affidavits. I explained to the clerk at the cable office that "screwy" was an abreviation for una cosa loca, then went to the consulate to keep my date with the Ruano family.

  They were late. When they showed up, the consul was busy. We had to wait another half an hour before I could introduce don Rodolfo. The consul knew Fito and Maria Teresa already, but I could see that Idaho Farrell hadn't been kidding me when she said that the family was exclusive. Apparently this was the first time the old man had appeared in public since the big earthquake.

  The consul spoke good Spanish, so nobody had to interpret. Don Rodolfo told him what they wanted to do. It was a family matter, he explained, muy delicada, and he trusted that the consul would understand that it was strictly private, not to go any further. The consul understood perfectly. He would even type the statements himself, if they would write them out for him.

  The old man wrote out a statement that I dictated. Then I dictated another for the two kids, and the consul sat down and beat them out on a typewriter while we waited.

  The air was a little strained. We didn't talk much. When tiic consul had finished typing, he passed the papers around for signature, took their oaths, and slapped his seal on the documents. I put them in my pocket.

  Things were easier after we got out in the street. I thanked them all for their help and so forth and reminded Maria Teresa of our date that night. She said she was looking forward to it. Fito wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me. Was I comfortable at my hotel? Woidd I like him to arrange a golf match for me? Would I like him to take me to the cockfights?

  I said I was happy, thanks just the same. The Ruanos went their way and I w'ent mine.

  I spent the day wandering around town reading inscriptions on statues of O'Higgins and Simon Bolivar and Jose de San Martin and General O'Brien and all the others who had fought, bled and died to make Chile what it was. Santiago is a beautiful place at any time. On that particular spring afternoon, with the sun wvarm on my head, the birds singing in the trees and the odor of flowering fruit trees so strong that even the smell of horse traffic on the Alameda couldn't kill it, with the

  papers that ought to mark the completion of my job signed, sealed and delivered in my pocket, and having a date that night with a pretty girl, I should have been the most contented cow that ever wandered across the green grass of Parque Providencia down to the river bank to chew my cud and stare at the water. I wasn't. I felt like biting somebody's ear off.

  That night, I drove up to the Ruano family mausoleum in a sporty green coupe I had rented. Maria Teresa was ready, a surprising thing for a South American girl. She brought along her five thousand dollars worth of mink, and a mantilla to tie over her hair. We drove up the Alameda, the breeze blowing fresh and fragrant through the windows of the coupe.

  I said, "Where do you want to go?" •

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "I don't know anything but the Carrera and the neighborhood around Plaza de Armas. I thought you might be able to suggest some place, not too noisy, where we could dance and have dinner and talk. Anything you like is all right with me."

  She thought about it.

  "Have you seen Cerro San Cristobal?"

  "No."

  "Let's go there. There's a casino, and a view of the city. Turn off down this street."

  We drove across the river and followed a winding road that took us a thousand feet up the cerro to a parking lot below the casino. After that we walked higher, up through a garden to where a big iron statue of the Virgin looked out over the city, a billion twinkling lights glowing beyond the river that ran across the foot of the hill. The night was as clear as crystal, and the garden around us still exhaled perfume after hours in the sun.

  Maria Teresa breathed deeply.

  "Have you ever seen anytliing so beautiful?"

  "Mexico isn't bad. New York has its points, too. But I don't think Mexicans ot New Yorkers feel as sentimental as you do about it."

  "You think I am sentimental?"

  She looked up at me. A light beyond my shoulder brought out the flecks in her eyes. Her lips, slightly parted, were as red as the fires of hell.

  I said, "Everybody is sentimental at some time or another. Let's go down to the casino."

  We could still see the lights of the city from the terrace where we had dinner. A couple o
f times we went inside the casino, where an orchestra was playing, to dance. I didn't ask her to dance very often. She was as light as a feather, and when I put my arms around her and smelled whatever she was wearing on her hair, I

  was afraid I might lose my grip. Whatever Adams' wire said the next day, I meant to square away with Maria Teresa that night.

  After our last dance, we went back to the terrace for coffee. I took Fito's picture out of my pocket, holding it face down in my hand.

  "Miss Ruano ..."

  "Please don't call me 'Miss.' All my good friends call me Terry. Or you can call me Maruja, as my mother does, or . . ."

  "Terry is fine. I like Terry."

  "How are you called?"

  "Al."

  "Ahl?" She couldn't get the flat A. "Is that a name?"

  "It stands for Alvin, but I don't like it. Ahl will do."

  "Ahlbin." She tried it, and nodded. "I like Ahlbin."

  "Couldn't you make it Alfin?"

  We both laughed at that. Al fin means "finally" or "at last."

  At last, I thought. What are you stalling for, you big chump? I took a deep breath.

  "Terry, did you know your Uncle Roberto well— before he went away?"

  She stopped laughing.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I'm still working at my job."

  I looked at the picture in my liand, and then at the liglits of the city below the terrace. It was a beautiful spot to be sitting with a pretty girl.

  She said. "I did not know him at all. I was only a baby when he went away. I can't even remember him, from those days."

  "Do you have any recollection that he was particularly fond of your brother? That he brought him toys, or played with him, or paid him any particular attention iliat he did not pay you? Or has your family ever said that he was particularly fond of Fito as a baby?"