“Twenty years to-life.”
“...which doesn’t mean much to a man of his caliber. He knows it would take him, what, a couple of months to break out of a Portuguese prison? So why should he worry? No, he won’t start worrying till the psilocybin starts taking effect.”
“And just how dangerous is that?”
I shrugged. “No more so than a dose of LSD. Don’t worry about it. But, to ease your conscience...that’s why I didn’t want you to know what I was doing. Not you, nor any of the police. I just wanted you to plant that piece about Loveless and nothing more. You see how I worry about your ethics?”
He sighed. “One of these days, you’ll go too far, and I’ll be there, and I’ll have the painful duty of arresting you.”
I said: “Not a hope in hell. I don’t take that sort of risk.”
“And Loveless?”
“In a few hours...I’ve an idea that in a few hours we’ll know exactly where to find him.”
◆◆◆
It was less than a few hours.
Before we’d taken our second glass of cognac, Lieutenant Loureiro came hurrying across the street. He looked worried. He saluted smartly and spoke directly to Fenrek:
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Senhor Colonello, but the prisoner...I think there’s something very wrong. He’s very, very sick.”
I looked at my watch. “Already? That may mean there’s still a touch of typhoid left in him. Interesting.”
Loureiro looked at me blankly and said nothing. They’re not an inquisitive people, the Portuguese, and they’re smart enough to know when not to ask questions.
I said: “Put him in a cell by himself, cell number eight, a guard on the door, and let him stew there for a little while. We’ll be over there shortly.”
“Sim Senhor.”
“And see if you can rustle up a doctor’s bag for me, will you? One of the Army doctors might be kind enough.”
“A doctor’s bag? If you would be more specific?”
“Anything that looks like what it is, I won’t have to use it.”
He was fighting his curiosity, but he saluted and hurried back to the station.
I said to Fenrek: “One more cup of coffee, and then we’ll go.”
I wondered if we were being too cruel. To anyone, even to a man like Histermann, the thought of an imminent, certain, and extremely painful death is a terrible torture. And then I thought of the kindly General Queluz hanging there in the darkness, thought of the terror on Astrid’s face as we went down into that lobster trap to a casual, but certain death...I thought of this man sticking out a straight arm and brutally shoving her down there. And then, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Soon we went back into the police station. I collected the little black bag Loureiro had found for me, watched Fenrek switch on the tape recorder that was wired in to cell number eight, and went down to talk to the prisoner.
I was shocked by his appearance. He lay on the wooden bunk, clutching at his stomach, doubled up in pain and grey faced; a man with a naturally yellow complexion doesn’t look his best when all the blood has drained away from it, and he looked like hell. His skin was dry and flecked with a pink rash that couldn’t really get to be the proper color, so that his hollow cheeks looked like a piece of moldy cheese; I expected the sweet stench of Gorgonzola to rise from him, but it didn’t.
I said cheerfully: “Well, what seems to be the trouble? A little fever?”
He said: “For Gods sake, Doctor, I’m...I’m...”
I said: “I’m not a doctor, but that doesn’t matter, does it?” I felt his pulse, which was beating at an alarming rate, and opened up the little black bag slowly, and said: “Probably malaria, you’ve had it before, haven’t you?”
He said, gasping: “Not malaria. Botulin poisoning. I need some...some of that...that stuff you spoke about...that BR stuff. Hurry...hurry, for God’s sake, I’ve been sick already, and my feet...my feet are going dead.”
I sat on the edge of the bunk and looked at him. “Botulin? What makes you think that? Are you qualified to diagnose your own sickness? I think not, surely. Or have you recently been in contact with a botulin carrier?”
He rolled over again and clutched at his stomach. There was no thought in him now of anything but himself. He tried hard to speak; the panic was taking firm hold. He said at last, spluttering: “You mentioned...you mentioned...Loveless.” He couldn’t stop the sibilant, and it came out: Lovelesssss.
“Ah, then you did know him.”
“For God’s sake yes, give me some of that stuff, quickly.”
I took my time. I stuck a thermometer in his mouth and lifted an eyelid to peer at his pupils. I said:
“Try and stand up with your eyes closed.”
He huddled deeper up into himself, a fetus shivering there and squeezing itself into nothingness.
I said: “Stand up, there’s a good fellow.”
He could barely speak. “An injection, quickly...”
I said severely: “Please don’t try to advise me, Mr. Histermann. Now, stand up and close your eyes.”
He struggled to his feet, swayed, and clutched at the wall.
“Close your eyes.”
