Zero Cool, Page 8

  “No, no,” the professor said, with an impatient wave of his hand. “I don’t mean that. I mean, have you considered the stakes?”

  “I haven’t got any idea what they are.”

  “Precisely. Precisely. You want to stay alive, don’t you?”

  Ross sighed. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Why don’t you? Everyone else has.”

  “Dear me, no. I simply meant, have you considered the odds?”

  “On what?”

  “Staying alive.” He stood up. “Here, I’ll work them out.”

  He went to one of the drawing boards, found a sheet of paper and a slide rule. He began to mutter about transformations and Fourier determinants. Occasionally, as he got his answers, he made little grunting sounds.

  “Listen,” Ross said. “This is silly. I don’t want any part of this.”

  “Ummm,” said the professor, working his slide rule.

  “I simply want to know what’s going on. I think I have that right. I’ve been pushed and bullied, forced to do an autopsy, beaten up, kidnapped. I think it’s time I got some information.”

  “Umm,” the professor said, coming back with a sheet of figures in his hand. “Quite understandable. Speaking generally, of course. You’re curious. Quite understandable. But,” he said, frowning at the paper, “not wise.”

  Ross waited.

  “I’ve computed your probability of survival for a six-month period. I worked it on age thirty, because it was easier—round numbers, you know—and because it won’t make much difference. Age-dependent factors are quite minor. So: here we have the results. Your chances of surviving half a year.”

  “Go on.”

  “I should mention, of course, that this is an averaged result. In other words, your chances of dying within the next day, or the next week, are quite high. If you survive a month, the probability of death drops quite sharply. You follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then. Here we are. Your chances of survival are 0.443. In other words, you have less than one chance in two of living until December.” The professor shook his head sadly. “However,” he said, “there is one ray of hope. Your optimum-path probability of survival is much higher. It is, to be exact, 0.879. Roughly nine chances out of ten of surviving.”

  “Optimum path?” Ross said.

  “Yes. We mean by that, your chances of survival if you do everything right in the next six months.”

  “I find this fascinating,” Ross said.

  “I thought you might.”

  “And how, may I ask, do I do everything right?”

  The professor smiled broadly. “By taking good advice, of course.”

  “Good advice?”

  “My advice,” the professor said.

  “And this will improve my chances of survival?”

  “It will double them,” the professor said. “But that is only what you would expect. For example, if you had money to invest in the stock market, would you do so without consulting a skilled broker? You might, but your chances of success would be greater with professional advice.”

  “We’re not talking about stocks,” Ross protested. “We’re talking about me.”

  “I regret to say that the mathematics are the same in either instance.”

  Ross frowned for a moment. “And in order to get your excellent advice …”

  The professor nodded and smiled. “Precisely.”

  He sighed. “All right. I’ll tell you everything.”

  He did, beginning at the start, with the little man on the beach; then the pallbearers; Tex; the autopsy; the trip to Barcelona; the girl in her room.

  The professor listened without interrupting. Then, he said, “The girl: what did she tell you?”

  “She said it had to do with the ‘Marriage of Cortez.’”

  “I see. What else?”

  “That she knew what had been sewn inside the body. And that she had overheard the men talking about taking the shipment to Portugal.”

  “Portugal! Good God, Portugal! How extraordinary.”

  “That was what she said.”

  “Anything further?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Then what?”

  He described the knock at the door, and the boiling water, and his wait in the kitchen, and then the girl, unconscious.”

  “She wasn’t dead?”

  “No.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please continue.”

  He then described the meeting with the little blonde who had hidden him from the police. The professor seemed wholly uninterested in this incident and listened impatiently. His interest revived, however, when he described his kidnapping in Barcelona.

  “They gave you sodium amytal?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “And you told them everything?”

  “I assume I did. I can’t really be sure.”

  “Hmmm,” the professor said. “Of course, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Now then: describe the way they died.”

  “I didn’t see it happen. I just woke up and found them all dead.”

  “Quite, quite. But describe them.”

  Ross shrugged. “Blood streaked all over the walls and ceiling. And they were all—”

  “Excuse me,” the professor interrupted. “You said blood was streaked over the ceiling?”

  “Yes.”

  “How high was the ceiling?”

  “About nine feet or so.”

  “Continue,” he said, nodding.

  “The men themselves had been slashed. Their clothes were slashed, and their bodies were slashed. Cut to ribbons by a very sharp knife. Probably a curved knife.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because there was a ripping and a tearing associated. Like a curved knife had gotten under the skin and then torn upward.”

  “Interesting. Further details?”

  “None, really.”

  “You mentioned something earlier about a smell in the room.”

  “Yes,” Ross said. “I didn’t notice it, but Carrini did. They told him it was some kind of free aftershave lotion. A sample that was being given out.”

  “How bizarre. What do you make of it?”

  “Nothing,” Ross said.

  “Neither do I. Continue.”

  Ross shrugged. “That’s all.”

  The professor stared at the floor for a long time. His lips moved but he did not speak. Finally he said, “It all fits, except for Portugal. That is a nasty shock, Portugal. Quite a nasty shock. I would never have suspected them of it.”

  “Who?”

  “Well now,” the professor said. “You have fulfilled your half of the bargain. And I promised to keep you alive in return.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Very well. It’s quite simple, really. There are only two countries you cannot be in. Spain and France. And, of course, now Portugal as well. You must go somewhere else, and I have just the place.”

  “You do?”

  “The Canary Islands,” the professor said. “Marvelous this time of year, very relaxing. Shall I get you a ticket?”

  “Two tickets,” Ross said.

  “Fine. You can fly directly from Orly airport.”

  Ross shook his head. “No. I have to go back to Barcelona.”

  “Dear me. I wouldn’t advise it, really. Much too dangerous.”

  “I’m going.”

  The professor shrugged. “As you wish. But I warned you …”

  “You can have two tickets waiting for me at the Barcelona airport,” Ross said.

  “Very well,” the professor said. “I hope you make it”

  “I will.”

  “Ummm,” the professor said.

  They stood and walked out of the room. In the anteroom, Tex was waiting with Jackman. Tex looked at his watch.

  “Just time to make the fo
ur o’clock plane.”

  Ross said, “We’re leaving now?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep a fine woman like that waiting, would you?”

  The professor smiled kindly. “You were so nice to visit us, Dr. Ross. It was quite helpful. I wish you luck.”

  They shook hands. Tex and Ross went to the door.

  “Oh, one thing,” the professor said.

  Ross stopped. “Yes?”

  “You might be interested to know that Stephano Carrini has no brother. No living relatives of any kind, in fact. Not that it matters to him. He is presently living quite happily—in Argentina. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  When they were alone, Jackman said to the professor, “How did the interview go?”

  “Very well. The man is a simple, naïve fool. I could hardly believe a man could be such a fool and also a doctor.”

  “He talked.”

  The professor sighed. “Yes. Beautifully.”

  A blonde girl entered from another room.

  “Ah, Karin,” the professor said. “My congratulations. You did an excellent job.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “You were quite convincing. He believes the Portugal business implicitly.”

  “And he will tell the count?”

  “Oh yes. He will.”

  Jackman said, “How did you get him to talk?”

  “I convinced him,” the professor said, “with a cock-and-bull story about his chances of survival.”

  “And he believed it?”

  “Yes. Terribly naïve. It’s depressing.”

  Jackman looked out the window and watched as Ross and Tex got into a taxi.

  Karin said, “What are his chances of survival, Professor?”

  The professor gave a light smile and caressed his tie.

  “Zero,” he said. “Absolute zero.”

  12. Getting Out

  THEIR AIRPLANE LANDED AS DARKNESS fell. Ross walked with Tex through customs, then they shook hands.

  “Your tickets,” Tex said, “for the Canary Islands will be waiting for you tomorrow morning. Aero Travel Agency.”

  “Good,” Ross said.

  “I’d be careful tonight,” Tex said.

  “I will.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  “Thanks,” Ross said.

  With a casual wave, Tex left him. Ross caught a taxi.

  “Where have you been?” She rolled over in the darkness. “I’ve been worried.”

  “Paris,” he said.

  “If you’re not going to be serious—”

  “Paris. Really.”

  She sat up in bed. “Paris? There and back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t have any choice. I’m surrounded by lunatics these days.”

  He told her the story briefly and told her about the tickets.

  “We’re getting out,” he said.

  She smiled in the darkness. “I’m glad,” she said.

  He finished undressing and lay down beside her. She put her head on his shoulder. He felt dampness.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I was worried. I really was.”

  He stroked her hair. “It’s all right.”

  “You shouldn’t do things like that to me.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “You know it now.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I guess I do.”

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “Anything could have happened. You’re such an innocent guy.”

  “Me? Innocent?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “No, I’m tough and wicked. Hardened, world-weary …”

  “Stop it” She kissed him. He tasted salt.

  He felt her body move up against him, soft and sleepy-warm. She locked her legs around him.

  “Want to laugh?” he said.

  “No,” she said, her voice soft “I want to cry.”

  Later, she smoked a cigarette and said, “I know why I missed you.”

  “It’s just sex. That’s all we have between us,” Ross said cheerfully.

  “It is, right now. And you’d better tell it to behave.”

  “It has a mind of its own.”

  “You must be exhausted,” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “You’re a fool,” she said, touching him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You’re an innocent.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re so strong.”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The morning was bright, sunny, and cheerful. They had breakfast in the room and joked as they packed their bags. Angela talked excitedly of the Canary Islands; she had never been; she was eager to see them; she had heard the beaches were black sand and marvelous.

  An hour before the flight, Ross called down to the desk for a porter to take their bags. Five minutes passed and there was a knock on the door. Angela was in the bathroom, combing her hair.

  “That must be the porter,” she called.

  Ross opened the door.

  A man walked into the room, a small, thin, dark-skinned man, looking very pale.

  “You are Ross,” he said. He was very short of breath. He leaned against the door.

  “Yes,” Ross said.

  “I must talk to you. I am … I am … Hamid …”

  “What do you want?” The man seemed to be in pain, great pain. He was gasping for breath and grimacing.

  “You are the only one I can trust. You must listen. It went according to plan. Everything. I was driving … on the road to Malaga … and then I knew I was followed. So I hid it. Both of them. And now …”

  “Hid what?”

  “You must listen,” he said. “There is no time. I stole the body and hid them. One is near the Washington Irving, twenty paces east. The other is near the lions, down low, by the water. Listen …”

  He coughed, a long, hacking cough.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Doctor. Listen … remember carefully: Washington Irving, and the lions. Remember. One is real, and the other—”

  He stopped, shuddered twice, and coughed blood. Then he seemed to suffer a great and final pain. He toppled forward onto the floor. The door he had been leaning against was covered with blood.

  Ross looked down at the man’s back. It had been cut and shredded, gouged deep, the flesh and bones exposed. He turned the man over and stared at the lifeless face.

  Angela came out, and screamed.

  He felt for a pulse and found none. And he remembered lifting an eyelid and seeing that the eye did not move; it was rolled backward.

  Angela was still screaming. She screamed for a very long time.

  13. The Cell

  THE POLICE WERE VERY POLITE as they showed him to his cell. It was small, reasonably clean, and not too damp; the bed, however, was almost soggy. He was locked in and left alone with his thoughts for half an hour. Then a trim, erect man with a neatly clipped moustache came up.

  “Good evening.” He gave a slight, formal bow. “Capitán Gonzales, Guardia Civil.”

  “Hello,” Ross said.

  Capitán Gonzales let himself into the cell, locked it, and leaned against the bars.

  “You are Dr. Ross.”

  “Yes.”

  “You may be interested to know that the medical examination has been completed.”

  “And?”

  “The diagnosis was death from internal hemorrhage, secondary to puncture of liver and kidney by a posterior approach. Done by some kind of sharp instrument. The coroner suggested it might have been a scalpel, since the blade was apparently rather short.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you wish to confess now?”

  “No,” Ross said. “I have nothing to confess.”

  Capitan Gonzales sighed. “Why is it always the foreigners?” he
said, almost to himself. “I am beginning to think that Americans come to Spain specifically to kill or be killed.”

  “It’s the in country for killing,” Ross said. “Just a fashion. It’ll pass in a year or so.”

  “You are not amusing.”

  “I didn’t think you’d like it. But then, I don’t like being arrested.”

  “And we,” Gonzales said, “do not like murder.”

  “There. You see? Nobody’s happy.”

  Gonzales said, “Did you know the man?”

  “No. Never saw him before in my life.”

  “Do you own a scalpel?”

  “No. I am a radiologist”

  “So you say.”

  “Yes,” Ross said. “So I say.”

  “But you told the officer who made the arrest that you were on your way to the Canary Islands.”

  “That’s true. I was. I had called the desk for a bellboy, and—”

  “You were checking out of the hotel?”

  “Yes. I was on my way to the Canary Islands.”

  “Were you?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you intend to go?”

  “By plane. There is a nine o’clock flight—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Gonzales shook his head. “There is only one flight each day, and that is at noon.”

  “But there must be—”

  “Do you have tickets?”

  “No. I told the officer that my tickets were being held at the Aero Travel Agency.”

  Gonzales sighed. “You know,” he said, “I am not a genius, Doctor.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “What I mean,” Gonzales said, “is that though if I am not a genius, you must be an idiot. Because it is all quite simple to me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You are lying through your teeth.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” Gonzales said, “You had no tickets for a flight to the Canary Islands.”

  “Look,” Ross said, “there must be some mistake. I thought it was a nine o’clock flight, but I could have been confused. It could have been a noon flight, and—”

  He stopped.

  Gonzales was shaking his head.

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “Because,” Gonzales said, “there is no Aero Travel Agency.”

  “What?”

  “There is no Aero Travel Agency.”

  “But there must be.”

  “There is not.”