The Dead Man's Brother by Roger Zelazny

Author:Roger Zelazny [Zelazny, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Thriller, Mystery
ISBN: 9780857683632
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2009-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

*

The following morning, I worked several pieces of wire loose from the cot’s frame and spent over an hour working with them and the lock on the door. It was old, as was everything else in the building, and I got it partway once, but the wires were too soft and kept bending. I stuck them down behind the baseboard then. Maybe I could get it open with them, with a bit of luck and bit of time, but what would I do then? Get into more trouble, probably. I doubted I could get out of the building, and even if I did I had no place to turn for help. I didn’t even know where we were. And what about Maria?

We had to wait, hoping they would find something to vindicate us or implicate somebody else.

I did not have to wait very long, though. Two guards—a different pair this time—came for me and conducted me back to the room where I had been questioned.

The same chair, the same routine. The guards took up positions behind me while the captain shuffled papers at his desk. When he finally looked up, he stared at me for several moments, then nodded several times.

I continued to meet his gaze as he said, "You appear to have told us something of the truth, Ovid. But we want all of it."

I did not say anything, since he had not asked me a question.

After a pause, he went on, "We have checked with Lisbon. There is indeed a record of a Claude Bretagne recently found shot to death in a hotel room in that city. They are still investigating. So far, there have been no arrests."

"I hope that proves something to you," I said.

"Yes, it proves that you know about it. Nothing more. In fact, it raises questions. The obvious one, of course, being whether there is a connection between the death there and the housebreaking here."

"And Emil’s disappearance," I said.

"He did not disappear! He is on a business trip!"

"Well, his business trip then."

He slapped the folder with the flat of his hand.

"That is not an issue!" he said.

"Then perhaps it should be—" I began.

A very heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and I shut up. The fingers dug in beneath my collarbone and squeezed.

Collarbones are very fragile things, and I did not doubt that the hand could demonstrate this if it squeezed much harder. The captain saved me this lesson, though, with a gesture. The hand withdrew.

"I was not soliciting your opinion," he said.

I rubbed my shoulder.

"So I gather."

"The connection, as I see it, is yourself," he continued. "I cannot believe your story of investigating a murder at the request of a few friends of the deceased. You do not seem that sort of person. I would be more inclined to believe that you see a profit somewhere in this. Perhaps you even killed Claude Bretagne yourself."

"I can prove I wasn’t in Portugal at the time."

"…or had him killed," he said, shrugging. "No, I do not believe your story.

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