The Photographer and the Undertaker, page 1
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE PHOTOGRAPHER AND THE UNDERTAKER, by James Holding
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1962, renewed 1980 by Davis Publications.
Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November 1962.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
THE PHOTOGRAPHER AND THE UNDERTAKER, by James Holding
It was only when he saw Gomez watching the front door of his studio that Manuel Andradas realized that his latest assignment from the Management was different from the others. Different and infinitely more dangerous.
Until that moment Manuel had taken it for granted that this was just another routine “nullification” (as he called it to himself) for which he would be generously paid in the usual manner. Provided, of course, he performed it with his usual efficiency. And exhibited his usual lack of curiosity as to the Management’s motives.
Only the purest chance gave him a fleeting glimpse of Gomez standing in the shadow of the warehouse across the street from the studio. The sun had sunk from sight beyond Corcovado, and Gomez was so motionless, so inconspicuous, so shadowed in the purple dusk of the narrow Rio street as to be invisible except to the sharpest eyes. But Manuel, returning to his studio-home for dinner, happened to flick a glance that way as he got out his keys to open his door. And he recognized Gomez instantly. Even in the shadow he picked up the flash of the orange tie, the white vest edging. And he fancied he could also make out, although it was patently impossible from such a distance, the dead white furrow of the scar that disfigured Gomez’ left cheek.
Manuel gave no visible sign that he had seen Gomez, nor did he reveal by look or action that he realized he was himself being observed. His features were naturally immobile, his muddy brown eyes customarily expressionless. Yet it was very difficult for him to hide his astonishment.
He was, in truth, more than astonished; he was thunderstruck. And Manuel Andradas, ordinarily the most calm and unemotional of men, had been thunderstruck only once before in his 33 years. That time it was by a totally unexpected gush of affection for a young girl he had been paid to “nullify” in Bahia. This time, he was thunderstruck by something else entirely—the imminent possibility of his own death.
For the presence of Gomez across the street could mean only one thing: Gomez intended to kill him.
* * * *
It has begun exactly like any assignment.
Rodolfo had got word to him to meet him in Rua do Ouvidor as usual. Rodolfo was Manuel’s only contact in Rio with the Management, the High Ones, the Organization that employed him periodically. And he didn’t even know Rodolfo’s last name.
Waiting for Rodolfo at the appointed hour, he stood with his back against the wall of a building near an orchid booth in the flower market. He had his camera case slung over his shoulder. It was a trademark with him. It was why they called him the Photographer. He loved only two things on earth—photography and money.
Rodolfo touched his arm lightly and walked ahead of him into a cafe on Avenida Rio Branco. When they were settled facing each other, with cafezinho before them, Rodolfo sipped at his drink and said in a neutral voice, “No vacation trips this time, Photographer. The job’s right here in Rio.”
“Good,” said Manuel, sipping in his turn. “I like to work at home.”
“This one is quite important,” Rodolfo said, looking up from his coffee cup with heavy emphasis. “A good price will be paid.”
Manuel nodded, noting that the spark he saw in Rodolfo’s eyes was one of earnestness and not, as he first thought, of amusement. “What price?” he said quietly.
“A million cruzeiros.” Rodolfo’s voice, in spite of itself, contained overtones of the respect with which even he held such a sum of money. “A million.”
Manuel drew a deep breath. “The Management is generous,” he admitted. “A million is excellent. A third in advance, as usual?”
Rodolfo nodded, swirling the jet-black coffee around in his little cup. “And no deadline. Although I would not put it off too long if I were you.” This time he did not raise his eyes to Manuel’s. But Manuel had the impression, from the crooked oily lift of Rodolfo’s lip, that his “contact” was smiling.
“Who?” said Manuel, blowing on his coffee to cool it.
With a soft pencil Rodolfo wrote a name and address on the border of the menu that lay on the table between them. He turned it so Manuel could read what he had written. Automatically, Manuel committed name and address to memory, then folded the menu sheet, tore it into bits, and deposited the bits in the side pocket of his conservative sports jacket. He was smiling.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Rodolfo.
“It is only eight blocks from my own house. Practically a neighbor, you might say.”
“Yes. You don’t know him. do you?”
Manuel shook his head. “I do not. But that will soon be mended.”
Rodolfo finished his coffee and dropped a few coins on the table. “Bom,” he said. “Good. Will you be in touch with me?”
“I shall call. And muito obrigado. Can you inform the Management that I am grateful for the raise in price?”
“I’ll tell them.”
The two men got up and left the cafe. On the sidewalk, when they shook hands, Rodolfo left a thick pad of banknotes in Manuel’s palm.
Manuel set out on foot for the address Rodolfo had given him.
* * * *
He located it without trouble in a side street near the Church of Sao Francisco. It was a small, rather dilapidated building leaning slightly askew against its right-hand neighbor, a tobacconist’s shop, and presenting to Manuel’s scrutiny a completely commonplace face except for two features: an automobile entrance that obviously led into an inner courtyard, and a discreet brass sign on the wall beside the auto entrance that read, in raised letters:
Gomez
Mortician
Manuel grinned when he saw the sign. Va bem, he thought, he is a mortician. What a pity. He will soon be in need of his own services and unable to perform them. The thought amused Manuel.
He walked past the house quite casually and sat down like any weary photographer on a bench in the tiny park across the street from Gomez’ automobile entrance. Here, while changing film in his camera and apparently paying no attention whatever to his surroundings, he watched with unwavering attention the mortuary of Gomez.
For twenty minutes nothing happened. No one went in or out. No cars, carriages, or hearses arrived or departed. No activity showed in the courtyard beyond the auto entrance.
Manuel became restive. Does this Gomez have no funerary business at all, he asked himself impatiently. Are people not dying and having to be buried in Rio today? He looked reflectively at the tobacconist’s shop next to the mortuary, toying with the idea of going into it and attempting to gather information about Gomez.
This dangerous expedient, however, proved unnecessary. For just then an ancient Model A Ford, gleamingly expressive of the loving care that had been lavished on it for years, approached from the left and slowed down to make the turn into the mortuary driveway.
Manuel fixed his eyes on the driver like limpets, sucking out in a few seconds the salient points of the man’s appearance. An orange neck-tie, flamboyant; white-braid edging around the V of a dark vest under a coffee-colored jacket; a narrow, innocuous-looking face with almost delicate features, high cheekbones, and a puckered scar slashed across the left cheek; no hat, but long blond hair combed straight back over the skull, very sleek; and a short stature, if one could judge by the unimpressive height of the man’s head above the steering wheel of the car.
Manuel stretched and stood up from his bench. He did not cross the street, but strolled past the mortuary on the opposite sidewalk. And quite clearly, as the Ford pulled up in the inner courtyard, he heard an obsequious masculine voice say, “Ah, Senhor Gomez! You are back. We did not know what arrangements to make for the Perreira funeral tomorrow.”
Then Manuel knew that the man in the orange tie was his assignment.
Fortunately.
For after two hours of leisurely picture-taking on Ipanema Beach (he had marked down his man and there was no deadline, after all), trying out the new, faster color film recently introduced into Brazil by a North American firm; and after drinking two glasses of cashew juice—a beverage he frequently used to lubricate his wits as well as to quench his thirst—Manuel returned to his home for dinner, and recognized that very fellow Gomez, the mortician, with his orange tie and white vest braid, lurking across the street from his studio…
* * * *
Manuel entered his studio and closed the door after him, sliding the bolt carefully across. For he was under no delusions, now that the nature of his assignment had become suddenly clear to him. He was slated for death. And it gave him a rather strange sensation to have his usual role reversed without warning—to become the intended victim instead of the executioner.
In keeping with his nature, however, he did not panic nor allow his emotions to assert themselves. Where other men in similar circumstances might have given way to indignation, anger, self-pity, or, most likely of all, terror, Manuel Andradas felt only an obscure kind of pleasure at this unexpected challenge to his skills.
He switched on the electric light in the studio. Then he lowered
He forgot about dinner momentarily.
Painstakingly he scraped together into one small mental heap the scattered rumors, half truths, and speculations in his head about the man across the street. Gomez, the mortician. Of course. It was obvious now. The Undertaker. It must be. The unknown colleague who must exist, surely, if the Management had someone else to handle rush assignments when Manuel was not available. He had suspected that such a person existed. But until now he had never been sure. Only now did that single unguarded reference by Rodolfo, two years ago, to somebody he called The Undertaker assume significance. And only now did Manuel realize why Rodolfo had seemed covertly amused this morning.
For The Undertaker was a specific man. And his activities were not confined merely to the burying of the dead. Else why should he be watching Manuel’s studio at this moment just as he, Manuel, had watched Gomez’ mortuary earlier today? Obviously, to identify his target, to become acquainted with the appearance and the habits of a man he had been ordered to destroy.
Relaxed in his chair, sucking on his cheap cigarette, Manuel worked it all out. He must allow Gomez to take the initiative, he concluded. That, it seemed to him, would be the best way.
When this had been decided to his satisfaction, he tamped out his cigarette in a flowerpot and proceeded to prepare a hearty dinner for himself.
The telephone rang just as he finished eating. He answered at once.
“This is Raphael Gomez,” a voice told him. The voice went with the man, Manuel thought; it was thin and high-pitched. “I should like to make an appointment to have a photograph taken—a portrait I can include in a new business brochure I am having printed.”
“That is easily arranged, Senhor,” Manuel said. “Would you prefer a morning or evening appointment?”
“Evening,” said Gomez. “And the sooner the better. The printer is waiting for my photograph to proceed with the brochure.”
“Why don’t you come over tonight?” Manuel suggested. “I am free between ten and eleven.”
“Excellent. I shall be there at ten. It is kind of you to accommodate me so promptly.” Was there a note of triumph already in his voice?
So it had begun. Methodically, Manuel washed, rinsed, and dried the dishes he had used at dinner, putting them carefully away in the cupboard of his tiny kitchen. There was no hurry. He had no other professional appointments tonight. And it was still a half hour until ten o’clock.
He was in his darkroom processing negatives when the knock came on his outer door at exactly ten o’clock. The darkroom was at one end of the studio. He opened the darkroom door a half inch, closing his eyes against the bright light it disclosed, and called loudly, “Come in, please.” Then he shut the darkroom door again.
Through it he heard the street door open and close. “Senhor Gomez?” he asked through the darkroom door.
“Yes. Is that you, Senhor Andradas?” A pause. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the darkroom here, finishing up a rush job Take a chair, please. I shall join you in a moment.”
Manuel rattled his trays of chemicals in the developing sink and placed his ear against the inside panel of the door, barely visible to him in the dim red glow of the darkroom’s single bulb. He listened intently, almost sure that Gomez would not refuse the tempting bait of an unsuspecting victim conveniently trapped in a darkroom; and yet Manuel felt faintly uneasy.
“Don’t hurry, I beg of you,” came Gomez’ high voice. There was a pause. The wicker chair Manuel sometimes used for posing family groups creaked loudly as weight was put on it out there in the studio. “I’ll sit here and smoke a cigarette,” Gomez called. Manuel heard a match being drawn across a matchbook ignition strip. “I can wait as long as necessary.”
But if Senhor Gomez was sitting in the wicker chair smoking a cigarette, his voice was not. It was quite plainly approaching the darkroom door as it spoke.
Manuel was relieved. He stepped to the side of the darkroom door, his back against the thin partition that separated the darkroom from the studio proper. There he waited, watching the door handle in the rosy gloom.
Without a sound the handle began stealthily to turn. Manuel closed his eyes. The darkroom door was pressed open slowly at first, then thrown wide explosively as Gomez came swiftly through it, accompanied by a shaft of bright light from the studio.
By his keen ear alone, Manuel judged when Gomez had taken two steps into the darkroom and was clear of the door. Instantly, then, Manuel reached out and delivered a backhand blow on the door. Despite tightly shut eyes, Manuel hit the door and slammed it shut again.
When Manuel opened his eyes with the bang of the door, he found that his night vision, achieved and carefully preserved in the darkroom, had not been impaired in the least. He could see quite clearly in the room’s dimness. But Gomez, suddenly plunged by the closing of the darkroom door into almost total blackness, was for the moment completely blinded. Which was the way Manuel wanted him to be.
Gomez whirled like a coiled spring at the flurry of movement behind him and struck savagely toward the door panel with his right arm. Manuel could see that he wielded a slender, eight-inch knife whose opened blade reflected the red light of the darkroom bulb, seeming already stained with blood.
This knife, guided ineptly by Gomez’ unseeing eyes, swept past Manuel’s shoulder and buried its point in the door panel with a dull thud. Manuel said quietly, “Allow me to hold that for you, Senhor Gomez,” and stretching out his right hand, he fastened his spatulate fingers like a bracelet of iron around Gomez’ knife-wrist and squeezed.
The bones of Gomez’ wrist collapsed on each other; they ground together and shattered with tiny cracking sounds that seemed quite loud in the stillness of the darkroom.
Gomez’ grasp on his knife became immediately loose and flaccid, then abandoned the weapon altogether.
Manuel plucked the knife from the door panel with his left hand as he retained his grip on Gomez’ shattered wrist with his right. He said calmly, “If you will open the door, Senhor Gomez, we can return to the studio. We have much to discuss.”
Gomez said nothing beyond the painful drawing in of his breath. With his uninjured hand he opened the door into the studio. Manuel blinked in the sudden glare of light. When he saw the pallor of Gomez’ high-cheekboned, narrow face, he knew the man was almost fainting, so he flung Gomez’ knife into a corner of the studio and released the man’s wrist. Then he supported him to the wicker chair, sat him in it almost tenderly, and poured him a half glass of strong brandy from a bottle on a shelf.
While Gomez was drinking, one-handed, Manuel tied him securely into the wicker chair with a length of insulated wire. Deliberately, he left Gomez’ hands free, then sat down in his own Morris chair, facing Gomez.
Color was returning to Gomez’ face. He finished drinking, and cushioned his hurt wrist in his other hand. He looked at Manuel and said impassively, “And now, the police?”
“Decidedly not the police,” Manuel said.
“I was trying to kill you. You must have gathered that.”
“I did. But you didn’t succeed, did you?”
Gomez’ eyes went to the bulging, ropy muscles that showed in Manuel’s forearms even through the cloth of his shirt sleeves. “It was my first failure,” he said, not without a certain pride. “If not the police, Senhor, what then?”
Manuel said, “I am going to kill you.”
“Kill me?” Gomez was surprised. Manuel, watching him narrowly, was convinced of that. Therefore, Gomez did not realize what the Management was up to. Manuel lit a cigarette.
“But not for a few minutes yet. First we must talk about the manner of your death.”
Gomez shrugged. “Death is death. The manner of it makes no difference.”
“I disagree with you, Undertaker,” said Manuel softly.
Gomez started, dropped his hurt wrist, and groaned with the pain of it. “Who are you?” he asked Manuel. His face now was covered with a slight sheen of perspiration, even though the evening was cool. “What is this about an undertaker?”
