The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “Confirm Rodrigues International Construction to the president of the bank and my brother,” he said as he filled Manuel’s empty glass. “And don’t bother me again tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the private secretary and left without another word.

  Neither man could recall what time he climbed into bed that night, but de Silveira was abruptly awakened from a deep sleep by his secretary early the next morning. Eduardo took a few minutes to digest the news. Lieutenant Colonel Dimka had been caught in Kano at three o’clock that morning, and all the airports were now open again. Eduardo picked up the phone and dialed three digits.

  “Manuel, you’ve heard the news? Good. Then you must fly back with me in my 707 or it may be days before you get out. One hour’s time in the lobby. See you then.”

  At 8:45 there was a quiet knock on the door, and Eduardo’s secretary opened it to find Colonel Usman standing to attention, just as he had done in the days before the coup. He held a note in his hand. Eduardo tore open the envelope to find an invitation to lunch that day with the new head of state, General Obasanjo.

  “Please convey my apologies to your president,” said Eduardo, “and be kind enough to explain that I have pressing commitments to attend to in my own country.”

  The colonel retired reluctantly. Eduardo dressed in the suit, shirt, and tie he had worn on his first day in Nigeria and took the lift downstairs to the lobby where he joined Manuel, who was once more wearing jeans and a T-shirt. The two chairmen left the hotel and climbed into the back of the leading Mercedes and the motorcade of six began its journey to the airport. The colonel, who now sat in front with the driver, did not venture to speak to either of the distinguished Brazilians for the entire journey. The two men, he would be able to tell the new president later, seemed to be preoccupied with a discussion on an Amazon road project and how the responsibility should be divided between their two companies.

  Customs were bypassed as neither man had anything they wanted to take out of the country other than themselves, and the fleet of cars came to a halt at the side of Eduardo’s blue and silver 707. The staff of both companies climbed aboard the rear section of the aircraft, also engrossed in discussion on the Amazon road project.

  A corporal jumped out of the lead car and opened the back door, to allow the two chairmen to walk straight up the steps and board the front section of the aircraft.

  As Eduardo stepped out of the Mercedes, the Nigerian driver saluted smartly. “Good-bye, sir,” he said, revealing the large set of white teeth once again.

  Eduardo said nothing.

  “I hope,” said the corporal politely, “you made very big deal while you were in Nigeria.”

  THE PERFECT MURDER

  If I hadn’t changed my mind that night I would never have found out the truth.

  I couldn’t believe that Carla had slept with another man, that she had lied about her love for me—and that I might be second or even third in her affections.

  Carla had phoned me at the office during the day, something I had told her not to do, but since I also warned her never to call me at home she hadn’t been left with a lot of choice. As it turned out, all she had wanted to let me know was that she wouldn’t be able to make it for what the French so decorously call a cinq à sept. She had to visit her sister in Fulham who had been taken ill, she explained.

  I was disappointed. It had been another depressing day, and now I was being asked to forgo the one thing that would have made it bearable.

  “I thought you didn’t get on well with your sister,” I said tartly.

  There was no immediate reply from the other end. Eventually Carla asked, “Shall we make it next Tuesday, the usual time?”

  “I don’t know if that’s convenient,” I said. “I’ll call you on Monday when I know what my plans are.” I put down the receiver.

  Wearily, I phoned my wife to let her know I was on the way home—something I usually did from the phone booth outside Carla’s apartment. It was a trick I often used to make Elizabeth feel she knew where I was every moment of the day.

  Most of the office staff had already left for the night, so I gathered together some papers I could work on at home. Since the new company had taken us over six months ago, the management had not only fired my number two in the accounts department but expected me to cover his work as well as my own. I was hardly in a position to complain, since my new boss made it abundantly clear that if I didn’t like the arrangement I should feel free to seek employment elsewhere. I might have, too, but I couldn’t think of many firms that would readily take on a man who had reached that magic age somewhere between the sought-after and the available.

  As I drove out of the office parking lot and joined the evening rush hour I began to regret having been so sharp with Carla. After all, the role of the other woman was hardly one she delighted in. The feeling of guilt persisted, so that when I reached the corner of Sloane Square, I jumped out of my car and ran across the road.

  “A dozen roses,” I said, fumbling with my wallet.

  A man who must have made his profit from lovers selected twelve unopened buds without comment. My choice didn’t show a great deal of imagination, but at least Carla would know I’d tried.

  I drove on toward her flat, hoping she had not yet left for her sister’s, that perhaps we might even find time for a quick drink. Then I remembered that I had already told my wife I was on the way home. A few minutes’ delay could be explained by a traffic jam, but that lame excuse could hardly cover my staying on for a drink.

  When I arrived at Carla’s home I had the usual trouble finding a parking space, until I spotted a gap that would just take a Rover opposite the newsstand. I stopped and would have backed into the space had I not noticed a man coming out of the entrance to her apartment house. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if Carla hadn’t followed him a moment later. She stood there in the doorway, wearing a loose blue housecoat. She leaned forward to give her departing visitor a kiss that could hardly have been described as sisterly. As she closed the door I drove my car around the corner and double-parked.

  I watched the man in my rearview mirror as he crossed the street, went to the newsstand, and a few moments later reappeared with an evening paper and what looked like a pack of cigarettes. He walked to his car, a blue BMW, stopped to remove a parking ticket from his windshield, and appeared to curse. How long had the BMW been there? I even began to wonder if he had been with Carla when she phoned to tell me not to come around.

  The man climbed into the BMW, fastened his seat belt, and lit a cigarette before driving off. I took his parking space in part payment for my woman. I didn’t consider it a fair exchange. I checked up and down the street, as I always did, before getting out and walking over to the apartment house. It was already dark, and no one gave me a second glance. I pressed the bell marked “Moorland.”

  When Carla opened the front door I was greeted with a huge smile that quickly turned into a frown, then just as quickly back to a smile. The first smile must have been meant for the BMW man. I often wondered why she wouldn’t give me a front-door key. I stared into those blue eyes that had first captivated me so many months ago. Despite her smile, those eyes now revealed a coldness I had never seen before.

  She turned to reopen the door and let me into her ground-floor apartment. I noticed that under her housecoat she was wearing the wine-red negligee I had given her for Christmas. Once inside the flat I found myself checking round the room I knew so well. On the glass table in the center of the room stood the “Snoopy” coffee mug I usually drank from, empty. By its side was Carla’s mug, also empty, and a dozen roses arranged in a vase. The buds were just beginning to open.

  I have always been quick to chide, and the sight of the flowers made it impossible for me to hide my anger.

  “And who was the man who just left?” I asked.

  “An insurance broker,” she replied, removing the mugs from the table.

  “And what was he insuri