IT WAS NEARLY FOUR WHEN he returned to his hotel room, relaxed from the sun, the good food at lunch, and the wine. He was meeting Angela at six for drinks before dinner. He felt good as he stripped off his bathing trunks and took a hot shower to wash off the sand from the beach.
This was the way things ought to be, he thought. Hot sun, spicy food, and engaging women. And no work: that was very important, no work.
Smiling to himself, he climbed out of the shower just as there was a knock at the door. He wrapped the towel around his waist and answered it. There were four men standing outside in the hall. They were grave, dressed carefully in dark, somber suits, and each wearing a black armband. One of them, a tall man with graying hair, seemed to be the spokesman.
“Dr. Ross?”
“Yes.”
“Have we come at an inconvenient time?”
Ross looked down at the towel around his waist. “Well, actually …”
“Please forgive us for doing so,” the man said smoothly, entering the room. The other three men followed. “But this is a matter of utmost urgency.”
Ross shut the door, feeling strange. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you,” the man said. “My name is Robert Carrini, Dr. Ross. These men are my cousins: George, Earnest, and Samuel.”
The four men nodded toward Ross politely. Ross nodded back and tightened the towel around his waist. The leader, Robert Carrini, did not seem to notice the towel. He had an immaculate, cultured air; he might have been the curator of a museum or the president of a bank.
“What can I do for you?” Ross said.
“We come,” Carrini said slowly, “at a time of tragedy. Great, heartrending tragedy.” He touched his armband absently. “It is difficult to find the words to explain. This has been a shock for all of us.”
“I’m sorry,” Ross said, not knowing what else to say. He felt foolish in his towel, with the others standing around in suits.
“There has been a death,” Carrini said. “My dear brother. In Barcelona. It was very sudden, a great shock.”
“What exactly happened?”
“He died violently,” Carrini said slowly. “My brother always led a violent life, and he died a violent death. We all knew it would happen one day. He was an unhappy, confused young man, and we knew how it would end. But that is not much help when the day finally arrives. So sudden.” He shook his head. “So sudden.”
Ross paused a moment, then said, “Why have you come to me?”
Carrini started to answer, but could not. He dropped his head and began to sob silently, his body shaking.
One of the others came forward, rested a hand on Carrini’s shoulder, and said, “You must excuse Robert. He has still not accepted this, in his own mind. He was very close to his brother, you see. It was hard on him. Doctor, his brother was not a good man. There was trouble all his life.”
“I see.”
“Now, with all the legal technicalities …” The man shrugged.
Ross still did not understand. He waited.
“The problem,” the man said, “involves taking Stephano back to America, the country he loved.”
“Why should that be a problem?”
“He was asked to leave America, five years ago. There are technicalities.”
“Asked to leave? You mean deported?”
“It had to do,” said the man carefully, “with an income tax dispute. The government wished to discredit him, so they accused him of not paying taxes. A lie, of course. But they sent him away. Stephano loved America, Doctor. He always said he wished to be buried there. Next to his mother, God rest her soul.”
“I see,” Ross said gravely.
“We do not know who shot him, yesterday in Barcelona,” the man continued. “It does not matter. The police will not search for his killer. The Spanish also considered Stephano undesirable.”
Stephano sounded like everyone’s favorite, Ross thought. He said nothing.
“We have come to Spain to take his body away. Back to America. This is permitted, but first, there are many technicalities. Many rules and regulations.”
“Such as?”
“First,” the man said, “there must be an autopsy.”
Ross suddenly felt cold. “An autopsy? Why?”
The man shrugged. “It is the law.”
“Won’t the Spanish authorities perform it?”
Now, Robert seemed to pull himself together. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and said, “No, that is not the problem. In order to return to America, the autopsy must be performed by an American doctor.”
Ross frowned. It all sounded very peculiar. “Wouldn’t you be better off working through the Embassy in Madrid?”
Robert sighed patiently. “We have tried. They will not help us. They will not lift a finger. They would like to forget that my brother ever existed. They do not want him to return to America—even dead.”
There was a short pause. Robert began shaking his head again.
“I could not believe it,” he said, “when I talked to them. They would have blocked his return to America if they could. Fortunately, they cannot. The law permits it. But they have raised every obstacle. For instance, an autopsy by the Spanish police would be valid if papers were authorized by the American consul in Barcelona. But he will not. Nor will he help find an American doctor. He will do nothing.”
“So you came to me.”
“Yes. We found a doctor in Madrid who works with the Embassy, but he refused. We searched everywhere for another. But it is so difficult …”
“Couldn’t you ship the body back and have the autopsy performed in America?”
“No. Not allowed. It must be performed here, in Spain.”
Ross shrugged. “I would like to help you,” he said, “that goes without saying. But frankly, I am not qualified. I am a radiologist, not a pathologist. I have attended autopsies, but never performed one.”
Robert waved his hand impatiently. “You have a doctorate of medicine?”
“Yes.”
“You are qualified to practice?”
“Radiology, yes.”
“Then it does not matter. The law says that a duly certified American physician must perform the postmortem. It does not stipulate a pathologist.”
“But gentlemen—”
“We need your help, Doctor,” said Earnest, very firmly. “You must help us. You must help us return Stephano to America.”
“I would like to, of course, but—”
“This is a matter of great importance to me, to my family, to my poor father, who is eighty-seven and slowly dying of cancer. I appeal to you—as a doctor.”
Ross shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“We realize that this is an imposition on you, professionally,” Carrini said. “But we hope you will make the sacrifice. As one human being to another. As one—”
“Really, I—”
“If you perform the autopsy,” Carrini said, “we are prepared to pay you five thousand dollars.”
There was a silence in the room. Ross paused, frowning. The story had sounded peculiar; now, it seemed almost sinister. That was a lot of money for an autopsy. A hell of a lot of money.
“You are generous, but—”
“Ten thousand.”
“No, really—”
“Then twenty.” Robert Carrini spat out the words. “It is important to us.”
Ross felt suddenly frightened. It was too much, incredibly too much. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“If I could afford more than twenty thousand dollars,” Robert said, “I would pay it. I would pay fifty or a hundred thousand to see Stephano buried in his homeland. The homeland which treated him so cruelly, so unfairly.”
Ross shook his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen.”
Robert stood and looked hard at Ross. “You must.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You will not reconsider?”
“No.”
“Then we are lost.” Carrini sighed and turned to the others. They stood and filed silently out the door. Carrini was the last to leave.
“Please,” he said. “Please reconsider.”
Ross shook his head.
“Then may you rot in hell,” Carrini said, and slammed the door shut
Outside, in the hall, the men removed their black armbands. One of them said to Carrini, “What do you think?”
“Very successful,” Carrini said. “He will be fine. You say he has no family?”
“None.”
“And he is here purely for a vacation? No friends, no relatives with him?”
“None.”
“Then if something should go wrong, it will be very tidy,” Carrini said. “Perhaps a drowning—his body will wash ashore weeks later. It happens all the time.” He smiled slowly.
The four walked out of the hotel.