Caught Dead ms-64

by Brett Halliday

  “The connection was lousy. I don’t know, but it seemed to me he sounded”-he hesitated-“as though the roof was about to fall in. And God knows that kind of thing has been known to happen to Tim.”

  “Venezuela. I think I read about some kind of trouble down there.”

  Shayne shrugged. He had just come off a hard case and hadn’t looked at a paper or television for five days. He ordered another round of cognac and paid for it when it came, dismissing the waiter.

  The phone rang. “On that Caracas call,” the supervisor said. “It was placed from a public phone, and the instrument appears to be out of order. The operator gets a busy signal. She’s cut into the line, but no one is talking on it.”

  “O.K. If it’s an inside phone see if you can get the location. Maybe there’s somebody there who can tell us something.”

  Shayne had time to finish his cognac before she came back.

  “It’s a hotel, Mr. Shayne. They’re ringing.”

  In a moment a desk clerk answered and he and Shayne had a puzzling, inconclusive exchange. Like most hotel employees in Latin America, the Venezuelan spoke English, but he couldn’t seem to put his mind on what Shayne was saying. There was a babble of voices around him.

  “What’s going on?” Shayne said. “What’s all the excitement?”

  “It is difficult to know, Senor. Pardon me. I must-”

  He clicked off.

  Becoming more alarmed, Shayne dialed the number of Rourke’s paper and asked for the night editor, a veteran newspaperman named Caldwell, who had frequently covered for Rourke when the reporter’s unorthodox methods made the management unhappy. Rourke had been in Caracas several days, he told Shayne, and had filed his first dispatch that afternoon. It would appear in the next day’s paper.

  “Nothing new in the piece,” Caldwell said. “The dictator down there just got the boot-you probably read about it. Tim wrote it like a crime story. The capos didn’t like the way the boss was cutting up the melon, so they withdrew their respect. That made it an automatic hit and a contract was issued. But before the button men could reach him he tried to lam, cracked up, and the fuzz got him. It’s a typical Tim Rourke story and we’re giving it a good play.”

  “It’s probably going to offend a few people down there.”

  Caldwell laughed. “He’ll be out of the country before they see it. He’s due back in the morning.”

  “Do you know how to reach him?”

  “He’s probably staying at the Hilton. We’ve got a due bill there. Why?”

  “He called a few minutes ago, but somebody pulled us out before he could say anything.”

  “Let me try him from here.”

  Shayne held on, drumming his fingers on the table until Caldwell reported that Rourke was indeed registered at the Hilton, but his room phone didn’t answer.

  “What did he say to you, exactly?”

  “‘Listen carefully.’ That’s all. I could hardly hear him. That could mean almost anything, but now the son of a bitch has got me worrying.”

  “Listen carefully. I’m in a corner and need help. Or-listen carefully, I’ve just met a chick and you won’t believe these measurements. With Tim, it’s a tossup. But if somebody’s chasing him in Caracas, what can you do about it in Miami? I left word at the hotel for him to call the paper. If we haven’t heard from him by morning there are various things we can do.”

  “Do something else for me,” Shayne said. “Watch the teletype, and if anything out of the ordinary comes in, let me know.”

  The phone rang a little after two. Shayne was awake, smoking in the darkness.

  He was still bothered by the odd little episode, although he had had many equally strange calls from Rourke, from stranger places. Having filed his story, Rourke would be out on the town. After a certain number of drinks, he always had a strong desire to telephone people.

  On an impulse-obviously he wasn’t rushing off to Latin America on the strength of two words as innocuous as listen carefully — Shayne had phoned the Miami International Airport to check on flights to Venezuela. Plane service had been resumed, and the first was at nine in the morning. By that time Caldwell would have heard something.

  Now he turned on the tight-focus lamp on the bedside table and spoke softly into the phone, trying not to awaken the sleeping girl beside him.

  “Shayne.”

  Caldwell’s voice was tight. “Well, he’s been busted, Mike, and needless to say, not for anything minor. Alvares and a couple of others have been assassinated, including an American, a UPI man. Tim had something to do with planting the bomb.”

  Shayne swung out of bed. “Read it to me.”

  “That’s the flash. The follow-up’s just beginning to come in.”

  Shayne shook out another cigarette and lit it from the stub of the one he had been smoking.

  “Larry Howe,” Caldwell said, “interviewing the ex-president in La Vega prison. Bomb exploded. Terrific force. Center of prison torn apart, killing Alvares, Howe, and a government official named Menendez. Calderistas demonstrating in downtown Caracas. Army mobilized. Students have taken over university. New junta seen endangered.”

  The girl sat up in bed, pushing back her hair. “What is it, Mike?”

  He shrugged and waited.

  Caldwell continued. “General round-up of left-wing opposition. Yeah, here it comes. American reporter Timothy Rourke accused of smuggling bomb into prison inside cigarette carton. Slugged a cop, attempted to escape. Recaptured after automobile chase through downtown Caracas. That’s our Tim.”

  “Is the News plane available?”

  “As far as I know. I’ll find out.”

  “If the paper wants to retain me to go down there and see what happened I can leave right away. It would help to represent somebody.”

  “I know we’ll go along with that, Mike, but it may take a while to make it official. I’ll have to wake up a few people. The front office hasn’t been too enthused about Tim lately, but what choice do they have? He’s on our payroll, after all. ‘Listen carefully.’ I wish he’d finished that sentence. What do you think, Mike? Do you think he really had anything to do with this bomb thing?”

  “Hell, no. He has romantic ideas about guerrilla movements, but not to the extent of helping them blow up people. He had to be conned, which means there’s a girl involved. See how much cash you can scrape up. I’ll need to buy some help after I get there.”

  “How well do you know Caracas?”

  “Not at all. I’ve never been there. And I don’t speak Spanish. So I want to be carrying plenty of cash.”

  He dressed quickly. The girl was sitting up watching him, but the look on his face kept her from asking questions. He packed a small bag, including a fifth of cognac, a. 38 revolver and a box of ammunition. After some hunting, he located his passport.

  “You’ll need somebody who can translate for you,” she said finally. “Why not take me?”

  Without replying, Shayne dialed the Washington, D.C., area code, and followed it with the unlisted phone number of one of the two Florida Senators, who had won re-election partly as a result of some last-minute help from Shayne.

  The Senator’s wife answered.

  “This is Michael Shayne. I’m sorry about the hour, but I need to talk to him.”

  “Mike, damn it, he had trouble getting to sleep, and if you could wait till morning-”

  The Senator took the phone. “At two-thirty I know it’s got to be important, Mike. What can I do?”

  Shayne gave him a quick summary of the news from Caracas.

  “Tim Rourke!” the Senator exclaimed. “Mixed up in an assassination? They must have the wrong man.”

  “This was just the bulletin-there probably won’t be any more hard news till morning. If he’s in jail, here’s the problem. He doesn’t believe in telling cops anything but his name and address and sometimes not even that. But I know him well enough so that if I can get in to see him he may be able to pass on something. And t
hen what do I do with it? All I can say in the Spanish language is ‘thanks’ and ‘how are you?’ Are you with me this far, Senator?”

  “I think so. I’d say you have your work cut out for you.”

  “But everybody will figure he told me something important, whether he actually did or not. That’s going to open up possibilities. What I want to get from you is the name of somebody in the Embassy who can give me some background without making a big official thing out of it.”

  “I see,” the Senator said slowly. “Who can find out what the police are thinking, and can put you onto angles he can’t do anything about himself-”

  “That’s it. Tim’s an American citizen, but they’ll want to know whether he’s innocent or guilty before they stick their necks out for him. I’m hoping to use the News plane. I can call you from the airport. If you can ask somebody in the State Department-”

  “I can give you a name right now. It’s Felix Frost. I’ve read reports by him, and the man seems to be absolutely first class. He’s on the Embassy payroll, but I’m assuming he represents the intelligence community, in one way or another. Be discreet about that aspect, of course. He has good pipelines into all the various political groups and his connections with the new junta seem to be very good.”

  “Will he cooperate?”

  “I’ll suggest it to him, and inasmuch as I’m a member of the Armed Services Committee, I believe he’ll cooperate with enthusiasm. I’m not saying you can trust him fully. These fellows seem to get more devious year by year. But I know I don’t have to give you that warning.”

  Shayne thanked him, and the Senator offered to do anything else he could to help.

  “I like Tim, but don’t take too many chances, Mike. You know it’s no longer possible to send the Marines down after you. Those days are past, and on the whole I think it’s a good thing. Well, back to sleep, perhaps.”

  Shayne hung up and told the girl, “Make a call for me. The man’s name is Felix Frost, in Caracas, and it may take a little time to get his home phone. Mention the Senator and ask him to have somebody meet me at the airport.”

  “Mike, I really can speak Spanish. I could sit in a hotel room and take your phone calls.”

  Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Get back in one piece, Mike, please?”

  FOUR

  The loading steps were wheeled into place. As Shayne came out of the plane, the hot rim of the sun was beginning to rise out of the Caribbean. A short, cheerful Venezuelan waited at the bottom of the steps.

  His teeth flashed. “You are Mr. Michael Shayne,” he informed Shayne. “I am Andres Rubino, sent to meet you by Mr. Felix Frost, who regrets enormously that he cannot be here in person! Welcome to Venezuela!”

  “Thanks,” Shayne said, taking his outstretched hand.

  Rubino gave a little skip of pleasure. He wanted to carry Shayne’s bag, but Shayne shook him off.

  “I think all is arranged with Immigration and Customs,” Rubino said, walking sideward. “One cannot be certain because of the change in regime. You bribe them one minute, the next minute they forget they ever saw you, but this time I trust that won’t be the case. I know all about you, sir! I admire you! We have great respect for honesty among detectives because there is so little of it among us here. Through this door, please.”

  They were waved through the barrier, and Rubino took Shayne out through the deserted, echoing concourse. Weapons-carriers bristling with. 50-caliber machine guns were lined up in front of the terminal. A Jaguar convertible, top down, was parked in a forbidden zone. Two armed soldiers, who had been looking into the car, backed away guiltily. Rubino released a flood of angry Spanish, and they moved away even further.

  “A jewel of a car,” the Venezuelan said. “And because of diplomatic stickers one can drive like the wind and park where one pleases. Mr. Frost knows my weakness. I am willing to work for him for next to nothing, to have the privilege of driving about in such a car.” Having slid behind the wheel and snapped on the ignition, he said, “Mr. Shayne, may I speak a serious word if you please before we commence?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Please notice the skill with which I manipulate the car. I am truly very professional, I believe. I would like to persuade you to employ me while you are here. I speak English with the utmost facility, as you see. I grew to manhood in the city of Caracas, and I know its ins and its outs, its barrios and its luxurious neighborhoods of high-rise apartments. Also the ins and outs of the shifting political spectrum. I asked Mr. Frost for permission to apply for the post, and he said he was neutral in the matter. So I plead my case.”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Of course, to defend your friend Mr. Rourke. To get him out of prison if possible. And people will attempt to swindle you by selling you false information. I am in that precise business myself, to a certain extent-I will protect you against them. There is hardly one single honest man in Caracas. I am sorry to say it, for it is my native place, but it is a city of crooks.”

  “Did Rourke really have anything to do with planting that bomb?”

  “Very much so. That is definitely established. But Mr. Frost told me to drive you and shut up about crime and politics. That is difficult for me because I have the name of a regular chatterbox. So I put the top down on the car and I will drive fast, and if I venture an opinion on some forbidden matter, the wind will carry it away. Mr. Frost will tell you I am reliable, less expensive than some. We’re off! Please fasten the seatbelt because I intend to eat up the concrete.”

  He flashed his teeth, went into gear, and they shot away from the terminal, leaving smears on the pavement. Shayne adjusted the seatbelt and sat back.

  A modern multi-lane expressway connected the big Maiquetia Airport on the coast with the capital in the mountains. Rubino drove carefully, but very fast. At sea level it was already hot, but the air cooled rapidly as they climbed. The new road was paralleled by a much older one, snaking down from the barren foothills in long, lazy loops. Rubino pointed toward it and shouted, “Off-limits! Bandits!”

  He laughed, his long hair whipping. He swung out into the passing lane and roared around a straggling convoy of Army vehicles, rusty, poorly maintained jeeps and command cars. The soldiers yelled and made obscene gestures toward the millionaires in the elegant British car. Rubino sounded his horn derisively, his other hand raised in a one-finger salute.

  “Desgraciados! Sheep-lovers! You smell of fat!”

  Traffic thickened as they approached the city and he was forced to slow down. Soldiers were everywhere. Military aircraft zoomed overhead, much too low.

  “It looks like something’s about to happen,” Shayne commented.

  “I am under orders from Mr. Frost not to discuss it! And I’m a poor prophet anyway. I never guess right.”

  He dropped off the highway on a curving ramp and crossed beneath it, heading north. Presently he slowed, pointing the Jaguar at a gate in a high wall.

  “But I think I must give my opinion for what it is worth, which is nil. Don’t repeat it to Mr. Frost because he’s the unquestioned authority. I think nothing further will happen at present, until there is some shift in the balance, because nobody knows who blew up the Bull, you see, or for what reason.”

  “That’s Alvares?”

  “Known as the Bull, for his bravery and stupidity. No one is taking credit as yet for his death, so the people are uncertain about which way to move. There was much milling about on the streets last night but no signs of direction.”

  “What’s your idea about who killed him?”

  “Ah,” Rubino said. “So many stories are being told. Hire me as driver and interpreter for one hundred dollars a day, United States currency, and I will try to sort out the incredible from the credible.”

  After a moment’s delay the gate swung open. The house was less imposing than its wall, a low stucco structure around an inner court.

  An
American came out to greet Shayne. He was short and heavy, with a damp handshake. His head seemed a size large for his body, and the features on it were tucked into too small a space. He squinted at Shayne through very thick glasses.

  “I’m Frost. I suppose Andres has been lecturing you on the American role in Caracan politics?”

  “He was driving too fast,” Shayne said, unhooking his belt.

  “A competent man at the wheel of a car,” Frost said, and Rubino murmured, “Thank you, I agree.”

  Shayne left his bag in the car. Inside, Frost suggested that he would want to join him for breakfast. He himself had been up all night, taking calls, but the Army control seemed to be firm, and he had just informed the Ambassador that in his opinion it was safe to relax. The banks would be opening as usual, always a good sign.

  “But this Rourke business. I hope you can help us with that. He isn’t cooperating with the police at all.”

  He took Shayne into the inner court, where a table was set with heavy embossed silver, linen napkins, and cut flowers. A surprisingly pretty dark girl in uniform was waiting to be sent to the kitchen for food. Frost suggested various options. What Shayne chose seemed to be important to his host, so Shayne told the girl exactly what kind of fruit he preferred, and how it was to be prepared, how he liked his eggs and coffee.

  “I won’t bore you with trivialities,” Frost said abruptly after the girl departed. “To get down to business at once. What happens to Timothy Rourke is obviously your major concern, but to us he is only one thread in a tapestry. If it can be shown that he committed a crime he will be tried in Venezuelan courts and there isn’t much we can do for him.”

  “That’s fair enough.”

  “Officially all that’s happened so far is that he’s been brought in for questioning, and he isn’t answering questions. They won’t put up with much of that before they start knocking him around. If he doesn’t understand that, I hope you’ll tell him. How much do you know about last night?”

  “Just what came over the AP wire. A cigarette carton was mentioned. Rubino started to tell me about it, but he said you wanted to give me the official version first.”