Caught Dead ms-64

by Brett Halliday

  He signaled for a turn, climbed the divider and headed back toward Caracas. Shayne said nothing. Rubino pushed the Jaguar hard, getting the maximum speed out of each gear. He darted down into the next exit.

  “Hold on with both hands,” he advised. “This is shorter, more primitive. From an older century.”

  The concrete ramp spewed them onto a narrow two-lane road, unpaved and rutted.

  “Now you will meet Venezuela,” he shouted happily, “and if the axles hold-”

  He hit a pothole and the rest of the sentence was jolted away. He stayed in third, avoiding the worst irregularities with subtle changes in speed and direction.

  “Can you see the car?” he demanded.

  The road here was depressed between high banks. Until it turned and dived downward, Shayne was unable to see the ocean. He located the coastal road, which hugged the shore in places but most of the time ran inland through dense undergrowth.

  “Mr. Shayne,” Rubino said urgently, “do you have a gun?”

  Shayne pulled his bag over from the back seat and took out his. 38. Rubino snapped the catches holding the top in place and let it fly up and back.

  “At the next bend. Show them the gun and fire once.”

  Shayne still had seen nothing that required a gun. Rubino threw the wheel over and started into another long downward curve. The curve tightened. The road doubled back on itself and they went into their own dust cloud. At the bottom of the loop, an old flat-bed truck was parked so that it nearly blocked both lanes. There was a man on the runningboard with a rifle, two bandoliers of ammunition crossing his chest. In the shadow cast by his wide hat brim, he was faceless.

  Shayne pulled himself up and brought the pistol to bear. The Jaguar fishtailed in the loose dirt.

  The man on the truck watched without shifting the rifle. Shayne fired, and he dived out of sight. The Jaguar swerved while Rubino sawed at the wheel. For a moment they headed straight down the mountain. The rear wheels rode out of the rut. Rubino pulled the wheel sharply to the left, missed the edge by an eyelash and came back around the truck into the road. Shayne fired again, at the truck’s tire, but the bullet went into the dirt.

  He sat down and refastened his seatbelt.

  Rubino was very excited. “How they would love to get hold of this car. It would make their fortunes.”

  The road’s surface improved as they came out on the flat. He stayed in third, watching carefully to avoid the frequent holes.

  “I fear we are still bouncing too badly for binoculars.”

  He glanced behind, then skidded to a stop and took the binoculars out of Shayne’s hands. He began panning from left to right, looking for the green Olds.

  “Yes,” he said. “I was right. She is going to Macuto. She can charter a boat there. Do you see her at the end of the long cove? Keep your eye on her, please, while I pay attention to this wretched imitation of a road.”

  Part of the next section had washed badly, and he slowed to a crawl. Shayne lost the Olds briefly, picking it up again as the road improved. Then all at once they were rolling on blacktop. It was pocked and broken, but a big change after the difficulties of the last few miles.

  Seeing the main road ahead, Rubino slid to a stop.

  “We are here first,” he announced. “Now we spring out at her as she comes past and give her a small heart attack, perhaps. She thinks she is almost safe.” He peered down the winding road. “She will appear in one moment.”

  But he became impatient quickly. “There are so many places for boats! If she had one waiting, in two seconds she could lose herself on the Caribbean. And that would be too bad, after all the time we have invested. I think we should go meet her.”

  When Shayne didn’t disagree, he turned out on the shore road in the direction of the airport. There was little traffic, an occasional truck, one or two small European cars. A distant tanker, a smudge on the blue water, headed west toward Maracaibo.

  They found the green Olds after half a mile. No one was in it. It was pulled well off the road with the front door slightly ajar, the interior light burning. Rubino frowned and said something in Spanish as he braked to a stop.

  It was blindingly hot. The undergrowth was very thick on the land side. There was a small cluster of shacks just ahead, a tiny store marked with a Coca-Cola sign.

  Shayne stepped out. A dirt track ran down to the water where two fishing boats were tied to a rickety dock. Off shore, a 20-foot open-decked runabout rode at a mooring in a slow swell.

  A barefooted Venezuelan girl appeared around one of the shacks. Rubino called a question, which frightened her back out of sight.

  Shayne started toward the water, and suddenly a man materialized on the deck of one of the boats. He was wearing only bathing trunks. He was young, well-tanned and well-muscled, with a full mustache. He looked at Shayne, then whirled, scrambled to the rail and dived.

  He came out of the dive with arms and legs pumping in a powerful crawl. Shayne ran toward the dock, reaching it an instant before the swimmer arrived at the mooring and flashed over the gunwale of the powerboat like a leaping salmon. Shayne had his revolver out, but didn’t fire. He glanced back at Rubino, who had stopped short, shading his eyes.

  A motor roared and the moored boat jumped forward, snapping the line. Shayne crossed the dock to the fishing boat and stepped aboard.

  There was a strong smell of fish and the decks were wet. He found the woman face down on the floor of the cabin, her white blouse slashed open and her back bloody.

  NINE

  She uttered a low sound and one arm moved. The knife that had been used on her lay under the wheel, bone-handled, with blood on the long blade.

  Shayne called to Rubino, who was still on the dock, looking after the departing boat. “Get me some water. Move!”

  The woman’s dark glasses fell off as he lifted her carefully. He maneuvered her through a doorway and down a step into a cluttered cabin, where he laid her, face down, on a narrow bunk. With color in her lips she would have been a strikingly beautiful woman. Her eyes were open, but wide and unfocused.

  “Relax,” Shayne told her. “For the time being I’m friendly.”

  He gripped her blouse in both hands and tore it all the way down. Her back was a mass of blood.

  Rubino appeared in the doorway. “Ocean water. O.K.?”

  “Fine.”

  Shayne found a towel. The woman raised her head and said distinctly, “Don’t touch me.”

  “Just a little first aid.”

  He sponged her back gently. She had been stabbed twice. One of the wounds was a neat, almost surgical puncture. The other was long and ragged, and the blood was welling up out of the torn flesh.

  She objected. “I don’t know who you are.”

  “I know who you are,” Shayne said. “You’re Alvares’ ex-girlfriend and I have some questions to ask you, so try not to die right away. Andres, make yourself useful. There are a couple of shirts and a bottle of cognac in my bag. On the double.”

  She said faintly, “Do you think I’ll die?”

  Shayne continued to work for a moment. “No,” he said then. “But you need a doctor, and finding one may be a bit tricky. Does your head hurt?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “He must have slugged you first. Did you see him?”

  She moved her head slightly. “Everything exploded. You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m not doing it on purpose. We’ve got to do some fast figuring. He hit bone both times. I don’t know what else he hit. If I take you to the hospital you’ll probably feel fine in a few weeks. But do you want to show up at a Venezuelan hospital? We chased you down from the mountains. You were moving fast.”

  She said nothing, and he said sharply, “Are you listening to me?”

  She said with an effort, “I’m trying to think.”

  Shayne heard running footsteps on the dock, and Rubino jumped aboard.

  “Everything still peaceful. But for how long? Mr. Shayne, we s
hould quickly reach a decision.”

  “The lady’s thinking.”

  He ripped up one of the shirts and began to contrive a clumsy bandage, designed to stop the flow of blood from the longer wound. He soaked a small piece of cloth in cognac and told her to suck it while he cleaned both wounds. Her face worked, but she managed to say nothing. He fashioned two rough pads of clean cloth and pressed them against the wounds.

  “Your name is Shayne?” she said.

  “Michael Shayne. I’m a private detective from Miami. Tim Rourke’s a friend of mine. He’s in jail here, and I know you know for what.”

  She spat out the rag and said excitedly, “A detective. I own this boat. Will you take me to-”

  “No,” Shayne said, interrupting. “If you died on the way I’d have trouble getting back into Venezuela. I’m a stranger here, and I’m supposed to follow some of the rules.”

  “Then-”

  “I have a feeling Andres is about to make a suggestion which will cost me some money. Andres, you must know some unfrocked doctor.”

  “Not precisely, but I think I could connect you with somebody. Yes, money would change hands. I think a thousand dollars.”

  “That makes it too important.”

  “One hundred for him, the rest for me. I take the risk.”

  “That’s going to clean me out, but all right. Where does this guy operate?”

  “In Caracas. A thousand dollars will really take the last of your American money?”

  “Don’t forget you’re in for twenty-five percent of my fee.”

  “But that is problematical, you know. This is definite, immediate. You need a place to take her, where she can recover her health, and that will require a further investment. Perhaps Miss Dante-”

  He stepped into the wheelhouse and picked up her purse. After wiping off the blood he rummaged around inside it and found some American currency.

  “Four hundred,” he said after counting it quickly. “O.K., I’ll do it for that. But considering the chances, you have a bargain.”

  “This thing is turning into a gold mine,” Shayne remarked. “I’ve got to work out a way to make this bandage stay on. Get back up to the road and see if you can find out anything. Act like a cop.”

  “But that would be the worst way to learn anything in this region.”

  Shayne’s patient had turned her head so she could see his face. When Rubino’s footsteps sounded on the dock she said pressingly, “I want to hire you. I have to get away. Take me to Curasao. We can get a plane there. I’m really all right. I know it’s nothing serious-”

  “Everything else is,” Shayne said roughly. “You won’t be better off in another country. Murder’s an extraditable offense.”

  “I haven’t killed anybody.”

  “I don’t know that. Drink some more cognac. It’s going to be a rough ride.”

  She sat up with his help and he put the mouth of the bottle to her lips. She swallowed deeply.

  “You’re going to exchange me for your friend.”

  “I’m considering that. But they won’t buy a one-for-one deal. I’ll have to throw in some cash or information, something they can use to help themselves politically. That gives you room to swing. I’m open to any reasonable offer, but it has to include an exit visa for Rourke.”

  He tightened the knot of the makeshift bandage. She drew a quick breath.

  “If you’ll stop breathing,” he said, “this would have a better chance to stay on.”

  “Who is this Andres?” she said faintly. “Do you trust him?”

  Shayne laughed. “Hell, no, but he’s my pipeline. I think he recognized the guy who jumped you.”

  She looked up quickly. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, but I think he’s trying to figure out a way to squeeze some money out of it. Who wants to kill you at this point?”

  She sighed. “I’ll give you a list.”

  “Are the cops looking for you?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “They can’t know about the Olds. We saw you pass a checkpoint without being stopped.”

  “I borrowed it from a friend.”

  Shayne hitched the bandage higher. “All right, that’s the best I can do. I think you’d better try to walk.”

  He put his jacket around her, transferring his gun from the pocket to inside his belt. He gave her more cognac before helping her up. They moved slowly and carefully.

  She groaned as the sunlight hit her, and started to fall. He swept her up in his arms and carried her up the track to the Olds. There was still no living person to be seen. Rubino came out of one of the shacks and walked rapidly toward them. He helped Shayne put the injured woman into the back seat of the green car.

  “We’re taking this one?” he said. “Yes. But to get his Jaguar back, Mr. Frost will have to pay a ransom of half its value. Of course it is not his money, and the United States is the richest nation in the world.”

  He locked the Jaguar and returned to take the wheel of the Olds. Shayne, in the back seat, was adjusting the bandage again.

  “I think we can go by autopista,” Rubino said. “Faster and smoother, a better journey for Miss Dante. No one saw the man of the knife come aboard the boat. The speedboat was tied up already at daybreak, and they considered it not their business. But of course it is all probably lies.”

  Each small bump in the road meant a stab of pain for Lenore, and Shayne kept feeding her cognac. They were given only a casual glance by the police at the cloverleaf. Rubino concentrated on getting the feel of the car. At any speed over sixty the front end vibrated badly.

  “We’re taking her to my flat,” he announced after a time. “It is a terrible, terrible risk, but to involve other people would be riskier still. If you are ever interrogated, Mr. Shayne, I will ask you to say you forced me at gunpoint. Say nothing about money.”

  “I doubt if they’ll believe me.”

  “In any case,” Rubino assured himself, “everything will go smoothly. First the doctor.”

  Leaving the highway at the outskirts of the city, he parked and made a phone call. He talked for some time, gesturing freely. Returning, he nodded to Shayne to indicate that the arrangements had been made. He drove from there to a hospital, a modern concrete building painted in red and blue stripes, where he picked up a pudgy young man in shades and hospital whites, carrying a medical bag. No names were exchanged.

  Rubino lived nearby, in a high-rise concrete block with brightly colored awnings on each terrace, so recently built that the lobby was still not entirely finished. Shayne carried Lenore past a group of indifferent workmen and put her in the elevator. When he set her down, she swayed against him.

  “I’m all right. It’s the brandy.”

  Rubino’s apartment, on the top floor, was air-conditioned, furnished with blonde department-store pieces upholstered in bright colors, and except for the view of the mountains through large picture windows, it might have been located in Miami Beach. The other Venezuelan made an admiring remark in Spanish, and Rubino answered with a modest laugh and a joke. He spread a sheet on the sofa, and Shayne laid the woman on it.

  The doctor went to work.

  After a moment Rubino joined Shayne at the front window.

  “An opportunity,” he said in a low voice. His back to the room, he traced a dollar sign on the glass. “The subject we were speaking about earlier, Alvares’ plunder-”

  “There’s that,” Shayne said. “But we don’t want to rush it. How about this doctor? Can we be sure he’ll keep his mouth shut?”

  Rubino nodded seriously. “He has reason to be afraid of me.”

  Lenore called, “What are you two conspiring about?”

  Rubino turned with his bright smile. “I am speaking to Mr. Shayne about your biography. I am happy to say I own one of your paintings!”

  He showed Shayne a carefully constructed arrangement of overlapping geometric shapes, in blues and reds. It was signed L. Dante, and dated
eight years before. Its creator was watching from the sofa, waiting for his reaction.

  “Yeah,” Shayne said noncommittally.

  The doctor completed his bandage. One breast was covered with gauze; the other had been left bare. Rubino brought a soft striped shirt from his bedroom and the doctor helped her put it on. She brushed her hair while the doctor spoke to Rubino in Spanish.

  “The damage is not too bad,” Rubino translated. “Only one thrust penetrated deeply. The other was on the surface, through flesh and muscle, and he has taken care of it. She should not exert herself, remain quiet, et cetera, take aspirin tablets if the pain is bad, sleep as much as possible and be careful not to be stabbed again too soon.”

  The doctor snapped his bag and went to the bathroom to wash.

  “After you drop him off,” Shayne said, “I want you to take a message to Frost.”

  “He can find a taxi,” Rubino protested. “We have so much to decide, what strategy to follow, ways and means-”

  Shayne was writing on the flyleaf of a book he had picked off a side table.

  Rubino persisted. “Frost is on the other side of the city. He has a telephone line installed by his own technicians; it is checked daily. You can speak on it with perfect security.”

  “I need some cash,” Shayne explained. “I can’t operate without money in my pocket. Unless you’d like to advance me something?”

  “That would be against my lifelong practice,” Rubino said stiffly.

  Shayne ripped out the page. He had written: “I hereby acknowledge receipt of $2000 from Felix Frost, to be repaid promptly by money order on my return to the U.S. or to constitute a binding obligation on my estate if that’s how things go. Half American money, half Venezuelan. Michael Shayne.”

  He handed it to Rubino. “He’ll want to know what’s happening. Tell him as little as possible. We want to keep Lenore a secret. You can say I haven’t been able to see the widow, but I’m still trying. Get back as soon as you can.”

  Their eyes held for a moment.

  “If he asks me a direct question about the lady, I’ll have to tell him, Mr. Shayne. I cannot afford to annoy this man.”