Brett Halliday - Six Seconds to Kill

He held the phone tightly against his ear to contain Gentry’s reaction.

“What the hell, Mike?” the police chief demanded. “Since when did you start giving me orders?”

“That’s right.”

Gentry broke off and began again, this time in a more equable tone. “I was a touch slow there. You’ve got somebody in the car and you want him to think you can call up the local cops and order them around. Yes, sir, Mr. Shayne, sir. I’ll be glad to pick up the two gentlemen, but unless they’re doing something illegal when we get there, such as booking bets, you know how long I can hold them. About an hour.”

“That’s the general idea.”

He gave Gentry the address of the four-apartment block in Coral Gables, and described the tired young man he had flushed from the building on 15th Court. “But most of that facial description probably doesn’t mean anything, including the prominent front teeth. This could be a major pinch, Will. I have reason to think that he’s in the country illegally. The situation calls for a good four-man tail.”

“You concede that I have four good men? You’re mellowing, Mike. How important is this?”

“If I’m right, damned important. That’s all I can tell you about it now.”

“I’ll do what I can, sir. Can I go out to dinner now, or do you want me to have a sandwich at my desk?”

“Keep yourself available,” Shayne said curtly, and broke the connection.

Vega was fascinated. “This is a radio, am I correct? Can you call anywhere on it, or only within the city?”

Ignoring the question, Shayne said roughly, “What the hell are you trying to pull down here, Vega?” He took out the anti-Galvez leaflet and slapped it against his palm angrily. “Do you have access to some secret intelligence we don’t know about? This dentist is harmless. He has about forty followers, and they don’t even come to meetings. The thing to do is pretend he doesn’t exist. Attack him and you build up his importance.”

Vega tried to make his eyes meet Shayne’s, but they skittered away. “Ordinarily, of course. But the man has announced a demonstration against a high official of the United States government. His press statements have been vicious and one-sided. I thought-”

“Vega,” Shayne said scornfully, “never think. Make that a rule. Haven’t you realized yet that you’ve been taken?”

“I’ve been taken?”

“Suckered. You think you’re going out there tomorrow and raise hell. It doesn’t take brains to do that. But who’s going to benefit?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Galvez, to begin with. You’ll make him a big man again. Then the students will move in on you and drive you into Indian Creek. You’ll be finished for good. You walked right into it.”

Vega murmured, “I don’t care for your tone. I have certain connections myself. I asked to see your credentials, and you made a very unfunny joke about a taxi-driver’s license. Who are you, precisely? The question in my mind is, do I have to sit here and be talked to like an illiterate fieldhand?”

Shayne picked up the phone and held it out. “Call your connection. If there’s any conflict here, let’s straighten it out.”

Vega held up his hands. “That wouldn’t be procedure.”

“Lorenzo, will you use your head? You’re in a jam. If you thought up this stunt by yourself without checking in, I’m authorized to tell you that you’ll never see another penny of government money, and you’ll be called in immediately for a tax audit. If you’re one of those people who tell the exact truth on your Form 1040, don’t worry about it. But if somebody conned you into putting out that leaflet, there are still things you can do to deodorize. This isn’t much of a national emergency, but it’s an emergency for Lorenzo Vega. Call the goddamn number.”

Vega accepted the phone unwillingly. When the operator came on the line he whispered an area code and a number. She asked him to say it again, louder. Shayne had instructed her that all calls to area code 202 or 703-Washington, D. C., or Virginia-were to be put through to Tim Rourke at the Three Deuces bar.

“Hello?” Vega said cautiously when he heard an answer. “Red Tiger calling. Red Tiger, Miami.”

A voice exploded in his ear, and he winced away from the phone. He tried to speak, but Rourke overrode him.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I hope you will not withdraw your confidence. I assure you nothing like this will occur again.”

He hung up and turned aggressively on Shayne. “How can you people believe it was my private inspiration to organize support for Crowther? He is not congenial to me personally.”

“Lorenzo.”

“I will tell you a small sad anecdote. I have a potentially good business, importing and exporting with Latin America. I have correspondents in all parts of the continent. But I have been unlucky in my currency dealings. Delay is murderous for a man without credit. I see a chance for a profit in platinum, but it is held up, it is held up still, with the storage charges eating me up mouthful by mouthful. Some difficulty with the export license. And now I understand. U.S. Metals is also in the business of exporting platinum. Crowther and U.S. Metals are in each other’s pocket, if one can believe the newspapers.”

“I really doubt if Eliot Crowther knows you exist.”

“You think not,” Vega said stiffly. “I tell myself that coincidences happen. But sometimes, you know, these funny coincidences are not so funny. The amount of money involved is minor. But to me, a man who is not even on a small retainer from your agency any more, it is a matter of survive or not survive. Yet when I was asked, out of a love for democracy, to risk my neck for a man highly antipathetic to me, I did not hesitate.”

“Who asked you?”

“An individual calling himself Mr. Robinson,” Vega said bitterly, “because that is not his real name. The card he showed me was an excellent imitation of the real card. His rudeness was unquestionably CIA. I captured it on magnetic tape. I will play it for you, and you will see plainly that it was definitely not the idea of Lorenzo Vega.”

“How much did he pay you?”

Vega shifted, embarrassed. Shayne repeated the question.

“A miserly seventeen hundred and fifty dollars! Can you imagine? He wanted a special edition of my newspaper, but for various technical reasons that was impossible. I did as well as I could with leaflets. When I heard the sum he was offering I was nearly sick. In the old days I would receive that much every month or so for incidentals, and not be asked for an accounting. Except as a favor for an official agency of the United States government, would I involve myself in an affair that will almost certainly lead to shooting, arrests, hospitalization, for seventeen hundred and fifty dollars?”

“Was shooting part of the deal?”

“It was mentioned,” Vega admitted. “A small fusillade as an excuse to involve the police. As I say, a very good imitation of a genuine agent.”

“Who do you think he actually was?”

Vega flapped his hands. “I am at a loss to say! Shall I play you the tape? To the trained ear, perhaps he made some tiny mistake.”

“Not now. You’ve got work to do.”

“Yes?”

“You realize you’ve got to call this off.”

“But how can I?” Vega cried. “You mean publish another leaflet saying the whole thing has been a mistake? The community would laugh at me.”

“For the first time, Lorenzo?” Shayne said without sympathy. “How many people have you signed up?”

“It’s not that so much. It’s how many come out in response to the leaflets.”

“Nobody’s coming out in response to the leaflets,” Shayne said flatly. “You’ve been passing out money. Not much, probably, but some. I want to know how many you think you can count on. Start with Carlos. He looks like a broken-bottle fighter. How many others?”