Brett Halliday - Caught Dead

“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!”