Brett Halliday - Caught Dead

“Well, I’m sorry! Of course I knew he was rich, and I must have assumed it wasn’t money he saved out of his official salary. But I didn’t know any details.” She added, “Maybe I was afraid to ask.”

“You understand I’m not talking about the money he took out of his pocket to pay waiters. I’ve heard various sums quoted, from twenty million down.”

She looked startled. “Twenty million dollars!”

“That’s only a skim of about a million and a half a year. But pick a number. It doesn’t have to be twenty. Ten million, five. Call it five million, and I take back what I said about thousand-dollar bills. Fifties are as high as he’d want to go and that many fifties would fill a couple of trunks. You can’t buy real property without leaving a trail of paper. Somebody like you, sleeping in the same bedroom, using the same phone, would have to know what he was doing. Don’t go on denying it.”

He looked at his watch. “Rubino’s on his way back, and I know from driving with him that he doesn’t pay much attention to traffic lights. We’ve got a pretty good situation here, if we can work out, a way to exploit it. I want him to sneak in next door and listen to us talking. People who depend on surveillance techniques usually believe everything they hear.”

“I’m glad you’re finally using the word we.”

“You’re in enough trouble so I think you’re about to start helping. I’m not the only one who thinks you know where that money’s buried. Or can you think of any other reason that guy was waiting to knife you?”

“He could think it and still be wrong, Mike. Find out for me! I still want to hire you, but I can’t be too free with my promises, or you’ll think I have keys to all his safe deposit boxes. I’m thinking of my skin!”

She forgot and took a deep breath. “Damn it, that hurt. I’m willing to play ‘let’s suppose,’ if you are. Let’s suppose there is such a cache of money and we find it, who would it belong to?”

Shayne smiled. “We can ask a lawyer.”

“Perhaps I’d deserve some of it. I’m in his will.”

Shayne’s smile broadened, and she said, “I know! If it gets as far as the lawyers, the new junta will simply gobble it up.”

“Somebody has to turn it in first. I don’t think that’s likely. Let’s name a percentage. If I get you out of the country and wind up this bombing so they don’t come after you with extradition papers, I think fifty percent would be about right.”

Her eyes changed. “Fifty percent of nothing would be nothing. Fifty percent of five or ten million would be damned high.”

He made a quick gesture. “Then it’s settled. We’re partners. Now give me a few dribbles of information.”

She drew her eyebrows together and set her lips in a thin line. But she forced herself to relax, and drank.

“Fifty percent of nothing would be nothing for me, too, so-” She hesitated. “I think I may know what you’re talking about, but it certainly doesn’t amount to anything like twenty million, or ten or even five.”

“Four?”

“Less than four. That doesn’t matter. I know exactly what the police will do if they get hold of me. We talked about it. Guillermo thought he could defy them for ninety-six hours. I couldn’t last ninety-six minutes. That’s why I’m so concerned about this Andres Rubino. What if he brings the police back with him?”

“He hasn’t decided yet whether or not that’s his best deal.”

“They’ll try to hang those three murders on me, won’t they?”

“On you and Rourke. You’re both Americans. Palm Beach and Miami are in the same part of the world. It stands to reason that you know each other, and have been working together all the way. If they can’t find Paula Obregon, you’re cooked, and everybody tells me she’s going to be hard to find.”

He stood up. “I’ve got something to do before he gets back.”

She sat forward, alarmed. “Mike, you aren’t leaving me.”

“Only for a couple of minutes.” He took out his revolver, snapped off the safety, and laid it on the sofa beside her. “If he comes in, shoot him.”

“I couldn’t!”

“Yes, you could,” he told her. “Wait till he comes around the end of the sofa. Point it at him and pull the trigger. I’ll clean up after you.”

Shayne rode the elevator to the lobby and looked at the ladder of names in the vestibule. Half the slots were empty, designating unrented apartments. He rang two of the bells at random and waited. A moment later, hearing no answering buzzer, he returned to the elevator.

The first of the two apartments was still being painted. Open cans of paint indicated that the painters would be back. The second was ready for renting. Shayne was about to leave after looking it over when something pulled at his eye-a car turning off the elevated freeway, much too fast, taking the exit curve on the outside of its tires. It was Lenore Dante’s green Olds-Rubino, coming back.

Going out hurriedly, he snapped the lock so the door could be opened from the outside. He had blocked the elevator, and had already pushed the button for Rubino’s floor.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said, snapping his fingers as the car responded at its usual pace to the electronic controls.

Lenore, on the sofa where he had left her, jerked around as he came in. One hand was out of sight. She seemed very pale.

“It’s you,” she said, relieved. “God, I was afraid I’d have to-”

“He’s just pulling into the parking lot. We don’t have time to rehearse. Take off your clothes.”

She looked at him blankly. “Did you say-”

“You heard me. He’ll have to go out to phone. As soon as you hear him leave, go down to Nine-C. Don’t forget that number. Nine-C. It’s an empty apartment and the door’s unlocked. Bolt it from the inside and wait there for me. It could be a long wait. It won’t be what you’re used to, but it’s better than jail. Damn it, get undressed! We’ve got about a minute and a half.”

He had kicked off his shoes and was unzipping his pants. Lenore began to fumble with her skirt. Leaving his clothes scattered about the rug, he went to help her.

“You can leave the shirt on.”

“Mike,” she stammered, “you-you mean we’re going to make love? With Rubino watching through the mirror?”

“No. It’s already happened, and it was terrific, as usual. We’re about to have an intimate post-sex conversation, and he’ll believe every word he hears.”

He brought a bath towel from the bathroom. She was still on the extreme front edge of the sofa, her nicely tanned legs stretched out, her hands folded in her lap.

“You look about as relaxed as a crowbar,” he said roughly.

“Mike, are you really sure what you’re doing?”

He gestured. She slid back into a reclining position, crossing her ankles. He arranged a pillow behind her and unbuttoned the striped shirt. The pose was right, but she was still semi-rigid. He moved the cognac and glasses so he could reach them from the sofa and lit cigarettes for them both.

“Don’t look at the mirror,” he said more gently, arranging himself beside her. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get in the mood. You enjoyed it.”

“I did not! Mike, you saw that camera. He’s sure to take photographs.”

“That’s right.” He put his hand flat against her stomach. “One way is to think about the jam you’re in and the other way is to forget about jams.”

Under his moving hand, she lost a little tension. She turned her head and kissed him lightly.

“I’ll try to trust you. I hope I can. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I’ll feed you the cues.”

He touched her unbandaged breast, and felt the nipple tighten. He gave her a long searching kiss, drawing away only when he caught a flicker of response. They settled against each other.