Brett Halliday - Caught Dead

“Yes, and it’s possible you might be permitted to talk to him. Tell me on what principal subject.”

“You know the answer to that. Money.”

“You want to buy our collaboration?” she said skeptically.

“In a way.”

“I don’t follow you, still. If you think you can hire us to attempt another jailbreak, to rescue Tim Rourke-”

“God, no. That other one was mostly window-dressing, anyway.”

“You saw that? Then,” she decided, “I think it will be correct to talk to you, but only after I get the approval of the committee. We are nearly there. You will have to repeat the things you’ve told me about Rubino.”

“Does Serrano speak English?”

She smiled. “When it’s convenient to him.”

“One more question. What about Alvares’ diary?”

“The torn-out page I gave Tim? That was from Lenore.”

“He thought it came from the wife.”

“We decided there was no reason for him to know Lenore was so much involved.”

For a brief stretch there was pavement, then the road narrowed again and went back to dirt. She turned uphill, into another shantytown, no less crowded and fetid than the others they had already passed. When the street petered out abruptly Paula parked, and the police car was surrounded at once by a swarm of dirty, excited children and barking dogs. A man came out of one of the wretched structures and patted the hood of the stolen car with delight. He shouted congratulations at Paula, but his grin faded when he saw the youth in the back seat.

Others gathered quickly. The explanations were conducted in Spanish. Shayne was examined curiously when he came out into the sunlight with the submachine gun in one hand. Julio was unloaded and placed in a wheeled cart, which was pulled off along a narrow rutted path.

“The doctor is that way,” Paula said. “You and I go elsewhere.” Smiling, she took the submachine gun and the other weapons. “You are now my prisoner.”

Four or five young men accompanied them, and they were followed by a crowd of children. The smell of the North American stranger had sent the numerous skinny dogs into near hysteria. Paula leaped a trickling open drain and headed up a path that wound in and out, seemingly at random, among the flimsy shelters. One hard push, it seemed to Shayne, would send the whole improbable neighborhood tumbling to the ground, like a village of playing cards.

Much of the living and nearly all of the cooking was done in the open air. They crossed a larger ditch on a plank bridge, and at Paula’s direction Shayne ducked his head and entered a three-sided lean-to of flattened oil cans. They passed through into another, equally shaky, and finally into a third. There was a chair, a cot and a table, and Shayne was told to sit down. The floor was dirt.

Several young men remained with him, but Paula continued further. He offered the young men cigarettes, which they accepted.

Paula was gone for some time. When she returned, she brought an older man wearing a simple green uniform and tennis shoes. He was stockily built, with abundant graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. It was clear from the way the others reacted that this was the chief.

“Here is Serrano,” Paula said, introducing them. “Mr. Michael Shayne.”

Another chair was produced and Serrano sat down. Paula had exchanged her torn dress for a pair of faded blue jeans and a cotton pullover. She also had a shoulder holster-the Luger in it was probably the same one Julio had carried in the kidnapping. She sat on an upended box.

“Do we want this many people?” Shayne said.

“Yes, they are to be trusted.”

“So you took their Thompson away from them and stole their car,” Serrano said, speaking rapidly but with a heavy accent. “I wish I had been there. Now. About Andres Rubino. When he informed us you were about to give the police information about us, he was lying?”

“He was quoting me,” Shayne said, “but I was lying. Have you been in his new apartment?”

The Venezuelan shook his head.

“I sent him off to pick up some money for me. He wouldn’t have gone for sandwiches, but he couldn’t resist going for money. I knew the place had to be bugged. I never did find the mike, but I found a two-way mirror. I had Paula’s aunt there with me. Lenore Dante. We set up a conversation he was sure to believe. When he came back on the other side of the mirror we ran it off, and apparently he believed it.”

“And he passed it to us,” Serrano said. “You think he also told the police.”

Shayne shrugged. “Maybe they just happened to be there when I was grabbed. Or maybe I arranged that, too, so you’d feel grateful after I got rid of them for you. Everybody’s got to keep an open mind.”

Serrano looked away after a moment, and then he and the others, in Spanish, discussed what Shayne had said.

“We’ll send somebody to ask Rubino,” Serrano said.

“He’s dead.”

He dropped this news casually, but he was watching reactions.

“Tell us,” Serrano said, his eyes narrowing.

“He was shot with a rifle.” Shayne looked at Paula. “Did you plant a guy on a fishing boat this morning to kill your aunt?”

“No!”

“She’s reasonably O.K., just cut up a little. I think the same guy shot Rubino and took a couple of shots at me. This was out by the farm, if that means anything.”

“I see that this won’t be disposed of in a minute,” Serrano said. “Are you hungry? Will you eat something?”

Shayne nodded and one of the young men went out.

“You must have a pretty good idea what I’m doing in Venezuela.” Shayne said. “I’ve been offered a couple of ways to make money, but my main problem is still Tim Rourke. He’s in on a bad rap. That charge should be simple stupidity. I’ve thought all along that my one chance of getting him out was to find them a replacement. Paula wouldn’t be bad, but she’s not quite big enough. You’d fit, Serrano.” He looked around the room, holding each pair of eyes for a moment before passing on to the next. “But from here I can count at least three guns, and I don’t think I could take you in. So we’ve got to work out a deal. I have a couple of proposals. Is there anything you want to have explained first?”

Serrano said, “Your remark to Paula that we had no actual plan to attack the prison.”

“I don’t know how much fire power you have available. But you didn’t do much when Alvares got the boot and the new guys were taking over, and that would have been a good time to make some noise. I understand you set up a diversion the night of the jailbreak. A bank robbery. How well did you do?”

“Rather well.”

“Yeah. Somebody told me about guerrilla movements once. At first it’s hard to tell the guerrillas from the bandits. You may have an interesting set of long range plans, but meanwhile you steal to stay alive. You wouldn’t risk an armed attack on a prison, just to spring a few people. Look around this barrio. There’s no shortage of people. Your shortage is guns and money. Paula’s aunt still thinks she sold you on the jail-break idea, but she doesn’t understand that you’re still at the bandit stage. How many people did you actually have out there, outside the jail?”

“One. To fire some shots. Does it matter?”

“Damn right it matters. Because if that was the diversion and the bank robbery was the real thing, all you needed was a couple of tear-gas bombs and a little smoke. You didn’t need to kill anybody.”

A woman came in with a platter which she placed in front of Shayne. Paula said, “In your honor, Mr. Shayne, the North American specialty.”

The meal proved to be hot dogs wrapped in corn leaves. Shayne took one, but waited to see what the others would do with theirs. They peeled back the leaves and dipped the hot dogs in a bowl of sauce. Shayne did the same, more cautiously. The sauce was fiery.