Brett Halliday - Caught Dead

His teeth flashed. “You are Mr. Michael Shayne,” he informed Shayne. “I am Andres Rubino, sent to meet you by Mr. Felix Frost, who regrets enormously that he cannot be here in person! Welcome to Venezuela!”

“Thanks,” Shayne said, taking his outstretched hand.

Rubino gave a little skip of pleasure. He wanted to carry Shayne’s bag, but Shayne shook him off.

“I think all is arranged with Immigration and Customs,” Rubino said, walking sideward. “One cannot be certain because of the change in regime. You bribe them one minute, the next minute they forget they ever saw you, but this time I trust that won’t be the case. I know all about you, sir! I admire you! We have great respect for honesty among detectives because there is so little of it among us here. Through this door, please.”

They were waved through the barrier, and Rubino took Shayne out through the deserted, echoing concourse. Weapons-carriers bristling with. 50-caliber machine guns were lined up in front of the terminal. A Jaguar convertible, top down, was parked in a forbidden zone. Two armed soldiers, who had been looking into the car, backed away guiltily. Rubino released a flood of angry Spanish, and they moved away even further.

“A jewel of a car,” the Venezuelan said. “And because of diplomatic stickers one can drive like the wind and park where one pleases. Mr. Frost knows my weakness. I am willing to work for him for next to nothing, to have the privilege of driving about in such a car.” Having slid behind the wheel and snapped on the ignition, he said, “Mr. Shayne, may I speak a serious word if you please before we commence?”

“Go ahead.”

“Please notice the skill with which I manipulate the car. I am truly very professional, I believe. I would like to persuade you to employ me while you are here. I speak English with the utmost facility, as you see. I grew to manhood in the city of Caracas, and I know its ins and its outs, its barrios and its luxurious neighborhoods of high-rise apartments. Also the ins and outs of the shifting political spectrum. I asked Mr. Frost for permission to apply for the post, and he said he was neutral in the matter. So I plead my case.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“Of course, to defend your friend Mr. Rourke. To get him out of prison if possible. And people will attempt to swindle you by selling you false information. I am in that precise business myself, to a certain extent-I will protect you against them. There is hardly one single honest man in Caracas. I am sorry to say it, for it is my native place, but it is a city of crooks.”

“Did Rourke really have anything to do with planting that bomb?”

“Very much so. That is definitely established. But Mr. Frost told me to drive you and shut up about crime and politics. That is difficult for me because I have the name of a regular chatterbox. So I put the top down on the car and I will drive fast, and if I venture an opinion on some forbidden matter, the wind will carry it away. Mr. Frost will tell you I am reliable, less expensive than some. We’re off! Please fasten the seatbelt because I intend to eat up the concrete.”

He flashed his teeth, went into gear, and they shot away from the terminal, leaving smears on the pavement. Shayne adjusted the seatbelt and sat back.

A modern multi-lane expressway connected the big Maiquetia Airport on the coast with the capital in the mountains. Rubino drove carefully, but very fast. At sea level it was already hot, but the air cooled rapidly as they climbed. The new road was paralleled by a much older one, snaking down from the barren foothills in long, lazy loops. Rubino pointed toward it and shouted, “Off-limits! Bandits!”

He laughed, his long hair whipping. He swung out into the passing lane and roared around a straggling convoy of Army vehicles, rusty, poorly maintained jeeps and command cars. The soldiers yelled and made obscene gestures toward the millionaires in the elegant British car. Rubino sounded his horn derisively, his other hand raised in a one-finger salute.

“Desgraciados! Sheep-lovers! You smell of fat!”

Traffic thickened as they approached the city and he was forced to slow down. Soldiers were everywhere. Military aircraft zoomed overhead, much too low.

“It looks like something’s about to happen,” Shayne commented.

“I am under orders from Mr. Frost not to discuss it! And I’m a poor prophet anyway. I never guess right.”

He dropped off the highway on a curving ramp and crossed beneath it, heading north. Presently he slowed, pointing the Jaguar at a gate in a high wall.

“But I think I must give my opinion for what it is worth, which is nil. Don’t repeat it to Mr. Frost because he’s the unquestioned authority. I think nothing further will happen at present, until there is some shift in the balance, because nobody knows who blew up the Bull, you see, or for what reason.”

“That’s Alvares?”

“Known as the Bull, for his bravery and stupidity. No one is taking credit as yet for his death, so the people are uncertain about which way to move. There was much milling about on the streets last night but no signs of direction.”

“What’s your idea about who killed him?”

“Ah,” Rubino said. “So many stories are being told. Hire me as driver and interpreter for one hundred dollars a day, United States currency, and I will try to sort out the incredible from the credible.”

After a moment’s delay the gate swung open. The house was less imposing than its wall, a low stucco structure around an inner court.

An American came out to greet Shayne. He was short and heavy, with a damp handshake. His head seemed a size large for his body, and the features on it were tucked into too small a space. He squinted at Shayne through very thick glasses.

“I’m Frost. I suppose Andres has been lecturing you on the American role in Caracan politics?”

“He was driving too fast,” Shayne said, unhooking his belt.

“A competent man at the wheel of a car,” Frost said, and Rubino murmured, “Thank you, I agree.”

Shayne left his bag in the car. Inside, Frost suggested that he would want to join him for breakfast. He himself had been up all night, taking calls, but the Army control seemed to be firm, and he had just informed the Ambassador that in his opinion it was safe to relax. The banks would be opening as usual, always a good sign.

“But this Rourke business. I hope you can help us with that. He isn’t cooperating with the police at all.”

He took Shayne into the inner court, where a table was set with heavy embossed silver, linen napkins, and cut flowers. A surprisingly pretty dark girl in uniform was waiting to be sent to the kitchen for food. Frost suggested various options. What Shayne chose seemed to be important to his host, so Shayne told the girl exactly what kind of fruit he preferred, and how it was to be prepared, how he liked his eggs and coffee.

“I won’t bore you with trivialities,” Frost said abruptly after the girl departed. “To get down to business at once. What happens to Timothy Rourke is obviously your major concern, but to us he is only one thread in a tapestry. If it can be shown that he committed a crime he will be tried in Venezuelan courts and there isn’t much we can do for him.”

“That’s fair enough.”

“Officially all that’s happened so far is that he’s been brought in for questioning, and he isn’t answering questions. They won’t put up with much of that before they start knocking him around. If he doesn’t understand that, I hope you’ll tell him. How much do you know about last night?”

“Just what came over the AP wire. A cigarette carton was mentioned. Rubino started to tell me about it, but he said you wanted to give me the official version first.”