Brett Halliday - Caught Dead

“There is no official version, because no one interpretation makes complete sense. There were two cigarette cartons.” He opened an envelope beside his plate and took out several glossy photographs. “If you look at these first, it may save us some time.”

Shayne flicked through the pictures while the maid poured coffee. There were four shots of the devastated room in the prison. A final picture showed Tim Rourke with a girl. Rourke was on the sidewalk, holding the door of a car, and she was getting out of the front seat.

“What legs!” Frost remarked. “My, my. You can almost see the young lady’s snatch. Her name is Paula Obregon. Her father owns a large store in the Plaza O’Leary. She spent a year at the University of Miami. Is it possible that you know her?”

Shayne said doubtfully, “I may have seen her with Tim. When was this taken?”

“Yesterday. She is affiliated with the MIR. Do you know these initials? Our local guerrillas, increasingly troublesome lately. She is generally used as a courier. She speaks English well, and can pass as a tourist.”

“All right,” Shayne said evenly. “Rourke was seen with a guerrilla with a good pair of legs. What else have they got?”

“Really very little. I showed you those photographs of the prison to make a point. A fire started after the explosion, and it burned rather intensely for a time. As a result no one can be sure exactly what kind of bomb was used, or where and how it went off. But the prevailing opinion is that it was introduced inside those two cartons of Pall Mall cigarettes carried by Larry Howe, the UPI correspondent, presumably as a present for Alvares.”

“What’s the tie-in to Tim?”

“I didn’t offer you sugar and cream. Or since both of us have been up all night, perhaps it isn’t too early for a drop of cognac?”

He sent the girl for a bottle. After adding a dollop to Shayne’s coffee, he poured some in his own.

“Ah, the tie-in to Tim Rourke,” he said. “Howe was a pool correspondent, representing the resident press corps. Rourke gave him the cartons, and the police have two witnesses-United States journalists-who say that he was strangely insistent on having them delivered by hand.”

“And the cops think Tim got the cigarettes from the guerrillas, through the girl?”

“That is the hypothesis they are working on.”

“As I understand it, Alvares was out of office, a has-been. Why would they want to kill him?”

Frost looked into his coffee. “To set up new tensions? To show that the junta can’t even guarantee security inside their maximum-security prison? Or perhaps it wasn’t their intention that the bomb should go off in that precise way. A half-dozen MIR leaders are confined in the same prison, and there have been rumors about a possible jailbreak. The Centre branch of the Guaranty National was robbed of four hundred thousand dollars last night during the confusion, and that had all the earmarks of an MIR operation-quick and controlled.”

Shayne considered. “Are they sure the cartons Tim gave Howe are the ones he carried into the prison?”

“When Howe left the hotel he had one carton of Pall Malls in each side pocket. When he arrived at La Vega he still had one carton of Pall Malls in each side pocket. He and Menendez, the PR man, drove there together. We can’t ask Menendez what happened on the way because he’s dead.”

He took another swallow of the loaded coffee. The maid brought in scrambled eggs, thin slices of fried ham and warm brioches. Frost tucked into the food with obvious pleasure.

“Suppose everything stays the way it is,” Shayne said, “and nothing new is found out. What can they do to Rourke?”

“On the basis of the evidence they have now,” Frost said, chewing, “my guess would be thirty years.”

“That’s not good,” Shayne said, scratching his chin. “How about the new government? What were they planning to do with Alvares if that bomb hadn’t gone off?”

“Put him on trial for stealing from the people. Which was something he unquestionably did over a span of years, on a gigantic scale.”

“Are they better off with him dead, or worse? How much popular following did he have?”

“Not that much. He’d been in office too long. What I’d better do is let you glance at some of my political reports so you won’t sound totally naive when you start talking to these people.”

“Which side are we on?”

He gave the question an edge, and Frost looked at him sharply, then laughed and forked up a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

“Nothing is ever that simple,” he said, his diction slightly blurred. “Alvares was a friend of ours to the end, but we felt he was becoming too greedy. Certain concessions were being renegotiated, and he had a fantastic idea of how much the traffic would bear. You’ll find this covered in my reports. So we weren’t overwhelmingly unhappy to see him removed. But you must be careful, Shayne, not to exaggerate our importance here. All we can do is give people an occasional mild nudge. But don’t think you have to become an expert on all this. We have far too many experts already. Your job is to make your friend Tim Rourke understand exactly how serious it is.”

“Are they going to let me see him?”

“I’ve already made the appointment. My suggestion would be”-he swallowed another forkful of eggs and washed it down with coffee-“that you reject the first arrangement they offer you, which will probably be the usual visiting room, with a glass barrier and guards in attendance. Object to this strongly, on the grounds that you have a right to confer with the prisoner in private. Demand a face-to-face confrontation, with no one present but yourselves. They will accede to this. The idea being that you will now assume you can speak freely, without being overheard-an assumption which will unquestionably be incorrect.”

He seemed pleased with the way he was handling his visitor. Shayne watched him stuff his mouth with a brioche coated with butter. This was his third. There were three more in the basket and given time he would undoubtedly work his way through them all. His chin glistened.

“And then what?” Shayne said.

“Then,” Frost said, swallowing, “you tell Rourke that he had better be perfectly candid unless he wants to spend the next thirty years in excruciating discomfort. Prison management in this part of the world is far from enlightened. Tell him we are washing our hands of him. No deal is possible, in my judgment. What can he tell the police except that he has been in contact with Paula Obregon, a fact they already know?”

“You said the room will be bugged. Tim may not know that. Do you still want me to persuade him to talk?”

Frost’s lips curved. Even with his mouth full he managed to look faintly roguish.

“I really do. This sealed-lips tactic is only making things worse for him.”

“I think I get it,” Shayne said slowly. “Tim and I have been working together for years. There are ways I can let him know we’re being listened to, without saying it. Then he can tell me something that’ll send the cops off in the wrong direction. Police translators tend to be pretty square.”

“That’s one way it might work.”

“But that’s on the surface. Meanwhile, he’ll be giving me a slant on what really happened. You’re my contact. I’ll consult you about it. If I don’t, your man Rubino will be driving me, and he’ll keep you up-to-date. What I want to know now is why? Thanks for the breakfast, by the way. Everything was very good. Are you acting for yourself or for the United States government? How much did you have to do with this revolt, or whatever you call it? All you do is nudge people-yeah. You’re in politics up to your chin and everybody knows it.”