Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

The fat man looked up at him genially, though his eyes were cobra-bright. “Your name, Senor?”

“Michael Shayne.” The rangy detective automatically removed his hat, showing the shock of red hair that was his trademark in the city.

The young man leaned forward and said something quickly and earnestly to the older man in Spanish. He nodded and said, “You are expected, Senor. The first door on the left.”

Shayne went to the first door on the left and opened it. A slender, dapper, brown-faced man sat alone at a table in the center of the small room. He had sensitive, intelligent features, and very even, white teeth which he showed in a pleasant smile when he recognized his visitor. “Mr. Shayne.” His voice was clipped and betrayed no trace of an accent. For many years before the advent of Castro he had been employed as Cuban correspondent and feature writer for one of the American wire services, but his laudatory accounts of the revolutionary policies had earned him disfavor and he had been recalled soon after Castro took over.

His resignation had followed, and he had established himself in Miami as the center of a conservative, pro-Castro group, which utilized every means in its power to combat the growing anti-Castro sentiment in the United States that was constantly being fomented by the right-wing press.

Shayne had met him twice in the company of Timothy Rourke, who had known him intimately for more than a decade, and he had formed a high opinion of his intelligence and his personal integrity. Now, Alvarez stood up to lean across the table and shake hands warmly, “How is our good friend, Timothy Rourke?”

“Tim’s fine.” Shayne sat down and began without preamble, “I need some straight information fast. Do you trust me enough to answer some pertinent questions without asking why?”

“I think I trust any friend of Tim Rourke’s,” Alvarez told him gravely.

“I know that you’re closely in touch with the Castro supporters here. What do you know about the activities of Julio Peralta?”

“Peralta is a question-mark, Mr. Shayne. I do not trust him.”

“He is working for Castro. Using his own money to buy arms to ship over for the movement.”

“Is he, Mr. Shayne?”

“Isn’t he?” Shayne asked in astonishment.

“I do not know. He is a man who has carried water on both shoulders.” Alvarez shrugged cynically. “He is involved in many intrigues.”

“Is he a Communist?” Shayne asked bluntly.

“Peralta?” The question seemed to honestly astonish the Cuban. He paused before saying flatly, “There are no Communists here among us, Mr. Shayne. Russia is a foreign power that has been friendly and has extended a helping hand. So much for that. She is an unfriendly power to the United States, and here, in your country, we would not conspire to receive aid from the Communists.”

“Would you refuse arms from Peralta if you could be convinced he were a Communist?”

“I think nothing would convince me of that, Mr. Shayne.”

“Let me put it this way.” Shayne looked at his watch and saw he didn’t have much time to waste before getting to Scotty’s Bar. “Do you know the location of Peralta’s house on Alton Road?”

“I know the house. I know there are many conferences held there between various factions. In my personal opinion, Julio Peralta has not changed his former allegiance.”

“You mean,” persisted Shayne, “you suspect he is still anti-revolutionary?”

“I have strong reason to think so.”

“I have strong reason to think otherwise.” Shayne hesitated a moment, marshalling his thoughts. “I have also strong reason to believe there is a large arms cache being accumulated by small boats from the Inland Waterway at the vacant estate next door to Peralta’s.”

“I have heard such rumors,” said Alvarez calmly.

“If they were being supplied by Communists… for the express purpose of being shipped over to Cuba for Castro’s use… you would object to that?”

“Most strenuously. We want no outside interference from any country. If your own government would only understand that fact, Mr. Shayne… if they would aid us to eliminate Communist influences… a strong Cuba could be built to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with America against subversion.”

Shayne said impatiently, “Speeches are fine, Alvarez. In fact, I happen to believe you. But I have a definite problem that has to be resolved in the next few minutes.” He paused again, seeking the right words.

“All hell is going to break loose before tomorrow morning with Peralta right in the middle of it. Don’t ask me how I know. I do. Local police, probably with the assistance of government agents, are going to move in on Peralta and confiscate whatever arms may be stored there waiting for shipment to Cuba.”

“That would be a great pity,” said Alvarez. “They are needed by my country to maintain the New Order.”

“You’ve got about an hour. Not more than that.” Shayne looked at his watch again. “Make it exactly twelve-thirty. Can you have a raiding party at the canal dock of the house next door to Peralta?”

Alvarez said, “It can be arranged.” He paused before adding, “It would be a great pity if we came into conflict with the police… a larger diplomatic error if government agents are involved.”

Shayne said, “I can’t promise anything. I think you’ll have at least a couple of hours head-start.”

“That should be sufficient.”

Shayne pushed back his chair and stood up. “Let’s synchronize our watches. I have thirteen minutes to twelve.”

The Cuban newspaperman glanced at his own watch. “We are within seconds.”

Shayne said, “I’ll make my move at twelve-thirty exactly. If you’re not there…”

“At twelve-thirty, Mr. Shayne.” Alvarez sat behind the table and watched the big redhead go out.

Michael Shayne entered Scotty’s Bar on Fifth Street at exactly four minutes before midnight. It was a brightly lighted, resolutely cheerful sort of place, with lots of bright chrome and imitation red leather on the bar stools.

Shayne kept his hat-brim pulled low over his face as he went to the empty end of the bar near the door. There were eight persons seated at the bar, and two of the tables were occupied by couples. Behind Shayne, near the door, was a public telephone booth. He saw no other instrument behind the bar.

A tall, sad-looking bartender came up to him, and Shayne ordered cognac with water on the side. In the mirror he could see the reflected faces of his fellow drinkers. At the far end a drunken blonde of indeterminate age was giggling loudly with the two men on either side of her. Removed from the trio by one stool sat a solitary drinker nursing a half-filled highball glass in which the ice cubes were melted. He was in his late twenties, wearing a plaid sport jacket, and had an exaggerated crew-cut that gave his face a square, stern appearance. He pushed back the cuff of his jacket and frowned at his watch as Shayne looked him over. He was a distinct possibility, the detective thought.

Next to him sat an elderly bald man with the dregs of a mug of beer in front of him. He was slovenly dressed and had a faint stubble of gray beard on his face.

Removed from him by one empty stool was a very young couple leaning forward with their arms about each others’ shoulders and their cheeks pressed amorously together. Shayne felt like a Peeping Tom as he glanced at their entranced faces in the mirror, and he shifted his attention swiftly to the last occupant of the bar, sitting three stools away from him.

He was a young Cuban, with glistening black hair and pouting red lips. He had the sort of hairline black mustache that Shayne detested because it was so like Peter Painter’s, and his black, hooded eyes met Shayne’s in the mirror and held for a long moment with a look of arrogant challenge.