Caught Dead

FOUR

The loading steps were wheeled into place. As Shayne came out of the plane, the hot rim of the sun was beginning to rise out of the Caribbean. A short, cheerful Venezuelan waited at the bottom of the steps.

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.”

“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.”

“I fail to see-”

“If you were mixed up in this coup and Alvares could prove it, wouldn’t it be better for you if he was dead?”

Frost patted his lips. “Pour yourself some more coffee. I know you aren’t seriously suggesting we had anything to do with the bombing.”

“Stranger things have happened, and you people have been known to boast about some of them. Where could Tim Rourke get hold of enough explosives to do that much damage? How could he pack it in cigarette cartons so nobody could tell it wasn’t cigarettes? That came out of a pretty sophisticated workshop. It was planted on him. If you did it, get Tim out of the country and I won’t lean on it too hard.”

Frost said quietly, “If it had become necessary to kill Alvares there are less sloppy ways. As it happens, that kind of violence is usually counterproductive, believe it or not. Of course I’m interested in what Rourke tells you, or what he fails to tell you. I am primarily a collector of intelligence. What’s so sinister about that? Would you want your government to make policy in ignorance of the facts?”

“Who’s this Andres Rubino you’re trying to hang on me?”

Frost gave his rubbery smile. “A free-lance. But you’re quite right to be suspicious. Be suspicious of everybody. The situation is heavily booby-trapped. We all have different goals, different axes to grind. Of course I hope you’ll discover something I can use to our country’s advantage! And I trust that for a small fee Andres will keep us informed of your activities. But you could do much worse. Whoever you hire will be on somebody’s payroll. Andres, I’m sure, is on several. Which is part of his value.”

The maid had left the coffee and cognac, and Shayne refilled his cup. “You people-no kidding.”

“You do what you can with what you have-those are the rules. Andres is quick-witted, and good at milking the maximum dollar out of whatever comes along. A bit of a blackmailer, but that shouldn’t concern you.”

“Is there any way I can get in touch with these guerrillas?”

Frost wagged his head. He offered Shayne a box of long fat cigars and began preparing one himself, an elaborate ceremony which occupied him while he spoke.

“That is one thing I can’t arrange. Everyone of that persuasion is very far underground today. You’d like to talk to Paula Obregon. So would the police, both the political police and the criminal police. But the MIR is beautifully organized, highly efficient. Paula Obregon will come to the surface when they want her to, not before.”

Shayne asked several other questions while he finished his coffee. Frost went into another room, unlocked a wall safe and brought back onionskin copies of several memos on Venezuelan politics. He wrote an extremely dense prose that was occasionally hard to follow. Shayne read them in silence, nodded, and handed them back.

Frost gave him a card with a phone number on it. “Call me whenever you like. I may be napping but I’m a light sleeper.”