They were facing each other, Rourke’s foot against Shayne’s. He stepped up the pressure when he told Shayne he’d been in too much of a hurry. Now he didn’t seem to want to let the subject go.
“We’re thinking in terms of thirty years, for Christ’s sake. What’s half a day? Why the rush?”
“Take a minute now, Tim. If I’m going to get you out of here I’ve got to have somebody else to give them. You worked on the story three days. You must have some idea who wanted to kill Alvares and why.”
Rourke made a vague gesture. “My head’s not normal. Do you know why I really came to Caracas? I had a fight with a chick! If she hadn’t been so damn pigheaded, I’d be back in Miami right this minute, having my second cup of coffee and opening the morning mail.” His foot came down hard. “I’d be reading about it in the paper. Alvares hit-too bad, but he’s been asking for it for years. Do you mind if I get serious for a minute?”
“It’s a serious jam.”
Rourke’s face was troubled, but he was exerting no under-the-table pressure, indicating that what he was about to say was for their unseen listeners.
“I’m not completely stupid. I tried to protect myself, and if it hadn’t been for all that goddamn Tanqueray gin-Here’s the thing that’s been bugging me. Has anybody told you I was the one who was set for that interview? I was planning to carry in those cartons myself. I had nothing to do with the change in plans and there are two good witnesses who can testify to that. I went along with it. I had no choice. But if Larry Howe hadn’t been hung up on the status thing, if he hadn’t insisted he was entitled to the story, I’m the one who’d be dead now! I haven’t bothered to tell the cops. They’d just say the bomb went off ahead of schedule, or the guy who worked the switch wanted me dead so I couldn’t pull him out of a police lineup. They’ve got their victim, and I’m more or less ideal. So that leaves it up to you, baby, and I wish I had more confidence. If we were back home I wouldn’t worry. In Miami you know where the bodies are buried. Here you don’t know a soul. I can tell you one thing about Felix Frost, he won’t break his neck for anybody. So what are you going to do, stand out in the middle of the Plaza Venezuela wearing a name-tag and hope somebody comes up and whispers in your ear?”
“I’ll try that if you think it’ll help.”
“Aah,” Rourke said in disgust. “You’d get propositioned, that’s about all. They’re hunting for Paula, no doubt. Poor kid-just because she was careless enough to have dinner with me a couple of times. Cherchez la femme- it’s an old idea.”
“Cherchez what?”
“La femme. I know my French is lousy. Look for the female. But the hell with the female. Look for the male, Mike.” His foot hit Shayne’s. “The male.”
The door opened behind Shayne and a guard appeared. Shayne continued to watch Rourke.
“Time seems to be up,” Rourke said. “I doubt if you learned anything.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard, man. Because while you’re outside having fun, I’m in here being grilled. Leave the cigarettes.”
Shayne stood up. “Next visiting day I’ll bring you some dynamite.”
“Yeah, this place could do with some livening up.”
SIX
Rubino, waiting in an anteroom, had a message for Shayne: the Chief of Police, Luis Mejia, wanted to see him. This wasn’t an order but it was a strong request, and Rubino’s recommendation was that Shayne should comply.
“Why not?” Shayne said. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
Rubino said carelessly, “Mr. Rourke didn’t succeed in conveying any information?”
“Mr. Rourke,” Shayne said angrily, “was being so goddamn careful I couldn’t make out what he was saying half the time. Do you want to know how he got involved with those cigarette cartons? He’d been drinking martinis for two days and he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“In my experience, North American newspapermen are heavy drinkers.”
“Tim hasn’t drunk gin for years. It makes him throw up. Tell Frost.”
“I think that’s hardly worth telling anybody. Is that all?”
“There was something about a cyanide capsule and a guy with one built-up shoe. That gives the cops something to work on if they believe it. It didn’t sound too believable to me.”
A creaking elevator took them up three floors where Rubino showed him the police chief’s door.
“I am to wait in the hall.”
“Doesn’t he trust you?”
“This far.” Rubino held up his thumb and forefinger, an inch apart. “That’s an honor-most people he trusts less.”
Mejia proved to be a middle-aged man in uniform, with a shaved head, a hard stare, and skin the color of cement. He must have been very strong when he was younger, and even now, with jowls and a paunch, he looked as though he could be dangerous. A detail map of Caracas hung behind his desk, which was large and solidly built, like Mejia himself.
There was a girl in the room, also in uniform. She was small and dark, in glasses.
“My English, you must forgive me,” the police chief said after shaking hands. “It is very little. I am for to try, and Sonia will help me sometimes. I know about Michael Shayne, your many successes.”
He offered Shayne a choice of cigars or cigarettes. Shayne took a cigar, much less aromatic than the one he had been given by Frost. He rolled it in his fingers.
“Did Rourke have those marks on him when he was brought in?”
Mejia’s eyes jumped to the girl. She supplied a word.
“I see,” Mejia said. “Was he beaten by us? No, no. While he was arrested, by the public. Here he is well treated.” He waved the cigar. “How does one say it?”
He spoke to the girl and she translated. “He says that the treatment of the prisoner by the police has been quite correct and O.K., and he wishes to ask if the prisoner has complained to you.”
“He complained of being kept awake.”
“We, too, have been kept awake,” Mejia said. “Being awake is nothing. I will ask you now what he said to you on the subject of the bombing.”
Shayne lit the cigar and waited till it was drawing evenly. “I understood that was a privileged conversation.”
“Oh, no. We have no such practice in Venezuela. I explain. There was much shouting and noise when he was arrested. It was considered by the public that he was a gringo spy. So he is frightened. He thinks he should keep silence.”
“Keep silent,” Sonia murmured.
“But that is foolish for him. Much foolish. Very. We have him in our hands. We take in many other suspicious persons, but no one in that class as Rourke. He knows, he can tell. The others who were with him in this, the guerrillas-they will go very fast. Vanish. They will vanish into air. So we must be quick. Rourke must talk to us.”
“Frost says you have a picture of a girl named Paula Obregon. You must be working on that.”
“We work on it hard. But he could tell us something would help find her, maybe.”
“Are you sure she’s still in the country?”
“In Venezuela, yes. In the barrios, the mountains. There are one and one half million persons residing in Caracas. They are careful in her sect. The people they live among, they are frightened from them.”
“Don’t you have any pigeons who can tell you where she is?”
The girl translated the word and he spread his hands. “Few. Not so good.”
“Is it absolutely definite that these guerrillas put her on Rourke? She’s a pretty girl, and he knew her in Miami.”
The police chief lifted his heavy shoulders. “We believe. Now I ask a question. Why did Mr. Rourke come to Caracas?”