else, and wouldn’t I be a fool to throw it away? Do you find that more convincing?”
“People have done dumber things for less money.”
“Now listen to me, Mike,” she snapped. “I’m getting more than a little fed up with these hints. It can cut two ways. I hope you aren’t getting any mad ideas about being able to swing this singlehanded because I can tell you right now-”
He grinned. “The orgasms have been mutual, kid.”
She laughed grudgingly. “Then we’ll keep right on watching each other, O.K.?”
She had trouble with the shirt, and Shayne buttoned it for her. “One character I know you won’t try anything with is Rubino. He doesn’t carry enough weight. But you’ll have to spend some time with him, so work out an attitude.”
“What am I supposed to say to him?”
“That I’ve gone out to see the widow. I know the way now. I don’t need him.”
“Why you want to go near that bitch-”
“To hammer a few final nails in a few coffins. I think she knows more than she’s telling people. Somebody like Felix Frost always looks for the money angle or the political angle. But ninety percent of the killings I run across are committed for the old-fashioned motives-hatred, jealousy, revenge. Don’t say anything to Andres about this because I don’t want him to get any more moneymaking ideas.”
“Mike, do we really need him?”
“Yeah, to carry messages. He’s my direct wire to Frost. And we may need Frost, if this other thing doesn’t pay off.”
He smoothed her skirt over her hips and gave her a critical inspection. “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth. And comb your hair.”
While she was working on that, Shayne knotted his necktie at the two-way mirror. He leaned closer, running his fingertips the wrong way along his stubbled jaw. His face was now only a few inches from Rubino’s in the other apartment.
“I shaved in too big a hurry this morning.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said, looking up from her pocket mirror. “You rubbed me raw in places.”
“You complain about the damndest things.”
“Mike, how is this going to work, or don’t you feel like telling me?”
“I’m playing it by ear, as usual.” He came back to rearrange the sofa cushions. “But it seems to me I’ve got a handle. It depends on how much power Mejia really has. He was trying to tell me this morning that he’s the man with the muscle. Maybe he is. I’ll have to go easy until I find out.”
“Are you planning to see him?”
“As soon as I get the widow to clear up a few points. It’ll take negotiating. We want safe conduct out of the country, and we want him to call off his dogs. If I can get Tim included, fine. If not, the hell with it. It seems to me I’ve got something to sell. I’m handing him half the MIR on a platter.”
He had picked a moment when she had her back to the big mirror. She sent him a questioning look.
He went on. “Combine what you told me with everything I already knew and I can knock those people down so they stay down for good. I’ve got names and locations, and if Mejia takes a few precautions he can wipe out their whole outfit in one raid.”
“He’ll love that,” Lenore said.
“I think so.”
“If you can give him Serrano and all the top leaders, you can name your own price. They’ll make you an honorary colonel.”
“But it has to be handled. It’s not a simple matter of turning off the heat and putting us both on an airplane. He has to lay off altogether. I was getting a strong smell of chicanery out of him this morning. I don’t think he’d mind cutting himself a small slice. That’s why I say it’s going to be delicate. I’ve got to have guarantees, not promises.”
“Baby, you’re beautiful,” she said admiringly.
He kissed her and gave her a quick mechanical caress. “I’m taking the cognac.”
“Leave me the gun?”
“No, I may need it.”
TWELVE
Passing out of the line-of-sight from the wall mirror, Shayne tightened the picture wire near the front door so the glass would fall over again and Lenore would know that the door to the next apartment had been opened.
Downstairs in the parking area, he found an unlocked Renault, with the starter on the floor. One of Shayne’s standard items of equipment was a short length of cable with a spring-clamp at each end, for bypassing a locked ignition switch. A moment later, he was moving.
He located the conspicuous towers of the Centro Bolivar and used them as aiming stakes. He drove east on Bolivar Avenue until he saw the bullring on his right and made the necessary turn to the south. The street he had picked looped back on itself. He returned to the avenue and tried another. This time he had found the road to Valencia.
He followed it into the mountains.
As he approached the farm he noted the pattern of roads and the arrangement of out-buildings. This was the hottest part of the day, and the fields were empty. He turned into the long cypress avenue. Halfway to the house he had to stop to open a stock gate. Then he came to the main wall, where he sounded his horn. A stocky peasant with two sidearms, a pistol, and a machete, came out to look him over from under a broken sombrero.
“I’m a detective,” Shayne said slowly. “Police. Policia. To see the Senora.”
Nothing changed in the man’s face.
Shayne motioned toward the house. “She wants to talk to me.” He pantomimed a conversation. “Very important. Norte Americano. Mejia sent me. The President of the United States sent me. El Presidente.” When none of this had any effect, he said more harshly, “Get out of my way, goddamn it, or I’ll run you down. Felix Frost sent me.”
Either the angry manner or Frost’s name worked. The man retired to open the gate. After getting out of the car, Shayne walked past a chained Doberman pinscher, which bayed at him furiously. He clanged an ornate wrought-iron bell at the front door and entered the building without waiting.
A uniformed maid was on her way toward him. He nodded and walked past, waving away the question she was asking.
“I don’t speak Spanish.”
She went with him, protesting, as he looked into the big front room, then into a formal dining room beyond. The furniture was dark and forbidding.
“Where do I find the Senora?”
The maid tried to hold him, but he brushed her aside. This building, like Frost’s, surrounded a central court. As he came out on one side of this court, a woman in black appeared on the other. The maid, waving her arms, shrieked something in Spanish.
Shayne crossed the courtyard on a raked walk. Senora Alvares was a severe woman, and somewhat on the plump side, tall, with her black hair pulled into a tight knot. She wore no makeup or jewelry.
“I hope you speak English,” he said, approaching. “I don’t seem to be coming across too well.”
“I speak a little English, badly. Who are you?”
She had a deep voice, a heavy accent that at first sounded somewhat Germanic.
“I’m Michael Shayne, a private detective from Miami. I’ve been retained by the Miami News to see what I can do about one of their reporters, Tim Rourke, who’s in jail here. I have some questions. I know it’s a bad time, but they can’t wait.”
“Questions,” she said, putting her hand to her face. “About the death of my husband.”
“And one or two other things.”
