“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.
FOURTEEN
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.
The bartender put Shayne’s drink in front of him, with a chaser beside it, and moved back past the Cuban who spoke to him sibilantly, “Que hora es?”
The bartender reached under his dirty, white apron and hauled out a thick, gold watch. “Right at twelve o’clock.” He yawned widely and went on down the bar to refill the beer mug in front of the bald-headed man.
Shayne took a sip of cognac and let his gaze drift down to his own watch. The two hands were straight up and almost directly together. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the Cuban toss off the last of his drink nervously and put a cigarette between his lips. He turned slowly on his stool as he struck a match, and Shayne thought he was looking toward the telephone booth.
At that moment it rang loudly.
The match jerked slightly in the brown-skinned hand, and missed the tip of his cigarette. Then it steadied and he drew in fire as the phone rang a second time. Shayne looked alertly on down the row of faces reflected in the mirror.
No one had changed position. No one appeared even remotely interested in the ringing of the telephone except the bartender who scowled and then circled around the end of the bar to trudge toward it.
Shayne kept his back turned and continued to watch the faces in the mirror. The telephone rang six times before it stopped and the bartender’s voice was loud in the almost silent room, “Scotty’s Bar.”
There was silence, and Shayne could discern only mild interest on any of the faces, the normal interest with which people pause to overhear a telephone conversation in such circumstances.
The bartender said, “What’s that again? Hello?” and then there was a loud click as he hung up.
He came back around the end of the bar still scowling, and made drinks for the trio at the end of the bar.
The Cuban completed a half circle on the stool, slid off it and went swiftly to the Men’s Room in the rear.
Shayne finished his drink and got a bill from his wallet. The bartender saw him and came to pick it up, and Shayne asked casually, “Wrong number?”
“I guess maybe. Some damn fool dame said her name was somethin’ or other an’ then hung up. You get all kinds in a place like this.” He rang the cash register and put change in front of the detective.
Shayne said, “I guess you do.” He wasted one more speculative look down the length of the mirror, and then slid off the stool and went out of the bar with long strides.
A sense of driving urgency coursed through his big, rangy body as he broke into a trot outside, reached the parked coupe swiftly and slid under the wheel. He pulled away fast toward Collins, and then northward.
