They found the green Olds after half a mile. No one was in it. It was pulled well off the road with the front door slightly ajar, the interior light burning. Rubino frowned and said something in Spanish as he braked to a stop.
It was blindingly hot. The undergrowth was very thick on the land side. There was a small cluster of shacks just ahead, a tiny store marked with a Coca-Cola sign.
Shayne stepped out. A dirt track ran down to the water where two fishing boats were tied to a rickety dock. Off shore, a 20-foot open-decked runabout rode at a mooring in a slow swell.
A barefooted Venezuelan girl appeared around one of the shacks. Rubino called a question, which frightened her back out of sight.
Shayne started toward the water, and suddenly a man materialized on the deck of one of the boats. He was wearing only bathing trunks. He was young, well-tanned and well-muscled, with a full mustache. He looked at Shayne, then whirled, scrambled to the rail and dived.
He came out of the dive with arms and legs pumping in a powerful crawl. Shayne ran toward the dock, reaching it an instant before the swimmer arrived at the mooring and flashed over the gunwale of the powerboat like a leaping salmon. Shayne had his revolver out, but didn’t fire. He glanced back at Rubino, who had stopped short, shading his eyes.
A motor roared and the moored boat jumped forward, snapping the line. Shayne crossed the dock to the fishing boat and stepped aboard.
There was a strong smell of fish and the decks were wet. He found the woman face down on the floor of the cabin, her white blouse slashed open and her back bloody.
NINE
She uttered a low sound and one arm moved. The knife that had been used on her lay under the wheel, bone-handled, with blood on the long blade.
Shayne called to Rubino, who was still on the dock, looking after the departing boat. “Get me some water. Move!”
The woman’s dark glasses fell off as he lifted her carefully. He maneuvered her through a doorway and down a step into a cluttered cabin, where he laid her, face down, on a narrow bunk. With color in her lips she would have been a strikingly beautiful woman. Her eyes were open, but wide and unfocused.
“Relax,” Shayne told her. “For the time being I’m friendly.”
He gripped her blouse in both hands and tore it all the way down. Her back was a mass of blood.
Rubino appeared in the doorway. “Ocean water. O.K.?”
“Fine.”
Shayne found a towel. The woman raised her head and said distinctly, “Don’t touch me.”
“Just a little first aid.”
He sponged her back gently. She had been stabbed twice. One of the wounds was a neat, almost surgical puncture. The other was long and ragged, and the blood was welling up out of the torn flesh.
She objected. “I don’t know who you are.”
“I know who you are,” Shayne said. “You’re Alvares’ ex-girlfriend and I have some questions to ask you, so try not to die right away. Andres, make yourself useful. There are a couple of shirts and a bottle of cognac in my bag. On the double.”
She said faintly, “Do you think I’ll die?”
Shayne continued to work for a moment. “No,” he said then. “But you need a doctor, and finding one may be a bit tricky. Does your head hurt?”
“Oh, yes.”
“He must have slugged you first. Did you see him?”
She moved her head slightly. “Everything exploded. You’re hurting me.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose. We’ve got to do some fast figuring. He hit bone both times. I don’t know what else he hit. If I take you to the hospital you’ll probably feel fine in a few weeks. But do you want to show up at a Venezuelan hospital? We chased you down from the mountains. You were moving fast.”
She said nothing, and he said sharply, “Are you listening to me?”
She said with an effort, “I’m trying to think.”
Shayne heard running footsteps on the dock, and Rubino jumped aboard.
“Everything still peaceful. But for how long? Mr. Shayne, we should quickly reach a decision.”
“The lady’s thinking.”
He ripped up one of the shirts and began to contrive a clumsy bandage, designed to stop the flow of blood from the longer wound. He soaked a small piece of cloth in cognac and told her to suck it while he cleaned both wounds. Her face worked, but she managed to say nothing. He fashioned two rough pads of clean cloth and pressed them against the wounds.
“Your name is Shayne?” she said.
“Michael Shayne. I’m a private detective from Miami. Tim Rourke’s a friend of mine. He’s in jail here, and I know you know for what.”
She spat out the rag and said excitedly, “A detective. I own this boat. Will you take me to-”
“No,” Shayne said, interrupting. “If you died on the way I’d have trouble getting back into Venezuela. I’m a stranger here, and I’m supposed to follow some of the rules.”
“Then-”
“I have a feeling Andres is about to make a suggestion which will cost me some money. Andres, you must know some unfrocked doctor.”
“Not precisely, but I think I could connect you with somebody. Yes, money would change hands. I think a thousand dollars.”
“That makes it too important.”
“One hundred for him, the rest for me. I take the risk.”
“That’s going to clean me out, but all right. Where does this guy operate?”
“In Caracas. A thousand dollars will really take the last of your American money?”
“Don’t forget you’re in for twenty-five percent of my fee.”
“But that is problematical, you know. This is definite, immediate. You need a place to take her, where she can recover her health, and that will require a further investment. Perhaps Miss Dante-”
He stepped into the wheelhouse and picked up her purse. After wiping off the blood he rummaged around inside it and found some American currency.
“Four hundred,” he said after counting it quickly. “O.K., I’ll do it for that. But considering the chances, you have a bargain.”
“This thing is turning into a gold mine,” Shayne remarked. “I’ve got to work out a way to make this bandage stay on. Get back up to the road and see if you can find out anything. Act like a cop.”
“But that would be the worst way to learn anything in this region.”
Shayne’s patient had turned her head so she could see his face. When Rubino’s footsteps sounded on the dock she said pressingly, “I want to hire you. I have to get away. Take me to Curasao. We can get a plane there. I’m really all right. I know it’s nothing serious-”
“Everything else is,” Shayne said roughly. “You won’t be better off in another country. Murder’s an extraditable offense.”
“I haven’t killed anybody.”
“I don’t know that. Drink some more cognac. It’s going to be a rough ride.”
She sat up with his help and he put the mouth of the bottle to her lips. She swallowed deeply.
“You’re going to exchange me for your friend.”
“I’m considering that. But they won’t buy a one-for-one deal. I’ll have to throw in some cash or information, something they can use to help themselves politically. That gives you room to swing. I’m open to any reasonable offer, but it has to include an exit visa for Rourke.”
He tightened the knot of the makeshift bandage. She drew a quick breath.
“If you’ll stop breathing,” he said, “this would have a better chance to stay on.”
“Who is this Andres?” she said faintly. “Do you trust him?”
Shayne laughed. “Hell, no, but he’s my pipeline. I think he recognized the guy who jumped you.”
She looked up quickly. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything, but I think he’s trying to figure out a way to squeeze some money out of it. Who wants to kill you at this point?”
She sighed. “I’ll give you a list.”
“Are the cops looking for you?”
“I imagine so.”