The co-pilot said reasonably, “This is Mike Shayne. You know he’s got reasons. Let’s roll.”
The pilot swore under his breath and brushed the spilled coffee off his clipboard. He reached for the transmitting switch.
“All right, where to?” he said sourly. “Havana?”
“Palm Beach.”
EIGHTEEN
The plane had been cleared for the Palm Beach International Airport. It came in from the east, giving up altitude rapidly as it sliced across the narrow strip of sand between the ocean and Lake Worth.
Lenore Dante was in the cockpit beside Shayne, watching the approach. Suddenly she gasped and seized Shayne’s arm.
“Look.”
One of the business blocks on the main north-south avenue was on fire. Lenore’s face showed her consternation.
“Can you bring us around again?” Shayne asked the pilot.
He said sullenly, “After all the trouble I’ve already had from you guys-”
“Don’t let’s get chintzy at this late date,” the copilot told him.
The pilot sighed, and told the control officer they were having instrument difficulty. Receiving clearance to make another approach, he wheeled about slowly.
“My gallery’s on that block,” Lenore said quietly.
Shayne said nothing, watching her. She was gripping the back of the co-pilot’s chair. She turned her head slightly so Shayne couldn’t see her face.
On the next approach, the pilot brought them closer to the fire. The block was surrounded by fire apparatus, pouring plumes of water on the burning buildings. Flickers of flame could be glimpsed through the billowing masses of smoke.
“How fireproof is your safe?” Shayne said.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. There’s nothing in it that’s important. A few papers.”
They flashed across the long sand-spit and the blaze passed out of sight beneath their wing. The blood had left Lenore’s face. When she turned to look at Shayne her eyes were unfocused.
“Too bad,” he said evenly. “But you must be insured.”
“But the pictures. The diary.”
She brushed past and entered the cabin, her walk very stiff. She sat in one of the many empty seats and fastened her seatbelt for the landing. Shayne continued to watch her. She was staring ahead fixedly.
They landed, rolled along the runway and turned to come back. The few passengers who had managed to get aboard before the abrupt takeoff were concentrated in the rear of the cabin; the plane’s destination had been New Orleans. Senora Alvares, alone in a row of seats, was looking better. She had borrowed lipstick and a comb from one of the stewardesses. Coffee and time had drawn the sting of the champagne. She was still an erect, handsome woman, but there was something crafty about the look she gave Shayne.
“I should warn you, I intend to ask for the protection of my Ambassador, who will provide me with the name of a good lawyer. You are back in your own country, where you can be sued.”
“For what?”
“Injury to my person and my sanity. Kidnapping and assault.”
“Throw in rape and you’ll get more ink in the papers.”
“Don’t try it,” she warned him. “Put one finger on me and you’ll know you’ve been in a real battle.”
The plane rolled to a stop, and a set of mobile steps banged against the door.
“Now we’ll find out if we were right to trust you,” Paula said.
Shayne grinned at her. “We all know this has to end in a deal. I always do my best to satisfy everybody.”
Shayne was first down the steps. Howie Boyle, the Palm Beach Chief of Police, was waiting at the bottom.
“You’re under arrest for stealing an airplane,” he said.
“Not just me, I hope,” Shayne said. “We all did it together.”
He introduced the others as they descended.
Senora Alvares said firmly, “I spit on you. They had to carry me on board, and I have witnesses who will testify to that-the stewardess, others.”
“The Chief’s going to hold you as a material witness,” Shayne said. “I’d hate to lose you at this point. You may not realize it, but your life is in danger.”
“My life is definitely and emphatically not in danger.”
Chief Boyle had brought two of his own patrolmen, and there were several armed men from the airport security unit, several more from the county Highway Patrol. The two Venezuelan guerrillas didn’t like it, but they were relieved of their guns.
“What about the two guys I told you to pick up?” Shayne asked Boyle as they moved toward the terminal. “Frost and Mejia.”
“I’ve got them, Mike. And you weren’t kidding, they have credentials. They’ve been doing some screaming. This Frost is some kind of CIA bigshot, the way he tells it, and I think I believe him. He may be carrying a fountain pen loaded with napalm or something. It wouldn’t surprise me. He came in on a government plane, and do you know I had to put him in restraint? He thinks he knows karate.”
“Where are they, here?”
“Waiting.” He was rolling along beside Shayne, carrying his two-hundred-seventy pounds in an easy bearlike weave, but Shayne could see the nervousness behind the placid facade. “I’m only a country boy, Mike, and this is fast competition. I’d be pleased to be allowed to back out at this point.”
“You can’t do that, Howie. You’re the law here.”
“That may be, but I don’t know a goddamn thing about anything, as you know, and Frost has been dropping remarks about how he’s going to nail my hide over the backhouse door. And he can do it, too, in my estimation, unless you’ve got some kind of slick little tactic up your sleeve.”
“We’re all going to talk about it. Is there a room we can use?”
“I put them in the pilots’ lounge because there are some comfortable chairs in there. But that Frost. That Frost. Get yourself up for him, Mike, because when that man lays eyes on you he-is-going-to-blow.”
“I’m looking forward to it. That looked like quite a fire on the Beach.”
“A real bad one, Mike, but the boys have confined it. Nobody hurt, as far as I’ve heard.”
“I have to make a phone call. Get everybody together and let them order drinks. One man from Highway Patrol and one from the airport. No reporters.”
“Don’t forget you’re under arrest,” Boyle reminded him.
Shayne peeled out of the formation as they passed a line of public phonebooths, and then had to come back and panhandle a coin from one of the security cops, as all he could find in his pocket was Venezuelan money. Sam Katz, the private detective, answered promptly.
“Well, the goddamned place burned down on us, Mike,” he said in a disgusted voice, “so I can’t tell you a thing. The lady was just starting on the books when we smelled smoke. I’m the one who pulled the alarm.”
“Any idea how it started?”
“No, and it’s a real hot fire. If it was set I doubt if they’ll be able to prove anything.”
“Never mind, Sam. These things happen, and it tells me something.”
“Wait a minute, that’s not all. I took a wild gamble, for no reason at all-pure hunch. We had a little crowd waiting for the equipment to get there. A dozen or eighteen people, all told. And there was a kid in the crowd. Or not exactly a kid, either-he could be twenty-one, twenty-two. And he had a glint in his eye. I can’t tell you any more than that. Just an expression, but I think it would have hit you the same way. You know-he shouldn’t be that interested in somebody else’s fire.”
“Have you got him?” Shayne asked quickly.
“Yeah. He didn’t want me to bother him so I decided to lean on him a little. He spoke with a Latin accent, which isn’t such a big deal around here, but I asked him where he came from and he said Caracas, Venezuela. That was where you called me from, Caracas, Venezuela. So I put the two things together and when a cop got there I had him bust the kid on suspicion of arson. He’s at the precinct now, and he’s being very quiet.”
“Sam, you earned yourself a bonus. Get over there fast and be sure they don’t make a mistake and turn him loose. What’s his name?”