“It’s not like hustling aliens,” Shayne said. “I’m a citizen. Somebody takes me out deep-sea fishing and we get lost. I don’t know what connections you’ve got. Maybe we run into a deep-sea boat out of Miami or Key West, accidentally on purpose. Do I have to draw you a diagram?”
Alvarez looked at his watch again, and his mouth twitched. “I must give this a little thought. Please excuse me for the moment. Watch my excellent international floorshow. Come back in one half hour, and we will discuss it. Of course I will want to know who wants you, and for what. That will have a bearing.”
Shayne stood up with a muffled exclamation. “You’re as jittery as a virgin on her first date. Why I want to go fishing is my own business. Do you want the fifteen hundred or not? If not, say so and I’ll try somebody else. I’ve got a couple of other names.”
Before the Camel could answer the phone rang. He looked at Shayne and picked it up.
“Yes… What? Coming here? Yes, yes. Of course I want to hear it…” His eye rested on Shayne as the voice rasped on at the other end of the line, no doubt reading Shayne’s description from the Wanted flier. When the voice stopped, Alvarez said crisply, “I do not know him, so there is no problem. Call me later.”
He put the phone back as there was a quick double-knock at the door. A waiter put his head in, called something in Spanish and ducked back out. Alvarez gave Shayne an unfriendly look, consulted his watch again and swore under his breath.
“Your name is Shayne, and may you fry in hell. The police are here looking for you. Say twenty-five hundred dollars.”
Shayne hesitated. “O.K. You seem to have me over a barrel.”
“Get up on the desk,” Alvarez told him. “Quickly.”
Shayne looked at the ceiling, a checkerboard of squares of masonite wallboard. Alvarez made an impatient motion, and the redhead did as he’d been told.
“Now reach up,” Alvarez said. “Press. A little more toward me.”
Shayne pushed upward with both hands, his fingers spread. A section made up of four of the masonite squares gave way under the pressure.
“Now through,” Alvarez said, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. “Hurry.”
Michael Shayne pushed the loose section out of the way, then stooped for the bottle of rum and passed it through. He tested the sides of the opening, and swung himself up, feeling a stab of pain in his chest as he put his weight on his arms. Pulling his legs up, he rolled off to one side. He was in a low air-space, some three feet high at its highest point. He worked the trap-door back into place.
Alvarez said beneath him, “If they come in here, please be careful and do not move. Even the smallest movement can be heard.”
The office door opened and closed. A thin line of light came through the cracks around the trap door, and Shayne saw a shallow wooden box, pushed back against the front wall. He listened carefully. Hearing nothing, he changed position and struck a match. The box was fitted with a hasp and a padlock, and the lock hung open. He hitched himself forward till he could reach it. The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and struck another.
When he satisfied himself that the box was empty, he took a long pull at the rum, screwed the cap back on and settled down to wait.
Five minutes later he heard the door open in the office beneath him. The Camel’s voice said, “But search, by all means. Look in the wastebasket, under the rug. Here is a bottle of ink. Perhaps I am hiding a genii in it.”
There were sounds of movement. A chair scraped. Shayne, above, was being careful to lie very still.
A British voice said, “Very well, he is not here. You were warned. This is becoming monotonous. I have suspected that one of our people is secretly on your payroll. Would such a thing be possible, do you think?”
“A policeman? In the pay of the notorious Luis Alvarez, who owns a nightclub? A shocking suggestion, Sergeant.”
“I agree with you, and one worth investigating.”
“I do not understand any of this,” Alvarez said. “Tell me who you are looking for, and perhaps I can help you.”
“I’m sure you could help me,” the sergeant said sarcastically, “but somehow I don’t think you will. We’re looking for an American named Michael Shayne. I wouldn’t say he’s the type of person you’d forget seeing, however briefly. His red hair, for example, should make an identification easy. Tall. The look of a heavyweight fighter. Amazingly enough, your bartender and your waiters can’t recall if they served such a man or not. Fortunately some of your customers have better memories. They distinctly remember seeing him dancing with one of your entertainers.”
“Yes,” Alvarez said thoughtfully. “I think I do remember him. But if I had any connection with a man being sought by the police, I would not let him do anything as conspicuous as to dance with such a charming girl in such a daring dress.”
“That may be. That may be. Or it’s possible that you didn’t know he was wanted. I’ll give you a word of advice, Alvarez. I’ve got downwind of one or two of your small transactions lately. Business is business, and that kind of business doesn’t concern me much. I’ve passed on what I know to the American authorities, and if you want to take that as a warning, you’re welcome to it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alvarez said stiffly.
“I’m talking about smuggling, as you bloody well know. You’ve imported luxury items which you haven’t sold locally, and which I assume you haven’t been giving away. Smuggling doesn’t turn into a crime until the goods pass the American customs, and that’s out of my jurisdiction. But a man has been murdered, and that, Alvarez, is very much within my jurisdiction.”
Alvarez sniffed. In his hiding place Shayne heard the supercilious little sniff clearly. “I hope you don’t think I could do anything so stupid.”
“Not personally. But if Watts was working for you, if he broke a contract and you had him killed, I intend to see that you hang for it, even if somebody else actually used the knife.”
“That Watts was working for me?” The amazement in Alvarez’ voice seemed genuine to Shayne.
The policeman continued, “I don’t think he was stabbed on the street where he was found. I think he was stabbed in a car, and dropped where he was because the murderer knew that no one in that neighborhood would give any cooperation to the police. From that day to this, we’ve done nothing but follow blind leads. I, for one, am tired of it. So I’m taking in a few of your people. With any luck at all I can hold them for twenty-four hours. I don’t know how this Michael Shayne fits into the picture, if he fits into it at all, but perhaps in twenty-four hours I can get them to admit he was here.”
The Camel’s voice was suddenly choked and ugly. “You are making a mistake, Sergeant.”
“That may very well be,” the other responded. “We will find out.”
There was a quick clatter of footsteps. Alvarez said urgently, “I will speak to them. Why should they not admit the American was here? He means nothing to me. One word will clear it up.”
“Tomorrow, Alvarez.”
A little scuffle followed, and the Englishman’s voice came again. He said coldly and quietly, “Take your hands off me.”
Shayne made an interested face in the darkness. He had a cramp in one leg; in another minute or two he would have to move, no matter what stage the argument had reached below. But that ended it. There were more footsteps. The door slammed. Alvarez swore angrily in Spanish and kicked over a chair. He went out, and Shayne at last was able to roll over. He moved his wrist so he could see his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. If the radio schedule had indicated an eleven o’clock appointment, it was rapidly approaching.
Again the door opened and closed. “Shayne?” the Camel’s voice said. “Come down now.”
Shayne lifted the trap-door and lowered himself. As his feet touched the desk, one leg caved in and he nearly fell.