For reasons not unconnected with a certain natural scepticism as to the dependability of Hipolito Santos, Shaw did not mention his interest in the Casa Pluma. Instead, that afternoon, he took a stroll around the little port, having first of all made a few simple alterations in his personal appearance designed to prevent any casual recognition. Only three people would be likely to know him — Nosey, Cassidy, and Fleck himself, and there was nothing definitely to point to any of them actually being in Rio Grande, while if Pullman had kept the security seal intact they would still be expecting him to be nice and safe in concrete anyway. But there was still no point in taking chances at this stage. After strolling, apparently aimlessly, for almost an hour, he was half way along the waterfront when he came to a sleazy-looking building with a big sign reading Cabaret.
And beneath this sign were the words: Casa Pluma.
That was good enough for Shaw. He stopped and lit a cigarette and then, apparently changing his mind about where he was going, he turned around and sauntered back the way he had come. He returned to the Miramar and remained in his room until 9 p.m, when he went out again.
Fifteen minutes after that he entered the swing doors of the Casa Pluma.
Cabaret was a pretty high-flown word for the joint, he decided as he looked at the dirty bar littered with glasses, at the crummy tables under the garish lights, at an overhead gallery and at the couple of nondescript customers who were reclining over the bar and yarning desultorily with the bartender. The place smelt of stale drink and tobacco and some cheap and potent scent, as though women of the town had been in here recently and left their trademarks behind them. No South American glamour about the Casa Pluma… it was just a waterfront honky-tonk, the longshoreman’s and the occasional seafarer’s night club and almost certainly a brothel at that.
Shaw went casually towards the long bar and demanded a Scotch and soda.
Chapter Sixteen
With his glass in his hand Shaw walked slowly across to a marble-topped table.
He sat down, lit a cigarette, and blew a long trail of smoke. He took a pull at the scotch, glancing around meanwhile in a bored-casual way. The two characters at the bar had by now resumed their interrupted conversation with the bartender. There was an occasional snigger from their direction, and somewhere a tap dripped. Otherwise the place was silent, dull. An air of boredom hung over it; only the flies were active. They crawled on the table-top; Shaw flicked them away and they buzzed up into the air, protestingly. He was half-way through his drink when the swing doors jerked into life and a girl came in. She was a lush bit, with big breasts and swinging hips and a brassy smile for the bartender and the two men, who looked round when they heard the tap of her stiletto heels. Cheap scent — the same as Shaw had noted earlier — waited into his nostrils as the girl passed his table, automatically swaying her hips as she did so. She went up to the bar and lifted a flap and passed through to the rear of the premises.
One of the Latins at the bar looked round and caught Shaw’s eye. He winked, made a gesture with his hands, expressively. Shaw smiled back in a matey way. The man nudged his companion and Shaw heard him say, ‘She has stamina, that one!’
Shaw guessed the girl would be part of the cabaret, the floor show, if that was not too high-class a term for the Casa Pluma, the cover behind which Fleck would be operating what must surely be his southern centre. Maybe he used it as a radio link with the unknown vessel, maybe it was just a depot for letters with coded microdot messages under the stamps.…
Perhaps the place would fill up shortly, now that girl had arrived.
A couple of minutes later Shaw finished his drink. He started to get to his feet. He hadn’t heard a sound but a hand came down on his left shoulder, hard, and he sat again.
He half turned — and saw Cassidy.
Cassidy was grinning at him sardonically, his right hand was in his pocket, and his eyes were dangerous and watchful. Shaw said evenly, ‘Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.’
‘Been expecting you, Mac.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Shaw was genuinely rocked by this casual statement. ‘How’s that?’
Cassidy chuckled. ‘Word come ahead of you, then you was spotted leaving Santos’s store. The rest was deducible. Pullman’s boys underestimated us, I guess.’ He moved round the table so that he was between Shaw and the customers, with his back to the bar. He went on softly, ‘A little bird told us the Frazer Harfield place had been done over and Harry Willoughby’s body excavated from that concrete-pit instead of yours. And we also heard about those microdot messages.’
Shaw’s breath hissed through his teeth. He asked. ‘And how did you get to hear all this, Cassidy?’
‘We got contacts. Good contacts.’ Cassidy chuckled again. ‘What happened up in Brooklyn doesn’t worry us any. The strongpoint’d outlived its usefulness.’ His hand moved, came out of the pocket, and revealed the gun. He said softly, ‘No more questions, Mac. Get moving.’
‘Where to?’
‘Rear of the bar. Act natural, like you and me’s going out back for a drink. Just get up and walk through. I’ll be right behind you and the customers’ll mind their own business. Any trouble, and you can guess the rest. Now — move!’
Shaw moved.
He moved slowly at first, getting up reluctantly, and then, when his body was half straightened, he slid his fingers round and under the edge of the table and he heaved with all his strength. He moved with wicked suddenness and Cassidy hadn’t a chance. The heavy table took him smack in the guts just as he fired. The bullet struck the marble top, ricocheted across the bar, and ended up in one of the panels of the big wall-mirror. Glass spattered down with a tinkling sound. The two customers dived for cover as Cassidy crashed over backward with the table on top of him and started moaning. As the bartender made a move as though he also was reaching for a gun, Shaw pulled out the Webley.
He snapped, ‘Hold it!’
The bartender’s hand went up. He looked dead scared. Shaw, eyes narrowed, backed slowly for the swing door into the street, the Webley pointed inward, his attention on the room, every detail noted in his mind as he waited for someone to start something from the floor or the gallery. No one moved. The bartender was watching him glassily, his tongue coming out to lick dry lips. Just as Shaw reached the door he heard a slight movement behind him and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a bulky figure had come up from somewhere. He slewed fast but he wasn’t quite as fast as the bulbous-nosed man. Shaw hadn’t got half way round when something hard crashed down on the back of his neck and he went out, stone cold on the floor.
Nosey, breathing hard, shoved the lead-weighted cosh back in his pocket. He said, ‘Okay, so sweep him up. He looks kind of messy.’
When Shaw came to he was in the back of a car, a car moving fast out of town. Nosey was beside him with a gun held into his ribs and Cassidy was driving. Shaw’s head ached abominably and he felt desperately sick. The back of his neck and his right shoulder were as rigid as a bar of iron, and painful. Pain extended right down his arm and he couldn’t have pulled a gun if he had one.
As he moved slightly, Nosey looked sideways. He said, ‘Don’t give no more trouble, mister, and you won’t get hurt. Do just as you’re told when we stop, and don’t try to beat it, because you won’t get five yards. I’m not losing you a second time.’
With difficulty, each word going through his head like a saw, Shaw asked, ‘Where are we going?’