Read Framed for Free Online

a point on his desk just beyond the papers, his hard, bright eyes far away.
Abrupdy he looked up. Larry nearly jumped.
"He has been here four years," the Comisario said. His accent was more of an adornment to his English than a flaw. He waved his hand over the documents. "Papers, everything in order." Folding his hands he added, "He is a wealthy resident."

"Yes, I know that, and I appreciate your help." Larry wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his hand. "But because he's only been here four years he is not protected by the extradition laws, which state that until someone has lived here for five or more years, the British police are entitled to—"
"That is correct," Dominguez interrupted, "but nevertheless I will require substantial evidence to warrant his arrest and subsequent extradition. If he is, as you believe, using false documents, then it is obviously an offense by our law, and if such is the case, it will be my duty to arrest him for questioning."
A uniformed officer came in and approached the desk. He and the Comisario conferred in whispers. Larry wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Time always galloped when you felt you hadn't much of it to spare.
When the officer left, Dominguez tilted his head at Larry and did a one-shoulder shrug.
"We have, senor, only a part print. Left thumb and left index finger. I will have them faxed to Scotland Yard."
"He's got a powerful speedboat," Larry said, hearing his words echo in the grubby little room, realizing how irrelevant the remark must sound. "It's imperative we don't tip him off," he added.
Dominguez glared at him.
"He also owns a Monterey, on permanent mooring at Puerto Banus." Dominguez blinked once, his eyes unwavering. "You know, senor, this could be very embarrassing. Until we hear from London I suggest we wait." He tilted his head again. "Do I make myself clear? Stay away from him."
At eleven-thirty in the morning it was easy to comply with the Comisario's wishes. As the day wore on, however, and no word came from Scotland Yard, Larry got jumpy. Clear thinking gave way to groundless speculation. It began to seem that the target was too far away from the action; where exactly was he? Did anybody actually know? Was someone watching him? Did he have friends in the local police who were keeping him notified of developments? Was the bugger possibly, even now, making a run for it?
By three o'clock Larry was on the road outside Von Joel's villa, squashed into the hedge, his rented Suzuki jeep parked a couple of hundred yards down the lane. From where he stood he could see the dogs, two young boxers, chasing each other around the grounds, and once, for just a moment, he caught sight of the Spanish girl, Lola. There was no sign of the master of the house.
Larry waited and sweated. Insects nibbled his skin. Cramp took gradual possession of his legs and back.
At a minute to four the Corniche glided up to the gates. Larry wiped his eyes, took a hard look, and felt a swell of relief. Von Joel was at the wheel, and he didn't look the least bit worried, or angry, or even upset. In fact he appeared to be smiling.
The gates opened to let the car through and then closed again. Larry slipped out from his place of concealment and moved nearer to the gates, getting a closer vantage point on the car. He saw Von Joel lean over the side. One of the dogs jumped up to lick his face. He got out and knelt on the gravel, fussing with the animals, talking to them as if they were children.
"Hello, boys, hello. Who's a good boy, then, who's my big fella? Stay down now, Bruno, that's naughty. You too, Sasha . . . Down, now, be good boys . .
Lola came forward from the shadow of the arched doorway. She wore one of the tiniest dresses Larry had ever seen. She held her arms out wide and Von Joel embraced her. As he did, she whispered something. He nodded against her neck, turning slowly as he held her, staring toward the gates. He issued a soft command to