Man on a Rope (8 page)

“Sorry to bother you at this hour,” Kerby said matter-of-factly, “but we'd like to have a look around if you don't mind. The Inspector has the necessary warrant if you'd care to look it over.”

Barry put on what he hoped would be a look of innocent surprise. He tried to speak in an appropriate tone.

“Sure,” he said. “Go ahead. Working late, aren't you?”

“When we have to…. All right, Inspector,” he said to Cantrell, who immediately stepped into the bathroom and got to work.

Barry found a cigarette and offered one to Kerby, who refused but kept his glance evasive as it made a slow circuit of the room.

“Just routine?” Barry said.

“What?”

“Is this just routine or did someone tip you off about me?”

“Oh,” said Kerby as Barry's meaning became clear. He allowed himself a small smile. “If you mean, are we acting on information received, we are not.”

Barry did not believe it. He could not believe it in the light of his discovery. It annoyed him that he could not say so, and the more he thought about it the more his casual manner evaporated.

“Then why pick on me?” he demanded.

“I didn't know that we were.” Kerby watched Cantrell come out of the bathroom and poke about the bed and its canopy of mosquito netting. “We are still looking for diamonds, Mr. Dawson. It was my thought that since those who were at Lambert's house were led to believe that they would be unmolested until morning, the one who had the diamonds might take his time in hiding them properly. Tonight seemed like a good time to have a look. Yours is only one of several warrants that were issued, though it happens to be the last.”

“Then you didn't find them?”

“Not yet.”

Cantrell was at the wardrobe now and Kerby saw the flight bag and the large suitcase standing at the bottom.

“Would those be locked?”

“The suitcase is,” Barry said and offered his keys.

“I'd rather you did it, if you don't mind,” Kerby said. “We prefer that such things be done voluntarily.”

Barry unlocked the case and stood back, paying no particular attention to Cantrell's neat but thorough search since he knew what was there. When he had relocked the case he sat down on the arm of the chair and watched the man go through the desk. By this time Kerby was inspecting the magazines and papers on the window seat, and as his glance came up he considered first one of the makeshift flower pots and then the other.

Barry was never sure whether Kerby had seen some bit of dirt he himself had overlooked or whether he was simply an example of a well-trained and resourceful colonial officer. Whatever the reason, he slipped the swagger stick from under his arm and began to probe about the buried roots. He spent a minute or so on each can and then, wiping the stick clean with a handkerchief, he slipped it back under his arm.

“Well, that seems to be it,” he said pleasantly. “Thanks very much. I don't think we'll have to bother you again tonight.”

Barry did not say he hoped not when he opened the door. He did not say anything. He turned the key and got out of his clothes. When he had finished in the bathroom he snapped off the light and climbed naked under the netting.

It did not take him long to fall asleep, but before he dropped off he reluctantly accepted the simple fact that his own problem had become definitely more complicated. He still wanted to get the New York flight, but heretofore his interest had been more passive than otherwise. Now something more was needed. Someone was trying to tag him for murder and it was up to him to find out who while there was still time.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HE
W
INDSOR
H
OTEL
had a high percentage of transient trade, and when Barry Dawson had his breakfast the following morning he noticed several new faces in the dining-room. These had, somehow, the look of prosperous Americans or Canadians, and as others entered and waved to those who were seated it was not difficult to guess why they were here and where they had come from.

For Georgetown was the terminus for several passenger-carrying freighters from the States and Canada, and those taking the round trip were dumped ashore at their own expense for four or five days while the ship was made ready for its return trip. While here, those who could afford it would take the charter flight to Kaieteur Falls; others might go up the river or make the round trip to Bartica. Still others, having exhausted the local sights in one day and finding very little to shop for, would sit around writing postal cards and drinking Planter's Punches. Barry watched them with interest as he finished his coffee, and he was just putting down his cup when Arthur Hudson stopped at his table.

“You finished, Dawson?” he said. “Well, look. Wait for me, will you? I won't be more than ten minutes if I can get some service…. Waiter!” he said, snapping his fingers and pulling out a chair. “See you in the lobby, hunh?”

“Either there or in my room,” Barry said.

He walked from the room and turned left, and it was then, as he passed the registration desk, that the idea of doing a bit of breaking and entering came to him. There had been no premeditation and he was not sure. what prompted the impulse, but when he saw the long board with the room keys hanging below the proper numbers he suddenly knew he would like to take a quick look at Hudson's room.

There were a great many things he wanted to know about Arthur Hudson. He had been curious about the man before the murder; he was more curious now as he remembered the buried pouch beneath the frangipani tree. He had ten minutes that should be safe from interruption, and when he saw that Hudson's key was missing from the rack, he continued along the corridor, past his own room to the second one beyond. Here he hesitated as the first doubts came and his enthusiasm waned. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. What, exactly, did he intend to look for? If the door was locked, as it probably would be, he was stymied before he started.

But now that he had come this far, some pressure of pride or stubbornness vetoed a retreat and demanded an effort. He made it by reaching for the knob and turning it. When he heard the latch click he opened the door, stepped inside, closed it. With no further hesitation he walked past the closed bathroom door which formed a hall of sorts, and now the room opened up before him, a cluttered room it seemed in that first glance.

There were twin beds here and one of them was mussed, its mosquito netting thrust aside. At the far end a tray with bottles and glasses stood on the window seat. Two traveling bags stood along the wall and a third one, a squarish, fabric-covered piece, lay open on the unused bed; only when he stopped near by and glanced at it did he notice that its contents were unmistakably feminine.

The discovery jarred him and some new intuitive thrust told him to get out. He did not stop to ponder the inconsistency, but wheeled, hearing now the click of another door, knowing it had to come from the bathroom. He was standing like that, rigid and helpless, when the girl stepped into the little hall, quite naked except for the towel in one hand.

For one fleeting instant as she spotted him and jerked to a stop they stared at each other in a state of mutual shock, neither uttering a sound. Then the girl twisted and her arm flashed up to make magic with the towel as it flicked out full length and spun like a sorcerer's cape to cover her from shoulders to knees.

But the eye is quick and to Barry the image remained even as his confusion increased. He knew the legs and shoulders were tanned, that this was a tall blonde girl with slim flanks and a surprising bust. He saw the wide-open brown eyes beneath the penciled brows, the movement of the mouth, and because he was afraid of what might happen next he spoke at once, his tone urgent and a little desperate.

“Don't scream!”

The sound of his voice seemed to do something to the girl. She did not move, but her mouth relaxed. If she felt embarrassed she did not show it, and now the brown eyes were speculative.

“Who's screaming?” she said with surprising calmness. “What is this, Buster, some local custom?”

“I'm sorry,” Barry said, stammering a little. “I—”

“Wait a minute!”

With a glance behind her, she backed into the bathroom and when she reappeared there were mules on her feet and she was belting a narrow-skirted hostess gown that was sufficiently opaque for modesty but thin enough to remind Barry of her figure. As she came closer he could tell that the yellow-blond hair would need much care and attention if it was to remain that shade. He could also see that her brown eyes were bold in their inspection of him, suspicious at first and then mildly approving.

Something about her told him that it would be all right to stop worrying, and his relief was so vast that he grinned broadly as he repeated his apology.

“I live down the hall,” he said, not caring now whether she believed him or not. “I must have been daydreaming when I walked in here.”

Her mouth curved at one corner, a sardonic twist that told him nothing. “You ought to watch it.”

“I will.” He looked about and continued his act. “This is Arthur Hudson's room, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

She did not elaborate, but by now his mind was working and, as he remembered the tourists in the dining-room, an explanation came to him.

“Oh,” he said. “Are you from some ship?”

“The
Calgary Trader
. We would have been in last night, but they held us out beyond the bar waiting for the tide. We couldn't get off until this morning.”

“Then you're a friend of Hudson's.”

“A good friend.” Her glance was still amused, as though she was enjoying the encounter. “My room wasn't ready, so he let me use his. He's having breakfast.”

Barry nodded and started to circle round her. Because his mind was still working he glanced again at the two traveling bags that stood against the wall. One was a large case that seemed more suitable for a man than a woman and did not match either of the other two pieces. As he considered it there came to mind a possibility that would explain a lot of things, and suddenly he knew that it was important that he get away.

“I know Hudson too,” he said. “I'll probably see you later.”

“Sure … If you buy me a drink,” she said pointedly, “I might forgive you for scaring the pants off me—if I'd been wearing pants.”

Barry grinned at her as he opened the door. He couldn't help it. It had been a long time since he had met a woman like this and he had an idea that the things she said came naturally enough and were spoken without affectation; he also had an idea that she would say nothing about the encounter to Hudson, even though it seemed obvious that she had come here to see him.

Back in his own room, he said: “Whew!” and then he laughed aloud. He was not sure why, but he was aware that his experiment had made him perspire freely and when he took off his jacket he considered changing his shirt. Before he could make up his mind someone knocked, and when he opened the door Cantrell was standing in the hall.

“Oh, good morning, Inspector,” he said.

“Good morning, sir,” said Cantrell, as impassive as ever. “Superintendent Kerby would like to see you at Headquarters. I have a car.”

“Okay. Let's go,” Barry said and led the way along the corridor and across the lounge.

Going past the side of the dining-room on his way to the stairs leading to the street he noticed that Hudson was no longer at his table, and as he came down the steps he saw the American sitting in the police car and hiding behind his ever-present dark glasses. He also saw Eddie Glynn and waved to him, at the same time turning to Cantrell.

“I may need a car, Inspector,” he said. “So if you don't mind I'll use Eddie Glynn's and follow along behind you.”

Police Headquarters, the nerve center for the entire colony as well as for Georgetown, occupied a sizable plot of land and was made up of several wooden buildings built around a paved quadrangle. Eddie Glynn parked in the open area beneath the one opposite the entrance, and when Barry stepped out he saw a man coming down the exposed lower stairs.

He did not see Barry, but continued on, a stooped and skinny figure whose tan suit seemed too large for him and who moved with a shuffling gait that seemed vaguely familiar. There had been but a quick glimpse of the mustached face. Still curious, Barry watched him move across the quadrangle, and now recognition came finally and he knew this was the man he had asked for a match, the one who had stood beside the tree outside Colin Lambert's house the night before. The incident had slipped his mind entirely during the previous questioning, but as remembered things came back his curiosity mounted.

“Eddie,” he said, moving back to the car. “Did you see that fellow in the tan suit that just went by?”

Eddie stuck his head out the window and craned his neck to look at the retreating figure. “Him?” he said. “Yes, sir. That's George Thaxter. Used to be a foreman for Mr. Colin Lambert.”

Barry filed the name away as he went upstairs to a corridor from which several offices opened. Louis Amanti sat alone on the bench that stood against one wall, and although Cantrell and Hudson had preceded Barry they were nowhere in sight at the moment. He asked Amanti about it as he sat down beside him.

Amanti grunted, his round face a bit grim, as though he resented the indignity of being kept waiting. “They went in there,” he said, indicating a closed door at the end of the hall.

“Have you seen Kerby yet?”

“I gave him a statement.” Amanti crossed his knees and folded his arms, the fingers of one hand tapping his biceps. “He asked me to wait.”

Barry offered a cigarette, was refused, and lit one for himself. He was about half finished with it when a door diagonally across from him opened and Kerby came out with Muriel Ransom. He said something about appreciating her co-operation and walked with her to the head of the stairs. When she started down he nodded to Barry.