One Minute Past Eight (12 page)

He could not see how she could have killed either Baker or her husband, but she could have been involved as the instigator. She had stayed in the car, according to Cordovez, while Fiske prowled about the hotel. Both knew that he, Jeff, had left here this afternoon to see Grayson at his office. But remembering the blue tinge on that face and the welts that marked it, he could not believe she could have made them, not unless she had been able to knock him unconscious with the first blow. What had been done to Grayson had been done by a man.

Why not Fiske? He had the motive, he could have made the opportunity. If he needed an alibi, the woman could supply it.

Yet even as these thoughts came to Jeff he knew it would do no good to voice them. He could accuse and they could deny. He had no proof and could think of no way of getting any. His own accomplishment was the understanding of the relationship of these two which made possible a motive for murder he had not considered before. But he was through for the moment and he knew it.

He stood up and Fiske rose with him, his round face relieved but his bespectacled gaze revealing no uncertainty. He nodded to the woman and thanked her for the brandy. To Fiske he said:

“If you want to call the police when I leave it’s O. K. with me.”

“I don’t think we will,” Diana said. “They’ll only come and clutter up the place, and as I said before I don’t think either of us is in a vengeful mood. Good night, Mr. Lane.”

Julio Cordovez stepped on the starter when Jeff opened the car door and this time, as they started to roll downhill, Jeff spoke of the things that had been said, his voice a monotone of dejection.

“Yes,” Cordovez said when the information had been given. “It is discouraging, but it is good that you came. If you had not done so you would not understand this man and this woman. As you say, you have no proof, but you now have a motive that did not exist for you before… You wish to see Dan Spencer?”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, “If you can find a telephone maybe you can get an idea when he should be through.”

They were in the valley now and presently Cordovez pulled into a gas station. When he had given his order to the attendant he disappeared inside,

“Spencer will be finished by midnight and perhaps before,” he announced when he came back. “It is now ten minutes after eleven.”

“Let’s go,” Jeff said. And later, as they approached the downtown section, he roused himself and said: “I think I’ll handle this one alone.”

“As you wish.”

“You go down to
Segurnal
and see what happened there this afternoon. See if you can find out how they’re figuring this one. Also—”

“Yes?” Cordovez said when Jeff hesitated.

“I’d like you to see Miss Holmes and tell her I’ll be at your place in case she wants to get in touch with me.”

“You think this is wise?”

“If you mean can I trust her—yes. I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for her.”

“That is true.”

“She knows I didn’t kill Grayson and I think she’d like to help if she can. She might know something we don’t. You can explain it. What I mean is”—Jeff paused because he was not exactly sure just what he meant and could find no good reason for his concern—“if she doesn’t know anything, tell her to keep away from me. I don’t want her to get in any trouble on my account. But if she should know something—”

“I understand.”

Cordovez made a turn into a narrow hillside street.

“I will let you out at the corner,” he said, “and point out the proper building. You will want to wait near by, but I would not stand in one place too long.”

“Oh?”

“The city police are not as smart as the
oficiales
of
Segurnal
but one could become curious.”

“I’ll watch it,” Jeff said as the car stopped at the intersection. He followed Cordovez’s pointing finger and located the doorway to the
Bulletin
halfway down the block. “See you back at your place,” he said, and then moved into the shadows, walking downhill and keeping to the curb.

It was quieter now. Cars were still parked on one side, but the few pedestrians were faceless individuals in the darkness and the doorways he passed were obscure. Opposite the newspaper he stopped to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. He could see a front office through the barred and open windows on the street floor. Light glowed more brightly from some room beyond, and far back in the adjacent hall he could make out the rolls of newsprint.

He found a cigarette and lit it, standing now so that he faced the street. Footsteps coming downhill made him turn his head. A man and woman, walking close together and speaking softly, passed behind him and presently the silence came again. It had a strange, narcotic effect on his senses so that he was not aware of any sound or any movement behind him until something brushed against his shoulder and told him he was not alone. Before he could react the voice came, its accents clipped and quiet.

“Buenos noches, señor.”

Without actually moving, Jeff felt as if he had jumped a foot and then the tension hit him solidly to hold him rigid and close his throat. It took a tremendous effort to break his paralysis but when his mind began to work there was nothing in it but hopelessness and despair.

So this is it,
he thought. The long arm of
Segurnal
had caught up with him and he had been a fool to think he could long escape it.
So all right,
he thought.
You tried and you muffed it somehow so take your medicine.
He took a small breath and moved his head slowly, still not recognizing the voice until it came again.

“You’re hot, Lane. You ought to watch it.”

Jeff stared until the face at his shoulder swam into focus. Because his nerves were frayed his first reaction was one of anger rather than relief.

“Jesus, Webb!” he said and let his breath out in a long blast. “Is that your idea of humor? You scared hell out of me. Where were you?”

“In the doorway here. I saw you come but I thought I’d see what you had in mind. You gonna wait for Spencer?”

“Yes.”

“Good enough. We’ll wait together.” He bent his head to examine his watch and slid a folded newspaper out from under his arm, “Take a look at this,” he said. “We’ve got a little time. Take it up to the corner where there’s some light. I’ll stay here just in case.”

Jeff took the paper, nerves quieting but still hesitant as he considered the suggestion. He did not understand the reason for it and he was reluctant to leave, yet something in Carl Webb’s tone told him this was no idle whim. He glanced around, estimating the distance to the corner, took another look across the street, and started off, his legs stretching.

Light from a tiny soft-drink stand proved sufficient for his needs and he saw that he held a Spanish-language newspaper whose masthead proclaimed it:
Esfera.
It had been folded twice and when he turned it over his jaw dropped and his eyes popped with incredulity.

For what he saw was a one-column picture topping a one-column head. He could not read the head but the photograph was agonizingly familiar because it was his own. Having no idea where it came from, he stared at it a long moment, fascinated, despairing, and empty inside. When he realized what he was doing, he glanced up to see if anyone had noticed him; then wheeled, and hurried back into the temporary security of the darkness.

Carl Webb was standing just where Jeff had left him. He accepted the newspaper and put it back under his arm,

“Kind of knocked you over, hunh?” he said. “I told you you were hot.”

“What’s it say?”

“My Spanish is weak, but I think it says you’re wanted for questioning. Did you knock him off?”

It was not an accusation and carried no overtones. It was simply a routine question and he accepted Jeff’s denial without comment.

“I had a session with the law this afternoon myself,” he said, and related how he had gone to Grayson’s office to find Karen Holmes already there and the body on the floor.

“What do the police think?”

“They’re not saying,” Webb replied. “I don’t think they know.”

“Where did they get my picture?”

“You had three of those tourist cards when you came, didn’t you?”

“Sure”

“They had your picture on them, didn’t they? And Immigration took two of them? Hell, it’s simple; the trouble is you’re not thinking.
Segurnal
knows when you got here. They borrow a photo from Immigration, make copies, and spread them around.”

Silently Jeff agreed that the explanation was simple. What discouraged him now was the fact that
Segurnal
could work so swiftly and efficiently and, recalling things Cordovez had said, he began to wonder how long he could keep his freedom now that his picture had been published. To add to his dismay was the knowledge of that thirty-day term of arrest that was waiting for him if Pedro Vidal decided it was necessary.

“Why should they be looking for me at all?” he demanded querulously.

“I don’t know,” Webb said. “Why did you disappear?”

“I had a row with Grayson earlier,” Jeff said, deciding that he had very little to lose in confiding in Webb. “I got a couple of scabs on my knuckles and a cut mouth,” he said, “They’re going to be hard to explain unless I can pick something out of the hat before I get grabbed.”

He hesitated, considering Webb’s background and his mission, and now his mind began to work and he put his thoughts in order.”

“You didn’t get your cash, hunh?”

“Not yet.”

“Did you expect to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Grayson make you any promise?”

“Hell, yes. That’s why I went to his office this afternoon. He told me this morning he’d have four hundred thousand bolivars—which is the same as a hundred and twenty grand and just as good—by four thirty. In five-hundred-bolivar bills,” he said. “Eight packs of a hundred bills each. He said it would be all wrapped up and ready to go and I’m damn sure he wouldn’t con me if he didn’t think he could deliver.”

Jeff agreed with the statement, though he did not say so. “And you think Spencer might have it?”

“I just want to be sure.”

“You knew him in Las Vegas?”

“Sure I knew him.”

“What kind of a guy is he? Could he have killed Baker or Grayson? Or both?”

“Dan Spencer,” Webb said disdainfully, “is a mouse with the heart of a chicken. He hasn’t the guts to kill anyone. He wouldn’t even swing at you unless he was cornered and he’s too fast on his feet for that.”

“He had guts enough to blackmail Grayson.”

“Who told you?” Webb demanded. “What kind of blackmail?”

Jeff spoke of the checkbook he had inspected and his theory of the reason for the payments.

“That could be,” Webb admitted. “Grayson was running scared and Spencer knew all about the trouble. He’s not the kind to get greedy about a big score so he tried a small tap; when it worked he was on the payroll.”

“He was also around here this afternoon.”

“Where?”

Jeff pointed up the street and explained how Spencer had come along with his invitation to have a beer.

“He could have seen somebody else besides me.”

Webb thought it over a silent moment. A match scratched loudly and his squarish, muscular face was highlighted as he put the flame to his cigarette. When darkness came again he said:

“If he did he won’t be telling if there’s a chance to collect. He’s the kind of guy that fools around with things he can’t handle and winds up dead.”

“So how do you figure it?” Jeff said. “You’re not standing around here for the fun of it.”

“You know I’m not… I’ll tell you,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Have you ever been in the Westwind or any of those places in Vegas?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been in gambling casinos where they play roulette.”

“I’ve been in a couple.”

“Well, in our place the drinks are free to gamblers. If you’re having a play at the wheel or the dice game the drinks are on the house and you can generally find one at your elbow if you’re not too busy to turn around. It keeps the gamblers happy and there’s an angle, too, because a guy—or a dame either for that matter—with a few shots under his belt sometimes gets to thinking bigger than he should. If he’s going well he gets more confidence and if it’s the other way he gets the courage to forget the percentages and try to get even.

“It don’t always work out for us because sometimes you run into a guy who is practically stiff—that kind gets real lucky sometimes—and he’s on a streak and he hasn’t got sense enough to drag down. I’ve watched guys like that who couldn’t hardly see, guys you practically have to hold on the stool, stagger away from the table with a week’s profits. But it don’t happen often. Mostly the liquor works for us.

“But what I’m sayin’ about Dan Spencer is this. He’s a moocher. He used to hang around the gambling rooms and move in on some lush and watch his chance. When he thought he could get away with it he’d cop a couple of chips. He had it worked out so it was pretty hard to catch him but he’d been thrown out of half the joints in town and sometimes he’d get roughed up. Word got around. Finally the paper gave him the bounce and he drifted. I didn’t know where he’d gone, or care, but what you say fits.

“Dan Spencer,” he said, “is a scavenger. A hundred and twenty grand in cash is something he could smell a block and a half away. If he located it, and nobody was looking, and he thought he could get away with it, he’d grab it and run—if he didn’t get scared to death thinking about it.”

He grunted softly, a disdainful sound. “If you’re trying to figure him for murder, forget it. But that money’s around somewhere and I came a long way to collect. I may be grabbing at straws, but I’m going to go over Spencer’s apartment like a vacuum cleaner and he’s going to help. If you want to come you’re invited.”

He stopped abruptly, stiffened slightly, and dropped his cigarette. “Here he comes now,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Jeff saw the thin, stooped silhouette as it passed the front windows of the newspaper office. He still was not positive, but Webb seemed to be, and now he was moving a step behind the man from Las Vegas, slanting diagonally across the pavement to intercept Dan Spencer.