One Minute Past Eight (21 page)

“We heard you,” Jeff said. “And most of it is true. You were in the closet in Harry Baker’s room when Miranda took the money—but I think you made one switch.”

He looked at Miranda, who seemed not to have moved a muscle. “You may not get a chance to talk to that judge,” he said. “I think you’d better talk now. You’d better answer one question, and you’d better be right. Someone used the house telephone and called Baker’s room at one minute after eight. Was it you?”

“Yes,” said Miranda and his breath came out with the word.

“To make sure no one was in the room before you went up.”

“Yes.”

That was the answer Jeff needed and he went quickly ahead, the tension still with him but confident now that he had what he needed. He spoke mostly to Spencer, but from where he stood he could also watch the woman with the gun.

“Baker was already dead when Miranda went into the room. You were in the closet, all right, Spencer, and you saw him take the money. You didn’t dare make a move, either, because it meant you’d be tagged for murder.”

“That’s what you say,” Spencer said. “I say Baker was dead when I got there. Maybe you can prove he wasn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean by proof,” Jeff said, “but I can give you some facts you may have forgotten. Follow me,” he said. “See how they sound.”

He swallowed and said: “Baker came down to the desk about ten minutes of eight and left his key. You admit you took it. He went into the bar and ordered a martini and then discovered he had forgotten his wallet. He went to the desk and got a duplicate key at about five minutes of eight and went to his room,

“I say he walked in on you instead of Miranda, who did not come until
after
one minute after eight. You’re the one who had the gun you’d found in the drawer, and Baker, being the sort of man he was, tried to take it. He was shot close-up, so maybe the gun did go off in the straggle. I’m not saying you killed him deliberately, but—”

“You’re not saying anything that makes any sense,” Spencer said defiantly. “You’ve got nothing to back it up.”

“I haven’t finished,” Jeff said. “But this much I know: a man who leaves a martini on a bar to go get his wallet would have only that one thing in mind: to get that wallet and come back for his drink. Baker went to his room but he didn’t get the wallet.
It was still in the pocket of his other suit where Ramon Zumeta found it.
I say the reason he didn’t get the wallet is because he ran into something in his room that stopped him.

“I say someone was there. Not Grayson, not Webb, not me, not Miranda who could have been there at that time. You, Spencer! You were there and you got trapped. You were still there a couple of minutes later when Miranda walked in on you.” He looked at the lawyer. “How did you get in?”

“I got a key from a maid,” he said. “Later I paid her handsomely to forget she had given it to me.”

“Baker was dead?”

“Yes. I did not know how or why.” He hesitated and his gaze dropped. When he continued his tone was embarrassed and uneven. “I had not done this but I knew I could be involved. But I was not thinking of that, but of Muriel and your stepbrother, and the money. I took the envelope from the traveling bag.” He sighed heavily. “It was a great mistake. I know that now.”

Spencer’s sallow face was shiny and his defenses were cracking. His eyes had a hunted look and he had trouble keeping them still. All he had left now was bluster and he tried it again,

“That’s not proof,” he said nastily. “That’s theory.”

“Its sound, though,” Jeff said. “And maybe there’s more.” He moved closer, his dark gaze intent and his mouth grim. “Grayson didn’t die from the beating Miranda gave him. The report says he died from asphyxia.” He glanced at Cordovez. “What about the coat, Julio?”

“As you suspected, there were bloodstains.”

Jeff spoke of the jacket he had seen on the office floor. “I think you smothered him, Spencer. You sneaked in to get the money, thinking he was dead or unconscious, and he fooled you. He was in bad shape by that time, but he must have made a grab for you and you had to silence him. Maybe you didn’t mean that either—not that it matters.

“The autopsy showed one more thing,” he said. “Bloodstains and bits of tissue and fine hair under Grayson’s fingernails. Stick your hands out,” he said. “Let’s see the backs of your hands and your wrists.”

Spencer hesitated a moment, his gaze challenging. Slowly then, his manner as deliberate as it was defiant, he extended both arms, palms down. “Take a look,” he sneered. “Go ahead.”

Jeff could tell then that there were no marks here and that left him only one more chance. He took a breath and continued doggedly.

“O. K., Spence. But you were quite a sport-shirt guy when I first saw you. You had one on that night at the Tucan. You wore one when I saw you in front of Grayson’s office, but that evening you had on a white shirt and a tie. Why, Spence? Because Grayson got one hand on your throat before you could quiet him?”

He was reaching for the reporter even as he spoke. He got his fingers inside the white shirt near the collar and yanked before Spencer could duck back.

Two buttons popped and the shirt came open as Spencer was half lifted from his seat. That left the hairy upper part of his chest exposed as it had been when Jeff first saw him in a sport shirt. It was much the same now except for the two inch-long scars that stood out vividly at the base of the throat.

Jeff let go of the shirt. He took one look at the sallow face. When it began to crumble he stepped back, his job was done and he felt all used up inside. For that instant he forgot the threat of death that still hovered over the room and what happened occurred so swiftly that he had no time to understand.

Intent on Spencer, he had his back to Muriel Miranda and did not realize he no longer blocked her line of fire until he heard her cry out, a wild, despairing sound that shocked his nerve-ends and made his scalp crawl. Instinctively he wheeled and for that next instant time stood still. He saw the leveled gun, the contorted face, the blur of motion at one side as Miranda, who had moved much closer to his wife, struck hard at her wrist with the heel of his hand before she could fire at Spencer.

The gun went off as it spun from her fingers and she cried out in sudden pain. It hit the floor near Jeff’s feet, skidded and bounced as he reached for it and missed. Then Spencer had scooped it up and was straightening on the edge of his chair, his gaze still frightened, but with dangerous glints in the amber eyes where none had been before.

Jeff took a backward step as he stared into the muzzle. He glanced at Cordovez, who had not yet moved. He looked over at Karen who sat white-faced and still on the divan, her eyes round with shock and amazement. Finally he looked at Miranda.

He had his arm around his wife now, his face close to hers. He spoke soft words that no one else could hear and now, as reaction hit her and sanity returned, her eyes had a dazed look, and she whimpered like a little child while she massaged her wrist.

“You hurt me,” she said, her face slack as she let herself be led to the divan.

When he had his emotions in hand, Jeff considered Spencer. He remembered things Carl Webb had said. A mouse who would never fight back unless cornered, and too fast on his feet for that.

The gun made the difference. For Spencer had killed twice, not with premeditation but because he had been trapped. He was still trapped. He was still afraid, his amber eyes said so. But that did not make the threat less real. And so, because he could think of nothing else at the moment, Jeff began to talk.

“Why did you smother Grayson?” he asked in a voice that was hard to keep steady.

“He grabbed me.” Spencer wet his lips and one hand moved absently to the scars at the base of his throat. “I thought he was unconscious. The envelope was on the desk. I had my back to him and he grabbed my ankle.”

He swallowed and said: “I came down on top of him and the chair came with me. He rolled free and tried to get the gun from the desk and I knocked him back and then he started to yell. I—I guess I panicked. I grabbed the coat. I tried to shut him up and he grabbed my throat. I held the coat over his face. I put my weight on it. I had to.”

“And what are you going to do with that?” Jeff said, indicating the gun.

“If somebody makes a move I’m going to use it. I’ve got to get away.”

“Where? Your only chance would be the back country and you wouldn’t last a week.”

“I could lock you all up. That would give me time. There must be a place.”

He said other things but Jeff no longer heard him. For just then some movement caught the corner of his eye. He controlled the impulse to shift his gaze but he knew that Cordovez’s hand had slipped unnoticed inside his jacket, and now his stomach was suddenly tight and he stood immobile, the perspiration drying coldly on his spine.

For he felt instinctively that with a gun Cordovez was not only expert but deadly. Once Spencer tried to use that little automatic he would be a dead man, and though the reporter had little courage, he could panic. It was not that Jeff felt any great sympathy for him. Spencer had been a victim of avarice and circumstance. He had killed, but not viciously or with malice. Jeff could not stand there and watch him die, nor did he dare make a warning gesture lest Cordovez be the victim when Spencer sensed his peril. And so, because there was no other way, he fell back on reason and his knowledge of the reporter’s character, his voice blunt, impatient, and hard.

“Be smart for once, Dan,” he said. “You can’t handle this one. It’s too big for you and you know it. Nobody can accuse you of murder with premeditation, and this is not the States, you can’t hang here. There’s a penalty you’ll have to pay, but fight it out in court and take your chances. What are his chances, Miranda?” he asked. “What could he expect?”

The lawyer was watching Spencer. “You would do well to follow that advice,” he said. “You are still a young man and a few years at San Juan de los Morros in our model prison should not be too difficult. I once made an offer to Mr. Lane,” he said. “It was not in good taste but I meant it. I told him if he was arrested I would defend him without charge. I will do the same for you, to the best of my ability, because you have done me a favor by removing Grayson, who was an evil man. Perhaps”—his glance strayed to the woman beside him, though she seemed not to hear—“you have given me a second chance.”

Spencer had been listening and the gun shifted in his hand. Fundamentally he had no heart for killing. He had always chosen the easiest way and he wavered now.

“How many years?” he said.

Miranda shrugged. “I cannot promise, but I can tell you this. In my country there are no juries. It is the judge who decides, and often pressure is brought to bear which can influence him. The heaviest penalties come as a result of the pressure brought by the family and relatives of the victim who wish vengeance. I do not know about Baker, but with Grayson I do not believe there will be any such pressure.”

He glanced again at Jeff to see if he would deny this. “With no one to cry out for vengeance and no one to care, I would say”—he tipped one hand—“perhaps five years, considering the circumstances. But this I promise you: there will be no defense by me unless you put down that gun, and at once.”

Spencer took a great shuddering breath and his mouth trembled. He looked down at the gun. Then, as though knowing in his heart that he had neither the courage nor the ability to fight alone for very long, he reached out and put the gun on the table.

Jeff felt his knees weaken and he leaned against the edge of the divan to support himself. For he was watching Cordovez now and knowing what a close thing it had been.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” he said in shaky tones.

“Lucky?”

Spencer frowned, brows warping. He hesitated and then, held by something in Jeff’s face, he turned to see what Jeff was looking at.

Cordovez, hunched slightly in his chair, sat very still. One hand had slipped inside his open jacket and the gun was there, the muzzle pointed right at Spencer’s hollow chest. Slowly then the hand relaxed and Spencer understood completely how death had been waiting for him while he made up his mind.

It may have been this that caused the reaction. It may have been a cumulative process brought on by the realization that everything he had tried had turned out badly, that even the envelope he had tried so hard to run away with proved in the end to have little value. Whatever the reason, he seemed to shrink back in the chair as his mouth opened. A sobbing, convulsive sound tore at his throat and suddenly he put his face in his hands and doubled up, rocking back and forth as his self-control disintegrated and his emotions took charge.

Jeff turned aside, unable to watch any longer. He saw Cordovez replace his gun and step over to take the automatic Spencer had discarded.

“Thank you,” the little man said. “I did not know what to do. When hysteria touches a man there is no telling what might happen.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “Yeah,” Then, when he found more words: “Will you call
Segurnal?
You can talk to them better than I can.”

Cordovez glanced round until he located the telephone. When he dialed, Jeff looked at Miranda, who now sat silently beside his blond wife. Her face still showed traces of shock and her eyes were closed, but she made no resistance when he took her hand and pressed it between his own.

“Spencer was not the only one who was lucky,” he said as Jeff moved up to sit beside Karen.

He started to take her hand and found his palms wet. He took out a handkerchief and wiped them and then she took it away from him and wiped his forehead. When he retrieved it he kept her hand and found that he could smile.

There were a million things he wanted to say and there was no place to start. The dark-blue eyes were watching him closely now and her smile was sweet and suddenly he knew that what had to be said could much better be said tomorrow or the next day or the day after that.

There would be plenty of time and so he leaned back beside her, his shoulder touching hers while the strain and the worry began to drain slowly from his body. Somewhere in the distance he heard Julio Cordovez chattering in excited Spanish, but he did not listen. For the moment he was content to sit unthinking beside this girl who understood his mood and made no demands of her own. They were still there three minutes later when the first of the radio cars arrived.