One Minute Past Eight (5 page)

“Is there anything any of you can add to the information we have?”

On the other side of him Karen Holmes sat up. “I don’t know if it’s important,” she said, “but Mr. Miranda was at the hotel too. He came in right after Mr. Grayson. I remember seeing him from the writing-room windows.”

It was then that Jeff remembered. For he was certain now that this was the man who had served as an interpreter for him with the taxi driver.
But that was later,
he thought. Not when Karen saw him.

“This was about seven thirty, Miss Holmes?” Vidal glanced at Miranda as she nodded.

“Quite true,” Miranda said, his accents precise. “I am one of the attorneys for PanAm Oil, as you know. I was included in the guest list for tonight’s dinner. In fact,” he added, “I was paged there by my home. That is how I knew Mr. Grayson wished me to come here.”

“Did you see Mr. Grayson at the hotel?” Vidal asked.

“Not that I recall.”

“Or Mr. Baker?”

“No.”

“Mr. Spencer”—Vidal fixed his gaze on the reporter—“you say you went into the bar after you saw Mr. Grayson and Mr. Baker. How long did you stay?”

“Quite a while. I was still there when I got the idea something was wrong.”

“Did you see Mr. Baker?”

“Not after the first time.”

“But—”

Spencer grunted and dug absently at the base of his throat. “I wasn’t in
that
bar, Chief. I’m a reporter. I can’t afford to pay four B’s for a Scotch and soda very often. Not when there’s a Company bar set up in the private dining-room.”

Miranda stood up and spoke in Spanish to Vidal. Presently he nodded and turned to Grayson.

“There seems to be no need for me here at this time,” he said stiffly. “Mr. Vidal has assured me that no one will be detained tonight and I have other business to attend to.”

“Wait a minute!” Grayson jumped up, his eyes flaring and his voice mean.

“You will excuse me,” Miranda said as though he had not heard.

“But you can’t walk out on me without—”

He stopped as the door slammed in his face, his neck red with anger and his mouth twisted. As he stood there Jeff eyed him with some amazement because, though it was obvious there was ill-feeling between Grayson and the lawyer, he could not understand the reason for the outburst. Then, the fury still riding him, Grayson wheeled on Vidal.

“How much longer does this go on?” he demanded savagely.

Vidal eyed him narrowly but his voice remained calm.

“Not long,” he said. “One more question. Our records show that Mr. Baker went to Barbados on Saturday and returned yesterday morning. It has been said that you engaged his services.”

“So what?”

“I wonder if you would mind telling us the nature of his work and why he went to Barbados.”

“Sure I mind,” Grayson said. “Not because it’s important but because I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Vidal shrugged and his mouth tightened as he reached for two sheets of paper on his desk. When he separated them Jeff could see they were cablegrams.

“These were found in Baker’s wallet,” he said. “I will read them to you.” He gave the date of the first one and said: “This was addressed to Mr. Harry Baker, Marine Hotel, Barbados and says: ‘Accept offer. No reprisal on Lane if cash. Advise immediately where and when delivery will be made.’ It is signed ‘Westwind’ and was sent from Las Vegas, Nevada.”

He glanced up. “I am curious about the reference to the name
Lane!”
He fixed his dark gaze on Jeff. “Would this be you?”

Jeff shook his head. When he said he had never been in Las Vegas Vidal considered Grayson a silent moment. “And you, Mr. Grayson, used to be known in the States as Arnold Lane, is that true?”

“What about it?”

Vidal hesitated, then picked up the second cable. “This is to the same name and address. It reads: “Carl Webb will make collection Wednesday.”

He put the message aside and glanced at Spencer. “You once worked in Las Vegas. What is the Westwind?”

“A hotel.”

“Do you have any idea about these cables?”

“Not the faintest.”

Once more Vidal considered Grayson. “It seems obvious you sent Baker to Barbados to make some offer in your behalf. Perhaps you can tell us who Carl Webb is.”

“I never heard of him before.”

“And you do not wish to tell us what this offer was about.”

“Not now I don’t”

Vidal turned his hand palm down on the desk. “As you wish,” he said. “But we will require a statement from you in the morning, Mr. Grayson. Ramon”—he glanced up at Zumeta—“will be in touch with you…
Buenos noches, señor.”

He turned to Karen when Grayson left. “If you are ready, Miss Holmes, one of my men will drive you to your hotel,” He pressed a button and spoke to the man who appeared in the doorway.

“What about me?” Spencer said. “I’d like to get this story in. How much of this can I tell?”

“The facts of the murder, Mr. Spencer. The circumstances but no suspicions. You can say the police have several leads and the matter is being investigated.”

He picked up the telephone, though Jeff had heard no buzz, listened, and said:
“Si”

“You can ride with Miss Holmes,” he said to Spencer. “You will find the car at the main entrance—Oh, Mr. Lane,” he added. “Just a minute more, if you please.”

Jeff waited in front of the desk and Vidal leaned back in his chair. “As I understand it, Miss Holmes is competing with you for the shares your stepbrother has recently inherited. If this is so, I can understand why you were here, since Mr. Baker was working for you. What I can’t understand is how Miss Holmes knew your stepbrother was here.”

“Neither can I,” Jeff said.

Vidal frowned. “You are from the same city in the States? You knew her there?”

“I never saw her before”—Jeff hesitated, his tone ironic as certain memories came flooding back—“until I met her on the plane coming down.”

“Then perhaps you would give me your opinion. From what you know would you say Miss Holmes had any reason to kill Mr. Baker?”

“No.”

“You believe her story?”

Jeff knew what his answer would be, but he took a moment to think back and erase all prejudice. When he spoke, his grin was fixed.

“If you mean about what happened tonight, yes.”

“Thank you.” Vidal rose. “We like Americans here. Your businessmen have done much for this country and it is bad publicity when one of you is murdered. We shall do our best to find out who is responsible… We will need your statement in the morning. You do not speak Spanish? Then Ramon can handle it.”

“Where did you learn English?” Jeff said as his curiosity got the best of him.

“In the States mostly, Ramon and I have spent some time in Washington. In your F.B.I. school.”

THE MAN in the baggy suit and shapeless felt Jeff Lane had seen at the foot of the stairs was waiting outside the gate of the second-floor anteroom. With a gesture that ordered Jeff to follow, he led him downstairs and back through the main room to the front entrance. Not until they were on the outer steps did he stop and wave one hand to indicate Jeff was now on his own.

There was still a lot of traffic on the Avenue but up beyond the trees which lined it the sky was clear and bright and the air was dry and comfortably cool. Not knowing exactly where he was, Jeff turned left toward a lighted shop on the opposite corner, hesitating on the curb to light a cigarette, and at the same time watching for a cruising taxi. He did not know he had company until he heard the voice beside him.

“Señor Lane?”

Jeff flipped the match away and turned to find the man at his elbow. Slender and not very tall, he was clad in a dark suit, and Jeff studied him a moment, trying to penetrate the shadows that obscured the face while he wondered if this was a touch of some kind. Curious as to how the fellow knew his name, he let the silence build. The sentence that followed got his undivided attention.

“I have heard what happened to Señor Baker.”

““How did you know who I was?”

“I have friends in
Segurnal.
I have been waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“Señor Baker has told me about you. I have done some work for him. I was outside the Tucan tonight when you arrived, though I did not know who you were then, nor did I know what happened until much later.”

Other questions came to Jeff’s mind but it suddenly occurred to him that this man, whoever he was, might prove very helpful indeed. That he seemed to be offering his services seemed clear, and when Jeff understood this he touched the man’s elbow and said:

“Let’s get a beer and talk some more.”

“I would like that,” the man said and kept pace with Jeff as they crossed the street and entered the corner store which had a cigar-stand in the front and a restaurant in the rear. They found a table along the wall and gave their order, and now Jeff could see that the man was neatly dressed, that his hands were clean, that his eyes were bright and alert. He was getting bald on top, which made it difficult to guess his age, but when he smiled he looked younger than Jeff had first thought.

“I am Julio Cordovez,” he said simply and seemed pleased when Jeff offered his hand. “My work is the same as Señor Baker’s. He came to me because he did not know the city or our language. He needed help.”

“Did he get it?”

“He seemed satisfied with my work.”

“You think I might need some help too, is that it?”

“I thought I should speak to you.”

Jeff grunted softly. “Well, you could be right, Julio. How much do you charge?”

Cordovez tipped one hand, his tone apologetic. “As you know things are expensive in this city. I was paid eighty B’s a day for my services and the use of my car. I thought now I should offer you my services if you so desire.”

“At the same price?”

“No. For my expenses only. I do not know why anyone should kill Señor Baker. I liked him. He was a good friend. If I can help find out who did this thing I will be only too happy. But it is difficult to work alone. It presents problems, and those in
Segurnal
will want to know who I represent.”

Jeff grinned at him, liking the little man and his forthright answers. “What you mean,” he said, “is that you’d like a client.”

“It would be easier for me.”

“O. K.,” Jeff said. “You’ve got one. The same pay.”

“It is not necessary but”—Cordovez shrugged and his smile came—“if you insist I will be most grateful.”

Jeff did not say so, but he had an idea he was the one who should be grateful. He knew no more about the city and the language than Baker had known, and he needed help; a lot of help. He sampled the beer the waiter brought and spoke of the two cables the police had found in Baker’s wallet. He asked if Cordovez knew Baker had gone to Barbados for Grayson.

“Oh, yes.”

“But you don’t know why?”

“Baker told me he was going, but he used an expression I did not understand. I was not sure what he meant. He said he had a chance to make a quick ‘score’ for a few days’ work. Would that mean a lot of money?”

“Something like that.”

“And I know this. Baker knew Grayson in the States. In a place called Las Vegas, but under another name. From things that were said I think Grayson could not go back until he had settled some accounts. It was for this he needed Baker’s help. I think he was frightened about something.”

Jeff nodded, remembering how Grayson had looted the treasury of the partnership his father had established and wondering if something of that nature had happened in Las Vegas. When he finished his beer without speaking, Cordovez asked if there was anything he could do for Jeff tonight.

“I’d like to take another look at Baker’s room,” he said, “if you think you can get in.”

Cordovez said he thought he could, and this proved to be no idle boast. For when they walked down the third-floor hall of the Tucan, fifteen minutes later, he had a ring of keys in his hand and it took him only three tries to turn the lock.

Jeff moved in first to snap on the light, and Cordovez stopped to turn the bolt. “Strangers do not always understand such locks,” he said. “They assume the door is locked when they leave but this is not so. It is necessary to use a key from the outside.”

“Oh,” Jeff said, understanding now how Karen Holmes had been able to walk in to find Baker dead, how he himself had walked in on her.

“You think the police may have overlooked something?” Cordovez said.

“Probably not,” Jeff said, “but there’s no harm in trying.”

He glanced round, aware that the window was open, the curtain bulging with the night breeze. He stepped to the chest and began to open drawers and then, at some small sound behind him, he stopped.

“Easy!”

It was a voice he had never heard before, and as he turned he saw Cordovez standing very still, his gaze fixed on the man who apparently had slipped from behind the curtain, a compactly built fellow with a wide, thin-lipped mouth and a muscular jaw. His face was deeply tanned, his curly light-brown hair was cut short. He was well dressed and at first glance looked like a successful young business executive, which, in a sense, he was. What spoiled the illusion was the gun in his hand.

“Where’s Harry Baker?” he said.

Jeff felt some of the tension slip away, and with his surprise in hand a feeling of resentment began to smolder inside him.

“Dead,” he said.

The man’s eyes opened and anger flared in their depths.

“Don’t kid me, chum!”

Jeff jerked his head toward the desk. “There’s the phone. Call the secret police and see.… Go ahead, we’ll wait.”

Something in Jeff’s tone lent weight to his words and he saw the doubt build in the man’s face as his glance shifted to Cordovez and back again.

“When?” he said.

“Tonight,” Jeff said, and then he went on, his phrases curt and succinct as he explained what had happened. When he talked that way he was convincing, and the doubt he had first seen in the man’s face expanded into concern and perhaps consternation. The gun dipped as he moved forward.

“And who are you?” he said finally.

Jeff answered that one too.

“Arnold Lane’s stepbrother?” the man said, his frown deepening.

“He didn’t use that name here,” Jeff said.

“Don’t move, señor!”

The words had a flat and dangerous sound. Jeff knew they came from Cordovez but he did not know why until he turned his head. He had seen no movement, nor, apparently, had the stranger. But there was a gun in the little detective’s hand now, a big gun. It was pointed properly and his bright narrow gaze was a little frightening.

“Don’t move!” he said again. “Especially the gun.”

The stranger never had a chance and he seemed to know it. He froze where he was, his own gun still tipped toward the floor. He waited that way while Cordovez slid round behind him, reached down, and relieved him of the snub-nosed revolver. Moving backward now, but not once shifting his gaze, he flipped out the cylinder and tipped the shells on the desk. When he had put the gun beside it, he replaced his own.

“This, I think, is better,” he said. “To see a gun in the hands of a stranger always makes me nervous,” he said. “Now we can talk. Your name, please, señor?”

“Carl Webb,” the man said and let his breath out in an audible sigh. “From Vegas. I had a date with Baker but the plane was two hours late leaving Panama.”

“Sit down,” Cordovez said. “Let us discuss this date you speak of.”

Webb sat down. So did Jeff. Cordovez, his arms folded, leaned against the desk. Webb glanced from one to the other.

“You followed the investigation tonight?” he asked. “Was there any money found here?”

“Not that I know of” Jeff said.

Webb took a breath and reached into an inside pocket. He brought out what proved to be four cables, two which he had received and two which were copies of replies that he had sent. He handed them to Jeff, who glanced through them quickly to see if they were arranged by dates. He noticed that the two copies were the same messages that Pedro Vidal had read at
Segurnal
and now he said:

“You work for the Westwind Hotel? Doing what?”

“I’m one of the assistant managers.”

“You knew my stepbrother when he was out there?”

“He worked for us,” Webb said, the corner of his mouth dipping as though he found the recollection distasteful. “We knew him plenty. Baker, too. He was one of our cops for a couple of years.”

Jeff gave his attention to the first cable, which had been sent from Barbados on Saturday. It read:

Offer 120 thousand to clean up Arnold Lane matter, if acceptable and no reprisal cable Harry Baker, Marine Hotel, Barbados, B.W.I.

The amount mentioned startled him but he went on to read again the message found on Baker which spoke of the acceptance of the offer.

The third cable, addressed to the Westwind read:

Cash ready for collection your convenience room 312
Tucan Hotel, Caracas, Venezuela. Advise.

The fourth message was the one saying that Carl Webb would collect this evening.

Jeff returned them. “What’s the rest of it?” he asked. “Did Arnold run out with a hundred and twenty thousand?”

“One hundred grand, even,” Webb said. “Nearly three years ago.”

“How could he get his hands on that much?”

“Because in our business we deal in cash.” Webb pulled out a silver case and stuck a cigarette into his mouth. “We have to. You never know when some guy—and some are pretty big operators—is going to get hot and hit you for plenty.”

He got a light and said: “Arnold Lane went to work for us about four years ago. He was a big, good-looking guy with plenty of personality when he kept it turned on. He dressed the place up and he was smart. They gave him more and more responsibility and finally let him handle the take and the payroll. One day about a year later he took off with a dame who had just gotten her divorce. We traced them to Los Angeles and lost them.”

“You sent a couple of your boys to Boston,” Jeff said.

“We sure did.”

Cordovez cleared his throat. “You would have had Grayson arrested and sent to prison?” he asked.

“Grayson?” Webb paused, a faint smile touching his mouth. “So that’s the name he uses here… No,” he said to Cordovez. “It’s not that simple. In the gambling business you deal in cash. You have to have people around you that you can trust and you have to keep them honest because there’s a lot of temptation. We get a few chiselers, a stickman who’s a thief, things like that, but when a guy scoops a bundle it’s no good going to the cops.”

He pointed his cigarette. “Take Lane—or Grayson. He takes us for a hundred big ones and suppose the cops finally catch up with him. O. K. He gets a lawyer and maybe gets off with a couple of years. So suppose he’s spent most of the boodle? Where do we get off? Un-unh,” he said and his mouth twisted.

“We handle things like that ourselves. A guy turns out to be a heavy thief he has to pay the hard way. It’s always been done that way and that’s why it seldom happens any more. We have to make an example, you know what I mean?”

“I think so.” Cordovez nodded. “You dispose of this man who has robbed you.”

“Right,” Webb said. “And we make sure the word gets around. Maybe we still take a loss, but we make a point. It keeps the rest of the help straight all over town, because they know the same thing can happen to them. It’s very simple. I don’t know all the answers, but I can figure part of this. Grayson wanted to come home and he knew that if he did he’d eventually wind up at the side of the road with a couple of slugs in his head. He was ready to pay off, with a bonus, but he was still running scared. He didn’t know if we’d accept his offer and he was afraid to handle it alone. He was even afraid we’d find out he was in Caracas. So he hired Baker to front for him and sent him to Barbados as a decoy.”

He put out his cigarette. “Well, it happens we’re ready to deal. We take the dough and spread the word that Grayson found out he couldn’t beat our system and paid off with a bonus to save his neck, In this country the deal works out because they don’t care how much money you take out. No smuggling. Just pack the cash in a bag, and take off. They don’t care in the States either and it doesn’t have to be dollars. We’d even accept payment in bolivars because it’s a real hard currency.”

He hesitated and then stood up and by that time the rest of the picture was crystal clear in Jeff’s mind. Apparently his stepbrother had done reasonably well since coming to Caracas, but he’d had no intention of returning—until Baker had located him and word had come of his inheritance. To claim it he had to return to Boston, and because the gain there was greater, he had raised the cash. He had made his deal through Baker, and it seemed obvious that he must have brought the cash here to this room tonight.

“It’s a good motive for murder,” he said, half to himself, “The first one we’ve had.”