One Minute Past Eight (6 page)

“What?” Webb said.

“Cash. A lot of cash.”

“Somebody beat me to it, hunh?” Webb’s grin was tight and mirthless as he stepped over to the desk and picked up his gun and the shells. As he started to load them Cordovez stopped him,

“Please,” he said politely. “Not until you leave, señor.”

Webb understood the suggestion. He tucked the revolver inside his jacket and pocketed the shells. “You’re pretty handy with one of these, Julio.”

“Thank you,” Cordovez made a small bow. “I have had much practice. For many years I was an assistant chief with
Segurnal…
And what will you do now?”

“Sleep on it, I guess,” Webb said. “I came a hell of a long ways to make a collection and I’m not going back empty-handed if I can help it. I think Baker had the dough ready for me. Somebody took it.”

He stopped at the door and turned the bolt. “I’m going to start looking, Julio. I think our friend Grayson had better start looking, too. Because he’s still in hock. He knows it and I know it.… See you,” he said and went out.

Cordovez buttoned his jacket. “A very determined young man,” he said. “And possibly a dangerous one. Do you agree?”

Jeff said he agreed and smiled to himself at the little detective’s phrasing. He looked round the room and suddenly he had no further desire to search it. He was tired, depressed, and discouraged. And in the morning, or sometime soon, he would have to face his stepbrother, a thought which served only to heighten his discontent.

“All right, Julio,” he said. “Let’s forget it for tonight. Can you be here in the morning?”

“I will be here on the front terrace when you come down for your breakfast.” He made his customary bow.
“Buenas noches”
he said and started along the hall.

Jeff watched him make the turn into the corridor leading to the elevators before he got out his key. He unlocked his door and then stopped as something caught his eye on the floor. He knew then that a note had been thrust under the door and stepped back into the lighted hall to read it. It was very short and had no salutation:

Please stop at 320 when you get in no matter how late. K.H.

KAREN HOLMES wore a pastel-gray flannel robe that was securely belted and buttoned at the neck. Ballet-type slippers cut her height down so that the robe trailed slightly, and when Jeff followed her into the room he saw that her face had a pink, scrubbed look and the corners of her eyes were sleepy.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I didn’t know how long you would be so I curled up here.” She indicated the easy-chair in the corner. “I must have fallen asleep.”

She asked him to sit down and he swung out the desk chair, waiting until she had settled down on the one she had just left. While she made sure her knees were covered he had a chance to see that her hair had been combed out and fell softly along the sides of her face, and it occurred to him that she was more attractive this way than she had been on the plane. But he had not forgotten the Miami incident and waited with a mounting curiosity to see what she had to say,

“I had to talk to you,” she said finally. “I—I wanted you to understand.”

She hesitated, looking right at him now. When he made no reply she folded her hands and put them on one knee.

“I’m not apologizing for coming here,” she said, “I was hired to see if I could get an assignment of the stock your stepbrother will inherit. I still intend to try.”

“Then what is there to explain?” Jeff said. “You picked me up and steered me into the restaurant and gave me a mickey. You had a job to do and you did it. It didn’t matter how you did it or what means you used. I suppose if I’d refused the drink your pals there in the airport would have slugged me.”

“That’s what they said. That’s why I had to use that powder.”

“Oh,” Jeff said. “Then you didn’t make it yourself?”

That one brought the color to her cheeks. Her back seemed to stiffen and the dark-blue eyes had sparks in them.

“All right,” she said spiritedly. “If you don’t want to know the truth perhaps you’d better go. I can assure you it’s no fun for me either.”

He eyed her steadily for a long moment and decided she meant what she said. He also knew, though he could not tell why, that it was important to hear what she had to say.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” she said. “If it will help any to know I’m ashamed of myself, I am. But if—”

She let the sentence trail. A small sigh escaped her. She no longer looked like the smart and worldly secretary she had claimed to be on the flight to Miami. With her head slightly bowed and her glance averted, she looked so feminine and desirable that his defenses were weakened and some of his annoyance evaporated.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s start over. You work for the Acme Agency. Let’s start there.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to start before that. It will take a while and it won’t be easy.” She sighed again and her glance came up. Then, as though determined to make the effort, she straightened her shoulders. “I suppose you wonder why I’m a private detective.”

“Frankly, yes. I bought that insurance secretary routine. That I could believe.”

“What I told you about Wellesley and the secretarial school was right,” she said, “but that was not what I wanted when I was growing up. My father is a retired police captain. I had a brother who would have been a policeman too if he hadn’t been killed in the Pacific in 1945. I’ve read about little boys who want to grow up to be cowboys or baseball players or engineers. Well, I wanted to be a policeman.”

She tucked one foot under her and said: “At first my father accepted the idea because he thought I would outgrow it. Then, when we heard about my brother, Edward—I was twelve then—it seemed even more important. I couldn’t be a policeman, but I could be a policewoman. There was never any doubt in my mind. I took Dad’s kidding—he still wouldn’t believe I was serious—and I went to college as we’d planned. It wasn’t until I graduated that we really had it out together.

“He said I should go to secretarial school. He used every possible argument against my being a policewoman and when he realized I was still determined he thought of a compromise. He’s the one who suggested I try being a private detective. He had some friends in the business and there were times when a woman was useful. If I would go to secretarial school he’d give me one year as a private detective without interference; he was willing to gamble that one year would cure me of the idea.”

She looked up without moving her head. “I guess it sounds childish now,” she said softly. “I guess it is childish. But when you grow up with an idea that seems so important it’s not always easy to put it aside. With me I suppose it was a minor obsession.” She sighed and said:

“So I did some studying and maybe Dad pulled some strings. Anyway I got the license and went to work and it couldn’t have been more dull. Sometimes I would follow people. I was never told why. I simply followed them—or tried to—until my feet were sore and my legs ached. When the day was over I wrote a report and that was that. I worked behind department-store counters, all kinds of counters, spying on the help to make sure they were honest. I felt like a spy. I hated it. I never had an exciting moment in nine months or even a very interesting one. Then they told me about coming here.”

“How did they know I was coming?” Jeff asked. “How did they know about my stepbrother?”

“They said there was a leak in your office.”

“When did they tell you?”

“Saturday.”

“That was a quick leak,” Jeff said dryly. “This was the Tyler-Texas outfit that found this out?”

“Yes. Actually I don’t know the details. All I know is that my boss said he had a job I’d like. He knew what plane you were taking and we tried to get a reservation on an earlier flight but by the time I managed to get tourist cards from the consul there wasn’t any earlier flight. It wasn’t until I got to the airport and you were pointed out to me that I even knew who you were.”

“They told you to pick me up.”

“Yes. They said the only chance I’d have to get the assignment from your stepbrother would be to get to Caracas first. All I had to do was get to know you and make you invite me to have a drink in the terminal restaurant. I asked why and they said the less I knew the better. They said they had been in touch with their Miami correspondents and that someone would meet me and take over. That’s why I had to wear the red hat and the gardenias; so the men would know me.”

“What exactly were you supposed to do?”

She straightened her leg and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

“They told me that when I got into the building I was to excuse myself and say I was going to the rest-room. Two men were to meet me and tell me what to do,” She wet her lips and said: “It scared me a little. I wanted to know what the men were going to do to you and they said not to worry, that there’d be no trouble. They had a way to make you miss the plane and I’d go on alone… Well, I didn’t know what to say. They made it sound so exciting and—” She groped for a word and Jeff supplied it,

“Romantic?”

“I suppose so,” she said and blushed. “And there was another reason. I was the one who wanted to be the private detective. I wanted to do something that was exciting—I’d been pestering them for a long time—and I couldn’t go to Dad and say I was afraid. I just couldn’t. My—my pride wouldn’t let me.”

Jeff understood that much and it moved him strangely to know that while pride made her take the assignment, pride did not prevent her from letting him know how she felt.

“So these two men met you,” he said.

“Yes. And one of them gave me this little folded paper. He said to send you to the cigarette machine and put the powder in your drink. He said you’d never taste it. It wouldn’t hurt you, and when you started to get drowsy I was to bring you outside and they would handle the rest of it.”

Again the color touched her cheeks and again her voice grew small “I told them I couldn’t. I knew then that they must have planned the whole thing before I left Boston. And now they said I had to do it. They weren’t even polite about it. They said: “Either you’ll do it, sister, or your friend will get hurt. We were hired to do a job and we intend to do it one way or another.”

She hesitated, her eyes wide open, as though each detail was imprinted on her brain,

“They meant it,” she said.

“They probably did,” Jeff said.

“They said if I did what I was told they’d get you in a cab and take you to a hotel and let you sleep it off. If not, they’d handle it their own way.… I had to,” she said a little desperately. “I was afraid not to. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I do hope you’ll believe me. Somehow it seems terribly important.”

Jeff stood up and found his neck was stiff. He twisted it, all resentment gone now and moved deeply by this girl and the things she had said.

“I believe you,” he said, hesitating as he looked down at her and wanting very much to speak some word of reassurance. When no such word came to mind he smiled at her and said: “Maybe, under the circumstances, the mickey was better than a broken skull. Thanks for telling me about it.”

He stopped at the door and turned back. “But you’re still going to try to get that assignment.”

“Oh, I have to,” she said, as though there had never been any question about that particular point. “I have to try.”

He grinned at her as he went out. He said he was sorry he couldn’t wish her luck, but he at least understood the quality of the competition.

He found that he was humming as he moved along the hall, but he did not know there was a grin on his face that was supported by some inner glow that seemed warm and satisfying. He unlocked his door and turned on the light. He snapped the bolt behind him and then stopped short when he saw his two bags, knowing instinctively that someone had transposed them on the luggage rack.

They were not locked—he had not bothered after clearing customs—and when he opened them he could tell that they had been searched. When he straightened his mouth was grim and there were somber glints in his eyes. There was nothing in the bags of great value and nothing was missing. But the fact that someone had been interested enough to risk a search reminded him that he was in the middle of an ugly situation he did not entirely understand.

JULIO CORDOVEZ was waiting on a bench just outside the main entrance when Jeff came downstairs the following morning. He looked very neat in his tan suit; his white shirt was freshly laundered, his shoes were polished, and the bald spot on his head was pink and shiny. He made his customary small bow and his smile was broad as he offered his greeting.

“You slept well?” he asked.

“Very well,” Jeff said, which was true. “How about some breakfast?”

“I have finished mine.”

“Coffee?”

“I would like that very much.”

They crossed the lobby and went along the hall past the private dining-room to a long high-ceilinged room bright with morning sunlight. The captain gave them a table by the windows, and as Jeff sat down he had his first look at the city, which sprawled below him in the distance, a heterogeneous panorama of structures that followed the valleys and crept up hillsides brown from lack of rain. Near the center tall buildings spoke of rapid growth and here and there modern, boxlike structures indicated a growing interest in low- and middle-class housing projects.

Jeff spoke of the view and mentioned his earlier trip, remarking at the change. Cordovez nodded. “It is only just begun,” he said. “They cannot build fast enough and everywhere you see businessmen—from the States and England and Germany and Italy.”

He fell silent as Jeff worked on his bacon and eggs, sipping his coffee and pulling on a cigarette that gave off a pungent aroma. As Jeff poured more coffee, he said: “You have plans for this morning?”

“Do you know where my stepbrother lives?”

“In the Valle Arriba district.”

“Is it far?”

“Perhaps twenty minutes.”

“I’d better call him first.”

“I have written the numbers for you.” Cordovez brought out a slip of paper and pointed. “This is the residence; this the office.”

The voice that answered Jeff’s call to Grayson’s home was female and Spanish. He had sense enough to try the word
señor.
When this got him nowhere he tried
señora,
and presently another woman answered, her accent clipped and polite.

“Oh, yes,” she said when Jeff identified himself. “Arnold said you were coming… I’m sorry he’s not here just now. He left for his office about ten minutes ago. Do you have the number?”

Jeff thanked her and dialed again. This time the woman who answered had some command of English but no better news. The best she could do was offer the information that Grayson had phoned to say he would not be in until later.

Jeff relayed the information to Cordovez as they went outside, and the little detective offered a suggestion.

“Perhaps it could be Señor Webb.”

“What?”

“If your stepbrother has not paid his debt, he could be worried about Señor Webb.”

“I guess he could be at that,” Jeff said; then, as a new thought came to him: “Do you know Luis Miranda?”

“The
abogado?
Oh, yes.”

“What do you know about him?”

“A very old family,” Cordovez said, “At one time they had much land but they were not always on the right side—how do you say it?—politically—and there is less now. But still much. An estate in the Guarica River district near Calabozo, a beach house at Macuto, a fine home in the Country Club section.”

“Would you say Luis is wealthy?”

“I would say so.”

“Wealthy enough not to be tempted by one hundred and twenty thousand in cash?”

“It is a lot of money; but”—Cordovez shrugged—“I do not think Luis would steal just for money.”

“Married?”

“Twice. The two children are grown. The son manages the estate and the daughter is in the States. His second wife is a countrywoman of yours. Very beautiful.”

“Do you know where his office is?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s go.”

He followed Cordovez out to a three-year-old Ford which had been parked along the semicircular drive, and presently they were rolling down a quiet, tree-lined street, turning right at the end to make the descent into the city. Here the newness of the houses, the modernity of the architecture that had been built into the many small apartments impressed Jeff greatly, but he noticed that every ground-floor window was protected by an ornamental metal grill.

He mentioned it. He asked if they were necessary.

“Oh, sure,” Cordovez said, and laughed. “At night there are always prowlers. It is best to be safe.”

The traffic thickened as they came into the valley and there were times when it stalled completely. Yet no one seemed greatly disturbed and not once did a horn blow. He mentioned this, too, and Cordovez said:

“To do so means jail or a fine. It is against the law.”

“But don’t things get awfully jammed up?”

“Oh, yes. And when it becomes unbearable we do this to show our displeasure.” He put his arm out the window and began to pound the heel of his hand against the side of the door. “Near the center in the late afternoon it sometimes sounds like thunder,” he said, and laughed again.

The building that housed Miranda’s office was square, tall, modern, and, because of the stunted appearance of its neighbors and its distance from the center of the city, strangely incongruous. Cordovez double-parked in front of it and asked if he should wait. Jeff thought it over and said no.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be and if you’ve got friends at
Segurnal
why don’t you snoop around and find out what they know.”

“Very well.” Cordovez tore a sheet out of a small notebook and wrote down two numbers. “My home,” he said; “my office, I am in touch every hour. Someone will take your message.”

Luis Miranda had a suite on the fourteenth floor, and when Jeff walked into the paneled, air-conditioned anteroom he remembered the airport building and
Segurnal
and decided that whoever had the air-conditioning agency in Caracas was doing all right. The pretty brunette at the desk took his name and picked up a telephone. When she hung up she said:

“Mr. Miranda will see you in a few minutes.”

Jeff walked over to the window and looked across the valley at a hillside that was crawling with bulldozers and trucks. Dust rose like brown fog to be carried away by the morning breeze and the scars that showed so clearly spoke of another development in the growth of the city.

He was still there when the light tap of heels behind him caused him to turn in time to see a striking-looking blonde in a figured-cotton dress bearing down on him from the direction of the inner corridor. She had an erect, full-breasted figure that was big-boned and ripely rounded; she also had the height to complement the curves. Her hair, worn rather long, was straw-colored, and her face was broad across the cheekbones and richly tanned. Her eyes, which looked as if they had been rinsed in bluing earlier that morning, were bold but friendly in their appraisal and contrasted sharply with the tan that spread smoothly down the deep V of her dress.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re Jeffrey Lane, aren’t you?”

“Why—yes,” Jeff said, deciding that the hair was natural and putting her age somewhere around his own.

“I’m Mrs. Miranda.” she said. “Arnold’s told us quite a lot about you.”

“Oh?”

“I’d like to talk to you if you have the time.… I’ll wait for you in the car,” she said—as though everything had been decided. “A blue Buick just across the street and very badly parked.” She smiled. “You can t miss it.”

The little brunette watched her go. When she caught Jeff’s eye she pointed to the corridor. “The last door,” she said.

Luis Miranda’s office was as impressive as the man himself. A corner room, it was darkly paneled except for the wall of books, and the furniture was heavy-looking and expensive. Miranda stood until Jeff was seated, smiled, and folded his brown, long-fingered hands, exposing a star sapphire in what looked like a platinum mounting.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lane?”

“Give me some information,” Jeff said, “if you can and if it’s ethical.”

He lit a cigarette and asked if Miranda knew why he was in Caracas. When the answer was affirmative he went on to explain the situation at the Lane Manufacturing Company and Miranda listened patiently until he finished. Then, to make sure he had the picture, he went over the details in his own way.

“Yours had always been a family business until recently?”

“Yes.”

“And what is it you manufacture?”

“Lately most of our business has been in clutches.”

“Like on automobiles?”

“Everything but. We have a new principle on a drive that will work on motors of any size. A lot of our clutches go into such things as washing machines, dishwashers, dryers, mixers, power tools. Because of the new drive there is less strain on motors, gears, and bearings, all of which makes maintenance practically non-existent.”

“Yes,” Miranda said. “So for tax purposes and to clear up your bank loans, you decided to offer stock to the public four years ago. The original one thousand shares held by your family were split two hundred for one, making two hundred thousand shares in all. Your family controlled ninety thousand shares and this, with stockholders favorable to you, was enough to control the company. You do not wish to have this Tyler-Texas Company take over the business.”

“They work one of two ways,” Jeff said. “They’ve been buying up shares in the market and if they can get control they’ll either take over with an exchange of stock or they’ll move in, use up the cash to increase dividends and run the price up, and then unload. If Arnold votes with them,” he said, “we’re out.”

He put his cigarette away and spoke of Karen Holmes. “She saw Arnold yesterday,” he said, “and I wondered if he gave any indication to you how he felt or what sort of proposition Miss Holmes made.”

“He mentioned something about Miss Holmes offering a bonus.”

Jeff thought it over, not liking what he heard, his brows bunching with the effort and his teeth absently worrying his lower lip. When this got him nowhere he decided to speak of Carl Webb and the assignment that had brought him to Caracas.

Again Miranda listened attentively, his expression inscrutable and nothing that resembled surprise showing in his dark eyes.

“What I’d like to know,” Jeff said when he finished, “is whether Arnold could raise that much cash. I don’t think he’d dare give himself away to Webb unless he did but—”

“He could, and he did.” Miranda unfolded his hands and leaned back. He turned one hand over and put it on the arm of his chair and now his voice was mildly sardonic. “Reticence is not one of your stepbrother’s qualities. He was and is a very self-possessed man and inclined to be boastful.”

His glance moved beyond Jeff to the windows and stayed there. “He lived well since he came to Caracas and supported himself by acting as agent for certain foreign companies. He had some money to invest and made some speculations, not all of them profitable. But he was smart about one thing.

“Two years ago he bought five or six acres in the Valle Arriba section close to the golf club. He put in a street and built a house and subdivided the rest. I understand the house and lot cost him one hundred thousand B’s. He could sell now for three hundred thousand.”

“Wow!” said Jeff as he figured the exchange at thirty cents American to the bolivar, “Ninety thousand dollars from thirty.”

“The remaining half-acre lots he retained, eleven in all. Selling them individually he could get the equivalent of fifteen thousand U.S. dollars each. On Monday he sold the eleven for roughly one hundred and thirty-five thousand-four hundred and fifty thousand B’s. I know because I drew up the papers.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He said he was in trouble in the States. Before he could return he would need one hundred and twenty thousand in cash.”

“Could he get that cash in dollars?”

“We have a hard currency here.” Miranda said, “acceptable everywhere in the world at face value. Anyone can take bolivars to the bank here and receive dollars. But because the bolivar is easily negotiable, there is little call for dollars. It would be difficult to find that many dollars without advance notice. Grayson was satisfied that a payment in bolivars would be accepted for his debt. He needed it by Wednesday. I feel quite certain he had the cash with him yesterday and from what you have told me I must assume that Mr. Baker was to act as his emissary.”

“Did you get the idea he intended to return to the States?”

“I feel sure that was his intention.” He leaned forward and picked up a stapled report of some kind from his desk, his smile polite but distant. “Does that answer your questions, Mr. Lane?”

Jeff thanked him and stood up, inspecting the sharp aristocratic features of the light-brown face, the smoothness of the gray-streaked hair. Then, prompted by some impulse he could not analyze, he said:

“How did he get along down here? Was he well liked?”

“Possibly by some. He had great personal charm when he cared—or found it advantageous—to exert it.”

“And you, Mr. Miranda?”

“For myself,” Miranda said, “I disliked him intensely. To me he was, and is, an evil man.”

Jeff Lane had no trouble locating the Buick. It was the same color as Mrs. Miranda’s eyes. She used them when he stopped beside the car, smiling a welcome and inspecting him frankly. When she stepped on the starter he understood he was to get in and as he slid onto the beige leather seat she said:

“Where to? I might as well chauffeur you while we’re talking.”

“The hotel will do fine.” Jeff said.

“The Tucan? Right.”

She sat up as she drove and it gave him a chance to study her profile, the penciled line of her brow, the short upper lip, the red mouth that suggested a capacity for passion, petulance, and sulkiness. The deep tan of her face was duplicated on the rounded arms that showed beneath the cap-sleeves and he noticed that her legs were bare and just as brown. Her voice, though animated, had a faintly husky inflection as she spoke.

“Arnold told us about his inheritance,” she said, “Is it really true?”

“If he comes back to get it in the next thirty days.”