One Minute Past Eight (9 page)

KAREN HOLMES was a lot more worried than she cared to admit, even to herself, but she was excited too and confident that her plan would work. She felt Jeff’s hand give her arm a final squeeze as he stood back in the doorway and then she was hurrying diagonally across the sidewalk to the taxi that had been parked with two wheels on the curb.

The driver sat up and touched his cap, smiling first and then blinking as she started to tell him what she wanted. Not until she saw his expression did she remember that he could not understand English.

“Oh, dear.” she said to herself and then, putting down the quick surge of her consternation, she remembered a word, and then another,

“Polícia!”
she cried and pointed back to the doorway.
“Polícia!…
Pronto, pronto!”

The words worked like magic and the expression on her face helped. The driver slid out of his seat and slammed the door. He glanced up and down the street and Karen said:
“Pronto!”
again as dramatically as she could, and then he wheeled and began to lope down the street.

People stopped to watch him and he called to them over his shoulder. While they watched him, she saw Jeff sidle out of the doorway and start in the opposite direction. Only then did she begin to breathe again and force herself to re-enter the half-light of the hall and start her climb.

She closed the office door behind her, telling herself she must not give in to the uncertainties that blotted out the excitement she had so recently felt. She had to think now, to prepare herself emotionally for what was to follow, to keep her poise as best she could. For she was certain that the story Jeff had told her must be true. She had seen enough of him on the plane coming to Miami to know the sort of person he was, and the things he had said last night in her room, even though he had the right to be bitter and angry with her, supported her original impression.

It helped now to realize that she was making up in part for the trick she had been forced to play on him at the Miami airport. But it was more than that and she knew it. She liked him. She liked him so much she wanted to help. The simple understanding of this made her feel good all over.

She went back to the doorway of the private office and glanced in, being careful to avoid Grayson but letting her eyes move slowly around the perimeter of the room. That was how she happened to notice the shiny object on the rug beneath the far corner of the desk. From where she stood she knew only that it was small and metallic-looking and then, moving closer and stooping to retrieve it, she saw that it had a yellow color that might have been gold. Shaped like a thimble, but having a polished rather than a dimpled surface, it resembled a tiny cup. Then, as she turned it over in her fingers, she heard the outer door open and close.

With no time to put the object in her bag, she thrust it into the front of her brassiere and started for the doorway, expecting to find a policeman. Instead she saw a tanned, compactly built man in a cream-colored suit. His hair was a curly brown and close cut, his squarish face was hard muscled and thin at the mouth. He regarded her with narrowed unsmiling eyes as he advanced.

“Buenos tardes”
he said.

“Good afternoon,” Karen said, knowing somehow that this must be Carl Webb, the man from Las Vegas.

“Oh? American?” His glance slid beyond her. “Is Grayson in?”

“In there,” she said with a nod of her head. “He’s dead.”

She heard him say:
“He’s what?”
as he stepped round her, and then she was following him into the office, watching him drop to one knee and make a quick inspection of the body. When he straightened he gave her a quick, hard stare and spoke one word that was profane and coldly cadenced.

His eyes busy now, he stepped to the desk and opened the attaché case. When he had pawed through the contents, he began to open and close the desk drawers, all of which were empty. By the time he had finished Karen heard the noise behind her. When she turned she saw the khaki-clad city policeman. He had one hand on the butt of his holstered gun. Behind him came the taxi driver.

Language difficulties reduced the next few minutes to a lesson in pantomime. Already suspicious, the policeman drew his heavy revolver the moment he saw the body on the floor. He began to shout in Spanish until Webb cut him short.

“¡
No hable español!”
he shouted back.

The officer glared at them and was momentarily still as he considered his predicament. Then, gesturing with the gun, he made it clear he wanted them to move to the wall behind the desk. When they complied, he made a quick inspection of the body and then spoke rapidly to the open-mouthed taxi driver. The fellow got hold of himself and said:
“Si,
si,”
and then he was dialing the telephone while the policeman shouted instructions and kept his eyes on his captives.

Quite oblivious of Karen, Carl Webb began to swear and the way he did it was not particularly offensive. The words were measured and distinct and spoken to himself. Not until he ran out of breath did he glance at her.

“I’m sorry.” he said. “I had to get it out of my system.” He pointed at her bag. “You wouldn’t have it in there, would you?”

“Have what?”

“Cash. One hundred and twenty thousand bucks’ worth.”

Karen, certain now that her first guess had been right, said:

“You’re Mr. Webb, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Jeffrey Lane told me about you last night… No, I don’t have the cash; would you like to look?” She offered the white bag and watched Webb study it a moment, apparently estimating its size. Finally he shrugged and shook his head.

“How did the law get here?”

“I sent the taxi driver,” Karen said and explained what she had done. “I’m Karen Holmes.” she said, “I was supposed to see Mr. Grayson at four o’clock and I came in and—”

“I heard about you.” Webb said and for the first time gave her his attention. His glance moved openly from her legs to her face, which he inspected at some length. Apparently he liked what he saw. He gave her a small sardonic smile. “We both got gypped, hunh?” he said. “The only difference is—you’ve had it.”

“Have I?”

“You came down to get some assignment,” Webb said, “Did you get it?”

“No.”

“And now you never will, right? I came for cash. I haven’t got it but somebody has. I’ve still got a chance.”

He stopped as two radio policemen hurried into the office. There was a lot of excited Spanish thrown around after that until, as had happened the night before, Ramon Zumeta arrived with another detective and the doctor. Presently the uniformed branch representing the city police left and Zumeta came over to Karen to find out what happened.

She gave a carefully worded account that she had rehearsed mentally. When she finished Webb added his own story. Zumeta nodded but asked no other questions.

“You can wait in the front room if you like,” he said, and gestured to the detective, who accompanied them and then stood by while they sat down on the couch. Webb brought out a silver case, and Karen took the offered cigarette and a light. She placed her bag in her lap and leaned back, feeling now the pressure of the thimble between her breasts but not daring to squirm about and relieve that pressure.

When she saw the men come with the stretcher she closed her eyes. During the next few minutes she knew that men were coming in and out of the office and once when she put out her cigarette she saw that the stretcher-bearers had gone with their burden. When Zumeta finally pulled a chair in front of the couch she was ready for him.

“You came to see Mr. Grayson because you had made an appointment with his secretary over the telephone,” he said. “What time was that, Miss Holmes?”

“The appointment? At four.”

“But the call the police received did not come until four thirty.”

“Well—I may have been late getting here.”

“The man who drove you here says no.”

Oh—oh,
she thought, and suddenly her apprehension was mounting and she knew this was not going to be as easy as she had imagined. Another look at Zumeta’s steady dark eyes told her he would be a difficult man to fool, and now she knew she had to think—and think fast.

“Oh.” she said. “I see what you mean.”

She gave him a smile that she hoped seemed confident. She asked, and answered, a lot of silent questions in an effort to bolster her courage and her wits.

She was the one who had wanted to be the private detective, wasn’t she? She had bullied her father for his permission, hadn’t she? She had griped about the routine dullness of her assignments? Yes, yes, yes!

Well then, Karen my girl, act the part!

This is what she told herself, and suddenly she was talking, hoping her father might be proud of what she was doing even if she had broken the law and was now offering a series of lies she hoped would substantiate her original premise.

“I didn’t know he was in there.” she said. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“But you waited.”

“Naturally,” She fluttered one hand. “I had this appointment and I thought Mr. Grayson must have stepped out because the door was unlocked. I sat right here.” She patted the cushion at her side. “I waited—until I began to wonder how long it would be—I suppose I got restless,” she said.

“That is understandable.”

“So I looked around.” She pointed at the carton near the desk with its load of discarded papers. “I could tell someone was moving out and—well—I took a peek in that next office.” She tried another little smile, making sure Zumeta saw it. She put a note of shy confession in her voice. “I suppose I just got curious,” she said. “I went on to the last office and—there he was.

“I don’t know what I did then.” she said, making her tone hushed, “or how long I was there. At first I didn’t know what the matter was. I couldn’t make myself touch him and then I knew I had to do something, I tried to shake him and finally I knew I should run and get help.” She folded her hands and dropped her glance. “That’s what I did,” she said, pleased with the story that she had brought out of nowhere and silently defying him to refute it.

Zumeta did not try. He cleared his throat and turned to Webb, asking first for his tourist card.

She watched him unfold the paper and give it a quick glance.

“Carl Webb.” he said. “A tourist. From Las Vegas, Nevada.” Zumeta returned the paper and asked if Webb had heard about Harry Baker. When Webb nodded, Zumeta said: “Baker went to Barbados. He sent some cables to Las Vegas. We have those cables.”

“I have some, too,” Webb said and produced four sheets.

Zumeta read them. When he looked up his dark gaze was thoughtful and intent. “You came to collect this money from Baker?”

“That’s right,” Webb said. “I might have made it if the goddamned plane hadn’t been late.”

“And you came here this afternoon. Why?”

“I had a date.”

“You have seen Mr. Grayson previous to this?”

“Just before noon.”

“You threatened him?”

“I didn’t have to. He knew the score. He said he’d have the cash for me this afternoon.”

“Ah-h,” said Zumeta, “But you did not get it.” He glanced at Karen. “You did not find it here?”

“No.”

“So.” Zumeta’s big shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “That is too bad for you, Mr. Webb.”

“What?”

“It occurs to me that with Mr. Grayson dead the money is no longer his to give but the property of the widow. When it is located it will be hers.”

“Yeah?” Webb’s mouth compressed and his bright gaze was challenging. “Not if I find it first.”

There was something in the flat, even tone that told Karen Webb meant just what he said, and when she glanced at Zumeta she saw his eyes open and close while things happened behind them. His mouth twisted at one corner as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

“In that case,” he said, “I can only caution you to be most careful, Mr. Webb. We have a model prison here at San Juan de los Morros but it is still a prison… We will go now to my office,” he said. “I will send for Mrs. Grayson. Perhaps she can help us.”

THE CITY’S newest hotel, the Tamanaco, stood perched on a hillside some distance from the center of town. It had a sloping modern look, not in the boxlike tradition of some Jeff had seen, but with a style of its own that might have been influenced by ancient Indian architecture. From a distance it had reminded him of things that had been done by the Incas, but seen close-up the resemblance disappeared and it became a plush, expensive-looking hostelry with all the latest in decor and conveniences.

The public rooms were spacious and airy and spread over two floors, the lower of which gave on a wide expanse of lawn, cabanas, the usual umbrella-shaded tables, and an impressive, oddly shaped pool complete with diving tower. Jeff walked through the lobby to the veranda overlooking the terrace. When he caught a waiter’s eye he asked for a gin and tonic and took a chair near the railing. Not until then did he realize how weary he was; not until then did he feel that, temporarily at least, he was safe.

It had bothered him greatly as he hurried from Grayson’s office. Clad as he was in gabardine slacks and a cord coat, he was acutely conscious of the fact that he looked not only like a tourist but like an American tourist. He did not know how long it would be before someone would connect him with the murder; and—once the word was out that he was wanted for questioning—he would be noticed by every plainclothes detective he passed.

He could not go back to the Tucan, nor did he dare wait for Julio Cordovez in any downtown bar lest he seem conspicuous. He thought once of the American Club, but this also seemed too obvious, so when he telephoned the little detective’s office he left word for Cordovez to look for him here. What he needed was protective coloring, and since most of the Tamanaco guests were from the States, he could move freely here without attracting attention.

He was still working on his drink when a chair moved beside him and Cordovez slid into it, not looking at him at first but giving his attention to the still-colorful spectacle at the poolside.

“Beer?” Jeff said.

“Gracias.”

Jeff signaled the waiter, ordering the beer and a refill for himself. “I’m in a jam,” he said.
“¿Entiende?”

“Si.”

“My stepbrother got himself killed this afternoon.”

Cordovez was still watching the acrobats in the water but he sucked in his breath with a small whistling sound.

“Is bad,” he said. “How does this happen?”

Jeff waited until the waiter had been taken care of and then he told what he knew and what he had done. Still impassive but nodding from time to time, Cordovez sipped his beer and made no comment until the story had been told. What he said first surprised Jeff even though he agreed with the comment.

“This girl you speak of has much spirit,” he said approvingly. “But for her you would now be at
Segurnal.”

“I might be invited to stay, too.”

“This is true. The fight you had, the marks on your hand, the bloodstain I noticed—all this would be difficult to explain.” He put his beer glass aside and stood up. “If you will excuse me, I will make a telephone call.”

Jeff frowned as he watched the little man go and then the frown went away and he took a breath. The thought of this phone call worried him as he considered it, but not for long. He had already committed himself. Either Cordovez was on his side and would remain so, or he was taking the first step at resigning his job. He lit a cigarette and waited. Presently Cordovez returned and picked up his glass. As though there had been no interruption he said:

“You have no idea who has taken the money?”

“None”

“But you think Señor Baker was murdered because of it?”

“I don’t know what else to think.”

“But if the man from Nevada—”

“Webb.”

“If he tells the truth it would seem that Grayson thought to have this money for him last night. By then the money is gone but perhaps Grayson has an idea who took it.”

He paused and sipped more beer. He wiped his mouth, “Today he demands its return and the thief will not give it up. To make sure Grayson can never tell on him, he makes this attack.”

Jeff did not argue the premise. He was thinking ahead, knowing there were at least two people he had to talk to but worrying now about where he could stay until he had a chance to make his inquiries. Not until then did he face up to the unpleasant knowledge that he not only was on the run, but he also had to hide. He said as much to Cordovez and the detective nodded.

“That is true and it will not be easy.
Segurnal
is everywhere. Me, I can often tell those men even when I do not know them, but for you it is more difficult. You can never know which man works for Pedro Vidal. They work when necessary as waiters, as taxi drivers, doormen, behind counters at bars.
Segurnal
has many ears and long arms.”

“If I could get a room in some small hotel—”

“A hotel is no good,” Cordovez said emphatically.

“Why not?”

“The good ones require your tourist card and you must fill out papers. The others”—he shrugged—“are already under observation. This you must believe.”

“Great,” Jeff said. He drained his glass and put it aside with a nervous gesture. “What do I do, sleep in the park or hide in the hills?”

Cordovez chuckled and showed his teeth. “It is all arranged. You will stay at my place.”

Jeff looked at him and the sudden glow he felt inside him came not from alcohol but from gratitude. He looked down at his drink, his lean face relaxing. He considered again the simple statement and when he glanced up his gaze was warm and friendly.

“Thanks, Julio,” he said and shook his head. “But it’s no good.”

“But of course. That was why I made the telephone call. My wife has a sister on the other side of the city. This sister has a husband more prosperous than Julio Cordovez and the house is large.” He glanced at his strapwatch. “Already my wife will have the two children dressed and ready for the trip “

Jeff regarded him with growing wonderment and respect, knowing what he said must be true. Such open-handed hospitality made him more deeply appreciative, but in his own mind this was an imposition he could not take lightly and he felt compelled to voice his objection.

“It’s very kind of you, Julio,” he said, “but I don’t think you should risk it. If
Segurnal
is as good as you say, it’s just a question of time before they nail me. When they do you’ll be in a jam.”

“I am already in this jam you speak of for not informing on you now… No.” Cordovez said flatly, “it is better that you do as Julio says. And who knows, we may have our solution before
Segurnal
can pick you up. It is the only way. You have an idea perhaps?” he asked hopefully.

“A couple,” Jeff said. “I think Dan Spencer was blackmailing my stepbrother. From what I saw in Arnold’s checkbook, he’d been paying Spencer three hundred bolivars a week for quite a while.”

“Ah,” said Cordovez softly. “You think Spencer knew of your stepbrother’s secret debt in the state of Nevada?”

“Baker was a cop in Las Vegas.” Jeff said. “He worked for the same hotel as my stepbrother. He must have known all about Arnold and when he located him here he knew why Arnold was hiding. Furthermore, Arnold trusted him enough to hire him to send those cables from Barbados. Apparently he was supposed to make the payment to Webb.”

“That I understand.”

“But Spencer once worked for a newspaper in Las Vegas. He knew Baker; he also knew my stepbrother. Some time ago he must have run into him here and Arnold must have decided to put him on the payroll to make sure Spencer didn’t write the Las Vegas crowd what he knew.”

“Yes.” Cordovez said. “And you will wish to verify this with Spencer?”

“Right,” Jeff said. “But first I’d like to have a talk with Luis Miranda.”

“Miranda?” Cordovez’s brows climbed as his eyes opened. “Miranda?” he said again in the first display of surprise Jeff had ever witnessed. “But if you think Señor Baker was killed for money—and Grayson too—then Luis Miranda would not do this. He would not need the money, even in that amount.”

“Do you know his wife’s name?”

Cordovez blinked at the digression. “His wife?” He frowned. “No, I do not.”

Jeff took the two airplane tickets from his pocket and passed them over. He waited while the detective studied them carefully and when Cordovez returned them his face held a strange expression.

“I had heard it said that your stepbrother and this woman were friendly,” he said finally. “I have heard that Luis Miranda is a jealous man. Still—”

He let the sentence dangle, sighed, and pushed back his chair. “Very well,” he said. “We will go. At this hour he may still be at his office. My car is outside.”

Julio Cordovez found a parking place across the street from the entrance of this towering office building that, had its walls sloped slightly, would have resembled a multi-windowed obelisk. His smooth face held a worried look as he turned off the motor, and before Jeff could get out he offered a word of caution and a suggestion.

“Luis Miranda is a proud man.” he said. “A dangerous man to insult, with a temper that is quick. I do not know what will happen when you speak of his wife—if that is your intention—but I do not think it wise for you to go to his office.”

“Why?”

“To explain your position or to ask for any assistance you will first have to speak of this new murder. Who can say how he will react?’”

“I don’t know,” Jeff said, “but if I don’t go, how do I get to talk to him? It’s a chance I have to take.”