One Minute Past Eight
George Harmon Coxe
At approximately eight o'clock private detective Harry Baker stumbled onto something big. At exactly one minute past eight, Baker was dead. The local police had figured that out for themselves. Now they wanted to know the rest from Jeff Lane. But what could Jeff tell them? He had sent Baker to locate his missing step-brother in Caracas. When baker cabled he had news, Jeff went to Venezuela himself. Now Baker was dead. And, a few days later, so was Lane's step-brother.
clouds he learned that she had gone to Wellesley and was working as a secretary in one of the insurance companies.
A second glance at the smart sharkskin suit and its accessories told him she must be a first-class secretary and it gave him an odd sense of satisfaction to note that she wore no ring. He noted, too, that in certain lights there was a coppery sheen to her hair, that in profile her lashes would need no mascara, and that her red mouth was softly humorous. Because she was so easy to talk to he found himself telling her he had gone to Cornell and Harvard Business School and that except for two years in Korea he had always worked in the family business, during the summers as a youngster and then, after graduation, moving in to learn the business. He did not add that he was one of the three vice presidents, at twenty-nine, nor that, now that his father was dead, he would some day be president, provided George Tyler of the Tyler-Texas Corporation failed in his present concerted effort to get control of the company.
This was something he had been thinking about most of his waking hours during the past days, and now he deliberately put the matter from his mind. For the moment it was enough that he had a pretty companion, and he enjoyed their effortless conversation until he noticed the sun was beginning to settle in the west. This told him it was nearly time for a drink.
^What would you like?" he asked.
^ "Oh, dear, I don't know." She glanced at her wristwatch. "Could I have a raincheck? Could I wait until we get to Miami? As a matter of fact I was going to suggest it then anyway. . . . But you go ahead if you like."
He grinned at her and said he could wait He said there was a^ place in the terminal and maybe that was a good idea, "I hadn't realized we were nearly there," he said, and
then, as if to corroborate the statement, one of the stewardesses claimed their attention over the loudspeaker.
They would be landing in twenty minutes, she said, and she wished to remind them to take all personal belongings with them when they left the aircraft.
"Passengers continuing on to Cura§ao and Caracas will have a wait of approximately an hour/* she added. "The flight will be announced over the loudspeaker system but please stay within the terminal building so the announcement can be heard. Thank you."
The International Airport was a busy place at that hour, A plane was loading as Jeff accompanied the girl toward the incoming gate, another was taxiing for take-off. Two were gliding in for landings, the more distant one making its final turn toward the assigned runway. A dozen more silent aircraft stood in a row, their noses slanting obliquely toward the terminal building; refueling crews were busy, and baggage trucks crisscrossed on the concrete behind their midget tractors.
The humid breeze made his winter suit feel heavy, and once inside the building Jeff headed toward the bar and restaurant near the street side. About halfway there he felt the girl's hand on his arm and when he turned she gestured at the two blue-canvas flight bags he was carrying,
"If you'll give me mine/* she said, "and five minutes while I fix my face, 1*11 meet you by the entrance/*
Jeff said all right and released her bag. When she started off he hesitated a moment and then headed for the men's room. Here he hung up his trench coat, slipped out of his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. He washed his hands and face, rubbed wet hands over his dark hair, which was cut rather short and did not need much combing. As he stood drying his hands he was a moderately tall man with a lanky look, and his flat-muscled body moved with an easy co-ordination which might have come from hours of drudg-
ery pulling the number-seven oar on a junior-varsity shell during his college days. His brows were straight above dark-brown eyes which somehow reflected a sense o£ humor, as did the full easy mouth. His face was too bony to be called handsome, but he had more than average good looks, and now, thinking of Karen Holmes and the journey yet to come, a smile worked at the comers of his mouth and Ids eyes had the look of a man well pleased with himself.
When he realized he was daydreaming, he threw the towel into the wire basket, donned his jacket, and went back into the waiting-room. A glance at the glass doors of the restaurant told him he was early, and as he started toward them his eyes searched the room to his right. For a moment he thought he saw the dark-red hat flanked by two men who were earnestly talking to its owner. Then a chattering family group moved in front of him, blocking his view. He was standing beside the door when he saw her coming, moving quickly on slender, well-shaped legs.
Not really looking at him, she muttered something about hoping she had not kept him waiting, and then they were inside, finding a small table opposite the bar.
"Scotch, I think/* she said when he had asked what she would like. "I might even have a double if I can have it in a large glass. . . , Do you think theyll feed us on the plane?"
Jeff realized that the light had begun to fade and saw that it was nearly seven o'clock. He said: "They'll have to teed us," and gave the waitress the order, wondering now if there had been some change in the girl's manner or whether it was Us imagination. She had not yet looked Wm directly in the eyes and her hands were never still as they opened and closed her bag, adjusted the paper doily me waitress had left, and moved the ashtray to one side. Twice she touched the tumed-up ends of her hair, and now her glance moved restlessly about the room, as if some
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT g
inner tension was working on her that had been totaly absent on the plane. The arrival of the drinks claimed his attention and he glanced at the check and put a bill on it. Then he saw that she was fumbling in her bag again and asked if she wanted a cigarette.
"I have some, thanks," she said, and now she brought forth some silver. "But I wonder if you would get me a couple of packs from the machine. I understand they're expensive in Caracas.*
"Sure," Jeff said. "Let me get them"
"No, really," she said and pressed the coins into his hand. "Chesterfield regulars, please."
He pushed back his chair and went to the vending machine near the door, stopping to read the card and see how much was needed. He had enough change for four packs and he gave three of them to her when he sat down again.
"Well, w he said, realizing for the first time how thirsty he was and lifting his glass, "to a pleasant flight."
"And a safe one," she said, her small smile automatic and something in her eyes he could not understand, a shadowy something that seemed in that instant almost more like fear than nervousness.
Then her glance focused on her glass and she took a sip while Jeff swallowed three times, fast, and was glad she had thought to suggest a double.
"That tastes good," he said when she lowered her glass and took a cigarette from the pack he had put on the table. He gave her a light and looked idly about, refusing to speculate further on the sudden change in her mood.
He heard her ask where he would be staying and he said: "The Tucan. Will your brother be meeting you?"
"No. He can't get in until the following day. I—I'll be at the Tucan too."
He finished his drink and put the glass down, again
aware of the uncomfortable heaviness of his suit. The static-like sounds in the room—the buzz of conversation, the clatter of glasses and dishes—were less di
stinct now and his face felt hot. He took a deep breath and when he looked across the table the girl's face seemed to waver like a television image not quite in focus. Only her eyes seemed intent and watchful and from out of the distance he heard her speak.
"Is it stuffy in here, or is it just me?"
"Stuffy," he said, wondering why since the room was air conditioned. "Very stuffy."
"Then let's get out in the fresh air;"
She pushed back her chair. He reached for the flight bags and nearly fell over, and then he lurched to his feet, staggering a little before he caught his balance and thinking:
This is ridiculous. Why should a double Scotch hit me like this? "I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding curiously remote in his ears. "Ill be O. K. in a minute."
Somehow he got through the glass doors and now the floor was tilting and he felt her hand on his arm as she tried to steady him.
She said: "Let's go outside/' and he felt himself walking. When he stopped he knew somehow that they were standing on the loading platform in the gathering dusk.
He could hear cars pull into the curbing and doors slam and baggage slide gratingly across the concrete, In the background the voices he heard no longer had any meaning. The urge to sit down and rest a minute was overwhelming now and he was vaguely conscious of firm hands supporting his arms. Men's voices throbbed close by and then he was stumbling along into space. Finally, as his eyes closed, he heard someone telling him to take it easy, to sit back and relax. The last thing he remembered was the distant slam of a car door.
IT WAS early when Jeff Lane woke the next morning. He could tell this from the amount of light that came in through the two windows, but it was a subconscious knowledge and it took a while for his mind to function properly. He understood first that he was in bed, apparently in a hotel room. A light blanket covered him and as he became aware of his body he knew that he was clad in shorts and undershirt.
The throbbing of his head and the thick disgusting taste in his mouth suggested a monumental hangover, but he could not remember how he got it. He knew he should be in Caracas, but he could recaE nothing of the flight or his arrival at the hotel. Still groping mentally he raised his head and found his suit draped on a chair in front of the desk, the blue flight bag resting on the floor near by. His trench coat had been tossed on a second chair, but there was no sign of the two bags he had checked in Boston, and suddenly some silent alarm rang in his brain and lie jumped out of bed and staggered over to the window.
The brightening of the sky told him the sun was coming up. Serried silhouettes of luxury hotels on the horizon stretched as far as he could see, and palm trees fringed the opposite shore of a bay crisscrossed with causeways and dotted with artificial islands. Only then did he know that the street below the window was Bayshore Drive and that he was looking at Biscayne Bay and Miami Beach; only then did his mind open up and let the memories come flooding back to compound the sickness that had hereto-
fore been only physical The answer that came to him left him staggered and incredulous, and now, a glance at his wristwatch telling him it was six twenty, he strode back to the bed and snatched up the telephone.
"Desk clerk," he said when the operator answered; then, seconds later; "Hello. This is Mr. Lane in"-he glanced at the circular disk on the pedestal—"1604. Were you on duty when I checked in last night?'*
"Just a moment, please."
Another pause. Another voice,
"Hello, Mr. Lane. I was on the desk last night."
"What time did I come in?"
"About eight thirty. I can tell you exactly if you—"
]*No, nor Jeff said. "That's all right. Did 1 register?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Did I do the registering? Did I come in alone?"
"Oh, no. Two friends brought you, Mr, Lane. You—ah— what 1 mean is, you weren't able to register without help. You could hardly stand. Your friends said you'd been celebrating and-well, I took their word for it"
"One of them registered for me?"
"And paid for the room in advance."
"They came up to the room with me?"
"Yes. Someone had to. When they came back they said not to disturb you, that you'd be all right in the morning. They seemed very solicitous."
"Yeah," Jeff said, bitterness tingeing his words. "Ill bet."
He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, his dark gaze brooding and morose, the object of his resentment a girl named Karen Holmes. He recalled her smartness, her nice complexion, the dark-blue eyes that had seemed so friendly and ingenuous. Every step of the clever routine came back to haunt him: the postponement of the drink on the plane, the suggestion of a double drink to make it less likely that he would notice the drug she had slipped
into his glass after she had sent him to lie cigarette machine. Here in Miami she had needed help—he remembered the two men he had thought he had seen talking to a woman in a dark-red hat—but until then she had done a letter-perfect job quite alone.
Because he now understood the reason for the pick-up, he stood up and went over to his coat. The wallet was in its customary pocket. The money in the bill compartment seemed intact The birth certificate, the three copies of his tourist card, each with its passport-size photograph, were there. So was the cable that had started him on this trip.
It had been sent from Caracas by a man named Harry Baker, a private detective employed by the Lane Manufacturing Company for the past two months in an effort to find Jeff's stepbrother, who had dropped out of sight four years earlier. Now, unfolding the cable, which was a long one sent at the deferred rate, he read it again:
Jour stepbrother Arnold living here under his fathers name of Grayson listed in phone book. Have explained situation and requested return to Boston but Grayson holding up definite answer. Suggest you come earliest convenience to outline proposition in person. Feel my job done with this cable and am now off payroll. Have accepted temporary assignment here but will see you at Tucan where room engaged for you adjoining mine. Advise date of arrival. Baker.
The message had been sent on the previous Friday, but at the deferred rate it had not been delivered until Saturday morning. A quick conference of company officials voted to accept Baker's suggestion and elected Jeff to represent them, but it had taken all day Monday to arrange for his tourist cards. By that time the through flight from New York to Caracas was booked to capacity, and rather
than wait for the through light on Wednesday he had settled for the next best schedule.
Replacing the cable as his mind went on, he knew that Karen Holmes's mission was to delay him so that she could talk to his stepbrother first. He knew, too, that she must be working for the Tyler-Texas Corporation just as he knew that if Arnold Grayson decided to vote the shares he would presently claim as part of his stepfather's estate with the Tyler-Texas crowd, the Lane officials would presently lose control of the company.
But how could Karen Holmes know about the cable? How did she know what plane he was taking? Who were the men who helped her at the Miami airport? How could—
He broke off the thoughts abruptly, aware that such speculation was not only a waste of time but served also to aggravate his frustration and resentment. There were better things to do and now he went back to the bedside table and consulted the telephone directory. When he found the number of the airline he wanted he put in his call and explained the situation, saying that he had been taken ill at the airport the night before and missed the Caracas light.
"What happens to the bags I checked through?" he said. "When can I get out of here?"
The airline clerk heard him out and then said: "Let me check on this, Mr. Lane. Where can I call you back, say in five minutes?"
Jeff told her and then went over to examine his flight bag, finding nothing missing and taking out his toilet kit and the clean shirt. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and by the time he had finished the telephone summoned him back to the bedroom.
"I've chec
ked with the terminal office, Mr, Lane," the clerk said, "and there's no need to worry about your bags.
They'll be waiting at Maiquetia; that is if you plan to continue to Caracas."
*Good," Jeff said. "When can I get out of here?"
"How much difference in time of arrival?'*
"Only fifteen minutes. That's because the first flight goes by way of Camaguey, Kingston, Banranquilla, and Mar-acaibo; the later one goes to Port au Prince, Ciudad Tra-jillo, and Curagao."
Jeff said he wasn't interested in scenery and was there a seat on the eleven-thirty flight.
"Yes, there is. Be at the airport at ten forty-five or at our downtown office at ten fifteen/*
Jeff hung up, tickled the connection bar, and when he got the operator, asked for room service. He ordered tomato juice, toast, and a double order of coffee. While he waited he shaved and showered, the cold spray washing away some of his physical lassitude but doing very Kttle to cure his internal queasiness.
When the waiter had been paid, tipped, and had taken his departure Jeff tried the black coffee and waited for it to hit die bottom of his stomach before he continued. When it stayed down he tried the juice and found it good. Thus encouraged he finally ate a piece of toast, not because he wanted it but because he thought he should. The second cup of coffee reassured him sufficiently to try a cigarette and by that time he knew he was going to be all right . . .
As the DC 6-B winged its way east and south through the bright afternoon skies, Jeff Lane was in no mood to appreciate the view afforded him by his window seat. The Caribbean was blue as advertised except along the reefs of nameless islands. The spectacular mountains of Haiti and the Dominican Republic were no different from other
wooded tropical mountains he had seen before, and the picturesqueness of Port an Prince became to him only a half-hour stop when, because of regulations, he had to leave the plane while it was refueled. Ciudad Trujillo meant a wait of twenty minutes, and after that there were only clouds and water below the wings and a torment in his mind as he thought of Karen Holmes and the Tyler-Texas Corporation, and of the man he had grown up to accept as Arnold Lane, now known as Arnold Grayson,
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