He, Jeff, had been four and his sister six when his father had married a widow named Grayson with an eleven-year-old son, and in the early years, Jeff's memory of Arnold was hazy. He understood now that his stepbrother was a bully with an ingrown streak of meanness which in those days revealed itself with a cuff, a pinch, or a twist of the arm, always surreptitious, so there would be no parental punishment.
Later he learned, from dinner-table talk, of Arnold's escapades at three prep schools before one tolerated him long enough for graduation. There had been a year each at two universities, followed by a series of jobs in and out of the family company. What made it more difficult for Jeff's father was the fact that he was devoted to his second wife, and while she was alive he overlooked her son's troublesome ways. It was only after she had died and Arnold was older that he seemed to realize the hopelessness of the obligation he had assumed.
Even so, he tried, and though these were the years that Jeff was in college and, later, in Korea, he knew of two occasions when only his father's help had kept Arnold from prison. The first came as a result of a bar-room brawl when Arnold had cut a man severely with a broken bottle. Influence and twenty thousand dollars to the injured man helped Arnold get off with a suspended sentence. The second case was one of out-and-out embezzlement from a
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brokerage partnership that Jeffs father had financed originally. Here again the shortage was made up, but with this came an ultimatum. From now on Arnold was on his own; there would be no more money, no allowance, no hope of any inheritance.
The ultimatum was delivered by registered letter to a Los Angeles address where Arnold was staying four years earlier. Jeff had not seen him since. He had heard Arnold was in Las Vegas for a time and he knew that two men from that city had come looking for him in Boston. He still did not know why.
Yet, in the end, Jeff's father had relented. It may have been some twist of conscience once he knew he was going to die; it may have been due to the fact that he had once loved Arnold's mother and still felt some obligation to her son. Whatever the reason, he had called Jeff in to say he had changed his will and that if Arnold could be found within ninety days he was to share equally with Jeffs sister and himself in the forty-five per cent of the Company shares stiU held by the family.
Jeff had promised to do his best to locate Arnold, and it was a promise he intended to keep, if possible, ia spite of this deep-rooted dislike of his stepbrother. And so Harry Baker had been hired to try to pick up the trail, after four years, a trail that led up and down the West Coast, to Las Vegas, and back to Los Angeles, to Panama, and finally, with roughly thirty days to go before the bequest would be invalidated, the search had ended with the cable Jeff now carried in his pocket.
To claim his inheritance, Arnold Grayson had to return to Boston, but once he claimed it he could vote his fifteen per cent of the company stock as he saw fit. Somehow, George Tyler of Tyler-Texas had learned about Jeffs mission, and Karen Holmes now had a twelve-hour start at
trying to convince Arnold to cast his lot with the opposition. , . .
_The voice of the stewardess demanding attention cut through Jeff's thoughts and he listened as she announced the impending arrival of Flight 433 at Curagao.
**We will be on the ground approximately thirty minutes," she said. "Passengers en route to Caracas may leave their personal things on the aircraft"
Jeff listened as the instructions were repeated in Spanish and then he looked out the window at things he had seen once before from the ground: the compact little city of Willemstad, the channel leading to the landlocked harbor, the oil tanks, the famous pontoon bridge which separated the two parts of the city and was constantly being opened and closed to make way for the coastal tankers that shuttled back and forth from Venezuela. As the plane banked again he saw that the bridge was open now, the municipal free ferry which served the populace angling toward the main part of town ahead of two oncoming tankers. Then the aircraft was dipping and he sat back to await the landing.
Flight 433 was twenty minutes early coming into Mai-quetia, the modern airfield close by La Guaira, where the mountains of Venezuela level out on the man-made plateau before touching the sea. There were two terminals here, one for local traffic, the larger and more impressive structure serving international flights.
Once on the ground the passengers were herded together and ushered by an official past a patrolling FAK— a green-uniformed, tin-hatted, rifle-carrying member of the National Guard—to the small air-conditioned waiting-room which funneled the passengers in to the immigration authorities.
Because he was in a hurry, Jeff had managed to be second in line, and now he stood before one of two clerks
who began to fill in cards on their typewriters. He stowed his papers, answered questions automatically, and was finally instructed to come behind the counter to a pair o£ desks near the end of the room.
Here he stood before a mustached, grim-faced individual, who inspected his tourist cards and birth certificate, inspected him personally and with some care, and then consulted two bulky loose-leaf black books. Apparently there was some cross-indexing involved, because it took a while and pages were flipped one way and then the other in an effort to find out if one Jeffrey Lane had anything against his name or record that would make him undesirable as a tourist. Jeff guessed that the procedure was more of a safeguard for political reasons than anything else, so he stood and waited until the man flipped his papers with a weary gesture to the adjoining desk. A second official stamped die three tourist cards, initialed them, gave one to Jeff along with the birth certificate, and put the other two aside.
"Keep/* he said, and nodded him out past the counters and toward the customs room.
Jeff reclaimed his two bags, which were already there, unlocked them, watched them chalk-marked, and then. stood aside as a porter snatched them from the counter and led the way out of the air-conditioned pleasantness into the humid warmth of the early evening. There was still some afterglow in the sky, but here the lights had been turned on and presently he was relaxing in the back seat of a late-model car.
"Hotel Tucan," he said and from over his shoulder the driver said: "Si"
Minutes later they were on the new expressway that led to Caracas. Somewhere off to the left where darkness had begun to obscure the mountains was the old road that Jeff had once traveled with his heart in his throat because of
the precipitous grades and hairpin turns. The thought of it made him grateful for the new highway, not only because of its safety but because it cut the traveling time in half.
For the sense of urgency was still riding him. Even though he was more than twelve hours late he had the feeling that time was important, that even a half-hour saved might make the difference between success and failure. He tried not to think about Karen Holmes and the trick she had played on him in Miami, and he refused to consider the possibility that she might already have accomplished her purpose.
Once he had talked to Harry Baker he would know where he stood and what must be done as the next step. He had cabled Baker of his delay before he left Miami-He felt certain Baker would be waiting at the hotel, and as his brain continued to speculate he was only vaguely conscious of the broad divided highway, the viaducts that bridged the valleys, the mile-long tunnel that bored directly toward the city.
They were on the outskirts now, and the lights that blanketed the valleys and hillsides reminded him of Southern California and the sprawling growth he had seen on the way back from Korea. A broad avenue he did not even remember cut directly through the downtown part of the city, and then the cab had turned left and was winding along paved drives that always sloped upward until a final turn brought them into the semicircle that fronted the hotel.
A porter moved across the flagged terrace and down the walk to meet him, and by that time the driver had opened the trunk to remove the bags.
"Gfaciasr Jeff said. "jCudnto vale?"
"Treint
idnco B's. Treinticinco bolivars."
Jeff shook his head. "No B's," he said. "Dollars. U.S."
A man coming along the walk, apparently from one of
the long row of parked cars, assessed the situation and stopped, a lean, dark man with an aquiline nose and a sharp-featured face. Now he addressed the driver in Spanish and when the reply came, turned to Jeff,
"He says ten dollars will be satisfactory.**
Jeff thanked him, paid the driver, and then he was following the porter up the walk and into the lobby which opened laterally in front of him. The desk was on his left and he gave the clerk his name and said he had a reservation, noting as he did so that the clock on the back wall pointed to 8.08.
He filled out a registration form and was asked for his passport. The clerk listened as he explained why he did not have a passport. He took the tourist card and birth certificate, saying that they would be returned later, and now Jeff asked if Harry Baker was still at the hotel.
"In 312," the clerk said. "I have given you 314."
When he had changed a twenty-dollar bill into Venezuelan bolivars Jeff followed the porter toward the elevators. Looking through a glass partition at the rear he saw rows of tables set up in what looked like a private dining-room, the men milling about with drinks in their hands. He asked the elevator operator about it and after a moment of concentration the boy's face brightened.
"PanAm Oil Company/' he said. "Once each month they have this business dinner."
314 proved to be a single room, one side of which was a tall three-paneled window. The porter hung up Jeffs coat, put the largest bag on the rack, and checked the carafe to see that it was full. He accepted Jeffs two-bolivar piece with a Salud? bowed out, and then Jeff stepped to the windows, finding two of the panels fixed and immovable while the third opened inward and was guarded by a screen.
Outside the screen was a narrow balcony with double rails and Jeff unlatched the screen door and stepped out.
From there lie could look down on the swimming pool with its underwater illumination and the lights that had been strung across the terrace adjoining the bar. But because
he was still obsessed with the thought that time was so important, Jeff gave his attention to the windows of the adjoining room. When he saw the cracks of light behind the drawn curtains he knew what he wanted to do.
Not bothering to wash or unpack, he picked up the room key, stepped into the hall and knocked at the door on his right. With the light on it never occurred to him that Harry Baker would not be there, and when he had knocked once more he tried the knob and the door swung inward.
He took a step, hearing the door click shut behind him. The overhead light was on but the room seemed empty and he said: "Harry?" tentatively as he took his second step. That was when he saw the figure on the floor partly obscured by the foot of the bed.
For another second surprise and shock held him motionless, his gaze fixed on tie hips and legs and upturned shoes. Then he was moving, round the foot of the bed, stepping over the legs to kneel beside the torso, knowing now that this was Harry Baker.
Once more he said: "Harry!" His voice tight.
He saw the telephone on the floor near the outstretched hand, the overturned ashtray which had been knocked from the desk. He shook a limp shoulder and reached for a hand that was as warm as his own. Then, even as he tried to find a pulse-beat, he saw the moist dark stain on one side of the white shirt.
The coat of the tan, lightweight suit was open and he saw the tiny hole on the right side, the black smudge encircling it. His fingers were damp and trembling as they dug into the limp wrist, and he tried again with his other hand before he understood that there was no pulse here, that Harry Baker was dead.
JEFF LANE was never sure liow long lie stayed there on one knee beside the still figure. Time no longer seemed important and his mind was stunned and there was only the sickness churning at the pit of his stomach.
Very gently he released the wrist. He found his handkerchief and dried the palms of his hands and gradually, as his brain began to function, his thoughts revolved not about the reason for Baker's death but about the man himself.
For he had liked Harry Baker. He had not known him well, but he had talked with him a half-dozen times since he had been working on the case, had had drinks with him twice. He remembered that Baker had been in G-2 in the Army, that he had worked as a police officer in California and as a security man for one of the Las Vegas luxury hotels before coming east to accept this job with the Boston office of a national agency. Nothing that he had known about Baker indicated that he was anything but a shrewd and capable detective, and an honest one.
In this present assignment there had been no reason for violence. Baker had been looking for a man and he had found him. He had even cabled that his job was done and—
Jeff's thoughts hung there as he recalled the other words of that cable. A temporary job was to keep Baker in Caracas. What sort of job? For whom? Why—if that was the reason—had this job led to murder?
When Jeff understood there could be no immediate an-
swer to such questions he glanced at the telephone and knew he would have to use it. He started to turn his head, still on one knee. That was how the shadow of some movement caught the corner of his eye, and what he did then could be attributed to the lingering traces of shock and nerves too tightly tuned. With no certainty that he had seen anything at all, he was suddenly breathing shallowly while an odd coldness spread across the back of his neck.
Turning only his head, he looked behind him at the curtained windows, one of which stood open and only partly covered. The bottom edge of that curtain stirred gently In the night breeze. Certain there was nothing here, he continued his inspection, his dark gaze prying as it swept the room and came to rest on the small entrance hall.
The door to the bathroom stood open and there was only darkness beyond. Opposite, another door, to the closet, stood ajar, and it was from this direction he had thought something moved. Slowly then, making no sound, he came to his feet, not knowing what he was going, to do, only knowing that he had to be sure. On tiptoe he moved across the rug. When he saw the bathroom was empty, he wheeled and yanked at the closet door.
All this was done impulsively, without thought of the consequences. Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy attempt that could easily have been dangerous or even. fatal, but not until then did he realize his mistake and consider the odds.
For he had known that Harry Baker had been shot and there had been no gun in sight. Now he understood why, He seemed to see it first, even as the faint odor of perfume mingled with the air of the hallway.
The backward step he took was instinctive as he stared at Karen Holmes, no longer dressed in her smart sharkskin suit and dark-red hat but wearing a summery navy-blue frock which was topped by a white-flannel jacket. In her
left hand she clutched a blue bag; in her right hand was a short-barreled revolver,
Jeff let his breath out slowly, while the girl stood there tensed and immobile, her young face white with shock. He found the back of his throat dry and swallowed. He took another small step backward and this brought Jbim up against the edge of the bathroom door.
^Well," he said as casually as he could. "Come on out.**
"I—I didn't know who it was/' she said finally, her voice small.
Jeff waited, giving her time but not wanting to retreat any farther. He saw her body relax. Presently she took a tiny step and then another and now, with the light on her face, he could see that the dark-blue eyes were wide open and rimmed with fear.
The gun wavered in her hand. He could see the muzzle wobble as it dipped downward. Then, as though its weight was too much for her to support, her hand sagged and now Jeff grabbed for it, holding the muzzle down and then twisting the gun from her unresisting grasp.
He took a new breath as he moved back into the room., but there was a tremor in his hand as he flipped out the cylinder and examined the six shells, on
e of which bore the neat little indentation of the hammer.
"One shot, huoh?" he said.
He hesitated and the resentment that had been working on him all day merged with the reaction of the moment so that his voice was flat and accusing.
"Maybe I was lucky/' he said,
"You only gave me a mickey "
He heard her gasp as her mouth opened. "But—" She swallowed and tried again, a desperate cadence in her voice. "You don t think-" 1?"
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"But it's not my gun. I've never had a gun. It was on the floor."
"Sure"
T3ut it was, I tell you *
'What were you doing here In the first place?"
*We were going to have dinner.*
*0h?" Jeff said, still edgy. "You work fast."
TBut I knew him before. In Boston. My father knew Mm." She swallowed again and now the words came tumbling out. "We were going to have a drink first and I waited on the terrace and he didn't come and it was cooler than I thought so I came up to get this jacket" She touched the white coat "My room is down the hall so when I came past I thought he might still be here. I knocked and the door was unlocked and I saw the light on." She ran out of breath and when she continued her energy was spent.
"He was on the floor just like that. I didn't know what the matter was until I saw the blood and the gun. I don't know why I picked it up; I didn't even know that I did. Then I heard the knock—
*1 was scared, don't you understand?" she cried, her voice shaking. "I was petrified. I—I didn't know what to do or who might be coming and when I saw the closet—"
She let the sentence dangle, as though she had run out of explanations. She watched Jeff put the gun on the desk behind him and then he stepped up and took the bag from her hand. What she had said, the way she had said it, had sounded convincing. But he could not forget how convincing she had been on the flight down from New York and this time lie intended to be sure.
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