One Minute Past Eight

by George Harmon Coxe

  When he had the bag open, he glanced at the handkerchief, tissues, compact, lipstick, cigarettes and matches, the change purse. But it was the leather folder that interested him and when he took it out and opened it he looked incredulously at the photostatic copy of a document that

  proclaimed that Miss Karen Holmes of such and such an address had been licensed by the State of Massachusetts as a private detective.

  "A private detective?*' he said in his bewilderment.

  He peered at her, his brow furrowed and dark eyes brooding.

  *A private detective?"

  He saw the spots of color tinge her cheeks. Slowly her chin came up and now her eyes were bright and defiant.

  "What's wrong with that? 9 ' she demanded.

  "And you're working for Tyler-Texas."

  "I work for the Acme Agency . w

  "All right, so Acme is working for Tyler-Texas. Who supplied the knockout drops, or did you brew them yourself?"

  For an instant then she faltered. "I—I had to do that.**

  "Sure,** Jeff said with heavy sarcasm. "I guess it's written in your contract**

  He waited for her reply because he thought she was going to make one. He saw her lips part and then something happened. While her eyes blinked to keep back unwanted tears her mouth suddenly tightened and her rounded chin set stubbornly. That look was enough to remind him that it was childish to work off his resentment at a time like this. He did not believe she had shot Harry Baker and what had happened yesterday no longer seemed important. He returned her bag and stooped to pick up the telephone.

  It was a dial phone and when he had the hotel operator he told her to send the manager to room 312 and to call the police.

  The manager arrived first, but the two uniformed policemen from a radio car were not far behind, and since they

  spoke nothing but Spanish there was little Jeff could do but stand beside Karen Holmes and listen.

  After the first outburst one of the officers went to the telephone and dialed. He spoke rapidly for ten seconds and hung up. His partner bent over the body and experimented with the limp hand and wrist and carefully replaced it. By now the man at the telephone had seen the revolver, but he did not touch it. He stood with his back to it, his partner joined him, and they waited silently, eyes fixed on Jeff and the girl, grim-faced but very neat in their khaki uniforms with the Sam Browne belts and crisscrossed straps and heavy holstered guns at their hips.

  The manager, whose name was Andrews, was a chubby, florid-faced man with thin colorless hair and an apoplectic manner. It was clear that he blamed Jeff and/or Karen Holmes for what had happened and his tone of voice suggested he would sue them both for defamation of the hotel's reputation at the earliest possible moment.

  "You say you found him?" he said. "Which one of you?"

  TBoth of us," Jeff said.

  TBut how? Why should you be here in this room at all? When did you check in, Mr. Lane?"*

  Jeff told him, and then because he was tired of Andrews he said: "Look. When the detectives get here—if that's what they have in Caracas, and assuming that one of them can speak English—well tell what we know but there's no point in telling it twice. If you want to wait you can listen in."

  Andrews sputtered and had a little trouble with his breath but he did not suffer long because the door opened a few seconds later and two men came in, one of them big and young looking, the other one older and thinner. At the sight of the big man the two uniformed men stiffened to attention while he spoke briefly to them. They replied and one pointed to the gun. When they had touched their caps, they detoured along the wall and left the room.

  The big man took off his light-gray felt and put it on the

  bed. He had a Hght-complexioned, strong-boned face and black eyes that had a hooded look beneath the heavy brows. The eyes were busy in the few seconds as they inspected the dead man without moving closer and then considered Jeff, the girl, and finally Andrews.

  When he was ready he spoke to Andrews. There was a brief exchange while the florid face grew more so. Finally Andrews shrugged and left the room. When the door closed the man turned back to Jeff.

  "I told Mr. Andrews that we would send for him when we needed him/' he said, with only a trace of accent. "I am Ramon Zuineta, chief of our Homicide Section/*

  Jeffrey Lane," Jeff said. "This is Miss Karen Holmes *

  "And this one?" Zumeta glanced toward the floor.

  "His name was Harry Baker/' Jeff said. "A private detective from the States."

  "Ah—you knew him?"

  "He was working for me.**

  Zumeta nodded and spoke in Spanish to his companion, who had been emptying Baker s pockets and now stopped to pick up a small straight-backed chair and cany it to the far side of the bed by die window. When he motioned the girl to sit down she thanked him and Zumeta said:

  yn*Q found him?"

  "I did/* Karen said, and repeated the story she had told Jeff but with somewhat more detail.

  "And you, Mr. Lane?"

  Jeff started with his arrival at the airport and told what he knew. There was no interruption. Zumeta would nod from time to time but only the intense steadiness of his gaze suggested that he had filed, catalogued and cross-indexed everything he had heard. Now he went over to the desk and looked at the revolver.

  "You found this on the floor, Miss Holmes. You picked it up without thinking and took it into the closet? And

  you took It away from her, Mr. Lane?" He shrugged and picked It up. "Then if there were any worth-while fingerprints on it—which is doubtful—there are none now."

  He gave the weapon a quick inspection and put it into his coat pocket; then turned as someone knocked at the door. His assistant opened it and a man came in with a doctor's bag, followed by two men with a rolled-up stretcher.

  The doctor said: "Hola, Ramon,** and went immediately to the body. He applied his stethoscope, pulled out the shirt, and checked the small bluish hole in the chest, making an occasional comment as he worked and pointing now to the blackish smudge on the coat front. When he spoke to the men with the stretcher, Jeff turned to face the window, pulling the curtain back from the open section. Karen Holmes was already looking out into the night and he stood above her, seeing the lighted pool and terrace, the winding street beyond the hotel grounds that curved upward into the near-by hills. He stood that way, trying not to think, but conscious of the hardness in his throat, until he heard the door close.

  Almost immediately there was another knock and as he glanced round he saw Zumeta talking to three plainclothes-men in the hall When they went away Zumeta came back to resume his questioning.

  "Perhaps you could tell me in what way Mr. Baker was working for you?"

  "He had been trying to locate my stepbrother.**

  "His name, please,"

  "He was known here as Arnold Grayson,*

  "Ah—yes. I know of him. And was that not his right name?"

  "That was the name he was bom with. When his mother married my father he took the name of Lane. 9 *

  "And how long had he been missing?'*

  **! hadn't seen him in four years.**

  "What made it important that you find him?"

  "My father died two months ago," Jeff said. Tie left some shares in our company to Arnold provided he could be located and came back to claim them within three months. I promised to find him if I could."

  He took Baker's cable from his pocket and waited for Zumeta to read it. Zumeta returned it and considered the girl.

  "You were to have drinks and dinner with Mr. Baker/ he said. "You knew him well?'*

  "Well—no. I'd met him in Boston and my father knew him"

  "But you're not here just as a tourist*

  Karen hesitated, but not for long. "No, I came to see Arnold Grayson too." She opened her bag and produced the leather folder and for once Zumeta registered surprise.

  "This I did not know/' he said softly. "Policewomen I have heard of in your country, but pr
ivate detectives—**

  He left the thought unfinished and Karen said: "My agency represents a company that would like to buy the shares that Arnold Grayson would control—if he returned. I came to make him an offer/'

  Zumeta seemed a bit puzzled, his tone of voice said so. "But Mr. Baker did not work for you. How then did you know Mr. Grayson was in Caracas? 9 *

  The question made her glance at Jeff. She hesitated, as though giving him a chance to tell his side of the story. When he remained silent she lowered her glance.

  "My office didn't tell me how they knew," she said wood-enly. "They only told me where I could find him and that I was to make him this offer/'

  "You knew about this, Mr. Lane?"

  "Not until today," Jeff said.

  "I see/' Zumeta said in a tone that suggested quite the

  opposite. He frowned and bunched his lips. "You arrived at Maiquetia this morning. Miss Holmes. Did you see Mr. Grayson?* ?

  "Late this morning.**

  TDid lie accept your offer?'*

  "He—he said he would let me know."

  The statement was like a reprieve to Jeff. He had foreseen the question and had been afraid to speculate on the answer. Unconsciously he had held his breath while a cord tightened across his chest and now the tension was gone and he could breathe again. She had picked him up; she had tricked him, and got in the first word, but he still had a chance. He was in no mood to gloat but he felt immeasurably better as Zumeta said:

  "And you have not seen Mr. Grayson since?"

  "Oh, yes. I saw him this evening."

  "Oh?" Zumeta bent his head slightly. "When was this?*

  "About seven thirty/'

  "Be so good as to tell me about this."

  "I was in the writing-room addressing postcards," she said. "Mr. Baker was with me. I had already said 1 would have dinner with him and we agreed to meet at eight for a drink."

  "Yes/ 7 Zumeta said with some impatience.

  "Well, from those windows you can see the front terrace and the walk and I saw Mr. Grayson coming toward the entrance. Mr. Baker saw him too.**

  "What happened then?' 7

  "Mr. Baker said: 'Ah, there's my man/ and looked at his watch.*"

  "Have you any idea what Mr. Baker meant by this?"

  "No, I haven t, He just said he'd see me at eight and went away. I suppose he went to meet Mr. Grayson, but I can't be positive."

  Zumeta paced two steps, turned, and came back. He

  glanced through the contents of Baker's pockets which now were spread out on the desk.

  "How long did you remain in the writing-room?" he asked and immediately held up his hand to forestall a reply as a new thought came to him. "Tell me everything you did after that, and at what time."

  *1 came to my room and showered and touched up my nails. When I finished dressing I started downstairs. That was about eight, or a minute after."

  "You heard nothing when you passed this room?"

  "No—* She stopped, eyes widening, "Yes, I did too, I heard the phone ring as I came past. It was still ringing when I turned the corner and I thought that meant Mr, Baker was in the bar. That's why I was surprised when I glanced in and didn't see him."

  TTou did not sit in the bar?"

  "No. I was alone and—well, I thought I'd wait on the terrace/'

  'Yes. And you found it chilly and came to get your coat. When would that be?"

  *Tm not sure. I guess maybe five or six minutes after eight. Maybe more."

  As she finished, Jeff wondered how accurate her estimate was. He recalled that it was eight minutes after eight when he had stopped at the downstairs desk. He had been there two or three minutes at the most. He had not seen her on the front terrace, but he realized also that there was more than one terrace. Before he could pursue the thought someone banged on the door. When the assistant opened it a voice called: "Ramon!" and then a thin, untidy individual pushed his way into the room and grinned at Zumeta.

  "Ah," said Zumeta. "The Bulletin is quick tonight"

  "Not quick," the man said, in accents that were unmistakably American. *Just lucky. Tm downstairs covering the

  monthly dinner PanAra Oil puts on and I see some of your boys nosing around. So I do some snooping on my own. Who got killed?"

  '"An American private detective called Harry Baker.**

  "What?" The man peered at Zumeta and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Harry Baker?"

  "You knew him?"

  "Sure. He came to the Bulletin when he hit town, because we're the only English-language daily and he didn't speak much Spanish."

  He had been watching Jeff and the girl as he spoke and now he came round the bed and offered his hand.

  *Tra Dan Spencer/' he said. "Are yon Jeffrey Lane?"

  "Yes," Jeff said and shook the bony hand.

  tfe Harry said you were coming," Spencer said, his eyes curious as they watched the girl.

  Jeff introduced them and Spencer said: "How do you do, Miss Holmes. . , . Look, I don't know what this is all about but if you can—"

  "You will find out," Zumeta cut in. "Soon we will go to Segurnal"

  "Me too—I hope," Spencer said.

  "You, too. But for now, sit down and be quiet."

  Spencer sat on the edge of the bed next to Jeff and began to pack a straight-stemmed briar. At close range he seemed to be in his middle thirties, a round-shouldered man with the sort of ingrown stoop that gave his chest a concave look. His skin was sallow; his hair was mouse-colored, shaggy, and carelessly combed. His lightweight suit was baggy and he wore a sport shirt open at the collar, disclosing the upper fringes of chest hair that extended nearly to the hollow in his throat and added to the general impression of untidiness. For all of that he had a friendly, engaging manner, and when he had his pipe going he took out a folded sheaf of copy paper and a pencil

  "What can you tell me?" he said.

  "Not much," Jeff said. "Miss Holmes had a date with him and stopped in to see if he was ready. She found him on the floor."

  He stopped as the door opened and one of Zumeta's men came in to report. After that there was a small parade of goings and comings, but as each exchange was in Spanish Jeff understood none of the information. Apparently Spencer did, for he made a note from time to time and so did Zumeta. The only break in this routine occurred when Zuineta went into the closet and began to search the two suits that hung there.

  When he came out he had a pigskin walet in his hand. He said something to the man who had given him the information—whatever it was—and then looked through the wallet, counting the bills, taking out what looked like two cablegrams and reading them, checking the papers in the pockets. When a man came in with a fingerprint kit Zumeta moved round the bed.

  "We will go now to Segwnal? he announced. "Mr, Gray-son will join us there.*'

  4

  THE HEADQUARTERS of Segwnd-shoit for Segwidad National and sometimes known as the secret police—was a modern stone building which occupied a corner on ave-nida Mexico. Zumeta lead the way into the lobby, past a clerk and the information desk and up the steps into a

  large air-conditioned room that was surrounded by smaller rooms and separated from them by glass partitions.

  A half-dozen men in plain clothes lounged in the center room talking and reading magazines as Zumeta led his procession past them and along a corridor; then down several stairs to another lobby which gave on a side entrance that was now closed, barred, and further secured by a locked chain. The party came to a halt here while another clerk telephoned ahead and a dark man in a baggy suit and a shapeless felt hat stood near by and eyed them silently. At a word from the clerk, Zumeta continued up the stairs to the second floor and across the corridor to a recessed anteroom, open at the front but railed in.

  Here the telephone procedure was repeated and presently they all filed through the gate and into a window-less air-conditioned waiting-room with paneled walls and leather-upholstered furniture. Zumeta stopped and waved them
to seats.

  "You will wait here, please,** he said and went on througji the next door.

  Jeff sat down on the divan next to Karen. He was impressed; he said so to Spencer.

  "Somebody's got a lot of protection.**

  "Maybe he needs it," Spencer said.

  "Who?"

  "Pedro Vidal. He's the head man here. All over for that matter; its a national organization." He grunted softly. "You should feel honored. He's a hard man to see."

  He sat down to relight his pipe and Jeff brought out cigarettes and offered them to Karen. She hesitated, but finally took one, murmuring her thanks and leaning forward for a light Her face was still pale, but composed now, her body relaxed, the dark-blue eyes resigned and withdrawn. When she leaned back there was something so appealing about her that Jeff considered offering some words of re-

  assurance. Then the moment passed and his thoughts moved on. He glanced at Spencer, wondering if he could answer a question that had been bothering him ever since he found Baker. He spoke of the cable.

  "Baker said he had a new job/' he said. "Would you know what it was?"

  "All I know is that he went to Barbados on Saturday and came back yesterday morning/ 7 Spencer said. "Why, I don t know." He shook his head. "It's a rough deal/' he said. "He was a good guy. I used to know him in Vegas when I was working for a paper out there. If a thing wasn't legit he wouldn't touch it. That's why I can't figure this one."

  He stretched his legs and sucked idly on his pipe, frowning, the side of his thumb scratching the hairy triangle at the base of his throat. After that the silence came until Jeff thought of something else and put it into words.

  "Maybe you knew my stepbrother in Las Vegas. Arnold Lane."

  "Lane?" Spencer glanced up. "Sure. At least I knew who he was. He's in town here now—I guess maybe you knew that—except he calls himself Grayson." He might have said more if the outer door had not opened at that moment to admit the man they were talking about.

  In that first instant when Arnold Grayson made a quick inspection of the room Jeff started to rise. It was an automatic impulse based on the social habit of shaking hands with someone you had not seen in a long time. Then he knew that such a gesture would be sheer hypocrisy, Just as he knew that Grayson would probably ignore it.