One Minute Past Eight

by George Harmon Coxe

  "Hello, Junior," Grayson said, all the old arrogance Jeff remembered so well still in his voice. "I hear your old man finally decided to cut me in on the family fortune. What happened? Conscience bother him?"

  Jeff settled back, a muscle bulging in his jaw as his mouth fattened, his eyes dark with resentment but his temper in

  hand as he was reminded of the job he had to do. He had come a long way and he realized it would be foolish to antagonize his stepbrother at this point. He sat still, noting the changes the last four years had made.

  Taller than Jeff, more muscular in his younger days, Arnold Grayson was still well proportioned, the excess weight skillfully minimized by the well-cut double-breasted suit. The face was puffy but tanned, the wavy light-brown hair was thin and sharply receding, and a small mustache—a new addition—helped disguise a too-small mouth that, Jeff knew, could be smiling and twisted with fury In alternate minutes. For all of that he had about him a look of importance when viewed objectively; only those who knew him understood how impressed he was with his own self-importance. Now Jeff gave him a small mirthless smile,

  "Sit down, Arny," he said casually. "Relax."

  But Grayson was not yet ready to sit down. "Hello, Miss Holmes/' he said. "Hi, Spence. What's this about Harry Baker?"

  "Somebody shot him," Spencer said.

  "Where?"

  ''They didn't tell me."

  "I mean, where was he?" Grayson said, his impatience showing.

  "In his room. Miss Holmes had a date for dinner and stopped by to see if he was ready," Spencer waved his pipe. "He was on the floor"

  "When was this?"

  "Who knows?"

  Grayson looked at Jeff, vertical grooves at the bridge of his nose and worried glints in his light-gray eyes. The change in his manner was at once apparent to Jeff and he wondered why this should be. Before he could speculate, the inner door opened and a swart, white-haired man with the features of an Indian beckoned.

  They filed past him, Spencer leading the way, and continued across a second windowless office. Its only other occupant was an attractive young woman who sat behind a flat-topped desk and watched them pass through the door on her left. This opened into a third paneled office, larger than the others but still without windows.

  Zumeta stood beside the desk. Behind it and also on Ms feet was Pedro Vidal, who was as tall as Zumeta but leaner, an immaculately groomed man with well-kept hands and thick black hair. He bowed slightly as he acknowledged Zumeta's introductions. When he asked them to sit down his voice was quiet, his English excellent.

  Apparently Zumeta had briefed him well because he turned at once to Jeff and said: "I understand you employed Mr. Baker to find your brother—"

  "Stepbrother," Jeff cut in.

  "—to inform him of a recent inheritance/' Vidal went on, ignoring the interruption. "How long since you had seen each other?"

  "About fora: years/'

  Vidal glanced from one to the other. "You have a dislike for each other? There is some bad feeling?"

  "What?" Grayson said.

  "You have not seen each other for four years yet when you meet—or had you met earlier this evening without telling Zumeta?—you do not even bother to shake hands."

  "How the hell do you know?" Grayson said.

  Vidal showed no annoyance at the remark, but swiveled his chair and pressed a button. With that a square of what had looked like black glass recessed in the wall behind the desk was brightly illuminated and Jeff found himself looking at a miniature view of the waiting-room as seen from above.

  "What's that, television?" Grayson asked.

  **Mirrors," Vidal said as the light vanished. "A sort of

  periscope/* He allowed himself a small smile. "It is sometimes wise to know exactly who wishes to see me."

  "And hear what they say, hunh?" Grayson added, "When advisable." Vidal leaned his forearms on the desk. "You understand now why I asked the question."

  Jeff cleared his throat. "No bad feeling/' he said. "Just nothing much in common. Arnold's seven years older and-*

  "Just say we're not buddies," Grayson said. "We never were. Jeff doesn't approve of me; neither did his father.**

  Vidal considered the information.

  "Yet he made provision for you in his will. „ , . Tell me, Mr. Lane/' he said. "What would happen if you had not located your stepbrother—or if something happened to

  T t f>9 ^ JT*

  him?

  "My sister and I would have received Arnold's share/* Jeff said.

  jl see. Now about this evening" 7 —he glanced at Zumeta -"we have a timetable that should be helpful but before we go into that I would like to say that we have checked the gun, which apparently killed Mr. Baker, with his permit. It was his gun. This suggests-though there could be other answers—that whoever came to his room came with a gun and relieved Mr. Baker of his gun. Later, when it became necessary to shoot—Mr. Baker might have made the mistake of resisting—Baker's gun was used.*

  He paused and took time to examine each face in turn. Before he could add to the statement, Grayson spoke.

  "That's very interesting, but what Id like to know is why I was brought here in the first place/"

  "Because/' said Vidal, "you may have been the last one to see Mr. Baker alive/*

  Grayson leaned forward, his pale eyes hostile. "Who says so?"

  , "Miss Holmes/' Zumeta said, and went on to relate her

  ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

  story of Grayson's meeting with Baker. The corroboration that followed came unexpectedly from Dan Spencer.

  "She's right about that/' he said.

  "Oh?" VidaTs black brows climbed "How do yon know?"

  "I was there, in the lobby." Spencer took the pipe from his mouth. He explained his assignment to cover the monthly dinner and said: "They were to have a guest speaker over from the States and I tried to get a line on him from the dinner committee. I thought if I could buttonhole him and get a copy of his speech I could duck the dinner part. ... I saw Grayson come in and speak to Baker. They went over toward the elevators."

  "And you?* 7 Vidal said.

  '"When they told me the speaker might not get there until around eight fifteen I went into the bar/'

  A faint buzz on the desk punctuated the sentence and Vidal picked up one of the four telephones from a shelf behind him. A moment later he covered the mouthpiece and frowned at Grayson.

  "You sent for Luis Miranda. . . , Why?**

  Spencer, sitting next to Jeff, leaned over and spoke from the corner of his mouth: "A lawyer. A good one.'*

  Grayson gestured emptily. "I didn't know why you sent for me/' he said. "I hate to get caught out alone. I got picked up for speeding a while back and they held me overnight in jail and fined me three hundred B's/*

  "That is the usual procedure on a first offense." Vidal smiled. "It is a good way to cut down the accident rate. . . , But that was the city police, not us/'

  **Also/' Grayson said, "you've got a law here that says you can hold a man for thirty days without a hearing/'

  "True/' Vidal said. "Thirty days, at which time you are brought before a judge and it is decided whether I can hold you longer without preferring charges. But I should

  remind you that if I think I have cause to hold you for thirty days, an attorney would do you little good. Neither would your consul or your ambassador. However— " He spoke into the telephone and hung up.

  The man who entered a moment later was straight-backed and distinguished. His dark suit had a silken sheen, his hair was touched with gray, and his swart, sharp-featured face was impassive as he glanced about the room. In that same instant a muted bell rang deep down in Jeffs consciousness. For it seemed to him that somehow Luis Miranda seemed familiar, though he could not remember why.

  He puzzled over the thought while the lawyer greeted Vidal and Grayson. There followed a long exchange in Spanish and then Miranda leaned back while Ramon Zu-meta took over.

  "We have quest
ioned some of the help at the Tucan," he said, "and have established certain facts. You came to the hotel about seven thirty, Mr. Grayson. Mr. Baker met you. Do you care to tell us what you did then?"

  "Why not" Grayson slumped in his chair and now he smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand. "I went up to his room, stayed about one minute, and came down. I went home. You can check with the servants/'

  "At approximately ten minutes of eight," Zumeta continued, "Mr. Baker came to the desk to ask if there were any messages. He went from there to the bar and ordered a dry martini. When it was served he reached into his pocket and then told the barman he must have left his wallet in his room. The barman remembers this because he told Mr. Baker he could sign the check, but Mr. Baker said he would rather pay and to hold his drink. He never came back for it."

  Zumeta glanced up, hesitated, then consulted his notes. "At about five minutes of eight Mr. Baker came to the desk

  to ask for his key. The clerk could not find the regular key, so he offered a duplicate, thinking Mr. Baker had left the other one in his room. He saw Mr. Baker start for the elevators, but he cannot remember whether he saw Mr. Baker actually step in or not."

  He glanced at the girl "You were right about the telephone call you heard. At 8.01 someone used a house phone and the operator rang room 312 three times before the party hung up. At 8.07 the light on 312 flashed on the switchboard. When the operator answered someone said: 'Outside/ and was given a line. She thinks it was no more than fifteen or twenty seconds before the telephone was replaced. Unfortunately, because of the dial system, we do not know where the call went. Unless he died instantly, which is doubtful, Mr. Baker could have pulled the telephone to the floor and made that call . . . Would you know anything about that call, Mr. Grayson?" he asked.

  "Me? No. I'd just talked to him a half-hour before that**

  "About what?" Vidal asked.

  "A personal matter." Grayson sat up, the grooves digging into the sides of his nose and his pale gaze intent. "What did you find in the room?"

  "Aside from the usual things, the gun," Zumeta said. TEfis traveling bag was unlocked and the keys were in the lock."

  "But— I mean, wasn't there anything else?"

  "Clothing, Mr. Grayson. His wallet, the usual papers. . . . Should there be something else?"

  Grayson s glance slid to Luis Miranda and he jerked it back. He cleared his throat and shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he said. "I just wondered if you found some clue, something that would give you a lead."

  Under the circumstances the reply lacked conviction and Jeff wondered about this when Grayson slumped in his chair and the scowl deepened. Then Zumeta said:

  "Is there anything any of you can add to the Information we have?"

  On the other side of him Karen Holmes sat up, *1 don't know if it's important/' she said, "but Mr. Miranda was at the hotel too. He came in right after Mr. Grayson. I remember seeing him from the writing-room windows."

  It was then that Jeff remembered. For he was certain now that this was the man who had served as an interpreter for him with the taxi driver. But that was later, he thought. Not when Karen saw him.

  "This was about seven thirty, Miss Holmes?" Vidal glanced at Miranda as she nodded.

  "Quite true;" Miranda said, his accents precise. "I am one of the attorneys for PanAm Oil, as you know. I was included in the guest list for tonight's dinner. In fact," he added, "I was paged there by my home. That is how I knew Mr. Grayson wished me to come here. 5 *

  "Did you see Mr. Grayson at the hotel?" Vidal asked.

  "Not that I recall/'

  "Or Mr. Baker?"

  "Mr. Spencer"— Vidal fixed his gaze on the reporter— "you say you went into the bar after you saw Mr. Grayson and Mr. Baker. How long did you stay?"

  "Quite a while. I was still there when I got the idea something was wrong.**

  "Did you see Mr. Baker?"

  "Not after the Irst time."

  "But-"

  Spencer granted and dug absently at the base of his throat. "I wasn't in that bar, Chief. I m a reporter. I can t afford to pay four B*s for a Scotch and soda very often. Not when there's a Company bar set up in the private din-ing-room.**

  O3SDE MINUTE PAST EIGHT AK

  Miranda stood up and spoke in Spanish to Vidal. Presently lie nodded and turned to Grayson.

  "There seems to be no need for me here at this time/* he said stiffly. "Mr, Vidal has assured me that no one will be detained tonight and I have other business to attend to."

  "Wait a minute!" Grayson Jumped up', his eyes flaring and his voice mean.

  "You will excuse me," Miranda said as though he had not heard.

  "But you can t walk out on me without—"

  He stopped as the door slammed in his face, his neck red with anger and his mouth twisted. As he stood there Jeff eyed him with some amazement because, though it was obvious there was ill-feeling between Grayson and the lawyer, he could not understand the reason for the outburst. Then, the fury still riding him, Grayson wheeled on Vidal.

  "How much longer does this go on?" he demanded savagely.

  Vidal eyed him narrowly but his voice remained calm.

  "Not long,'* he said. "One more question. Our records show that Mr. Baker went to Barbados on Saturday and returned yesterday morning. It has been said that you engaged his services.**

  *So what?"

  1 wonder if you would mind telling us the nature of his work and why he went to Barbados.**

  "Sure I mind," Grayson said. "Not because it's important but because I don't think it's any of your business."

  Vidal shrugged and his mouth tightened as he reached for two sheets of paper on his desk. When he separated them Jeff could see they were cablegrams.

  "These were found in Baker s wallet," he said. "I will read them to you." He gave the date of the first one and

  said: "This was addressed to Mr. Harry Baker, Marine Hotel, Barbados and says: "Accept offer. No reprisal on Lane if cash. Advise immediately where and when delivery will be made/ It is signed 'Westwind/ and was sent from Las Vegas, Nevada."

  He glanced up. "I am curious about the reference to the name Lane! 9 He fixed his dark gaze on Jeff. "Would this be you?"

  Jeff shook his head. When he said he had never been in Las Vegas Vidal considered Grayson a silent moment. "And you, Mr. Grayson, used to be known in the States as Arnold Lane, is that true?"

  "What about it?"

  Vidal hesitated, then picked up the second cable. "This is to the same name and address. It reads: "Carl Webb will make collection Wednesday/"

  He put the message aside and glanced at Spencer. "You once worked in Las Vegas. What is the Westwind?"

  "A hotel."

  "Do you have any idea about these cables?"

  "Not the faintest/'

  Once more Vidal considered Grayson. "It seems obvious you sent Baker to Barbados to make some offer in your behalf. Perhaps you can tell us who Carl Webb is."

  "I never heard of him before."

  "And you do not wish to tell us what this offer was about/*

  "Not now I don't"

  Vidal turned his hand palm down on the desk. "As you wish," he said. "But we will require a statement from you in the morning, Mr. Grayson. Ramon 5 '—he glanced up at Zumeta—"will be in touch with you. . . . Buenos noches y senorT

  He turned to Karen when Grayson left. "If you are ready, Miss Holmes, one of my men will drive you to your hotel/*

  He pressed a button and spoke to the man who appeared in the doorway.

  "What about me?" Spencer said. Td like to get this story in. How much of this can I tell?"

  "The facts of the murder, Mr. Spencer. The circumstances but no suspicions. You can say the police have several leads and the matter is being investigated.'*

  He picked up the telephone, though Jeff had heard no buzz, listened, and said: "Si."

  "You can ride with Miss Holmes/' he said to Spencer. "You will find the car at the main entrance— Oh, Mr. Lane,"
he added. "Just a minute more, if you please."

  Jeff waited in front of the desk and Vidal leaned back in his chair. "As I understand it, Miss Holmes is competing with you for the shares your stepbrother has recently inherited. If this is so, I can understand why you were here, since Mr. Baker was working for you. What I can't understand is how Miss Holmes knew your stepbrother was here."

  "Neither can I," Jeff said.

  Vidal frowned. "You are from the same city in the States? You knew her there?"

  "I never saw her before"— Jeff hesitated, his tone ironic as certain memories came flooding back— "until I met her on the plane coming down."

  "Then perhaps you would give me your opinion. From what you know would you say Miss Holmes had any reason to kill Mr. Baker?"

  "You believe her story?"

  Jeff knew what his answer would be, but he took a moment to think back and erase all prejudice. When he spoke, his grin was fixed.

  "If you mean about what happened tonight, yes."

  Thank you." Vidal rose. "We like Americans here. Your

  businessmen have done much for this country and it is bad publicity when one of you is murdered. We shall do our best to find out who is responsible. . . . We will need your statement In the morning. You do not speak Spanish? Then Ramon can handle it.**

  "Where did you leam English?" Jeff said as his curiosity got the best of him.

  "In the States mostly, Ramon and I have spent some time in Washington. In your F.B.I, school.**

  THE MAN in the baggy suit and shapeless felt Jeff Lane had seen at the foot of the stairs was waiting outside the gate of die second-floor anteroom. With a gesture that ordered Jeff to follow, he led him downstairs and back through the main room to the front entrance. Not until they were on the outer steps did he stop and wave one hand to indicate Jeff was now on his own.

  There was still a lot of traffic on the Avenue but up beyond the trees which lined it the sky was clear and bright and the air was dry and comfortably cool. Not knowing exactly where he was, Jeff turned left toward a lighted shop on the opposite corner, hesitating on the curb to light a cigarette, and at the same time watching for a cruising taxi. He did not know he had company until he heard the voice beside him.