^Senor Lane?"
Jeff flipped the match away and turned to find the man at his elbow. Slender and not very tall, he was clad in a
dark suit, and Jeff studied Mm a moment, trying to penetrate the shadows that obscured the face while he wondered if this was a touch of some kind. Curious as to how the fellow knew his name, he let the silence build. The sentence that followed got his undivided attention.
"I have heard what happened to Senor Baker."
THow did you know who I was?"
**I have friends in Segumal. I have been wailing for you.*'
"Senor Baker has told me about you. I have done some work for him. I was, outside the Tucan tonight when you arrived, though I did not know who you were then, nor did I know what happened until much later."
Other questions came to Jeff's mind but it suddenly occurred to him that this man, whoever he was, might prove very helpful indeed. That he seemed to be offering his services seemed clear, and when Jeff understood this he touched the man's elbow and said:
"Let's get a beer and talk some more."
"I would like that," the man said and kept pace with Jeff as they crossed the street and entered the comer store which had a cigar-stand in the front and a restaurant in the rear. They found a table along the wall and gave their order, and now Jeff could see that the man was neatly dressed, that his hands were clean, that his eyes were bright and alert. He was getting bald on top, which made it difficult to guess his age, but when he smiled he looked younger than Jeff had first thought.
1 am Julio Cordovez," he said simply and seemed pleased when Jeff offered his hand. "My work is the same as Senor Baker's. He came to me because he did not know the city or our language. He needed help."
"Did he get it?"
"He seemed satisfied with my work."
you think I might need some help too, is that it?"
"I thought I should speak to you,**
Jeff grunted softly. "Well, you could be right, Julio. How much do you charge?"
Cordovez tipped one hand, his tone apologetic. **As you know things are expensive in this city. I was paid eighty B's a day for my services and the use of my car. I thought now I should offer you my services if you so desire.*
"At the same price?' 7
"No. For my expenses only. I do not know why anyone should kill Senor Baker, I liked him. He was a good friend. If I can help find out who did this thing I will be only too happy. But it is difficult to work alone. It presents problems, and those in Segumal wil want to know who I represent 9 *
Jeff grinned at him, liking the little man and his forthright answers. "What you mean/' he said, "is that you d like a client/'
"It would be easier for me.**
"O. K., M Jeff said. "You've got one. The same pay. 3 *
"It is not necessary but"—Cordovez shrugged and his smile came—"if you insist I will be most grateful/*
Jeff did not say so, but he had an idea he was the one who should be grateful. He knew no more about the city and the language than Baker had known, and he needed help; a lot of help. He sampled the beer the waiter brought and spoke of the two cables the police had found in Baker s wallet. He asked if Cordovez knew Baker had gone to Barbados for Grayson.
"Oh, yes"
"But you don't know why?**
"Baker told me he was going, but he used an expression I did not understand. I was not sure what he meant. He said he had a chance to make a quick 'score* for a few days* work. Would that mean a lot of money?**
"Something like that."
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT
"And I know this. Baker knew Grayson in the States. In a place called Las Vegas, but under another name. From things that were said I think Grayson could not go back until he had settled some accounts. It was for this he needed Baker s help. I think he was frightened about something."
Jeff nodded, remembering how Grayson had looted the treasury of the partnership his father had established and wondering if something of that nature had happened in Las Vegas. When he finished his beer without speaking, Cordovez asked if there was anything he could do for Jeff tonight.
^ Td like to take another look at Baker's room," he said, "if you think you can get in."
Cordovez said he thought he could, and this proved to be no idle boast. For when they walked down the third-floor hall of the Tucan, fifteen minutes later, he had a ring of keys in his hand and it took him only three tries to turn the lock.
Jeff moved in first to snap on the light, and Cordovez stopped to turn the bolt. "Strangers do not always understand such locks," he said. "They assume the door is locked when they leave but this is not so. It is necessary to use a key from the outside."
"Oh," Jeff said, understanding now how Karen Holmes had been able to walk in to find Baker dead, how he himself had walked in on her.
"You think the police may have overlooked something?" Cordovez said.
"Probably not,'* Jeff said, "but there's no harm in trying.**
He glanced round, aware that the window was open, the curtain bulging with the night breeze. He stepped to the chest and began to open drawers and then, at some small sound behind him, he stopped.
"EasyP
It was a voice lie had never heard before, and as he turned he saw Cordovez standing very still, his gaze fixed on the man who apparently had slipped from behind the curtain, a compactly built fellow with a wide, thin-lipped mouth and a muscular jaw. His face was deeply tanned, his curly light-brown hair was cut short. He was well dressed and at first glance looked like a successful young business executive, which, in a sense, he was. What spoiled the illusion was the gun in his hand.
"Where's Harry Baker?" he said.
Jeff felt some of the tension slip away, and with his surprise in hand a feeling of resentment began to smolder inside him.
"Dead," he said.
The man's eyes opened and anger flared in their depths.
"Don't kid me, chum!"
Jeff jerked his head toward the desk. "There's the phone. Call the secret police and see. ... Go ahead, we'll wait."
Something in Jeffs tone lent weight to his words and he saw the doubt build in the man's face as his glance shifted to Cordovez and back again.
"When?" he said.
"Tonight," Jeff said, and then he went on, his phrases curt and succinct as he explained what had happened. When he talked that way he was convincing, and the doubt he had first seen in the man's face expanded into concern and perhaps consternation. The gun dipped as he moved forward.
"And who are you?" he said finally.
Jeff answered that one too.
"Arnold Lane's stepbrother?" the man said, his frown deepening.
"He didn't use that name here," Jeff said.
"Don't move, senorl"
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT to
The words had a flat and dangerous sound. Jeff knew they came from Cordovez but he did not know why until he turned his head. He had seen no movement, nor, apparently, had the stranger. But there was a gun in the little detective's hand now, a big gun. It was pointed properly and his bright narrow gaze was a little frightening.
"Don't mover' he said again. "Especially the gun."
The stranger never had a chance and he seemed to know it. He froze where he was, his own gun still tipped toward the floor. He waited that way while Cordovez slid round behind him, reached down, and relieved him of the snub-nosed revolver. Moving backward now, but not once shifting his gaze, he flipped out the cylinder and tipped the shells on the desk. When he had put the gun beside it, he replaced his own.
"This, I think, is better," he said. To see a gun in the hands of a stranger always makes me nervous," he said. "Now we can talk. Your name, please, senor?"
"Carl Webb/' the man said and let his breath out in an audible sigh. "From Vegas. I had a date with Baker but the plane was two hours late leaving Panama."
"Sit down," Cordovez said. "Let us discuss this date you speak of."
Webb sat down. So did Jeff.
Cordovez, his arms folded, leaned against the desk. Webb glanced from one to the other.
"You followed the investigation tonight?" he asked. "Was there any money found here?"
"Not that I know of," Jeff said.
Webb took a breath and reached into an inside pocket. He brought out what proved to be four cables, two which he had received and two which were copies of replies that he had sent. He handed them to Jeff, who glanced through them quickly to see if they were arranged by dates. He
noticed that the two copies were the same messages that Pedro Vidal had read at Segumal and now he said:
"You work for the Westwind Hotel? Doing what?"
"I'm one of the assistant managers."
"You knew my stepbrother when he was out there?"
"He worked for us," Webb said, the corner of his mouth dipping as though he found the recollection distasteful. "We knew him plenty. Baker, too. He was one of our cops for a couple of years."
Jeff gave his attention to the first cable, which had been sent from Barbados on Saturday. It read:
Ofef 120 thousand to clean up Arnold Lane matter. If acceptable and no reprisal cable Harry Baker, Marine Hotel, Barbados, B.W.L
The amount mentioned startled him but he went on to read again the message found on Baker which spoke of the acceptance of the offer.
The third cable, addressed to the Westwind read:
Cash ready for collection your convenience room 312 Tucan Hotel, Caracas, Venezuela. Advise.
The fourth message was the one saying that Carl Webb would collect this evening.
Jeff returned them. "What's the rest of It?" he asked. "Did Arnold run out with a hundred and twenty thousand?"
"One hundred grand, even/ 3 Webb said. "Nearly three years ago."
"How could he get his hands on that much?"
"Because In our business we deal in cash." Webb pulled out a silver case and stuck a cigarette into Ms mouth. "We have to. You never know when some guy—and some are pretty big operators—is going to get hot and hit you for plenty.**
ONE MINTJTE PAST EIGHT
He got a light and said: "Arnold Lane went to work for us about four years ago. He was a big, good-looking guy with, plenty of personality when lie kept it turned on. He dressed the place up and he was smart. They gave him more and more responsibility and finally let him handle the take and the payroll. One day about a year later he took off with a dame who had just gotten her divorce. We traced them to Los Angeles and lost them,"
"You sent a couple of your boys to Boston," Teff said.
**VTTT *f • 1 99 * if
We sure did.
Cordovez cleared his throat. "You would have had Gray-son arrested and sent to prison?" he asked.
"Grayson?" Webb paused, a faint smile touching his mouth. "So that's the name he uses here. . . . No," he said to Cordovez. "It's not that simple. In the gambling business you deal in cash. You have to have people around you that you can trust and you have to keep them honest because there's a lot of temptation. We get a few chiselers, a stickman who's a thief, things like that, but when a guy scoops a bundle it's no good going to the cops."
He pointed his cigarette. "Take Lane-or Grayson. He takes us for a hundred big ones and suppose the cops finally catch up with him. O. K. He gets a lawyer and maybe gets off with a couple of years. So suppose he's spent most of the boodle? Where do we get off? Un-unh," he said and his mouth twisted.
"We handle things like that ourselves. A guy turns out to be a heavy thief he has to pay the hard way. It's always been done that way and that's why it seldom happens any more. We have to make an example, you know what I mean?"
"I think so." Cordovez nodded. ""You dispose of this man who has robbed you."
"Right," Webb said. "And we make sure the word gets around. Maybe we still take a loss, but we make a point.
S ONE MBSTOTE PAST EIGHT
It keeps the rest of the help straight all over town, because they know the same thing can happen to them. It's very simple. I don't know all the answers, but I can £gure part of this. Gray son wanted to come home and he knew that if he did he'd eventually wind up at the side of the road with a couple of slugs in his head. He was ready to pay off, with a bonus, but he was still running scared. He didn't know if we'd accept his offer and he was afraid to handle it alone. He was even afraid we'd find out he was in Caracas. So he hired Baker to front for him and sent him to Barbados as a decoy."
He put out his cigarette. "Well, it happens we're ready to deal. We take the dough and spread the word that Gray-son found out he couldn't beat our system and paid off with a bonus to save his neck, In this country the deal works out because they don't care how much money you take out. No smuggling. Just pack the cash in a bag, and take off. They don't care in the States either and it doesn't have to be dollars. We'd even accept payment in bolivars because it's a real hard currency/'
He hesitated and then stood tip and by that time the rest of the picture was crystal clear in Jeff's mind. Apparently his stepbrother had done reasonably well since coming to Caracas, but he'd had no intention of returning— until Baker had located him and word had come of his inheritance, To claim it he had to return to Boston, and because the gain there was greater, he had raised the cash. He had made his deal through Baker, and it seemed obvious that he must have brought the cash here to this room tonight.
"It's a good motive for murder," he said, half to himself, "The first one we've had." • nvhat?" Webb said.
tf *Cash. A lot of cask w
^Somebody beat me to it, hunk?" Webb's grin was tight
and mirthless as he stepped over to the desk and picked up his gun and the shells. As he started to load them Cor-dovez stopped him,
"Please/' he said politely. "Not until you leave, senor."
Webb understood the suggestion. He tucked the revolver inside his jacket and pocketed the shells. "You're pretty handy with one of these, Julio.**
"Thank you/* Cordovez made a small bow. "I have had much practice. For many years I was an assistant chief with SegurnaL . . . And what will you do now?"
"Sleep on it, I guess/' Webb said. "I canie a hell of a long ways to make a collection and I'm not going back empty-handed if I can help it. I think Baker had the dough ready for me. Somebody took it."
He stopped at the door and turned the bolt. "I'm going to start looking, Julio. I think our friend Grayson had better start looking, too. Because he's still in hock. He knows it and I know it. ... See you," he said and went out.
Cordovez buttoned his jacket. "A very determined young man," he said. "And possibly a dangerous one. Do you agree?"
Jeff said he agreed and smiled to himself at the little detective's phrasing. He looked round the room and suddenly he had no further desire to search it. He was tired, depressed, and discouraged. And in the morning, or sometime soon, he would have to face his stepbrother, a thought which served only to heighten his discontent.
"All right, Julio," he said. "Let's forget it for tonight. Can you be here in the morning?"
"I will be here on the front terrace when you come down for your breakfast." He made his customary bow. "Euenas noches" he said and started along the hall.
Jeff watched him make the turn into the corridor leading to the elevators before he got out his key. He unlocked his door and then stopped as something caught his eye on the
floor. He knew then that a note had been thrust under the door and stepped back into the lighted hall to read it. It was very short and had no salutation:
Please stop at 320 when you get in no matter how late. K.H.
6
KAREN HOLMES wore a pastel-gray flannel robe that was securely belted and buttoned at the neck. Ballet-type slippers cut her height down so that the robe trailed slightly, and when Jeff followed her into die room he saw that her face had a pink, scrubbed look and the corners of her eyes were sleepy.
"Thank you for coming/* she said. "I didn't know how long you would be so I curled up here." She indicated the ea
sy-chair in the comer. *1 must have fallen asleep."
She asked him to sit down and he swung out the desk chair, waiting until she had settled down on the one she had just left. While she made sure her knees were covered he had a chance to see that her hair had been combed out and fell softly along the sides of her face, and it occurred to him that she was more attractive this way than she had been on the plane. But he had not forgotten the Miami incident and waited with a mounting curiosity to see what she had to say,
"I had to talk to you/' she said finally. "1—1 wanted you to understand."
She hesitated, looking right at him now. When he made
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT rq
nojeply she folded her hands and put them on one knee. ^ "Fin not apologizing for coming here/' she said. "I was hired to see if I could get an assignment of the stock your stepbrother will inherit. I still intend to try/'
"Then what is there to explain?" Jeff said. "You picked me up and steered me into the restaurant and gave me a mickey. You had a job to do and you did it. It didn't matter how you did it or what means you used. I suppose if I'd refused the drink your pals there in the airport would have slugged me."
"That's what they said. That's why I had to use that powder."
"Oh," Jeff said. "Then you didn't make it yourself?"
That one brought the color to her cheeks, Her back seemed to stiffen and the dark-blue eyes had sparks in them.
"All right," she said spiritedly. "If you don't want to know the truth perhaps you'd better go. I can assure you it's no fun for me either,"
He eyed her steadily for a long moment and decided she meant what she said. He also knew, though he could not tell why, that it was important to hear what she had to say.
"I don't blame you for being angry," she said. "If It will help any to know I'm ashamed of myself, I am. But if— 31 *
She let the sentence trail. A small sigh escaped her. She no longer looked like the smart and worldly secretary she had claimed to be on the flight to Miami. With her head slightly bowed and her glance averted, she looked so feminine and desirable that his defenses were weakened and some of his annoyance evaporated.
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