With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

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  With Intent to Kill

  George Harmon Coxe

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media ebook

  1

  The port city of Belize, in British Honduras, is the largest and most important one in the colony, but the harbor itself is small, restricted, and suitable only for small boats and the shallow-draft launches which tow the flat-bottomed lighters used to load and unload the cargo ships that drop anchor a mile or more from shore. A seawall protects the city and contains the mouth of the Belize River, no more than two hundred yards across where it joins the open water, so that it is the river itself that forms the so-called harbor.

  On this Sunday evening in April, Barry Sanford had tied up his thirty-eight-foot ketch, the Cay Queen, at his regular berth on the right side of the wall beyond the customs house. He had put out early Saturday morning with two young Englishmen who, as employees of Barclays Bank, had been helpful to him in the past months. There had been two days of sailing inside the barrier reef, which was said to be the second largest in the world, stopping off at one of the cays for a swim when they felt like it, putting away a case of beer, playing three-handed gin rummy, and doing some halfhearted fishing.

  With his guests gone and the ketch secure, Sanford stepped up on the two-foot-wide wall and looked back to make a final check. The approaching darkness had prevented him from doing a thorough job but he could hose down the cockpit and swab the decks in the two cabins the first thing in the morning. Now, his mind on food and drink, he started toward a narrow roadway which led to the paved street bordering the Ft. James Hotel.

  There was a new hotel under construction in town, but for some time the Ft. James had been the only one that offered the amenities that tourists off the beaten track considered desirable. The meals, if not fancy, were good; the grounds, the pool, and patio were well kept. The rooms, each with a private screened-in balcony overlooking the grounds and the sea beyond, were clean but not luxurious by American standards.

  Three taxis were parked in the lighted turn-around as Sanford moved up the two steps and entered the bare-looking lobby. The stalls that flanked the open area—a mail-order representative; a gift shop offering duty free watches, cameras, and perfume; the Maya Airlines and his own little cubicle—were deserted at this hour, and there were no tourists in sight as he turned toward the stairs leading to the cocktail lounge.

  The lone clerk behind the desk glanced up and said: “There’s some mail, Mr. Sanford.”

  Sanford waved but kept moving, thereby postponing for another hour or so a new reminder that would start again the well-remembered sense of fear and despair that had been diminishing daily during the months he had been in the colony.

  “I’ll pick it up on the way out, Leon. Quiet tonight, hunh?”

  “Oh, yes sir.”

  As he went along the mezzanine hallway, past the private dining-room to the bar and lounge that overlooked the patio and swimming pool, he had in mind the steak he would order presently, not here but in town at the Pickwick Club. For company he was hoping he would find Irene Dumont, who played the piano and did a little singing here on weekday nights. He saw her blonde head almost at once as he swung into the room; he also felt his hopes dissipate somewhat when he realized that George Breck was sitting next to her at the bar. They had drinks in front of them and were talking animatedly, and Sanford slowed his steps slightly as he glanced about the dimly lighted interior.

  With no suitable beaches and few swimming pools, the hotel management had come up with the idea of a private club whereby the pool facilities could be used by certain local citizens and their colonial counterparts currently assigned here. By ten o’clock Saturday mornings the first arrivals were parking their cars on the road beside the outer wall and moving through the gates, women and children first with baskets and swim suits and picnic paraphernalia, to be followed later by husbands and boyfriends. This meant that on Saturdays and Sundays the hotel guests had to compete for space with the local citizenry. But at this hour all had departed except three young couples having a final drink at a table by the railing. The barman, a swart and stocky youth whose name was Pedro, stopped yawning as Sanford approached and offered a smile and a greeting.

  “Evening, Mr. Sanford.”

  “Good evening, Pedro.”

  Breck and Irene Dumont glanced up and Breck said: “Hi. Grab a stool. What are you drinking?”

  The girl smiled and took Sanford’s right hand in her left as he started to sit beside her. “Hello,” she said. “Did you have a good cruise?”

  “Fine.”

  “You had grand weather.”

  “Perfect … A gin and tonic I guess, Pedro.”

  As Pedro busied himself with the drink, Sanford brought out cigarettes and took a moment to consider his companions and wonder again if he was going to be able to take Irene to dinner. He knew very little about George Breck except that he had arrived earlier in the week, giving his home address as New York City. He was said to be a writer, specialty not specified, and he was always in evidence at mealtimes as well as for a couple of hours a day at the poolside where he kept up his deep and even tan. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with a lean, flat-muscled body and a sardonic offhand manner. His angular face had somehow a shrewd, hard-bitten look that reflected a certain confidence, and he spoke in the accents of the city …

  “Thanks, Pedro,” he said when the drink was placed in front of him. He raised it and said “Cheers,” and Breck nodded. Irene said “Cheers” and smiled, and he realized that she too was something of a mystery.

  In the three weeks she had been playing at the Ft. James he had taken her home a few times. Twice they had gone out for the day on the Cay Queen, but he had not yet made up his mind how old she was. Different lights and shadows and moods put his guesses all the way from twenty-six to thirty-five. Her medium blonde hair was tinted, and skillful makeup served to hide the lines at the corners of her hazel eyes. In his opinion there was too much purple in the color of her lipstick, and it was always too thickly applied. Although he had not tried it often, it had a peculiar raspberry taste he did not care for. Her figure had nice curves and the proper firmness, her face was a bit too thin but still attractive in spite of the tired, disillusioned lines so often in evidence. He had always found her good company, with her worldly, watchful manner that discouraged unwelcomed advances, and her well-shaped hands could play good chords.

  Now, pointing out past the swimming pool to the open water beyond the road she said: “The houseboat is finally doing some business.”

  With the darkness complete now, Sanford was aware of the lights on the strange-looking craft, and realized that this was the first sign of life he had seen there in several weeks.

  “Saturday,” said Pedro, who was polishing glasses.

  “What?”

  “They come Saturday morning. From Miami.”

  “Mr. Mooney?” Sanford said, referring to the Louisiana oil millionaire who owned the boat.

  “Not Mr. Mooney. Some other party.”

  “What plane comes in from Miami Saturday mornings?”

  “Private plane.”

  “A Convair,” Breck said. “I talked to one of the pilots. Maya Airlines flew the two of the
m down to that fishing camp south of here this morning in one of their Cessnas.”

  Sanford, still looking seaward, found himself speculating again, as he had so often done in the past, not only about the boat but about the investment involved. For this was no ordinary houseboat. He had seen a lot of them in Florida waters, and he had worked two summers during college vacations in a boatyard in Connecticut, but this was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of.

  The term “boat” applied only because the craft floated. It had no propulsive power. Outwardly it looked like a drab, flat-roofed, rectangular house supported by a rugged square-ended barge like the coal scows he had seen being towed in Long Island Sound and the Connecticut River. This too—it had no name that he knew of—had been towed from the Gulf coast by an ocean going tug to this semi-permanent mooring about a quarter of a mile off the seawall.

  In all the months he had been in the colony he had never been aboard but he had talked to some who had, and he knew that on the upper deck, divided by a center corridor but having access to the outer railed-in deck, were twelve air-conditioned bedrooms and baths. In the lower deck were an enormous lounge, a dining-salon, and a study, with the rest of the space used for servants’ quarters and the power plant, which not only furnished electricity, refrigeration, and air-conditioning but had a small de-salting contrivance for providing fresh water.

  Not the least of the accessories were two thirty-six-foot sport fishermen, the Rex I and the Rex II. Outwardly identical, with sleek white hulls, flying bridges, and outriggers, they were tied up at opposite corners of the odd-looking craft, and for weeks at a time would simply ride emptily, changing their positions only when the wind shifted.

  The fact that they were used so seldom both annoyed and amazed him because he knew something of the cost of such cruisers. Bare, with twin engines and oversized fuel tanks, he guessed that they would run between forty and fifty thousand dollars apiece. In addition to a ship-to-shore radio, the Rex I boasted such extras as radar, electronic depth finders, and automatic scanners, and he felt certain that the investment for the two of them must run close to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Now he mentioned this figure aloud, not knowing that he had done so, and Breck and Irene said: “What cost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Those two sport fishermen you see.”

  “Does anybody ever use them?” Irene asked. “I haven’t seen anybody aboard since I’ve been here.”

  “Who takes them out when the owner wants to fish?” Breck asked.

  “He’s got a paid captain named Hennessy,” Sanford said. “Lives ashore with his wife and a couple of kids. He’s got a real good deal. Has a boat of his own that he charters, gets a regular salary from Mooney. But he knows these waters like the back of his hand, and he’s a top maintenance man, which is important when you’re this far from home.”

  “Who skippers the other one when they’re both out?” Breck asked.

  “A local fellow named Silva. Takes care of the power plant on the houseboat, uses the outboard to get supplies in, ferries the guests ashore and back—when there are any guests.”

  Irene Dumont sighed audibly. “Imagine,” she said, “having a layout like that and hardly ever using it. How can anyone afford that kind of money?”

  “The income tax laws help some,” Breck said. “I understand Mooney’s got a lot of oil wells and things. He must have plenty of business friends he can entertain.”

  The sextet of locals sitting near the railing decided to call it a day as Breck spoke, and as they started down the steps Sanford saw that his glass was empty.

  “What are you drinking?” he said. “Pedro!”

  “I think it’s time we ate,” Breck said. “Okay, Irene? Why don’t you join us?” he added to Sanford.

  Sanford stood up and swallowed his disappointment, certain now that he was not going to get Irene alone tonight.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ve sort of a tentative date at the Pickwick Club. I thought I’d have dinner there.”

  He thanked Breck for the drink and gave the girl’s arm a small squeeze as she smiled up at him. He said he’d see her tomorrow and then he was moving out of the lounge and along the hall and down the stairs to the lobby where the clerk again reminded him of the mail.

  “Oh, yes,” he said and detoured past the desk.

  Sorting out the envelopes which had been handed to him, he stopped at the counter in front of his cubby which held nothing but a desk, two chairs, a small filing cabinet, and a telephone. An overhead sign said Pan American Land Company, and the little office was the result of a part-time job as the local representative for the absentee owners of the hotel who had, as a syndicate, extensive land holdings in the colony.

  He saw as he came to a stop that of the six envelopes four were what he called junk mail. These he tossed across the counter to the desk and stood a moment to inspect the other two, a tanned and fit-looking man in his slacks and polo shirt, an inch or so under six feet with his one hundred and seventy pounds nicely distributed. His dark hair was thick and had somehow a stubborn look, and three years as a college halfback had developed a sturdy, well-muscled neck. A wide, easy mouth gave his bony face a relaxed, good-humored look, and offset a somewhat heavy jaw but now a frown was working above the dark eyes as he examined a business envelope from a prospective client from Miami; the last letter, which was hand printed, meant nothing except that it had been airmailed from Miami on Thursday.

  Deciding finally that the letters could wait until a steak had been ordered, he shoved them into a hip pocket and went outside. A negative wave took care of two drivers who had straightened up hopefully, and as they resumed their conversation he started along the empty pavement toward the center of town, chin up and a nice contentment growing in him as he breathed deeply of the soft night air.

  2

  The Pickwick Club was on the second floor of an ancient and nondescript building, its stairway sandwiched in between two ground-floor shops that dealt in dry goods and electrical appliances respectively. The club was not exactly exclusive, but admittance was by invitation and its membership consisted chiefly of businessmen and local officials—British Colonials, Americans, and others of mixed heritage, mostly Spanish.

  Sunday evening being a quiet time, the spacious main room with its dance floor, bandstand, and occasional tables was deserted. In the billiard room two men were quietly engaged on one of those oversized English tables that Sanford had never been able to master. A solitary and silent drinker sat at the bar and Hector, the barman, stood at the far end talking to his wife Anna, a stalwart, handsome, black-haired woman who was one of the best cooks in town. Sanford greeted them and was greeted in return. He requested a dry martini on the rocks and asked if Anna had a nice steak for a hungry sailor.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Sanford,” she said. “You like it medium, with some French fries, a few French fried onions, a green salad with oil and vinegar dressing?”

  “You’ve got it, Anna.”

  “Where do you want it?”

  “On the porch. There’s no wind tonight.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Perfect.”

  She disappeared through a nearby doorway as the martini was served and Sanford drank it quickly and said he’d take another to the table. When he had it, he walked to a screened-in gallery which flanked the main room on one side, and moved along its narrow confines to the squarish, rickety-looking area at the left rear corner of the club. This room, open on two sides, had neither style nor distinction. The board floor was uneven, the screening bulged and sagged, and the woodwork apparently had been painted by some careless and indifferent amateur. The tables and chairs had a hand-me-down look, but the place was cool and quiet, and from one corner Sanford could see the roofs of the larger warehouses and sheds that flanked the flat black waters of the harbor, glistening now with reflected lights and the glow of the waning quarter moon.

  He took a sip of the martini before he opened t
he business envelope and read a request for more detailed information about a small cay, one of the few privately owned ones still for sale. He looked again at the smaller envelope, wondering about the block-letter printing and the lack of a return address. Then he slid his finger under the flap and removed a piece of bond paper, one edge of which was rough, as though the letterhead had been torn off. The three-line message, also in block printing but in pencil, read:

  OUR UNFINISHED BUSINESS WILL BE TAKEN CARE OF SHORTLY. IF YOU HAVE AN ESTATE, PUT IT IN ORDER. THREE TIMES AND OUT.

  Although he could not have known it, the cryptic note may have been instrumental in saving Sanford’s life but in those first disturbing moments his reaction had no pattern or direction. He turned the note absently, the initial shock giving way to wonderment, to incredulity, and finally, with the cold fingers of fear reaching inside him, the old feeling of despair and dread settled in to leave his throat dry and his stomach hollow and a little sick.

  For he knew exactly what the message meant; he knew who had sent it. The man’s name was King Hubbard and Sanford had never been able to meet him face to face because anyone reputed to be worth between twenty and thirty million dollars had many ways to protect his personal privacy. But he had seen him once. He had heard his voice over the telephone several times; he had learned enough to know that in certain areas Hubbard could develop a psychopathic hate that was boundless and determined. For more than two years Sanford had been the unremitting focus of that hate that came initially from a traffic accident in New York City when Hubbard’s younger brother had been killed.

  Sanford had been driving the car that night when the man, unknown at the time, had staggered out from between two parked automobiles just after Sanford had pulled away from the curb and was accelerating the sedan he had borrowed for the evening. What no one else knew was that there was a girl with him when the accident happened. They had had one cocktail at a small bar up the street and were on their way to dinner, and he could still hear her muffled scream as he jammed on the brakes.