With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  There was no answer to this. Hubbard simply sat there, his tanned face tight and shiny, a thin, mean line warping the mouth. Kirby tried again.

  “Did you blame Mr. Sanford for your brother’s death?”

  “I did and still do.”

  “But you never threatened him?”

  “No.”

  “Or made any attempt on his life?”

  “No.”

  “What about last night?”

  “What about last night?” Hubbard said, his self-control once more asserting itself.

  Kirby gave a brief but concise account of the attempt that had been made on Sanford.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Hubbard said.

  “Would you care to give an account of your movements yesterday?”

  “No. And I see no reason why I should.”

  “So far Corvado hasn’t been very helpful,” Kirby said. “We haven’t yet identified his accomplice but I think we will. He may be more vulnerable to our questions and I think I should point out that if by any chance he implicates you, it would be to your advantage to be a long way from here, Mr. Hubbard. I think you will find that your wealth and influence may carry considerably less weight here than they would in the States.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Hubbard said. “And I appreciate your interest. Now unless you have something else you want to get off your chest I think I’ll—”

  Kirby rose from behind the desk as he interrupted: “Just one or two more little things, if you don’t mind,” he said, heading for the door. “Excuse me.”

  The moment the door closed Hubbard gave his attention to Sanford.

  “You don’t think this silly accusation of yours is going to do you any good, do you? I once made you a promise. I intend to keep it.”

  Sanford’s dark gaze remained steady but he could feel the perspiration on his face now. He found it difficult to combat the other’s aggravated insolence and control the fury that was rising inside him.

  “I have a lot of respect for Kirby,” he said finally. “If I didn’t I’d simply drag you into the nearest alley and beat your brains out.”

  “Ahh, yes.” Hubbard’s mouth twisted. “That’s the difference between us. With your little mind you’re afraid of the law enforcement people. I find it amusing to defy them.”

  Sanford found a cigarette and took his tune lighting it. Even though he knew it was childish, even though he was annoyed with himself for trying, he wanted desperately to find some way to penetrate Hubbard’s cold complacency. A second later a new thought came to him and he exploited it.

  “It might save you time if you shook up your own police force.”

  “Police force?”

  “All those snoops you hired to check on me in New York and Florida. Guys like George Breck.”

  “What about George Breck?”

  “He wasted nine months, that’s all. He was here last July. I happened to be out of the country at the time so he muffed the whole bit. He chased all over Central America before he—”

  Kirby’s return checked the sentence and he sat down before he spoke to Hubbard.

  “We don’t like trouble here,” he said, “but I think we’re fairly well equipped to handle it. I’ve arranged for some of my men to keep an eye on you while you’re ashore. I’ll also see that Mr. Sanford is similarly provided for.”

  “I’ve got a lot of patience,” Hubbard said.

  “It’s not a matter of patience,” Kirby replied. “You see, we also control immigration here. A word from the Commissioner and you will be put on an aircraft—yours or a commercial one—within hours of the order.”

  Hubbard laughed again, his poise unaffected. “You mean deport me?” he asked, as though this was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. “I rather doubt that.”

  “Oh?” Kirby blinked and for the first time seemed a bit flustered.

  “Because to deport me,” Hubbard continued before there was any reply, “you would have to declare me an undesirable.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think you’d have trouble with that. I understand we have an American Consul here. And I happen to have some connections in our State Department. I have an idea the Consul would give you or the Commissioner or the Governor a little argument.” He stood up and straightened his jacket. “There’s also another little matter. Your local man—the one you call your First Minister—what’s his name?”

  “Mr. Fields.”

  “Yes. Well, I understand that Mr. Fields is going all out to attract outside capital. I happen to have some available. I might very well decide to make a substantial investment in the colony so it occurs to me that Mr. Fields might also be on my side for a while.”

  The flush in Kirby’s face was more pronounced and his mouth just a little stiffer as he came to his feet.

  “Then let me leave you with a word of caution, Mr. Hubbard,” he said curtly. “With capital crimes we work a little different here from what you do in the States. We don’t have much and what we do have is usually pretty obvious. A man is seldom arrested unless we are pretty sure of a conviction. We have no recent record of any American being charged with murder but, should it happen, it wouldn’t make much difference.

  “What I mean to say,” he added, “is that there would be no continuing postponements that, as I understand it, sometimes run indefinitely in your country. Upon conviction there would be no long series of appeals that might drag on for another three or four years. There is one appeal here, to England, and it is rarely effective. I would say that, on the average, it takes no more than eight weeks from the time a man is charged until he drops through the trap with the rope round his neck.”

  “Very interesting,” said Hubbard, and if he was impressed it did not show. He walked over to the door, opened it. “I’ll keep what you say in mind. Thanks very much for the advice.”

  Kirby looked at Sanford and shook his head when the door closed. He sat down in his chair, let his breath out noisily, and ran his fingers through his sandy hair.

  “I’ve been a policeman a long time,” he said, a note of awe in his voice, “but I can’t remember running into anyone like that. As a matter of fact, I get the rather ugly impression that not only is the man a psychopath in his feeling for you but that he really means to kill if he can.”

  Sanford grunted softly as he buttoned his jacket, feeling no great sense of satisfaction but drawing some encouragement from the superintendent’s attitude.

  “I’m glad somebody agrees with me,” he said dryly.

  “Hubbard will be watched,” Kirby said. “Each time he comes ashore someone will pick him up. Since he’s not used to our local people he’ll be hard put to know he’s under surveillance. I’ll also send a man along with you to be sure you get to bed safely tonight and pick you up in the morning.”

  He hesitated, a frown settling in his brows and his eyes serious. “It’s only fair to warn you however that no one can be safe from an assassin who is persistent, determined, and willing to take the chance. There is absolutely no way to protect a man indefinitely. The tragic events which happened in your country should be proof enough if there is any doubt. If all the specialized law-enforcement agencies cannot protect the President, if one assassin can be murdered by another right out in the open, so to speak—I mean, he was still in custody, wasn’t he?—then the average citizen stands no chance at all in the final analysis.”

  He took a small breath and said: “Of course Hubbard is not a fanatic in that sense. He is not going to make an attempt on you at the risk of getting caught. Actually I think you’re better off here than anywhere else. This is a small place and he’s no longer on familiar ground. We can keep some pressure on him; and we can give you some protection, at least temporarily. So”—he made a small smile of encouragement—“I should think you would be quite all right for a while.”

  Sanford nodded and thanked Kirby for his help. But the bitterness was still inside him along with the memory
of those unforgettable incidents that nearly cost him his life before. Although he did not realize it some of that bitterness was reflected in his voice as he said: “I can think of only one way to be really sure.”

  “What way is that?”

  “To kill Hubbard before he gets me.”

  Kirby’s blue eyes opened and he looked a little shocked. He seemed to have some trouble deciding whether Sanford was serious or not.

  “There’s that, of course,” he said finally. “Unfortunately a man like you would almost surely be caught. And then, well, you see what I mean.”

  “What’s the chances of me getting a permit to carry a pistol?”

  Kirby, who had started to reach for the telephone, stopped. “There’s not much of that here, you know. I’m not at all sure that it would do much good in dealing with a devious, twisted, and torturous mind. In any case that would be up to the Commissioner. He’s in Statin Creek and Punta Gorda today but I could put it up to him tomorrow if you like … Just a moment … Hello,” he said when he picked up the telephone. “Ask Williamson to come in.”

  He hung up and a few seconds later a light-skinned Negro entered. He wore a neat gray suit and a gray felt hat was in one hand as he came to attention.

  “This is Mr. Sanford—Detective Constable Williamson … You’ve heard of the trouble last night with Corvado, Williamson?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, we don’t want anything like that to happen again. You will accompany Mr. Sanford today. We’ll see that you get some relief when you need it. You will be under Mr. Sanford’s orders to some extent but the main idea is to see that he gets to bed safely. We’ll arrange for someone else to carry on in the morning. Understood?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Kirby shook hands with Sanford and told him not to be too concerned. He said he was glad Sanford had come in and that he, Kirby, had never spent a more interesting afternoon. He said to keep in touch and that he would brief the Commissioner on the situation when he had a chance.

  8

  When Barry Sanford reached his office he worked for about an hour at his drafting table while Detective Constable Williamson sat in a chair where he could look down at the street. There was only one interruption during that time, a cable from a prospective client in Florida that said Sanford would receive an overseas telephone call at the hotel that night at nine o’clock.

  It was after four when he decided to call it a day and went into his unfinished back room to take a shower and change his clothes. He put on a clean pair of slacks, a white polo shirt, and a cord jacket. He used the discarded shirt to wipe the dust from his loafers, and as he straightened up and glanced round he thought again about a gun. He found himself wishing he had one and the idea was still in his mind when they were out on the street and heading toward the harbor and the Cay Queen.

  “Are you carrying a gun, Williamson?”

  “A gun?” The detective looked as surprised as he sounded. “You mean a pistol? Oh, no sir. It is not customary for us to carry firearms.”

  “Suppose someone decides to jump us?”

  “Most people know I am a detective constable. They do not attack police officers here.”

  “Maybe the local people don’t but an outsider wouldn’t know about you, would he?”

  “That’s true, sir.” Williamson thought it over and remained unconcerned. “But in that event I think the two of us could discourage anyone who might be so foolish.”

  The slow, carefully phrased reply brought a grin to Sanford’s face and he glanced sideways at his companion who was about his size and height. He found himself liking the way the man reacted, and decided that Williamson could handle himself with credit in almost any company. Although he lacked some of the other’s confidence he was glad to have him along as he stepped aboard the Cay Queen to unlock the door and slide the hatch back.

  “I’ve got a couple of things to do,” he said as he went down the small companionway to the main cabin.

  “Could I give you a hand, sir?”

  “No thanks. Sit down and take it easy. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Williamson sat down on the river side under the cockpit awning, and when Sanford had his jacket off he took out his keys and unlocked a tall narrow cupboard. Two guns, gleaming with oil, stood in the rack—a 30-30 lever-action rifle he sometimes used to shoot at sharks, and a double-barreled shotgun, He took two shells from a box at the bottom of the cupboard, inserted them in the chambers of the shotgun, and put the gun back. He relocked the cupboard, part of his mind, the part that fed on common sense, telling him that he would in all probability have no reason to use the gun while the other part suggested that at least a gun should be ready if needed.

  He opened a drawer to consider a moment a fishing knife in its leather sheath. The very thought of using a knife at all was somehow repulsive and he was still trying to make up his mind when he heard a car stop at the end of the alleyway. He listened to a door open and close. He could hear the car start to back away and then he heard someone speak to Williamson and knew the caller was a woman. A moment later Williamson appeared in the companionway.

  “You have a visitor, sir.”

  Williamson backed away and when Sanford took a step up and looked out he saw Laura Maynard standing there on the seawall. She was still wearing the pale-yellow dress and brown-and-white spectator pumps with medium heels. The sun brought out the dark-red glints in her hair and the green eyes were shaded with dark glasses. For a moment or two they looked at each other and now a smile seemed to hover at the corners of the red mouth.

  “Request permission to come aboard.”

  Although he hadn’t meant to, Sanford found a grin starting at the cool and proper phrasing. “Permission granted.”

  He reached up and she took his hand, transferring her weight as she stepped gracefully to the rail and then to the seat cushion and finally to the deck.

  “This is Detective Constable Williamson,” he said. “He was just about to take a walk, weren’t you, Williamson?”

  Williamson got the message but he appeared doubtful. “I was told to accompany you, sir.”

  “You don’t have to go far,” Sanford said. “And if it will make you feel any better we’ll sit here in the cockpit where you can keep an eye on us. Mrs. Hubbard is an old friend of mine.”

  He watched the man step up on the seawall and saunter off to the right in the direction of the customs house. He stood there deliberately while he searched his emotions to see how he felt and wondered what his attitude should be. When he finally turned the girl was sitting on the opposite side of the cockpit, legs together, back straight, and the dark glasses still obscuring her eyes.

  “Please sit down, Barry,” she said. “I have to talk to you and I didn’t know how else to do it”

  Sanford reached for a cigarette, found he did not have any, and went back to the cabin for his jacket. She accepted the cigarette he offered and leaned forward slightly to get a light.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she said when he sat down opposite her. “I imagine it’s much too late for me to say I’m sorry. I ran when you needed me. I can’t very well make excuses now, but there are some things I’d like to try to explain. Some of them I’m ashamed of, some I couldn’t help.”

  “Take off the cheaters,” Sanford said. “If we’re going to talk I want to see your eyes.”

  She obeyed at once, folding the glasses and putting them in her handbag. She looked right at him, her face composed. The well-spaced green eyes had somehow a look of anxious concern and he felt again the inner stirrings of the desire that had once seemed so real and important to him.

  “You must know why I ran that night,” she said, her voice small as she lowered her glance.

  “I do now. If you hadn’t always been so cagey, if I had known who you were, I would have understood then. You must have recognized your husband when I hit him.”

  “I did. But I had no idea then that he might die. You weren’
t going fast. You didn’t run over him.”

  “Yes,” Sanford said, knowing this was true. “He just happened to hit his head the wrong way when he fell. It was bad luck all around.”

  “I got out of the car just after you did,” she said. “It wasn’t until I started to think that something told me I should get away from there. Because, you see, I knew that Arthur’s being there wasn’t just coincidence. If he was there it meant that he or someone had been following me; not just that night but other nights we’d been together as well. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I guess I was hoping that he hadn’t actually recognized me but I was terribly afraid of what he might do.”

  “I tried to see Arthur Hubbard’s wife the next day when I found out he was dead,” Sanford said. “It never occurred to me that you were that wife.”

  “How could it?”

  “But I knew he was married. I wanted to see his wife and tell her how sorry I was, and that it was an accident and that I had done all I could to avoid it. Some stone-faced character opened the door of the apartment and said Mrs. Hubbard wasn’t there and he didn’t know when she’d be back. I tried again two days later and was told that she was out of town.”

  “I was. That was King’s idea. I was escorted out of town by some of his people. A woman and a man. We went to the Palm Beach house and stayed there until after you had left New York, although I didn’t know it at the time.” She turned to flip her cigarette into the river. “Did you think I was just being coy when I wouldn’t tell you who I was or where I lived, when I made you promise never to follow me?”

  “Maybe. At first anyway.”

  “And after that?”

  Sanford took time to examine his feelings and his mind went back to their first meeting which seemed so accidental until later, when she explained that she had planned it that way. It had been his custom at the time to stop at this bar for one drink each weekday evening on his way home from work, a quiet, sedate, and proper bar, an adjunct to a modest residential hotel. Albert, the head barman, was of the old school and he made it a point to see that no one ever picked up a person of the opposite sex in his establishment.