With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

13

  For the next few minutes Barry Sanford was not too aware of what went on around him, and it was some time before his mind could do more than accept the simple fact that King Hubbard was dead. He backed slowly away from the circle of onlookers, not speculating about the possible causes of death or the reason for the frogman’s suit. He went back to the seawall and sat down, still looking at the huddle around the body but not actually seeing it.

  He made no comment when Inspector Larkin hurried up to board the launch and activate the ship-to-shore radio while he gave instructions to someone at Police Headquarters. When Larkin finished he went back to join his superior, and it took all that time for the significance of this new discovery to permeate Sanford’s brain and imprint the one important fact that concerned him most. Only then did he finally understand that the threat to his life which had been so real and seemingly inescapable had been removed at last.

  The change in his manner and attitude did not come all at once. He had no immediate inclination to rejoice or give thanks for his deliverance, but something was happening inside him. The deep breath that he took seemed fuller, the air sweeter, and there was some overall sensation of relief that was very wonderful to feel even though he was not consciously aware of it.

  He saw the two police cars come along the curving pavement and pull off to one side. He saw men get out and join the huddle. Another sedan bearing the doctor arrived shortly, and close behind was the same ambulance he had seen earlier. This made him think of Police Constable Pierce, and though he was willing now to believe there was a connection between the two deaths he was not yet ready to analyze the assumption. He saw the ambulance leave and he sat where he was until Larkin came to order the police launch back to its regular berth.

  “We will ride to Headquarters,” he said to Sanford. “The superintendent would like you to come along.”

  Once inside the police compound they went to Kirby’s office, and before anything was said the telephone rang and the superintendent answered it.

  “Superintendent Kirby here. Yes. Yes. You’re sure? … Yes, well it seems we have another corpse. That’s right … I know. The body should be at your place by now. Yes … As soon as possible, please.”

  He hung up and fixed his blue eyes on Sanford. “That was our local pathologist,” he said. “He’s been able to classify the bloodstains that were found aboard your boat. He says they’re type B.”

  “What about Pierce?” Sanford asked.

  “Type A.” Kirby leaned back in his chair, glanced at Larkin, and then at some point just above Sanford’s head. “It will be a while before we know what type Hubbard was but if one had to make an assumption I think we might expect to find his blood type was B, don’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Which in turn would suggest that Hubbard was killed aboard your ketch.” He brought his glance down and gave Sanford the full benefit of it. “This is a question I have to ask. Did you kill Hubbard?”

  “No.”

  “Pierce?”

  “No sir. Pierce was a friend of mine.”

  The denial brought no change in Kirby’s expression as he added: “Because if you did kill Hubbard and then tossed his body into the river, perhaps hoping it would never be found, then I think you made a grave error. You see, I can’t forget the remark you made when you left here yesterday afternoon.”

  “What remark?”

  “We were discussing the difficulties involved in trying to protect a man from someone who was determined to kill him whatever the cost. You said the only sure way would be for you to do the killing first.”

  Sanford remembered the remark. He remembered how he felt at the time and he could hardly blame Kirby for reminding him now. Before he could think of a logical answer the superintendent continued:

  “What I mean is,” he said, expanding the thought, “that a man has a right to defend himself. If your story of Hubbard’s persistent and continuing desire for revenge can be verified—and I assume it can be—then a plea of self-defense would carry some weight in court. If his blood type checks out then we must believe that immediately upon returning to the houseboat he put on the frogman’s suit and swam back. He boarded the ketch and was waiting for you. But he is a small man and you might easily have gotten the best of him—”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Sanford said flatly.

  “Yes, well—” Kirby adjusted his chair and made a small, idle movement with one hand. “Inasmuch as we’ll need a complete statement from you we may as well have a rehearsal now … Will you make some notes, Inspector,” he added. “The essential times, that sort of thing.” He looked at Sanford. “Always remembering of course that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

  “Where do I start?” Sanford asked.

  “You had dinner at the hotel. You stayed around. Any special reason?”

  “For one thing, I was expecting a long distance call from a client in Florida at nine o’clock.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You also dismissed Detective Constable Williamson.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You planned to stay at the hotel for some time. You told Williamson that Pierce could walk you home later. Was there any particular reason why you decided to stay?”

  “It was too early to go to bed and I didn’t have anything else to do. I was also interested in Hubbard’s group and Irene Dumont. I said something about taking her home.”

  “Who’s Irene Dumont?”

  “She plays the piano.”

  “Oh yes—”

  “George Breck and Pete Janovic were making sort of a play for her and I guess she decided the best way to avoid them was for me to take her home. She said she had a headache and wanted to leave early.”

  “This was just after Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard, Miss Maynard, and Mr. Cushman had gone to the houseboat?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you took Miss Dumont home. Did you stay?”

  “No.”

  “You came right back to the hotel.”

  “No. I stopped in that little building outside where the bar is. I had a drink and called a taxi. I tried twice and then phoned the hotel. I had to wait a while before the driver came.”

  “Did you come in a taxi?”

  “No. Irene wanted to walk. And if you want to know why I wanted the taxi,” he added, feeling a flush working on his face, “I guess I was scared. I didn’t like the idea of taking that walk alone.”

  “Even though you knew Hubbard had gone back to the houseboat.”

  “Right. He told me yesterday he was going to handle me alone but that didn’t mean he hadn’t hired someone just like he did the night before.”

  He went on to state what time it was when he got to the hotel. He said that Tom Silva was just taking the outboard to the houseboat for the last time, but he did not mention the fact that Laura Maynard had been asking about him when she returned ashore sometime earlier.

  “Pierce didn’t show up,” he said. “I thought he might have come a few minutes earlier and I missed him but the desk clerk said no. I waited until maybe twenty minutes after eleven and then I walked it, not down the alley but along the road and up the river past the customs house. Willie, the night watchman can verify that.”

  “All right.” Kirby pushed back his chair and stood up. “A policewoman can take your statement outside and when she types it up you can sign it … There’s one other thing,” he said as Sanford started for the door. “I want to question those people on the boat, all of them. I have no room to do it here and I don’t want to do it on a houseboat. That private dining-room next to the bar at the hotel might be a good place. Unless you hear from me to the contrary I’ll expect you there at”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“say two o’clock.”

  The Hotel Bradley was no more prepossessing by daylight than it was at night, but the grounds looked neat and the paint job—white with green trim—had not yet started to
peel. The woman on the lobby desk said Irene Dumont had not come down this morning but made no objections when Barry Sanford started up the stairs.

  “Yes?” the voice said when he knocked at the last door in the corridor. “Who is it?”

  “Sanford.”

  “Oh—Barry? Well, give me a minute, will you?”

  Irene Dumont took nearly that long before unlocking the door and when she opened it she gave him a questioning smile and there was a look of puzzlement in the hazel eyes.

  “Come in,” she said. “The place is a mess but I’m not used to callers at this hour.”

  “I won’t stay,” Sanford said. “I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  He saw as he moved inside that the square high-ceilinged room had a cluttered look. The bed had not been made but the spread had been pulled up, and the remains of breakfast stood on the tray near the window. Irene was wearing blue pajamas and a light figured robe. The tinted blonde hair had been pulled back and caught with a ribbon. He saw that her mouth without its heavy coating of lipstick was well shaped and her face, looking as if it had just been washed, seemed somehow to be fresher and less tired.

  “Sit down,” she said, indicating the one armchair in the room while she perched on the bench in front of the vanity. “Do you want a drink, or some coffee, or anything?”

  Sanford shook his head and said no. “Have the police been here yet?”

  “Police?” She peered at him with a look of mild incredulity, her brows twisting. “Heavens no. Why? Am I about to be charged with something?”

  “No, but I think they’ll be asking some questions before too long.”

  “About what?”

  “About you and me and when we came home last night.”

  “Why, Barry?” she asked, her brows still warped, and her tone at once concerned. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Sanford took a moment to reply because he did not know just what to say. Until yesterday he had never told his story of King Hubbard’s search for vengeance and the things that had happened. He had given it all to Superintendent Kirby and he had supplied a condensed version to Laura Maynard when she came aboard the ketch. He did not want to go into the story again because somehow it seemed remote and far away and too complicated for ready belief.

  But because he had to tell her something he spoke of Police Constable Pierce and offered the physical facts surrounding the discovery of King Hubbard’s body in the frogman’s suit. He was pleased that she could grasp the essential elements and made no interruption until he had finished.

  “You mean this rich guy on the houseboat wanted to kill you? For God’s sake why?”

  “It’s a long story,” Sanford said. “Just believe me when I say he had a psychopathic hate for me and that he meant business. Last night when we were walking home you told me I was acting jumpy. Well, that’s the reason. I know it sounds fantastic but it happens to be true.”

  “But you didn’t kill him—” She rearranged her mouth and gave an audible sigh. “Did you, Barry?”

  “No, but until the police find out who did I could be in trouble. I don’t know when Hubbard was killed—maybe the medical examiner can narrow it down—but I need an alibi—”

  “You’ve got it.”

  She spoke with emphasis and the hazel eyes were direct and unblinking before she turned to reach for a pack of cigarettes on the vanity table. She offered him one and he refused but supplied a light. This brought her face close to him and he wondered again how old she was and what she expected to get out of life. He knew, too, that he liked this girl, and when some of the things she had told him about her past came to the forefront of his mind he found himself thinking again of her relationship with George Breck.

  “Did you know Breck before he came here?”

  “Briefly.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Well—for a guy who didn’t hit town until the middle of last week he seemed to be making pretty good progress.”

  “I met him in Panama a couple of months ago,” she said. “He was there a few days and he used to stop in at this trap I was playing in. Why? Do you think he might know something about what happened last night?”

  “Could be. Why do you think he came to Belize?”

  “Do you know why?”

  “He worked for Hubbard. For quite a while. He was looking for me—but don’t ask me how I know.”

  She tipped her head, half closing one eye and her quick chuckle had a sardonic sound. “Do you know something? I thought it was because of me. That’s what he said. He even made me a proposition.”

  “Like what?”

  “Plane fare to New York. We didn’t get around to discussing details but I got the idea he expected some evidence of good faith. You know, like a down payment to be made here.” She laughed again and it had the same dry sardonic cadence. “If I’d wanted to hustle my way back to New York I think I could have made it from Panama and I wouldn’t be playing in a place like this for coffee and cake money. No”—she shook her head—“little Irene will do it her way. At least for a while.”

  Sanford stood up and now, his mind on Breck, he asked a question, hoping it would clarify something that had been bothering him for some time.

  “Do you remember Sunday night? I’d been out on the boat and I came to the hotel hoping I could take you to dinner. Breck had already asked you and you were sitting at the bar.”

  “I remember.”

  “He asked me to join you and I said I was going to eat at the Pickwick Club.”

  “You said you had to meet somebody.”

  “So you had dinner and after that he took you home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he leave you at any time for a few minutes?”

  She frowned as she considered the question and then she nodded. “For a few minutes, yes. Not too long after you left. He said he wanted to go to his room for some cigarettes. I said I had plenty but he wanted to get his own.” She rose then, tightening the belt on the robe. “Why? I mean all this sudden interest in George?”

  “I don’t know,” Sanford said. “Maybe I ought to talk to him. Maybe I ought to get out of here too before the police come and accuse us of collusion.”

  She smiled at him as she moved over to the door. “I’m not sure what that means but if I’m going to receive the police it might be a good idea to get some clothes on.”

  14

  George Breck was in his usual late-morning spot by the hotel swimming pool when Sanford came down the steps from the bar with a beer in his hand. The local habitués and pool club members were seldom about on weekday mornings, and except for three hotel guests who wers sitting near the opposite end of the pool the area was deserted. Breck, stretched out in a chaise, was working on his tan, and dark glasses obscured the watchful gray eyes as Sanford approached.

  “Hey, Barry,” he said. “Grab a chair. I’ve been wondering where you were.”

  Sanford swung an aluminum chair into the shade of a beach umbrella and sat down. “With the police for most of the morning.”

  “Me too until about a half hour ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Some plainclothes sergeant. He gave me the word about Hubbard and that cop they found not too far from your ketch.”

  “What did they want with you?”

  “Nothing special. Just checking on who was here last night and what the Hubbard party did, and when, and if I remembered seeing the cop that got killed, and what was I doing.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “About what?”

  “Where you were and what you were doing.”

  “I told him I was here and there. In the dining-room, the bar, the John, the lobby, and once to my room. I didn’t see the cop.”

  “And where were Aldington and Janovic?”

  “Around and about, I guess. I wasn’t checking on them.”

  “So maybe you’re out of a job now,” S
anford said, deciding he might as well get to the point.

  “Job?” Breck turned his head. “Free-lance writers don’t have jobs.”

  “How would you know? The only thing you ever wrote was the kind of reports private detectives have to write.”

  Breck stayed as he was for perhaps five seconds; then came slowly to a sitting position.

  “What the hell is bugging you anyway?” he said quietly. “How would you know what reports I write?”

  “I’ll tell you.” Sanford took a swallow of beer and put the glass on the circular metal table under the umbrella. “Since this is going to be an informal, friendly, and confidential chat I’ll level with you. I took a look in your room yesterday morning. What I found was very interesting.”

  Breck’s head came forward a half inch and his thin mouth was momentarily slack with surprise. “Why, you nosey bastard,” he said, not sounding particularly angry. “Well, I’ll be damned. An amateur snoop, hunh?”

  “So you can stop with the con,” Sanford said. “Just be yourself … I guess you’ve been working for Hubbard for a long time.”

  Breck looked up toward the bar and clapped his hands twice loudly. A white-jacketed boy appeared presently and hurried down the steps.

  “Bring me one of those,” Breck said, pointing at Sanford’s beer. “How about you? Could you use another?”

  “Not now.”

  Breck leaned back and seemed to be looking at the sky. “A long time,” he said, as though there had been no interruption. “I never had a client like King Hubbard before and I probably never will again. It’s too goddamn bad.”

  “Did you work for him alone?”

  “Not in the beginning. We had a three-man outfit and Hubbard kept us busy most of the time. If we weren’t checking on one thing we were checking out another. Either for him or for his brother.”

  “Oh,” Sanford said, beginning to understand now what had happened. “Did Arthur Hubbard get the idea that Laura was running around?”

  “He didn’t know what she was doing,” Breck said. “He just wanted to know what the score was.”

  “And that’s how you found out about me?”

  “Eventually, yes.” Breck watched the boy come with the beer, poured some into the glass, and drank thirstily. “Just don’t believe all the stuff you see on television. It’s not easy to do a good job of tailing. Most of the time you just sit around and wait. It took the three of us a while to learn that you were the only one Laura was seeing and—”