With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  Cushman was looking at the now empty stairway but with that gun in his hand no one made any attempt to approach him. Sanford, aware that he was responsible for what had happened, knew that it was about time to do some more talking while he had the chance.

  “Cushman,” he said to get the man’s attention. “When you went aboard the ketch did you say anything to Hubbard?”

  “Hell yes. I didn’t want him to take a shot at me in the dark, or use a knife, or whatever he had in mind. I just wanted to get close. I pushed open that little door and called to him. ‘Hey, King,’ I said. ‘It’s Fred.’”

  “Did he answer?”

  “No.”

  “You struck a match?”

  “Right.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Hah!” Cushman’s voice was tight and bitter. “I could say I saw him stretched out on the cabin floor but a hell of a lot of good that would do me now. I’ve been a loser too long. I’ve got the habit. With the odds the way they are, a guy like me could never convince anybody …”

  The staccato rap of heels on the stairs punctuated the sentence and Blanche came hurrying down, a lightweight raincoat over one arm, an overnight case in her hand. Without a glance at anyone else she headed straight for Cushman, chin up now and new color in her cheeks.

  “Wait a minute,” Cushman said as some understanding began to work on him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “With you. Where else?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.” She stuck her chin out a little farther and the sickness had gone from her eyes, leaving them bright with defiance. “There’s not one single thing you can do to stop me.”

  “No, Blanche. Please.” Cushman’s face was pale and shiny and his voice sounded a little desperate. “You can be a rich woman. You’ve earned it. This is crazy.”

  “No. If the Guatemalan people won’t let anyone extradite you they certainly won’t bother me … I have some money,” she added quickly. “Some of my own and some I took from King’s room. Whatever you did, Fred, you did because of me. Now it’s my turn to help. It’s about time I tried to make up for what I did to you three years and—”

  This time the sentence ended in a small, quick, high-pitched scream and there was only time for one agonized word of warning.

  “Fred!”

  They all saw Pete Janovic at the same time, all but Cushman, whose back was still turned to the doorway. Even Sanford had been so interested in getting at the truth that he had completely forgotten about the ex-footballer last seen reading in a deck chair. But apparently Janovic had been listening through one of the open windows. He knew what the score was and, approaching on bare feet, he had waited beyond the edge of the doorway for the right time. Now, already moving before Blanche screamed, he seemed to flit up behind Cushman, jerking him off balance with one hand and reaching for the heavy automatic with the other. A quick twist wrenched the gun free and then, pushing Cushman aside, he stepped past and came to a stop.

  19

  It was several seconds before there was any vocal reaction to Janovic’s neat and timely intervention. When he saw there would be no trouble, he balanced the gun in his hand, lowered it, and, looking rather pleased with himself, continued over to the side-bar where he put the gun down at one side, picked up a glass, and started to fix a drink. Cushman, still bewildered by what had happened, stood rubbing his wrist. By that time Blanche had put down the overnight bag and dropped the raincoat on top of it. When she began to cry, openly and with no attempt to hide her contorted face, Laura came up to lead her back to the divan.

  George Breck went over to the side-bar with Janovic to freshen his drink. “Very neat, Pete, old buddy,” he said. “Very neat indeed.”

  Cushman, now standing by himself, moved over to slump into the chair he had so recently occupied.

  “Anyone but me could have pulled it off,” he said with weary resignation. “Even with a gun in my hand I muffed it.”

  “It’s not important,” Sanford said. “You weren’t going anywhere.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Aldington, who had heretofore maintained an aloof silence, apparently decided it was time to get into the act. “If it hadn’t been for Janovic who would have stopped him? You?”

  “I think so.”

  “How?”

  “I had some more questions to ask,” Sanford said. “Ill ask them now … Your only trouble, Fred,” he added when he had Cushman’s attention, “is that you’ve acquired the habit of giving up too easily. You’ve forgotten how to fight back.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “When you followed Hubbard in the dinghy did you take a knife with you?”

  “I didn’t take anything. All I wanted was to get close enough to him so I could get my hands around his neck. The way I felt I didn’t need any knife.”

  “But Hubbard was stabbed.”

  “I know that.”

  “And what about Police Constable Pierce?”

  “I don’t know anything about any constable. I didn’t see him. I didn’t know he was dead until you came here with the superintendent to tell us about it this morning.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Sanford said.

  “Wait a minute.” Aldington was all attention now, his thin face warped in a frown. Behind the dark-rimmed glasses his eyes were puzzled as he glanced from Sanford to Cushman and back again. “Are you trying to say Fred didn’t kill that constable?”

  “I don’t see how he could. And if he didn’t kill Pierce I say he didn’t kill Hubbard either.”

  “Then why pull the gun? Why try to run?”

  “Fred can tell you that better than I can but my guess is that he didn’t like the odds. He couldn’t deny Willie the watchman’s story. He had the motive and he went to kill. He probably figured no one would believe Hubbard was already dead.”

  “What makes you think he was?”

  “Suppose we skip that for a minute while I ask you a question.” Sanford sat on the edge of the divan and turned to face the lawyer, dark eyes steady and a grim, unsmiling look working on his lean tanned face. “What do you think the police theory is about the constable’s death?”

  “Why—I suppose they figure that Pierce stumbled on the killer just after he had taken care of Hubbard. Pierce probably didn’t know what had happened at the time but if he saw the killer—and he must have—then when Hubbard’s body was found—”

  “Exactly,” Sanford cut in. “There’s no other logical explanation.” He turned to Cushman who was now listening with his jaw slack and a look of puzzlement in his amber eyes. “Did you see Pierce—at any time?”

  “I’ve already told you. I didn’t know anything about Pierce.”

  “He could be lying,” Aldington said. “What else could he say?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sanford said. “If Willie is telling the truth—and there’s no reason I know of why he shouldn’t—then Cushman’s story shapes up … Look,” he added, giving a quick sharp emphasis to his words. “Cushman rowed across the river in the dinghy, and went aboard the ketch. He struck a match—”

  Aldington put up a hand to interrupt; then demonstrated that there was nothing wrong with his thinking when he gave himself a chance.

  “Of course,” he said, sounding a bit chagrined. “Rather obvious once you stop to think, isn’t it? The time element, I mean. Cushman was aboard not more than a minute or so before Willie saw the dinghy push off. Hardly time enough to enter the cabin, kill Hubbard, come out, see the constable coming along the seawall, use the knife again, and then drag the body to that junkyard and hide it under an overturned skiff. But”—the puzzled frown returned—“if Fred didn’t kill that constable, who did?”

  Sanford had been waiting for the question and he knew it was time for an answer. He took a small breath, glanced once more at Cushman, and then looked over at the side-bar.

  “I think George Breck did it,” he said.

  Breck was still wi
th Janovic, his back to the side-bar, glass in hand. He had been listening to what Sanford had been saying and his first reaction to the accusation was a harsh, humorless explosion of laughter.

  “Come off it, Sherlock,” he said. “You’re out in left field and scrambling.”

  “I’m scrambling, all right,” Sanford said. “But I’m not making anything up.”

  “You’re not dealing with an amateur now either. Run off at the mouth about me in front of witnesses and you’ve bought yourself some trouble. That I’ll guarantee.”

  Sanford, understanding this threat, ignored it and looked at Cushman. “When you got no answer from Hubbard, when you struck the match—did you glance around?”

  “I guess so. I was so shook up when I found King dead I didn’t have room for much thinking but I did take a quick look.”

  “There’s a narrow door separating the two cabins. I put it in myself. It doesn’t just open, or fold open like most doors; it slides. Was it open or shut?”

  “Shut All except maybe a two-inch crack.”

  “I think it’s just as well you got out when you did, Fred,” Sanford said. “I think you came aboard just after Hubbard was killed, I think the killer was trapped and ducked into that little forward cabin—I always keep that door open when I’m ashore—and pulled the door almost shut. I think he was waiting, probably with the knife he had used on Hubbard. I think if you hadn’t got out in a hurry the same thing would have happened to you that happened to Pierce because by that time the killer had no choice.”

  “So how does that tie in with me?” Breck said with quick contempt.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” Sanford said, “but let’s talk a little about motive first. On this I’ll admit I’m guessing all the way but maybe Aldington can help me here. You admitted your work for Hubbard was following me for the past couple of years, first in New York, and then Florida before you started to cover Central America.”

  “So?” Breek said.

  “You had a letter of agreement with Hubbard about salary and expenses, and a bonus if and when you found me.”

  “I know about that,” Aldington said. “Fifty dollars a day plus up to fifty dollars a day expenses. A ten thousand dollar bonus for George when he found you.”

  “You decided,” Sanford said, still talking to Breck, “that I was the third guy in the trio that sailed from Florida in a ketch bound for the west coast by way of the Panama Canal. And you were right. I don’t know where you went first or how you started but about nine months ago you were here for a three-day stay. I happened to be at Corozal at the time but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. You could give an accurate description of me—you may even have had a photograph of some kind—and you knew my name, and this is a small place. I say you’re too good a detective not to have discovered I was your man. But apparently the ten thousand bonus wasn’t enough. You saw a chance to double it and live like a well-heeled tourist while you were piling up the pay checks.”

  He paused, aware of the mean twist to the detective’s mouth and the bright glints in the hooded eyes. When there was no comment he continued.

  “Assuming you didn’t get paid for Sundays you were drawing three hundred dollars a week. For nine months that adds up to nearly twelve thousand bucks—what did you do, stick it in the bank?—with Hubbard picking up all your expense tabs. When you decided you couldn’t string the job out any longer you came here and officially found me.”

  Again Breck laughed. “That’s a wonderful story,” he said. “Why don’t you put it in writing?”

  “I told you I was guessing,” Sanford said, “and now I’m going to guess a little more. I think I’m the guy that pulled the rug out from under you. Hubbard and I had a session with Superintendent Kirby yesterday,” he said and went on to give a brief explanation of what had been said. “Before Hubbard left I spoke about you. I told him I knew who you were and that you’d been here nine months earlier and apparently missed me. I asked him whether he had held off that long just so I’d kid myself into thinking I was safe, or whether you really were a stupid man.

  “I think I got to Hubbard,” he said before there was any interruption. “I think he did some checking. If he did he must have come up with the same conclusion that finally occurred to me. You were milking the job for what you could get; as my last guess I’d say that Hubbard told you there’d be no ten thousand dollar bonus. He might even have demanded all that salary you piled up and hadn’t earned.”

  He looked at Janovic and said: “Pete. Did Hubbard say anything to you about me last night, anything at all? You and Breck were at the bar the last time I saw you. You wanted me to have a drink. You seemed a little curious about where I was going until I said I’d be back. Unless you’re mixed up in this thing—”

  “Me?” Janovic’s brows lifted. “I’m not mixed up in anything. All I know is that Hubbard told George and me not to let you go back to your boat before ten-thirty He said we were to buy you drinks or do whatever we could to be sure you didn’t leave before that. We didn’t have a chance to do anything,” he said “You sneaked out and you didn’t come back.”

  “I didn’t go back to the ketch either, fortunately,” Sanford said. “But you did, George,” he added. “You had to know what was in Hubbard’s mind. You had to take a chance. If you were wrong it wouldn’t matter but if you were right—”

  He turned to Aldington as he let the sentence dangle and said: “I had a talk with George late this morning after we’d found Hubbard. He said a police sergeant had questioned him. The sergeant had also given him the essential facts and I asked George how he figured it. He said he’d never been aboard the ketch and asked if it had two cabins. I said yes and he came up with some story about the killer going to the boat and probably waiting in the forward cabin until Hubbard came aboard. At the right time, George said, all the killer would have to do would be to slide the little door back, step out, and do the job. So what I’d like to know now is, if George had never been aboard, how did he know that that door would slide rather than open the way most doors do?”

  Aldington got the message. He pushed his lower lip up to touch the bottom of his neat mustache and his bespectacled eyes were full of thought. He looked over at the detective but Breck was the first to speak.

  “Okay, Howard,” he said, his tone nasty but showing no concern, “what does it amount to? Here’s a guy who makes up some conversation out of his head and I say that conversation never took place. Is that imaginary story of his any good as evidence?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Aldington said. “Not without clear-cut corroboraton of some kind.”

  Sanford had expected some such denial and it did not bother him. He looked over at Laura and Blanche, who were still sitting close together on the divan. Wide green eyes and wide blue eyes were watching him and the lips were slightly parted as they gave him their attention.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Maybe it’s not evidence but it was enough to make me start thinking in the right direction. The important thing is that I have an idea the police will be coming up with some evidence that will do the job … I talked with Inspector Larkin just before we came out here,” he added and went on to explain the request that had been made for samples of the lipstick that Laura and Blanche used.

  He took time to glance from face to face and addressed his remarks to the room at large. “The police found a bloody handkerchief tucked under a mattress in my forward cabin,” he said and gave the necessary details. “I don’t know whether Breck hoped to frame me or just left it to confuse the issue, but it was there. When the government laboratory man examined it he discovered some other stains that weren’t blood. He must have decided it came from lipstick or Larkin wouldn’t have asked for samples.”

  He looked at Breck. “They took Irena Dumont to Headquarters this afternoon. I have an idea they asked her for a lipstick sample too and if they did you’re dead, George. Remember how much lipstick Irene always used? Remember last night
when you and Pete were hanging over the piano before dinner? Remember the drink she spilled when the waiter bumped her, and how you pulled that handkerchief out of your coat pocket so she could wipe her mouth and chin? If her lipstick is on that bloody handkerchief—and they should know pretty soon now—Pete and I can tell them who owned it. Then you can tell the superintendent how it got on my boat—”

  He got that far before he saw the gun. It was the same one Janovic had so recently placed on the side-bar. Apparently no one had noticed Breck pick it up but he had it now as he moved away from the ex-football player and made a small arc with the muzzle for everyone to see.

  20

  George Breck kept moving slowly toward the front of the room so that he could have everyone in front of him. His thin mouth remained twisted in a tight unpleasant grin, and the hooded eyes, though watchful, somehow did not seem greatly concerned. Janovic was the first to speak.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “I didn’t see him pick up the gun.”

  “I made sure of that, Pete, old buddy.” Breck looked at Sanford. “You really did pull out the rug from under me, didn’t you? The minute you gave Hubbard the idea I might have goofed he started checking. He was too smart to believe I could have been here three days—even though you were out of town at the time—and not known about you. But it was more than you thought, kid.

  “Hubbard was a genius at retaliation. Right off he said no bonus for me. That much I could have taken, but for a guy like Hubbard it wasn’t enough. He wanted not only the nine-months salary I’d collected, but the expense money too. He said if I didn’t get it up—and I couldn’t because I didn’t have it—he’d see that my licenses in New York and Florida were lifted. He said he’d put me out of business and he was just the guy who could do it.

  “I never had a better setup in my life,” he said. “I really lived it up on that fifty a day. But why not? I’d done a good job. I could put my finger on you whenever Hubbard started running out of patience. He was going crazy trying to get to you and I produced. With his dough he never missed what he’d paid me but when he decided I’d held out on him he wanted to make a bum out of me.