Man on a Rope

by George Harmon Coxe

  “It begins to look that way…. Look, baby,” he said, “are you sure you don’t know who broke in here and grabbed you? Haven’t you any idea?”

  “All I know was that he wore a wrist watch with a metal band. I felt it when he bent my head back against his chest.”

  “Maybe something else is missing at the office,” he said. “Will you look? Will you let me know what Amanti says, and tell me at lunch?”

  “But—Barry. You don’t think Mr. Amanti—”

  “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “I don’t even want to try. All I want is to be on that plane next Wednesday so I can get back on the job and get cracking.”

  With that he stood up and told her she had better turn out the light before he opened the door. “And be sure and lock it,” he said.

  When the darkness came he turned the knob quietly, glanced along the veranda, and eased through the opening. As he was about to close the door a whispered command stopped him and he saw the vague outline of the figured robe and knew she was standing on the threshold. An instant later her hands fastened on his lapel. She pulled gently, at the same time coming up on tiptoe, her lips searching for his until they found them, then clinging a long moment before she stepped back and became a shadow once more.

  “Good night, darling,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Barry Dawson’s hotel room was in a one-story wing, its three windows forming a bay which overlooked the landscaped grounds. The bay itself was shaped like half of a hexagon, and a seat or shelf had been built here to extend from one corner to the other, serving Barry as a convenient catch-all for magazines and newspapers and anything else he might want to discard temporarily. The only semi-permanent fixtures were two potted shrubs which flowered at certain seasons, though not during his occupancy. Two large and shiny tins that at one time may have held five gallons of something or other provided the pots and now stood at opposite ends of the planked seat.

  Just why he happened to consider them on this particular night he was never quite sure. He had never paid much attention to the shrubs and did not even know what they were called. He neither watered nor pruned, but now, at twenty minutes after one, his nerves were still a little jumpy, his senses still alert, and he was perhaps more conscious of little things than was his custom. He was more restless than sleepy and when he had slipped off his jacket he stood in front of the window seat with a cigarette; that, may have been the reason why he noticed the specks of dirt scattered on the folded newspaper which lay uppermost on the pile.

  He saw at once that the specks were not dust but dirt.When he bent down he had the impression that a larger lump had been crumbled there. Because of his still latent emotional tension the association he made with those specks of dirt was swift and certain.

  He looked first at one can and then the other, his gaze darkly troubled. To his unschooled eyes there was nothing out of the ordinary about either of them, or the dirt that filled them. But because he was already susceptible to suspicion, he turned and picked up a pencil from the table-desk behind him and started to prod the point down among the roots, pushing into the soft dirt with thumb and finger until the pencil touched bottom. He repeated the procedure a half-dozen times and then attacked the can on the left. It was here that he found the oilskin pouch three inches below the surface.

  He spilled a lot more dirt getting it out because his hands had begun to shake and his fingers were clumsy. He could tell at a glance that the wax seals Colin Lambert had put there were unbroken. After that he had but one thought in mind: to get rid of it.

  He did not stop to consider who might have put the pouch here. He thought he knew why. Someone intended to frame him for Lambert’s murder, and unless he got rid of the evidence he might well end up shaking hands with the hangman.

  At least that was how he felt as he stood there stiff-legged with that pouch in his hand and glanced desperately about for someplace to put it. But even then he seemed to know that the room itself offered no real hiding-place. There were only the two chairs, the bed, the desk, a chest, the wardrobe which contained his bags and his suits; the bath off the entrance offered even less hope.

  Certain now that his best chance was in the grounds outside, he pushed open the center shutter and leaned out. The ground was no more than four feet beneath the sill, an easy matter for almost anyone to gain entrance to the room, and extending along the wall in both directions was a line of bushes. A young frangipani tree stood a few feet farther out in the lawn, and when he saw the edged circle of dirt which surrounded the trunk he made up his mind.

  Because of the recent shower he knew the ground would be reasonably soft, and when he had turned off the light he let himself through the window, dropping gently to the ground. In another second he was on his knees, working both hands with a single-minded purpose of a dog digging up a bone.

  In less than a minute he had a proper cavity. He fitted the oilskin pouch in and covered it neatly. He scraped the excess dirt from the edge of the grass, and because he did not want to tamp the dirt with his fingers and leave telltale marks, he took the wallet from his hip pocket and used it as a rake to level the loose dirt. In the morning it would be dry and no one would ever know; no one could even suspect the tree had been tampered with.

  This is what he told himself to help still his tingling nerves as he climbed back into the room and drew the shutters. With the light on and his sense of security growing, he spread a newspaper on the window seat and shook out each magazine and each paper, making a funnel of the first one and channeling the loose dirt into the can where the pouch had been. To even things up he took a handful of dirt from the other can, transplanted it, and lightly smoothed the tops of both.

  When, finally, he was satisfied, he stepped back and swallowed the dryness in his throat. He took a deep breath. He wiped a sleeve across his shiny forehead before he remembered his hands, and now he hurried into the bathroom and washed them clean. He had dried them and was just unbuttoning his shirt when he heard the tapping on the door.

  It was a strangely brittle sound, not loud but sounding so in the otherwise quiet room. When it was repeated in the same staccato, measured beat, Barry took one last look about the room and stepped up to turn the key. Conditioned as he was by the things that had happened, he was only mildly surprised to find Superintendent Kerby standing there looking as neatly groomed and as wide awake as ever. At his shoulder the light-brown face of Inspector Cantrell stared impassively back at him.

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour,” Kerby said matter-of-factly, “but we’d like to have a look around if you don’t mind. The Inspector has the necessary warrant if you’d care to look it over.”

  Barry put on what he hoped would be a look of innocent surprise. He tried to speak in an appropriate tone.

  “Sure,” he said. “Go ahead. Working late, aren’t you?”

  “When we have to…. All right, Inspector,” he said to Cantrell, who immediately stepped into the bathroom and got to work.

  Barry found a cigarette and offered one to Kerby, who refused but kept his glance evasive as it made a slow circuit of the room.

  “Just routine?” Barry said.

  “What?”

  “Is this just routine or did someone tip you off about me?”

  “Oh,” said Kerby as Barry’s meaning became clear. He allowed himself a small smile. “If you mean, are we acting on information received, we are not.”

  Barry did not believe it. He could not believe it in the light of his discovery. It annoyed him that he could not say so, and the more he thought about it the more his casual manner evaporated.

  “Then why pick on me?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t know that we were.” Kerby watched Cantrell come out of the bathroom and poke about the bed and its canopy of mosquito netting. “We are still looking for diamonds, Mr. Dawson. It was my thought that since those who were at Lambert’s house were led to believe that they would be unmolested until morning, the o
ne who had the diamonds might take his time in hiding them properly. Tonight seemed like a good time to have a look. Yours is only one of several warrants that were issued, though it happens to be the last.”

  “Then you didn’t find them?”

  “Not yet.”

  Cantrell was at the wardrobe now and Kerby saw the flight bag and the large suitcase standing at the bottom.

  “Would those be locked?”

  “The suitcase is,” Barry said and offered his keys.

  “I’d rather you did it, if you don’t mind,” Kerby said. “We prefer that such things be done voluntarily.”

  Barry unlocked the case and stood back, paying no particular attention to Cantrell’s neat but thorough search since he knew what was there. When he had relocked the case he sat down on the arm of the chair and watched the man go through the desk. By this time Kerby was inspecting the magazines and papers on the window seat, and as his glance came up he considered first one of the makeshift flower pots and then the other.

  Barry was never sure whether Kerby had seen some bit of dirt he himself had overlooked or whether he was simply an example of a well-trained and resourceful colonial officer. Whatever the reason, he slipped the swagger stick from under his arm and began to probe about the buried roots. He spent a minute or so on each can and then, wiping the stick clean with a handkerchief, he slipped it back under his arm.

  “Well, that seems to be it,” he said pleasantly. “Thanks very much. I don’t think we’ll have to bother you again tonight.”

  Barry did not say he hoped not when he opened the door. He did not say anything. He turned the key and got out of his clothes. When he had finished in the bathroom he snapped off the light and climbed naked under the netting.

  It did not take him long to fall asleep, but before he dropped off he reluctantly accepted the simple fact that his own problem had become definitely more complicated. He still wanted to get the New York flight, but heretofore his interest had been more passive than otherwise. Now something more was needed. Someone was trying to tag him for murder and it was up to him to find out who while there was still time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE WINDSOR HOTEL had a high percentage of transient trade, and when Barry Dawson had his breakfast the following morning he noticed several new faces in the dining-room. These had, somehow, the look of prosperous Americans or Canadians, and as others entered and waved to those who were seated it was not difficult to guess why they were here and where they had come from.

  For Georgetown was the terminus for several passenger-carrying freighters from the States and Canada, and those taking the round trip were dumped ashore at their own expense for four or five days while the ship was made ready for its return trip. While here, those who could afford it would take the charter flight to Kaieteur Falls; others might go up the river or make the round trip to Bartica. Still others, having exhausted the local sights in one day and finding very little to shop for, would sit around writing postal cards and drinking Planter’s Punches. Barry watched them with interest as he finished his coffee, and he was just putting down his cup when Arthur Hudson stopped at his table.

  “You finished, Dawson?” he said. “Well, look. Wait for me, will you? I won’t be more than ten minutes if I can get some service…. Waiter!” he said, snapping his fingers and pulling out a chair. “See you in the lobby, hunh?”

  “Either there or in my room,” Barry said.

  He walked from the room and turned left, and it was then, as he passed the registration desk, that the idea of doing a bit of breaking and entering came to him. There had been no premeditation and he was not sure. what prompted the impulse, but when he saw the long board with the room keys hanging below the proper numbers he suddenly knew he would like to take a quick look at Hudson’s room.

  There were a great many things he wanted to know about Arthur Hudson. He had been curious about the man before the murder; he was more curious now as he remembered the buried pouch beneath the frangipani tree. He had ten minutes that should be safe from interruption, and when he saw that Hudson’s key was missing from the rack, he continued along the corridor, past his own room to the second one beyond. Here he hesitated as the first doubts came and his enthusiasm waned. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. What, exactly, did he intend to look for? If the door was locked, as it probably would be, he was stymied before he started.

  But now that he had come this far, some pressure of pride or stubbornness vetoed a retreat and demanded an effort. He made it by reaching for the knob and turning it. When he heard the latch click he opened the door, stepped inside, closed it. With no further hesitation he walked past the closed bathroom door which formed a hall of sorts, and now the room opened up before him, a cluttered room it seemed in that first glance.

  There were twin beds here and one of them was mussed, its mosquito netting thrust aside. At the far end a tray with bottles and glasses stood on the window seat. Two traveling bags stood along the wall and a third one, a squarish, fabric-covered piece, lay open on the unused bed; only when he stopped near by and glanced at it did he notice that its contents were unmistakably feminine.

  The discovery jarred him and some new intuitive thrust told him to get out. He did not stop to ponder the inconsistency, but wheeled, hearing now the click of another door, knowing it had to come from the bathroom. He was standing like that, rigid and helpless, when the girl stepped into the little hall, quite naked except for the towel in one hand.

  For one fleeting instant as she spotted him and jerked to a stop they stared at each other in a state of mutual shock, neither uttering a sound. Then the girl twisted and her arm flashed up to make magic with the towel as it flicked out full length and spun like a sorcerer’s cape to cover her from shoulders to knees.

  But the eye is quick and to Barry the image remained even as his confusion increased. He knew the legs and shoulders were tanned, that this was a tall blonde girl with slim flanks and a surprising bust. He saw the wide-open brown eyes beneath the penciled brows, the movement of the mouth, and because he was afraid of what might happen next he spoke at once, his tone urgent and a little desperate.

  “Don’t scream!”

  The sound of his voice seemed to do something to the girl. She did not move, but her mouth relaxed. If she felt embarrassed she did not show it, and now the brown eyes were speculative.

  “Who’s screaming?” she said with surprising calmness. “What is this, Buster, some local custom?”

  “I’m sorry,” Barry said, stammering a little. “I—”

  “Wait a minute!”

  With a glance behind her, she backed into the bathroom and when she reappeared there were mules on her feet and she was belting a narrow-skirted hostess gown that was sufficiently opaque for modesty but thin enough to remind Barry of her figure. As she came closer he could tell that the yellow-blond hair would need much care and attention if it was to remain that shade. He could also see that her brown eyes were bold in their inspection of him, suspicious at first and then mildly approving.

  Something about her told him that it would be all right to stop worrying, and his relief was so vast that he grinned broadly as he repeated his apology.

  “I live down the hall,” he said, not caring now whether she believed him or not. “I must have been daydreaming when I walked in here.”

  Her mouth curved at one corner, a sardonic twist that told him nothing. “You ought to watch it.”

  “I will.” He looked about and continued his act. “This is Arthur Hudson’s room, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  She did not elaborate, but by now his mind was working and, as he remembered the tourists in the dining-room, an explanation came to him.

  “Oh,” he said. “Are you from some ship?”

  “The Calgary Trader. We would have been in last night, but they held us out beyond the bar waiting for the tide. We couldn’t get off until this morning.”

  “Then you’re
a friend of Hudson’s.”

  “A good friend.” Her glance was still amused, as though she was enjoying the encounter. “My room wasn’t ready, so he let me use his. He’s having breakfast.”

  Barry nodded and started to circle round her. Because his mind was still working he glanced again at the two traveling bags that stood against the wall. One was a large case that seemed more suitable for a man than a woman and did not match either of the other two pieces. As he considered it there came to mind a possibility that would explain a lot of things, and suddenly he knew that it was important that he get away.

  “I know Hudson too,” he said. “I’ll probably see you later.”

  “Sure … If you buy me a drink,” she said pointedly, “I might forgive you for scaring the pants off me—if I’d been wearing pants.”

  Barry grinned at her as he opened the door. He couldn’t help it. It had been a long time since he had met a woman like this and he had an idea that the things she said came naturally enough and were spoken without affectation; he also had an idea that she would say nothing about the encounter to Hudson, even though it seemed obvious that she had come here to see him.

  Back in his own room, he said: “Whew!” and then he laughed aloud. He was not sure why, but he was aware that his experiment had made him perspire freely and when he took off his jacket he considered changing his shirt. Before he could make up his mind someone knocked, and when he opened the door Cantrell was standing in the hall.

  “Oh, good morning, Inspector,” he said.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Cantrell, as impassive as ever. “Superintendent Kerby would like to see you at Headquarters. I have a car.”

  “Okay. Let’s go,” Barry said and led the way along the corridor and across the lounge.

  Going past the side of the dining-room on his way to the stairs leading to the street he noticed that Hudson was no longer at his table, and as he came down the steps he saw the American sitting in the police car and hiding behind his ever-present dark glasses. He also saw Eddie Glynn and waved to him, at the same time turning to Cantrell.