Man on a Rope

by George Harmon Coxe

  “If Colin had lived I would have had the estate, not Ian or the daughter or that brother in England. The diamonds are only part of it. Don’t you think I’m entitled to something?”

  Barry did not know what to say. He admitted it as he came to his feet once more. This time the woman rose with him, as though there was little more to be said. She adjusted her scarf and tightened the knot under her chin and then stood close, the points of her breasts touching the front of his robe so that he was again aware of her full-blown body.

  “I’ll help you—I’ve already helped you—if you’ll help me,” she said.

  He knew what she meant, understood how she felt. She had lost a promised husband and a potential life of ease. About this she could do nothing, but because she was a realist she wanted badly to salvage what she could and she was no longer concerned with the ethics of the situation.

  And this was a lot of woman. The truth about her past did nothing to dispel her allure and when she asked for something it was hard to say no. It took an effort on his part even to temporize.

  “I don’t know, Muriel,” he said as he stepped back. “I’m in a spot too. I’ve got to think it over.”

  “All right, Barry,” she said. “If that’s the best you can do, I’ll wait a little longer.”

  He asked if she thought she should leave the way she had come or take her chances getting past the desk unseen. When she turned toward the window he snapped off the light and helped her through. He waited a full minute before turning on the light again, and now there was nothing left but the faint smell of her perfume and the empty glasses lightly smeared with lipstick.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BARRY DAWSON slept late the following morning and when he’d shaved and had his shower he rang for the maid and ordered some breakfast in his room. He knew this was the day that services were being held for Colin Lambert, and the account in the Daily Chronicle the evening before had stated that the body was to be sent back to England on the first ship for burial in the family plot. But no one had asked him to the services, so he lounged in his room for another hour or so, glancing from time to time at the frangipani tree outside the window and wondering how much longer he could walk a tight rope.

  Some time after eleven he went to the downstairs bar and ordered a beer. He was sitting at one of the metal tables near a window that looked out on the drive and the street beyond when a man in a blue suit and a tan pith helmet rode up on a bicycle. When he leaned it against the building, Barry stuck his head out the window and asked if he was from the cable office.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “Cable for Mr. Barry Dawson.”

  “Good,” Barry said. “I’ll take it.”

  “You’re Mr. Dawson?”

  Barry nodded and signed the book and gave the man a shilling. When he came back to his table he hesitated a moment, grateful for Walt Lanning’s co-operation and mentally crossing his fingers to encourage his luck. He tore the end from the envelope and unfolded the message; then he was reading:

  Three arrests but no indictments Hartford job. Benny Meyer and Al Haney suspect but still missing. No loot yet recovered but one hundred thousand in fifties traceable if spent. Case still wide open. Why? Repeat. Why? Lanning.

  He read the message three times before he tucked it into an inside pocket. He had heard that criminals wanting an alias frequently chose names with similar initials. Al Haney—Arthur Hudson. A possibility when he realized that it would not be difficult to get a false birth certificate. A passport would be harder to come by, but no passport was needed for British Guiana, or Trinidad or Panama or Guatemala. Just proof of citizenship and a card that could be issued by the airline offices.

  This was no more than pure speculation and he was well aware of this as he rode in Eddie Glynn’s Zephyr to pick up Lynn Sanford outside Amanti’s office and ask how she would like to have lunch at the Seaview.

  The Seaview, which stood just back from the sea wall where the highway straightened out for its run to Berbice down the coast, was called a night club, but it also served as a hotel of sorts and Barry had often wondered why it was thought necessary to combine the two. The basic layout was like the Murray Hotel’s, but here the similarity ceased. The Seaview stood proudly on its multiple concrete pillars, and on the first floor—the second if you counted the open area beneath it—was the dining-room with its dance floor and orchestra stand. Above this were the rooms, though Barry had never seen them.

  They found a table overlooking the sea, brownish here like the river and, with the tide as it was, barely covering the flats that extended out to deep water. When the waiter came Barry said he needed a drink. Lynn refused, saying she had to go back to work, and Barry said she’d better take one.

  “You may need it,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of talking to do.”

  Reluctantly then she ordered a whisky-and-soda and when it came Barry began to talk. He had to talk. He had known from the first he was going to. Too much had happened and too many possibilities existed for him to keep any order in a mind already cluttered. Lynn was the only one he could trust and he had to talk to her, not so much to get her opinion but to use her as a sounding-board, to watch her reactions, to hear how the things in his mind would sound when spoken aloud.

  Because he wanted her to understand exactly how he stood, he spoke first of his discovery of Lambert’s body and his subsequent flight. He could see the startled glints in her hazel eyes as she heard his confession, but he also saw the softness and understanding reflected in their depths when he admitted his regrets and made no attempt to justify his actions.

  “But you came back, darling,” she said. “That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said, “because Muriel Ransom saw me run away the first time.”

  And then he was telling her the circumstances and the things Muriel had said, not bothering to detail her past as she had told it or elaborating on her background, but sticking to the facts which had to do with the diamonds she had planted in the flower can. He kept it as simple as he could as he spoke of the police search and told about Muriel’s visit the night before. When he had finished he was out of breath and his glass was empty. He waved aside the waiter who came to take their order because he could wait no longer for Lynn’s reaction. What she said then expressed exactly the feeling he had first had about Muriel.

  “She did it,” she said flatly. “She killed him and took those diamonds.”

  He let his breath out and shook his head. “Why should she? She had everything she ever wanted all wrapped up for her. All Lambert had to do was live. Now she’s got nothing; she probably can’t even pay her bills.”

  “Then who did?”

  Her earnestness and the unanswerable question brought a small, ironic chuckle out of his throat as he said he wished he knew.

  “I wish the police would crack it wide open,” he said. “The sooner they do, the quicker I can get out of here. The trouble is I’m in it now up to my neck.”

  “You’re not going to give her those diamonds, are you?”

  “Baby,” said Barry as honestly as he could, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I had to tell you. I had to—”

  “And I’m glad you did.” She pursed her lips and her glance strayed across the sea wall to the empty brown ocean. “I guess you couldn’t just turn those diamonds over to the police.”

  “Not now. How could I?”

  “You could tell the truth. You could explain how Muriel hid them in your room and—”

  “And,” he finished dryly, “she would deny it. She would also tell the truth about seeing me come out of Lambert’s place five minutes or so earlier than I admitted. She went in and found him dead, didn’t she? So who’s the logical suspect? Who do you think the police will believe?” He shook his head. “If I go to the police I’ve had it.”

  Her brow was puckered now and her soft mouth was screwed down in thought. Finally she looked up, her eyes brightening.

 
“Could you call them? Anonymously, I mean? Don’t the police get such calls all the time?”

  “I guess they do,” he said. “But if that happens Muriel’s going to wonder if I did the informing. If she thinks so, if she knows for sure she’s lost all chance to get the stones, I think she might be sore enough to come out with the truth anyway.”

  “Just for spite.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.” He shrugged resignedly as he tried to think of some better solution. When none came he said: “She’s got that one chance to get a new stake and I think she’ll fight for it so long as she doesn’t get caught…. The way things stand,” he said, “I’ve got a tiger by the tail. I can’t just hand the pouch over to her—”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “—and I don’t dare give it to the police—not now. Neither can I sit around and do nothing. Muriel knows I know where those diamonds are. How long do you think she’s going to wait before she says: ‘Come on, Barry boy. Get ’em up or else’?”

  He thought again about the cablegram in his pocket, but he could see no point in mentioning it since it would only confuse things for Lynn. His hunch said that Arthur Hudson was Al Haney, that the hundred thousand dollars, apparently brought in by the blonde, Ruby Noyes, was hot. This would explain Hudson’s eagerness to make the deal for the diamonds, but even so it was not a thing he, Barry, could go to the police with. Not unless or until such a move would help solve the two murders. Unless he got a brainstorm or some sort of break, he could think of nothing constructive to do. Every time he tried to get some sort of pattern the result became increasingly discouraging, and now, looking at Lynn, he could see that his mood was contagious.

  The look of distress on her face was unmistakable and her eyes were deeply concerned as she took a big breath and let it out slowly.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked finally.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Baby, I just don’t know.”

  “The police are still looking for the diamonds, aren’t they?”

  “Sure.”

  “What if they found them under that frangipani tree? Or the gardener did? You said it’s just outside your window. Wouldn’t they be pretty sure you must have hidden them? Wouldn’t that be even worse?”

  He did not answer that. He did not even want to think about the possibility. He was almost sorry he had told her the story because he could see how upset she was. It bothered him to have her worrying so, and he made a big effort to sit up and grin and give out with a new optimism he did not feel.

  “Let’s order,” he said. “Let’s eat. Maybe I’ll think of something this afternoon. That Kerby’s a pretty smart lad; maybe he’ll come up with the killer. Anyway, let’s stop worrying for now.” He reached out and took her hand. He pressed it firmly and held on while he said: “Okay?”

  She looked at her hand and then at him. Finally she gave him a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was an honest effort. When she said: “Okay,” he let go of the hand and beckoned to the waiter.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE KEY TO HIS ROOM was missing from the rack when Barry Dawson stopped at the desk, but he did not think anything about it because keys were sometimes borrowed by bellboys who had deliveries to make. It was because of this, because all he had to do was open the door and walk in, that he caught Boyd McBride on one knee in the center of the room struggling with the lock of the suitcase.

  The flight bag stood near by. Barry could tell it had already been opened, and his first impulse when McBride lurched to his feet was to take a big swing at the blond handsome face. It was not the fact that McBride was bigger than he was that stopped him; rather it was some trick of memory that brought forth a guilty reminder. What McBride was doing he himself had already done earlier to Arthur Hudson—so why complain?

  The first impulse may have been reflected in his eyes because McBride seemed to set himself and his gaze was wary until he sensed that there would be no violence. This lack of embarrassment so irritated Barry that to combat it in kind he moved up, reaching into his pocket, his grin no more genuine than a fashion model’s and his tone contemptuous.

  “You having trouble?”

  “A little,” McBride said, his shoulders relaxing.

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  And with that Barry snatched at the suitcase, swung it up on the bed. Unlocking it, he flicked the catches and opened the top, his glance taking stock of the contents.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  McBride did not try to pass off the gesture with a laugh. His poise was perfect, his tanned face bland. He played the part offered him with indulgent good humor. He pawed negligently through the few objects in the case and stepped back.

  “Nope,” he said. “Not here.”

  “Have you had a chance to go over the rest of the room?” Barry said as he relocked the case and carried it to the wardrobe. He added the flight bag and then glanced up to find McBride watching him with puzzled eyes. Then, as though aware that he had to follow the script or lose face, he said:

  “Not yet.”

  “Try the chest.”

  McBride did so, but his heart was no longer in it. The shine of perspiration had begun to coat his face and he seemed to be making an obvious effort to hide his discomfort as he walked over to the window seat and sat on the edge of it.

  “Your girl friend tried it last night,” Barry said.

  “She told me.”

  “It figured. What’s the proposition? Do you get a cut if you deliver?”

  McBride lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. He was at ease again, his manner both brazen and arrogant, as though he had nothing to fear from Barry and knew it.

  “We didn’t discuss terms,” he said. “But she knows you’re holding out on her and she doesn’t like it.”

  “She should have been more careful in the first place.”

  “Yeah.”

  Barry angled the chair so he could face McBride and decided to carry on in the same vein, his appraisal of the man’s surface cleverness but lack of depth telling him that McBride would rather play the game than admit defeat or retire in confusion.

  “How about a little reciprocity?”

  “What’s that?” McBride said.

  “Well, I’ve been co-operating with you. You’re a fairminded guy, aren’t you? So let’s keep even…. You’re the one that broke in Lynn Sanford’s place and stole her bag, aren’t you?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “She said the man wore a wrist watch with a metal band,” Barry said. “She said he pulled her head back against his chest.”

  “She’s a very observant kid.”

  “With her shoes on, the top of her head is just even with my nose. Without shoes, maybe under my chin. You’re two or three inches taller than I am.”

  “At least…. I didn’t hurt her, did I?” he added unexpectedly.

  “You needed the key to Amanti’s office. You wanted that envelope Lambert had been holding over your head—”

  “How do you know about the envelope?”

  “I’ve been talking to people,” Barry said. “One of them was George Thaxter.”

  “Yeah?” McBride cocked a blond brow, the left one. “Say, how about him? Nasty bit of business, hunh?”

  Barry was not fooled by the other’s apparent indifference. In his own mind he felt sure that McBride had searched Lambert’s desk the night of the murder. If so, Thaxter had seen him come and leave, just as he had seen Barry, a bit of information that would have been extremely embarrassing to McBride if Thaxter had told the truth.

  According to the information the police had, someone—not Thaxter—had taken the key from its rack in the Murray Hotel and gone to Thaxter’s room while he, Barry, was having his drink of five-year-old rum in the bar. That McBride would have a motive for visiting Thaxter seemed obvious, and the evidence fitted him. But even as Barry began to wonder where McBride had been just prior to his visit to
Thaxter’s room, he knew that there would be no point in asking. He went back to his original thought.

  “You found the envelope,” he said, “but before you could get out Amanti walked in on you and you clipped him.”

  “I had to,” McBride said frankly. “It would be pretty awkward, wouldn’t it, me trying to explain things to old Amanti. And you’re right about the. envelope,” he said. “I’d paid back what Thaxter and I had chiseled from Lambert, but he still kept the confession. And Amanti’s not the kind to hand a thing like that over to me, even with Lambert dead. He might have figured some way of his own to bleed me a bit more.”

  Barry had no way of knowing how much of this was true, but he was interested in McBride’s opinion of the lawyer and doubted very much that he was the soul of honesty and integrity that Lynn Sanford was led to believe.

  “It could be a motive for murder, that envelope,” he said.

  “It sure as hell could. But not any more, pal. Not any more.”

  “What else did you take?” Barry asked, deciding he might as well give the question a chance.

  “Nothing. Why should I?” McBride turned to glance out the window and almost instantly his eyes began to pop. “Wow!” he said appreciatively, his teeth gleaming in a wide-open and sudden grin. “Who the hell is that?”

  Barry went over to take a look and then he, too, stopped to give himself a treat.

  For the blonde Ruby had taken this moment to sun herself. She had been given one of the row of rooms that extended across the back of the hotel grounds, the only outward improvement made to the place in the last fifty years. Barry had never been inside the addition, but he had often sat here by the windows watching the occupants come and go across the grounds on their way to the dining-room. Each unit had a tiny porch and its own steps, and Ruby had moved a chair out on her porch. In dark glasses now, she was adjusting a pillow, and the only things that Ruby wore were a pair of Bikini-like shorts and a none-too-wide bandeau that was awesomely filled with Ruby.