“Sit down, Lynn,” McBride said. “And keep quiet, understand?… Well, where’s the cash?” he said to Hudson.
“Outside, pal. I’ve only got two hands and I figured I might need them.”
He took time to give the room a final inspection and tabulate the odds; then he vanished through the doorway. When he returned he carried a sizable brown-paper package that wast wo or three inches thick and shaped so it would fit in the false bottom of a large suitcase.
When he put it on the table Barry could see where a hole had been torn and mended with Scotch tape. He wondered if that was how Ruby Noyes had discovered that she was carrying currency for Hudson. He watched as the fellow peeled off the tape and extracted two packets of fifty-dollar bills that looked new and were still held in place by a paper strip put there by some bank. Hudson tossed them carelessly on the table and stepped back.
McBride picked them up, his pale eyes bright with interest. He still held the gun in one hand and as he glanced up he saw that Hudson’s jacket was open. A gun, which looked like a snub-nosed revolver to Barry, was partly visible in its shoulder holster and he had an idea that Hudson had made a point of disclosing it. McBride took a quick look and put his automatic in his jacket pocket.
“It’s all here?” he said.
“Open it up if you want,” Hudson said. “Count it. Only don’t expect me to wrap it up again for you.”
McBride hesitated. Then, his hands moving swiftly, he ripped open a half-dozen sample holes to reassure himself that the package was filled with the same kind of bills. He pocketed the two sample packets and pushed the oilskin pouch across the table. Hudson picked it up, balanced it in his hand, and then began to inspect the seals. He took a visible breath and relief loosened the grim set of his mouth.
“All right,” he said, glancing at Barry and then at Lynn. “Now, how the hell did they get in on it?”
“Dawson was the lad who had the diamonds,” McBride said. “I don’t know where he had them, but when we put the pressure on he decided to deliver…. I don’t know about the girl,” he said. “I don’t know if he brought her or if she followed him or—”
“It don’t matter now,” Hudson cut in. “What matters is how we keep ’em from talking for a while. I’m getting a plane out of here Monday. I need that much time.”
“You’ll get it,” McBride said. “We’ll handle it.” And then he was repeating the things he had told Barry. “We’ve got an extra chute for the girl,” he said. “It’ll be a bit rougher on her, but Dawson knows his way around. They’ll make it.”
“It’s her own fault anyway,” said Muriel, who heretofore had been more interested in the package of money than in conversation.
“Do you need any help?” Hudson asked.
“No.” McBride shook his head. “The girl makes it easier, in a way. With her along Dawson has to behave.”
“Okay.” Hudson stopped by the side door, the pouch in one hand and his tone blunt. “Just remember we’re still sort of in this together. You get away, I get away. One of us goofs, the other is in a jam.”
Hesitating a final second to let his words sink home, he turned and was gone, and now Barry began to wonder if he had done the right thing, to wonder if he would be able to step off the invisible tight rope he had been walking or whether it would snap under his weight and carry Lynn down with him. He knew there had been a way to stop Hudson, but he had had no assurance as to what the man might have done. It was the gun cradled in the shoulder holster that had decided him. One thing at a time—and maybe this was the time.
He took a moment to take stock, to see that Lynn remained quietly in her chair, not looking at him, not looking at anything in particular. He watched Muriel move back to the couch, her attention still focused on McBride and the brown-paper package. He took a small breath and concentrated on keeping his voice right, feeling again the pressure of the little automatic in his side and hoping he would not have to use it.
“Are you really going to give us chutes?” he said to McBride.
“Why—sure.” The big man grunted softly. “I got nothing against you. All I want is time.”
“After three or four days you figure we’ll get back and tell the police the story.”
“If you want to.”
“Maybe you think I won’t because I’ll have to stand trial for murder.”
“Maybe you will.”
“You don’t think the police will start looking for you?”
“Could be.” McBride shrugged faintly. “I don’t think they’ll break their necks. Why should they? They may make some inquiries here and there. If they don’t come up with anything, they’ll probably quit.”
“Nobody quits on murder, especially not the British cops.”
McBride’s brows bunched and there was a squint in his eyes. “Ah—come off it!” he said disdainfully.
“Who do you think killed Lambert?”
“I thought maybe you did.”
“Did Muriel tell you her story?”
“Sure. But why should I cry for Lambert? If you—”
“Did she tell you how she came in and found Lambert dying on his side? Did she tell you Lambert said I shot him?”
“Yeah.”
“She told me she was going to tell the police.” Barry hesitated, a dryness growing in his throat and his voice clipped and intent. “They might have believed her,” he said, “but not any more. The only thing true about that story is that Lambert actually was lying on his side when I found him.”
He paused as his mind went back to the night of the murder, and each detail was clear-cut and distinct in his mind.
“I didn’t know he was dead at first,” he said. “I shook his shoulder and he rolled over on his back. Only one person besides me could know that his body had come to rest on its side—the one who killed him.”
McBride looked at him and then at Muriel, and now she protested, eyes flaring. She said the assumption was ridiculous. “I made that story up. I admitted it, didn’t I? I had to make you give up the diamonds. I just happened to say he was on his side.”
“Why?” Barry demanded. “Why think of it at all? If you told the truth about seeing me leave the house, then the only way you could have seen Lambert was on his back; that’s the way I left him; that’s the way he remained…. You forgot, didn’t you?” he said harshly. “You didn’t come to that house after I did. You were there before. You didn’t come again until the police brought you. Lambert actually was on his side when he died. You knew it. How?”
He glanced at her and she stared back at him, her red mouth pinched but her eyes defiant.
“Until this afternoon I hadn’t any idea who killed him,” he said. “I believed your story about taking the diamonds. Some of that background story of yours must have been true, and if it was I could understand your taking a chance on those diamonds. You were broke and in debt, because now there wouldn’t be any Lambert to pay your bills. You’d been broke before and you didn’t intend to be broke again if you could help it. But when you told me you found Lambert on his side—even though you were supposed to be making up the story—I started to wonder. I did some checking after you left and—”
“Wait a minute!” McBride was scowling furiously and there was bewilderment in his eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that Muriel killed Lambert?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Barry said. “And because George Thaxter was hanging around outside the house—you know that as well as I do—she had to kill him too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FROM HER CHAIR in the corner of the room Lynn Sanford made some quick inarticulate cry, but otherwise there was no sound in the room until McBride moved his feet and took a new stance. He was watching Muriel now, but there was nothing in the bronzed face to indicate what he was thinking or how he felt. Finally, as though it took a tremendous effort to ask the question, he said:
“He’s lying, isn’t he?”
Muriel’s answer was a
quick smile of confidence. She rose and moved deliberately toward him. She put her hands on his arms and thrust her body against him, coming up on her toes as she did so. Then, as if they were alone in the room, she kissed him hard on the mouth.
“What do you think?” She hesitated, her eyes appealing. Once more she kissed him, this time lightly. She gave his arm a reassuring pat and went back to the couch. She looked disdainfully at Barry and smiled at McBride.
“Of course he’s lying,” she said. “What if I said Colin was on his side? Is that proof? Is that evidence? If I deny it, it’s Barry’s word against mine, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” McBride said slowly. “How about that?”
“There’s more,” Barry said. “I just wanted to show you how I happened to suspect her at all.”
He paused again; he had to. He could feel the perspiration start to come, and some new pressure had begun to work inside him as he tried to find the proper sequence for his thoughts. Then he was talking to McBride, telling him exactly what he had done the night of the first murder. He described the house whose veranda had sheltered him during the shower, gave its location. He admitted his discovery of the body, his panicky flight, the eventual return of the common sense that took him back to the bungalow. Then, sure of the big man’s attention, he digressed.
“Did you ever notice how the colored women run for cover during a shower, even a little shower?”
“Everybody runs for cover,” McBride said.
“And when they’re caught—the natives—when they know they’re going to get a little wet, what do they always do?”
“They put something on their heads to keep the rain off,” a voice said, and Barry had to think before he realized that it was Lynn who had spoken. “Always,” she said firmly. “They use whatever is handy to keep their heads dry.”
“Yeah,” said McBride, frowning now. “Sure. So what?”
“While I was standing under that veranda having a cigarette,” Barry said, “a woman hurried by on the sidewalk.”
“In the shower?”
“In the shower. The light was bad, but she was close enough for me to see that she was wet clear through. Her hair was dripping, but she had a bundle in her hand; not on her head to help keep it dry, but in her hand…. That was no colored woman,” he said flatly. “If I’d thought about it, if I’d known I was going to run into murder, I might have wondered about it. I might have wondered why any woman would be hurrying along in all that rain unless she was scared to death or the devil was after her. Even then a colored woman would have tried to keep her head as dry as possible. She’d have used the bundle—that diamond pouch.
“Just about then,” he continued, “a car came around the corner and the headlights hit me in the face. I didn’t see the woman after that, but I think she saw me…. I think it has to be that way,” he said, “because Muriel knew I did go into Lambert’s place and come out in a hurry.”
“I don’t get it,” McBride said and his expression bore out the statement. “You lost me somewhere.”
“Muriel saw me enter the bungalow, otherwise she wouldn’t have known about it. The question is—when did she see me?”
“So?”
“I think she shot Lambert during the shower. I don’t know whether she knew the combination—as she wanted me to believe—or whether she forced it from him at gunpoint. I think she knew the chances of meeting anyone during that downpour were slight; I think that’s why she picked that time to get back to her flat. If she saw me in those headlights she must have had an idea where I was going, and I think she ducked behind a tree somewhere in the block to see what I was going to do. She watched me go to the house and she watched me run out in a hurry and that was all she needed to know. All she had to do was think up a reasonable story about her arriving right after the shower. If the pressure got too tough for her—and she couldn’t be sure about that—she’d have told the police.”
“Why didn’t she tell them anyway?” McBride said.
“On that I can only guess. Maybe because she didn’t want them to suspect me then. Maybe she was already figuring on hiding the pouch in that flower can in my room.”
Muriel laughed aloud, a disdainful sound. “You saw a woman with a bundle in the rain,” she said. “You didn’t see her face. You say it couldn’t have been a colored woman. So what? Does it have to be me?”
Barry took a new breath. He could see that McBride was perplexed. He looked like a man who did not know what to believe, so Barry went ahead to tell what he had done that afternoon when he’d begun to suspect Muriel.
“Let me carry the theory a step farther,” he said. “Muriel said she washed her hair and went to bed early,” he continued to McBride. “When she came to the bungalow with the police she had a scarf on her head and bobby pins in her wet hair.”
“Why not? She said she washed it.”
“Then tell me why a woman who had been to the beauty parlor that afternoon to get her hair done would wash it again that night.”
McBride’s face was suddenly all humps and wrinkles. “What?” he said.
“I saw her late that afternoon when she came to see Lambert. She was all dressed up in that same one she’s wearing now. Her hair looked nice. Lambert commented on the way she looked and she laughed and said something about beauty parlors being wonderful institutions.” He swallowed and said: “There are only a couple beauty parlors where a woman like Muriel would go. I checked them both late this afternoon and one of them—you can check it and so can the police—say she had her hair washed and set the afternoon Lambert was killed. If you think she went home and washed it again that night you’re crazier than I thought. But she had to say she washed it because she got soaked going home and she had to have some explanation”
McBride was not the quickest man in the world mentally, but if you drew him an outline he could fill in the picture. He seemed to have it now as he looked at Muriel, at the gun in his hand, and at the money on the table—in that order. He was wavering now and Barry spoke sharply to press his advantage.
“Boyd,” he said to hold the other’s attention. “You went to the bungalow that night too. If there’s any doubt in your mind about Muriel just remember that you were still hiding on the veranda when I came back. I heard your car leave. You don’t have to admit it; just recall how long you were there after you found Lambert dead and started looking for the envelope that could have put you in jail. I was gone not more than four or five minutes. If Muriel didn’t come while you, were searching the desk, when did she come? How would she know I had been there earlier? She couldn’t have come after I left the first time. You would have run into her wouldn’t you? So when do you think she came?”
Barry had seen the things happening behind McBride’s pale eyes as he drove his point home. Even McBride understood the logic of the premise, and now that the pattern of doubt in his mind had been dispelled to his satisfaction he was suddenly convinced.
“So.” he said, a note of wonderment in his voice, “it was you all the time.”
Muriel’s face was chalk-white as she reached for her handbag and took out a handkerchief. She blew her nose, and her mouth quivered. She swallowed visibly and batted her eyelashes at McBride as though trying to hold the tears back.
“What difference does it make now?” she wailed. “I—I had to do it…. It was as much your fault as mine,” she said. “He found out about us. He was going to kick me out and he said you’d go to jail—”
“So that was the motive,” Barry said quietly. “I’ve been wondering just why it happened then. Lambert knew you’d been pretty friendly before you got engaged, didn’t he?” he said to Muriel.
“This was after,” McBride said sourly. “During that month he was upcountry getting everything ready so he could get back to England.”
“What did he do, get a private detective to keep an eye on Muriel?”
“It wasn’t any detective. It was those two jerks Holt and young Lambert; it was their ide
a. They didn’t want the old man to get married and go back to England. I guess they figured once he did that neither of them—Ian or his sister—would get another dime. So they started spyin’. Every night. Holt when his boat was in town and Ian when it wasn’t…. They wrote it all down,” he said. “Every time Muriel came here or I went to her place, and how long we stayed and when we left.”
“How did you find out Lambert knew?” Barry said, remembering now that Albert had said Ian had come to the bungalow about nine that night. Ian admitted this, but had refused to tell Kerby what the argument was about.
“That’s why he telephoned me,” Muriel said, watching McBride now. “Albert didn’t hear what was said, but Colin told me just enough to scare me.”
“You went there with a gun,” Barry said.
“I got that in Havana years ago,” she said as if that explained everything. “I often kept it in my bag at night—in Panama and Belize and here. I didn’t go there to kill him; I didn’t know what I was going to do until he started to rage at me and call me names. He said I’d be a pauper when he finished with me, and I knew he meant it.”
She said: “All I could think of was that there wouldn’t be any wedding or any money. I couldn’t even pay my debts. I’d have to get a job, probably clerking behind some counter and not making enough to eat on unless I stuck to rice and peas and fishheads like some of them have to do.”
“You’d still have McBride,” Barry said.
“Not even that,” she flared, “because he’d be in jail.” She looked at the big man and something changed in her voice. “You’ve got to help me,” she said. “If it hadn’t been for me you’d be standing trial now…. You said you loved me,” she said when he remained silent.
“I know I said it,” McBride said softly. “I’ve said that before to other women. I was ready to pull out with you tonight and maybe—”
He hesitated, his indecision obvious. She pounced on it. “It can be good,” she said. “I promise you. A hundred thousand dollars to start all over. Nothing has to change. We do just as we planned—fly to Trinidad and then to Caracas. You have parachutes”—she waved her hand to indicate Barry and Lynn—“and why should we worry about them anyway?”
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