Moment of Violence

by George Harmon Coxe

  “John said you had his power of attorney and would do what you could to get some payment from Mike Ludlow on that option business. I also had the authority to act for him, you know.” He grunted softly and leaned back in his chair. “Not that there was much acting to be done, actually. Ludlow had the option and there was no qualifying letter so”—he spread his hands—”Ludlow would have collected. Now of course, after what happened last night, John stands to take the profit himself and I, for one, am glad he can get it.”

  Dave took out the manila envelope and spilled its contents onto the desk. He said that he was Ludlow’s executor and gave an account of what had happened in Roger Eustis’s office. He said he would like to go over some things with Mr. Worsham if he could spare the time.

  “Also,” he said, “I was wondering if Ludlow had an account here.”

  “Oh, yes.” Worsham opened a drawer and glanced inside. “Three hundred and twenty-two dollars and seventeen cents,” he said.

  Dave considered the statement a moment, his brown eyes thoughtful. He looked at the papers on the desk, but his mind was elsewhere and he finally spoke of the metal box that was missing from the bungalow and the cash that it was said to have contained.

  “I’ve been wondering why Mike thought he had to collect that fifty thousand in cash.”

  “Hah!” Worsham chuckled. “He had a reason, all right. A damned good reason indeed. I told you he had three hundred and twenty-two dollars and seventeen cents on deposit with us. What I neglected to tell you was that it’s been attached. He couldn’t touch it. If he had deposited that fifty thousand, or a check for it for that matter, it would have been tied up”—he snapped his fingers—”like that. Why, the man owed everybody. Debts everywhere. Probably amount to thousands.” He chuckled again. “That Golf Syndicate deal was pretty well known and I’ll wager that if the transaction had been completed here in this office on Monday there would have been a line of creditors from my door to the street waiting for payment.”

  Dave nodded and, now that he understood why Mike Ludlow had been collecting the cash, he gave his attention to the contents of the manila envelope. He showed Worsham the will, the option, and the note from Sam Brennan. He borrowed a paper cutter to slit the envelope marked cruise. When he saw that it contained nothing but a few newspaper clippings he assumed that it was some publicity on a cruise Mike had once taken and put it aside. He offered the agreements and notes and correspondence on the various enterprises Ludlow had tried. He extended an invitation for lunch which was refused, reluctantly it seemed, because of a prior engagement. All this took no more than fifteen or twenty minutes and when it was over Worsham leaned back in his chair again and offered his opinion.

  “With the exception of that seventeen hundred dollar note, and that’s something you’ll have to look into, there’s nothing here that’s worth a damn.” He glanced up. “Wasn’t there anything at all for Mrs. Ludlow?”

  “Only a five thousand dollar insurance policy made out to her.”

  “Too bad,” Worsham said. “Quite a girl, Gloria. No one could ever understand why she put up with him as long as she did. He squandered every dime she had, you know.”

  “She was afraid of him,” Dave said.

  “I heard that too,” Worsham said. “Heard it from her doctor. Those things get around, you know, even when they’re not supposed to. I understand there were times when she was afraid to put on a bathing suit because of the bruises. Well”—he stood up and shook hands—“I’m sorry I can’t be more encouraging about these things Mike left, but that’s the way it is. You’ll be in here Monday, I take it. Option time you know. Wouldn’t want Old John to miss out now, would we?”

  Once on the sidewalk, Clarence Hayworth, in his neat suit, white shirt, and gray felt hat was at Dave Payne’s side before he could get his eyes adjusted to the sunlight.

  “Down this way, sir,” he said. “Very difficult to park these days but if you would care to wait right here I could pick you up. Only be a minute.”

  Dave said he would wait. He lit a cigarette and spent the rest of the time trying to keep from getting knocked into the street by the press of humanity that filled the narrow sidewalk. Across the way, a group of six who, from their shorts—the men’s were too baggy, the women’s too snug—and shirts, cameras, and silly-looking hats could only have come from a cruise ship, were window shopping in a department store. At the moment they seemed even more bewildered than he did, and he was smiling absently when the taxi pulled up in front of him and Clarence leaned back to open the door.

  Broad Street had been made into a one-way thorough-fare since he had last been here, and it was due to this as much as chance that he was able to follow Joan Allison. He saw her as they approached the lower end of the street where it spilled out into Trafalgar Square and the Careenage Bridge. The fact that she was half running helped him pick her out and she continued on with a reckless disregard for traffic until she reached the taxi stand just beyond the Royal Bank. He saw her climb into the first cab with hardly a word to the driver, who almost immediately backed out and started to swing toward the bridge. By this time Dave’s car was no more than a hundred feet behind and, not knowing what Joan’s trouble was but only that she was in a very great hurry, he told Clarence to follow the other car.

  It was not easy to stay close because they were in the warehouse district now, and the trucks and pushcarts with their lumber and casks and oil drums served to impede their progress. Later when they drew even with the new administration buildings only two cars separated them, and from then on there was no problem as they passed the power plant and the Savannah.

  A mile or so farther on Joan’s car slowed down as it approached the Seaside Hotel which stood between the highway and the beach. She was still paying the driver, with one eye on the hotel entrance, when Dave rolled past. She did not see him and Clarence, aware that he wanted to stop, pulled into an indented area beyond the entrance where there was room for a dozen or so cars. Now, trying to angle into a vacant space, Clarence began to mumble. For a second or two Dave paid no attention to the mumbling, but a word or two came through that caught his attention and he said: “What?”

  “Tourist drivers,” Clarence said with high disdain. “That car there,” he added, and pointed to a small sedan which had just been parked a little nearer the hotel entrance.

  “What about it?” Dave said, watching the man who had apparently parked it walk back toward the hotel.

  “Last night,” Clarence said. “When I’m taking you to Mr. Ludlow’s and we want to turn into the lane. That man nearly hit us.”

  “Oh?” Dave remembered the incident and as he did so his interest quickened and his brain began to work. “Are you sure, Clarence?”

  “I recognized the number. I tell you then it belongs to Mr. Starr.”

  “Okay.” Dave got out. He could see neither the man nor Joan now but he knew what he wanted to do and he stopped long enough to give Clarence instructions. “You find a telephone, Clarence,” he said. “Call the garage and tell them about that car and find out who they rented it to, understand?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Payne. Be glad to do that for you. I’ll find out and no need for you to worry any more about it.”

  9

  JOAN ALLISON was just turning away from the desk when Dave entered the lobby and as soon as she saw him she stopped in her tracks. The surprise, which was clearly written on her young face, held her there and she gave expression to it when he stopped in front of her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you.”

  “From where?”

  “From where you got the cab downtown. You seemed to be in an awful hurry and I wondered why.”

  Traces of suspicion lingered in her glance as she considered his statement, and then he told her about Clarence Hayworth. He said that Clarence was now checking with Starr’s Garage to see who rented the car, and then he made the guess.

  “Was the man you followed
the one you saw out behind the bungalow last night? The one you described in Major Fleming’s office?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “At least I’m pretty sure he was. I just happened to see his car turn into Broad Street. The traffic held him up so I could keep up with him until he got to that open space at the end of the street where the taxis are.… I just asked about him at the desk. His name is Sankar. He’s a solicitor—whatever that is—from Trinidad and he has Room 212.”

  Guests, and friends of guests, were moving in and out of the lobby as they stood there, but as he looked round he saw a small sitting room across the way. From where he stood it seemed empty and now he took her arm and guided her through the doorway.

  “What should we do now?” she said when they were alone.

  “Well, for one thing, we ought to tell Major Fleming. But before that I’d like to talk to Sankar. I’d also like to take a quick look around his room.”

  “What could you talk to him about?”

  “Well—he’s a lawyer, and I’m a lawyer. I imagine I can find some things to talk about that would interest him for a while. If I could only think of some way of getting him out of the room—”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know—yet. But suppose you went up there and talked to him and then at a certain time I knocked at the door. Suppose I could get him to step out into the hall and talk to me for two or three minutes. Do you think that would be long enough?”

  “Sure,” Dave said. “But how could you do that?”

  She thought a moment, brows wrinkled over the intent dark-blue eyes. She put a knuckle to her lips, pressed her teeth absently in her concentration; then she tipped her head and her eyes opened. “What’s the name of the local paper?”

  “The Advocate.”

  “All right.” The wrinkles went away and the smile came. “I’ll get him out. I didn’t work on a newspaper for a year after I got out of college for nothing.” She gave him a small push. “How much time do you want?”

  He eyed her with some skepticism for a moment, but her new-found confidence was contagious and he decided it would be worth a try. He said three or four minutes should be long enough, squeezed her hand, and started for the stairs.

  Dave Payne’s first impression of the man who opened the door of Room 212 was that he was about the height of Roger Eustis but with a chubbier figure and a dark, smooth-skinned face that was more round than angular. The crow-black hair was thick and wavy and the soft black eyes that inspected him seemed more sly than direct.

  “Mr. Sankar?”

  “I am Mr. Sankar.”

  “Do you have a minute? May I come in?”

  “Please do.” Sankar opened the door, let Dave enter, and closed it behind him.

  “You are a solicitor, Mr. Sankar?”

  “That is right.”

  “From Trinidad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Dave took out his wallet and found a business card. “I’m an attorney too,” he said. “From Boston.”

  The sedately engraved business card must have impressed Sankar because his manner was at once more cordial. He removed a brief case from a chair and offered the chair to Dave. He took the other straight-backed chair from a small table by the single window. There was a portable typewriter case on the table, and a package of laundry that looked as if it had just been delivered. The rest of the furniture was no more than adequate: a bed, a chest, the two chairs, and one floor lamp. One partly opened door revealed a bath; the other was closed and apparently gave on a closet.

  “I represent a group from the States,” Dave said, a little surprised at his own glibness, “that may be interested in making some investments in this part of the world, particularly in Trinidad. I thought you might be able to help me.… Do you have a card?”

  Sankar mumbled some apology and reached for a hip wallet. He had to fumble in two compartments before he found what he wanted and this gave Dave a chance to study him more closely. The dark skin, the angle of the eyes, and the shiny thickness of the hair told him that while this was a man of mixed ancestry, the dominant strain was probably East Indian. The tropical-weight tan suit was neat enough, but the edges of the cuffs showed wear and the button holes had a frayed look. The brownand-white shoes had also seen much wear, but the fingers that were fumbling for the card were clean and well kept.

  “Here we are, Mr. Payne.”

  Dave thanked him. He saw that the card was slightly soiled around the edges, as though it had been in the wallet a long time, but the printing was clear enough and read: Eric Sankar—Solicitor. In one corner was a St. Vincent Street address in Port of Spain and opposite this was a telephone number.

  As he pocketed the card, Sankar reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table. He shook one out for Dave and when Dave took it he saw it was a cork-tipped Raleigh.

  “Ahh,” he said, when he had accepted a light. “An American cigarette.”

  “Not really, I’m afraid,” Sankar said and smiled. “They make these in Trinidad, probably under some American license. I’m not sure they are the same as yours but they’re not too bad.”

  Dave nodded and inhaled again. He said they tasted all right to him, and after that he no longer had any difficulty finding things to say.

  “Do you do mostly court work, Mr. Sankar?”

  “Not in recent years. I do some briefs for others but mostly my work is investigative.”

  “Good,” Dave said. “That’s the sort of thing we need. You know Trinidad well?”

  “I have lived there most of my life.”

  “I understand property values are very high now.”

  “That is true. But there is much building activity. New houses going up everywhere. We have recently completed a new hotel. It is as modern as anything you will find anywhere, Mr. Payne. It is built on the side of a hill. You would not believe it but the entrance is at the top of the building instead of the bottom and the elevators go down to the rooms instead of up.”

  “Are you here on business now?”

  “I have recently concluded some business here, yes.”

  “This is work of a confidential nature?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Dave said, “because you understand it’s essential that whoever represents us be discreet as well as trustworthy. Should we get interested in some specific idea we would not want it generally known.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  “Then is there anyone here you could give me as a reference?” Dave asked, still amazed at finding he could lie so easily. “Preferably someone you’ve worked for recently. I don’t care about the details you understand; but if your work has been satisfactory here it would help me in making a proper report to my principals.”

  Sankar gave him a sly-eyed glance as he considered the request, and he seemed to be weighing caution against the possibility of large future gains. He watched Dave take out his card and a pencil and turn it over as though waiting to write down the names of these references. Apparently thought of potential gain won out.

  “I have done some work for a Mr. Richard Dunning,” he said. “I think he will tell you that the result was satisfactory.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Well—there’s also a Mr. Crawford.”

  “Good.” Dave put the card and pencil away and hoped his interest did not show. “This work was of an investigative nature?”

  The knock on the door came just in time for Dave and saved Eric Sankar an answer. His head jerked round and he looked at the door a moment before he stood up and opened it. He stepped part way into the hall, and while the angle was such that Dave could not see Joan he could hear what was said and his respect for her poise and her agile mind mounted swiftly.

  “Mr. Sankar? … I’m from the daily Advocate. I do a column two or three times a week about visitors to the island. Just a paragraph or so about interesting people. They told me at the desk that yo
u are a lawyer and that you’re from Trinidad—”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing very interesting about me—”

  “You’re being modest, Mr. Sankar.”

  “Perhaps if you could come back,” Sankar said, unsettled by the situation and not yet knowing how to handle it. “I have someone with me—”

  “Oh, but this will only take a minute,” Joan continued in her most persuasive way. “And I have to get back to the office. Couldn’t you step into the hall? I just want to find out when you came and when you’re leaving and how often you visit us—things like that.”

  “Well—” Sankar weakened and was lost. He opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Will you excuse me for a minute or so, Mr. Payne? I won’t be long.”

  Dave was on his feet before the door closed, very proud of Joan now and delighted with her performance as he opened the typewriter case to make sure it held a typewriter. Satisfied, he turned to the chest, and when the drawers revealed nothing but clean shirts and underwear and socks, he took a quick glance into the bath, and then inspected the closet. It took only a moment to realize that there was nothing here but a pair of pajamas, a blue suit, a straw hat, and a pair of black shoes. But he could feel the sand underfoot, and as he leaned down he could see that there was sand in the cracks of the shoes; a further inspection revealed more sand in the cuffs of the trousers. Once he had backed into the room there was no place else to look but the brief case and he opened it now. There was no money or any sign of it, but there were some carbon copies of reports that Sankar had made.

  When he removed them, a word at the top of the first page—Dunning—caught his eye but he had no chance to continue. Luck helped him here. If Sankar had entered the room directly, Dave would have been caught with the reports in his hand. As it was the rattle of the doorknob tipped him off, but he was still trying to cram the sheets into an inside pocket when the door started to open. Then, miraculously, it stopped part way while Sankar took time to call to Joan: “That’s quite all right, Miss. Glad to be of help.”