He had parked and locked his own car on Western Main Road by the time Ann pulled alongside him and now he slid in beside her and slammed the door. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said, “but I’m awfully glad you did.” He squeezed her hand hard and after a moment she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Don’t scold me for not staying at the bungalow,” she said. “I meant to, but it was so spooky sitting there alone I decided to drive back here and wait until you came down the road— but you didn’t come. I began to wonder about you. I couldn’t believe it would take that long to search the house, so I drove up and I saw your car parked off to one side of the road. When I got to Mr. Anderson’s house I could see the top of his car in the garage. Then I really got worried. I didn’t know what else to do so—”
“You did all right,” Wallace said. “But you scared me plenty. It was pretty sticky there for a while and—” He stopped and turned to peer at her. “You didn’t actually call the police, did you?”
“No. I guess we were just lucky . . . What was in the envelope the sergeant took? Do you think Mr. Anderson killed Fay?”
“One thing at a time,” Wallace said and told her about the envelope, and who Anderson really was, and how Fay had been blackmailing him. “I don’t know whether he killed her or not,” he added. “He certainly had the motive, and the opportunity, but—”
“But what?”
Wallace started to answer the question and then found he couldn’t. He considered the evidence against Anderson and found it damning. Everything seemed to fit and yet somewhere in the back of his head there was some vague and unsupported bit of doubt that clung like a bur to his subconscious mind. Somehow there was a piece in the puzzle that did not seem to fit, as though some fact, or some bit of information he had heard, made a flaw in the picture. He tried to pinpoint the objection without success and after a few seconds he passed on to something more tangible.
“Did you find out about Leon Doucette?”
“Yes, sir. He’s in room six at the Victoria Hotel. He checked in yesterday afternoon.”
“You found out all this over the telephone?”
“Certainly. I used my sweet-talking voice and the clerk was very co-operative . . . Is that where were going now?” Wallace said yes. He asked for the street address and when she gave it he said she could drive.
20
The Victoria Hotel was located on a side street about halfway between the water front and the Savannah. From the street side it was an unprepossessing white-painted structure that looked as if it had once been a private home to which an addition had been made at the rear to give it a T-shape, with the broad side facing the street.
There were a half dozen cars standing in the parking area when Ann Joslyn pulled to a stop near the entrance. The lighted lobby was clearly visible through the open windows from where they sat and three of the guests—two white and one colored—were talking near the desk as Ann cut the motor and Wallace considered his next step.
For some reason he could not put his finger on, he did not want to be any more conspicuous than necessary. He had no real premonition that there might be trouble ahead, but as Ann sat patiently beside him he considered certain precautionary measures.
“Room six?” he asked finally.
“That’s what the man said. What if he isn’t in?”
“Maybe we could find out about that,” Wallace said as he saw a blue-jacketed bellhop move out on the front step to get some air and look for a potential customer. He took some bills from his pocket and found a dollar. When he stuck his head out the window and whistled softly, the bellboy saw him and trotted forward. Wallace offered the dollar and said: “Do you know a Mr. Leon Doucette? He came in from Barbados yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, yes sir.” The boy, a good-looking East Indian with a lot of wavy black hair, smiled and nodded. “I know who Mr. Doucette is.”
“He has room six.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Do you know if he’s in now?”
“I don’t think so. He went out late this afternoon. He could have come back but I didn’t see him.”
“Ask the desk clerk, will you? If Doucette’s not in, maybe the clerk can tell you when he’s expected.”
The boy trotted obediently away and they could see him through the windows as he leaned across the desk and spoke to the clerk. A half minute later he was back with news.
“Mr. Doucette is not in now, sir, but the clerk does not think he will be too long. The dining room closes in forty minutes and he thinks Mr. Doucette will be here.”
“Okay,” Wallace said. “We’ll wait. When Doucette gets here just come out on the top step and give me a wave. . . .” The luck which had been riding with Wallace the last hour continued to favor him when, no more than ten minutes later, a taxi pulled up to the entrance and discharged a passenger. Without ever having seen the man, but recalling the description Oliver had given him of the stranger who had stopped at the bungalow late yesterday afternoon, he was ready to believe that this was Leon Doucette.
He sat up slowly to peer through the windshield as the man crossed the raised entryway, and there was enough light from the lobby to tell him that the new arrival was on the small side, and wiry-looking, clad in a light-colored suit, white shoes, and a brown straw hat. He had no look at the features but he could tell the skin was brown, and he had already started to open the car door when the bellboy came to the front steps and waved one arm.
“What are you going to do?” Ann asked as she saw the signal.
“Talk to him. Find out why he was working for Fay and what he knows.”
“Suppose he won’t talk.”
“If he’s like that other private detective this afternoon he’ll talk if I show him some money. Sit tight, baby. And this time stay right here, hunh?”
He left the car and walked up to the boy, who was still on the top step. “Room six?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First floor?”
“On the right, past the desk.”
Wallace went through the lobby as quickly as he could, pleased that it was but a few steps to the corridor, and keeping his head averted. He found number six on the right, and seconds after he had knocked the door opened and he was looking into a smooth, sharp-featured face while shadowed black eyes inspected him warily.
“Mr. Doucette?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Hassan Rahmat told me I’d probably find you here,” Wallace said and eased his way past the smaller man. “My name is David Wallace. I believe you did some work for my wife.”
Doucette closed the door slowly, his eyes busy with thought as he seemed to consider not only the question but his caller as well. Seen close up, his color seemed more swarthy than brown. His black hair was thin and oily. So was his manner as he said:
“Ah, yes, Mr. Wallace.”
The brown straw hat was already resting on a round table near the center of the room and now he slipped out of his jacket and draped it on the back of a nearby chair. As he straightened there was a noticeable change in his attitude. His head came up and he turned it slowly, his eyes darting about the room. When they finally came back to Wallace he said:
“You have been here before, Mr. Wallace?”
“Me? No.”
Doucette nodded, his frown apparent as he stepped over to the bureau and began to open the drawers. When he finished here he opened the wardrobe to glance inside and from where Wallace stood he could see nothing more than an extra suit on its hanger and a pair of shoes on the floor. The room seemed in order to him but apparently Doucette saw things that he didn't.
“I'm afraid someone else has then,” he said, and now his glance finally focused on Wallace. “Yes,” he said. “I did some work for Mrs. Wallace . . . May I ask how you knew this?” he added in the same suave manner.
Wallace produced the business card he had taken from Fay’s wallet the night before. He let the detective look at it and
said: “I've been wondering how she hired you.”
Doucette’s thin shoulders moved under the white, shortsleeved shirt. “She wanted some work done and—”
“That isn't what I meant,” Wallace cut in. “You operate out of Barbados. I didn't know my wife had been over there.”
“Oh, that.” The sly smile came again. “She contacted me by mail.”
“Who recommended you in the first place, Hassan Rahmat?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I know he did some work for her too.”
“I have known Rahmat for some time. He was good enough to give your wife my name.”
Wallace remembered the stub he had seen in his wife’s checkbook and decided to keep on guessing. “When she wrote you and told you what she wanted she sent you a check for seventy-five dollars as a retainer.”
“That is correct.”
“You made your report. You flew in with it from Barbados yesterday. Tell me,” he said, remembering that there had been two calls to the hotel gift shop the previous afternoon. “Did you call my wife at the Hillside Hotel?”
“I did.”
“You got a taxi and drove out to the bungalow. You talked to my wife and then you gave her a lift back into town.” He hesitated again as his mind once more reviewed the checkbook stubs he had seen. “But my wife didn’t pay you, did she?”
“No, sir. She did not. You see”—he shrugged the thin shoulders again—“unfortunately there had been a misunderstanding. A mistake was made.”
“So all you collected for your trouble was the seventy-five-dollar retainer she sent you?”
Doucette frowned. He took a small breath and his lips moved in and out silently as he considered his reply. After a few seconds of this, Wallace continued.
“You know she was killed last night?”
“I learned that fact today,” Doucette said, and then, as though he had just reached some conclusion of his own, he nodded. “Mr. Wallace,” he said, “I can see we should have a talk. As I said, there’s been a misunderstanding. But first we should have a friendly drink, I think.” He waved toward a bottle of rum that stood on the bureau along with two glasses and a plain white pitcher. “I will get some water.”
Wallace eased down on the edge of the bed, his angular face grave and the blue eyes speculative. Something about the detective’s attitude puzzled him. He did not particularly want a drink but his curiosity was aroused now and he decided to play along and see what happened. He could hear the water running in the adjoining bathroom and presently Doucette reappeared with the pitcher in hand.
“I could order some ice if you care to wait,” he said.
“Rum and water is fine,” Wallace said. “Just make mine fight, please.”
He watched the detective pour an inch of rum into one glass and add another two inches of water. When he had offered this to Wallace he poured another inch of rum into the second glass and swallowed it quickly. He made a face and coughed. “This local rum does not compare with Barbados rum,” he said and poured another ounce or two into his glass. This time he added water and brought his drink over to the chair by the table.
“I needed that first one,” he said, his face still warped from the first drink. “This has been a difficult day—”
He stopped suddenly and in the next instant a look of quick astonishment transformed his features. He opened his mouth and sucked air noisily as he stared at the glass. He made a retching sound, and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. For another second he stood there weaving; then the glass dropped from his hand and he started to reach for the chair.
By then Wallace knew that something was horribly wrong and suddenly he was scared stiff. He watched the eyes roll back until only the whites were showing. He heard the harsh, gasping, and unnatural sound of the man’s breathing, but he couldn't move or find his voice. He could only stare in morbid fascination at that contorted face, knowing somehow that Doucette had been poisoned by the rum he himself had left untouched, that he was dying in front of his eyes.
Watching helplessly, he saw a muscular spasm hit the thin figure, the back arching. For a moment he seemed to come up on tiptoe and just as suddenly the body sagged and hit the edge of the chair and collapsed on the floor, the chair tipping with him.
What happened then and how long it took was never more than a hazy nightmare in Wallace’s mind. He did what he could, not really thinking but motivated by some idea that he should try to get Doucette to the bathroom. He came off the bed and went to one knee beside the still-jerking figure. He tried not to look at the gray twisted face but he could tell that the lips were drawn back against the teeth, that some colored liquid was oozing from the corner of the mouth. He could see the legs straighten and jerk again as he slid one arm around the shoulders. He put the other hand beneath the knees, and even as he started to lift, the stiffness vanished and there was nothing but a dead weight in his arms which was limp and lifeless and terrifying to contemplate.
There was no more struggle for breath; there was no breathing at all. When he understood finally that he could not help, he slipped his arm from beneath the knees and very gently lowered the shoulders to the floor. He did not attempt to find a pulse beat because instinct told him that it was already too late.
Somehow he struggled to his feet and lurched toward the open window. He stood there trembling as he stared out into the night. He sucked air in great, open-mouthed gulps while he fought the nausea inside him. Gradually the shaking stopped and when he could he turned and looked at the bottle. He looked at his untouched drink and finally his mind began to work again, bringing a new and more despairing kind of sickness.
There was no thought in his mind that but for a bit of luck he might well be stretched out on the floor beside Doucette. Instead he thought about the police and the fantastic story he would have to tell them when the body was discovered. His fingerprints were still on that glass but they could be removed. He was not sure the desk clerk had seen him but once the police started their investigation the bellboy would certainly remember him and his questions.
He was still counting the odds against him as he moved back to the table and carefully polished the outside of Iris glass with a handkerchief. He tried not to look at the lifeless form or the overturned glass or the dark stain on the threadbare rug. He tried to remember the tilings that had been said here and it was then that he recalled Doucette’s statement that someone had been here earlier. This seemed to imply that the room might have been searched but the detective had not seemed unduly concerned and now, on impulse, he stepped to the coat which had been draped on the back of the chair, felt the inside pocket, and pulled out some folded sheets of paper.
Seconds later he knew that he had a copy of the report Doucette had made for his wife. It was four or five pages long, and pasted to the last page were three small snapshots. Apparently they had been taken from some distance, for the figures were small but, to Wallace, instantly familiar.
Each one showed a man and a woman. The first showed them in bathing suits as they walked along the beach, the man’s arm around the woman’s waist. The second showed them standing close and facing each other on some porch that was otherwise unidentifiable. The last one pictured them sitting at a table across from each other and now, without reading the report itself, Wallace began to understand what Doucette meant when he said a mistake had been made. He also knew why the little detective had not been paid for the report.
His original thought—that Fay had hired Doucette to keep track of his movements in Barbados—was still valid, but the man in the pictures was not David Wallace but a man some had said looked like him: Nick Rand. The woman was Lorraine Carver.
In the next few seconds the horror of the past minutes was forgotten as he scanned the pages and recalled his earlier thoughts about the demand note Herbert Carver held on Nick Rand’s schooner. Pieces began to fall into place, and from out of nowhere came the remembered fact that he had been trying to dred
ge from the depth of his mind. He knew what it was now, knew where it had come from. Then, even as he realized that the pattern he had been looking for now made sense, he heard the blast of an automobile horn from somewhere out front.
He seemed to know as the sound was repeated that it had been done deliberately. He was positive that it was Ann who had blown the horn and he acted instinctively without knowing why he had been warned.
Because his first thought was of the police, and because he knew that Doucette’s report and photographs would be essential to their investigation, he refolded the pages and tucked them into the dead man’s pocket where they would be found. He glanced at the open window, at the door to the hall, and then, not knowing how much time he had left, he stepped into the darkened bathroom, pushed out the screen of the window, and stepped behind the open door. An inch-wide crack at the hinge gave him a partial view of the room and there he waited, knowing he could get out in a hurry if he had to but wanting to know first what the odds were.
Seconds passed. He found himself trying to count them. When he came to sixty he started all over again while sweat broke out on his face and hands and the stiffness grew in the backs of his legs. From where he stood he could see the hall door and it did not open, but suddenly he found his instincts warning him that someone was already in the room.
He could feel the prickling on the back of his neck as he waited, breath held and one eye to the crack. He had heard nothing at the window but now there was a soft shuffling sound, followed by the creak of a board as some weight was applied. He wondered if his straining ears had heard the sound of breathing not his own, and in the next moment he had his answer.
The sight of the broad muscular back and the sun-bleached blond hair should not have startled him, but it did. He had known by that time that the intruder was not from the police, otherwise the entry would have been made by the door. He did not know how long Nick Rand had been standing inside, beyond his range of vision, but he was here now, moving into view, standing over Doucette’s lifeless form, and the sight of him served only to make more convincing the pattern of murder he had so recently formed.
One Hour to Kill Page 16