One Hour to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  He glanced at the woman and said: “Twice Lorraine and I took the same plane. Another time I took the morning plane and she left in the afternoon. I know that because I saw her at the Barbados Airport when I was getting ready to come back. Fay thought she could put two and two together so she hired a detective by the name of Leon Doucette, by mail apparently, sending him a seventy-five-dollar retainer and telling him what she wanted. I’m guessing now, but this is the way it has to be.”

  He took a quick breath and said: “Fay gave Doucette a written description of Lorraine as well as a description of me, a description that could fit Nick Rand almost as well. People have told me that we look something alike. I don’t happen to see it but I can understand why they might think so. My point now is that because Fay had no photograph of me to send Doucette she told him to follow Lorraine instead of me for the very simple reason that Lorraine is a striking-looking woman. With her height and figure and smart clothes she would stand out, even in a crowd. It would be impossible to miss her, and since Fay was certain I was meeting her she assumed Lorraine would lead Doucette to me. He must have met Lorraine’s plane on those Saturdays. He stayed with her until she met her man, a man who bore my general description and could be assumed to be me.”

  “Yes,” Carver said, his voice husky and barely audible. “I know Rand has a cottage in Rarbados and that he takes a schooner into Bridgetown regularly.”

  “Doucette reported what he saw,” Wallace said. “He took those three candid shots. He knew where Rand and Lorraine went and where they stayed. Everything in that report is true except my identity, and Doucette never suspected his mistake, nor did Fay, until he came yesterday afternoon to turn in the report and collect his fee. When Fay saw the photos she knew what had happened.”

  Carver sat silent and immobile, nothing moving but his eyes. When Wallace stopped talking they fastened on his wife, and for a few seconds she tried to meet his cold contemptuous gaze; then she started to cry, silently, head down as she struggled to remove her glasses.

  Wallace kept going. He told about Doucette and how he had died. He explained how he had read the report and then replaced it in Doucette’s pocket when he heard Ann blow the horn.

  “Rand was no fool,” he said. “He must have known that when the police identified Doucette they’d eventually ask the Barbados police to search his office. There would probably be another copy of that report in Doucette’s files. When the police found it they’d be asking questions and once you knew about the affair you'd most likely demand payment on that note—which Rand could not meet—and seize his schooner, the only thing he really cared about. I think that’s why he came here tonight with the gun. He wanted the note and he was gambling that once you had read the report you’d rather let him get away with that than have him arrested and face the scandal.”

  “I see,” Carver said, in a tone which suggested that he did not see at all.

  “The important thing,” Wallace said, “is that Rand knew Doucette had that report.”

  “Obviously.”

  “How did he know?”

  “I expect Doucette went to him.”

  “I don’t think so. Someone went to Doucette’s this afternoon and poisoned his bottle of rum because he knew too much, missing a copy of the report because he was carrying it but knowing Doucette would always be a threat as long as he lived. Rand was told about that report. He came to Doucette’s room hoping to get it and—”

  “Then Rand killed him.”

  “No.” Wallace shook his head. “The person who killed him killed Fay last night.”

  Carver looked right at him, his gaze unwavering. “Well?”

  “Your wife killed Fay.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  Lorraine was no longer crying. Her brown hands were ridged on the chair arms. So was her face, ridged and tear-stained and wild-eyed.

  Wallace took one look at her and kept talking to Carver. “When Fay read that report she must have told Doucette plenty. I know he was at the house because Oliver said so. And one thing sure, she did not pay him. Today when he learned that she was dead I think he came to Lorraine—or telephoned her—because he wanted to collect for his work. She must have stalled him with some sort of promise, learned where he was staying, and gone there to take care of that rum. Later she must have told Rand about the report and—”

  “No!” The voice was shrill with hysteria. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t believe him, Herbert, you—” Carver cut her off peremptorily. “Be still!” he snapped. “Go on, Wallace. Let’s have the rest of it.”

  22

  Dave Wallace sat down on the edge of the nearest chair and took a moment to put his thoughts in order. As he found a cigarette and snapped the flame from his lighter, he watched Carver take the automatic from the desk, examine it once more, and put it carefully down. He moved the riding crop a few inches to one side. He folded his arms across his chest, his gaze intent as he waited, and now Wallace began to tell how he had found Fay waiting for him yesterday afternoon.

  “That report on the desk is a carbon copy,” he said. “I think Doucette had the original with him when he called on Fay yesterday afternoon. Fay had a piece of good luck yesterday,” he said and told about the bet Neil Benedict had made, “but the report itself was a flop so far as I was concerned. She had nothing on me but she had plenty on Lorraine and Rand, and she hated both of them, Rand because he had dropped her after a couple of weeks and Lorraine because she was having the affair Fay had wanted.

  “You both saw how she was at dinner last night,” he continued. “You mentioned it when I stopped by here. She was in a pretty foul mood when we went to the Tavern and the more she drank the worse she got. I can only guess what she had in mind but from what I know now I’d say that by the time we finished dinner she had one idea in mind: revenge. She had a chance to expose three people and In the end she did just that.”

  “Three people?” Carver said.

  “Lorraine and Rand and an American by the name of Joe Anderson.”

  “Oh, yes,” Carver said. “I’ve met him.”

  Wallace hesitated before he continued and then he decided it would do no good now to explain that Anderson’s real name was Adderly or bother with any details as to why Anderson had come here from New York by way of São Paulo. The police would have that information by now and that was enough.

  “Fay was blackmailing Anderson,” he said. “The reason isn’t important, but Anderson was paying her in small doses. A hundred a week. The police questioned him about those payments and he said that Fay was helping him line up prospects for his real-estate development. The police accepted it because at the time they couldn’t prove otherwise. But last night Fay had more ambitious ideas.”

  “Are you still guessing?” Carver demanded.

  “Not entirely.” Wallace leaned forward from the edge of the chair, a tightness showing at the comers of his jaw but his eyes steady. “I talked with Joe Anderson not too long ago. He admitted that Fay wanted a large, lump-sum payment for her continued silence. I don’t know whether Anderson had already made a date with her or not; I do know that he drove to the bungalow about five minutes after ten last night and by that time Fay was dead.”

  He took a breath and said: “His story is that he found Fay on the floor of the hall. He picked her up, not knowing she was dead, and carried her into the bedroom. When he did realize what had happened he broke open one of her traveling bags to get the papers and articles that Fay had been using to blackmail him with. He got out as fast as he could but he was seen coming to my place. He’s with the police now—”

  “I fail to see what this has to do with my wife,” Carver said stiffly.

  “I’m saying that your wife went to the bungalow before that.”

  “That’s a serious charge, David.”

  “I know that.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Probably not to the satisfaction of a judge, but I’ve got a co
uple of facts that are good enough for me.”

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  “The original of that report on the desk,” Wallace said, “would be enough to take Lorraine to the bungalow if she knew Fay had it.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Fay was in a hurry to get back from the Tavern last night. When we did get back she started an argument and made such a fuss that I left. She showed some concern about the time and the reason was that she had already made a date. I’m not saying that she might not have made a date with Anderson but that’s not the one I’m talking about. A man named Sidney Joslyn had made a date with her and he came to keep it. Why he came is unimportant, the point is that he came. He talked to Fay and the proposition he made was turned down, at least temporarily.

  “Joslyn says that even then Fay acted as though she had something more important on her mind. She seemed to want to get rid of him and when he went outside to his car and started to drive away he happened to glance back through the window. She was already on the telephone and because he was curious about her attitude he stepped out of the car and listened. He doesn’t know what the conversation was about but just before he saw her hang up he heard her say: ‘You’d better be here in ten minutes or I’ll blow this whole thing sky high.’ ”

  There was a long moment of silence when he finished. Carver picked up the riding crop and began to twist it absently in his fingers as he leaned his hips against the desk.

  “What, exactly, is this supposed to prove?” he asked.

  “To me it proves that the call was made to Lorraine.”

  “It does? I fail to see why.”

  “Fay wouldn’t have said ten minutes unless the person she was talking to could get to the bungalow in that time.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “I think you do. Joe Anderson could not have driven from his house—or anywhere else in town—to the bungalow in ten minutes. Neither could Nick Rand. Lorraine could walk up the beach from here in five.”

  Wallace hesitated again, aware that he had Carver’s attention now and taking pains with his words.

  “I’ll carry the idea a step farther. Sidney Joslyn heard Fay make that call at nine forty-five. He drove down the lane and parked because he was curious. He waited there twenty minutes until he saw Anderson’s car make the turn into the lane. No one else came down that lane. No one could walk up the beach from the other side of the bungalow because of those seawalls and hedges. So, unless someone came by boat, I say the only one who could have come to the bungalow during that time was Lorraine—or you.”

  By then Wallace could tell that Carver was both worried and impressed and he went on quickly: “Lorraine went down there after she got that call, because she was afraid not to. I think Fay showed her the report; not that one, but the original one she had got from Leon Doucette. Lorraine had to have that report. What may have started as a mild affair with Nick Rand had got out of hand and Lorraine was enough of a realist to know that she might lose you and all the things you could give her if she was exposed.

  “I’m not saying she went there to kill Fay; I don’t think she did. But I think she tried to take that report from Fay and I know the kind of mood Fay was in. I also know she was like a wildcat when she got started, even if she wasn’t very big or very strong. It wouldn’t matter to her that Lorraine was five inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. Maybe she took a poke at Lorraine the same way she did me. I don’t know. I’ll admit I’m guessing about this part but I do know that Fay would fight. I think she kept right on fighting even after Lorraine got hold of the necklace and began to twist it.” Lorraine stood up, tear streaks showing in her make-up but no tears in her eyes now. She lifted her chin and her shoulders and a new arrogance marred her beauty.

  “What rot,” she said coldly, and looked at her husband. “You don’t for a minute believe this, do you, Herbert?”

  Carver made no reply. He was still studying Wallace. Many things showed themselves in his narrowed gaze, among them a look of indecision.

  “Very interesting,” he said finally. “But hardly conclusive, would you say, David?”

  Wallace had come to his feet when Lorraine rose. He had moved easily forward and when Carver finished he reached down and picked up the woman’s glasses.

  “Maybe I can make it more conclusive,” he said steadily. “If Lorraine didn’t go to the bungalow last night, maybe she can explain how she got my wife’s glasses.”

  Carver just stared at him. “What?” he said hollowly.

  “Fay snapped one of the sidebows of her glasses the day before yesterday.” He held them in front of Carver’s nose so he could see the slanting hairline crack that he had noticed a few minutes earlier. It had been this that clinched the theory that brought him here, and backed up his conviction that only Lorraine could have come to the bungalow between the time Sidney Joslyn left and the time Joe Anderson arrived. “Oliver cemented that break so cleverly it was hardly noticeable.”

  He stepped back, still holding the glasses. “Fay had these glasses at dinner last night. When I went to bed I saw her glasses case—the brocaded thing—but no glasses. The police found no glasses this morning when they went over the bungalow. But this morning the maid cut her foot on a piece of glass. Later the police got ahold of it. They told me it was optical glass.”

  He paused again, held by Carver’s reaction. He was still staring at the glasses with an odd sort of fascination but the rest of his expression seemed puzzled, as though he had not yet caught up with the explanation.

  “Your wife and mine were farsighted,” Wallace continued deliberately. “Their glasses were similar in appearance. Lorraine took her pair over to the bungalow last night because she couldn't have read that report without them. She must have had them on when the scrap started. They were knocked off and broken. The way it looks, someone must have stepped on them. When it was all over, there was only one smart thing to do and she did it.

  “She didn't dare come home without glasses,'' he said, “because she was farsighted and couldn't even read without them. I doubt if she even knew that crack was there until right now. Before she left she picked up what was left of the broken glasses—her glasses—and got rid of it. She missed a fragment or two and the police found them but assumed that it was Fay’s glasses that were broken; so did I.'' He looked at her. “Didn't you try to get new ones today? I mean, your own prescription?”

  “Certainly I tried. I phoned the optometrist but this isn’t New York or London. He said I couldn't possibly get them before tomorrow at the earliest.”

  Wallace nodded and glanced again at Carver as a new thought came to him. “I'm surprised you didn’t know about that phone call last night.”

  “I heard it ring,” Carver said, as though finally accepting the evidence Wallace had presented. “I was reading and when it didn't ring again I knew Lorraine had taken the call in her room. I thought nothing of it. I assumed she was undressing. I had no idea she had left the house because when she came in here a half hour later to suggest a game of gin rummy she was wearing a hostess gown and looking—well, just as she always looked.”

  Wallace had moved back to the center of the room with the glasses and as Carver finished he was aware of the change in the man. He seemed in the last five minutes to have aged five years. His handsome face looked slack and gray and he tapped the riding crop absently against one thigh as he moved away from the desk. He took a slow breath and tried to straighten his shoulders.

  “I knew there would be flirtations now and then,” he said as though this was the most important thing of all. “I was ready to accept them because I loved her. I—I still do.”

  Wallace had been listening but he was watching the woman now and what happened then seemed like a fantasy in slow motion. She had been standing between the card table and the desk and slightly behind her husband, and as he spoke she moved sideways. She took two unhurried steps, her body still poised and graceful. Then, even as Wallac
e watched in open-eyed amazement, knowing what she was about to do just as he knew he could not stop her, she reached out, took Rand’s automatic from the desk and backed a few feet away.

  The best Wallace could manage in that first startled moment was a hesitant “Hey!” but something in his look must have warned Carver because he wheeled quickly. Then, as he understood what had happened, he said: “Lorraine!”

  The sharp urgency of his tone made a jarring sound in the quiet room. Wallace felt it go through him and set his nerve ends tingling. He watched Carver lean slightly forward from the waist as a new stiffness took hold of his body. He spoke again.

  “Put it down! Do you hear me?”

  The woman did not answer him; she merely shook her head, the little gun steady in her hand, her smile fixed as silence again enveloped the room.

  23

  For the next few seconds Dave Wallace was more concerned for Carver than he was for himself. For although the gun was pointed at him rather than at the Englishman, he knew what he was going to do—namely, nothing. He was perfectly willing to wait and see what developed, but Carver had already started to move ever so slowly toward his wife. The look of shock and astonishment was still on his patrician face but he had his hand out now and the gun swung to cover him. “Please,” he said. “That’s not the way.”

  “No.” The woman moved back just as slowly and kept her distance, her voice rising with each word. “Listen to me . . . Herbert!” There was a compelling harshness to the last word that seemed finally to penetrate Carvers mind and bring its own warning. He stopped now and she said: “Don’t make me use this. I know what I’m doing.”