One Minute Past Eight (10 page)

“But if there is a better way?”

“Is there?”

“His office is on what floor?”

“Fourteen.”

“And when you have finished your talk, what is to prevent him from picking up the telephone to report your presence to the police? The radio cars come quick these days. If there should be any delay in waiting for an elevator you could be picked up at the entrance before you could reach my car. If you do not mind a suggestion I think it best to try another way.”

Jeff had been paying attention and what Cordovez said made sense.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“First I will see if he is in his office. If so I will wait downstairs until he comes out. I will then say you wish to see him and if he agrees I will bring him here and you can talk. If I have any doubts we will have to think of something else but no harm will be done for the moment.”

He smiled again as Jeff hesitated, then opened the car door. From the top of the sun visor he removed a newspaper printed in Spanish. “If you pretend to read this,” he said, “your face will be well hidden.”

It was exactly eighteen minutes later when Jeff saw them start across the street, Miranda immaculately erect in his dark suit and Panama hat, Cordovez bareheaded, his bald spot glistening in the fading sunlight, trotting a little to keep pace. As they neared the car Jeff replaced the newspaper and gave the detective proper credit for a smart idea, well executed; then he stepped out on the sidewalk and waited.

Miranda nodded coldly, his black eyes speculating. “I do not understand why you did not come to my office,” he said. “But if you wish to talk here I can spare you five minutes.”

“You will be more comfortable in back,” Cordovez said and opened the rear door. “I will wait near by.”

Miranda slid over on the seat and Jeff followed him; the confidence he had felt earlier was dissipating rapidly, but he was determined to find out what he could while he could. He asked first if Miranda knew about Arnold Grayson.

“I was informed by the police fifteen minutes ago,” Miranda said. “You wish to talk to me because you feel the need of legal counsel?”

“Not exactly,” Jeff said. “But it’s something I may need a lot of before too long and I might as well tell you what I know.”

There was no interruption as he related the facts as he knew them. He pointed out his own position as a suspect but made no mention of Karen Holmes’s part in making his present freedom possible.

“Because you had this fight with Grayson, and because Spencer may have seen you come from the building, you decided to run,” Miranda said, “You are afraid the police are now looking for you. And what do you expect to gain by this?”

“Time,” Jeff said, “and maybe some information.” Then, because he knew of no other way, he plunged ahead, his body poised should he need to move quickly. “Because the way I see it you have a pretty fair motive for murder yourself, Mr. Miranda.”

He could feel the other stiffen beside him but when there was no immediate reply, he said: “What is your wife’s first name?”

“Muriel”

“And what would you say if I told you she was planning to run away with Grayson tomorrow night?”

The brown, aristocratic face grew pale at the cheekbones and the answer came quickly, the words clipped and forceful.

“I would demand that you prove your accusation or apologize instantly.”

Jeff already had the two airline tickets in his hand and he passed them quickly to Miranda without comment. He watched the man’s dark gaze narrow as he examined the covers of the two tickets. He sat that way for several seconds, as though reluctant to open them and see what lay inside. Finally he bent one cover back, glanced at the ticket; he examined the other. He looked at Jeff.

“Where did you get them?”

Jeff told him. “If there’s any doubt in your mind,” he said, “you could check with the airline office. The only point that concerns me is—did you know about this or didn’t you?”

The outburst Jeff had expected never came. There was no denial, no outward sign that Miranda had heard what was said. He settled back against the cushions, no longer looking at Jeff or the tickets. His gaze was fixed at some point beyond the windshield, but the things he saw were in his mind. When he spoke, his voice had a remote quality and the thoughts he expressed came from the past.

“It has never been easy,” he said.

Jeff hesitated, and then checked the question that came to mind, as some instinctive knowledge warned him not to break the spell Miranda had cast about himself.

“She could not get used to the customs of this country,” he added finally. “She had always had much freedom and she could not understand that here a wife does not go out in the evening without her husband. In the afternoon, perhaps with other women to tea, yes; not otherwise.

“She worked at the Tamanaco,” he said. “She was brought here because she was experienced in hotel work—as a secretary and a hostess. There are many cocktail parties given there for business reasons. She would arrange the details. That is how I met her. After that I saw her as often as I could because I knew then I wanted her for my wife. There was much I could give her. I think she knew this just as she knew that I loved her very much even though I was twenty years older.

“But as Mrs. Luis Miranda she had certain duties and obligations. I tried to explain these, to tell her that a woman was judged by standards different from those in the States. When I insisted, she accused me of being jealous—which I must admit I was—and of being too strict. She complained that she had no fun. She threatened to leave me, but without money I knew she would not do this since this also was important to her.”

He fell silent, his gaze still remote and his dark face impassive. When the silence began to build, Jeff risked a question.

“You knew about Grayson?”

“Yes, I knew. He was a client. There were parties we both attended. But I did not know how friendly they had become.” He paused again, and when he continued, the absent quality was missing from his voice and the accent was grim. “I have a beach cottage at Macuto, which is near the sea beyond La Guaira. I learned that there were afternoons when she had gone there with Grayson.”

“You told her what you knew?”

“Naturally”

“You fought about it.”

“There was no fight.”

“But you were jealous,” Jeff pressed, certain now that there would be no more reminiscing.

“I have admitted this.”

“Grayson was beaten pretty savagely. It was the sort of attack a jealous husband would make. As a motive for murder you’ve got one of the best.”

Miranda eyed him narrowly, watching intently, waiting.

“You thought you were going to lose your wife,” Jeff said, “and that was something you were too proud to take. You made up your mind to handle Grayson in your own way. You went up to his office this afternoon and did just that.”

“I agree that to have done so would have given me much pleasure,” Miranda said frankly. “But did I also go to the room of Harry Baker and kill him too?” he asked with heavy irony.

“You were there.”

“Where?”

“At the hotel. You were there at that party and it would have been a cinch to duck out long enough to go upstairs. You knew Grayson had raised the cash. You knew why.”

Miranda laughed abruptly and sat up, his smile thin and mirthless, his tone deprecating.

“If you had the time I would give you a letter to my bankers, Mr. Lane,” he said. “I believe they could assure you that this money you speak of would hardly tempt me.”

The comment stopped Jeff momentarily and the argument he offered sounded inadequate, even to him.

“Even the rich get hard up for cash sometimes.”

“Possibly,” Miranda said, “but it occurs to me that you also have an excellent motive for murder. You were worried about losing control of your company, is this not so? You were afraid that your stepbrother would vote his stock with the opposition. Now you have no worries. You and your sister will have this stock for yourselves because your stepbrother is dead.

“It can be proved that you hated him, I think. You went to his office to threaten him and there was violence between you,” His smile was fixed as he reached for the door handle. “But this I will do for you, Mr. Lane. I disliked your stepbrother intensely even though I handled some of his affairs. What has happened this afternoon has removed a serious problem for me. So I will do this: when you are arrested, and I do not think it will be too long now, I will be happy to defend you for nothing.”

He opened the door, pulled himself erect, and bowed stiffly. As he started to turn away, Jeff thought of one more question.

“Did my stepbrother leave a will?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then his wife will inherit.”

“It would seem so.”

He bowed again and this time he wheeled and continued up the street, his shoulders back, his Panama centered on his well-shaped head.

JULIO CORDOVEZ made no comment as he started the car and pulled out into the traffic stream. Dusk had begun to finger the sidewalks now and here and there a light winked on in some store window. When they came to a traffic circle that was temporarily jammed, Julio shifted into neutral and said:

“Luis Miranda was helpful?”

“Not very,” Jeff said unhappily.

“You think he knew of the tickets to New York?”

Jeff roused himself sufficiently to consider the question. In his own mind the interview with Miranda had been singularly discouraging. He had not known exactly what he had expected to prove by it, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, ticking off the results, and omitting speculation, he saw that all he had actually learned was a little something about the background of Miranda’s marriage, his feeling for his wife, and his—Miranda’s—knowledge of her association with Grayson, all of which he had suspected. The only fact to come out of the discussion was the announcement that Grayson’s wife would probably inherit his estate.

“I don’t know if he actually knew,” he said, “but he must have suspected something like that
might
happen. What I’d like to find out is whether Diana Grayson suspected the same thing.”

“Luis Miranda would not steal the money,” Cordovez said.

“You said that before,” Jeff said, an unwanted edge in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Cordovez said. “I did not mean—”

“No, I’m sorry,” Jeff said, a little ashamed because he had snapped at his friend. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” he said. “I’m in a lousy mood.”

“A drink will help,” Cordovez said cheerfully, “and some food. But first we will go to my place.”

Jeff slumped back in the seat, observing the passing scene, but no longer having any idea where he was, until Cordovez pulled the car to the curb in front of an apartment house on the steep slope of a side street.

“Is this it?” he asked.

“No,” Cordovez replied. “A friend. If you will wait I will not be long.”

Jeff twisted his body far enough to get a cigarette out and when he had a light he stayed slumped, his eyes brooding and his mouth slack as the black mood of his depression settled more heavily about him. He did not stir when Cordovez opened the door. Not until he realized that the detective had brought something with him did he glance round to find Cordovez putting a suit on its hanger on the back seat and then placing a neatly folded white shirt on top of it.

“It should fit,” Cordovez said as he slid behind the wheel.

“What?”

“The suit. It is for you.”

“Me? But what—”

“I will explain,” Cordovez said and chuckled at Jeff’s reaction. “I do not mean to criticize,” he added. “The clothes you now wear are very fine, but too—shall we say—American. In the daytime it is less important, but after dark the successful Venezuelan wears a suit here in Caracas.”

“Oh,” Jeff said, impressed by the little detective’s thoughtfulness and sagacity.

“Yes. With your dark hair and eyes you will pass for a citizen. With the proper suit it will be more difficult for the ears and arms of Pedro Vidal to penetrate this disguise. Also, you yourself will feel more secure and that, too, is important.”

“Amen,” said Jeff.

“Pardon?”

“What I meant was, I’m very glad I hired you.”

“Me, too,” said Cordovez and settled back to concentrate on his driving…

The apartment house they came to presently was new-looking and three stories high. It contained six flats and Cordovez occupied the middle floor on the right side. Verandas had been recessed into the sides of the building instead of at the front, and inside the layout proved to be the railroad type—living-room, kitchen, and dinette, a hall from which opened a bedroom, bath, and bedroom.

The living-room was rather sparsely furnished but spotless, the curtains clean, the children’s toys neatly piled in one corner. A small bed and a crib, visible from the doorway of the first bedroom, testified to its use. Cordovez was snapping on the light in the rear room.

“You will sleep here tonight,” he said, indicating the double bed.

“And where will you sleep?”

“In the front room.”

“Oh, no.”

“But yes,” Cordovez said firmly. “I will explain why. For one your size, the sofa will he uncomfortable. For me it serves very well. Believe me, I have tried it often. Come,” he said, as though the matter was decided. “Try on the suit. Let us see if it will become you.”

He slipped the coat and trousers from the hanger and unbuttoned the clean shirt while Jeff undressed. “My friend is about your size,” he said. “You will find the coat somewhat different in cut to your own, but that is good. One noticing it will be assured it was manufactured in Caracas.”

The shirt proved to be adequate, the sleeves a little short but the collar fitting perfectly. Jeff needed his belt to secure the waistband of the trousers, but the coat hung well and the shade of blue was inconspicuous.

“You see,” Cordovez said happily.

He stood back. He spread his hands, and the expression on his face could have been no more pleased had he designed the suit himself.