One Minute Past Eight (13 page)

Webb seemed to make no noise as he walked and Jeff, not knowing just what might develop, found himself moving on the balls of his feet. He sidestepped a man who was walking uphill and then Webb moved farther ahead so that he could come alongside Spencer from the inside of the walk. When he was close he spoke softly.

“Hi, Danny boy,” he said. “Keep moving!”

Spencer’s thin form seemed to straighten as he hesitated; then he was walking again, but slowly, as though he lacked the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Without turning his shoulders, his head came round first one way to look at Jeff, and then the other.

“Come on, boy,” Webb said. “Your feet are dragging. Feel this thing in your back? Know what it is?”

“It—it’s a gun. Take it easy, Carl,” he pleaded, stuttering now. He glanced round at Jeff and solicited his support. “Tell him to take it easy, Mr. Lane.… I don’t know what this is all about,” he said, a note of rising hysteria in his voice.

“See that doorway up ahead,” Webb said. “That wide one. We’ll stop there and I’ll tell you what it’s all about. I’m not going to start popping this thing in the street but I’d just as soon bend it over your head if you get noisy.”

He reached out and pulled Spencer to a stop, half spinning him about. “This is fine,” he said. “Do you know why I’m in town?”

“No,” Spencer said, and then appealed again to Jeff. “What is this?”

“It’s his idea,” Jeff said. “He’ll tell you.”

“You’re a liar, Danny,” Webb said and poked the gun into Spencer’s stomach hard enough to make him gasp. “You knew about Grayson’s caper in Vegas. You knew we’d keep looking for him no matter how long it took. You run into him down here and put the bite on him—Don’t argue with
me,
Danny,” he said when Spencer started to protest. “This much we know. And I say you knew Grayson was going to pay off in cash so he could go home, one hundred and twenty grand worth.”

“But jeez, Carl. You don t think—”

“Shut up!” Webb said, his voice still soft. “And don’t look at Mr. Lane, Danny. He thinks probably you turned him in to the law this afternoon and he don’t like you any better than I do. Where do you live?”

“I got an apartment—”

“How do we get there, walk or ride?”

“Ride, I guess.”

“O. K., we’ll get a cab. You can pay for it. O. K., Danny?”

“Sure, Carl. Sure.”

“That’s the way, Danny. Always play it safe.”

THE APARTMENT house where Dan Spencer lived was somewhat larger than the building Julio Cordovez occupied but in the same sort of neighborhood and in the same section of the city. Paint was peeling from the walls of the foyer and there was an air of decay in the stuffy hallway as they started up the stairs and went along the second-floor corridor to a door near the rear.

Music with a Latin beat filtered into the hall from some near-by apartment and somewhere a child was crying. On the floor above, a door opened and the voices of a woman and a man rose in angry argument before the door slammed. Heavy footsteps thudded overhead to diminish briefly and then reappear as a man clumped down the stairs, swung round the landing, and continued on to the street.

“Come on, Danny,” Webb said as Spencer fumbled with his key. “We haven’t got all night.”

Spencer muttered some reply and then the door swung open and he reached inside to snap on a light. Jeff, the last man in, closed the door behind him and looked about a squarish room that was cluttered, untidy, and depressing. The furniture had a third-hand look, the thin rug was spotted and dirty, and the windows in one wall were stained to a degree that suggested that, in daylight, they could be no more than translucent. Webb voiced the thought that was in Jeff’s mind.

“Jesus!” he said. “What a dump.”

“What do you expect?” Spencer said in injured tones. “Rents are high in this town.”

“How much does it cost to keep clean?”

Spencer shifted his weight while Webb completed his stingy of the room and Jeff noticed that the reporter looked neater than usual. His sallow face had a sullen expression but he wore a dark suit that was fairly well pressed and the white shirt and striped tie were an improvement over the open-necked sport shirts Jeff had noticed before.

“How many rooms you got, Danny?” Webb asked.

“There’s a bedroom in there”—Spencer pointed to a small inner hall—“a bath, and a two-by-four kitchen.”

“O. K., I’ll start here. Sit down, Danny. You can watch.”

“How about a drink first?”

“Not for me,” Webb glanced at Jeff and winked. “You want something to settle your stomach?”

Jeff shook his head and eased down on a straight-backed chair near a table-desk whose edges had been charred into countless grooves by cigarettes which had burned too long unnoticed. Spencer sagged onto a couch with a frayed slipcover and the springs protested mildly under his weight

Then Webb was moving slowly about the room, inspecting first the closet near the door, which proved to be a catchall for many things that cluttered the floor as well as the shelf above the hangers. This took about five minutes and when he faced the room again his hard-jawed face was glistening with perspiration. He took time to wipe it with the handkerchief in his breast pocket, sucked in a deep breath, and then came over to open the lone drawer of the table-desk.

He pawed through the papers, envelopes, and bills. He lifted the cracked fabric cover of the portable typewriter just to make sure no money was underneath. He lifted the cushions of the two easy-chairs, patting them thoroughly to make sure nothing was concealed. He pulled the curtains back from the windows, glanced behind them, opened the windows, and looked to see what was outside. The drawer of the occasional table yielded nothing and now he went over and told Spencer to get up. Spencer did so, the springs again signaling their presence.

Webb pulled the couch away from the wall, looked under it. He then gave it the same treatment he had given the easy-chair. Satisfied at last that there could be no other hiding place in this room he nodded to Spencer.

“Let’s check the other rooms, Danny,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“You can help. And anyway I want to keep an eye on you. You O. K., Lane?”

Jeff said he was fine and when the two moved out of sight he went over to the open windows. The fresh air felt good, but there was no view except the wall of the adjacent apartment house, six feet away, its windows darkened at this hour and mirroring only blackness. He got a cigarette going, hearing faintly the sounds of the search as drawers were opened and closed and furniture was moved; but now his mind was working and he knew there were still things he wanted to talk over with Spencer.

Webb remained something of an enigma. He had never known anyone quite like him. He could not be sure how much of his surface toughness and assurance was the result of training and experience and how much had been developed for window-dressing. He knew that Spencer had been scared, but this might have been due to the gun in his back. He also realized that Webb had been entrusted with an important mission and had come a long way to bring it off. But so far as murder was concerned he could not make Webb fit. If he had told the truth about the time of his arrival—and this was something the police could check—he could not have killed Harry Baker.

The murder of Grayson was less easy to rationalize because there was no way of knowing whether Grayson had been able to locate the missing cash. That Webb might beat him up if the money was not forthcoming was understandable, but not to the point of death. Webb was too smart to kill the source of income until or unless he had collected. And if he had collected why should he be wasting time with Dan Spencer?

He turned from the window as he heard the others come back, and he could tell from the expression on Webb’s face that the search had been futile. Moisture glistened on his forehead and his brows were warped with frustration.

“O. K., Danny,” he said finally. “You’re clean here, but that doesn’t mean I’m crossing you off my list. There could be other places and I have to keep trying. If you’ve got it, or if you find it and some of it sticks to your fingers, it’s going to be too bad.”

He hesitated, frowning now and his gaze thoughtful. “I might put out a little bonus if you can deliver. Say—five grand,” he said, “and no questions asked. Five grand and your health, Danny. Because if I nail you with the bundle I’ll take care of you another way.”

He moved over to the door and looked at Jeff. “I’m taking the air,” he said. “You coming?”

“I’ll stick around awhile,” Jeff said. “I’ve got a job to do myself.”

“Yeah,” Webb said. “I know what you mean.” He took the folded newspaper from his jacket pocket, glanced once at the picture of Jeff, then tossed it on the couch. “Maybe you want to keep that,” he said. “As a souvenir… See you,” he said and went out.

The instant the door closed Spencer let his breath out in a long blast and his thin sallow face relaxed. He loosened the knot in his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve, but the edges of his mouse-colored hair were dark with sweat, and traces of shock still lingered in the corners of his amber eyes.

“That guy scares me,” he said finally.

“Maybe he was bluffing.”

“Don’t bet on it. I’ve seen that kind work before and brother, they can get mean. Once they get started on you they don’t give a damn. They just don’t care.”

He sighed again as though such thoughts still bothered him, then turned and disappeared down the hall. A moment later Jeff heard water running and the clink of glasses, and presently Spencer returned, a bottle of whisky under one arm, two glasses in one hand, a pitcher of water in the other. He poured a quick drink and drank thirstily.

“Boy, did I need that,” he said. “Go ahead, help yourself.”

Jeff eyed the remaining glass. It had been rinsed, but it was obvious that it had been a long time since this particular glass had been subjected to soap and hot water. He did not want a drink, but he wanted to be sociable, so he splashed some whisky in the bottom, swished it around and added water. He took a sip and sat down on the couch.

“So you’re the one who turned me in,” he said.

“What?”

“You told the police you’d seen me this afternoon out in front of Grayson’s office.” He indicated his picture in the newspaper. “That put me on the front page. Maybe you told them my knuckles were skinned and my mouth was bleeding.”

Spencer backed into an easy-chair, his expression sheepish. He stretched out his legs to reveal shoes that were scuffed and in need of a polish. When he leaned back his chest became more concave than ever.

“I didn’t see your knuckles,” he said. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“Did you tell Ramon Zumeta you’d seen me?”

“Yeah, but—” He stopped and his Adam’s apple jumped up and down in his throat. “That’s not what put you in the jam.” he said finally.

“What did? When did you know there’d been a murder?”

“When the law started cluttering up the street. Hell, you could hear them come. I ran out of the office and when I saw the mob I hotfooted it up there. I couldn’t get in, but I saw Webb and that girl come out, so I tagged along down to
Segurnal.

“With the city cops it would have been easy,” he said by way of explanation. “They always co-operate with the press. They even got a room down at the headquarters building with a plainclothesman on duty to take the calls. Everything comes in, he types it up with carbons. Each paper’s got a little box in a rack that’s tacked to the wall. Somebody gets knifed, somebody gets banged up in a crash, somebody’s taken to a hospital—you get a memo on it. That way the papers don’t have to keep a man on duty like in the States. The police reporter just stops in there three or four times a day to see what’s been happening and he follows up whatever he figures he needs. But
Segurnal
is different,” he said and took another swallow of his highball.

“They don’t give out that way. Lots of times they don’t want any publicity. So I’m down there and I need a wedge to get in—hell, I have to get the best story I can, don’t I?—and I send word in that I saw you outside Grayson’s office”

“So Zumeta let you in.”

“Sure, but it’s not me that really put the finger on you.”

Jeff stood up and removed his borrowed coat. He sat down again and got a cigarette going. He watched Spencer finish his drink and scratch the top of his chest before he leaned forward to fix a fresh highball. Jeff let the silence build for another five seconds, his dark eyes brooding and his lids half closed.

“All right,” he said. “Who did?”

“The guy at the garage.”

“What guy?”

“Maybe you don’t remember, but when you walk up the street you pass a plate-glass window, the only one in the block. It’s got some caskets in it.”

Jeff nodded, remembering that this was true, and now he also recalled the garage with its recessed ramp and single gasoline pump.

“Next to that is this garage, and it just happens that when you go by—it must have been when you went to see Grayson—this guy is pumping gas for a customer. He’s got nothing else to do while the pump is working so he’s looking round to see what’s going on in the neighborhood.”

He gestured with the glass. “Well, he sees you and he notices you because you look American with your slacks and white coat.”

“Cord coat,” Jeff said.

“To him it was white. He watches you go into Grayson’s doorway and that’s all until Zumeta’s men start combing the block and questioning everybody to see if anybody’s noticed any strangers go into the building. This guy remembers you and by this time I’ve already said I offered to buy you a beer so Zumeta gets in touch with Immigration and comes up with the photo on your tourist card. The garage guy identifies you.”

Jeff did not quarrel with the explanation. Coincidence was something one had to accept in life, and it was coincidence in the form of Spencer and a man pumping gasoline at just the right time that had tipped the scales against him. His own decision to postpone surrender as long as he could had simply tightened the noose.