One Minute Past Eight (17 page)

It was less easy to control her thoughts. She kept thinking of Jeff Lane and his trouble and her own part in the chain of events that had started in Boston. She was ashamed of what she had been forced to do in Miami, but her cheeks still tingled when she remembered his kiss and the way he had looked at her. She did not believe he could have done this if he had not forgiven her and this pleased her greatly because she realized now how much his approval meant to her. She wanted so much to help him, and because she did not know how, she went back to her room, struggled out of the damp suit, and put on her robe.

She stretched out on the bed, intending only to rest a bit, but she made the mistake of closing her eyes and once her thoughts began to drift she was asleep. It was after three when she awoke and now, realizing what had happened, she twisted off the bed, annoyed with herself for wasting this time.

Although she had no particular place to go, she showered hurriedly and then dressed, selecting a checked skirt, a tailored blouse, and the white blazer. When she had inventoried her bag and her wallet, she went downstairs and took the first taxi in the line, telling the driver to take her to the avenida Urdaneta. She had no particular destination in mind, but she had seen the modern shops along the street near the old center of the city, and it was her intention to do some shopping once she was in the right neighborhood.

The corner she selected held no special significance as she stepped out of the cab and paid the driver; but as she stood waiting for the light to change, it seemed familiar. When she glanced up at the street sign she knew why. For this was the cross street where Arnold Grayson had his office. If she turned right, here, and walked two blocks, she would come to it, and now, moved by some unaccountable impulse, she found herself making the turn and starting up the sloping street.

She was thinking now and took no notice of the pedestrians she passed. She still had no purpose but seemed moved by some fascination that drew her back to the scene of the crime. She had made the same trip the previous afternoon, riding, that time, and taking with her the hope that she might get the stock assignment she had been sent here for.

That was all over now. A man was dead—two men—and Jeff was hiding. So far she had been unable to help him. She saw no hope of helping now, but still she continued on until she passed the open door of the
Daily Bulletin.
Up ahead was the gray masonry building she knew so well, but suddenly, her thoughts flying off on some illogical tangent, she found herself wondering about Dan Spencer.

She did not know why, but having once made the reporter the center of her attention, her mind went on and things began to happen. Her footsteps slowed. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. Because of the narrow walk, people had to detour about her or step into the street and so she crossed to the opposite side and turned to inspect the entrance of the newspaper office.

Spencer had been one of those who had seen Jeff outside Grayson’s office. He worked in the neighborhood. He had also been at the Tucan the night Harry Baker had been murdered.

Was this coincidence?

There was no answer to this, but she could not get the thought out of her mind. She began to recall the things she had heard about Spencer, the things Jeff had said the night before about Spencer and Carl Webb and the money.

So far no one suspected him of murder. He had been around when things happened but he had never been a suspect. Why not, if he knew about the money?

His office was less than a half a block away. Suppose he had somehow managed to get his hands on that money yesterday afternoon? How simple it would be to explain his presence, to take the package—or whatever it was—and stroll back to his office and put it in the bottom of a desk drawer.

Had anyone thought of that?

His apartment had been searched—but what about the office?
Oh, stop it!
she thought, as her mind raced on uninhibited.

But it was not that easy. Once having started, she kept building on her imaginative premise until she had nearly reached the point of doing something about it. She wondered if Spencer would be working at this hour. She could easily find out, and if he was, what harm could there be in going in and talking to him? She could think of some excuse and maybe she could find out something that would help.

This is what she told herself, as she stood there drawing on her reservoir of nerves. Then, when she was at the point of acting, the decision was made for her and she got the break she had been hoping for.

Some intuitive impulse which could never be explained had put her in the proper spot at the proper time. But it was luck, or fate, or chance—the name did not matter-that gave her the chance to pursue her project. For even as she stood there, still undecided, Dan Spencer walked out of the doorway she was watching and turned downhill.

He looked better groomed than usual with his dark suit and necktie, but it was the envelope he carried under one arm that sent the quick excitement coursing through her veins and gave the green light to her imagination. And now, already conditioned by suspicion and uncertainty, she gave in to the following impulse without further thought.

She was walking now, trying to keep pace with Spencer’s stooped, loose-gaited strides. The questions that popped into her mind she answered as best she could. She knew, first, that the Manila envelope was at least ten inches by twelve. From a distance she thought it had a sizable bulge, but she could not be sure.

And she knew that money could be carried in such an envelope, a lot of money, if the bills were in the right denominations.

And who knew how big the bills were? Had anyone said? How much room would one hundred and twenty thousand dollars take up? How much if the money was in bolivar bills?

She realized now she did not care. For all she knew Spencer had an envelope full of copy paper and was on his way to some interview. It did not matter. She intended to find out where he was going, and if her thoughts and actions proved to be ridiculous, she could laugh about them later.

She stopped suddenly when she saw him come to Urdaneta and wait for the traffic light. Keeping to the inside of the walk and not wanting to miss the light herself, she advanced slowly. She crossed the street safely, still a third of a block behind the thin figure. At the next intersection he crossed to her side and she had to stop again.

Halfway down the next block he seemed to vanish, and she felt a momentary thrust of panic. She hurried forward and then, uncertainly, she slowed her steps until she saw the familiar sign of a well-known airline above a plate-glass window. Then, even before she peeked round the corner of that window, her pulse quieted as she wondered if Spencer’s business might have to do with a flight reservation.

Dark-haired men passed by and eyed her with approval. Some hesitated hopefully and most of them smiled. She ignored them all, not worrying about appearances now as she sneaked a quick look from the edge of the window.

A glance was enough to tell her that Spencer had stopped at the counter at the far end of the room. It was a sizable office, with several pillars, some leather settees and chairs, and a stand-up desk along the wall. Spencer stood with his back to the entrance, his elbows propped on the counter, as a clerk began to fill out some form on a typewriter. Other men and women were similarly occupied and still others waited on the settees. In all, there were twenty or more people in the room, and when Karen saw the telephone booth near the door she knew what she had to do.

One eye on Spencer’s back, she moved quickly through the glass doors and slipped into the telephone booth. She closed the door, feeling secure now as she opened her bag and looked for Julio Cordovez’s telephone number. She no longer had to watch Spencer. Whatever happened at the counter she could find out later. All she had to do was wait until she saw him leave the office.

Her voice trembled a little with excitement when Cordovez answered and she identified herself and asked for Jeff.

“Jeff,” she said a moment later and then the excitement got the best of her and she started to babble. “I think I might have something. It’s Spencer. He’s in a downtown airline office. I think he’s making a reservation and—”

“Karen!”

The quick and forceful sound of his voice stopped her and told her she’d been letting her emotions run away from her. She heard him ask where she was. She told him.

“And what’s this about Spencer?”

“I followed him here. I saw him come out of the newspaper office and he had this envelope under his arm and I—I followed him.”

“Why? What were you doing there in the first place?”

The question stumped her for a second because it was so hard to answer. Why had she gone there? Could she explain an impulse or justify by logical means an intuitive compulsion she herself did not understand? The answer was no, and suddenly she was annoyed with his questions and impatient with his attitude.

“What difference does it make?” she cried. “He has an envelope, too, a large one. It might even have the money in it.”

“All right,” Jeff said. “All right. Slow down. You followed Spencer. He’s at the ticket counter. Now where are you?”

“In a phone booth near the door. I’m going to wait right here until he leaves and then I’m going to the counter and find out if he actually has made a reservation.”

She hesitated and when there was no reply she said: “Jeff!”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Maybe you’ve got something. Just be sure he’s gone before you go to the counter. And don’t try to follow him, do you hear?”

“All right.”

“Let him go. Don’t fool with him. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good girl. After you’ve checked at the counter call me back and we’ll figure out what to do next. O. K.?”

She broke the connection but kept the telephone to her ear in case anyone should look through the door and wonder what she was doing. She put on her dark glasses and turned her head so that she could get an oblique, corner-of-the-eye look at the entrance. She sat that way, with the stuffiness increasing and the perspiration prickling on her body, until Spencer cut across her line of vision. She counted five very slowly before she replaced the instrument and opened the door; then she hurried to the counter, waiting until she could get the same clerk who had talked to Spencer.

“Did Mr. Spencer get his reservation?” she asked.

“Mr. Spencer?”

“The tall, thin man who was just here.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, we had a seat for him.”

“On the nine o’clock flight?” she said, pulling the figure out of the air.

“Not nine,” the clerk said. “Ten. Twenty-two hundred hours. That’s the direct flight to New York.”

“Oh.” She gave him her best smile. “Well, thank you very much.”

She turned away, the excitement churning in her now as she digested the information. When she came to the telephone booth she did not hesitate. She had promised not to follow Spencer and she was keeping that promise, but she was much too pleased with herself to give her information over the telephone. It would take no more than ten minutes to get to Cordovez’s apartment, and this was a message she wanted to deliver in person. She wanted to see Jeff’s face when she told him; she wanted to know just what he intended to do.

She went through the door to the street and turned uphill, walking quickly, oblivious of her surroundings. She had taken perhaps five steps when something hard and round pressed suddenly against her side. Before she could react she heard the voice in her ear.

“If you want to stay alive keep walking, sister!”

Shock kept her moving in that first instant when her spine stiffened and her throat closed. She could not think, she could not even breathe; she only knew that somehow she kept moving as the voice went on.

“Don’t open your mouth and don’t look round. Just walk nice and easy!”

She moved like an automaton, propelled by fear now and waiting for the next command.

“See that yellow cab across the street? That’s where we’re going. You’re doing fine. Stay with it. When we get in the cab sit still. Let me do the talking and you’ll be O. K.”

The horrible pressure in her side stayed with her as they crossed the street against the traffic. The taxi driver saw them coming and reached back to open the door. Not until she slid over on the seat did she actually identify the man who threatened her.

JEFF LANE had taken the telephone call at five minutes after four and by four fifteen he had started to sweat. He had his jacket off, his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and when he ran his fingers through his hair they came away damp.

“Why doesn’t she call?” he demanded, turning on Cordovez, who sat by the window.

The detective shrugged and his voice was placating. “It is only ten minutes, my friend. It is no good to worry so soon!”

Jeff resumed his pacing and the minutes dragged by on leaden feet. Every now and then he would repeat his question, his tone more savage as the seeds of panic began to sprout inside him. By four thirty even Cordovez’s smooth face began to show concern and now, his mind made up, Jeff could stand it no longer. He buttoned his shirt and reached for his jacket.

“Come on,” he said.

“But where?”

“How the hell do I know? Something must have happened to her. We can try the airline office, can’t we? We can check on Spencer.”

“She promised she would not try to follow him.”

“So maybe she broke her promise.”

“Wait.” Cordovez put up his hand. “There may have been some misunderstanding. Let me try the hotel first.”

He dialed and spoke briefly. After another half-minute he spoke again and then covered the mouthpiece with his palm.

“She is not in her room. I am having her paged.” Still another minute dragged by and finally he muttered something else and hung up. “She is not there.”

He studied Jeff a moment, understanding his frame of mind but thinking of more practical matters.

“Let me go look,” he said. “I do not think it is wise—”