One Minute Past Eight (18 page)

“Nuts,” Jeff said. “I’m not worried about
Segurnal.
We’ve got enough now to get me clear if they pick me up. It’s Karen I’m worried about, don’t you understand?”

“Of course. That is what I meant. I think someone should stay in case she telephones or comes here herself.”

The logic of such reasoning steadied Jeff when he recognized the wisdom of the words. Someone should stay here, at least for a while, and Cordovez, a native of the city, could do the outside work more efficiently. It was hard to face the prospect of waiting alone, but in the end Jeff gave in.

“All right,” he said. “Try the ticket office first. Then go to Spencer’s place. If you don’t find anything try his office. After that come back here and pick me up. If Karen hasn’t shown by then she won’t be coming here at all.”

“It is best that way.” Cordovez stepped to the door. “I know the waiting will be difficult for you, but it must be done. I will be back as soon as possible. Have faith, my friend.”

It was five thirty when Julio Cordovez returned, and one look at his somber face told Jeff the news was bad. “What happened?” he said.

“She was not at the ticket office, so I went to Spencer’s apartment and let myself in. It was empty.”

“Did you find anything to give you the idea she
might
have been there?”

“Nothing.” Cordovez turned away, his disappointment showing in his voice. “I went to the offices of the
Bulletin.
They told me Spencer had been in this afternoon but they could not say when he would return. They thought perhaps around seven. But one thing I learned,” he said grimly.

“What?”

“At the airline office I made other inquiries. Spencer has a seat on the ten o’clock flight to New York.”

Jeff thought it over, eyes narrowing and the tension still warping his mouth. The discovery suggested many possibilities but at the moment did little to allay his fears for the girl.

“O. K.,” he said. “We can stop that if we have to, but that’s damn near five hours from now. Where is she?” he asked hoarsely. “She didn’t just disappear. She’s got to be some place.”

He hesitated, making another effort to get his thoughts in order.

“She must have found out something,” he said. “She must have run across some evidence that hooks up with murder. Somebody found it out and grabbed her. It’s got to be that way. If it’s not Spencer then it’s got to be Fiske, or Diana Grayson, or Luis Miranda. They’re the only ones involved.”

He took a breath and this time when he reached for his coat he put it on. He was no longer worried about
Segurnal.
The only important thing was Karen Holmes and he was sick of inaction, sick of having people do things for him while he did nothing for himself.

“Let’s go, Julio,” he said. “And don’t give me any argument. If she’s being held at Grayson’s or Miranda’s we’ll damn soon know it.”

He opened the door and started down the hall, Cordovez at his heels. When they got into the sedan he thought of something else and mentioned it.

“What about Carl Webb?”

Cordovez considered the suggestion, but when he replied he did not sound convinced.

“It is a possibility.”

“That’s all we can hope for,” Jeff said. “If he got his hands on that dough and Karen happened to find out about it—”

He did not have to complete the thought and Cordovez interrupted. “It will be a simple matter to check his room and it will not take long.”

They drove in silence after that and when they approached the Tucan, Cordovez parked some distance from the entrance. “I will have a look,” he said. “Please stay here.”

Jeff did not argue this time, but lit a cigarette and watched the little man hurry away. He watched until Cordovez disappeared through the front entrance and then sat that way, fighting his anxiety and keeping his impatience in hand until Cordovez came hurrying back to the car.

“The room is empty,” he said as he stepped on the starter. “Those at the desk do not recall seeing him recently… You wish to go to Grayson’s first, or to the Miranda home?”

“Which is closer?”

“There is little difference.”

“Then let’s try Grayson’s.”

Diana Grayson eyed her visitors with some surprise, but her company manners were excellent. She invited them in and listened politely to what Jeff had to say. Then she shook her head.

“Why no,” she said. “I haven’t seen Miss Holmes since the other morning.”

Jeff’s glance had been inspecting the room and the lawn and the hallway as she spoke, and then, because he knew how easy it would be to lie about such a thing, he said:

“Do you mind if we look around?”

He watched the brows arch and the quick resentment flicker in her eyes. He thought she was going to refuse, but she laughed and spread one hand, palm up.

“Help yourself,” she said coldly. “You don’t mind if I pass up the tour, do you?”

Jeff was in no mood to resent the snub and when she sat down on the divan and opened a magazine, he started off, not sure where he was going but determined to inspect every room and every closet. With Cordovez’s help it did not take long. The maid in the kitchen gave them no more than a curious glance, but Cordovez stopped long enough to converse with her briefly.

He caught up with Jeff in the first bedroom, checked the bath, went on to the second bedroom and bath. A corridor which angled from the main hall led down two steps to the small wing which Dudley Fiske occupied, a large bedroom complete with television, a bath, and a separate entrance.

Certain now that no one was concealed here, Jeff led the way out the door and continued on to the garage. A late-model hardtop occupied one half of the space, but there was nothing else, and now he went back to the house and asked about Dudley Fiske.

“He went out to get some liquor.” Diana Grayson smiled at Jeff and her sarcasm was softly cadenced. “He should be back any minute if you’d care to wait.”

When Jeff hesitated, Cordovez touched his arm and a jerk of his head conveyed the idea that it was time to leave. When they went back to the car, he explained why.

“I spoke to the maid,” he said. “The girl has not been here.” He drove down the hill and turned into an avenue which took them toward the Caracas Country Club. “Also,” he said, “I took time at the Tucan to telephone Miranda’s office. He has not been there since noon.”

He drove silently then until he came to a district where houses became more expensive-looking and the surrounding lawns were wider. Mostly the architecture was traditional rather than modern and as they approached an impressive white-stucco house on the right, he stopped the car.

“Permit me to make a suggestion,” he said. “I share your anxiety for Miss Holmes, but I think it would be wise to use caution here.”

Jeff looked at him, not understanding what he meant and, in his particular frame of mind, not exactly caring. He had had enough of caution. What he wanted was action and he said so.

“I understand,” Cordovez said. “Still I do not think it will be easy to search this house if Luis Miranda is home. In fact he will not permit it. As a matter of pride he would resist. Also, there is a simpler way to get the information you desired.”

“Name it.”

“I will go to the rear and speak to the servants. They have respect for authority. When they see I am a detective they will tell me what I want to know. Believe me, the girl could not be in this house without their knowledge.”

Sentenced again to inaction because he could not argue with such commendable reasoning, Jeff stayed in the car. He saw the little man edge round the corner post of the driveway gate and disappear into the dusk which had been moving down the surrounding hillsides. Once, he looked at his watch. Ten minutes of seven. And if Karen was not here, where was she? What could he do next?

Five minutes passed, and somewhere in the distance a bell tolled softly. The darkness came swiftly then and it was darkest of all in his heart because it seemed now that this was his fault. If he had given himself up and told his story yesterday afternoon this could never have happened; there would have been no need for Karen’s help, no reason for her to take chances.

Again he glanced at his watch while the torment grew inside his head and he tried to think, to remember details, to look ahead and decide what could be done next. From out of the vortex of those thoughts he recalled the riding crop and the metal ferrule and now, focusing for that instant on Luis Miranda, he understood that there could still be one more place the girl might have been taken. It would be a remote chance, but the possibility existed, and possibilities were all he had left.

Cordovez opened the car door before Jeff knew he was there. “She has not been there,” he said. “Nor has Luis Miranda. He left this morning and has not yet returned.”

“All right,” Jeff said. “Let’s travel. Do you know Macuto?”

“Of course.”

“Miranda has a beach cottage there. Do you know where it is? Could you find it in the dark?”

“I think so.” Cordovez got the car under way and leaned back. When he spoke there was a note of incredulity in his voice. “You believe it is possible—”

“I don’t believe anything any more,” Jeff cut in. “But we have to go to the airport, don’t we? And Macuto’s out in that direction, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The next little town to La Guaira.”

“So let’s have a look.”

“It can do no harm,” Cordovez said and settled down to the job of driving.

JEFF LANE remembered very little of the ride to Macuto. Because he was afraid to hope too much he tried not to think at all and stared sightlessly out the windshield as they sped along the toll road to the coast.

The lights at Maiquetia roused him and he heard the thunder of some plane on its take-off run. Then they were going along the waterfront at La Guaira with its stores on one side and the docks on the other. A cruise ship, every porthole alight, lay alongside a modern warehouse, and the dimly lit hulks of two freighters stood silhouetted against the sky. Then the lights were gone again and they went along quiet, tree-lined streets, sometimes following the coast and sometimes farther inland.

The sea was always on his left and presently they were cutting through a narrow plain. Here and there he could see an apartment house, while on the right pale blurs on the landscape spoke of sand traps and a golf course. Jeff spoke of this and Cordovez nodded.

“Caraballeda Yacht and Golf Club,” he said. “Soon we will be there.”

Luis Miranda’s beach house sat on a slope which faced the sea, its veranda suspended on cantilevers and the rear half snug against the ground. Its design was modern and its light color made the outlines distinct, but to Jeff it had only an empty look that served to depress still more his already flagging spirit.

A drive led to a basement garage. As he followed Cordovez over the traprock surface he offered a silent prayer; for he had run out of ideas and there was nothing left for him to do. He repeated it as the beam of the detective’s flashlight sprayed the drive and then he stopped as Cordovez bent down to examine the surface more closely.

“A car may have been here recently,” he said and then cut across the grassy slope to a door protected by a metal grill.

Another look with the light showed this to be chain-locked, and now they continued along the front and up the grassy slope toward the rear. Two of the windows on this side could be reached from the ground. Both had similar metal grills to guard the glass, but when Cordovez examined the second one with his flash he whistled softly and the oath that followed was tinged with excitement.

“This one has been forced,” he said. “The catch is broken.”

And then he was fumbling with the grill, prying at it, forcing it wide on its hinges. The light went out, but Jeff heard the window being raised and now he was crowding close, giving the little man the boost he needed, and climbing in after him.

The room they stood in proved to be a kitchen. Jeff moved ahead into a hall and called out. “Karen!” he said, and held his breath as the word bounced off the walls.

“Let me,” Cordovez said, pushing past him. “I have the light.”

He hurried on, heels clicking hollowly on the tile floor. He opened the door on his right and sprayed light into the room. Then he seemed to recoil, inhaling through his mouth with a hissing sound.

Before he could speak, Jeff was staring over his shoulder, seeing the figure in the white blazer spread-eagled on the bed, the dark hair on the pillow, the towel which had been tied over the mouth. When he saw the eyelids blink against the light, his relief overwhelmed him and it was Cordovez who reached the side of the bed first.

With the flashlight on the floor he began to untie one of the towels that had fastened an ankle to a bedpost and now Jeff was bending over her. He slipped the makeshift gag down over her chin and swallowed hard to clear his throat. He saw the lips move and recognition touch the wide-open eyes.

“It’s O. K., baby,” he said thickly. “It’s all right. We’ll have these things off in a minute.”

He tugged at the towel which held a wrist extended toward one head-post and turned immediately to the other. By that time Cordovez had freed the ankles and now, as she tried to sit up, Jeff slid an arm under her shoulder and lifted her to a sitting position as her feet swung to the floor. He sat down beside her, still with his arm about her, and now he could feel her body shudder and the rib cage expand as she took a great tortured breath. When she tried to speak the sound that came forth was no more than a whisper and he touched his finger gently to her lips.

“Easy,” he said. “Don’t try to talk yet… Julio, see if you can find some water.”

Julio hurried off and the light went with him. Gradually Jeff could feel her body relax and her breathing become regular. Her head was on his shoulder now and he sat very still, until reaction set in and his hand began to tremble. He did not know what to say or how to explain his gratitude and relief and finally he chuckled and kept his voice light.

“I seem to be the one that’s shaking,” he said and let his arm relax. “Julio!”