One Minute Past Eight (4 page)

“This I did not know.” he said softly. “Policewomen I have heard of in your country, but private detectives—”

He left the thought unfinished and Karen said: “My agency represents a company that would like to buy the shares that Arnold Grayson would control—if he returned. I came to make him an offer.”

Zumeta seemed a bit puzzled, his tone of voice said so. “But Mr. Baker did not work for you. How then did you know Mr. Grayson was in Caracas?”

The question made her glance at Jeff. She hesitated, as though giving him a chance to tell his side of the story. When he remained silent she lowered her glance.

“My office didn’t tell me how they knew,” she said woodenly. “They only told me where I could find him and that I was to make him this offer.”

“You knew about this, Mr. Lane?”

“Not until today,” Jeff said.

“I see,” Zumeta said in a tone that suggested quite the opposite. He frowned and bunched his lips. “You arrived at Maiquetia this morning. Miss Holmes. Did you see Mr. Grayson?”

“Late this morning.”

“Did he accept your offer?”

“He—he said he would let me know.”

The statement was like a reprieve to Jeff. He had foreseen the question and had been afraid to speculate on the answer. Unconsciously he had held his breath while a cord tightened across his chest and now the tension was gone and he could breathe again. She had picked him up; she had tricked him, and got in the first word, but he still had a chance. He was in no mood to gloat but he felt immeasurably better as Zumeta said:

“And you have not seen Mr. Grayson since?”

“Oh, yes. I saw him this evening.”

“Oh?” Zumeta bent his head slightly. “When was this?”

“About seven thirty.”

“Be so good as to tell me about this.”

“I was in the writing-room addressing postcards,” she said. “Mr. Baker was with me. I had already said I would have dinner with him and we agreed to meet at eight for a drink.”

“Yes,” Zumeta said with some impatience.

“Well, from those windows you can see the front terrace and the walk and I saw Mr. Grayson coming toward the entrance. Mr. Baker saw him too.”

“What happened then?”

“Mr. Baker said: ‘Ah, there’s my man,’ and looked at his watch.”

“Have you any idea what Mr. Baker meant by this?”

“No, I haven’t. He just said he’d see me at eight and went away. I suppose he went to meet Mr. Grayson, but I can’t be positive.”

Zumeta paced two steps, turned, and came back. He glanced through the contents of Baker’s pockets which now were spread out on the desk.

“How long did you remain in the writing-room?” he asked and immediately held up his hand to forestall a reply as a new thought came to him. “Tell me everything you did after that, and at what time.”

“I came to my room and showered and touched up my nails. When I finished dressing I started downstairs. That was about eight, or a minute after.”

“You heard nothing when you passed this room?”

“No—” She stopped, eyes widening, “Yes, I did too, I heard the phone ring as I came past. It was still ringing when I turned the corner and I thought that meant Mr. Baker was in the bar. That’s why I was surprised when I glanced in and didn’t see him.”

“You did not sit in the bar?”

“No. I was alone and—well, I thought I’d wait on the terrace.”

“Yes. And you found it chilly and came to get your coat. When would that be?”

“I’m not sure. I guess maybe five or six minutes after eight. Maybe more.”

As she finished, Jeff wondered how accurate her estimate was. He recalled that it was eight minutes after eight when he had stopped at the downstairs desk. He had been there two or three minutes at the most. He had not seen her on the front terrace, but he realized also that there was more than one terrace. Before he could pursue the thought someone banged on the door. When the assistant opened it a voice called: “Ramon!” and then a thin, untidy individual pushed his way into the room and grinned at Zumeta.

“Ah,” said Zumeta. “The
Bulletin
is quick tonight.”

“Not quick,” the man said, in accents that were unmistakably American. Just lucky. “I’m downstairs covering the monthly dinner PanAm Oil puts on and I see some of your boys nosing around. So I do some snooping on my own. Who got killed?”

“An American private detective called Harry Baker.”

“What?” The man peered at Zumeta and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Harry Baker?”

“You knew him?”

“Sure. He came to the
Bulletin
when he hit town because we’re the only English-language daily and he didn’t speak much Spanish.”

He had been watching Jeff and the girl as he spoke and now he came round the bed and offered his hand.

“I’m Dan Spencer,” he said. “Are you Jeffrey Lane?”

“Yes,” Jeff said and shook the bony hand.

“Harry said you were coming,” Spencer said, his eyes curious as they watched the girl.

Jeff introduced them and Spencer said: “How do you do, Miss Holmes… Look, I don’t know what this is all about but if you can—”

“You will find out,” Zumeta cut in. “Soon we will go to
Segurnal.”

“Me too—I hope,” Spencer said.

“You, too. But for now, sit down and be quiet.”

Spencer sat on the edge of the bed next to Jeff and began to pack a straight-stemmed briar. At close range he seemed to be in his middle thirties, a round-shouldered man with the sort of ingrown stoop that gave his chest a concave look. His skin was sallow; his hair was mouse-colored, shaggy, and carelessly combed. His lightweight suit was baggy and he wore a sport shirt open at the collar, disclosing the upper fringes of chest hair that extended nearly to the hollow in his throat and added to the general impression of untidiness. For all of that he had a friendly, engaging manner, and when he had his pipe going he took out a folded sheaf of copy paper and a pencil.

“What can you tell me?” he said.

“Not much,” Jeff said. “Miss Holmes had a date with him and stopped in to see if he was ready. She found him on the floor.”

He stopped as the door opened and one of Zumeta’s men came in to report. After that there was a small parade of goings and comings, but as each exchange was in Spanish Jeff understood none of the information. Apparently Spencer did, for he made a note from time to time and so did Zumeta. The only break in this routine occurred when Zumeta went into the closet and began to search the two suits that hung there.

When he came out he had a pigskin wallet in his hand. He said something to the man who had given him the information—whatever it was—and then looked through the wallet, counting the bills, taking out what looked like two cablegrams and reading them, checking the papers in the pockets. When a man came in with a fingerprint kit Zumeta moved round the bed.

“We will go now to
Segurnal”
he announced. “Mr. Grayson will join us there.”

THE HEADQUARTERS of
Segurnal
—short for
Securitas National
and sometimes known as the secret police—was a modern stone building which occupied a corner on Agenda México. Zumeta lead the way into the lobby, past a clerk and the information desk and up the steps into a large air-conditioned room that was surrounded by smaller rooms and separated from them by glass partitions.

A half-dozen men in plain clothes lounged in the center room talking and reading magazines as Zumeta led his procession past them and along a corridor; then down several stairs to another lobby which gave on a side entrance that was now closed, barred, and further secured by a locked chain. The party came to a halt here while another clerk telephoned ahead and a dark man in a baggy suit and a shapeless felt hat stood near by and eyed them silently. At a word from the clerk, Zumeta continued up the stairs to the second floor and across the corridor to a recessed anteroom, open at the front but railed in.

Here the telephone procedure was repeated and presently they all filed through the gate and into a windowless air-conditioned waiting-room with paneled walls and leather-upholstered furniture. Zumeta stopped and waved them to seats.

“You will wait here, please,” he said and went on through the next door.

Jeff sat down on the divan next to Karen. He was impressed; he said so to Spencer.

“Somebody’s got a lot of protection.”

“Maybe he needs it,” Spencer said.

“Who?”

“Pedro Vidal. He’s the head man here. All over for that matter; its a national organization.” He grunted softly. “You should feel honored. He’s a hard man to see.”

He sat down to relight his pipe and Jeff brought out cigarettes and offered them to Karen. She hesitated, but finally took one, murmuring her thanks and leaning forward for a light. Her face was still pale, but composed now, her body relaxed, the dark-blue eyes resigned and withdrawn. When she leaned back there was something so appealing about her that Jeff considered offering some words of reassurance. Then the moment passed and his thoughts moved on. He glanced at Spencer, wondering if he could answer a question that had been bothering him ever since he found Baker. He spoke of the cable.

“Baker said he had a new job,” he said. “Would you know what it was?”

“All I know is that he went to Barbados on Saturday and came back yesterday morning,” Spencer said. “Why, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s a rough deal,” he said. “He was a good guy. I used to know him in Vegas when I was working for a paper out there. If a thing wasn’t legit he wouldn’t touch it. That’s why I can’t figure this one.”

He stretched his legs and sucked idly on his pipe, frowning, the side of his thumb scratching the hairy triangle at the base of his throat. After that the silence came until Jeff thought of something else and put it into words.

“Maybe you knew my stepbrother in Las Vegas. Arnold Lane.”

“Lane?” Spencer glanced up. “Sure. At least I knew who he was. He’s in town here now—I guess maybe you knew that—except he calls himself Grayson.” He might have said more if the outer door had not opened at that moment to admit the man they were talking about.

In that first instant when Arnold Grayson made a quick inspection of the room Jeff started to rise. It was an automatic impulse based on the social habit of shaking hands with someone you had not seen in a long time. Then he knew that such a gesture would be sheer hypocrisy, just as he knew that Grayson would probably ignore it.

“Hello, Junior,” Grayson said, all the old arrogance Jeff remembered so well still in his voice. “I hear your old man finally decided to cut me in on the family fortune. What happened? Conscience bother him?”

Jeff settled back, a muscle bulging in his jaw as his mouth tightened, his eyes dark with resentment but his temper in hand as he was reminded of the job he had to do. He had come a long way and he realized it would be foolish to antagonize his stepbrother at this point. He sat still, noting the changes the last four years had made.

Taller than Jeff, more muscular in his younger days, Arnold Grayson was still well proportioned, the excess weight skillfully minimized by the well-cut double-breasted suit. The face was puffy but tanned, the wavy light-brown hair was thin and sharply receding, and a small mustache—a new addition—helped disguise a too-small mouth that, Jeff knew, could be smiling and twisted with fury in alternate minutes. For all of that he had about him a look of importance when viewed objectively; only those who knew him understood how impressed he was with his own self-importance. Now Jeff gave him a small mirthless smile,

“Sit down, Arny,” he said casually. “Relax.”

But Grayson was not yet ready to sit down. “Hello, Miss Holmes,” he said. “Hi, Spence. What’s this about Harry Baker?”

“Somebody shot him,” Spencer said.

“Where?”

“They didn’t tell me.”

“I mean, where was he?” Grayson said, his impatience showing.

“In his room. Miss Holmes had a date for dinner and stopped by to see if he was ready.” Spencer waved his pipe. “He was on the floor.”

“When was this?”

“Who knows?”

Grayson looked at Jeff, vertical grooves at the bridge of his nose and worried glints in his light-gray eyes. The change in his manner was at once apparent to Jeff and he wondered why this should be. Before he could speculate, the inner door opened and a swart, white-haired man with the features of an Indian beckoned.

They filed past him, Spencer leading the way, and continued across a second windowless office. Its only other occupant was an attractive young woman who sat behind a flat-topped desk and watched them pass through the door on her left. This opened into a third paneled office, larger than the others but still without windows.

Zumeta stood beside the desk. Behind it and also on his feet was Pedro Vidal, who was as tall as Zumeta but leaner, an immaculately groomed man with well-kept hands and thick black hair. He bowed slightly as he acknowledged Zumeta’s introductions. When he asked them to sit down his voice was quiet, his English excellent.

Apparently Zumeta had briefed him well because he turned at once to Jeff and said: “I understand you employed Mr. Baker to find your brother—”

“Stepbrother,” Jeff cut in.

“—to inform him of a recent inheritance,” Vidal went on, ignoring the interruption. “How long since you had seen each other?”

“About four years.”

Vidal glanced from one to the other. “You have a dislike for each other? There is some bad feeling?”

“What?” Grayson said.

“You have not seen each other for four years yet when you meet—or had you met earlier this evening without telling Zumeta?—you do not even bother to shake hands.”

“How the hell do you know?” Grayson said.

Vidal showed no annoyance at the remark, but swiveled his chair and pressed a button. With that a square of what had looked like black glass recessed in the wall behind the desk was brightly illuminated and Jeff found himself looking at a miniature view of the waiting-room as seen from above.

“What’s that, television?” Grayson asked.

“Mirrors,” Vidal said as the light vanished. “A sort of periscope,” He allowed himself a small smile. “It is sometimes wise to know exactly who wishes to see me.”

“And hear what they say, hunh?” Grayson added,

“When advisable.” Vidal leaned his forearms on the desk, “You understand now why I asked the question.”

Jeff cleared his throat. “No bad feeling,” he said. “Just nothing much in common. Arnold’s seven years older and—”

“Just say we’re not buddies,” Grayson said. “We never were. Jeff doesn’t approve of me; neither did his father.”

Vidal considered the information.

“Yet he made provision for you in his will… Tell me, Mr. Lane,” he said. “What would happen if you had not located your stepbrother—or if something happened to him?”

“My sister and I would have received Arnold’s share,” Jeff said.

“I see. Now about this evening”—he glanced at Zumeta—“we have a timetable that should be helpful but before we go into that I would like to say that we have checked the gun, which apparently killed Mr. Baker, with his permit. It was his gun. This suggests—though there could be other answers—that whoever came to his room came with a gun and relieved Mr. Baker of his gun. Later, when it became necessary to shoot—Mr. Baker might have made the mistake of resisting—Baker’s gun was used.”

He paused and took time to examine each face in turn. Before he could add to the statement, Grayson spoke.

“That’s very interesting, but what I’d like to know is why I was brought here in the first place.”

“Because,” said Vidal, “you may have been the last one to see Mr. Baker alive.”

Grayson leaned forward, his pale eyes hostile. “Who says so?”

“Miss Holmes,” Zumeta said, and went on to relate her story of Grayson’s meeting with Baker. The corroboration that followed came unexpectedly from Dan Spencer.

“She’s right about that,” he said.

“Oh?” Vidal’s black brows climbed “How do you know?”

“I was there, in the lobby.” Spencer took the pipe from his mouth. He explained his assignment to cover the monthly dinner and said: “They were to have a guest speaker over from the States and I tried to get a line on him from the dinner committee. I thought if I could buttonhole him and get a copy of his speech I could duck the dinner part… I saw Grayson come in and speak to Baker. They went over toward the elevators.”

“And you?” Vidal said.

“When they told me the speaker might not get there until around eight fifteen I went into the bar.”

A faint buzz on the desk punctuated the sentence and Vidal picked up one of the four telephones from a shelf behind him. A moment later he covered the mouthpiece and frowned at Grayson.

“You sent for Luis Miranda… Why?”

Spencer, sitting next to Jeff, leaned over and spoke from the corner of his mouth: “A lawyer. A good one.”

Grayson gestured emptily. “I didn’t know why you sent for me,” he said. “I hate to get caught out alone. I got picked up for speeding a while back and they held me overnight in jail and fined me three hundred B’s.”

“That is the usual procedure on a first offense.” Vidal smiled. “It is a good way to cut down the accident rate… But that was the city police, not us.”

“Also,” Grayson said, “you’ve got a law here that says you can hold a man for thirty days without a hearing.”

“True,” Vidal said. “Thirty days, at which time you are brought before a judge and it is decided whether I can hold you longer without preferring charges. But I should remind you that if I think I have cause to hold you for thirty days, an attorney would do you little good. Neither would your consul or your ambassador. However—” He spoke into the telephone and hung up.

The man who entered a moment later was straight-backed and distinguished. His dark suit had a silken sheen, his hair was touched with gray, and his swart, sharp-featured face was impassive as he glanced about the room. In that same instant a muted bell rang deep down in Jeff’s consciousness. For it seemed to him that somehow Luis Miranda seemed familiar, though he could not remember why.

He puzzled over the thought while the lawyer greeted Vidal and Grayson. There followed a long exchange in Spanish and then Miranda leaned back while Ramon Zumeta took over.

“We have questioned some of the help at the Tucan,” he said, “and have established certain facts. You came to the hotel about seven thirty, Mr. Grayson. Mr. Baker met you. Do you care to tell us what you did then?”

“Why not.” Grayson slumped in his chair and now he smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand. “I went up to his room, stayed about one minute, and came down. I went home. You can check with the servants.”

“At approximately ten minutes of eight,” Zumeta continued, “Mr. Baker came to the desk to ask if there were any messages. He went from there to the bar and ordered a dry martini. When it was served he reached into his pocket and then told the barman he must have left his wallet in his room. The barman remembers this because he told Mr. Baker he could sign the check, but Mr. Baker said he would rather pay and to hold his drink. He never came back for it.”

Zumeta glanced up, hesitated, then consulted his notes. “At about five minutes of eight Mr. Baker came to the desk to ask for his key. The clerk could not find the regular key, so he offered a duplicate, thinking Mr. Baker had left the other one in his room. He saw Mr. Baker start for the elevators, but he cannot remember whether he saw Mr. Baker actually step in or not.”

He glanced at the girl. “You were right about the telephone call you heard. At 8.01 someone used a house phone and the operator rang room 312 three times before the party hung up. At 8.07 the light on 312 flashed on the switchboard. When the operator answered someone said: “Outside,” and was given a line. She thinks it was no more than fifteen or twenty seconds before the telephone was replaced. Unfortunately, because of the dial system, we do not know where the call went. Unless he died instantly, which is doubtful, Mr. Baker could have pulled the telephone to the floor and made that call… Would you know anything about that call, Mr. Grayson?” he asked.

“Me? No. I’d just talked to him a half-hour before that.”

“About what?” Vidal asked.

“A personal matter.” Grayson sat up, the grooves digging into the sides of his nose and his pale gaze intent. “What did you find in the room?”

“Aside from the usual things, the gun,” Zumeta said. “His traveling bag was unlocked and the keys were in the lock.”

“But—I mean, wasn’t there anything else?”

“Clothing, Mr. Grayson. His wallet, the usual papers… Should there be something else?”

Grayson’s glance slid to Luis Miranda and he jerked it back. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I just wondered if you found some clue, something that would give you a lead.”

Under the circumstances the reply lacked conviction and Jeff wondered about this when Grayson slumped in his chair and the scowl deepened. Then Zumeta said: