One Minute Past Eight (7 page)

“He said it consisted of stock in your company.”

“That’s right,” said Jeff, beginning to wonder why she was so interested.

He watched her maneuver into a traffic circle and brake suddenly when a small truck edged in front of her from another street. She said something under her breath that sounded distinctly profane and started to bang the horn-ring before she thought better of it.

“Will he be rich?” she asked as she got the car clear of the jam and stepped on the throttle.

Jeff chuckled. “Hardly.”

“Oh? But doesn’t he get a lot of shares?”

“Quite a lot; but it’s not a very big company.”

“How many shares?”

“Thirty thousand.” Then, because he decided he might as well give it all to her rather than have her drag it out of him, he said: “And right now it’s quoted over the counter—or was the last I heard—around fifteen.”

She frowned slightly as she did the mental multiplication. “That’s four hundred and fifty thousand.” she said. “That’s quite a lot—I think that’s fine,” she added, her tone brightening in a way that suggested she was well pleased with the news.

Jeff continued his inspection, noting the emerald engagement ring which must have been four or five carats. When he considered the aquamarine-and-diamond ring on her other hand, and the wristwatch with the diamond-studded bracelet, he wondered why she should be so concerned with money. A further examination of her profile revealed a smile that had taken possession of her mouth. It remained constant as she drove, and the idea came to him that, now that she had the information she wanted, her secret thoughts had been projected well beyond the confines of the car.

“Do you know his wife?” he asked.

“What?” She glanced at him, frowning as her thought-train was shattered. “Oh, yes. Yes, I know her.”

“What’s she like?”

“Like?” She made a small disparaging sound. “In my opinion.” she said with formidable frankness, “she’s a cold potato.”

“And how will she like going back to the States?”

In a tone that suggested she could not care less, she said: “I haven’t the faintest idea!”

She braked the car in front of the hotel and now the smile of contentment had slipped from her face and some inner annoyance was working on her mouth. When Jeff thanked her for the ride she replied indifferently and it was quite clear that his questions had spoiled her morning.

He watched her drive off and then went into the hotel, intending to have another try at locating Grayson; but a man who had been leaning on the desk had another idea. With the clerk acting as interpreter Jeff learned that this was a detective—
oficial
was the word the clerk used—who had been dispatched by Ramon Zumeta to take him to the headquarters of
Segurnal
so Jeff could make a statement.

JULIO CORDOVEZ was waiting at the information desk at
Segurnal
when Jeff finished his protracted session with Zumeta and a stenographer. It was then one thirty, and when Cordovez asked if he would like some lunch, Jeff said yes.

“The Normandy is good,” the little detective said. “I think they serve lunch. Also, farther in the city there is the Paris. Very old but very good. Or perhaps you would like to see the American Club.”

“Is it far?”

“No,” said Cordovez and led the way to his car.

He seemed to take a certain pride in showing Jeff the American Club, which had originally been a hotel. He pointed out certain features, showed him the dining-room, the patio, which could be used for special occasions, and the bar, where five American businessmen were shaking poker dice for the third martini.

Jeff ordered an omelet, a salad, and iced coffee, and Cordovez asked for something that turned out to be chicken and rice. He offered no information until Jeff asked for it

“I have learned the results of the autopsy,” he said, “The bullet entered here”—he tapped his lower chest—“and was directed upward toward the back, lodging in the spine.”

Jeff sipped his coffee and contemplated his cigarette until the significance of the information struck him. He looked up, eyelids narrowing.

“The spine?” he said thoughtfully. “Then what about that telephone call at seven minutes after eight?”

“Baker did not make it. It cannot be said with certainty that he died instantly, but he would have been paralyzed, He could not have dialed. The doctor does not think he could have lifted the instrument.”

“But someone did make a call.”

“Yes.” Cordovez let the thought build for a silent minute. “You have seen Grayson?” he asked,

“Not yet,” Jeff said. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then let’s take a ride. If he’s not there maybe I can talk to his wife.”

“There is also a man who lives there,” Cordovez said as Jeff reached for the check.

“Oh?”

“A Señor Fiske. Dudley Fiske.”

“What do you mean, he lives there?”

“He is said to be an old friend of Grayson’s and came here a year and a half ago to work as a sort of assistant. Grayson is a man who likes to feel important. I have heard it said that Fiske has many small duties. Also”—he leaned forward and lowered his voice—“he was at the hotel last night with Mrs. Grayson.”

Jeff’s brown eyes were instantly attentive. “How do you know?”

“I saw them. I have brought Señor Baker to the hotel and have asked if he will need me. He says he is not sure but then he decides it might be well for me to wait. I am parked there where the taxis line up—that is how I notice you, though I do not know who you are—and I see Grayson arrive and then very soon comes this car with Mrs. Grayson driving.”

He made a small gesture of apology. “I do not think about this at the time. I do not think about it later. Not until this morning do I wonder why they have come.” He started to add to his apology and Jeff cut him off.

“This would be around seven thirty?”

“About that.”

“What happened?”

“The woman remained in the car. Fiske started toward the hotel, not by the front, but to the left, around the corner where the grass is and the pool; on the side where your room is. One can also enter the hotel from there.”

“How long did he stay?”

Cordovez opened his hands and sighed. “I cannot say. At the time it did not concern me. A few minutes before you arrive they have gone.”

“That could be around eight o’clock.”

“It is possible.”

Jeff let it go at that because he could think of nothing to add. They went back to the car and once under way Cordovez proved to be an informative guide. He seemed o find enjoyment in pointing out the signs of progress in his home city, and Jeff listened absently to the running commentary.

He was told that Los Caobos Park, once a dangerous spot after dark, had been thoroughly cleaned out and was lighted at night. He heard the names of the streets each time Cordovez made a turn. When a modern-looking stadium caught his eye he asked about it and was told that it was the baseball park. A similar structure near by brought forth the information that this was Estadio Olimpico.

“For football,” Cordovez said and then, pointing a moment to his left, he indicated a new-looking building which stood by itself. “Creole Petroleum,” he said. “You have heard of this?”

“Hah!” said Jeff with some irony. “I just wish I’d bought a few hundred shares five years ago. Even three years ago.”

“This company has brought much money for this country,” Cordovez said as he turned into a broad freeway where traffic moved swiftly.

“Autopista”
he said. “avenida de la Mercedes,” he added, when he cut right; and then, after another right, they were going uphill, to stop finally in front of an attractively landscaped house that in the States would have fallen into the ranch-type category. “I will wait,” he said. “It will be difficult for you to find a taxi here.”

A brown-skinned maid took Jeff’s name and left him in the entrance hall. The woman who came presently to meet him was slender, poised, and smart-looking, her prematurely gray hair adding to the over-all picture of attractiveness. Her smile seemed automatic as she greeted him and said she was Diana Grayson. She shook hands like a man and led the way into a long, low, cool-looking room that overlooked a wide expanse of well-kept lawn surrounded by a hedge.

She sat down on the divan and took a cigarette from the silver box on the coffee table, tapping it with nervous staccato movements on the back of her hand before she accepted the light Jeff offered. She inhaled deeply and crossed her legs.

“Arnold said you might stop,” she said. “I’m sorry he’s not here. In fact, I don’t know where he is.”

“But you know why I came?”

“Oh, yes. He told me that much.”

“And do you know if he plans—”

She held up her hand to interrupt him. Her smile was twisted and her voice was brittle. In its forthright way it had somehow a savage quality, as though something had been gnawing inside her until there could no longer be any need for pretense.

“I think I could save time if I told you I haven’t known what Arnold’s plans are or what he’s been thinking for quite a while. I’ve been married to him for three years and frankly, Mr. Lane, I’m heartily sick of my bargain.”

Jeff blinked at her words and found them embarrassing. “You—don’t get along?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“You married him in Las Vegas.”

“As the result of an emotional rebound, I suppose,” she said. “My first husband was a very nice guy, but he was a drunkard and a weakling. Arnold was never that. I was completely taken in by his charm, and it was a relief to have someone who could make decisions and who made me feel like a woman and not like a nurse. It took me a year to find out that I had been swindled emotionally and economically by that part-time charm.”

“But,” said Jeff, a little startled by the outburst, “you stayed with him.”

“Oh, yes.” She leaned forward and put her cigarette out by jabbing it forcibly into the metal tray. “Yes, I stayed with him,” she said, her soft laugh a bitter sound. “I could have gone back to the States if I’d wanted to go empty-handed. I could have got a divorce there but I doubt if you could extradite a man for alimony, could you?

“I had a lump-sum settlement from my first husband. When we came here to make our fortunes I was still in love, or thought I was. Arnold made some investments. He told me all about them when I signed the checks. The trouble was that the bad ones always turned out to be in my name and the good ones in his. Now, except for some jewelry my first husband gave me, I’m practically penniless, and I have no intention of walking out and making it easier for him—not unless I can get a decent settlement.”

She did not explain what she meant by making it easier, but her glance moved beyond Jeff and remained there, Then, for the first time, her expression changed and her smile seemed genuinely friendly.

“Come in, Dudley,” she said.

Lane turned. When he saw the man who had entered the room he stood up.

“This is Mr. Lane,” she said. “Dudley Fiske.”

Fiske said: “Hello, Mr. Lane,” and offered a chubby hand. A stocky, round-faced man with thinning sandy hair and glasses, he had a quiet, pleasant manner, but Jeff’s first impression was that his personality was neutral and that his easy smile came perhaps too easily.

“Sit down, Dudley,” the woman said. “Mr. Lane was asking about Arnold’s plans,” she added as he took a place beside her, “and I was telling him I was afraid I couldn’t help.”

“Did you know about the money he took from the West-wind Hotel?” Jeff said, deciding he might as well give the question a try.

He watched the smile go away and the mouth tighten again. “Not until a few days ago,” she said. “I wish I had… No,” she said. “All I knew was that he was in an awful hurry to get out of the country after we were married. I wondered at the time what made him so nervous and jumpy… How much will his inheritance amount to?”

Jeff said he was not sure. It would depend on the price of the stock. “Possibly between four and five hundred thousand.”

“Dollars?”

He nodded and said: “I suppose you knew he sold some property the other day.”

She glanced at Fiske and then away. “About all he owned,” she said thinly, “except for this house.”

Jeff hesitated, trying to feel his way along and unable yet to make up his mind about Fiske, who kept watching the woman with an approving smile and something in his eyes that said he was very much sold on what he saw.

“You came down here as Arnold’s assistant, Mr. Fiske?” Jeff said.

“That was what I thought,” Fiske said, and smiled again. “My trouble,” he added with surprising candor, “was that I had a very bad case of adolescent hero-worship and I was a long time outgrowing it. I knew Arnold during his last year in prep school and picked the same college, because he did, though when they kicked him out I stayed put.

“Arnold was everything I wanted to be. Big, good-looking, a fine athlete when he cared to try. He had a handsome allowance and he was willing to share it with someone who could act as his jester and run his errands. At the time I was pretty proud that he chose me because I was in school on a scholarship and I had to work for my spending money. Arnold even took a girl away from me once—it took no great doing—but even that didn’t discourage me. He was a great guy and I was his buddy and in my eyes the evil things he did never seemed vicious.”

“When he wrote me a year and a half ago I was selling printing in New York and not breaking any records. Arnold drew a fascinating picture about what life was like down here and the amount of money that could be made. He needed an assistant and it was a chance of a lifetime.” He raised one hand a few inches and let it fall.

“Apparently I was still enchanted by some of the things that happened a long time ago, or maybe it was just because I was tired of selling printing. Anyway, I came. He moved me right into a wing of my own here. He wanted me in the house because what good is a whipping boy if he’s not available?… Yes,” he said, I’m an assistant down in the office. I get a salary. Not as much as it should be, but then I get my room and board with the job.”

He said other things along the same line, but Jeff heard him only with his ears. His mind had moved to other things and he had an idea that Fiske was telling the truth. He was ashamed of what he had done but not violently so; his bitterness was a passive thing. To Jeff it seemed that essentially this was a nice guy, hard to dislike but with no drive and small ambitions. Such bitterness as he felt had been absorbed with resiliency and he seemed accustomed to shouldering the blame for his failures.

For all this his presence had its effect on Diana Grayson. When she looked at him her brittleness was less apparent and the feminine softness of which she was capable seemed to flourish. Understanding his shortcomings she apparently found in him something that was both comforting and desirable.

“Do you know why Arnold wanted to raise cash, Mrs. Grayson?” Jeff said when Fiske fell silent.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Jeff told her about Carl Webb and how Harry Baker had been employed to act as the middleman.

“Did you know Arnold went to the Tucan last night with the cash?” he asked.

“Did he?”

“Don’t you know? You followed him, didn’t you?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You and Mr. Fiske drove up to the Tucan right after Arnold got there,” He glanced at Fiske. “You went around the side of the hotel. How long were you there?”

Fiske glanced at the woman as though asking for her assistance and she gave it at once, her voice distant and emphatic.

“I don’t know where you got your information,” she said, “but this much I can tell you. We didn’t follow Arnold and we didn’t go to the hotel.”

“You knew about the money,” Jeff said, persisting. “Luis Miranda knew about it. Who else might know?”

She shrugged thin shoulders and stood up, her glance bleak and her voice astringent, “I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps you’d better ask Arnold. He may be at the office now.”

Jeff rose, aware that the interview was over. He thought he understood a little of the character of these two just as he understood the woman was the stronger. Unhappiness had left scars on her emotions but she had not been broken. That she held her husband in contempt seemed obvious, but to Jeff it also seemed that there remained a calculated desire to make him pay for what he had done to her.

“When Baker’s body was found,” he said, “there wasn’t any cash. I’m pretty sure Arnold delivered it, because he was still scared of the Westwind crowd. Whoever has it now will probably stand trial for murder.”

She was looking right at him now, a suggestion of smugness in her smile that was disconcerting. If she was at all worried she did not show it.

“I’d very much like to get my hands on it,” she said. “By rights most of it should be mine anyway.”