One Minute Past Eight (8 page)

ONCE AWAY from the avenida Urdaneta, the broad thoroughfare which had been cut straight through the downtown section of the city from west to east, the streets on the north side were narrow and congested and the buildings were tightly spaced and dark with age and decay. Always there was a slope to the streets and all vehicular traffic moved in one-way patterns. That is why Julio Cordovez, who was to continue on to
Segurnal
in search of additional information, let Jeff out at the corner and pointed to a building a few doors down in the wrong direction.

At this hour of the afternoon the narrow street stood in shadow and to leave room for even a single line of traffic many of the parked cars stood with two wheels on the all too narrow sidewalks. Jeff passed the narrow front of a shop that displayed radios and record-players, an undertaking establishment that featured three open caskets in its plate-glass window, the wider doorway of a garage with a recessed ramp and one gasoline pump and came finally to this entrance, the side of which bore two tarnished brass plates, one of which said: Grayson Enterprises.

Inside there was only darkness and a flight of narrow stairs that led to the second-floor hall. Groping his way along this, Jeff wondered why Grayson should have selected such an address, instead of one of the more modern buildings, until he opened the heavy wooden door and realized that his stepbrother had made himself very comfortable indeed.

For he stood now in a three-room suite, one side of which opened on an inner court, hidden from the street, but green with shrubbery. Thick masonry walls provided natural air-conditioning and no sounds filtered in from outside. A rug covered the ancient tiles of the flooring and the two chairs and the sofa were upholstered in light-green leather. A secretary’s typewriter desk stood near a tall window and at the moment Arnold Grayson seemed to be bidding his employee a fond and affectionate farewell.

A cardboard carton beside the desk was half full of discarded papers, and the smartly dressed black-haired girl was holding her bag and a wrapped package as she laughingly protested some suggestion in Spanish. Grayson, in shirtsleeves, had both hands on the girl’s shoulders, and even as he glanced at Jeff, he kissed first one cheek and then the other. He turned her toward the door, opened it, and then, as she went past, gave her a resounding smack on a well-rounded hip that brought forth a squeal and a giggle.

But the instant he closed the door his expression changed. Beneath the little mustache the mouth flattened, the tan face twisted, and the pale eyes were arrogant and resentful. His voice was cold, impatient, and accusing.

“What the hell do you want?” he demanded.

The Jekyll-and-Hyde performance came as no surprise to Jeff, but he still wondered if some of the things he had recently read about multiple personalities could apply to his stepbrother. The animosity displayed was of long standing, for he understood that Arnold had always felt that, as the stepson, he had never had the breaks that had been given to Jeff. Now, trying not to show his displeasure, he disciplined his voice.

“You know what I want, Arny.”

“Not today,” Grayson said, turning on his heel and starting along a short corridor, which led past a smaller office to a larger room very elegantly furnished in a heavy, masculine way. “I’m busy. I’ve got more important things to do.”

Jeff considered the oversized desk, the oversized divan. An open door revealed a small bathroom and in an alcove was a water-cooler, a cellaret, and an icebox. Apparently Grayson conducted his business with all the privacy and comforts of home but at the moment his customary arrogance and assurance were missing. He was tossing papers into an open attaché case on the desk with hands that were fumbling and uncertain. He seemed charged with a nervous tension that was beyond his control. Then, remembering Carl Webb and his mission, Jeff thought he had the answer.

“Did you find the cash?”

Grayson wheeled. “What cash?”

“The cash you took to the Tucan last night.”

Grayson’s tongue flicked across the lower edge of his mustache.

“What do you know about it?”

“All I know is that someone grabbed it before Baker could make the pay-off.” Jeff spoke of his talk with Carl Webb and then he stopped, aware that this was none of his business and that he had a mission of his own to accomplish. “Look, Arny.” he said.

“You look.” Grayson advanced, his face twisted and the pale eyes bright and threatening. “I told you to get out. I mean it.”

Jeff stood his ground. “All I want is your word that you’ll vote your stock with us. After all, I didn’t have to come here.”

“Hah!” Grayson sneered at him. “Don’t kid yourself. You’ve got scruples. You promised your old man you’d try to find me. You wouldn’t be able to sleep nights if you didn’t try. It’s no credit to you, you’re just built that way. Now come on, goddammit, get out of here.”

He grabbed Jeff’s arm as he spoke, wrenched him round and started propelling him from the room. Jeff took two uneven steps and then braced himself as something that had been building inside him for a long time finally demanded expression. At that moment it seemed to him that all his life he had been pushed around by his stepbrother without once being able to push back, and now, as his temper flared, he took a savage delight in resisting.

It was not his intention to swing on Grayson. He simply wanted to defy him, and now he twisted sideways, freeing his arm as he spun about and pushing his stepbrother away. Apparently Grayson misunderstood the intention, or maybe he just didn’t care. Whatever the reason, he attacked at once, and in a fashion that Jeff had never experienced before.

Later he was to wonder where Grayson had learned his tactics, but in that first instant all he knew was that pain exploded in his left leg as Grayson kicked him in the shin, that as he hobbled and started to reach for his leg the right fist came whistling at his jaw.

It caught him a glancing blow at the corner of the mouth as he twisted his head and then he forgot about the pain in his leg. He forgot everything but the overwhelming desire to smash the man who had caused him so much trouble.

It surprised him a little to find how easy it was as he swung his right into the pit of the soft stomach and heard the “whoosh” as Grayson’s breath whistled out. He jabbed a left to get the chin up as he came forward. He slugged once with his right, feeling the welcome shock in his hand. Then, as the big man started down, he hooked once more with the right and stepped back.

Grayson dropped on his haunches and put out his hands to keep from toppling over. He shook his head to clear his vision. As the pale eyes focused there was a second or two when surprise was mirrored from their depths, and then the ugliness came, shocking in its intensity.

“Get up!” Jeff said.

Grayson stayed where he was, his face dark with fury and the side of his jaw beginning to swell.

“There’s a gun in the desk.” he said, his voice checked, “If I get up I’m going to kill you.”

Jeff started to reply; he wanted to dare Grayson to try to reach the desk. Then, because he had begun to shake inside, because he realized his own anger could not long be contained, he wheeled and strode from the room.

By the time he reached the street reaction set in. He was breathing heavily and he could feel his knees trembling as a strange weakness seized him. He crossed the pavement and turned to look back at the entrance, no longer aware of his surroundings until he saw someone stop in front of him and heard the familiar voice.

“Hi.”

Jeff had to concentrate. He had to steady himself. He had to remember where he was before he could actually see the round-shouldered figure with the hairy triangle in the V of the sport shirt, the shaggy, mouse-colored hair, the pipe that jutted from the sallow face of Dan Spencer.

“I just stepped out for a beer.” he said.

“Stepped out?” Jeff said vacantly.

“Sure. The
Bulletin’s
just down the street.” He took Jeff’s arm, turning him so his back was to the street. “How about it?” he asked. “Join me?”

Jeff freed his arm and tried to smile. The one thing he did not want just then was company of any kind. He had to get away, he had to think. He made his excuses as best he could as he began to back downhill.

“No thanks.” he said. “Not just now. I—I got a date.” He made a pretense of glancing at his watch. “I’m late already.”

He knew Spencer was eying him curiously but he could not help it. He could not stand inspection and he turned at once and started blindly down the narrow sidewalk, walking fast until he came to the corner and then slowing down, as he approached Urdaneta.

Still not knowing where he was going or what he intended to do, he turned right with the traffic light, walked a block, and then crossed over to his left when the light changed, His steps began to drag. The trembling in his knees stopped and his breathing became regular. The shrill summons of a policeman’s whistle at the next corner made him conscious of his wandering and he hesitated while the traffic piled up in front of him.

Not until then did he realize that the corner of his mouth was wet. When he licked it, it tasted salty, and now he took out his handkerchief. There was blood on it when he wiped his lips and he could feel the puffiness at the corner. He began to mutter under his breath as he continued down the street looking for a bar.

He took his first whisky straight and that helped settle his stomach. He poured the second into the iced soda and took his time with it. He was not sure how long because he had begun to think again. When he noticed that two of his knuckles had been scraped each detail of the encounter came back to him. He felt no regrets at what he had done to Grayson, but doubts began to nag him as his mind moved on and he considered the contributing factors.

When he tried to add them up the result was only more confusion. Grayson had not only been worried but very much concerned about something that had nothing to do with his inheritance. Apparently he was expecting someone. Who? Webb? Karen Holmes? Suppose Grayson had in some way located the missing cash? Suppose…

Jeff gave up such speculation and finished his drink, convinced now that he had made a mistake in leaving. The smart thing would have been to get out of the office and then wait outside to see who else came to see his stepbrother. If he had had any sense he would have done just that, and now he wondered if there was still time to find out why Grayson had been so upset over his, Jeff’s, persistence.

He was not sure how long it had been since he had left the office, and because he still had some small hope of getting back there before it was too late, he walked fast, dodging traffic as he crossed streets and checking the street signs to make sure he made no mistakes. Puffing a little now as he moved uphill he saw the entrance he wanted just ahead and turned in without slowing down. Not until he reached the door at the end of the darkened corridor did he hesitate; then, because he was not sure what might lie beyond, he palmed the knob and turned it silently.

When he had the door open a three-inch crack, he put his ear close and listened. There was no sound but the half-heard thud of his heart. He widened the crack. Still no sound.

On tiptoe now he slipped sideways through the opening and from where he stood he thought he was alone. The outer office still had its empty look, the other doors stood open. Finally, accepting the fact that he was too late, he closed the door behind him and let his body relax. He took a breath and let it out slowly. He glanced out of the high window at the courtyard below and then he started slowly for the room at the rear, having no particular object in mind and no longer thinking about what he was doing.

He was at the doorway before he saw the attaché case on the desk just as it had been when he left. The sight of it left his dark eyes puzzled and he took another step to clear the door. That was when he saw Arnold Grayson.

Three or four feet from the far end of the desk, he was on the floor in almost the same spot Jeff had last seen him. Since that time only two things had changed. Instead of sitting up, the man now lay flat on his back, and the jacket that had been draped over a chair lay crumpled on the floor, as though someone had searched it and flung it aside. Not until he moved swiftly closer did Jeff understand that there had been still another change: instead of a single swelling at the side of the jaw, the once tanned face had a bluish tinge and was ridged with ugly welts.

IN THOSE first horrible moments, as Jeff stood there staring wide-eyed at the still figure at his feet, it did not occur to him that Arnold Grayson was dead. He knew that he had been savagely beaten about the head with some instrument that left those thin welts. An ear had been torn and there was blood on the hair above it. The hands, flung above the head, rested on the floor with the palms up and he could see that two of the fingernails were stained.

The sight sickened him as he knelt beside his stepbrother and called his name. He reached for the heavy shoulders and tugged at them. He managed to get the torso to a sitting position, supporting the dead weight as best he could. He spoke again, his voice hoarse as he tried to shake the man awake.

There was no response. The head rolled limply, and now, the sickness inside him turning coldly to fear, Jeff lowered the shoulders and put his ear hard against the shirt front. When he realized finally that the heart-beat he heard was his own he reached frantically for a wrist and dug his fingers into the warm flesh. He held his breath and tried again. Only then did he understand that there would never be a pulse.

Somehow Jeff got to his feet and stood a moment, breathing deeply and swallowing hard. Shock and bewilderment made it difficult to think, and all he could do was turn his back and wait until he had his nerves under control. He wiped damp palms on his trousers and flexed his fingers. To occupy himself while he tried to sort out his thoughts, he stepped to the desk, remembering now the gun Grayson had mentioned. He opened one drawer and then another. He tried them all and all were empty. There was no gun; only the attaché case, which was closed but not locked.

He opened it absently, thinking once about the missing cash but realizing it was not here. Papers and envelopes were fastened in small bundles by elastics and when he turned them over he came to the checkbook. It was the sort that has three checks to the page. They had been imprinted with the firm name and now, his mind focusing once more on the money Grayson had raised, he turned to the more recent entries.

The last stub verified the fact that Grayson had indeed found the money he needed. The single word written there read:
Cash.
The rest of the notation was: 400,000 B’s—the equivalent of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. In the deposit column, and dated Monday, was the figure: 450,000 B’s, an amount which verified the figure Luis Miranda had mentioned.

As Jeff considered this, his glance moved absently upward to the stub above where a much smaller figure had been written opposite the word—
Airline.

He spoke the word half aloud, brow puckering as he turned back a page. Here a word caught his eye and he looked again. It was written on the middle stub.
Spence,
is what it said, and the amount was 300 B’s.

Jeff turned back two pages to find the identical notation. When it was repeated again he turned to the front of the book where the first checks in that series had been issued four months earlier. The third stub was marked with the same name and carried the same amount.

He closed the book, replaced it and picked up an envelope which carried the red-and-blue insignia of a well-known airline. He slipped off the elastic and found two tickets dated the following day and giving the flight number and time. The destination was marked as New York. The top ticket was made out in Grayson’s name; the second one had been issued to M. Miranda. Then, before he could even begin to wonder about this, the heavy silence was broken by a metallic sound that came from the front room.

Jeff stiffened, every muscle tense, the character of the sound warning him that someone had entered the office. Obeying some impulse that would not be denied, he thrust the tickets into his inside pocket and tipped the top of the attaché case so that it fell shut. When he turned, as ready as he ever would be to face this new threat, he heard the voice call out.

“Hello! Is anybody here?”

In the instant that followed, Jeff’s inner tension evaporated and his heart sank. For he recognized that voice and he did not know what to do about it. There was no way out and he could only stand there, feeling the perspiration oozing on his forehead while his scalp grew prickly and a sense of hopelessness blanketed his thoughts. For another second he waited, ears straining as he listened. Then he knew he was trapped.

“Mr. Grayson.”

The slow uncertain sound of approaching footsteps continued, and now, because he could delay no longer, he stepped into the doorway.

“Oh!” Karen Holmes said, and stopped. “You.”

She was wearing a figured dress with a white background and carrying a white bag. She wore no hat, and though she gave him a tentative smile, her dark-blue eyes remained puzzled.

“I was supposed to see Mr. Grayson at four.” she said. “Isn’t he—” She stopped, held by something she had seen in Jeff’s white-lipped face. “What is it?” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Jeff said, and stepped up to prevent her coming into the room. “Maybe you’d better stay out here.”

But she had already seen the sprawled figure on the floor and he heard her frightened gasp. One hand fluttered to her breast and she stared round-eyed at Grayson and then at Jeff, the fear and uncertainty she felt reflected in her face.

“Did you—”

“No,” Jeff said harshly. “No. He was that way when I came.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“It’s worse than that.”

“Is he—” Her voice caught and she tried again. “But how—I mean, what—”

“The way it looks,” Jeff said, deciding he might as well get it over with, “someone walked in here and beat him to death.”

She leaned against the edge of the door, shoulders sagging. Her head sank lower but she said no more, and finally Jeff knew he had to tell what he had done. Because he felt too weak-kneed to stand there any longer he took her arm and gently led her round the desk so she could not see Grayson.

“I only came about five minutes before you did. I didn’t know what happened either. I was here earlier and I came back—”

He checked himself because she no longer seemed to be listening. Her gaze was fixed on the hand which rested on the desk, a gaze so intent that he glanced down, seeing first the small dark stain on his shirt front and knowing he must have got it when he held Grayson’s torso upright. Then, as his eyes moved on, he saw the back of his hand and the two scars on his knuckles. Already scabs had begun to form there and make them more noticeable than ever.

“Karen!” He reached down to touch her shoulder in an effort to make her look at him, “I told you I was here before. We had an argument and both of us threw a couple of punches. But the only mark he had on him when I left was a lump on his jaw.”

And then he was talking fast, a little desperately, beginning from the moment he first walked into the office and relating each detail he could remember. Stopping only to take a breath from time to time, he gave her the complete story because it seemed so important to him that she understand what he had done and accept it as the truth.

She did not interrupt. Her eyes remained on his face and as he continued the doubt that had been there went away. He saw the change in her expression and took heart. When he finished he had the idea that if she did not believe him she at least wanted to believe him.

“That’s it,” he said wearily. “I just wanted to tell you while I had the chance.”

“Chance? What do you mean?”

“I have to call the police, don’t I?”

“With the blood on your shirt and those marks on your knuckles? How can you?”

He looked at her, brows screwed up and his eyes peering in his disbelief.

“What else can I do? Run?”

She put her chin out and her mouth grew firm. “How long were you gone?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. Maybe a half-hour.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No,” Jeff said and then he groaned. “Oh, Lord.”

“What is it?”

“Spencer.”

“Who?”

“Dan Spencer, the reporter we met last night. His paper is just down the block. I’d just left here and was standing across the street. He was on his way to get a beer. He asked me to join him.”

Karen shrugged her trim shoulders and made a face. “Well, there you are. He’s certain to remember that. He’ll tell the police, and even if he doesn’t they’ll want to question you. They’ll see your hand. How can you explain it? You haven’t any alibi, have you? You even have a motive.”

“What motive?”

“You’d better think a little more,” she said with remarkable lucidity. “You came down to ask your stepbrother to vote his stock with you. Did he agree?”

“No, but—”

“Don’t you and your sister get that stock now that he’s dead? He had to go to Boston to claim it, didn’t he? It couldn’t ever be his stock unless he went back. So it’s yours now, isn’t it?”

For a second or two Jeff could only look at her, a little astounded by the clarity of her thoughts and the way she expressed them. What she had said made sense, and having accepted this much, what finally decided him was the thought of something Pedro Vidal had said the night before in his
Segurnal
office.

This was not the United States. This was Venezuela and the law said a suspect could be held for thirty days without recourse, without a chance of freedom unless Vidal changed his mind. The thought shook Jeff as he considered its ramifications and suddenly he knew he had to take the chance this girl was offering him. What he might prove before he was caught seemed beside the point. He had to try to clear himself and he could not do it in a cell. Julio Cordovez would help and that thought alone was encouraging. Karen would help too if she could. He knew it now as he leaned forward and took both her hands in his.

They were firm but soft and she made no effort to withdraw them; nor did her gaze falter as he looked into her eyes and said what he had to say.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for telling me the score. I’ll get hold of Julio Cordovez. He can help if anyone can. But remember this: don’t get yourself in a jam.”

“I won’t.”

“That thirty-day law of theirs applies to you, too. But if you want to call the police and tell them you walked in and found him like this—” He hesitated as a new thought came. “Does anyone else know you had this date?”

“His secretary. I made it through her.”

“Then it has to be that way.” Jeff said. He released her hands and straightened up, some part of his conscience telling him that this was not the way but unable to find an alternative.

“I’ll be on my way,” he said. “You can telephone now if you like.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “We seem to have an affinity for murder. Last night it was you and this time it’s my turn.”

“Wait!” The word came sharply as he turned away and now she came suddenly to her feet. “I just remembered,” she breathed. “I came in a car and told the driver to wait. He’s parked just outside. He’ll be sure to see you.”

“Oh, fine.” Jeff said. “Well, it was a good idea while it lasted,” he added resignedly, “and don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

If she paid any attention to this admission of failure she gave no visible sign. For a second her young face was grave with thought and then her eyes brightened and her lips parted.

“I know.” she said. “You come with me and stay just inside the downstairs doorway. I’ll tell the driver to go for a policeman and when he gets far enough away you can slip out… Why not?” she demanded, obviously delighted with the suggestion, even if it was her own.

Jeff looked at her and sighed, marveling a little that anyone so lovely-looking could think so clearly under pressure. He understood also that the plan might work if his luck was in and a policeman didn’t happen to be stationed too close to the door. And if his luck was out, what difference could it make?

“Sure,” he said respectfully. “Let’s give it a try,” he said, and led the way through the office and down the darkened stairs.