One Minute Past Eight (3 page)

“Keep,” he said, and nodded him out past the counters and toward the customs room.

Jeff reclaimed his two bags, which were already there, unlocked them, watched them chalk-marked, and then stood aside as a porter snatched them from the counter and led the way out of the air-conditioned pleasantness into the humid warmth of the early evening. There was still some afterglow in the sky, but here the lights had been turned on and presently he was relaxing in the back seat of a late-model car.

“Hotel Tucan,” he said and from over his shoulder the driver said:
“Si.”

Minutes later they were on the new expressway that led to Caracas. Somewhere off to the left where darkness had begun to obscure the mountains was the old road that Jeff had once traveled with his heart in his throat because of the precipitous grades and hairpin turns. The thought of it made him grateful for the new highway, not only because of its safety but because it cut the traveling time in half.

For the sense of urgency was still riding him. Even though he was more than twelve hours late he had the feeling that time was important, that even a half-hour saved might make the difference between success and failure. He tried not to think about Karen Holmes and the trick she had played on him in Miami, and he refused to consider the possibility that she might already have accomplished her purpose.

Once he had talked to Harry Baker he would know where he stood and what must be done as the next step. He had cabled Baker of his delay before he left Miami. He felt certain Baker would be waiting at the hotel, and as his brain continued to speculate he was only vaguely conscious of the broad divided highway, the viaducts that bridged the valleys, the mile-long tunnel that bored directly toward the city.

They were on the outskirts now, and the lights that blanketed the valleys and hillsides reminded him of Southern California and the sprawling growth he had seen on the way back from Korea. A broad avenue he did not even remember cut directly through the downtown part of the city, and then the cab had turned left and was winding along paved drives that always sloped upward until a final turn brought them into the semicircle that fronted the hotel.

A porter moved across the flagged terrace and down the walk to meet him, and by that time the driver had opened the trunk to remove the bags.

“Gracias”
Jeff said.
“¿Cuánto vale?”

“Treinticinco
B’s.
Treinticinco
bolivars.”

Jeff shook his head. “No B’s,” he said. “Dollars. U.S.”

A man coming along the walk, apparently from one of the long row of parked cars, assessed the situation and stopped, a lean, dark man with an aquiline nose and a sharp-featured face. Now he addressed the driver in Spanish and when the reply came, turned to Jeff,

“He says ten dollars will be satisfactory.”

Jeff thanked him, paid the driver, and then he was following the porter up the walk and into the lobby which opened laterally in front of him. The desk was on his left and he gave the clerk his name and said he had a reservation, noting as he did so that the clock on the back wall pointed to 8.08.

He filled out a registration form and was asked for his passport. The clerk listened as he explained why he did not have a passport. He took the tourist card and birth certificate, saying that they would be returned later, and now Jeff asked if Harry Baker was still at the hotel.

“In 312,” the clerk said. “I have given you 314.”

When he had changed a twenty-dollar bill into Venezuelan bolivars Jeff followed the porter toward the elevators. Looking through a glass partition at the rear he saw rows of tables set up in what looked like a private dining-room, the men milling about with drinks in their hands. He asked the elevator operator about it and after a moment of concentration the boy’s face brightened.

“PanAm Oil Company,” he said. “Once each month they have this business dinner.”

314 proved to be a single room, one side of which was a tall three-paneled window. The porter hung up Jeff’s coat, put the largest bag on the rack, and checked the carafe to see that it was full. He accepted Jeff’s two-bolivar piece with a
Salud,
bowed out, and then Jeff stepped to the windows, finding two of the panels fixed and immovable while the third opened inward and was guarded by a screen.

Outside the screen was a narrow balcony with double rails and Jeff unlatched the screen door and stepped out. From there he could look down on the swimming pool with its underwater illumination and the lights that had been strung across the terrace adjoining the bar. But because he was still obsessed with the thought that time was so important, Jeff gave his attention to the windows of the adjoining room. When he saw the cracks of light behind the drawn curtains he knew what he wanted to do.

Not bothering to wash or unpack, he picked up the room key, stepped into the hall and knocked at the door on his right. With the light on it never occurred to him that Harry Baker would not be there, and when he had knocked once more he tried the knob and the door swung inward.

He took a step, hearing the door click shut behind him. The overhead light was on but the room seemed empty and he said: “Harry?” tentatively as he took his second step. That was when he saw the figure on the floor partly obscured by the foot of the bed.

For another second surprise and shock held him motionless, his gaze fixed on the hips and legs and upturned shoes. Then he was moving, round the foot of the bed, stepping over the legs to kneel beside the torso, knowing now that this was Harry Baker.

Once more he said: “Harry!” His voice tight.

He saw the telephone on the floor near the outstretched hand, the overturned ashtray which had been knocked from the desk. He shook a limp shoulder and reached for a hand that was as warm as his own. Then, even as he tried to find a pulse-beat, he saw the moist dark stain on one side of the white shirt.

The coat of the tan, lightweight suit was open and he saw the tiny hole on the right side, the black smudge encircling it. His fingers were damp and trembling as they dug into the limp wrist, and he tried again with his other hand before he understood that there was no pulse here, that Harry Baker was dead.

JEFF LANE was never sure how long he stayed there on one knee beside the still figure. Time no longer seemed important and his mind was stunned and there was only the sickness churning at the pit of his stomach.

Very gently he released the wrist. He found his handkerchief and dried the palms of his hands and gradually, as his brain began to function, his thoughts revolved not about the reason for Baker’s death but about the man himself.

For he had liked Harry Baker. He had not known him well, but he had talked with him a half-dozen times since he had been working on the case, had had drinks with him twice. He remembered that Baker had been in G-2 in the Army, that he had worked as a police officer in California and as a security man for one of the Las Vegas luxury hotels before coming east to accept this job with the Boston office of a national agency. Nothing that he had known about Baker indicated that he was anything but a shrewd and capable detective, and an honest one.

In this present assignment there had been no reason for violence. Baker had been looking for a man and he had found him. He had even cabled that his job was done and—Jeff’s thoughts hung there as he recalled the other words of that cable. A temporary job was to keep Baker in Caracas. What sort of job? For whom? Why—if that was the reason—had this job led to murder?

When Jeff understood there could be no immediate answer to such questions he glanced at the telephone and knew he would have to use it. He started to turn his head, still on one knee. That was how the shadow of some movement caught the corner of his eye, and what he did then could be attributed to the lingering traces of shock and nerves too tightly tuned. With no certainty that he had seen anything at all, he was suddenly breathing shallowly while an odd coldness spread across the back of his neck.

Turning only his head, he looked behind him at the curtained windows, one of which stood open and only partly covered. The bottom edge of that curtain stirred gently in the night breeze. Certain there was nothing here, he continued his inspection, his dark gaze prying as it swept the room and came to rest on the small entrance hall.

The door to the bathroom stood open and there was only darkness beyond. Opposite, another door, to the closet, stood ajar, and it was from this direction he had thought something moved. Slowly then, making no sound, he came to his feet, not knowing what he was going to do, only knowing that he had to be sure. On tiptoe he moved across the rug. When he saw the bathroom was empty, he wheeled and yanked at the closet door.

All this was done impulsively, without thought of the consequences. Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy attempt that could easily have been dangerous or even fatal, but not until then did he realize his mistake and consider the odds.

For he had known that Harry Baker had been shot and there had been no gun in sight. Now he understood why. He seemed to see it first, even as the faint odor of perfume mingled with the air of the hallway.

The backward step he took was instinctive as he stared at Karen Holmes, no longer dressed in her smart sharkskin suit and dark-red hat but wearing a summery navy-blue frock which was topped by a white-flannel jacket. In her left hand she clutched a blue bag; in her right hand was a short-barreled revolver,

Jeff let his breath out slowly, while the girl stood there tensed and immobile, her young face white with shock. He found the back of his throat dry and swallowed. He took another small step backward and this brought him up against the edge of the bathroom door.

“Well,” he said as casually as he could. “Come on out.”

“I—I didn’t know who it was,” she said finally, her voice small.

Jeff waited, giving her time but not wanting to retreat any farther. He saw her body relax. Presently she took a tiny step and then another and now, with the light on her face, he could see that the dark-blue eyes were wide open and rimmed with fear.

The gun wavered in her hand. He could see the muzzle wobble as it dipped downward. Then, as though its weight was too much for her to support, her hand sagged and now Jeff grabbed for it, holding the muzzle down and then twisting the gun from her unresisting grasp.

He took a new breath as he moved back into the room, but there was a tremor in his hand as he flipped out the cylinder and examined the six shells, one of which bore the neat little indentation of the hammer.

“One shot, hunh?” he said.

He hesitated and the resentment that had been working on him all day merged with the reaction of the moment so that his voice was flat and accusing.

“Maybe I was lucky,” he said.

“What?”

“You only gave me a mickey.”

He heard her gasp as her mouth opened. “But—” She swallowed and tried again, a desperate cadence in her voice. “You don’t think—”

“Don’t I?”

“But it’s not my gun. I’ve never had a gun. It was on the floor.”

“Sure.”

“But it was, I tell you.”

“What were you doing here in the first place?”

“We were going to have dinner.”

“Oh?” Jeff said, still edgy. “You work fast.”

“But I knew him before. In Boston. My father knew him.” She swallowed again and now the words came tumbling out. “We were going to have a drink first and I waited on the terrace and he didn’t come and it was cooler than I thought so I came up to get this jacket.” She touched the white coat “My room is down the hall so when I came past I thought he might still be here. I knocked and the door was unlocked and I saw the light on.” She ran out of breath and when she continued her energy was spent.

“He was on the floor just like that. I didn’t know what the matter was until I saw the blood and the gun. I don’t know why I picked it up; I didn’t even know that I did. Then I heard the knock—

“I was scared, don’t you understand?” she cried, her voice shaking. “I was petrified. I—I didn’t know what to do or who might be coming and when I saw the closet—”

She let the sentence dangle, as though she had run out of explanations. She watched Jeff put the gun on the desk behind him and then he stepped up and took the bag from her hand. What she had said, the way she had said it, had sounded convincing. But he could not forget how convincing she had been on the flight down from New York and this time he intended to be sure.

When he had the bag open, he glanced at the handkerchief, tissues, compact, lipstick, cigarettes and matches, the change purse. But it was the leather folder that interested him and when he took it out and opened it he looked incredulously at the photostatic copy of a document that proclaimed that Miss Karen Holmes of such and such an address had been licensed by the State of Massachusetts as a private detective.

“A private detective?” he said in his bewilderment.

He peered at her, his brow furrowed and dark eyes brooding.

“A private detective?”

He saw the spots of color tinge her cheeks. Slowly her chin came up and now her eyes were bright and defiant.

“What’s wrong with that?” she demanded.

“And you’re working for Tyler-Texas.”

“I work for the Acme Agency.”

“All right, so Acme is working for Tyler-Texas. Who supplied the knockout drops, or did you brew them yourself?”

For an instant then she faltered. “I—I had to do that.”

“Sure,” Jeff said with heavy sarcasm. “I guess it’s written in your contract.”

He waited for her reply because he thought she was going to make one. He saw her lips part and then something happened. While her eyes blinked to keep back unwanted tears her mouth suddenly tightened and her rounded chin set stubbornly. That look was enough to remind him that it was childish to work off his resentment at a time like this. He did not believe she had shot Harry Baker and what had happened yesterday no longer seemed important. He returned her bag and stooped to pick up the telephone.

It was a dial phone and when he had the hotel operator he told her to send the manager to room 312 and to call the police.

The manager arrived first, but the two uniformed policemen from a radio car were not far behind, and since they spoke nothing but Spanish there was little Jeff could do but stand beside Karen Holmes and listen.

After the first outburst one of the officers went to the telephone and dialed. He spoke rapidly for ten seconds and hung up. His partner bent over the body and experimented with the limp hand and wrist and carefully replaced it. By now the man at the telephone had seen the revolver, but he did not touch it. He stood with his back to it, his partner joined him, and they waited silently, eyes fixed on Jeff and the girl, grim-faced but very neat in their khaki uniforms with the Sam Browne belts and crisscrossed straps and heavy holstered guns at their hips.

The manager, whose name was Andrews, was a chubby, florid-faced man with thin colorless hair and an apoplectic manner. It was clear that he blamed Jeff and/or Karen Holmes for what had happened and his tone of voice suggested he would sue them both for defamation of the hotel’s reputation at the earliest possible moment.

“You say you found him?” he said. “Which one of you?”

“Both of us,” Jeff said.

“But how? Why should you be here in this room at all? When did you check in, Mr. Lane?”

Jeff told him, and then because he was tired of Andrews he said: “Look. When the detectives get here—if that’s what they have in Caracas, and assuming that one of them can speak English—we’ll tell what we know but there’s no point in telling it twice. If you want to wait you can listen in.”

Andrews sputtered and had a little trouble with his breath but he did not suffer long because the door opened a few seconds later and two men came in, one of them big and young looking, the other one older and thinner. At the sight of the big man the two uniformed men stiffened to attention while he spoke briefly to them. They replied and one pointed to the gun. When they had touched their caps, they detoured along the wall and left the room.

The big man took off his light-gray felt and put it on the bed. He had a light-complexioned, strong-boned face and black eyes that had a hooded look beneath the heavy brows. The eyes were busy in the few seconds as they inspected the dead man without moving closer and then considered Jeff, the girl, and finally Andrews.

When he was ready he spoke to Andrews. There was a brief exchange while the florid face grew more so. Finally Andrews shrugged and left the room. When the door closed the man turned back to Jeff.

“I told Mr. Andrews that we would send for him when we needed him,” he said, with only a trace of accent. “I am Ramon Zumeta, chief of our Homicide Section.”

“Jeffrey Lane,” Jeff said. “This is Miss Karen Holmes.”

“And this one?” Zumeta glanced toward the floor.

“His name was Harry Baker,” Jeff said. “A private detective from the States.”

“Ah—you knew him?”

“He was working for me.”

Zumeta nodded and spoke in Spanish to his companion, who had been emptying Baker’s pockets and now stopped to pick up a small straight-backed chair and carry it to the far side of the bed by the window. When he motioned the girl to sit down she thanked him and Zumeta said:

“Who found him?”

“I did,” Karen said, and repeated the story she had told Jeff but with somewhat more detail.

“And you, Mr. Lane?”

Jeff started with his arrival at the airport and told what he knew. There was no interruption. Zumeta would nod from time to time but only the intense steadiness of his gaze suggested that he had filed, catalogued and cross-indexed everything he had heard. Now he went over to the desk and looked at the revolver.

“You found this on the floor, Miss Holmes. You picked it up without thinking and took it into the closet? And you took it away from her, Mr. Lane?” He shrugged and picked it up. “Then if there were any worth-while fingerprints on it—which is doubtful—there are none now.”

He gave the weapon a quick inspection and put it into his coat pocket; then turned as someone knocked at the door. His assistant opened it and a man came in with a doctor’s bag, followed by two men with a rolled-up stretcher.

The doctor said:
“Hola,
Ramon,” and went immediately to the body. He applied his stethoscope, pulled out the shirt, and checked the small bluish hole in the chest, making an occasional comment as he worked and pointing now to the blackish smudge on the coat front. When he spoke to the men with the stretcher, Jeff turned to face the window, pulling the curtain back from the open section. Karen Holmes was already looking out into the night and he stood above her, seeing the lighted pool and terrace, the winding street beyond the hotel grounds that curved upward into the near-by hills. He stood that way, trying not to think, but conscious of the hardness in his throat, until he heard the door close.

Almost immediately there was another knock and as he glanced round he saw Zumeta talking to three plainclothes-men in the hall. When they went away Zumeta came back to resume his questioning.

“Perhaps you could tell me in what way Mr. Baker was working for you?”

“He had been trying to locate my stepbrother.”

“His name, please.”

“He was known here as Arnold Grayson.”

“Ah—yes. I know of him. And was that not his right name?”

“That was the name he was born with. When his mother married my father he took the name of Lane.”

“And how long had he been missing?”

“I hadn’t seen him in four years.”

“What made it important that you find him?”

“My father died two months ago,” Jeff said. “He left some shares in our company to Arnold provided he could be located and came back to claim them within three months. I promised to find him if I could.”

He took Baker’s cable from his pocket and waited for Zumeta to read it. Zumeta returned it and considered the girl.

“You were to have drinks and dinner with Mr. Baker,” he said. “You knew him well?”

“Well—no. I’d met him in Boston and my father knew him.”

“But you’re not here just as a tourist.”

Karen hesitated, but not for long. “No, I came to see Arnold Grayson too.” She opened her bag and produced the leather folder and for once Zumeta registered surprise.