One Minute Past Eight

"No," Jeff said and then lie groaned. "Oil, 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 be-

g6 ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

fore lie was caught seemed beside the point. He had to try to clear himself and lie 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 hie leaned forward and took both her hands in his.

They were firm but soft and she made no effort to withdraw tiiem; 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."

T 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.

Til 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.

11

KAREN HOLMES was a lot more worried than she cared to admit, even to herself, but she was excited too and confident that her plan would work. She felt Jeff's hand give her arm a final squeeze as he stood back in the doorway and then she was hurrying diagonally across the sidewalk to the taxi that had been parked with two wheels on the curb.

The driver sat up and touched his cap, smiling first and then blinking as she started to tell him what she wanted. Not until she saw his expression did she remember that he could not understand English.

"PoUcfaT she cried and pointed back to the doorway. "Felicia! . . . Pronto, pronto!"

The words worked like magic and the expression on her face helped. The driver slid out of his seat and slammed the door. He glanced up and down the street and Karen said: "Pronto!" again as dramatically as she could, and then he wheeled and began to lope down the street.

People stopped to watch him and he called to them over his shoulder. While they watched him, she saw Jeff sidle out of the doorway and start in the opposite direction. Only then did she begin to breathe again and force herself to re-enter the half-light of the hall and start her climb.

She closed the office door behind her, telling herself she must not give in to the uncertainties that blotted out the excitement she had so recently felt. She had to think now, to prepare herself emotionaEy for what was to follow, to keep her poise as best she could. For she was certain that the story Jeff had told her must be true. She had seen enough of him on the plane coming to Miami to know the sort of person he was, and the things he had said last night in her room, even though he had the right to be bitter and angry with her, supported her original impression.

It helped now to realize that she was making up in part for the trick she had been forced to play on him at the Miami airport. But it was more than that and she knew it She liked him, She liked him so much she wanted to help. The simple understanding of this made her feel good all over.

She went back to the doorway of the private office and glanced in, being careful to avoid Grayson but letting her eyes move slowly around the perimeter of the room. That was how she happened to notice the shiny object on the

rug beneath the far corner of the desk. From where she stood she knew only that it was small and metallic-looking and then, moving closer and stooping to retrieve it, she saw that it had a yellow color that might have been gold. Shaped like a thimble, but having a polished rather than a dimpled surface, it resembled a tiny cup. Then, as she turned it over in her fingers, she heard the outer door open and close.

With no time to put the object in her bag, she thrust it into the front of her brassiere and started for the doorway,, expecting to find a policeman. Instead she saw a tanned, compactly built man in a cream-colored suit. His hair was a curly brown and close cut, his squarish face was hard muscled and thin at the mouth. He regarded her with narrowed unsmiling eyes as he advanced.

"Buenos tardes" he said.

"Good afternoon," Karen said, knowing somehow that this must be Carl Webb, the man from Las Vegas.

"Oh? American?" His glance slid beyond her. "Is Gray-son in?"

"In there," she said with a nod of her head. "He's dead/ 9

She heard him say: "He's what?" as he stepped round her, and then she was following him into the office, watching him drop to one knee and make a quick inspection of the body. When he straightened he gave her a quick, hard stare and spoke one word that was profane and coldly cadenced.

His eyes busy now, he stepped to the desk and opened the attache case. When he had pawed through the contents, he began to open and close the desk drawers, all of which were empty. By the time he had finished Karen heard the noise behind her. When she turned she saw the khaki-clad city policeman. He had one hand on the butt o£ his bolstered gun. Behind him came the taxi driver.

Language difficulties reduced the next few minutes to a

lesson in pantomime. Already suspicious, the policeman drew Ms heavy revolver the moment he saw the body on the floor. He began to shout in Spanish until Webb cut him short.

c< /No hdble espanolF he shouted back.

The officer glared at them and was momentarily still as he considered his predicament. Then, gesturing with the gun, he made it clear he wanted them to move to the wall behind the desk. When they complied, he made a quick inspection of the body and then spoke rapidly to the open-mouthed taxi driver. The fellow got hold of himself and said: "Si, si," and then he was dialing the telephone while the policeman shouted instructions and kept his eyes on his captives.

Quite oblivious of Karen, Carl Webb began to swear and the way he did it was not particularly offensive. The words were measured and distinct and spoken to himself. Not until he ran out of breath did he glance at her.

Tm sorry/' he said. "I had to get it out of my system." He pointed at her bag. "You wouldn't have it in there, would you?"

T3ave what?"

"Cash. One hundred and twenty thousand bucks' worth."

Karen, certain now that her first guess had been right, said:

TTou're Mr. Webb, aren't you?"

TBfow did you know?"

"Jeffrey Lane told me about you last night. , . . No, I don t have the cash; would you like to look?" She offered the white bag and watched Webb study it a moment, apparently estimating its size. Finally he shrugged and shook his head.

"How did the law get here?"

"I sent the taxi driver," Karen said and explained what

she had done. *Tm Karen Holmes/' she said, "I was supposed to see Mr. Grayson at four o'clock and I came In and-*

"I heard about you/' Webb said and for the first time gave her his attention. His glance moved openly from her legs to her face, which he inspected at some length. Apparently he liked what he saw. He gave her a small sardonic smile. "We both got gypped, hunh?" he said. "The only difference is—you've had it/*

"Have I?"

"You came down to get some assignment/* Webb said, "Did you get it?"

"No/*

"And now you never will, right? I came for cash. I haven't got it but somebody has. I've still got a chance/'

He stopped as two radio policemen hurried into the office. There was a lot of excited Spanish thrown around after that until, as had happened the night before, Ramon Zumeta arrived with another detective and the doctor. Presently the uniformed branch representing the city police left and Zumeta came over to Karen to find out what happened.

She gave a carefully worded account that she had rehearsed mentally. When she finished Webb added his own story. Zumeta nodded but asked no other questions.

"You can wait in the front room if you like/' he said, and gestured to the detective, who accompanied them and then stood by while they sat down on the couch. Webb brought out a silver case, and Karen took the offered cigarette and a light. She placed her bag in her lap and leaned back, feeling now the pressure of the thimble between her breasts but not daring to squirm about and relieve that pressure.

When she saw the men come with the stretcher she closed her eyes. During the next few minutes she knew that

men were coming In and out of the office and once when she put out her cigarette she saw that the stretcher-bearers had gone with their burden. When Zumeta finally pulled a chair In front of the couch she was ready for him.

"You came to see Mr. Grayson because you had made an appointment with his secretary over the telephone/' he said. "What time was that, Miss Holmes?"

"The appointment? At four."

"But the call the police received did not come until four thirty."

"Well—I may have been late getting here."

"The man who drove you here says no/'

Oh—oh, she thought, and suddenly her apprehension was mounting and she knew this was not going to be as easy as she had imagined. Another look at Zumeta's steady dark eyes told her he would be a difficult man to fool, and now she knew she had to think—and think fast.

"Oh/' she said. "I see what you mean."

She gave Mm a smile that she hoped seemed confident. She asked, and answered, a lot of silent questions in an effort to bolster her courage and her wits.

She was the one who had wanted to be the private detective, wasn't she? She had bullied her father for his permission, hadn't she? She had griped about the routine dullness of her assignments? Yes, yes, yesl

Well, then, Karen my girl, act the part!

This is what she told herself, and suddenly she was talking, hoping her father might be proud of what she was doing even if she had broken the law and was now offering a series of lies she hoped would substantiate her original premise.

"I didn't know lie was in there/' she said. "I didn't think anyone was here/' TSut you waited.** "Naturally." She fluttered one hand. T had this appoint-

ment and I thought Mr. Grayson must have stepped out because the door was unlocked. I sat right here." She patted the cushion at her side. "I waited—until I began to wonder how long it would be— I suppose I got restless/* she said.

"That is understandable."

"So I looked around." She pointed at the carton near the desk with its load of discarded papers. "I could tell someone was moving out and—well—I took a peek in that next office/' She tried another little smile, making sure Zuineta saw it, She put a note of shy confession in her voice. *1 suppose I just got curious/' she said. "I went on to the last office and—there he was.

"I don't know what I did then/' she said, making her tone hushed, "or how long 1 was there. At first I didn't know what the matter was. I couldn't make myself touch him and then I knew I had to do something, I tried to shake him and finally I knew I should run and get help " She folded her hands and dropped her glance. "That's what I did/' she said, pleased with the story that she had brought out of nowhere and silently defying him to refute it.

Zumeta did not try. He cleared his throat and turned to Webb, asking first for his tourist card.

She watched him unfold the paper and give it a quick glance.

"Carl Webb/' he said. "A tourist. From Las Vegas, Nevada." Zumeta returned the paper and asked if Webb had heard about Harry Baker. When Webb nodded, Zumeta said: "Baker went to Barbados. He sent some cables to Las Vegas. We have those cables."

*1 have some, too," Webb said and produced four sheets.

Zumeta read them. When he looked up his dark gaze was thoughtful and intent. "You came to collect this money from Baker?"

"That's right," Webb said. "I might have made it if the

goddamned plane hadn't been late/*

"And you came here this afternoon. Why?**

"I had a date/'

"You have seen Mr. Grayson previous to this?"

"Just before noon/*

"You threatened him?"

"I didn't have to. He knew the score. He said he'd have the cash for me this afternoon/'

"Ah-h 5 " said Zumeta, "But you did not get it/' He glanced at Karen. "You did not Ind it here?"

"No."

"So.** Zumeta's big shoulders moved in a faint shrug. "That is too bad for you, Mr. Webb/ 5

"What?"

"It occurs to me that with Mr. Grayson dead the money is no longer his to give but the property of the widow* When it is located it will be hers/*

"Yeah?" Webb's mouth compressed and his bright gaze was challenging. "Not if I find it first/*

There was something in the flat, even tone that told Karen Webb meant just what he said, and when she glanced at Zumeta she saw his eyes open and close while things happened behind them. His mouth twisted at one comer as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

"In that case/" he said, "I can only caution you to be most careful, Mr. Webb. We have a model prison here at San Juan de los Morros but it is still a prison. . . . We will go now to my office/* he said. tf l wffl send for Mrs. Grayson. Perhaps she can help us/*

THE CITY'S newest hotel, the Tamanaco, stood perched on a hillside some distance from the center of town. It had a sloping modern look, not in the boxlike tradition of some Jeff had seen, but with a style of its own that might have been influenced by ancient Indian architecture. From a distance it had reminded him of things that had been done by the Incas, but seen close-up the resemblance disappeared and it became a plush, expensive-looking hostelry with all the latest in decor and conveniences.

The public rooms were spacious and airy and spread over two floors, the lower of which gave on a wide expanse of lawn, cabanas, the usual umbrella-shaded tables, and an impressive, oddly shaped pool complete with diving tower. Jeff walked through die lobby to the veranda overlooking the terrace. When he caught a waiter's eye he asked for a gin and tonic and took a chair near the railing. Not until then did he realize how weary he was; not until then did he feel that, temporarily at least, he was safe.

It had bothered him greatly as he hurried from Grayson's office. Clad as he was in gabardine slacks and a cord coat, he was acutely conscious of the fact that he looked not only like a tourist but like an American tourist. He did not know how long it would be before someone would connect him with the murder; and—once the word was out that he was wanted for questioning—he would be noticed by every plainclothes detective he passed.

He could not go back to the Tucan, nor did he dare wait

for Julio Cordovez in any downtown bar lest he seem conspicuous. He thought once of the American Club, but this also seemed too obvious, so when he telephoned the little detective's office he left word for Cordovez to look for him here. What lie needed was protective coloring, and since most of the Tamanaco guests were from the States, he could move freely here without attracting attention.

He was still working on his drink when a chair moved beside him and Cordovez slid into it, not looking at him at first but giving his attention to the still-colorful spectacle at the poolside.

"Beer?" Jeff said.

Jeff signaled the waiter, ordering the beer and a refill for himself. *Tm in a jam/' he said. "dEntiende?"

"Si."

"My stepbrother got himself killed this afternoon."

Cordovez was still watching the acrobats in the water but he sucked in his breath with a small whistling sound.

"Is bad," he said. "How does this happen?"

Jeff waited until the waiter had been taken care of and then he told what he knew and what he had done. Still impassive but nodding from time to time, Cordovez sipped his beer and made no comment until the story had been told. What he said first surprised Jeff even though he agreed with the comment.

"This girl you speak of has much spirit," he said approvingly ."But for her you would now be at Segurnal"

"I might be invited to stay, too."

*This is true. The fight you had, the marks on your hand, the bloodstain I noticed— all this would be difficult to explain." He put his beer glass aside and stood up. "If you will excuse me, I will make a telephone call."

Jeff frowned as he watched the little man go and then the frown went away and he took a breath. The thought

of this phone call worried him as he considered it, but not for long. He had akeady committed himself. Either Cor-dovez was on his side and would remain so, or he was taking the first step at resigning his job. He lit a cigarette and waited. Presently Cordovez returned and picked up his glass. As though there had been no interruption he said:

"You have no idea who has taken the money?"

"None."

"But you think Seiior Baker was murdered because of it?"

"I don't know what else to think."

"But if the man from Nevada—"

'Webb."

"If he tells the truth it would seem that Grayson thought to have this money for him last night. By then the money is gone but perhaps Grayson has an idea who took it."

He paused and sipped more beer. He wiped his mouth, "Today he demands its return and the thief will not give it up. To make sure Grayson can never tell on him, lie makes this attack."

Jeff did not argue the premise. He was thinking ahead, knowing there were at least two people he had to talk to but worrying now about where he could stay until he had a chance to make his inquiries. Not until then did he face up to the unpleasant knowledge that he not only was on the run, but he also had to hide. He said as much to Cordovez and the detective nodded.

"That is true and it will not be easy. Segumal is everywhere. Me, I can often tell those men even when I do not know them, but for you it is more difficult. You can never know which man works for Pedro Vidal. They work when necessary as waiters, as taxi drivers, doormen, behind counters at bars. Segurnal has many ears and long arms."

"If I could get a room in some small hotel—"

"A hotel is no good," Cordovez said emphatically.

"Why not?"

"The good ones require your tourist card and you must fill out papers. The others"—he shrugged—"are already under observation. This you must believe."

"Great," Jeff said. He drained his glass and put it aside with a nervous gesture. "What do I do, sleep in the park or hide in the hills?"

Cordovez chuckled and showed his teeth. "It is all arranged. You will stay at my place."

Jeff looked at him and the sudden glow he felt inside him came not from alcohol but from gratitude. He looked down at his drink, his lean face relaxing. He considered again the simple statement and when he glanced up his gaze was warm and friendly.

^Thanks, Julio," he said and shook his head. "But it's no good/'

"But of course. That was why I made the telephone call. My wife has a sister on the other side of the city. This sister has a husband more prosperous than Julio Cordovez and the house is large." He glanced at his strapwatch. "Already my wife will have the two children dressed and ready for the trip."

Jeff regarded him with growing wonderment and respect, knowing what he said must be true. Such open-handed hospitality made him more deeply appreciative, but in his own mind this was an imposition he could not take lightly and he felt compelled to voice his objection.

"It's very kind of you, Julio," he said, "but I don't think you should risk it. If Segurml is as good as you say, it's just a question of time before they nail me. When they do you'll be in a jam."

"I am already in this jam you speak of for not informing on you now. . , . No," Cordovez said flatly, "it is better that you do as Julio says. And who knows, we may have

our solution before Segurnal can pick you up. It is the only way. You have an idea perhaps?" he asked hopefully.

"A couple/ 7 Jeff said. "I think Dan Spencer was blackmailing my stepbrother. From what I saw in Arnold's checkbook, he'd been paying Spencer three hundred bolivars a week for quite a while."

"Ah/* said Cordovez softly. "You think Spencer knew of your stepbrother's secret debt in the state of Nevada?"

"Baker was a cop in Las Vegas/' Jeff said. "He worked for the same hotel as my stepbrother. He must have known all about Arnold and when he located him here he knew why Arnold was hiding. Furthermore, Arnold trusted him enough to hire him to send those cables from Barbados. Apparently he was supposed to make the payment to Webb."

"That I understand."

"But Spencer once worked for a newspaper in Las Vegas. He knew Baker; he also knew my stepbrother. Some time ago he must have run into him here and Arnold must have decided to put him on the payroll to make sure Spencer didn't write the Las Vegas crowd what he knew/'

"Yes/' Cordovez said. "And you will wish to verify this with Spencer?"

"Right/" Jeff said. "But Irst I'd like to have a talk with Luis Miranda/'

"Miranda?" Cordovez's brows climbed as his eyes opened. "Miranda?" he said again in the first display of surprise Jeff had ever witnessed. "But if you think Senor Baker was killed for money—and Grayson too—then Luis Miranda would not do this. He would not need the money, even in that amount."

"Do you know his wife's name?"

Cordovez blinked at the digression. "His wife?" He frowned. "No, I do not."

Jeff took the two airplane tickets from his pocket and

passed them over. He waited while the detective studied them carefully and when Cordovez returned them his face held a strange expression.

"I had heard it said that your stepbrother and this woman were friendly/* he said finally. "I have heard that Luis Miranda is a jealous man. Still—"

He let the sentence dangle, sighed, and pushed back his chair. "Very well/* he said. "We will go. At this hour he may still be at his office. My car is outside. 95

Julio Cordovez found a parking place across the street from the entrance of this towering office building that, had its walls sloped slightly, would have resembled a multi-windowed obelisk. His smooth face held a worried look as he turned off the motor, and before Jeff could get out he offered a word of caution and a suggestion.

"Luis Miranda is a proud man," he said. "A dangerous man to insult, with a temper that is quick. I do not know what will happen when you speak of his wife—if that is your intention—but I do not think it wise for you to go to his office,"

"Why?"

"To explain your position or to ask for any assistance you will first have to speak of this new murder. Who can say how he will react?**

T[ don't know/' Jeff said, "but if I don't go, how do I get to talk to him? It's a chance I have to take.*'

"But if there is a better way?"

"Is there?"

^His office is on what floor?**

"Fourteen.**

c< And when you have finished your talk, what is to prevent him from picking up the telephone to report your presence to the police? The radio cars come quick these days. If there should be any delay in waiting for an ele-

vator you could be picked up at the entrance before you could reach my car. If you do not mind a suggestion I think It best to try another way."

Jeff had been paying attention and what Cordovez said made sense.

"I'm listening/* he said.

"First I will see if he is In his office. If so I will wait downstairs until he comes out. I will then say you wish to see him and if he agrees I will bring him here and you can talk. If I have any doubts we will have to think of something else but no harm will be done for the moment.* 5

He smiled again as Jeff hesitated, then opened the car door. From the top of the sun visor he removed a newspaper printed in Spanish. "If you pretend to read this/* he said, "your face will be well hidden/'

It was exactly eighteen minutes later when Jeff saw them start across the street, Miranda immaculately erect in his dark suit and Panama hat, Cordovez bareheaded, his bald spot glistening In the fading sunlight, trotting a little to keep pace. As they neared the car Jeff replaced the newspaper and gave the detective proper credit for a smarS idea, well executed; then he stepped out on the sidewall and waited.

Miranda nodded coldly, his black eyes speculating. 1 do not understand why you did not come to my office/' he said. "But If you wish to talk here I can spare you five minutes."

"You will be more comfortable in back/' Cordovez said and opened the rear door. **I will wait near by."

Miranda slid over on the seat and Jeff followed him; th< confidence he had felt earlier was dissipating rapidly, bu he was determined to find out what he could while In could. He asked first if Miranda knew about Arnold Gray son.

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"I was Informed by the police fifteen minutes ago," Miranda said. "You wish, to talk to me because you feel the need of legal counsel?"

"Not exactly/' Jeff said. "But it's something I may need a lot of before too long and I might as well tell you what I know."

There was no interruption as he related the facts as he knew them. He pointed out his own position as a suspect but made no mention of Karen Holmes's part in making his present freedom possible.

"Because you had this fight with Grayson, and because Spencer may have seen you come from the building, you decided to ran," Miranda said, "You are afraid the police are now looking for you. And what do you expect to gain by this?"

"Time/' Jeff said, "and maybe some information." Then, because he knew of no other way, he plunged ahead, his body poised should he need to move quickly. "Because the way I see it you have a pretty fair motive for murder yourself, Mr. Miranda,"

He could feel the other stiffen beside him but when there was no immediate reply, he said: "What is your wife's first name?"

"Muriel"

"And what would you say if I told you she was planning to run away with Grayson tomorrow night?"

The brown, aristocratic face grew pale at the cheekbones and the answer came quickly, the words clipped and forceful.

"I would demand that you prove your accusation or apologize instantly.*'

Jeff already had the two airline tickets in his hand and he passed them quickly to Miranda without comment. He watched the man's dark gaze narrow as he examined the covers of the two tickets. He sat that way for several sec-

onds, as though reluctant to open them and see what lay

inside. Finally he bent one cover back, glanced at the ticket; he examined the other. He looked at Jeff.

"Where did you get them?"

Jeff told him. "If there's any doubt in your mind," he said, "you could check with the airline office. The only point that concerns me is—did you know about this or didn't you?"

The outburst Jeff had expected never came. There was no denial, no outward sign that Miranda had heard what was said. He settled back against the cushions, no longer looking at Jeff or the tickets. His gaze was fixed at some point beyond the windshield, but the things he saw were in his mind. When he spoke, his voice had a remote quality and the thoughts he expressed came from the past.

"It has never been easy/' he said,

Jeff hesitated, and then checked the question that came to mind, as some instinctive knowledge warned him not to break the spell Miranda had cast about himself.

"She could not get used to the customs of this country/' he added finally. "She had always had much freedom and she could not understand that here a wife does not go out in the evening without her husband. In the afternoon, perhaps with other women to tea, yes; not otherwise.

"She worked at the Tamanaco," he said. "She was brought here because she was experienced in hotel work —as a secretary and a hostess. There are many cocktail parties given there for business reasons. She would arrange the details. That is how I met her. After that I saw her as often as I could because I knew then I wanted her for my wife. There was much I could give her. I think she knew this just as she knew that I loved her very much even though I was twenty years older.

"But as Mrs, Luis Miranda she had certain duties and obligations. I tried to explain these, to tell her that a woman

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

was judged by standards different from those in the States. When I insisted, she accused me of being jealous—which I must admit I was—and of being too strict. She complained that she had no fun. She threatened to leave me, but without money I knew she would not do this since this also was important to her,"

He fell silent, his gaze still remote and his dark face impassive. When the silence began to build, Jeff risked a question.

"You knew about Grayson?"

"Yes, I knew. He was a client. There were parties we both attended. But I did not know how friendly they had become." He paused again, and when he continued, the absent quality was missing from his voice and the accent was grim. "I have a beach cottage at Macuto, which is near the sea beyond La Guaira. I learned that there were afternoons when she had gone there with Grayson."

"You told her what you knew?"

"Naturally"

"You fought about it."

"There was no fight.*

"But you were jealous," Jeff pressed, certain now that there would be no more reminiscing.

"I have admitted this."

"Grayson was beaten pretty savagely. It was the sort of attack a jealous husband would make. As a motive for murder you've got one of the best."

Miranda eyed him narrowly, watching intently, waiting.

"You thought you were going to lose your wife," Jeff said, "and that was something you were too proud to take. You made up your mind to handle Grayson in your own way. You went up to his office this afternoon and did just that."

"I agree that to have done so would have given me much pleasure," Miranda said frankly. "But did I also go to the

room of Harry Baker and kill him too?" he asked with heavy irony.

"You were there."

"At the hotel. You were there at that party and it would have been a cinch to duck out long enough to go upstairs. You knew Grayson had raised the cash. You knew why. 9 *

Miranda laughed abruptly and sat up, his smile thin and mirthless, his tone deprecating.

"If you had the time I would give you a letter to my bankers, Mr. Lane," he said. "I believe they could assure you that this money you speak of would hardly tempt me.**

The comment stopped Jeff momentarily and the argument he offered sounded inadequate, even to him.

"Even the rich get hard up for cash sometimes."

"Possibly/' Miranda said, "but it occurs to me that you also have an excellent motive for murder. You were worried about losing control of your company, is this not so? You were afraid that your stepbrother would vote his stock with . the opposition. Now you have no worries. You and your sister will have this stock for yourselves because your stepbrother is dead.

"It can be proved that you hated him, I think. You went to his office to threaten him and there was violence between you/' His smile was fixed as he reached for the door handle. "But this I will do for you, Mr. Lane. I disliked your stepbrother intensely even though I handled some of his affairs. What has happened this afternoon has removed a serious problem for me. So I will do this: when you are arrested, and I do not think it will be too long now, I will be happy to defend you for nothing,"

He opened the door, pulled himself erect, and bowed stiffly. As he started to turn away, Jeff thought of one more question.

"Did my stepbrother leave a will?"

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"Not that I know of."

"Then his wife will inherit."

"It would seem so,"

He bowed again and this time he wheeled and continued up the street, his shoulders back, his Panama centered on his well-shaped head.

13

JULIO CORDOVEZ made no comment as he started the car and pulled out into the traffic stream. Dusk had begun to finger the sidewalks now and here and there a light winked on in some store window. When they came to a traffic circle that was temporarily jammed, Julio shifted into neutral and said:

"Luis Miranda was helpful?"

"Not very/' Jeff said unhappily.

"You think he knew of the tickets to New York?"

Jeff roused himself sufficiently to consider the question. In his own mind the interview with Miranda had been singularly discouraging. He had not known exactly what he had expected to prove by it, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, ticking off the results, and omitting speculation, he saw that all he had actually learned was a little something about the background of Miranda's marriage, his feeling for his wife, and his—Miranda's—knowledge of her association with Grayson, all of which he had suspected. The only fact to come out of the discussion was the announcement that Grayson's wife would probably inherit his estate.

"I don't know if he actually knew," lie said, "but he must have suspected something like that might happen. What I'd like to find out is whether Diana Grayson suspected the same thing."

"Luis Miranda would not steal the money/' Cordovez said.

"You said that before/* Jeff said, an unwanted edge in his voice.

"I'm sorry/* Cordovez said. "I did not mean—*

"No, I'm sorry/' Jeff said, a little ashamed because he had snapped at his friend. "Don't pay any attention to me/' he said. "I'm in a lousy mood."

"A drink will help/' Cordovez said cheerfully., "and some food. But first we will go to my place."

Jeff slumped back in the seat, observing the passing scene, but no longer having any idea where he was, until Cordovez pulled the car to the curb in front of an apartment house on the steep slope of a side street,

"Is this it?" he asked.

"No," Cordovez replied. "A friend. If you will wait I will not be long."

Jeff twisted his body far enough to get a cigarette out and when he had a light he stayed slumped, his eyes brooding and his mouth slack as the black mood of his depression settled more heavily about him. He did not stir when Cordovez opened the door. Not until he realized that the detective had brought something with him did he glance round to find Cordovez putting a suit on its hanger on the back seat and then placing a neatly folded white shirt on top of it.

"It should fit/' Cordovez said as he slid behind the wheel.

"What?"

"The suit. It is for you."

"Me? But what-"

"I will explain," Cordovez said and chuckled at Jeff's

reaction, *1 do not mean to criticize/' lie added. "The clothes you now wear are very fine, but too—shall we say —American. In the daytime it is less important, but after dark the successful Venezuelan wears a suit here in Caracas/'

"Oh/' Jeff said, impressed by the little detective's thoughtMness and sagacity.

"Yes. With your dark hair and eyes you will pass for a citizen. With the proper suit it will be more difficult for the ears and arms of Pedro Vidal to penetrate this disguise. Also, you yourself will feel more secure and that, too, is important."

"Amen/' said Jeff.

"Pardon?"

"What I meant was, I'm very glad I hired you."

"Me, too," said Cordovez and settled back to concentrate on his driving. . . .

The apartment house they came to presently was new-looking and three stories high. It contained six flats and Cordovez occupied the middle floor on the right side. Verandas had been recessed into the sides of the building instead of at the front, and inside the layout proved to be the railroad type—living-room, kitchen, and dinette, a hall from which opened a bedroom, bath, and bedroom.

The living-room was rather sparsely furnished but spotless, the curtains clean, the children's toys neatly piled in one corner. A small bed and a crib, visible from the doorway of the first bedroom, testified to its use. Cordovez was snapping on the light in the rear room.

"You will sleep here tonight/' he said, indicating the double bed.

"And where will you sleep?"

"In the front room."

"Oh ? no."

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"But yes/' Cordovez said firmly. 1 will explain why. For one your size, the sofa will be uncomfortable. For me it serves very well. Believe me, I have tried it often. Come,** he said, as though the matter was decided. "Try on the suit. Let us see if it will become you."

He slipped the coat and trousers from the hanger and unbuttoned the clean shirt while Jeff undressed. "My friend is about your size," he said. "You will find the coat somewhat different in cut to your own, but that is good. One noticing it will be assured it was manufactured in Caracas/*

The shirt proved to be adequate, the sleeves a little short but the collar fitting perfectly. Jeff needed his belt to secure the waistband of the trousers, but the coat hung well and the shade of blue was inconspicuous.

"You see," Cordovez said happily.

He stood back. He spread his hands, and the expression on his face could have been no more pleased had he designed the suit himself.

"Dressed that way you look better. How does it feel?"

"Feels O. K.," Jeff said and began to transfer his things from his slacks and jacket to the new suit.

"Since I will do the talking," Cordovez said, "no one will suspect you are not a countryman of mine. Now, if you are ready," he said, "we will eat. w

Once in the car, Cordovez went round the block and turned downhill Still without knowing where he was, Jeff was again reminded of Southern California when the valley opened up and he saw the patternless brilliance of the lights and neon signs. He had the feeling that he had seen this part of the city in daylight but he did not recognize the triangular plaza where Cordovez parked the car,

"I hope you will like this," he said as he locked the doors. "There are three choices: Grilled meat, of many kinds and

in small pieces; steak, which is usually good; and chicken, which is always dependable."

"How's the chicken fixed?' 7

"Grilled, like the others, You will see for yourself.*'

He led the way into a low-ceilinged room that was crowded, smoke-filled, and noisy. A trio consisting of accordion, violin, and bass played loudly and with gusto, and at first glance every table seemed taken. Then, at the steps which led to die adjacent room, Cordovez exchanged Halos with one of the proprietors. Words were spoken and a waiter dispatched to clean up a recently vacated place along the wall

"Now/' said Cordovez, settling himself, "you would like the chicken? And a salad?"

"And a drink."

"Yes/'

"Whisky," Jeff said. "With a little soda. Tell the man "a double whisky."

Cordovez conferred with the waiter, who was putting out knives, forks, and spoons of the kitchen variety. By the time Jeff had his cigarette going the whisky came and so did a beer for the detective.

"Salud" he said, and raised his glass. He drank thirstily and wiped his mouth. He took out Ms notebook and ripped out a clean sheet, wrote down an address with his mechanical pencil, and passed the slip to Jeff.

"This is the address where I live," he said, "in case you need it to show to some taxi driver. Also"—he took a key from his pocket—"this is an extra key. My house is yours and you can come and go as you like. 5 *

"Until Pedro Vidal's boys pick me up," Jeff said dryly,

"Let us hope this does not happen— Ah-h." The dark eyes opened and the white teeth Hashed in a smile of anticipation as he unfolded his paper napkin and eyed the food.

Jeff smiled in eager anticipation, too, not so much because lie was hungry but because he had never seen anything quite like this. For when Cordovez said the food was grilled he meant just that, and on an individual basis. Each table had its own small grill and the charcoal was still smoldering when the waiter whisked it in front of them. On top of the grill a chicken had been split and rested with the skin up, a golden brown now and glistening with some clear sauce faintly flavored with onion.

To complete the presentation, individual cutting-boards were placed in front of them, instead of plates, to make the dismantling of the chicken easier. After that came the French fried potatoes in a basket, the hot bread, and a salad that was aromatic and crisply cool.

"You like this place?" Cordovez asked when he had licked his fingers and dried them on the napkin.

"Very much/' Jeff said. "The food was delicious. 3 *

Cordovez accepted a cigarette and gave forth with a contented sigh. He glanced about the room and then, as though once more conscious of the problem which still had to be faced, his expression grew serious.

"What would you like to do now?"

Reluctantly Jeff brought his thoughts into focus. He wanted most to have a talk with Dan Spencer, but he was afraid to go to the newspaper office, and he knew that since the Bulletin was a morning paper, it would be some time before Spencer was off duty. Meanwhile—

"I'd like to talk to Mrs. Grayson again if you think we can manage it."

"We can try. The house is not far from here,** Cordovez said, but later, as the car rolled slowly up the winding street in second gear, he offered some words of caution.

"I will not stop now/' he said as they approached the low and rambling house and saw the light in the windows. "I wish to make sure no one is watching."

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

He pressed the clutch pedal and their momentum carried them past the driveway and now Cordovez had his head out the window and his nose in the air, as though he was trying to find some scent of danger. He drove on another block and turned round. He passed the house again with his lights out and pulled a hundred feet beyond the crest of the hill.

"You will not need me inside?"

"No."

"I think it is safe, but it is also better that I wait here. If you hear the horn three times you will know there is some difficulty. In that event it might be best for you to leave by the back entrance—if you can,"

Jeff got out and closed the door quietly. He said there wasn't going to be any trouble and that all Julio had to do was sit and take a little snooze.

14

DUDLEY FISKE opened the door in response to Jeff's ring. When he recognized his caller his eyes blinked uncertainly behind the glasses and he stood in the opening,

one hand still on the knob.

"Oh, hello, Lane," he said without enthusiasm. "Aren't

you taking a bit of a chance coming here?" "Why?" Jeff said. "Are you thinking of turning me in?" "It's not that. It's just that I understood the police were

looking for you. They've been here before and I wouldn't

be surprised if they came back."

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

Td like to talk to Mrs. Grayson," Jeff said. "It shouldn't take too long."

Again Fiske seemed undecided, but now a woman's voice called to him from some inner room and this apparently decided him. He moved aside. Jeff waited until he had closed the door and then waited for Fiske to lead the way.

''After you/' he said, "if you don't mind.*'

If Diana Grayson was suffering emotionally over the loss of her husband, she gave no outward sign of the tragedy. Her gray hair shone softly in the lamplight and her blue dress with its tight bodice and flaring skirt seemed more suitable for an afternoon party at the Tamanaco. She had a cigarette in one hand, a brandy snifter in the other, and when she saw Jeff she waved at the tray on the coffee table with its bottle and glasses. A similar glass, still partly full, stood to one side.

"Come in, Mr. Lane," she said. "Will you have a brandy?"

"Thanks, no,* 5 Jeff said, uncertain now just how to proceed and finally settling for the conventional way. He started to say he was sorry to break in like this at such a time, but she cut him off before he could finish.

"It's quite all right/' she said. "I stopped being hypocritical about most things some time ago. You must know from what was said this morning how I felt about your stepbrother. What happened this afternoon shocked me. I'm sure it would shock anyone. No one wanted to live more than Arnold, and I do feel sorry for him, but I can't pretend that I feel something that he killed a long time ago. I simply no longer have that capacity. There was something about him that was evil and in the end it destroyed him."

Remembering Luis Miranda's phrase about the evil man,

Jeff glanced at Dudley Fiske, who had been standing to one side and now shifted his weight.

"I think he wants to talk to you, Di," he said and reached down to pick up his glass. "Til run along to my rooms until you've finished."

"I'd rather you stayed/' Jeff said, moving slightly to block the man's progress.

Fiske stopped and it occurred to Jeff that this was not the same man he had seen that morning. This man had no easy smile, his gaze was steady and unfriendly as it measured Jeff. His voice was challenging rather than apologetic.

"Why?" he demanded,

"Because I wouldn't want you to duck out and call the police***

Fiske put his glass down and squared his shoulders. For a second or two they stood that way, glances locked, Jeff the taller and more vital-looking of the two, Fiske the heavier but more poorly conditioned. Then, as though to prove that the change Jeff had noticed was to be a permanent thing, he said, his voice quietly ominous:

"Do you think you can stop me?"

"I can try."

"Without a club?"

"Club?" Jeff peered at him.

"That's what was used on Arnold, so the police say. A club or a cane,"

"Oh, stop it!"

Diana Grayson put her glass down with a bang and her voice was clipped and impatient.

"Sit down, Dudley," she said. "Please." She waited until Fiske obeyed her and then she looked at Jeff, one dark brow arched, *1 don't blame you for being concerned," she said, "but I think you misjudge Dudley. He's not after vengeance, you know, and neither am I What happened, happened. It's over and done with and so far as I am con-

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

cerned the only genuine feeling I have at the moment is one of relief."

Jeff believed her. The odds had finally caught up with Arnold Grayson and there was no one to mourn his passing; it was as simple as that. What this woman had said did not shock him because he knew his stepbrother too well. But her "frankness, though not entirely unexpected, made him reconsider his tactics, and when his glance again touched the brandy bottle, he changed his mind about the drink. He poured an ounce or so into the glass, swished it around as he took a chair near the end of the divan. He did not give it the connoisseur's routine but finished it in two small swallows.

"Miranda had a different way of putting it," he said.

"Miranda?'' Both brows arched this time and her surprise seemed genuine. "Luis? You have seen him?"

"Late this afternoon/' Jeff said. "I can't remember his exact words, but what he meant was that things were a lot simpler for him with Arnold out of the way. Tell me,** he said, "did you know he planned to £y to New York tomorrow night and take Muriel Miranda with him?"

"Who planned?"

"Your husband."

For a long moment then she sat immobile, her face still. She was sitting with her knees crossed and arms folded lightly across her bosom and while Jeff waited she let her hands come down. Her head turned slightly so she could see Fiske. What happened to her eyes in that instant Jeff could not guess but when she again gave him her attention her voice was composed.

"I don't believe it."

Jeff produced the tickets and tossed them on the divan. He watched her inspect first one and then the other before she pushed them away from her.

"You didn't know about this?" he persisted.

"Naturally not/'

"And if you had?"

"I'm sure I don't know/' she said sullenly. "I could hardly hold him here bodily ."

Fiske stirred in his chair. "What difference does it make, Lane?" he said with some belligerence. "You heard her say she didn't know. Isn't that good enough?"

Jeff ignored him, and continued to the woman: "Miranda says there was no will. He says you will inherit whatever Arnold had. Do you know how much that will be?"

"For one thing, this house," she said. "It's the only thing left in both our names." She paused, head tipping slightly as she considered her answer. I suppose there's some money in his bank account. Two cars, die furniture. I don't know anything about his business affairs."

"Fiske does," Jeff said, "He was the assistant." He regarded the man a silent moment. "When were you in the office last?"

"This morning, not that it's any of your business."

"Then you knew he was cleaning out the place."

"How do you know?" Fiske asked suspiciously. "Where did you get those tickets?"

Touche, Jeff thought, and reminded himself to be more careful with his questions.

He was not ready to admit he had seen Grayson that afternoon, but the fact remained that the office had been cleaned out and Fiske could not help knowing it. He might even have known about the two airplane tickets. That someone was lying seemed obvious, but because it also seemed pointless to pursue that line of reasoning, he ignored the question and said:

"That hundred and twenty thousand in cash would be part of the estate, wouldn't it? Assuming that it is recovered? I mean, there's no reason now why you'd have to turn it over to Carl Webb."

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

Diana made an Impatient throaty sound. "I should say not/" she said. "That was Arnold's little project, not mine."

"You knew he had raised this cash. You knew he intended to pay off so he could go back to the States "

^Well, yes/' she admitted, grudgingly, it seemed.

TBut you had made no plans for returning."

Tm making plans now," she said, not bothering to deny the statement. Tm going to put this house on the market 111 sell the cars and the furniture. I'm going back just as soon as I can and Dudley"~she glanced at Fiske and a suggestion of a smile softened the lines of her mouth—"is going with me."

The same idea had already occurred to Jeff, and having seen these two together before, he could accept the announcement. Twice Diana Grayson had been married and both times happiness had escaped her. Through Grayson's neglect and indifference she had come to know Fiske and to find in him a certain loyalty and devotion she had never experienced before.

There was no way of telling how long this relationship had existed, but the understanding was there, and the change that had come over Fiske, now that this understanding was out in the open, seemed not only obvious but beneficial. With the way cleared for him he had miraculously acquired a confidence and purpose entirely lacking in his performance earlier that afternoon when Arnold Grayson was still alive. Through this woman's acceptance of him he had attained his majority as a man. Now he was ready to do what he had to do to protect his newfound gains.

How long Fiske's desire had lain dormant Jeff did not bother to guess, but he understood now that here was a motive for murder quite beside the hundred and twenty thousand in cash. The money could have been the factor that triggered their actions and brought them both to the

Hotel Tucan the night before. It was an amount which represented more than half of Grayson's estate and it occurred to Jeff that Diana seemed oddly complacent about its loss—if indeed there had been a loss.

He could not see how she could have killed either Baker or her husband, but she could have been involved as the instigator. She had stayed in the car, according to Cor-dovez, while Fiske prowled about the hotel. Both knew that he, Jeff, had left here this afternoon to see Grayson at his office. But remembering the blue tinge on that face and the welts that marked it, he could not believe she could have made them, not unless she had been able to knock him unconscious with the first blow. What had been done to Grayson had been done by a man.

Why not Fiske? He had the motive, he could have made the opportunity. If he needed an alibi, the woman could supply it.

Yet even as these thoughts came to Jeff he knew it would do no good to voice them. He could accuse and they could deny. He had no proof and could think of no way of getting any. His own accomplishment was the understanding of the relationship of these two which made possible a motive for murder he had not considered before. But he was through for the moment and he knew it.

He stood up and Fiske rose with him, his round face relieved but his bespectacled gaze revealing no uncertainty. He nodded to the woman and thanked her for the brandy. To Fiske he said:

"If you want to call the police when I leave it's (X K. with me.**

"I don't think we will," Diana said. "They'll only come and clutter up the place, and as I said before I don't think either of us is in a vengeful mood. Good night, Mr. Lane."

Julio Cordovez stepped on the starter when Jeff opened

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

the car door and this time, as they started to roll downhill, Jeff spoke of the things that had been said, his voice a monotone of dejection.

"Yes/' Cordovez said when the information had been given. "It is discouraging, but it is good that you came. If you had not done so you would not understand this man and this woman. As you say, you have no proof, but you now have a motive that did not exist for you before. . . You wish to see Dan Spencer?"

"Yeah/' Jeff said, "If you can find a telephone maybe you can get an idea when he should be through/'

They were in the valley now and presently Cordovez pulled into a gas station. When he had given his order to - the attendant he disappeared inside,

"Spencer will be finished by midnight and perhaps before," he announced when he came back. "It is now ten minutes after eleven."

"Let's go," Jeff said. And later, as they approached the downtown section, he roused himself and said: "I think 111 handle this one alone."

"As you wish."

"You go down to Segurnal and see what happened there this afternoon. See if you can find out how they're figuring this one. Also—"

"Yes?" Cordovez said when Jeff hesitated.

Td like you to see Miss Holmes and tell her 111 be at your place in case she wants to get in touch with me."

"You think this is wise?"

"If you mean can I trust her—yes. I wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for her."

"That is true."

"She knows I didn't kill Grayson and I think she'd like to help if she can. She might know something we don't. You can explain it. What I mean is"—Jeff paused because he was not exactly sure just what he meant and could find

no good reason for his concern—"if she doesn't know anything, tell her to keep away from me. I don't want her to get In any trouble on my account. But if she should know something—"

"I understand***

Cordovez made a turn into a narrow hillside street.

"I will let you out at the corner/' he said, "and point' out the proper building. You will want to wait near by, but I would not stand in one place too long."

"Oh?"

"The city police are not as smart as the oficiales of Segnrnal but one could become curious."

"Ill watch it," Jeff said as the car stopped at the intersection. He followed Cordovez's pointing finger and located the doorway to the Bulletin halfway down the block. "See you back at your place," he said, and then moved into the shadows, walking downhill and keeping to the curb.

It was quieter now. Cars were still parked on one side, but the few pedestrians were faceless individuals in the darkness and the doorways he passed were obscure. Opposite the newspaper he stopped to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. He could see a front office through the barred and open windows on the street floor. Light glowed more brightly from some room beyond, and far back in the adjacent hall he could make out the rolls of newsprint.

He found a cigarette and lit it, standing now so that he faced the street. Footsteps coming downhill made him turn his head. A man and woman, walking close together and speaking softly, passed behind him and presently the silence caine again. It had a strange, narcotic effect on his senses so that he was not aware of any sound or any movement behind him until something brushed against his

ONE MDWTE PAST EIGHT

shoulder and told him he was not alone. Before he could react the voice came, its accents clipped and quiet.

"Buenos noches, senor."

Without actually moving, Jeff felt as if he had jumped a foot and then the tension" hit him solidly to hold him rigid and close his throat. It took a tremendous effort to break his paralysis but when his mind began to work there was nothing in it but hopelessness and despair.

So this is it, he thought. The long arm of Segurnal had caught up with him and he had been a fool to think he could long escape it. So all right, he thought. You tried and you muffed it somehow so take your medicine. He took a small breath and moved his head slowly, still not recognizing the voice until it came again.

"You're hot, Lane. You ought to watch it."

Jeff stared until the face at his shoulder swam into focus. Because his nerves were frayed his first reaction was one of anger rather than relief.

"Jesus, Webb!" he said and let his breath out in a long blast. "Is that your idea of humor? You scared hell out of me. Where were you?"

"In the doorway here. I saw you come but I thought Td see what you had in mind. You gonna wait for Spencer?"

"Good enough. We'll wait together." He bent his head to examine his watch and slid a folded newspaper out from under his arm, "Take a look at this," he said. "We've got a little time. Take it up to the corner where there's some light. Ill stay here just in case."

Jeff took the paper, nerves quieting but still hesitant as he considered the suggestion. He did not understand the reason for it and he was reluctant to leave, yet something in Carl Webb's tone told him this was no idle whim. He glanced around, estimating the distance to the comer, took

another look across the street, and started off, his legs stretching.

Light from a tiny soft-drink stand proved sufficient for his needs and he saw that he held a Spanish-language newspaper whose masthead proclaimed it: Esfera. It had been folded twice and when he turned it over his jaw dropped and his eyes popped with incredulity.

For what he saw was a one-column picture topping a one-column head. He could not read the head but the photograph was agonizingly familiar because it was his own. Having no idea where it came from, he stared at it a long moment, fascinated, despairing, and empty inside. When he realized what he was doing, he glanced up to see if anyone had noticed him; then wheeled, and hurried back into the temporary security of the darkness.

Carl Webb was standing just where Jeff had left him. He accepted the newspaper and put it back under his arm,

"Kind of knocked you over, Hunh?" he said. "I told you you were hot."

"What's it say?"

"My Spanish is weak, but I think it says you're wanted for questioning. Did you knock him off?"

It was not an accusation and carried no overtones. It was simply a routine question and he accepted Jeff's denial without comment.

"I had a session with the law this afternoon myself," he said, and related how he had gone to Grayson's office to find Karen Holmes already there and the body on the floor.

"What do the police think?"

'They're not saying," Webb replied. "I don't think they know."

"Where did they get my picture?"

**You had three of those tourist cards when you came, didn't you?"

"Sure"

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"They had your picture on them, didn't they? And Immigration took two of them? Hell, it's simple; the trouble is you're not thinking. Segurnal knows when you got here. They borrow a photo from Immigration, make copies, and spread them around.**

Silently Jeff agreed that the explanation was simple. What discouraged him now was die fact that Segurnal could work so swiftly and efficiently and, recalling things Cordovez had said, he began to wonder how long he could keep his freedom now that his picture had been published. To add to his dismay was the knowledge of that thirty-day term of arrest that was waiting for him if Pedro Vidal decided it was necessary.

"Why should they be looking for me at ail?" he demanded querulously.

"I don't know," Webb said. "Why did you disappear?"

"I had a row with Grayson earlier/' Jeff said, deciding that he had very little to lose in confiding in Webb. "I got a couple of scabs on my knuckles and a cut mouth/' he said, "They're going to be hard to explain unless I can pick something out of the hat before I get grabbed/'

He hesitated, considering Webb's background and Ms mission, and now his mind began to work and he put his thoughts in order,

"You didn't get your cash, hunh?"

"Not yet."

"Did you expect to?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did Grayson make you any promise?"

"Hell, yes. That's why I went to his office this afternoon. He told me this morning he'd have four hundred thousand bolivars—which is the same as a hundred and twenty grand and just as good—by four thirty. In five-hundred-bolivar bills/' he said. "Eight packs of a hundred bills each. He said it would be all wrapped up and ready to go and I'm

damn store lie wouldn't con me if lie didn't think lie could deliver."

Jeff agreed with, the statement, though lie did not say so. "And you think Spencer might have it?"

"I just want to be sure."

"You knew him in Las Vegas?"

"Sure I knew him."

"What kind of a guy is lie? Could he have killed Baker or Grayson? Or both?"

"Dan Spencer," Webb said disdainfully, "is a mouse with the heart of a chicken. He hasn't the guts to kill anyone. He wouldn't' even swing at you unless he was cornered and he's too fast on his feet for that,"

"He had guts enough to blackmail Grayson."

"Who told you?" Webb demanded. "What kind of blackmail?"

Jeff spoke of the checkbook he had inspected and his theory of the reason for the payments.

"That could be/' Webb admitted. "Grayson was running scared and Spencer knew all about the trouble. He's not the kind to get greedy about a big score so he tried a small tap; when it worked he was on the payroll."

"He was also around here this afternoon."

"Where?"

Jeff pointed up the street and explained how Spencer had come along with his invitation to have a beer,

"He could have seen somebody else besides me."

Webb thought it over a silent moment. A match scratched loudly and his squarish, muscular face was highlighted as he put the flame to his cigarette. When darkness came again he said:

"If he did he won't be telling if there's a chance to collect. He's the kind of guy that fools around with things he can't handle and winds up dead."

"So how do you figure It?" Jeff said. "You're not standing around here for the fun of it."

"You know I'm not, ... I'll tell you/' he said after a moment's pause. "Have you ever been In the Westwind or any of those places in Vegas?"

"No."

"But you've been in gambling casinos where they play roulette."

"I've been In a couple."

"Well, in our place the drinks are free to gamblers. If you're having a play at the wheel or the dice game the drinks are on the house and you can generally find one at your elbow if you're not too busy to turn around. It keeps the gamblers happy and there's an angle, too, because a guy—or a dame either for that matter—with a few shots under his belt sometimes gets to thinking bigger than he should. If he's going well he gets more confidence and if it's the other way he gets the courage to forget the percentages and try to get even.

"It don't always work out for us because sometimes you run into a guy who is practically stiff—that kind gets real lucky sometimes—and he's on a streak and he hasn't got sense enough to drag down. I've watched guys like that who couldn't hardly see, guys you practically have to hold on the stool, stagger away from the table with a week's profits. But it don't happen often. Mostly the liquor works for us.

"But what I'm sayin' about Dan Spencer is this. He's a moocher. He used to hang around the gambling rooms and move in on some lush and watch his chance. When he thought he could get away with it he'd cop a couple of chips. He had it worked out so it was pretty hard to catch him but he'd been thrown out of half the joints In town and sometimes he'd get roughed up. Word got around. Finally the paper gave him the bounce and he drifted. I

didn't know where he'd gone, or care, but what you say fits.

"Dan Spencer," he said, "is a scavenger. A hundred and twenty grand in cash is something he could smell a block and a half away. If he located it, and nobody was looking, and he thought he could get away with it, he'd grab it and run—if he didn't get scared to death thinking about it,"

He grunted softly, a disdainful sound. "If you're trying to figure him for murder, forget it. But that money's around somewhere and I came a long way to collect. I may be grabbing at straws, but I'm going to go over Spencer's apartment like a vacuum cleaner and he's going to help. If you want to come you're invited."

He stopped abruptly, stiffened slightly, and dropped his cigarette. "Here he comes now," he said. "Let's go."

Jeff saw the thin, stooped silhouette as it passed the front windows of the newspaper office. He still was not positive, but Webb seemed to be, and now he was moving a step behind the man from Las Vegas, slanting diagonally across the pavement to intercept Dan Spencer.

Webb seemed to make no noise as he walked and Jeff, not knowing just what might develop, found himself moving on the balls of his feet. He sidestepped a man who was walking uphill and then Webb moved farther ahead so that he could come alongside Spencer from the inside of the walk. When he was close he spoke softly.

"Hi, Danny boy," he said. "Keep moving!"

Spencer's thin form seemed to straighten as he hesitated; then he was walking again, but slowly, as though he lacked the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Without turning his shoulders, his head came round first one way to look at Jeff, and then the other.

"Come on, boy," Webb said. "Your feet are dragging. Feel this thing in your back? Know what it is?"

"It—if s a gun. Take it easy, Carl," he pleaded, stuttering

now. He glanced round at Jeff and solicited his support. "Tell him to take It easy, Mr, Lane. . . . I don't know what this is all about/' he said, a note o£ rising hysteria in his voice.

"See that doorway up ahead/' Webb said. "That wide one. We'll stop there and I'll tell you what it's all about, fm not going to start popping this thing in the street but I'd just as soon bend it over your head if you get noisy."

He reached out and pulled Spencer to a stop, half spinning him about. "This is fine/' he said. "Do you know why I'm in town?'*

"No/' Spencer said, and then appealed again to Toff. "What is this?"

"It's his idea/' Jeff said. "He'll tell you."

"You're a liar, Danny/' Webb said and poked the gun into Spencer's stomach hard enough to make him gasp. "You knew about Grayson's caper in Vegas. You knew we'd keep looking for him no matter how long it took. You run into him down here and put the bite on him— Don't argue with me, Danny/' he said when Spencer started to protest. "This much we know. And I say you knew Grayson was going to pay off in cash so he could go home, one hundred and twenty grand worth,"

"But jeez, Carl. You don t think-* 5

"Shut up!'" Webb said, his voice still soft. "And don't look at Mr. Lane, Danny. He thinks probably you turned him in to the law. this afternoon and he don't like you any better than I do. Where do you live?"

"I got an apartment— "

"How do we get there, walk: or ride?"

"Ride, I guess/*

"O. K., we'll get a cab. You can pay for it. 0. K., Danny?**

"Sure, Carl. Sure."

"That's the way, Danny. Always play it safe."

THE APARTMENT house where Dan Spencer lived was somewhat larger than the building Julio Cordovez occupied but in the same sort of neighborhood and in the same section of the city. Paint was peeling from the walls of the foyer and there was an air of decay in the stuffy hallway as they started up the stairs and went along the second-floor corridor to a door near the rear.

Music with a Latin beat filtered into the hall from some near-by apartment and somewhere a child was crying. On the floor above, a door opened and the voices of a woman and a man rose in angry argument before the door slammed. Heavy footsteps thudded overhead to diminish briefly and then reappear as a man clumped down the stairs, swung round the landing, and continued on to the street.

"Come on, Danny/' Webb said as Spencer fumbled with his key. "We haven't got all night."

Spencer muttered some reply and then the door swung open and he reached inside to snap on a light. Jeff, the last man in, closed the door behind him and looked about a squarish room that was cluttered, untidy, and depressing. The furniture had a third-hand look, the thin rug was spotted and dirty, and the windows in one wall were stained to a degree that suggested that, in daylight, they could be no more than translucent. Webb voiced the thought that was in Jeffs mind.

"Jesus!" he said. "What a dump.*'

"What do you expect?" Spencer said in injured tones. "Rents are high in this town."

"How much does it cost to keep clean?"

Spencer shifted his weight while Webb completed his sunpjy of the room and Jeff noticed that the reporter looked neater than usual. His sallow face had a sullen expression but he wore a dark suit that was fairly well pressed and the white shirt and striped tie were an improvement over the open-necked sport shirts Jeff had noticed before.

THow many rooms you got, Danny?" Webb asked.

"There's a bedroom in there' 7 —Spencer pointed to a small inner hall—"a bath, and a two-by-four kitchen."

"O. K., I'll start here. Sit down, Danny. You can watch/*

"How about a drink first?"

"Not for me," Webb glanced at Jeff and winked. "You want something to settle your stomach?"

Jeff shook his head and eased down on a straight-backed chair near a table-desk whose edges had been charred into countless grooves by cigarettes which had burned too long unnoticed. Spencer sagged onto a couch with a frayed slipcover and the springs protested mildly under his weight

Then Webb was moving slowly about the room, inspecting first the closet near the door, which proved to be a catchall for many things that cluttered the fioor as well as the shelf above the hangers. This took about five minutes and when he faced the room again his hard-jawed face was glistening with perspiration. He took time to wipe it with the handkerchief in his breast pocket, sucked in a deep breath, and then came over to open the lone drawer of tie table-desk.

He pawed through the papers, envelopes, and bills. He lifted the cracked fabric cover of the portable typewriter just to make sure no money was underneath. He lifted the cushions of the two easy-chairs, patting them thoroughly

to make sure nothing was concealed. He pulled the curtains back from the windows, glanced behind them, opened the windows, and looked to see what was outside. The drawer of the occasional table yielded nothing and now he went over and told Spencer to get up. Spence^ did so, the springs again signaling their presence.

Webb pulled the couch away from the wall, looked under it. He then gave it the same treatment he had given the easy-chair. Satisfied at last that there could be no other hiding place in this room he nodded to Spencer.

"Let's check the other rooms, Danny,'* he said.

"Go ahead."

"You can help. And anyway I want to keep an eye on you. You O. K., Lane?"

Jeff said he was fine and when the two moved out of sight he went over to the open windows. The fresh air felt good, but there was no view except the wall of the adjacent apartment house, six feet away, its windows darkened at this hour and mirroring only blackness. He got a cigarette going, hearing faintly the sounds of the search as drawers were opened and closed and furniture was moved; but now his mind was working and he knew there were still things he wanted to talk over with Spencer.

Webb remained something of an enigma. He had never known anyone quite like him. He could not be sure how much of his surface toughness and assurance was the result of training and experience and how much had been developed for window-dressing. He knew that Spencer had been scared, but this might have been due to the gun in his back. He also realized that Webb had been entrusted with an important mission and had come a long way to bring it off. But so far as murder was concerned he could not make Webb fit. If he had told the truth about the time of his arrival—and this was something the police could check—he could not have killed Harry Baker.

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

The murder of Grayson was less easy to rationalize because there was no way of knowing whether Grayson had been able to locate the missing cash. That Webb might beat him up if the money was not forthcoming was understandable, but not to the point of death. Webb was too smart to kill the source of income until or unless he had collected, And if he had collected why should he be wasting time with Dan Spencer?

He turned from the window as he heard the others come back, and he could tell from the expression on Webb's face that the search had been futile. Moisture glistened on his forehead and his brows were warped with frustration.

"O. JL, Danny/' he said finally. "You're clean here, but that doesn't mean I'm crossing you off my list. There could be other places and I have to keep trying. If you've got it, or if you find it and some of it sticks to your fingers, it's going to be too bad."

He hesitated, frowning now and his gaze thoughtful. "I might put out a little bonus if you can deliver. Say—five grand/' he said, "and no questions asked. Five grand and your health, Danny. Because if I nail you with die bundle 111 take care of you another way."

He moved over to the door and looked at Jeff. Tm taking the air," he said. "You coming?"

Til stick around awhile/' Jeff said. Tve got a job to do myself."

"Yeah," Webb said.

The instant the door closed Spencer let his breath out in a long blast and his thin sallow face relaxed. He loosened the knot in his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve, but

the edges o£ Ms mouse-colored hair were dark with sweat, and traces of shock still lingered in the corners of his amber eyes.

"That guy scares me," he said finally.

"Maybe he was bluffing."

"Don't bet on it. I've seen that kind work before and brother, they can get mean. Once they get started on you they don't give a damn. They just don't care."

He sighed again as though such thoughts still bothered him, then turned and disappeared down the hall. A moment later Jeff heard water running and the clink of glasses, and presently Spencer returned, a bottle of whisky under one arm, two glasses in one hand, a pitcher of water in the other. He poured a quick drink and drank thirstily.

"Boy, did I need that," he said. "Go ahead, help yourself."

Jeff eyed the remaining glass. It had been rinsed., but it was obvious that it had been a long time since this particular glass had been subjected to soap and hot water. He did not want a drink, but he wanted to be sociable, so he splashed some whisky in the bottom, swished it around and added water. He took a sip and sat down on the couch.

"So you're the one who turned me in," he said.

''What?"

"You told the police you'd seen me this afternoon out in front of Grayson's office." He indicated his picture in the newspaper. "That put me on the front page. Maybe you told them my knuckles were skinned and my mouth was bleeding."

Spencer backed into an easy-chair, his expression sheepish. He stretched out his legs to reveal shoes that were scuffed and in need of a polish. When he leaned back his chest became more concave than ever.

"I didn't see your knuckles," he said. "You've got it wrong."

ONE MINrUTE PAST EIGHT

TDid you tell Ramon Zumeta you'd seen me?" "Yeah, but—" He stopped and his Adam's apple jumped up and down in his throat. "That's not what put you In the jam/" lie said finally.

"What did? When did you know there'd been a murder?" "When the law started cluttering up the street. HeU, you could hear them come. I ran out of the office and when I saw the mob I hotfooted it up there. I couldn't get in, but I saw Webb and that girl come out, so I tagged along down to Segurndt.

"With the city cops It would have been easy/* he said by way of explanation. "They always co-operate with the press. They even got a room down at the headquarters building with a plainclothesman on duty to take the calls. Everything comes in, he types it up with carbons. Each, paper's got a little box in a rack that's tacked to the wall. Somebody gets knifed, somebody gets banged up in a crash, somebody's taken to a hospital—you get a memo on it. That way the papers don't have to keep a man on duty like in the States. The police reporter just stops in there three or four times a day to see what's been happening and he follows up whatever he figures he needs. But Segurnal is different/' he said and took another swallow of his highball.

"They don't give out that way. Lots of times they don't want any publicity. So I'm down there and I need a wedge to get in—hell, I have to get the best story 1 can, don't I?— and I send word in that I saw you outside Grayson's office."

"So Zuineta let you in."

"Sure, but it's not me that really put the finger on you.**

Jeff stood up and removed his borrowed coat. He sat

down again and got a cigarette going. He watched Spencer

finish his drink and scratch the top of his chest before he

leaned forward to fix a fresh highball. Jeff let the silence

build for another five seconds,, his dark eyes brooding and his lids half closed.

"All right," he said. "Who did?"

"The guy at the garage."

"What guy?"

"Maybe you don't remember, but when you walk up the street you pass a plate-glass window, the only one in the block. It's got some caskets in it."

Jeff nodded, remembering that this was true, and now he also recalled the garage with its recessed ramp and single gasoline pump.

"Next to that is this garage, and it just happens that when you go by—it must have been when you went to see Grayson—this guy is pumping gas for a customer. He's got nothing else to do while the pump is working so he's looking round to see what's going on in the neighborhood."

He gestured with the glass. "Well, he sees you and he notices you because you look American with your slacks and white coat."

^Cord coat," Jeff said.

"To him it was white. He watches you go into Grayson's doorway and that's all until Zuineta's men start combing the block and questioning everybody to see if anybody's noticed any strangers go into the building. This guy remembers you and by this time I've already said I offered to buy you a beer so Zumeta gets in touch with Immigration and conies up with the photo on your tourist card. The garage guy identifies you."

Jeff did not quarrel with the explanation. Coincidence was something one had to accept in life, and it was coincidence In the form of Spencer and a man pumping gasoline at just the right time that had tipped the scales against him. His own decision to postpone surrender as long as he could had simply tightened the noose.

Now, studying the reporter and recalling the thumbnail

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

sketch Carl Webb had given of Ms character, he passed on to^the other thing that was in his mind.

"How long have you been collecting from Grayson?"

Spencer's eyes opened and for an instant it looked as if he was going to deny the charge. Then, as though he no longer had the will to argue this matter which he knew to be true, he shrugged. He took up his pipe and blew through the stem.

"About a year."

"You knew Grayson in Las Vegas/"

"Sure, but I didn't know he'd been here awhile until I

ran into him at a meeting I was covering at the Tucan,"

He paused and what he said then verified Webb's opinion.

It also gave Jeff a clear-cut mental picture not only of Spen-

• cer himself but of the way his mind worked.

"I looked him up the following week/' he said. "Dropped in at his office. I'd already done some checking and from what I could learn he was doing O. K. He'd bought some property that was getting more valuable every day, built a nice house. He was representing some small Stateside outfits and—"

'What about Fiske?"

"Fiske?" Spencer grinned and one corner of his mouth dipped. "Dudley Fiske was a first-class errand boy. I think the only reason he stayed was Diana Grayson—you ve seen her, haven't you?—or maybe he was just too tired to quit.''

**A11 right," Jeff said, "go you saw Grayson. Then what?"

"I took it easy." Spencer inspected his drink, turning the glass one way and then the other. "Out in Vegas he had a reputation for being a'mean bastard and I didn't want to crowd him. I figured I'd better tiptoe around a bit, so after we'd talked about this and that I said I could use some extra dough and I had the time and maybe he could use a publicity man.

"I said it might help his business if I got the right things

in the paper. If he had some clippings to send back to the outfits he represented it might help. I said I could get his name in the paper at society things/*

"And he bought it?"

"Not at first. He said no." Spencer looked at Jeff with one eye which drooped a little in a sly sort of way. "So I said that that was too bad. I said I just thought I'd ask and it was nice to talk to him again. I said I still had some friends in Vegas and the next time I wrote I'd tell them Td seen him. I said they'd probably be interested to know how he was doing."

He hesitated again, unable now to resist a small secret grin. He gulped his highball and wiped his mouth.

"He got the message, 9 * he said. "At first I thought he was going to get rough about it—but what the hell, he knew the score. He never was a dope about things like that. He said maybe he could use a publicity man after all. He also made it clear what would happen if I got forgetful and wrote back to Vegas."

He chuckled as though a little proud of his cleverness. "I told him they weren't very good friends and I wasn't much at writing letters anyway."

Jeff sighed softly, feeling a grudging admiration for the man's technique and the native shrewdness that had prompted him to be modest in his demands.

"Three hundred B's a week," he said.

Spencer eyed him aslant. "How the hell did you know?**

"Does it matter?"

"No"

"Three hundred B's for not writing anything/' Jeff said. "Ninety bucks a week."

"And I banked every dime of it,** Spencer said, "because I've got this thing figured. I draw a pretty fair salary from the Bulletin. They have to pay it with living expenses like they are. And this is not a bad place. The climate's wonder-

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

ful—not most places wliere It's hotter'n hell and sticky too —but here. Sun shines most of the time, not much rain, and the altitude keeps it nice at night.

"So you work it out one of two ways/' he said. "A guy comes down here on a fat salary and he can figure on staying here or else he figures he'll only be here a few years and then go home. If he likes it and stays he can live it up —have a nice place, servants, join one of the clubs. Or he can live quietly and hang onto his dough and to hell with trying to keep up with the Joneses. He knows he's going to get out and that when he does he can take his dough back without the income-tax people grabbing half of it.

"That's me, brother/' He tapped his chest. "Income tax here is practically nothing. So I'm salting it away. When I step off the plane, in New York, or wherever, I'll have a nice stake and I won't have to worry about the tax people until I start drawing a salary again. Why else do you think I'd be living in a dump like this?" he demanded. ~I coidd do better, a lot better, but when I went back—and I will some day—where would I be?"

He finished his drink but held onto the glass. He slouched down another few inches and his head sagged. His lips moved silently and he eyed the tips of his shoes glumly.

"Now there'll be no more gravy," he said and grunted softly. "No more publicity/'

"You would have lost it anyway," Jeff reminded him.

"Hunh?"

"Grayson was paying off. He was going home/'

He waited, aware that Spencer was watching him again but because his head was still down his eyes were veiled,

"You knew Harry Baker and what he was doing/* he said. "I think you knew why he went to Barbados for Gray-son and I think you knew Grayson had raised the equiva-

lent of one hundred and twenty thousand in cash for the payoff so he could go home."

"How would I know that?" Spencer asked sullenly.

"Because I think Grayson told you so. He was Just the sort to rub it in when he could. He'd been trapped into paying out ninety bucks a week to you, and my guess is that when he knew he finally had you off his back, when he knew your little racket was about to collapse, he told you off. That sort o£ opportunity would give him a lot of pleasure and I doubt if he'd waste it"

When there was no reply, he said: "Furthermore I think you knew where the payoff was going to be. You were hanging around the Tucan that night—"

"Hanging, hell, 5 ' Spencer said with some spirit. "It was an assignment. You think I'd take a chance on that kind of caper? With that kind of dough? You're crazy/' he said. "I don't have that kind of nerve.*

"So what are you going to do?"

Spencer put his glass aside and pulled himself erect in the chair. He gave the question four seconds of thought and then he glanced up, cocking his head to one side, his failure-shadowed eyes serious.

*Tm going to keep snooping."

"Doesn't that take nerve?"

"Not the way I do it." He tipped one hand. *Tm not greedy. I'm not kidding myself that I can find that cash, but I can try. A guy never knows when he might get a break. If I've got an angle I might go to Diana Grayson. She might pay—say, ten per cent—to get her hands on it. Td settle for twelve G's and don't think I wouldn't. That way it would be a legitimate deal.*

"And what about Carl Webb?"

Spencer opened his mouth and shut it, his expression indicating that this was something he would rather not think about.

"If yon^did locate that money/' Jeff said, "and Webb heard you'd handed it over to Diana Grayson''-he paused to give the thought time to register, and decided to understate the situation-"! don't think he'd like it."

He stood up, his drink unfinished. He put on his jacket, not sure just what he had accomplished, but having a far better understanding of this man and the factors which influenced his thinking. Spencer did not bother to get up. His head had sagged again. It did not move as his eyes followed Jeff to the door, and they were brooding, reproachful eyes now, his look suggesting that it was Jeff who was responsible for his present unhappy state of mind.

Once again on the street and not knowing where he was, Jeff turned downhill because it was easier. He had to walk three blocks before he came to a main thoroughfare and located a taxi, and because he had learned the asking price was always high he tried a few words of his limited Spanish.

** jCudnto?"

"Cinco B's. Five B's," the driver added to indicate he recognized an American accent in spite of the suit.

"Es mucho"

The driver shrugged. "Cuatro? he said resignedly.

Jeff climbed in and brought out the piece of paper Julio Cordovez had given him. About to read off the address, he hesitated, prompted by some cautionary impulse that warned him again of the reputed long arm of SegurnaL Because he did not want to involve the little detective in the event the driver ever remembered this trip, he merely read the name of the street.

Five minutes later, when the driver made a turn and repeated the name, Jeff gestured for him to keep going. A block or so farther along he recognized Cordovez's apart-

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

ment house, and he waited until they had gone another block before telling the driver to stop.

He tendered a silver five-bolivar piece and motioned the man to keep it. He waited until the cab started away before he started back downhill to the three-story building. The fact that the living-room light was on when he opened the apartment door did not concern him, because he expected to find Cordovez, and it was not until he stepped inside that he realized the comer chair was occupied by a woman.

She had sort of curled up there under a floor lamp, her legs tucked under her and her head back so the light fell on her face. She did not move in that first brief moment and Jeff stopped short, one hand still on the door as his glance focused. Only then was he sure that it was Karen Holmes who sat there watching him.

16

WHEN JEFF recovered from the first stunning impact of his surprise, he remembered that the door was still open and closed it behind him. He watched her support her weight on her elbows while she twisted her legs out from under her and got her feet on the floor. He saw her straighten her dress, and when she smiled excitement stirred in him and left his nerves atingle.

"Hello," she said. "I thought you'd never come." Unable yet to voice his surprise, he could feel the grin stretching his face as this feeling of pride and pleasure expanded within him. Forgotten was the incident in Mi-

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

ami. For it seemed to him now that this was a girl he had known and liked for years. He did not yet understand how she had managed to get here; he only knew he was awfully glad to see her.

"For Pete's sake/' he said finally. "How did you-"

"Julio brought me."

"Julio?"

"He came to the hotel He said you wanted me to know where you were staying and I said I had to see you. I said there were some things I had to tell you. I bullied him/' she said.

Jeff chuckled as he visualized the scene. "You must have."

"He couldn't cope with it. He wasn't very happy after we got here—maybe he was afraid his wife might come-but I promised to be a good girl and sit here in the corner until you came back." She paused and the smile went away. "Did you find out anything?"

He swung a chair over in front of her and sat down. "A little," he said and reluctantly brought his mind back to his problems. He told her first about Dan Spencer, the things he knew, the things that had been said.

"Did the police accept your story?" he asked as his thoughts moved on.

"About finding Grayson? Why—yes, I think so."

"What about Webb?"

"He told them he had a date, just like I did."

"Did he say why? Did he tell Zumeta about the hundred and twenty thousand?"

"Yes, but he had to explain it twice before Zumeta understood what he meant."

Jeff nodded, remembering that when he had last seen the Segumal man, there had been no knowledge of either Webb or the money that Grayson had raised and was ready to deliver through Harry Baker.

"That'll give Zumeta something else to think about," he said. Then, his mind moving back, he again considered Diana Grayson and Dudley Fiske. He asked if either of them was questioned at headquarters.

"Both/' Karen said.

"What did you think of them?"

"In what way?" she said, her incipient frown telling him lie had not made his point clear.

He spoke of his first call at the Grayson house and the thoughts that had come to him then.

"That's an attractive woman," he said. "She looks and talks as if she had been brought up to expect the good things in life. She looks as if she might have been a lot of fun when she was younger, but she got a bad deal—with an alcoholic for a first husband, and she practically took Grayson on the rebound. The way I get it, he played up to her until he got his hands on what money she had. Since then it's been pretty grim for her."

He tried to explain his first impression of Fiske. "Until recently he'd been living with a myth. As a kid, he got the idea Grayson was the greatest guy in the world, and because Fiske never was a heavyweight, the disillusionment was a long time coming. He didn't want to let go of the idea he had created, because it was all he had left at the time. His one claim to importance was that he had been important to a man who had the importance he lacked. Or am I getting a little involved?"

"No.** She shook her head. "I know exactly what you mean."

"He was selling printing—not too well, he says—and it was a great day when Grayson sent for him, a rejuvenation he was eager to have, a new start. Then, as time went on, the gloss wore off his idol. He saw what was happening to him and to Diana. Two unhappy people in the same house, bearing the same cross, understanding a mutual

ONE MESTUTE PAST EIGHT

problem. I think, maybe without knowing it, they finally realized they were in love.

"Fiske was a different man this evening. I got the idea he had found some new strength and purpose, maybe through the woman. You could tell they were close to each other. She said they were going back to the States together, and I wondered—I mean, you're a woman and if you watched them down at Segurnal maybe you'd have some idea about how they felt toward each other .**

"I think you're right." Karen moistened her lips and her eyes were a serious blue beneath the graceful brows. "He could hardly keep his eyes off her, and when she looked at him her glance seemed brighter. She seemed confident and assured and pleased with what she saw. It was the sort of look that women have when they are proud of a man and sure of his affection/' She paused, her voice suddenly hushed. "Do you think Fiske-"

"I don't know," Jeff said, knowing what she meant. "But he could have, all right. It's a long lane etcetera, etcetera. They knew about the money and maybe old Dudley made up his mind he'd had too much from Grayson."

He tried to speculate beyond this but nothing came, and he saw that Karen had picked up her bag. When she opened it she brought out what looked like a gold thimble and offered it to him,

"This is why I came," she said. "I didn't tell the police I found it"

JWhat is it?" Jeff asked.

*I don't know. I thought you might/'

She went on to tell how she had seen it under Grayson's desk and Jeff turned it over in his fingers, scowling intently and remembering the welts on his stepbrother's face. When a possibility occurred to him he voiced it.

"It could have come from a cane," he said quietly. "It seems a little small but—"

He stopped abruptly, head swiveling, as a soft knock came at the door. When he heard the sound of a key he was reassured, and a moment later Julio Cordovez slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Ah~h," he said, his bright eyes assessing the situation in a glance. "All is well/'

"So far," Jeff said. "Sit down and tell us what the police are doing."

"For one thing/' Cordovez said, "they are looking for you. You were seen to enter the Grayson building this afternoon/'

"Yeah/* Jeff said and explained what he had learned from Carl Webb. He again displayed the two scabs on his knuckles. "And once they see these 111 be in it up to my neck."

"I agree/' Cordovez said. "It is not a pleasant situation. We must arrive at some solution and quickly."

Jeff gave him the thimble, waited until the detective had a chance to inspect it and then explained where Karen had found it.

"What do you think?"

Cordovez took his time, his black eyes busy and his brows bunched. "You have a thought perhaps?"

"I think it might have come from the bottom of a cane/*

"Considering the type of wound on Grayson's face I can agree to this."

"Who would have a cane?"

Again Cordovez took his time. When he spoke he corroborated the thought in Jeff's mind.

"Luis Miranda would have a cane/' he said, his inflection suggesting he was not happy about the admission.

"What about the autopsy?"

"It has not been completed. The doctor will not say at this time whether he believes the wounds sufficient to cause death." He passed the thimble back to Jeff. "What do you propose to do?"

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

Tm going to find out if this fits any of Miranda's canes."

Cordovez's brows climbed and doubt touched his glance.

"How will this be done?"

"I'll have to gamble that Mrs. Miranda may co-operate."

"Oh?"

"She was going away with my stepbrother/ 3 Jeff said. "The airplane tickets prove that much. Furthermore I don't think she was going just for the ride. She could scrape up enough money for a ticket any time she wanted to. She could have left before, but I don't think she wanted to give up what she had until she found some sort of substitute."

He leaned forward and said: "We're not going to get anywhere without making some assumptions, so I'm making one. I'm ready to assume that Muriel Miranda was in love with my stepbrother, or thought she was, and either way is good enough."

He digressed to explain how the woman had waited in her car that morning. He spoke of her interest in the amount of Grayson's stock inheritance and its potential value.

"So if she was in love and ready to take what Grayson could offer, she's going to be damned well crashed by Ms death. With him gone she's still stuck with Miranda. She's lost her man, and I have to go along with the idea that she will want to get even with the one who killed him."

"Even if this is her husband?"

"All the more so, if she hates him. You don't have to be very vindictive to want to punish the person who kills someone you love. It's a natural reaction. If I'm right I think shell be glad to co-operate, to do whatever she has to do to punish the one who robbed her of her lover and her future."

He was watching Karen as he finished, some part of his mind recognizing again how lovely she was even as he saw the somber glints in her dark-blue eyes. She nodded

her head slightly and a tiny frown marred the smoothness o£ her brow.

"Yes" she said. "I think you're right, I think I'd do the same. If she loved Grayson she has to hate the one who killed him. But I don t think you should try to talk to her."

"What?"

"I think I should."

Jeff leaned forward, understanding every word but not yet believing her.

"Oh, now, wait a minute."

"I mean it"

About to scoff, Jeff realized how very serious she was and checked the impulse.

"Why?"

"Because I can do that just as wel as you can and with much less risk."

"Pardon me," Cordovez said,

Jeff looked at him,

"I believe the senorita is right."

"Thank you, Julio." Karen favored him with a quick bright smile and looked back at Jeff, her eyes challenging, her soft mouth determined. "I think I can tell better than you can if Mrs. Miranda was in love with Grayson. Ill find out if her husband has any canes. I'll bet I can make her show them to me. Why shouldn't I try?" she demanded. "It's not as if I was taking any great chance. 111 simply stop there in the morning after her husband has gone to the office and have a talk with her."

Jeff remained only partially convinced. He wanted to argue, but again he stopped. Not sure just why this girl should want to help him, he suddenly found a warm and satisfying glow in the knowledge that she felt that way.

"It is better," Cordovez said. "For you, daylight is bad except when absolutely necessary. Now that your photo-

graph has appeared In the newspaper there will be too many eyes looking for you."

Before Jeff could reply, Karen had leaned forward and taken the thimble from his fingers. She replaced it in her bag. She gave him a saucy grin as she leaned back.

"After all I am a detective/' she said. "Why shouldn't I work at it if I want to? I'm down here with expenses paid and I botched my assignment—"

Ton didn't botch it," Jeff protested. "It wasn't your fault my stepbrother got himself killed."

"I made a lot of trouble for you in Miami and it didn't do a bit of good. If I hadn t done that, none of this might have happened, I'm not sure 1 can help but I'm certainly going to try."

She stood up and smoothed the dress over her trim hips. She touched her dark hair and her eyes still defied him.

"Also, in case you're interested," she added, Tin turning in my card when I get home. I guess Dad was right. I'm not a very good detective and I've had about enough."

Cordovez rose along with Jeff and his dark glance was admiring as he inspected the girl

6S I will see that you get back to your hotel safely," he said. "Her suggestion is best," he said to Jeff. "I myself will see that no harm comes to her. You have my word." He touched Jeffs shoulder, his voice paternal.

"Do not wait for me. Go into the back room and close the door and go to bed. You need sleep. Tomorrow it will be better if you feel fit in case our luck turns and you have to face Ramon Zumeta."

Jeff argued no more. He glanced from one to the other and suddenly his worries seemed less burdensome as he realized for the first time how fortunate he was in having two friends such as these helping him.

IT WAS after nine when Jeff Lane waked the following morning, and because it was later than he thought, he jumped out of bed and stepped into the hall to see if Cor-dovez was still there. Certain now that he was alone, he came back to put on his borrowed trousers and shoes and then went into the bathroom to find the razor, towel, and brashless shaving cream that had been laid out for him.

When he came into the kitchen a note on the table said there was coffee on the stove which needed only to be heated, some fruit juice in the icebox. A paper napkin had been wrapped around a plate containing a sweet roll and butter, and the note invited him to use the eggs in the icebox if he desired.

He did not bother with the eggs, but he ate every crumb of the roll and drank two cups of coffee. He rinsed the dishes in hot water, and dried them, before he went back to the bedroom and completed his dressing. After that he began to prowl as the events of the night before came back to him and his nervousness increased. The few magazines in the living-room were in Spanish and when he sat down he found it impossible to remain there. He smoked his last cigarette and crumpled the pack and finally, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, he telephoned Cordovez's office. He had some language difficulty with the girl who answered but he finally got across the idea that he wanted the detective to call his house.

By that time he had begun to worry about Karen Holmes,

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

but as there was nothing he could do about this he tried to assess the information he had gathered the previous day. The patterns his brain formed were in ever-changing combinations and the only thing he could be sure of was that it took him twenty-one paces to get from the far end of the living-room to the back of the inner haH. When the telephone finally shattered the stillness, he Jumped for it.

"Where's Karen Holmes?" he demanded when Cor-dovez's familiar voice came to him.

"She is calling on Mrs. Miranda, as she promised/'

"Alone?" Jeff said, shouting a little. "But you said you'd go with her. 59

"I tried," Cordovez said. "She would not permit it. She insisted that she take a taxi. She did not wish Mrs. Miranda to know that anyone was waiting for her."

"How long ago was that?"

"Perhaps a half-hour."

"Where are you?"

"Across the street from Segnrnal I am awaiting the doctor's report. I should not be long. ... I think you worry needlessly, my friend/' he said. "The senorita will come to you when she has finished, Be patient. I will telephone when I have news/ 7

Jeff hung up and continued his pacing, his restlessness riding him even as he told himself that nothing could happen to Karen. There was another half-hour of this before he heard the knock., and when he opened the door and saw her standing there his relief left him momentarily speechless.

She was wearing a tailored yellow dress with black-and-white spectator pumps and the white handbag. Her cheeks were flushed, but the smile that came was weak and the dark-blue eyes seemed discouraged before she glanced away.

"Was it all right?" Jeff asked. "Did~you see her? There wasn't any trouble, was there?"

He heard her sigh as she lopped down on a chair and opened her bag. "I saw her/' she said, and took out a package of cigarettes. When she fumbled as she tried to open it he reached down and tore off one comer. He offered her one and took one for himself. He furnished a light, still watching her, but no longer hopeful when he realized her eyes were evading him.

"Can I bum a couple?" he said, indicating the cigarettes.

"Take them," she said. "I can get more!'

He sat down and watched her blow smoke toward the windows. He saw her breast rise and fall with another silent sigh. She took out the gold thimble which Jeff had hoped would turn out to be a ferrule and put it on his knee.

"I think you were right about one thing/* she said finally. "I think she was in love with your stepbrother/'

"What about the canes?"

"She said he had three that she knew of. She went and got them. They all had tips on them and anyway that one" —she pointed at his knee—"would have been too small around.*

Jeff swallowed his disappointment and put the thimble into his pocket.

^Well, that*s that," he said,

*Tm sorry.**

"We'll think of something else. 3 * He paused, studying her and noting again the long lashes that framed her eyes. "What did you think of her? I mean, was she pretty upset? Did you get the idea she'd help if she could?"

"Yes. She didn't want to talk at first. I had to tell her about you. 7 *

"Maybe she thinks I did it."

"Not now, she doesn't. I could tell she'd been crying, but

there were no tears while I was there. She'd gone beyond that. Right now she's bitter and resentful. The one thing in her mind is to make whoever did it pay. She's in a pretty bad mood; it's hard to tell what she might do."

She thought a moment and said: "I could see it in her face. When she realized what I wanted she began to ask me questions. She kept at it/*

"How much did you tell her?"

"Quite a lot. I thought I might as well/*

"Did she know about the Las Vegas thing and the

money r "Oh, yes r "And she knows if s missing?**

"Yes. 9 '

"What did she say about her husband?"

"Very little. She didn't admit anything except that she knew her husband hated Grayson. From the impression I got I'm pretty sure she's considering the possibility that her husband was the one who killed him, but when I suggested it, she denied it."

"O. K."

Jeff put out his cigarette and stood up. He reached down and drew her from her chair, standing close to her now, his hands cupping both elbows. What he did then was as unexpected, even to him, as it was impulsive. Hardly realizing it, but attracted by some desire impossible to resist, he bent his head and kissed the soft mouth lightly.

When he drew back the dark-blue eyes were wide and a spot of color brushed each cheek but she did not say anything. She just looked at him. He could not tell how she felt and now he felt the hot blood in his cheeks and dropped his hands. He did not apologize, and in his confusion he tried to ignore the act by speaking quickly of other things.

"Off you go," lie said. "You're through for the day. And thanks for everything, Karen. You're wonderful."

"But"—she drew back, the color still in her cheeks and her eyes suddenly concerned—"you can't just give up."

"I'm not giving up." Jeff said and grinned at her because he felt so good. "But you are. You're going back to the hotel and have a swim and a nice lunch and then you're going to take it easy."

He was moving her toward the door now, but before he could open it she resisted.

"I'm serious," he said. "What you really should do is get the first plane out of here."

She tipped her head. She gave him a tentative smile, but her concern still showed.

"And who's going to get the consul when you're arrested? Who's going to arrange for a lawyer?"

"I've already had an offer," he said, and told of Luis Miranda's threat.

She heard him out, but her young face stayed serious. "Please," she said. "If something doesn't happen, you will be arrested before long. Julio didn't say so, but I know that's what he's thinking."

"All right," Jeff said and opened the door. "We'll do something. He's working on a thing now," he lied. "As soon as I know something I'll call you," he said, and ushered her into the hall.

The knock that drammed on the door no more than five minutes later startled Jeff and he stood waiting until it came again. The threat of arrest that Karen had voiced was still with him, and the feeling had been growing in him that time was running out. No one could be lucky forever. When the knock came the third time he knew this could be it. With no way of guessing who might be outside, he suddenly realized he was tired of the apartment,

tired o£ hiding; if this was a couple of boys from Segurnal he might as well get it over with.

This was what was in his mind as he stepped up and opened the door. Then he stepped quickly back, mouth gaping as he brought his stare to focus on the blond and ripely rounded figure of Muriel Miranda.

She was clad in a black silk suit with a short jacket and a snug-fitting skirt. Her straw-blond hair had a carelessly combed look, her tanned, broad-cheeked face was set and unsmiling. The eyes still looked as if they'd had their mom-ing rinse in bluing but they seemed alert and purposeful as they gave him a quick inspection and slid beyond him to scan the room. When she stepped silently past him he voiced the first thing that entered his mind.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I followed your girl friend,**

"But-"

"I decided if anyone knew where you'd been hiding, she would." She stopped in the center of the room and waited for him to close the door. "You sent her, didn't you? You thought Luis might have beaten your stepbrother with one of his canes, didn't you?"

"By the looks of his face, somebody had, 5 *

"Have you got that metal tip?"

Jeff took the golden thimble from his pocket and slipped it over the end of his little finger. She looked at it and then began to unbutton her jacket.

"I got to thinking after your girl left," she said. "There were only three canes, but Luis likes to ride, and I decided to do some more looking,"

She pushed back the front of the jacket and now Jeff saw the leather loop hanging over the waistband of the skirt. While he stood there wondering what came next, she pulled her stomach in and elevated her chest. With the pressure eased on the skirt, she withdrew a plaited, alii-

gator-leather riding crop. She tapped it lightly across her palm and thrust it at him, her blue gaze bright and intent.

"Try that for size/" she said.

Jeff took the crop. It was heavier than it looked and as he tried to flex it he found it had the hard resiliency of a thin steel spring. When he slipped the ferrule over the end it fitted exactly.

He hefted it again before he put it on the table, the ferrule still in place, and now, recalling his impressions of Luis Miranda, he understood that this was a proper instrument for such a man to use.

"He knew you were planning to go away with Grayson/* Jeff said,

"I guess he did."

""What changed your mind about your husband?"

She scowled at him. "How do you mean? 3 '

**Sit down a minute," Jeff indicated a chair by the windows. He watched her hesitate and then accept his suggestion. "I know my stepbrother/' he said. "And maybe a little about your husband. You'd been around when you married him, hadn't you? You were no shrinking violet. You must have either been in love with him or thought you had a good deal, or was it a little of both?"

She had taken a small gold case from her bag as he was speaking and now she put a cigarette in her mouth and held her face up for a light. When she had it she inhaled. She blew smoke at the ceiling and then she laughed, an abrupt sardonic sound.

Td been around all right," she said. "Ever since I got out of business school I've been standing on my own two feet. I started out as a sort of typist-secretary with a hotel When I had some experience I did a lot of things. I've been a secretary, hostess, publicity woman, social director. I worked for hotels in New York, the White Mountains, Florida, Montauk. When they were getting the staff to-

gether for the Tamanaco It sounded Hie a good deal so I came down.

"In the hotel business you see a lot of men. All kinds of men with all kinds of ideas. I learned how to handle them, how to get along with them, how to spot the different types. I thought I'd seen about everything, until I met Luis and changed my mind," She flicked ashes in the general direction of a metal tray and considered the past a moment before she continued.

"A girl gets tired of standing on her own two feet after a while. Sure, I wanted to get married. I always intended to. But with men around you all the time and plenty of chances, you put it off. You want to be sure you're getting something good for what you have to give. Well, Luis was different. I didn't pay too much attention to him at first. He was older and had grown children, but that didn't seem important because he didn't look old, or act it.

"He was handsome, distinguished-looking. He came from a fine family and I knew he had money, which isn't something you readily do without. He was considerate and polite and he was persistent. So"—she lifted one hand and let it fall—"I fell for him. I was more in love with him than Td ever been before, and I knew something else, which to a woman is important. He loved me; he still does. Probably too much/'

"He was jealous," Jeff prompted when she hesitated.

"God, yes! But it was more than that. They don't think the way we do down here. Luis's idea of a wife was a woman who stayed home and sat on her fanny when he wasn't around. It didn't matter if I was bored stiff. It didn't matter if I got fat or lazy or drank too much—just so I stayed home. When we went to parties, and because of his business that was fairly often, he was always at my elbow. Like a leech. The minute I talked to some attractive guy we had a threesome. It was awful. I told him so. Sometimes

I'd scream at Mm and I couldn't even get an argument out o£ him. It is the custom/' she said, mimicking. "One must be proper. The wife of Luis Miranda must conform at all times.

"Well, I wasn't cut out for the hothouse treatment. I'd been around too much. What good is money when you can't have any fun with it? He had most of the servants bribed and until recently I couldn't even drive the car by myself. I was practically a prisoner, and if I could have got my hands on any money I would have left him long ago. But I made up my mind I wasn't going back to New York empty-handed. I never had any cash. I could charge what I needed. I might have managed the price of a plane ticket, but that wasn't enough. I figured I'd earned a lot more than that."

"Where'd you get the tan—Macuto?" Jeff asked, remembering the beach cottage Miranda had mentioned.

"Macuto? Hah!" She mashed out her cigarette and sat back, brow still furrowed and distance in her hard, fixed gaze. "I got it in the back yard. We got a pool with a high fence. I sit out there stripped down as much as I dare and bake."

"What about those?" Jeff pointed to the emerald solitaire, the platinum watch with the diamond-studded band, the diamond-and-aquamarine cocktail ring.

"The emerald is mine. The others belonged to his' first wife. He loans them to me and keeps the rest locked up. He puts them out on consignment from week to week."

"If he kept you handcuffed the way you say he did, how did you manage those afternoons at Macuto with my stepbrother?"

That brought her eyes into focus. "How did you know?"

"Your husband told me."

She considered this a moment; then shrugged. "He didn't know about it at first. I suppose I raised such a fuss he

decided to see what would happen if he let down the bars a little. He said I could drive my car without a chauffeur and go out afternoons by myself/'

"By that time you already liked my stepbrother/' Jeff said. "You were beginning to fall for his charming ways-ox was it just the idea that he might be the answer to your problem of getting back to the States?"

"Maybe I was a little in love with him/ 5 she said. "But there was never any talk about my going away with him until that detective—* 5

"Harry Baker."

"—told him about the stock he was going to get if he went home."

"You knew about the Las Vegas thing?"

"Yes. Arnold told me everything."

"Not everything,"

"What?"

Jeff took a breath and then, not quite knowing why he bothered, he spoke of the Arnold Grayson he had known as a boy, the trouble he had been in, the mean and vicious things he had done. He watched the blue eyes open as he spoke his mind but when he finished he knew she was not convinced that she had made a mistake.

"He wasn't that way with me," she said. "He admitted he had done some awful things, but he had changed— Men do change," she said defensively. "Women can help them. And anyway you don't love a man for what he was, but what he is."

"And you loved him?"

"Yes. I—" She hesitated and her lips trembled. She stilled them with an obvious effort and her chin came up. "I was willing to ran away, wasn't I? I'm not a complete fool. Who can say in advance that a marriage will work out? I wanted to go with him. I wanted another chance, a new start."

She stood up abruptly, her lips compressed and her eyes

bleak. "If Luis killed him-" She left the thought unfinished but the implication had an ugly sound. "He did, didn't he?"

"I don't know/ 3 Jeff said. "They haven't even finished the autopsy?*

"He wanted to kill Arnold/' she said, as though she had not heard. "He would have done anything to stop him, not because he loved me, but because of that fanatical pride of his."

"But why should he kill Harry Baker?" Jeff said. "He didn't need the money, did he?"

"Need it?" she said, her voice harsh and metallic-sounding. "Of course not. But if he took the money, Arnold wouldn't dare go home. Don't you understand?"

Her look challenged him as the bitterness built inside her. "Luis knew about the money and why Arnold needed it. He knew a man was coming from Las Vegas to collect. He knew if Arnold couldn't pay he'd probably be killed. I think that's what Luis hoped would happen. Without that money to deliver Arnold would have to run, or hide. He was afraid. He had to pay, and unless he did he could not go back and neither could L 7>

She stopped, out of breath now, the prettiness twisted from her face. Til find out," she said. "Don't worry about that."

Jeff watched her Jerk open the door, a little aghast at the fury of her words. He wanted to tell her to take it easy. He wanted to suggest that she tell the police what she knew. But before he could find the proper words, the door slammed and he was alone. Then, seeing again the riding crop and moving toward it, he was stopped by the jangle of die telephone.

"The autopsy has been completed," Cordovez announced in his quiet way. "Your stepbrother did not die as a result of the beating."

"Then what did kill him?"

"Asphyxia is the term the doctor used,"

Jeff mouthed the word silently as he tried to define it. He understood that this would apply to a man who had inhaled gas. Would it also apply if a man had been strangled?

His thoughts hung there as his mind snapped back and he recalled the jacket that had been lung on the floor not far from Arnold Grayson's head as he lay dead on the office floor. Earlier, when Jeff had knocked him down, the coat had been draped over the back of a chair.

"You are still there?" Cordovez asked.

"I'm listening," Jeff said.

"There is one more detail."

Tfes."

"The nails of the first and second finger of the right hand were discolored. Scrapings taken from them were examined. These revealed blood and tissue and hair."

"Hair?" Jeff said. "Like from your head?"

"Much more tiny, and of a finer diameter. Such as might come from the back of a man's hand—or his wrist."

Jeff's mind considered this; then moved on, "See if you can find out about one more thing."

"I will try."

"There was a jacket on the floor by the body," Jeff said. "See if you can find out if there were any bloodstains on it"

"Very well," Cordovez replied. "And you will remain there until I come?"

"Ill be here "

Cordovez said that would be a good idea. He said he did not know how long he would be, but when he came he would bring sandwiches and beer.

KAREN HOLMES took Jeffs advice when she got back to the hotel shortly before noon. She felt hot and tired and discouraged and the swimming pool looked so inviting when she glanced down at it from her window that she peeled off her clothes and pulled on her suit. Taking her cap, a straw bag, and her key, she went down the back way, using the stairs.

Only a half-dozen of the web-seated aluminum chairs were in use, and when she'd been given two towels by the attendant, she selected a chaise which had been left adjusted in a flat position and deposited her things.

With the edges of her hair tucked up under her white cap, she dived from one side of the pool, stretching out the dive as long as she could and finding the water pleasantly refreshing after the first cool shock. She paddled about for five minutes and then stretched out on the chaise, face down. She reversed her position twenty minutes later when the hot sun began to spread its heat on her skin.

When she had taken her second dip and sat toweling herself she decided not to bother dressing for lunch, so she walked over to one of the round tables at the far end and caught the eye of one of the waitresses. She ordered a salad and iced tea, turning her back to the pool as she ate so she could look out over the distant rooftops of the city.

It was less easy to control her thoughts. She kept thinking of Jeff Lane and his trouble and her own part in the chain of events that had started in Boston. She was

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

ashamed of what she had been forced to do in Miami, but her cheeks still tingled when she remembered his kiss and the way he had looked at her. She did not believe he could have done this if he had not forgiven her and this pleased her greatly because she realized now how much his approval meant to her. She wanted so much to help him, and because she did not know how, she went back to her room, struggled out of the damp suit, and put on her robe.

She stretched out on the bed, intending only to rest a bit, but she made the mistake of closing her eyes and once her thoughts began to drift she was asleep. It was after three when she awoke and now, realizing what had happened, she twisted off the bed, annoyed with herself for wasting this time.

Although she had no particular place to go, she showered hurriedly and then dressed, selecting a checked skirt, a tailored blouse, and the white blazer. When she had inventoried her bag and her wallet, she went downstairs and took the first taxi in the line, telling the driver to take her to the avenida Urdaneta. She had no particular destination in mind, but she had seen the modern shops along the street near the old center of the city, and it was her intention to do some shopping once she was in the right neighborhood.

The corner she selected held no special significance as she stepped out of the cab and paid the driver; but as she stood waiting for the light to change, it seemed familiar. When she glanced up at the street sign she knew why. For this was the cross street where Arnold Grayson had his office. If she turned right, here, and walked two blocks, she would come to it, and now, moved by some unaccountable impulse, she found herself making the turn and starting up the sloping street.

She was thinking now and took no notice of die pedestrians she passed. She still had no purpose but seemed moved

by some fascination that drew her back to the scene of the crime. She had made the same trip the previous afternoon, riding, that time, and taking with her the hope that she might get the stock assignment she had been sent here for.

That was al over now. A man was dead—two men—and Jeff was hiding. So far she had been unable to help him. She saw no hope of helping now, but still she continued on until she passed the open door of the Daily Bulletin. Up ahead was the gray masonry building she knew so well, but suddenly, her thoughts Eying off on some illogical tangent, she found herself wondering about Dan Spencer.

She did not know why, but having once made the reporter the center of her attention, her mind went on and things began to happen. Her footsteps slowed. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. Because of the narrow walk, people had to detour about her or step into the street and so she crossed to the opposite side and turned to Inspect the entrance of the newspaper office.

Spencer had been one of those who had seen Jeff outside Grayson's office. He worked in the neighborhood. He had also been at the Tucan the night Harry Baker had been murdered.

Was this coincidence?

There was no answer to this, but she could not get the thought out of her mind. She began to recal the things she had heard about Spencer, the things Jeff had said the night before about Spencer and Carl Webb and the money.

So far no one suspected him of murder. He had been around when things happened but he had never been a suspect. Why not, if he knew about the money?

His office was less than a half a block away. Suppose he had somehow managed to get his hands on that money yesterday afternoon? How simple it would be to explain his presence, to take the package—or whatever it was—and

stroll back to Ms office and put it in the bottom of a desk drawer.

Had anyone thought of that?

His apartment had been searched—but what about the office? Oh, stop it! she thought, as her mind raced on uninhibited.

But it was not that easy. Once having started, she kept building on her imaginative premise until she had nearly reached the point of doing something about it. She wondered if Spencer would be working at this hour. She could easily find out, and if he was, what harm could there be in going in and talking to him? She could think of some excuse and maybe she could find out something that would help.

This is what she told herself, as she stood there drawing on her reservoir of nerves. Then, when she was at the point of acting, the decision was made for her and she got the break she had been hoping for.

Some intuitive impulse which could never be explained had put her in the proper spot at the proper time. But it was luck, or fate, or chance—the name did not matter-that gave her the chance to pursue her project. For even as she stood there, still undecided, Dan Spencer walked out of the doorway she was watching and turned downhill

He looked better groomed than usual with his dark suit and necktie, but it was the envelope he carried under one arm that sent the quick excitement coursing through her veins and gave the green light to her imagination. And now, already conditioned by suspicion and uncertainty, she gave in to the following impulse without further thought.

She was walking now, trying to keep pace with Spencer's stooped, loose-gaited strides. The questions that popped into her mind she answered as best she could. She

knew, first, that the Manila envelope was at least ten inches by twelve. From a distance she thought it had a sizable bulge, but she could not be sure.

And she knew that money could be carried in such an envelope, a lot of money, if the bills were in the right denominations.

And who knew how big the bills were? Had anyone said? How much room would one hundred and twenty thousand dollars take up? How much if the money was in bolivar bills?

She realized now she did not care. For all she knew Spencer had an envelope full of copy paper and was on his way to some interview. It did not matter. She intended to find out where he was going, and if her thoughts and actions proved to be ridiculous, she could laugh about them later.

She stopped suddenly when she saw him come to Urda-neta and wait for the traffic light. Keeping to the inside of the walk and not wanting to miss the light herself, she advanced slowly. She crossed the street safely, still a third of a block behind the thin figure. At the next intersection he crossed to her side and she had to stop again.

Halfway down the next block he seemed to vanish, and she felt a momentary thrust of panic. She hurried forward and then, uncertainly, she slowed her steps until she saw the familiar sign of a well-known airline above a plate-glass window. Then, even before she peeked round the corner of that window, her pulse quieted as she wondered if Spencer's business might have to do with a flight reservation.

Dark-haired men passed by and eyed her with approval. Some hesitated hopefully and most of them smiled. She ignored them all, not worrying about appearances now as she sneaked a quick look from the edge of the window.

A glance was enough to tell her that Spencer had

stopped at the counter at the far end of the room. It was a sizable office, with several pillars, some leather settees and chairs, and a stand-up desk along the wall. Spencer stood with his back to the entrance, his elbows propped on the counter, as a clerk began to fiU out some form on a typewriter. Other men and women were similarly occupied and still others waited on the settees. In all, there were twenty or more people in the room, and when Karen saw the telephone booth near the door she knew what she had to do.

One eye on Spencer's back, she moved quickly through the glass doors and slipped into the telephone booth. She closed the door, feeling secure now as she opened her bag and looked for Julio Cordovez's telephone number. She no longer had to watch Spencer. Whatever happened at the counter she could find out later. All she had to do was wait until she saw him leave the office.

Her voice trembled a little with excitement when Cor-dovez answered and she identified herself and asked for Jeff.

"Jeff," she said a moment later and then the excitement got die best of her and she started to babble. "I think I might have something. It's Spencer. He's in a downtown airline office. I think he's making a reservation and—"

"Karen!"

The quick and forceful sound of his voice stopped her and told her she'd been letting her emotions run away from her. She heard him ask where she was. She told him.

"And what's this about Spencer?"

"I followed him here. I saw him come out of the newspaper office and he had this envelope under his arm and I-I followed him"

"Why? What were you doing there in the first place?"

The question stumped her for a second because it was so hard to answer. Why had she gone there? Could she

explain an impulse or justify by logical means an Intuitive compulsion she herself did not understand? The answer was no, and suddenly she was annoyed with his questions and impatient with his attitude.

"What difference does it make?" she cried. "He has an envelope, too, a large one. It might even have the money in it."

"All right," Jeff said. "All right. Slow down. You followed Spencer. He's at the ticket counter. Now where are you?"

"In a phone booth near the door. I'm going to wait right here until he leaves and then I'm going to the counter and find out if he actually has made a reservation/ 3

She hesitated and when there was no reply she said: "Jeff!"

"I'm thinking," he said. "Maybe you've got something. Just be sure he's gone before you go to the counter. And don't try to follow him 9 do you hear?"

"All right."

"Let him go. Don't fool with him. Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good girl. After you've checked at the counter call me back and we'll figure out what to do next. O. K.?"

She broke the connection but kept the telephone to her ear in case anyone should look through the door and wonder what she was doing. She put on her dark glasses and turned her head so that she could get an oblique, corner-of-the-eye look at the entrance. She sat that way, with the stuffiness increasing and the perspiration prickling on her body, until Spencer cut across her line of vision. She counted five very slowly before she replaced the instrument and opened the door; then she hurried to the counter, waiting until she could get the same clerk who had talked to Spencer.

"Did Mr. Spencer get his reservation?" she asked.

"Mr. Spencer?"

"The tall, thin man who was fust here. 9 *

"Oh, yes. Yes, we had a seat for him. 3 '

"On the nine o'clock flight?" she said, pulling the figure out of the air.

"Not nine/* the clerk said. "Ten. Twenty-two hundred hours. That's the direct flight to New York."

"Oh." She gave him her best smile. "Well, thank you very much/*

She turned away, the excitement churning in her now as she digested the information. When she came to the telephone booth she did not hesitate. She had promised not to follow Spencer and she was keeping that promise, but she was much too pleased with herself to give her information over the telephone. It would take no more than ten minutes to get to Cordovez's apartment, and this was a message she wanted to deliver in person. She wanted to see Jeffs face when she told him; she wanted to know just what he intended to do.

She went through the door to the street and turned uphill, walking quickly, oblivious of her surroundings. She had taken perhaps five steps when something hard and round pressed suddenly against her side. Before she could react she heard the voice in her ear.

"If you want to stay alive keep walking, sister!"

Shock kept her moving in that first instant when her spine stiffened and her throat closed. She could not think, she could not even breathe; she only knew that somehow she kept moving as the voice went on.

"Don't open your mouth and don't look round. Just walk nice and easy!"

She moved like an automaton, propelled by fear now and waiting for the next command.

"See that yellow cab across the street? That's where we're going. You're doing fine. Stay with it. When we get in the cab sit still. Let me do the talking and you'll be O. HL"

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

The horrible pressure in her side stayed with her as they crossed the street against the traffic. The taxi driver saw them coming and reached back to open the door. Not until she slid over on the seat did she actually identify the man who threatened her.

19

JEFF LANE had taken the telephone call at five minutes after four and by four fifteen he had started to sweat. He had his jacket off, his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, and when he ran his fingers through his hair they came away damp.

**Why doesn't she call?" he demanded, turning on Cor-dovez, who sat by the window.

The detective shrugged and his voice was placating. "It is only ten minutes, my friend. It is no good to worry so soon! 9

Jeff resumed his pacing and the minutes dragged by on leaden feet Every now and then he would repeat his question, his tone more savage as the seeds of panic began to sprout inside him. By four thirty even Cordovez's smooth face began to show concern and now, his mind made up, Jeff could stand it no longer. He buttoned his shirt and reached for his jacket.

"Come on," he said.

"But where?**

"How the hell do I know? Something must have happened to her. We can try the airline office, can't we? We can check on Spencer."

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"She promised she would not try to follow him."

"So maybe she broke her promise."

"Wait." Cordovez put up his hand. "There may have been some misunderstanding. Let me try the hotel first."

He dialed and spoke briefly. After another half-minute he spoke again and then covered the mouthpiece with his palm.

"She is not in her room. I am having her paged." Still another minute dragged by and finally he muttered something else and hung up. "She is not there."

He studied Jeff a moment, understanding his frame of mind but thinking of more practical matters.

"Let me go look," he said. "I do not think it is wise-"

"Nuts/ 3 Jeff said. Tm 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 light 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 fust 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.

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"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, Tf he got his hands on that dough and Karen happened to find out about it— 3 '

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. c 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. a l share your anxiety for Miss Holmes, but I think it would be wise to use caution here."

Jefi 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 desire/*

JName 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,* 7

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 Ma-cuto?"

"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.

20

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 modem 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 Cor-dovez 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 Cor-dovez 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.