One Minute Past Eight

clouds he learned that she had gone to Wellesley and was working as a secretary in one of the insurance companies.

A second glance at the smart sharkskin suit and its accessories told him she must be a first-class secretary and it gave him an odd sense of satisfaction to note that she wore no ring. He noted, too, that in certain lights there was a coppery sheen to her hair, that in profile her lashes would need no mascara, and that her red mouth was softly humorous. Because she was so easy to talk to he found himself telling her he had gone to Cornell and Harvard Business School and that except for two years in Korea he had always worked in the family business, during the summers as a youngster and then, after graduation, moving in to learn the business. He did not add that he was one of the three vice presidents, at twenty-nine, nor that, now that his father was dead, he would some day be president, provided George Tyler of the Tyler-Texas Corporation failed in his present concerted effort to get control of the company.

This was something he had been thinking about most of his waking hours during the past days, and now he deliberately put the matter from his mind. For the moment it was enough that he had a pretty companion, and he enjoyed their effortless conversation until he noticed the sun was beginning to settle in the west. This told him it was nearly time for a drink.

^What would you like?" he asked.

^ "Oh, dear, I don't know." She glanced at her wristwatch. "Could I have a raincheck? Could I wait until we get to Miami? As a matter of fact I was going to suggest it then anyway. . . . But you go ahead if you like."

He grinned at her and said he could wait He said there was a^ place in the terminal and maybe that was a good idea, "I hadn't realized we were nearly there," he said, and

then, as if to corroborate the statement, one of the stewardesses claimed their attention over the loudspeaker.

They would be landing in twenty minutes, she said, and she wished to remind them to take all personal belongings with them when they left the aircraft.

"Passengers continuing on to Cura§ao and Caracas will have a wait of approximately an hour/* she added. "The flight will be announced over the loudspeaker system but please stay within the terminal building so the announcement can be heard. Thank you."

The International Airport was a busy place at that hour, A plane was loading as Jeff accompanied the girl toward the incoming gate, another was taxiing for take-off. Two were gliding in for landings, the more distant one making its final turn toward the assigned runway. A dozen more silent aircraft stood in a row, their noses slanting obliquely toward the terminal building; refueling crews were busy, and baggage trucks crisscrossed on the concrete behind their midget tractors.

The humid breeze made his winter suit feel heavy, and once inside the building Jeff headed toward the bar and restaurant near the street side. About halfway there he felt the girl's hand on his arm and when he turned she gestured at the two blue-canvas flight bags he was carrying,

"If you'll give me mine/* she said, "and five minutes while I fix my face, 1*11 meet you by the entrance/*

Jeff said all right and released her bag. When she started off he hesitated a moment and then headed for the men's room. Here he hung up his trench coat, slipped out of his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. He washed his hands and face, rubbed wet hands over his dark hair, which was cut rather short and did not need much combing. As he stood drying his hands he was a moderately tall man with a lanky look, and his flat-muscled body moved with an easy co-ordination which might have come from hours of drudg-

ery pulling the number-seven oar on a junior-varsity shell during his college days. His brows were straight above dark-brown eyes which somehow reflected a sense o£ humor, as did the full easy mouth. His face was too bony to be called handsome, but he had more than average good looks, and now, thinking of Karen Holmes and the journey yet to come, a smile worked at the comers of his mouth and Ids eyes had the look of a man well pleased with himself.

When he realized he was daydreaming, he threw the towel into the wire basket, donned his jacket, and went back into the waiting-room. A glance at the glass doors of the restaurant told him he was early, and as he started toward them his eyes searched the room to his right. For a moment he thought he saw the dark-red hat flanked by two men who were earnestly talking to its owner. Then a chattering family group moved in front of him, blocking his view. He was standing beside the door when he saw her coming, moving quickly on slender, well-shaped legs.

Not really looking at him, she muttered something about hoping she had not kept him waiting, and then they were inside, finding a small table opposite the bar.

"Scotch, I think/* she said when he had asked what she would like. "I might even have a double if I can have it in a large glass. . . , Do you think theyll feed us on the plane?"

Jeff realized that the light had begun to fade and saw that it was nearly seven o'clock. He said: "They'll have to teed us," and gave the waitress the order, wondering now if there had been some change in the girl's manner or whether it was Us imagination. She had not yet looked Wm directly in the eyes and her hands were never still as they opened and closed her bag, adjusted the paper doily me waitress had left, and moved the ashtray to one side. Twice she touched the tumed-up ends of her hair, and now her glance moved restlessly about the room, as if some

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT g

inner tension was working on her that had been totaly absent on the plane. The arrival of the drinks claimed his attention and he glanced at the check and put a bill on it. Then he saw that she was fumbling in her bag again and asked if she wanted a cigarette.

"I have some, thanks," she said, and now she brought forth some silver. "But I wonder if you would get me a couple of packs from the machine. I understand they're expensive in Caracas.*

"Sure," Jeff said. "Let me get them"

"No, really," she said and pressed the coins into his hand. "Chesterfield regulars, please."

He pushed back his chair and went to the vending machine near the door, stopping to read the card and see how much was needed. He had enough change for four packs and he gave three of them to her when he sat down again.

"Well, w he said, realizing for the first time how thirsty he was and lifting his glass, "to a pleasant flight."

"And a safe one," she said, her small smile automatic and something in her eyes he could not understand, a shadowy something that seemed in that instant almost more like fear than nervousness.

Then her glance focused on her glass and she took a sip while Jeff swallowed three times, fast, and was glad she had thought to suggest a double.

"That tastes good," he said when she lowered her glass and took a cigarette from the pack he had put on the table. He gave her a light and looked idly about, refusing to speculate further on the sudden change in her mood.

He heard her ask where he would be staying and he said: "The Tucan. Will your brother be meeting you?"

"No. He can't get in until the following day. I—I'll be at the Tucan too."

He finished his drink and put the glass down, again

aware of the uncomfortable heaviness of his suit. The static-like sounds in the room—the buzz of conversation, the clatter of glasses and dishes—were less distinct now and his face felt hot. He took a deep breath and when he looked across the table the girl's face seemed to waver like a television image not quite in focus. Only her eyes seemed intent and watchful and from out of the distance he heard her speak.

"Is it stuffy in here, or is it just me?"

"Stuffy," he said, wondering why since the room was air conditioned. "Very stuffy."

"Then let's get out in the fresh air;"

She pushed back her chair. He reached for the flight bags and nearly fell over, and then he lurched to his feet, staggering a little before he caught his balance and thinking:

This is ridiculous. Why should a double Scotch hit me like this? "I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding curiously remote in his ears. "Ill be O. K. in a minute."

Somehow he got through the glass doors and now the floor was tilting and he felt her hand on his arm as she tried to steady him.

She said: "Let's go outside/' and he felt himself walking. When he stopped he knew somehow that they were standing on the loading platform in the gathering dusk.

He could hear cars pull into the curbing and doors slam and baggage slide gratingly across the concrete, In the background the voices he heard no longer had any meaning. The urge to sit down and rest a minute was overwhelming now and he was vaguely conscious of firm hands supporting his arms. Men's voices throbbed close by and then he was stumbling along into space. Finally, as his eyes closed, he heard someone telling him to take it easy, to sit back and relax. The last thing he remembered was the distant slam of a car door.

IT WAS early when Jeff Lane woke the next morning. He could tell this from the amount of light that came in through the two windows, but it was a subconscious knowledge and it took a while for his mind to function properly. He understood first that he was in bed, apparently in a hotel room. A light blanket covered him and as he became aware of his body he knew that he was clad in shorts and undershirt.

The throbbing of his head and the thick disgusting taste in his mouth suggested a monumental hangover, but he could not remember how he got it. He knew he should be in Caracas, but he could recaE nothing of the flight or his arrival at the hotel. Still groping mentally he raised his head and found his suit draped on a chair in front of the desk, the blue flight bag resting on the floor near by. His trench coat had been tossed on a second chair, but there was no sign of the two bags he had checked in Boston, and suddenly some silent alarm rang in his brain and lie jumped out of bed and staggered over to the window.

The brightening of the sky told him the sun was coming up. Serried silhouettes of luxury hotels on the horizon stretched as far as he could see, and palm trees fringed the opposite shore of a bay crisscrossed with causeways and dotted with artificial islands. Only then did he know that the street below the window was Bayshore Drive and that he was looking at Biscayne Bay and Miami Beach; only then did his mind open up and let the memories come flooding back to compound the sickness that had hereto-

fore been only physical The answer that came to him left him staggered and incredulous, and now, a glance at his wristwatch telling him it was six twenty, he strode back to the bed and snatched up the telephone.

"Desk clerk," he said when the operator answered; then, seconds later; "Hello. This is Mr. Lane in"-he glanced at the circular disk on the pedestal—"1604. Were you on duty when I checked in last night?'*

"Just a moment, please."

Another pause. Another voice,

"Hello, Mr. Lane. I was on the desk last night."

"What time did I come in?"

"About eight thirty. I can tell you exactly if you—"

]*No, nor Jeff said. "That's all right. Did 1 register?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Did I do the registering? Did I come in alone?"

"Oh, no. Two friends brought you, Mr, Lane. You—ah— what 1 mean is, you weren't able to register without help. You could hardly stand. Your friends said you'd been celebrating and-well, I took their word for it"

"One of them registered for me?"

"And paid for the room in advance."

"They came up to the room with me?"

"Yes. Someone had to. When they came back they said not to disturb you, that you'd be all right in the morning. They seemed very solicitous."

"Yeah," Jeff said, bitterness tingeing his words. "Ill bet."

He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, his dark gaze brooding and morose, the object of his resentment a girl named Karen Holmes. He recalled her smartness, her nice complexion, the dark-blue eyes that had seemed so friendly and ingenuous. Every step of the clever routine came back to haunt him: the postponement of the drink on the plane, the suggestion of a double drink to make it less likely that he would notice the drug she had slipped

into his glass after she had sent him to lie cigarette machine. Here in Miami she had needed help—he remembered the two men he had thought he had seen talking to a woman in a dark-red hat—but until then she had done a letter-perfect job quite alone.

Because he now understood the reason for the pick-up, he stood up and went over to his coat. The wallet was in its customary pocket. The money in the bill compartment seemed intact The birth certificate, the three copies of his tourist card, each with its passport-size photograph, were there. So was the cable that had started him on this trip.

It had been sent from Caracas by a man named Harry Baker, a private detective employed by the Lane Manufacturing Company for the past two months in an effort to find Jeff's stepbrother, who had dropped out of sight four years earlier. Now, unfolding the cable, which was a long one sent at the deferred rate, he read it again:

Jour stepbrother Arnold living here under his fathers name of Grayson listed in phone book. Have explained situation and requested return to Boston but Grayson holding up definite answer. Suggest you come earliest convenience to outline proposition in person. Feel my job done with this cable and am now off payroll. Have accepted temporary assignment here but will see you at Tucan where room engaged for you adjoining mine. Advise date of arrival. Baker.

The message had been sent on the previous Friday, but at the deferred rate it had not been delivered until Saturday morning. A quick conference of company officials voted to accept Baker's suggestion and elected Jeff to represent them, but it had taken all day Monday to arrange for his tourist cards. By that time the through flight from New York to Caracas was booked to capacity, and rather

than wait for the through light on Wednesday he had settled for the next best schedule.

Replacing the cable as his mind went on, he knew that Karen Holmes's mission was to delay him so that she could talk to his stepbrother first. He knew, too, that she must be working for the Tyler-Texas Corporation just as he knew that if Arnold Grayson decided to vote the shares he would presently claim as part of his stepfather's estate with the Tyler-Texas crowd, the Lane officials would presently lose control of the company.

But how could Karen Holmes know about the cable? How did she know what plane he was taking? Who were the men who helped her at the Miami airport? How could—

He broke off the thoughts abruptly, aware that such speculation was not only a waste of time but served also to aggravate his frustration and resentment. There were better things to do and now he went back to the bedside table and consulted the telephone directory. When he found the number of the airline he wanted he put in his call and explained the situation, saying that he had been taken ill at the airport the night before and missed the Caracas light.

"What happens to the bags I checked through?" he said. "When can I get out of here?"

The airline clerk heard him out and then said: "Let me check on this, Mr. Lane. Where can I call you back, say in five minutes?"

Jeff told her and then went over to examine his flight bag, finding nothing missing and taking out his toilet kit and the clean shirt. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and by the time he had finished the telephone summoned him back to the bedroom.

"I've checked with the terminal office, Mr, Lane," the clerk said, "and there's no need to worry about your bags.

They'll be waiting at Maiquetia; that is if you plan to continue to Caracas."

*Good," Jeff said. "When can I get out of here?"

"How much difference in time of arrival?'*

"Only fifteen minutes. That's because the first flight goes by way of Camaguey, Kingston, Banranquilla, and Mar-acaibo; the later one goes to Port au Prince, Ciudad Tra-jillo, and Curagao."

Jeff said he wasn't interested in scenery and was there a seat on the eleven-thirty flight.

"Yes, there is. Be at the airport at ten forty-five or at our downtown office at ten fifteen/*

Jeff hung up, tickled the connection bar, and when he got the operator, asked for room service. He ordered tomato juice, toast, and a double order of coffee. While he waited he shaved and showered, the cold spray washing away some of his physical lassitude but doing very Kttle to cure his internal queasiness.

When the waiter had been paid, tipped, and had taken his departure Jeff tried the black coffee and waited for it to hit die bottom of his stomach before he continued. When it stayed down he tried the juice and found it good. Thus encouraged he finally ate a piece of toast, not because he wanted it but because he thought he should. The second cup of coffee reassured him sufficiently to try a cigarette and by that time he knew he was going to be all right . . .

As the DC 6-B winged its way east and south through the bright afternoon skies, Jeff Lane was in no mood to appreciate the view afforded him by his window seat. The Caribbean was blue as advertised except along the reefs of nameless islands. The spectacular mountains of Haiti and the Dominican Republic were no different from other

wooded tropical mountains he had seen before, and the picturesqueness of Port an Prince became to him only a half-hour stop when, because of regulations, he had to leave the plane while it was refueled. Ciudad Trujillo meant a wait of twenty minutes, and after that there were only clouds and water below the wings and a torment in his mind as he thought of Karen Holmes and the Tyler-Texas Corporation, and of the man he had grown up to accept as Arnold Lane, now known as Arnold Grayson,

He, Jeff, had been four and his sister six when his father had married a widow named Grayson with an eleven-year-old son, and in the early years, Jeff's memory of Arnold was hazy. He understood now that his stepbrother was a bully with an ingrown streak of meanness which in those days revealed itself with a cuff, a pinch, or a twist of the arm, always surreptitious, so there would be no parental punishment.

Later he learned, from dinner-table talk, of Arnold's escapades at three prep schools before one tolerated him long enough for graduation. There had been a year each at two universities, followed by a series of jobs in and out of the family company. What made it more difficult for Jeff's father was the fact that he was devoted to his second wife, and while she was alive he overlooked her son's troublesome ways. It was only after she had died and Arnold was older that he seemed to realize the hopelessness of the obligation he had assumed.

Even so, he tried, and though these were the years that Jeff was in college and, later, in Korea, he knew of two occasions when only his father's help had kept Arnold from prison. The first came as a result of a bar-room brawl when Arnold had cut a man severely with a broken bottle. Influence and twenty thousand dollars to the injured man helped Arnold get off with a suspended sentence. The second case was one of out-and-out embezzlement from a

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT £7

brokerage partnership that Jeffs father had financed originally. Here again the shortage was made up, but with this came an ultimatum. From now on Arnold was on his own; there would be no more money, no allowance, no hope of any inheritance.

The ultimatum was delivered by registered letter to a Los Angeles address where Arnold was staying four years earlier. Jeff had not seen him since. He had heard Arnold was in Las Vegas for a time and he knew that two men from that city had come looking for him in Boston. He still did not know why.

Yet, in the end, Jeff's father had relented. It may have been some twist of conscience once he knew he was going to die; it may have been due to the fact that he had once loved Arnold's mother and still felt some obligation to her son. Whatever the reason, he had called Jeff in to say he had changed his will and that if Arnold could be found within ninety days he was to share equally with Jeffs sister and himself in the forty-five per cent of the Company shares stiU held by the family.

Jeff had promised to do his best to locate Arnold, and it was a promise he intended to keep, if possible, ia spite of this deep-rooted dislike of his stepbrother. And so Harry Baker had been hired to try to pick up the trail, after four years, a trail that led up and down the West Coast, to Las Vegas, and back to Los Angeles, to Panama, and finally, with roughly thirty days to go before the bequest would be invalidated, the search had ended with the cable Jeff now carried in his pocket.

To claim his inheritance, Arnold Grayson had to return to Boston, but once he claimed it he could vote his fifteen per cent of the company stock as he saw fit. Somehow, George Tyler of Tyler-Texas had learned about Jeffs mission, and Karen Holmes now had a twelve-hour start at

trying to convince Arnold to cast his lot with the opposition. , . .

_The voice of the stewardess demanding attention cut through Jeff's thoughts and he listened as she announced the impending arrival of Flight 433 at Curagao.

**We will be on the ground approximately thirty minutes," she said. "Passengers en route to Caracas may leave their personal things on the aircraft"

Jeff listened as the instructions were repeated in Spanish and then he looked out the window at things he had seen once before from the ground: the compact little city of Willemstad, the channel leading to the landlocked harbor, the oil tanks, the famous pontoon bridge which separated the two parts of the city and was constantly being opened and closed to make way for the coastal tankers that shuttled back and forth from Venezuela. As the plane banked again he saw that the bridge was open now, the municipal free ferry which served the populace angling toward the main part of town ahead of two oncoming tankers. Then the aircraft was dipping and he sat back to await the landing.

Flight 433 was twenty minutes early coming into Mai-quetia, the modern airfield close by La Guaira, where the mountains of Venezuela level out on the man-made plateau before touching the sea. There were two terminals here, one for local traffic, the larger and more impressive structure serving international flights.

Once on the ground the passengers were herded together and ushered by an official past a patrolling FAK— a green-uniformed, tin-hatted, rifle-carrying member of the National Guard—to the small air-conditioned waiting-room which funneled the passengers in to the immigration authorities.

Because he was in a hurry, Jeff had managed to be second in line, and now he stood before one of two clerks

who began to fill in cards on their typewriters. He stowed his papers, answered questions automatically, and was finally instructed to come behind the counter to a pair o£ desks near the end of the room.

Here he stood before a mustached, grim-faced individual, who inspected his tourist cards and birth certificate, inspected him personally and with some care, and then consulted two bulky loose-leaf black books. Apparently there was some cross-indexing involved, because it took a while and pages were flipped one way and then the other in an effort to find out if one Jeffrey Lane had anything against his name or record that would make him undesirable as a tourist. Jeff guessed that the procedure was more of a safeguard for political reasons than anything else, so he stood and waited until the man flipped his papers with a weary gesture to the adjoining desk. A second official stamped die three tourist cards, initialed them, gave one to Jeff along with the birth certificate, and put the other two aside.

"Keep/* he said, and nodded him out past the counters and toward the customs room.

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

"Hotel Tucan," he said and from over his shoulder the driver said: "Si"

Minutes later they were on the new expressway that led to Caracas. Somewhere off to the left where darkness had begun to obscure the mountains was the old road that Jeff had once traveled with his heart in his throat because of

the precipitous grades and hairpin turns. The thought of it made him grateful for the new highway, not only because of its safety but because it cut the traveling time in half.

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

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

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

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

"Gfaciasr Jeff said. "jCudnto vale?"

"Treintidnco B's. Treinticinco bolivars."

Jeff shook his head. "No B's," he said. "Dollars. U.S."

A man coming along the walk, apparently from one of

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

"He says ten dollars will be satisfactory.**

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

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

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

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

"PanAm Oil Company/' he said. "Once each month they have this business dinner."

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

Outside the screen was a narrow balcony with double rails and Jeff unlatched the screen door and stepped out.

From there lie could look down on the swimming pool with its underwater illumination and the lights that had been strung across the terrace adjoining the bar. But because

he was still obsessed with the thought that time was so important, Jeff gave his attention to the windows of the adjoining room. When he saw the cracks of light behind the drawn curtains he knew what he wanted to do.

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

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

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

Once more he said: "Harry!" His voice tight.

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

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

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

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

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

In this present assignment there had been no reason for violence. Baker had been looking for a man and he had found him. He had even cabled that his job was done and—

Jeff's thoughts hung there as he recalled the other words of that cable. A temporary job was to keep Baker in Caracas. What sort of job? For whom? Why—if that was the reason—had this job led to murder?

When Jeff understood there could be no immediate an-

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

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

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

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

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

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

left hand she clutched a blue bag; in her right hand was a short-barreled revolver,

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

^Well," he said as casually as he could. "Come on out.**

"I—I didn't know who it was/' she said finally, her voice small.

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

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

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

"One shot, huoh?" he said.

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

"Maybe I was lucky/' he said,

"You only gave me a mickey "

He heard her gasp as her mouth opened. "But—" She swallowed and tried again, a desperate cadence in her voice. "You don t think-" 1?"

ONE MINXJTE PAST EIGHT

"But it's not my gun. I've never had a gun. It was on the floor."

"Sure"

T3ut it was, I tell you *

'What were you doing here In the first place?"

*We were going to have dinner.*

*0h?" Jeff said, still edgy. "You work fast."

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

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

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

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

When he had the bag open, he glanced at the handkerchief, tissues, compact, lipstick, cigarettes and matches, the change purse. But it was the leather folder that interested him and when he took it out and opened it he looked incredulously at the photostatic copy of a document that

proclaimed that Miss Karen Holmes of such and such an address had been licensed by the State of Massachusetts as a private detective.

"A private detective?*' he said in his bewilderment.

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

*A private detective?"

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

"What's wrong with that? 9 ' she demanded.

"And you're working for Tyler-Texas."

"I work for the Acme Agency . w

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

For an instant then she faltered. "I—I had to do that.**

"Sure,** Jeff said with heavy sarcasm. "I guess it's written in your contract**

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

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

The manager arrived first, but the two uniformed policemen from a radio car were not far behind, and since they

spoke nothing but Spanish there was little Jeff could do but stand beside Karen Holmes and listen.

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

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

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

TBoth of us," Jeff said.

TBut how? Why should you be here in this room at all? When did you check in, Mr. Lane?"*

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

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

The big man took off his light-gray felt and put it on the

bed. He had a Hght-complexioned, strong-boned face and black eyes that had a hooded look beneath the heavy brows. The eyes were busy in the few seconds as they inspected the dead man without moving closer and then considered Jeff, the girl, and finally Andrews.

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

"I told Mr. Andrews that we would send for him when we needed him/' he said, with only a trace of accent. "I am Ramon Zuineta, chief of our Homicide Section/*

Jeffrey Lane," Jeff said. "This is Miss Karen Holmes *

"And this one?" Zumeta glanced toward the floor.

"His name was Harry Baker/' Jeff said. "A private detective from the States."

"Ah—you knew him?"

"He was working for me.**

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

yn*Q found him?"

"I did/* Karen said, and repeated the story she had told Jeff but with somewhat more detail.

"And you, Mr. Lane?"

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

"You found this on the floor, Miss Holmes. You picked it up without thinking and took it into the closet? And

you took It away from her, Mr. Lane?" He shrugged and picked It up. "Then if there were any worth-while fingerprints on it—which is doubtful—there are none now."

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

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

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

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

"He had been trying to locate my stepbrother.**

"His name, please,"

"He was known here as Arnold Grayson,*

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

"That was the name he was bom with. When his mother married my father he took the name of Lane. 9 *

"And how long had he been missing?'*

**! hadn't seen him in four years.**

"What made it important that you find him?"

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

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

"You were to have drinks and dinner with Mr. Baker/ he said. "You knew him well?'*

"Well—no. I'd met him in Boston and my father knew him"

"But you're not here just as a tourist*

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

"This I did not know/' he said softly. "Policewomen I have heard of in your country, but private detectives—**

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

Zumeta seemed a bit puzzled, his tone of voice said so. "But Mr. Baker did not work for you. How then did you know Mr. Grayson was in Caracas? 9 *

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

"My office didn't tell me how they knew," she said wood-enly. "They only told me where I could find him and that I was to make him this offer/'

"You knew about this, Mr. Lane?"

"Not until today," Jeff said.

"I see/' Zumeta said in a tone that suggested quite the

opposite. He frowned and bunched his lips. "You arrived at Maiquetia this morning. Miss Holmes. Did you see Mr. Grayson?* ?

"Late this morning.**

TDid lie accept your offer?'*

"He—he said he would let me know."

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

"And you have not seen Mr. Grayson since?"

"Oh, yes. I saw him this evening."

"Oh?" Zumeta bent his head slightly. "When was this?*

"About seven thirty/'

"Be so good as to tell me about this."

"I was in the writing-room addressing postcards," she said. "Mr. Baker was with me. I had already said 1 would have dinner with him and we agreed to meet at eight for a drink."

"Yes/ 7 Zumeta said with some impatience.

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

"What happened then?' 7

"Mr. Baker said: 'Ah, there's my man/ and looked at his watch.*"

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

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

Zumeta paced two steps, turned, and came back. He

glanced through the contents of Baker's pockets which now were spread out on the desk.

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

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

"You heard nothing when you passed this room?"

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

TTou did not sit in the bar?"

"No. I was alone and—well, I thought I'd wait on the terrace/'

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

*Tm not sure. I guess maybe five or six minutes after eight. Maybe more."

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

"Ah," said Zumeta. "The Bulletin is quick tonight"

"Not quick," the man said, in accents that were unmistakably American. *Just lucky. Tm downstairs covering the

monthly dinner PanAra Oil puts on and I see some of your boys nosing around. So I do some snooping on my own. Who got killed?"

'"An American private detective called Harry Baker.**

"What?" The man peered at Zumeta and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Harry Baker?"

"You knew him?"

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

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

*Tra Dan Spencer/' he said. "Are yon Jeffrey Lane?"

"Yes," Jeff said and shook the bony hand.

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

Jeff introduced them and Spencer said: "How do you do, Miss Holmes. . , . Look, I don't know what this is all about but if you can—"

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

"Me too—I hope," Spencer said.

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

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

"What can you tell me?" he said.

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

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

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

"We will go now to Segwnal? he announced. "Mr, Gray-son will join us there.*'

4

THE HEADQUARTERS of Segwnd-shoit for Segwidad National and sometimes known as the secret police—was a modern stone building which occupied a corner on ave-nida Mexico. Zumeta lead the way into the lobby, past a clerk and the information desk and up the steps into a

large air-conditioned room that was surrounded by smaller rooms and separated from them by glass partitions.

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

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

"You will wait here, please,** he said and went on througji the next door.

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

"Somebody's got a lot of protection.**

"Maybe he needs it," Spencer said.

"Who?"

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

He sat down to relight his pipe and Jeff brought out cigarettes and offered them to Karen. She hesitated, but finally took one, murmuring her thanks and leaning forward for a light Her face was still pale, but composed now, her body relaxed, the dark-blue eyes resigned and withdrawn. When she leaned back there was something so appealing about her that Jeff considered offering some words of re-

assurance. Then the moment passed and his thoughts moved on. He glanced at Spencer, wondering if he could answer a question that had been bothering him ever since he found Baker. He spoke of the cable.

"Baker said he had a new job/' he said. "Would you know what it was?"

"All I know is that he went to Barbados on Saturday and came back yesterday morning/ 7 Spencer said. "Why, I don t know." He shook his head. "It's a rough deal/' he said. "He was a good guy. I used to know him in Vegas when I was working for a paper out there. If a thing wasn't legit he wouldn't touch it. That's why I can't figure this one."

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

"Maybe you knew my stepbrother in Las Vegas. Arnold Lane."

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

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

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

Jeff settled back, a muscle bulging in his jaw as his mouth fattened, his eyes dark with resentment but his temper in

hand as he was reminded of the job he had to do. He had come a long way and he realized it would be foolish to antagonize his stepbrother at this point. He sat still, noting the changes the last four years had made.

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

"Sit down, Arny," he said casually. "Relax."

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

"Somebody shot him," Spencer said.

"Where?"

''They didn't tell me."

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

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

"When was this?"

"Who knows?"

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

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

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

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

"Stepbrother," Jeff cut in.

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

"About fora: years/'

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

"What?" Grayson said.

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

"How the hell do you know?" Grayson said.

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

"What's that, television?" Grayson asked.

**Mirrors," Vidal said as the light vanished. "A sort of

periscope/* He allowed himself a small smile. "It is sometimes wise to know exactly who wishes to see me."

"And hear what they say, hunh?" Grayson added, "When advisable." Vidal leaned his forearms on the desk. "You understand now why I asked the question."

Jeff cleared his throat. "No bad feeling/' he said. "Just nothing much in common. Arnold's seven years older and-*

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

Vidal considered the information.

"Yet he made provision for you in his will. „ , . Tell me, Mr. Lane/' he said. "What would happen if you had not located your stepbrother—or if something happened to

T t f\>9 ^ JT*

him?

"My sister and I would have received Arnold's share/* Jeff said.

jl see. Now about this evening" 7 —he glanced at Zumeta -"we have a timetable that should be helpful but before we go into that I would like to say that we have checked the gun, which apparently killed Mr. Baker, with his permit. It was his gun. This suggests-though there could be other answers—that whoever came to his room came with a gun and relieved Mr. Baker of his gun. Later, when it became necessary to shoot—Mr. Baker might have made the mistake of resisting—Baker's gun was used.*

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

"That's very interesting, but what Id like to know is why I was brought here in the first place/"

"Because/' said Vidal, "you may have been the last one to see Mr. Baker alive/*

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

, "Miss Holmes/' Zumeta said, and went on to relate her

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

story of Grayson's meeting with Baker. The corroboration that followed came unexpectedly from Dan Spencer.

"She's right about that/' he said.

"Oh?" VidaTs black brows climbed "How do yon know?"

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

"And you?* 7 Vidal said.

'"When they told me the speaker might not get there until around eight fifteen I went into the bar/'

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

"You sent for Luis Miranda. . . , Why?**

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

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

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

**Also/' Grayson said, "you've got a law here that says you can hold a man for thirty days without a hearing/'

"True/' Vidal said. "Thirty days, at which time you are brought before a judge and it is decided whether I can hold you longer without preferring charges. But I should

remind you that if I think I have cause to hold you for thirty days, an attorney would do you little good. Neither would your consul or your ambassador. However— " He spoke into the telephone and hung up.

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

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

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

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

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

Zumeta glanced up, hesitated, then consulted his notes. "At about five minutes of eight Mr. Baker came to the desk

to ask for his key. The clerk could not find the regular key, so he offered a duplicate, thinking Mr. Baker had left the other one in his room. He saw Mr. Baker start for the elevators, but he cannot remember whether he saw Mr. Baker actually step in or not."

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

"Me? No. I'd just talked to him a half-hour before that**

"About what?" Vidal asked.

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

"Aside from the usual things, the gun," Zumeta said. TEfis traveling bag was unlocked and the keys were in the lock."

"But— I mean, wasn't there anything else?"

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

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

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

"Is there anything any of you can add to the Information we have?"

On the other side of him Karen Holmes sat up, *1 don't know if it's important/' she said, "but Mr. Miranda was at the hotel too. He came in right after Mr. Grayson. I remember seeing him from the writing-room windows."

It was then that Jeff remembered. For he was certain now that this was the man who had served as an interpreter for him with the taxi driver. But that was later, he thought. Not when Karen saw him.

"This was about seven thirty, Miss Holmes?" Vidal glanced at Miranda as she nodded.

"Quite true;" Miranda said, his accents precise. "I am one of the attorneys for PanAm Oil, as you know. I was included in the guest list for tonight's dinner. In fact," he added, "I was paged there by my home. That is how I knew Mr. Grayson wished me to come here. 5 *

"Did you see Mr. Grayson at the hotel?" Vidal asked.

"Not that I recall/'

"Or Mr. Baker?"

"Mr. Spencer"— Vidal fixed his gaze on the reporter— "you say you went into the bar after you saw Mr. Grayson and Mr. Baker. How long did you stay?"

"Quite a while. I was still there when I got the idea something was wrong.**

"Did you see Mr. Baker?"

"Not after the Irst time."

"But-"

Spencer granted and dug absently at the base of his throat. "I wasn't in that bar, Chief. I m a reporter. I can t afford to pay four B*s for a Scotch and soda very often. Not when there's a Company bar set up in the private din-ing-room.**

O3SDE MINUTE PAST EIGHT AK

Miranda stood up and spoke in Spanish to Vidal. Presently lie nodded and turned to Grayson.

"There seems to be no need for me here at this time/* he said stiffly. "Mr, Vidal has assured me that no one will be detained tonight and I have other business to attend to."

"Wait a minute!" Grayson Jumped up', his eyes flaring and his voice mean.

"You will excuse me," Miranda said as though he had not heard.

"But you can t walk out on me without—"

He stopped as the door slammed in his face, his neck red with anger and his mouth twisted. As he stood there Jeff eyed him with some amazement because, though it was obvious there was ill-feeling between Grayson and the lawyer, he could not understand the reason for the outburst. Then, the fury still riding him, Grayson wheeled on Vidal.

"How much longer does this go on?" he demanded savagely.

Vidal eyed him narrowly but his voice remained calm.

"Not long,'* he said. "One more question. Our records show that Mr. Baker went to Barbados on Saturday and returned yesterday morning. It has been said that you engaged his services.**

*So what?"

1 wonder if you would mind telling us the nature of his work and why he went to Barbados.**

"Sure I mind," Grayson said. "Not because it's important but because I don't think it's any of your business."

Vidal shrugged and his mouth tightened as he reached for two sheets of paper on his desk. When he separated them Jeff could see they were cablegrams.

"These were found in Baker s wallet," he said. "I will read them to you." He gave the date of the first one and

said: "This was addressed to Mr. Harry Baker, Marine Hotel, Barbados and says: "Accept offer. No reprisal on Lane if cash. Advise immediately where and when delivery will be made/ It is signed 'Westwind/ and was sent from Las Vegas, Nevada."

He glanced up. "I am curious about the reference to the name Lane! 9 He fixed his dark gaze on Jeff. "Would this be you?"

Jeff shook his head. When he said he had never been in Las Vegas Vidal considered Grayson a silent moment. "And you, Mr. Grayson, used to be known in the States as Arnold Lane, is that true?"

"What about it?"

Vidal hesitated, then picked up the second cable. "This is to the same name and address. It reads: "Carl Webb will make collection Wednesday/"

He put the message aside and glanced at Spencer. "You once worked in Las Vegas. What is the Westwind?"

"A hotel."

"Do you have any idea about these cables?"

"Not the faintest/'

Once more Vidal considered Grayson. "It seems obvious you sent Baker to Barbados to make some offer in your behalf. Perhaps you can tell us who Carl Webb is."

"I never heard of him before."

"And you do not wish to tell us what this offer was about/*

"Not now I don't"

Vidal turned his hand palm down on the desk. "As you wish," he said. "But we will require a statement from you in the morning, Mr. Grayson. Ramon 5 '—he glanced up at Zumeta—"will be in touch with you. . . . Buenos noches y senorT

He turned to Karen when Grayson left. "If you are ready, Miss Holmes, one of my men will drive you to your hotel/*

He pressed a button and spoke to the man who appeared in the doorway.

"What about me?" Spencer said. Td like to get this story in. How much of this can I tell?"

"The facts of the murder, Mr. Spencer. The circumstances but no suspicions. You can say the police have several leads and the matter is being investigated.'*

He picked up the telephone, though Jeff had heard no buzz, listened, and said: "Si."

"You can ride with Miss Holmes/' he said to Spencer. "You will find the car at the main entrance— Oh, Mr. Lane," he added. "Just a minute more, if you please."

Jeff waited in front of the desk and Vidal leaned back in his chair. "As I understand it, Miss Holmes is competing with you for the shares your stepbrother has recently inherited. If this is so, I can understand why you were here, since Mr. Baker was working for you. What I can't understand is how Miss Holmes knew your stepbrother was here."

"Neither can I," Jeff said.

Vidal frowned. "You are from the same city in the States? You knew her there?"

"I never saw her before"— Jeff hesitated, his tone ironic as certain memories came flooding back— "until I met her on the plane coming down."

"Then perhaps you would give me your opinion. From what you know would you say Miss Holmes had any reason to kill Mr. Baker?"

"You believe her story?"

Jeff knew what his answer would be, but he took a moment to think back and erase all prejudice. When he spoke, his grin was fixed.

"If you mean about what happened tonight, yes."

Thank you." Vidal rose. "We like Americans here. Your

businessmen have done much for this country and it is bad publicity when one of you is murdered. We shall do our best to find out who is responsible. . . . We will need your statement In the morning. You do not speak Spanish? Then Ramon can handle it.**

"Where did you leam English?" Jeff said as his curiosity got the best of him.

"In the States mostly, Ramon and I have spent some time in Washington. In your F.B.I, school.**

THE MAN in the baggy suit and shapeless felt Jeff Lane had seen at the foot of the stairs was waiting outside the gate of die second-floor anteroom. With a gesture that ordered Jeff to follow, he led him downstairs and back through the main room to the front entrance. Not until they were on the outer steps did he stop and wave one hand to indicate Jeff was now on his own.

There was still a lot of traffic on the Avenue but up beyond the trees which lined it the sky was clear and bright and the air was dry and comfortably cool. Not knowing exactly where he was, Jeff turned left toward a lighted shop on the opposite corner, hesitating on the curb to light a cigarette, and at the same time watching for a cruising taxi. He did not know he had company until he heard the voice beside him.

^Senor Lane?"

Jeff flipped the match away and turned to find the man at his elbow. Slender and not very tall, he was clad in a

dark suit, and Jeff studied Mm a moment, trying to penetrate the shadows that obscured the face while he wondered if this was a touch of some kind. Curious as to how the fellow knew his name, he let the silence build. The sentence that followed got his undivided attention.

"I have heard what happened to Senor Baker."

THow did you know who I was?"

**I have friends in Segumal. I have been wailing for you.*'

"Senor Baker has told me about you. I have done some work for him. I was, outside the Tucan tonight when you arrived, though I did not know who you were then, nor did I know what happened until much later."

Other questions came to Jeff's mind but it suddenly occurred to him that this man, whoever he was, might prove very helpful indeed. That he seemed to be offering his services seemed clear, and when Jeff understood this he touched the man's elbow and said:

"Let's get a beer and talk some more."

"I would like that," the man said and kept pace with Jeff as they crossed the street and entered the comer store which had a cigar-stand in the front and a restaurant in the rear. They found a table along the wall and gave their order, and now Jeff could see that the man was neatly dressed, that his hands were clean, that his eyes were bright and alert. He was getting bald on top, which made it difficult to guess his age, but when he smiled he looked younger than Jeff had first thought.

1 am Julio Cordovez," he said simply and seemed pleased when Jeff offered his hand. "My work is the same as Senor Baker's. He came to me because he did not know the city or our language. He needed help."

"Did he get it?"

"He seemed satisfied with my work."

you think I might need some help too, is that it?"

"I thought I should speak to you,**

Jeff grunted softly. "Well, you could be right, Julio. How much do you charge?"

Cordovez tipped one hand, his tone apologetic. **As you know things are expensive in this city. I was paid eighty B's a day for my services and the use of my car. I thought now I should offer you my services if you so desire.*

"At the same price?' 7

"No. For my expenses only. I do not know why anyone should kill Senor Baker, I liked him. He was a good friend. If I can help find out who did this thing I will be only too happy. But it is difficult to work alone. It presents problems, and those in Segumal wil want to know who I represent 9 *

Jeff grinned at him, liking the little man and his forthright answers. "What you mean/' he said, "is that you d like a client/'

"It would be easier for me.**

"O. K., M Jeff said. "You've got one. The same pay. 3 *

"It is not necessary but"—Cordovez shrugged and his smile came—"if you insist I will be most grateful/*

Jeff did not say so, but he had an idea he was the one who should be grateful. He knew no more about the city and the language than Baker had known, and he needed help; a lot of help. He sampled the beer the waiter brought and spoke of the two cables the police had found in Baker s wallet. He asked if Cordovez knew Baker had gone to Barbados for Grayson.

"Oh, yes"

"But you don't know why?**

"Baker told me he was going, but he used an expression I did not understand. I was not sure what he meant. He said he had a chance to make a quick 'score* for a few days* work. Would that mean a lot of money?**

"Something like that."

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

"And I know this. Baker knew Grayson in the States. In a place called Las Vegas, but under another name. From things that were said I think Grayson could not go back until he had settled some accounts. It was for this he needed Baker s help. I think he was frightened about something."

Jeff nodded, remembering how Grayson had looted the treasury of the partnership his father had established and wondering if something of that nature had happened in Las Vegas. When he finished his beer without speaking, Cordovez asked if there was anything he could do for Jeff tonight.

^ Td like to take another look at Baker's room," he said, "if you think you can get in."

Cordovez said he thought he could, and this proved to be no idle boast. For when they walked down the third-floor hall of the Tucan, fifteen minutes later, he had a ring of keys in his hand and it took him only three tries to turn the lock.

Jeff moved in first to snap on the light, and Cordovez stopped to turn the bolt. "Strangers do not always understand such locks," he said. "They assume the door is locked when they leave but this is not so. It is necessary to use a key from the outside."

"Oh," Jeff said, understanding now how Karen Holmes had been able to walk in to find Baker dead, how he himself had walked in on her.

"You think the police may have overlooked something?" Cordovez said.

"Probably not,'* Jeff said, "but there's no harm in trying.**

He glanced round, aware that the window was open, the curtain bulging with the night breeze. He stepped to the chest and began to open drawers and then, at some small sound behind him, he stopped.

"EasyP

It was a voice lie had never heard before, and as he turned he saw Cordovez standing very still, his gaze fixed on the man who apparently had slipped from behind the curtain, a compactly built fellow with a wide, thin-lipped mouth and a muscular jaw. His face was deeply tanned, his curly light-brown hair was cut short. He was well dressed and at first glance looked like a successful young business executive, which, in a sense, he was. What spoiled the illusion was the gun in his hand.

"Where's Harry Baker?" he said.

Jeff felt some of the tension slip away, and with his surprise in hand a feeling of resentment began to smolder inside him.

"Dead," he said.

The man's eyes opened and anger flared in their depths.

"Don't kid me, chum!"

Jeff jerked his head toward the desk. "There's the phone. Call the secret police and see. ... Go ahead, we'll wait."

Something in Jeffs tone lent weight to his words and he saw the doubt build in the man's face as his glance shifted to Cordovez and back again.

"When?" he said.

"Tonight," Jeff said, and then he went on, his phrases curt and succinct as he explained what had happened. When he talked that way he was convincing, and the doubt he had first seen in the man's face expanded into concern and perhaps consternation. The gun dipped as he moved forward.

"And who are you?" he said finally.

Jeff answered that one too.

"Arnold Lane's stepbrother?" the man said, his frown deepening.

"He didn't use that name here," Jeff said.

"Don't move, senorl"

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT to

The words had a flat and dangerous sound. Jeff knew they came from Cordovez but he did not know why until he turned his head. He had seen no movement, nor, apparently, had the stranger. But there was a gun in the little detective's hand now, a big gun. It was pointed properly and his bright narrow gaze was a little frightening.

"Don't mover' he said again. "Especially the gun."

The stranger never had a chance and he seemed to know it. He froze where he was, his own gun still tipped toward the floor. He waited that way while Cordovez slid round behind him, reached down, and relieved him of the snub-nosed revolver. Moving backward now, but not once shifting his gaze, he flipped out the cylinder and tipped the shells on the desk. When he had put the gun beside it, he replaced his own.

"This, I think, is better," he said. To see a gun in the hands of a stranger always makes me nervous," he said. "Now we can talk. Your name, please, senor?"

"Carl Webb/' the man said and let his breath out in an audible sigh. "From Vegas. I had a date with Baker but the plane was two hours late leaving Panama."

"Sit down," Cordovez said. "Let us discuss this date you speak of."

Webb sat down. So did Jeff. Cordovez, his arms folded, leaned against the desk. Webb glanced from one to the other.

"You followed the investigation tonight?" he asked. "Was there any money found here?"

"Not that I know of," Jeff said.

Webb took a breath and reached into an inside pocket. He brought out what proved to be four cables, two which he had received and two which were copies of replies that he had sent. He handed them to Jeff, who glanced through them quickly to see if they were arranged by dates. He

noticed that the two copies were the same messages that Pedro Vidal had read at Segumal and now he said:

"You work for the Westwind Hotel? Doing what?"

"I'm one of the assistant managers."

"You knew my stepbrother when he was out there?"

"He worked for us," Webb said, the corner of his mouth dipping as though he found the recollection distasteful. "We knew him plenty. Baker, too. He was one of our cops for a couple of years."

Jeff gave his attention to the first cable, which had been sent from Barbados on Saturday. It read:

Ofef 120 thousand to clean up Arnold Lane matter. If acceptable and no reprisal cable Harry Baker, Marine Hotel, Barbados, B.W.L

The amount mentioned startled him but he went on to read again the message found on Baker which spoke of the acceptance of the offer.

The third cable, addressed to the Westwind read:

Cash ready for collection your convenience room 312 Tucan Hotel, Caracas, Venezuela. Advise.

The fourth message was the one saying that Carl Webb would collect this evening.

Jeff returned them. "What's the rest of It?" he asked. "Did Arnold run out with a hundred and twenty thousand?"

"One hundred grand, even/ 3 Webb said. "Nearly three years ago."

"How could he get his hands on that much?"

"Because In our business we deal in cash." Webb pulled out a silver case and stuck a cigarette into Ms mouth. "We have to. You never know when some guy—and some are pretty big operators—is going to get hot and hit you for plenty.**

ONE MINTJTE PAST EIGHT

He got a light and said: "Arnold Lane went to work for us about four years ago. He was a big, good-looking guy with, plenty of personality when lie kept it turned on. He dressed the place up and he was smart. They gave him more and more responsibility and finally let him handle the take and the payroll. One day about a year later he took off with a dame who had just gotten her divorce. We traced them to Los Angeles and lost them,"

"You sent a couple of your boys to Boston," Teff said.

**VTTT *f • 1 99 * if

We sure did.

Cordovez cleared his throat. "You would have had Gray-son arrested and sent to prison?" he asked.

"Grayson?" Webb paused, a faint smile touching his mouth. "So that's the name he uses here. . . . No," he said to Cordovez. "It's not that simple. In the gambling business you deal in cash. You have to have people around you that you can trust and you have to keep them honest because there's a lot of temptation. We get a few chiselers, a stickman who's a thief, things like that, but when a guy scoops a bundle it's no good going to the cops."

He pointed his cigarette. "Take Lane-or Grayson. He takes us for a hundred big ones and suppose the cops finally catch up with him. O. K. He gets a lawyer and maybe gets off with a couple of years. So suppose he's spent most of the boodle? Where do we get off? Un-unh," he said and his mouth twisted.

"We handle things like that ourselves. A guy turns out to be a heavy thief he has to pay the hard way. It's always been done that way and that's why it seldom happens any more. We have to make an example, you know what I mean?"

"I think so." Cordovez nodded. ""You dispose of this man who has robbed you."

"Right," Webb said. "And we make sure the word gets around. Maybe we still take a loss, but we make a point.

S ONE MBSTOTE PAST EIGHT

It keeps the rest of the help straight all over town, because they know the same thing can happen to them. It's very simple. I don't know all the answers, but I can £gure part of this. Gray son wanted to come home and he knew that if he did he'd eventually wind up at the side of the road with a couple of slugs in his head. He was ready to pay off, with a bonus, but he was still running scared. He didn't know if we'd accept his offer and he was afraid to handle it alone. He was even afraid we'd find out he was in Caracas. So he hired Baker to front for him and sent him to Barbados as a decoy."

He put out his cigarette. "Well, it happens we're ready to deal. We take the dough and spread the word that Gray-son found out he couldn't beat our system and paid off with a bonus to save his neck, In this country the deal works out because they don't care how much money you take out. No smuggling. Just pack the cash in a bag, and take off. They don't care in the States either and it doesn't have to be dollars. We'd even accept payment in bolivars because it's a real hard currency/'

He hesitated and then stood tip and by that time the rest of the picture was crystal clear in Jeff's mind. Apparently his stepbrother had done reasonably well since coming to Caracas, but he'd had no intention of returning— until Baker had located him and word had come of his inheritance, To claim it he had to return to Boston, and because the gain there was greater, he had raised the cash. He had made his deal through Baker, and it seemed obvious that he must have brought the cash here to this room tonight.

"It's a good motive for murder," he said, half to himself, "The first one we've had." • nvhat?" Webb said.

tf *Cash. A lot of cask w

^Somebody beat me to it, hunk?" Webb's grin was tight

and mirthless as he stepped over to the desk and picked up his gun and the shells. As he started to load them Cor-dovez stopped him,

"Please/' he said politely. "Not until you leave, senor."

Webb understood the suggestion. He tucked the revolver inside his jacket and pocketed the shells. "You're pretty handy with one of these, Julio.**

"Thank you/* Cordovez made a small bow. "I have had much practice. For many years I was an assistant chief with SegurnaL . . . And what will you do now?"

"Sleep on it, I guess/' Webb said. "I canie a hell of a long ways to make a collection and I'm not going back empty-handed if I can help it. I think Baker had the dough ready for me. Somebody took it."

He stopped at the door and turned the bolt. "I'm going to start looking, Julio. I think our friend Grayson had better start looking, too. Because he's still in hock. He knows it and I know it. ... See you," he said and went out.

Cordovez buttoned his jacket. "A very determined young man," he said. "And possibly a dangerous one. Do you agree?"

Jeff said he agreed and smiled to himself at the little detective's phrasing. He looked round the room and suddenly he had no further desire to search it. He was tired, depressed, and discouraged. And in the morning, or sometime soon, he would have to face his stepbrother, a thought which served only to heighten his discontent.

"All right, Julio," he said. "Let's forget it for tonight. Can you be here in the morning?"

"I will be here on the front terrace when you come down for your breakfast." He made his customary bow. "Euenas noches" he said and started along the hall.

Jeff watched him make the turn into the corridor leading to the elevators before he got out his key. He unlocked his door and then stopped as something caught his eye on the

floor. He knew then that a note had been thrust under the door and stepped back into the lighted hall to read it. It was very short and had no salutation:

Please stop at 320 when you get in no matter how late. K.H.

6

KAREN HOLMES wore a pastel-gray flannel robe that was securely belted and buttoned at the neck. Ballet-type slippers cut her height down so that the robe trailed slightly, and when Jeff followed her into die room he saw that her face had a pink, scrubbed look and the corners of her eyes were sleepy.

"Thank you for coming/* she said. "I didn't know how long you would be so I curled up here." She indicated the easy-chair in the comer. *1 must have fallen asleep."

She asked him to sit down and he swung out the desk chair, waiting until she had settled down on the one she had just left. While she made sure her knees were covered he had a chance to see that her hair had been combed out and fell softly along the sides of her face, and it occurred to him that she was more attractive this way than she had been on the plane. But he had not forgotten the Miami incident and waited with a mounting curiosity to see what she had to say,

"I had to talk to you/' she said finally. "1—1 wanted you to understand."

She hesitated, looking right at him now. When he made

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT rq

nojeply she folded her hands and put them on one knee. ^ "Fin not apologizing for coming here/' she said. "I was hired to see if I could get an assignment of the stock your stepbrother will inherit. I still intend to try/'

"Then what is there to explain?" Jeff said. "You picked me up and steered me into the restaurant and gave me a mickey. You had a job to do and you did it. It didn't matter how you did it or what means you used. I suppose if I'd refused the drink your pals there in the airport would have slugged me."

"That's what they said. That's why I had to use that powder."

"Oh," Jeff said. "Then you didn't make it yourself?"

That one brought the color to her cheeks, Her back seemed to stiffen and the dark-blue eyes had sparks in them.

"All right," she said spiritedly. "If you don't want to know the truth perhaps you'd better go. I can assure you it's no fun for me either,"

He eyed her steadily for a long moment and decided she meant what she said. He also knew, though he could not tell why, that it was important to hear what she had to say.

"I don't blame you for being angry," she said. "If It will help any to know I'm ashamed of myself, I am. But if— 31 *

She let the sentence trail. A small sigh escaped her. She no longer looked like the smart and worldly secretary she had claimed to be on the flight to Miami. With her head slightly bowed and her glance averted, she looked so feminine and desirable that his defenses were weakened and some of his annoyance evaporated.

"AH right," he said. "Let's start over. You work for the Acme Agency. Let's start there."

"I'm afraid 111 have to start before that. It will take a while and it won't be easy." She sighed again and her glance came up. Then, as though determined to make the

effort, she straightened her shoulders. "I suppose you wonder why I'm a private detective."

"Frankly, yes. I bought that insurance secretary routine. That I could believe."

"What I told you about Wellesley and the secretarial school was right/" she said, "but that was not what I wanted when I was growing up. My father is a retired police captain. I had a brother who would have been a policeman too if he hadn't been killed in the Pacific in 1945. I've read about little boys who want to grow up to be cowboys or baseball players or engineers. Wei, I wanted to be a policeman."

She tucked one foot under her and said: "At first my father accepted the idea because he thought I would outgrow it. Then, when we heard about my brother, Edward —I was twelve then—it seemed even more important. I couldn't be a policeman, but I could be a policewoman. There was never any doubt in my mind. I took Dad's kidding—he still wouldn't believe I was serious—and I went to* college as we'd planned. It wasn't until I graduated that we really had it out together.

"He said I should go to secretarial school. He used every possible argument against my being a policewoman and when he realized I was still determined he thought of a compromise. He's the one who suggested I try being a private detective. He had some friends in the business and there were times when a woman was useful. If I would go to secretarial school he'd give me one year as a private detective without interference; he was willing to gamble that one year would cure me of the idea."

She looked up without moving her head. "I guess it sounds childish now/" she said softly. "I guess it is childish. But when you grow up with an idea that seems so important it's not always easy to put it aside. With me I suppose it was a minor obsession." She sighed and said:

"So I did some studying and maybe Dad pulled some strings. Anyway I got the license and went to work and it couldn't have been more dull. Sometimes I would follow people. I was never told why e I simply followed them~or tried to—until my feet were sore and my legs ached. When the day was over I wrote a report and that was that. I worked behind department-store counters, all kinds of counters, spying on the help to make sure they were honest. I felt like a spy. I hated it. I never had an exciting moment in nine months or even a very interesting one. Then they told me about coming here/*

"How did they know I was coming?" Jeff asked. "How did they know about my stepbrother?"

"They said there was a leak in your office."

"When did they tell you?"

"Saturday."

"That was a quick leak," Jeff said dryly. "This was the Tyler-Texas outfit that found this out?"

"Yes. Actually I don't know the details. All 1 know is that my boss said he had a job I'd like. He knew what plane you were taking and we tried to get a reservation on an earlier flight but by the time I managed to get tourist cards from the consul there wasn't any earlier flight. It wasn't until I got to the airport and you were pointed out to me that I even knew who you were."

"They told you to pick me up."

"Yes. They said the only chance I'd have to get the assignment from your stepbrother would be to get to Caracas first. All I had to do was get to know you and make you invite me to have a drink in the terminal restaurant. I asked why and they said the less I knew the better. They said they had been in touch with their Miami correspondents and that someone would meet me and take over. That's why I had to wear the red hat and the gardenias; so the men would know me."

"What exactly were you supposed to do?"

She straightened her leg and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

'They told me that when 1 got into the building I was to excuse myself and say I was going to the rest-rooin. Two men were to meet me and tell me what to do/* She wet her lips and said: "It scared me a little. I wanted to know what the men were going to do to you and they said not to worry, that there'd be no trouble. They had a way to make you miss the plane and I'd go on alone. . . . Well, I didn't know what to say. They made it sound so exciting and—" She groped for a word and Jeff supplied it,

"Romantic?"

"I suppose so/' she said and blushed. "And there was another reason. I was the one who wanted to be the private detective. I wanted to do something that was exciting—I'd been pestering them for a long time—and I couldn't go to Dad and say I was afraid. I just couldn't. My—my pride wouldn't let me."

Jeff understood that much and it moved him strangely to know that while pride made her take the assignment, pride did not prevent her from letting him know how she felt.

"So these two men met you," he said.

"Yes. And one of them gave me this little folded paper. He said to send you to the cigarette machine and put the powder in your drink. He said you'd never taste it. It wouldn't hurt you, and when you started to get drowsy I was to bring you outside and they would handle the rest of it."

Again the color touched her cheeks and again her voice grew small "I told them I couldn't. I knew then that they must have planned the whole thing before I left Boston. And now they said I had to do it. They weren't even polite about it. They said: "Either you'll do it, sister, or your friend

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT go

will get hurt. We were hired to do a job and we intend to do it one way or another/ **

She hesitated, her eyes wide open, as though each detail was imprinted on her brain,

They meant it/' she said.

They probably did," Jel said.

"They said i£ I did what I was told they'd get you in a cab and take you to a hotel and let you sleep it off. If not, they d handle it their own way. ... I had to," she said a little desperately. "I was afraid not to. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I do hope you'll believe me. Somehow it seems terribly important."

Jeff stood up and found his neck was stiff. He twisted it, all resentment gone now and moved deeply by this girl and the things she had said.

"I believe you/' he said, hesitating as he looked down at her and wanting very much to speak some word of reassurance. When no such word came to mind he smiled at her and said: "Maybe, under the circumstances, the mickey was better than a broken skull. Thanks for telling me about it."

He stopped at the door and turned back. "But you re still going to try to get that assignment/'

"Oh, I have to," she said, as though there had never been any question about that particular point. "I have to try/'

He grinned at her as he went out. He said he was sorry he couldn't wish her luck, but he at least understood the quality of the competition.

He found that he was humming as he moved along the hall, but he did not know there was a grin on his face that was supported by some inner glow that seemed warm and satisfying. He unlocked his door and turned on the light. He snapped the bolt behind him and then stopped short when he saw his two bags, knowing instinctively that someone had transposed them on the luggage rack.

QA ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

They were not locked—he had not bothered after clearing customs—and when he opened them he could tell that they had been searched. When he straightened his mouth was grim and there were somber glints in his eyes. There was nothing in the bags of great value and nothing was missing. But the fact that someone had been interested enough to risk a search reminded him that he was in the middle of an ugly situation he did not entirely understand.

7

JULIO CORDOVEZ was waiting on a bench just outside the main entrance when Jeff came downstairs the following morning. He looked very neat in his tan suit; his white shirt was freshly laundered, his shoes were polished, and the bald spot on his head was pink and shiny. He made his customary small bow and his smile was broad as he offered his greeting.

"You slept well?" he asked.

"Very well," Jeff said, which was true. "How about some breakfast?"

"I have finished mine."

"Coffee?"

"I would like that very much."

They crossed the lobby and went along the hall past the private dining-room to a long high-ceilinged room bright with morning sunlight. The captain gave them a table by the windows, and as Jeff sat down he had his first look at the city, which sprawled below him in the distance, a heterogeneous panorama of structures that followed the val-

leys and crept up hillsides brown from lack of rain. Near the center tall buildings spoke of rapid growth and here and there modern, boxlike structures indicated a growing interest in low- and middle-class housing projects.

Jeff spoke of the view and mentioned his earlier trip, remarking at the change. Cordovez nodded. "It is only just begun/* he said. "They cannot build fast enough and everywhere you see businessmen—from the States and England and Germany and Italy."

He fell silent as Jeff worked on his bacon and eggs, sipping his coffee and pulling on a cigarette that gave off a pungent aroma. As Jeff poured more coffee, he said: "You have plans for this morning?"

"Do you know where my stepbrother lives?"

"In the Valle Arriba district"

"Is it far?"

"Perhaps twenty minutes."

Td better call him first."

"I have written the numbers for you." Cordovez brought out a slip of paper and pointed. "This is the residence; this the office."

The voice that answered Jeff's call to Grayson's home was female and Spanish. He had sense enough to try the word senor. When this got him nowhere he tried senom, and presently another woman answered, her accent clipped and polite.

"Oh, yes/' she said when Jeff identified himself. "Arnold said you were coming. . . . Fm sorry he's not here just now. He left for his office about ten minutes ago. Do you have the number?"

Jeff thanked her and dialed again. This time the woman who answered had some command of English but no better news. The best she could do was offer the information that Grayson had phoned to say he would not be in until later.

Jeff relayed the information to Cordovez as they went outside, and the little detective offered a suggestion.

"Perhaps it could be Senor Webb."

"What?"

"If your stepbrother has not paid his debt, he could be worried about Senor Webb."

"I guess he could be at that/* Jeff said; then, as a new thought came to him: "Do you know Luis Miranda?'*

The abogado? Oh, yes."

"What do you know about him?"

"A very old family/' Cordovez said. "At one time they had much land but they were not always on the right side —how do you say it?—politically—and there is less now. But still much. An estate in the Guarica River district near Calabozo, a beach house at Macuto, a fine home in the Country Club section."

"Would you say Luis is wealthy?"

"I would say so."

"Wealthy enough not to be tempted by one hundred and twenty thousand in cash?"

"It is a lot of money; but"—Cordovez shrugged—"I do not think Luis would steal just for money."

"Married?"

"Twice. The two children are grown. The son manages the estate and the daughter is in the States. His second wife is a countrywoman of yours. Very beautiful."

"Do you know where his office is?"

"Of course."

"Then let's go."

He followed Cordovez out to a three-year-old Ford which had been parked along the semicircular drive, and presently they were rolling down a quiet, tree-lined street, turning right at the end to make the descent into the city. Here the newness of the houses, the modernity of the architecture that had been built into the many small apartments

impressed Jeff greatly, but he noticed that every ground-floor window was protected by an ornamental metal grill.

He mentioned it. He asked if they were necessary.

"Oh 5 sure/' Cordovez said, and laughed. "At night there are always prowlers. It is best to be safe/'

The traffic thickened as they came into the valley and there were times when it stalled completely. Yet no one seemed greatly disturbed and not once did a horn blow. He mentioned this, too, and Cordovez said:

"To do so means jail or a fine. It is against the law/'

"But don't things get awfully jammed up?"

"Oh, yes. And when it becomes unbearable we do this to show our displeasure." He put his arm out the window and began to pound the heel of his hand against the side of the door. "Near the center in the late afternoon it sometimes sounds like thunder/* he said, and laughed again.

The building that housed Miranda's office was square, tall, modern, and, because of the stunted appearance of its neighbors and its distance from the center of the city, strangely incongruous. Cordovez double-parked in front of it and asked if he should wait. Jeff thought it over and said no.

"I don't know how long I'll be and if you've got friends at Segurnal why don't you snoop around and find out what they know."

"Very well." Cordovez tore a sheet out of a small notebook and wrote down two numbers. "My home," he said; "my office, I am in touch every hour. Someone will take your message/*

Luis Miranda had a suite on the fourteenth fioor, and when Jeff walked into the paneled, air-conditioned anteroom he remembered the airport building and Segufnal and decided that whoever had the air-conditioning agency in Caracas was doing aH right. The pretty brunette at the

desk took Ms name and picked up a telephone. When she hung up she said:

"Mr. Miranda will see you in a few minutes/'

Jeff walked over to the window and looked across the valley at a hillside that was crawling with bulldozers and trucks. Dust rose like brown fog to be carried away by the morning breeze and the scars that showed so clearly spoke of another development in the growth of the city,

He was still there when the light tap of heels behind him caused him to turn in time to see a striking-looking blonde in a figured-cotton dress bearing down on him from the direction of the inner corridor. She had an erect, full-breasted figure that was big-boned and ripely rounded; she also had the height to complement the curves. Her hair, worn rather long, was straw-colored, and her face was broad across the cheekbones and richly tanned. Her eyes, which looked as if they had been rinsed in bluing earlier that morning, were bold but friendly in their appraisal and contrasted sharply with the tan that spread smoothly down the deep V of her dress.

'"Hello," she said. "You're Jeffrey Lane, aren't you?"

"Why—yes," Jeff said, deciding that the hair was natural and putting her age somewhere around his own.

"I'm Mrs. Miranda," she said. "Arnold's told us quite a lot about you. 9 *

"Oh?"

*Td like to talk to you if you have the time. ... I'll wait for you in the car," she said—as though everything had been decided. "A blue Buick just across the street and very badly parked." She smiled. "You can t miss it"

The little brunette watched her go. When she caught Jeff's eye she pointed to the corridor. "The last door/' she said.

Luis Miranda's office was as impressive as the man himself. A corner room, it was darkly paneled except for the

wall of books, and the furniture was heavy-looking and expensive. Miranda stood until Jel was seated, smiled, and folded his brown, long-fingered hands, exposing a star sapphire in what looked like a platinum mounting.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Lane?"

"Give me some information/ 9 Jeff said, "if you can and if it's ethical"

He lit a cigarette and asked if Miranda knew why he was in Caracas. When the answer was affirmative he went on to explain the situation at the Lane Manufacturing Company and Miranda listened patiently until he finished. Then, to make sure he had the picture, he went over the details in his own way.

"Yours had always been a family business until recently?*'

"Yes."

"And what is it you manufacture?"

"Lately most of our business has been in clutches."

"Like on automobiles?"

"Everything but. We have a new principle on a drive that will work on motors of any size. A lot of our clutches go into such things as washing machines, dishwashers, dryers, mixers, power tools. Because of the new drive there is less strain, on motors, gears, and bearings, all of which makes maintenance practically non-existent."

"Yes," Miranda said. "So for tax purposes and to clear up your bank loans, you decided to offer stock to the public four years ago. The original one thousand shares held by your family were split two hundred for one, making two hundred thousand shares in all. Your family controlled ninety thousand shares and this, with stockholders favorable to you, was enough to control the company. You do not wish to have this Tyler-Texas Company take over the business."

"They work one of two ways, 315 Jeff said. "TheyVe been buying up shares in the market and if they can get control

they'll either take over with an exchange of stock or they'll move in, use up the cash to increase dividends and run the price up, and then unload. If Arnold votes with them/' he said, "we're out."

He put his cigarette away and spoke of Karen Holmes. "She saw Arnold yesterday," he said, "and I wondered if he gave any indication to you how he felt or what sort of proposition Miss Holmes made/'

"He mentioned something about Miss Holmes offering a bonus."

Jeff thought it over, not liMng what he heard, his brows bunching with the effort and his teeth absently worrying his lower lip. When this got him nowhere he decided to speak of Carl Webb and the assignment that had brought him to Caracas.

Again Miranda listened attentively, his expression inscrutable and nothing that resembled surprise showing in his dark eyes.

"What I'd like to know," Jeff said when he finished, "is whether Arnold could raise that much cash. I don't think he'd dare give himself away to Webb unless he did but—"

"He could, and he did." Miranda unfolded his hands and leaned back. He turned one hand over and put it on the arm of his chair and now his voice was mildly sardonic. "Reticence is not one of your stepbrother's qualities. He was and is a very self-possessed man and inclined to be boastful."

His glance moved beyond Jeff to the windows and stayed there. "He lived well since he came to Caracas and supported himself by acting as agent for certain foreign companies. He had some money to invest and made some speculations, not all of them profitable. But he was smart about one thing.

"Two years ago he bought five or six acres in the Valle Arriba section close to the golf club. He put in a street and

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT yi

built a house and subdivided the rest. I understand the house and lot cost Mm one hundred thousand B ? s. He could sell now for three hundred thousand. 9 *

"Wow!" said Jeff as he figured the exchange at thirty cents American to the bolivar, "Ninety thousand dollars from thirty."

"The remaining half-acre lots he retained, eleven in all. Selling them individually he could get the equivalent of fifteen thousand U.S. dollars each. On Monday he sold the eleven for roughly one hundred and thirty-five thousand-four hundred and fifty thousand B's. I know because I drew up the papers."

"Did he tell you why?"

"He said he was in trouble in the States. Before he could return he would need one hundred and twenty thousand in cask"

"Could he get that cash in dollars?"

"We have a hard currency here/' Miranda said, "acceptable everywhere in the world at face value. Anyone can take bolivars to the bank here and receive dollars. But because the bolivar is easily negotiable, there is little call for dollars. It would be difficult to find that many dollars without advance notice. Grayson was satisfied that a payment in bolivars would be accepted for his debt. He needed it by Wednesday. I feel quite certain he had the cash with Mm yesterday and from what you have told me I must assume that Mr. Baker was to act as his emissary."

"Did you get the idea he intended to return to the States?"

"1 feel sure that was his intention." He leaned forward and picked up a stapled report of some kind from his desk, his smile polite but distant. "Does that answer your questions, Mr. Lane?"

Jeff thanked him and stood up, inspecting the sharp aristocratic features of the light-brown face, the smooth-

ness of the gray-streaked hair. Then, prompted by some impulse he could not analyze, he said:

"How did he get along down here? Was he well liked?"

"Possibly by some. He had great personal charm when he cared—or found it advantageous—to exert it."

"And you, Mr. Miranda?"

"For myself," Miranda said, "I disliked him intensely. To me he was, and is, an evil man."

Jeff Lane had no trouble locating the Buick. It was the same color as Mrs. Miranda's eyes. She used them when he stopped beside the car, smiling a welcome and inspecting him frankly. When she stepped on the starter he understood he was to get in and as he slid onto the beige leather seat she said:

"Where to? I might as well chauffeur you while we're talking."

"The hotel will do fine," Jeff said.

"The Tucan? Right."

She sat up as she drove and it gave him a chance to study her profile, the penciled line of her brow, the short upper lip, the red mouth that suggested a capacity for passion, petulance, and sulkiness. The deep tan of her face was duplicated on the rounded arms that showed beneath the cap-sleeves and he noticed that her legs were bare and just as brown. Her voice, though animated., had a faintly husky infection as she spoke.

"Arnold told us about his inheritance," she said, "Is it really true?"

"If he comes back to get it in the next thirty days."

"He said it consisted of stock in your company,"

"That's right," said Jeff, beginning to wonder why she was so interested.

He watched her maneuver into a traffic circle and brake suddenly when a small truck edged in front of her from

another street. She said something under her breath that sounded distinctly profane and started to bang the horn-ring before she thought better of it.

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

Jel chuckled. "Hardly."

"Oh? But doesn't he get a lot of shares?"

"Quite a lot; but it's not a very big company/'

"How many shares?"

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

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

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

"Do you know his wife?" he asked.

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

"What's she like?"

"Like?" She made a small disparaging sound. "In my

opinion/' she said with formidable frankness, "she's a cold potato/'

"And how will she like going back to the States?"

In a tone that suggested she could not care less, she said: "I haven't the faintest idea.**

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

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

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

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

"Is it far?"

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT jet

"No," said Cordovez and led the way to Ms car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But someone did make a call/ 9

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

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

-Oh, yes "

"Then let's take a ride. If he's not there maybe I can talk to his wife,"

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

"Oh?"

"A Sefior Fiske. Dudley Fiske."

"What do you mean, he lives there?"

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

Jeffs brown eyes were instantly attentive. "How do you know?"

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

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

"This would be around seven thirty?"

"About that."

"What happened?' 7

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

"How long did he stay?"

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

"That could be around eight o'clock."

<«TJ * "i t »>

It is possible.

Jeff let it go at that because he could think of nothing to add. They went back to the car and once under way Cordovez proved to be an informative guide. He seemed

to find enjoyment in pointing out the signs of progress in Ms home city, and Jeff listened absently to the miming commentary.

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

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

"Hah/ ? said Jeff with some irony. "I just wish I'd bought a few hundred shares five years ago. Even three years ago/*

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

"Autopista? he said. "Avenida de la Mercedes/ 5 he added, when he cut right; and then, after another right, they were going uphill, to stop finally in front of an attractively landscaped house that in the States would have fallen into the ranch-type category. *1 will wait/' he said. "It will be difficult for you to find a taxi here."

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

She sat down on the divan and took a cigarette from the

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

"Arnold said you might stop/' she said. "I'm sorry he's not here. In fact, I don't know where he is."

"But you know why I came?"

"Oh, yes. He told me that much/'

"And do you know if he plans—"

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

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

Jeff blinked at her words and found them embarrassing. "You—don't get along?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"You married him in Las Vegas."

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

"But," said Jeff, a little startled by the outburst, "yon stayed with him."

"Oh, yes." She leaned forward and put her cigarette out by jabbing it forcibly into the metal tray. "Yes, I stayed with him," she said, her soft laugh a bitter sound. "I could

have gone back to the States if I'd wanted to go empty-handed. I could have got a divorce there but I doubt if you could extradite a man for alimony, could you?

"I had a lump-sum settlement from my first husband. When we came here to make our fortunes I was still in love, or thought I was. Arnold made some investments. He told me all about them when 1 signed the checks. The trouble was that the bad ones always turned out to be in my name and the good ones in his. Now, except for some jewelry my first husband gave me, I'm practically penniless, and I have no intention of walking out and making it easier for him—not unless I can get a decent settlement ™

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

"Come in, Dudley," she said.

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

"This is Mr. Lane/' she said. "Dudley Fiske"

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

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

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

He watched the smile go away and the mouth tighten again. "Not until a few days ago," she said. "I wish I had. . . . No/* she said. "All I knew was that he was in an awful

hurry to get out of the country after we were married. I wondered at the time what made him so nervous and jumpy. . . . How much will his inheritance amount to?"

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

"Dollars?"

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

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

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

"You came down here as Arnold's assistant, Mr. Fiske?" Jeff said.

"That was what I thought," Fiske said, and smiled again. "My trouble/' he added with surprising candor, "was that I had a very bad case of adolescent hero-worship and I was a long time outgrowing it. 1 knew Arnold during his last year in prep school and picked the same college, because he did, though when they kicked him out I stayed put.

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

*When he wrote me a year and a half ago I was selling printing in New York and not breaking any records, Arnold

drew a fascinating picture about what life was like down here and the amount of money that could be made. He needed an assistant and it was a chance of a lifetime." He raised one hand a few inches and let it fall.

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

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

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

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

"I'm not sure what you mean."

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

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

"Did he?"

"Don t you know? You followed him, didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon/'

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

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

"I don't know where you got your information/' she said, "but this much I can tell you. We didn't follow Arnold and we didn't go to the hotel/ 7

"You knew about the money/' Jeff said, persisting. "Luis Miranda knew about it. Who else might know?"

She shrugged thin shoulders and stood up, her glance bleak and her voice astringent, Tm sorry/' she said. "Perhaps you'd better ask Arnold. He may be at the office now,**

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

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

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

Td very much like to get my hands on it/* she said. **By rights most of it should be mine anyway.*"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the hell do you want?** he demanded.

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

"You know what I want, Amy."

^Not today," Grayson said, turning on his heel and starting along a short corridor, which led past a smaller office to a larger room very elegantly furnished in a heavy, mascu-

line way. "I'm busy. I've got more important things to do/'

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

"Did you find the cash?**

Grayson wheeled. "What cash?"

"The cash you took to the Tucan last night/*

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

"What do you know about it?' 3

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

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

Jeff stood his ground. "All I want is your word that youll vote your stock with us. After all, I didn't have to come here/*

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

He grabbed Jeff's arm as he spoke, wrenched him round

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get up!" Jeff said.

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

"There's a gun in the desk/' he said, his voice checked, "If I get up I'm going to kill you."

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

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

"Hi."

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

"I just stepped out for a beer/' he said.

"Stepped out?" Jeff said vacantly.

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

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

"No thanks/' he said. "Not just now. I—I got a date." He made a pretense of glancing at his watch. "I'm late already/*

He knew Spencer was eying him curiously but he could not help it. He could not stand inspection and he turned

at once and started blindly down the narrow sidewalk, walking fast until lie came to the corner and then slowing

down, as he approached Urdaneta.

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

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

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

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

Jeff gave up such speculation and finished his drink, convinced now that he had made a mistake in leaving. The smart thing would have been to get out of the office and then wait outside to see who else came to see his step-

brother. If lie had had any sense he would have done just that, and now he wondered if there was still time to find out why Grayson had been so upset over his, Jeff's, persistence.

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

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

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

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

Three or four feet from the far end of the desk, he was on the floor in almost the same spot Jeff had last seen him. Since that time only two things had changed. Instead of sitting up, the man now lay flat on his back, and the jacket

go ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT

that had been draped over a chair lay crumpled on the

floor, as though someone had searched it and flung it aside. Not until he moved swiftly closer did Jeff understand that there had been still another change: instead of a single swelling at the side of the jaw, the once tanned face had a bluish tinge and was ridged with ugly welts.

w

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

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

There was no response. The head rolled limply, and now, the sickness inside him turning coldly to fear, Jeff lowered the shoulders and put his ear hard against the shirt front. When he realized finally that the heart-beat he heard was his own he reached frantically for a wrist and dug his fingers into the warm flesh. He held his breath and tried again.

ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT Ql

Only then did lie understand that there would never be a pulse.

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff turned back two pages to find the identical notation.

Q2 ONE MINUTE FAST EIGHT

When it was repeated again lie turned to the front of the book where the first checks in that series had been issued four months earlier. The third stub was marked with the same name and carried the same amount.

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

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

"Hello! Is anybody here?"

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

"Mr. Grayson."

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

"Oh!" Karen Holmes said, and stopped. "You."*

She was wearing a figured dress with a white back-

ground and carrying a white bag. She wore no hat, and though she gave him a tentative smile, her dark-blue eyes remained puzzled.

"I was supposed to see Mr. Grayson at four, 1 * she said. "Isn't he—" She stopped, held by something she had seen in Jeff's white-lipped face. "What is it?" she said. "Is something wrong?"

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

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

«TP*. • l »

Did you—

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

"Is he badly hurt?"

"It's worse than that."

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

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

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

"I only came about five minutes before you did. I didn't know what happened either. I was here earlier and I came back-"

He checked himself because she no longer seemed to be listening. Her gaze was fixed on the hand which rested on

the desk, a gaze so intent that lie glanced down, seeing first the small dark stain on his shirt front and knowing he must have got it when he held Grayson's torso upright. Then, as his eyes moved on, he saw the back of his hand and the two scars on his knuckles. Already scabs had begun to form there and make them more noticeable than ever.

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

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

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

"That's it/' he said wearily. "I just wanted to tell you while I had the chanced

"Chance? What do you mean?"

"I have to call the police, don't I?*

"With the blood on your shirt and those marks on your knuckles? How can you?* 1

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

"What else can I do? Run?*

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

"I don't know. Maybe a half-hour. 9 *

"Did anyone see you?"