One Minute Past Eight (20 page)

“Forget it,” Jeff said.

“Yeah,” Webb added. “Let’s have a look at that envelope, Lane. Maybe this will turn out to be my lucky day after all.”

Jeff passed over the envelope and watched Webb back away to put it beside the empty gun.

“How come you were outside?” he asked.

“I couldn’t figure out where the money could be,” Webb said. “I thought I’d hang around here awhile and maybe case the joint. Who had it?”

“Spencer.” Jeff glanced at the reporter, who had dropped sideways onto the arm of an overstuffed chair and now presented an expression of acute melancholia. “We picked him up at the airport.”

“Nice going.” Webb glanced inside the envelope, grinned, and tucked it under his arm.

“You figure you can get out of the country with that?” Jeff asked.

“I can try. I haven’t got too much to lose.”

“Hadn’t you better count it first?”

“Count it?” Webb eyed him suspiciously. He considered the others in the room. Then, to make certain he had not been the victim of some hoax, he held the envelope by one end and dumped the contents on the table. He picked up one packet, turned it over to reveal the five-hundred-bolivar note on either side. He inspected the figures on the bill strap.

“Eight bundles of fifty thousand B’s each,” he said. “That’s fifteen grand U.S. Eight times fifteen is—”

“Take another look.”

By that time Webb’s irritation was showing and he did not hesitate. He bent the orange-colored top bill back and stared at the blue-green bill beneath. The figure on it was 10. He tried again; then riffled the rest of the money expertly. Satisfied now that he had a packet of ten-bolivar bills except for the five-hundred-bolivar notes on top and bottom, he looked up, his jaw rigid and his mouth ugly.

“What the hell is this?”

He grabbed a second packet and again discovered that it contained ten-bolivar bills except for the two five-hundred bills which covered them.

“Somebody pulled a switch,” he said savagely. “Who? Come on, goddam it, who did it?”

Jeff had been watching the others. He saw the looks of surprise on Karen’s face, on Cordovez’s. Spencer was staring openmouthed and incredulous. Only Fiske and Diana Grayson presented the same stony-eyed calm.

“Ask Fiske,” Jeff said. “He ought to know.”

Webb advanced a step toward Fiske and the muzzle of the gun came up.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“In the bank.” Fiske folded his arms, his bespectacled gaze steady, his voice controlled as he asserted his newfound maleness in front of the woman he loved. “And waving that gun isn’t going to get it out, either,” he said. “It’s Diana’s money, and unless you can crack the bank, it’s going to stay there.”

Webb’s gun was steady and he still looked dangerous. Because Jeff wasn’t sure what he might do, he stalled for time.

“How?” he said to Fiske. “How did you manage it? You knew Grayson had the cash. You knew he was going to pay off but—”

“Sure we knew.” Fiske glanced at the woman. “Your stepbrother was the kind to brag about things like that. He raised the cash and he was pulling out. Diana could have the house for her share but that was all.

“He came back from the bank the day before yesterday with eight packs of five-hundred-bolivar bills—a hundred bills in each. He dumped them out on his desk. He wasn’t worried about me. He never figured I had any guts—and he was right. He packed the bills in this company envelope, sealed it, fixed it up with Scotch tape, and locked it in his desk. What he forgot was that the key to my desk also fitted his.”

He paused, not boasting, not even sounding proud of what he had done. He was simply reciting a tale that he himself found hard to believe even now.

“I don’t know where I got the nerve,” he said. “But when I thought about Diana”—he reached out to touch her hand—“and what Arnold was doing to her, I made up my mind I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I sent the girl out after he left, took the envelope and another like it and some Scotch tape, and went back to the bank. I had an account there and I got a lot of ten-B bills. I asked for some of those paper bill straps and then I went to one of those little rooms in the safe-deposit department and locked myself in.

“It took me about ten minutes to fix new bundles with ninety-eight tens and a five-hundred top and bottom. I taped the new envelope just like the old one. I put the rest of the five-hundreds in my safe-deposit box, came back to the office, and locked the envelope in his desk.”

“You went to the hotel that night when Grayson delivered it to see what would happen,” Jeff said,

“Right. I didn’t think he’d count it again, not after sealing the envelope that way. I didn’t think Baker would either, but I hung around outside looking up at Baker’s room and watching the lobby from the pool entrance. If there’d been any trouble I would have known it.”

“You knew Webb would count it,” Jeff said.

“Sure.”

“Naturally,” Diana said, speaking for the first time. “But then it wouldn’t matter. We thought probably when Mr. Webb found out the debt hadn’t been paid he would come looking for Arnold. We knew Arnold couldn’t raise that much money again, nor prove that Dudley had taken it. What happened between Arnold and Mr. Webb then was none of our concern.”

The way she said it understated the problem and Jeff put it another way. “You mean if Arnold wound up on the side of the road with a couple of slugs in his head it wouldn’t bother you.”

“Frankly, no.”

Jeff shook his head and swallowed. He believed all he had heard and, now that he understood this woman and what she had been through at the hands of his stepbrother, he was not particularly surprised. It was for Fiske and his new-found daring that he felt a certain grudging respect.

“That seems to be it, Webb,” he said.

The man from Las Vegas had lowered his gun but he still looked puzzled. Apparently he had been doing some arithmetic, because he said:

“Christ, there’s only about three grand U.S. here. Not even that.”

“It’ll pay your expenses,” Fiske said, “and give you something for your time. You’re welcome to it,” he said. “So why don’t you take it and start traveling? There’ll be no beef from us, will there, Diana?”

Webb thought it over and considered the odds. Then, proving that as a gambler he could be a good loser, he stuffed the bills back into the envelope and stuck it under his arm.

“It was hardly worth the trip,” he said. “But it’s better than nothing and I guess you can’t collect from a dead man or crack a bank.” He backed to the entrance hall and glanced at Cordovez. “Take it easy with the gun, little man. Don’t give me any trouble.”

Jeff glanced at Spencer when the door closed. “I guess you didn’t count it either.”

The reporter still looked dazed. “All I did,” he said, “was tear a hole in the envelope. When I saw those pretty orange-colored five-hundreds it was enough for me. Why should I count it?” he asked plaintively.

“Come on,” Jeff said and nodded to Cordovez who had gone over to reload his gun. He touched Karen’s arm. “We’ve got one more stop before
Segurnal.”

Luis Miranda acted as his own butler that evening. He opened the door himself after he had snapped on the overhead light, and when he recognized his callers, he bowed slightly and stepped back to let them enter. They waited in the hall until he had closed the door and then he led them into a long, impressive-looking room with a stained-beam ceiling and heavy curtains. The rug was thick, the furniture heavy but formal, and the two floor lamps which were lighted still left much of the room in shadow. “Won’t you sit down?” he asked politely. Jeff thanked him and moved with Karen to a divan that looked comfortable but wasn’t. Spencer selected an overstuffed chair and Cordovez took a straight-back at one side.

“Were you expecting us?” Jeff said.

“I was not sure. When the bell rang I thought it might be someone from
Segurnal.
You see, my wife told me about the riding crop she turned over to you. I was not sure what you would do with it.”

“I can bring you up to date,” Jeff said. “It may take quite a while—”

“I would like to hear what you have to say.”

Jeff took a breath and began by speaking of Dan Spencer, the envelope he had taken, and the substitution that Fiske had made in Grayson’s office. He explained how Spencer had taken Karen to Macuto, and how he had been picked up at the airport.

He paused here, but when there was no reaction from Miranda he went on to repeat Spencer’s story of what had happened the night Harry Baker had been killed. When he finished he asked if Miranda had anything to add.

The lawyer’s smile was thin and mirthless and his black eyes were fathomless in the shadows.

“Nothing at this time,” he said. “I am an attorney, Mr. Lane, and I prefer to do my talking before a judge.”

“You don’t deny you took the money?”

“How can I deny it?”

“You wanted the money so Grayson could not pay off and go back to the States—with your wife. He found out you had it and threatened to go to the police unless you returned it. He did not care who had killed Baker, but he had to have the money. You took it back yesterday afternoon.”

“That is quite true.”

“You took the riding crop with you because that was the only way you could settle your account. You didn’t care if he had you arrested or not.”

“In this country, a man has the right to protect his home and his good name. When the truth was known, no judge would convict me for what I did to Arnold Grayson.”

“Did you intend to kill him?”

“No. I wanted only to show my contempt, to let my wife see him. I could not prevent her leaving but I could perhaps make her understand what manner of man she had chosen.” He paused and his voice grew quiet. “I did not know he was dead when I left,” he said. “I did not think I had struck him hard enough. I only meant to—”

The word choked off abruptly and when Jeff glanced up he saw that Miranda’s eyes had focused beyond him. Not understanding why, he looked at Cordovez and what he saw was even more disturbing. For the little man was sitting on the edge of his chair, his eyes wide open and staring. Something akin to fear was mirrored there and the sight of it triggered a nervous spasm that sent an icicle racing up Jeff’s spine. When he jerked his head round and saw Muriel Miranda standing no more than five feet away, he froze that way, his gaze fastening on the little automatic she held in her hand.

The door through which she had come gave on the rear of the center hall and that part of the room lay in shadow. How long she had been listening no one could say, for she had made no sound as she approached and the dark dress had served as protective coloring. Now, as she stopped, her face was white and rigid, the mouth a scarlet slash.

“So you did kill him,” she said in a voice Jeff had never heard. “You lied,” she said. “You told me you had only given him a thrashing. If he had not been dead, Spencer would not have dared to take the money.”

Miranda faced her, his shoulders erect, his patrician face a brown mask in the lamplight. He looked immaculate in his slacks and blue dressing-jacket. Gold links gleamed from the long French cuffs of his silk shirt. He made no move and his voice was clear and controlled.

“If you heard me, you know I said I did not think he was dead. I still do not.”

“I told you what I’d do, Luis.”

She took another step and Jeff eased off the divan and got his feet under him, his throat tight and an odd fear expanding inside him.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “That’s not the way.”

“Keep out of it,” Muriel said.

“My stepbrother’s not worth it,” Jeff argued. He’s not worth hanging for.”

“They don’t hang women here. They don’t even hang men.”

Jeff looked at her eyes then and what he saw told him that, for this moment at least, the woman was no longer sane. She had brooded too long over a pyramiding burden of injustice, real or fancied, and this new desire for vengeance had corroded her ability to accept the blow which had been dealt her plans for the future. She had been infatuated with an idea rather than a man, but the loss was no less real to her now.

In her present mood the capacity for murder was there and Jeff knew that she might start pulling the trigger any minute unless someone stopped her. When he saw her hand tighten he spoke brusquely.

“You’re just going to start shooting, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Because you think your husband killed Grayson.”

“Yes.”

“That would be a very bad mistake.”

“What?”

“The way you’re aiming that thing you’ll kill the wrong man.”

For the first time he had her attention. She looked at him, a gleam of recognition showing in the bright-blue eyes.

“What did you say?”

“What I’m trying to say is—I don’t think your husband killed my stepbrother. I don’t think he killed Baker.”

“Then who did?”

“Dan Spencer.”

He was watching the gun as he spoke. He thought the hand that held it wavered. He had planted the first small seed of doubt, but he had convinced no one.

“I don’t believe you,” she said huskily.

“Me?” Spencer jerked erect in his chair and his mouth was open. “Are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so,” Jeff said and edged sideways so that he came between Spencer and the gun.

FOR A long moment, then, no one spoke, no one moved. The silence built. The tension that followed began to stiffen the backs of Jeff’s legs and his breath came shallowly. He had to keep talking. He had to be convincing. But even then he knew it might not be enough.

There were too many guns in the room. The one he had taken from Spencer was still in his pocket, but he was not equipped to use it with any great skill. What the woman might do when the truth came out there was no way of telling, and always there was Cordovez, the expert, who as yet had made no move. He sat at an angle to Spencer and it was the reporter who had his attention now rather than Muriel Miranda.

“What is this?” Spencer said, his amber eyes harried and uncertain. “I told you what I did.”