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
