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
