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 1 saw those pretty orange-colored ?ve-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.'
*1 can bring you up to date,' Jeff said. 'It may take quite a while—'
<S 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/ 7
'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 Jeffs 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. w
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?'
'Because you think your husband killed Grayson.
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 o? 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.
FOB. 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/'
'We heard you,' Jeff said. 'And most of it is true. You were in the closet in Harry Baker's room when Miranda took the money—but I think you made one switch.'
