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.
