That was about eight, or a minute after.'
'You heard nothing when you passed this room?'
'No—* She stopped, eyes widening, 'Yes, I did too, I heard the phone ring as I came past. It was still ringing when I turned the corner and I thought that meant Mr, Baker was in the bar. That's why I was surprised when I glanced in and didn't see him.'
TTou did not sit in the bar?'
'No. I was alone and—well, I thought I'd wait on the terrace/'
'Yes. And you found it chilly and came to get your coat. When would that be?'
*Tm not sure. I guess maybe five or six minutes after eight. Maybe more.'
As she finished, Jeff wondered how accurate her estimate was. He recalled that it was eight minutes after eight when he had stopped at the downstairs desk. He had been there two or three minutes at the most. He had not seen her on the front terrace, but he realized also that there was more than one terrace. Before he could pursue the thought someone banged on the door. When the assistant opened it a voice called: 'Ramon!' and then a thin, untidy individual pushed his way into the room and grinned at Zumeta.
'Ah,' said Zumeta. 'The Bulletin is quick tonight'
'Not quick,' the man said, in accents that were unmistakably American. *Just lucky. Tm downstairs covering the
monthly dinner PanAra Oil puts on and I see some of your boys nosing around. So I do some snooping on my own. Who got killed?'
''An American private detective called Harry Baker.**
'What?' The man peered at Zumeta and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 'Harry Baker?'
'You knew him?'
'Sure. He came to the Bulletin when he hit town, because we're the only English-language daily and he didn't speak much Spanish.'
He had been watching Jeff and the girl as he spoke and now he came round the bed and offered his hand.
*Tra Dan Spencer/' he said. 'Are yon Jeffrey Lane?'
'Yes,' Jeff said and shook the bony hand.
tfe Harry said you were coming,' Spencer said, his eyes curious as they watched the girl.
Jeff introduced them and Spencer said: 'How do you do, Miss Holmes. . , . Look, I don't know what this is all about but if you can—'
'You will find out,' Zumeta cut in. 'Soon we will go to Segurnal'
'Me too—I hope,' Spencer said.
'You, too. But for now, sit down and be quiet.'
Spencer sat on the edge of the bed next to Jeff and began to pack a straight-stemmed briar. At close range he seemed to be in his middle thirties, a round-shouldered man with the sort of ingrown stoop that gave his chest a concave look. His skin was sallow; his hair was mouse-colored, shaggy, and carelessly combed. His lightweight suit was baggy and he wore a sport shirt open at the collar, disclosing the upper fringes of chest hair that extended nearly to the hollow in his throat and added to the general impression of untidiness. For all of that he had a friendly, engaging manner, and when he had his pipe going he took out a folded sheaf of copy paper and a pencil
'What can you tell me?' he said.
'Not much,' Jeff said. 'Miss Holmes had a date with him and stopped in to see if he was ready. She found him on the floor.'
He stopped as the door opened and one of Zumeta's men came in to report. After that there was a small parade of goings and comings, but as each exchange was in Spanish Jeff understood none of the information. Apparently Spencer did, for he made a note from time to time and so did Zumeta. The only break in this routine occurred when Zuineta went into the closet and began to search the two suits that hung there.
When he came out he had a pigskin walet in his hand. He said something to the man who had given him the information—whatever it was—and then looked through the wallet, counting the bills, taking out what looked like two cablegrams and reading them, checking the papers in the pockets. When a man came in with a fingerprint kit Zumeta moved round the bed.
'We will go now to Segwnal? he announced. 'Mr, Gray-son will join us there.*'
4
THE HEADQUARTERS of Segwnd-shoit for Segwidad National and sometimes known as the secret police— was a modern stone building which occupied a corner on ave-nida Mexico. Zumeta lead the way into the lobby, past a clerk and the information desk and up the steps into a
large air-conditioned room that was surrounded by smaller rooms and separated from them by glass partitions.
A half-dozen men in plain clothes lounged in the center room talking and reading magazines as Zumeta led his procession past them and along a corridor; then down several stairs to another lobby which gave on a side entrance that was now closed, barred, and further secured by a locked chain. The party came to a halt here while another clerk telephoned ahead and a dark man in a baggy suit and a shapeless felt hat stood near by and eyed them silently. At a word from the clerk, Zumeta continued up the stairs to the second floor and across the corridor to a recessed anteroom, open at the front but railed in.
Here the telephone procedure was repeated and presently they all filed through the gate and into a window- less air-conditioned waiting-room with paneled walls and leather-upholstered furniture. Zumeta stopped and waved them to seats.
'You will wait here, please,** he said and went on througji the next door.
Jeff sat down on the divan next to Karen. He was impressed; he said so to Spencer.
'Somebody's got a lot of protection.**
'Maybe he needs it,' Spencer said.
'Who?'
'Pedro Vidal. He's the head man here. All over for that matter; its a national organization.' He grunted softly. 'You should feel honored. He's a hard man to see.'
He sat down to relight his pipe and Jeff brought out cigarettes and offered them to Karen. She hesitated, but finally took one, murmuring her thanks and leaning forward for a light Her face was still pale, but composed now, her body relaxed, the dark-blue eyes resigned and withdrawn. When she leaned back there was something so appealing about her that Jeff considered offering some words of re-
assurance. Then the moment passed and his thoughts moved on. He glanced at Spencer, wondering if he could answer a question that had been bothering him ever since he found Baker. He spoke of the cable.
'Baker said he had a new job/' he said. 'Would you know what it was?'
'All I know is that he went to Barbados on Saturday and came back yesterday morning/ 7 Spencer said. 'Why, I don t know.' He shook his head. 'It's a rough deal/' he said. 'He was a good guy. I used to know him in Vegas when I was working for a paper out there. If a thing wasn't legit he wouldn't touch it. That's why I can't figure this one.'
He stretched his legs and sucked idly on his pipe, frowning, the side of his thumb scratching the hairy triangle at the base of his throat. After that the silence came until Jeff thought of something else and put it into words.
'Maybe you knew my stepbrother in Las Vegas. Arnold Lane.'
'Lane?' Spencer glanced up. 'Sure. At least I knew who he was. He's in town here now—I guess maybe you knew that—except he calls himself Grayson.' He might have said more if the outer door had not opened at that moment to admit the man they were talking about.
In that first instant when Arnold Grayson made a quick inspection of the room Jeff started to rise. It was an automatic impulse based on the social habit of shaking hands with someone you had not seen in a long time. Then he knew that such a gesture would be sheer hypocrisy, Just as he knew that Grayson would probably ignore it.
'Hello, Junior,' Grayson said, all the old arrogance Jeff remembered so well still in his voice. 'I hear your old man finally decided to cut me in on the family fortune. What happened? Conscience bother him?'
Jeff settled back, a muscle bulging in his jaw as his mouth fattened, his eyes dark with resentment but his temper in
hand as he was reminded of the job he had to do. He had come a long way and he realized it would be foolish
