With Intent to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  You killed my brother, the voice said, and since the law won’t punish you I will. Consider that a promise. Whatever happens you’ll have a second or two to understand why.

  In the beginning the threat had both disturbed and angered him but he did not take it seriously. Actually he’d forgotten all about the message when, about two weeks later, the first attempt was made. It had happened in the Forty-Second Street Station of the Lexington Avenue subway. It was shortly before five in the afternoon, a time when the platforms were packed with home-going office workers who surged and shoved and jostled one another each time an express or local train ground to a stop. Bumps and nudgings that moved one off balance were expected but what had thrust him over the edge of the platform was a deliberate push by a hand planted in the small of his back.

  For weeks afterward he would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and feel that hand. He could see the onrushing train rounding the slight curve at the end of the platform and the two lights high up on either side of the leading car. With that one hard, forceful push he had known instantly that he could not recover his balance. He knew that if he tried he would fall and so, making no sound but hearing the screams of some women behind him, he had jumped to the track below him. Good reflexes and co-ordination learned on the football field enabled him to regain his balance as he hit on both feet and threw himself sideways beneath the overhang of the platform, his body straight and thin and flat against the retaining wall as the brakes took hold and yellow, red, and orange sparks erupted from the brake shoe just inches from his face—

  His thoughts hung there and then closed up as some whisper of sound came to him, and he was at once aware of his surroundings. In that same instant he held his breath and lay still, ears straining and eyes wide open. For a second or two there was no sound but the thumping of his heart and he moved his head slowly as certain objects took on vague outlines in the darkness. Then he heard it again, a faint, shuffling sound that seemed to come not from the cabin but outside.

  Certain now, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. He rose deliberately and moved on the balls of his feet, edging around the centerboard trunk to the opposite berth. Here a rectangular port nearly level with the dockside enabled him to scan the top of the seawall, and now he saw some movement and focused on it, breath still held and the tension moving into his muscles.

  He could tell then that someone was standing there and he crouched a little lower until he could make out the polished black shoes, the creased trouser legs, the stripe on the center seam. Only then did he begin to breathe, to give a silent inner chuckle as the tension went away and his nerves relaxed. He watched the shoes move again, turning toward the customs house, and was pleased that Police Constable Pierce had not forgotten to keep an eye on the Cay Queen as he made his hourly rounds.

  4

  Barry Sanford’s office was located over a garage and was reached by an outside wooden stairway. Essentially the area consisted of two large empty rooms and he was using the front one overlooking the street as an office and workroom. It still had a bare and unfinished look, its furnishings nothing more than a drafting table, a long counter, and some shelves and cupboards and a skylight that he had put in. The room in the rear would eventually be a one-room apartment There was a shower, toilet, and washstand here which he had partitioned off; another partition would enclose the kitchen but at the moment there was only a sink, a secondhand icebox, and an electric hotplate. The main room remained sparsely furnished with a large wardrobe, a single bed, and some chairs, because he was feeling his way along financially and preferred to put most of his earnings into land and options that he thought might prove profitable.

  He was working at the drafting table on some preliminary sketches for a man who wanted a small cottage on Cay Chapel when he heard footsteps on the outer stairs. A moment later a tall, lean man with a mustache and hornrimmed glasses opened the screen door and stepped into the room. His dark hair was gray streaked, his face had a dignified look, and he wore a pair of off-white linen slacks and an expensive-looking dark blue sport shirt.

  “Mr. Sanford?” he asked as he reached for a hip wallet.

  “That’s right.”

  “My name’s Aldington. Howard Aldington.” He produced a card and when Sanford glanced at it he saw that it was engraved with the name of a five-member law firm in New York City. Aldington’s name was in one corner and a lower Broadway address in the other. “They told me at the hotel you might be able to give me some information.”

  Sanford pushed a chair toward Aldington and perched on his stool, something about the man’s appearance, manner, and clothes, telling him that he could be important.

  “I can try,” he said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “You represent the Pan American Land Company, don’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’d like to get some information about available land and property values.”

  “I know a little about it,” Sanford said, watching Aldington take out a gold case and select a cigarette. “What kind of land did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know; that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I understand citrus does very well here.”

  “Very well. The oranges and grapefruit they grow south and southwest of here are hard to beat. They have two plants in the area to buy the crop. One ships the concentrate and the other—Salada put it in a couple of years ago—ships the frozen products.”

  “What about those cays out there? Are any available?”

  “I know a couple that are for sale.”

  “Any development going on?”

  “Cay Chapel about ten miles from here has already been subdivided.”

  “Much activity?”

  “They’ve sold nearly a hundred lots—I’m not sure of the exact figure now—and there are several modest cottages under construction. It has its own landing strip for small planes and just north of there I’m supervising a substantial retirement home for a man from Pennsylvania.”

  “Retirement? Here? What is there to offer except the climate? No beaches, are there? No golf—”

  “Not yet but there are wonderful beaches on the coral cays and our barrier reef provides some of the best fishing and sailing in the hemisphere.”

  Aldington nodded and examined the end of his cigarette. “Tax concessions for venture capital?”

  “That kind of capital would get excellent treatment but the government is not interested in speculators as such.”

  “That’s understandable enough.” Aldington nodded thoughtfully. “Well look, I’m out at the houseboat and—”

  “Oh,” Sanford cut in. “I heard some people came in Saturday. I saw the lights last night.”

  “Yes—well—we’ve been doing a little research here and there about the colony and I have a client who might possibly want to make a substantial investment. Instead of giving me all the details why don’t you come out for lunch and meet him?”

  “I’d like to,” Sanford said. “I’ve been wondering just what’s in that houseboat for a long time but I’ve never been aboard.”

  Aldington stood up, offered a small smile and a handshake. “Bring your maps and figures; bring anything at all that you think might be useful. You know that little pier opposite the hotel grounds? I’ll send the outboard for you,” he added when Sanford nodded.

  “I’ll be there. What time would you say?”

  Aldington said how about eleven thirty and Sanford said that would be fine.

  The fourteen-foot outboard runabout which was used as a utility craft by the houseboat personnel was halfway to the little pier when Barry Sanford walked out from the seawall, a briefcase in one hand and a roll of maps and land plots in the other. A minute later Tom Silva put the little boat skillfully alongside.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sanford,” he said as he steadied the runabout for his passenger.

  “Hi, Tom.” Sanford stepped down and pushed off. “You fina
lly got some company, hunh?”

  “Oh, yes sir.”

  “Some friends of Mr. Mooney?”

  “Business friends, I think.”

  “From Miami?”

  “From New York. Six of them. Four men, two women.”

  They were closing in on the houseboat now and Sanford again admired with some envy the two custom-built sport fishermen which, along with an eight-foot dinghy, rode so buoyantly from the corners of the houseboat.

  “Any chance of your taking those cruisers out fishing?”

  “I hear some talk of it,” Silva said. “You know Mr. Hennessy, the captain? Well, he was aboard earlier running the engines and topping the tanks. I’d sure like to get out there for a couple of days.” He put the runabout alongside an accommodation ladder and cut the motor. “Here we are. I’ll take you in when you’re ready.”

  Howard Aldington appeared in the doorway as Sanford started along the deck. He shook hands, offered a small smile, and gestured ahead of them. Then Sanford was moving into a room that impressed him greatly in spite of all the things he had heard about it. For it ran the whole width of the boat which, as a guess, he thought to be about forty feet. A stairway mounted from the right corner to the upper deck and the furniture—divans, chairs, and refectory tables—looked heavy and solidly built. The four or five large rugs on the floor looked as if they had been handwoven by Indians, there was a gun case containing both rifles and shotguns to the right of the doorway, and on the walls were trophies to prove that someone had done some hunting and fishing. A dining-room opened from the left rear. Next to it was a short hall that led to a closed door, and to the right of this was another room, the door of which stood open. It was toward this that Aldington directed him.

  At the doorway the lawyer stepped aside and Sanford had one foot across the threshold before he came to a sudden and involuntary stop. He was vaguely aware of the squarish, comfortably furnished room, the wall of books, the marlin and sailfish and tarpon mounted on a second wall, but his eyes focused on the man who sat in the leather chair beside a round table diagonally in front of him.

  His first instinctive thought when he recognized the man was that this was a trap, that he had been sucked in here to give King Hubbard the chance he had been waiting for; then, feeling only disgust inside because he could so easily give in to the pressure of his fears, the anger came, cold, intense, and purposeful.

  “This is Mr. Hubbard,” Aldington said.

  “Come in, Sanford.” Hubbard indicated a chair at the opposite side of the table. “Sit down.” He glanced at the lawyer. “This shouldn’t take long, Howard. Have the others come down. Sanford might like to meet some of them.”

  Sanford put the briefcase on the floor, placed his roll of maps beside it. He moved to the chair and sat down, dark gaze smoldering and his jaw tight as he made his first close-up inspection of the man who, by his wealth, persistence, and some odd psychopathic quirk, had made a fugitive out of him and undermined his courage.

  What he saw was a small, urbane, and elegant man with a look of wiry quickness about him. He was clad in white doeskin slacks and a figured sport shirt open to the navel. His dark tan helped to hide the signs of dissipation and physical. deterioration that were evident around the eyes and the slack lines fanning out from the mouth and chin. A sardonic, superior smile that seemed more arrogant than humorous lurked there now but it was the startling light-blue eyes that held Sanford. He could not read them and saw only a cold, blank, empty look that seemed somehow to be a reflection of some unknown evil deep inside the man. The eyes were fixed now as Hubbard reached for a half-empty glass and took a sip; they remained unblinking as he waved to the tray that held whisky, soda, a bucket of ice, and a clean glass.

  “If you’d like a drink,” he said in his cold polite way, “pour one.”

  Sanford ignored the invitation, and because his anger was slowly turning into some emotion he had never felt before, he took pains to keep his voice controlled and flat.

  “I got your letter.”

  “I thought you would. I wanted you to know.”

  “It took you quite a while to find me this time.”

  “I always find the people I want to find. I have men on my payroll who are experts on most everything.”

  Sanford believed him. Because during those weeks in New York when he seemed to be living a nightmare he had asked some questions. He had come to realize from occasional articles in news magazines and financial journals that there were a great many wealthy men in the United States who were completely unknown to the man in the street. His own experience in boatyards had given him some indication that this must be true because he knew what it cost to own and maintain a large boat, and he had often wondered who the owners were and what they did that they could afford such luxury.

  Some men, he knew, were shrewd and brilliant and had made their millions by getting in on the ground floor of some new company or new industry. After that all they had to do was watch the stock shoot up, and split its shares, and climb some more. Others, equally unknown—either because of some dislike for publicity or because they were not colorful enough in themselves to attract it—had inherited money and property and watched it grow.

  King Hubbard was one of these. His father, who had been killed in an airplane crash ten years earlier, had made his fortune starting from scratch. Oil, both leases and wildcatting in Texas and Louisiana, had been the foundation of that fortune and now there were extensive real-estate holdings in Florida and the Southwest as well as a cattle ranch, also in Florida, and extensive timber lands in Alabama. Now, with his brother dead, this man was the last of the Hubbards. What he wanted he bought; when there was a job to be done he had only to hire men who could do it …

  Sanford was aware that the cold, light-blue eyes were still watching him and now he said: “With all your money you ought to be able to find some doctor that can help you.”

  “Help me?” The dark brows lifted slightly. “In what way?”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Really?” The brows stayed high. “Well, you could be right. In one area at least. If you mean I’m still sick about what happened to my brother you’re right.”

  “Your brother was a lush and you know it. He was drunk and he staggered out between two cars right in front of me and he got hit. Nobody could have been more sorry than I was. I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t see me. I would have told his wife if I could have found her.”

  “Very touching,” Hubbard said, nothing changing in his voice or manner. “But do you think that it was just coincidence that my brother happened to be at that spot at that particular time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if it hadn’t been for you my brother wouldn’t have been there.”

  “Balls.”

  “You’re responsible for his death—I’ll prove it to you before you leave here—and you’re going to pay.”

  Sanford stifled his reply and sat slowly up in the chair, recognizing at last this new emotion which had come to replace his anger and which he had never felt before. It was hate. But unlike the sick, half-demented hate that had festered and warped Hubbard’s mind for so long, this was somehow an honest and spontaneous reaction. He was not ashamed of it because the provocation was long standing, and it took a tremendous mental effort to stop him from reaching for Hubbard and taking him by the neck.

  For a fraction of a second his imagination expanded the desire. In this brief fantasy he could feel the neck in his hands; he could feel the bones crack; he could see himself carrying the limp body to the outer deck to throw it over the side and be done with it. Then the mental spasm was over and there were only his clenched hands and cold tense nerves to remind him of the ugly urge. He made himself lean back until his pulse began to quiet, until self-control asserted itself. Once more he concentrated on his voice.

  “You’re the one who put his hand in my back on that subway platform.”

  “I was a little anxi
ous, I’m afraid,” Hubbard said in the same insolent way. “If I had waited two more seconds it would have saved a lot of trouble for both of us.”

  “You drove the truck too. Did you steal it?”

  “I don’t steal trucks but I know how to drive,” Hubbard said. “If it hadn’t been for those high steps on that brownstone house, I’d have made it that time.”

  “What happened in Miami?” Sanford said. “Or are you just a lousy shot with a pistol?”

  “That sort of thing is a little harder than you think. I’d been keeping my eye on you for a couple of days. I followed you home twice before but the odds were never quite right.”

  He finished his drink and put the glass down.

  “You see, it’s not my intention to get caught. That would be foolish. That might even result in trading my life as well as my brother’s for yours and you’re not worth quite that much, Sanford.”

  “Those two Indians you hired last night botched the job again.”

  “So I understand. I’ll admit that was a mistake. Frankly I’m a little ashamed of myself.” He gestured emptily, the fixed smile at ease and the light-blue eyes expressionless. “Put it down to impatience. You evaded me for so long I thought you’d gotten clean away.”

  “A man like you,” Sanford said in the same even tones, “should be able to do the job in person.”

  “I intend to.”

  “From some dark alley?”

  “I haven’t decided. If your suggestion is that this should be a face-to-face, man-to-man operation I’ll have to disagree. That would be like a junior welterweight taking on a light heavy—you must weigh close to a hundred and seventy-five pounds.”

  Sanford pushed back his chair, not knowing how long he could contain his emotions. While he accepted the evil this man had generated, his mind still found it difficult to understand the simple, illogical fact that Hubbard meant exactly what he said and that the continuing threat to his life was real and for keeps. He stood up and stretched to get the stiffness out of his muscles, keeping his face blank, his tone cold.