“If you’ll get Tom Suva up here I’ll take off.”
As he went over to pick up his briefcase and maps, Hubbard stepped to an intercom fastened near the doorway and pushed a button. When a voice answered he said: “Tell the boatman he has a passenger … Come out,” he added. “Meet my guests. I said I’d prove it was no coincidence that my brother tried to flag down your car that night. You might be interested to know why.”
As they entered the main lounge Sanford saw three men stood about a refectory table, glasses in hand. A woman holding a drink sat nearby; a second woman was looking out a window at one side.
“You know Howard Aldington,” Hubbard said. “This is Barry Sanford,” he added to the others. “Fred Cushman, my longtime secretary and man Friday.” A tall and bulky man about Hubbard’s age, with thinning hair and glasses nodded. “Peter Janovic”—this was a large and muscular young man with blond hair and a rugged, somewhat beat-up face—“my companion, bodyguard, and procurer … My current wife Blanche.” The blonde woman in the chair with the round puffy face and a glassy look in her blue eyes stared straight ahead. “Say hello to Mr. Sanford, darling.”
Hubbard moved up a few steps as the woman at the window turned. “And over here we have my sister-in-law. Mrs. Arthur Hubbard. But perhaps you remember her better as Laura Maynard.”
Sanford had been watching the woman turn as Hubbard spoke and even before she faced him he realized who she was. He had heard Hubbard’s words distinctly and knew somehow that they must be true, but in that first awful second or two he nearly dropped the briefcase and maps. He was staring, and he could not help it. He was aware of the growing silence but he could not break it. He could only stand there with his jaw gaping as the wave of shock and incredulity broke over him.
She looked just the same, tall for a girl, slender but with that firmly rounded body he remembered that could never be called boyish. The dark brown hair, with just a touch of red, was worn differently now, and while he was too far away to see the actual color of her eyes he knew that they were green and well spaced, just as he knew that her complexion was flawless. She was wearing a simple, pale-yellow dress and she was looking right at him, her chin up but her face grave and unsmiling.
It was King Hubbard who broke the silence. “You do remember Laura Maynard don’t you, Sanford?” he asked.
“Yes, I remember her,” Sanford said and let it go at that. For he understood now the other’s former reference to the word coincidence. Without having all the answers, he knew enough to understand what must have happened. This was the girl whose name he had never known. This was the girl he was falling in love with. This was the girl in the car who had disappeared before she could be questioned. Now, aware that Arthur Hubbard had been her husband during that odd and unrewarding courtship, but unable yet to assimilate this new knowledge or wonder why she should be here, he heard Hubbard interrupt again.
“Are you sure you won’t stop for lunch, or at least a drink?” he said, his cold, crisp manner still impeccable.
This time Sanford had no ready answer. He could feel the perspiration all over his body. Traces of shock still lingered to close off his mind, and he had only one desire—to get away as quickly as he could. He turned silently after a final glance at Hubbard, got a good grip on his briefcase and maps, and strode through the doorway. Tom Silva, spotting his passenger, touched the starter and the outboard came to life as Sanford headed for the boarding ladder.
5
The ride back with Tom Silva did little to dissipate the lingering bewilderment in Barry Sanford’s mind or untangle the congestion of thoughts that filled his head. The only fact he could accept as basic was that King Hubbard had come to Belize to kill him, or have him killed, and that Laura Maynard must somehow have come along to see that her husband’s death was avenged. It was not until he had crossed the hotel patio and noticed George Breck taking his daily sunbath on a chaise near the pool that he could turn his brain into a track that gave him room to use his native intelligence.
It could have been the sight of Breck that planted the initial seed, but by the time he was gulping a much needed gin-and-tonic at the bar the questions had started to come and he began to concentrate on some possible answers. Ever since Hubbard had discovered that he, Sanford, had left Miami on that unfinished cruise, Hubbard had been looking for him. It had taken Hubbard more than a year but he had been found. By whom?
He tried to think of the kind of people who came to British Honduras and stayed for a few days at the Ft. James Hotel. Some honeymooners, other married couples, usually young, but mostly men. Sometimes in groups to hunt or fish; more often alone and for a variety of reasons. Salesmen, businessmen, who were en route to the canneries, or the timber country around Mountain Pine Ridge, or archaeologists interested in the Maya ruins; a representative looking over investment possibilities; government men in for consultations. Of those who had arrived at the hotel in the past week he had known two. There was a young man with a full beard who was here at mealtimes, but his shorts and bush jacket seemed somehow to have a British cut. There was also George Breck, an American with the accents of the city, who had told someone he was a writer. Of what? And for whom?
As his thoughts centered on Breck, Sanford did not try to analyze the unaccountable impulse that told him it might be a good idea to see if he could learn anything more specific about the man. He started to speak to the barman, knowing that those so occupied were often founts of miscellaneous information, and then another source presented itself that seemed even better for bis purpose. He finished his drink and signed the check. The barman asked if he would like to see a luncheon menu and he waved it away, adding that he’d be back in a few minutes.
Three steps took him to the railing overlooking the pool area, and when he saw that Breck was still stretched out on the chaise he turned and started for the lobby. He knew what he wanted to do and could see no great risk involved. For they knew him well at the Ft. James. Ever since he’d had the little office in the lobby he’d been accepted by the clerks as one of the help, and he was often behind the desk using the office typewriter or the telephone.
There was a dark-eyed girl named Celia on duty now and she was leaning on the counter sorting out some bar slips when he opened the register and found that Breck had been assigned to room 14 on the second floor opposite the lounge and dining-room. Celia, not looking up, asked if she could help him and he said no, that he only wanted to check some names. When he closed the register and stepped behind her he took a quick glance round to be sure no one could observe him and slipped the key he wanted from the pigeonholed rack.
For what had started as an undeveloped impulse now had more substance. He had no assurance that the hunt would be productive but the idea seemed to have some merit now that he could concentrate his thoughts, and its genesis came from the attack on him the night before.
He had no doubt that King Hubbard had hired the two Indians. But could a stranger in town, arriving on Saturday, know enough to line up two potential killers so quickly? How would he go about it, where would he look, whom could he talk to? It appeared far more likely that Hubbard had had help in selecting the right kind of men for the attempt, a front man of some sort who had had time to do the necessary research and knew where to look. It appeared now that George Breck could be the one and this seemed like a safe time to see what could be done, either through substantiating the hunch or disproving it. With the proper authority he might find out from the telephone and cable company if Breck had sent a message to Hubbard after he had arrived on Wednesday, but since he lacked that authority he chose the more direct means and started swiftly up the stairs on the right.
The rooms on the three floors of the Ft. James Hotel were basically all alike. Entrance was from an open gallery that overlooked a narrow strip of ground separated from the street by a concrete wall topped by a wire fence. Beyond this were some better-class houses and, diagonally ahead, the small lighthouse on the point that marked th
e harbor entrance. Room 14 was halfway along the gallery and Sanford met no one as he unlocked the door. The bath was on the immediate right, a closet opposite it. The far end of the squarish room opened on a screened-in balcony overlooking the grounds, the pool and dressing rooms, and the other wing of the hotel.
Moving directly to the balcony, Sanford made sure that George Breck had stayed put and then he stepped back to consider the man’s clothing which had been placed on a chair in front of the dresser. He found what he wanted almost immediately in the hip pocket of the tan slacks, a pigskin wallet with gold corners.
Ignoring the bill compartment, he removed the credit cards and identification, and then he was looking at a photostat of a private detective’s license issued by the state of New York and giving Breck’s physical statistics and his New York City address. He said “Bingo,” softly but somehow the discovery came as no surprise because he was already prepared for it, and now he took another moment to glance about.
The hooded typewriter on the balcony table did not interest him and he walked swiftly back to the closet and opened it. When he saw the tan attaché case on the floor he swung it up and put it on the bed. It was not locked and as he lifted the lid he saw that it contained nothing but a lot of papers, none of which looked like manuscript. Still curious, and not really knowing what he was looking for, he began to leaf through the contents until he came to a letter that stopped him.
The letterhead with its New York City address meant nothing, but when he saw King Hubbard’s signature he read quickly and knew then that this was a letter of agreement dated not long after he had left Florida. In substance Hubbard had committed himself to pay ten thousand dollars when he, Barry Sanford, had been located to Hubbard’s satisfaction; until that time, unless canceled by registered mail, Breck was to receive fifty dollars a day for his work plus expenses not to exceed another fifty dollars a day.
Sanford put the letter back, having his answer now but still curious as he glanced at some of the other papers. He was at once aware that among them were hotel bills that Breck had paid over the past months, and he saw that some were from Mexico—Campeche and Progreso—as well as Merida in Yucatán, and the island of Cozumel off the Quintana Roo coast. Breck had apparently also conducted a search in Panama City, in San José in Costa Rica, and Tegucigalpa in Honduras. Then, eyes opening wider in his astonishment, he saw a receipted bill from the Ft. James Hotel which suggested that Breck had been here hi Belize for a three-day stay last July.
As he tried to remember where he had been at the time and why he had not seen Breck before, he stepped back to the balcony. The detective was just then getting to his feet and reaching for his robe, and Sanford moved swiftly, replacing the papers and returning the attaché case to the closet. He had no trouble slipping the key to room 14 back in the rack behind the lobby desk, and when he reached the cocktail lounge Breck was perched on a stool watching the barman open a bottle of beer.
A checked cotton robe had been draped across his back and shoulders, and he was wearing light-blue nylon swim trunks and sandals. His brown hair, nearly dry now, lay flat and looked thinner than usual. The tanned, angular face retained its shrewd hard-bitten look but the gray eyes seemed watchful even as recognition brought a small grin.
“Hi,” he said in his city voice. “What’ve you got to say? How about a drink?”
“Thanks,” Sanford said, “but I think I’d better eat. I have to see a fellow later.”
He nodded and went into the dining-room, and by the time the waiter came he knew why he had missed Breck last July. Luck, apparently, had postponed his meeting with King Hubbard for nearly nine months because, remembering the dates on the hotel bill, he knew this was the time he had taken the ketch up to Corozal, which was on the coast just south of the Mexican border and not far from Chetumal. This was the sugar-growing area and he had taken a long week end to meet some of the mill owners and see for himself just how much activity there was in the area.
Now deciding that he was not very hungry, he ordered a lobster sandwich and a glass of beer. While he waited he glanced at his wristwatch and saw that there was plenty of time before Superintendent Kirby could be expected back from lunch in his office at Police Headquarters.
6
It was just two o’clock when Barry Sanford turned into the walled courtyard which closed Police Headquarters off from the street. An outside wooden stairway on the left led to the second floor of an ordinary-looking building which seemed little different from some of the houses in town. A sizable open room held a number of desks at which uniformed personnel were doing clerical work, and Sanford stood glancing about until the sergeant at the first desk decided to rise and ask him what he wanted.
“I’d like to see Superintendent Kirby,” Sanford said. “Tell him Barry Sanford.”
The sergeant said he’d see and disappeared into a private office on the left. A moment later he came out to nod and indicate the door he had left open.
The office Sanford entered was small and ordinary-looking. There were windows on two sides and one wall was nearly filled with a map of the colony, red lines marking off the police divisons. There were four chairs, two filing cabinets, and a flat-topped desk. The man who now rose from behind the desk and offered his hand was stocky and ruddy-faced, with a small neat mustache, bright blue eyes and sandy hair. His brown oxfords had a high polish and his shorts and the shirt with the silver pips on the shoulders were immaculate.
Sanford had met Superintendent Kirby before and had talked to him a few times at parties. He knew that he was a colonial service man who had served in posts in Africa before the independence rush had started. He was one of the three white officers assigned to Belize and would perhaps some day be Commissioner. Now, not sure that he knew Kirby well enough to call him by his first name, Alan, Sanford sat down. As he fumbled for a way to start the conversation, Kirby helped him.
“I heard about your trouble last night, Barry,” he said. “A nasty bit of business.”
“That fellow—whatever his name is—”
“Corvado.”
“—did he talk at all?”
“Not enough to help much I’m afraid.”
“What does he say about that hundred dollars?”
“Just what he told the sergeant last night. He found it. He doesn’t know where.”
“What about the guy with him? I never did get a good look at him.”
“Nothing there at all yet but we’re working on it.”
“What’s his excuse for jumping me with a knife?”
“He says he didn’t intend to use it. He’d been drinking with his friend—he’s mentioned no names yet—and when he saw you coming along he decided to turn his hand to a little robbery. He says the knife was only meant to threaten you but—”
“He’s nuts,” Sanford said flatly.
Kirby’s sun-bleached brows lifted. “Oh? Do you have some other thought?”
“I think he was hired. Not to lift my wallet but to use that knife,” Sanford said and produced the printed note he had in the mail. To explain why he had not received it until the previous evening he spoke of the two-day cruise he had taken on the Cay Queen with the men from Barclays Bank.
“The clerk on the desk at the hotel said it came Saturday. At least it was delivered then.”
Kirby handled the sheet of paper gingerly. He turned it over, examined the back, and again read the message. He placed it in the center of his desk.
“Miami,” he said. “Posted Thursday. You have some idea who sent it?”
“I know who sent it. The trouble is I can’t prove it.”
“What does it mean—three times and out?”
“There were three earlier attempts. Quite a while ago. Last night was the fourth. It took the guy quite a while to find me down here.”
There was a look of mild bewilderment in Kirby’s blue eyes as he leaned back in his chair.
“You actually mean that someone has tried to kill you on four diff
erent occasions? Someone who is now here in the colony? Who?”
“I don’t know what your laws are down here,” Sanford said. “I don’t want to make any formal accusations that I can’t substantiate.”
“Suppose we keep it informal, then,” Kirby said. “You have certain suspicions. Suppose you tell me about them. Who’s the man?”
“His name is King Hubbard. He’s out on the houseboat. I talked to him a while a couple of hours ago.”
“Hubbard?” Kirby leaned forward, opened a folder on his desk, and ran his finger down one of the pages. “Oh, yes. Party of six, plus two pilots. Came in by private aircraft Saturday morning. Arrived Stanley Field 10:40. A friend of Mr. Mooney’s, I take it.”
“It looks that way.”
“Wealthy?”
“Very.”
“Suppose you tell me the rest of it.” Kirby leaned away from the desk again and gave an idle wave with one hand. “Why this man should want to kill you, what started it—the whole business.”
“I’d like to,” Sanford said. “But I should warn you that it will take a little while.”
“I have the time.”
“It may sound crazy. I’ve never told anyone before because it’s one of those things that I’ve had a hard time accepting myself.”
“Try me.”
Sanford took a breath while he marshaled his thoughts and then he began by telling how he had literally run into Laura Maynard in the quiet Eastside bar a little more than a year and a half ago. He tried to trace the progress of the clandestine affair and did his best to make it clear why he had continued to see her when he did not know her name or who she really was.
“She set the conditions,” he said. “I knew if I tried to follow her and she found it out, that would be the end of it and I was too attracted to her to take a chance. I got the idea that one of the reasons she didn’t want to be known was that she was already married but somehow that didn’t bother me too much. I figured if she had a husband she couldn’t be happy. Maybe I hoped she was getting ready to divorce him. I’m not sure what I thought because I wouldn’t take the time to analyze the situation; maybe I was a little afraid to.”
With Intent to Kill Page 4
