The effect of her presence was at once apparent in Lambert. His quick smile was broad and genuine and his eyes were bright with approval as he stepped back to inspect her.
“No, we’re not busy,” he said. “How pretty you look.”
“Do I?” She smiled and touched her hair. “Well, beauty parlors are wonderful institutions…. Or do you mean my frock? It’s new. Do you like it?”
It was a print dress, the pattern dark and reminding Barry of a Paisley shawl. The neckline was rounded and nicely filled and she displayed it with obvious delight, pirouetting with skirts swirling and well-shaped knees exposed. Then, once more aware of Barry, she stopped.
“You’re not going?”
Barry said he was afraid he had to, and when he glanced over his shoulder as he passed through the front door he could tell by the way they were looking at each other that he had already been forgotten.
CHAPTER TWO
BARRY DAWSON did not show the diamond to Lynn Sanford at dinner that evening. He had fully intended to do so and had purposely not mentioned it over cocktails because he wanted to save the news. Now he could tell by the small furrows at the bridge of her nose and the sudden cloudiness of her hazel eyes that she disapproved of this thing he had done.
They were sitting in the dining-room of the Windsor and a soft night breeze had begun to filter through the three open sides, one of which gave on the enormous lounge, itself open on three sides and two stories high. They were waiting for ices and coffee, and because he was so much in love with her and wanted to share all experiences, he had told of his afternoon’s work. Her reaction was disquieting, and, it seemed to him, a bit unreasonable.
“But I thought you hated Colin Lambert,” she said.
“I don’t hate anybody.”
“He tricked you out of several hundred dollars,” she said as though she had not heard. “‘Gypped’ was the word you used.”
“But I didn’t work for Lambert today, I worked for Hudson.”
“I wouldn’t trust him either. He looks like one of your dressed-up American gangsters I’ve seen in the films. The way he talks, and always wearing those dark glasses. And why,” she asked, wound up now, “should he hire you in the first place? Why not go to Clarke & Company and get one of their diamond experts?”
“I told you,” Barry said as reasonably as he could. “I spent six months diving for diamonds and sorting them and sending them out. I even bought a few here and there from the natives. Before that I spent two weeks with Clarke & Company watching the cutters work and even trying my hand at polishing. I asked a million questions and I found out something about how diamonds are graded and evaluated. I’m not exactly a beginner.” He took a breath and said: “Hudson found out all about me. He said he had a chance to make a private deal. It would have to be confidential, but—”
“That’s just it,” Lynn said. “Doesn’t the fact that it’s a private deal suggest that it’s not exactly according to Hoyle? That it might be illegal?”
“But I don’t know that,” Barry said, a little irritated by her logic and annoyed with himself that this should be so. “I don’t know what Hudson’s going to do with the diamonds, and I don’t give a—Look,” he said. “If a man is hired to appraise a used car, does he ask if it has been stolen? If he appraises a piece of property—”
“All right, darling.” And suddenly the frown was gone and a smile dispelled the cloudiness in her glance. She reached out to cover his hand with her own. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you did anything wrong. It’s just that—”
The arrival of the waiter with coffee terminated the thought, and she quickly withdrew her hand while the man poured and went away.
“I’m sorry you don’t approve,” Barry said, unable so quickly to recover his normal good humor. “Your womanly intuition says both Hudson and Lambert are crooks, but all I know is that I did a job of work this afternoon and I’ve got a hundred bucks, American, in my pocket to prove it. I’ll get another hundred tomorrow when Hudson closes the deal. I can use those dollars and you know it.”
He paused, but there was no argument, nor would she look at him as she stirred her coffee.
“I’ve got all the local money I need to get me through next week,” he said, “and my plane ticket is paid for. But I’ve only got a few hundred in my account in New York, and this two hundred means we can get married just that much sooner. Once I’m sure about the job and—”
“You’ve already had a cable saying you could have it back.” She glanced up, no censure in her eyes and her small smile wistful. “If I had my way I’d go with you.”
The look she gave him melted him instantly and he swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d like it too, baby. It’s just that—well, I’m not going to take you back and stick you in some two-by-four hotel room. I want to get set first—I don’t even know where they’ll send me—and find a place to live, and some furniture. I want it to be right.”
“I’m not arguing, darling. It’s your country I’m coming to and you should know—” She broke off as her glance went beyond Barry, and he saw now that a bellboy had stopped beside him.
“Telephone, Mr. Dawson.”
He took the call in the lobby and he thought then that Colin Lambert’s voice seemed upset as he asked if Barry could stop by that evening. Barry said yes, and what time, and Lambert said nine thirty.
He told Lynn about it as he walked with her to the house where she lived—alone except for a daytime maid now that her uncle was on one of his periodic trips to his logging camp upcountry. When she had unlocked the door and he had gone in to turn on the lights and glance round, he kissed her and her arms came tightly around his neck as she kissed him back. There was no reference to their near-argument and when he left it was with her promise to have lunch with him tomorrow.
Because it was early he went back to the hotel and sipped a brandy in the downstairs bar, thinking of the things that had happened and wondering what Lambert could want. When he glanced at his watch and saw that it was nine twenty-seven, he left the bar and started walking toward the Lambert bungalow, which was only a little more than two blocks away.
He almost made it. He had gone slightly more than half the distance along the quiet tree-lined street when the heavens opened without warning and the rain came down. There had been other showers the past few days now that the rainy season was at hand, and this one followed the pattern in its abruptness and violence.
With the first drops he looked for shelter, knowing that even if he sprinted the remaining block he would be drenched before he could reach the bungalow. But luckily there stood at his right hand and but a few feet from the sidewalk a sanctuary of sorts, a decaying and darkened house, apparently abandoned but still supporting the characteristically high veranda. Four steps through the tangled and matted grass gave him the shelter he sought, for the rain came straight down as though from some enormous fire hose, and there was no breeze to whip it under the overhead cover.
He knew the shower would stop as suddenly as it began, that it might last a half-hour or ten minutes. He would be late for his appointment, but since there was no help for it, he lit a cigarette, hearing nothing at all but the pounding of the rain. A reckless cyclist, already drenched and pedaling furiously, sped past as he watched. A luckless woman followed, her dress plastered to her body and her dark hair matted and dripping as she hunched protectively over the bundle she hugged to her chest.
A car whipped round the corner, its motor soundless in the downpour and its headlights blinding him as they swept past. The taillight vanished almost immediately and he flipped the cigarette away as his impatience mounted. Then, suddenly, it was over. There was no slackening. The watery violence simply stopped as though someone had closed the giant valve, and instantly the night was quiet and only the puddles and the dripping trees remained to bear testimony to the shower.
As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he saw a darkskinned couple emerge from behind the trunk of a giant t
amarind tree and start toward the lights of Main Street. A little farther on a dark-suited Negro wheeled his bicycle from under a near-by veranda; then Barry was turning in toward Lambert’s bungalow, aware of the extensive puddle at the edge of the pavement that glistened darkly with reflected light.
The Demerara shutters at the front of the bungalow had been closed, but some illumination showed in the slanted cracks, and as Barry went up the high steps he saw that the front door stood open. Hesitating here as he knocked, he stepped inside and called ahead to ask if anyone was home. It was when he took the second step and his glance cleared the wall cabinet in front of him that he saw Colin Lambert.
He lay near the desk, his face hidden and his body resting on one side, the knees flexed slightly and one arm doubled under him. Clad now in slacks and a blue flannel blazer, he had somehow a limp and crumpled look, but in those first quick seconds Barry felt more startled than alarmed.
“Lambert!” he called, his voice sounding tight in his ears. “Lambert!”
And then he was moving, breath held and nerves tightening. Aware at the moment only of the figure on the floor, he dropped to one knee. From his angle of vision he saw no wound or sign of blood and now he reached out to shake a limp shoulder and once more call the man’s name.
It was the touch of his hand that did it, some slight pressure of his grip. He felt the weight shift and his scalp crawled. Before he could prevent it Colin Lambert rolled slowly over onto his back, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, the bloodstained shirt front exposed.
For perhaps two seconds Barry froze there, his gaze horrified and fixed. Unable yet to think, he reached automatically for a hand that was as warm as his own. Lamplight glistened on his shiny face as he felt for a pulse beat that never came. The wrist slid from his slippery fingers and thumped to the floor, and now the horror began to expand inside him as he realized that the dark stain was slowly widening before his eyes.
What he did then he had cause to regret. His breath came out in a long blast and he swallowed against this new sickness. He saw that the desk cupboards were open. He could see part of the little safe, but all he could think of at the moment was his recent trouble with Lambert which Albert had witnessed. He wondered about Albert now, and then he was in flight, not knowing what caused the blood or caring, but motivated by some strange panic and perhaps a conscience overloaded with doubts.
He was not actually aware that he had fled until he found himself on the wet sidewalk. He knew he was walking very fast and gulping down the sweet night air as instinct carried him on. Then, hardly realizing it, his pace slowed and he became aware of the puddles on the sidewalk. He began to avoid them, and now, a half-block from the hotel, he stopped as sanity returned and his mind began to function.
Even as his nerves steadied he knew that what he had done was wrong, and he was instantly ashamed of the panic which had seized him. To counteract it he turned deliberately, hating himself for the display of weakness as he began to retrace his steps, slowly at first and then more quickly as his stride lengthened. This time reason kept pace with him. He told himself that he was not even sure Lambert was dead. A doctor might be needed. And suppose someone had seen him enter or leave the house at that time? Once that fact was known to the police he would indeed be in serious trouble.
Such thoughts served to alert him to his surroundings as he drew near the bungalow. The long black finger of accumulated water remained flat and glistening at the side of the pavement, and up ahead a car was parked. He could not remember if it had been there earlier. A tree trunk obscured part of its license tag, but he noticed that the first two markings were X-l. He might have tried to read the rest of it if his attention had not been distracted by some shadow of movement on the grassy strip next to the pavement.
All along here the high-branched trees marched in rows, and one of them stood just short of the path which led to Lambert’s bungalow. The movement had come from here, but not until he had stepped closer was he sure that a man was standing there, as motionless as the trunk itself, the color of his clothes merging with the bark so that only the pale outline of his face was visible.
Having turned that way, Barry kept moving. He did not know who it was or why he should be here, but the impulse to know more was upon him now and he stepped up, reaching for a cigarette as he did so and seeing the man push away from the tree trunk.
“Have you got a match?”
In the moment that followed he knew only that the man was somewhat shorter than he was, that the khaki drill suit hung loosely on his spare frame, that the shoulders were stooped. Then the other was fumbling in his pocket and saying: “Why, yes, I think so.”
“Will you have a cigarette?”
“Ah—no, thanks.”
The matches in the small box were tiny, but Barry had grown accustomed to their use here in Georgetown and the resulting flame was sufficient for his needs. Holding it to one side so he could see beyond it, he took a long hard look at the man before he lit the cigarette. When darkness came again the picture he had seen was clear-cut and distinct—the thin, slack-skinned face beneath the battered felt hat, the dark eyes, the mustache, the mole below the left cheekbone. He also noticed that, except for a rain spot here and there, apparently drippings from the tree, the hat and jacket were dry. This told him that the man had taken shelter during the shower—if he had been out at all.
“Thanks,” he said. “Waiting for someone?”
“Waiting? Oh, no…. No. I—I just stopped to tie my shoe.”
With that he side-stepped quickly and started off down the street with a shuffling sort of gait, leaving Barry to watch him, to wonder if he should have tried to stop him. When he could find no answer to this he mounted the steps to the veranda, and in another moment his gaze fastened on the still figure by the desk and the man was forgotten.
He knew at once that something about the room had changed. The body was as he remembered it, but the desk drawers were open now and the top of it was littered with papers and envelopes, some of which had spilled over onto the floor. He could see the top of the drawer safe, and that made him remember the pouch of diamonds Lambert had locked there that afternoon.
The thought was strangely disturbing and it took an effort to keep his hands from the safe. He wanted to know if it was locked even as he knew he should not touch it. Instead he knelt again beside the crumpled figure and tried again to find some sign of life. He was still there when some sound, or a whisper of a sound, caught his ear.
He might not have noticed it ordinarily, but he was still shaken by the circumstances of his discovery and for an instant he wondered if it was some quirk of instinct that made him notice it, some imaginative pressure born of senses too sharply tuned.
Some seconds later he thought he heard the sound again, but its faintness had no character, only direction, and now, as he came silently to his feet, a new host of disturbing thoughts flooded through his mind.
Someone had been in the room since he had left it no more than five minutes earlier. Someone had searched the desk.
That the someone might have been the killer seemed obvious. And if this was true he must have been hidden in one of the darkened rooms at the rear, watching him, Barry, enter after the shower and leave so soon afterwards in panic. Such thoughts jolted nerves already ragged and he stilled them deliberately as he glanced intently about the broad room which stretched across the front of the house.
The shutters remained closed, but beyond the desk the door that gave on that side of the veranda stood open. The opposite door remained closed and now, wondering if Lambert had been shot but still not seeing any gun, he strode unhesitatingly toward the side door and stepped out into the night.
He heard the car start at that moment. He heard the grinding of gears in quick acceleration, and by the time he had run to the front of the veranda, remembering now the car that had been parked beyond the puddle, he saw that the street was empty and there was no sound but the faint drippings fr
om the trees and the overhang of the tin roof.
Back in the living-room once more, he moved quickly to the telephone stand near the inner hallway. When the operator connected him with police headquarters he said what he had to say and hung up. Only then did he move to the desk and consider the scattered papers which littered the top. Here were statements, receipts, letters; there were reports on various enterprises in which Lambert had some interest. There was a two-page list, apparently a résumé of his current holdings, which contained the description of certain properties as well as a statement of shares owned in stock companies here and abroad.
Before he had time to examine the list more closely he heard the sound of a car in the street outside and wondered if it had stopped in front of the house. He stepped back, waiting, and presently he heard a soft step on the veranda, followed by a knock.
A voice said: “Anyone home?” and then Louis Amanti moved into the room.
Amanti was Lambert’s lawyer and Lynn Sanford’s employer, a plump, olive-skinned man with black hair and a round, expressionless face. Dressed in a white drill suit complete with waistcoat, he stood with his hat in his hand until his gaze moved past Barry and fixed on Lambert’s body. Then he darted swiftly forward, addressing Barry but not looking at him.
“What is it?” he said sharply. “What happened? What’s wrong with him?”
By that time he had bent down to see the dark stain on the chest, and the hand he had put out halted in mid-air. He gulped a breath with an open-mouthed, audible sound. He jerked erect and stared at Barry.
“Dead?” he said.
“Yes.”
“But—how?”
“I don’t know. He was that way when I found him.”
“When?”
“Three minutes ago. Five. I don’t know.”
“Did you call—”
“I called the police,” Barry said and now, hearing another car brake suddenly out in the street: “I guess they’re here now.”
Man on a Rope Page 2
