One Hour to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I suppose you made a written report for my wife?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You would also keep a copy for your files?” Wallace asked and glanced at the one-drawer metal cabinet across the desk.

  “It is customary to do so.”

  “I understand that it would be a breach of ethics to sell those copies.” Wallace paused and was again aware of the mans interest in the money. “Tell me,” he added finally, “have you heard what happened to Mrs. Wallace?”

  “I have, sir. That is why I was surprised to see you at this time.”

  “Those reports are no longer important to her then, are they?”

  “It is not for me to say.”

  “I was wondering how your memory is.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well—like what you did during that week in February, what you saw.” Wallace reached for a cigarette to occupy both hands and deliberately moved his chair back a foot. This brought the ten-dollar bills closer to the detective than to him. “Perhaps you could think of a couple places I went.”

  Rahmat pulled out the file drawer and removed a folder. He opened it, glanced casually at the pages inside, then put it aside.

  “There was an afternoon you spend at the cottage on Manzanilla Bay occupied by a Mr. Joslyn and his niece. Another time you had a picnic lunch on the beach near St. Joseph below Point Radix. You did some painting while Miss Joslyn read her book. The same thing happened at the beach at Maracas and this time you went bathing before you left.”

  Wallace listened with mounting respect for Rahmat’s abilities. He remembered each instance distinctly but he could not recall anyone in a car observing them or following them.

  “You’re good,” he said. “I don’t recall seeing you at all.”

  “You were not looking. Your interest was elsewhere, was it not?” Rahmat showed his yellow teeth and reached for the two bills with a smooth and unhurried movement. As they were folded into the big hand he said, with a certain pride: “You would pay little attention to a man of my color in a workman’s clothes, especially if you saw me driving what you Americans call a pickup truck. They are everywhere. Even at the beaches.”

  Wallace stood up and found his face was hot and damp. He wiped it with his handkerchief. He thanked Rahmat for his co-operation and was rewarded with another grin. He made no effort to shake hands and the detective remained watchful and motionless as he backed from the room. . . .

  A cloud formation moving off the mountain range from the north put a shadow over the street as Wallace stepped from the narrow entryway. A brief shower had wet the pavement but the nearby buildings, like so many of the older ones, had overhanging galleries above the ground floors to give shelter from the sun and rain. The sidewalk was dry here, and as he paused to glance down the street to see if he could see Ann, he heard someone speak to him.

  “Mr. Wallace?”

  He turned to see a light-skinned Negro in a wrinkled gray suit holding a shield out for his inspection.

  “Detective Sergeant Ramson, sir. C.I.D.”

  Wallace looked at him then, heart sinking and a sudden dryness at the back of his throat. He swallowed and took a quick breath in an effort to still his fluttering nerves. By that time he was also aware of the police sedan parked diagonally across the street.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Superintendent Perkins would like to see you.”

  “And who’s Perkins?”

  “The acting head of C.I.D.”

  “How did you find me?”

  Ramson put away his shield. “You have been under surveillance for some time.”

  Because I don’t look at colored people, Wallace thought bitterly. Because I don’t see.

  He glanced covertly to his right as he hesitated. When he saw the familiar sedan he was grateful that Ann had noticed him and pulled to a stop to double-park some distance away. He made what he hoped would be a warning gesture with the hand that hung at his side and told himself that she should recognize a police car when she saw it. When Ramson asked if he had his own car he said no and then he was following the sergeant across the street while the plain-clothes man at the wheel stepped on the starter.

  16

  Police Headquarters in Port-of-Spain is housed in a gray-stone structure with a medieval look. From St. Vincent Street broad stone steps led to high arched doors and a stranger would be hard put to know if the original design was meant to be a church, a castle, a fort, or a composite of all three. Beyond the main building is a sizeable quadrangle used for parking, on the far side of which stands a three-story building with galleries facing the quadrangle and open stairs connecting them.

  On the Sackville Street side there is an entrance for cars guarded by a uniformed constable smartly clad in black trousers with red stripes, an immaculate white-duck jacket with a wide cordovan-colored belt, and a white pith helmet. The police car carrying Wallace rated a salute, and when they were parked the sergeant escorted him to the rear section, which was the quarters for the C.I.D. While Wallace waited, the sergeant stuck his head into a small, dark, and uninviting office and spoke to someone inside. A moment later Detective Inspector Edwards appeared.

  “Ah, Mr. Wallace,” he said. “Follow me, please.”

  While the sergeant went about his duties, Wallace climbed a long flight of stairs on his left. At one end of the second-floor gallery he could see two men working in the photographic department; at the other end a dozen or more plain-clothes workers were busy with what looked like a hundred metal filing cabinets, apparently the department of records.

  The door that Edwards chose was, in a sense, only a half door and reminded Wallace of pictures of old-time saloons with swinging doors that began two feet off the ground and extended upward little more than head high. Edwards pushed back one half of the door and held it, and Wallace found himself in a small square waiting room. The door at the end of this was open and Edwards stepped in front of him to knock on the casing.

  “Mr. Wallace, sir.”

  “Very good, Inspector.”

  Edwards nodded and Wallace stepped into a larger office with a modest, flat-topped desk and six wooden chairs of native construction that looked heavy and had sloping backs. The man behind the desk was a huskily-built Negro with a round head and a very black face. His brown suit was well cut, his shirt was white with a conservatively striped tie, and his brown oxfords had a high polish. He nodded, allowed himself a small smile that hinted at perfect white teeth. His accent was native with overtones of British.

  “I’m Superintendent Perkins, Mr. Wallace,” he said. “Good of you to come in. Take this chair, will you?” he added and indicated the one closest to the desk.

  “Is this by any chance an arrest?” Wallace asked.

  “Not at all.” *

  “But you’ve had me followed.”

  “Naturally. You’re a suspect. You must know that . . . No, what I want you to do now is to go over the statement you made this morning.” He picked up some typewritten pages held together by a clip, glanced at one set, and pushed the second across the desk. “There are one or two points I would like to go over with you. Would you care to read this first?”

  The telephone rang as Wallace picked up the statement and he heard Perkins say: “Yes . . .Yes. Very good. Hold this for me.” He stood up and nodded to Edwards. As the two started from the room, he called over his shoulder: “Take your time, Mr. Wallace. We want it right, you know.”

  Wallace scanned the pages and from what he could see they were in order but they did nothing to still his rising nervousness. He felt hot and uncomfortable and he had difficulty controlling his thoughts. He tried to speculate on what would happen next and then tried not to. He got a cigarette going, wiped his sweating palms, and when he heard the two officers returning, did his best to seem unperturbed.

  “Would you care to make any changes?” Perkins asked when he sat down.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I’m af
raid there are some points that need clarification.” Perkins leafed through the statement. “You state here that after Miss Shirley Goddard had left the bungalow last night you read and listened to the short-wave radio and had some drinks. You’re not sure when you went to bed but it was late. You did not use your car again, or leave the bungalow?”

  Wallace had a hard time meeting the Superintendent’s steady unremitting gaze. There was shrewdness here, and intelligence, but there was something else that was deeply disconcerting. He did not know what Perkins was driving at but he could feel the perspiration starting again. Something warned him that no matter what he said Perkins would pounce but since he had no choice he said:

  “That’s right.”

  Perkins picked up a small slip of paper. “I have a notation here from Police Constable Adams. He was on bicycle patrol last night in Arima. He states that at approximately 11:20 he observed a sedan being driven at a rapid rate at the eastern end of the main street. He was too late to stop the car but he did take down the license number. It was issued to a rental agency and they have informed me that the car has been assigned to you.”

  “All right,” Wallace said, knowing when he was licked and remembering now the constable he had seen. “I was taking a ride.”

  “Just a ride, or did you have a destination in mind?”

  “I can tell you where I went if I have to. I don’t think I want to do it now.”

  “Perhaps I can help you if I say you went to the cottage now occupied by a Mr. Sidney Joslyn.” Perkins waited while Wallace tried to make up his mind and then, indicating the telephone, he said: “That call was from one of my men. He had just finished interviewing Hassan Rahmat. We were curious to know why you would be calling on a private investigator. We decided to interrogate him.”

  He paused again and Wallace waited for the rest of it, a growing vacuum where his stomach had been. When he made no reply, Perkins continued.

  “You see, Mr. Wallace, to do business here a private investigator needs the good will of the police department. We, in turn, expect co-operation. Hassan Rahmat decided it might be wise in this case since he had already violated a confidence by talking to you.” He leaned forward slightly, his dark gaze fixed. “You were friendly with Miss Ann Joslyn.”

  “I was, and am.”

  “You have had continuing trouble with your wife. So long as you were married, your friendship with Miss Joslyn could only remain that. You quarreled violently last night, as the scratches on your hand indicate. This is a classic pattern, Mr. Wallace. You should realize this . . . Now do you care to add anything about that trip you made last night? And again I must caution you that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.”

  Wallace sat up and stuck his chin out a fraction of an inch and then, unaccountably, something happened inside him. It was as though he was suddenly aware-that his passive and defeatist attitude had become too much to bear. The idea sickened him and to counteract the feeling he spoke aggressively.

  “What’s there to add?” he demanded. “I had a fight with my wife. I was fed up with things in general and myself in particular. I wanted to get the hell out of there and get some air. I didn’t have any destination in mind when I started but once I was in the country I decided to keep going. I wanted to talk, to get things off my chest, and Sidney Joslyn is not only a good friend of mine but a very understanding guy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Inspector Edwards this? Why evade the issue?”

  “Because I didn’t want to involve Joslyn, or his niece.” He stuck out his chin a fraction more and his voice was clipped. “Is it all right if I ask some questions?”

  Perkins leaned back and tipped one hand. “Certainly.”

  “You’ve been following me. Okay. That’s your job. But since I say I didn’t kill my wife I know someone else did. One of your men cleaned out the ash trays at the bungalow this morning. He found some cigar ashes and I told him Joe Anderson was the only one I knew who smokes cigars. That still goes. So what about that hundred-dollar check you found in my wife’s wallet?”

  He hesitated, not daring to tell the truth or let on that he had examined his wife’s checkbook the night before but deciding a modest lie would do no harm.

  “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the first check Anderson had given her. Why?”

  Perkins nodded and for an instant he seemed impressed.

  “You are right, Mr. Wallace. The Assistant Manager at the Colonial Bank was very helpful in that area. Actually, there were five checks.”

  “Did you speak to Anderson?”

  Perkins looked at Edwards. “Inspector?”

  Edwards coughed politely and said: “Mr. Anderson says Mrs. Wallace was working for him. He says Mrs. Wallace met a lot of people in her job at the Hillside and that he paid her to find prospects for his real-estate development. He had some other expression—”

  “Bird dog?” Wallace said.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “So Anderson paid my wife a hundred a week to find real-estate prospects.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Okay,” Wallace said, no longer quite so hopeful. “Then maybe you know that Neil Benedict made a fifty-pound bet for my wife and turned over more than five hundred bucks to her yesterday afternoon.”

  “We were able to obtain information about that too,” Edwards said and went on to repeat much the same story Benedict had told Wallace earlier. “Of course,” he added, “there could be more to it than that.”

  “You’re damn right there could be,” Wallace said. “Both he and Anderson—Nick Rand too—had their little fling with my wife. Maybe they slept with her, maybe not. But I can tell you now that once she had her hooks in a man she hated to let go. I can’t blame you for checking on me, but don’t stop there.” Perkins, who seemed not to be listening, had opened the center drawer of his desk and now he unfolded some tissue paper. What Wallace saw looked at first like tiny sugar crystals until, leaning forward, he saw the triangular sliver of glass. Before he could place it, Perkins explained.

  “When the ash trays were emptied and examined, we found this piece of glass. This afternoon the Inspector had your living room vacuumed, which explains those other fragments. We found a lady’s spectacle case this morning. Your wife’s?”

  “If it was a black brocaded one, yes.”

  “But no glasses?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Wallace said, remembering now that he had not seen them. “I didn’t bother to look.”

  “The reason I asked,” Perkins said picking up the triangular bit, “is that we learned that this fragment is not from, say, a drinking glass; it is optical glass. Last night when she scratched you, you didn’t break her glasses?” —

  “No, I did not. That piece you have in your hand, if you found it in an ash tray, was put there by me. The maid stepped on it and cut her foot before I came out for breakfast.” Perkins gave the statement some thought, nodded, and began to refold the tissue. Wallace, fidgeting now, found his mind going back to Joe Anderson and decided there was something else he should say.

  “Another thing about Anderson: I can prove he drove to my bungalow last night not too far from the time you say my wife was killed. Did your medical examiner give another estimate?”

  “We call him a pathologist here,” Perkins said. “His best estimate is that there was one hour when your wife could have been killed.”

  “Between nine and ten?”

  “Right. Now what is this evidence about Mr. Anderson?”

  “His car was seen turning into my lane about”—he hesitated while he recalled what Joslyn had told him—“five minutes after ten.”

  “By whom?” New interest narrowed the Superintendent’s dark gaze and again he leaned forward.

  “I’d rather not say right now, but I can tell you if I have to.”

  “You may have to.”

  “All I’m asking from you is to get off my back long enough to put a little press
ure on Anderson.”

  He stood up, not knowing whether he would be allowed to leave but mentally crossing his fingers and hoping his uncertainty did not show. When Perkins rose with him he took heart; the reply that followed had a simple sincerity that made him feel still better.

  “We intend to, Mr. Wallace.” Perkins again picked up the typed pages. “We will also make the necessary changes in your statement. I shall have to ask you to come in again in the morning, say at ten. In your own car? Or shall I send for you?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “If I may make a suggestion, it might be wise for you to bring an attorney.”

  “Oh?” Wallace managed a wry smile as he absorbed the warning. “You mean, I might need some expert legal advice.”

  “Possibly. In any event, you might feel better if you had someone on hand to protect your interests. Perhaps your Consul can suggest someone.”

  17

  Superintendent Perkins’s warning had a deep effect on Dave Wallace, and as he came out on the gallery in the fading afternoon light a new sense of depression and futility settled heavily upon him. He felt a slight breeze when he started down the long flight of stairs, and, realizing now that his shirt was sticking to his back, he slipped off the jacket and pulled the fabric away from his skin so the air could get at it. Not until he stepped out on the paved courtyard did it occur to him that he did not know where he was going. Before he could worry about it, a car horn beep-beeped impudently at him and now a bare arm waved from a lowered window in the second row of parked cars diagonally ahead of him.

  When he realized it was Ann, the curtain of his depression lifted. The sight of her brought a quick grin of relief and he was so glad to see her that he was in the sedan and sitting beside her before his delayed amazement found expression. He looked at the other cars; he considered the shed at one end where the more important officials parked in the shade and said: