One Hour to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  “You must have liked to read your press clippings.”

  “Who doesn’t? That’s what keeps the clip services in business.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I like to remind myself how good things used to be.”

  “Didn’t you like São Paulo?”

  “Not particularly. I didn’t get away with that kind of dough and São Paulo’s expensive. Also, the reporters knew I was there and they were always in my hair.”

  He paused and said: “When I decided to give the place the air it was not too hard. All I had to do was get up the money for a phony passport and the necessary papers. I hit Paramaribo in Surinam first, and believe me, there’s nothing there for a guy like me. Georgetown, in British Guiana, isn’t much better. To put any money in there without knowing the kind of government they’re going to wind up with didn’t make any sense. I like it here. I think I may have something. Land values in the city are fantastic. Did you know you can get from fifty to a hundred grand for an acre in the right spot?”

  “So that’s why you were paying Fay a hundred a week,” Wallace said, no longer interested in the other’s reminiscences.

  “What the hell else could I do? As long as she had that envelope-even without it, I guess—she had me over a barrel. That much I could afford, so I paid her.””

  “I guess she got greedy. Yesterday—or was it the day before?—she must have told you she wanted a big payoff or else.”

  “She said she’d had it in Trinidad, but I guess it was the other way around. She’d run out of boy friends and the natives were getting wise to her. She was getting ready to take off and she was making her collections while she could—from anybody she could get it from. She said she thought she could get a hunk from you on a divorce settlement and she wanted ten grand from me.” He took a breath and exhaled noisily. “I guess I could have scraped it up but—”

  “But you didn’t,” Wallace finished. “You drove down to the bungalow around five minutes after ten to have it out with her, and that much I can prove. You couldn’t make a deal, or didn’t want to, so you grabbed her by that necklace and hung on.”

  “Funny thing,” Anderson said as though he had not been paying attention. “I bought that necklace for her after we’d had a couple of dates.”

  “And then,” Wallace added, ignoring the digression, “you broke open the hatbox and got the envelope. If I had been five minutes later, you’d have been home free. As it was, I got there before you could take off and when you heard me coming you told big boy here to jump me.”

  “You got most of it right,” Anderson said. “I went down there to get that envelope one way or another and all I had to do was open that hatbox. Somebody’d already taken care of Fay.”

  “Where did you find her?”

  “She was stretched out in the hall when I walked in.”

  “You carried her into the bedroom?”

  “I didn’t know she was dead. I didn’t even think about it. I just picked her up and put her in the chair. When I turned on the light in the bedroom and got a good look at her face I knew there wasn’t any point in feeling for a pulse. I did what I had to do and got out.”

  Wallace looked at the bulge in Anderson’s pocket where he had put the gun. He glanced at Jeff, who had been standing motionless a few feet to one side, his eyes watchful in his otherwise expressionless face. He thought about the things Anderson had said and realized now that it was not important whether what he had heard was the truth or not. Either way, Anderson was in a spot and as he began to speculate on what might happen next Anderson clarified the matter.

  “It’s too goddamned bad you had to stick your nose in here.” He stood up slowly, jaw muscles tightening and a new intentness showing behind the tinted glasses. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why take the chance of putting yourself in a box?”

  “Because from what I got from the police a while ago I’m probably going to get tossed in jail tomorrow morning for murdering my wife. I know I didn’t do it. I thought maybe you did and I needed a motive. I got it.”

  “I told you how it was and what I did when I found Fay.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Okay. You got yourself into the spot and you’re stuck with it.” He made a small throaty sound that had an ugly connotation. “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here and put the cops on my back after what you know?”

  “What else can you do?”

  “I can take care of you.”

  “Balls.”

  “You think so?”

  Wallace didn’t know what to think. A growing uneasiness had been undermining his confidence and he could not escape the conclusion that was demanding attention: if Anderson had killed Fay, he had nothing more to lose from an additional murder. He knew that justice was quick here once a case got to court; he must know the hanging that follows a proper conviction was seldom long delayed. Yet even as such thoughts came to him he found it hard to believe that Anderson would kill deliberately. It had been said that any man could kill under the proper provocation and he could understand the circumstances that had brought death to Fay. But Anderson was an embezzler. To his own knowledge the man had no record of violence. Because he had nothing to loser he spoke of it now.

  “From what I’ve heard about crime, embezzlers and con men and forgers never use violence. They're not the type. I’m surprised you've even got a gun.”

  “There’s some snakes around here,” Anderson said, “and I'm scared of snakes. So you're an expert. So where do the killers come from?”

  “From hijackers and stick-up men and—”

  “Forget it. You could be right about me but I’m not even going to know what happens to you. Have you been around this island long enough to know about a fellow named Boysie Singh?”

  Wallace nodded. Anyone who had been in Port-of-Spain for a week had probably heard of the infamous Boysie Singh. Because of the notoriety given the case, the local residents seemed to share a secret fascination for the man’s exploits now that they were safely in the past and he had been properly hanged.

  Boysie Singh, all accounts said, was a mass murderer if there ever was one. His career in killing extended over many years because he found it profitable and because the police could never find a live witness willing to give evidence. Some said he had killed more than a hundred and a reliable newspaper account had stated that more than thirty-five victims had been dispatched in the Gulf of Paria alone.

  At one time he had owned a trading schooner and there was one story Wallace had heard that told of a contract Singh had made to smuggle ten or twelve Chinese from Venezuela into British colonial territory. He had picked up his cargo somewhere on the coast, and in order to simplify the job, he had frightened his victims into believing a patrol boat would overtake them before long. To escape capture he had induced them to hide themselves in oversize potato sacks so that they would pass as legitimate cargo and lessen the chance of discovery in case of a search. Unfortunately for the trusting Chinese, there was no patrol boat. They had simply been dumped over one after the other, to drown helplessly in their burlap coffins.

  During the war Singh had prospered with the activity of the American Army and Navy stationed there, and later he had tried his luck as a smuggler, brothel keeper, gambler, and killer. Stupidity and hard luck continued to harass him until he was reduced to killing, sometimes for no more than two hundred dollars, part down and part when the job was completed. In the end he was hanged for murdering a dancer whose corpse was never found. . . .

  “So what about Singh?”

  “In 1955 he was supposed to have accepted a combined murder and arson job for two hundred and forty dollars.”

  “I still don't get it,” Wallace said, even though the message was becoming clearer.

  “Singh was a master at murder. If he'd do it for two hundred and forty with some arson thrown in, I don't think I'd have much trouble getting the same sort of job done for less.” He looked at Jeff. �
��Could you borrow a small boat for a few hours?”

  “Yes sir. No trouble at all.”

  “You'll need some rope and maybe an old anchor or a couple of concrete blocks.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “It’s damn near dark now and—”

  Anderson broke off abruptly and his head swung toward the porch. An instant later Wallace knew why as the sound of an approaching automobile grew more distinct. There was a shift of gears, an acceleration of the motor. A second or two later it dropped to idling speed; then it was quiet.

  Anderson turned on Jeff and reached for the gun in his pocket. “Take a look!”

  The Negro moved quickly for a big man, unlocking the front door and gliding out on the overhanging balcony. Seconds later he was back, brows high and the whites of his eyes enormous.

  “Its a woman.”

  “A woman?” Anderson’s voice was sharp and incredulous. “What woman?”

  “I think she’s a friend of his,” Jeff said and pointed at Wallace.

  Even as he spoke there was the sound of steps on the outside stairway and a gesture from Anderson ordered the Negro to the hall door. Wallace could hear the steps move clearly now, and the telltale click of a woman’s heels made an unwanted and discouraging sound in his ears.

  19

  Ann Joslyn came into the living room with Jeff behind her, and her hazel eyes darted at once to Wallace. There was a noticeable pallor at the cheekbones beneath the tan, but her young face was otherwise composed as she advanced another uncertain step and gave her attention to Anderson.

  “Hello,” she said, and somehow made it sound as though this was just another social call. “You must be Mr. Anderson . . . I’m Ann Joslyn.”

  Anderson had some trouble finding a suitable answer. He looked at her with open astonishment, bunched his lips, glared at Wallace.

  “What the hell is this?” he demanded.

  Wallace was still watching the girl, one part of his mind very proud of her spirit and studied nonchalance, the other battling the pressure of his mounting alarm and uncertainty.

  “I told you to wait,” he said bluntly.

  “I know,” Ann said, and smiled.

  “Okay,” Anderson said. He rubbed one side of his mustache with the knuckle of his index finger and bent his brows at Wallace. “This makes it tougher, but it doesn't change a thing. I guess it will cost me a little more and maybe Jeff will need some help—”

  “You're crazy!”

  “Am I?”

  “You must be. If you had any sense you'd grab what you can and get that boat Jeff said he could produce and take off while you've got a chance to make Venezuela.”

  Anderson’s answering laugh had a strident quality and Wallace continued his attack, his tone deliberately flat and compelling to mask his doubts.

  “Where do you think I was before I came here?” he demanded.

  “Who cares?”

  “Police Headquarters. I just had a session with the top guy at C.I.D.”

  “That’s the truth, Mr. Anderson,” Ann said. “I was waiting for him when he came out.”

  “I told him about you,” Wallace said.

  “Told him what?”

  “That I had a witness that says he saw your car turn down my lane at five minutes after ten last night. He knows about those hundred-a-week checks you'd been handing out to Fay and—”

  “I already explained that to some inspector.”

  “Did he ask you about those cigar ashes?”

  “Cigar ashes?” Anderson said, making the words sound as though he thought Wallace was out of his mind. “What cigar ashes?”

  “The ones they found in my living room this morning. Somebody put them in an ash tray last night. The police asked me about them and I said you were the only one Fay knew who was a cigar smoker. I'm surprised they haven't already picked you up.” He turned to Ann, bluffing as best he could, the same brisk confidence riding his words. “Did you make the call?”

  “Certainly I made it.”

  “What call?”

  Anderson’s hand had slipped into the pocket that held the gun. The angles of the jaw grew hard, and behind the tinted lenses there was a narrowed brightness in the dark eyes. But there was something indecisive in that look too, and Wallace pressed on with his bluff.

  “Ann drove to the bungalow after we left Police Headquarters. I came up here,” he said. “She knew I was going to take a fast look and see what I could find. She didn’t like it but I told her I didn’t want to wait around for the police to get a warrant. I told her I’d meet her when I finished. If I didn’t show by a certain time she was to phone Headquarters. You heard her say she made the call. Why should she lie?”

  “Nuts!” The word was contemptuous but not convincing. “You’ve made your move and you’re stuck with it. Remember that. What happens now is your fault, chump.”

  “What can happen?” Wallace made a disparaging gesture with one hand. “One way, you’ve got to go back to the States and hire some lawyers. The other way, you step off into air with rope around your neck. Just remember they did it to Boysie Singh without finding a corpse, so if anything happens to us the police have to know—”

  “Shut up!”

  The shouted command stopped Wallace with his mouth still open. He saw the sudden change in Anderson’s face, the look of quick alarm. Then he heard the sound outside and Jeff was again moving to the porch. He opened the door. A car shifted gears, the throb of its motor distinct now as it labored, idled, then stopped. Somewhere below car doors opened. A moment later they slammed shut. Then Jeff was back, his eyes bulging, his jaw agape.

  “Police car,” he said in awed tones. “Right now.”

  “How many in it?”

  “Two.”

  For a long moment then the room was still. No one moved, no one seemed to breathe. A silent second dragged by and then another as the spell continued. It was Anderson who finally broke it. Even as Wallace stood there, unable as yet to believe his good fortune, Anderson wheeled and stepped to the side window. As his left hand opened it, his right came from his pocket with the gun and he threw it out into the underbrush as hard as he could. As he closed the window, he spoke to Jeff.

  “Let them in.” He stepped close to Wallace, his mouth twisted beneath the mustache, a look of bewilderment still showing in the dark eyes. “I still don’t know whether you were telling the truth,” he said softly, “or whether you just happened to be the luckiest bastard alive.”

  The bulky, neatly clad figure of Sergeant Finley followed Jeff into the living room. Behind him was a plain-clothes man Wallace had not seen before. When Finley saw Ann he took off his hat and gave her a small bow. He made a quick survey of the room. He took time to give Jeff a brief but knowing look before he addressed himself to Anderson.

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Sergeant Finley, C.I.D.”

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “I must ask you to accompany me to Police Headquarters.”

  “What for?”

  “I believe it is a matter of further interrogation about the murder of Mrs. Wallace.”

  “I suppose you have a warrant?”

  “No sir. A warrant is not customary unless an arrest is to be made.”

  Reaction was still working on Wallace. He was perspiring freely now but his breathing was normal and as he considered the present situation he still did not know whether Anderson’s threat of murder and the talk of boat and rope and weights was serious, or whether Anderson had been using a psychological weapon, with the threats of murder nothing more than means to frighten him into some self-imposed silence.

  For there was nothing now in the mans attitude to suggest that he could be capable of cold-blooded murder, even a hired one in which he had no active part. He looked instead like the businessman he had always been. Through shrewd manipulation and financial know-how he had gained control of a highly successful com
pany and might well have acquired another if his timing had been better. He had gambled and lost. He had run away rather than face the consequences. This time there was no place to run, and like the gambler he was, he no longer gave any outward sign of indecision or concern.

  Over by the doorway Jeff stood quietly, a dejected look on his black face. His eyes were downcast, he took no interest in what was going on in the room, and Wallace was reminded again that the police here operated in a vastly different manner from their American counterparts. Sergeant Finley and his colleague carried no clubs, no guns. Their authority existed because of the indoctrination and respect the average citizen had for the law. True, violence existed and murder was done; burglary and theft were a problem just as they were everywhere, particularly petty theft, but, once confronted by the legally established authority, there was seldom any resistance. Even Anderson seemed to realize that there would be no point in arguing with the patient sergeant, and now he straightened his shoulders, felt his tie to be sure it was in place, and gestured emptily with one hand.

  “Okay,” he said. “If that’s the way it is.”

  Wallace cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing, Sergeant,” he said. “Mr. Anderson has an envelope in his inside pocket that I think would interest Superintendent Perkins. I think that envelope was taken from my wife’s hatbox sometime last night and it might be a good idea to get it now before Anderson has a chance to get rid of it.”

  Finley gave him a thoughtful look. “Really, sir?” Then, as though this was the most natural thing in the world, he said: “May I have it, please, Mr. Anderson?”

  Anderson took time to give Wallace a hot and hateful glare and his lips moved silently in some unspoken curse. He ran the tip of his tongue along the lower edge of his mustache. Then, clamping his mouth shut, he brought out the envelope and slapped it down on Finley’s outstretched palm.

  Wallace moved over to Ann and took her arm. “You won’t need us, will you, Sergeant?”

  “Not right now, sir . . . Are you ready, Mr. Anderson?”

  Wallace got out fast, holding onto Ann’s arm as they went down the outer stairs. When he handed her into her car he said: “Meet me down at the end of the road. We can talk there.”