For another half minute Rand simply stood there, his sunburned face grave in profile, his head bent. Then, his attitude changing as his back stiffened, he brought his chin up and his eyes began to sweep the room. His gaze did not hesitate as it flicked by the open bathroom door but even so Wallace drew back a foot to make sure he was not seen. When he looked again Rand had moved from the body and was fumbling inside the jacket. Even now he made no sound as he unfolded the sheets and quickly scanned them, and with the light full on his face Wallace could see the muscles bulge along the edge of his jaw, the sudden arching of the bleached brows. For perhaps five seconds he stood that way; then, the report still in his hand, he turned and was gone.
Wallace stood where he was and felt his muscles start to relax. Aware that he was still holding his breath, he let it out softly. He took plenty of time but he still moved cautiously as he edged into the room. He already knew what he wanted to do but he was still thinking of the desk clerk outside. He was not sure that it would make much difference in the end, but he did not try to resist the impulse that told him it might be just as well to leave the way Nick Rand had—by way of the window.
21
A high hedge ran along the boundary of the hotel property about two feet away from the side of the building, and Dave Wallace, moving swiftly along this alleyway of sand and coarse grass, came out on the parking lot some distance from Ann’s car. He saw no one else as he approached it from the rear, and he heard her startled gasp as he opened the door.
“Thanks, baby,” he said. “That horn did the trick.”
“Did it?” She turned on the seat to face him, the hazel eyes wide open. “I don’t even know why I did it. I guess something told me I ought to try to warn you that someone was coming. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Maybe it’s lucky for me you did.”
“I saw this car pull up and I thought I recognized Mr. Rand. I tried to get a better look but instead of coming toward the entrance he started down the side of the building. I couldn’t be sure just where he was going but—”
Wallace kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I’ll never knock a woman’s intuition again. Did you see him come back?”
“Yes. He drove that way”—she pointed—“and I saw him turn left at the corner.”
“Okay.” Wallace slammed the door. “Let’s go.”
“Follow him, you mean? He’s got quite a start—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got an idea where he’s going.” He told her which way to turn and for the next three or four minutes she concentrated on her driving. Not until they reached Tragurette Road and swung right did she begin the questions he knew where bound to come.
“What happened?”
“Like what?”
“Well—what did Mr. Doucette do when he saw you? Where were you when Mr. Rand came?”
Because Wallace still needed time to find suitable answers, he lit two cigarettes and passed one to Ann. By then he knew that he could not tell her how Doucette had died, The truth would only shock and upset her and there would be time enough for such details later. But since some story was needed he came up with one he hoped would sound plausible. He told the truth about the substance of his conversation with Doucette and the offer of the drink, but after that he substituted fiction for the grisly facts.
“Somebody must have come to the room earlier and spiked the rum,” he said. “Lucky for me, I didn’t take any.”
“You mean there was a drug in it?”
“There sure was.”
“But why?”
“Well—from what happened after that, it looks as if someone wanted to search him without any trouble.”
“Oh,” Ann said, not sounding too convinced.
“A quick-acting drug, by the way it hit him,” Wallace said and hoped his voice was convincing. “He dozed off after a couple of minutes and that gave me a chance to find the report he’d made for Fay. When you blew the horn I put the report back into his pocket and ducked for the bathroom. I thought probably it was the police and I wanted them to find that report.”
He told her what Rand had done, as they angled into Western Main Road. He gave her the substance of the report, answering some of her questions and ignoring others. On an over-all basis he knew there were holes in his story but he talked fast and gave her little chance to interrupt him. He did not tell her of the conviction that had come to him back in Doucette’s room. In his own mind he seemed to know that in the end the police would have to take over and test his theory, but there was something about Nick Rand’s reaction that worried him. Somehow there was a feeling of urgency working on his thoughts that made time seem important and he did not want to waste it.
He was running out of words when they came to a stop beside the car he had parked when they had come down the hill from Joe Anderson’s place and, still not telling her all that was in his mind, he made her accept the idea that it was important that he get to the Carvers as soon as possible.
“But you don’t want me to come, do you?” she said as he got out.
“No. I’ve got another job for you.”
“Oh?”
“I want you to go to the bungalow,” he said, unlocking his car as he spoke. “Call Police Headquarters. Tell them you’re speaking for me. Try to get either Inspector Edwards or Superintendent Perkins. At home if you have to. Whoever you get, tell him to come to the Carvers right away.”
He could see the disappointment in her face but he ignored it as he stepped on the starter and put the little sedan in motion. After that, he watched her lights in the rear-view mirror, slowing a little as he passed his drive and watching her make the turn. Seconds later he was making a turn of his own, accelerating as he came into the Carvers' drive and then cutting both lights and motor as he let the car coast toward the house at the end of the lane.
He made no sound as he braked his sedan next to another small car he did not recognize. He opened the front door with care and did not attempt to close it. Because he had been here before, the darkness did not bother him much and his eyes soon adjusted to it as he moved to his left and started along the side of the house. He could see the lighted rectangles made by the French doors of the living room now, and when he came to the flagged terrace he moved along on tiptoe.
The glass doors were open to court the night breeze, just as they had been the night before. He could hear voices now, though he could not yet understand them, and he stayed close to the wall as he inched toward the light that spilled out on the terrace. Three more soft and soundless steps brought him to the half door that was open on his side. Keeping his belly to the wall he moved his head just enough to bring one eye into focus, and now the room opened up for him and he saw the three of them.
A card table had been set up near the table desk, much as it had been the night before. Lorraine was sitting beside it in a tailored yellow dress that contrasted sharply with her darkly tanned skin and black hair. Carver, in slacks and blazer, was just beyond her, his back to the room. A two-foot-square painting apparently had been fastened to the wall on a hinge, for it now stood out at an angle, enabling Carver to work on the wall safe that had been hidden there. Facing the other two across the desk stood Nick Rand, holding what looked like a copy of Doucette’s report in one hand, a small automatic pistol in the other.
Wallace, a good twenty feet from Rand, stayed where he was. No one said anything as Carver, leaving the safe door open, brought out a slip of paper hardly larger than an ordinary envelope. The sight of this reminded Wallace of the ten-thousand-dollar note that Carver held on Nick Rand’s schooner. He seemed to understand what was taking place and as Carver pushed the slip of paper across the desk Rand spoke up to confirm the thought.
“I think it’s a fair exchange,” he said. “I want that note and if I don’t get it before you read this report I won’t get it at all.”
Carver watched the big blond man pick up the note before he said: “You must be out of your mind.”
“You can’t get away with it, you know.”
Rand’s chuckle had an unworried sound. “I can try, old boy, I can try.” .
“Your schooner’s still tied up at Queen’s Wharf, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And ten seconds after you leave here I’ll be on the telephone. The authorities will be waiting for you long before—”
“I don’t think so.” Rand began to back slowly toward the French doors, the automatic steady in his hand. “Just read that report, Herbert. Bring charges against me and that report will be entered in evidence one way or another. I don’t think you’ll like that.”
One of Carver’s riding crops rested on the desktop and now he picked it up. He stood very straight, some inner reaction making his tan seem less pronounced. His gray hair was neatly in place, the jaw tight beneath the mustache, and something in his eyes suggested that he would like very much to get at Rand with that riding crop, in spite of his size.
“Sorry it worked out this way, Lorraine,” Rand said, still moving carefully backward. “I’d invite you along if I thought you’d accept.”
The woman’s body did not move in the chair. She continued to hold the dark-rimmed glasses between her fingers, but her gaze remained cold and hateful, and now Wallace knew it was time to make a move, one way or the other.
The time that had elapsed since he had taken his first glance into the room could not have been more than a couple of minutes. He understood that it would be a long time yet before the police could arrive, and as he made up his mind he could feel the strain building across his shoulders and up his neck, the quickening of his pulse as his nerves tightened. For Rand was no more than six feet away now, still backing slowly toward him.
Because of that automatic Wallace seemed to know that it was too late to run so he stepped silently to his left to get a clear shot at the broad figure. He shifted his weight. He took a small silent breath and pulled his neck in as his head angled down.
He knew what it was that gave him away. For both Carver and his wife caught sight of him at the same time and some flick of their eyes, some new focusing, tipped Rand off. As though sensing this new threat behind him, the big man stopped in the middle of a backward step. His body stiffened and his head started to turn and now Wallace took off, concentrating not so much on Rand as on the gun in his hand.
It happened all at once then, Rand spinning to his left, startled but still dangerous as his muscles reacted, and Wallace lunging forward, one hand stretching and intent on that automatic. There was time for just one pass and he made it, his arm at full length, swiping open-handed at the gun and catching it solidly with his palm before Rand could point it.
The timing was good, the moment of surprise sufficient. The blow tore the gun from Rand’s grasp and sent it skidding across the floor toward Carver, and Wallace was still watching it when Rand hooked a solid left to the side of the jaw.
With a little more time to get set, that punch might have taken Wallace out, but off-balance as he was, the blow only spilled him without doing any great harm. For a second or two when he hit the floor on hands and knees he may have been partly stunned. It was probably two or three seconds, although it did not seem that long, before he could scramble to his feet, instinct taking him that far as his head cleared and he got set for another attack. Only then did he realize that there was nothing in front of him but open doors looking out into the night.
He had the answer as he let his breath out. Rand had what he wanted and he was satisfied, and now, as Wallace stepped onto the terrace, he could hear the sound of the motor. Headlights stabbed the darkness on the car next to his, then swung away as Rand backed and made his turn. Because he realized there was no point in trying to follow the car, he swallowed the dryness from the back of his throat and moved again into the lighted room.
Carver, the riding crop still in his hand, had picked up the automatic that had skidded toward him. He turned it over, inspected it with some curiosity, and put it on the desk. Lorraine, who had been frozen in the chair, now rose as Wallace advanced, the dark, upward-slanting eyes bright with delayed excitement. She took a breath, her breasts high and outthrust against the yellow fabric of her dress; when she exhaled, her sigh was clearly audible in the otherwise quiet room.
“When did you come, David?” she said. “I mean, were you out there long?”
“Just a couple of minutes.”
“But why? How did you ever manage to get here at just the right time?”
“I sort of followed Rand.” .
“From where?”
“From a place called the Victoria Hotel. He took that report from a dead man and I had a pretty good idea where he was coming.”
Carver put the riding crop aside. His glance was puzzled as it moved from his wife to Wallace. He seemed not to be following the conversation, much less understanding it, because what he said had no bearing on it.
“Are you all right, David?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. I don’t think it was his best punch.”
“It was a risky thing to do, but I appreciate your trying.”
“What did he take, the note you held on his schooner?”
“Yes.”
“If he destroys it you cant collect, can you?”
“Possibly not. But I can have him up for armed robbery among other things and”—he hesitated, glancing at the telephone—“perhaps I’d better get on with it?’
“I’m not so sure.”
“I beg your pardon?” Carver tipped his head, one eye half closed.
“Rand could have been right about one thing,” Wallace said, as he stopped in front of the desk and indicated the report. “I think maybe you ought to read that first.”
Carver straightened without touching the telephone. After a moment he came back to the desk and picked up the report. “I take it you’ve read it.”
“I know what’s in it, and where it came from.”
Carver said: “Hmm—” He frowned at Wallace and then at the report; finally he began to read.
Wallace moved toward the desk, seeing Carver’s glance narrow and his mouth tighten under the mustache. When he looked up after he had finished the first page, his expression was both puzzled and incredulous.
“I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “This—this report has to do with you and Lorraine.”
“Keep reading,” Wallace said. “Take a look at the three snapshots on the last page.”
Carver turned the pages until he found the photographs. He stared for what seemed a long time. He wet his lips and swallowed as he turned back to scan the rest of the report. When he finished he looked at his wife and then put the report in front of her.
“Perhaps you should read this,” he said.
Lorraine turned to the chair she had used before and eased down on it. She reached slowly for her plastic-rimmed glasses and put them on. Signs of strain were pulling at her features now, destroying her beauty. It seemed somehow to take a deliberate mental effort on her part to make herself touch those pages, and it was perhaps five seconds before she found the necessary courage.
She started to read and light from the floor lamp next to the card table danced and glistened on the sleek black hair. Wallace watched her closely, breathing shallowly as he waited for her reaction, inspecting each highlighted feature. That was how he happened to see what looked like a hairline crack in one of the sidebows of her glasses. Not quite believing his eyes but at once excited by the possibility, he stepped close to make sure the crack was real, his gaze focused and intent.
He knew then that there could be no doubt and he straightened and stepped back, aware of Carver s scrutiny but ignoring it. Luck, he knew now, was still with him, because he had not been looking for any such thing. There was no good reason for such close inspection but some trick of light had brought the revelation and suddenly tilings were happening in his mind. Other details fell quickly into place and he kn
ew finally that this theory, which had been based as much on hope as on the slender facts he had gathered, was indeed the right one.
He heard Carver clear his throat and saw Lorraine push the sheets away from her. She did not say anything, or look up, but some new pallor had touched her cheekbones and he could feel the tension starting to build in the room.
“Well?” Carver watched her. When she still would not answer he glanced at Wallace. “Perhaps you can explain it.”
“I can try,” Wallace said. “I talked to the guy that made that report. He’s dead now but before he died he told me a mistake had been made. I didn't know what he was talking about at the time but when I saw the pictures on the last page I knew what he meant. That much I know and I think I can guess the rest of it.”
He was talking fast then, explaining his trips to Barbados on alternate weekends and his visits to the two hotels that were displaying his paintings. He made sure that Carver understood that on recent trips he had returned on the same Saturday so that he could spend the rest of the weekend at the Joslyn bungalow on the Atlantic coast.
“I fell in love with Ann Joslyn,” he continued. “Until the last couple of days I didn’t think anyone knew about it but I found out a lot of things today. Fay got suspicious about the painting trips I made around the island three or four times a week. She hired a local private detective named Hassan Rahmat. He told her that I had been seeing Ann but he also told her that there was nothing wrong about those meetings. Sometimes I’d paint right at the Joslyn cottage and sometimes we’d take a picnic lunch to one of the beaches. I was a married man, in love with another woman, but that was as far as it went.”
He digressed again to explain how he had tried to get a divorce in New York and he told about the payments he had made and the agreement he had signed.
“I know now that Fay was still agreeable to a divorce but she wanted more money. There was nothing in what Ann and I did that would give her the grounds she was looking for but she wouldn’t give up. She knew I took the morning plane to Barbados on those Saturdays and assumed I returned on Monday mornings. What she didn’t believe was that I spent all my time in Barbados working. She hated Lorraine—I don’t have to go into that now—and she knew Lorraine also went to Barbados every other week.”
One Hour to Kill Page 17
