One Hour to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  Wallace felt the tension break and he began to breathe again. He could hear his pulse slow down but the sound of it was still in his ears as he swallowed and shifted his weight. He made no move as Carver tried again.

  “You must be out of your mind.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But what are you trying to prove? What good can you possibly do with that gun?”

  “It can get me out of here.”

  “Out of here?” Carver peered at her, disbelief overcoming his normal self-control. “Out of where, for God’s sake?” Lorraine did not bother to reply to this, but she was moving. Bending her knees slightly, the gun still pointed at her husband, she stooped enough to get her straw bag, which had been on the floor next to the card table. Now she put it on the edge of the desk, opened its top, and began to back toward the wall safe, which was still open beyond the outswung painting.

  Never averting her glance for more than a fraction of a second, she took out a rather thick stack of bills, moved up again, and placed them in the basket. Then she repeated the procedure, this time taking out what looked like a passport and some papers Wallace could not identify.

  “I never cared much for your fishing trips, darling,” she said, “but at least I learned how to run your boat.”

  “My boat?” Carver said in the same incredulous tone.

  “I’m getting off the island while I can. I don’t fancy staying here and having them maybe decide to hang me.”

  “Lorraine!” Carver tried again and this time his words had more drive. “Listen to me! It’s all wrong, I tell you. Don’t make matters worse. We’ll fight this together. I’ll have someone over from London to defend you—”

  “No.”

  “But you’ll never make it in the boat.”

  “I’ll make it. Even if you or David decide to call the police, once I’ve gone it won’t make any difference. There’s nothing in Port-of-Spain that can catch your cruiser. And, after all, why shouldn’t I make it? It’s not a long run out past the Bocas to the tip of Venezuela. It can’t be more than twenty or twenty-five miles from here to Cristobal Colon, or whatever the name of that little town is.”

  She put down the top of the basket and fastened it. “I’ve got money and a passport. The visa that we got when we went to Caracas for the holidays is still good. I don’t think the Venezuelans will let a woman be extradicted, especially a pretty one with money.”

  Wallace knew she meant every word of what she said, and now there came to him a sincere thrust of admiration for her because he understood that whatever was wrong with her thinking, there was no denying her courage. She wasn’t frightened any more. She wasn’t hurrying and the composure and poise that had served her so well as a model were never more evident. The fact that her idea was a bad one did not concern her. She had seized upon it in her moment of desperation and, having accepted it, she was unwilling to admit that the plan might present difficulties.

  He was aware that he still held the cracked glasses in his hand and he glanced at his wrist watch. The time registered but it meant nothing because he did not know just when he had come. Although it seemed like hours, it could have been no more than a few minutes, and he wondered if Ann had made the call to the police from his bungalow.

  For it seemed to him even now that once Lorraine was in that cabin cruiser she would most certainly get away. He was almost equally sure that if Carver tried to stop her she would use that gun. The police must certainly come within the next few minutes, and to get her attention and gain time he spoke of Leon Doucette.

  “Did Leon Doucette want money from you?” he asked.

  She looked at him then but it took a moment for her to understand what he was talking about. “He was a slimy little man,” she said, as though that answered the question.

  “You put the poison in his bottle of rum sometime this afternoon. Didn’t anyone see you?”

  “Certainly someone saw me, but not the way I look now. I wore flat-heeled sandals. Since wigs came back into fashion, I bought a couple. I dug out an old blue and yellow beach shirt that was much too full. I wore a blouse, dark glasses, a yellow wig, and a silly straw hat. Anyone who saw me would have to think I was some blonde tourist peasant off a cruise ship.”

  “How did you get into his room?”

  “For what they pay a chambermaid here, two ten-dollar bills will buy a lot, including silence. She’s not likely to admit it either.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Carver said, still pursuing his original thought. “You can’t be identified at that hotel and I’ve had enough legal training to know that poisoning is the hardest crime in the world to prove.” He was speaking softly now, his tone dead-earnest, as he continued: “Even with Fay Wallace, the Crown can never prove premeditation. I don’t care what you’ve done or why you did it. Just don’t run. Give me a chance to help.”

  He might as well have been talking to a deaf-mute.

  “My way is better, darling,” she said, as though she was soothing a small boy. “I’ll make Venezuela. Maybe you can join me later.”

  The way she spoke those words made them sound almost convincing, even to Wallace. There was no longer any pallor at her cheekbones, her dark eyes were confident, and the faint smile on her red mouth bore no trace of bitterness.

  “It might not be too bad, dear,” she added. “I’ll let you know where I am. If you can clear up things here”—she shrugged faintly—“well, who knows. Believe me, I don’t want to go like this. I’d rather kiss you good-bye and have you hold me a moment, but I know if I did you’d only take the gun away and make me stay.”

  “You can’t take the cruiser, Lorraine,” Carver said.

  “But I’m going to, darling. And I want you to know this. I loved you when I married you and I still do. Maybe not with all the drive and passion a younger man might have expected, but I think you knew that. That business with Nick Rand was foolish and probably unnecessary. I wouldn’t swear on a stack of Bibles that it might not happen again, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

  She swung the basket from the table, standing not more than three feet away from her husband now, her dark gaze level.

  “I didn’t mean to kill Fay Wallace. I meant to get that report, yes, but not just because I was afraid you’d kick me out if you found out about me and Nick. I could have made some kind of arrangement with Fay if she hadn’t been so ugly and violent about the thing, but I like to think part of the reason it happened was because I didn’t want you to be hurt. I mean your pride and your standards—”

  Wallace did not hear the rest of the sentence because he had been moving toward her as she spoke. He had no specific idea in his mind about stopping her. He was not even sure he wanted to. He just wanted to get closer in case there was some chance to get the gun. Because he was still worried about Carver. He did not like the look in the Englishman’s eye and something told him that Carver would not just stand there and let his wife go.

  It happened even as the thought came to him. There was no warning of any kind. Carver said: “You’re still determined to go?” And his wife said: “Yes,” and then he used the riding crop that had been in his hand for so long.

  It was a slashing deliberate movement, as quick as a snake striking and with the same precision. Using only his forearm and wrist, he snapped the leather crop down, slashing at his wife’s hand near the base of the thumb. There was a loud cracking sound as leather hit the flesh, and the blow must have paralyzed her fingers temporarily because the gun flew from her hand and the scream of shock and pain blotted out the sound as it struck the floor.

  Wallace moved as the crop struck, still worried about the gun. Then, as that strident scream dissolved into silence, he saw that there was no need for either action or alarm. Carver stood stock still, his face warped with pain and compassion as he watched his wife. Lorraine, who had dropped the basket when the blow fell, stared back at him, a bewildered, stricken look on her pretty face. Still not seeming
to understand why she had been hurt, she lifted her right arm to look at the welt on her wrist. For perhaps three seconds she stared vacantly at her hand. Finally she looked up at Carver’s face and then reaction hit her and exploded into violence.

  She screamed again, this time in rage and hysteria. She lunged at him, both hands striking wildly at his face. She hit him once but he took the blow without flinching and deliberately grabbed her wrist. He held it securely as she tried to claw him with her other hand, and then he drew her close. He spoke her name, his voice calm. He spoke it again while she struggled to free herself and broken sounds came from her throat. Then, as his wiry strength held her powerless, she stopped as suddenly as she had begun and her body slumped against him.

  Wallace, shaken and a little sick and not wanting to watch any longer, stooped over to get the gun. He straightened and swallowed against some new thickness in his throat, and with the tension broken he found his palms damp and his fingers nerveless and uncertain. He heard Carver say something and realized that the Englishman was speaking to him. He cleared his throat and saw the other’s eyes upon him and now the woman’s sobs were soft and spasmodic and utterly forlorn.

  “What did you say?''

  “I had to do it,” Carver said. “I couldn't let her try the cruiser.”

  “Sure,” Wallace said uncomfortably.

  “Any other day I might have let her try it. I might even have gone with her.”

  This time Wallace just looked at him, blue eyes widening as his mind continued to grope.

  “What?”

  “It was that blasted leak in the petrol lines.” Carver scowled over his wife’s shoulder as though he could not understand why Wallace was so stupid. “I told you about it this morning, didn't I? I told you I wasn't going to bother fixing it today and I didn't.”

  “Ohh—” Wallace said as the truth dawned on him.

  “The cabin, the bilges, the whole bloody boat was filled with fumes. She doesn't understand those things. She'd have tried it anyway and the moment she stepped on the starter—” He broke off and gave a quick brief shake of his head, as though he could not stand the picture his mind’s eye saw.

  “Yes,” Wallace said, understanding fully the choice that Carver had been forced to make.

  “I saw it happen to a small boat once,” Carver said and shuddered again. “Everything in pieces and flames.” He looked down upon the top of his wife’s head as she pressed her face against his shoulder. He took a breath and now, his voice under control, he spoke with quiet dignity: “You can call the police if you like.”

  Wallace had to clear his throat again before he said the police were already on their way. He turned as he spoke and started for the open French doors. He thought he could hear the sound of approaching cars and as he stepped out onto the flagged terrace something moved in the shadows and he saw it was Ann. It took him a moment to understand how she could be here at all, and when she stepped close he suddenly realized how emotionally exhausted he was. Not saying anything yet, he put his arms about her with no thought of reassuring her but simply to draw on her young strength and resiliency. When he could he asked how long she had been here and she said quite a while.

  “She had the gun,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Neither did I,” Wallace said, and stood quietly until he saw headlights sweep the yard as two cars squealed to a stop behind the house.

  “Who did you call?” he said finally.

  “I got Inspector Edwards,” she said. “But it took quite a while.”

  He gave her a final quick squeeze before he stepped back. “We haven’t had any dinner, have we?”

  “We’ll get something.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to take a while and it may be rough on you too. You’d better call your uncle from here.”

  Ann said she would. She said she’d tell him not to worry and then they turned to watch the dark faces of the police officers emerge from the shadows and start toward them across the terrace.