"Wow!" said Jeff as he figured the exchange at thirty cents American to the bolivar, "Ninety thousand dollars from thirty."
"The remaining half-acre lots he retained, eleven in all. Selling them individually he could get the equivalent of fifteen thousand U.S. dollars each. On Monday he sold the eleven for roughly one hundred and thirty-five thousand-four hundred and fifty thousand B's. I know because I drew up the papers."
"Did he tell you why?"
"He said he was in trouble in the States. Before he could return he would need one hundred and twenty thousand in cask"
"Could he get that cash in dollars?"
"We have a hard currency here/' Miranda said, "acceptable everywhere in the world at face value. Anyone can take bolivars to the bank here and receive dollars. But because the bolivar is easily negotiable, there is little call for dollars. It would be difficult to find that many dollars without advance notice. Grayson was satisfied that a payment in bolivars would be accepted for his debt. He needed it by Wednesday. I feel quite certain he had the cash with Mm yesterday and from what you have told me I must assume that Mr. Baker was to act as his emissary."
"Did you get the idea he intended to return to the States?"
"1 feel sure that was his intention." He leaned forward and picked up a stapled report of some kind from his desk, his smile polite but distant. "Does that answer your questions, Mr. Lane?"
Jeff thanked him and stood up, inspecting the sharp aristocratic features of the light-brown face, the smooth-
ness of the gray-streaked hair. Then, prompted by some impulse he could not analyze, he said:
"How did he get along down here? Was he well liked?"
"Possibly by some. He had great personal charm when he cared—or found it advantageous—to exert it."
"And you, Mr. Miranda?"
"For myself," Miranda said, "I disliked him intensely. To me he was, and is, an evil man."
Jeff Lane had no trouble locating the Buick. It was the same color as Mrs. Miranda's eyes. She used them when he stopped beside the car, smiling a welcome and inspecting him frankly. When she stepped on the starter he understood he was to get in and as he slid onto the beige leather seat she said:
"Where to? I might as well chauffeur you while we're talking."
"The hotel will do fine," Jeff said.
"The Tucan? Right."
She sat up as she drove and it gave him a chance to study her profile, the penciled line of her brow, the short upper lip, the red mouth that suggested a capacity for passion, petulance, and sulkiness. The deep tan of her face was duplicated on the rounded arms that showed beneath the cap-sleeves and he noticed that her legs were bare and just as brown. Her voice, though animated., had a faintly husky infection as she spoke.
"Arnold told us about his inheritance," she said, "Is it really true?"
"If he comes back to get it in the next thirty days."
"He said it consisted of stock in your company,"
"That's right," said Jeff, beginning to wonder why she was so interested.
He watched her maneuver into a traffic circle and brake suddenly when a small truck edged in front of her from
another street. She said something under her breath that sounded distinctly profane and started to bang the horn-ring before she thought better of it.
"Will he be rich?" she asked as she got the car clear of the jam and stepped on the throttle.
Jel chuckled. "Hardly."
"Oh? But doesn't he get a lot of shares?"
"Quite a lot; but it's not a very big company/'
"How many shares?"
"Thirty thousand." Then, because he decided he might as well give it all to her rather than have her drag it out of him, he said: "And right now it's quoted over the counter— or was the last I heard—around fifteen.**
She frowned slightly as she did the mental multiplication. "That's four hundred and fifty thousand/' she said. "That's quite a lot—I think that's fine," she added, her tone brightening in a way that suggested she was well pleased with the news.
Jeff continued his inspection, noting the emerald engagement ring which must have been four or five carats. When he considered the aquamarine-and-diainond ring on her other hand, and the wristwatch with the diamond-studded bracelet, he wondered why she should be so concerned with money. A further examination of her profile revealed a smile that had taken possession of her mouth. It remained constant as she drove, and the idea came to him that, now that she had the information she wanted, her secret thoughts had been projected well beyond the confines of the car.
"Do you know his wife?" he asked.
"What?" She glanced at him, frowning as her thought-train was shattered. "Oh, yes. Yes, I know her."
"What's she like?"
"Like?" She made a small disparaging sound. "In my
opinion/' she said with formidable frankness, "she's a cold potato/'
"And how will she like going back to the States?"
In a tone that suggested she could not care less, she said: "I haven't the faintest idea.**
She braked the car in front of the hotel and now the smile of contentment had slipped from her face and some inner annoyance was working on her mouth. When Jeff thanked her for the ride she replied indifferently and it was quite clear that his questions had spoiled her morning.
He watched her diive off and then went into the hotel, intending to have another try at locating Grayson; but a man who had been leaning on the desk had another idea. With the clerk acting as interpreter Jeff learned that this was a detective— oficial was the word the clerk used—who had been dispatched by Ramon Zuineta to take him to the headquarters of Segurnal so Jeff could make a statement.
JULIO CORDOVEZ was waiting at the information desk at Segurnal when Jeff finished his protracted session with Zumeta and a stenographer. It was then one thirty, and when Cordovez asked if he would like some lunch, Jeff said yes.
"The Normandy is good," the little detective said. **I think they serve lunch. Also, farther in the city there is the Paris. Very old but very good. Or perhaps you would like to see the American Club."
"Is it far?"
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT jet
"No," said Cordovez and led the way to Ms car.
He seemed to take a certain pride in showing Jeff the American Club, which had originally been a hotel. He pointed out certain features, showed him the dining-room, the patio, which could be used for special occasions, and the bar, where five American businessmen were shaking poker dice for the third martini.
Jeff ordered an omelet, a salad, and iced coffee, and Cordovez asked for something that turned out to be chicken and rice. He offered no information until Jeff asked for it,
"I have learned the results of the autopsy," he said. "The bullet entered here"—he tapped his lower chest—"and was directed upward toward the back, lodging in the spine."
Jeff sipped his coffee and contemplated his cigarette until the significance of the information struck him. He looked up, eyelids narrowing.
"The spine?" he said thoughtfully. "Then what about that telephone call at seven minutes after eight?"
"Baker did not make it. It cannot be said with certainty that he died instantly, but he would have been paralyzed, He could not have dialed. The doctor does not think he could have lifted the instrument."
"But someone did make a call/ 9
"Yes." Cordovez let the thought build for a silent minute. "You have seen Grayson?" he asked,
"Not yet," Jeff said. "Do you know where he lives?"
-Oh, yes "
"Then let's take a ride. If he's not there maybe I can talk to his wife,"
"There is also a man who lives there," Cordovez said as Jeff reached for the check.
"Oh?"
"A Sefior Fiske. Dudley Fiske."
"What do you mean, he lives there?"
"He is said to be an old friend of Grayson's and came here a year and a half ago to work as a sort of assistant. Grayson is a man who likes to feel important. I have heard it said that Fiske has many small duties. Also"—he leaned forward and lowered his voice—"he was at the hotel last night with Mrs. Grayson/'