"Maybe he was bluffing."
"Don't bet on it. I've seen that kind work before and brother, they can get mean. Once they get started on you they don't give a damn. They just don't care."
He sighed again as though such thoughts still bothered him, then turned and disappeared down the hall. A moment later Jeff heard water running and the clink of glasses, and presently Spencer returned, a bottle of whisky under one arm, two glasses in one hand, a pitcher of water in the other. He poured a quick drink and drank thirstily.
"Boy, did I need that," he said. "Go ahead, help yourself."
Jeff eyed the remaining glass. It had been rinsed., but it was obvious that it had been a long time since this particular glass had been subjected to soap and hot water. He did not want a drink, but he wanted to be sociable, so he splashed some whisky in the bottom, swished it around and added water. He took a sip and sat down on the couch.
"So you're the one who turned me in," he said.
''What?"
"You told the police you'd seen me this afternoon out in front of Grayson's office." He indicated his picture in the newspaper. "That put me on the front page. Maybe you told them my knuckles were skinned and my mouth was bleeding."
Spencer backed into an easy-chair, his expression sheepish. He stretched out his legs to reveal shoes that were scuffed and in need of a polish. When he leaned back his chest became more concave than ever.
"I didn't see your knuckles," he said. "You've got it wrong."
ONE MINrUTE PAST EIGHT
TDid you tell Ramon Zumeta you'd seen me?" "Yeah, but—" He stopped and his Adam's apple jumped up and down in his throat. "That's not what put you In the jam/" lie said finally.
"What did? When did you know there'd been a murder?" "When the law started cluttering up the street. HeU, you could hear them come. I ran out of the office and when I saw the mob I hotfooted it up there. I couldn't get in, but I saw Webb and that girl come out, so I tagged along down to Segurndt.
"With the city cops It would have been easy/* he said by way of explanation. "They always co-operate with the press. They even got a room down at the headquarters building with a plainclothesman on duty to take the calls. Everything comes in, he types it up with carbons. Each, paper's got a little box in a rack that's tacked to the wall. Somebody gets knifed, somebody gets banged up in a crash, somebody's taken to a hospital—you get a memo on it. That way the papers don't have to keep a man on duty like in the States. The police reporter just stops in there three or four times a day to see what's been happening and he follows up whatever he figures he needs. But Segurnal is different/' he said and took another swallow of his highball.
"They don't give out that way. Lots of times they don't want any publicity. So I'm down there and I need a wedge to get in—hell, I have to get the best story 1 can, don't I?— and I send word in that I saw you outside Grayson's office."
"So Zuineta let you in."
"Sure, but it's not me that really put the finger on you.**
Jeff stood up and removed his borrowed coat. He sat
down again and got a cigarette going. He watched Spencer
finish his drink and scratch the top of his chest before he
leaned forward to fix a fresh highball. Jeff let the silence
build for another five seconds,, his dark eyes brooding and his lids half closed.
"All right," he said. "Who did?"
"The guy at the garage."
"What guy?"
"Maybe you don't remember, but when you walk up the street you pass a plate-glass window, the only one in the block. It's got some caskets in it."
Jeff nodded, remembering that this was true, and now he also recalled the garage with its recessed ramp and single gasoline pump.
"Next to that is this garage, and it just happens that when you go by—it must have been when you went to see Grayson—this guy is pumping gas for a customer. He's got nothing else to do while the pump is working so he's looking round to see what's going on in the neighborhood."
He gestured with the glass. "Well, he sees you and he notices you because you look American with your slacks and white coat."
^Cord coat," Jeff said.
"To him it was white. He watches you go into Grayson's doorway and that's all until Zuineta's men start combing the block and questioning everybody to see if anybody's noticed any strangers go into the building. This guy remembers you and by this time I've already said I offered to buy you a beer so Zumeta gets in touch with Immigration and conies up with the photo on your tourist card. The garage guy identifies you."
Jeff did not quarrel with the explanation. Coincidence was something one had to accept in life, and it was coincidence In the form of Spencer and a man pumping gasoline at just the right time that had tipped the scales against him. His own decision to postpone surrender as long as he could had simply tightened the noose.
Now, studying the reporter and recalling the thumbnail
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT
sketch Carl Webb had given of Ms character, he passed on to^the other thing that was in his mind.
"How long have you been collecting from Grayson?"
Spencer's eyes opened and for an instant it looked as if he was going to deny the charge. Then, as though he no longer had the will to argue this matter which he knew to be true, he shrugged. He took up his pipe and blew through the stem.
"About a year."
"You knew Grayson in Las Vegas/"
"Sure, but I didn't know he'd been here awhile until I
ran into him at a meeting I was covering at the Tucan,"
He paused and what he said then verified Webb's opinion.
It also gave Jeff a clear-cut mental picture not only of Spen-
• cer himself but of the way his mind worked.
"I looked him up the following week/' he said. "Dropped in at his office. I'd already done some checking and from what I could learn he was doing O. K. He'd bought some property that was getting more valuable every day, built a nice house. He was representing some small Stateside outfits and—"
'What about Fiske?"
"Fiske?" Spencer grinned and one corner of his mouth dipped. "Dudley Fiske was a first-class errand boy. I think the only reason he stayed was Diana Grayson—you ve seen her, haven't you?—or maybe he was just too tired to quit.''
**A11 right," Jeff said, "go you saw Grayson. Then what?"
"I took it easy." Spencer inspected his drink, turning the glass one way and then the other. "Out in Vegas he had a reputation for being a'mean bastard and I didn't want to crowd him. I figured I'd better tiptoe around a bit, so after we'd talked about this and that I said I could use some extra dough and I had the time and maybe he could use a publicity man.
"I said it might help his business if I got the right things
in the paper. If he had some clippings to send back to the outfits he represented it might help. I said I could get his name in the paper at society things/*
"And he bought it?"
"Not at first. He said no." Spencer looked at Jeff with one eye which drooped a little in a sly sort of way. "So I said that that was too bad. I said I just thought I'd ask and it was nice to talk to him again. I said I still had some friends in Vegas and the next time I wrote I'd tell them Td seen him. I said they'd probably be interested to know how he was doing."
He hesitated again, unable now to resist a small secret grin. He gulped his highball and wiped his mouth.
"He got the message, 9 * he said. "At first I thought he was going to get rough about it—but what the hell, he knew the score. He never was a dope about things like that. He said maybe he could use a publicity man after all. He also made it clear what would happen if I got forgetful and wrote back to Vegas."
He chuckled as though a little proud of his cleverness. "I told him they weren't very good friends and I wasn't much at writing letters anyway."