Jeff settled back, a muscle bulging in his jaw as his mouth fattened, his eyes dark with resentment but his temper in
hand as he was reminded of the job he had to do. He had come a long way and he realized it would be foolish to antagonize his stepbrother at this point. He sat still, noting the changes the last four years had made.
Taller than Jeff, more muscular in his younger days, Arnold Grayson was still well proportioned, the excess weight skillfully minimized by the well-cut double-breasted suit. The face was puffy but tanned, the wavy light-brown hair was thin and sharply receding, and a small mustache—a new addition—helped disguise a too-small mouth that, Jeff knew, could be smiling and twisted with fury In alternate minutes. For all of that he had about him a look of importance when viewed objectively; only those who knew him understood how impressed he was with his own self-importance. Now Jeff gave him a small mirthless smile,
"Sit down, Arny," he said casually. "Relax."
But Grayson was not yet ready to sit down. "Hello, Miss Holmes/' he said. "Hi, Spence. What's this about Harry Baker?"
"Somebody shot him," Spencer said.
"Where?"
''They didn't tell me."
"I mean, where was he?" Grayson said, his impatience showing.
"In his room. Miss Holmes had a date for dinner and stopped by to see if he was ready," Spencer waved his pipe. "He was on the floor"
"When was this?"
"Who knows?"
Grayson looked at Jeff, vertical grooves at the bridge of his nose and worried glints in his light-gray eyes. The change in his manner was at once apparent to Jeff and he wondered why this should be. Before he could speculate, the inner door opened and a swart, white-haired man with the features of an Indian beckoned.
They filed past him, Spencer leading the way, and continued across a second windowless office. Its only other occupant was an attractive young woman who sat behind a flat-topped desk and watched them pass through the door on her left. This opened into a third paneled office, larger than the others but still without windows.
Zumeta stood beside the desk. Behind it and also on Ms feet was Pedro Vidal, who was as tall as Zumeta but leaner, an immaculately groomed man with well-kept hands and thick black hair. He bowed slightly as he acknowledged Zumeta's introductions. When he asked them to sit down his voice was quiet, his English excellent.
Apparently Zumeta had briefed him well because he turned at once to Jeff and said: "I understand you employed Mr. Baker to find your brother—"
"Stepbrother," Jeff cut in.
"—to inform him of a recent inheritance/' Vidal went on, ignoring the interruption. "How long since you had seen each other?"
"About fora: years/'
Vidal glanced from one to the other. "You have a dislike for each other? There is some bad feeling?"
"What?" Grayson said.
"You have not seen each other for four years yet when you meet—or had you met earlier this evening without telling Zumeta?—you do not even bother to shake hands."
"How the hell do you know?" Grayson said.
Vidal showed no annoyance at the remark, but swiveled his chair and pressed a button. With that a square of what had looked like black glass recessed in the wall behind the desk was brightly illuminated and Jeff found himself looking at a miniature view of the waiting-room as seen from above.
"What's that, television?" Grayson asked.
**Mirrors," Vidal said as the light vanished. "A sort of
periscope/* He allowed himself a small smile. "It is sometimes wise to know exactly who wishes to see me."
"And hear what they say, hunh?" Grayson added, "When advisable." Vidal leaned his forearms on the desk. "You understand now why I asked the question."
Jeff cleared his throat. "No bad feeling/' he said. "Just nothing much in common. Arnold's seven years older and-*
"Just say we're not buddies," Grayson said. "We never were. Jeff doesn't approve of me; neither did his father.**
Vidal considered the information.
"Yet he made provision for you in his will. „ , . Tell me, Mr. Lane/' he said. "What would happen if you had not located your stepbrother—or if something happened to
T t f\>9 ^ JT*
him?
"My sister and I would have received Arnold's share/* Jeff said.
jl see. Now about this evening" 7 —he glanced at Zumeta -"we have a timetable that should be helpful but before we go into that I would like to say that we have checked the gun, which apparently killed Mr. Baker, with his permit. It was his gun. This suggests-though there could be other answers—that whoever came to his room came with a gun and relieved Mr. Baker of his gun. Later, when it became necessary to shoot—Mr. Baker might have made the mistake of resisting—Baker's gun was used.*
He paused and took time to examine each face in turn. Before he could add to the statement, Grayson spoke.
"That's very interesting, but what Id like to know is why I was brought here in the first place/"
"Because/' said Vidal, "you may have been the last one to see Mr. Baker alive/*
Grayson leaned forward, his pale eyes hostile. "Who says so?"
, "Miss Holmes/' Zumeta said, and went on to relate her
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT
story of Grayson's meeting with Baker. The corroboration that followed came unexpectedly from Dan Spencer.
"She's right about that/' he said.
"Oh?" VidaTs black brows climbed "How do yon know?"
"I was there, in the lobby." Spencer took the pipe from his mouth. He explained his assignment to cover the monthly dinner and said: "They were to have a guest speaker over from the States and I tried to get a line on him from the dinner committee. I thought if I could buttonhole him and get a copy of his speech I could duck the dinner part. ... I saw Grayson come in and speak to Baker. They went over toward the elevators."
"And you?* 7 Vidal said.
'"When they told me the speaker might not get there until around eight fifteen I went into the bar/'
A faint buzz on the desk punctuated the sentence and Vidal picked up one of the four telephones from a shelf behind him. A moment later he covered the mouthpiece and frowned at Grayson.
"You sent for Luis Miranda. . . , Why?**
Spencer, sitting next to Jeff, leaned over and spoke from the corner of his mouth: "A lawyer. A good one.'*
Grayson gestured emptily. "I didn't know why you sent for me/' he said. "I hate to get caught out alone. I got picked up for speeding a while back and they held me overnight in jail and fined me three hundred B's/*
"That is the usual procedure on a first offense." Vidal smiled. "It is a good way to cut down the accident rate. . . , But that was the city police, not us/'
**Also/' Grayson said, "you've got a law here that says you can hold a man for thirty days without a hearing/'
"True/' Vidal said. "Thirty days, at which time you are brought before a judge and it is decided whether I can hold you longer without preferring charges. But I should
remind you that if I think I have cause to hold you for thirty days, an attorney would do you little good. Neither would your consul or your ambassador. However— " He spoke into the telephone and hung up.
The man who entered a moment later was straight-backed and distinguished. His dark suit had a silken sheen, his hair was touched with gray, and his swart, sharp-featured face was impassive as he glanced about the room. In that same instant a muted bell rang deep down in Jeffs consciousness. For it seemed to him that somehow Luis Miranda seemed familiar, though he could not remember why.
He puzzled over the thought while the lawyer greeted Vidal and Grayson. There followed a long exchange in Spanish and then Miranda leaned back while Ramon Zu-meta took over.
"We have questioned some of the help at the Tucan," he said, "and have established certain facts. You came to the hotel about seven thirty, Mr. Grayson. Mr. Baker met you. Do you care to tell us what you did then?"