One Minute Past Eight by George Harmon Coxe Read Free Book Online Page A

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 Jeff’s 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 Zumeta 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?”
    “Why not.” Grayson slumped in his chair and now he smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand. “I went up to his room, stayed about one minute, and came down. I went home. You can check with the servants.”
    “At approximately ten minutes of eight,” Zumeta continued, “Mr. Baker came to the desk to ask if there were any messages. He went from there to the bar and ordered a dry martini. When it was served he reached into his pocket and then told the barman he must have left his wallet in his room. The barman remembers this because he told Mr. Baker he could sign the check, but Mr. Baker said he would rather pay and to hold his drink. He never came back for it.”
    Zumeta glanced up, hesitated, then consulted his notes. “At about five minutes of eight Mr. Baker came to the desk to ask for his key. The clerk could not find the regular key, so he offered a duplicate, thinking Mr. Baker had left the other one in his room. He saw Mr. Baker start for the elevators, but he cannot remember whether he saw Mr. Baker actually step in or not.”
    He glanced at the girl. “You were right about the telephone call you heard. At 8.01 someone used a house phone and the operator rang room 312 three times before the party hung up. At 8.07 the light on 312 flashed on the switchboard. When the operator answered someone said: “Outside,” and was given a line. She thinks it was no more than fifteen or twenty seconds before the telephone was replaced. Unfortunately, because of the dial system, we do not know where the call went. Unless he died instantly, which is doubtful, Mr. Baker could have pulled the telephone to the floor and made that call… Would you know anything about that call, Mr. Grayson?” he asked.
    “Me? No. I’d just talked to him a half-hour before that.”
    “About what?” Vidal asked.
    “A personal matter.” Grayson sat up, the grooves digging into the sides of his nose and his pale gaze intent. “What did you find in the room?”
    “Aside from the usual things, the gun,” Zumeta said. “His traveling bag was unlocked and the keys were in the lock.”
    “But—I mean, wasn’t there anything else?”
    “Clothing, Mr. Grayson. His wallet, the usual papers… Should there be something else?”
    Grayson’s glance slid to Luis Miranda and he jerked it back. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I just wondered if you found some clue, something that would give you a lead.”
    Under the circumstances the reply lacked conviction and Jeff wondered about this when Grayson slumped in his chair and the