Man on a Rope (12 page)

He tossed his butt from the window and said: “Came out here with a little money, built a shack and got some cattle, and moved an Indian woman in to take care of him. Had a way with Indians. They seemed to like him, and after a while he finally married one. I don't know if there was any license or anything like that, but he acknowledged her. Had three or four kids that died and then Ian and his sister.”

“Ian didn't get along with him,” Barry said, hoping for more information.

“He treated him like a hired hand after the mother died,” Eddie said. “Sent him to school here, but never gave him much of a chance. The sister, Jessie, was nice. Not like an Indian. She went to school here and in Barbados, and when she married Holt old Lambert wanted nothing more to do with her.”

He fell silent, and when Barry saw that there would be no elaboration he said: “Would you know where Thaxter is staying?”

“I could find out,” Eddie said, and started the motor.

Three minutes later he parked in the middle of a downtown block and said he would be back in a minute. Barry did not know where he went, but when he returned he started up again, drove round the block, and stopped before a three-story wooden building. A stairway flanked by ground-floor shops led upward from the sidewalk, and over the entrance a small sign said: H
OTEL
M
URRAY.

“You ever been in here?” Eddie said as he cut the motor. “Well, the second floor is kind of a night club. You know, a bar and some booths and a bit of a dance floor. They've got one of those boxes that plays records and a three-piece orchestra nights. A few women, hostesses I guess you'd call 'em. Some of them have rooms on the top floor; that's the hotel part. I heard Thaxter was staying here…. You want me to come up with you, Mr. Dawson?” he said as Barry got out of the car.

Barry said no and asked Eddie to wait, adding that he probably would not be long, and then he was climbing the worn wooden stairs to a landing which had three additional openings. One led to a stairway which mounted to the third floor, a second on the right opened into a long room that seemed dark and uninviting. Barry stepped in far enough to see the bar on the left, the booths opposite and at the front. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he made out two women sitting in a booth, a half-dozen or more men standing at the bar, their faces shining darkly as they turned to inspect him. Beyond were a small dance floor and an orchestra stand.

The Murray Hotel did not boast of much of a lobby. It was a squarish little room with two windows overlooking the street, and the furniture looked battered and uncomfortable. The desk, just inside the door, was a tiny affair, and when Barry approached it a slim, brown-skinned man in shirt sleeves rose from his chair.

“I'm looking for George Thaxter,” Barry said.

“Room twelve.” The clerk looked behind him at the key rack, which had two rows of numbered hooks, several of them empty. “Must be in,” he added. “Key's gone.”

Number twelve proved to be the last room on the right-hand side of the narrow airless corridor, and the door was hooked on the inside to keep it open a six-inch crack. When Barry knocked he heard a bedspring creak and presently a leathery hand appeared to unsnap the hook.

Barry could tell by the gleam of recognition in the dark eyes that George Thaxter recognized him. Without his hat and coat and clad as he was in wrinkled trousers and a sweat-stained T-shirt, he looked different. His thinness was more apparent, the droop of the shoulders more pronounced. His head was nearly bald, and an inch or more above the brows the deep tan faded in a line of demarcation where a hat had protected the head; above this the skin was white and damp-looking.

In that first moment or two the eyes that stared back at Barry seemed to be waging a struggle of their own, and now he eased forward so that Thaxter had to move out of his way. Then he was in a shabby room that held an iron bedstead and accompanying chamber pot, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, a single chair. A curtain draped across one corner served as a wardrobe, and the lone window looked down at the rear of some unidentified building.

“How did you know where to find me?” Thaxter said when he had closed the door.

“I asked some questions. I saw you come out of Police Headquarters this morning.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“I asked my taxi-driver who you were.”

Thaxter rubbed the back of his neck, shrugged, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “What do you want?”

“A little conversation. What did the cops want?”

Thaxter considered this a silent moment. He tipped his head, his glance suddenly wary. “You know about me?” he said. “About being in the Penal Settlement?”

“I know a little more than that.”

“Then you should know why the police wanted to talk to me.”

“They figured you had a motive.”

“Definitely.”

“You and McBride got caught in the same bit of larceny, but McBride got away with it and you didn't. I guess you've been brooding about that ever since.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Probably,”

Thaxter made noises in his throat, and the corners of his mouth tightened. “I offered to make restitution,” he said bitterly. “I could have raised the money. I had some shares I could have sold. But Lambert was a vindictive bastard; always had been. I've seen what he did to other people. McBride would've kept me company too if Lambert could have found another pilot for his meat plane. He got this confession out of McBride and he's held it over him ever since.”

Yes
, Barry thought,
and he probably could have put McBride in jail right up to the day he died
.

Suppose they had had a fight. Suppose something came up that infuriated Lambert and made him threaten to use the confession. McBride had been known to have been more than friendly with Muriel Ransom. Suppose Lambert had found out about it, or suppose McBride was jealous enough to kill rather than let Lambert take the woman to England. Suppose—

He put. aside such thoughts with an effort when he realized he could substantiate none of them. “What?” he asked, aware that Thaxter was speaking.

“I said I had plenty of motive to kill Lambert. I might even have tried if I'd thought I could get away with it. But I'm not fool enough to risk my neck just to get even…. I had a pretty good alibi,” he said.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Barry said. “How long had you been under that tree when I asked you for the match?”

“My clothes weren't wet, were they? That shows I wasn't out in the shower.”

“You could have ducked under a porch,” Barry said, and stopped just before he added:
The same way I did
…. “Did you tell the police you were there?” he said aloud.

“No.”

“Did you tell them you saw me?”

“No.” Thaxter hesitated, some new resentment darkening his gaze. “What did you come here for, anyway? What do you want with me?”

Barry could find no ready answer to this. He had come here in the hope of learning something new, and the results were disappointing. He did not think Thaxter was telling the truth about his vigil under the tree, and he wondered if a threat would bring about a proper statement.

“The police have got me on the books as one of the chief suspects,” he said. “You can get me off the hook.”

“Me? How?”

“They think Lambert was shot during that shower. You saw me come
after
the shower.”

“I don't want to get mixed up in it,” Thaxter said. “I've got no sympathy for Lambert. If the one who did it gets away with it, it's all right with me.”

“I'd be willing to pay a few dollars for your co-operation.”

Thaxter had been looking at the floor, and now he eyed Barry aslant, some new interest showing in his eyes.

“How do you mean?”

“Go to the police and tell them when you saw me. Give me an alibi.” He stood up and tried to make his voice tough. “If you don't, I'm going to make it a point to tell the Superintendent where I saw you, and when. I'd rather have it come from you, and that's why I'm willing to spend a little…. I'll give you until tonight to come clean,” he said. “If I don't hear from you by then, I'll start talking.”

With that he stepped into the hall and shut the door, dissatisfied with himself and knowing the things he had said were not very convincing, even to him. Thaxter might talk if he was paid to do so, but Barry did not have either the equipment or the information to scare him. That threat about going to the police was nothing but talk and he knew it; he was not sure he wanted Thaxter to go to the police because he had no way of knowing how long the man had been under that tree. It was even possible that he had seen Barry's earlier arrival and panicky flight.

He took the thought back to the hotel with him and found its ramifications disquieting as he stripped and showered. When he had put on a robe he went to the window and looked out at the frangipani tree to make sure that the dirt surrounding it had not been disturbed. Then, putting his recent efforts from his mind, he began to think of new methods and new approaches, persisting in this until an idea came to him that seemed promising.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
T FIVE O'CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON
Barry Dawson crossed the, open-air lounge and took a small table near the front railing but as far away from the dining-room as he could get. On the street the home-going parade of bicycles had started, all moving at the same easy pace. Each had its headlight and taillight and small self-operated generator; each was licensed, and he wondered how many thousands had been registered in the city and its surroundings.

A brief shower which came without warning made the cyclists head for tree trunks and sent the pedestrians running for cover. Most of these were Negro women and all wore hats or scarves, and with the first drops all had the same idea in mind: to cover their heads. He had noticed this curious complex before. The head, it seemed, must be protected from raindrops at any cost, and now, as they scurried for shelter they put whatever was handy on top of their heads—a basket, a bundle, a book; those who were unencumbered resorted to clasped hands.

In this case the raincloud was tiny and the shower ended almost before it began. Cautiously then the cyclists mounted, and Barry smiled at the scene as the sidewalks began to fill once more. When he glanced up he saw the waiting bellboy who customarily brought his cocktails.

“The usual, Mr. Dawson?”

“It's a little early,” Barry said. “Let's try a Pepsi for now.”

When the iced drink came he sipped slowly, glancing toward the desk and the corridor which led to the rooms from time to time. His glass had been empty for quite a while when, some time after six, his vigil was rewarded and Arthur Hudson, looking very smart in an off-white suit, escorted his blonde girl-friend to a table overlooking the grounds between the wings.

The girl—Barry had stopped at the desk earlier to make inquiries and learned that her name was Ruby Noyes—wore a full-skirted creation with a snug bodice and a neckline that was rounded and suitably low. The material was a colorful print, and the over-all effect was rather more dressy than the male occupants of the Windsor were accustomed to. Whether attracted by the dress, the startling blond hair, or the undulating walk, those present gave her their undivided attention until she was seated.

When Barry was sure Hudson had not noticed him he sat where he was and watched the American indoctrinate the girl into the ritual of the rum cocktail as practiced by the hotel personnel. Two small glasses were placed on the table, after which the waiter put the pitcher and its swizzle stick in a near-by chair and bent down to spin the shaft of the stick between his palms. The fundamental idea behind such a method was not only to mix the ingredients but to churn them to a froth, and for this drink a special rum was used so that, once poured, a beaded and creamy-looking head would remain for several minutes.

The local custom was to drink the contents before the head disappeared, and Hudson apparently explained this well because after her first taste the girl followed his example and emptied the glass like an expert. Two more rounds of the same followed in a space of ten minutes, and now they stood up and went on into the dining-room.

As soon as they were seated Barry left his chair by the rail and circled the edge of the lounge, watching the lone clerk and waiting until he was busy before reaching round the corner and taking Hudson's key from the rack. No one paid him any attention because it was a routine followed by many guests. No one saw him go down the hall or unlock Hudson's door.

Dusk was already beginning to finger the windows, and so he drew the shutters and turned on the light before he began his search, looking first for the man-sized suitcase he had seen that morning. The two matching pieces, one of which had been open on the bed, were gone and bore testimony to the fact that Ruby Noyes had been assigned a room. The case he wanted was on the floor of the wardrobe, but as soon as he took it out he saw that it was locked.

With no way of picking the lock, he put it back reluctantly and quickly went through the two other bags. These yielded nothing of interest, nor did the pockets of the suits hanging there until he came to a bulky envelope which bore the insignia of the local airline. Inside was a folder containing a series of tickets which said that Hudson had space for one on a Monday flight—today was Thursday—to Trinidad. Additional tickets would take him to Curacao, Panama, and Guatemala City.

Barry replaced the envelope. He closed the wardrobe door, his straight brows warped now and his dark-blue eyes somber. His discovery helped to explain Hudson's interest in making a quick deal for the diamonds; it also suggested that he planned to take the trip alone. But it was not the sort of evidence Barry was looking for, and now, as he glanced round, he saw that there were very few hiding-places left.