Read One Minute Past Eight for Free Online

since?”
    “Oh, yes. I saw him this evening.”
    “Oh?” Zumeta bent his head slightly. “When was this?”
    “About seven thirty.”
    “Be so good as to tell me about this.”
    “I was in the writing-room addressing postcards,” she said. “Mr. Baker was with me. I had already said I would have dinner with him and we agreed to meet at eight for a drink.”
    “Yes,” Zumeta said with some impatience.
    “Well, from those windows you can see the front terrace and the walk and I saw Mr. Grayson coming toward the entrance. Mr. Baker saw him too.”
    “What happened then?”
    “Mr. Baker said: ‘Ah, there’s my man,’ and looked at his watch.”
    “Have you any idea what Mr. Baker meant by this?”
    “No, I haven’t. He just said he’d see me at eight and went away. I suppose he went to meet Mr. Grayson, but I can’t be positive.”
    Zumeta paced two steps, turned, and came back. He glanced through the contents of Baker’s pockets which now were spread out on the desk.
    “How long did you remain in the writing-room?” he asked and immediately held up his hand to forestall a reply as a new thought came to him. “Tell me everything you did after that, and at what time.”
    “I came to my room and showered and touched up my nails. When I finished dressing I started downstairs. That was about eight, or a minute after.”
    “You heard nothing when you passed this room?”
    “No—” She stopped, eyes widening, “Yes, I did too, I heard the phone ring as I came past. It was still ringing when I turned the corner and I thought that meant Mr. Baker was in the bar. That’s why I was surprised when I glanced in and didn’t see him.”
    “You did not sit in the bar?”
    “No. I was alone and—well, I thought I’d wait on the terrace.”
    “Yes. And you found it chilly and came to get your coat. When would that be?”
    “I’m not sure. I guess maybe five or six minutes after eight. Maybe more.”
    As she finished, Jeff wondered how accurate her estimate was. He recalled that it was eight minutes after eight when he had stopped at the downstairs desk. He had been there two or three minutes at the most. He had not seen her on the front terrace, but he realized also that there was more than one terrace. Before he could pursue the thought someone banged on the door. When the assistant opened it a voice called: “Ramon!” and then a thin, untidy individual pushed his way into the room and grinned at Zumeta.
    “Ah,” said Zumeta. “The Bulletin is quick tonight.”
    “Not quick,” the man said, in accents that were unmistakably American. Just lucky. “I’m downstairs covering the monthly dinner PanAm Oil puts on and I see some of your boys nosing around. So I do some snooping on my own. Who got killed?”
    “An American private detective called Harry Baker.”
    “What?” The man peered at Zumeta and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Harry Baker?”
    “You knew him?”
    “Sure. He came to the Bulletin when he hit town because we’re the only English-language daily and he didn’t speak much Spanish.”
    He had been watching Jeff and the girl as he spoke and now he came round the bed and offered his hand.
    “I’m Dan Spencer,” he said. “Are you Jeffrey Lane?”
    “Yes,” Jeff said and shook the bony hand.
    “Harry said you were coming,” Spencer said, his eyes curious as they watched the girl.
    Jeff introduced them and Spencer said: “How do you do, Miss Holmes… Look, I don’t know what this is all about but if you can—”
    “You will find out,” Zumeta cut in. “Soon we will go to Segurnal.”
    “Me too—I hope,” Spencer said.
    “You, too. But for now, sit down and be quiet.”
    Spencer sat on the edge of the bed next to Jeff and began to pack a straight-stemmed briar. At close range he seemed to be in his middle thirties, a round-shouldered man with the sort of ingrown stoop that gave his chest a concave look. His skin was sallow; his hair was mouse-colored,