Read One Minute Past Eight for Free Online Page A

shaggy, and carelessly combed. His lightweight suit was baggy and he wore a sport shirt open at the collar, disclosing the upper fringes of chest hair that extended nearly to the hollow in his throat and added to the general impression of untidiness. For all of that he had a friendly, engaging manner, and when he had his pipe going he took out a folded sheaf of copy paper and a pencil.
    “What can you tell me?” he said.
    “Not much,” Jeff said. “Miss Holmes had a date with him and stopped in to see if he was ready. She found him on the floor.”
    He stopped as the door opened and one of Zumeta’s men came in to report. After that there was a small parade of goings and comings, but as each exchange was in Spanish Jeff understood none of the information. Apparently Spencer did, for he made a note from time to time and so did Zumeta. The only break in this routine occurred when Zumeta went into the closet and began to search the two suits that hung there.
    When he came out he had a pigskin wallet in his hand. He said something to the man who had given him the information—whatever it was—and then looked through the wallet, counting the bills, taking out what looked like two cablegrams and reading them, checking the papers in the pockets. When a man came in with a fingerprint kit Zumeta moved round the bed.
    “We will go now to Segurnal” he announced. “Mr. Grayson will join us there.”

 
4
     
    THE HEADQUARTERS of Segurnal —short for Securitas National and sometimes known as the secret police—was a modern stone building which occupied a corner on Agenda México. Zumeta lead the way into the lobby, past a clerk and the information desk and up the steps into a large air-conditioned room that was surrounded by smaller rooms and separated from them by glass partitions.
    A half-dozen men in plain clothes lounged in the center room talking and reading magazines as Zumeta led his procession past them and along a corridor; then down several stairs to another lobby which gave on a side entrance that was now closed, barred, and further secured by a locked chain. The party came to a halt here while another clerk telephoned ahead and a dark man in a baggy suit and a shapeless felt hat stood near by and eyed them silently. At a word from the clerk, Zumeta continued up the stairs to the second floor and across the corridor to a recessed anteroom, open at the front but railed in.
    Here the telephone procedure was repeated and presently they all filed through the gate and into a windowless air-conditioned waiting-room with paneled walls and leather-upholstered furniture. Zumeta stopped and waved them to seats.
    “You will wait here, please,” he said and went on through the next door.
    Jeff sat down on the divan next to Karen. He was impressed; he said so to Spencer.
    “Somebody’s got a lot of protection.”
    “Maybe he needs it,” Spencer said.
    “Who?”
    “Pedro Vidal. He’s the head man here. All over for that matter; its a national organization.” He grunted softly. “You should feel honored. He’s a hard man to see.”
    He sat down to relight his pipe and Jeff brought out cigarettes and offered them to Karen. She hesitated, but finally took one, murmuring her thanks and leaning forward for a light. Her face was still pale, but composed now, her body relaxed, the dark-blue eyes resigned and withdrawn. When she leaned back there was something so appealing about her that Jeff considered offering some words of reassurance. Then the moment passed and his thoughts moved on. He glanced at Spencer, wondering if he could answer a question that had been bothering him ever since he found Baker. He spoke of the cable.
    “Baker said he had a new job,” he said. “Would you know what it was?”
    “All I know is that he went to Barbados on Saturday and came back yesterday morning,” Spencer said. “Why, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s a rough deal,” he said. “He was a good guy. I used to know