Free One Minute Past Eight by George Harmon Coxe Page A

they said I had to do it. They weren’t even polite about it. They said: “Either you’ll do it, sister, or your friend will get hurt. We were hired to do a job and we intend to do it one way or another.”
    She hesitated, her eyes wide open, as though each detail was imprinted on her brain,
    “They meant it,” she said.
    “They probably did,” Jeff said.
    “They said if I did what I was told they’d get you in a cab and take you to a hotel and let you sleep it off. If not, they’d handle it their own way.… I had to,” she said a little desperately. “I was afraid not to. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I do hope you’ll believe me. Somehow it seems terribly important.”
    Jeff stood up and found his neck was stiff. He twisted it, all resentment gone now and moved deeply by this girl and the things she had said.
    “I believe you,” he said, hesitating as he looked down at her and wanting very much to speak some word of reassurance. When no such word came to mind he smiled at her and said: “Maybe, under the circumstances, the mickey was better than a broken skull. Thanks for telling me about it.”
    He stopped at the door and turned back. “But you’re still going to try to get that assignment.”
    “Oh, I have to,” she said, as though there had never been any question about that particular point. “I have to try.”
    He grinned at her as he went out. He said he was sorry he couldn’t wish her luck, but he at least understood the quality of the competition.
    He found that he was humming as he moved along the hall, but he did not know there was a grin on his face that was supported by some inner glow that seemed warm and satisfying. He unlocked his door and turned on the light. He snapped the bolt behind him and then stopped short when he saw his two bags, knowing instinctively that someone had transposed them on the luggage rack.
    They were not locked—he had not bothered after clearing customs—and when he opened them he could tell that they had been searched. When he straightened his mouth was grim and there were somber glints in his eyes. There was nothing in the bags of great value and nothing was missing. But the fact that someone had been interested enough to risk a search reminded him that he was in the middle of an ugly situation he did not entirely understand.

 
7
     
    JULIO CORDOVEZ was waiting on a bench just outside the main entrance when Jeff came downstairs the following morning. He looked very neat in his tan suit; his white shirt was freshly laundered, his shoes were polished, and the bald spot on his head was pink and shiny. He made his customary small bow and his smile was broad as he offered his greeting.
    “You slept well?” he asked.
    “Very well,” Jeff said, which was true. “How about some breakfast?”
    “I have finished mine.”
    “Coffee?”
    “I would like that very much.”
    They crossed the lobby and went along the hall past the private dining-room to a long high-ceilinged room bright with morning sunlight. The captain gave them a table by the windows, and as Jeff sat down he had his first look at the city, which sprawled below him in the distance, a heterogeneous panorama of structures that followed the valleys and crept up hillsides brown from lack of rain. Near the center tall buildings spoke of rapid growth and here and there modern, boxlike structures indicated a growing interest in low- and middle-class housing projects.
    Jeff spoke of the view and mentioned his earlier trip, remarking at the change. Cordovez nodded. “It is only just begun,” he said. “They cannot build fast enough and everywhere you see businessmen—from the States and England and Germany and Italy.”
    He fell silent as Jeff worked on his bacon and eggs, sipping his coffee and pulling on a cigarette that gave off a pungent aroma. As Jeff poured more coffee, he said: “You have plans for this morning?”
    “Do you know where my stepbrother lives?”
    “In the Valle