Free One Minute Past Eight by George Harmon Coxe Page B

Arriba district.”
    “Is it far?”
    “Perhaps twenty minutes.”
    “I’d better call him first.”
    “I have written the numbers for you.” Cordovez brought out a slip of paper and pointed. “This is the residence; this the office.”
    The voice that answered Jeff’s call to Grayson’s home was female and Spanish. He had sense enough to try the word señor. When this got him nowhere he tried señora, and presently another woman answered, her accent clipped and polite.
    “Oh, yes,” she said when Jeff identified himself. “Arnold said you were coming… I’m sorry he’s not here just now. He left for his office about ten minutes ago. Do you have the number?”
    Jeff thanked her and dialed again. This time the woman who answered had some command of English but no better news. The best she could do was offer the information that Grayson had phoned to say he would not be in until later.
    Jeff relayed the information to Cordovez as they went outside, and the little detective offered a suggestion.
    “Perhaps it could be Señor Webb.”
    “What?”
    “If your stepbrother has not paid his debt, he could be worried about Señor Webb.”
    “I guess he could be at that,” Jeff said; then, as a new thought came to him: “Do you know Luis Miranda?”
    “The abogado? Oh, yes.”
    “What do you know about him?”
    “A very old family,” Cordovez said, “At one time they had much land but they were not always on the right side—how do you say it?—politically—and there is less now. But still much. An estate in the Guarica River district near Calabozo, a beach house at Macuto, a fine home in the Country Club section.”
    “Would you say Luis is wealthy?”
    “I would say so.”
    “Wealthy enough not to be tempted by one hundred and twenty thousand in cash?”
    “It is a lot of money; but”—Cordovez shrugged—“I do not think Luis would steal just for money.”
    “Married?”
    “Twice. The two children are grown. The son manages the estate and the daughter is in the States. His second wife is a countrywoman of yours. Very beautiful.”
    “Do you know where his office is?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then let’s go.”
    He followed Cordovez out to a three-year-old Ford which had been parked along the semicircular drive, and presently they were rolling down a quiet, tree-lined street, turning right at the end to make the descent into the city. Here the newness of the houses, the modernity of the architecture that had been built into the many small apartments impressed Jeff greatly, but he noticed that every ground-floor window was protected by an ornamental metal grill.
    He mentioned it. He asked if they were necessary.
    “Oh, sure,” Cordovez said, and laughed. “At night there are always prowlers. It is best to be safe.”
    The traffic thickened as they came into the valley and there were times when it stalled completely. Yet no one seemed greatly disturbed and not once did a horn blow. He mentioned this, too, and Cordovez said:
    “To do so means jail or a fine. It is against the law.”
    “But don’t things get awfully jammed up?”
    “Oh, yes. And when it becomes unbearable we do this to show our displeasure.” He put his arm out the window and began to pound the heel of his hand against the side of the door. “Near the center in the late afternoon it sometimes sounds like thunder,” he said, and laughed again.
    The building that housed Miranda’s office was square, tall, modern, and, because of the stunted appearance of its neighbors and its distance from the center of the city, strangely incongruous. Cordovez double-parked in front of it and asked if he should wait. Jeff thought it over and said no.
    “I don’t know how long I’ll be and if you’ve got friends at Segurnal why don’t you snoop around and find out what they know.”
    “Very well.” Cordovez tore a sheet out of a small notebook and wrote down two numbers. “My home,” he said; “my office, I am in touch every hour.