Man on a Rope (3 page)

“Lambert!” he called, his voice sounding tight in his ears. “Lambert!”

And then he was moving, breath held and nerves tightening. Aware at the moment only of the figure on the floor, he dropped to one knee. From his angle of vision he saw no wound or sign of blood and now he reached out to shake a limp shoulder and once more call the man's name.

It was the touch of his hand that did it, some slight pressure of his grip. He felt the weight shift and his scalp crawled. Before he could prevent it Colin Lambert rolled slowly over onto his back, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, the bloodstained shirt front exposed.

For perhaps two seconds Barry froze there, his gaze horrified and fixed. Unable yet to think, he reached automatically for a hand that was as warm as his own. Lamplight glistened on his shiny face as he felt for a pulse beat that never came. The wrist slid from his slippery fingers and thumped to the floor, and now the horror began to expand inside him as he realized that the dark stain was slowly widening before his eyes.

What he did then he had cause to regret. His breath came out in a long blast and he swallowed against this new sickness. He saw that the desk cupboards were open. He could see part of the little safe, but all he could think of at the moment was his recent trouble with Lambert which Albert had witnessed. He wondered about Albert now, and then he was in flight, not knowing what caused the blood or caring, but motivated by some strange panic and perhaps a conscience overloaded with doubts.

He was not actually aware that he had fled until he found himself on the wet sidewalk. He knew he was walking very fast and gulping down the sweet night air as instinct carried him on. Then, hardly realizing it, his pace slowed and he became aware of the puddles on the sidewalk. He began to avoid them, and now, a half-block from the hotel, he stopped as sanity returned and his mind began to function.

Even as his nerves steadied he knew that what he had done was wrong, and he was instantly ashamed of the panic which had seized him. To counteract it he turned deliberately, hating himself for the display of weakness as he began to retrace his steps, slowly at first and then more quickly as his stride lengthened. This time reason kept pace with him. He told himself that he was not even sure Lambert was dead. A doctor might be needed. And suppose someone had seen him enter or leave the house at that time? Once that fact was known to the police he would indeed be in serious trouble.

Such thoughts served to alert him to his surroundings as he drew near the bungalow. The long black finger of accumulated water remained flat and glistening at the side of the pavement, and up ahead a car was parked. He could not remember if it had been there earlier. A tree trunk obscured part of its license tag, but he noticed that the first two markings were X-l. He might have tried to read the rest of it if his attention had not been distracted by some shadow of movement on the grassy strip next to the pavement.

All along here the high-branched trees marched in rows, and one of them stood just short of the path which led to Lambert's bungalow. The movement had come from here, but not until he had stepped closer was he sure that a man was standing there, as motionless as the trunk itself, the color of his clothes merging with the bark so that only the pale outline of his face was visible.

Having turned that way, Barry kept moving. He did not know who it was or why he should be here, but the impulse to know more was upon him now and he stepped up, reaching for a cigarette as he did so and seeing the man push away from the tree trunk.

“Have you got a match?”

In the moment that followed he knew only that the man was somewhat shorter than he was, that the khaki drill suit hung loosely on his spare frame, that the shoulders were stooped. Then the other was fumbling in his pocket and saying: “Why, yes, I think so.”

“Will you have a cigarette?”

“Ah—no, thanks.”

The matches in the small box were tiny, but Barry had grown accustomed to their use here in Georgetown and the resulting flame was sufficient for his needs. Holding it to one side so he could see beyond it, he took a long hard look at the man before he lit the cigarette. When darkness came again the picture he had seen was clear-cut and distinct—the thin, slack-skinned face beneath the battered felt hat, the dark eyes, the mustache, the mole below the left cheekbone. He also noticed that, except for a rain spot here and there, apparently drippings from the tree, the hat and jacket were dry. This told him that the man had taken shelter during the shower—if he had been out at all.

“Thanks,” he said. “Waiting for someone?”

“Waiting? Oh, no…. No. I—I just stopped to tie my shoe.”

With that he side-stepped quickly and started off down the street with a shuffling sort of gait, leaving Barry to watch him, to wonder if he should have tried to stop him. When he could find no answer to this he mounted the steps to the veranda, and in another moment his gaze fastened on the still figure by the desk and the man was forgotten.

He knew at once that something about the room had changed. The body was as he remembered it, but the desk drawers were open now and the top of it was littered with papers and envelopes, some of which had spilled over onto the floor. He could see the top of the drawer safe, and that made him remember the pouch of diamonds Lambert had locked there that afternoon.

The thought was strangely disturbing and it took an effort to keep his hands from the safe. He wanted to know if it was locked even as he knew he should not touch it. Instead he knelt again beside the crumpled figure and tried again to find some sign of life. He was still there when some sound, or a whisper of a sound, caught his ear.

He might not have noticed it ordinarily, but he was still shaken by the circumstances of his discovery and for an instant he wondered if it was some quirk of instinct that made him notice it, some imaginative pressure born of senses too sharply tuned.

Some seconds later he thought he heard the sound again, but its faintness had no character, only direction, and now, as he came silently to his feet, a new host of disturbing thoughts flooded through his mind.

Someone had been in the room since he had left it no more than five minutes earlier. Someone had searched the desk.

That the someone might have been the killer seemed obvious. And if this was true he must have been hidden in one of the darkened rooms at the rear, watching him, Barry, enter after the shower and leave so soon afterwards in panic. Such thoughts jolted nerves already ragged and he stilled them deliberately as he glanced intently about the broad room which stretched across the front of the house.

The shutters remained closed, but beyond the desk the door that gave on that side of the veranda stood open. The opposite door remained closed and now, wondering if Lambert had been shot but still not seeing any gun, he strode unhesitatingly toward the side door and stepped out into the night.

He heard the car start at that moment. He heard the grinding of gears in quick acceleration, and by the time he had run to the front of the veranda, remembering now the car that had been parked beyond the puddle, he saw that the street was empty and there was no sound but the faint drippings from the trees and the overhang of the tin roof.

Back in the living-room once more, he moved quickly to the telephone stand near the inner hallway. When the operator connected him with police headquarters he said what he had to say and hung up. Only then did he move to the desk and consider the scattered papers which littered the top. Here were statements, receipts, letters; there were reports on various enterprises in which Lambert had some interest. There was a two-page list, apparently a résumé of his current holdings, which contained the description of certain properties as well as a statement of shares owned in stock companies here and abroad.

Before he had time to examine the list more closely he heard the sound of a car in the street outside and wondered if it had stopped in front of the house. He stepped back, waiting, and presently he heard a soft step on the veranda, followed by a knock.

A voice said: “Anyone home?” and then Louis Amanti moved into the room.

Amanti was Lambert's lawyer and Lynn Sanford's employer, a plump, olive-skinned man with black hair and a round, expressionless face. Dressed in a white drill suit complete with waistcoat, he stood with his hat in his hand until his gaze moved past Barry and fixed on Lambert's body. Then he darted swiftly forward, addressing Barry but not looking at him.

“What is it?” he said sharply. “What happened? What's wrong with him?”

By that time he had bent down to see the dark stain on the chest, and the hand he had put out halted in mid-air. He gulped a breath with an open-mouthed, audible sound. He jerked erect and stared at Barry.

“Dead?” he said.

“Yes.”

“But—how?”

“I don't know. He was that way when I found him.”

“When?”

“Three minutes ago. Five. I don't know.”

“Did you call—”

“I called the police,” Barry said and now, hearing another car brake suddenly out in the street: “I guess they're here now.”

With that he walked quickly through the room and out onto the veranda. From there he could see the Landrover—a somewhat bloated version of the American jeep—with its canvas top and buggy-whip antenna. Two Negro constables in blue uniforms and caps were already moving up the path and he noticed that one wore a corporal's chevrons on his sleeve.

This one touched-his cap. “You telephoned, sir?”

“This way,” Barry said and took them into the house.

He told what he thought he should as the corporal examined the body for signs of life, and then, when the other constable started through the house and the corporal went to the telephone to call headquarters, he moved as far away from the body as he could and sat down, feeling physically exhausted and emotionally spent.

CHAPTER THREE

D
EPUTY
S
UPERINTENDENT
M
ARK
K
ERBY
was a thin, straight-standing man in his late thirties with a close-cropped mustache, thinning sandy hair, and a sprinkling of freckles on his forehead and nose. He was dressed in shorts, knee socks, and belted jacket complete with shoulder pips. His boots were polished, there was a swagger stick under his arm, and his voice was crisp and accented but not aggressive as he introduced himself and his assistant, a well-built, light-complected Negro in a neat tan suit. “Inspector Cantrell,” was the way Kerby said it, a rank, Barry knew, that was equivalent to sergeant.

The doctor arrived by the time Barry had given Kerby a brief fill-in, and as he went about his duties, Kerby asked Barry and Louis Amanti to wait. Now he turned to Albert, who had been brought forth from the shack he occupied at the rear of the property and now stood patiently, his black face impassive, his big body clothed in faded trousers, a patched shirt, and slippers.

“You're Albert?” Kerby said. “You've been with Mr. Lambert a long time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, suppose we go into one of the other rooms and have a chat, Albert. Perhaps you can help us.” He nodded to Cantrell, who took a notebook from his pocket and followed his superior from the room.

Barry went back and sat down. So did Amanti. The two uniformed constables had already departed in the Landrover. The two plainclothesmen who had arrived with Kerby stood by the desk and watched the doctor. A third man with a camera recorded the scene from various angles, and a fourth was busy at the desk with a fingerprint kit.

During the next few minutes Barry paid little attention to what went on about him. He was aware that an ambulance arrived and he watched the body being removed. The doctor left after a word with Kerby, followed by the photographer. The fingerprint man kept busy, but all the time Barry was wondering what he was going to say and how much, if anything, he should tell about the deal between Lambert and Hudson. He saw Albert come out and stand near the hall, and now there was a huddle between Kerby, Cantrell, and the two plainclothesmen, with Kerby saying:

“Ian Lambert—Boyd McBride—Mrs. Muriel Ransom. You can use my car.”

The plainclothesmen departed and now Kerby was ready for Barry.

“How did you happen to find him, Mr. Dawson?” he asked. “By that I mean, how did you happen to be here at all?”

“He phoned me while I was having dinner with Miss Sanford—”

“That's the young lady that works for you?” he said to Amanti. “And what time was that?” he continued to Barry.

“Sometime after eight thirty, I guess,” Barry said, and told what had happened.

“And you found him dead when you came at nine thirty?”

Barry hesitated, but not for long. He knew now that he was not going to speak of his first visit, not so much because he thought it would incriminate him but because he was ashamed to admit his panic and his foolhardy flight. It would be too hard to explain such actions under the circumstances and he decided to omit this part unless forced to do otherwise.

“I didn't come here at nine thirty.”

“Oh?”

“There was a shower that started about that time.”

“So there was,” Kerby said. “How long would you say it lasted?”

“Maybe ten minutes—more or less.”

“You were at your hotel? And how long after the rain stopped did you start?”

“When I was sure it had stopped. Not more than a few minutes.”

“Then would you say you came here at ten minutes of ten, or before that?”

“Maybe it was ten minutes of ten. I couldn't say for sure.”.

“I see.” Kerby glanced at Cantrell to see if he had his notebook out. He tapped his thigh lightly with the swagger stick and said: “Albert tells me there was bad feeling between you and Mr. Lambert. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe you threatened him. You were about to attack him when Albert interfered.”