“Anything wrong, Mike?” Powys said.
Shayne grunted and pushed off from the wall. He saw the lighted house ahead, several hundred yards away, but instead of heading for it directly, across uncertain ground, they followed the wall to the gate. Then they went up the drive, single file on the turf at the edge of the gravel.
The house was lit up like a beacon. It was all on one level, of brick and glass. On the far side, the ground dropped away steeply, and in daylight there was probably a fine view across the mountains from the flagstone terrace. The rooms were like separate stage sets, each flooded with light. A man’s figure crossed in front of one of the windows, and Shayne instinctively crouched, although he knew they couldn’t be seen. The drive curved on around the house, ending at a three-car garage. One of the cars Shayne had seen at the Half Moon had been run into the garage, but the overhead door had not been closed. The second car was parked outside on the gravel. A cab, probably the one that had brought Paul Slater from the airport, was standing at the front steps.
Shayne pointed at the cars and made a wringing motion with both hands. The Englishman nodded. Keeping below the level of the terrace, he made his way quietly to the cab, unlatched the hood and lifted it carefully so he could get to the motor. Shayne heard a small tearing sound. Powys threw something into the darkness, lowered the hood and moved on.
A radio somewhere in the house, turned up too high, was playing American music. Crouching, Shayne ran to the stone balustrade at the edge of the side terrace. After a moment, very cautiously, he raised his head. Standing in a lighted bedroom, on the opposite side of a large picture window, Martha Slater was looking directly at him.
It took Shayne an instant to realize that she couldn’t see him. She was holding a lighted cigarette, and she looked very tired. The shoulder of her blouse was torn. She turned and walked away, going out of sight and then coming back.
There were two men in the room with her. One was on the bed, and Shayne saw, with an involuntary tightening of his stomach muscles, that it was Jose. He was watching Martha. As she moved, a kind of hunger glittered in his small eyes. The other man was in a straight chair tipped back against the door. Shayne raised his head a little more. It was the moonfaced youth whose name Shayne didn’t know. He was paring his fingernails lazily with a long knife.
Martha said something which Shayne couldn’t hear. Jose laughed scornfully.
Shayne pulled at his earlobe. Before he could make his move, he had to know where all his enemies were located and what they were doing. He ducked down below the balustrade and eased on to the next room. This was a much smaller bedroom. The cab-driver, wearing an impromptu uniform, was sitting at his ease in an upholstered chair with one leg over the chair-arm, smoking a long cigar. He had a tall iced drink in his hand. The radio was at his elbow, with a choice of Caribbean or North American music. Outside, his meter was ticking off waiting time. There was a wonderful look of contentment on his face.
The redhead grinned ruefully and continued his careful survey of the house. There was a bathroom and then another bedroom, both of which seemed to be empty. That brought him to the front terrace. To see into the front windows he would have had to cross the terrace, so he backed off into the darkness and retraced his steps.
The kitchen was empty. Powys was not in evidence; Shayne could hear faint metallic noises from the garage, where he was putting the third car out of action. Passing the garage, the redhead looked into the dining room. Al, the bartender, was playing solitaire at a long table. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he was wearing his big gun in a shoulder holster. That was the gun Shayne was chiefly concerned about. He was about to move on when he noticed something else. Al was turning up one card at a time, but he wasn’t adding any of them to the red-and-black pattern spread out on the table in front of him. Instead, while he kept his hands moving, he was leaning back in his chair, listening intently. A folding door was pulled shut behind him.
Shayne went on, around a clump of flowering shrubs. He saw the Camel in the living room, and a moment later he saw a man who must be Slater. That left only two unaccounted for-Jose’s brother Pedro and the caretaker Alvarez had mentioned.
Slater was speaking angrily. He was boyishly good-looking, but there was a weakness and petulance around his mouth, an unbecoming fleshiness of the neck and chin. The redhead was too far away to catch more than an occasional word. He studied the situation.
The Camel was on one side of a large stone fireplace, Slater on the other, continuing his harangue. Slater stalked to the big front window. The Camel followed him with his eyes. Now they were both in profile to Shayne, and the redhead quickly vaulted the balustrade, dropping without a sound onto the terrace. Slater’s voice rose and Alvarez broke in on him. Both men were fully taken up with each other. Shayne crawled in against the building, beneath the window level, and around to the front terrace. Here he could hear the voices plainly. There was a soft scraping behind him and Powys wriggled around the corner. The Englishman winked solemnly, and made a sign that the cars were out of commission.
“And if you are not the villain who raised this bump on my head, dear Paul,” the Camel’s voice said calmly, “I make it a condition that you tell me who did. I think that is reasonable.”
Powys tugged at Shayne’s ankle and formed the word “Alvarez” with his lips. Shayne nodded.
“I don’t accept that,” Slater answered. “It’s unreasonable as hell. I’m not your keeper. Do you expect me to make a list of all the people who have a good reason for wanting to beat your brains out? The woods are full of them.”
“Perhaps,” the Camel said. “The point is, you see, that the appointment was made in the usual way.”
“On a radio schedule?” Slater said sharply.
“Precisely! It came in the afternoon mail. With a circle around eleven o’clock.”
Shayne would have liked to see Slater’s face, but it would have been too risky to raise his head.
“I swear to God, Luis,” Slater said fervently. “I don’t know how it happened. Nobody knew that trick but me. You’re not the world’s most cautious man. One of your monkeys must have seen it on your desk one of the other times, and put two and two together. I can see how you figure, but you’re absolutely wrong. I didn’t do it, goddamn it!” And he added in a low voice, “But if you want to know something funny, I almost wish I had.”
“Is that funny?” the Camel said dryly. “Your sense of humor is a little deficient, I think. Let us be specific. I was twenty minutes late, through no fault of my own. Where were you between five minutes of eleven and twenty minutes past? Give me the names of two impartial witnesses who can assure me that you were not in a garage waiting for me to arrive so you could knock me on the head, and perhaps you will succeed in convincing me.”
Slater didn’t respond at once. Then he said heavily, “You don’t want much, do you? Between five of eleven and twenty after I was doing something dumb. I left the hotel at ten-thirty and I didn’t get to the airport till quarter of twelve. I suppose I picked up the taxi at about eleven-thirty, but before then I was taking pains not to be seen by anybody. And for a good reason. I sneaked out and put some of the money I made on my last trip in the mailbox of Mrs. Albert Watts.”
There was an expressive silence.
“I know it was dumb,” Slater said miserably. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Dumb! It was insane! What if somebody saw you? Did you think about that? “
“Nobody saw me. It took time, but I was careful.”
“And why did you feel prompted to do this crazy thing? You are ill, my friend. It is as good as a signed confession.”