Read Online Man on a Rope by George Harmon Coxe - Free Book Online Page B

the chance came to work for Louis Amanti she took it gratefully—
    He was aware that his explanation was finished and that she had spoken. As he brought his mind to focus she repeated her question.
    â€œWhy would anyone go to Mr. Amanti’s office? What could he want?”
    â€œAmanti says whoever it was took the rough draft of the will and the carbon. He doesn’t know why. Do you?”
    She shook her head slowly, the shadowed eyes still wide. “Do you think it has something to do with—the murder?”
    â€œIt begins to look that way…. Look, baby,” he said, “are you sure you don’t know who broke in here and grabbed you? Haven’t you any idea?”
    â€œAll I know was that he wore a wrist watch with a metal band. I felt it when he bent my head back against his chest.”
    â€œMaybe something else is missing at the office,” he said. “Will you look? Will you let me know what Amanti says, and tell me at lunch?”
    â€œBut—Barry. You don’t think Mr. Amanti—”
    â€œI don’t know what to think,” he said. “I don’t even want to try. All I want is to be on that plane next Wednesday so I can get back on the job and get cracking.”
    With that he stood up and told her she had better turn out the light before he opened the door. “And be sure and lock it,” he said.
    When the darkness came he turned the knob quietly, glanced along the veranda, and eased through the opening. As he was about to close the door a whispered command stopped him and he saw the vague outline of the figured robe and knew she was standing on the threshold. An instant later her hands fastened on his lapel. She pulled gently, at the same time coming up on tiptoe, her lips searching for his until they found them, then clinging a long moment before she stepped back and became a shadow once more.
    â€œGood night, darling,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you came.”
    Barry Dawson’s hotel room was in a one-story wing, its three windows forming a bay which overlooked the landscaped grounds. The bay itself was shaped like half of a hexagon, and a seat or shelf had been built here to extend from one corner to the other, serving Barry as a convenient catch-all for magazines and newspapers and anything else he might want to discard temporarily. The only semi-permanent fixtures were two potted shrubs which flowered at certain seasons, though not during his occupancy. Two large and shiny tins that at one time may have held five gallons of something or other provided the pots and now stood at opposite ends of the planked seat.
    Just why he happened to consider them on this particular night he was never quite sure. He had never paid much attention to the shrubs and did not even know what they were called. He neither watered nor pruned, but now, at twenty minutes after one, his nerves were still a little jumpy, his senses still alert, and he was perhaps more conscious of little things than was his custom. He was more restless than sleepy and when he had slipped off his jacket he stood in front of the window seat with a cigarette; that, may have been the reason why he noticed the specks of dirt scattered on the folded newspaper which lay uppermost on the pile.
    He saw at once that the specks were not dust but dirt.When he bent down he had the impression that a larger lump had been crumbled there. Because of his still latent emotional tension the association he made with those specks of dirt was swift and certain.
    He looked first at one can and then the other, his gaze darkly troubled. To his unschooled eyes there was nothing out of the ordinary about either of them, or the dirt that filled them. But because he was already susceptible to suspicion, he turned and picked up a pencil from the table-desk behind him and started to prod the point down among the roots, pushing into the soft dirt with thumb and finger until the pencil touched