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WOMAN AT BAY
The wife of an assassinated Vichy official arrives in Havana
with her husband's diary. It is known that the diary contains
the real facts about hidden collaborationists and it is sus-
pected that it contains the facts about an American chemical
firm suspected of being in a cartel tied up with the Nazis.
So one of the American "hush-hush" war agencies sends a
very attractive young man down to Havana to wor\ on the
woman and get that diary if he can. The only trouble is, she
had been his wife before she married the Frenchman.
And so conflict, intrigue, and difficulties are inevitable—
and Paul MacKinnon finds himself in a far more violent
and dangerous situation than even he anticipated. There is
blood across his trail almost immediately after he lands in
Havana. There are more deaths before he finishes. But when
it is all over, he has one or two things to show for his job that
Washington never dreamed of.
It is one of Coxe's neatest, briskest performances—and that
is saying a lot about a top-notch performer who has never
disappointed his large and faithful audience.


^Mysteries by Qeorge Harmon Coxe
1935: MURDER WITH PICTURES
1936: THE BAROTIQUE MYSTERY
1937: THE CAMERA CLUE
1939: FOUR FRIGHTENED WOMEN
MURDER FOR THE ASKING
1940: THE LADY IS AFRAID
THE GLASS TRIANGLE
1941 I NO TIME TO KILL
MRS. MURDOCK TAKES A CASE
1942: SILENT ARE THE DEAD
ASSIGNMENT IN GUIANA
THE CHARRED WITNESS
1943: ALIAS THE DEAD
MURDER FOR TWO
MURDER IN HAVANA
1944 I THE GROOM LAY DEAD
1945: THE JADE VENUS


WOMAN AT BAY





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GEORGE HARMON COXE
ALFRED • A • KNOPF^X'*^-
NEW YORK 7945
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Copyright 1945 by George Harmon Coxe.
All rights reserved. No part of this boo\ may be reproduced in any form without
permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote
brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper. Manufactured
in the United States of America.
FIRST EDITION
Published simultaneously in Canada by The Ryerson Press


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WOMAN AT BAY
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The afternoon had turned raw and overcast and at four o'clock
there was a smell of rain in the air that swept in unpredictable
gusts through Forty-eighth Street. Crossing Park Avenue, Paul
MacKinnon had to grab for his hat and at Madison a piece of
newspaper kited round the corner and plastered his calves. He
kicked it loose with difficulty and bucked ahead, still clinging
to his hat brim, until he turned up Fifth Avenue and found
sanctuary in the building where Dave Adams had his office.
He shivered a little as he turned down his coat collar and
crossed the lobby. Even though he had been back from Panama
nearly a month he still found the current New York weather
too cool for comfort, and as he rode up to the eighteenth floor
he wondered hopefully if Adams had another assignment for
him, preferably an assignment to somewhat more balmy sur-
roundings.
The girl at the reception desk stopped retouching her mouth
long enough to smile and tell him he could go right in; then,
still nursing the fine edge of his anticipation, Paul MacKinnon
went into Adams' lair high above the Avenue and stepped smack
into trouble.
Under other circumstances MacKinnon might have sensed
I


2] WOMAN AT BAY
this trouble. He should, he knew later, have suspected some-
thing from the way Dave Adams greeted him.
"Hiya, boy," he said. "Take off your coat. Throw it any-
where."
He said other things, expansive, hearty things. He took an
unusual interest in MacKinnon's comfort, and this in itself was
a little out of character. For Dave Adams was a blunt-jawed
man with steady eyes, and a manner that was normally direct,
outspoken and impatient of anything beyond the briefest ameni-
ties. Yet now he came round the desk and shook hands and
moved a chair and offered good cigarettes.
"Sit down," he said. "How do you feel?"
"Feel fine."
"Ready for another job?"
MacKinnon ate it up. It made him feel important and dulled
his normally keen perceptions that so often enabled him to spot
such performances as phony. It may have been because he was
restless and anxious to get going again, or perhaps he was out
of practice; whatever the reason he found himself conjuring up
new and exciting adventures.
"Sure," he said.
"How'd you like to go to Havana?"
"Ahh—"
"Sounds good, huh? Ought to be nice down there this time
of year."
"For long?"
"Oh—a couple of weeks."
"When?"
1 omorrow. f
"Oh," MacKinnon said and sat up, aware of the abrupt change
in Adams' tone. He watched his boss shove his forearms across
the desk and lean forward, and the intuitive equipment that


WOMAN AT BAY [3
had temporarily deserted him now gave forewarning that when
the score was finally added up he wasn't going to like it.
Adams took his time and then started in the middle.
"This," he said, "could be a wild goose chase. We haven't the
slightest evidence that what we want is going to Havana, but
there's a chance and we can't overlook it."
"What are we supposed to want?"
"A manuscript, a diary. Something like that. We think a
woman might have it now."
"But she didn't write it."
"No . . . You know about Pierre Merard?"
MacKinnon remembered the Frenchman who had once been
so powerful in the Vichy Government. "He's in Germany now,
isn't he?"
"He's a dead pigeon," Adams said, "wherever he is. But we're
not interested in Merard; the French Government will take care
of him, if they get the chance. No, this thing had to do with a
man who worked for him. Merard headed the department. This
other guy was an under-secretary, though actually he did most
of the work. He knew the sources of information, had the con-
tacts, kept all the records at his fingertips. Also he was ambitious.
I guess he figured that some day he would be Mr. Minister him-
self. You've probably heard of him too. Sevigny. Armand Sev-
igny."
MacKinnon sat very still and an odd pressure began suddenly
to build up inside him, as the premonition of trouble began to
develop. He glanced at Adams, then quickly away. He got out a
cigarette, rolling it between his fingers to loosen the tobacco, and
waited while the pressure expanded.
"Sevigny had an idea," Adams said. "He was a cutey. I won't
say he was pro-Nazi before France fell, but he was certainly one of
the first to collaborate when he saw the handwriting on the wall.


4] WOMAN AT BAY
He saw it quick too. He made a bad guess but it looked good at
the time, because the way he saw it the Nazis had everything
wrapped up and he wanted to be on the winning side."
Adams said, "For a couple of years after that I guess Mr.
Sevigny was well satisfied with his bargain. He was part of the
Hotel du Pare crowd and the future looked pretty bright to all
of them. He was about forty then, a good-looking guy, with an
eye for the ladies and a little money. The information that passed
through his hands was highly important and confidential but
the Germans watched him pretty carefully and there wasn't too
much chance for any big graft. And then he got his idea."
Adams reached for a cigarette, struck a light and held it.
MacKinnon looked at his own cigarette and found he had rolled
most of the tobacco out of it. He quickly took another. Adams
leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"How much," he said, "do you think an American publisher
would give Winston Churchill as an advance on his memoirs?
Maybe not complete. Maybe just the Churchill's inside history of
the war, documented with the figures and records and whatever
essential information was necessary."
"Plenty," MacKinnon said.
"And then with magazine rights, and syndicates and reprints
. . . Well, anyway, that was Sevigny's idea. He had access to
whatever he needed and—"
"He wasn't Churchill though."
"He might have been a close facsimile—if the Germans had
pulled it off." Adams sat up again. "Suppose they'd gotten away
with it. History would be different, wouldn't it? The world
might be pretty interested in what Sevigny had to offer. His boss,
Merard, was more or less a figurehead and he was old. We haven't
any cabinet post that compares with the one Merard held. The
closest would be a combination of the Interior and Commerce.


WOMAN AT BAY [5
In other words the dope Sevigny had was concerned with French
national affairs and what he wrote he could document. He did
document it, if our information is right—with photographs,
photostats and in some cases the actual letters and contracts that
had been made."
"Then he did have such a manuscript?"
"He did," Adams said. "He might still have it if the Libera-
tion Committee hadn't got to him in '43. They shot up his car
one night, just outside his home. They killed him and nearly
killed his wife. They would have if the police hadn't got there
in time and pulled her out and packed her off to a hospital."
MacKinnon kept his eyes on the traffic-filled canyon below the
window, his mind struggling with many visions, none of them
pleasant. When he could he said:
"Where is she now?"
"She sailed from Lisbon yesterday on the S. S. Corrubedo—
bound for Havana . . . There's an outside chance she might
have that manuscript."
MacKinnon waited, feeling the perspiration creep out on his
forehead and nothing inside him but emptiness.
"You see," Adams said, "as far as we know that manuscript
never turned up. The odds are that it has turned up and we don't
know about it. It would be dynamite to any collaborationist who
was mentioned and whose acts could be substantiated by any-
thing Sevigny said. It's likely that some of his associates knew
about it and when he was killed they must have looked for it.
If anyone found it, he'd burn it—if he was in his right mind—and
that's probably what happened. On the other hand, we can't
overlook any possibility no matter how remote and—"
"Maybe," MacKinnon said, "you ought to send somebody
else." He paused and the room was quiet. "I don't know but
about fifteen words of Spanish."


6] WOMAN AT BAY
"You did all right in Mexico for us."
"Most of the people I dealt with spoke English."
"They will in Havana too."
MacKinnon turned in his chair, and his words were measured.
"Okay," he said. "I'll tell you why, Dave," he said. "I used to be
married to Mrs. Sevigny."
Adams stared steadily back at him, spoke softly.
"I know, Mac," he said. "We found that out. That's why I
think you're our boy on this one."
MacKinnon blinked, then peered at Adams, not understand-
ing. Finally he jumped up. "Now wait a minute," he said. "Now
look, Dave," he said.
He walked around the chair. He said a lot of things. He said
he hadn't seen her in six years and had no desire to see her now
or ever. He said he didn't want to get mixed up in any job like
that. He'd been married to her and it hadn't worked out and
that's the way he wanted to keep it. Adams heard him out.
"She was Norma Travers," he said, opening a folder on his
desk. "Her old man was a foreign correspondent."
"Norman Travers," MacKinnon said. "One of the best. He
was killed in a plane crash just after we—we separated."
"What was the trouble?"
MacKinnon stared out the window, his mouth grim and his
gray eyes distant as his mind went back.
"We didn't get along. Maybe we were too young."
"She was nineteen and you were twenty-three," Adams said.
"You were married a year. What broke it up? Finally I mean."
"I went to Spain. We'd been arguing about it for months and
I kept giving in. I was working for the Paris Journal. I guess I had
ideas about that scrap down there and I was twenty-four then
and finally I had to go."
He laughed abruptly, a sardonic sound. "If I'd waited a couple


WOMAN AT BAY [7
of months I'd have missed it completely. It was about over when
I got around to giving the losing side my support. Norma said I
was nuts—and I guess I was—but anyway I went."
"You thought she'd wait for you."
"I didn't think she meant what she said but I guess she did.
When I got out of the hospital I heard she divorced me and later,
when I was driving an ambulance, I found out she'd married
Sevigny."
Adams closed the folder with a nod of satisfaction. "You sound
a little bitter," he said. "It wouldn't be because you're still a little
soft about her, would it?"
"Me ?" MacKinnon looked up and sounded insulted. "Hell, no!
I had all I wanted. I think she's a—"
"Okay," Adams said. "Fine. I was a little afraid, Mac. It might
be sort of tough if you liked her, but this way it will work out all
right. You'll be down in Havana ten days before she gets there.
You can be whatever you want—a playboy, on a vacation, any-
thing. You haven't written anything for publication in a long
time so maybe you're down getting material. You'll meet her and
you'll have a lot of things to talk about. There are a lot of French
refugees down there but with her record she won't have many
friends. You'll have the inside track with her on account of being
her ex-husband. You can be nice to her and maybe a little sorry
for her, and if necessary you may have to make a little love."
MacKinnon listened but he didn't believe what he heard. The
picture Adams drew he found distasteful and he said so. "Some-
body else, Dave," he said. "Not me."
"Why?" Adams asked. "You don't like her anyway and you
can't feel sorry for her with her background. She was an out and
out collaborationist; she married a traitor."
"I know."
"She stuck with him too. She was seen in public with him and


8} WOMAN AT BAY
plenty of those Nazi bigshots at one time. If she's got that manu-
script and I said, *'/, she's up to no good."
"No," MacKinnon said.
Adams narrowed his glance. "What do you mean, no, Mac?"
The words were sharply edged, stripping MacKinnon's de-
fenses and bringing a quick sense of guilt. He flushed and was
ashamed. He was resentful too—towards Adams, towards him-
self for making such censure necessary. He sat down and the
office was still again. It had begun to rain on the Avenue. The
pavement was slick and car-tops glistened in the late afternoon
light.
"Nobody solicited you for this job," Adams said evenly. "The
armed forces wanted no part of you with that back of yours and
you yelled for something to do and we took you on. You knew
what working for the O.S.S. meant—complete anonymity from
the top to the bottom, nothing to say, explain or apologize for
until after the war. You've done all right too, but—"
"I guess I took my eye off the ball," MacKinnon said. "Sure,
I'll go only"—he laughed shortly—"it's still a lousy twist."
"You'll have a better chance than a stranger."
"Yeah."
"And it could be important. The State Department would like
to get its hands on a document like that; so would DeGaulle.
Things are tough over there now and there's lots to be done. Men
are being tried and shot and others are being imprisoned and not
all the denouncing is fairly done. The records of some are clear
and they will be taken care of, but it's not often that simple.
Selfishness and personal interest influence a man's testimony; it
makes people perjure themselves. Some of the innocent will be
punished with the guilty and there'll be plenty of real collabora-
tionists that get away with it.
"What Sevigny wrote will only cover a small minority but it


WOMAN AT BAT [9
will be an important minority. It will be definite proof, coming
from him, of a man's intent as well as his actions. It would be a
good thing to have. It would clear up a lot of things; it would
make for justice."
"What else?" MacKinnon said.
Adams hesitated, his gaze intent. "Does there have to be any-
thing else?"
"You're awfully interested in French national affairs. I won-
dered if there wasn't an American angle somewhere. There
usually is."
Adams hesitated some more; then he grinned. "You're all
right, Mac. You always were. . . . Yes, there's an angle. You
know United Chemical?"
MacKinnon said he knew it was the second largest Chemical
Corporation in the country and Adams said, "We've been won-
dering about some of its internal affairs for quite a while. With-
out being able to prove anything we've wondered if it wasn't
another of those cartels with roots not only in Vichy France but
in Switzerland and in Germany. You know—patents, formulas,
investments. We're particularly interested in its president—Bruce
Aitchison."
He lit another cigarette and leaned back to stare at the wall.
"It could be awfully important, Mac. If United is just a front for
a bunch of guys who have become rich on war loot, and if we
could move in and break it up and chase these guys out in
the open—"
"American guys?"
"Maybe . . . What difference does it make?"
"Where does Aitchison come in?"
"He lives in Cuba about half of the time. Has a place down
there, investments—either his own or some others he represents.
He's flying down there today."


10] WOMAN AT BAY
"You think his name might be in that diary—if there is a
diary?" MacKinnon said.
Adams sighed and rumpled his hair. "I don't know. Maybe this
is just another Dave Adams pipe dream, but follow me, will
you? Suppose there is a diary. It's an expose of all the rotten
things in the Vichy regime. If there is any cartel business which
affected an American company, Sevigny would likely be a guy
to know about it. There could be a half dozen supposedly patri-
otic Americans mentioned in that manuscript and if there are we
want to know it. A document like that could be important not
only to DeGaulle and the French people but to us ... I only
hope the dame has got it—or knows where it is."
What Adams said sobered and impressed MacKinnon—until
he thought of other things. "Why should she take it to Cuba—
if she had it?"
"There are Frenchmen in Cuba. The acting French govern-
ment can't reach them and they're safe until they try to return.
There are others in South America and Mexico—Americans too,
the kind we'd like to put the hooks into. Bigshots, Mac. Maybe
bigger than Aitchison, though not so well known. If you were a
French industrialist with a few million and you knew that if it
weren't for Sevigny's record you could go back and take up where
you left off, that even if they suspected you of collaboration noth-
ing could be proved against you—if you were in a spot like that,
how much would that manuscript be worth to you?"
"Whatever I had to pay."
"And if there were a dozen such guys, maybe some rich Amer-
icans whose goose could be thoroughly cooked if the State De-
partment got ahold of such a document—well, you get the idea."
"You're sort of reaching, aren't you?" MacKinnon said.
"You can say that again."
They were silent and then MacKinnon, following Adams' pro-


WOMAN AT BAY [il
gression, realizing the importance of the potentialities of such a
manuscript but still trying to get things clear, said:
"If Mrs. Sevigny wanted money and she had that manuscript
—which I doubt like hell she has—she could sell it on the con-
tinent, couldn't she? Why should she go all the way to Cuba?"
"We don't know."
"Oh." MacKinnon grinned crookedly. "Outside of that you
make it sound good. It sounds swell. It's got just one little weak-
ness: the whole thing is predicated on a damn flimsy hunch."
"Yes," Adams said. "Sure," he said. "But there is one other
little thing and it's worth going down there to find out about it.
Why is Mrs. Sevigny going to Cuba at all}"
MacKinnon found no answer to this and waited for Adams.
"She's an American citizen. She could come direct to New
York. She couldn't bring anything much in, but she could come.
We're curious as to why she doesn't. Why is she going to Cuba
first? That's what we want to know—what you're going to
find out."
He stood up, his voice blunt again and the interview over.
"Your papers are ready; pick them up down the hall. You'll get
a morning plane out of LaGuardia—I don't know which one
yet—but you'll get the four thirty out of Miami tomorrow
afternoon. . . ."
The little sedan had been parked across from the Customs House
for nearly an hour and now, under the hot mid-morning sun, the
temperature inside was gradually approaching the incubating
point. Paul MacKinnon sat and took it, muttering some and
scowling darkly at each passing vehicle, but not daring to get


12] WOMAN AT BAY
out and stretch. He knew if he did she might come out and see
him first and he did not want it to happen that way.
He sat up, squirming to get the wet shirt away from his back,
and looked again at the broad high doorway across the street.
Presently a slender, well-dressed man in a tan suit and a Panama
hat sauntered out and paused briefly in the sunshine. He did not
look across the street, but to his left and then to his right, so
that his passing inspection of the sedan was outwardly casual.
Apparently what he saw did not interest him greatly, for in a
few moments he strolled off to one side.
MacKinnon watched him stop a hundred feet away and light
a cigarette. When he leaned idly against the building, Mac-
Kinnon continued to watch, because he had seen him before. At
Sans Souci a few nights back the man had been playing black-
jack; yesterday, at Oriental Park, MacKinnon had been buying
a ticket on the sixth race when he glanced round and caught the
fellow watching him. Now he wondered about this.
If there had been other meetings in the ten days he had been
in Havana he could not recall them, and thinking back he could
remember no incident that seemed unusual. So far as he knew he
had not been followed. If he had been observed from time to
time it had not mattered, though it might matter now—begin-
ning this morning.
Still speculating, he found the man looking straight ahead and
knew it was not the view which held him. The bulky length of
the Customs House blocked off the harbor, and across the street
there was only the medieval-looking Secretaria de Comunica-
ciones. The traffic, of a waterfront variety, consisted of trucks,
horse-drawn wagons and a sprinkling of donkey carts. That left
coincidence, an interest in MacKinnon, or a curiosity about one
of the passengers from the S. S. Corrubedo, out of Lisbon.


WOMAN AT BAY [13
Across the street, Leon Vidal came out of the Customs House.
He was smiling as he approached the sedan and he was hurrying,
and that made him waddle because he was plump and not very
tall. He leaned in the window, mopping his round face and grin-
ning broadly.
"You were right," he said. "Within a few minutes she will
emerge."
"What name?"
"The first you mentioned."
"Sevigny?"
"No, Travers. Miss Norma Travers. I myself heard her say
this. Also she is to stay at the Hotel Habana. There are two
others. A party of three."
Leon Vidal spoke breathlessly. There was no reason for this.
He always spoke breathlessly, as though an unquenchable ex-
citement boiled constantly within him and had no other outlet
but words.
"It was what you wanted?" he asked.
MacKinnon winked. "Exactly," he said and then a movement
across the street caught his eye and he leaned back and watched
two porters stagger out of the doorway with a load of handbags.
Presently a small, dark woman in a white suit and turban came
out, followed by a second, taller woman and man. The man was
big and blond and the woman wore a light-colored suit and a
floppy-brimmed straw hat that shaded her face. Only when she
glanced up at the man and MacKinnon saw her profile was he
sure that it was Norma Travers.
A taxi pulled up and the baggage was loaded and he could see
Norma's head over the top before she got in. He examined his
feelings and found he felt nothing but a moderate curiosity. Per-
haps, he decided honestly, it was the distance or the hat. From


14] WOMAN AT BAY
where he sat she could have been any well-dressed woman from
eighteen to fifty who had a slender figure and nice legs.
They were getting in the car now and he glanced down the
street. The man in the tan suit had moved. He was walking away
from the doorway and a five-year-old Ford sedan, which ap-
parently had been waiting farther down the street, was moving
slowly towards him. It stopped and the man got in.
MacKinnon looked at Leon Vidal. "I think I'll ride out to the
hotel." He watched the taxi start up . . . The Ford began to
move. "You want a ride?"
Leon Vidal was a reporter on the El Sol and among his many
accomplishments was a memory for names. In making a routine
check of the arrivals at the hotel he had seen MacKinnon's, signa-
ture and had come to his room to ask if he was not the Paul
MacKinnon who had sent syndicated articles from Italy and had
more recently published a couple of pieces in one of the New
York weeklies. Since then, in his delight at finding a brother
journalist, he had been MacKinnon's guide and mentor and had
in turn been promised that MacKinnon would one day accom-
pany him to the office and inspect the El Sol plant. Now he shook
his head and spoke regretfully.
"I would like to," he said, "but this morning there is much
writing to be done. You will appreciate this."
MacKinnon watched the taxi angle out of sight. He said,
"Okay, Leon. Stop by when you get a chance and we'll put away
a couple of gin-and-tonics."
The Ford had a two-hundred-yard lead before MacKinnon got
under way and he reduced this fifty yards by the time he reached
Avenida de Cespedes. Here, along the canal, there was little
traffic and when he saw the taxi a hundred yards ahead of the
Ford he throttled down to keep his distance. They went that
way along the Malecon until they came to the fenced-in bluff on


WOMAN AT BAY [15
which the hotel stood, then turned left up the hill, and right
again.
When MacKinnon made this turn the taxi had already swung
into the hotel driveway and out of sight. The Ford had slowed
down opposite this entrance but did not turn, and as MacKinnon
approached, it picked up speed and went on down the other side
of the hill. MacKinnon turned into the U-shaped drive and
parked just off the street.
At the entrance the uniformed starter was distributing bags
to bellboys and the blond man was paying the driver. This done,
he hurried up the steps, thrusting his arm through Norma's as
the other woman went on ahead. When they turned towards
the desk MacKinnon pulled his car round the end of the U and
headed it out towards the street.
He shut off the motor and lit a cigarette, finding it very quiet
for a moment until he realized the quietness was only in his
mind. Off to the left, in the fenced-in car park, two men polished
cars and talked back and forth in Spanish, and across the drive
and at a lower level, he could hear the staccato thud of tennis
balls. Now and then a man's laughter mixed with this sound
and sometimes a girl squealed her exasperation. A fat limousine
rolled silently into the drive, discharged two middle-aged women
and rolled out again. MacKinnon looked at his watch three times.
When fifteen minutes had ticked off he got out and walked back
to the entrance.
At the desk he asked the clerk if he could see the cards of the
three guests who had just registered. "I thought I recognized
one," he said. "But I can't think of the name."
They liked Paul MacKinnon at the hotel. He tipped well and
was never loud nor quarrelsome. A New Yorker, the manager
told those who asked, down for an indeterminate vacation. The
clerk smiled and produced the cards.


l6] WOMAN AT BAY
Even after six years, MacKinnon recognized the writing with
its rounded slanting letters and the way she made the N. Norma
Travers, the card said. Paris, France.
He did not know he was staring, nor realize how far away his
thoughts were until the clerk asked him if this was the one he
referred to.
"She was the blonde* one—Miss Travers?"
"No," MacKinnon said and looked at the other cards, finding
the name on the second vaguely familiar.
Dennis Clarke, Lisbon.
He said, "Denny Clarke," to himself and looked at the third
card which was written in bold broad strokes and said, Mrs.
Adrienne Brissard, St. Etienne, France.
"It was the guy," he said to the clerk. "Thanks," he said and
glanced quickly at the room numbers. Clarke had 412. The two
women were on the fifth floor, in 516 and 517. He passed the cards
back and went over to the elevator.
"Arriba?" said the boy, who made a game of teaching him
Spanish.
"Arriba," MacKinnon said. "Cinco."
He did not linger in the fifth floor hall, but opened the door
of 508 and went in quickly. The room boy had closed the shutters
and he folded them back and looked down across the hotel
grounds as he took off his coat and shirt.
A few people were strolling along the gravel walks. On the
grass two children romped with a woman in white, and beyond
the fence a trolley clattered past, only its roof and trolley pole
visible. In the distance, the flag at Morro Castle stood straight
out in the breeze and to the left, in the Gulf, a schooner was
beating its way towards the canal, its dirty sails looking white
against the blue water.
MacKinnon hung the shirt on the shutter to dry and stood


WOMAN AT 1AY [17
there staring at the view with unseeing eyes, a moderately tall
man, not big but rangy, with good shoulders and jaw and a nice
depth to his chest. His skin was smoothly tanned to the waist
and his hair, medium brown and wavy, was bleached a little at
the edges from the sun.
There was a small tight smile at the corners of his mouth
now as he thought of the background he had established for him-
self in the past ten days, and he knew it compared favorably with
others he had run across in Mexico, where some men of his age
had gone to escape the draft.
He had begun by renting a car, and a driver whom he seldom
used. He had letters to the club and he played golf there almost
daily and sometimes swam and stayed for lunch if he was not
going to the races. He had met a few people and bought some
drinks, and though none of the Americans he had met had said
anything, he could tell by their eyes that some of them won-
dered about him.
The uniforms bothered him some, though he was rather used
to it now. Young Army and Navy officers were much in evi-
dence on week-ends and there were Wave officers over from Key
West for shopping and the only good thing was that most of
them were only here for a day or two. With the constant turn-
over no one had a chance to know him except the few who were
stationed here and they ignored him.
Now, with his background set up the way he wanted it, it was
time to go to work and he saw that the first step was obvious and
elementary; further, he could find no excuse for postponing it. It
was just a question of the right time and he thought this might
be it.
He glanced at his watch and saw it was a half hour since the
others had arrived. He felt his shirt. It was nearly dry and he
put it on and fixed his tie.


l8] WOMANATBAY
He went down to the lobby and out on the stone veranda, a
wide, colonnaded affair running across the front and one side of
the building. Moving towards this side, he turned the corner as
inconspicuously as he could and kept well back in the shadows.
The swimming pool was at a lower level, a seventy-five foot
affair and occupied at the moment by two men, a woman, and
two boys. Another dozen guests relaxed in the sun at the far end
where some sand had been trucked in and scattered on the flag-
stones. There were a few tables and chairs and umbrellas here
but no sign of Norma, so MacKinnon leaned against the
shadowed corner and waited. Less than ten minutes later his
hunch paid off and Norma and her friends moved out from a
lower hall into the sunlight, walking to the far end, and hang-
ing their robes on the wire fence, as others had done.
Norma sat down almost at once and she wore dark glasses and
he could not get a good look at her nor tell how much she had
changed. She wore a blue suit and her ash-blond hair was pinned
up and her skin seemed very white in comparison with the others
who lounged there.
The dark-haired woman came to the edge of the pool and
stuck her toe in the water, and she was a big surprise to Mac-
Kinnon. He had remembered her as slim and small. Now, in her
white, one-piece bathing suit, her skin was brown and she had a
lot more figure than he had suspected, all of it very nice.
Dennis Clarke walked back along the pool towards the diving
board, looking huskier and more muscular than ever without
his clothes, and seeing his face, MacKinnon wondered if perhaps
he had told the hotel clerk the truth after all. There was some-
thing familiar in the face and in the name, but when he could
not associate them with any remembered incident he moved back
around the corner.
Back on the fifth floor, Paul MacKinnon searched the corri-


WOMAN AT BAY [19
dors until he found the boy who took care of his room. With a
grin and a story that he'd locked himself out, he borrowed the
master key, went down the hall to 516 and unlocked the door,
fixing the catch so he could get in again.
He returned the key but coming back he met a man and woman
in the hall, so he stepped into his room until the elevator came;
then he went to 516, opened the door and walked in.
3
The room was a duplicate of his own, high-ceilinged, with a
tremendous bath and a double row of closets flanking the door
and making a sort of entrance hall. On the bed were a hatbox
and suitcase, both of them half full of clothes. Some dresses had
been spread on the bed and a handbag and some toilet things
were on the bureau; other than this there was only the white
suit and underthings on the chair, the straw hat on the bed post.
He stood a moment looking about him, finding something
hauntingly familiar in the scene and knowing finally what it
was. An odor. A faint, remembered scent, long forgotten, which
brought back other memories to surge unchecked into his con-
sciousness, stirring up old hopes and pleasures that time had
buried deep inside him. When he realized where his thoughts
were taking him, he shook himself and laughed abruptly, tell-
ing himself it was imagination, that he could not possibly re-
member so vague a thing for so long.
A quick superficial look through the two bags told him what
he wanted had too much bulk to be hidden here in its original
form. But he knew there could be a microfilm copy so he be-
came methodical and examined each article, finding nothing


20] WOMAN AT BAI
worthwhile or familiar until he saw the Florentine dagger and
metal sheath that her father had once brought her from Italy.
He inspected it, remembering how she always used it for open-
ing letters, and went about his business.
When he finished, he stood back and inspected the bags to
make sure he was leaving them as he found them and then moved
about the room, inspecting the furniture, the bath, the bureau
drawers and the handbag which lay with the toilet things. Inside
he found the usual accoutrements; so far as he could tell, the
passport and papers were in order. There was a wallet, with two
hundred-odd dollars in bills and a draft for five thousand; there
was no jewelry but a string of pearls and he had no idea whether
they were real or not.
He put the bag down and then turned, startled, as knuckles
drummed on the door. Taking a quick forward step, he looked
instinctively for a place to hide. Before he could decide he saw
the doorknob turn. He watched, fascinated, as the door opened
an inch and stopped. A man's voice said:
"Mozo?"
The door opened wider and a face peeked round the corner.
MacKinnon relaxed. "All right, porter," he said. "Come in."
"I have the trunk," the porter said. "For Miss Norma Travers."
"That's right," MacKinnon said. "Put it over there in the
corner."
The porter \ heeled it in on a truck, accepted payment with a
smile and withdrew. MacKinnon took a look at the trunk. When
he found it locked he knew he would have to come back again
after it had been opened. It was not, he thought morosely, a
thing to look forward to but then the job itself was no bargain....
The cocktail room of the Habana Hotel was small and modern
and so arranged that, coming in from the corridor off the lobby,
you found a small curved bar on the right, and on the left and


WOMAN AT BAY [21
ahead, a dozen tables and leather benches. Three of these were
occupied as MacKinnon walked in before lunch, and Norma
Travcrs, sitting with her two companions, was faced diagonally
away from him so that she could not see him without turning
in her chair.
Mrs. Brissard and Dennis Clarke glanced up at his entrance
but MacKinnon appeared not to notice them. Instead he took
a stool at the bar and was grateful that he had no excuse yet
to approach Norma and then he was instantly angry at himself
for feeling as he did.
He was all set, wasn't he? His throat was a little dry maybe,
and there was some slight tension in his shoulders but certainly
he was equal to the task of an apparently unexpected meeting
with his ex-wife. Still, she hadn't seen him and it would look
funny, him circling around to get a look at her . . .
"A martini," he said to the bartender. "Very dry."
He had a feeling, now that he was settled, that Dennis Clarke
was looking at him. He shifted slightly so that he could get a
side glance without appearing to, and then he saw Clarke stand
up and start his way.
"Aren't you MacKinnon?"
MacKinnon turned his head without shifting his elbows and
knew now that he had known this man from somewhere. He
nodded, waited.
"And your first name is—" ;. ^
"Paul."
"Sure." Clarke grinned and offered a big hand. "In Madrid.
In the hospital, back in '39 . . . I'm Denny Clarke."
Seeing him close like this, MacKinnon remembered it all and
it was Clarke's left eye that had confused him. Clarke had flown
for the Republicans at a thousand a month. He had crashed and
been imprisoned and released, and he was just getting on his


22] WOMAN AT BAY
feet again when MacKinnon moved into the hospital. Clarke
had a bandage on that eye then and no front teeth; now the teeth
were white and gleaming, there was a small, clipped mustache
topping them, and the eye seemed all right except for a faint scar
that ran just below it and curved up along the outer angle.
"You had a thing in your leg or something," Clarke said.
"That's right," MacKinnon said. "Sure. I remember now. The
eye looks fine. How are you?"
"And the teeth," said Clarke, pointing. "Say, this is great. Are
you alone? Well, come on over and meet a couple of women . . .
Put that drink on my check, waiter."
MacKinnon stood up. He signalled the waiter to carry his
martini. Then Clarke had him by the arm and was walking
him to the corner table and Norma was turning, watching him
come.
It was not, he thought, too difficult if you put your mind on it.
The butterflies in his stomach did no harm and if you cleared
your throat before you started to speak it didn't matter that it
was dry.
"This is Mrs. Brissard," Clarke said. "Adrienne—Paul Mac-
Kinnon and—"
He stopped. Adrienne Brissard smiled and nodded and the
smile went away and she was looking at Norma.
"Hello, Norma," MacKinnon said.
For an instant Norma's lashes were high and her mouth
opened; then the green eyes steadied and her voice was cool and
brittle.
"Why, Paul." She held out her hand. "Well, hello."
MacKinnon took her hand. He smiled and found his face was
stiif. Her hand was cold, or his was, and he let go of it. He
turned to Adrienne Brissard and she wanted to shake hands too,
only hers was soft and warm.


WOMAN AT BAY [23
"Hey," Clarke blinked. He was not, apparently, very quick
about some things. "You two know each other?"
"Very well," Norma said.
"Well, what do. you know," Clarke said. "Sit down, Mac. Sit
down. When was all this?"
"In Paris," MacKinnon said.
"Oh," Adrienne Brissard said. "When?"
"1938-39."
"You were going to Spain, weren't you?" Norma said. "Did
you stay long?"
Wham! thought MacKinnon and knew he was not the only
one who was bitter. He thought. This is going to be just ducky.
Damn Adams anyway.
"Sure he went to Spain," Denny Clarke said. "That's where I
knew him. In the hospital. He had a thing in his leg."
"You fought in Spain, Mr. MacKinnon?" Adrienne said.
"The shell fragment that nicked me," MacKinnon said, "was
probably the last one fired in the war. I was a little late getting
there—or maybe not late enough. I was a married man at the
time and—" He broke off, gesturing idly, and then, suddenly, he
brought himself up sharply.
If Dave Adams knew how he was handling this he'd murder
him. You wanted a woman's confidence you were nice to her,
you flattered her, you made a little love to her maybe. That she
was an ex-wife you thoroughly detested had nothing to do with
it. Clarke helped him out.
"Well, what do you know?" he said. "We just got in from
Lisbon. Came in last night and got ashore this morning. How
long've you been here? Are you going to be around awhile?"
MacKinnon told him. He did not know how long he would
be here. A week or two, maybe longer.
"Business?" Clarke said.


24] WOMAN AT BAY
"No—just taking things easy for a bit. Looking around."
Clarke ordered another round of. drinks over Norma's pro-
test and after that MacKinnon did not look at her when he
talked. He needed time. It had not been as easy as he thought
and his nerves were still taut and jumpy. You are not, he thought
bitterly, your charming self.
"What about you ?" he said to Clarke. "Where are you bound?"
"New York, pal." The big man grinned wryly. "When I get
a couple of things straightened out with the State Department.
They got some rule about losing your citizenship if you stay out
of the country to avoid the draft. How do you like that? Me and
my cocked eye. I've been in Lisbon since 1940 and . . . Oh, here
we are."
He gave the waiter a bill and waved him away. MacKinnon
turned to Adrienne Brissard. "And you?" he asked.
She was, she said, bound for South America. She did not know
how long she would be in Havana but, after Lisbon, she was
very happy to be here.
She was about his age, MacKinnon thought; maybe twenty-
eight, maybe thirty-two. The simple white dress with the belt
and the buttons down the front gave no more than a hint of what
had been revealed at the pool and he saw that she had nice skin
and hands, on one of which was an emerald solitaire. Her black
hair was sleek and upswept and her small mouth was red and
mobile, suggesting many things. Her nose was a little large but
if you watched her eyes you didn't notice much else, for the eyes
held promise of warmth and excitement.
"You know, this is great, Mac," Clarke said. "I've had these
two dames on my hands for two weeks and they're swell kids, but
you know—two of 'em." He grinned. "I have to watch myself
or somebody gets jealous. Now with you here—"


WOMAN AT BAY [25
Adrienne laughed. "Poor Denny," she said. "Do you not feel
sorry for him, Mr. MacKinnon?"
"We were just talking about tonight," Clarke said. "We want
to do some stepping."
"You might like Sans Souci," MacKinnon said. He told them
what it was like and Clarke glanced at the women.
"What do you say?"
"Yes, please," Adrienne said.
Norma was watching Denny, smiling, looking very poised and
indifferent. "It sounds very nice." She looked at MacKinnon and
smiled at him too. "If you're sure you don't mind, Paul," she
added coolly.
MacKinnon matched the smile. He had things under control
now. He found it rather interesting to see how she had changed.
He thought she looked a little dowdy. The plain blue dress had
little style and her tawny blond hair was straight and stringy-
looking. The eyes had changed too. They seemed wiser now,
tired, a little defiant. The rest was almost the same—the prom-
inent cheekbones, the wide mouth, the clean line of chin and
throat—and though he hated to admit it, he could see that with
a little attention and new clothes she might still be attractive
to some men.
"Do you, Paul?" she said, her smile still fixed and shallow.
"What?" he said, fussed because he'd let his mind wander.
"No, I'd like to."
"Good," said Clarke. "Then that's settled. Shall we eat?"
The late afternoon sun highlighted Morro Castle with a
golden filter and Paul MacKinnon sat by his window with his
feet on the sill and watched the shadows lengthen beneath the
cloudless sky.


26] WOMAN AT BAY
He had come from the pool a few minutes ago and had a
shower and a shave and now, with nothing on but a robe, he
felt relaxed and comfortable. It was a physical feeling, a con-
sciousness of his body, a curious freedom that came from the
exercise and the rubdown and a glowing sense of nakedness.
His mind, too, was more at ease, now that he had searched the
trunk. The others had departed on a shopping spree shortly after
lunch, at least that was what Adrienne had called it. It would be
nice, she said, to visit shops where there were things to buy and
where the prices were not so outrageous.
"I could use a couple of things too," Denny had said. "How
about it, Mac? Shall we go along and carry their bundles?"
MacKinnon kidded along but refused to be tempted. He had
some letters that had to be written and if he went shopping with
two women his feet would be so tired he would be unable to do
any dancing at Sans Souci.
So they had gone along and he had come upstairs and gone
again to Norma's room. As he hoped the trunk was now unlocked
and he spent twenty minutes going carefully through it. When
he finished without finding anything, when he looked again
about the room in case something had been hidden since he had
last been there and still did not find what he sought, he was so
relieved and grateful that he went directly to the pool and swam
length after length until he was tired.
Now he realized that he had perhaps oversimplified this lack
of discovery. It did not mean, he saw, that the job was over; on
the other hand there was nothing definite yet, nothing that re-
quired either action or decision. So far the rumor, or hunch, that
had brought him here remained only that.
He rose, slipped off the robe and began to dress, selecting the
brown gabardine that had just come back from the valet. When
he found that he still had an hour and a half to kill before he


WOMAN AT BAY [27
could expect the others to gather for cocktails, he went out to
his car and started for the Country Club.
He took it easy going through Vedada, finding something new
and interesting with each trip through this suburb, and as he
drove across Rio Almendares and saw" the fishing boats tied up
he remembered that here was one thing he wanted to do before
he left.- He spotted a couple of cruisers of around forty feet that
looked smartly kept and he made a mental note to ask at the
hotel about renting one for a day.
He went along Quinta Avenida slower than he intended before
he remembered that the speedometer was calibrated in kilo-
meters instead of miles, but it was pleasant to be able to see the
gulf and yacht clubs and finally the rolling green of the fair-
ways. He waited while he parked his car to watch a foursome
hole-out on the eighteenth, and when he went into the bar he
was delighted to find someone he had met before.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Molina," he said. "Will you have the
next one with me?"
Victor Molina bowed slightly and with dignity. He did not
seem overjoyed at the intrusion on his privacy but MacKinnon
was not sensitive. One of the hotel guests that he had met made
the introduction the previous afternoon, adding that Molina was
in the diplomatic service of a Central American country and
had just come in from Lisbon. Now, wanting someone to talk
to, MacKinnon said:
"Will you be here long, Mr. Molina?"
Victor Molina, a tall straight man in his late forties with a
sizable mustache, a serious manner, and a precise way of speak-
ing, took his time answering and was a little stiff about it. "Not
more than a day or two."
"I should think Havana was a little out of your way. From
Lisbon, I mean."


28] WOMANATBAY
"It is sometimes necessary to stop here. One can always come
up from Trinidad."
MacKinnon commented on the various airline routes and then,
though he had no such idea in the beginning, he saw that Victor
Molina might have some useful information.
"I was in Lisbon back in 1940," he said. "I guess it's changed
some since then."
Molina shrugged. His drink came and he said, "Ah su salud."
He drank with MacKinnon and said, "I did not know the city in
1940.1 was in Paris."
"I met a fellow today who's just come back. Maybe you know
him . . . Dennis Clarke."
Molina continued to look straight ahead. "I have heard the
name," he said and his voice suggested that he would appreciate
it if MacKinnon would drink his drink and go away.
"He came in on the Corrubedo" MacKinnon said. "Funny
thing too, that he should be on the same ship with a girl I used
to know. Miss Travers. Norma Travers. Did you ever happen to
run into her in Lisbon?"
The only thing that moved about Molina was his hand. Mac-
Kinnon saw it tighten quickly on the glass and wondered if it
meant anything. Molina's voice was still stiff, and he continued
to be difficult. "My social life is restricted, Mr. MacKinnon. There
are a great many people in Lisbon I do not know." He stood back
and glanced at his watch. He thanked MacKinnon for the drink.
"You will excuse me?" he said.
MacKinnon watched him cross the room and then started
after him, not liking the idea but compelled now to follow
through. He called and Victor Molina stopped in the doorway.
"I just wanted to ask you," MacKinnon said. "You might know
this girl under another name. If you were in Paris in 19401 think
you probably would. She used to be Mrs. Sevigny."


WOMAN AT BAY [29
Molina's dark gaze was steady but a muscle jerked at the hinge
of his jaw and his mouth was a thin angry line. He said some-
thing in Spanish under his breath and stopped.
"I said there were many people in Lisbon I did not know," he
added coldly. "There are others I know but prefer not to dis-
cuss with a casual acquaintance. Now, if you don't mind, I am
in a hurry."
The room, which a moment before had been alive with con-
versation, was now quiet and MacKinnon walked through it,
feeling like a small boy who had been publicly chastised. He
avoided the curious glances of the others at the tables. He hooked
his elbow on the bar and drained his glass. He straightened his
coat, felt his tie and walked out.
The night air was lush and fragrant at this time of year and
the management at Sans Souci, aware of the decorative ad-
vantages of such velvet skies, had installed a sliding roof over
the dance floor. It was rolled back as the headwaiter led Mac-
Kinnon's party to a table and the women noticed it at once and
voiced their approval as they sat down. Even Denny Clarke was
impressed.
"Say, this is all right." He looked about, noticed the way the
room had been designed around the palm trees, spotted the patio
on one side with its grass and fountain. "All except the band." He
nodded at the native aggregation which was just finishing a
number. "I never could dance those rumba things."
"There's another band," MacKinnon said. "Fairly solid too."
Clarke ordered drinks and Adrienne Brissard turned to
MacKinnon. "Do you rumba, Mr. MacKinnon?"


30] WOMAN AT BAY
She had a low, pleasantly-husky voice. The slight accent gave
it additional charm and there was also a nice intimacy to its
cadence. MacKinnon liked it. It gave him a little lift when she
looked at him and spoke. He reminded her again that his name
was Paul. He said he sort of preferred the straight band.
"Then I will wait—Paul," said Adrienne.
They were already paired off, as foursomes do, but it was not
MacKinnon's doing. Clarke had taken Norma Travers' arm as
they left the hotel. He had helped her into the back seat of the
car and climbed in after her. It was still that way. He had his
hand on her arm, his eyes intent, and she was smiling back at
him. He said he might try a quick whirl at the wheel if she
would come and bring him luck.
The new band filed in and sat down. They talked it over
awhile and finally broke into a slow foxtrot. MacKinnon rose
and went to Adrienne's chair. She smiled and stood up and as
they stepped to the floor he wondered why he had always associ-
ated the term, voluptuous, with taller women.
Adrienne was perhaps five foot three but the word was right.
She wore a beige crepe dinner dress, sleekly designed and un-
adorned except for a shield-shaped brooch at the bottom of the
swooping neckline. It made her look slender in a ripe, curve-
some sort of way and there was no room left in the fabric for
wrinkles. When he put his arm about her he knew there was
very little underneath but Adrienne.
After a few steps she looked up at him. "Oh," she said, her
smile crinkling her eyes. "I like it, Paul. The way you dance."
"I like it too," MacKinnon said.
"The way I dance?"
"Everything."
She came a little closer then. She was warm and soft in his
arms but she did not cling. She was good. What he did, she did.


WOMAN AT BAY [31
Nothing fancy, but no faltering, no mistakes and always feeling
the rhythm.
"We do pretty good," he said.
She moved her head, which just touched his chin, in assent
and for the next chorus they just danced. After the encore he
asked her about South America. It was, he said, a. long trip.
"Why?" he said.
"Why does any woman travel so far?"
"A man? . . . Mr.—Brissard?"
"There is no Mr. Brissard." She paused. "Captain Brissard fell
in June of 1940." She looked up, her red mouth wistful. "But
it is a man . . . You said this afternoon that you were married.
Is there now a Mrs. MacKinnon?"
"Not any more," MacKinnon said, and he thought, // Norma
hasn't told her, neither will I. . . .
In the wide, well-lighted gambling room business was only
fair when MacKinnon and Adrienne came in after their dance.
Several tables stood empty but at one half a dozen men and
women played blackjack, and there was a sizable group about
one roulette table.
Denny Clarke was playing here with concentration, and from
the size of his stacks he seemed to be doing all right. Norma stood
beside him and MacKinnon watched her covertly, resenting
somehow the change in her. The afternoon had been nicely spent.
Her skin was smooth and radiant and her tawny hair was lustrous
and smartly coiffed and the flowered print, with the skirt hang-
ing straight from slim hips and a nice snugness up top, made
her look young and blonde and lovely.
Adrienne, who had stopped to get her bag, gave the attendant
some bills and they made a place for her at the table. MacKinnon
touched Norma's shoulder and spoke into her ear.
"We could dance—unless you're going to play."


32] WOMAN AT BAY
"All right."
MacKinnon's intentions were of the best. A dance, a little
inconsequential talk, a compliment or two and everything charm-
ing like Dave Adams said. The trouble was Norma spoiled all
this high resolve before he could get started.
"I'm surprised you're not in uniform," she said with studied
sweetness.
MacKinnon almost stopped dancing. He stared at her.
"For one who felt so strongly about fighting in '38 and '39,"
she said, "I should have thought you'd be the first to go."
Quick anger boiled up inside him and he tried to smother it
before it overflowed. He managed to say:
"I was kind of young then. Your ideas change as you get older.
I guess it's the same with you."
"Me?"
"Sure. You're not married, are you? And you've had a year
and a half since the Liberation Committee took care of Sevigny.
It didn't take you that long to get rid of me and snag onto him."
She missed a step and he felt her catch her breath. "At least
he didn't run away."
"I thought I was taking a leave of absence," MacKinnon said
stiffly. "You made it permanent."
"You ran out and you know it," Norma said, her voice rising
as she began to lose control of her icy manner. "You didn't come
back."
"That's right. I heard about the divorce you were getting.
I wanted to make it easy for you."
"Oh!" She sounded as if she would have stamped her foot if
she could. "You—you—" She sort of choked on the word, stopped.
He danced a few steps, still burning and waiting for her to knock
the chip off his shoulder again.
Then he felt her stiffen in his arms and looked down. She


WOMAN AT BAY [33
was not watching him but something beyond his shoulder and
he saw the tightness in her mouth and the shocked alarm in her
face.
"Now what's the matter?" he said.
For another second she stared, eyes wide and the fear still
with her. She forgot about their quarrel and the former anger
and resentment had gone from her voice, leaving it a little
hushed.
"It—it's a man I recognized," she said. "At the bar. Near the
man in the white suit, the second from the left."
MacKinnon had turned her as he danced and he saw the man
in the white suit and his glance stopped right there. For the man
in the white suit was slim and dark and he had worn a tan suit
that morning and leaned for a while against the Customs House
while the passengers from the S. S. Corrubedo had been inside
with the inspectors. He had a glass in his hand and he was look-
ing out across the floor but he wasn't watching MacKinnon.
"He was the steward on the boat," Norma was saying.
"Manuel something."
MacKinnon forced his gaze beyond the white-suited fellow
and located the man Norma had pointed out. He could not see
his face now but at that distance this Manuel was simply a swart,
average-sized, youngish-looking character in a nondescript dark
suit.
"What about him?"
"Adrienne and I shared a cabin," Norma said. "Twice it was
searched and Denny said his room was searched too and—"
"It's a habit some stewards have," MacKinnon said.
"Yes ... I guess I'm being silly. It's just that—that he was
always around. You'd look up and there he was, or you'd step
into a passageway and he would be just turning a corner and he
never made a sound. It used to scare me sometimes because—"


34] WOMAN AT BAY
She stopped as though realizing how concerned she was; when
she spoke again she had the proper note of superiority and in-
difference.
"Don't mind the melodramatics," she said. "It's just that I
haven't got used to the fact that I'm in Havana instead of Lisbon
or Madrid."
He let it go at that but it suddenly occurred^ to him that what
she said was no exaggeration. It wasn't hard to believe when he
remembered how her husband had been killed. She had been
shot at more than once and there were others, he knew, who
might like the opportunity of trying again. She had good reason
to be afraid.
It gave him an odd turn, thinking about it, remembering the
things Dave Adams had told him. He had forgotten that his
personal thoughts and reactions to this woman no longer mat-
tered. She was not the Norma Travers he had known. This was
not a spoiled child whose quick gay laughter had so entranced
him, who loved him fiercely and quarreled and repented and
tna.de each day and night exciting; this was a woman, still lovely
but wiser now, who had chosen collaboration deliberately and
taken its risks with open eyes.
Back at the table, Adrienne and Denny were having a drink
and when she saw them, Norma spoke of the steward.
"Manuel is here," she said.
"Manuel who?" Clarke asked.
"The steward."
"Manuel Zayas," Adrienne said.
"Oh, that guy," Clarke said. "I hope he loses his shirt." He had
two stacks of chips on the table in front of him. He patted them
affectionately. "I'm just about holding my own," he said. "I'm
going to take another crack at it."
"Me," Adrienne said, "I have no luck." She opened her palm


WOMAN AT BAY [35
and MacKinnon saw five chips there. She made a pout at him
and smiled. "Would you bring me luck, Paul?"
"I could try," MacKinnon said as Clarke stood up. "Go ahead,"
he said. "I'll be along."
Norma went along with Denny and Adrienne, and MacKinnon
headed for the bar. He saw, as he crossed the wide entrance hall
that Manuel Zayas was no longer there, but the man in the white
suit was and there was a space next to him.
MacKinnon took it and ordered Scotch and water. He looked
again to make sure Manuel was not around and then took out
cigarettes. He tapped one and when the man glanced at him he
gestured with it. "Have you a match?"
The man did not answer, but he brought out a silver lighter.
"Cigarette?" MacKinnon said.
The other shook his head and smiled and spun flame from the
lighter. MacKinnon was aware now that the suit was not white,
but cream-colored, expensive-looking and faultlessly tailored. He
saw too that the man was about his height, square-shouldered,
sinewy, his skin smooth and coppery.
MacKinnon bent to take the light, then lifted his glance above
the flame. Black eyes that seemed quick and fathomless looked
back at him from a long, angular face; he noticed that the nose
and lips were thin, the cheekbones high. But mostly he noticed
the eyes. When he straightened and said thanks he was left with
the impression that there was something quietly sinister about
this man and he was annoyed a little that he should think so.
He said:
"I think I saw you down at the Customs House this morning,
didn't I?"
The man looked at the bartender and spoke rapidly in Span-
ish. The bartender nodded and addressed MacKinnon. "He says
he is sorry but he does not understand English well."


36] WOMAN AT BAY
Oh, fine, MacKinnon thought. "Ask him if he'll have a
drink."
The bartender spoke again and was answered. He said, "He
thanks you for your kindness but asks you to excuse him for not
joining you."
The man finished his drink. He smiled at MacKinnon with
those quick black eyes, bowed and moved away. MacKinnon
drank and waited until the bartender came back to get some
glasses.
"Who is he?" he asked. "The fellow who was here."
"That is Rodriguez," the bartender said.
"Come here often?"
"It is hard to say. Sometimes yes; sometimes no."
"Does he always come alone?"
"Not always. Most often, yes. He comes and has a drink or
two—"
"It's quite a way to come for a drink."
"There are times when he tries his luck in the other room."
MacKinnon crushed out his cigarette and made one more at-
tempt. "What does he do?" He watched the bartender's brows
rise questioningly. "I mean for a living. What's his business?"
The bartender's face was impassive, his eyes guarded. He
shrugged. "Rodriguez does not say," he said, and went away.
MacKinnon finished his drink, feeling singularly dissatisfied
with himself. He had the idea this Rodriguez had known what
he was after and he had been amused and brushed him off. The
bartender too, spoke as if he had rehearsed the part and his own
fifteen words of Spanish that he'd told Dave Adams about had
been of no help.
He went into the gambling room and Rodriguez was watching
the blackjack deal. Manuel Zeyas was nowhere to be seen and
Denny Clarke was busy with roulette and Norma stood by his


WOMAN AT BAY [37
side. There were more players now and a second table was in use
and Adrienne stood there looking flushed and excited.
"I guess you didn't need my luck," he said to her, seeing that
her five chips had grown to nearer fifty.
"It is this table, I think," she said, her eyes on the spinning
wheel. "I like this very much."
He watched her hold her own for five minutes. "Maybe it
would be a good time to quit," he suggested.
"When?";
"When you're ahead."
As he watched, the croupier spoke and Adrienne gave a little
squeal and squeezed MacKinnon's hand. She had a five-chip
overlapping bet on 16-17 and the croupier was stacking chips for
her.
"Yes," she said happily. "I think this time you are right, Paul."
She piled the chips in his two cupped hands and led him
around the table to cash them in. Denny and Norma moved up
as she stuck the bills in her bag. Denny was glumly brushing the
little mustache with his knuckle. He said his luck had run out
for the night and how about a drink and a dance.
He tucked Norma's hand under his arm and at the table he
held her chair. The rumba band was playing again and no one
said anything about dancing and Adrienne was still bubbling
over about the sudden turn in her luck. Then Clarke, in the act
of sitting down, stopped and said:
"I'll be damned. What do you know?"
He was looking towards the main entrance where a man and a
woman in evening clothes were speaking to the headwaiter.
"That's Marie Gerand," Clarke said. "Excuse me."
He crossed the floor and angled towards the woman and she
saw him coming and smiled quickly. Adrienne frowned.
"Who are they, Paul? Do you know them?"


38] WOMAN AT BAT
"Bruce Aitchison," MacKinnon said. "And Marie Gerand."
"There was a Marie Gerand in Paris some years ago. She was
married to a marquis."
"It's the same one," MacKinnon said.
He watched Clarke being introduced to Aitchison, saw him
gesture towards their table and then the three of them were com-
ing over. MacKinnon stood up.
Aitchison nodded to him. He had a thick, blunt voice, a jerky
way of speaking. "Evening, MacKinnon," he said. "You know
Mrs. Gerand."
Denny Clarke completed the introductions. "I used to know
Mrs. Gerand in Lisbon," he said, and turned to her. "How long
was it you had to wait for a visa?"
"Seven months," Mrs. Gerand said and shuddered. "It was
ghastly. Oh, not you, Danny. Not the Casino nor Estoril, but
just Lisbon. Being there and"—she turned to Adrienne and di-
gressed. "My dear, you've no idea how heavenly it is here after
Lisbon."
Mrs. Gerand was a tall, rather thin woman who looked to be
in her middle thirties. She wore a black dress with a mink jacket
and her hair was blond, with a fluffy bob and not much lustre.
She was rather pretty in a vapid sort of way and she did not talk,
she chatted, reminding MacKinnon of the characters Billie Burke
portrayed on the screen.
"The waiter would like your order, Marie," Aitchison said.
"Oh?" Mrs. Gerand looked startled. "A creme de menthe,
darling. Green. Frapped, please."
Aitchison nodded to the waiter and lit a cigar and MacKinnon
watched him a moment, thinking of what Adams had said in
New York.
"This Aitchison," Adams had said, "has never advertised his
past much beyond the fact that he was born in England and came'


WOMAN AT BAY [39
over here to become a naturalized American twenty years ago.
We know that ten years ago he was a partner in some broker-
age business that folded and after,that he was in some importing
company. He did business in perfumes and hair tonics and cer-
tain drugs—all legitimate so far as we know. The only thing
is his associates were chiefly Europeans, the kind whose holdings
we took over when we got into the war.
"He was in France in '39 and '40 and later in Lisbon and then
in '42 he hit the news by being hired as president of United
Chemical. Since then we've found out that he's very well heeled.
He spends about half of his time in Cuba and he's poured a lot
of cash into tobacco and sugar and real estate, and we have a
hunch that not all those dollars he's spreading around Cuba are
his. He never had that kind of money before and our guess is
that he's acting for some group or syndicate looking for invest-
ments on this side of the ocean. Probably that syndicate is chiefly
foreign but there could be some Americans in it too; in any case
my idea is that Aitchison and his group might not like it if
Sevigny's manuscript got around. It may not be anything but
there's a chance Aitchison might be in the market for such a
document. You ought to look him up."
MacKinnon had met him the day after he arrived. Since then
he had seen him frequently, and by discreet inquiry had found
corroboration for most of the things Adams had told him.
Insofar as his Cuban activities were concerned Bruce Aitchi-
son was ostensibly a businessman, with an office in town which
was listed in the directory as Bruce Aitchison & Co.—though he
never seemed to give much time to it. Eighteen holes of golf in
the morning and three sets of tennis in the afternoon—with the
club professional if no one else was about—was a routine schedule
for Aitchison and he bragged about it because he was good.
A stocky, solid man, he was in his late forties, tanned, fit-


40] WOMAN AT BAY
looking, with thin graying hair which he wore parted in the
middle and slicked flat against his broad skull. He did not drink,
smoked only cigars. He had the brusk impatience of the ultra-
successful egocentric, and MacKinnon had an idea that to be
under obligation to him seriously would not be much fun. . . .
"Not a party," Aitchison was saying now. "Just some people
in for a drink. Sixish. Hope you can all make it."
From what the others said, MacKinnon gathered the invita-
tion was for tomorrow. Then Aitchison asked Mrs. Gerand if
she had finished, thanked them for the drink and stood up,
vetoing Clarke's suggestion that they stay awhile.
"It's getting late," he said, "and we only intended to look in
for a moment on our way home . . . Ready, my dear?"
Clarke watched them cross the floor. "Looks like Marie has
done all right for herself," he said.
"Is there no marquis now, Denny?" Adrienne said.
"I understand the marquis died in '42," Clarke said. "From
what Marie told me the title was a little tired anyway. She cashed
in what she could and got out. Couldn't stand the shortages and
the Germans." He thought a moment. "I wonder if she's going
to marry this guy."
"They say they're engaged," MacKinnon said.
"I'll stop by tomorrow," Clarke said, "and ask her what the
score is. We used to be pretty good friends." . . .
By twelve thirty it was agreed that they had had enough of
Sans Souci for one night and while the women primped and
Clarke had a last drink at the bar, MacKinnon went out to get
the car. The starter offered to send for it but MacKinnon said
he knew where it was and not to bother.
A half dozen drivers were grouped at the edge of the circular
drive and MacKinnon passed them, continuing to the triple


WOMAN AT BAY [41
row of cars parked in the adjoining lot and picking his way
between them to the last row. He saw a sedan that looked fa-
miliar but as he approached it he saw a man in it and went past,
his eyes on the radiators that stretched before him.
He passed another car and counted six more ahead of him.
Then he stopped, puzzled, looking again, aware that of these
six, none was the right make.
He glanced back.
Across the hood of the nearest car he saw the door of the
sedan open. The man was getting out and MacKinnon started
forward, a sudden tension spurring him on. "Hey!" he said,
rounding the fender of the next car.
The man had started to close the door; now he wheeled and
MacKinnon saw he was a slender fellow, not tall, and wearing
a dark suit and a dark felt. He could not see the face well but
something about the overall picture was familiar. Then he knew
that this was Manuel Zayas.
Zayas must have been a little rattled. His reactions were either
slow or poorly conceived. For in that first moment he had a
chance to run for it, but he muffed it. He hesitated. And then
MacKinnon was close and reaching for him, not knowing just
what he intended to do but determined to find out what the
fellow was after and why he was here.
Believing he had the man cornered, he slowed down. Then
Zayas moved. He made no sound, but stepped quickly back,
sliding along the door. One hand darted into a pocket and
whipped out, a metallic object gleaming darkly in the starlight.
But Zayas was a little late. MacKinnon was too close and he did
not hesitate nor speak, but grabbed at that arm with his left
and hooked a quick right to the fellow's head.
Zayas went back, bouncing off the car, and one hand, flung


42] WOMAN AT BAY
►
wide in an attempt to keep his balance, struck against the side
of the body with a loud, clattering sound and the metallic thing
was knocked from his grasp.
It did not save him, for he took a backward step and went
down, but it did take his weight off the unlatched door and
this swung open, blocking off MacKinnon just long enough for
Zayas to scramble to his feet and start running.
Five steps took him across the back of the lot and through
the bordering hedge. MacKinnon made no attempt to follow.
He bent down and found a gun and put it in his pocket. He
glanced inside the car and the back seat cushion was not quite
in place and the glove compartment was open.
MacKinnon grunted softly. The tightness was still in his shoul-
ders and he flexed them to rid himself of the feeling, turning,
glancing round to see if anyone had noticed the incident.
Then he knew that someone had.
Over under the lighted entrance the starter and his assistants
were indulging in a bit of horseplay. Off to one side the group
of drivers was still intact, only their heads visible now as they
talked. But diagonally down the row of cars in front of Mac-
Kinnon a man in a very light suit and a Panama hat was stand-
ing with his hand on a car door; when he saw MacKinnon look
at him, he opened the door and climbed in.
MacKinnon grinned in the darkness. This, he felt sure, was
Mr. Rodriguez. He did not know how long the other had been
standing there, nor care. He heard the motor start, saw the lights
come on. When the car rolled across the parking lot he thought:
// looks like we're getting under way. It looks like Dave
Adams' hunch was right down the middle.


WOMAN AT BAY [43
Norma Travers did not speak three words to MacKinnon on
the ride back. She seemed to get along nicely with Denny
Clarke in the back seat and both the muted voices and the spells
of silence helped to consolidate MacKinnon's own resentment.
At the hotel when Denny tried to sell the idea of a final drink
at the bar, Norma pleaded weariness and excused herself and
in the end there was no drink at the bar and MacKinnon rode
up in the elevator with Clarke and Adrienne. Clarke got off at
the fourth and said good-night and MacKinnon went along
the fifth floor hall with Adrienne.
He walked in with her when she unlocked her door and noth-
ing was said or any invitation given; it seemed like the natural
thing to do and he had an idea that it would be all right with
Adrienne if they had a drink and he stayed awhile. He took her
wrap and laid it across a chair and she offered cigarettes from
a silver box and he was about to ask if they could have a drink
sent up when he remembered what he had to do.
It jarred him a little. It annoyed him and he was angry with
himself for letting his resentment at Norma get the better of
his judgment. Everything he'd done was wrong. He'd argued
and fought with her and sulked. Now she was just across the
hall and that's where he should be, not here. He viewed the
prospect with resignation, wondering if he apologized enough
and with the proper sincerity she might relent a little.
He looked at Adrienne. She had turned on the portable radio
on the refectory table and now she watched him questioningly,
as though waiting for him to set the stage, smiling a little, her
dark eyes speculative.


44] WOMAN AT BAY
"What are you thinking, Paul?" she said in her throaty voice.
He put on a grin. He wanted to say, "I'm thinking about a
nightcap, honey. With you." Instead he stammered and felt like
a freshman. "I was thinking I'd better shove off and let you get
some sleep," he said.
He backed towards the door, feeling warm around the collar
and knowing he was starting to blush. It was so damned obvious
that this was not what she had expected him to say that it made
everything worse. She tilted one brow at him and the amuse-
ment was still in her eyes and perhaps a little mockery.
"Yes," she said. "You are very kind. I had a wonderful time."
He felt for the doorknob, his cheeks burning now, hating the
job and Norma and Dave Adams and himself. The thought
occurred to him that it might even be too late. Norma might
be in bed; she might not let him come to apologize. But he knew
finally that he had to try. He had to get out—now.
"Next time," he said, "we'll have a nightcap or three, hunh?"
"That would be nice."
"Well"—he got the door open—"good-night," he said and went
down the hall muttering and mentally abusing himself.
He took these thoughts into the room with him but they went
away when he turned on the light. For he knew at once that
someone had been here, though he was not positive the room
had been searched until he examined the two bags in the closet.
The bureau drawers suggested the presence of some visitor
and his first glance verified this. For he had left them in a care-
ful pattern, known only to himself, with this drawer open a
quarter of an inch, this one a half inch, this one closed; and
now all were tidily shut. He did not bother to open them, but
stepped to the two rows of closets.
These were made up of three small doors on either side, each
with its own lock but with no inside partitions, so that each


WOMAN AI BAY [45
series became one continuous open space. He had not used the
key to these locks, nor had he bothered to lock the two bags
inside since there was nothing in them that mattered. Now it
was the way the bags were placed that told him someone had
taken the trouble to remove them.
He went back to the bureau, and in the mirror above it he
found his face somber and fixed it so his eyes were grimly
amused. Remembering why he was here he turned to the tele-
phone and it startled him by ringing before he could reach it.
"Paul?" Norma said. "Have you gone to bed?"
"No," he said, surprised. "I haven't started."
"Could you come down for a little while? ... If you're not
too tired."
"I'd like to."
"I could give you a nightcap—we could talk for a few
minutes."
He said he was on his way and turned out the light and went
down the hall, not understanding any part of this but secure
in the knowledge that it was the opening he had been waiting
for and which, by his previous attitude, he did not deserve. No
grudges this time, MacKinnon! he told himself. It's time to
start.
She still wore the print dress and when she closed the door it
occurred to him that she must have spent some time working
up to that telephone call. He watched her closely but she kept
Jier eyes averted and he did not want to crowd things so he
started for the bureau where Scotch and ice and glasses stood
on a tray.
"This is nice," he said, not looking at her. He arranged two
glasses and she said none for her, please, and he cocked an eye
.severely at her and said it wasn't polite.
"Then let me pour it," she said.


46] WOMAN AT BAY
He stepped aside and she splashed a half inch of whisky into
a glass and added ice and soda.
"There," she said, and waited for him to fix his own drink.
She held her glass up and touched his. She watched him over
the rim of her glass when they drank and he found her green
eyes wide open and direct, not smiling but serious, as though
she was trying desperately to know what he felt and thought
and what this Paul MacKinnon was like inside. It made him
realize that he must watch himself, that he could not be obvious,
that what he did must seem sincere.
"Make her like you," Dave Adams had said. And he thought,
yeah, MacKinnon. Ta it easy.
He walked over to the love seat and when he turned Norma
was sitting down in the corner chair.
"I wanted to tell you I'm sorry, Paul," she said.
"Sorry?"
"About tonight. The things I said at Sans Souci."
MacKinnon sat back. He relaxed. Then gradually he became
wary. This, he told himself, was too easy. Something was wrong
somewhere and he wanted to find out what it was.
"I was not exactly the perfect little gentleman myself," he said.
"I don't know what came over me." Norma studied her drink.
"Other people get divorced and meet again without much bitter-
ness. Maybe I resented it because you made it clear this after-
noon that you were just as indifferent as I was. I had no right
to make remarks about why you weren't in uniform. I—I didn't
know you were wounded in Spain."
"It wasn't much," MacKinnon said. "I was in the hospital
awhile but I'm all right now."
She was holding her glass in both hands and looking straight
aheadi as though she was working up to something and did not


WOMAN AT BAT [47
know how to start. He did not help her but lit cigarettes and
sat back, sipping his drink, waiting.
"What have you done since Spain, Paul?" she asked finally.
"It's been a long time."
He did not go into detail. He saw how she wanted to play
and reminded himself to be adult and civilized and reasonably
interested. He told her he had driven an ambulance in France
awhile in '40, but he skipped the part about how it had rolled
over with him one day, the months in the hospital that followed.
He had been in England awhile, and then back to the States.
"I was in Africa and later in Italy for Universal Press. Until
I got fed up with writing about the war. Since then I've been
in New York mostly, doing some free-lance stuff when I got
the chance."
She tapped ashes from her cigarette and took a sip of drink
and he got the idea that she had not paid much attention to
what he had said, that actually her thoughts were a long way off.
Presently, with that same remoteness in her voice, she said:
"Do you remember the first time I offered you a drink?"
"Yes," he said. "You opened the door for me."
He remembered, all right. Every detail. He was twenty-three
then, two months in Paris, with a new job on the Journal and
a great enthusiasm for life and the future. He had a hero too,
in those days. A guy named Norman Travers, whose datelines
were the capitals of Europe. In a way it was Travers—or at least
the life he represented—that was responsible for MacKinnon's
trip abroad. After that there was the Journal job and finally a
Saturday night when he met his idol and was invited over for
a drink the following afternoon. . • .
"You dropped your hat," Norma said. "And when you tried
to pick it up you kicked it."


48] WOMAN AT BAY
"I was fussed," MacKinnon said, and because it gave him an
opening to play the part assigned to him, he added candidly,
"Because you were so beautiful."
He watched her covertly and found a touch of color in her
throat where none had been before.
"And spoiled," she said.
"We were both spoiled."
"Especially me. Dad used to tell me so, after he'd let me do
something that he knew he shouldn't. I doubt if it ever occurred
to him to discipline me about anything after mother died," she
added simply.
For ten seconds then the room was quiet. Then she turned
and looked right at him. She sighed and now her eyes were
serious green and she seemed to set herself for what she had to
say next.
"I'll tell you why I phoned you," she said.
Ahh, MacKinnon thought. He sensed the quiet urgency of
her tone and somewhere in his chest a nerve jumped and tight-
ened.
"I called you," she said, "because I need your help. I need
someone who—" she faltered, groping for a word and he said:
"After six years?"
She nodded. "I thought first that I would be very nice to you
and we could be properly reminiscent and—sort of get ac-
quainted again so that when I asked you to do something for
me you would feel some obligation, or at least feel kindly
enough so that I could count on you. Now I know that's not
the way."
She said, "I guess it doesn't really matter what you think of
me or what I think of you. We're not the same people and
what happened six or seven years ago need not concern either
of us now. I was going to pretend and now I find I can't—not


WOMAN AT BAY [49
with you. I have to be honest because I expect the same thing
from you. You always were that, Paul. And it isn't necessary
to like a person to know that he is honest and respect that part
of him, and know that if he gives his word you can trust
him."
The room seemed strangely quiet as he went to fix another
drink. When he finished he watched her, feeling strangely guilty,
wondering how much of this was an act and letting nothing
show in his face.
"I'm afraid," she said. "I've been afraid a long time. In France
and Madrid and Lisbon. I was afraid on the boat. I guess that's
why I acted that way tonight when I saw Manuel."
MacKinnon sat down and Manuel's gun was a hard lump in
his pocket. Remembering how Norma had looked when she
first saw the man at the bar, he knew it was no part of her act.
That she was afraid was proof enough that Manuel Zayas was
something more than a steward, that he was aboard the Cor-
rubedo for a definite purpose. A purpose, MacKinnon saw, that
might conflict somewhat with his own assignment.
"I don't know who he is," Norma said. "Or why he—" She
caught herself again. "My room was searched today, Paul," she
said. "Twice, I think."
"Why?"
"Why I—"
"People don't go around searching rooms unless they expect
to find something they want."
"No."
"If you've got anything valuable you ought to keep it in the
hotel safe."
"I know but—"
"You mean you haven't got anything anyone wants?"
"Yes. Really."


50] WOMAN AT BAY
"Oh," MacKinnon said, and took a shot in the dark. "You
haven't got it—yet. But you're getting it."
He thought he saw the answer in her eyes and now the tension
that had been building up in his mind was a tight excitement
in his chest. He remembered the things Dave Adams had said
and realized how right he had been. Now it comes out, he
thought. And presently it came.
"Yes," she breathed. "Tomorrow."
MacKinnon reached for a cigarette and his hands were damp.
Suddenly he was relaxed and confident and eager to get going.
"Who's bringing it in?"
She shook her head. "I—I can't tell you."
He looked at her narrowly and she stared right back at him.
"I thought I was the guy you could trust," he said.
"If I hadn't thought so I wouldn't have called you, would I?
It just happens that I promised—"
"Okay," he said. "It's coming tomorrow—whatever it is. And
you want me to help, so what do I do?"
She told him then, quickly, a little breathlessly. She wanted
him to rent a room in a downtown hotel. There was a man she
had to meet but he would not come here, nor let her come to .
him. It had to be someplace where she would not be known
and it would be best if she did not have to register. There was
only one other thing: when MacKinnon signed for the room
he was to think up some excuse to ask for both keys—one for
her and one for the man she was to meet.
MacKinnon was ready to jump at the chance but he made
himself properly hesitant. "It must be important if it has to be
that mysterious."
"Will you do it?" she asked. "Will you?"
"Sure," MacKinnon said. "Why not? As a personal favor, is
that it? Like I'd do for any lovely dame?"


WOMAN AT BAY [51
Her mouth tightened. "I wouldn't ask you if there were any-
one eke."
"Denny Clarke is no good, huh? I guess you don't trust Adri-
enne either . . . Okay," he said. "Sure."
He walked to the bureau feeling tired and old and indifferent.
He put down his glass and she came up to him in her gay dinner
dress and looked into his eyes.
"I'm not sure about Denny and Adrienne," she said. "I do
know that if you promise to do a thing you'll do it."
Her gaze held him and for an instant he felt like a heel; then
he remembered why he was here and who she was and found no
further need for self-reproach. This was not a woman he had
once loved, nor a woman who, if things were right, he might
possibly love again. This woman was. a traitor and a collabora-
tionist of the worst sort.
She was up to her pretty neck in trouble and she turned to
him only because there was no one else. Even her story could
not stand analysis beyond the point that she was smuggling
something into Cuba tomorrow. She wanted help all right; she
wanted someone to fix up a rendezvous for her in case she was
being followed. She wanted protection, a bodyguard, a fall guy.
Ohay, MacKinnon thought. I'm your boy, honey.
He said good-night. He said he'd see her in the morning; he
said he'd get the keys and not to worry. Then he got out fast and
stalked down the hall, his mood black and not knowing why.
The Palm Hotel was a five story gray-stone building on a down-
town corner not far from the American Embassy. At home it
would probably be classed as a medium-grade commercial hotel


52] WOMAN AT BAY
and Paul MacKinnon, selecting it from a directory, saw now
that it would serve his purpose admirably.
The lobby was reassuringly busy, with enough noisy conver-
sation and activity so that no one seemed to pay much attention
to anyone else. There was a lot of heavy, dark furniture, some
stone urns, sand-filled, an enormous mural on one wall, and a
half dozen square stone pillars to support the ceiling. There was
a small gift shop, a cigar stand at which a smooth-looking Cuban
was making his pitch to the brunette behind it, and a long desk,
part of which was enclosed in a cage.
MacKinnon stepped up and asked for a double room, signing,
John Macy, on the register. He said he had no baggage and
would pay for the room in advance.
"I'm only using it for a business meeting later in the day," he
said, "and I'd like both keys, please."
"Certainly," the clerk said, producing them and glancing at
the signature. "That will be three dollars, Mr. Macy. You can
pay the cashier, please . . . Will you go up now?"
MacKinnon said no, he'd be back later. He looked at the keys,
which were of the Yale-type and almost identical with those at
the Habana, and saw that he had been given room 319.
He moved to one of the pillars near the front and lit a ciga-
rette; then he stood a moment looking out through the windows
fronting the street. A taxi was unloading at the entrance and
other cars were parked at the curb. Beyond, traffic flowed busily
in the street, but in the gaps he could see across it. Two taxi
drivers loitered at the curb in front of him but neither on this
sidewalk nor on the one opposite could he find anyone who
seemed interested in who went in and out of the hotel. Reas-
sured, he moved away from the pillar, crossed the lobby to a
side door and went out on the street.


WOMAN AT BAY [53
Denny Clarke had been the only one down for breakfast and
when he learned MacKinnon was driving downtown he asked
if he could have a ride. MacKinnon had dropped him at the
Sevilla Biltmore two blocks away when Clarke said he'd like
to get some cigarettes and make a couple of telephone calls, and
they had agreed to meet at one corner of Central Park. Now,
glancing at his watch, MacKinnon saw he still had twenty
minutes to kill.
He started idly towards the Park, watching the people and
glancing in shop windows. At the corner of Agramonte and
Progresso he killed a few minutes watching the traffic cop, a
burly individual in a blue uniform that looked smart but hot.
His post was a litde stand dangerously close to the street car
track, and over his head was a colored umbrella to keep off the
sun. Seeing this and the wooden sign he manipulated, Mac-
Kinnon thought of the traffic boxes they used to have in Boston.
He said good morning to the cop as he passed and went into
the big building beyond where an arcade, flanked by small shops,
ran diagonally through to the next street. Turning right here
he went back to the Park and his car.
Denny Clarke came hurrying up a few minutes later, his
blond bulk and white coat setting him apart from the others
on the sidewalk.
"Hot, hunh?" he said, grinning and mopping his face and
mustache. "You know what would go good now?"
"A beer?"
"A swim," Clarke said, climbing in. "A little frolic in the pool
with all the pretty ladies."
MacKinnon said they could do both, and at the hotel he rode
up in the elevator and gave Clarke a chance to get out and then
rode down again, telling the boy he had forgotten something.


54] WOMAN AT BAY
At the desk he got a piece of paper and wrapped up the two
keys; then he got an envelope, sealed it and put Norma's name
on it, asking the clerk to put it in her box.
Clarke was already at the pool when MacKinnon got there.
He had his robe over one arm and he was standing by Norma
Travers, who was stretched out in a canvas chair in a blue suit
and dark glasses. Adrienne Brissard waved from the shallow
end of the pool and MacKinnon waved back and hung up his
robe.
There were perhaps twenty people there, most of them women,
but the only one in the water was Adrienne. She was playing
with an arcing column of water which spilled in a continuous
stream from the mouth of a stone fish just above the waterline.
MacKinnon stopped in front of her and she said good-morn-
ing and did he sleep well. He said he slept fine and she splashed
him with some of the water from the fish's mouth and he
grinned and went away, finding a place on the sand beside
Norma's chair.
"It's all right," he said when Denny Clarke started for the
diving board at the other end. "The Palm Hotel," he said and
told her where it was.
"And the keys?" she said. "Did you get two?"
"I left them at the desk for you. In an envelope."
She took off her glasses and her eyes smiled their relief.
"Thank you, Paul," she said.
He offered cigarettes and lit them and watched Denny Clarke
doing front and back jackknives off the springboard. The sun
felt good on his back and he wanted to stretch out and absorb
a lot of it, but first he had to know what came next with Norma.
He glanced at her and she was watching Denny too, so finally
he said:
"Now what do I do?"


WOMAN AT BAY [55
"I don't know—yet." She tapped her glasses against her teeth
and frowned. "I will have to find out. Maybe after lunch I—"
She stopped, her eyes sliding past him; then she smiled and said,
"How was it?"
MacKinnon turned to see who she'd spoken to and Adrienne
came dripping up in a sleek yellow suit. She picked up her towel
and began to rub the nape of her neck. She did not seem to hear
Norma's question, but spread the towel beside MacKinnon and
sat down and shook out her hair. Then she took a big breath
and stretched.
"Oh," she said. "Isn't it wonderful, Paul?"
MacKinnon, looking at the arched profile of her body,
agreed.
"Aren't you ever going in?" she said to Norma.
"Sometime," Norma said. "I need sun. I'm too white."
Adrienne looked down at her brown legs. "I am already too
black," she said, "but I do not care."
"On you it looks good," MacKinnon said, and got a raking
smile for his trouble.
"You are taking us to cocktails at Mr. Aitchison's?" she, asked.
"Good. Until then I can be lazy."
Denny Clarke came up toweling his arms and face. "I ordered
four gin-and-tonics," he said. "Anybody doesn't want one can
give it to me."
There was a round metal table nearby and he appropriated it
and set it close to Norma's chair, dragging another beside it.
Presently the waiter came and served the drinks and when Mac-
Kinnon had swallowed some he lay back observing Clarke with
half-closed eyes.
The guy was handsome, even with that one blue eye that did
not always focus properly; he was well set-up, and the way he
moved indicated that he had a fine sense of muscular timing and


56] WOMAN AT BAY
co-ordination. He dressed with a sort of careless elegance. He
talked easily and his grin was quick, a combination which would,
MacKinnon guessed, be attractive to most women. He had plenty
of courage and there was also a certain cleverness to his reac-
tions, but MacKinnon had an idea most of it was on the surface.
He had an idea that beneath it all Clarke was not too bright,
that he was shy on fundamentals, preferring the easiest way and
not bothering much about such things as conscience and ethics
or the other guy's troubles . . . He stood up and went over to
Norma's chair.
"Let's get wet," he said.
Norma took off her glasses and her face was quiet and com-
posed as she put on her cap and walked to the edge of the pool
with him. They dived together and swam two easy lengths.
When they stood up he waited for her to turn towards him so
he could see her face again but she kept it down while she took
off her cap and then turned towards the ladder. He went with
her to give her a hand and she started up and that was when he
saw her back.
The top of the suit had sagged with the weight of water so
that its upper edge was an inch or more below its accustomed
place. Barely visible above it, and extending horizontally for
three inches across the left side, was a scar, pink now, but drawn
and puckered in the center as only a bullet wound can look. . . .
It was not until after lunch that MacKinnon could get Norma
alone. Clarke had gone off somewhere before that, announcing
that he had promoted a small date, but Adrienne ate with them
and MacKinnon had no chance until she decided to go to her
room and rest. Then he took Norma out front of the hotel and
found a bench on the tree-studded slope. He did not know if
she intended to tell him anything but he pretended to assume
that she would when he spoke.


WOMAN AT BAY [57
"What about it?" he asked. "Have you worked it out?"
"It will be this afternoon."
"When?"
She hesitated, her green eyes deeply serious. "Can you be in
your room at four o'clock . . . And will you come as soon as I
phone you? It should not take you more than ten or fifteen
minutes."
MacKinnon did not question her. He did not think it would
do much good and he wanted her to think that he was satisfied
with what she had told him.
"I'll have the car ready," he said.
She did not thank him, but rose and said she must get back
to her room. He watched her go and then sat down again to do
some plotting of his own.
He reviewed everything he had learned, from Adams, and
from her the night before, and it added up neatly in his mind.
He had no doubt now that the man she was meeting that after-
noon was handing over the manuscript that Adams had de-
scribed; he was equally sure that when he arrived at room 319
in the Palms Hotel Norma Travers would no longer have that
manuscript.
She had, apparently, schemed long and well. Somehow she
had kept possession of the document ever since Sevigny had
been killed. Somehow she had managed to get it from France
to Lisbon and he knew it was worth all the trouble she had
taken. Those whose names were in that manuscript as traitors
and collaborators, and by Sevigny's evidence so substantiated,
would pay dearly for that record.
If in addition, Dave Adams was right, if Aitchison and his
American associates had set up a United Chemical cartel with
ramifications in France, and perhaps Germany—if that were
true, Sevigny's writings would be worth a fabulous price. But


58] WOMAN AT BAY
it was clear now that Norma Travers had no such patriotic
motivation.
She wanted his help, but she did not want a bodyguard as
he had assumed last night, otherwise she would want him along.
No, he had already served his purpose and from here on in he
was the fall guy if one was necessary. The thought fanned his
smoldering resentment. He could not cope with it and in the
end he jumped up and strode down the path, a lean, hard-strid-
ing man, with narrowed gray eyes and a thin tight mouth.
The rest of it was simple. She would meet her man at four
and when the manuscript was safely in her hands she would
phone him. At four-fifteen, when he arrived, he would be
greeted with some story he could not contradict which would
take care of the necessary details. For during that fifteen-minute
interval Norma would either dispose of the manuscript, or hide
it for future use.
That's it, he thought. Only now it's going to be different . . .
Later, in his room, he checked plane arrivals for that day.
Then he went beyond this to check the weekly schedule of the
clippers that flew north to Porto Rico and Haiti from Trinidad
and South America.
At three forty he was talking to the hotel starter, asking if
Miss Travers had gone out.
"Yes, sir," the starter said. "About three o'clock—with Mr.
Clarke."
"Mr. Clarke?" MacKinnon said in slow amazement.
"Yes, sir. He came in about twenty minutes before that but
he went out again. I got a car for him. I think he was giving
Miss Travers a ride downtown." . . .
A wrong turn helped make MacKinnon late, but it was the
parking that caused him the most trouble. He had to go twice


WOMAN AT BAY [59
around the block before he found a place. At that he was only
two minutes late and he took time to walk to the corner and
take a quick glance at the street in front of the Palm Hotel. He
did not know what he was looking for but in the back of his
mind was a guy named Rodriguez. When he did not spot him,
nor anyone else that seemed interested, he went back to the side
door and walked in.
The lobby was the same as it had been that morning. There
was still a lot of loud talk and a somewhat less polished char-
acter than the morning customer was laughing with the bru-
nette behind the cigar stand. The clock on the wall behind the
desk said 4:04 and MacKinnon went directly to the elevators,
riding up with two men who remained in the car when he got
off at the third floor.
319 was the fifth door to the right and there was no one else
in the corridor so he knocked twice, sharply, and reached for
the knob in case the door was unlocked. It was and he stepped
in; then he stopped dead, his hand still on the knob.
On the floor in front of him was a man.
He was stretched out, his feet towards MacKinnon.
He was lying on his side and stomach with one fist clinched
and, foreshortened as he was, MacKinnon knew only that he
was tall and dark and wore a tan suit. A Panama hat had fallen
from his head and rolled to one side.
Voices in the hall snapped MacKinnon out of it. Voices jarred
his immobility, counteracting the stiffness that had crept into
his legs and across his back.
He realized he was still clinging to the knob, that the door
was open, and he moved quickly, reaching out to snap the catch
so the door would lock and then closing it.
That made the room still and he moved up to the man and


60] WOMAN AT BAY
knelt down, seeing now that this was not Rodriguez but an
older man. Then, in sudden astonishment, he saw that it was
Victor Molina.
Recognition shocked him deeply. He tried to think and then
tried not to because the result served only to increase his con-
fusion. Molina was a diplomat, recently from Lisbon. Havana
was not on the direct route from Lisbon to his home and yes-
terday he had been upset, had been almost nasty, when Mao
Kinnon tried to question him about Norma Travers.
Now MacKinnon did not know what it meant, he only knew
that this was not the time to try to figure the answer. He seemed
to know before he touched the still figure that Molina was dead,
but he picked up one wrist and felt for a pulse beat. The hand
was warm but there was no life in it now.
He took hold of the shoulder and pushed back, hanging on
so the body would not roll completely over, and then he saw
the small dark stain on the coat front. With his free hand he
unbuttoned it. The stain was on the left side, much wider oh
the shirt, and he let go of the coat.
Then, abruptly, MacKinnon looked up.
He did not know what it was but suddenly his stomach was
tight and his scalp was oddly cool.
He heard no sound that he remembered, yet he found him-
self holding his breath and listening hard. There was still no
sound, but now it didn't matter; for he knew it was not what
he heard, it was something he felt.
He waited, nerve-ends groping. Somehow the room seemed
tautly different and the premonition of danger was strong and
unshakable. Instinct alone had warned him and now he did not
battle it but rose and glanced carefully about.
The door to the bathroom stood open. Another door, appar-
ently to a closet, was closed. He looked in the bathroom and


WOMAN AT BAY [6l
then at the other door. He looked about the room and there
was nothing here but a bed, a table, a bureau, a couple of chairs.
MacKinnon decided then to string along with instinct. He
had no gun and he was no fool. He walked hard-heeled to the
hall door, opened it, took two steps without moving and let it
slam. Then, on tiptoe, he moved across the rug to the wall, flat-
tening there so that if the closet door opened it would shield
him. For what seemed like an hour and a half, and in reality
was no more than five seconds, he waited.
Then the instinct paid off.
The knob turned, the click of it sounding loud and startling
in the room's tight stillness.
He held his breath again and the door began to open.
There was a rustle of movement behind it, a stirring of new
air, faintly scented; then Norma Travers came slowly forward
and into his line of vision. In her right hand was a gun.
For another second Paul MacKinnon stood tense and im-
mobile, waiting for Norma to get clear of the door. The first
shock of incredulity passed swiftly and he made no attempt to
think, but concentrated on her and the gun in her hand.
When she stopped short of the body on the floor, when he saw
he could reach her without difficulty, he stepped forward. He
tried to do it silently but she must have heard or felt his presence,
for she stiffened and wheeled and the gun came round.
She did not seem to recognize him. She looked right at him,
gasping, her eyes wide and terror-stricken, and tried to pull back.
Then he had her by the arm and closed his other hand upon the
gun.
"Steady, baby!" he said. "Take it easy!"
For another instant her body was rigid in his grasp; then
something happened and she seemed to crumple, as though all
her strength and determination dissolved to leave her weak and


62] WOMAN AT BAY
helpless. He slid his arm about her waist and turned her towards
a chair, guiding her stumbling steps and feeling her sag against
him. He lowered her into the chair and pocketed the gun.
"All right," he said.
She was looking at him now, registering. Her cheeks were
still ashen but the color had started to come. He turned away to
give her time to adjust herself and made his voice matter of fact.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said. "But I didn't know who
it was."
He knelt beside the man on the floor. This time his inspection
was more thorough and he started to turn the man over and
then he saw the other hand. It was twisted under one hip and
heretofore hidden; now MacKinnon saw it held a gun. He did
not attempt to remove it but he bent close and sniffed and knew
it had not been fired.
"Who is he?"
She did not answer and he looked at her. She was watching
him and the fear was in her eyes, deep-down now, with the
shock all gone. He rose and went to her.
"What happened?"
"I—I don't know." Her voice was hushed, remote. "I came in
and he was that way and I saw the gun on the floor. I didn't
know he was dead. I must have picked up the gun. I—I don't
know what I did, but I heard the knock and I didn't know who
it was so—" Her voice trailed off. "Why did you come?" she
said with a new breath. "You said you'd wait until I phoned."
MacKinnon let that one pass. He stared out the window and
examined his own feelings. He felt a little numb. He felt tired
and confused and he wondered about Norma.
"Who is he?" he said again.
She took an audible breath. She put both hands to her face


WOMAN AT BAY [63
and rubbed her eyes and when she, finally looked at him her
voice was desolate, hopeless.
"Oh, what difference does it make? He's dead. He must have
come early. I was here when I said I'd be. I was only a minute
late." Her voice rose uncontrollably. "Does it matter who he is?
Somebody was waiting. Someone must have been waiting but"
—a shrill overtone crept into her words—"how could anyone
know? You told someone. You must have and—"
"Easy," MacKinnon cut in, and kept his tone curt to jar her
out of this approaching hysteria. "Stop yelling! I told no one."
"Then how—"
"I don't know."
The room was hot and stuffy and his hands and face were
damp. He stood in front of her, looking down. "Let's stop kid-
ding around," he said. "I happen to know the guy."
He went on to tell what he knew, seeing her eyes widen and
her jaw sag. "The way I figured it last night, somebody was
bringing something into Havana today. Only I was wrong.
Molina brought something in from Lisbon and he got here be-
fore you did. You cooked up this arrangement and you were
going to get whatever it was he brought at four o'clock."
"Yes."
"He brought it in a diplomatic pouch."
"Because I didn't dare try to bring it in myself." There was
spirit in the silent look she gave him. She was all right now;
she was a little defiant.
MacKinnon turned away and now it was his turn to feel
beaten and despairing. For the first time he was sure that this
was what he had been sent to get and he had missed getting it
by perhaps five or ten minutes. He walked across the room, jaw
hard and gray eyes steely. He began to open dresser drawers.


64] WOMAN AT BAY
Anger and resentment conditioned his mood now and he was
taking nothing for granted. He did not believe murder a part
of Norma's plan though it could have happened. If she was
telling the truth it was as he had figured originally—to meet
Molina, get the manuscript and then get rid of it somehow be-
fore he, MacKinnon, arrived, greeting him with some phony
story that would make him think there had been some slip in
arrangements. But if she had killed Molina. . . .
He searched everything he could find, including her bag, and
then made up his mind. Facing her again he said, "Take off
your clothes!"
"What?" She stood up. "What did you say?"
"You heard me."
Her mouth got white and her eyes took fire. "I most certainly
will not."
"Molina brought something for you," MacKinnon said flatly.
"It's not in the room but it might be on you."
She shook her head. "I haven't got it."
"That's what you say."
"I—I couldn't have. It's a—a manuscript. How could I—"
"It could be on microfilm," MacKinnon said. "Come on. I
have to be sure." »
She was wearing a suit of medium brown, a tropical weave of
some sort and neither very striking nor smart. He had an idea
it was old and part of her continental wardrobe, that she had
worn it because its very plainness made it unlikely that anyone
would remember her. Now she saw he meant what he said. She
had trouble speaking and when she did her voice was tight with
scorn and her cheeks were stiff.
"You—you're contemptible," she cried.
"I'm older," MacKinnon said, "and maybe a little smarter.
This is murder now and it's my room. I want to know where


WOMAN AT BAY [65
I stand. If you haven't got anything on you I'll go along with
your story."
"Oh—" She choked in her fury and glanced wildly about and
for a moment he thought she was going to try to run for it.
Then, in the next instant, she got control of herself. She put her
shoulders back and her chin came up. A glacial calm took posses-
sion of her features.
She unbuttoned the jacket, shrugged out of it and threw it
at his face. He caught it and she said:
"I don't suppose you'd be interested to know just how much
I detest you, would you?"'
"Let's skip it. I'm not much impressed with your act," he said
and watched her reach for the zipper at her hip.
She gave it a yank. With her other hand she unfastened the
catch at the waistband.
Paul MacKinnon was sitting morosely in the chair when Norma
came out of the bathroom, buttoning her jacket. Her face was
aloof, arrogant. She gave a hitch to her skirt and her voice was
brittle and controlled.
"Have you any other bright ideas?"
He looked sourly at her. He had no feeling one way or the
other about making her undress, and had in fact stopped her
before she finished. With the suit and blouse off there was noth-
ing left but brassiere and shorts, both skimpy and sheer enough
to show him that not even a roll of microfilm was concealed
underneath.
The manuscript was gone as she had said and Victor Molina


66] WOMAN AT BAY
was dead and he knew the obvious thing now was to call the
police. It was, he thought bitterly, the customary thing for an
innocent person to do. It was ordinarily the most sensible step
but in this case and under the circumstances he knew he was
not going to do it.
Police meant investigation and he did not like to think of
what came next. He had rented the room. If they told the truth
the police would surely hold Norma, at least temporarily.
His own position was neatly involved with hers. He had
established himself as an idler. He could not go to the Embassy,
nor refer the police to Dave Adams in New York. When you
worked for Dave Adams you didn't tell who you were, nor
flash papers. You were hush-hush and you knew it when you
took the job.
He rose finally, his mind made up. It did not matter now
what he and Norma thought of each other; it was not even
necessary for him to hide his true feelings. For a little while
they were on the same side of the fence. They wanted the same
thing and together they might make a little more progress than
either could make alone. Norma in the custody of the police,
or missing that, being followed twenty-four hours of the day,
was no help. And right now he wanted all the help he could get.
"We better get out of here," he said. "There's just one thing
I want to get straight. I don't think you killed this guy and—"
She interrupted. She wasn't scared any more and icicles
gleamed in her green eyes. "That's very generous of you, Paul,"
she said. "I'm grateful that—"
"All right," he said. "Never mind. We're going back to your
room and you're going to tell me more about these papers and
why they're so damned valuable."
"Ami?"
"Either that or I call the police and we have it out right now."


WOMAN AT BAY [67
That rocked her a little. She blinked and MacKinnon said:
"I do you a favor—a sort of mysterious favor—and I get up
to my ears in murder. I don't mind taking the rap for renting
this room when the time comes but I think I'm entitled to know
why I'm sticking out my neck. I'd sort of like to be sure it's
worthwhile. So far you haven't trusted me very much, have you?
I think it's about time you started."
His voice wasn't curt any more. He made it reasonable, even,
a little disappointed. It was, in fact, just right and Norma was
impressed when she thought over what he said.
"Perhaps you're right," she said forthrightly and paused again.
"All right," she said. "I suppose you are entitled to that
much."
He took out the gun, finding it an automatic of Spanish make,
and scanned the floor until he located the ejected shell.
"What about this?" he asked.
She said she didn't know. She said she'd had a gun similar to
it on the boat but it had been taken from her room, probably by
Manuel Zayas. When she added that she was sure it could never
be traced to her he asked her to point out the exact spot where
she had found it. He wiped it carefully and put it back.
"All right," he said, and went over to open the door.
Norma was looking down at the dead man and MacKinnon
saw her Up tremble. She said something as she started past the
still figure, a whisper that sounded like, "Good-bye, Victor, and
thank you." Then she came to MacKinnon and her eyes were
wet.
"Walk down," he said, and told her where his car was parked.
"The stairs are closest to the side door," he said. "Use that."
He opened the door and glanced into the hall. When he saw
it was empty he nodded and she went quickly through.
He gave himself three minutes while he looked once more


68] WOMAN AT BAY
around the room. He took another glance into the hall and then
went out. He walked to the fourth floor and back to the elevator
and rode down.
Three men were waiting on the lobby floor and when Mac-
Kinnon stepped from the car no one paid any attention to him.
He turned right towards the door at the end of the alcove. Open-
ing this, he went along a moist warm corridor, past swinging
doors with the noise of a kitchen beyond, past another room
filled with cans and smelling of garbage. Then he was at the
open door at the end that gave on an alley.
A truck was unloading on the left but he squeezed past this
and continued to the street. Across from him there was a book-
store, flanked on one side by the groundfloor windows of an office
building and on the other an open-front grocery store. The half-
dozen pedestrians who passed as he stood there gave him no
more than a glance so he turned right and started briskly down
the street.
The clock in the lobby of the Habana Hotel said five o'clock
when MacKinnon came in with Norma and stopped at the desk
while she asked for her key. He was relieved to see that neither
Denny Clarke nor Adrienne Brissard were around to complicate
matters and demand attention, but not until he had closed the
door of Norma's room could he.start to relax.
"Is there any more of that Scotch?" he said.
Norma nodded and opened a drawer. She put the bottle on the
bureau and said there were glasses in the bathroom. Then she
slipped off the jacket of the nondescript suit and pushed the
sleeves of her blouse above the elbows.
"I have to wash," she said. "If you want some water—"
"Do you want a drink?" He poured his own when she said no


WOMAN AT BAY [69
and got some water from the bath; then he sat down by the
window and drank gratefully.
He had a cigarette going when Norma came out and she looked
a lot better. She had no makeup on now but her lips were red
and her face was alive and glowing from the scrubbing she had
given it. She had her blond hair tucked back of her ears for
coolness and the edges of it were stained a little with water.
"There," she said and sat down on the love seat.
MacKinnon drank some more and gave her a cigarette. When
he sat down again she leaned forward with her elbows on her
knees, staring past him out the window. It was quiet for a little
while and finally she shook herself and looked at him.
"Where shall I start?" she said.
MacKinnon was a little surprised at her attitude and tone of
voice. She seemed now to harbor no bitterness. She was being
direct and matter-of-fact, as though talking business to some
associate rather than a friend or ex-husband. She had apparently
decided to bury her personal animosity before the greater im-
portance of a mutual understanding, an arrangement which
suited MacKinnon perfectly.
"Maybe," he said, "maybe you'd better start with Armand
Sevigny."
"Maybe I should start before that." She paused and took a speck
of tobacco from her tongue with her little finger. "Though I
don't suppose it matters now. I married him and it was a mis-
take, not that I'm making excuses, you understand. If you hadn't
run away—"
"Oh, it was all my fault?"
"Well, wasn't it?"
"Who got the divorce?"
"You didn't come back. A notice was sent you."


70] WOMAN AT BAY
MacKinnon cleared his throat and was elaborately patient.
"The side I did my little fighting for lost," he said. "The other
side took some prisoners, including me. What with that and
being in the hospital, the mail service wasn't very good. I never
received any notice of action."
That stopped her a moment. She frowned, as though un-
decided whether to believe him or not, and the personal feeling
she had tried to bury was cropping out again.
"The news I got, when I got it, was that you already had your
divorce," he added.
"I waited six months before doing anything. I thought you'd
come back."
"So did I."
"If you'd written, sent some word . . ."
He grunted softly. "You were pretty explicit when I left. You
said if I walked out on you I needn't bother to come back."
Sparks of irritation touched her gaze again and began to color
her voice. "You didn't have to believe it. If you hadn't gone or
if afterwards you'd given me any indication that you really loved
me I wouldn't have gotten a divorce. I wouldn't have married
Armand and I wouldn't have had to—"
"So that's how it's my fault," MacKinnon said. "Some logic."
"We hadn't been married three months before you wanted
to go off to Spain."
"You talked me out of it," MacKinnon said. "You said why did
I marry you in the first place if that's how I felt. It was a pretty
good question."
"About once a month," Norma said, "we'd go all through the
same thing again."
"It was a feeling I had. I postponed it as long as I could. It
had nothing to do with loving you and you should have known
it."


WOMANATBAY [71
She put her head back and glanced at the ceiling, her sigh
exasperated. "Oh, naturally. I was twenty. I should have been
more profound," she added ironically. "In my great wisdom I
should have known that it was something men have a habit of
doing when there's a war on."
She rose and began to pace the floor, her gaze remote now
and her words clipped, abstract. "Dad told me war was man's
best mistress but I didn't believe it. Now I know better."
"Then," said MacKinnon, "how does it get to be my fault?"
"I'll tell you," she said, and she did. She had an answer for
him. A strictly feminine answer, born of her own peculiar brand
of reasoning and one which he never would have imagined had
he not heard it.
"I was twenty then, don't you understand? I was spoiled and
never had to accept responsibility and I depended on you like I
used to with Dad. If you had tried to understand or explained
things in the right way I might have realized that you did love
me and that you would come back. If you had done any little
thing to heal my pride. If you had taken me with you or even
offered to, if you had held my hand and babied me, or even taken
me over your knee and spanked me; if you had done anything at
all that would have told me that you really cared . . . But no.
You got your back up. You were stubborn and coldly logical
and—"
"All right," MacKinnon said. "Okay," he said. He leaned back
and sighed loudly. "Maybe we'd better get on with the rest of it."
She stopped her pacing and looked at him. It seemed to take
her a moment to bring her mind back to the purpose of her pro-
logue. Her frown went away and she sat down again.
"Yes," she said. "I'm sorry." The exasperation left her voice
and she was coolly matter-of-fact again. "I started out to tell you
why I married Armand Sevigny and I might as well finish it.


72] WOMAN AT BAY
I suppose if Dad hadn't been killed two weeks after you left I
shouldn't have done it at all."
"I didn't know," MacKinnon said and felt a deep inarticulate
apology. "Not for months."
She went on as though she had not heard him. "With you gone
and then Dad—well, I simply wasn't equipped to face things. I
couldn't take it. I reacted in the worst possible way I suppose.
I started going out. No matter how much it hurt I had to have
fun. I said Dad wouldn't want me to go around in black and I
needed other people to keep the hurt and loneliness away. And
Armand was always around and he'd known me before and he
seemed so understanding and considerate . . ."
"He was a smoothy," MacKinnon said, and at the moment had
no further capacity for resentment. When he thought of Norman
Travers he began to understand some things he had never tried
to understand before.
She'd always had her father and after that MacKinnon. She'd
never had to fight for things and in spite of her outward poise
there remained in those days a certain naivete that made her
vulnerable and stripped her of all defense. He realized this now,
saw how a man like Armand Sevigny would know what to do.
In his late thirties then, he was socially impeccable, polished, ex-
perienced.
"I'm not saying I married him on the rebound," Norma said.
"I imagine that's why I started going out with him but after that
—well, whether I was trying to escape something or not, I thought
I loved him. Having made a mess of one marriage, I wanted
terribly to make that one work."
She laughed softly, a bitter sound. "Within a month I knew
he was seeing other women. Within three months I had proof
but then it was too late. That was in 1940 and Paris was totter-
ing and I couldn't get out. Even then he was selling out the


WOMAN AT BAY [73
French people, and when I threatened to leave him he told me
I was mad. He said I wouldn't have a chance; he said if I waited
a few more days the Germans would take over and when things
had quieted down we could settle our differences amicably."
She said, "He had it all figured out and he was right about the
Germans. Within a few days it was clear what he intended to do.
He was not a man to go underground or escape to England or
Africa and fight on from there; he decided Germany would win
and he intended to capitalize on that victory . . . When I told
him so and started to pack my things, he kept me locked in a
room for eight days."
She lowered her head and looked out the window. MacKinnon
sat very still and after a moment she continued.
"I don't know when I first got the idea of staying on. I was
still thinking of some way to get out and I was polite and civil
and we both understood by that time that there was a mistress
or two on the side, and it was like that when he came home one
night when he had been drinking and told me about his plan to
keep a diary . . . He said that Merard, who headed the depart-
ment, was old and incompetent and that all the confidential
business of the office came over his desk now. He bragged about
his new power and influence and of his daily contacts with the
Nazis and how much in their favor he was. Oh, it was madden-
ing to hear him, to understand what was going on in his mind."
She paused and said, "I didn't really grasp what he meant by
a diary until later. It wasn't until he showed me some of the
things he had written and let me see photostats and checks and
papers that I knew what he intended to do. I still don't know
where I got the idea or what decided me. I simply woke up one
morning and it was all clear and neat in my mind."
MacKinnon cleared his throat and was careful what he said.
He wanted to ask if Aitchison's name had been mentioned in


74] WOMAN AT BAY
that manuscript, if there were other Americans or any reference
to United Chemical in its pages. Then he saw that to do so would
presuppose a knowledge of the diary that would tip his hand and
arouse her suspicions. "Sevigny was going to write a book?" he
said. "Sort of an autobiography?"
"Yes," Norma said. "And I was going to help him."
"What did he hope to get out of it, money?"
"And fame. I'm not sure which was most important to him.
Anyway, beginning that morning I encouraged him. I was a
newspaperman's daughter and I could type. I knew editors and
publishers and I knew how such things were published. I gave
him fabulous estimates of what the various rights would bring.
... He loved it."
MacKinnon let her tell more about the manuscript and what
she said substantiated Dave Adams' story to a large degree. But
there were other things Adams hadn't known about and Mac-
Kinnon wanted all the information he could get, not only about
the manuscript but about Norma's part in its compilation. He
gave her a cigarette and a light.
"What did you expect to get out of it?" he asked.
"Satisfaction."
*Oh?"
"I'd been a complete idiot. I'd made a frightful mistake." She
gave him a wry smile. "There is an expression I have heard about
getting one's lumps. It was that way with me. I wouldn't take
my lumps. I wouldn't face things. I wanted comforting and
sympathy and I married Armand and now I was paying for it.
The only thing that gave me any strength or courage was that
manuscript. It was something I could do; it was a way I could
regain my self-respect. And I knew in the end it would be worth-
while because I was sure in the beginning that the Nazis could
not win.


WOMAN AT BAY [75
"One day the end would come and that manuscript would be
more valuable to all honest Frenchmen than it could ever be to
Armand Sevigny. What was in it could never hurt him because
he was a known traitor and he would have already been shot or
hung had he not been killed in '43. But there were others he
dealt with who worked under cover. Today they're shouting for
law and order and trying to block reform and justice."
She glanced up and saw how intent he was and a flush crept
into her cheeks. "Oh, I know how it sounds," she said. "The
pure and noble Norma, suffering for humanity. A sort of mod-
ern Copperhead."
"It doesn't sound that way to me," MacKinnon said, and was
a little surprised to find he meant it.
"I convinced him that there should be two copies," she said.
"I told him that all writers kept copies of their work for their
own protection. He used to grumble sometimes because he had
to have two photographs or photostats made instead of one, but
I rather think he liked the idea all the same. He kept the original
and I hid the copy." She was quiet a moment and then said, "He
started in 1940—in the Fall—and he kept adding to the manu-
script until he was killed in 1943."
"What happened to the original?"
"Someone came to the house while I was in the hospital. Two
or three of his friends knew about the manuscript and I think
one of them got it and destroyed it." She sighed. "It would have
been better if I had waited. If I'd had any idea the Allied armies
would move so fast after D-day I might have stayed in Paris.
But the underground was too active then to wait very long."
She looked at him. "They would have enjoyed finding me.
They missed killing me three times before and I doubt if the
manuscript would have meant anything to them. That was the
trouble. It was hard to know whom you could trust. The only


j6] • WOMAN IT BAY
sure way was to get out of the country with it ... I started for
the south of France while the Americans and British were in
Normandy."
"Not as Mrs. Sevigny."
"No."
"Who helped you?"
"There were one or two friends in Paris. I got quite close to
the Spanish border without trouble and after that—" She faltered
and glanced away and MacKinnon said:
"Victor Molina?"
She nodded.
"He got you to Spain and then to Lisbon and he brought the
manuscript here . . . He must have thought a lot of you."
There wis doubt in MacKinnon's inflection and she noticed it.
She inspected him a moment, continued steadily.
"He was a friend of Dad's. He owed Dad something, and I'd
known him quite awhile."
"What were you going to do with it? If it had been delivered
this afternoon?"
Her eyes widened slowly. "Why—turn it over to the Si
Department. To the American Embassy. I imagine they wo
send it to DeGaulle. You have no idea what it's like in France
The people are still cynical and disillusioned and materialistic.
They haven't forgotten how the country was crushed in a few
short weeks, nor how it was betrayed for four years. They want
the traitors put to death and the minor collaborationists severely
punished. They want to confiscate the fortunes of the profiteers.
"But it is not as simple as that. There are thousands in intern-
ment camps and many of them are probably innocent. A lot of
people are guilty of nothing more than bad judgment. Some are
being unjustly accused for personal reasons. Others are doing
their best to hamper the punishment of traitors and bring back
*


WOMAN AT BAY [jj
old special privileges. But no one who is a traitor can escape
if his name is in that manuscript because Armand Sevigny had
the records to prove it."
She leaned towards him, her mouth compressed. "There's an-
other reason why I have to have that manuscript," she said. "I'm
a traitor myself, Paul. I'm really quite famous in a way. There
have been pieces in the Paris papers about me." She paused,
watching him intently.
"I have an idea you may have heard about me too. I doubt if
you could dislike me quite so thoroughly otherwise. You cer-
tainly wouldn't act the way you have just because I divorced you
six years ago."
"I've heard a little," MacKinnon said. "You were saying . . ."
"Oh, yes . . . Well, I've had plenty of time to think these past
months. If I can't get the manuscript, if I can't deliver it myself
to the Embassy and have a chance to tell the story I've told you,
I'll always be a traitor. Nothing I can say will change it. No one
would ever believe me, least of all the French people and I can't
say that I blame them. That's why I asked you to help me today.
Knowing how you felt towards me, I also knew that I could trust
-^»s ;-.\jyou. I wanted you to see it. I wanted you to go with me to the
1 *'' Embassy and hear the story. It would have given me a great deal
of satisfaction to be able to prove to you that I never was a
traitor ... I wonder why I should have thought so."
MacKinnon was impressed. He watched her rise and go to the
window and for a moment he felt that he should go to her and
say something that might comfort her. There was a lot here that
he had never guessed and he wanted to tell her that it was all
right, that he could understand what she had been through.
Then, as though some inner valve in his brain had opened up
after a momentary stoppage, he thought about the job he was
supposed to be doing and his mind was quick and unconvinced.


78] WOMAN AT BAY
Stripping her story to its fundamentals he found flaws and in-
consistencies and suddenly the impulse to comfort her was gone
and all the wariness and suspicion came flooding back.
He could understand the first part. He knew what the death
of her father must have meant. She was right about not having
the equipment with which to fight such emotional shocks and he
saw how she might turn to Armand Sevigny, and imagine her-
self in love. But the rest of it . . .
Resentment followed swiftly as he diagnosed his thoughts. It
was still an act. This was no guileless girl; this was a woman who
had become wise and shrewd and sure of herself, who had been
hunted and at bay for a long time; a woman who knew best how
to get what she wanted.
He could accept the reason she gave for not turning the manu-
script over to someone in Paris after the Allies had landed, but
the rest of the story would not stand up. She had managed to
reach Madrid, hadn't she? And why, then, had she not turned
the manuscript over to the State Department there? Why had
she not turned it over to the Embassy in Lisbon if her true pur-
pose was to see that justice was done?
He stood up, knowing he could not ask these questions now.
Convinced that she could not answer them, he knew that to pin
her down, to let her see he did not believe her, would mean the
end of all cooperation. He still needed help and it did not matter
what he believed just now.
Not trusting himself to look at her he stepped to the window,
spoke over his shoulder. "I'm glad you told me," he said. "I
think I'd better go back to 319."
"Oh," she said, her tone startled. "But—"
"The police won't have much trouble tracing me," he said.
"The clerk can identify me and he knows I'm an American and
he knows I'm not a resident. I think I'd better walk in and pre-


WOMAN AT BAY [79
tend I'm on the level. I never saw the man before. I don't know
what it's all about."
"All right," Norma said. "But don't you think you should
wait?"
He looked at her, not understanding, and she said:
"I mean, the longer you wait the harder it will be for them to
tell exactly when he died . . . Won't it?"
He examined her with new interest, finding her suggestion a
shrewd one. They had no alibi and right now time worked in
their favor.
"Yes," he said finally. "Maybe we'd better get along to
Aitchison's party." He went over to the door. "Call Adrienne and
Denny and ask them when they'll be ready."
He glanced back as he opened the door. Norma was still look-
ing at him but he had an idea she didn't see him; he had an idea
that what she saw was a long way off.
8
Bruce Aitchison's place was a sand-colored affair with a red-
tile roof and a curving drive that circled under a porte-cochere.
The landscaped half-acre was surrounded by a high hedge to
insure privacy and there was a boy in an alpaca coat to take Mac-
Kinnon's car to the parking space in front of the garage.
Mrs. Gerand welcomed them at the door, wearing a trailing
blue hostess gown and a flower in her hair. Her greeting was
characteristically gushing. She shook hands with Adrienne and
Norma and smiled at MacKinnon and said how glad she was
that they could come.
"We couldn't find Denny," MacKinnon said, and took a shot
at the moon. ABut I think you saw him earlier . . ."


80] WOMAN AT BAY
Mrs. Gerand smiled at him all over again. "Yes," she said, "we
had lunch. I'm sure he'll be along." She told the women they
could go upstairs and took MacKinnon's arm. "I expect you'll
want a drink before you meet some people."
He said that would be wonderful and she led him into a long,
low-ceilinged room that had a lot of French doors and heavy
furniture. Fifteen or twenty people with drinks in their hands
stood about in little groups and Bruce Aitchison disengaged him-
self from one of these and came over.
"Hello, MacKinnon," he said in his blunt, jerky voice. "Glad
to see you."
"We're getting a drink for Mr. MacKinnon," Mrs. Gerand
said. "Will you watch for Mrs. Brissard and Miss Travers?"
A small bar had been set up in an alcove and behind it was a
swart, stocky man in a white coat. "Mr. MacKinnon would like
a drink, Alfredo," Mrs. Gerand said. "Do you think you could
manage one?"
Alfredo showed white even teeth to Mrs. Gerand but nothing
else changed in his face. MacKinnon said he'd have Scotch and
water and Mrs. Gerand chatted on about one thing and another
and he answered her with half his mind while the other half
remained on Alfredo.
Alfredo looked like a stone-faced Indian. His hair was coarse
and black and for an instant when he handed MacKinnon the
drink their eyes met and MacKinnon saw that they were small
and black and cold, reminding him of others he had seen in the
past. There had been a gunman in Panama and another in New
York with eyes like that and he wondered if sometimes Bruce
Aitchison had need for a bodyguard.
"Does Alfredo understand English?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Gerand said.


WOMAN AT BAT [8l
MacKinnon smiled at Alfredo. He said thanks. He said the
drink was just right, and Alfredo bowed but the eyes still looked
mean to MacKinnon.
He let himself be led into the drawing room and saw that
Aitchison was already introducing Adrienne and Norma to the
other guests.
Going from one group to another with Mrs. Gerand, Mac-
Kinnon was again impressed by the fact that had at first seemed
odd. Cubans, he found, did not look like Cubans—or at least the
difference in appearance that he had expected was missing. These
well-dressed people looked like any similar group he might meet
for cocktails in New York. Only the accents told him that about
half of the guests were Cuban and the other half French.
For another half hour he made himself generally agreeable
and had no chance to pay much attention either to Adrienne or
Norma. He saw Denny Clarke come in and be introduced and
when he had a chance he moved up beside him and held out
cigarettes.
Clarke was standing alone at the moment, watching the others
and sipping a martini and MacKinnon, standing on his left,
waited with the cigarettes outstretched. Finally he nudged the
big man.
"If you don't want one, say so," he remarked good-naturedly.
"Hunh?" Clarke turned his head. He looked surprised when
he saw MacKinnon. "How long you been standing there?" he
said. Then he laughed when MacKinnon told him. "You're on
the blind side," he said and took a cigarette.
"I get no side vision with this damned eye," he added. "From
the front it's okay and it looks okay but I can't swing it to the
left. I thought you knew."
MacKinnon said he hadn't noticed it but thinking back he


82] WOMAN AT BAY
found an explanation for what he had thought was simply a
nervous gesture, a quick, half-turning of the head that Clarke
made when there were four of them in a group or at a table.
"You were late," he said.
"Yeah."
"Norma said you gave her a lift downtown."
Clarke sipped his drink. After a moment he said, "I ordered a
suit. I dragged her into one place but I couldn't find any material
I liked and when I wanted to go someplace else, she ducked me.
But I found a nice gabardine. Cheap too."
He turned and looked at MacKinnon, tipping his head and
grinning faintly. "You checking up on Norma now?"
MacKinnon gestured with his glass. "She just happened to
mention it . . . Hi," he said as Adrienne came over. "Having
fun?"
Adrienne beamed. She looked very cool and pretty in her print
dress with its tiny sleeves and snug waistline, and her dark eyes
sparkled happily.
"Oh, yes," she said. "We looked for you, Denny. At the
hotel."
"I was downtown," Clarke said. He touched her nearly empty
glass with his. "You need a refill," he said and slipped his arm
through hers.
Aitchison came over as they moved off. "Well," he said. "How
are you doing?"
"Fine," MacKinnon said.
"Good." Aitchison hesitated, glanced about and seemed to be
thinking up something to say. "You've met everyone? . . . Let
me get you a fresh one," he said, indicating MacKinnon's glass.
"Oh, Carlos . . ."
A slim good-looking youth in a white coat was starting out
with a tray of drinks and now he angled towards Aitchison.


WOMAN AT BAY [83
MacKinnon protested that his drink was perfectly all right but
Aitchison took it away and handed him a fresh one.
MacKinnon said, "Thanks," and Carlos looked at him a mo-
ment before he turned away and something in the dark face and
flat impassive eyes reminded him of the bartender. He dismissed
the thought with some irritation when he realized that lately he
had become suspicious of everyone, that he was quite probably
letting fancy take the place of reason.
He talked absently with Aitchison while his mind went back
to Victor Molina in room 319 and the story Norma had told him.
He wondered what she had been doing between the time she left
the Habana Hotel around three and the time she go; to room
319. He wondered about Denny too and watched him stroll out
of the alcove with Adrienne. As they approached, Mrs. Gerand
appeared and drew Aitchison to one side.
"You're cute," Clark was saying. "When're you going to South
America? That must be quite a guy you've got down there."
"I like him," Adrienne said. "But I am in no hurry . . . Where
is Norma, Paul? Have you seen her?"
MacKinnon said no and looked round the room. He could not
see her but at one side French doors gave on the lawn and garden
and he thought she might be there. Then he noticed Aitchison
and Mrs. Gerand in a tight little huddle with six other guests.
"What's up?" Clarke said, following MacKinnon's glance.
MacKinnon was watching Aitchison now. Both he and Mrs.
Gerand seemed to be upset about something. Mrs. Gerand's
hands were fluttering and she kept looking over this way and
then MacKinnon realized that the group she was with was made
up entirely of the French element—four men and two women.
He was still wondering about this when Aitchison detached him-
self and came quickly across the room, his broad face stern and
brow wrinkled.


84] WOMAN AT BAY
"I say, MacKinnon," he said. "This Miss Travers." He paused
to look at Adrienne and Denny continued to the woman. "Do
you know who she is, Mrs. Brissard?"
"Why—" Adrienne's brows climbed and she looked puzzled.
"Is she not Norma Travers?"
"She is Mrs. Sevigny," Aitchison said flatly.
"Sevigny ?" said Clarke, the word apparently meaning nothing.
"Oh," Adrienne said.
"You know the name?" Aitchison asked.
"There was an Armand Sevigny. I believe he was killed in—"
"She's his wife," Aitchison said. "One of my guests recog-
nized her and told Mrs. Gerand . . . Did you know who she
was, MacKinnon?"
"Yes, I knew," MacKinnon said.
"You know what she was?"
"Yes, certainly."
That stopped Aitchison. His brows came down and his face
got pinkish and MacKinnon decided that either he was sore or it
was a wonderful act.
"So what?" Denny Clarke said. "Sevigny—Travers—what dif-
ference does it make? She's a friend of mine and—"
"I'm sorry," Aitchison said, remembering his manners. "Of
course. It just happens that Armand Sevigny was one of the worst
of the Vichy traitors and many of my guests are French and it—
well, if I'd known I shouldn't have invited her ... I mean to
say, it's damned awkward."
"Don't worry about it, Mr. Aitchison," Clarke said with heavy
sarcasm, "I'll see that she goes quietly."
Aitchison got pinker. He opened his mouth and closed it.
"Or should we call the police?" Clarke said. He glanced at
MacKinnon. "I'll find her," he said, but MacKinnon took his
arm.


WOMAN AT BAY [85
"I'll find her."
Clarke stopped. His mustache curved in a half-smile and his
blue eyes were cloudy. "All right," he said, "we'll both find
her . . . Why don't you meet us at the porte-cochere, honey,"
he said to Adrienne. "And say our good-byes to Mrs. Gerand."
"I'm sorry," Aitchison said.
"So am I," MacKinnon said. "It was a nice party."
"You'll explain about my guests to Mrs.—ah—Miss Travers.
Maybe we can have a round of golf some day before you go."
"It's a thought," MacKinnon said and started after Clarke.
The French group, still in a tight huddle, watched their prog-
ress to the French doors. Mrs. Gerand looked properly distressed
and for a moment MacKinnon thought she was going to speak
to Denny Clarke but he did not seem to notice her.
Norma Travers was alone in the gathering dusk. She sat on
a stone bench smoking a cigarette and looking off across the
garden. When she saw them she smiled.
"Hello," she said.
"Hi," Clarke said. "Being a little exclusive, aren't you?"
"By request," Norma said. "I take it you've heard the news."
"Aitchison didn't say anything, did he?"
"No." Norma made a little throaty sound that was half laugh
half sigh. "But one of his guests did—under her breath."
"You held out on me," Clarke was still amused. "I didn't know
you were a notorious woman."
MacKinnon took Norma's hand and helped her to her feet,
finding that he resented Clarke's cracks and proprietary atti-
tude. "We're going along," he said. "Adrienne is meeting us out
front."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I suppose I shouldn't have come. I
wouldn't have if I'd known that—"
"Forget it," Clarke said. "It was a dull show anyway."


86] WOMAN AT BAY
Norma watched MacKinnon, but it was too dark for him tb
see what her eyes were saying. Presently she started for the front
of the house.
The lobby of the Palm Hotel looked different at night. It was
brighter, gayer, noisier at this hour and there was a new and
dressier girl at the cigar stand. This time MacKinnon walked
in the front door and continued straight on to the elevator.
He had the third floor hall to himself. He fitted the key in the
door of room 319 and opened it. A widening rectangle of light
spilled across the rug as he started to enter and he saw instantly
that the body had been removed, a fact which eliminated one of
the two possibilities he had considered.
He was aware now of the odor of tobacco, not stale like the
air of the room, but fresh and cigar-smelling. He thought too,
that he heard a whisper of sound somewhere ahead of him; but
it was the instinctive reaction, the sudden prickling feeling along
his spine and scalp, that told him someone was waiting in the
darkness.
It all came to him swiftly in that moment when he felt along
the wall for the light switch and he did not hesitate. When he
found it he began to whistle cheerfully and pushed, readying
himself for whatever was to follow.
The switch clicked and the room was bathed in light. He kept
whistling, unbuttoning his coat as he moved, seeing that the
closet door was ajar and the bathroom door still open. As he took
his second step the man moved into sight from the bathroom,
one hand sliding across his chest as though it had recently been
inside the coat, the other holding a cigarette-sized cigar.
MacKinnon stopped short and stared. He had walked in ready
for almost anything but he was not quite prepared for this. He


WOMAN AT BAY [87
had figured that if the body had been discovered and removed
a police officer would probably be waiting for John Macy to
return but this guy . . .
This man was slim and tall and dark and he had a thin nose
and high cheekbones. He wore a tan, double-breasted suit and a
Panama hat and his name was Rodriguez.
MacKinnon discovered his mouth was open and closed it. He
swallowed and remembered to get on with his act. "Hey," he said.
"Am I in the wrong room? I thought this was—" he glanced at
the key—"room 319."
"You are John Macy?" the man said in perfect English.
"Yes," MacKinnon said sourly, remembering how the other
had pretended to speak only Spanish the night before. "And
you're the guy who doesn't speak English."
Rodriguez spread his hands. "It is sometimes advisable to pre-
tend such ignorance."
"And it's sometimes advisable to sign a phony name to a hotel
register."
"Sometimes . . . Then you are not John Macy?"
"The name is MacKinnon—as if you didn't know." He paused,
and Rodriguez waited and his calm, unruffled manner did not
help MacKinnon's temper. "Furthermore," he said, "MacKinnon
paid three bucks for the use of this room and he wants to know
who you are and what you're doing in it."
Rodriguez took off his hat. He pulled a small leather folder
from his pocket and extracted a card. "Permit me," he said, and
bowed.
MacKinnon took the card grudgingly. It said, Luiz Rodriguez.
"I am the police," Rodriguez said.
MacKinnon peered at him. He started to say he didn't believe
it. Then he knew that if this was so it might explain many things.


88] WOMAN AT BAY
"What else have you got that says so?"
Rodriguez shrugged and took out a wallet, flipping it open
to disclose the gold shield pinned inside.
MacKinnon quieted down. He realized now the importance
of keeping his head and thinking soundly; he knew he must tell
only what he wanted to tell and always with an air of innocence.
He met the other's black-eyed inspection with a steady gaze and
he felt again the threat of latent power in the man. The impres-
sion remained that there was something quietly sinister about
Rodriguez but he amended this impression now and decided
what he had thought was sinister was simply a shrewd and tem-
pered hardness which might prove to be both relentless and
formidable.
"Does being a cop entitle you to search other people's rooms?"
he asked when Rodriguez put away his wallet.
"Sometimes such action is demanded."
"By what?"
Rodriguez ignored this. He put on his hat and his thin face
was still like a rock. "I would like to know," he said, "why you
gave the name John Macy."
"I had a date."
"Oh? With whom?"
MacKinnon shook his head and smiled grimly.
"A woman?" Rodriguez asked.
"A woman."
What may have been a smile touched the man's eyes and was
gone. "You are a cautious man, Mr. MacKinnon."
"With women," MacKinnon said, "always."
"You took two keys."
"One for her."
"She will come tonight?"
"She decided not to."


WOMAN AT BAY [89
"Oh. Then she stood you up."
MacKinnon knew he had heard correctly but he didn't quite
believe it. The slangy phrase coming from one whose English
was so precise surprised him and even later, as he heard the
American vernacular more frequently from this man, he never
quite got used to it. Now he half-closed one eye and said:
"What did you say?"
"Is that not the correct phrase when a woman does not keep
an appointment with a man?"
"Yeah, but—"
"You are curious that I should know how to say it? Well, I
have been to your New York on three occasions. I went to the
Police Academy for a little while and also as a representative of
our Policia Secreta I took some course with your F.B.I, in Wash-
ington. Also I read many of your magazines. I find your slang
quite as descriptive as it is amusing . . . But about this date. If
you will give me the lady's name—"
"Un-unh," MacKinnon said. "The lady wouldn't like that,
would she? . . . And you've forgotten to tell me what your
angle is. Why all the third degree?"
Rodriguez wasn't fooled; not for a second. His lids came down
and his voice thinned out.
"A man was murdered here this afternoon, Mr. MacKinnon."
MacKinnon said, "What?" and hoped it sounded right.
Rodriguez remained unimpressed by the demonstration.
"You have your passport?" he said.
"Why—no," MacKinnon said. "It's at the hotel."
"I will go there now," Rodriguez said. "You will accompany
me." He went over and opened the door. "Also I will search
your room. Do you agree to this or shall we stop on our way and
get an order giving me the necessary authority?"


0X>] WOMAN AT BAY
Paul MacKinnon had plenty of time to think on the ride out
to the Habana Hotel and most of the thoughts he found dis-
couraging. No matter which way his mind turned it always came
back to Rodriguez. That this man who had been at the Customs
House yesterday and must obviously have been interested in
either Norma or Denny or Adrienne, who had also been more
than a little interested in his own movements during the past
ten or twelve days—that this guy should turn out to be a de-
tective was a twist he did not like.
For MacKinnon had known and worked with quite a few de-
tectives in the past two years and none impressed him more than
Rodriguez. That the lieutenant's efforts should now be focused
on him—and quite possibly Norma—worried him plenty.
Now as they entered the room, Rodriguez glanced about, took
off his hat and put it on the bureau. Without waiting to be asked
MacKinnon took his passport from a drawer and handed it over.
Then he lit a cigarette and stretched out on the bed.
"You are a writer?" Rodriguez said presently. "And it is stated
that your trip is for business and pleasure."
"Mostly pleasure."
"You write stories?"
"Articles." MacKinnon waved his arm. "Go ahead. The room
is yours, Lieutenant ... Is it all right if I ask some questions?"
Rodriguez did not bother to answer but began at the bureau
and started carefully through the drawers. When he closed the
top lefthand one MacKinnon said:
"What are you supposed to be looking for?"
"Among other things," Rodriguez said, "a gun."


WOMAN AT BAY [oi
MacKinnon came up on one elbow but caught himself in
time. Oh, you liar! he thought, remembering how the murder
gun had been left on the floor. "The man in 319 was shot?" he
said. •
"He was shot. At close range."
"And you didn't find the gun?"
Rodriguez was searching the other top drawer and now he
turned and there was a gun in his hand. MacKinnon caught his
breath.
"Did you declare this when you came through the Customs?"
Rodriguez was examining the automatic with deft fingers. "This
might be a serious offense."
MacKinnon's pulse steadied. He had forgotten all about the
gun and the sight of it scared him until he remembered Manuel
Zayas. Now his grin was twisted.
"May I see it?" He held out his hand.
Rodriguez looked at him with one eye and then with both.
After a moment he offered the gun and MacKinnon looked it
over again. It was a lightweight weapon considering its calibre.
He thought it was a .38, and it had wooden stocks, on one of
which a crude X had been cut or filed. When he saw it had not
been fired since he put it there last night he gave it back.
"Who's kidding who?" he said.
"I beg your pardon."
"You know where I got the gun. Why didn't you come over
and grab that guy last night? You're a cop, aren't you? You're
supposed to protect the law-abiding citizen."
Rodriguez' mouth twitched and he straightened it.
"You stood over there by your car and watched us," Mac-
Kinnon said.
"I saw a scuffle but I could not tell what it was about and
there was no time to intervene."


92] WOMAN AT BAY
"Oh?" MacKinnon said dryly.
"Yes, you were too quick . . . The man had this gun?
"He did," MacKinnon said. "A guy by the name of Manuel
Zayas—so my spies tell me. Why don't you look him up? I
understand he came in on the Corrubedo."
Rodriguez repeated the name of the ship and was duly
thoughtful; then he nodded. "I shall look into the matter," he
said. "Also with your permission, I shall take this gun." He
slipped it into his hip pocket and turned back to take up his
search.
MacKinnon watched him a moment before he lay back. He
wasn't annoyed or irritated any more. His mind was alert, re-
spectful and still curious. Presently he said:
"Who was the guy?"
"What guy?"
"The guy that was killed."
"I am not at liberty to say."
"What was his racket?"
Silence.
"All right," MacKinnon said. "He was shot in room 319.
Why?"
Rodriguez closed the bottom drawer and turned, his glance
swiftly measuring the room. He stepped over to the table desk.
"Apparently he had something the killer wanted."
"Oh—then it wasn't just murder."
"Not a planned murder if that is what you mean. I think this
man came to meet someone and the wrong person was there—
though this is only a guess, you understand—and this man re-
fused to give up this thing he had brought. In addition, he had
courage—and a gun. He tried to get it out and he was shot . . ."
He turned as the telephone rang. "Do you mind? This may be
for me."


WOMAN AT BAY [93
What he said when he lifted the instrument was in Spanish
and MacKinnon did not get much of it. Rodriguez listened and
nodded and spoke again and MacKinnon had an idea that the
lieutenant was pleased with what he heard.
"I would like to examine the bed," he said when he hung up.
MacKinnon rose and stood aside. He took another cigarette
and his fingers were no longer steady. He began to feel jumpy
and tied-up inside. It seemed to him that Rodriguez seemed more
sure of himself now and the impression was so disturbing that
his imagination got out of hand and he wondered if something
had been hidden in his bed.
He stood very still, waiting for the detective to make his dis-
covery and turn and accuse him. He forgot about the cigarette
and the matches in his hand. The room seemed close now and
the suspense moved in on him until he felt he must break it no
matter what happened. He wanted to say something, to grab the
man's shoulder and haul him away. The sensation was so acute,
the fear of discovery so real that when Rodriguez finally turned
without finding anything MacKinnon felt only surprise and an
overwhelming relief.
Rodriguez looked at him sharply and MacKinnon snapped
back. He remembered the cigarette and lit it and walked away
to drop the match in an ash tray. Rodriguez went into the bath-
room and MacKinnon sat down on the bed again, cursing in-
wardly at his momentary panic and building up his defenses.
He realized what it was like now to be under suspicion of murder
and he knew he must not be susceptible to suggestion again. He
was ready when Rodriguez came back.
"We will talk a minute, Mr. MacKinnon," the lieutenant said,
and pulled up a chair. "You were out this afternoon ... I be-
lieve you returned at five."
"That's right."


94] WOMAN AT BAY
"With Miss Travers?"
"Yes."
"You were downtown together? . . . For any special reason?"
"Nothing special. Did a little shopping . . ."
"Where? I mean, what stores?"
"I don't remember."
Rodriguez let one black brow rise above the other question-
ingly. The eyes remained intent, revealing nothing and Mac-
Kinnon thought, Watch it, MacKinnon! Watch it!
He said, "As a matter of fact, I didn't buy anything. We were
window shopping. Around the park there. Central Park, I think
it is. I thought I might find some little things I could take back
with me."
"And Miss Travers?"
"Oh, she was just with me. She didn't buy anything either."
"Did you see Mr. Clarke?"
"No."
"You left the hotel at about twenty minutes of four," Rodri-
guez said. "Miss Travers left shortly after three—with Mr.
Clarke."
"She did? . . . Oh, yes." MacKinnon smiled. "I remember
now."
"She told you she was with Mr. Clarke?"
MacKinnon knew his face was moist and he could feel the
perspiration trickle down his sides. He wasn't annoyed any
more. It was a game now and his mind worked with precision
and he felt a mounting respect for Luiz Rodriguez and the or-
ganization which had supplied him with this information so
swiftly. He was grateful too for the little talk he had had with
Denny Clarke at the Aitchison home.
"No," he said. "Clarke told me." He hesitated, continued with


WOMAN AT BAY [95
more confidence than he felt. "Maybe it would save time if I
told you the whole thing."
"I would appreciate it."
"Miss Travers and Mr. Clarke went downtown—not on any
date but because they happened to leave here at the same time.
Clarke was going down and he gave Miss Travers a lift." He told
the story Clarke had given him about wanting to buy a suit and
how Norma had left him and MacKinnon hoped now it was the
truth. "So," he said, "she was walking along and I ran into her
and we decided to window shop together."
Rodriguez sighed softly. He ran his palm over his shiny black
hair and took out a silver case. Inside were cigars about the size
of king-size cigarettes and when MacKinnon refused one the
detective lit his own. He leaned back and blew smoke at the
ceiling and then he looked at MacKinnon and smiled.
It was the first smile MacKinnon had seen and it showed fine
teeth and made the thin face softer. But it did not change the
eyes much.
"I have a hunch," he said, using the American vernacular.
"Would you like to hear it?"
"If it's about the guy in 319, yes."
"Good." Rodriguez retained some of the smile. "I can tell you
this much. This man held a diplomatic position of some im-
portance in one of our neighboring countries. Perhaps I should
say he represented this country, though he was stationed in
Lisbon. He arrived two mornings ago by plane."
He made an arc with the cigar. "You see this was not a regular
stop for this man on his way home. This was a little out of the
way—though not far, and these days one cannot be too par-
ticular about one's transportation arrangements so that his pres-
ence was easily explainable. To those in the Havana office, he


96] WOMAN AT BAY
said he would be leaving for home tomorrow. This much we
know."
He leaned back and puffed on the cigar until he had an even
light and MacKinnon was aware that what he had just heard
checked with his own ideas and the things Norma had told him.
"Also," Rodriguez said, "we know that a man of his descrip-
tion rode in the elevator of the Palm Hotel shortly before four
this afternoon, carrying a brown paper package or envelope, and
there can be little doubt that he was the man in room 319 . . .
Our investigation indicated that he was killed between three
thirty and four thirty."
MacKinnon waited. Presently he said, "That's what you know.
Where does the hunch come in?"
The smile was gone when Rodriguez spoke again. "Here,
Mr. MacKinnon. The hunch has to do with your story about the
date you had in that room and the reason you gave for getting
two keys. A date, as you use the term, covers many things. I
think perhaps you had a date in 319, and possibly with a woman.
But not for the reason that a man usually has when he registers
under a false name; not to make love, Mr. MacKinnon, and not
tonight. Shall I tell you why?"
MacKinnon had an idea what the hunch was now but he did
not know how Rodriguez was going to arrive at it and he was
still uncomfortable under the other's steady gaze. He had a feel-
ing that Rodriguez not only saw and catalogued each move, but
that he understood the reasons for them.
"I wish you would," he said and stood up. "But tell me in here,
will you? I'd like to wash. I've got to eat pretty soon."
He went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the
bowl and let the lieutenant follow. Rodriguez sat down on the
edge of the tub.
"Since you have been here," he said, "I have become familiar


WOMANATBAY [<#
with some of your habits. Until last night you had no dates,
Mr. MacKinnon. You are perhaps a man of discrimination where
women are concerned, though that is only a guess. I do know
that you made no conquests. Where you went you went alone
and at night you did not visit any of the ah—houses here as
men sometimes do . . . Am I right so far?"
"Approximately," MacKinnon said, reaching for a towel.
"Last night you had for the first time what might be called a
date. With Miss Travers and Mrs. Brissard. And with them I can
see that it would be easy to become romantically involved, even
for a discriminate man. But if you felt that way the arrangement
here is most desirable. You are all on the same floor, in the same
corridor. It is very nice. It would not be necessary, would it,
Mr. MacKinnon, to get a room at the Palm Hotel if you wished
to spend some time with Miss Travers or Mrs. Brissard? And
since nothing you have done suggests that you are interested in
any other woman I do not think you were meeting anyone there
tonight."
"You mean I didn't have a date," MacKinnon said flatly.
"Oh, yes, I think you did. That is where the hunch comes in. I
think you had your date this afternoon. I think that either you
or Miss Travers, and quite possibly both, were in room 319 be-
tween three-thirty and five."
MacKinnon finished combing his hair and in the mirror he
thought his face looked all right. He concentrated on keeping it
that way. "It's an interesting theory," he said. "It's nice reason-
ing." And he thought, And brother, you're not \idding! "There's
only one thing wrong with it," he said, and walked into the
other room.
"You refer to the lack of proof?" Rodriguez said, following
him in.
"Um-hum."


98] WOMAN AT BAY
"But that does not mean there is anything wrong with the
hunch. With proof a hunch is no longer a hunch but an actuality.
At the moment I have only the hunch but I have an idea the
other will come at the proper time. It is my business to see that it
happens this way."
He found his cigar out and dropped it into an ashtray. He
picked up his hat and turned it slowly in his long-fingered
hand.
"You see, Mr. MacKinnon. This was a man of some im-
portance who was murdered and the investigation must be
handled with delicacy. There will be no publicity but the matter
must be satisfactorily explained to our neighbors. It is essential
that the guilty party be found and it would be good for my
country if this person is not a Cuban."
He hesitated and gave MacKinnon a quick polite smile. "I tell
you this so that you will understand my position. I do not par-
ticularly care why this man went to room 319 or what he took
there. I concern myself only with his death and I intend to find
out who is responsible."
He put on his hat and made a little bow. "I will be interested
to hear what Miss Travers has to say about this afternoon. I will
talk to her now, if she is in. If you care to accompany me . . ."
"Sure," MacKinnon said. "Why not?"
He turned out the light and shut the door, following Rodri-
guez down the hall, not feeling so good any more, but determined
to give Norma what moral support he could. He knew now that
he should have rehearsed her in his story. He should have pre-
pared her for a police investigation . . . But how did he know
that in this case the police meant Rodriguez? How did he know
the guy would be so good?
He waited while the lieutenant knocked, standing behind him
and getting ready to tip her off with a wink and a look. Then


WOMAN AT BAY [99
Rodriguez knocked again and MacKinnon began to hope. The
third knock cured him and he felt so good when the lieutenant
shrugged and turned away that he offered to buy him a drink
downstairs.
"Just to show there's no hard feelings," he said.
Rodriguez thought it over without giving anything away.
"Okay," he said. "A drink would be nice," he said. "And I have
taken a lot of your time so we will have one drink and I will
buy it."
10
It was nine thirty before Rodriguez left and MacKinnon ordered
a second daiquiri and stared at himself in the bar glass, finding
his mood as somber as his image. For a few minutes he had been
quite pleased with his conduct and his ability to weather Rodri-
guez' questioning successfully; now he saw that his victory—if
he could call it that—was strictly a temporary achievement. He
had not cleared himself, nor Norma. He had gained time but
this was more than offset by the lieutenant's continued suspicion.
He knew that Rodriguez had not been fooled—much; he also
knew that with a lad like that checking on you, you were never
safe. About the time you thought so and got careless the roof
could fall on you.
This possibility reminded him again of Norma and he finished
his cocktail and went out to the desk. The clerk was pleasant and
informative.
"Yes," he said. "Miss Travers went out about eight, with
Mr. Clarke."
MacKinnon chewed on that awhile and found he didn't like
it. He had brought them back from Aitchison's around a quarter


100] WOMAN AT BAY
of eight. That meant that Denny had worked fast and apparently
had not included Adrienne Brissard in his invitation.
He thanked the clerk and went to the house phone, hoping he
would not have to eat alone. Adrienne answered almost at once,
her voice low and pleasingly husky even over the telephone.
"What're you doing?" he said.
"Hello," Adrienne said. "I'm writing a letter to Arturo."
"Who's Arturo? . . . The one in South America? Well, look,
can I come up? I've got an idea."
Adrienne's suite was across the hall from Norma's bedroom
and the door was unlocked so that when she called, "Come," he
walked in and found her at the table-desk. She smiled over her
shoulder and pointed to three sheets of paper filled with her
straight broad-stroked handwriting.
"See," she said, addressing an envelope. "Am I not good?"
"You're wonderful."
He sat down and watched her fold the sheets and seal the
envelope. She still wore the print dress but she wore mules now
instead of shoes and her legs were tan and bare.
"Have you had dinner?" he asked.
"I wasn't hungry." She stood up and smiled again. "Was that
your idea? Then I think now it is a good one," she said when he
nodded.
"We can eat downtown and if you like daiquiris I know a
place—"
"I like daiquiris," Adrienne said. "And I too have heard of a
place. Sloppy Joe's."
"It's not as good as my place."
"We shall see." She pointed her finger at him. "You will wait
right there and in five minutes I will be ready."
"Are you going to change your dress?"
"Do you want me to?"


WOMAN AT BAY [iOI
"No," MacKinnon said. "I like it."
She went into the bedroom, swinging the door after her but
not closing it completely and he could hear her getting ready.
She was humming softly now and he could hear drawers open
and close and the sound of water running in the bathroom. He
stood up and wandered around the room, lighting a cigarette and
glancing at the envelope she had addressed. Arturo Galban, it
said, Sao Paulo. Then Adrienne called to him from the other
room.
"How long am I now?"
"You are now four minutes," MacKinnon said.
She came out presently, fastening one earring and holding the
other in her lips. When he went up to her he saw her cheeks were
flushed. He examined the thin, high-arched brows and found the
eyes beneath them sparkling. He caught a little of her mood and
it gave him a nice feeling inside that she should be so pleased.
From the closet she took a plain white coat, light-weight and
soft, and when he held it for her he noticed the perfume. Its
heady fragrance stirred him warmly, like a second cocktail, and
when he put the coat on her shoulders his hands lingered a
moment to lightly press their rounded outlines and she did not
move until he lifted them. ...
The upper end of Obispo Street gave on a little square with
a monument in the center. A low iron fence, rimmed with
flowers, surrounded this and there were a half dozen trees, not
tall but wide-branching, to furnish shade and screen the oddly
assorted buildings which made up three of the sides. Only one
of these was used for parking but it was the one on which the
Florida faced and there was an open space almost directly in
front for MacKinnon.
They had been to Sloppy Joe's and had one daiquiri and
Adrienne had highly approved of this, while remaining other-


102] WOMAN AT BAY
wise unimpressed. Now MacKinnon helped her out and told her
she would like this drink better. In fact he guaranteed it.
"You will give me a forfeit if I do not agree?" she said.
"It's a deal," he said and took a quick glance up and down the
sidewalk as they crossed it.
The store fronts were dark now and men lounged in the
shadows and others stood on the curb and talked. A huge Negro
paraded by with a long stick over his shoulder on which was a
sign bearing lottery numbers, and in front of the Florida a side-
walk trio was beating out a little calypso music on a mandolin,
quatro and guitar.
Adrienne walked inside the Florida and took a quick look;
then glanced up at MacKinnon with studied skepticism. He
grinned and took her arm and steered her towards the bar.
"You're not judging interior decorating," he said, aware that
the long, well-lighted room with its few potted palms and even
rows of tables was not exactly an artistic achievement. "You're
here to get a daiquiri. Watch this guy," he said when he told
the bartender to make the cocktails out of dark rum.
Adrienne was at once interested. She watched the man squeeze
limes and slice off a piece of grapefruit, mostly skin, and squeeze
that and add syrup and frappe it. When this was ready the shaker
came off while rum was added and bitters of some kind splashed
from a bottle; then back it went on the machine with more ice.
What came out looked wonderful.
"Already," Adrienne said before she tasted it, "I think I lose."
"Cheer'o," said MacKinnon.
Adrienne took a sip, watching him with upward-slanting eyes.
She looked at the glass and smiled and drank again. Then, tilt-
ing her chin, she said in a little girl voice, "Yes . . . May I have
another?"
MacKinnon laughed and ordered and now he felt wonderful.


WOMAN AT BAY [103
He liked this woman; he liked being with her. Everything was
easy and you didn't have to play up to her and when she liked a
thing you knew it and that made you like it too. He felt relaxed
and warm and comfortable, and very glad that he was here.
So was Adrienne apparently. With the second daiquiri she
gave her complete approval to the Florida and so they decided to
eat here too, though MacKinnon refused to recommend it. He
said he didn't know and she said she didn't care, she liked it here.
The food was all right. At least it was sufficiently good so that
there was no complaint, though it may have been that neither of
them cared enough to notice. They had the room almost to them-
selves and drank a bottle of Cuban beer and practiced Spanish
with the waiter. When they had their coffee MacKinnon asked if
she'd like a brandy, and then he thought of something else.
"There's a place on the other side of the square," he said. "We
could have our brandy there. The International Cafe. I under-
stand Aitchison backs it and a lot of Frenchmen go there—"
"Backs?" she said. "You mean he owns it?"
"Something like that. He's got a piece of it, invested in it."
Adrienne liked the idea and so they went out and MacKinnon
tossed a coin at the indomitable trio with the calypso music, and
they went across the square to this place that MacKinnon knew.
It had a modernistic entrance trimmed with chromium or
stainless steel and there was a revolving door which spilled them
into a large squarish room, air-conditioned and garishly modern.
The bar was circular and packed and a man was hammering
at a piano with dubious harmony and a sketchy left hand, and
another smooth-haired fellow was singing into a microphone in
French. People had to yell to make themselves heard and Mac-
Kinnon leaned down to Adrienne's ear.
"It's quiet but it's charming."
"Quaint too," said Adrienne and giggled.


IO4] WOMAN AT BAY
A plump, beaming man in a dinner jacket came bustling up
and pointed to a vacant booth.
"Okay?" MacKinnon said.
"For a brandy?" Adrienne said. "Why of course, Paul."
She hesitated a moment before following the man in the dinner
jacket. She took time out to glance about and practically every
man in the place stared back at her. MacKinnon, seeing this open
admiration and envy, was amused and pleased, and as he fol-
lowed her to the booth he half expected the whistle which would
have made the picture complete.
The brandy came and they warmed it and MacKinnon was
watching the singing Frenchman, not knowing that he was
thinking until Adrienne touched his hand. "You are thinking so
hard, Paul," she said.
"Was I? ... I guess I was thinking that with all these French-
men here this might not be so good for Norma."
Adrienne turned her glass slowly. "You knew she was Mrs.
Sevigny."
"I've known her a long time ... It didn't seem to bother you
this afternoon."
"No. I didn't know but I remembered and I could not see
that it mattered now, not here. When a whole country suffers
it is not always fair to judge the individual. Many people did bad
things. Some were deliberate and some, I think, were ignorant
or did not think what they were doing."
"Sevigny wasn't ignorant."
"No. He was one of the bad ones but—for a woman it is more
difficult. If you love a man and if he is a collaborationist why
then, even though you know it is wrong, you try to make allow-
ances and to forgive things you could not stand in anyone else. I
think Norma was wrong but if she loved Sevigny I can under-
stand."


WOMAN AT BAY [1O5
MacKinnon examined this statement and saw that he had not
considered the possibility before. If Norma had loved Sevigny
her story would have been exactly the same, except for the' end.
There was only her word that she did not love him. It was the
sort of thing any smart woman would say; it was too late now for
anything else. He heard Adrienne sigh and she was talking again.
"Yes, it is difficult. Not all the rich were traitors, nor all the
poor real patriots. There were many who did nothing, neither
collaborating nor going underground, but trying simply to exist,
to keep going, to have faith ... I was like that," she added pres-
ently. "I hated them, the Nazis, but I did nothing—until the
night I killed one. But for that I might have been there yet."
MacKinnon looked at her and she was still turning the glass,
watching it moodily, and now the noise inside the room did not
seem to exist and there were only the two of them. What she said
did not seem fantastic now. He found he was not surprised at
the confession, but accepted it quite naturally and waited, held
by something he could not explain, knowing she would tell him
the rest if he did not interrupt.
"But that was not for any cause of patriotism," she said. "It
was not for France. It was personal. It was necessary, a thing I
had to do."
"Because they'd killed your husband?" MacKinnon said.
She sipped brandy, glancing at him a moment before she re-
sumed her study of the glass. She shook her head.
"No," she said. "I will tell you the truth . . . Long ago, be-
fore the Germans came, I was an actress. Not a great one but
perhaps I thought so because I was young and ambitious. There
were small parts in some pictures—I had a few lines in one of
the films Eric Von Stroheim made during his last trip to France
—and I liked it. But Rene, my husband, did not . . . The Bris-
sards were in the textile business," she said, as though that


I06] WOMAN AT BAY
explained everything. "After a year we separated. We were not
divorced and we were friendly but he did not like my friends
and I did not like his and it seemed best that way. When he was
killed I was shocked and saddened, as one would be for a friend.
But I was not in love with him then . . . No it was not because
of him."
She said, "I did not stay in Paris long after the Germans came.
It would have been easier and I was approached by them for
certain things and I saw that if I stayed it might be hard to keep
refusing. The Brissards had factories in Lyons and St. Etienne,
and Rene had given me a house in the country not far from there,
and I had some jewelry and enough money for a while, so that is
where I went. I did not like it but I was better off than most. The
war was far away from me then and I am not proud that I tried
to keep it that way but I had neither the courage nor the patriot-
ism to do more ... It was that way until your troops were in
Italy and the Germans occupied all of France."
She paused and MacKinnon gave her a cigarette. The singer
had gone away and the piano player wasn't banging any more
but fooling around with some chord progressions. At the bar the
noise and clatter was continuous, but to MacKinnon it was still
remote because he was thinking about Adrienne, waiting for the
rest, knowing that she maligned herself when she said she did
not have courage.
He could understand why she preferred to run away and lead
her own life and have what comforts she could find, because it
seemed to him that she was the kind who demanded comforts.
Yet for all her feminine softness he knew that there was courage
and resourcefulness inside her, a determined hardness that could
be summoned when necessary; it was, he thought, part of her
charm that she had more than loveliness to offer.
"A company of troops was stationed in the village," she said.


WOMAN AT BAY [107
"And two officers came to live at the house with me and Celine,
who helped with the house and garden. For a little while both
were most correct and proper, though I could tell by the way one
of them looked at me that he was not at all proper really."
She gestured with her fingers. "There were advances finally as
I knew there would be, and I did what I could and then one night
when the other officer was away the other came to my room. I
was in bed and he had been drinking and—well I shot him with
his own gun. In the dark . . . When I was able to think again I
got a light and saw that he was dead. And so I got my things to-
gether and papers that I had hidden in case I might some day
need them, and I drove that night, in his car, to the Swiss border."
She took her hands from the empty glass and folded them on
the table and glanced about. The piano was going again and so
was the singer and when MacKinnon looked at his watch he saw
they had been there over a half hour.
"It's time for a Scotch," he said. "And then we might try
Sans Souci."
"Yes," Adrienne said.
He signalled the waiter and then he said, "You met Arturo in
Switzerland?"
She nodded. "I worked there in a dress shop—in Geneva."
She went on when the drinks came, telling him about the year
in Geneva and how she met Arturo, who was there on business,
and how he had helped her get to Spain.
"It was not hard to get from there to Lisbon," she said, "but
it was not easy to get passage out. Arturo could not wait but he
left me some money and—" She broke off and gave him a crooked
smile. "You wonder why I do not go back to France now that it
is free again?"
"I was thinking about Arturo," he said. "I think he's sort of
lucky."


108] WOMAN AT BAY
"So is Adrienne. Also, Adrienne is selfish. I will go back to
France one day but now there is no coal, and electricity only for
a few hours a day, and I have had enough of shortages for
a while. Now that I am older I know I will never be an actress. I
would like some pleasure and a little comfort and what I want
to eat. Arturo will see to this and—I think Arturo loves me and
that is always nice."
"Yeah," MacKinnon said, and grinned, liking her acidulous
frankness. "Drink up," he said. "Let's push off . . ."
Sans Souci was somewhat more crowded than the previous
night but the roof was still rolled back and the sky was again
lush and velvety. Adrienne decided as they sat down that she
would not gamble this time and when they had ordered a drink
they danced, and MacKinnon knew again how nice it was to
hold her.
It had been nice last night, this having her in his arms and
feeling the rhythmic warmth of her body against his own, but it
was even better now because it was more natural, more familiar,
like rediscovering old pleasures you had forgotten.
When they sat down again he asked her if she was hungry and
she said she wasn't and then she touched his hand and when he
looked at'her she laughed. He asked her what was funny and
she said:
"It is because I feel so good," she said. "Because I like you. It
is not many men who know so well how to please a woman."
"Oh?"
"Yes." She nodded. "Yesterday I liked you—the way you look
and your manners but now I know you as a person and'I wonder
how this is and then I know. You have taken me places and
given me nice things to drink and fed me properly and then you
have let me talk about myself—and listened not with politeness
but with understanding."


WOMAN AT BAY [1O9
"Only with people I like," MacKinnon said.
"I know," Adrienne said. "That is what I mean. It is very
nice, this way of yours . . . Now I would like to listen for a while.
What about you, Paul? You are a journalist and you Were in
France and Spain and you knew Norma Travers in Paris."
"That's right."
"You knew her too as Mrs. Sevigny. Were you in love with
her—a little?"
"A long time ago," MacKinnon said and began to tell a little of
his background in a brief and carefully edited way.
He fooled with the ashtray as he talked and always when he
glanced up he found her eyes upon him, wise and bright with
interest. When he finished, her hand reached out again to cover
his and the warmth of it moved up his wrist and tunneled through
the veins until his heart beat faster. He turned his hand and
caught hers.
"Shall we go back," he said, "or would you like another drink?"
A smile touched the corners of the small mobile mouth and
her dark eyes' were speculative. "All right," she said and re-
leased her hand. "Unless you want one . . ."
MacKinnon did not realize he was being followed until he had
passed through Marianao. He knew there was a car behind him
but it remained quite far back and he thought nothing of it until
the lights began to bother him in the rear-view mirror.
•Adrienne was sitting close to his shoulder and she had hooked
one hand inside his right arm, not bothering his driving but
holding him lightly. He was pleasantly conscious of her nearness
and the fragrance. of her hair and he was waiting for the car
to pass before he put his arm around her.
The car drew closer and he slowed down. Seconds later he
saw the other car was keeping pace; he realized too that he was
leaving Marianao and that ahead was a level, sparsely-settled


IIO] WOMAN AT BAY
stretch, with no side roads between here and the river. He pressed
the accelerator down, keeping one eye on the road and the other
on the mirror.
Adrienne let go of his arm and straightened up. "What is it,
Paul?"
He was doing fifty now and the lights were pulling up behind
him again. "I think we're being followed," he said. "Here we go."
Adrienne did not act frightened nor ask questions. She turned
and looked out the rear window. "Perhaps they want to pass,"
she said.
MacKinnon watched the speedometer touch sixty and vibrate
there. The road was practically straight now and he knew he was
not going to get any more speed out of the five-year-old sedan.
Behind him the lights grew brighter. Presently they were no
longer visible in the mirror, but angling to his left. He turned his
head slightly, still concentrating on the road but seeing from the
corner of his eye the blinding brightness creep up beside him.
"They're going to pass us," Adrienne said.
"No, they're not," MacKinnon said. "Hang on!" he said, and
swerved left and then right.
The little sedan yawned and righted itself on the edge of the
highway. Adrienne bounced against him and away, and behind
him tires squealed and rumbled on rough ground and there was
a receding progression of wrenching sounds as the heavy car
rocked on its springs.
He saw some of it in the mirror: the dust, the crazy bobbing
of the headlights as the driver fought for control. When the lights
straightened and began to overhaul him again he found he had a
quarter of a mile lead. He saw the bridge ahead and braked
slightly so he could take it without turning over. Then they were
in Vedado, with streets and houses on the left and the cemetery
on the right.


112] WOMAN AT BAY
"I thought you were a bartender, Alfredo," MacKinnon said.
"What do you want?"
"You."
"Why?"
"You'll find out. Come. Or shall we take the woman first?"
MacKinnon pushed over and stepped out of the car.
"Come with us," Alfredo said.
"What about her?" MacKinnon glanced back at Adrienne.
In the reflected glow of the dashlight, her face was set and
her mouth tight, as though she was afraid but trying not to
show it.
"She stays," Alfredo said.
MacKinnon thought it over. He had an idea he could take
Alfredo, even with the gun, but that left the second man—he
wondered if it was Carlos, the boy who had passed the drinks
that afternoon—not to mention a third man who remained be-
hind the wheel of the other car; also it left Adrienne.
"She can't drive," he said. "So I guess she comes too."
"No."
"Look." MacKinnon took his time. He knew Adrienne was
all right. He could not figure what anyone wanted with him but
he saw now that it might be a good idea to find out. If it had
anything to do with the man in 319, or the manuscript, it might
even tell him something worthwhile before he was through.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said. "Who's that over there,
Carlos? Well, listen. I brought Mrs. Brissard here and I'm tak-
ing her home. After that the rest of us can go for a ride."
"No." Alfredo spat out the word and leveled the gun.
"I can't stop you from getting tough," MacKinnon said, "but
I can give you a little trouble. You're on a dead-end street, and
you're turned the wrong way." He pointed at the houses back
at the intersection. "Start shooting and you'll wake people up.


WOMAN AT BAY [113
You might get yourself in trouble, Alfredo, and I don't think
that's what you want."
He paused, watching Carlos come round the car. His tone
was easy, reasonable and he knew by the other's silence that he
had him thinking. He went on in the same even voice.
"I'll drive back to the hotel with Mrs. Brissard and you can
sit in back and hold that gun in my ear if you want and the
other car can follow right behind. At the hotel I get out, get
in your car and away we go . . . What's wrong with that? Or
are you scared of me?"
Alfredo snarled something that sounded like a curse. Carlos
jabbered rapidly in Spanish and Alfredo answered him and then
there was a moment of silence while MacKinnon waited and
tried to look nonchalant. Suddenly Alfredo spoke.
"Estd bien ... Get in," he said. "Apurese!"
MacKinnon slid inside and closed the door. Alfredo climbed in
the back seat. "Tenga Cuidado!" Carlos called as he ran back to
the other car and then MacKinnon felt the muzzle of the gun
on the back of his neck.
11
Mackinnon drove carefully on the way back to the hotel. The
gun was never more than a few inches from his head but he
did not think Alfredo would use it unless he was startled and
MacKinnon had no intention of letting that happen. Once, just
after they started, Adrienne spoke to him in French, asking what
she could do, and he answered her before Alfredo jabbed him
with the gun.
"Do nothing. I'll be all right," he said, and that ended the con-
versation.


II4] WOMAN AT BAY
Now, seeing the hotel towers silhouetted against the night sky,
he knew his judgment had been good. There was nothing more
he could do. Someone other than the police figured he knew more
than he did about the missing manuscript. It seemed to tie up
with Bruce Aitchison as Dave Adams had figured in New York,
and MacKinnon did not know what came next. The only thing
he was sure of was the odds. These were very bad at the moment
and could get worse.
He made a slow turn up the hill from the Malecon and the
other car was right behind him. He swung into the hotel drive
and there was only a small light over the entrance now, and no
starter or porter.
"Here is good," Alfredo said.
"I'll put it in the parking lot," MacKinnon said.
Then he saw something that quickened his pulse.
He sat up, his mouth suddenly dry and his chest tight. He
stared again and the car kept rolling and then he knew he had
to chance it.
For in the shadows to the left of the entrance were two men.
He could not see their faces. He knew that one was short and
the other tall and slim and familiar-looking. Then he said,
speaking clearly for Alfredo's benefit and with a quick excite-
ment he could not help:
"That looks like Luiz Rodriguez . . . Hello, Rodriguez," he
said.
The car was still rolling. It was going maybe five miles an hour
but when MacKinnon jammed on the brakes that little mo-
mentum helped. Alfredo, off balance, bounced against the back
of the seat, and at the same instant MacKinnon pulled Adrienne
down. He was about to fall on her when he saw it wasn't neces-
sary.
Alfredo had the door open and Alfredo was moving and


WOMAN AT BAY [115
after that things happened quickly. MacKinnon wasn't sure of
the sequence but he saw Rodriguez step out and the little man
move with him. MacKinnon was looking right at him. He saw
it happen but he did not believe it. For suddenly, and from no-
where, the little man had a gun in his hand and it came up and
then Rodriguez spoke sharply and knocked it down.
Then MacKinnon understood the rest of it. The following
car had slipped past on the other side and made the turn and
now it was going away fast. Alfredo still had the gun but he
wasn't using it; he was standing on the running board, hunched
up and clinging to the door.
The sound of the car faded and the night was quiet. The little
man with Rodriguez put the gun away and the lieutenant
stepped towards the car. MacKinnon helped Adrienne up and
opened the door. She said, "Whew!"
"Yeah," he said and swallowed. "You broke up the party," he
said when Rodriguez came over. "I guess you had 'em scared."
The lieutenant's voice was calm. It was not even curious. "If
someone was scared it was not because of me, it was because of
Tomas." He glanced towards the litde man. "This is my assistant,
Tomas Garay."
MacKinnon said, "Hello, Tomas," and the little man took off
his hat, revealing a round, leathery face and a big grin. He
bowed and said good evening.
"You had some trouble?" Rodriguez said as MacKinnon
helped Adrienne from the car.
"We were held up," Adrienne said. "We were chased and
held up. With guns."
Rodriguez had other questions and MacKinnon answered
them. He could see the lieutenant did not believe him and it
struck him as ironical that this time he should be telling the
truth.


WOMAN AT BAY [lI7
Clarke spotted them in the mirror and turned, his blond face
flushed and his voice loud and thick. "Hey, look who's here," he
said. "Hey, where you kids been?"
Adrienne glanced at MacKinnon, one brow lifting and Mac-
Kinnon, seeing only Norma now, felt disgust and anger rising
not within him. Norma's face was flushed too and her ash-blond
hair was windblown and her mOuth was twisted. For an instant
her green eyes stared back at him, focusing quickly and looking
startled and uncertain; then Clarke was talking.
"Boy, did we have fun. We've been places, kids. Good places,
bad places . . . Come on, get a drink and I'll tell you. First we
went to. . . ."
He began to enumerate the places, ticking them off on the
fingers of his hand. When he couldn't think of a name, he'd turn
to Norma and she'd supply it and he'd say:
"Yeah, and after that. . . ."
MacKinnon heard none of this. He looked at Clarke's red,
grinning face and wondered how it would be to plant a hard
right in the middle of it. He looked at Norma again and her
mouth wasn't slack any more and her eyes seemed anxious, as
though pleading for some understanding.
It was all over in less than a minute. He steeled himself against
his mounting anger. He knew it was none of his business what
Norma did and he decided to play along and laugh it off and get
a drink and be a good guy. But just as he was about to go into
the act he found himself turning instead to Adrienne. He heard
himself say:
"Could we get that nightcap in your room?"
Adrienne glanced up. She glanced again at the others and her
mouth moved and was still, as though suppressing some inner
amusement. "Do you think we should?" she said and hesitated,
considering. "All right, Paul," she said, and took his arm.


WOMAN AT BAY [119
His smile, or the open admiration in his eyes, pleased her
and she made a little curtsy before she came up to him. He made
two drinks and handed her one and when she had a swallow she
took her glass over to a chair. There were cigarettes on a nearby
table and as she took one he came over and struck a match for
her. When she had a light he stood for a moment, a hand on each
arm of the chair, his elbows braced.
She saw what was in his mind as he bent down and there was a
trace of merriment in her eyes as she waited until the last instant
and then turned her mouth away. He did not make any demon-
stration, but kissed her lightly on the cheek and straightened up
again."
"Thanks," he said, reaching for his glass.
"For what?"
"For letting me come."
"Oh—it is nice to have you here for a little while." She leaned
her head back. "I think it is I who should be grateful for such a
lovely evening."
He took his drink to the davenport and put it on the floor. He
felt a certain restlessness now and for a moment he studied her
and then, not meaning to, his mind got busy. Before he knew it he
was thinking about Denny Clarke. He saw again the scene
downstairs and to shut out the remembrance of his own silly part
in that scene he began to talk.
"That Clarke," he said. "Did you know him in Lisbon?"
"Oh, yes," Adrienne said. "I think anyone who was there very
long would know Denny Clarke."
"Oh? He got around, hunh? . . . What did he do, anyway?
I mean for a living."
"I have heard it said that he did many things. I would not
know if these things are true. But he would always be around—
at the Casino at Estoril, the Palace Hotel, the Taugus Club. I


120] WOMAN AT BAY
believe he was what you might call a broker. A man who buys
things, or arranges to buy things, and then sells them at a profit."
"Like what?"
"Oh"—Adrienne waved one hand—"most anything one would
need. If you wanted a room or apartment, Denny might arrange
it. If a ship was sailing and there was a cancellation he would
know about it first. From Denny you might be able to get papers
you had to have."
"Phony papers? ... I mean forged or—"
"Yes. He did not do these things himself, of course, but he
would know where such matters could be handled. I have heard
it said that for a price he could supply a fishing boat that would
take a party to North Africa . . ."
She had more to add along the same line and MacKinnon got
up to make another drink, picking up her empty glass as he
passed.
"He sounds like a sharp man with a dollar," he said. "Versatile
too."
"Oh, yes. Denny has many accomplishments."
"Do you like him?" He gave her her drink and waited for
her reply.
"Well"—she pushed her lips out thoughtfully, as if this were
some weighty question—"yes, I suppose so. He is amusing. Of
course he is obvious and he seems clever but I do not think he is.
What you see on the surface is Denny; I do not think there is
much else . . . But, yes, he is amusing," she said, and lifted her
glass.
MacKinnon sat down and drank, finding what Adrienne had
said corroboration for his own speculation. "Why did he leave?"
"I do not know for sure. On the boat he hinted that there had
been some trouble." She smiled. "He said he had been working
too hard. He said he needed a vacation but the way he said it—


WOMAN AT BAY [l2I
with a laugh and not trying to make you believe him—you knew
this was not the real reason."
MacKinnon leaned back in the corner of the divan. Adrienne
talked a little but he did not pay much attention until she stood
up and started towards him; then he saw that she had a cigarette
and was coming for a light.
She stopped in front of him, her lips curved and her glance
speculative. She put the cigarette in her mouth and waited and
he had the matches out now but he did not use them. On im-
pulse he reached out and took her arm and pulled, catching
her with his other hand as she came off balance, easily, and was
beside him, her body curved to his and her mouth hot and
compliant.
He lifted her so that he could cradle her shoulders across his
lap and she reached up and removed one earring. He watched
her take off the other one and hand them both to him, her eyes
bright behind the half-closed lids. The fragrance of her was in
his throat now, stirring quick warm currents of excitement in-
side him, and he knew there was no need to hurry.
He kissed her again and her body was soft in his embrace,
then slowly tensing as his hand moved across her back and un-
der her arm. She' held him there, her breath quick, and he
watched her closed eyes, seeing the mascara'd lashes, the film of
shadow on the lids. Then, about to kiss her again, he found
himself unconsciously comparing those lids with another pair
far back in his memory and some compulsion he could not un-
derstand held him in restraint.
Still holding her, he lifted his head, feeling her relax and see-
ing her eyes open. He smiled and shook off this secret impulse
that had for an instant distracted him, finding it nothing more
than a tiny inexplicable thoughtwave that had come from no-
where and demanded attention before passing on.


WOMAN AT BAY [123
It was a thing no one would believe, but it happened. "What a
dope," he said and grinned. . . .
The telephone rang just after he snapped off the light and
when he answered it Norma's voice said:
"Did I wake you, Paul?"
"No."
"I called before but—"
She let the word trail and he said, with some defiance, "I was
down with Adrienne. We had a couple of nightcaps."
There was silence then and he stubbornly refused to break it.
"I called to tell you about tonight . . . Did you think I was
tight?" she said when he made no reply.
"I thought you were plastered."
"I wasn't, Paul. I'd had some drinks but I wasn't tight."
"Maybe Denny wasn't either."
"Oh, yes, he was."
"I'll say he was."
"I wanted him to be," she said. "That's why I went out with
him."
"Oh?" MacKinnon said, beginning to pay attention.
"We have to do something, Paul. And I didn't know any-
thing about Denny—except what he told me on the boat—and
I thought if he had a good time and got a little drunk he might,
well, he might be able to tell me something that would help."
Suddenly MacKinnon was ashamed of his boorishness. Her
idea wasn't very original but if it were true it made things
different. He wanted to think it was true and now he didn't
want her to hang up.
"Did he?" he asked quickly.
"I don't know if it helps any, but he talked a lot and—" She
paused and her voice grew quieter. "Would you like to have
breakfast with me?"


124] WOMAN AT BAY
"Breakfast?"
"We could have something here in the room. We could talk
and not be interrupted and I could tell you what I found out."
"Yeah," MacKinnon said. "Sure," he said with quickening in-
terest. "It's a good idea ..."
Stretched out there in the darkness waiting for sleep he found
he felt pretty good until he remembered what Adrienne had
said. It took him awhile to examine the various facets of the
suggestion but in the end he denied them all.
He was not in love with Norma. Decidedly not. He could not
believe the reasons she gave for wanting to come to Cuba. He
wished he could. He admitted he felt different towards her now
than he had yesterday noon; he felt different than he had in
New York.
But all that means, chum, he thought, is that you are con-
fused. You came down here to do a job and—
The telephone rang and he rolled over and groped for it.
When he answered Bruce Aitchison identified himself.
"Hope I didn't wake you," he said.
"You didn't."
"Didn't think I would. Called you a couple of times and de-
cided you must be out."
"With Mrs. Brissard," MacKinnon said. "We had a little
trouble coming back from Sans Souci. Some guys in a car held
us up."
Aitchison was properly shocked. "Held you up? You mean
they robbed you?"
"No. That was the funny part."
"But—what did they want?" \
"I don't know. To tell the truth I don't think they were very
bright."


WOMAN AT BAY [125
"Oh." There was quite a pause. "Neither of you were hurt,
were you?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"I thought you would be."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Skip it," MacKinnon said. "What's on your mind?"
"Oh, yes ... I wanted to call you before you made any plans
for tomorrow noon. I was wondering about lunch. Have you
anything on?"
"Nothing that won't keep."
"Then how about eating with me?"
"I'd like to," MacKinnon said. "Where? At your place?"
"No. Downtown. I think the Paris is as good as any place.
How would one o'clock strike you?"
MacKinnon said one o'clock would be all right and when he
hung up he grinned in the darkness. Business was picking up.
Any time Bruce Aitchison broke his daily sport routine to come
into town for lunch it was not for idle conversation. He won-
dered if Aitchison would begin by offering an apology for that
afternoon, and then began to decorate the idea with sobering
possibilities.
In his interest in Adrienne and Norma that evening he had
forgotten about his job. And the little matter of the manuscript
and the murder, about which he had done nothing worthwhile.
He was under suspicion and so, quite possibly, was Norma, but
right now he was sure of just one thing: the pressure had begun.


126] WOMAN AT BAY
12
They had made their breakfast date for nine but Norma told
him he had better wait until she phoned so that she could be
sure everything was ready and hot. At three minutes after nine
he got the call and when he stepped into the corridor he saw
the waiter come out of her room and hurry towards the service
elevator.
She had ordered the table wheeled before the window and
the two chairs were in place when MacKinnon went in, and he
knew right off that she had told him the truth last night. No
one could look so fresh and clear-eyed with a hangover. He told
her so.
"I believe you," he said and watched her faint smile when he
explained.
She wore soft gray slacks and a checked blouse, soft-looking
and open at the throat and there was a ribbon around her blond
hair. On her it all looked good, impressing him so greatly that
she had to speak to him twice before he heard her.
"You sit there," she said, and pointed. "I didn't order you a
boiled egg," she added when they were seated, "because you
always liked them just so—do you still take just one?—and you
couldn't say three-and-a-half minutes because if the egg wasn't
pretty average-sized it didn't come out right ... So I had them
scrambled."
MacKinnon said he wasn't so fussy any more. He said these
were fine and the thin toast was just right and the sliced fresh
pineapple an inspiration. But as he talked he was suspicious of
her unaffected pleasantness. Something had happened to her
since yesterday. She wasn't so brittle or superior; she showed no


WOMAN AT BAY [l2J
hostility now; rather she was gracious and seemed most inter-
ested in being a good hostess.
He kept glancing at her when he could without appearing to,
still wondering. He had come with what he hoped was an open
mind, to find out what had happened with Denny Clarke and
to see if she had learned anything that would help. Now he
asked about last night.'
She began by telling where they had gone and how she had
managed to stay relatively sober while Clarke was getting drunk,
but after that MacKinnon no longer listened with his mind be-
cause the things she had managed to learn from Denny Clarke
approximated what Adrienne Brissard had already told him.
He watched her and was outwardly attentive, but presently
most of his original doubts and fears came back. There were
other breakfasts that he remembered, many months of them,
and the sweet nostalgic memory of them kept cropping up, but
mostly he thought about the things that had happened since
she had come to Havana.
He thought again of the body in room 319 and Rodriguez
and the manuscript that the murderer had stolen. He thought
of Bruce Aitchison and the tips that Dave Adams had given
him in New York and then he began to review the story Norma
had told him yesterday afternoon after they had run away from
the murder room.
He remembered the weakness in that story and his own un-
asked questions. Much of that story could, he saw, be true. The
part about Sevigny and how she felt about him you could be-
lieve or not, depending on what you wanted to believe. But the
other part, about bringing the manuscript to Cuba, was some-
thing else.
It left him curiously confused. He liked her now more than
he expected to; it almost seemed as if he wanted to like her, that


128] WOMAN AT BAY
she was trying to do everything she could to please him, to make
him like her . . .
He realized she had changed the subject. She wasn't talking
about Denny Clarke any more. As though she had read his mind
and found a common meeting ground, she said:
"You didn't quite believe me yesterday, did you?"
"What?" he said. "Yesterday?" he said fatuously.
"Yes." Her voice was quiet now and she was making form-
less designs on the tablecloth with the handle of a spoon. "I
had a feeling that you wanted to believe me but you didn't—
quite . . . I've been thinking of what I said and I can see why.
I guess I didn't tell you all of it."
He waited. He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked out
the window.
"It's about the manuscript," she said. "I told you why I couldn't
turn it over to anyone in France and how afraid I was of the
Underground. If I had known how soon the Americans were
going to reach Paris I might have stayed but at the time it seemed
best to try the other way. I suppose I should tell you about
Victor too because he is important."
She paused, still working on the tablecloth. "You don't have
to know what country he represented because that doesn't mat-
ter. I told you he was a friend of Dad's, but there was another
reason why he wanted to help. You see, his sister married a
Frenchman. There were two sons and both were sent to Ger-
many by the Vichy Government—that was at the time Germany
agreed to release some French soldiers if other boys and men
were exchanged to work in Germany . . . One of the boys is
still there. The other is dead. Victor's sister doesn't know any-
thing about it except that one day a card came announcing it."
She leaned back, folding her hands. "I told Victor about the
manuscript and he was bitter about what the government had


WOMAN AT BAY [129
done to his sister and he saw what the manuscript might do
and that is why he helped me. He could do nothing officially.
He didn't dare admit that he had ever seen the manuscript or
even knew of its existence because of his job. But he took the
chance just the same. He took the manuscript out of France;
he took it to Lisbon where he was stationed."
MacKinnon continued to watch the sky outside the window,
the excitement growing in him. He remembered the other ques-
tions he had been afraid to ask because he had been afraid she
could not answer them. Yesterday he had been afraid lest he
antagonize her and make her suspicious. Then why didn't you
turn it over to the State Department in Lisbon? he wanted to
say. But he waited.
"He helped me get out of France," Norma said presently. "I
got to Madrid. It was quite a while before the proper arrange-
ments could be made and when I had the necessary visas I
waited until I got word from Victor to come to Lisbon. Then
one day word came. It was to be a simple matter now. I would
arrive and meet him somewhere and get the manuscript and
then I would take it to the American Consul and it would be
all over."
She sighed and there was distance in her gaze. Her mouth
twisted and a note of irony came into her voice.
"The day before I arrived," she said, "Victor was sent to North
Africa on some assignment. He left an envelope for me. There
were papers and passage on the Corrubedo leaving the following
day, and a letter. I don't know yet what he found out but it was
something that made him think it was not safe for me to stay in
Lisbon."
She shrugged. "I could believe that. It was nothing new to
have that feeling. There were some who would like nothing
better than a chance to take another shot at me, and the letter


I30] WOMAN AT BAY
said he would not permit me to attempt to deliver the manu-
script alone; that was why he had not left it for me. He had
already booked space on the Corrubedo since this was the first
ship out and he promised to bring the manuscript to Cuba for
me.
"He said he was flying home in two weeks and he could come
by way of Havana. If I attempted to stay in Lisbon until he got
back from North Africa I would certainly be killed but if I
could once get to Cuba I could deliver the manuscript to the
Embassy here." She looked up. "What would you have done?"
MacKinnon was not prepared to answer. The sudden digres-
sion startled him a bit and he said, "I don't know."
"Neither did I." Norma stood up and walked across the room,
her brow furrowed and her eyes baffled, as though in her mind
she was again faced with the decision. "I was worried sick. Here
I was in Lisbon and the manuscript was in Lisbon and Victor
would be back in ten days. All I had to do was wait ... I guess
what decided me was Victor. I knew I could trust him. I knew
if he said he'd come to Havana he would come. And then I knew
it wasn't worth the chance. I knew he wouldn't have written
that way unless he thought it was the right thing. Whatever he
found out I knew that after all my trouble I wasn't going to get
myself killed until after I'd turned that manuscript over. I was
a traitor in the eyes of the world and that was something I had
to clear up first."
She laughed softly and without humor. "It sounds a little silly
now, here in this room. It wasn't very funny in Lisbon, being
alone and not knowing what to do and with no one to turn to."
MacKinnon believed her. It did not bother him that her story
of what happened in Lisbon seemed a little involved because
there was proof now that Victor Molina had been right. Victor
had been worried about Norma and Victor was dead and what-


WOMAN AT BAY [131
ever he had been afraid of was justified by what had happened.
"That's why I couldn't take you with me yesterday," she said.
"Victor had no right to bring that manuscript in a diplomatic
pouch. He had to protect himself and his career and he wanted
no witnesses when he handed over that manuscript. He would
not allow me to come to his Consulate here, nor would he come
to see me. That's why I wanted two keys."
She sat down on the edge of the bed and said, "I sent one to
him by messenger. Then when I was ready to leave—I went
early because I wanted to phone Victor from downtown and I
wanted to walk around a little and be sure I wasn't followed—
Denny Clarke insisted I ride with him, and that was all right
until he made me go with him while he picked out material for
a suit. I finally got away from him and I got to the hotel on
time ..."
She paused and despair muffled her words. "It was to have
been so simple. After all the trouble and the planning it was
finally to happen. When Victor left I was to phone you and stay
locked in the room until you came." She glanced up and held
his gaze.
"It was still important somehow that you know the truth. I
don't know why, I only know that was how I felt, that somehow
I had to prove to you that I was no traitor . . . Perhaps I thought
—you being a writer—that maybe you could write something
about it so that people would know I wasn't really a collabora-
tionist. I wanted Dad's friends to know that his daughter was—"
Her voice broke and he saw the tears start. She blinked and
her lids contained them but then he was on his feet, a curious
pressure in his throat.
"Hey," he said.
She shook her head bravely. "I'm all right," she said and tried
to smile.


I32] WOMAN AT BAY
He had no intention of going to her but he did. He pulled her
to her feet and put his hands on her arms. He drew her closer
and she did not struggle but stood there, her face hidden, her
forehead touching his shoulder.
He thought of something she had said yesterday; he had
thought about it last night. He had gone away six years ago,
stiffly, his pride injured, all effort expended in trying to con-
vince her by logic alone. "If you had only babied me a little,
or even taken me over your knee ..."
That is what she said and he saw now that what had happened
was as much his fault as hers. He had forgotten in his resentment
how young she was and how in those days she had depended
on him and on her father for her decisions. Now, a little sur-
prised that he should feel that way, he knew it was time to baby
her a little and it was a nice thing to know. He glanced over her
shoulder, seeing the breakfast table now, remembering other
breakfasts in front of a window.
Not like this, with the Gulf of Mexico outside, just rooftops
and chimney pots and a narrow alley between two buildings
where you could see the lone tree standing above the river's
bank. MacKinnon's tree, they called it, and though it was part
of a long row they could see only this one from the window.
Once, after they identified it, he started to carve his initials in
it and a gendarme chased them away.
Mornings had been fun. Norma was always up first to start
the coffee and he would doze and hear her washing and some-
times she would come back to snuggle for a moment against
him and give him a sweet moist kiss that tasted faintly of tooth-
paste. That had been a slim, eager girl with a quick young body
and an adolescent enthusiasm that was real and unashamed.
Now. . . .


WOMAN AT BAY [133
He believed her now. He had to believe her. He realized what
she had suffered and it did something to him, thinking of her
courage and determination and all the difficulties she had faced
alone for so long. Shame and humility and something else he
did not understand left him shaken and repentant and then,
gradually a slow excitement began to churn within him.
He still had a job to do but he did not have to be a heel now,
nor kid himself about Norma. For his job and hers was the
same; no matter who got the manuscript they would go to the
Embassy together.
"Look," he said. "What we've been doing to each other doesn't
make much sense any more. Maybe we ought to give ourselves
a break. Maybe we ought to start from scratch—as of now."
He felt her start to draw away but he did not want to look
at her yet. He held on and said:
"I've been thinking of some things you said yesterday. When
I was twenty-four I guess I wasn't very profound either. I guess I
could have done a lot better. Maybe you're right when you say—"
"I've been thinking too," Norma said against his chest. "I
talked to Denny and I found out how long you were in the
hospital and in prison. It wasn't your fault, Paul. I suppose I
made myself think so afterwards because there was no one else
to blame and I hadn't the courage to blame myself." She drew
back and looked at him. "I'd like to start from scratch—if you
would."
He looked into her green eyes and in their warm depths he
found his answer and suddenly everything was wonderful. It
was perfect. Almost. Of course there was the little matter of the
manuscript but even as he thought of this some of the glow re-
mained. He had a sudden impatience to get going.
"All right," he said. "We'll get that thing back."


134] WOMAN AT BAY
Her lashes came up and a tiny smile, still uncertain but none-
theless real, appeared in the corners of her mouth as she caught
some of his optimism.
"Do—do you really think so?" she breathed.
"Sure," he said. "Already I've got an idea." He stepped to the
telephone and asked the hotel operator to get him El Sol. Pres-
ently he was connected with the newspaper and, learning that
Leon Vidal was not in, left word for the reporter to call him
back.
Norma was still watching him. "What are you going to do?"
"Check up on a couple of things." He paused, finding a hole
or two in his idea now, but closing his mind against them. "I've
got a hunch," he said. "That's all it is but—look, you don't think
you were followed? . . . Well, suppose Molina wasn't followed
either. Then how would anyone know about room 319?"
Her eyes, still wide, were no longer smiling. She shook her
head and he said:
"Suppose someone knew you had a key to room 319 at the
Palm Hotel? Don't ask me how, but it could happen. I got them
and put them in an envelope and you got them and sent one to
Molina. If anyone found out he might be curious as to what was
going to happen in room 319, particularly if he was interested
in what you are doing in Havana. How could that someone
find out?"
"I don't know, Paul."
He grinned. "Maybe I can find out," he said. "Relax." He
started for the door, feeling high and confident and, for some
strange reason, tremendously relieved.


WOMAN AT BAY [135
13
Leon Vidal's plump familiar figure scurried into the lobby
shortly after Paul MacKinnon arrived at the Palm Hotel. He
could tell by the gleam in the little man's eyes that Leon had
information, and the old unquenchable excitement that seemed
to motivate each action was apparent in the way he bounced
along.
"It is done," he said in his usual breathless way. "As you
asked."
"Swell," MacKinnon said. "Here, let's sit down."
Vidal glanced at the wall clock and set his wristwatch. "I had
to go out," he said. "This varies many minutes each day and
I was afraid I would be late . . . Yes," he said happily, perch-
ing on the edge of his chair. "For me it was what you call
routine. I am well known to all the hotel clerks and they are
anxious to cooperate with Leon Vidal and El Sol."
"You didn't tell anyone why you wanted the informa-
tion?"
"Oh, no. I do not even know myself. But this I find out for
you: Between the hours of ten yesterday morning and four in
the afternoon, two rooms are rented in the front corridor of the
third floor. Not counting room 319," he added enigmatically.
"So—"
"Room 327 is rented to a Mr. Marti and wife from Oriente.
Room 322 is rented to a Mrs. Claire Roche, Miami, Florida."
MacKinnon made a mental map of the third floor hall and
saw room 322 diagonally across from 319. Then, not knowing
anything about Mrs. Roche, he felt his interest quicken with
the growing premonition that his hunch was right. 322 would


I36] WOMAN AT BAY
«
be a perfect spot from which to observe the comings and goings
in room 319. . . .
"Is Mrs. Roche here now?"
"No one has seen her since. She paid in advance for one day
and took the key."
"What did she look like?"
Leon shrugged. "Who can say? The clerk believes she was
blonde. With this the doorman agrees."
"Doorman?"
"Yes." Leon Vidal's plump face cracked in a grin. "I know
you want me to be thorough so I ask him also. He can recall
only that a blonde woman came at this time and left shortly
afterward and got into a car which was waiting. He remem-
bers this much because he saw her get out of this car which
parked down the street. It was driven by a blond man."
MacKinnon batted this around in his mind, finding himself
badly confused about the woman but having a somewhat better
idea about the man.
"Did the doorman say if he was big—this blond guy?"
"He did not say, though I could ask." Leon started to get up
and MacKinnon put out his hand.
"Wait a minute."
Leon watched him and MacKinnon leaned back, his gaze
fixed on the street outside the windows but seeing nothing of
the life and movement there. His gray eyes were narrowed and
sleepy-looking and he was deaf to the noise of the lobby and
the hubbub of voices about him as he considered how best to
follow up his lead. Presently he stirred himself and remembered
where he was. He took out some bills and selected a five.
Leon drew back, shocked. "Please," he said. "This is not a
thing one does for money. For you I—"
"I know," MacKinnon said, and grinned. "Don't look so


WOMAN AT BAY [137
shocked. This is for the doorman or anyone else you find that
can remember what the blonde woman looked like and if the
blond man who waited was big. You can do it better than I can,"
he said. "If I start nosing around it might make somebody sus-
picious, but you—"
"Yes," Leon said. "With Leon Vidal, no one is suspicious."
He took the bill and looked at it a moment and now a new note
crept into his voice, leaving it sober and less breathless.
"I have heard," he said, "that there was a murder in the Palm
Hotel. Unfortunately there is much secrecy concerning this in-
formation." He hesitated, glanced up. "Would you know any-
thing about such a rumor, Mr. MacKinnon?"
It occurred to MacKinnon then that he was asking for a lot
of confidence and not giving much in return. Furthermore he
liked this little guy with his waddling walk and breathless
manner.
"You mean off the record?" he said. "Between friends?"
"Yes. Leon Vidal, your friend, asks you this."
"Okay. The answer is yes. I can't tell you much but I can tell
you the rumor is based on fact."
Leon Vidal seemed instantly relieved. "I knew if this was so
you would tell me. Now that I know I have your confidence I
can tell you that in my inquiries I found also that room 319 was
rented yesterday morning by a John Macy. It occurred to me
that this John Macy might be you."
"Do you know Luiz Rodriguez?"
"Oh, yes. He is a clever one."
"Yeah," MacKinnon said dryly. "And Mr. Rodriguez is an-
other who had an idea that MacKinnon knows something about
room 319."
VidaPs eyes widened and MacKinnon gave him a reassuring
slap on the knee and made his voice confident.


I38] WOMAN AT BAY
"Don't let it worry you, Leon. Maybe if this thing works out
right you'll have a story."
"Me." Vidal tapped his chest. "Alone?"
"Exclusive. Leon Vidal and El Sol. That is if I have anything
to say about it—and I'm not sure I will." He stood up. "See what
you can get from the doorman. I'll see you later," he said and
walked away, his mind turning at once to a big blond man
named Denny Clarke. . . .
Back at his hotel MacKinnon made sure that Clarke was in
the pool and then rode to the fourth floor. There was a foyer
opposite the service elevators shut off from the main corridor
where the employees went to sneak smokes and MacKinnon
found two boys in the midst of such a pleasure and asked if
either had keys. When one nodded MacKinnon took him down
the hall to Clarke's room, produced a dollar and pantomimed
the unlocking of the door. The boy grinned, one eye on the bill,
and MacKinnon decided that if he intended to keep on with
this sort of thing he could save time by having a key made.
When the boy took the bill and went away MacKinnon closed
the door and got to work.
He was not sure what he expected to find. He did not think
Clarke would be fool enough to keep the manuscript in the
room, even if he had it, but he was looking for anything at all
that might give him another lead and he was not fussy about
his methods.
There was, he saw, no trunk but three bags; a kitbag, an over-
sized pigskin suitcase and an overnight bag. This last was locked
but the other two were not and he soon found out they were
empty and started in on the bureau drawers.
He found nothing at all here that interested him. There were
plenty of shirts and linen, all of fine quality, but nothing else
so he went back to the closets and searched the three suits and


WOMAN AT BAY [139
the sport jacket that hung there. In the pocket of this he found
some keys, tried the likely-looking ones on the locked bag and
found one that worked.
The first thing he saw was the gun, a well-oiled automatic
similar to the one used on Victor Molina. The clip was full but
he did not think the gun had been fired recently so he put it
aside and continued his search, finding several hundred dollars
in American bills, some receipts, and a lot of letters which he
scanned. These were all from women and the contents varied
from expressions of exasperation to frank statements of undying
devotion. There were two or three business letters which told
him nothing of importance and one long bulky envelope which
he opened with some excitement only to discover that it was
filled with snapshots and films, monotonously similar and pic-
turing women in various poses. In some of these Clarke's grin-
ning countenance was the center of focus and MacKinnon took
one of these before he left.
In his own room once more, he lit a cigarette and thought a
little more about his luncheon date with Bruce Aitchison and
that brought him to the subject of Alfredo and Carlos and the
chase the night before that did not quite come off. When he had
exhausted this subject he thought of something else and his grin
went away. He picked up the telephone again and called th«
American Embassy. When he had his connection he asked foi
Mr. Lanning.
"Paul MacKinnon," he said when Lanning answered.
"I heard you were in town."
"From Dave Adams?"
"From several people."
"Do you know about that business at the Palm Hotel?"
"I know," Lanning said. "In certain circles it is making quite
a smell. There have been inquiries."


WOMAN AT BAY [14I
activity among the busboys and waiters and two of these stood
by while the captain took the order.
Aitchison glanced at the menu and said he could recommend
the roast beef. "It's usually quite good here, if you like anything
that heavy. For myself I'll have a salad."
MacKinnon said he'd have the Cuban oysters—a poor sub-
stitute for Cape Cods, he'd found, but better than none—and the
beef and hearts of lettuce with French dressing, ice cream and
iced coffee. "But first," he said, "I'd like a martini. Very dry and
made with imported gin . . . Plymouth, if you have it."
The captain nodded and went away to confer with the two-
waiters. Aitchison rubbed thick-fingered hands that looked re-
cently manicured and smiled. Then in his jerky brusk voice he
said:
"First of all I want to apologize for yesterday."
MacKinnon grinned inwardly and thought, Afternoon or
evening? He put on what he thought was an expression of polite
surprise and said, "Yesterday?"
"It was most distressing," Aitchison said. "If it hadn't been for
my French guests—or if one of them hadn't just happened to
recognize Miss Travers as Mrs. Sevigny—well, I'm very sorry
about it. I have nothing personal against Miss Travers, but I
spent many years in France and I can understand how some of
them are bound to feel. I talked it over with Marie—Mrs. Gerand
—and we agreed that I owed you and the others an apology."
The martini came and it was made with Plymouth gin and
very good. A thin, tired-looking waiter hovered about and Aitchi-
son glanced round irritably and then stared pointedly until the
fellow went away.
"You see," he said, "what I'didn't know at the time was that
you were once married to Miss Travers."
MacKinnon sipped his drink and drew back to let another


I42] WOMAN AT BAY
waiter serve the oysters. When he glanced up he saw Aitchison
watching him and he looked back at him, aware now that the
man's eyes were light brown, with an amber sheen and about
as much warmth as a pair of marbles.
"That's right," he said. "Who told you?"
Aitchison ignored that one and the salad came and for a while
they ate and the conversation was restricted, as if by mutual con-
sent, to remarks about the food and golf and the Club and the
races. When the table had been cleared Aitchison lit a cigar and
got down to business.
"I'm going to ask you a question, Mr. MacKinnon," he said.
"How are you fixed for money?"
"I've got a couple of dollars."
"You have been in Havana almost two weeks. You live well,
you dress well, and you apparently are here for a holiday."
"That's my story," MacKinnon said. He tapped ashes from
his cigarette and in some dim recess of his brain reserved for
little used talent there was a stir of activity. He remembered
other occasions having a similar prologue, and experience warned
him that a proposition was in the making. "I'm a writer," he
said. "Maybe I'm getting some material."
"Umm." Aitchison chewed on his cigar and his stare remained.
"Would you say it was a coincidence that you should be here
when a wife you haven't seen in years arrives from Lisbon?"
"That's what I'd call it."
"I've been wondering," Aitchison said. "I know something
about Mrs. Sevigny and there's a remote possibility that she has
something I want. If your being here is just coincidence—"
"How remote?"
"I'm not sure about that either but I might arrange to have a
sum of money paid to a man like you in return for the right sort
of favor."


WOMAN AT BAY [143
MacKinnon looked interested and he did not hurry. "I could
use some money," he said. "Did you have any special amount
in mind?"
"I was thinking about twenty-five thousand dollars. I've got
a considerable investment in this country. I'm always on the
market for new things."
"I never have much to sell," MacKinnon said, "except stories
and manuscripts—things like that."
A dark gleam flickered in Aitchison's amber eyes and was
gone. He set the cigar between his bicuspids and his jaw was
hard.
"I might be interested in buying the right sort of story."
"For yourself?"
"And my associates."
"I met some of your associates last night."
"I heard about it," Aitchison said, his tone suggesting this was
a matter of no importance. "It was a mistake."
"Whose mistake?"
"Alfredo's. He handled it badly. I told him I wanted to see
you. He was supposed to give you the invitation." Aitchison
turned a hand and examined his nails. "Alfredo overdoes things
at times. He has great enthusiasm for his work."
MacKinnon glanced idly about. He examined the walls and
ceiling, as though interested in the decorative effect. About half
the tables were occupied and there were occasional sounds of
dishes and silverware but the general effect was one of quiet
and restf ulness.
"It's a nice place," he said. "One of the best in town."
"About that manuscript of yours," Aitchison said. "I might
be interested."
"Okay."
"When can I hear from you?"


I44] WOMAN AT BAY
"I'll need a little time."
"How much?"
"Also," MacKinnon said, "more money . . . For fifty thous-
and dollars I'd be willing to do more talking. I might be able to
locate a suitable manuscript."
Aitchison lowered one lid and his mouth twitched. He started
to speak and then his head lifted abruptly and he was glaring
angrily over MacKinnon's shoulder.
He spoke in Spanish but the words were hot and incensed.
MacKinnon turned and saw the waiter at the serving table, not
the thin, tired one but another. Now the man lowered his eyes,
colored under Aitchison's tirade, and moved away.
It took Aitchison a few more seconds to recover his com-
posure. He was still annoyed and trying not to show it when
he continued to MacKinnon.
"One thing more," he said. "I am not joking, MacKinnon.
And I'm not sure I like your attitude. But"—he waved the cigar
—"I can give you until tonight to make up your mind."
"I'm not sure that's enough time," MacKinnon said.
"Then I will have to use other methods."
"Oh?"
"I will have to give Alfredo further instructions."
"About me?"
"And Miss Travers."
MacKinnon studied the other's narrowed gaze and found it
cold and relentless. There was a florid tinge to the tanned cheek-
bones now and nothing at all in the set, hard mouth to suggest
that Aitchison was bluffing.
"What good would that do?"
Aitchison sat back and signalled the waiter. When he glanced
again at MacKinnon and took out his wallet he wore a thin
smile and his manner was meant to be affable.


WOMAN AT BAY [145
"I'm merely suggesting possibilities," he said, examining the
check and putting down a bill. "One cannot tell how much good
they will do until one tries them . . . Are we ready?"
They rose and went out to the foyer. "It's been nice," Aitchison
said.
"I enjoyed it," MacKinnon said. "Thanks a lot."
Aitchison wanted to know if he could take MacKinnon any-
where and when the offer was refused, he said, "I might be able
to meet your terms, but as I told you before the matter must be
settled by tonight."
MacKinnon watched Aitchison climb into a heavy sedan that
now wheeled over from its parking place in the square. Alfredo
was driving and MacKinnon waved to him.
14
The cafe Tom Lanning had selected was an open-front affair
overlooking Central Park and MacKinnon, arriving a few min-
utes early for his appointment, selected a table close to the side-
walk and ordered a bottle of beer.
It was pleasant here, not cool, but shaded, and at this hour
there were few customers so that the interior was also quiet. The
beer tasted good and MacKinnon watched the traffic absently
and tried to block out some pattern in his mind that would tell
him what to do next.
The flow of pedestrians past his table was steady and unhurried
and he was not particularly aware of anyone in particular until
he heard a voice and glanced up to find Manuel Zayas standing
in front of him, hat in hand. It was his first good look at the
steward of the Corrubedo and he saw now that he was in his


I46] WOMAN AT BAY
middle twenties, average-sized, with an angle to his nose and
cheekbones that suggested mixed blood.
"May I sit down, Mr. MacKinnon?"
"Hello, Manuel." MacKinnon kicked a chair around. "Sure.
The Corrubedo still in port?"
"The Corrubedo has sailed."
"Got another job now, hunh?"
Manuel Zayas did not answer this. He refused MacKinnon's
offer of a beer. He kept turning his sweat-stained felt in his hands
and though he did not look at MacKinnon his eyes in their
inspection of the sidewalk and street were never still.
"What's on your mind?" MacKinnon asked. "If it's about the
gun Lieutenant Rodriguez has it. Do you know Rodriguez?"
"It is not about the gun," Zayas said. His voice was soft and
well-modulated. "It is about the murder in room 319 of the Palm
Hotel. Yesterday afternoon."
MacKinnon sat up slowly, more curious than surprised. He
was getting used to the fact that many people knew about the
murder of Victor Molina, but he had forgotten about Manuel
Zayas; he wondered what part he was playing and who he was
working for. When Zayas continued to watch the street he said:
"Who wants to know about that, Manuel?"
The man turned and gave him a blank look.
"Who're you working for? It couldn't be Bruce Aitchison,
could it?"
Manuel spread his hands, his eyes still blank. "I do not work
for anyone."
"But you know something about it." MacKinnon hesitated and
thought of something else. "I'm in the market for a little infor-
mation, Manuel. That is if you have any."
"The man who was killed carried a package," Manuel said. "I
am interested in that."


I48] WOMAN AT BAY
Kinnon paid the waiter; presently he moved his chair a little
closer to MacKinnon's and said, "Under the table, Mac."
MacKinnon felt something touch his knee and put his hand
down, his fingers closing upon a cool, compact automatic. He
slid his hand up his leg to his trouser's pocket and shoved the
gun inside.
"Thanks."
"It can't be traced," Lanning said, still not looking at him. He
poured beer and drank thirstily. "Not that that will help you
much."
Something in the other's manner nettled MacKinnon and he
laughed shortly. "You're awfully touchy about it, aren't you?"
"About what?"
"The help I'm not going to get."
"I don't like the spot you're in."
"You think I'm going to yell for you to get me out?"
"I know you're not," Lanning said. "You never have. You
won't like the jails down here either."
"Quit worrying."
"Somebody ought to."
"Somebody is," MacKinnon said dryly. "I'll handle that too.
Tell me about Bruce Aitchison," he said and then was sorry he
asked because what Lanning had to offer added very little to what
he already knew.
Lanning finished his beer. "Good luck," he said. "You're on
your own, Mac."
"I'll work it out."
"I'll see you on visitor's day," Lanning said, rising and clap-
ping on his hat. "I'll bring you cigarettes. Maybe we can work
in a little gin-rummy."
"Beat it," MacKinnon said, grinning, "before somebody sees
you talking to me and puts in a beef."


WOMAN AT BAY [149
Lanning went away and MacKinnon ordered another beer. He
considered the things he might do and found them unappealing.
He was restless and his impatience was goading him but he re-
fused to give in to the suggestion that he should be doing some-
thing. It was all right to keep busy when there was something to
do but experience had taught him that there were times when
it was just as well to sit and wait.
He did not have a worthwhile idea. Not one. Certain things
were shaping up but he could think of no way to hurry them.
So to hell with it. Relax, MacKinnon. Enjoy your beer while
you can. After that you can go back to the hotel and talk with
Norma and that will be nice too.
He found a certain sardonic amusement in such thoughts and
the beer was good and he began to notice the people who passed
his table. He kept telling himself that something would happen
if he was patient and presently something did; in the form of a
plump familiar figure waddling hurriedly along the walk.
"Hey," he called.
Leon Vidal stopped and looked. When he spotted MacKinnon
he beamed and rushed over and MacKinnon indicated the vacant
chair. "Sit down before you tell me," he said.
Vidal opened his eyes. "You knew I had information? But no;
you are joking." He sat down and leaned across the table as
MacKinnon ordered beer.
"I phoned the hotel but you were not there," he said. "I was
going to call you again from my office." He paused to let the
waiter serve the beer, then leaned forward a little more as though
afraid someone would overhear him. "It is about the blonde
woman," he said.
MacKinnon's heart gave a little flip and for an instant he for-
got to breathe and the noise and movement of the street had
gone and there was only Leon Vidal and himself.


150] WOMAN AT BAY
"You know who she is?" he asked quietly.
Vidal closed one eye and nodded. "She is by name Mrs. Gerand,
a French marquise who resides here."
"You're sure?"
Leon Vidal nodded again. He took out three dollar bills and
spread them on the table. "Of the five I used two as you sug-
gested. I am not allowed to name the one who told me of Mrs.
Gerand but I do not think he would lie to me."
MacKinnon pushed the bills away. "You may need them
later," he said and tapped Vidal's arm. "I'm proud of you," he
said. "I knew you were a good reporter."
Vidal lowered his head, looking embarrassed but mightily
pleased. "It was nothing," he said.
"Marie Gerand," MacKinnon said thoughtfully.
"You know her?"
"I have met her."
Vidal drank some beer and now his plump face was sober.
"You think this has something to do with what happened in
319?"
"I don't know." MacKinnon pictured again the location of
room 322 which Mrs. Gerand had rented. He considered the cir-
cumstances and the manner in which she signed for the room.
Then he was thinking about the blond man who had waited in
the car for her.
"What about the man in the car?" he asked. "Was he a big
guy?"
"The doorman is not sure. He had the impression that this
could be but since the man was sitting down—"
"Yeah," MacKinnon said and remembered the snapshot of
Clarke he had in his pocket. He leaned back and now his muscles
were loose and rested and he felt good. He told Leon to drink


WOMAN AT BAY [15I
up. "Have you got time to ride back to the Palm with me?" he
said.
"I would like to," Vidal said, wiping his mouth. "You your-
self will talk to the doorman. Leredo, his name is. I will ar-
range it." . . .
MacKinnon was getting used to the lobby of the Palm Hotel.
The details were so familiar that he felt like a guest as he leaned
against one of the pillars and watched the never-ending routine
at the cigar stand between the brunette and her customers. It
kept him amused until Vidal came up with a tall, big-boned
man in a gray uniform.
"This is Leredo," Vidal said.
"Buenos Tardes," said Leredo.
MacKinnon said hello and took the snapshot from his pocket.
"Would this be the man who drove the car for the blonde
woman?"
Leredo accepted the picture. He scowled at it, tipping his head
from side to side and pushing out his lips and then turning to
get a better light. Finally he looked up and nodded seriously.
"It is the same," he said.
"Gracias," MacKinnon said and gave Leredo another dollar.
Leon Vidal inspected MacKinnon gravely when the doorman
went away. "I had a glance at the man in the picture," he said. "It
is the Mr. Clarke who came on the Corrubedo, I think."
MacKinnon nodded. Clarke drove the car for Mrs. Gerand, he
thought, and she hitew him in Lisbon, and she is Aitchison's girl
friend . . .
Then he saw Manuel Zayas.
It was sheer good luck that he happened to be looking in the
right direction and that he was not too involved in his mental
gymnastics to recognize the man and act accordingly. Zayas was


152] WOMAN AT BAY
just stepping out of a telephone booth over by the elevators and
on impulse, MacKinnon stepped back of the pillar.
"There is a man just coming from the phone booth," he said.
Vidal looked in that direction. "A young man in a dark suit."
"Which way does he come?"
"In the direction of the side entrance."
MacKinnon moved round the pillar, keeping it between him
and Zayas. When he thought it safe he glanced out and saw
the fellow just going through the side door. Then, not knowing
why but simply obeying the impulse that had made him hide
in the first place, he started across the lobby, nodding to Leon
Vidal to follow.
Zayas was opposite the alley in back of the hotel when Mac-
Kinnon and Vidal reached the street, and as they stopped Zayas
crossed over and entered the bookstore there without bothering
to glance round.
"Do you know him?" MacKinnon asked.
Vidal shook his head regretfully. "He is one I do not know,"
he said.
"We'll wait," MacKinnon said. "Come." He touched Vidal's
arm and they went back into the loboy to stand near a window
which overlooked the street.
Manuel Zayas came out about five minutes later and started
back towards the hotel. When he passed the entrance, Mac-
Kinnon went out and walked to the corner. Zayas had already
passed the front door of the hotel and MacKinnon started down
the street with the little reporter trotting at his side.
Apparenly Zayas had no idea he was being followed because
he showed no hesitation, except at the corners when traffic held
him up, and did not once look over his shoulder in the four-
block trip that ended when he turned into a doorway flanked by
two windows.


WOMAN AT BAY [153
MacKinnon stopped fifty yards short of the entrance. "What's
that place?"
"An office where telegrams are sent and messages delivered."
MacKinnon found small encouragement in the reply but he
had to try. "It's got windows," he said. "Why don't you go up
and take a look."
The reporter hurried up the street and MacKinnon drew back
against a store front and waited. Leon Vidal was pretty good. He
did not stand in front of the window and stare, but moved slowly
back and forth along the curbing as though waiting for some*
one and all the time making casual glances towards the office.
This went on for about three minutes and MacKinnon was be-
ginning to wonder about it when Vidal turned abruptly and
hurried back. As he reached MacKinnon's side Zayas came out of
the doorway and started across the street, turning left as he
reached the walk.
"How many messages did he send?" MacKinnon said as he
started after Zayas.
"One."
"Took him long enough."
"It was not a telegram."
"Oh?"
"He wrote a note of some kind and asked for an envelope. This
he addressed and sealed up the note and gave it to the clerk to-
gether with some money."
"Fine," MacKinnon muttered under his breath. "We're doing
great."
Zayas turned out to be quite a walker and with each passing
block MacKinnon's doubt and discouragement grew. It was hot
and his back and ribs were wet and his collar was sodden. He had
not the faintest idea what was to come of this or even what he
hoped to accomplish. It was pretty silly, viewed objectively, and


I54] WOMAN AT BAY
this thought occurred to him with increasing frequency. The
trouble was, MacKinnon had a stubborn streak. If Leon Vidal,
puffing and wheezing at his side, could continue without com-
plaint, so could he; he'd started the chase by playing a hunch and
nothing had happened yet to convince him he couldn't finish it.
They were walking along Paseo de Marti now, in front of the
gleaming modernity of the Capitol, and when they reached the
corner, Zayas was still going, past Fuente de la India, across Plaza
de la Fraternidad, moving diagonally to the right until he came
to Aguila. Here he turned left, walked a couple of blocks farther
and turned again. When MacKinnon reached the corner, Zayas
was just entering a two-story building with a gray-stone facade
and a wide, arched doorway.
MacKinnon sighed and began to mop his face. So did Leon
Vidal. He was puffing hard now and the back of his coat was
stained with perspiration but his enthusiasm seemed no less real.
"Some hike," MacKinnon said.
"Yes . . . Now what is next?"
A fair question, MacKinnon thought. "What's that house?"
he said. "A private home?"
"I will see," Leon Vidal said, and went away. "It is now used
for small apartments," he said when he came back. "There are
eight of these, I believe." He waved his hand. "You can see this
is not the best district."
MacKinnon, wondering if he would ever be cool again, saw
that there were but two choices left to him—he could follow up
or forget the whole thing.
"I think this guy knows something about the murder," he said.
"His name is Manuel Zayas and he was steward on the Corru-
bedo but he jumped ship ... I'd like to know what he's up to,"
he said. "How are you fixed for time?"
Leon cocked his head. "You would like me to follow him?"


WOMAN AT BAY [155
"What about your work?"
"I have from now until tomorrow morning."
"You're going to get pretty tired."
"If you think it worthwhile it will not matter."
Faced with Vidal's simple faith, MacKinnon felt guilty. It
was, he saw, a job he should do himself and yet he was reluctant
to give it the time. He did not know where Zayas entered the
murder picture but he did not think the fellow as important as
Bruce Aitchison. Aitchison might make a move later and Mac-
Kinnon wanted to be on hand and that left only Leon Vidal, who
would not even accept any payment.
"All right," he said. "I'll be at the hotel. Phone me when you
get a chance and keep me posted and stick with him if you can
until you think he's in for the night."
Vidal winked and nodded. MacKinnon gave him a conspira-
tor's wink in return and started up the street.
*5
Norma Travers and Denny Clarke had the swimming pool to
themselves when MacKinnon came down from his room. They
were stretched out in canvas chairs placed side by side at the far
end where the sand was, their eyes closed and baking in the late
afternoon sun so that neither noticed him until he stood before
them and coughed.
"Hi," Clarke said, blinking the good blue eye and having some
trouble with the other. "Drag up a chair. Where've you been?"
Norma stretched and smiled lazily but her green eyes said
she was glad to see him. He pulled a chair over and sat down
beside her.


I56] WOMAN AT BAY
"Downtown," he said. "I had some things to do • . . How is
Miss Travers this afternoon?"
"Miss Travers is fine, thank you," Norma said.
"For a guy on a vacation," Clarke said, "you spend a lot of
time downtown."
"Ain't it the truth. What's with you?'
"Nothing," Clarke said. "I awake this morning with a hang-
over." He grinned at Norma. "I do not feel well and so I have
put in the rest of the day recuperating. What happened to you
last night?" he continued to MacKinnon. "You and Adrienne
did an awfully fast fade out of the bar. Did we bore you?"
"Mildly. Drunks usually do."
"Forgive me," Clarke said, showing his teeth as the blond
mustache flattened out. "But do I detect a slight edge in your
tone?"
"It's possible."
Their eyes met and both smiled and neither of them meant it.
MacKinnon found himself bristling a little and he did not know
why it was that he should dislike the big man a little more each
time he saw him. He wondered if it was because he was getting
jumpy, or if it was the way Clarke was always hanging around
Norma; it might, he realized, be due to Clarke's growing im-
portance in the pattern that centered around the murder of Victor
Molina.
"It could be," he said again. "It's probably the heat... Where's
Adrienne?"
Norma noticed the moment of friction between the two men
and with this digression she spoke quickly. "She went to the
races."
"She got herself a Cuban date," Clarke said. "Picked her up
right here at the pool this morning."


158] WOMAN AT BAY
MacKinnon gave the insinuation plenty of time to simmer and
saw the growing hostility and wariness in the other's face. When
he was ready he said:
"Something about fixing up your citizenship. You said there
was a new law—"
"Oh, that." Clarke glanced away and his voice sounded re-
lieved. "Oh, yes . . . Sure ... I guess I'm doing all right.
There's always some red tape. You know how it is."
MacKinnon leaned back and watched the big man through
lowered lids. "We were talking about you last night," he said.
"Adrienne told me you were a handy guy to know in Lisbon."
"I got by. A dollar here, a dollar there. You stay in a place
awhile and you get to know your way around. Hell, I've been
there since 1940.1 guess I should have come home before but—"
He hesitated and presently he went on in a reminiscent, mildly
ironic tone. "I had a little money when the medics finished with
me and I spent a month or so in Lisbon waiting to get transporta-
tion back and I finally got a halfway decent berth. I was all set."
He chuckled softly. "I sold it."
"You must have made a few bucks."
"Sure. That was it. People would pay almost anything, par-
ticularly refugees. I sold my ticket and space for three times
what I paid for it and after that, well, I just stayed on. I met some
people and got in with a guy. We did a little business for a while
in wine and cork and sardines and after that there were other
things."
"I guess the war didn't bother you much."
Clarke turned his head again and MacKinnon realized he was
on the blind left side and that only by a complete turn could the
man watch him.
"What is that," he said, "sarcasm? . . . No, it didn't," he
added, without resentment. "I'd had my war. With this eye the


WOMAN AT BAY [159
airforce was out and after you've done your fighting in the sky
the other is no good . . . No, I did just as much good where I
was as I would have in a defense factory. There were plenty of
guys in Lisbon that needed help; there were always guys or
dames. And when I could I tried to fix things. Q£ course, I got
paid for it, but so does a defense worker."
He was started now, leaning back with his head pillowed in
clasped hands, staring at the sky, telling MacKinnon much the
same thing he had heard. The only thing different was the per-
sonal flavor and the half-amused cadence which suggested that
Clarke had no regrets. He was no patriot, his conscience never
bothered him, and he did the best he could for Denny Clarke
at all times.
"You didn't know Norma before you sailed?" MacKinnon
said.
"Never saw her before."
"Oh—" MacKinnon said, as though the thought had just oc-
curred to him. "I saw that steward today—Manuel Zayas. I guess
he didn't sail with the Corrubedo."
"He was a sneaky little chiseler."
"How do you mean?"
Clarke hoisted himself to a sitting position and began to fiddle
with his mustache. "Always prowling. The girls' room was
searched a couple of times and so was mine . . ."
"Why would he do that?" MacKinnon said innocently.
"How do I know? Light-fingered, probably. Looking for some-
thing he could lift without it being noticed." Clarke scowled.
"Where'd you see him?"
"Downtown. He was hanging around the Palm Hotel."
"Palm Hotel? Where's that?"
MacKinnon told him and Clarke said, "What were you doing
in a place like that? More business?"


l6o] WOMAN AT BAY
"That's right," MacKinnon said. "Checking up on a couple
of things. Sure you never heard of it?"
Denny Clarke sat quite still for a moment; then he stood up.
When he moved slowly towards the pool MacKinnon went with
him and presently Clarke stopped. Very deliberately he looked
MacKinnon up and down, his gaze unpleasant, his manner
studied and insulting.
"You know," he said, "I could take a very fast dislike to a guy
like you. You're getting awfully nosy, aren't you?"
"It happens all the time," MacKinnon said. "It happens when
people start putting on an act and forget to tell the truth."
"Meaning me?"
MacKinnon met the other's stare with steady eyes. Clarke out-
weighed him by about thirty pounds and had a couple of inches
in height, and he looked as if he might swing at any moment.
There was a nice "hang" to his shoulders too, which meant that
he could punch. But MacKinnon felt all right. He had his
weight nicely balanced and he picked out a spot for each hand.
"I mean you know where the Palm Hotel is," he said. "You
drove Mrs. Gerand there yesterday and waited while she went
in and rented a room."
Something flickered in Clarke's eyes, leaving them cold and
ugly. "You just don't give a damn, do you, Mac?" he said and
then Norma Travers called to them.
"Aren't you two ever going in?"
Clarke wet his lips and swallowed visibly and it seemed to
MacKinnon that there was no more tension left. Clarke turned
and stepped to the edge of the pool. "I am," he said, and dived.
MacKinnon let his breath come out and felt his muscles relax.
He was not sure why he had made an issue with Clarke, nor why
he had decided to crowd him. Now that it was done he realized
that it might even be a good idea, that with something to worry


WOMAN AT BAY [l6l
about Clarke might make a mistake. He dived after the big man
and started down the pool.
Later, when they were drying off, Clarke ignored the incident.
Except for the fact that he would not look at MacKinnon di-
rectly, even when he held a match for his cigarette, there was
nothing in his manner to indicate that anything at all had hap-
pened.
"I've got to go up," he said finally. "I'm working on a date."
He looked at Norma. "Coming?"
Norma hesitated and took a quick glance at MacKinnon and
said she thought she'd stay a little longer. Clarke said he'd see
them later and started off and Norma sat down, motioning
MacKinnon beside her.
"You weren't very nice to Denny, were you?" she said.
"I don't like him. And I trust him less."
"Oh. Do you think he—"
"Did you ever get the idea that it might have been something
more than coincidence that brought him aboard the Corrubedo}"
She rubbed one arm absently and stared out across the pool,
her green eyes thoughtful. "Yes," she said. "I've thought a lot
about it . . . What do you think, Paul?" she added presently.
"I don't think it was coincidence."
She considered this. "Have you found out anything more?
Did anything happen today?"
"I found out Denny was at the Palm Hotel yesterday."
"Paul." She leaned quickly towards him, her voice hushed.
"When?"
"Around lunch time." He thought about his idea that someone
had rented a room to observe the one he had rented. He thought
about telling her that Marie Gerand had rented such a room
and that Denny Clarke had been with her. But it was a long
story and he still did not know enough to give her much en-


162] WOMAN AT BAY
couragement. Neither was there any point in mentioning Manuel
Zayas. Things had happened but so far there had been no worth-
while break. "What about Adrienne?" he said. "Did you talk
with her? She knew Denny in Lisbon."
Norma made a small resigned sound and brushed the idea
aside. "Denny knew everyone in Lisbon from what I can gather,
especially the attractive women. Yes, I talked with her. A lot. She
used to be an actress and her husband was killed—though they
were not living together at the time—and after that . . ."
It was the same thing Adrienne had told him but he listened,
keeping his brain alert for any discrepancy and knowing finally
that he had reached a pretty hopeless state of mind. He was
simply grasping blindly without thought of reason or logic or
even so tenuous a thing as a hunch.
"You don't really think she has anything to do with it, do
you?" Norma asked when she finished.
"No, I don't," MacKinnon said, and then he came to the
question that he had wanted to ask for a long time. "Do you re-
member pretty well what was in that manuscript? . . . Was
there any mention of Bruce Aitchison?"
She looked at him curiously and he hurried on. "The reason
I asked is that he's hooked up with United Chemical and I'd
heard that they've been under investigation for some time. The
newspaper stories are sort of vague but I understood it was some-
thing about having a set-up that Washington was trying to trace
to Vichy France and Germany."
She nodded, her glance still thoughtful. "Yes," she said. "His
name was in it. So was United Chemical and two or three other
American names."
MacKinnon put down his inner exultancy and hoped nothing
showed in his face. He thought, Thais all, brother! Dave Adams


WOMAN AT BAY [165
"You can take just so much death and suffering and if you keep
taking it day after day without a chance to get away from it you
finally get to the point where you have to have a change. At
least I did. Fighting is one thing, watching and trying to write
about it is something else."
He said, "If you're a soldier you're stuck with it, but even
they get pulled out of the lines now and then for rest and re-
grouping. I know guys—writers—that don't seem to mind it.
They go away awhile and come back and it's okay with them be-
cause they're made that way. I wasn't."
"You went back to the States and did a little writing," Rodri-
guez said. "You felt this would help your country's war effort?"
"Not particularly."
"You had no desire to take an active part in the war? You made
no effort to participate as a fighting man?"
"What does your cable say?"
"It says you are 4-F. Something about your back."
"A couple of vertebrae out of line," MacKinnon said and got
ready to take the rest of it.
He had an idea what was coming and he saw it was no good
defending himself for Norma's benefit. He wanted to say, "I
drove an ambulance in France for a little while in '40 and I
dodged a lot of planes and bombs until the damned ambulance
rolled over on me on a slippery corner and broke*my back." He
wanted to say, "I was in the hospital seven months and the armed
services wanted no part of me; that's why I went to Italy as a
correspondent." But he knew it was no good trying to explain
unless he could tell the whole story.
He put on a small tight grin and looked back at Rodriguez,
feeling the stubbornness come, aware that he was being needled
and resenting it.
"It does not bother you?" Rodriguez said.


l66] WOMAN AT BAY
"It bothered the doctor at the draft board."
"Yes—though if you were so inclined I understand the Mer-
chant Marine is not so fussy."
"I get seasick," MacKinnon said.
"And you had no skill for the defense plant."
"I'm allergic to factories . . . Sort of a claustrophobia." And
then his resentment boiled a little high and he said, "Look, I
don't want to be unpleasant but if you're trying to prove I never
carried a gun or sailed a ship or made a bullet, you're right. If
that's all you've got on your mind—"
"It's not. Quite." Rodriguez' face was just the same. So was
his voice. "I'm trying to arrive at the reason for your visit to
Havana."
MacKinnon stole another glance at Norma and he did not like
what he saw. Her face was somber and her eyes when they
studied him were wide and troubled, as though they were seeing
him for the first time in his true light. He tightened against his
fears and looked at Rodriguez.
"You don't like the vacation story?"
"I have been wondering," Rodriguez said. "You are an old
friend of Miss Travers, are you not? . . . And neither of you
has been here before and yet this time you are here together.
You did not know she would be in Havana?"
"No."
"Ahh," said Rodriguez, and then he pounced. It was not pos-
sible, of course, since nothing moved but his eyelids but that's
how it seemed to MacKinnon. "Then why were you waiting for
her at the Customs House the morning she arrived?"
Out of the corner of his eye MacKinnon saw Norma sit up.
"But he wasn't," she said. "I mean he couldn't have because—I
mean—" She floundered and stopped and Rodriguez did not
bother to look at her.


WOMAN AT BAY [167
It was a fine break for MacKinnon, that outburst. It gave him
time to collect his thoughts, to regain his emotional balance and
bring forth an answer.
"You were there," Rodriguez said.
"Sure," MacKinnon said. "So were you. I went down with
Leon Vidal. He's a reporter on—"
"I know him." The lieutenant's voice was cold.
"He was covering the arrivals. You know, ship news . . ."
"You saw her come out—with Mrs. Brissard and Mr. Clarke.
You followed the taxi to the hotel."
"That's right," MacKinnon said. "I was right behind you."
Rodriguez gave up the attempt. His shoulders seemed to relax
and he nodded slightly as though this was not important and
glanced down across the hotel grounds.
MacKinnon waited, aware that Norma was still watching him
but not daring to look at her. Down on the highway there came,
faintly, the sound of traffic and a car labored up the hill past the
tennis courts, the throb of its motor fading as the crest was
reached. Rodriguez turned and the canvas chair creaked under
him.
"You had lunch with Mr. Aitchison today," he said.
MacKinnon stared. He was not prepared for this; he wasn't
prepared at all. Then Rodriguez let him have it.
"You discussed a manuscript or a story—something like that."
MacKinnon swallowed and battled his mounting incredulity.
No guy could be as good as Rodriguez seemed to be. It wasn't
possible. He might have been followed to the Paris but this
other— Rodriguez was guessing; it had to be that way. And
then MacKinnon remembered the hovering waiter who had
aroused Aitchison's displeasure as he stood by the serving table.
A plump swart fellow without much hair . . .
He saw there was nothing he could do. He sat and braced


l68] WOMAN AT BAY
himself while his heart withered and the bottom dropped slowly
out of his stomach.
"There was some trouble over terms," Rodriguez said. "You
were offered twenty-five thousand dollars, Mr. MacKinnon, but
you did not think this was enough."
He paused and MacKinnon felt his face stiffen and grow cold.
"You're mistaken," he managed to say.
"You said for fifty thousand you might be willing to do busi-
ness." Rodriguez rose. "And I do not think I am mistaken. These
days one must be careful. That is why so many of my country-
men are happy to be of service. The waiter at the Paris does not
make any mistakes."
It sort of boxed MacKinnon in. He did not have much choice.
He couldn't say he was just kidding Aitchison along. He could
not explain why he was here. He could not invent a manuscript
that would stand Rodriguez' inspection, nor one that he could
explain to Norma. He did the only thing he could. He said:
"It looks like it's the waiter's word against mine . . . Unless
you want to talk to Aitchison."
"I see," Rodriguez said. "You do not care to tell me about this
manuscript." He waited, continued softly. "The man who was
killed in room 319 went there with a package of some kind. It
has never been found."
He stood a silent moment, his hands on the back of the chair,
then straightened. "I thought you would like to know how my
investigation is coming. I thought you might like to tell me the
whole truth but it is for you to decide."
He bowed to Norma Travers and put on his hat. He nodded
to MacKinnon and brought out an expression from his vocabu-
lary of slang. "I think you have two strikes on you, Mr. Mac-
Kinnon," he said. "And your time is running out."
MacKinnon watched him go, the growing awareness of what


WOMAN AT BAY [169
had happened scaring him badly. It was awfully quiet now and
he knew it was time to look at Norma and he had an idea he
might have to talk a little fast until he had convinced her that
Rodriguez was only punching in the dark. He decided to lead
up to it gradually, establishing a casual approach.
"A very clever guy," he said. "A little«nuts, of course, but
smart. I guess it's lucky he hasn't tossed me in jail."
He brought himself to look at her; then his eyes widened and
his heart grew cold and he felt all shocked and sick inside. For
this was a girl he had never seen before. This girl's face was
stiff and tortured and there was nothing but loathing in the
eyes.
"Hey," he said, the shock still with him. "Wait a minute.
You've got it all wrong."
"Oh, no, Paul," she said, her icy contempt worse than anger.
"I think I have it right—finally. It was very effective, the thing
you did this morning. You were really very sweet. I believed
you—I was enormously happy—when you asked if we could start
over again. From scratch, wasn't it?"
"But look—"
"I thought it was luck, finding you here. I'd come all this
way with only Victor to help and I thought it would be easier
with you along. I could see you hated me at first for what I'd
done, but I had never quite forgiven you either and anyway it was
not important. I needed help, and I thought your being here was
just coincidence. You weren't always easy to live with but you'd
always been honest, with yourself and others, and you had your
pride . . ."
MacKinnon tried to shut out the sound of those words and
though he missed some of them the scorn came through, con-
trolled and punishing. He remembered other times when they
were kids. In those days she shrieked at him and waved her arms


WOMAN AT BAY [17I
her and shake her, shouting the truth at her until she apologized.
He did take one step before he stopped and then he saw he had
no defense, nor anything more to say.
He stood there in the lengthening shadows staring sightlessly
ahead of him until his legs stopped trembling and the stiffness
went out of his back. There was in him now no further capacity
for thought and he dived into the pool and swam two lengths,
toweling briskly when he finished.
The exercise helped. The quietness was in his mind again and
reaction brought a welcome weariness, a sort of resignation that
enabled him to see clearly again so that things took on their proper
value. He had forgotten all about the porter that first morning
and he realized now it had been a great mistake to pay him with-
out an additional tip for his silence.
That much was his fault surely, but the rest of it was pure bad
luck and a combination of circumstances neatly analyzed by
Lieutenant Rodriguez. In any case he did not blame Norma.
Faced with the same evidence, circumstantial as it was, he would
have rendered the same verdict, so that there was nothing now
but to keep his eye on the ball and keep swinging.
More than ever the manuscript was the payoff. It meant his
job, it meant Norma, it meant everything he'd ever wanted. Find
that before he was thrown in jail, he told himself, and she would
understand. With such understanding even jail might not be so
bad.
"The trouble is," he muttered, "you haven't got the damn
manuscript. You're no closer to getting it than you ever were."
He picked up his robe and scuffed into his slippers, starting
slowly along the side of the pool towards the arched recesses
which led to the lower halls and service rooms, his thoughts
straightening a little now and focusing more and more on Bruce
Aitchison.


I72] WOMAN AT BAY
17
Paul MacKinnon crossed his fingers mentally as he knocked
at Adrienne Brissard's door and when she opened it to greet him
with a smile he was deeply grateful that he had found her in.
He had nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing on his mind
except possibly a drink and a couple of kind words. His trouble
was simply that he could no longer stand his own company and
now that he had showered and shaved he'd had enough of him-
self.
"I'm bored with myself," he said. "Would you have time for
one drink? Or were you getting dressed?" he added, seeing the
light flannel robe she wore.
"But there is time," Adrienne said. "Come in." She had her
dark hair pinned up and there were feathered mules on her feet
and with her tightly belted robe she looked smaller and more
rounded than ever. "I just had a bath. Does my nose shine?"
"Like velvet," MacKinnon said. "How were the races?"
Her face lit up instantly and her eyes sparkled. The radio was
beating out a fox trot and she danced a step or two to its rhythms.
"Wonderful," she cried. "I had four winners. I picked one for
Denny too. It paid eight sixty. You should have come."
"A fine time to tell me," MacKinnon said. "I hear you got
yourself a Cuban."
"Ramon something," she said. "He is cute . . . Here," she
said, seeing MacKinnon's restless gaze and knowing what he
wanted. She opened a drawer and brought out the bottle of
Scotch he had ordered the night before. "Will water do?"
"It will for me."
"For me too."


WOMAN AT BAY [173
MacKinnon took the Scotch and went into the bathroom and
fixed the two drinks. "It's a little warm," he said when they
tasted them, "but it's still good."
She accepted a cigarette and perched on the arm of the divan.
She asked him what he had been doing all day, and he told her
what he could. Then, as he finished, a horrible thought occurred
to him.
"Look," he said; "have you got a date for" dinner?"
Adrienne nodded, her mouth pursing and her eyes mischievous.
"Phuie!"
"Phuie? What is that?"
"Phuie," said MacKinnon glumly, "is an expression of acute
disgust. It is used to denote dissatisfaction and can be substituted
for such expressions as 'Nuts! . . . That's a hell of a note! . . .
A thing like that could only happen to me!' Though with the
proper connotation it can also mean—"
Adrienne laughed with loudness and spontaneity. "I think I
understand," she said. "You have a good sense of humor, Paul.
I like it when you are like this."
"I don't," MacKinnon said. "You couldn't cut it short, could
you? I mean, if it's just a dinner date maybe you could get away
early."
She shook her head.
"He might bore you, this Ramon. Just because he can pick
winners at the track doesn't mean he is amusing after dinner.
You could tell him you'd already made this later date—say for
around ten thirty."
Again she shook her head.
MacKinnon persisted. Doing things like this kept his mind off
Norma and so he talked on, suggesting possibilities, arguing
away objections with persistent good humor. In the end Adrienne
would make no promises.


I74] WOMAN AT BAY
"If he is very wonderful," she said, "and I am having too
marvelous a time—"
"Sure," MacKinnon said. "But you won't. You'll get a little
bored and think about MacKinnon, and by eleven o'clock you'll
be back here."
"We will see," Adrienne said as he finished his drink. "But
no promises, and you must not be angry if I do not come."
He winked at her. He said okay. He said thanks for letting him
in and thanks also for the drink. "I'll be hanging around the
lobby about eleven," he said.
It was then six thirty and he went downstairs to ask the desk
if there had been any telephone calls. There was a message in his
box which said that Leon Vidal had called and would call again,
so MacKinnon told the clerk where he'd be and selected a chair
that enabled him to observe both doors and the elevators.
Adrienne came down at seven, dressed in black this time, not
formal but smart, with a little hat that looked like a half cantaloup
from the side and back and like nothing at all from the front, and
a fur piece over one arm. MacKinnon went to meet her and said
nice things and while they were standing there Norma Travers
came in the main entrance.
Adrienne saw her first. "Hello, darling," she said. "You have
been downtown?" she asked, pointing to the small packages
Norma carried in her arms.
"A flying trip," Norma said. "There were a few things I
needed."
"Then you are just in time to help Paul."
"Really?"
MacKinnon watched her but Norma would not look at him. In
profile her face was serious and dignified as she waited politely
for Adrienne to finish.
"You must take pity on him," Adrienne said. "He is desolate


WOMAN AT BAY [175
with loneliness and now you are here to have dinner with him."
"I'm sorry." Norma smiled and gave MacKinnon a glance that
was nothing more than a gesture. "I'm having something sent
up."
"Oh—you do not feel well?"
"I've had a rather nasty headache all day and I'm going to
baby myself."
"I have some pills," Adrienne said.
"It's all right. I'll just have something to eat in my room and
take a couple of sleeping tablets." Norma started to edge away.
"A good night's sleep always fixes me up."
She nodded to MacKinnon, still not seeing him, and turned
towards the elevators. Adrienne frowned. "I will go with her,"
she said to MacKinnon. "There may be something I can do. If
Ramon comes—oh, but you do not know him, do you? I will be
right back . . . Wait, Norma," she called and hurried after her.
Denny Clarke came down before Adrienne got back. He wore
white flannels, a blue flannel blazer, and a mantle of casual as-
surance which suggested he had not a care in the world.
"Hello, snoop," he said. "Still touchy?"
"No. What about you?"
"No." Clarke's blue eyes were veiled, half-smiling. "I'd even
buy you a drink—if I had time."
"Date?" MacKinnon watched the big man nod as he looked
about. "Mrs. Gerand?"
Clarke sighed but seemed otherwise unresentful. "There you
go," he said. "Always nosing around. I don't know why I like
you. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that I do . . . Oh, hello.
Here's Adrienne. Hi, honey."
Adrienne looked around for Ramon. "She'll be all right," she
said to MacKinnon. "I think it's too much sun."
"Who?" Clarke said. "Norma? Is something the matter?"


WOMAN AT BAT [iJJ
on Norma's door, pushing in when she opened it and standing
resolutely against it so she could not escape while he told her
what was what. That he could do. He could make her under-
stand everything and her headache would be all cured and she
would be .ashamed of her accusations and come into his arms
while he wiped away her tears. It was a wonderful thought and
there was just one trouble with the vision. He could not do it.
He could talk to no one, not even Norma, until he had the manu-
script safely in State Department hands.
That's all, brother, he thought bitterly. Quit moping and get
the manuscript . . . He realized he was being addressed and
glanced up to find a bellboy in front of him.
"Telephone, Mr. MacKinnon."
"Oh, thanks," he said and got up quickly, walking with new
hope across the lobby to the telephone.
"This is Leon Vidal," the voice said. "I tried to get you earlier
but they said—"
"I know," MacKinnon cut in. "I'm sorry."
"It is of no importance but your man is now in the Club Inter-
national having a drink at the bar. This is the second bar he has
been to since he left the house but I have not yet seen him talk-
ing to anyone in particular."
A wave of frustration closed in on MacKinnon as he thought
it over, leaving him in a state of mind which presented no bright
spots and little hope. He could find no excuse but wishful think-
ing for having Manuel Zayas followed; he was spoiling an eve-
ning for Leon Vidal and wasting his time. The possibility that
anything good would come of it was so remote . . .
He took a breath and shut his mind against the idea. Remote or
not there was a possibility and it was about all he had left. "All
right," he said. "He doesn't know you're following him? . . .
Then stick with it a while longer, will you? Has he eaten yet?"


178] WOMAN AT BAY
Vidal said Zayas had not yet eaten and MacKinnon told him
to grab something when Zayas ate if he could. He said it was
probably just a damn fool idea but if Vidal would do this for
him he would be very grateful.
His gray eyes were morose as he hung up, and he stood quietly
a moment, a lean, competent-looking man with good shoulders
and a jaw that was solid but grimly slanting as he stared fixedly
across the lobby. Presently he shook himself and the tightness
went out of his mouth when he realized Briggs, the manager,
was watching him.
Briggs smiled and came over. "You look worried," he said.
"I was thinking about what I could do tonight . . . Are there
any fights in town?"
"Fights?" Briggs was a Canadian and more brisk and business-
like than most hotel managers. "Oh, you mean boxing matches?
Yes, indeed. Every Saturday night. I never miss them."
"Saturday, huh?" MacKinnon said, this being Thursday.
"DoyoulikeJaiAlai?"
MacKinnon was only kidding himself and he knew it. He
wasn't going anywhere, fights or no fights. He was going to
stay right here and wait for Leon Vidal's calls; he was going to
wait and see if Bruce Aitchison had anything to offer. That noon
he had told MacKinnon he would give him until tonight and it
was now tonight
"Jai Alai is okay," he said. "But it's not much fun going
alone."
"That's true," Briggs said.
"You wouldn't want a drink, would you?" MacKinnon asked
hopefully.
"Ahh"—Briggs hesitated and seemed tempted but his con-
sciousness of his duties and position won out. "Thanks just the
same. Perhaps later."


WOMAN AT BAY [179
MacKinnon went into the bar and had two martinis, some
peanuts and a desultory conversation with one of the bartenders.
Before going into the dining room, he went back to the desk to
see if there were any messages and finding none he went in and
ate alone.
That took him an hour or more and he wasted another thirty
minutes over a brandy but it was still only nine twenty when he
came back to the lobby. People in evening clothes were streaming
through from the main entrance and he could hear, faintly, the
sound of dance music, not from the small dining room band but
from the opposite direction.
He killed another half hour exploring the source of this and
finding that it was a private dance in one of the ballrooms. A
couple of men in uniforms stopped him when he tried to get past
the ticket seller and no one seemed to understand English so he
came back to the desk and there was still no call from Leon Vidal,
no word from Bruce Aitchison.
When Adrienne and her boy friend came in at ten minutes of
eleven MacKinnon had to fight back the desire to rush up and
kiss her. He could see her smile quickly when she spotted him
across the lobby but he had sense enough to stay where he was
while Ramon put on his good-night act. He did not look exactly
happy and seemed to argue a little but if this was so it did no
good, for in the end she put out her hand and Ramon held it a
moment and went sadly away.
"You were right," she said to MacKinnon when he came to
meet her. "Ramon is nicer at the races than in the back seat of a
car."
"I can hardly blame him for that," MacKinnon said.
"Also, he bores me a little."
"I'm deeply grateful," MacKinnon said. "Do you want to go
into the bar for a while? The dinner music is gone but—"


l8o] WOMAN AT BAY
"But I hear music," Adrienne said.
MacKinnon explained. He said it was a private party and he
couldn't get in.
"Would you want to go out somewhere and dance?" said
Adrienne.
MacKinnon wanted to and he couldn't and now he was a little
afraid that this thing that he had looked forward to was going
to fizzle out.
"I'd like to," he said, "but I ought to stay around. I'm expect-
ing an important phone call . . . Look," he added quickly see-
ing her brows come up. "Why couldn't we go up to your place
and just have a couple of drinks and shoot the breeze a while?"
"Shoot the breeze?"
MacKinnon told her what it meant, finding himself slightly
fussed now and eager to convince her. She tipped her head to one
side and looked at him, narrowly at first, with speculation, and
then wisely. Finally she made a little pout and nodded, slip-
ping her arm through his.
"All right," she said. "But I will need to be amused."
"I'm in," said MacKinnon happily. "It's a cinch."
"You will give me ten minutes?"
"I know. To get comfortable . . . I'll order some ice and soda."
"You can order it from the room," Adrienne said. "Until then
you can listen to my radio and be patient."
"In her living room she snapped on the radio and said she would
not be long. When she went into the bedroom he called room
service for ice and then fiddled with the radio until he got a
news-broadcast in English. It was just eleven and he listened
for five minutes and then the bedroom door opened and Adrienne
called to ask if he couldn't get some music. He found some pres-
ently and in another four or five minutes she came out wearing a
green number this time, a long, full-skirted summery-looking job.


WOMAN AT BAY [l8l
"The ice is on the way," he said. "You look wonderful."
She smiled and stepped to a round mirror over the refectory
table. She turned this way and that, poking lightly at her hair
and fluffing it a little around the ears and tucking a stray strand
up underneath the smooth waves. By the time she was satisfied
the ice and soda came and MacKinnon made the drinks.
She sat in the chair by the floor lamp, telling him about her
dinner date as she sipped her drink and MacKinnon listened
as he paced the floor, turning now and then to nod and say
something to keep the conversation going. He did not realize
how restless he was until she spoke about it.
"Must you pace like the caged lion?"
He turned, finding a faint undertone of annoyance in her
voice. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I guess I was thinking."
He finished his drink quickly and made another, a stronger
one this time because the first had done him no good. He swung
a chair close to hers but when he sat down the light was bad,
slanting shallowly past her face so that her eyes were in shadow
and he could not tell what she was thinking.
He did not pay much attention to what he was saying; he had
the feeling that she was studying him, waiting for some next
move, but the shadows baffled him until she turned her head
to take some of her drink. He had a quick glimpse then and he
saw now a bright detachment in her look and suddenly, think-
ing about last night, he knew he had again done very badly.
He had been moody and remote, pacing the floor when he
should have been attentive. He had done nothing to show he
was happy and pleased to be with her, made no gesture of af-
fection to prove that he would rather be here than any place in
the world, and it was a situation that he recognized at once.
It had happened before, with other girls, and when he was
younger he used to rail against this apathy and try to overcome


WOMAN AT BAY [183
Ten minutes ago. It was now twelve and that meant—
"Just a minute," the operator said. "Here he is now ... Go
ahead, please."
Leon Vidal started to explain about the other calls and Mac-
Kinnon cut him off. "What's up?" he said.
"Your man is here."
"What? You mean here in the hotel? When did he come?"
"About eleven. Three minutes after to be exact," Leon Vidal
said. "He came by the little arch to the left of the main en-
trance where the steps lead down to the basement and the pool
and the hotel stores."
He said he had been unable to tell where Manuel Zayas went
to but had come back to the lobby and called MacKinnon's
room. He had been in the lobby since but he had not seen
Zayas.
"Though that would not mean anything," he added, "since
he could leave the way he came. I was uncertain whether to
stay outside or not, but I thought it was important that I tell
you this and—"
"Yeah," MacKinnon said. He knew now why he had missed
the first call. When Vidal had phoned his room at five minutes
after eleven he was in Adrienne's room trying to find her some
radio music. "All right," he said. "You've done enough, Leon."
"I could wait."
"I've got what I want," MacKinnon lied. "You can get some
sleep."
He hung up after promising Vidal he would let him know
tomorrow if anything came of his efforts, and began to pace the
floor while he considered the possibilities of Zayas' presence.
Presently he calmed down a little. The most obvious assump-
tion was that Zayas had come to see him and if this was so he
might come back.


184] WOMAN AT BAY
It was a comforting thought, a sop to his own dereliction,
but it was not enough. Zayas might have come to see Denny
Clarke, though MacKinnon did not see what he could do about
that. Then he thought of something else and was instantly dis-
turbed.
Zayas had intimated that MacKinnon had been on the third
floor of the Palm Hotel about the time Victor Molina was mur-
dered; he had said as much when he spoke to MacKinnon that
afternoon. If this was so Zayas might also know that Norma
Travers had been in or out of room 319.
"So what?" said MacKinnon.
It was nothing to worry about, was it? Zayas was, apparently,
a cheap blackmailer. He knew something and he wanted to
cash in on it the best he could. He had approached MacKinnon
and hinted at certain knowledge. . . .
MacKinnon thought of a lot of things but he could not talk
the worry from his mind. He started for the telephone before
he remembered that Norma was going to take sleeping pills;
then he lifted it anyway, with the hope- that she might be
wakened.
He could hear the phone ringing when the operator made
the connection and he insisted that she ring a half dozen times
before he gave up. Then he knew he could not stop there. He
had the wind up now and worry was riding him and his failure
to rouse her seemed only to magnify the importance of knowing
that she was all right. Finally he gave up trying to rationalize
the problem; it was enough that instinct demanded that he
make sure.
He went quickly down the hall to Norma's room before he
remembered he had no key. He started to knock and then real-
ized that if the ringing of the telephone hadn't wakened her
no mere knocking would do so, that to pound would wake


l86] WOMAN AT BAY
even as he pitched forward, throwing out his hands to catch
himself, he knew what he had stumbled over.
His hands saved him and he made a bridge of his body so
that he would not hit the thing beneath him. He scrambled to
one side and gained his knees, fear driving him now, his body
numb and cold all over.
His hands touched a shoulder and it was limp and yielding
under his grasp and he slid his hands along, feeling the fabric
of the coat. Then, finally, he knew. The breath whistled out of
him and he began to breathe again.
He swallowed the hardness out of his throat and a little of
the muscular resiliency came back so that he could move with-
out strain. This, he knew now, was a man. A dead man ap-
parently, though his own hand was so icy and damp he could
not tell whether there was a pulse or not.
He simply accepted the fact and pushed back on his haunches,
and suddenly this new thought struck him and the tightness
came back. This man was dead, but even that did not explain
the silence he had heard. There was still no breathing in this
room but his own.
He jerked his head round and now his eyes were accustomed
to the darkness so that he could see the bedspread. He stared.
Then he got up slowly knowing that the bed was empty, but
stepping close to run his hands along the top to make sure. It
was empty, all right. It had not been turned down nor slept
in. . . .
For a long moment he stood there. When he stepped back he
found it required a definite physical effort to go to the window
and close the shutters.,He was in no hurry. There was nothing
he wanted to do and he was very tired now that reaction had
set in. He could see the outline of the body on the floor and he
detoured round it on his way to the light switch. When it clicked


l88] WOMAN AT BAY
drying it. When he had replaced it in the sheath he put both in
his pocket and then began to think in earnest.
He had no feeling at all that Norma had done this. He believed
this not only because he wanted to believe it, but because two
facts supported the theory that she had not killed Zayas. Had
she been guilty of murder she would not have gone out and left
her knife and sheath behind, nor would she have left the door
unlocked.
Examining this premise more soberly he was convinced that
she did not even know murder had been done. The lock was of
the spring type and unless the safety catch had been pressed
to leave it unlocked without her knowing it she would never
have gone out with a body on the floor and the room accessible
to anyone who turned the knob.
This meant that she had left the room sometime before eleven,
and she was still out. Where, MacKinnon did not know, and
he did not take time to think about this now, nor let himself
speculate on the possibility that Bruce Aitchison had started to
make good the threat he made that noon.
No, the important thing now was that she was due to be ar-
rested as soon as the murder was discovered. Already under
some suspicion in the death of Victor Molina, the mere presence
of another murdered man in her room would be more than
enough for Rodriguez. Norma's knife, Norma's room, and very
likely Norma with no alibi.
MacKinnon rose and made a quick inspection of the room
and closets, finding nothing missing that he could remember.
The two traveling bags were still here and this suggested that
she had not left with the idea of remaining away long. The
trunk was locked so he could not be sure what was inside, and
in the wastebasket he found some crumpled wrapping paper


WOMAN AT BAY [189
and a small carton which had held a bottle of liquid stocking
preparation.
Remembering the packages she had carried into the lobby at
seven that evening he was left with the impression that one of
these had been a sizable paper bag. When he could not find it
now he wondered about it but not for long. For underlying all
his thoughts in the past few minutes there had been one nebulous
plan that had persistently clamored for attention. Heretofore he
had managed by thinking of other things to avoid recognizing
it; now, reluctantly, he brought it into focus.
It did not take him long, once he examined the problem.
When he went to the body on the floor and buttoned the coat
before he raised it to a sitting position, he was not acting on
any impulse but on considered judgment. It was, actually, very
simple:
With the body here, Norma was as good as in jail. With the
body in his room there would be a certain amount of time gained
and that was about all he could hope for now. Later the body
would be found and Rodriguez would toss him into jail any-
way, but at least the charge would not stand up long for he
possessed one thing which Norma lacked. Zayas arrived down-
stairs at three minutes after eleven. Given two minutes to get
up here the back way, he had been killed not earlier than five
minutes after eleven. And he, MacKinnon, had an alibi from
eleven to twelve that even Rodriguez could not shake.
With a sigh and a deliberate concentration on the physical
aspects of the job rather than the moral perils, he put the hat
on Zayas' head, lifted him, carried him to the door and held
him there with one hand, thankful that the man was small. He
glanced into the hall long enough to find it clear and reached
for the lightswitch, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. In


WOMAN AT BAY [193
much darker here and he went all the way back to look closely
at the numbers on the doors and to glance into the court, finding
it enclosed on two sides by adjacent buildings, with a six-foot
stone wall at the rear.
The second story was a duplicate of the first except that the
hall was floored with rough planks instead of stone, and it was
here, dangling from the ceiling just back of the stairs, that the
single bulb burned dimly.
A board creaked loudly under MacKinnon's weight, startling
him. He stopped and listened and then went on, aware that his
nerves had begun to tighten as his alertness increased. He was
halfway along the hall when he heard the other sound and as
it came again he stepped to the wall, glancing at the stairs and
then at the doorway at the back of the wall, an open affair much
like the one below it.
Then, suddenly, he chuckled softly. There was a definite
tempo to the sound now and he knew what it was. Behind one
of the doors someone was snoring and the doors looked thick
and that meant the snoring was loud. He moved quickly along
the hall then and the next door bore a painted number: 6.
"Okay," he said, and tried the key. When he found that it
fitted, he turned the lock as quietly as he could, palmed the knob
and, keeping the pressure on so there would be no click, turned
it.
The door swung open. He hesitated, half in and half out of
the room but leaning in, listening hard. When he heard no sound
but the steady pumping of his heart, he slipped inside and pulled
the door after him.
After a moment he struck a match. He had a shadowed glimpse
of a bare-looking room before he found the switch on his left, a
round one on white-porcelain base; then light blazed beneath
a green tin shade and he could see where he was.


WOMAN AT BAY [195
ing, his breath held. He was not an unduly imaginative man,
nor one easily given to intuitive whisperings, yet now the pre-
monition of danger was almost a physical force holding him
motionless and rigid. When he realized he was still listening,
when he could no longer shake the feeling that someone was
outside waiting, he turned with impotent rage and reached for
the doorknob.
He yanked the gun from his belt as he opened the door. He
stopped, seeing nothing, and leaned out. The hall was empty
and still; if the man was still snoring he could not hear it.
For a moment he felt better. He felt sheepish and ashamed
but he was no longer coldly tense. He put the gun back and
closed the door and started across the room, not to the chest
this time but to the alcove.
He yanked the curtain aside and tried to open the trunk.
He was making noise now but he did it deliberately, tugging
at the lid and twisting at the lock. Once, when he turned to
search the suits, he stopped to listen, and then the tightness
crept along his nerves again and the feeling came back.
But he had it licked now. No more nonsense. Keep busy and
stop looking over your shoulder, MacKinnon . . . He finished
the pockets of one suit, and another. Then, in spite of himself,
he stopped.
The conviction that someone was close was now too strong
to ignore. Someone had moved, not in the hall, but in this room.
Abruptly he stiffened; then he spun about, knowing at last
why the conviction had been so powerful.
The door was open and two men stood watching him.
One was the slim, hard-eyed figure of Rodriguez. The other
was his round-faced assistant—Tomas Garay. Garay wasn't smil-
ing now. In his right hand was a heavy, short-barreled revolver.


I96] WOMAN AT BAY
19
Rodriguez came in slowly, his quick dark eyes prying at the
shadowed corners. Tomas Garay closed the door and MacKin-
non shifted his weight a little to get it evenly balanced. He knew
now he had been scared and his immediate reaction was to
strike out at something, anything at all, as a measure of retalia-
tion. The trouble was there was nothing he could do but talk.
Finally, resigned, he said with more irony than anger:
"My luck can't be that bad. You just didn't happen to be
passing by."
Rodriguez shook his head. "Watch him, Tomas," he said, and
started to circle behind MacKinnon. "You won't mind if I take
the usual precaution."
MacKinnon said, "Help yourself," and stood still while Rodri-
guez came up behind and slapped his hands expertly here and
there until he found the gun. He removed it from MacKinnon's
belt.
"Hmm," he said, stepping back and examining it. "You do
not seem to have much trouble arming yourself."
"My trouble," MacKinnon said, "is that it never does me any
good."
Rodriguez pocketed the gun, moving about the room, peer-
ing into the alcove and into the kitchen. He stopped just outside
the bright cone of light so that the upper halt of him was in
shadow.
"No," he said, answering MacKinnon's first question. "We
did not just happen to be passing by."
"You were waiting outside in a car."
"For Manuel Zayas."


WOMAN AT BAY [197
"Oh?"
"You have a key to this door." It was a statement rather than
a question.
"Have I?"
"It was locked when we came up. That was fifteen or twenty
minutes before you arrived. I would like the key, please."
MacKinnon hesitated. He had, momentarily, such a severe
seizure of inferiority complex that he wanted to make some ges-
ture of defense and thereby prove his toughness. His good sense
came to his rescue in time, telling him to save his defiance for a
spot when it could do some good. He pulled out the key and
tossed it to the lieutenant.
Rodriguez caught it, glanced at it. "Thank you. Now if you
will tell me where you got it? ..."
MacKinnon knew he couldn't win but he wanted to try. He
thought of a couple of things he might say, knowing Rodriguez
would not believe him, yet wanting to stall so that he would not
have to tell the truth so quickly. He might have offered one of
these stories had not Rodriguez said:
"Did you cut yourself, Mr. MacKinnon?"
As he spoke Rodriguez stepped up and took MacKinnon's
arm. He lifted it and in the reflected light the little bloodstain
on the cuff of the sleeve seemed very bright and red. MacKinnon
sighed. The guy was altogether too damn good.
"No," he said, and now he knew it was no good stalling. He
could say what he liked but the next step would be a visit to the
Habana Hotel, accompanied by Rodriguez and Garay. Most
likely his room would be the first stop and after that, still not
knowing what the score was, would come a trip to the local
pokey.
"I'll tell you what I'll do." He took out a cigarette and waved
it in simulated unconcern. "I'll tell you where I got the key if


I98] WOMAN AT BAY
you'll tell why you were waiting here and who this guy Zayas
is."
The brim of the Panama hat put a blackout right down to the
edge of Rodriguez' thin nose. Below that his lips moved in what
might have been a smile, though if it was the resulting twist
was not comforting.
"It occurs to me that you are in no position to bargain, Mr.
MacKinnon. I think you will want to explain—"
"Sure," MacKinnon cut in. "But not now. That makes a
difference."
Rodriguez shoved a chair towards MacKinnon. "Sit down,"
he said. "There is no hurry. We will talk it over."
MacKinnon took the chair and that left him within the cone
of light while Rodriguez sat outside on the couch.
"Just like at home," MacKinnon said, indicating the light.
"If you refer to your third degree—which I have witnessed,"
Rodriguez said; "you will find our way more considerate."
"Swell," MacKinnon said. "Now about Zayas."
"He worked for me."
"What?" MacKinnon blinked. "He was a cop?"
"No. He was—shall we say, an amateur. Like the waiter at
the Paris who proved so helpful. Manuel was a steward and he
was quite young and not so smart as some, though ambitious."
"I thought he was a blackmailer."
Rodriguez shrugged. "It is possible. In a small way of course.
As a steward, and with refugees, there was this opportunity, I
suppose. As for me, I am interested to know about those who
come to Havana from Lisbon and the Corrubedo made frequent
trips, so you see Manuel was in a position to give much informa-
tion . . . This trip was more important than some," he said
after a pause.


WOMAN AT BAY [199
"We had been advised by our Lisbon bureau as to who was
aboard and we were curious about some of the passengers." He
gestured with one hand and seemed to have trouble expressing
himself. "By that I mean we wondered why Mr. Clarke and
Miss Travers were coming to Havana instead of taking passage
direct to the States."
"Zayas searched their rooms," MacKinnon said, aware that
Rodriguez was not telling all the story, "but what was he bother-
ing me for? What did he expect to prove by pulling a gun on
me and searching my car?"
"Possibly you could answer this better than I. You have not
been very frank with me, Mr. MacKinnon. It is enough now
to tell you he was interested in you . . . Zayas was not very
frank with me either. It was one of his faults. He had an idea
that we would one day take him into my department. At eighteen
he had gone to Spain to fight and he saw some action and he
believed that he was now experienced to handle any assignment.
You have a word for this—Zayas was too cocky. It was demon-
strated to you the night you found him searching your car."
"Yes," MacKinnon said.
"He had merely to point his gun at you and back away, but he
waited too long, believing he could handle the situation in some
other way. He had the bad habit of underestimating the other
man ... I could tell you more about what Zayas was doing,"
Rodriguez said, "if he had kept his appointment with me to-
night." He took an envelope from his pocket, removed a sheet
of paper and glanced at it. "I have this note from him," he said
and MacKinnon, thinking back, thought that this must be the
note Zayas had written in the telegraph office that afternoon.
"It says that Zayas has important information about the mur-
der at the Palm Hotel," Rodriguez continued. "It says he tried


200] WOMAN AT BAY
to reach me by telephone—business took me out of town most
of the day—and that if I would come here tonight he would
tell me of his discoveries."
So that's it, MacKinnon thought, and now the murder had
an understandable pattern. Zayas had been suspicious of him
and Norma Travers; he had been hanging around the Palm
Hotel the afternoon that Victor Molina was murdered and he
had seen something that seemed sufficiently important to war-
rant further investigation.
And apparently he had done all right. The things he had said
to MacKinnon that afternoon in the cafe indicated that he was
hot. Since then he must have found additional corroboration so
that he had come, finally, to the killer. What Zayas knew or how
he had obtained his information, MacKinnon had no idea; there
was even the possibility that Zayas himself did not know how
close he was.
Thinking back to his conversation with the man, MacKinnon
had an idea that Zayas was groping for something he did not
possess. The reaction he got from MacKinnon, in relation to the
facts he did possess apparently had not satisfied him and he had
approached someone else. And this time he had been right. He
had made a date, on his own since he could not reach Rodriguez;
he was going to wrap the whole thing up by himself and say to
Rodriguez, "See what a bright boy am I." . . . He realized the
lieutenant had asked a question.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said that now I would like to hear what you have to say
about the key—and Manuel Zayas."
"Zayas is dead."
"If Rodriguez was surprised he did not show it. The shadow
of the hatbrim still blanketed his gaze but below that nothing
moved until he spoke.


WOMAN AT BAY [201
"You searched him and found the key. This gun you carried
you took from him?"
"No. He didn't have a gun."
"Where is he?"
"In my room."
"And the manner of his death?"
"Stabbed, I think."
The statement seemed to worry Rodriguez. He paused, sighed,
and his voice carried tones of regret and resignation. "I am sorry,"
he said, and modified this in his expert slang. "I am a lousy
teacher. I thought I had convinced him never to take chances."
He stood up. "You did not do this?"
"I found him on the floor when I opened the door," Mac-
Kinnon said.
"At what time?"
"About five after twelve."
"You can prove this?"
"Certainly." And MacKinnon then told of his own interest
in Zayas. He did not tell why nor did he mention Leon Vidal's
name, but he explained that he had had Zayas followed.
"I don't know what he wanted with me," he said, "but I was
with Adrienne Brissard from eleven until twelve, and I know
Zayas did not get to the hotel until about three minutes after
eleven and when I went back to my room there he was on the
floor."
"Yes," Rodriguez said and nodded to Tomas Garay, who
stopped being a statue and turned the doorknob. "Well, it will
help if you can prove this but I am not sure it will help enough,
Mr. MacKinnon. I will know better when we have examined
your room."
MacKinnon went over to the door. Garay had stepped into the
hall and Rodriguez turned off the light and stopped to lock the


202] WOMAN AT BAY
room. As he waited, MacKinnon glanced towards the open door-
way at the rear. That is when the idea took root in the back of
his mind, and when they started along the hall he nourished it
into more sturdy growth.
It was not hard to figure how he stood. So far Rodriguez had
given him the benefit of the doubt, had in fact given him so
much rope that the hanging was now imminent, at least figura-
tively. Until now there was actually no definite crime with which
to charge him, but presently there would be.
To one as clever and experienced as Rodriguez it would soon
become evident that the body of Manuel Zayas had been moved,
and having established this, it would only be a matter of time
before he learned where the body had been. The stain on the
rug in Norma's room would fix everything up and then not only
would Norma be charged with murder but he, MacKinnon,
would be a red hot accessory after the fact. He would be tossed
into jail forthwith and he could get no help from the Embassy
or Tom Lanning and by the time he got out there would be
no manuscript.
The bitterness inside him began to fester when he thought
about his job. Thinking about Norma made it worse and sud-
denly he knew what he had to do. It was crazy. Even if he made
it, all he'd get for his trouble was time. Maybe twelve hours.
And what the hell good would that do?
They were going down the stairs now, Garay on one side and
Rodriguez on the other. There were ten steps to go and then
ten feet of hall and then the open front door. Ten or twelve
hours, he thought. For what, a miracle?
He battled himself for six more steps. Then, as nearly as a
man might do two things at once, he rammed his elbow back-
ward into Garay's stomach and stuck his foot between Rodriguez'
long legs and pushed hard with his free hand.


204] WOMAN AT BAY
he tried the first wall that looked scalable and scrambled up and
over, hoping that he had made it without being seen.
Once he had his balance he stood perfectly still, his back
against the wall. He could see, vaguely, the outlines of this court-
yard and he thought there was a small pool in the center, and
in the house beyond there- was a closed door between two sets
of blackened windows.
He could hear Rodriguez and Garay now, the slap of their
feet on the alley floor, their low, panting words. They were
arguing about something but presently their steps continued on;
when he could no longer hear them, MacKinnon crossed the
court to the lower wall on the left.
He could see over this and there was another house much like
the one he had left, with an open arch in the center which he
knew would lead to the street. He put his hands on the top of
the wall and then the dog barked. It scared him and he held his
breath, locating the animal just over the wall as the volume in-
creased.
The dog got pretty excited and MacKinnon could hear a chain
bang as the animal lunged against it. On the other side of the
alley another dog took up the cry and somewhere in the next
house a window slammed open. A man's voice phrased a Spanish
challenge and that told MacKinnon it was time to move on. He
walked round the pool and over to the door. It was unlocked.
He opened it and was in a tunnel hall, narrow enough so that
by spreading his arms he could touch each side. He went ahead,
hands still spread. Presently he caught one hand in the spindles
of a banister and then the hall widened out and he found the
front door. It was locked but it had a big key in it and he turned
it just as another door opened upstairs. He heard a woman call
a man's name and then he was out on the street, crossing it,
starting to run again. . . .


WOMAN AT BAY [205
MacKinnon walked quite awhile before he knew where he
was. It was a matter of no importance, since he had no place to
go, but his general direction was the center of town and since
the skyline was his guide he measured his progress by the size
of the buildings.
Presently he saw the Capitol dome and he kept on, aware that
he was moving parallel with its length and two blocks to the
rear. At a street sign he stopped in the radius of the arc-light
long enough to see that he was again on Aquila, though many
blocks from where he had started. The next intersection said
he was at Barcelona and just off the corner an electric sign pro-
claimed Toldeo.
He knew the restaurant and went in, ordering a beer and then
eggs and rolls and Cuban coffee. He drank beer and watched
absently as his order of coffee was prepared. It was quite an act.
You didn't open a spigot and get coffee; you had to fuss around
with filters and two or three hundred valves and gadgets and
levers while steam popped out here and there with much force
and volume. But in the end you got coffee that endangered the
fillings in your teeth.
It was just what MacKinnon needed. It woke him up a little
and let him see just how hopeless his position was. He thought
of a lot of things, all of them discouraging. He smiled grimly
when he considered what Dave Adams would say if he knew
how things stood. He wasted a half hour at this mental masochism
before he reached into his pocket for some change.
He took out two keys, similar but not identical, along with the
change. Then, remembering how he had tried to use the wrong
one to open his door awhile back, he knew where he was going
to sleep—if his luck held.
He was only three blocks from the Palm Hotel and he walked
them rapidly and stepped into the now deserted lobby without


206] WOMAN AT BAY
hesitation. The night clerk yawned at him but took no further
interest in his presence; neither did the elevator boy.
MacKinnon rode to the fourth, walked down to the third and
fitted the key of room 319 into the lock. He crossed his fingers
and walked in. When he turned on the light and found the
room still unoccupied he undressed and climbed into bed.
20
Considering what he had on his mind, Paul MacKinnon's sleep
was sound and untroubled. When he awoke shortly after nine
he lay staring at the ceiling while various patterns formed in his
mind, and the scattered pieces of the puzzle were rearranged
and tested. After a few minutes of this he took his problem
under the shower with him, rinsed his mouth and looked with
no enthusiasm at his stubbled chin.
It surprised him a little that he should not feel more worried.
Presently he would be showing his face along the sidewalks of
downtown Havana and the odds were good that some eagle-
eyed minion of the law would presently recognize his descrip-
tion and put the arm on him. Yet even this did not dampen his
spirits. He had a feeling that this might be his day.
It would definitely be his last unless he crashed through with
something, but he had done some neat thinking last night before
falling to sleep and sonie elimination had been practiced and
now at least he had a plan of action. There was just one matter
that continued to nag him above all else and he knew there was
only one way to dispose of it.
He glanced at the telephone and decided against using it. He


208] WOMAN AT BAY
"She was last seen about seven last night," Vidal said, still
quiet. "Rodriguez thinks that Manuel Zayas was killed in her
room. That is why the police now look for her."
"Rodriguez was a cinch to figure that," MacKinnon said, half
aloud. "And how do I stand?" he asked.
"Rodriguez did not say."
"What do you think, Leon? About me, I mean?"
"It is hard to know. I have a feeling all along that you do not
come here on a vacation. Something tells me you are here for
an important reason but—" He let the sentence dangle and
tried again. "I do not think you have killed Zayas," he said.
"Thanks." MacKinnon leaned against the wall of the booth
with the sweat pouring down his face. It took him a few seconds
to put into words what he had in his mind. "I want to ask you
something. I need a little help, Leon. I don't want to talk over
the phone too long but I can meet you somewhere if you want
to take the chance."
He waited and when Vidal was silent he said, "I don't think
it will put you on a spot but it might and you're probably crazy
for even listening. I'm going to hang up now. I'm going to call
you back in fifteen minutes. Think it over. If the answer is no
I'll understand. Just leave word that you've gone out and I'll
know how things are."
"I will wait for your call," Vidal said.
The air felt good on MacKinnon's hot body as he went down
the street looking for a place to eat. He found one presently, a
grubby little hole with a telephone On the wall, and ordered
fruit juice, rolls and coffee.
For a while he ate automatically, unable to think beyond the
reason for Norma's disappearance. He could understand that
now. Yesterday afternoon she had listened to Rodriguez and
made up her mind that MacKinnon had double-crossed her,


WOMAN AT BAY [209
and she was not one to sit back and accept defeat without a
battle. She was alone, but she had come too far to quit. The
most important thing in her life was at stake and she had the
necessary courage and determination to keep trying regardless
of odds.
That she had walked into something she could not handle
seemed obvious. Since she did not know about the murder of
Zayas she would have no reason for staying away from the hotel.
She had been grabbed, either because she got in over her depth
and became a menace to someone, or because Bruce Aitchison
had made good on his threat of the previous day. . . .
He went to the wall telephone, deposited his coin, and asked
for the number of El Sol. He asked the operator for Leon Vidal
and the reporter answered almost at once.
"Thanks for answering," MacKinnon said.
"It is nothing," Vidal said. "I can come at once."
MacKinnon gave him the address and hung up. He paid his
check and went out on the street and then he did something
he was ashamed of. Diagonally across the pavement was an open
front store of a type that MacKinnon had seen frequently but
could not put a name to. It might, he thought, be a Cuban ver-
sion of a delicatessen, for there were groceries and cold meats,
bottled goods and bakery products for sale. Now he went in
and ordered a beer he did not want and stood back in the shadows
sipping it until Leon Vidal hurried down the street with his
characteristic waddle.
When MacKinnon was sure the reporter had not been fol-
lowed and that no one was watching the restaurant, he went in
and sat down at Leon's table. Because he still felt guilty he got
it off his chest.
"I want to apologize," he said and explained he had been
watching from across the street.


WOMAN AT BAY [211
because she did not have it. If he had killed Victor Molina and
stolen the manuscript he had not turned it over to Aitchison
otherwise there would have been no $25,000 offer. So what did
that leave?
It leaves this, MacKinnon thought: // leaves Denny Clar
right where he wants to be. . . .
"Okay," he said to the waiter when the coffee came; then
added to Leon, "Give me a couple of minutes and I'll be ready
to talk."
If Denny Clarke did have the manuscript it would be a simple
matter to deny it to Aitchison. It would be the smart thing to
do and Aitchison would believe it since Norma and he, Mac-
Kinnon, were under suspicion of Molina's murder ... So, hav-
ing larceny in his blood, Clarke would sit back. At the proper
time, when he was sure no murder charge would be filed against
him, he could produce the manuscript and get whatever price
the market would stand.
MacKinnon found that he liked this theory. It was still a hunch
but it held together and made sense, all things considered. The
fact that Clarke did not have the manuscript in his room did
not detract from the theory. Clarke would be a fool to have the
manuscript in his possession or allow it to be traced to him until
the police had a murder suspect in jail. So where was the manu-
script now? What had Clarke done with it immediately after
he had killed Victor Molina?
MacKinnon had an idea about that too, and as his mind went
on with its reconstruction of that first afternoon, he put himself
in Clarke's place. Having killed Molina, he would get out of
the Palm Hotel fast. He would not turn over the manuscript
to Aitchison since he was now playing for higher stakes, nor
would he dare keep it until he knew how things stood.
I'd mail it to myself, MacKinnon thought. I'd get a piece of


214] WOMAN AT BAY
office building, and at the other end the Secretaria de Education.
He had thought it uncomfortable the other morning but this
was worse. The other assignment had been a limited one and
there had been but one point to watch. This could last until the
office closed, and there was more than one entrance, and always
he seemed to be looking over his shoulder for a policeman who
would instantly take him in charge.
By noon his body was thoroughly damp with perspiration and
his feet began to hurt. He kept to the shaded areas when he
could, but he did not dare remain too long in one place lest he
rouse suspicion, so he made a regular beat, from one corner to
another, from this building to that. He had thought to order a
sandwich before he came, and after devouring it he wished he
had brought two. Then the thirst began to get him.
There was a bar two blocks down San Pedro. Dos Hermanos.
He had never been in it but he had noticed it before and it
looked cool and nice inside. Thinking of it made his thirst
worse. His throat got dry and his mouth thick and finally at
four o'clock he loped down there and had a glass of beer. It was
the quickest drink he'd ever had and the most satisfying and
he hurried so in getting back to the post office that within a few
minutes he was thirsty all over again.
He looked at his watch and was ashamed of himself now for
deserting his post even for those three or four minutes. He was
worried too, watching the shadows lengthen, and at five he forgot
about the ache in his legs.
His imagination began to punish him. He examined the idea
that had brought him here and it was still good and now he was
convinced that by his weakness he had ruined everything. He
was sure that something had happened while he was away.
Three minutes was plenty of time for someone to go in and claim
a package from general delivery.


220] WOMAN AT BAY
Aitchison's eyes were bright metallic slits and his mouth was
a mean tight line that moved jerkily as he punched his words
out.
"I don't think it will," he said. "I don't think you've got a
gun." He stopped abruptly, his glance darting to something
behind MacKinnon's shoulder. Then an odd thing happened
to his face. He smiled and showed his teeth.
It was such a gloating smile that MacKinnon nearly turned.
Then, because it seemed such an obvious trick, he started to take
another backward step. That started the voice.
It was sharp, high and excited. It came from behind with
such suddenness that MacKinnon froze, not understanding the
rapid Spanish, but hearing Aitchison yell some order with an
inflection so urgent that a cold shiver raced up his spine.
He glanced nervously over his shoulder, the sound of Aitchi-
son's voice still echoing in his mind, and it was not Alfredo he
saw, but the thin one who had carried the tray of drinks at the
cocktail party—Carlos.
He stood in the doorway, the gun he carried centered right
on MacKinnon's back.
"Carlos always speaks Spanish when he is excited." Aitchison
sounded relieved. "I was afraid he might be too excited . . . He
says for you to take your hand out of your pocket and be sure it is
empty."
"Okay," MacKinnon said and was deeply thankful that he
still had Leon Vidal working for him. He felt Carlos prod him
in the spine with the gun. Carlos searched him from behind,
Carlos spat out some Spanish invective and stepped back.


WOMAN AT BAY [221
21
Bruce Arrcmsc-N said, "Ahh—" and flexed his shoulders to set-
tle his coat more comfortably. He smiled and stepped forward
to slip the leather binder from MacKinnon's hand.
"I'll take that," he said. "You know, I didn't think you had a
gun."
"It was just an idea," MacKinnon said. "I knew if I could get
out of the house I could outrun you."
Aitchison took off his glasses and put them on the desk. His
temporary amiability slipped away and he pushed his jaw out
thoughtfully. "I'd like to know a little more about this."
"All right."
"How did you know I had this manuscript?"
"Mrs. Gerand got it from the post office."
Aitchison remained thoughtful. "Why should you think it
was at the post office at all?"
"Call it a hunch."
Aitchison bunched his lips and looked at Carlos and then at
MacKinnon. He seemed to have difficulty in understanding the
things MacKinnon had said.
"Why didn't you get it yourself? Or why didn't Clarke?"
MacKinnon said, aware that the second question brought a sud-
den flicker in the amber eyes. "Why did Mrs. Gerand send the
maid in?"
He reached down and turned the wrapping paper over. The
name and address was boldly written in ink and said: Miss Julia
Taylor.
"It is customary to send a maid for packages," Aitchison said.


222] WOMAN AT BAY
He was about to add something to this when there was a sound
in the hall and he turned just as Alfredo came in.
Alfredo focused his opaque black eyes on MacKinnon, then
stopped short, his broad dark face looking more than ever like
an Indian's. Still watching MacKinnon he began to talk to
Aitchison.
MacKinnon understood none of it until he heard the name,
Leon Vidal; then he felt a sudden thrust of anxiety which ex-
panded steadily as Aitchison began to question Alfredo. When
Aitchison finally looked at him he saw something in the other's
face that told him the news was bad.
Aitchison wanted to know if he knew a Leon Vidal. He said
that Alfredo had noticed the fellow waiting in a car out side
when he came back from taking Mrs. Gerand home.
"Alfredo has a suspicious nature," Aitchison said. "He re-
called having seen a similar car behind him when he drove
away from the post office so he questioned the man." He ges-
tured idly. "There was a little trouble when Vidal attempted
to-"
"Where is he?" MacKinnon said, concerned at the moment
with the little reporter rather than with his own predicament.
"He is in the garage. He has a lump on his head but he'll be
all right. Alfredo will see to that." He spoke again to Alfredo
and the squat man went away.
Aitchison walked with him to the door. When he turned he
put the manuscript on a small table just inside the room and
walked over to MacKinnon.
"Sit down, Mr. MacKinnon. Right there in the desk chair.
You'll notice there is a button there in the kneehole. When you
press it like I did when you held me up, someone comes." He
found the idea amusing for a moment and then his face sobered.
"There are a few little things I'd like to know," he said.


WOMAN A.T BAY [223
MacKinnon knew it would do no good to worry about Leon
Vidal now. It would be silly to voice any threats or make idle
boasts. The way he figured it Alfredo had probably slugged the
reporter and carried him into the garage and this in itself sick-
ened him a little but he tried not to think about it. He tried to
figure out something he could do, now that he could no longer
count on Rodriguez.
"You never did have the manuscript, did you?" Aitchison was
saying. "That business at the Paris was just bluff."
"I'll bet you paid more for it than you offered me."
"The point is I have it now."
"And you can sell it all over again, huh?" MacKinnon's voice
was flat and contemptuous. He kept talking, not knowing why
or what he said. Whatever it was, Aitchison and Carlos stood
in front of him and listened and MacKinnon was facing the
right way and that's how he happened to see the hand.
It was a woman's hand, brown, and so was the arm and at
first he simply did not believe it. He wanted to rub his eyes,
feeling that it was some trick. He wanted to speak out and
point and then, aware that he was staring, that his mouth was
open, he tore his gaze away and began to talk again.
He had no idea what he said. It seemed to him that what he
saw was reduced to slow motion, like a trick shot from the
movies or some dream that had great clarity and made no sense.
He tried to look at Aitchison, yet somehow in the softer focus
of his vision he saw the hand snake round the edge of the hall
doorway and grope for the leather binder. He saw the fingers
close about it and carefully lift it from the little table.
Then the manuscript was out of sight and MacKinnon was
scared. He did not know why. He did not know what came
next but presently he felt an odd elation that the manuscript
was gone. He kept Aitchison's attention for perhaps thirty sec-


224] WOMAN AT BAY
onds; then, faintly, he heard a clicking sound, like a door being
opened.
Aitchison heard it too. Already scowling suspiciously because
of MacKinnon's blurry stare and senseless chatter, he turned
abruptly as though expecting to find someone behind him.
He glanced at the door and then at the table. He stared, his
head outthrust. Finally he found his voice. "It's gone," he yelled
and leaped towards the table.
Carlos glanced round. MacKinnon came to his feet, his eyes
on the gun, but Aitchison got hold of himself before it was too
late. After his first step he wheeled.
"Watch him, Carlos!" he ordered and then he was racing
through the doorway and into the hall.
Carlos planted himself six feet away and the gun was steady,
his little eyes dangerous. MacKinnon had to stand there while
Aitchison's footsteps pounded in the hall and were gone. Ten
seconds of silence ticked in which neither Carlos nor MacKin-
non moved; then, distantly, there came the sound of voices.
Gradually the voices became more distinct and seemed to
come from the porte-cochere. Then they were in the hall, men's
voices. Aitchison's and another which said:
"How the hell do I know? I saw her running across the lawn
and I grabbed her . . . She's one of your servants, isn't she?"
MacKinnon recognized that voice and hope died within him.
Aitchison said, "We'll take a look at her," and then he and
Denny Clarke walked in with a dusky-skinned girl in servant's
garb between them.
She had her head bowed and her legs were bare and brown
and there was a scarf wrapped tightly round her hair. Aitchison
put the manuscript down again and put his hand under her
chin to tip the head up.


WOMAN AT BAY [225
"Who are you?" he demanded. "You're not—" And then
Clarke interrupted him.
"Say," the big man said. "Well, I'll be—"
He took hold of the scarf, struggled a moment and unwound
it. That let the blond hair tumble out; that made the girl Norma
Travers.
For a long moment after that no one spoke, no one moved.
The room was still and MacKinnon could only stare and battle
his amazement, unable quite to believe his eyes, not knowing
how this thing could happen. He saw Norma pull her arms
away from Clarke. She shook out her hair and her chin came
up defiantly and when he saw that the old lump rose in Mac-
Kinnon's throat and his chest was full. // only I could have
helped, he thought bitterly.
"Well," Clarke said finally, "if it isn't little Norma."
"How long have you been here?" Aitchison demanded. "How
did you get in?"
Norma did not bother to answer. She looked right at Mac-
Kinnon, her green eyes tired but unafraid. "I'm sorry, Paul,"
she said. "If it hadn't been for Denny—"
"Yeah," he said thickly.
Aitchison's voice got harsh. "I want to know—" he began.
Norma turned on him. "Oh, what difference does it make?
You have the manuscript, haven't you?"
Aitchison glanced at it, then he shrugged. He looked at Clarke
and at MacKinnon and he no longer seemed to be worrying
about how Norma got here. He stepped to the desk, his face
grim, his amber eyes remote. He began to fold the wrapping
paper. When he finished he tossed it into the wastebasket. He
centered the leather binder on the desk and sucked his lips a
moment. Finally he said:


226] WOMAN AT BAY
"You complicate things. Sit down, Miss Travers. You too,
MacKinnon."
Norma moved to a leather chair in the corner and MacKin-
non walked over and perched on the arm. Carlos, gun dangling
now, moved to the French doors and Clarke leaned against the
doorway to the hall.
MacKinnon squeezed Norma's shoulder. He smiled and tried
to make his voice sound as if things were going to work out all
right.
"What's that stuff?" he said, touching her bare forearm.
"Liquid stocking."
"You did a job on yourself," MacKinnon said, remembering
now the empty carton he had found when he looked over her
room last night.
"I had to," Norma said. "I had to do something."
"We're wasting time." Aitchison rapped the desk and sounded
like a school teacher who was not getting the proper attention.
"You two will have to be taken care of."
"Oh, naturally," MacKinnon said as though it didn't matter.
"If I wanted this for myself"—Aitchison tapped the manu-
script—"it would be simple. I could destroy it right now and
you could go. There is no charge you could bring against me,"
he said. "If anything I'm in position to bring charges against
you. You for breaking in here," he said to MacKinnon, "and
you-"
"Somebody slugged Leon Vidal," MacKinnon said.
"That?" Aitchison shrugged. "A few dollars would take care
of that. The point is, I need time. I will have to get in touch
with my—my principals."
"The refugee Frenchmen who are afraid to go back unless
it's destroyed?" MacKinnon said. "Or your pals in the United
Chemical cartel—or both?" He paused and said, "If you don't


WOMAN AT BAY [227
clean up a million on this for being front man you're a chump."
For an instant Aitchison hesitated and seemed oddly pleased
with the suggestion; then he went on, sticking to his point. "I'll
need a week or ten days at least."
"And we'll be your guests."
"In a manner of speaking, yes. I'm not equipped to put you
up here but—" He let the sentence hang and opened a desk
drawer. He took out a pearl-handled automatic, inspected it and
offered it to Denny Clarke. MacKinnon decided to needle him.
"I think you're working too cheap, Denny."
Clarke reached for the gun and screwed up one blond brow.
"You break me up, Mac," he said.
"Aitchison's getting a million," MacKinnon said. "How much
did you collect for doing the hard part?"
"Shut up!" said Aitchison. "Carlos! Bring Alfredo here!"
When Carlos left MacKinnon said, "What was the original
price? I mean what were you going to pay Clarke for following
Norma here from Lisbon?" He watched Aitchison's lips flatten
out. "You had to pay more in the end, didn't you?"
"You talk too much," Aitchison said.
"Denny double-crossed you a little, didn't he? I mean he was
working for you and the manuscript was swiped three days ago
but you just got it."
Clarke's handsome face darkened and he took a step forward.
"How would you like a slap in the mouth?"
"With your hand?" MacKinnon said. "Or with the gun?"
Aitchison rapped the desk. Clarke stopped. MacKinnon's hand
was still on Norma's shoulder and her hand came up to cover
his.
"I have a schooner sailing before dawn," Aitchison said. "There
may be room aboard for both of you. You'll sail along the north
coast for a couple of weeks. After that, if you behave—" He


WOMAN AT BAY [229
that Aitchison might be the man behind the disappearance of
the manuscript and she knew that if there were only some way
to get in the house and watch what went on she might be able
to find out where it was. With this in mind, though not really
believing she would be able to bring it off, she had talked with
one of the maids out in the garden.
With some story that she made up as she went along, she
dropped the hint that she was working for the Policia Secreta,
that someone in the household was under suspicion and that
she needed the maid's cooperation. She had spread it on pretty
thick, frightening the impressionable girl a little and getting a
promise of secrecy. Handing over ten dollars as an advance for
the girl's help she told her she might come back dressed as a
servant with a story that the girl's mother was sick and that she
was a cousin of the girl's who had come to take her place for
a day or two.
Then, yesterday afternoon, believing that MacKinnon had
double-crossed her and that Aitchison was trying to buy the
manuscript, she had rushed down town to get make-up and
clothes. She had browned her legs, arms, face and neck, wrapped
up her hair in the scarf, and looking like any servant, had left
the hotel by the service entrance. Arriving here just after dark,
she had gone to the servant's rooms and called the girl outside.
"There was no trouble at all," she said. "I gave the girl more
money and told her what to tell the other servants. I speak
Spanish well enough and I slept here last night—when I wasn't
watching the house—and I saw you go into the study ..."
Clarke, who had been listening attentively while MacKinnon
stretched his pacing to three steps each way, chuckled sardoni-
cally. "Very clever," he said. "Quite a switch too, saying you
were in the Policia Secreta." He still grinned but his voice was
nasty. "After double-crossing the French people for years."


230] WOMAN AT BAY
MacKinnon turned on him and Clarke pointed the gun. "Re-
lax," he said, and turned his head slightly to watch Norma. "No
wonder the servant believed you. You fooled the experts long
enough."
MacKinnon stared and deep in his mind the seed of an idea
pried jnto his consciousness and began to take root. What started
it was the way Clarke had turned his head and MacKinnon,
remembering the injured eye that had no side vision, felt a
sudden tingling along his spine. He spoke quickly, indulgently,
a little afraid that Clarke might read his thoughts.
"You're a fool, Clarke," he said. "You did all the dirty work
and what did you get?"
"A hundred thousand bucks, that's all." Clarke waved the gun.
He was feeling pretty good again; he seemed to enjoy the role.
"Just let me keep on being that kind of fool," he said. "I like
it . . . What're you getting out of it, pal, besides a lot of grief?"
"A hundred thousand?" MacKinnon whistled softly and
sounded impressed, his eyes and mind busy now because there
wasn't much time left.
He talked on, saying other things, pacing, hardly knowing
what he talked about. He took out cigarettes and gave one to
Norma. He lit them and walked back to drop the match in an
ashtray on the desk, seeing Clarke swivel on his thigh slightly
to keep the gun pointed in the right direction.
The left eye, MacKinnon thought.
He resumed his pacing on that side, being careful to stay well
away from Clarke but extending the range slightly so that pres-
ently the big man became the apex of an increasingly wider
angle. Clarke did not seem to realize it yet but he had begun
to move his head a little as MacKinnon talked, like a man watch-
ing a game of table tennis.
"What I want to know," MacKinnon said, "is how Mrs.


WOMAN AT BAY [23I
Gerand got into the picture? Were you afraid to rent room 322
yourself?" He winked at Norma as he spoke and nodded sur-
reptitiously, towards Clarke, hoping to warn her that something
was coming if he could get a chance.
Then, silently, he blessed her. He saw the quick gleam of un-
derstanding in her eyes and then, as though she read his mind,
before Clarke could even answer, she dropped her cigarette. It
was a beautiful piece of business, natural, genuine, without a
mistake.
She held a small ashtray in her lap and she tapped ashes into
it as she looked at Clarke and she tapped too hard and dropped
the cigarette, not in the ashtray but in her lap.
Her reactions were immediate and quite perfect. She jumped
up with a startled, "Oh!" and grabbed for the cigarette. Clarke
slid off the desk, equally startled in that first instant, and then
he remembered what he was there for.
Turning his head, he swung the gun towards MacKinnon.
He tried to back up to get room for himself but the desk blocked
him off and anyway it would have done him little good. Mac-
Kinnon had already taken his first lunging step unseen and after
that it was ridiculously simple.
MacKinnon heard himself laugh. He said, "I always had an
idea you weren't very bright," as he moved and then the side of
his hand slashed down on Clarke's wrist and the gun went spin-
ning, and that left only Denny Clarke.
Looking back, MacKinnon found it strange that neither he
nor the big man went after the gun. It was as if the only im-
portant thing now was the immediate physical expression of
this mutual dislike which had been too long bottled up.
He saw the hate in Clarke's eyes and found the same feeling
in himself. He moved as Clarke swung, stepping inside the loop-
ing right, slamming his left into the other's stomach, then hook-


WOMAN AT BAY [239
"Before Mr. Aitchison interrupted us."
"Oh, yes." MacKinnon nodded. "It was an idea I had and
what Aitchison did confirms it. Why should he risk his life like
that?"
Rodriguez opened his eyes and lifted one shoulder as though
to say he did not understand.
"I mean, there was no charge against him," MacKinnon said.
"He told you so and he was right. A man might make a break
like that if his life was in danger. What other reason might
there be?"
Rodriguez considered this. "Unless there was a woman, he
might do it for money."
"Yeah," MacKinnon said. "Money. That's why I think we
might go to the hotel . . . You might also have Mrs. Gerand
picked up," he added. "In case we need her."
23
Denny Clarke leaned against the wall of his room, his arms
folded and his gaze disdainful as he watched Tomas Garay open
the overnight case in which MacKinnon had found the letters,
photographs and the gun. The gun was still there, tucked under
the stacks of fifty and hundred dollar bills neatly bound with
paper bands.
Rodriguez accepted the gun, inspected it, shoved it into his
pocket. "You do not deny you sold the manuscript to Mr. Aitchi-
son?" he said to Clarke.
"How the hell could I now?" Clarke said. "Certainly I don't
deny it. But if you think you can pin a murder rap on me you're
still out in right field."


240] WOMAN AT BAY
Norma Travers, still in her servant's garb and brown make-up,
sat in the chair by the window and MacKinnon was again
perched on the arm. Presently Clarke straightened up. He un-
folded his arms, cocked his good eye and touched his mustache
with his thumbnail.
"Those two," he said to Rodriguez, indicating MacKinnon
and Norma, "may have alibis for last night, but ask them if
they've got one for the time Molina was murdered ... I think,"
he added when no one answered, "that I can prove one of them
did it."
MacKinnon felt Norma sit up. "That's ridiculous," she said.
"Is it?"
"You followed me to the Palm Hotel that first morning,"
MacKinnon said. "I dropped you at the Sevilla Biltmore and you
probably got a taxi and followed me the two blocks to the Palm.
You looked through the windows and saw me talking to the
clerk and getting the key and that was something you had to
find out about. When I went back to the car to wait for you,
you went in and found out what room it was. Then I guess you
had to know why," he said.
"You suspected me because I knew Norma." He touched her
shoulder and let his hand remain. "You might even have known
that I was her ex-husband. You knew why she was here and
when I rented that room you knew you had to watch it."
"When do we get to the murder?" Clarke drawled.
"You had a date with Mrs. Gerand," MacKinnon said, "and
you talked her into going in and engaging a room across the
hall, or as near to that as she could get. I don't know what sort
of gag you thought up to tell her or what she told the clerk, but
she got the room and that's all that matters."
"So what?"
Someone knocked at the door before MacKinnon could an-


WOMAN AT BAY [24I
swer. Rodriguez went over to open it and then spoke to a man
in the hall. "Mrs. Gerand is not at home," he said when he came
back.
MacKinnon took his time. He thought ahead and chose his
words carefully. "Were you working with her, Denny?" he
asked. "Or was it Adrienne?"
"I thought you knew everything," Clarke said.
"Adrienne, I think," MacKinnon said thoughtfully. "The two
of you came over here with Norma to get the manuscript. When
you got it you held out on Aitchison."
"Pardon me," Rodriguez said. "You refer to Mrs. Brissard?
Perhaps we should have her down here," he added and went
again to open the door and spoke to someone in the hall.
Adrienne came a minute or two later and only in the first
instant did she falter. She stepped inside as the man who brought
her opened the door and stopped, her dark eyes quickly taking
in the room and then focusing upon the stacks of bills on the bed.
Her half smile froze then and the color drained from her
cheeks. She took another tentative step while the slackness
struck at her face and then, before MacKinnon's gaze, she re-
built it muscle by muscle. It was all over in a moment. She
straightened her shoulders, tightened her mouth, and seemed
quite ready for whatever came next.
"We ran into a little trouble, baby," Denny Clarke said.
"I see we did." Adrienne's voice was chilled and her mouth
twisted scornfully as she surveyed the big man. "I was afraid
you'd bungle it some way."
"Not me," Clarke said.
"Perhaps I'd better explain," Rodriguez said ,and told her
briefly what had happened. "It was Mr. MacKinnon's idea that
you did not keep your bargain with Mr. Aitchison," he said
when he finished. "Is that correct?"


242] WOMAN AT BAY
Adrienne looked at MacKinnon and now she was a woman
he had never seen before, sexless, without softness or compassion.
"If it is Mr. MacKinnon's idea," she said, speaking to Rodriguez,
"why does he not do the explaining?"
"Okay," MacKinnon said. "You and Denny worked together
but you were the one who did the double-crossing. You're the
one who held up Aitchison for the hundred thousand. You split
with Denny when you got it—" he turned to Tomas Garay.
"How much is there?"
Garay touched the bills on the bed. "Here," he said, "is fifty
thousand."
"You split with Denny," MacKinnon went on to Adrienne,
"but you made the play yourself. Aitchison did not suspect
Denny or he wouldn't have let Denny make the pay-off today.
That's what happened, wasn't it? You were afraid to deliver
and collect yourself. You said you'd tell Aitchison where the
manuscript was when you had the money. He sent Denny here
with it. Then you phoned Aitchison and told him what name
to ask for at the post office. He sent Mrs. Gerand and I got there
right after she delivered it. A little later Denny came."
"I thought you were going to tell us about the murder,"
Clarke said. ,
"I am." MacKinnon took a breath. He refused to be hurried.
"After you rented the room across from 319 someone had to
stick around and do the watching. That meant almost constantly.
That meant in shifts."
He looked back at Adrienne and she had taken the other chair
and was leaning back watching him lazily. "You were in the
room when Molina came," he said. "You were the only one to
use the room."
"How do you know this?" Rodriguez said.
"Because she had the key to that room. Room 322. Denny got


WOMAN AT BAY [243
it from Mrs. Gerand and gave it to Adrienne and she still had it
late that same night . . . Last night," he said, "when I moved
Zayas I got caught in the hall trying to fit the wrong key into
my lock. The keys to the Palm Hotel rooms are almost identical
with the keys here and it took me a minute to realize that my
key wouldn't work because it was the wrong key. The same
thing happened to Adrienne the night we were held up by
Aitchison's men. I was with her when we went to her rooms.
She tried to unlock her door the same way I did. The key looked
right, but wasn't. I wouldn't be surprised if she still has it."
Rodriguez smoothed his hair down and bunched his lips. "You
are saying that Mrs. Brissard killed Victor Molina?"
"Right."
"You're nuts." Denny Clarke snorted disgustedly. "You killed
him. You or Norma—and you know it. Adrienne was in room
322 all right but—"
"Shut up!" Adrienne snapped; then disciplined her voice.
"This is Paul's story, Denny."
MacKinnon looked at Clarke. Then the answer came to him.
He felt Norma stir and glanced down, finding the brown line
of the makeup on her forehead an incongruous and startling
contrast with her tawny hair. When he saw how worried she
looked he pressed the point of her shoulder reassuringly.
"I think I get it now," he "said to Clarke. "Adrienne told you
she saw Molina go into room 319 and Norma go in right after
that. Is that it, Denny? And then I came and after a while we
came out with the package. She cooked up some story about
following us and later getting hold of the manuscript and mail-
ing it to a phony name. She made you believe it too, didn't she?
You really thought one of us killed him."
He saw the growing incredulity in Clarke's gaze and stood up.
"I'll tell you what really happened. Adrienne saw Molina go in


244] WOMAN AT BAY
with the manuscript and she ran in after him with a gun. She
tried to hold him up but Victor Molina knew what that manu-
script was worth and what it meant to Norma and to the French
people and he wouldn't quit. He tried to get his gun—did get
it out, in fact—and she shot him."
He stopped and his words hung in the quiet room. Clarke was
still watching Adrienne and nothing changed in her face.
"She ran out," MacKinnon said. "Norma was a minute or so
late and Molina was a little early and Adrienne got out the back
way. And then she knew what the score was. She wasn't going
to turn the manuscript over to Aitchison—it would have been
simple enough to get a cab and do so immediately—because now
the manuscript meant murder. The price agreed on wasn't
enough and to turn it over like that would be to admit the
killing."
He said, "But she didn't dare keep the manuscript either. Not
then. She didn't dare have it in her room. So she got the idea
of mailing it to herself under another name and at the end of
the alley in back of the Palm Hotel is a bookstore and that's
where she went. She had a package and she got some paper and
wrapped it. She wrote out an address and took it out and mailed
it."
He took out the wrapping paper, unfolded it and passed it
to Rodriguez. "That's it," he added, and explained where he got
it. "That's her handwriting . . . Manuel Zayas found out about
it too," he said. "I don't know what Zayas knew but he learned
that much because Leon Vidal and I watched him go in that
bookstore and—"
"One moment." Rodriguez glanced up from the wrapping.
"You agree then that the same person killed both Molina and
Zayas?"


WOMAN AT BAY '245
"Certainly. Adrienne did." .
"But she has an alibi for last night. You yourself said so. And
if she has none, you have none."
"You're close," MacKinnon said. "I've got sort of an alibi. A
small one. Wait a minute," he said and picked up the telephone.
"I want to get Leon Vidal," he told the operator. "He works for
El Sol and he probably isn't there now because he was hurt but
if you can get his home number—"
The operator interrupted him. "Mr. Vidal is here now, sir.
He has been trying to reach you."
"Put him on," MacKinnon said. "Leon? That watch of yours
. . . when you set it yesterday morning you said it varied many
minutes daily . . . Yeah . . . Well, which way does it vary?"
"It is slow," Leon replied. "Sometimes as many as five minutes
in one day but with things as they are in these times—"
MacKinnon cut him off. He asked other questions and told
Leon to wait. When he hung up a new exultancy soothed the
growing tightness in his chest and suddenly he felt loosely
poised and ready to go. He explained what Leon Vidal said,
what he had said the night before.
"Leon said Zayas arrived downstairs at three minutes after
eleven and I gave him another couple minutes to get to Norma's
room. That made it five after eleven—but only by Vidol's watch
which was slow. Actually Zayas arrived up here about eleven,
and at five after Adrienne opened her bedroom door enough
to tell me to get some music on the radio instead of the news
broadcast. From five after she had an alibi because I could hear
her in the bedroom. From eleven until five after she had none.
I heard nothing but the broadcast. And how long do you think
it would take her to go from her bedroom to Norma's and take
care of Zayas?"


246] WOMAN AT BAY
It was a rhetorical question and he went on, his voice brusk,
impatient and hard. "She knew exactly what she had to do.
Zayas told her enough to know she had to take care of him.
He wouldn't know who was in Norma's room, or care. He had
a date for eleven o'clock with Adrienne and he came expecting
to get the manuscript."
He turned to Norma who sat perfectly still, watching him.
"Adrienne came upstairs with you when you said you had a
headache. Djd she come into your room? . . . Sure, she did. She
either picked up the key when you put it down after unlocking
the door, or she pushed the catch so the bolt would not lock when
you closed it. Did you bother to look? . . . Was that it?" he said
to Adrienne. "Was that why I found the door unlocked? Or did
you have a key and leave it unlocked on purpose so that anyone
trying the door could walk in and find the body?"
Adrienne's eyes were still sleepy but her lips were thin, her
cheekbones pale. She kept looking at him, saying nothing, and
MacKinnon went on in the same crisp tones.
"You timed it beautifully," he said. "When I first asked you
to break up your date early you didn't give me any encourage-
ment. But when you came downstairs after you'd gone up with
Norma, it was different. You asked if I'd be waiting around
eleven, because you'd changed your mind. When you found out
Norma was going to take some sleeping tablets, when you saw
what a wonderful alibi you'd have if you planned right, you
wanted me around at eleven. You knew you could count on me.
That's when you made the date with Zayas—after you knew
about Norma."
He paused and said, "We went upstairs about two or three
minutes of eleven and you wouldn't let me phone for ice and
soda. You said I could do it from your room. So I fooled with
the radio that you had turned on while you stepped across the


WOMAN AT BAY [247
hall. You knew where the dagger was and you told Zayas you'd
get the manuscript and when he came close, not suspecting you
now, you shoved that knife in his chest."
Clarke swore softly. MacKinnon continued to Adrienne.
"You counted on doing it in Norma's room because you
thought she'd taken sleeping pills and wouldn't know what had
happened. You knew about the knife because you'd searched
her things aboard ship. You saw she wasn't in bed then but it
didn't matter any more with Zayas dead. The point was that by
taking a chance—and being bold about it—and I guess you
always could be that when the odds were worth it—you had
an almost perfect alibi. Zayas would be found in Norma's room
with her knife in his heart and very likely Norma without an
alibi. With her already under some suspicion of the first mur-
der, it took the pressure off, didn't it? It gave you a chance to
collect on the manuscript."
He stopped and found he was out of breath. His throat was
dry, his back a little stiff from his own intensity. He swallowed
and reached for a cigarette. Rodriguez cleared his throat.
"What do you say to that, Mrs. Brissard?"
"Nothing," Adrienne said indifferently.
"Is that all you have, Mr. MacKinnon?"
"All?" MacKinnon was furious. "What do you mean, all?
You know she was in the Palm Hotel when Molina was mur-
dered. You know she mailed the manuscript. It's addressed in
her handwriting. You can stop in the bookstore like Zayas did
and find out she wrapped it there and they can identify her and
tell you what time it was. Am I supposed to arrest her and then
prosecute the case?"
Rodriguez shrugged. His lips twisted in what might have been
a smile of apology. "I was only asking," he said. "I think you
have done very well." He folded the wrapping paper and put it


248] WOMAN AT BAY
in his pocket. "I think first we will go to your room, Mrs. Brissard,
and see about the balance of the money."
He opened the door and beckoned. Three plainclothes-men
appeared. He gave one Clarke's overnight case containing the
money and then spoke to the big man.
"You will go with them," he said. "To my office."
Clarke looked bored. "Is this a pinch?"
Rodriguez took the slang in stride. "An informal one. If you
will wait we will take your statement a little later and then we
will decide."
"Sure," Clarke said and started through the door. Then he
stopped and turned to Adrienne. "Tough luck, baby," he said.
"I'll see you later."
He went out followed by the lieutenant's men and then Rod-
riguez turned to Adrienne.
"If you are ready, Mrs. Brissard . . . You will stay with me,
Tomas," he said to Garay.
The little man with the round, wrinkled face bobbed his head
and stepped into the hall. Adrienne rose and walked out, looking
straight ahead. Norma glanced at MacKinnon and went into
the hall and Rodriguez came out, closing the door and still
holding the manuscript.
Adrienne was moving towards the stairs, back straight, head
up, hips swinging. Tomas Garay followed and Rodriguez
stretched his long legs to catch up with his assistant. MacKinnon,
bringing up the rear with Norma, saw Rodriguez speak to
Garay, leaning over and gesturing with one hand while the
little man nodded.
Norma's hand touched MacKinnon's and he closed his own
about it. "How could she, Paul?" she said, her voice hushed.
"How could she hate me so?"
"She didn't hate you," MacKinnon said. "It was just a job.


WOMAN AT BAY [249
She was in a spot and Zayas had her number. She'd already
killed one man. She had everything to gain and nothing to
lose."
Norma sighed and shook her head and glancing down at her
he saw the weariness in her face and in the sag of her shoulders.
He squeezed her hand.
"Come on," he said. "It's about over. I'll call the Embassy and
we'll get rid of that thing tonight."
They climbed the stairs and went along the hall to Adrienne's
room. When they were inside Rodriguez said:
"Will you get it for me, Mrs. Brissard? Or shall we search
the place?"
"I'll do it."
Adrienne led the way into the bedroom, followed by Rodri-
guez and Tomas Garay. MacKinnon stopped in the doorway
with Norma and saw Adrienne open a black leather bag on the
bed. She took out a stack of bills and put them on the counter-
pane.
"I think you will find everything here," she said over her
shoulder. Then, as she turned, it happened.
Later, on nights when he had trouble getting to sleep and
finally reached that stage when old scenes and experiences began
to drift across the screen of his semi-consciousness, MacKinnon
would remember the swift moving picture in every detail.
It was, in some ways, much clearer then because he had re-
viewed it so often. Now there was just the swift and unexpected
synchronization of action that left no time for speculation or
conscious thought.
He saw the gun in Adrienne's small hand as she turned. In-
stinctively he pushed Norma back against the wall and pinned
her there, seeing Adrienne straighten and the muzzle swing
round and the white pressure of her knuckles.


252] WOMAN AT BAY
"Exactly. Even Manuel, cocky as he was, would have carried
it. He would have brought it when he came to get what he
thought was to be the manuscript last night. But once inside
the room he underestimated the danger. She was a woman and
had no gun and, as I told you, Manuel was young and had much
zeal. It was his greatest weakness. If only I had been in town
that afternoon so he could have told me what he had dis-
covered—"
He sighed and shook his head. "Yes, Manuel would have
carried his gun and yet no gun was found on him. And it was
almost a certainty that the killer had taken it. She left one gun
behind after she had used it on Victor Molina ..."
Because she hoped it could be traced to Norma, MacKinnon
thought.
"... and guns are not easy to come by here. At least for a
stranger. And she was desperate and vicious enough to know
that it might, finally, be necessary to use one again . . . Yes, it
seemed that this was what had happened to Manuel's gun."
"You could have searched the room if you thought so," Mac-
Kinnon argued.
Rodriguez shook his head and smiled tiredly. "Victor Molina
was a brave and noble man. Do you not think his killer should
be made to pay the penalty?"
"Sure, but—"
"When police search a room there is always the cry from the
accused that a gun was planted. No one 
ew this gun was here
but Mrs. Brissard. It was necessary that she go directly to it be-
fore witnesses. It is now a fact impossible to deny."
He put the gun away and his tone became matter-of-fact. "It
would have been simpler to have shot her through the heart
and end the matter here but one does not like to get the reputa-
tion of a killer. In my business it is difficult to live down."


A NOTE ON THE TYPE
IN WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET
This boo\ is set on the Linotype in Granjon, a type
named in compliment to Robert Granjon, but neither
a copy of a classic face nor an entirely original creation.
George W. Jones based his designs upon the type used
by Claude Garamond (1510-61) in his beautiful French
boo\s. Granjon more closely resembles Garamond's
own type than do any of the various modern types that
bear his name.
Robert Granjon began his career as type-cutter in
1523. The boldest and most original designer of his
time, he was one of the first to practise the trade of
type-founder apart from that of printer. Between 7557
and 1562 Granjon printed about twenty boo\s in types
designed by himself, following, after the fashion of the
day, the cursive handwriting of the time. These types,
usually known as "caractbres de civilite," he himself
called "lettres francaises," as especially appropriate to
his own country.
This boo\ was composed, printed, and bound by
H. Wolff, New Yor^.














UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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