Man on a Rope by George Harmon Coxe Page A

we had the diamonds, and we did trade, it would be a private deal. You wouldn’t go to the police; neither would we.”
    â€œThe cash wouldn’t have to go into the estate either,” Hudson added, another indication of how his mind worked. “It wouldn’t have to be split with this brother in England and it wouldn’t be taxed.”
    â€œYeah,” said Holt. “Well, thanks for the suggestion. We’ll give it some thought.”
    â€œDo that.” Hudson came to his feet and it was obvious that Holt’s attitude had annoyed him. His jaw was hard and his mouth thin, his lips moving very little when he spoke. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
    â€œAn American,” Holt said, “by way of Nova Scotia. When I got tired of the winters I drifted south…. Why?”
    â€œJust wondered how you got so smart.” Hudson straightened his jacket, his tone still grating. “Just don’t get cute with me. Unless you’ve got something to sell, stay away from me.”
    Barry stood up and Lambert heaved his chunky body from his chair. For an instant then, his shirt sleeves stretched upward. That was how Barry happened to notice the watch with the gold wristband.
    Boyd McBride was just stepping from his dirty black Vauxhall when Eddie Glynn’s Zephyr pulled up behind him. When he saw who was getting out of the back seat he saluted and said:
    â€œHi. Come on in. I’ll buy you a beer.”
    He led the way up a somewhat overgrown path to a smallish unpainted bungalow, but Barry lingered a moment, his attention focused on the Vauxhall’s license plates while his thoughts turned back to the night before and the car he had seen parked beyond the puddle left by the shower.
    The plates he looked at now bore the number X-188. The other car had been partly obscured by a tree trunk and all he had seen was the X-l before he noticed the man who might have been George Thaxter leaning against the other tree.
    Now he turned into the path, brow furrowed and thinking hard as this new suspicion made itself felt. Someone had come to Lambert’s bungalow during the time he had walked two blocks and reluctantly retraced his steps. Someone had searched the desk and scattered its contents. A car had started up as he stepped to the veranda to investigate the sound he thought he heard, but there was no car parked beyond the puddle when he looked again.
    So what? he asked himself. There was a chance that McBride had been the man, nothing more. There were perhaps another ninety-nine cars whose license plates started with X-l, but how many of the owners knew Colin Lambert and wanted him dead?
    The budding suspicion lingered as he entered the bungalow, and when McBride came in from the kitchen with a tray and glasses and three bottles of frosted Heinekens he saw that his host had rolled up his sleeves, that the left wrist bore a watch similar to the one he had seen on Ian Lambert. He thought about this as he sipped his beer and listened vaguely to Hudson’s now familiar prologue. When, finally, he realized that such thoughts formed a sort of mental circle that was getting him nowhere, he stopped thinking and began to pay attention.
    McBride’s reaction to Hudson’s proposition was one of sardonic amusement. He had flopped back in his planter’s chair, both legs supported by the flat, extended arms, and was finding obvious enjoyment in his beer. He did not question Hudson’s motives, nor did he bristle at the implication that he might know something about the missing diamonds.
    â€œI could use a hundred thousand,” he said. “With that kind of dough I’d gas up my duck and take off for good.”
    â€œI understand that Lambert held a note on that amphibian,” Barry said, taking a shot in the dark.
    â€œHe did,” McBride said, not batting an eye. “But not now.” He considered that last inch of beer in his glass. He