“I am sure he would be pleased to see you.”
Helga felt a little chill crawl up her spine. She braced herself as she crossed to the bedroom. Nurse Fairely tactfully went into the kitchenette.
Helga stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at her husband as he lay in the bed. She felt her heart contract. Could this ruin of a man be the mighty Herman Rolfe with all his millions, who with a flick of his fingers commanded attention, who held the magic key that unlocked the doors of the world? The skull-like face was now like a face modeled in wax and that had been exposed to a flame and had melted. The right side of his mouth was flaccid and hung open, showing his teeth and saliva dripped onto a towel on his white silk pajamas. The useless right hand and arm lay on a pillow. The eyes that had always been cold, hard and forbidding were now like liquid pools of stagnant water without life.
They stared at each other. Helga shivered, then pity for him rushed through her and she moved forward, but she stopped abruptly as his eyes lit up. His left hand moved and a bony finger pointed accusingly at her. The slack lips twisted and a sound came: “Bore!” Which she knew meant whore.
“I am sorry, Herman,” she said, her voice husky. “Really and truly, I am sorry. God help us both.”
His fingers flicked her away. The eyes expressed his dumb hatred. Shuddering, she stepped back and closed the door. For a long moment, she stood motionless, then controlling herself, she walked to the desk.
Nurse Fairely came from the kitchenette.
“It must be a shock to you, Mrs. Rolfe. So very sad . . . such a fine man.”
“Yes.”
Helga made a show of looking through the papers in the drawers while the fact, amiable nurse stood watching her.
“There is no letter here. Please tell Mr. Rolfe.”
“Perhaps you would tell him, Mrs. Rolfe. It is odd. He is so insistent.”
“I can’t face him again for the moment.” Helga’s voice broke. “You are at liberty to look through all these papers, nurse. Ask him if he would like you to do that.”
She was close to tears and turning away, she walked quickly back to her suite. It took her several minutes to recover, then with her capacity to absorb a shock, she switched her mind from her husband to Jackson.
Know your enemy.
That was to be her first move. Picking up the ‘Room vacant: please service’ card, she left the suite, hung the card on the door handle and rode down in the elevator to the lobby. She asked for a taxi and was driven to the Nassau National Bank. She told the taxi driver to wait. She entered the bank and arranged for fifteen thousand dollars to be available to her for the following day. As she left the bank, she saw across the road an automobile showroom. Above the door was a banner: The Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Motorcycle.
Telling the taxi driver to wait, she crossed the road and entered the showroom.
A young colored salesman approached.
“I am interested in this motorcycle,” she said. “May I see it?”
“The Electra Glide?” The salesman spread his hand in an exaggerated gesture of despair. “We sold our only model, madame, but we will have another within a few months.”
“How disappointing. I wanted to see it,” Helga smiled. “Perhaps the buyer would show it to me. Have you his name and address?”
“A moment, madame.” The salesman went away. He returned after a few minutes and handed her a card on which was written: Mr. Richard Jones, 1150 North Beach Road, Nassau.
He then gave her an illustrated folder.
“You will find all the details here, madame. I would advise you to place an order with us without delay. There is considerable demand for this machine.”
Returning to the taxi, she told the driver to take her to North Beach Road. It took ten minutes of driving out of the city before they reached the long, shabby street.
The driver, a West Indian, slowed and looked over his shoulder at her.
“You want some special number, missus?”
“Just drive along slowly,” she said.
Looking out of the window, she finally spotted No. 1150: a broken down bungalow with an iron-corrugated rood, weeds in the garden, grey sheets hanging out to dry and a big, gat West Indian woman with grey in her hair, sitting on the stoop, reading a magazine.
Helga told the driver to take her back to the hotel. She had been absent half an hour. As she crossed to the elevator, the hall porter materialized by her side.
“Excuse me, madame, but your room is being serviced. It won’t be ready for you for another twenty minutes.”
“That’s all right. I only want to pick up something. Thank you.” Giving him a smile, she entered the elevator and was whisked to the top floor.
There was a big service trolley outside her open door. Silently, she entered her suite. She heard movements in the bathroom. Shutting the door, she crossed to the desk on which lay the three recorders the assistant manager had left with her the previous evening. She switched one one, adjusted the volume control, then she walked silently into the bedroom. The bed had been stripped, a pile of towels lay outside the bathroom door. She could hear the sound of the spry swishing around in the bath.
She looked into the bathroom. A slim figure in white drill was bending over the batch, his head out of sight.
“Are you Jones?” she asked, pitching her voice high to get above the sound of the spray.
The figure startled, dropped the spray, straightened and spun around.
She was confronted by a beautiful looking nineteen-year old boy with thick black silky hair, big, fawn like eyes and perfectly molded features.
They stared at each other.
A blackmailer? Helga thought. This she found hard to believe.
“Are you Jones?” she repeated.
The boy turned of the shower, licked his lips and nodded.
“All right, Jones, I want to talk to you.” She put steel in her voice. Turning, she walked into the sitting room.
There was a long pause while she stood with her back to the window, then he came out of the bedroom, his hands moving like agitated butterflies up and down his white jacket.
“Stand over there,” she said, pointing to the desk, then she sat down, opened her handbag and took out her cigarette case.
He moved to the desk and stood staring at her. His olive skin glistened with sweat. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his tight jacket as he breathed.
“You own one of these?” She tossed the folder of the Harley-Davidson at his feet.
He stiffened and stared down at the colored illustrations.
“Do you or don’t you own one of these motorcycles?” she demanded, determined to give him no time to think.
In a small, low voice, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“How did you pay for it?” The steel in her voice was like the lash of a whip.
His eyes widened and he took a step back.
“I – I saved for it, ma’am.”
“You saved for it?” She gave a scornful laugh. “You . . . living in a slum: your home with a tin roof. You saved more than four thousand dollars! I wonder what Mr. Henessey would say to that!”
His face turned grey.
“I saved for it, ma’am. I swear I did.”
“Listen to me, Jones,” she said. “Yesterday morning, I left a valuable diamond ring in the bathroom. It is missing. Now I find that yesterday you paid for this motorcycle. I am accusing you of stealing my ring, selling it and with the money, you bought this motorcycle.”
He shut his eyes and swayed on his feet. For a moment she though he was going to faint. Looking at him she felt desire stab at her. He was such a beautiful male. A half-caste. She wouldn’t have known except for the silky black hair. She steeled herself.
“Isn’t that what you did?”
“No, ma’am. I swear I didn’t take your ring.”
“You seem good at swearing. All right, then let us see how Mr. Henessey deals with you. Let us see how the police will
deal with you. I can’t imagine anyone will believe you saved four thousand dollars.”
She got up and walked to the telephone.
“Ma’am, please. I didn’t take your ring.”
She paused by the telephone, her hand on the receiver, looking at him.
“But you did take something, didn’t you?”
He seemed to shrivel in his white uniform as he nodded. I’m halfway there, she thought and released the telephone receiver.
“What did you take?”
In a whisper, he said, “A red folder from your suitcase, ma’am.”
She returned to the chair and sat down.
“And what did you do with it?”
“I – I gave it to a man.”
“What man?”
He hesitated, then blurted out, “Mr. Jackson.”
“Harry Jackson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why did you do that?”
Again he hesitated, then said, “I wanted the bike. Mr. Jackson said he would give me the money if I would look around your suite for something important.”
“How much money was he going to give you?”
“Four thousand dollars, ma’am.”
“So you didn’t save very much, did you . . . less than two hundred dollars.”
“I – I don’t earn much, ma’am.”
“Is it a fact, Jones, that Jackson employs you to spy on guests staying here?”
He licked his lips, looked imploringly at her, then said, “This is the first time. I swear it’s the first time.”
“Something important? Did he tell you what to look for?”
“He said love letters, ma’am or anything important.” He was now nearly crying. “I know I shouldn’t have done it, ma’am, but I did want the bike.”
“You read the contents of the folder?”
“I don’t read handwriting so well. I saw it was about a will. It seemed important to me so I took it.”
She remembered Jackson’s words: He won’t part with the letter for less than five hundred thousand. Could anything be more crazy? I tried to talk sense into him, but he won’t listen.
“Did you take photocopy of the letter?”
He stared at her, his eyes bewildered.
“No, ma’am. I just gave Mr. Jackson the folder.”
“And he gave you four thousand dollars in cash?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Didn’t you wonder why Jackson wanted something important from me? Didn’t you wonder why he should give you so much money?”
“I wanted the bike.”
“Don’t talk like a goddamn idiot!” Helga shouted at him. “You must have wondered!”
He flinched.
“I – I thought he wanted to make trouble for you, ma’am. I had never seen you. I was just thinking of the bike.”
“Do you know what blackmail means?”
He flinched again.
“Yes, ma’am. It is a bad think.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that Jackson was planning to blackmail me?”
“He wouldn’t do that, ma’am. Mr. Jackson is a nice fellow. He really is. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“And yet you did think he wanted to make trouble for me. What kind of trouble if it wasn’t blackmail?”
He wrung his hands.
“I didn’t think, ma’am. I just wanted the bike.”
“Jackson is now blackmailing me because of the letter you stole. He could go to jail for fourteen years . . . and so could you.”
Jones stared at her in horror.
“I just wanted the bike. I swear I didn’t mean . . .”
“Oh, stop it! If you want to stay out of jail,” Helga said, getting to her feet, “say nothing about this to anyone . . . especially Jackson. I will have another talk with you. In the meantime, get on with your work and wait until you hear from me. Do you understand?”
“Ma’am, I swear.”
“Do you understand?”
The snap in her voice jolted him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She picked up the tape recorder, switched it off and without looking at him, she left the suite.
chapter four
In the hotel lobby, Helga saw Dr. Bellamy coming from another elevator. The big, colored doctor gave her an uneasy smile, changed direction and came over to her.
“I was inquiring for you, Mrs. Rolfe. I was told you were out.”
She looked up at him: here was a massive, well-built man, she thought, but not for her. He had no confidence in himself and she could imagine he would sweat distressingly when making love.
“I’ve just returned. How is he, doctor?”
“His progress is reassuring. I am going to call Dr. Levi.” Bellamy moved with her away from the crowd to a quiet corner of the lounge. “Please sit down, Mrs. Rolfe.”
She sat on a settee and opened her handbag for a cigarette. Dr. Bellamy joined her. He fumbled rather frantically for a match but she had already lit her cigarette before he found one.
“I am suggesting to Dr. Levi that your husband could be moved from here to Paradise City hospital tomorrow. He has gained strength and, under sedation, I feel sure the journey wouldn’t distress him. However, there is a slight risk and this I will discuss with Dr. Levi. His heart.” Bellamy lifted his hands. “And he is worrying. Nurse Fairely tells me he is worrying about a letter.”
“Yes.” Helga looked down at her hands. “He has so many papers. I don’t know which particular letter it is that is worrying him.”
A pause, then Dr. Bellamy said, “If Dr. Levi agrees, you may make arrangements to leave sometime tomorrow.” He got to his fee. “I will be in again this afternoon when I can tell you the exact arrangements.”
When he had gone, she walked out into the bright sunshine and wandered in the the hotel grounds. Already people were playing tennis and the swimming pool was crowded. She found a secluded seat under the shade of a palm, then making sure no one was near, she took out the tape recorder and played back the tape. The boy’s frightened voice came to her clearly. If was an excellent recording and she nodded her satisfaction.
She thought of the boy. He couldn’t be more than nineteen years of age. She was twenty-four years his senior: old enough to be his mother. The tormenting desires moved through her. None of her lovers had been so young as he and yet, sitting there in the shade, feeling the heat of the sun, she wanted him desperately. She could teach him how to make love, she thought. His confession on tape gave her complete control over him. He was a young animal and young animals could be trained. Tomorrow she would be back in the big villa in Paradise City. Herman would in the hospital. She sat still, thinking, then she finally gave a little nod. She would take the boy back to Paradise City. He was in no position to refuse. Once there . . . she drew in a quick, sharp breath. And besides, she would get him away from Jackson. That was important. Then she thought of the big, fat woman who must be the boy’s mother. First, she must talk to her before telling the boy. Mothers could be difficult and suspicious. A West Indian! She was confident she could handle her. One thing at a time, she told herself. Offense I better than defense! She must stall Jackson and gain a little time.
Returning to her suite, she sat at the desk and turning on another of the recorders, still lying on the desk, she made a copy of the tape on the other recorder. She played the copy back, then satisfied, she put the original recorder in a stout envelope, sealed it, wrote her name on it, then put the second recorder in her bag. She picked up the telephone book. She found Jackson’s telephone number and asked the operator to connect her.
Jackson’s hearty voice came on the line.
“Discreet Inquiry Agency, Jackson talking. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jackson, you sound full of life,” she said, steel in her voice.
“Who is that?” His voice sharpened.
“Don’t you recognize my voice, Mr. Jackson? I thought you were a professional.”
“Oh . . . you.”
“Yes. Our little transaction will be slightly delayed. The bank here needs confirmation from my bank. Absurd, isn’t it? I will call you again,” and she hung up.
That would take care of Jackson for a while. She was confident he wouldn’t take action until he was sure she wasn’t going to pay. The delay would give her breathing space.
The telephone bell rang. She smiled. No, Mr. Jackson, you must learn to wait, she thought. Picking up the envelope, leaving the bell ringing, she went down to the lobby. The assistant manager was behind the reception desk.
“Please put this in your safe.” She handed him the envelope. “I will be keeping all four recorders. They will make amusing presents. Please bill me.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe.”
He gave her a receipt which she put in her bag, then crossing to the hall porter, she said, “I want a small car, please. U-drive.”
“Certainly, madame. The new Buick, perhaps?”
“No . . . a Mini will do.”
He lifted his eyebrows and bowed.
“In ten minutes, madame.”
“Would you know where Hinkle is?”
“On the second terrace, madame. Should I have him called?”
“No, thank you.”
She walked along the wide terrace, down the marble steps to the second terrace. She saw Hinkle sitting in a canvas chair, reading a book. He was wearing a white suit, a floppy bow tie and a large panama hat that rested on the back of his head. He looked like a bishop enjoying a well-deserved vacation.
“What are you reading, Hinkle?” she asked.
He glanced up, then rose to his feet, removing his hat.
“An essay by John Locke, madame.”
“John Locke?”
“Yes, madame. A seventeenth century English philosopher. In this essay he makes a case against the dogma of innate ideas and successfully proves that experience is the key of knowledge. It is remarkably interesting.”
Helga blinked.
“Why, Hinkle, I had no idea you were so learned.”
“I endeavor to improve my mind, madame. Was there something I can do for you?”
“Please sit down.” She sat in a chair near his. After hesitating, Hinkle lowered his portly frame into his chair, resting his hat on his knees. “Dr. Bellamy tells me that Mr. Rolfe could be moved tomorrow to the Paradise City hospital providing Dr. Levi approves.”
1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 7
