Helga felt a cold shudder run through her. She knew men. She knew they couldn’t resist boasting of their conquests. Why had she imagined – as she had done – they didn’t talk and snigger about her?
Well, you have asked for it, she told herself. You have never had the guts to fight this thing. You could have gone to a headshrinker if you had really wanted to make a fight of it. A headshrinker? A crutch! No, that wasn’t the way. She had to cure herself and it still isn’t too late!
This girl had jolted her to face the fact that she just must stop being promiscuous (and even as she told herself this, she remembered the times she had already made this empty promise). If only Herman would die! She would marry again, be free of all these dangerous sexual adventures. Herman’s letter condemning her to the life of a nun was still in the hotel’s safe. She would destroy it if he died, but if he recovered!
She closed her eyes.
If he recovered, her life would become unbearable. She remembered the hate in his eyes, his twisted mouth getting out the word: Bore! which she knew meant whore. If he recovered she would have to leave him. She would find a job. She would find a husband with money. She . . .
Goddamn it! she thought. Face up to it! What man with important money would want to marry me at my age? But with sixty million dollars the magic key to the world would be in her hands.
She thought of Dick Jones. She must have been out of her mind even to have thought of taking this callow boy into her bed. But it hurt that he seemed so desperate to keep out of her bed that he had invented the excuse of a broken arm. To hell with him! She had had yet another escape. Forget him! Let him fool around with Terry. But, and again a cold shiver ran through her: they would both be sniggering.
Let them snigger! That girl with her red hair! Admit it, Helga thought, she is impressive. She has character. She is wasted on a little creep like Dick.
She got to her feet and wandered around the swimming pool. Was this going to be her future life as long as Herman lived? Luxury and loneliness? She thought of the Ocean Beach club with all those awful English freaks with their greedy eyes fixed on the trolley of cream cakes and the men with their raddled faces and swollen bodies. If only Herman died! Then she would be free: the mistress of sixty million dollars!
She became aware that the front door bell was ringing. She looked at her watch. The time was 20.40.
Was it Dick?
Had Terry given him her message and, scared of the police, he had come?
Even the thought of taking him into her bed now revolted her, but by God! she would vent her misery and fury on him! She would give him something by which to remember her!
She walked quickly across the living room as the bell rang again. Jerking open the door, her eyes snapping fire, she once again received a shock.
Instead of the fawn-eyed Dick, Frank Gritten stood on the doorstep, pipe in mouth, his grey suit ill fitting, the center button of the jacket straining against a generous paunch.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Rolfe.” He removed his pipe and raised his panama hat. “I was on my way home and saw the lights. I have information for you, but if you would rather I came back tomorrow . . .”
She forced down her fury and managed to smile.
“Come in, Mr. Gritten. I was just going to have a drink. Will you join me?”
“Thank you.”
He followed her into the living room.
“This is comfortable, but lonely.”
“Yes!” She walked over to the cocktail cabinet. “What would you like?”
“You are here alone, Mrs. Rolfe?”
She paused and looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Is that wise? You are very isolated.”
“What would you like to drink?” The snap in her voice told him she wasn’t in the mood for advice.
“We policemen drink whisky, Mrs. Rolfe.”
She forced a laugh.
“I’ve read enough detective stories. I should know that.”
She made him a stiff whisky and soda, then fixed herself a vodka martini.
“It’s cooler outside.”
Carrying his drink, Gritten followed her onto the terrace and when she flopped into her lounging chair, he sat beside her.
“I remember the owner of this villa, Mrs. Rolfe. He was unlucky.”
“So I have been told.” She sipped her drink, thinking it wasn’t as good as the vodka martinis Hinkle made for her. “So you have information for me?”
“Yes. You said you wanted it fast.” Gritten lit his pipe, drank some of the whisky, nodded his approval, then went on, “Dick Jones.” He paused to look at her. His blue eyes had the hard stare of a police officer. “I am not only going to give you information, Mrs. Rolfe, but I am going to offer you advice.”
She met the probing eyes with her steely stare.
“I am interested in facts Mr. Gritten. I don’t need advice!”
“That’s the point.” Gritten puffed at his pipe, apparently unperturbed by the snap in her voice. “I’ll give you the facts, but in your present situation, Mrs. Rolfe, you also need advice.”
“Give me the facts!”
Gritten removed his pipe, regarded it, then tapped the glowing tobacco with his finger.
“You are a newcomer to Nassau and possibly to the West Indies. I have lived here for twenty years. You hired Jones to work for you. You probably thought he was a deserving boy whom you would like to help. You didn’t take the precaution to speak to the police about him, and, Mrs. Rolfe, before you hire anyone here, it is essential either to take up references or consult the police.”
Helga sipped her drink, then set down the glass.
“Are you telling me I made a mistake hiring this boy?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rolfe, that’s what I’m telling you. I told you Jones has been in trouble. He is the last servant you should employ as you live here so alone.”
Helga stiffened.
“For heaven’s sake! A boy like that? Don’t tell me he is a murderer?”
Gritten’s expression remained serious as he shook his head.
“No, he is not that. At the age of twelve, he was sent to reform school for stealing a chicken.”
Thoroughly irritated, Helga sat forward, her eyes snapping.
“Are you telling me that a twelve-year old boy can be sent to reform school for stealing one goddamn chicken? I’ve never heard of such a disgraceful thing! He was probably desperately hungry!”
Gritten removed his pipe, rubbed the bowl and then replaced it in his mouth.
“I was rather expecting you to say just that, Mrs. Rolfe, but then you don’t know the West Indians. This is my point. The chicken wasn’t eaten. It was used for a blood sacrifice.”
“A blood sacrifice? Is that a crime?”
“Not to you perhaps, but let me explain. Some seven years ago, a voodoo doctor came here from Haiti. You probably don’t know what a voodoo doctor is, Mrs. Rolfe. He is a man who has remarkable talents to make witchcraft. If he is a good man, he makes good magic. If he is an evil man he makes bad magic. This man – his name was Mala Mu – made bad magic. He started an extortion racket here. ‘You pay me so much or your husband, your wife or child will fall ill.’ That kind of thing. Few British residents here bother about the native quarter. The police have to. Voodoo is something they are very aware of and can’t afford to ignore. Mala Mu employed Jones to steal chickens, dogs, cats and even a goat or two for his blood rituals. Finally the police arrested Mala Mu and also Jones.”
Helga finished her drink.
“I’ve never heard of such rubbish,” she said. “Witchcraft . . . magic . . . blood rituals!” She made an impatient movement with her hands. “I can understand ignorant natives believing such nonsense, but you? Surely you of all people cannot believe such ignorant rubbish.”
Gritten regarded her calmly.
“I understand your reaction, Mrs. Rolfe. When I first came here, I thought like you . . . that voodoo was nonsense. I also bel
ieved that no man would walk on the moon. Now, being here for twenty years, I have a much broader outlook. I am satisfied that voodoo not only exists, but is an extremely dangerous force. I can assure you that Jones is just as dangerous as Mala Mu was. He, by the way, died in jail. The police suspect that Jones learned a lot from Mala Mu and he is now practicing witchcraft although they have no proof.”
This seemed to Helga to be so ridiculous that she lost patience with this placid, pipe smoking man.
“This is something I don’t accept,” she said curtly. “I suppose if you have lived for years in this exotic, sun soaked place among superstitious colored people you might believe in such nonsense as witchcraft, but I don’t and never will!”
Gritten found his pipe had gone out. He relit it before saying, “That’s right, Mrs. Rolfe. As you have employed me, it is my job to give you the facts. It is up to you to accept or reject them. Now there is something that is bothering the police. Jones has become the owner of an expensive motorcycle. Chief Inspector Harrison who is in charge of the police here is wondering how a poor boy like Jones could find more than four thousand dollars to buy this bike. Blackmail goes hand-in-glove with voodoo, Mrs. Rolfe.” Gritten paused and looked at her, his blue eyes probing. “If Jones is blackmailing someone, the victim can rely on the police to keep his or her name secret. Harrison would like nothing better than to put Jones in a cell.”
God! Helga thought. The messes I get into!
Gritten waited, looking at her when she said nothing, he went on, “People are often reluctant to admit they are being blackmailed. This is understandable, but it does hamper the police. Blackmail victims are always protected and are always treated as V.I.P.s.”
Helga hesitated. Should she tell this burly, pipe smoking man the whole sordid story? She wanted to but couldn’t face confessing to him that she was a middle-aged woman with hot pants.
“I asked you, Mr. Gritten,” she said, using her cold steel voice, “to find out if Jones had broken his arm, where he is now living and to give me information about this girl, Terry Shields. That was our terms of reference and what I am paying you for. I have now decided not to employ Jones so if he happens to be a blackmailer and a voodoo doctor, it is no concern of mine. Has he broken his arm?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rolfe, he has broken his arm. Late last night he got into a skid and took a bad fall.”
Helga felt suddenly deflated. So the broken arm hadn’t been an excuse! Terry hadn’t been lying. More important still, the boy hadn’t made the excuse of a broken arm to keep out of her bed.
“And where is he staying?”
“Last night, he stayed at a beach hut owned by Harry Jackson, Mrs. Rolfe,” Gritten said, his police eyes watching her.
Startled, Helga somehow kept her face expressionless.
“How odd! Was he alone?”
“According to my operator who is still watching the hut, Jackson joined Jones around one o’clock last night. He left just after nine o’clock this morning. Jones is still in the hut.”
“The girl – Terry Shields – wasn’t there?”
“No, Mrs. Rolfe.”
Helga thought, then shrugged. She forced herself to show indifference, which she didn’t feel.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Gritten. I have one small problem. As I am not employing this boy, I am without a servant. Could you recommend someone? I won’t be entertaining here so the cooking will be simple.”
Gritten rubbed the bowl of his pipe as he thought.
“You would be wise not to employ a West Indian, Mrs. Rolfe,” he finally said. “The English woman who works for me has a sister who needs employment. Her name is Mrs. Joyce. Her husband was a fisherman. He was drowned in a storm last year. I can recommend her.”
“Then would you ask her to come tomorrow? I was paying Jones a hundred a week. Would that be all right for her?”
Gritten gaped at her. For the first time she had surprised him out of his calm.
“That is far too much, Mrs. Rolfe. Fifty would be more than enough.”
Too much? Helga thought, with all her money?
Impatiently, she said, “I wish to pay her a hundred dollars a week. Money helps people. I like to help people.”
Gritten again gave her a hard cop stare.
“She will be delighted.”
“I think that is all, Mr. Gritten. Thank you for the information. The assignment – do you call it that – is now finished.”
Gritten brooded a moment.
“There is the girl, Terry Shields. Do you still want a report on her?”
By now Helga was utterly sick of Dick Jones and Terry Shields. She wanted no more of them.
“I am no longer interested. Thank you for what you have done.”
Gritten leaned forward and tapped out the dead ash from his pipe into the ashtray.
“Then I owe you some money, Mrs. Rolfe.”
“I said your assignment is finished. You owe me nothing.” She forced a smile. “Again, my thanks for what you have done.”
Gritten got to his feet.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Rolfe, you don’t want to check on this girl?”
Helga now longed to be alone. She had to control herself not to scream at him.
“No thank you, Mr. Gritten. I no longer need your services.”
It was one of her impulsive decisions that she was to later regret.
* * *
Mrs. Joyce turned out to be more English than the English. She arrived on a bicycle which seemed to be buckling under her weight. She was a large woman, heavily corseted, around forty years of age, her hair tightly permed, her English complexion reminded Helga of a polished apple.
“Do you like tea, ducks?” she asked as soon as she had introduced herself. “Or are you a coffee fiend?”
“Startled and bewildered, Helga said she preferred coffee.
“I’m a tea drinker,” Mrs. Joyce beamed. “It’s an English habit. You just sit and rest yourself. I’ll have a cup of coffee for you in a jiffy.”
For God’s sake! Helga thought. What have I found now?
But the coffee was good and Mrs. Joyce’s kind chatter amusing.
“Wonderful place, isn’t it dear? But you must feel lonely. I miss my man. Us girls get lonely without our men. I read about your good husband. At least he is alive. My Tom is just a memory to me, but a precious memory. He was a fine man. Would you like me to get lunch? Or would you like nice bit of fish for supper?”
Helga said she would like dinner. She would be out for lunch.
“What a lovely figure you have, ducks,” Mrs. Joyce said admiringly. “I’ve worked for other ladies. My! They just don’t take care of their figures, but you . . . honest, ducks, you should be proud!”
Slightly bewildered, Helga warmed to this woman. She felt in need of kindness.
“How nice of you to say that, Mrs. Joyce. You are right . . . living alone, I get depressed. I suppose when one reaches forty-three and there is no man around, one does get depressed.”
“Forty-three? You’re making yourself a liar, dear. You don’t look a day older than thirty. My hubby used to say a woman is old as her roll in the hay.” She laughed, slapping her work worn hands together. “My Tom was a proper caution. The things he used to say! But he was right. So long as you miss a man, you’re not old.”
Helga suddenly relaxed, and smiling, said, “Do you ever want a man, Mrs. Joyce?”
The big woman grinned.
“Me? Why, ducks, that’s what life is about, isn’t it? When I get hot, I find a man. Tom would approve. A girl needs a man now and then.”
Helga, suddenly close to tears, turned away.
“Yes . . . a girl needs a man.”
“There it is, dear.” Mrs. Joyce’s voice sank a tone. “That’s life, isn’t it?” She picked up the coffee tray. “You have a lovely morning. I’ll get on. Tom always said I talk too much,” and she bustled into the kitchen.
A lovely morning?
Helga stared out
at the sun-soaked beach. What was she going to do? Swim alone? Go to the Ocean Beach club and listen to the yak of those ghastly women in their dreadful flowered hats and to the raddled, fat men who would stare at her, wondering and speculating?
She remembered Herman and with an effort she called the hospital. The receptionist told her gently that there was no change.
Mrs. Joyce came from the kitchen.
“Is the poor dear still bad?” she asked.
“Yes.” Helga got to her feet. “I’ll take a swim.”
“You do that, dear. I had to give up swimming after my miscarriage, but sea water is good for you.”
Helga flinched.
When a middle-aged woman gets hot pants for a boy young enough to be her son, cold water helps.
She went upstairs, put on a bikini, then walked across the stretch of sand and into the sea. She floated in the blue, warm water, staring up at the sky, looking at the nodding heads of the palm trees, hearing the murmur of motorboats and the distant hum of traffic.
A paradise, she thought, if only she had someone with whom to share it.
A girl needs a man.
If only Herman would die! As she floated in the warm sea his death seemed to be the only solution. Once free of him, with sixty million dollars, she would be able to make a new life for herself with some virile, attentive man to take care of her.
A new life!
But she had an instinctive feeling that Herman wouldn’t die for years. He would slowly recover. He would regain his speech. He would tell Winborn to cut her out of his will.
Utterly depressed, she swam back to the beach. Half an hour later, leaving Mrs. Joyce busy with the vacuum cleaner, she drove in the Mini to the Ocean Beach club. The secretary, beaming, was there to welcome her. She told him she was in the mood for a game of tennis. Could the pro give her a good game? She was an expert player and the pro, overweight, playing for years with the fat and elderly, didn’t realize what had hit him when Helga, her mood vicious, gave him the game of his life. She finally beat him: 9-7, 6-1, 6-0.
“You are a splendid player, Mrs. Rolfe,” he gasped, toweling himself. “The best game I’ve had since I played Riggs.”
1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 14
