Chapter three

It took Helga less than five minutes of feverish searching to convince herself that the folder containing Herman’s letter to Winborn had been stolen.

Feeling cold, her fists clenched, her face a hard mask, she walked back into the living room and sat down.

Who could have stolen it?

Winborn? Unthinkable. Hinkle? Her eyes narrowed as she thought. He knew the contents of the letter. Had he discovered she had taken it and had decided to put it out of her reach should she be tempted to destroy it? She considered this, but she couldn’t imagine Hinkle searching her bedroom before coming on the apparently empty suitcase. No... she refused to believe Hinkle would do such a thing. Then who?

She then remembered the hotel manager had seen her take the folder from the desk and take it to her suite, but she couldn’t believe the manager of a hotel of this standing... no, that was ridiculous. Then she recalled the two security guards who had been guarding the corridor had been withdrawn. So while she had been swimming, anyone could have come to the top floor and entered her suite.

She lit a cigarette and forced away the teeth of panic that threatened to nibble. She had to face the fact that the letter had gone, that she had lost one of her trump cards. Now what was going to happen? Would the thief send the letter to Winborn? She was far too cynical to believe that. Once again the stage was set for blackmail. Her lips twisted into a hard, little smile.

The discreet buzz of the telephone made her stiffen. She hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

‘Winborn is calling, Mrs. Rolfe,’ the operator told her. ‘Should I put him through?’

Winborn?

Helga frowned. Winborn should be winging his way back to Miami by now.

‘Are you sure there isn’t a mistake? Mr. Winborn has left for Miami.’

‘The gentleman says he is Mr. Stanley Winborn, and it is urgent.’

‘Put him on.’

There was a pause, then she heard the operator say, ‘Go ahead, Mr. Winborn.’

Helga said, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi! Don’t hang up. I’ve got something you want.’ She recognized Harry Jackson’s breezy voice.

Here it is, she thought and the steel in her hardened. She should have thought of him, the harmless black mamba.

‘You don’t waste much time, do you, Mr. Jackson?’ she said, her voice steady while her eyes snapped fire.

He laughed his casual laugh.

‘You can say that again, Mrs. Rolfe.’

She heard a tap on the door, then the door opened and Hinkle came in pushing the service trolley.

‘I can’t talk now,’ she said curtly. ‘Call me back in an hour,’ and she hung up.

‘The omelette should be eaten immediately, madame,’ Hinkle said as he fussed with a chair. ‘To allow it to cool will spoil it.’

She braced herself, got up and walked to the chair he had placed before the table. As she sat down, he spread the serviette across her lap.

‘And you spoil me too,’ she said. Was it her voice saying this?

‘It is my pleasure, madame,’ Hinkle said.

He lifted the silver cover and with loving hands served the omelette. He poured wine, then stood back, his pudgy hands clasped in front of him.

It said a lot for Helga’s iron control that she was able to eat the omelette and chat with Hinkle.

When she had finally forced down the last mouthful, she praised his cooking, refused coffee and thankfully wished him good night.

When he had gone, she went out on to the terrace. It was a hot night with a brilliant moon. People still bathed. Their excited, happy voices floated up to her, emphasising her loneliness.

I’ve got something for you.

It could only be Herman’s letter to Winborn. How had he obtained it? There would be a blackmail demand... that was for sure. What was she going to do? If he sent the letter to Winborn, her life, as she knew it, would come to a grinding halt. The Swiss portfolio would be taken from her. The trip to Lausanne that she was now longing for would be off. She would have to ask Winborn to finance her until Herman recovered sufficiently to take over. Don’t panic, she told herself. The letter hadn’t yet reached Winborn. First, she must listen to Jackson’s terms. Was an ex-salesman of kitchen equipment going to dictate the kind of life she would lead? Getting up, she moved around the big terrace, thinking. She now had to control herself and her active mind probed for a way out. Making a decision, she went into the living room and called the Head porter.

‘Yes, Mrs. Rolfe?’ The bow was in the voice.

‘I want a pocket sized tape recorder with a microphone,’ she said. ‘The microphone must be very sensitive. I want it within an hour.’

There was a slight pause, then the gears slipped into mesh.

‘It will be arranged immediately, Mrs. Rolfe.’

‘Thank you,’ and she hung up.

She went to her closet and selected a white linen handbag. With a pair of scissors, she cut away the lining. If the microphone was sensitive enough the recorder could record while out of sight in the bag.

For the moment, there was nothing else she could do. If Jackson sent the letter to Winborn, she could nail him as a blackmailer. She would have to be careful how she handled the transaction he would propose. She would have to direct the conversation so that he incriminated himself. She knew about voice prints. The police would be able to identify him as the blackmailer.

Forty minutes crawled by, then the assistant manager, a tall, willowy, blond man tapped on the door.

‘I understand, Mrs. Rolfe, you require a tape recorder. I have a selection,’ and he set four tiny recorders down on the table.

‘Which is the most sensitive?’ she asked.

‘I believe this one.’ He pointed to a recorder, slightly larger than the other three.

‘Thank you... leave them.’ She smiled at him. ‘I will play with them.’

‘You understand how they operate, Mrs. Rolfe?’

‘I am familiar with recorders.’

When he had gone, she experimented with the recorders, putting each in turn in her handbag and talking. It was while she was testing the last recorder that the telephone bell buzzed.

‘Mr. Winborn calling, Mrs. Rolfe.’

She glanced at her watch: exactly an hour.

‘I will speak to him.’

Jackson came on the line.

‘Listen, baby, I don’t like being told to wait.’ His voice sounded hard. ‘Is that understood?’

‘I was under the impression, Mr. Jackson,’ Helga said, ‘that salesmen, no matter how inefficient, are trained, at least, to be courteous. You seem to have lost your manners — if you ever had any. You will not call me baby. Is that understood?’

A pause, then Jackson laughed.

‘Beautiful, brainy and tough. Okay, Mrs. Rolfe, forget it. Do you feel like a swim tonight? The same place?’

Her mind worked swiftly. It would be too dangerous to meet him in that lonely spot. No, she would face him on ground of her own choosing.

‘Come to my suite, Mr. Jackson. We can talk on the terrace.’

He laughed again.

‘Not such a hot idea. I have your reputation to think of and mine too. How’s about the Pearl in the Oyster restaurant? We could have coffee.’

‘In half an hour,’ Helga said and hung up.

She played back the recordings. The recorder the assistant manager had recommended gave a remarkably clear playback. She put it in her bag, added cigarettes, a lighter, her purse, her compact and a handkerchief, then slipping on a light wrap, she went down to the lobby.

She intended to be the first to arrive at the restaurant. The Cadillac taxi pulled up outside the Pearl in the Oyster, one of Nassau’s popular night spots. The Maître d’hôtel immediately recognized her.

‘Why, Mrs. Rolfe, this is a great pleasure,’ he said, his black face lighting up.

‘I am meeting a Mr. Jackson,’ Helga said. ‘We will only have coffee. Could you let me have a quiet table, please?’

‘Of course, Mrs. Rolfe, if you wouldn’t mind being upstairs. We have alcoves there.’ The Maître d’hôtel’s face went blank telling Helga how startled he was.

He led the way up the stairs and to an alcove that overlooked the main dining room.

‘Would this do?’

She paused to survey the crowd below, aware of the noise of voices, the clatter of plates and cutlery. This noise could wreck the recording.

‘I would prefer somewhere quieter,’ she said.

‘Then may I suggest the after-casino balcony? No one is there at present, Mrs. Rolfe. Perhaps you would prefer that?’

‘Let me see it.’

He took her along a corridor to a broad balcony overlooking the beach and sea. Apart from four or five coloured waiters, the place was deserted.

‘This will do, and thank you.’ She slid a ten dollar bill into his hand. ‘Will you please bring Mr. Jackson to me when he arrives? Coffee and brandy.’

Jackson arrived ten minutes later. She had put her handbag on the table and as she saw him coming along the corridor, she quickly switched on the recorder. It would run for thirty minutes and that, she thought, would be long enough to incriminate him.

Jackson was wearing a freshly pressed white suit, a blue and white checkered shirt and a red tie. He looked handsome and presentable. At any other time, he would have set Helga’s blood on fire.

‘Hi, there,’ he said, waving away the Maître d’hôtel. ‘Have I kept you waiting?’ The wide, friendly smile was in evidence as he sat down.

She looked beyond him at the Maître d’hôtel.

‘We will have coffee now, please.’

‘Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe.’

When he had gone, Helga looked directly at Jackson. He was completely relaxed, his big hands on the table, very confident. Her eyes swept over him. How deceptive men could be, she thought. Who would imagine this frame of muscle and flesh and good looks housed the mind of a blackmailer?

‘How’s Mr. Rolfe?’ Jackson asked. ‘Any improvement?’

‘How is the peeping Tom agency, Mr. Jackson?’ Helga asked politely. ‘Better prospects?’

He gave her a sharp look, then laughed.

‘I’ll say.’

A waiter brought coffee and two brandies in balloon glasses.

They waited until he had gone, then Helga said, ‘It is just possible you might imagine that this meeting is distasteful to me. Would you please tell me why you arranged it?’

‘I was under the impression, Mrs. Rolfe, that you set it up,’ Jackson said, smiling at her. ‘You need not have come.’

A point to him, Helga thought. She mustn’t waste time.

‘You said you have something I wanted... what is it?’ She dropped sugar into her coffee.

‘A good question.’ He sipped his coffee, crossed one long leg over the other and continued to smile at her. She longed to slap his handsome face. ‘When you gave me the brush off this afternoon, Mrs. Rolfe, I was ready to call it quits. You were in an iron-clad position. I had nothing in writing from Mr. Rolfe. I wasn’t going to tangle with Winborn. I steer clear of tough cookies. So I was all set to kiss my retainer good-bye.’ He picked up his glass of brandy and sniffed at it. ‘So you have the complete photo, Mrs. Rolfe, let me tell you how I operate. I don’t have a regular staff. I have contacts. As an investigator it is a must to have a contact in every luxury hotel. I regard these contacts as invisible people... the staff. People who can go in and out of rooms, walk down corridors, clean the baths and still remain invisible to the guests. It costs me five hundred dollars and that’s money to me, Mrs. Rolfe, to buy the services of the fink who cleans your room, cleans your bath and makes your bed. Now this fink is a half-caste West Indian who wants nothing in life except a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide motorcycle. These bikes cost. He has been saving and saving, but he was well short of the target. Then this week a model arrived out here: just one, you understand, Mrs. Rolfe. He knew if he didn’t grab it, he would have to wait maybe another six months. Well, you know how it is... people, these days can’t wait, so I gave him the money and he bought the bike. In return, he did this favour. You know, you do something nice, the other guy repays you... quid pro quo... does that surprise you... me talking like this... quid pro quo? I’ve had some kind of education: not much more than quid pro quo, but some.’ He sipped the brandy, then held up the glass to stare at it. ‘Pretty good, but then that’s how the cards fall for you, Mrs. Rolfe. You say brandy and you get the best. I say brandy and I get hogswash.’

Helga wanted a cigarette, but she couldn’t touch her bag while the recorder was working. She controlled the urge and looked out at the deserted beach, at the moonlit sea and she listened.

‘So this fink who cleans your room took a look around. The system is, Mrs. Rolfe, that as soon as a guest leaves the room, the fink moves in and puts it straight. He is an intelligent fink and he is anxious to please. I tell him: “Look around. If there is anything that looks important, I want it.” So he stared at me with his intelligent black eyes and asks: “What’s important?” I tell him: “I want to nail this baby. Love letters would do fine.”’ Jackson laughed. ‘You know Mrs. Rolfe, this was a shot at the moon. I hadn’t any hope he would land a fish, but he did. When he gave me this letter from your husband to Winborn, I hit the roof.’ He paused to sip more brandy. ‘Am I reaching you, Mrs. Rolfe?’

So that was how it was done, Helga thought. Go on talking, snake, you’re cutting your own throat.

‘I’m listening,’ she said.

‘I bet you are.’ Jackson laughed. ‘So I have the letter. Pretty strong stuff, isn’t it? If this Winborn character gets it, it seems to me you will be out in the cold.’

Thinking of the revolving tape, Helga hurried the conversation along.

‘You could be right,’ she said. ‘This is blackmail, of course. How much, Mr. Jackson?’

‘But didn’t you tell me you never paid blackmail?’ Jackson asked, his smile jeering.

‘There are times when even the best generals lose a battle,’ Helga said. ‘How much?’

‘You surprise me.’ Jackson studied her thoughtfully. ‘I thought you would try a wriggle.’

‘I am not interested in your thinking,’ Helga said, her voice steely. ‘How much?’

The jeering smile slipped a little.

‘Frankly, if it was only between you and me, Mrs. Rolfe, I would give you this letter for nothing. I would expect you to give me my retainer of ten thousand dollars... my out of pocket expenses. That would be fair, wouldn’t it?’

Helga said nothing. She sipped her brandy, longed for a cigarette, her face wooden.

‘But this fink has ambitions,’ Jackson went on. ‘Can you imagine what he did? He took two photocopies of the letter, gave me one and here’s one for you.’ He took from his wallet a folded paper and pushed it across the table to Helga who took it, glanced at it and saw it was a copy of Herman’s letter. ‘Frankly, Mrs. Rolfe, I didn’t imagine a half-caste fink would have had the brains to set up a thing like this. He is more ambitious than I am. As I’ve said, I’d be happy to get my retainer, but he has other ideas.’

Helga turned her cold look on him.

‘So?’

‘This fink tells me that the letter is a gold mine. Now when a half-caste boy talks about a gold mine, I don’t pay a lot of attention, but when he started to elaborate, I took notice.’ Jackson shook his head, finished his brandy and smiled at her. ‘I guess he has bigger ideas than I have.’

This is almost too good to be true, Helga thought. As he sits there, shooting off his mouth, he is cutting his throat.

She could imagine the police descending on him. She imagined them picking up this hotel servant. To hell with Herman’s money! To see this smart alec snake and his fink in court would repay even the loss of sixty million dollars... stupid, angry thinking, but that was how she felt at this moment.

‘He has?’ she said quietly. ‘How big? Couldn’t you stop this yakking, Mr. Jackson, and tell me what it will cost to get this letter back?’

Just for a moment, Jackson looked uneasy, then the confident grin returned.

‘Yeah... I do run on. Well, for me, I want ten thousand dollars by tomorrow, not later than midday. I want it in cash. That will take care of my expenses which will be fine with me. Leave the money in an envelope with the Hall porter.’ He looked at her. ‘Okay?’

Helga inclined her head.

‘Now the fink... this is more tricky. As I’ve explained, Mrs. Rolfe, I hadn’t an idea how his mind would work. Anyway, he has talked around and he’s learned what a big shot you have married. He knows now that your husband is loaded. 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. I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe, but that’s the way it is. If you want the letter, it’ll cost you five hundred thousand, plus my ten thousand.’

Helga kept her face expressionless, but the shock was severe.

After a pause, she said, ‘I find it hard to believe a coloured servant should think in such big terms.’

Jackson nodded.

‘That makes two of us, Mrs. Rolfe. I was knocked for a loop, but that’s how the cookie crumbles.’

‘And this coloured boy gets all this money? Aren’t you being very modest, Mr. Jackson?’

He laughed.

‘Yeah: you could say that, but I only want my expenses. I like my job. I’m not ambitious. Frankly, I’m sorry I’ve got snarled up with this fink. Between us we could have settled this thing for ten thousand. If you had agreed last night instead of getting on your high horse, I wouldn’t have told him to search your room.’

Helga regarded him.

‘Aren’t you talking too much, Mr. Jackson? You are letting your tongue run away. It was while we were talking on the beach that this fink, as you call him, was searching my room. That tells me you and he were working together and I am quite sure you and he will share whatever I pay.’

Again the confident smile slipped. He looked away from her, thought for a long moment, then the smile switched on again.

‘As I’ve already said, Mrs. Rolfe, you have brains. Okay, I’ll put it on the line. It was the fink’s idea. I wouldn’t have thought of it, but when he said you would pay, I did think about it. With all this money coming to you when your husband kicks off, I saw the fink had an idea. He couldn’t handle you. I saw that, so after thinking, I told him I would set up the deal and he and I would go fifty-fifty. So, Mrs. Rolfe, if you want the letter you give us ten thousand tomorrow and five hundred thousand in bearer bonds in ten days’ time.’

‘And I get the letter?’

‘Sure... no fooling. You get the letter.’

Helga drew in a deep breath.

She had him now! If she had to lose Herman’s money, at least this snake would land in jail!

‘All right. The money will be with the Hall porter by twelve o’clock tomorrow.’ She got to her feet.

‘So it’s a deal?’ Jackson asked her, smiling at her.

‘It’s a deal.’

As she reached for her handbag, he beat her to it. His big hand dropped on the bag as he continued to smile at her.

‘No, Mrs. Rolfe. Not as easy as that,’ he said. ‘You are way out of my league. You caused a lot of uproar in the hotel when you asked for a sensitive recorder. The fink telephoned me.’

He took the recorder from her handbag, slipped out the tape, put the recorder back into her bag and the tape into his pocket.

Then he leaned forward, his handsome face a sudden snarling mask that chilled her.

‘You are dealing with a professional, you stupid bitch!’ he said softly. ‘Don’t ever try tricks with me. Ten thousand tomorrow or you’ll be out in the cold.’ As he got to his feet, he suddenly grinned, his friendly grin. ‘Good night, baby, sleep alone,’ and he left her, staring after him.


As Helga walked into the hotel lobby, the Hall porter came from behind his desk. Seeing he wanted to speak to her, she paused.

‘There is an urgent call from Mr. Winborn, madame. He is staying the night at the Sonesta Beach hotel, Miami. He asks if you would please call him back.’

‘Thank you.’ She moved to the elevator.

In her apartment she walked out on to the terrace. She sat down, half aware of the big floating moon, its reflection on the sea and the strident shouts of the night bathers.

Ten thousand dollars presented no problem... but five hundred thousand!

Was she going to submit to blackmail?

She lit a cigarette. She never felt so alone. She thought bitterly that she had always been alone. The only child, her brilliance had cut her off from other children, her father had been interested only in his business; her mother only interested in the church. Always loneliness, plus this damnable sexual urge that had tormented her into dangerous adventures.

Face it, she said to herself, you are on your own: there is no one to help you: you are in a hell of a spot, so what are you going to do about it?

Thinking, she realized that even if Herman died this night, she would have Jackson and this half-caste on her back for life. They would give her the original letter but keep a photocopy. If she refused further demands and they sent Winborn the photocopy, he would take action. With his legal know-how and his spite, he would begin legal proceedings, especially if the hotel manager confirmed that she had taken the letter. Winborn could block her from the sixty million dollars!

She sat still, thinking, gathering her strength and her confidence in herself. This was going to be a lonely battle, she told herself. She had said to Jackson, ‘The best of generals lose battles.’ But now she was determined this was the one battle she would not lose.

She returned to the living room and asked the telephone operator to connect her with the Sonesta Beach hotel.

‘I want to speak to Mr. Stanley Winborn.’

There was a delay. Calm, she smoked and stared out at the moonlit sea. She told herself: ‘I have so much to lose. I can afford to take risks. If I do lose, I’ll make sure no one gains.’

When Winborn came on the line, she said, ‘This is Mrs. Rolfe.’

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Rolfe.’ The cold voice came clearly over the line. She could imagine the steely grey eyes and the aloof, unfriendly expression. ‘Could I ask you to do something for me?’

Surprised, she said, ‘Of course.’

‘While flying to Miami, I got thinking about what your husband was trying to say. That odd phrase: “Sin on. Better law.” After repeating it several times, it occurred to me he was trying to say, “Winborn. Letter. Drawer.”’

You smart sonofabitch, Helga thought.

Forcing her voice to sound casual, she said, ‘I would never have thought of that, Mr. Winborn.’

‘I called Nurse Fairely. She asked Mr. Rolfe if that was what he was trying to say. By his reaction, it was. Nurse Fairely is sure that there is a letter for me in one of Mr. Rolfe’s drawers.’ A pause. ‘May I ask you to check, Mrs. Rolfe?’

Not so smart, Helga thought. What you should do is to come back here and check yourself.

‘We looked through all the drawers together, Mr. Winborn,’ she said. ‘There was no letter.’

‘But there could be. We were looking for the Japanese contract.’ A sharp note crept into Winborn’s voice. ‘Would you look more thoroughly?’

‘Of course. If I find a letter for you, I will call you back.’

‘I am sorry to bother you with this, but Nurse Fairely tells me Mr. Rolfe keeps on about this letter.’

‘If I don’t call back within an hour, you will know I haven’t found it,’ Helga said.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Rolfe.’

‘How is he?’

‘There is no change.’

She hung up and sat still for some moments. Winborn was no fool, but the immediate present was more important. She had sensed the suspicion in his voice. If he really became suspicious, he could make inquiries. The hotel manager, innocently, would tell him that she had taken the red folder from Mr. Rolfe’s desk.

She hunched her shoulders. In spite of the hot, humid air, she felt cold. But this was no time to worry about Winborn. First, she had to deal with Jackson... but how?

Suddenly, she felt exhausted. She remembered her father had often said to her, ‘When you have a serious problem, don’t make a quick decision... always sleep on it.’

She got to her feet and walked into the bedroom.

‘Sleep alone,’ Jackson had said with a jeering grin.

If only there was a man here, she thought: a muscular, tall and virile man who would take her and send her on a sensational trip of relief, who would wash away the memory of Jackson’s confident, jeering smile, her half-dead husband and this threat to her freedom.

She went into the bathroom, opened the mirror cabinet, took out a bottle of sleeping pills and shook two into her palm. She tossed the pills into her mouth and swallowed them. Stripping off her clothes, she took a shower, then went into the bedroom and dropped on to the bed.

The sounds of people enjoying themselves floated up through the open window. She could hear the roar of the passing traffic. Faintly, came the sound of the restaurant orchestra. It was playing I Follow My Secret Heart.

Secret heart?

Yes, her heart was secret but also lonely.

She fought back tears. She despised self-pity. Impatient with herself, she reached out and turned off the light.

For some minutes, she lay in the dim light of the moon coming through the slots of the sunblinds, then the two pills mercifully took hold of her and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

It was when the effect of the pills was wearing off that she began to dream. She dreamed that she was in her father’s office in Lausanne. He was sitting behind his big desk, tall, thin, upright, his face sternly handsome while she stood before him and told him about Jackson.

Although a brilliantly clever international lawyer, her father was given to old-fashioned clichés. In this dream he talked to her but his words didn’t register. All she could hear were the clichés: ‘What you put in, you take out.’ ‘What you lose on the swings, you gain on the roundabouts.’ Then leaning forward, he said distinctly, ‘Offence is better than defence.’ She was waking as she heard his voice saying, ‘Always know your enemy.’

She came awake with a start. The dream had been very real and she looked around the luxurious bedroom, not knowing where she was, then remembering. The sun was coming through the slots of the blinds. She looked at the clock on the bedside table: the time was 08.13.

She lay still, thinking about her dream. Know your enemy. The drugged sleep had restored her energy. Her mind was clear. She lay thinking until 09.00, then she ordered coffee.

She was in the bathroom, finishing a quick toilet when she heard a tap on her door.

‘Come in.’

She slipped on a wrap and came into the living room as Hinkle wheeled in a service trolley.

‘Good morning, Hinkle,’ she said. ‘What is new?’

‘Mr. Rolfe has passed a fair night,’ Hinkle said as he poured the coffee. ‘Dr. Bellamy will be seeing him this morning.’

She took the cup of coffee he handed to her.

‘Could you find out two things for me, Hinkle?’ she asked.

‘Certainly, madame.’

‘I want the name of the hotel detective and the name of the man who cleans this suite.’

Hinkle lifted his eyebrows: his way of expressing astonishment, but he said impassively, ‘The hotel detective is Tom Henessey, madame. The cleaner is a young half-caste whom they call Dick.’

‘What a mine of information you are, Hinkle.’

He regarded her.

‘Is there something wrong, madame?’

‘Not at all. I believe in knowing the people who look after me.’ She smiled at him.

‘Yes, madame.’ She could see she hadn’t convinced him, but she was beyond caring. ‘Will you be in for lunch?’

‘No, I don’t think I will. I’ll either lunch in the grill-room or out.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you, madame?’

How she longed to tell this solid, kindly man about Jackson. She shook her head.

‘Give me one of your beautiful cocktails at six this evening,’ she said. ‘Nothing more. Do go out and enjoy yourself, Hinkle.’

‘Thank you, madame. If there is nothing then I will take advantage of the sun.’

When he had gone, she finished her coffee, completed her toilet and then went along to Herman’s suite.

Nurse Fairely, smiling, let her into the big living room.

‘I’ve come to see if I can find this letter that is worrying my husband,’ Helga said. ‘How is he?’

‘He is gaining strength, Mrs. Rolfe. He had a good night.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘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 modelled in wax and that had been exposed to a flame and had melted. The right side of the mouth was flaccid and hung open, showing his teeth and saliva dripped on to a towel on his white silk pyjamas. 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 fat, 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 coloured 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 roof, weeds in the garden, grey sheets hanging out to dry and a big, fat 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 on, 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 spray swishing around in the bath.

She looked into the bathroom. A slim figure in white drill was bending over the bath, his head out of sight.

‘Are you Jones?’ she asked, pitching her voice high to get above the sound of the spray.

The figure started, 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 moulded features.

They stared at each other.

A blackmailer? Helga thought. This she found hard to believe.

‘Are you Jones?’ she repeated.

The boy turned off 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 coloured 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 thought 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 half way 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 thing.’

‘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.

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