The Joker in the Pack

Chapter seven

The palm trees rustled in the slight breeze. Every now and then there came the sound of a soft thud as a coconut dropped. The faint roar of the traffic along the sea road blended with the swish of the sea, breaking on the beach.

Helga lay on the cushioned terrace chair. She had turned on the submerged lights in the big swimming pool, but had left off the terrace lights. The expanse of blue water, lit softly, made a soothing reflection on the terrace.

A middle-aged woman with hot pants.

The cruellest and the truest thing that had ever been said of her.

A cigarette smouldered between her fingers. For as long as she could remember, this sexual urge had tormented her; they had a word for it: nymphomania. She had imagined it was her own private and very special secret. Now this girl had ripped away the pretence. Thinking back into her past, Helga forced herself to admit the shaming fact that other people also knew, although they hadn’t said so. The smiling waiters, the young, husky men, even the middle aged roués with whom she had spent an hour or so were even now probably talking about her.

‘Strictly between you and me, old fella,’ she imagined them saying, ‘that Rolfe bitch is really keen. You know... Herman Rolfe’s wife. She drops on her back at the drop of a hat.’

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 head-shrinker if you had really wanted to make a fight of it. A head-shrinker? 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 centre 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 on to 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 also 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 a 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 a 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 such 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... can’t 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 believed 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 practising 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 coloured people you might believe in such nonsense as witchcraft, but I don’t and never will!’

Gritten found his pipe had gone out. He re-lit 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 motorbike. 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 and 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 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?’

Gritten puffed at his pipe as he looked at her.

‘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 for 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 ash tray.

‘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, 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 a 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, she 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 receptioness 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 roar of the 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 game? She was an expert player and the pro, overweight, playing for years with the fat and the 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.’

Men!

She smiled at him.

‘I was in the mood.’

Leaving him to chew on his defeat, she got in the Mini and drove to a small sea-food restaurant. She picked at a tough lobster in a white wine sauce. While she sat alone in the shade of the palm trees watching the young, the middle-aged and the old on the beach, she thought of Dick.

If he hadn’t broken his arm, she thought, he just might have come and just might have lain beside her on the king’s size bed.

All this stupid talk about Voodoo! This was something she just wouldn’t accept! How could a man like Gritten talk such nonsense!

Her mind shifted to Terry Shields. What was she doing? Then she thought of Jackson. Impatiently, she signalled to the waiter for her cheque.

The time now was 14.20. She had the whole afternoon, the evening and the night to face alone. A girl needs a man. How true! And yet, how dangerous! Again she thought of Herman with his twisted mouth forming the word whore. Patience, she told herself. You could be lucky. He could die. Then the magic key would be hers!

Getting into the Mini, she drove back to the villa.

Mrs. Joyce was preparing to leave.

‘There you are, ducks,’ she said. ‘Did you have a lovely morning?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Helga forced a smile. ‘And you?’

‘Yes... I like cleaning. It’s my life, ducks. Tom always said I was a two-legged vacuum cleaner.’ She laughed. ‘Men! They don’t even think of dust.’ She closed one eye. ‘We know what they think of, don’t we, Mrs. Rolfe?’

I know what I think of, too, Helga thought.

‘Yes. You’re right.’

‘The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter, dear,’ Mrs. Joyce said. ‘I’ll be in again at seven. I’ll bring you a nice slice of fish or is there anything else you fancy?’

‘No, fish will be fine.’

Helga watched the big woman ride away on her bicycle, then she walked into the living room. She looked around. The emptiness of this luxurious room and its silence weighed down on her. She went upstairs and took a shower, then going to the closet, she reached for her white pyjama suit. Taking it off the hanger, she paused to stare at it.

The pocket on the jacket, bearing her initials, had been neatly cut away.

For a long moment she stood staring at the jacket, puzzled. Then for no reason she could explain, she felt a creepy sensation run over her. She dropped the jacket as if it had become some horrible insect. She looked around the room, her heart racing. What did this mean? Who had done this? Mrs. Joyce? Unthinkable!

The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter.

She crossed the room and examined the two wooden shutters. They were locked into place. She hadn’t bothered to use them the previous night. She unlocked them and swung them to and fro. They worked perfectly. Re-locking them, she turned and looked around the bedroom. Her eyes went to the white jacket lying on the floor. She hesitated, then picked it up. She examined the neatly cut stitches. Someone had used a razor blade to remove the pocket. But why? With a little grimace she took the jacket into the bathroom and dropped it into the laundry basket.

She looked at her watch. God! How time crawled! It was 14.50. She went to the closet and examined all her clothes. None had been tampered with. She was aware how fast her heart was beating and she was angry with herself. There must be some reason for whoever it had been to cut off the pocket. This workman who had come to fix the shutter? She had read of perverted men who stole women’s pants from laundry lines. Was this workman like that? She was sure Mrs. Joyce wouldn’t have done it.

She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

She would talk to Mrs. Joyce this evening. She felt an odd atmosphere in the villa — a strange feeling — that bothered her. She felt she couldn’t stay here for the rest of the afternoon. She must get out... do something, but what?

She put on a yellow linen dress, selected shoes and a handbag, then went down to the living room. She walked out on to the terrace and looked at her own private beach: a quarter of a mile of lonely, deserted sand and sea and she turned away.

She couldn’t stay here on her own. The Ocean Beach club? Very soon it would be time for tea. She thought of those old freaks eyeing the cake trolley. Goddamn it! she thought to herself, even they are better than this loneliness.

She locked up, then getting into the Mini, she drove to the club. For the next two hours, she sat listening to the local gossip, watched old fat fingers pointing to cakes as the waiter served, drank two cups of tea, aware the men were preening themselves as they gathered around her. She was asked to make up a fourth at bridge and, as she still had time to kill, she accepted. Her partner, a retired General, was delighted to have her on his side. The other two: a thin, sour faced old lady and her husband who was plump and boisterous, played well, but Helga, as with everything she took up, was in the professional class. Her devastating memory and her ruthless bids completely pulverized her opponents who she later learned were regarded as the club’s best players.

She quickly became bored with this feeble opposition and at the end of the second game she excused herself saying she had an urgent appointment. The General who had scarcely contributed to the score was wreathed with smiles while the other two immediately began a fierce postmortem.

Helga returned to the villa at 18.50. She was mixing herself a vodka-martini when she heard Mrs. Joyce arrive.

As the big woman bustled into the kitchen, carrying a shopping bag, Helga said, ‘Join me in a drink, Mrs. Joyce.’

‘Not for me, ducks. If I smell a cork, I get tiddly. My Tom never touched a drop.’ She put the shopping basket down. ‘I’ve got you a lovely fillet of kingfish. I miss the English fish, like turbot, but this is really nice. Have it grilled, dear, with peas and rice. You’ll enjoy it.’

‘It sounds wonderful. I wish I could cook. May I watch you, Mrs. Joyce?’

‘I’m sure you do many things, dear. Cooking isn’t difficult. So many women make a commotion about it. I say, if you like eating, cooking is a pleasure.’

Resting her hips against the kitchen table, Helga lit a cigarette. She watched Mrs. Joyce prepare the fish.

‘About my bedroom shutter, Mrs. Joyce. Who was this workman?’

Having washed the fish fillet, Mrs. Joyce wiped her hands.

‘Who was he, dear?’ She looked sharply at Helga. ‘He told me you had asked him to come.’

‘It must have been the estate agent, Mr. Mason. I didn’t know the shutter was out of order.’

‘The boy said it needed oiling.’ Mrs. Joyce put a saucepan of water on to boil. ‘He was a nicely mannered boy. I felt sorry for him with his arm in plaster.’

Helga slopped her drink. Somehow she kept her face expressionless.

Dick!

‘Did you leave him alone at all, Mrs. Joyce?’

The big woman stared at Helga.

‘Did he steal something?’

‘No, but did you leave him alone in my bedroom?’

‘He came at the wrong moment, dear. I was cleaning the bath. I left him alone for no more than a couple of minutes. Is there something wrong?’

‘I found some of my clothes disturbed.’

‘Your clothes? A boy like that wouldn’t touch your clothes.’

‘No. Well, it doesn’t matter.’

‘There is something wrong, isn’t there?’ Mrs. Joyce looked distressed. ‘If he took anything, I’d tell the police, dear. The police here are ever so helpful.’

‘He didn’t take anything.’ Helga looked at her watch. ‘It’s all right. I’ll catch the news.’

‘News!’ Mrs. Joyce snorted. ‘You can do without the news, ducks. You turn on the telly and all you get is misery.’

Helga walked into the living room.

So Dick had been here. Dick had taken the pocket of her pyjama suit. Why?

She remembered what Gritten had said: I can assure you that Jones is just as dangerous as Mala Mu was. The police suspect that Jones learned a lot from Mala Mu and he is now practising witchcraft.

Utter rubbish, she told herself, and yet, there was this creepy atmosphere in the villa.

She forced herself to listen to the news: hijacking, two murders, industrial strife and five hostages held to ransom. How right Mrs. Joyce was: all you get is misery.

Mrs. Joyce came in and began to set the table.

‘Just ready, ducks,’ she said. ‘Sit you down.’

Still thinking of Dick, Helga moved to the table and sat down. She was surprised and pleased to see a half-bottle of Chablis waiting.

Mrs. Joyce served the meal.

‘I thought you’d like a glass of wine, dear,’ she said. ‘You pour it. I’m not good at that kind of thing.’

‘You are very thoughtful, Mrs. Joyce.’

‘I know a lady of quality when I see one, dear. Now go ahead and tuck in.’

‘This looks delicious.’

‘I’m sure you will like it. Now tomorrow, I thought you might like to try the conch chowder. Being a fisherman’s wife, I specialize in sea food and without making myself a liar, my conch chowder is the best on the island.’

‘I would love that.’ Helga found the kingfish excellent. Seeing Mrs. Joyce was prepared to gossip, she said, ‘I spent the afternoon at the Ocean Beach club.’

‘You did? Well, I never! That surprises me, dear. That club is only fit for old fuddy-duddies... not for a girl like you.’

Helga warmed to this woman.

‘While I am waiting for Mr. Rolfe to recover, I have to do something.’

‘You’re right. Waiting is always bad. What a pity there isn’t some nice man to take you around. Nassau is full of interest.’

‘At the club, we got talking. Do you believe in Voodoo?’

Helga looked sharply at Mrs. Joyce who abruptly lost her happy expression.

‘Voodoo? You’ve been talking about that evil thing?’

‘There were a couple of old people who seem to think it exists. What do you think?’

‘Mrs. Rolfe.’ The big woman was suddenly serious. ‘I am, I hope, a good Christian. I don’t believe in meddling with what the black people do. You ask if Voodoo exists. It does. A lot of nasty things go on in the native quarter. My Tim told me to have nothing to do with it and he knew.’

‘Nasty things? What kind of things, Mrs. Joyce?’

‘Magic... some of the black people make magic.’

Helga ate for a moment, then asked, ‘Magic? What sort of magic?’

‘Mrs. Rolfe, there are things best not talked about. You eat up your dinner and don’t let it get cold.’

‘But it interests me. Please tell me.’

Mrs. Joyce hesitated, then leaning her bulk against the kitchen doorway, she said, ‘Well, dear, these black people can do things. I don’t listen to the tales that go on here, but I do know there was a little boy living next door to me. His father was a fisherman like my Tom. One day a black man came and asked him for money. The fisherman hit him and threw him out. A day later, the little boy fell ill and went into a coma. The doctors could do nothing for him. Then finally the fisherman went to see this black man and gave him all his savings and the little boy recovered the next day. I saw all this with my own eyes. There are so many other tales. There was a dog who barked and barked and a neighbour just couldn’t stand it. He went to the black man and paid him money. The next day the dog stopped barking and never barked again. I could go on and on, Mrs. Rolfe, but you finish your supper. I’ll wash up.’

Mrs. Joyce went into the kitchen.

Helga finished the fish, drank some of the wine, then lit a cigarette. She was frowning, her mind busy.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. Witchcraft! Magic! No, she would not accept this old wives tale. Mrs. Joyce was as bad as Gritten. They had lived too long in the sun.

Mrs. Joyce reappeared and began clearing the table.

‘Did you like it, dear? I’ve got coffee ready. Would you like it on the terrace?’

‘That would be nice. The fish was wonderful.’

Helga went out on to the terrace and sat down. After a few minutes, Mrs. Joyce brought the coffee tray.

‘There’s a lovely Western on the telly, dear. Nothing like a good Western,’ she said as she poured the coffee. ‘If you’ll be all right, I’ll get off.’

‘Yes, of course. Then I’ll see you tomorrow, and thank you for everything.’

‘I’ll be in at eight. Have a nice evening, dear.’

‘And you too.’

It was only when Helga watched Mrs. Joyce ride away that she realized how lonely and empty this villa was. Impatiently, she got up and turned on the submerged lights in the pool. She wasn’t in the mood to watch television. Sitting down again, she drank the coffee. She was now beginning to wish she had remained at the Diamond Beach hotel. At least there would be people in the lounge to watch. If it hadn’t been for Dick she would have Hinkle to keep her company.

She stared at the moonlit beach. The silence, except for the gentle murmur of the sea, was oppressive. Could she spend the next three hours like this, staring at the empty sea, before going to bed? It was so lonely. She felt completely cut off. She could, of course, drive to the club and play more bridge, but that would be even worse than sitting here on her own.

While at the club that afternoon she had bought three paperbacks. She decided to settle here and read. She went into the living room and looked at the books she had bought. Deciding on a historical novel (even greater than Gone With the Wind) she started back to the terrace, then paused.

She had a sudden instinctive feeling that she was being watched. She stood motionless in the middle of the big room, listening. Only the sound of the sea came to her. Then the thud of a falling coconut.

Again she experienced the creepy feeling she had already experienced when she had found the pocket of her pyjama suit had been removed. She had always prided herself on her strong nerves, but it came to her with an unpleasant impact that if an intruder arrived, apart from the telephone, she was completely unprotected.

But who would come here? she thought, irritated with her sudden uneasiness. She was imagining things!

Bracing herself, aware her heart was beating too quickly, she walked out on to the terrace. The soft light from the swimming pool seemed to her now to produce an eerie effect. Even the moon now seemed to cast a sinister light.

She paused still conscious that she was not alone, that someone was watching her.

But who?

Some black man? He could sneak up on her. Her screams would be lost in this lonely place.

Forcing steel into her voice, she called out, ‘Is someone here?’

There was a long pause while she stood there, now frightened, then she heard a rustle from a big clump of shrubs close by and her heart skipped a beat.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s all right, Mrs. Rolfe... it’s only me.’

Out of the darkness, into the dim light, the figure of a man appeared.

Helga caught her breath sharply.

‘It’s me... Harry Jackson.’

She stared for a long moment at the shadowy figure, then her alarm turned to fury.

‘How dare you come here! You will leave at once or I will call the police!’

Jackson moved further into the light. She saw he was carrying a small cardboard box and he was wearing his best suit.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe.’ His voice was husky. ‘I need your help and you need my help. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘You heard what I said! Leave at once or I’ll call the police!’

He moved to the terrace table and put down the cardboard box.

‘Please look at this, Mrs. Rolfe.’

He took off the lid and pushed the open box towards her.

Her heart hammering, Helga stared down at the small wooden doll lying in the box: a male doll with a balding head, miniature dark glasses, dressed in white silk pyjamas.

The likeness to Herman was so shocking, she only just suppressed a scream.

Embedded in the doll’s head was a long, glittering needle.

A small black cloud drifted across the face of the moon. A sudden breeze rustled the palm trees.

Jackson said in a quavering voice, ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got to leave here. Only you can help me.’

‘What is this?’ She pointed to the doll.

He dropped into a chair and hiding his face in his hands, he began to cry: the snivelling noise a small boy makes when he has hurt himself.

Helga stared at him, then at the obscene doll. She realized she had nothing to fear from Jackson. He was a weak, slobbering male-less thing worthy only of contempt, but the doll scared her.

For a moment she stood thinking, aware she was feeling cold. Then she went quickly into the living room, to the cocktail cabinet and poured two stiff brandies. She carried the glasses back to the terrace.

‘Drink this and stop snivelling!’

The snap in her voice reacted on Jackson who grabbed the glass and drained it.

‘I must have money, Mrs. Rolfe! I must get away from here! I have information to sell.’

‘You have?’ She was now in command of herself. She sat down and lit a cigarette. ‘You’re getting nothing from me, but you will explain about this doll or I will call the police!’

‘I have information to sell,’ Jackson whined. ‘I swear you will get value for money, Mrs. Rolfe. I’ve got to leave here! That little half-caste bastard is going to get me killed!’

Helga forced herself to look again at the doll. It was unmistakably an effigy of Herman Rolfe. Around the doll’s neck hung a tiny plastic bag which had something in it.

‘Who made this?’

‘He did... Jones. He said he could stop you leaving Nassau by putting Mr. Rolfe into a coma! He said that by putting a needle in the doll’s head Mr. Rolfe would go into the coma!’

Helga felt a shiver run through her. She remembered what Mrs. Joyce had said about the little boy living next door to her. She also recalled the puzzled, worried expressions on the faces of Dr. Bernstein, Dr. Levi and Dr. Bellamy. Was this possible? Could a needle driven into the head of a doll have sent Herman into this mysterious coma? She remembered what Gritten had said: When I first came here, I thought like you that Voodoo was nonsense. I also didn’t believe a man could walk on the moon.

Stop this stupid thinking! she told herself. You know such things can’t happen! There is a joker in the pack somewhere! This snivelling man is trying to con you!

‘You had better explain,’ she said, her voice unsteady.

‘That’s why I am here.’ Jackson clenched and unclenched his hands. ‘I need money, Mrs. Rolfe. Give me five thousand and I’ll tell you everything.’

She regarded him contemptuously.

‘If you persist in trying to blackmail me, I’ll call the police and you can explain everything to them!’

He cringed.

‘You wouldn’t want the police to know about this, Mrs. Rolfe. I’m not trying to blackmail you. I swear I’m not! I must have money to leave here. The information I can give you is worth much more than five thousand. Jones is carving a doll to resemble you. He stole a bit of silk with your initials on it to make the doll’s dress. He said he must have something belonging to the person he wants to control.’ With a shaking finger, Jackson pointed to the tiny plastic bag hanging around the doll’s neck. ‘In that bag, Mrs. Rolfe, are nail parings belonging to your husband. Jones got them when he cleaned the hotel suite. I’m telling you, Mrs. Rolfe, he is planning to kill you.’

Although shaken, Helga stubbornly refused to accept this.

‘I’ve told you, Jackson! Get out! I’ve had enough of this nonsense!’

‘Jones has bled me white! I’ve got no money!’ Jackson wailed. ‘I’ve got to get off this island! Lopez is already hunting for me! Mrs. Rolfe, for God’s sake, give me some money! If Jones hadn’t broken his arm he would have finished the doll and by now you would be dead!’

Staring at his frightened, sweating face, Helga suddenly became frightened. By now you would be dead. She recalled Gritten’s serious face. She recalled Mrs. Joyce’s change of expression when she had asked about Voodoo. Was this possible?

With an effort, she forced herself to say, ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. Get out!’

Jackson stared hopelessly at her, then lifted his hands in despair.

‘Then I’ll have to trust you to help me, Mrs. Rolfe. That girl... Terry Shields.’ He leaned forward. ‘I can tell you who she is.’

‘For the last time... get out!’

‘Jones and she are planning to get rid of you by Voodoo so she can inherit Rolfe’s money!’ Then stabbing his finger at her, Jackson went on, ‘Terry Shields is your step-daughter! She is Sheila Rolfe who will inherit all her father’s money if you are dead!’