My mind shifted to Bertha, and I grimaced. I now regretted I had confided in her. She was now smelling a million dollars, and she wouldn’t stop nagging me until I did put on the bite.
I then went into my usual technicolour dream of owning a million dollars. This time, I swore to myself, when I got the money, I wouldn’t spend like crazy. I would buy stock for my old age, and live on the income, but even as I swore, I knew the million would vanish as quickly as Diaz’s fifty thousand had vanished. Money just wouldn’t stay with me.
Getting bored with my thoughts, I took a walk around the big garden. The flowers, the lawns, the shrubs were immaculate. A Chinese gardener, who looked like Judge Dee, was wagging his long beard over a bed of begonias. He gave me a squinting look of disinterest and returned to his beard wagging.
The big swimming pool looked inviting, but lonely. I wondered if Herschenheimer ever used it. I doubted it. He would probably think someone might jump out of the bushes and drown him.
I saw Jarvis, Herschenheimer’s butler, coming down the path towards me. Jarvis could have stepped out of the pages of Gone with the Wind. He was the most dignified old negro I have ever seen: tall, very thin, with crinkly white hair, large black eyes and heavy white eyebrows. He would have gladdened the heart of Scarlett O’Hara and the rest of her ilk. I had come to know him well when I last did this job, and I had found that he had an insatiable thirst for crime stories. He would sit for hours, listening to my lies, believing every yarn I dreamed up, with me the central, daring hero, to be true. In return, he provided me with splendid food, and often a box of cigars he had filched from his master.
His old face lit up with a wide smile when he saw me.
“What a pleasure, Mr. Anderson,” he said, shaking hands. “I asked for you, but Miss Kerry wasn’t sure you would be back from your vacation. I’m so glad. Did you have an enjoyable time?”
As we walked back to the cottage, I told him about the yacht, and about Bertha. He had heard from me about Bertha on my previous stint. I told him Bertha worked for the CIA, so anything I even hinted at about her, he absorbed with wide eyed interest.
When I ran out of telling him lies about my own adventures, I switched to Bertha who, according to me, made Mata Hari look like a convent novice.
We settled in the shade outside the cottage, and he began questioning me about what I had been doing. Having just read a Hadley Chase thriller, I outlined the plot to him, with me as a central character. When I had concluded, an hour later, he got reluctantly to his feet.
“You live a most remarkable life, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “I must now attend to Mr. Herschenheimer’s tea. I have invited Mr. Washington Smith to have dinner with me at seven. Perhaps you would join us? Mr. Smith is Mr. Hamel’s butler. He comes over here during his hours off. He is a pleasant, well-spoken man.”
“Sure,” I said. “Glad to.”
“I’ll arrange to have the meal served in the cottage. It will be more convenient for you to keep an eye on possible intruders,” and he gave me a bass laugh to show he was joking.
When he returned to the house, I walked down to the big tree by the entrance gates. It was screened from the house by other trees. I had no trouble swinging myself up to the lower branches, and from there, climbed up and up, until I was overlooking the high hedge that surrounded the Hamel residence.
Sitting astride a branch with my back to the tree trunk, I looked down into the Hamel garden and the ranch style house.
The Ferrari and the Ford wagon stood on the tarmac before the house. There was no sign of life. I sat there for the next two hours, but no one appeared. The house might have been empty.
At 19.00, Jarvis arrived at the cottage with Hamel’s butler.
“Mr. Washington Smith meet Mr. Bart Anderson who is looking after the security of the estate while Mr. Jordan is on vacation,” Jarvis said.
Mr. Smith smiled as we shook hands.
“We have met before Mr. Anderson.”
“That’s right. Glad to see you again.”
A young negro in white wheeled in a trolley, and quickly laid the table while Jarvis poured martini cocktails.
“Hey! I thought the boss didn’t dig liquor,” I said.
Jarvis smiled.
“There’s an old saying, Mr. Anderson, about what the eye doesn’t see.”
“The heart doesn’t grieve about,” Smith concluded as he reached for a glass.
It was during a good meal of pork chops in chili sauce that I began to pump Smith.
I said it was sad about Mrs. Highbee. I had been at the funeral, and had seen Mrs. Hamel collapse. How was she?
Smith munched for a few moments, then shook his head.
“She is recovering. Mrs. Highbee was her closest friend. It was a great shock, but she is recovering.”
“And Mr. Hamel?” I said, my voice casual. “I found him an impressive personality. He said he was going to use me in his book.”
Smith sighed.
“I’m worried about Mr. Hamel. He has never been happy since he took up marriage. I have been with him for the past fifteen years. He made a mistake marrying Mrs. Gloria... she was no lady. The divorce distressed him. I thought all would be well when he married Mrs. Nancy.” He looked at me. “I don’t know a nicer lady. I had every hope that the marriage would be a success, but Mr. Hamel is not happy. I don’t understand it.”
I could have told him. I remember what Gloria Cort had said: You’d think a guy who could write that stuff would be good in bed. Was I conned? He’s as useless to a woman as boiled spaghetti.
“Well, he certainly makes money with his books. I guess one can’t have everything,” I said.
“Yes, indeed. Tomorrow, he goes to Hollywood to discuss the film treatment,” Smith said. “The film will bring him a lot of money. Mr. Hamel is most generous. He always gives me and my wife, who does the cooking, a present when he sells a film.”
“How about the other staff?” I asked, probing. “Do they get something?”
“We have no other staff. In spite of his wealth, Mr. Hamel likes to live simply. He seldom entertains, and when he does, he hires staff and orders food. It is an easy place to run, and my wife and I are not pressed. He always has cold supper. That is why I am able to grace Mr. Jarvis’s excellent table.”
“I guess Mrs. Hamel will be going with him to Hollywood? Should take her mind off her loss.”
He shook his head.
“No, Mrs. Hamel will stay. It will only be for three or four days. I don’t think she feels like mixing with the Hollywood people.” He frowned. “They are very special.”
Jarvis, who had been listening without interest, broke in, “You must tell us about these two Indian boys who died, Mr. Anderson. I am sure you have theories about them.”
“Well, no. Even the police don’t understand it,” I said, thinking how their eyes would bolt out if I told them the facts. “But I can tell you about this odd business the Agency handled last year,” and I launched in to yet another of my made-up cases which kept them on the edges of their chairs until Smith said regretfully he had to get back or his wife would be wondering where he was.