Carried by the wind a warm drop of rain came in through the open car window and splashed on my hand. My mind jerked back to reality. The wind was now roaring through the palm trees and the sea was turbulent. Heavy, black clouds began to blot out the moon. A streak of lightning split the sky followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Down came the rain: a steel curtain of wet violence.
I hurriedly wound up the window, set the windscreen wipers in motion, started the engine and flicked on the air conditioner.
For the moment, the period of thinking was over. There was time. Vidal wouldn’t return for another six days.
I headed for home.
For the next two days, it rained incessantly.
When Rhoda was at home she was either glued to a magazine or to the goggle box. She informed me that the weather service reported that there was a hurricane building up off the West Indies. This was the cause of the spell of bad weather. It was too early yet to say if the hurricane would be heading our way.
My mind was far too occupied to bother about hurricanes.
During those two days I had no news of Val. I was afraid to ask Dyer, still more afraid to seek out Mrs. Clements and ask her for news. I was alarmed to see from my office window Dr. Fontane arrive and depart twice a day. Surely these twice daily visits must mean that Val was very ill. It tormented me that I dare not ask nor show interest. I would have given anything to have gone to her room to find out what was happening, but the risk was too great.
At night, with Rhoda asleep at my side, I thought of Vidal. With the wind and the rain slamming against the window, I thought myself closer and closer to the acceptance of murder.
‘Probably you won’t have the guts to kill him,’ I told myself, ‘but if you manage to screw up enough guts, how do you plan to do it? What kind of a jerk would you be if suddenly you had the opportunity and were without the means?’
Vidal presented a problem. Physically, he was at least three times as powerful as I was. By his movements. I was sure his reflexes were quicker than mine. The only safe and sure way to kill him was to shoot him. But I knew nothing about guns. I had had my chance to learn when I was a kid that I hadn’t taken it. All the same it would have to be done with a gun. If I got close enough to him. I should be able to kill him. So I decided to kill him — if I was going to kill him with a gun.
But where to get the gun? I would have to be careful. The gun must not be traced to me. The safest place was a pawnshop. From what I had read you could buy a gun from a pawn broker, no questions asked. There must be pawnshops in West Palm Beach. If I could leave my desk for a couple of hours, I would go there and see if I could buy a gun.
I woke to find the sun shining, although the wind was still brisk. While Rhoda and I had breakfast, she talked about the hurricane.
‘I’m scared it’ll head this way,’ she said. ‘I was talking to a client yesterday and she said it is really terrible when a hurricane arrives. She remembers the last one, three years ago. The damage was awful and ten people were drowned, just imagine!’
I finished my coffee.
‘It hasn’t yet arrived.’ I got to my feet. ‘I must be moving.’
‘It’s serious Clay.’ Her eyes were round with worry. She loved to dramatise any situation, and of course, a thing like a hurricane was just her meat. ‘We could be marooned! We could even run short of food!’
‘Well, see you, honey.’ I was only half listening to what she was saying. ‘If I’m going to be late back I’ll call you.’
‘You’re too busy thinking about your stinking work to bother about me!’ she exclaimed, suddenly angry. ‘You don’t give a damn if I’m worried or not!’
‘I too have my problems, Rhoda,’ I said and picking up my briefcase, I left her.
As I was parking my car Dyer drove up in his E-type Jaguar.
‘Hello, old boy,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a couple of days. Mavis will have sorted the mail by now. Want to see if there’s anything for you?’
‘Sure. What’s this about a hurricane? My wife is getting worked up about it.’
‘We haven’t had one this way for three years. I guess we’re due one.’ He led his way into his office. ‘There’s always a chance it’ll blow itself out before it reaches us.’
He sat behind his desk and flicked through the mail, then he handed me three fat envelopes.
‘There you are. I hope they aren’t headaches.’ He grinned. ‘How’s your new typist?’
‘She’s excellent. That raises a point. I hired her on a temporary basis. How is Mrs. Vidal?’ I opened one of the envelopes so I need not look at him. My mouth was dry and my heart was thumping.
‘If your typist is good Burden, my advice to you is to keep her on a permanent basis. It’s my bet Mrs. V. won’t be doing any work for some time, if ever.’
I looked up and stared at him.
‘Is she that bad?’
‘Confidentially and don’t pass this on, she is in one of those odd trances of hers.’ He lit a cigarette and pushed the silver box towards me. ‘Although he doesn’t say so, Fontane is foxed. Of course he doesn’t know that she could be hypnotised and I’m not telling him. He would think I was out of my mind. He’s bringing a specialist to look at her this morning.’
Huskily, I asked, ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, but Mrs. Clements is with her most of the time. She tells me Mrs. V. is in a semi-coma, won’t talk, eats practically nothing... in fact, doing her zombie act. She appears, according to Mrs. Clements, to have lost all interest in life.’
He has destroyed me!
‘Couldn’t you get your friend Dr. Rappach, to look at her?’
‘Not a chance. That old wreck? He’s beyond helping anyone except his nigger children as he calls them.’
‘I thought you were a friend of his?’
‘I met him at a charity do. He amused me and I gave him money for his deserving nuts. He’s not a bad old boy.’
‘Shouldn’t you tell Dr. Fontane about the finger snapping business?’
‘That would be sticking my neck out and that’s something I never do. If you want to stick yours out, you tell him. Let’s face it, old boy, you probably started this.’