Back in my apartment, Bill moved around the living room restlessly while I lit a cigarette and brooded.
The telephone bell rang. I reached and picked up the receiver.
‘Mr Wallace?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Correct. Who is this?’
‘I am Mr Walinski’s secretary,’ the voice told me: a hard, metallic voice of a woman who could be of any age. ‘Mr Walinski would like to talk to you. Will you come to the Spanish Bay Hotel at five o’clock. I will be waiting for you in the lobby and will take you to Mr Walinski’s suite.’
The phone clicked off before I could say a word. I put down the receiver and told Bill.
Bill whistled softly. We both knew that the Spanish Bay Hotel was the best, most expensive and most exclusive hotel on the east coast.
‘Does himself well. Are you going?’
‘I’m going,’ I said.
At a few minutes to five o’clock, I walked into the ornate lobby of the Spanish Bay Hotel.
There was the usual scene: old residents sitting, drinking tea and yakking. This was a place for only the rich. Two waiters moved around, pushing trolleys loaded with cream buns and fancy cakes. They were not short of customers.
She was waiting by the reception desk: tall, raven-black hair, green eyes: not a beauty, but so sensual, her vibes seemed to flick out of her like sparks. She was in white: a short coat and a beautifully tailored skirt. She looked a million dollars.
She lifted a hand with long, slender fingers and came towards me.
‘Mr Wallace? I am Sandra. My other name doesn’t matter. I’m always known as Sandra.’
‘Hi, Sandra,’ I said, looking at her body. She had everything a man could desire. Big breasts, tiny waist, solid buttocks and long legs. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Mr Walinski wants to talk to you. Be careful with him, Mr Wallace.’ She regarded me thoughtfully. ‘He’s not what he appears,’ then, turning, she led the way to the bank of elevators. We rode up to the sixth floor and walked down a long passage, then she paused at a door, inserted a key, then paused to look at me.
‘Be careful,’ she murmured, and opening the door, she stood aside and waved me into a big room with a vast terrace. It was all very deluxe.
I walked in.
‘Mr Walinski, Mr Wallace is here,’ Sandra said, raising her voice. ‘He’s on the terrace,’ she said to me.
So I walked across the big room and out onto the terrace that overlooked the beach, the palm trees, the bathers and the sea.
Joe Walinski was standing by the balcony rail. He turned and came towards me.
I was surprised. I was expecting to see a big, threatening thug of a man. Knowing that Walinski was a mafioso, knowing he was a blackmailer, I was thrown off balance by his appearance.
Smiling, was a short, thickset man who could be any one of the many big shot businessmen one sees down here on vacation. He was slightly overweight, balding, sun-tanned, immaculately dressed in a lightweight pale blue suit, a silk cream-coloured shirt, and some kind of club tie, his feet in Gucci slip-ons.
His round well-fed face was equipped with a short nose, a wide, almost lipless mouth and blue-grey eyes, set wide apart. He had a big dimple in his jutting chin. He oozed wealth and good humour.
‘Good of you to come, Mr Wallace,’ he said, offering his hand.
I hesitated, then shook hands. He had a firm but not aggressive grip.
‘Let’s sit down. It looks as if we’re going to have more rain. This is the rainy season.’ He led the way to a table and chairs, covered with an awning, and waved me to one of the chairs.
We sat down, and I was aware he was sizing me up. Those blue-grey eyes were searching: eyes that never missed a thing.
‘Coffee, perhaps?’ he said. ‘It is a little early for a drink.’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
‘Perhaps tea?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’
He lifted his heavy shoulders.
‘Well then, let us talk. I am busy. You are busy. We mustn’t waste each other’s time.’
I waited.
He crossed one short leg over the other.
‘I want to tell you how sincerely sorry I am about Miss Suzy Long. I want you to believe that this devilish job was done without my knowledge. This was done by a man who happens to work for me. He was a mindless creature who would do anything for money. When I questioned him, he confessed he had received five thousand dollars to do this devilish job. He told me he had got the money from Hank Smedley who was acting for someone else. He didn’t know who. Under pressure, he said it was a private vendetta.’
I was listening. My mind switched back to the scene in the bank when Angela Thorsen had hissed at me: ‘I will make you sorry for this! God! You will be sorry!’ I saw again her frustrated expression. Was it she who had given Hank five thousand dollars to ruin Suzy’s face?
‘Mr Wallace, you have settled accounts with Smedley. I have settled accounts with my man.’ Walinski paused and those grey-blue eyes suddenly became steel-blue eyes. ‘He is a thing of the past. I have an organisation that takes care of people like him: no fuss: finish. As for Smedley, I no longer employ him. If it will make you feel better, he too, can be a thing of the past. Would that please you?’
‘You mean you turn your thumb down and Hank will be dead?’ I said.
‘That’s crudely put, Mr Wallace, but not to waste time, just tell me.’
‘Let him live.’
‘You have a forgiving nature, Mr Wallace. If someone had done to my girl what those two did to yours, I wouldn’t be forgiving.’
‘Let him live,’ I said. ‘I will make his life a misery.’
He nodded.
‘I am sure you will.’
Sandra came out with a tray of coffee things, set the tray on the table, poured two cups of black coffee and then went away.
She was so electrifyingly sensual, I had to make a considerable effort not to turn in my chair and watch her cross the terrace.
I became aware Walinski was watching me.
‘She’s a useful girl,’ he said with his good-humoured smile. ‘Her father once worked for me. When he died, I took her on as my secretary. She is quite indispensable now.’
I said nothing.
He sipped his coffee. I didn’t touch mine.
‘Well now, Mr Wallace, let us conclude this meeting,’ he said. ‘I hope you are satisfied. I want you to be satisfied. My man is no more. I leave Smedley’s future in your hands. Now, Mr Wallace, I realise that by destroying Smedley’s club you took a quick revenge. However, when a bomb goes off in this tranquil city, it causes a ripple of fear among the rich who come here. I don’t want any more bombs. My business is with the rich. If they think there will be more bombs, they will go elsewhere, and that’s bad for my business. You are an intelligent man. You will understand what I am saying, but at the same time, you could be tempted to start more trouble. I ask you not to do that.’ He smiled. I was beginning to hate his wide, good-humoured smile. To me, it was like a rattlesnake smiling. ‘As you probably know, I am part of a vast organisation which operates in every country in the world.’ He finished his coffee and set down his cup. ‘So I advise you not to cause any more trouble in this city. But if you do, you will regret the impulse. Is that understood?’
I got to my feet.
‘I hear you, Mr Walinski,’ and turning, I walked across the terrace and into the big living room.
Sandra was waiting and moved to the door. She paused, her hand on the door handle and we looked at each other. No woman I had ever seen compared to her. She wasn’t a woman I could love as I had loved Suzy. She was apart from all other women I had known. Those green eyes were compelling: dangerous, fascinating eyes. Then there was her sensuality, her body, and the complete, cold confidence so few women have.