Lucan hesitated, then said cautiously, ‘I think I might be able to help you.’
For the first time since they had met, the man gave a wry, grim smile.
‘It’s remarkable,’ he said, half aloud, ‘what money can buy.’
Lucan scarcely heard him. His mind now was in top gear. Among his numerous underworld associates, he knew several who wouldn’t hesitate to waste anyone so long as the price was right. He would act as go-between, take his share of the loot and then forget the whole business.
Now, relaxed, he looked at the man who was staring watchfully at him.
‘You must understand that this kind of thing isn’t my scene,’ he said, ‘but I have connections. It can be arranged. Would you give me a couple of days to look around?’
‘And you must understand,’ the man said, menace in his voice, ‘this has to be utterly foolproof. A convincing lethal accident, and no come-back. Yes, have a couple of days. I expect a watertight, foolproof plan. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Star Motel.’
‘Then the day after tomorrow, we will meet there at eleven in the morning. I expect you to have arranged this to my satisfaction.’ The man stood up. ‘Good-night to you,’ and he walked swiftly out of the bar and out of sight.
Lucan gave him three minutes, then, leaving the bar, he went to the entrance of the Casino.
The doorman touched his cap.
‘Can I call your car, sir?’
Lucan extracted a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.
‘No, thanks.’ He folded the bill. ‘Who was that tall gentleman who has just left? I seem to recognize him.’
‘Why, that’s Mr Sherman Jamison,’ the doorman said, eyeing the bill.
‘I thought it must be.’
The bill exchanged hands, then Lucan hurried to the car park, got in his rented Mercedes L 200 and drove onto the boulevard.
In the Casino’s VIP car park, Sherman Jamison sat in his Silver Ghost Rolls Royce, his mind active.
‘I have started the operation,’ he thought. ‘It now remains to see if this man can fix the problem.’
He admitted to himself that he was uneasy about dealing with Lucan: a greedy, slimy gigolo, but he had no alternative. He had no connections with likely killers who could be hired, although he was sure there must be many of them. He had to depend on Lucan who would be reasonably safe as a go-between, and seemed confident he could find the right man. What he had been told by a frustrated, elderly rich woman that ‘That scoundrel will do anything for money’ seemed to be proving correct.
Jamison warned himself that he would have to be very careful when dealing with Lucan. At least, he had a month’s leeway. The plan had to be perfect: no police: a straight forward, unfortunate lethal accident. Nothing crude. In two day’s time, he would know if Lucan could come up with the right plan, then, of course, he would have to be doubly careful.
His mind then switched to his wife, Shannon. They had been married for eight years. On the credit side, she was fair and handsome, an excellent hostess, which was important to his business connections. She organized his two homes with smooth efficiency, handling their staff firmly, but with kindness. She was loving and warm-natured. On the pillow, she was satisfactory, always willing when he wanted her. The debit side, however, weighed heavily against her.
Jamison’s obsessional desire was to have a son. He had married Shannon when he was just over forty years of age. He had inherited the Jamison Computer Corporation from his father and had greatly increased its growth and potentials. He longed to have a son to inherit this great kingdom he and his father had built up. ‘Always keep the company in the family,’ his father had often said. Jamison wanted a son to guide him, teach him, to make him as successful as himself. When Jamison wanted something as badly as this, he made sure, no matter the means, of having it.
During the past six years, Shannon had had three miscarriages. None of these miscarriages were due to her own fault. She had exercised the utmost care, but they happened. As each miscarriage happened, Jamison became more and more hostile. Then last year, it looked as if they had succeeded. In her seventh month of pregnancy, Shannon tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. She was rushed o hospital. The baby was born dead… a son.
Jamison, looking at the tiny dead baby, felt a surge of frustrated, furious disappointment. He could scarcely bear to look at his wife. For two weeks, he kept away from her, travelling to London and Paris on business. Shannon had consulted the best specialists who assured her that this was a freak of nature, and there was no reason why she couldn’t produce a son. In fact, they were certain of it. With their benign smiles, they told her to be patient and to try again. She got them to write to Jamison who was not impressed.
That was the first dangerous black mark against Shannon.
The second black mark, nothing like so serious, but still a black mark, was that Shannon was a strict Roman Catholic. Jamison was an agnostic and, when they married, Jamison accepted the fact that she had been brought up as an RC and had shrugged his shoulders, but when he realized that it would mean that Shannon attended Mass every morning, he grew bored and impatient with her religion, not having her with him at the breakfast-table.
Another thing he discovered about her was that she had considerable musical talent, playing the cello, and she insisted she attend the various musical festivals and NYC’s many concerts. Any kind of music bored Jamison, so Shannon would go on her own to the various concert halls, leaving him to the continual round of cocktail parties and talking to visiting tycoons, taking them to nightclubs. The rift in their marriage rapidly expanded.
Then one evening while Jamison was attending a semi-business cocktail party and Shannon was in some concert hall, absorbed in listening to a Bach trio, he met Tarnia Lawrence.
He was talking to the President of an important bank, rather bored with the elderly man’s waffling, when, looking beyond the President, he saw a tall, dark woman who had just come in. As she stood in the doorway before the host hurried to her side, Jamison regarded her with growing interest.
Jesus! he thought. Some woman!
Immaculately dressed in a simple evening gown that must have cost a lot of money, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and her figure set his blood moving.
The President was saying, ‘The economic climate seems to be growing steadily worse…’
‘Yes.’ There was a snap in Jamison’s voice. ‘Do you know who that woman is?’
Startled, the President turned.
‘Oh, of course. That’s Miss Tarnia Lawrence. She is a client of ours.’
‘Is that right?’ Jamison continued to stare at the woman as the host led her across the room to a group of people. ‘Who is she? What does she do?’
‘Miss Lawrence is one of the most successful dress-designers in the business. She’s doing amazingly well. I keep advising her to go public, but so far, she is hesitating. If she does, Jamison, I would advise you to take up a parcel of shares.’
‘As good as that?’ Jamison said, his eyes on the long, slim back and perfect hair-do.
‘As good as that.’ The President beamed. ‘She owns three successful boutiques and a small factory. Her prices…’ He rolled his eyes. ‘My wife is nearly ruining me.’
‘I would like to meet her,’ Jamison said, feeling his pulse quicken.
‘No problem,’ the President said.
However, there was a problem as the woman was talking to a fat, pink-haired queer and, while the President and Jamison waited, the animated soft-spoken conversation seemed to Jamison to go on forever.
‘Miss Lawrence only comes to these cocktails to do business,’ the President whispered. ‘It would be a bad time to interrupt her. This ghastly man is one of the important design cutters.’