‘Almost?’ Lucan’s voice shot up. ‘What do you mean? Our arrangement was as soon as I found you a safe-house, I’d get the money. What’s this ‘almost’ thing?’
‘Look, Lucky, I have first to case the joint.’ Kling regarded the key Lucan had given him. ‘I’ll have an unconscious woman on my hands. I have to get her up to this room, and it’s got to be done fast and smooth.’ He got to his feet. ‘So you and I will go take a look at the setup. I want to know the lay-out.’
‘There’s no problem,’ Lucan said, beginning to sweat. ‘There’s an underground garage. You drive in. You’ll see an elevator on your left. You go up to the top floor. You have the key. No one will see you. That’s it, Ernie.’
‘Sounds great,’ Kling said. ‘Okay, let’s take a long look, huh?’
An hour later, Kling, who had surveyed the scene and was satisfied, patted Lucan on his shoulder.
‘Okay, Lucky. You’ve done a good job. Now, you stick around. I may need you. Just stay within reaching call,’ and he walked into his cabin, firmly closing the door.
Ng was waiting. He came into the living-room.
‘I have prepared curried prawns and a mixed salad for dinner, sir,’ Ng said. ‘Would that please you?’
‘Great.’ Kling sank into one of the lounging-chairs. ‘Give me a drink.’
When Ng had given him a Scotch, Kling regarded him.
‘Are you any good at lifting a car, kid?’
‘You mean steal a car, sir?’
‘Yeah.’
Ng nodded.
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Right. Tomorrow morning at six, I want you to get a car and bring it here. Take it from some over-night car park. Together, we’ll handle this kidnap job. It’ll be dead easy. The woman goes to church at seven thirty. The plan is to stop her as she leaves.’ Kling sipped his drink. ‘I want you to cope with her. I want her unconscious. Can you fix that, kid?’
Ng nodded.
‘Yes, sir. No problem, sir.’
Kling laughed.
‘There are times, kid, when you kill me. Nothing’s anything of a problem to you, is it?’
Ng stared at him, his eyes bewildered.
‘Should it, sir?’
‘Okay.’ Kling shrugged. ‘Suppose we eat? Smells fine.’
Five minutes later, the killer and his slave were eating a big dish of curried prawns with rice, fried bananas and red peppers.
‘Kid, you certainly know how to cook!’ Kling said as he shovelled food into his mouth.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘How would you like to own half a million dollars?’ Kling asked abruptly.
Ng paused, his loaded fork hovering before his mouth while he stared at Kling.
‘A half a million dollars? Who wants all that money?’
Kling ate some more, then said, ‘Money buys a hell of a lot of fun, kid. With half a million tucked up your jersey, you could live well, you wouldn’t have to slave for me, you could have girls, you could have a ball.’
Ng made a little grimace.
‘I wouldn’t like that, sir. If you are offering me all this money, I thank you, but I don’t need it. I want to be with you. I don’t need money.’
What a character! Kling thought.
‘How about your mother, kid?’
‘Perhaps if you would let me have no more than three thousand dollars, I could make her more comfortable, but no more.’ Ng ran his fingers through his thick, black hair. ‘My mother is difficult, sir. She thinks I am a houseboy, working for you.’ He looked up and stared earnestly at Kling. ‘And that’s what I am. I want her to be sure of that, sir. I can tell her you won a big bet and insisted on giving me three thousand dollars, so I give it to her. That she would accept. She is difficult.’
Kling shrugged, then pushed away his chair.
‘Okay, kid. That was a great meal. Tomorrow at six o’clock, I want a car here. We’ll drive to Jamison’s villa and pick up the woman. Got it?’
‘Of course, sir,’ Ng said, and began to clear the dishes while Kling wandered over to the TV set and turned it on.
Arriving at the La Guardia airport, Jamison took a taxi to the Waldorf-Astoria hotel where he was received with bows and smiles.
On the flight up, he had decided not to return to his NYC apartment, although there would be servants there to look after him. The apartment would hold too many lingering memories of Shannon who had made it one of the most luxurious, comfortable homes he had ever lived in.
It was too late now to go to the office. He would go there in the morning for a brief visit before returning to Paradise City.
Sitting in the comfortable living-room of the hotel suite, he sipped a vodka martini which the waiter had served. His mind shifted to Tarnia. He had an irresistible urge to talk to her. Glancing at his watch, he calculated it would be 01.00 in Rome. She would be in bed, but, he was sure, glad to hear his voice.
Picking up the telephone receiver, he told the operator to connect him with Miss Tarnia Lawrence at the Excelsior Hotel, Rome.
A twenty-minute wait tore at his nerves. Finally, the operator told him that Miss Lawrence had checked out that morning and had left no forwarding address.
Jamison felt a spasm of frustrated rage as he slammed down the receiver.
What was happening? Where had Tarnia gone? Then he remembered that this bloody couturier had told her he would lend her an apartment. She must have moved there!
He finished the martini and poured himself another from the big cocktail shaker. He looked at his watch again. The time was 19.00. In less than fourteen hours, Shannon would be dead and he would be free!
Then he remembered that as soon as the bomb had exploded, the police, Smyth, his friends, would want to contact him. It would take a little time before the news hit the headlines of the newspapers.
He snatched up the telephone receiver and told the operator to connect him with his villa in Paradise City. After some minutes’ delay, he heard Smyth’s voice: ‘This is Mr Jamison’s residence.’
‘Any messages for me?’ Jamison barked.
‘No, sir.’
‘I am staying at the Waldorf-Astoria for the night,’ Jamison said. ‘I will be returning on the four o’clock flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘We will be dining in, Smyth. Prepare a decent dinner. Is Mrs Jamison there?’
‘No, sir. Mrs Jamison left half an hour ago. I believe she is attending a concert.’
Thank God for that! Jamison thought. To have to talk to Shannon would, he felt, be too much for his jumping nerves.
‘If anything important turns up, you can reach me at the hotel until 09.30. Then at my office.’
‘I understand, sir.’
Jamison hung up.
That takes care of that! he thought. Now what was he going to do? He thought of those bleak hours ahead of him. The club? The thought of talking to his various friends with this thing hanging over him was impossible. A movie? A woman? Impossible!
If he could only talk to Tarnia, he felt sure he would be able to relax. Tomorrow, he must find out the telephone number where she was staying.
Getting to his feet, he began to pace around the room. Tomorrow at eight thirty! Another twelve hours!
He remembered he hadn’t had lunch and although not feeling hungry, he rang room service and ordered a plate of chicken sandwiches and another shaker of martinis. He continued to pace, thinking of Tarnia until the waiter brought the sandwiches and shaker. He poured himself another drink and ate two of the sandwiches. As he continued to pace up and down, a thought dropped into his mind that made him pause.
Just suppose Tarnia changed her mind about giving up her career and marrying him. Just suppose this couturier had persuaded her to remain in Rome. The thought brought him out in a clammy sweat. He remembered Tarnia’s lack of enthusiasm when he had said, as soon as the divorce went through, she would become his wife. Had he imagined this? No! This was dangerous and stupid thinking! He was sure she loved him, sure that she wanted to give him children.