‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Eddie asked, running his fingers through his hair. ‘What a bird to pluck! That’s what I call business and pleasure.’ He suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘What’s the number of her room, Gus? I’m going to work on her. It’s a chance in a lifetime.’
‘No. 247,’ Gus said, added helpfully, ‘I got the pass-key if you want it.’
Eddie shook his head.
‘None of that stuff,’ he said. ‘This has got to be handled right. It’s got to be as smooth as silk. For the first time in my life I’ve a real beauty to work on, and am I going to enjoy myself!’
‘It should come a lot sweeter after working on those old mares of yours,’ Gus said, and sighed. ‘I envy you, pal.’
‘Yeah,’ Eddie said, straightening his tie. ‘I’m damned it I don’t envy myself.’
The bellhop dumped the suitcase by the bed, pulled the yellow blinds down, shutting out the rain-splashed and dirty windows, threw open the bathroom door with an apologetic smirk, punched the bed as if to prove it still had spring’s, and stood away, his right hand expectant, his eyes bright with hope.
Carol was scarcely aware of him. Her head ached and her body cried out for rest. She moved listlessly to the solitary, shabby armchair and sank into it, dropping the brief-cases at her feet.
The bellhop, a worldly young man of seventeen summers eyed her doubtfully. He thought she looked good enough to eat, but he was reserving his final judgment until he had seen the size of his tip.
‘Was there anything else you wanted?’ he asked a little sharply, as she seemed to have forgotten him. ‘You can have dinner up here if you like, and a fire. They’ll charge you plenty for the fire, but if you fancy it I’ll get it fixed.’
She started and peered up at him as if she were short-sighted. To her he seemed far away, a blurred image in black and white, and yet his voice grated loudly in her ears.
‘Yes, a fire,’ she said, drawing her cloak round her. ‘And dinner, please.’
Still he waited, a pained expression on his face.
‘I’ll send the waiter,’ he said, ‘or will the set dinner do? It ain’t bad. I eat it myself.’
‘Yes — anything. Please leave me alone now,’ she said, pressed her temples between her fingers.
‘Don’t you feel well?’ the bellhop asked, curious. There was something odd about her, and he felt suddenly uneasy to be alone with her. ‘Is there something I can get you?’
Quickly and impatiently she opened her handbag and threw a dollar note at him.
‘No!’ she said. ‘Leave me alone!’
He picked up the note, eyed her, a startled expression on his face, and went away. He was glad to shut the door on her.
‘If you ask me,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘that frail’s got a bat in her attic.’
For some time Carol sat motionless. She was cold and the sharp stabbing pains inside her head frightened her. She had planned to leave Santo Rio after taking Max’s money, but during the drive down from the house on the hill she had developed this agonizing pain in her head, and unable to drive further she had decided to break the journey at Palm Bay. She had no idea what kind of a hotel it was, but the brilliant neon sign had attracted her.
A negro porter came in at this moment to light the fire, and his entrance disturbed her train of thought. She got up and went into the bathroom while he was building the fire. In the overheated dingy room, with its leaky shower and stained bath, she suddenly felt faint, and had to clutch on to the towel rail to prevent herself from falling.
She realized then that she was starving. She had had no food from the moment she had seen Max leave the hospital and had followed him to his home, and she sat on the edge of the bath, holding her head, until she heard the porter leave, closing the door sharply behind him.
Eddie was lounging in the corridor when the waiter came along pushing the trolley containing the set dinner to Carol’s room.
Eddie was on good terms with all the hotel staff, and this waiter, Bregstein by name, was a particular crony of his.
‘That little lot for No. 247?’ he asked, taking out a five-dollar bill and folding it between his lingers.
Bregstein eyed the five-spot, beamed and said it was.
‘O.K., Bud,’ Eddie said, slipping the note into Bregstein’s pocket, ‘go buy yourself a drink. I’ll take it in. Redheads are right up my alley.’
‘That alley of yours must be getting a little overcrowded, Mr. Regan,’ Bregstein said with a leer.
‘Yeah, but there’s always room for one more,’ Eddie returned, straightened his immaculate tuxedo. ‘Think she’ll take me for a waiter?’
‘The kind you see on the movies,’ Bregstein sighed. ‘Those guys who don’t have to pay for their own laundry.’ He eyed Eddie uneasily, went on: ‘The management won’t like this, Mr. Regan. You won’t start anything I couldn’t finish, will you?’
‘The management won’t know unless you tell them,’ Eddie said carelessly, pushed the trolley to the door of 247, knocked, opened the door and went in.
He was a little startled to see Carol crouching over the fire, her head in her hands.
He wheeled the trolley to the table.
Clearing his throat, he said: ‘Your dinner, madam. Would you like it served by the fire?’
‘Leave it there, please,’ Carol said without turning.
‘May I draw the chair up for you?’ Eddie asked, a little uncertain and not anything like as confident as he had been before entering the room.
‘No... leave me alone and go,’ Carol said, a grating note in her voice.
Then Eddie saw the two brief-cases lying on the floor and he stood transfixed as he read the gold letters stamped the side of each case. On one was: Frank Kurt; on the other: Max Geza. He gaped at Carol with startled eyes, and as he did so she happened to move her arm and he caught sight of the white puckered scar on her wrist. He gave a convulsive start as he realized that she was Mary Prentiss.
This discovery so startled him that he hastily left the room before she might look up and recognize him. When he was once more in the corridor he stood for a moment thinking, his eyes bright and his breathing heavy. What a sweet set-up, he thought: Carol Blandish, the millionairess, masquerading as Mary Prentiss and responsible for the death of Frank, and in possession of Frank’s and Max’s property. If he couldn’t turn that to good account then he might as well give up his racket and take up knitting.
When Carol had finished the dinner, which she ate ravenously, she felt better and the pain in her head slowly receded. Taking off her cloak, she pulled the chair up to the fire and sat down to review the past days with cold triumph. She had already settled Frank’s account, and had made good strides in the settling of Max’s. From the time Max had left the hospital she had been on his heels and he had had no suspicion. She had even followed him up the stairs of the old wooden house and had watched him through a chink in the door panel as he counted the money he had taken from the wardrobe. She had seen in his hard eyes the intense pleasure the money had given him, and she knew that by taking it she would inflict on him a hurt as great as the one he had inflicted on Miss Lolly when he had cut off her beard.
She had decided to give him a few days longer in which to grieve over his loss and then she would finish him. Her eyes burned feverishly when she thought of that moment and her long white fingers turned into claws.
Then she remembered the brief-cases lying at her feet, and she picked up one of them, opened it, looked at the neatly stacked money with an expression of horror in her eyes. Each note seemed to her to reek of the Sullivans, and she seemed to hear the faint echo of their metallic voices seeping out of the leather case. With a shiver of disgust she threw the case from her and its contents came tumbling out on to the dingy carpet.