‘Of course.’
He nodded, his face showing relief and satisfaction.
‘Will you be dining in, madame?’
She thought of the long lonely hours ahead of her, but why go out and risk male temptation? It would be much safer to eat a solitary meal on the terrace and then go to bed with a book.
‘Yes. I feel like an early night.’
‘Then I suggest something light: perhaps an omelette with truffles and a little lobster meat. I will cook it myself.’
‘I’m dying to have one of your omelettes again, Hinkle.’
She couldn’t have said anything nicer to him. When he had gone, she thought of Sheila who didn’t know she was going to inherit a million dollars. Suddenly Helga frowned. The girl wouldn’t get her money if Herman died speechless, unless his letter reached Winborn, and if it reached Winborn, she (Helga) would be condemned to the life of a nun. For some minutes, she considered this, then she decided that she herself could give the girl the money once she inherited the sixty million dollars... no problem.
Her mind switched to what Winborn had said. What could this odd message mean that Herman was trying to convey to the nurse?
Sin on. Better law.
She repeated it several times aloud, then she started to her feet.
Of course!
He was trying to say: Winborn. Letter. Drawer. He had pointed not to the bedroom door as the nurse had thought, but to the living room!
She must give the red folder to the manager to keep in the hotel safe. She should have done this before.
Putting down her drink, she went into her bedroom, opened the closet and took out the suitcase. She lifted the lid.
She stood motionless, staring into the empty suitcase, her heart racing.
The red folder had gone!
Chapter three
It took Helga less than five minutes of feverish searching to convince herself that the folder containing Herman’s letter to Winborn had been stolen.
Feeling cold, her fists clenched, her face a hard mask, she walked back into the living room and sat down.
Who could have stolen it?
Winborn? Unthinkable. Hinkle? Her eyes narrowed as she thought. He knew the contents of the letter. Had he discovered she had taken it and had decided to put it out of her reach should she be tempted to destroy it? She considered this, but she couldn’t imagine Hinkle searching her bedroom before coming on the apparently empty suitcase. No... she refused to believe Hinkle would do such a thing. Then who?
She then remembered the hotel manager had seen her take the folder from the desk and take it to her suite, but she couldn’t believe the manager of a hotel of this standing... no, that was ridiculous. Then she recalled the two security guards who had been guarding the corridor had been withdrawn. So while she had been swimming, anyone could have come to the top floor and entered her suite.
She lit a cigarette and forced away the teeth of panic that threatened to nibble. She had to face the fact that the letter had gone, that she had lost one of her trump cards. Now what was going to happen? Would the thief send the letter to Winborn? She was far too cynical to believe that. Once again the stage was set for blackmail. Her lips twisted into a hard, little smile.
The discreet buzz of the telephone made her stiffen. She hesitated, then lifted the receiver.
‘Winborn is calling, Mrs. Rolfe,’ the operator told her. ‘Should I put him through?’
Winborn?
Helga frowned. Winborn should be winging his way back to Miami by now.
‘Are you sure there isn’t a mistake? Mr. Winborn has left for Miami.’
‘The gentleman says he is Mr. Stanley Winborn, and it is urgent.’
‘Put him on.’
There was a pause, then she heard the operator say, ‘Go ahead, Mr. Winborn.’
Helga said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi! Don’t hang up. I’ve got something you want.’ She recognized Harry Jackson’s breezy voice.
Here it is, she thought and the steel in her hardened. She should have thought of him, the harmless black mamba.
‘You don’t waste much time, do you, Mr. Jackson?’ she said, her voice steady while her eyes snapped fire.
He laughed his casual laugh.
‘You can say that again, Mrs. Rolfe.’
She heard a tap on the door, then the door opened and Hinkle came in pushing the service trolley.
‘I can’t talk now,’ she said curtly. ‘Call me back in an hour,’ and she hung up.
‘The omelette should be eaten immediately, madame,’ Hinkle said as he fussed with a chair. ‘To allow it to cool will spoil it.’
She braced herself, got up and walked to the chair he had placed before the table. As she sat down, he spread the serviette across her lap.
‘And you spoil me too,’ she said. Was it her voice saying this?
‘It is my pleasure, madame,’ Hinkle said.
He lifted the silver cover and with loving hands served the omelette. He poured wine, then stood back, his pudgy hands clasped in front of him.
It said a lot for Helga’s iron control that she was able to eat the omelette and chat with Hinkle.
When she had finally forced down the last mouthful, she praised his cooking, refused coffee and thankfully wished him good night.
When he had gone, she went out on to the terrace. It was a hot night with a brilliant moon. People still bathed. Their excited, happy voices floated up to her, emphasising her loneliness.
I’ve got something for you.
It could only be Herman’s letter to Winborn. How had he obtained it? There would be a blackmail demand... that was for sure. What was she going to do? If he sent the letter to Winborn, her life, as she knew it, would come to a grinding halt. The Swiss portfolio would be taken from her. The trip to Lausanne that she was now longing for would be off. She would have to ask Winborn to finance her until Herman recovered sufficiently to take over. Don’t panic, she told herself. The letter hadn’t yet reached Winborn. First, she must listen to Jackson’s terms. Was an ex-salesman of kitchen equipment going to dictate the kind of life she would lead? Getting up, she moved around the big terrace, thinking. She now had to control herself and her active mind probed for a way out. Making a decision, she went into the living room and called the Head porter.
‘Yes, Mrs. Rolfe?’ The bow was in the voice.
‘I want a pocket sized tape recorder with a microphone,’ she said. ‘The microphone must be very sensitive. I want it within an hour.’
There was a slight pause, then the gears slipped into mesh.
‘It will be arranged immediately, Mrs. Rolfe.’
‘Thank you,’ and she hung up.
She went to her closet and selected a white linen handbag. With a pair of scissors, she cut away the lining. If the microphone was sensitive enough the recorder could record while out of sight in the bag.
For the moment, there was nothing else she could do. If Jackson sent the letter to Winborn, she could nail him as a blackmailer. She would have to be careful how she handled the transaction he would propose. She would have to direct the conversation so that he incriminated himself. She knew about voice prints. The police would be able to identify him as the blackmailer.
Forty minutes crawled by, then the assistant manager, a tall, willowy, blond man tapped on the door.
‘I understand, Mrs. Rolfe, you require a tape recorder. I have a selection,’ and he set four tiny recorders down on the table.
‘Which is the most sensitive?’ she asked.
‘I believe this one.’ He pointed to a recorder, slightly larger than the other three.
‘Thank you... leave them.’ She smiled at him. ‘I will play with them.’