‘You understand how they operate, Mrs. Rolfe?’
‘I am familiar with recorders.’
When he had gone, she experimented with the recorders, putting each in turn in her handbag and talking. It was while she was testing the last recorder that the telephone bell buzzed.
‘Mr. Winborn calling, Mrs. Rolfe.’
She glanced at her watch: exactly an hour.
‘I will speak to him.’
Jackson came on the line.
‘Listen, baby, I don’t like being told to wait.’ His voice sounded hard. ‘Is that understood?’
‘I was under the impression, Mr. Jackson,’ Helga said, ‘that salesmen, no matter how inefficient, are trained, at least, to be courteous. You seem to have lost your manners — if you ever had any. You will not call me baby. Is that understood?’
A pause, then Jackson laughed.
‘Beautiful, brainy and tough. Okay, Mrs. Rolfe, forget it. Do you feel like a swim tonight? The same place?’
Her mind worked swiftly. It would be too dangerous to meet him in that lonely spot. No, she would face him on ground of her own choosing.
‘Come to my suite, Mr. Jackson. We can talk on the terrace.’
He laughed again.
‘Not such a hot idea. I have your reputation to think of and mine too. How’s about the Pearl in the Oyster restaurant? We could have coffee.’
‘In half an hour,’ Helga said and hung up.
She played back the recordings. The recorder the assistant manager had recommended gave a remarkably clear playback. She put it in her bag, added cigarettes, a lighter, her purse, her compact and a handkerchief, then slipping on a light wrap, she went down to the lobby.
She intended to be the first to arrive at the restaurant. The Cadillac taxi pulled up outside the Pearl in the Oyster, one of Nassau’s popular night spots. The Maître d’hôtel immediately recognized her.
‘Why, Mrs. Rolfe, this is a great pleasure,’ he said, his black face lighting up.
‘I am meeting a Mr. Jackson,’ Helga said. ‘We will only have coffee. Could you let me have a quiet table, please?’
‘Of course, Mrs. Rolfe, if you wouldn’t mind being upstairs. We have alcoves there.’ The Maître d’hôtel’s face went blank telling Helga how startled he was.
He led the way up the stairs and to an alcove that overlooked the main dining room.
‘Would this do?’
She paused to survey the crowd below, aware of the noise of voices, the clatter of plates and cutlery. This noise could wreck the recording.
‘I would prefer somewhere quieter,’ she said.
‘Then may I suggest the after-casino balcony? No one is there at present, Mrs. Rolfe. Perhaps you would prefer that?’
‘Let me see it.’
He took her along a corridor to a broad balcony overlooking the beach and sea. Apart from four or five coloured waiters, the place was deserted.
‘This will do, and thank you.’ She slid a ten dollar bill into his hand. ‘Will you please bring Mr. Jackson to me when he arrives? Coffee and brandy.’
Jackson arrived ten minutes later. She had put her handbag on the table and as she saw him coming along the corridor, she quickly switched on the recorder. It would run for thirty minutes and that, she thought, would be long enough to incriminate him.
Jackson was wearing a freshly pressed white suit, a blue and white checkered shirt and a red tie. He looked handsome and presentable. At any other time, he would have set Helga’s blood on fire.
‘Hi, there,’ he said, waving away the Maître d’hôtel. ‘Have I kept you waiting?’ The wide, friendly smile was in evidence as he sat down.
She looked beyond him at the Maître d’hôtel.
‘We will have coffee now, please.’
‘Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe.’
When he had gone, Helga looked directly at Jackson. He was completely relaxed, his big hands on the table, very confident. Her eyes swept over him. How deceptive men could be, she thought. Who would imagine this frame of muscle and flesh and good looks housed the mind of a blackmailer?
‘How’s Mr. Rolfe?’ Jackson asked. ‘Any improvement?’
‘How is the peeping Tom agency, Mr. Jackson?’ Helga asked politely. ‘Better prospects?’
He gave her a sharp look, then laughed.
‘I’ll say.’
A waiter brought coffee and two brandies in balloon glasses.
They waited until he had gone, then Helga said, ‘It is just possible you might imagine that this meeting is distasteful to me. Would you please tell me why you arranged it?’
‘I was under the impression, Mrs. Rolfe, that you set it up,’ Jackson said, smiling at her. ‘You need not have come.’
A point to him, Helga thought. She mustn’t waste time.
‘You said you have something I wanted... what is it?’ She dropped sugar into her coffee.
‘A good question.’ He sipped his coffee, crossed one long leg over the other and continued to smile at her. She longed to slap his handsome face. ‘When you gave me the brush off this afternoon, Mrs. Rolfe, I was ready to call it quits. You were in an iron-clad position. I had nothing in writing from Mr. Rolfe. I wasn’t going to tangle with Winborn. I steer clear of tough cookies. So I was all set to kiss my retainer good-bye.’ He picked up his glass of brandy and sniffed at it. ‘So you have the complete photo, Mrs. Rolfe, let me tell you how I operate. I don’t have a regular staff. I have contacts. As an investigator it is a must to have a contact in every luxury hotel. I regard these contacts as invisible people... the staff. People who can go in and out of rooms, walk down corridors, clean the baths and still remain invisible to the guests. It costs me five hundred dollars and that’s money to me, Mrs. Rolfe, to buy the services of the fink who cleans your room, cleans your bath and makes your bed. Now this fink is a half-caste West Indian who wants nothing in life except a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide motorcycle. These bikes cost. He has been saving and saving, but he was well short of the target. Then this week a model arrived out here: just one, you understand, Mrs. Rolfe. He knew if he didn’t grab it, he would have to wait maybe another six months. Well, you know how it is... people, these days can’t wait, so I gave him the money and he bought the bike. In return, he did this favour. You know, you do something nice, the other guy repays you... quid pro quo... does that surprise you... me talking like this... quid pro quo? I’ve had some kind of education: not much more than quid pro quo, but some.’ He sipped the brandy, then held up the glass to stare at it. ‘Pretty good, but then that’s how the cards fall for you, Mrs. Rolfe. You say brandy and you get the best. I say brandy and I get hogswash.’
Helga wanted a cigarette, but she couldn’t touch her bag while the recorder was working. She controlled the urge and looked out at the deserted beach, at the moonlit sea and she listened.
‘So this fink who cleans your room took a look around. The system is, Mrs. Rolfe, that as soon as a guest leaves the room, the fink moves in and puts it straight. He is an intelligent fink and he is anxious to please. I tell him: “Look around. If there is anything that looks important, I want it.” So he stared at me with his intelligent black eyes and asks: “What’s important?” I tell him: “I want to nail this baby. Love letters would do fine.”’ Jackson laughed. ‘You know Mrs. Rolfe, this was a shot at the moon. I hadn’t any hope he would land a fish, but he did. When he gave me this letter from your husband to Winborn, I hit the roof.’ He paused to sip more brandy. ‘Am I reaching you, Mrs. Rolfe?’
So that was how it was done, Helga thought. Go on talking, snake, you’re cutting your own throat.
‘I’m listening,’ she said.
‘I bet you are.’ Jackson laughed. ‘So I have the letter. Pretty strong stuff, isn’t it? If this Winborn character gets it, it seems to me you will be out in the cold.’