They stared at each other. Helga shivered, then pity for him rushed through her and she moved forward, but she stopped abruptly as his eyes lit up. His left hand moved and a bony finger pointed accusingly at her. The slack lips twisted and a sound came: ‘Bore!’ which she knew meant whore.
‘I am sorry, Herman,’ she said, her voice husky. ‘Really and truly, I am sorry. God help us both.’
His fingers flicked her away. The eyes expressed his dumb hatred. Shuddering, she stepped back and closed the door. For a long moment, she stood motionless, then controlling herself, she walked to the desk.
Nurse Fairely came from the kitchenette.
‘It must be a shock to you, Mrs. Rolfe. So very sad... such a fine man.’
‘Yes.’
Helga made a show of looking through the papers in the drawers while the fat, amiable nurse stood watching her.
‘There is no letter here. Please tell Mr. Rolfe.’
‘Perhaps you would tell him, Mrs. Rolfe. It is odd. He is so insistent.’
‘I can’t face him again for the moment.’ Helga’s voice broke. ‘You are at liberty to look through all these papers, nurse. Ask him if he would like you to do that.’
She was close to tears and turning away, she walked quickly back to her suite. It took her several minutes to recover, then with her capacity to absorb a shock, she switched her mind from her husband to Jackson.
Know your enemy.
That was to be her first move. Picking up the “Room vacant: please service” card, she left the suite, hung the card on the door handle and rode down in the elevator to the lobby. She asked for a taxi and was driven to the Nassau National Bank. She told the taxi driver to wait. She entered the bank and arranged for fifteen thousand dollars to be available to her for the following day. As she left the bank, she saw across the road an automobile showroom. Above the door was a banner:
Telling the taxi driver to wait, she crossed the road and entered the showroom.
A young coloured salesman approached.
‘I am interested in this motorcycle,’ she said. ‘May I see it?’
‘The Electra Glide?’ The salesman spread his hand in an exaggerated gesture of despair. ‘We sold our only model, madame, but we will have another within a few months.’
‘How disappointing. I wanted to see it,’ Helga smiled. ‘Perhaps the buyer would show it to me. Have you his name and address?’
‘A moment, madame.’ The salesman went away. He returned after a few minutes and handed her a card on which was written: Mr. Richard Jones, 1150, North Beach Road, Nassau.
He then gave her an illustrated folder.
‘You will find all the details here, madame. I would advise you to place an order with us without delay. There is considerable demand for this machine.’
Returning to the taxi, she told the driver to take her to North Beach road. It took ten minutes of driving out of the city before they reached the long, shabby street.
The driver, a West Indian, slowed and looked over his shoulder at her.
‘You want some special number, missus?’
‘Just drive along slowly,’ she said.
Looking out of the window, she finally spotted No. 1150: a broken down bungalow with an iron corrugated roof, weeds in the garden, grey sheets hanging out to dry and a big, fat West Indian woman with grey in her hair, sitting on the stoop, reading a magazine.
Helga told the driver to take her back to the hotel. She had been absent half an hour. As she crossed to the elevator, the Hall porter materialized by her side.
‘Excuse me, madame, but your room is being serviced. It won’t be ready for you for another twenty minutes.’
‘That’s all right. I only want to pick up something. Thank you.’ Giving him a smile, she entered the elevator and was whisked to the top floor.
There was a big service trolley outside her open door. Silently, she entered her suite. She heard movements in the bathroom. Shutting the door, she crossed to the desk on which lay the three recorders the assistant manager had left with her the previous evening. She switched one on, adjusted the volume control, then she walked silently into the bedroom. The bed had been stripped, a pile of towels lay outside the bathroom door. She could hear the sound of the spray swishing around in the bath.
She looked into the bathroom. A slim figure in white drill was bending over the bath, his head out of sight.
‘Are you Jones?’ she asked, pitching her voice high to get above the sound of the spray.
The figure started, dropped the spray, straightened and spun around.
She was confronted by a beautiful looking nineteen-year-old boy with thick black silky hair, big, fawn like eyes and perfectly moulded features.
They stared at each other.
A blackmailer? Helga thought. This she found hard to believe.
‘Are you Jones?’ she repeated.
The boy turned off the shower, licked his lips and nodded.
‘All right, Jones, I want to talk to you.’ She put steel in her voice. Turning, she walked into the sitting room.
There was a long pause while she stood with her back to the window, then he came out of the bedroom, his hands moving like agitated butterflies up and down his white jacket.
‘Stand over there,’ she said, pointing to the desk, then she sat down, opened her handbag and took out her cigarette case.
He moved to the desk and stood staring at her. His olive skin glistened with sweat. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his tight jacket as he breathed.
‘You own one of these?’ She tossed the folder of the Harley-Davidson at his feet.
He stiffened and stared down at the coloured illustrations.
‘Do you or don’t you own one of these motorcycles?’ she demanded, determined to give him no time to think.
In a small, low voice, he said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘How did you pay for it?’ The steel in her voice was like the lash of a whip.
His eyes widened and he took a step back.
‘I... I saved for it, ma’am.’
‘You saved for it?’ She gave a scornful laugh. ‘You... living in a slum: your home with a tin roof. You saved more than four thousand dollars! I wonder what Mr. Henessey would say to that!’
His face turned grey.
‘I saved for it, ma’am. I swear I did.’
‘Listen to me, Jones,’ she said. ‘Yesterday morning, I left a valuable diamond ring in the bathroom. It is missing. Now I find that yesterday you paid for this motorcycle. I am accusing you of stealing my ring, selling it, and with the money, you bought this motorcycle.’
He shut his eyes and swayed on his feet. For a moment she thought he was going to faint. Looking at him she felt desire stab at her. He was such a beautiful male. A half-caste. She wouldn’t have known except for the silky black hair. She steeled herself.
‘Isn’t that what you did?’
‘No, ma’am. I swear I didn’t take your ring.’
‘You seem good at swearing. All right, then let us see how Mr. Henessey deals with you. Let us see how the police will deal with you. I can’t imagine anyone will believe you saved four thousand dollars.’
She got up and walked to the telephone.
‘Ma’am... please. I didn’t take your ring.’