Chapter seven
The palm trees rustled in the slight breeze. Every now and then there came the sound of a soft thud as a coconut dropped. The faint roar of the traffic along the sea road blended with the swish of the sea, breaking on the beach.
Helga lay on the cushioned terrace chair. She had turned on the submerged lights in the big swimming pool, but had left off the terrace lights. The expanse of blue water, lit softly, made a soothing reflection on the terrace.
A middle-aged woman with hot pants.
The cruellest and the truest thing that had ever been said of her.
A cigarette smouldered between her fingers. For as long as she could remember, this sexual urge had tormented her; they had a word for it: nymphomania. She had imagined it was her own private and very special secret. Now this girl had ripped away the pretence. Thinking back into her past, Helga forced herself to admit the shaming fact that other people also knew, although they hadn’t said so. The smiling waiters, the young, husky men, even the middle aged roués with whom she had spent an hour or so were even now probably talking about her.
‘Strictly between you and me, old fella,’ she imagined them saying, ‘that Rolfe bitch is really keen. You know... Herman Rolfe’s wife. She drops on her back at the drop of a hat.’
Helga felt a cold shudder run through her. She knew men. She knew they couldn’t resist boasting of their conquests. Why had she imagined — as she had done — they didn’t talk and snigger about her?
Well, you have asked for it, she told herself. You have never had the guts to fight this thing. You could have gone to a head-shrinker if you had really wanted to make a fight of it. A head-shrinker? A crutch! No, that wasn’t the way. She had to cure herself, and it still isn’t too late!
This girl had jolted her to face the fact that she just must stop being promiscuous (and even as she told herself this, she remembered the times she had already made this empty promise). If only Herman would die! She would marry again, be free of all these dangerous sexual adventures. Herman’s letter condemning her to the life of a nun was still in the hotel’s safe. She would destroy it if he died, but if he recovered!
She closed her eyes.
If he recovered, her life would become unbearable. She remembered the hate in his eyes, his twisted mouth getting out the word: Bore! which she knew meant whore. If he recovered she would have to leave him. She would find a job. She would find a husband with money. She...
Goddamn it! she thought. Face up to it! What man with important money would want to marry me at my age? But with sixty-million dollars the magic key to the world would be in her hands.
She thought of Dick Jones. She must have been out of her mind even to have thought of taking this callow boy into her bed. But it hurt that he seemed so desperate to keep out of her bed that he had invented the excuse of a broken arm. To hell with him! She had had yet another escape. Forget him! Let him fool around with Terry. But, and again a cold shiver ran through her: they would both be sniggering.
Let them snigger! That girl with her red hair! Admit it, Helga thought, she is impressive. She has character. She is wasted on a little creep like Dick.
She got to her feet and wandered around the swimming pool. Was this going to be her future life as long as Herman lived? Luxury and loneliness? She thought of the Ocean Beach club with all those awful English freaks with their greedy eyes fixed on the trolley of cream cakes and the men with their raddled faces and swollen bodies. If only Herman died! Then she would be free: the mistress of sixty-million dollars!
She became aware that the front door bell was ringing. She looked at her watch. The time was 20.40.
Was it Dick?
Had Terry given him her message and, scared of the police, he had come?
Even the thought of taking him into her bed now revolted her, but by God! she would vent her misery and fury on him! She would give him something by which to remember her!
She walked quickly across the living room as the bell rang again. Jerking open the door, her eyes snapping fire, she once again received a shock.
Instead of the fawn-eyed Dick, Frank Gritten stood on the doorstep, pipe in mouth, his grey suit ill-fitting, the centre button of the jacket straining against a generous paunch.
‘Excuse me, Mrs. Rolfe.’ He removed his pipe and raised his panama hat. ‘I was on my way home and saw the lights. I have information for you, but if you would rather I came back tomorrow...’
She forced down her fury and managed to smile.
‘Come in, Mr. Gritten. I was just going to have a drink. Will you join me?’
‘Thank you.’
He followed her into the living room.
‘This is comfortable, but lonely.’
‘Yes!’ She walked over to the cocktail cabinet. ‘What would you like?’
‘You are here alone, Mrs. Rolfe?’
She paused and looked at him.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that wise? You are very isolated.’
‘What would you like to drink?’ The snap in her voice told him she wasn’t in the mood for advice.
‘We policemen drink whisky, Mrs. Rolfe.’
She forced a laugh.
‘I’ve read enough detective stories. I should know that.’
She made him a stiff whisky and soda, then fixed herself a vodka martini.
‘It’s cooler outside.’
Carrying his drink, Gritten followed her on to the terrace and when she flopped into her lounging chair, he sat beside her.
‘I remember the owner of this villa, Mrs. Rolfe. He was unlucky.’
‘So I have been told.’ She sipped her drink, thinking it wasn’t as good as the vodka-martinis Hinkle made for her. ‘So you have information for me?’
‘Yes. You said you wanted it fast.’ Gritten lit his pipe, drank some of the whisky, nodded his approval, then went on, ‘Dick Jones.’ He paused to look at her. His blue eyes had the hard stare of a police officer. ‘I am not only going to give you information, Mrs. Rolfe, but I am also going to offer you advice.’
She met the probing eyes with her steely stare.
‘I am interested in facts, Mr. Gritten. I don’t need advice!’
‘That’s the point.’ Gritten puffed at his pipe, apparently unperturbed by the snap in her voice. ‘I’ll give you the facts, but in your present situation, Mrs. Rolfe, you also need advice.’
‘Give me the facts!’
Gritten removed his pipe, regarded it, then tapped the glowing tobacco with his finger.
‘You are a newcomer to Nassau and possibly to the West Indies. I have lived here for twenty years. You hired Jones to work for you. You probably thought he was a deserving boy whom you would like to help. You didn’t take the precaution to speak to the police about him, and, Mrs. Rolfe, before you hire anyone here, it is essential either to take up references or consult the police.’
Helga sipped her drink, then set down the glass.
‘Are you telling me I made a mistake hiring this boy?’
‘Yes, Mrs. Rolfe, that’s what I’m telling you. I told you Jones has been in trouble. He is the last servant you should employ as you live here so alone.’
Helga stiffened.
‘For heaven’s sake! A boy like that? Don’t tell me he is a murderer?’
Gritten’s expression remained serious as he shook his head.
‘No, he is not that. At the age of twelve, he was sent to a reform school for stealing a chicken.’
Thoroughly irritated, Helga sat forward, her eyes snapping.
‘Are you telling me that a twelve-year-old boy can be sent to a reform school for stealing one goddamn chicken? I’ve never heard of such a disgraceful thing! He was probably desperately hungry!’