Gritten removed his pipe, rubbed the bowl and then replaced it in his mouth.
‘I was rather expecting you to say just that, Mrs. Rolfe, but then you don’t know the West Indians. This is my point. The chicken wasn’t eaten. It was used for a blood sacrifice.’
‘A blood sacrifice? Is that such a crime?’
‘Not to you perhaps, but let me explain. Some seven years ago, a Voodoo doctor came here from Haiti. You probably don’t know what a Voodoo doctor is, Mrs. Rolfe. He is a man who has remarkable talents to make witchcraft. If he is a good man, he makes good magic. If he is an evil man he makes bad magic. This man — his name was Mala Mu — made bad magic. He started an extortion racket here. “You pay me so much or your husband, your wife or child will fall ill.” That kind of thing. Few British residents here bother about the native quarter. The police have to. Voodoo is something they are very aware of and can’t afford to ignore. Mala Mu employed Jones to steal chickens, dogs, cats and even a goat or two for his blood rituals. Finally the police arrested Mala Mu and also Jones.’
Helga finished her drink.
‘I’ve never heard of such rubbish,’ she said. ‘Witchcraft... magic... blood rituals.’ She made an impatient movement with her hands. ‘I can understand ignorant natives believing such nonsense, but you... surely you of all people... can’t believe such ignorant rubbish.’
Gritten regarded her calmly.
‘I understand your reaction, Mrs. Rolfe. When I first came here, I thought like you... that Voodoo was nonsense. I also believed that no man would walk on the moon. Now, being here for twenty years, I have a much broader outlook. I am satisfied that Voodoo not only exists, but is an extremely dangerous force. I can assure you that Jones is just as dangerous as Mala Mu was. He, by the way, died in jail. The police suspect that Jones learned a lot from Mala Mu and he is now practising witchcraft although they have no proof.’
This seemed to Helga to be so ridiculous that she lost patience with this placid, pipe smoking man.
‘This is something I don’t accept,’ she said curtly. ‘I suppose if you have lived for years in this exotic, sun-soaked place among superstitious coloured people you might believe in such nonsense as witchcraft, but I don’t and never will!’
Gritten found his pipe had gone out. He re-lit it before saying, ‘That’s right, Mrs. Rolfe. As you have employed me, it is my job to give you the facts. It is up to you to accept or reject them. Now there is something that is bothering the police. Jones has become the owner of an expensive motorbike. Chief Inspector Harrison who is in charge of the police here is wondering how a poor boy like Jones could find more than four thousand dollars to buy this bike. Blackmail goes hand-in-glove with Voodoo, Mrs. Rolfe.’ Gritten paused and looked at her, his blue eyes probing. ‘If Jones is blackmailing someone, the victim can rely on the police to keep his or her name secret. Harrison would like nothing better than to put Jones in a cell.’
God! Helga thought. The messes I get into!
Gritten waited, looking at her and when she said nothing, he went on, ‘People are often reluctant to admit they are being blackmailed. This is understandable, but it does hamper the police. Blackmail victims are always protected and are always treated as V.I.P.s.’
Helga hesitated. Should she tell this burly, pipe smoking man the whole sordid story? She wanted to but couldn’t face confessing to him that she was a middle-aged woman with hot pants.
‘I asked you, Mr. Gritten,’ she said, using her cold steel voice, ‘to find out if Jones had broken his arm, where he is now living and to give me information about this girl, Terry Shields. That was our terms of reference and what I am paying for. I have now decided not to employ Jones so if he happens to be a blackmailer and a Voodoo doctor, it is no concern of mine. Has he broken his arm?’
Gritten puffed at his pipe as he looked at her.
‘Yes, Mrs. Rolfe, he has broken his arm. Late last night he got into a skid and took a bad fall.’
Helga felt suddenly deflated. So the broken arm hadn’t been an excuse! Terry hadn’t been lying. More important still, the boy hadn’t made the excuse of a broken arm to keep out of her bed.
‘And where is he staying?’
‘Last night, he stayed at a beach hut owned by Harry Jackson, Mrs. Rolfe,’ Gritten said, his police eyes watching her.
Startled, Helga somehow kept her face expressionless.
‘How odd! Was he alone?’
‘According to my operator who is still watching the hut, Jackson joined Jones around one o’clock last night. He left just after nine o’clock this morning. Jones is still in the hut.’
‘The girl — Terry Shields — wasn’t there?’
‘No, Mrs. Rolfe.’
Helga thought, then shrugged. She forced herself to show indifference which she didn’t feel.
‘Well, thank you, Mr. Gritten. I have one small problem. As I am not employing this boy, I am without a servant. Could you recommend someone? I won’t be entertaining here so the cooking will be simple.’
Gritten rubbed the bowl of his pipe as he thought.
‘You would be wise not to employ a West Indian, Mrs. Rolfe,’ he finally said. ‘The English woman who works for me has a sister who needs employment. Her name is Mrs. Joyce. Her husband was a fisherman. He was drowned in a storm last year. I can recommend her.’
‘Then would you ask her to come tomorrow? I was paying Jones a hundred a week. Would that be all right for her?’
Gritten gaped at her. For the first time she had surprised him out of his calm.
‘That is far too much, Mrs. Rolfe. Fifty would be more than enough.’
Too much? Helga thought, with all her money?
Impatiently, she said, ‘I wish to pay her a hundred dollars a week. Money helps people. I like to help people.’
Gritten again gave her a hard cop stare.
‘She will be delighted.’
‘I think that is all, Mr. Gritten. Thank you for the information. The assignment — do you call it that — is now finished.’
Gritten brooded for a moment.
‘There is the girl, Terry Shields. Do you still want a report on her?’
By now Helga was utterly sick of Dick Jones and Terry Shields. She wanted no more of them.
‘I am no longer interested. Thank you for what you have done.’
Gritten leaned forward and tapped out the dead ash from his pipe into the ash tray.
‘Then I owe you some money, Mrs. Rolfe.’
‘I said your assignment is finished. You owe me nothing.’ She forced a smile. ‘Again my thanks for what you have done.’
Gritten got to his feet.
‘Are you sure, Mrs. Rolfe, you don’t want to check on this girl?’
Helga now longed to be alone. She had to control herself not to scream at him.
‘No, thank you, Mr. Gritten. I no longer need your services.’
It was one of her impulsive decisions that she was to later regret.
Mrs. Joyce turned out to be more English than the English. She arrived on a bicycle which seemed to be buckling under her weight. She was a large woman, heavily corseted, around forty years of age, her hair tightly permed, her English complexion reminded Helga of a polished apple.
‘Do you like tea, ducks?’ she asked as soon as she had introduced herself. ‘Or are you a coffee fiend?’
‘Startled, bewildered,’ Helga said she preferred coffee.
‘I’m a tea drinker,’ Mrs. Joyce beamed. ‘It’s an English habit. You just sit and rest yourself. I’ll have a cup of coffee for you in a jiffy.’
For God’s sake! Helga thought. What have I found now?
But the coffee was good and Mrs. Joyce’s kind chatter amusing.
‘Wonderful place, isn’t it, dear? But you must feel lonely. I miss my man. Us girls get lonely without our men. I read about your good husband. At least, he is alive. My Tom is just a memory to me, but a precious memory. He was a fine man. Would you like me to get lunch? Or would you like a nice bit of fish for supper?’