They had reached the stage when she could play along with that one. "For you, I'll make a special price," she answered. "Nothing."
His bellow of laughter was enough to stir the curtains. "Well, the price is right, anyway!" He dropped his hand, till it lay like a clamp made of raw steak on her thigh. "Come on, baby, let's get the show on the road."
"Well, that was nice," said Diane. And indeed, it had been; Gerson was overweight, and far from prepossessing to look at, but he had a bull-like quality of determination which Was a good substitute for virility. The way that most American men made love—as if they had to prove something to the onlookers—had in this case worked out well. In fact, it was really going to be a pity to spoil it.
They were lying side by side in the darkened cabin, smoking, staring at the ceiling; Gerson had another drink ready to hand, but he was not giving it much attention. Already he was drowsy; the mystic communion was over; only a show-off or an Italian lover-boy could make a three-act drama out of it by going on talking.
"You were terrific, kid," he said. He patted her flank fondly. "Great talent there . . ." Then he yawned cavernously, and his eyes blinked and closed. "Remind me to give you a reference," he mumbled. "With five asterisks against it."
His voice tailed off. Presently a slight snore indicated that he was resting from his exertions.
Diane waited a long ten minutes, while Gerson gradually relaxed his position and his head fell sideways on the pillow. His snores deepened as his mouth fell open. Then she eased herself gently off the bed, threw on a robe, and crossed to the chair where he had piled his clothes.
She had noted that he kept his wallet in the inside pocket of his dinner-jacket. She pulled it out swiftly, and after a backward glance went to the dressing-table and emptied out the contents. There were a few loose bills—about sixty dollars' worth; a book of travellers' cheques; a photograph of Mrs. Gerson, looking happy at a nightclub table; another photograph of a blonde in a bikini, signed (or perhaps captioned) "Prudence"; and a separate booklet with an enormous array of club cards. He seemed to have everything to which the upright citizen could attain; American Express, Hilton Carte Blanche, gasoline credit cards (Shell, Esso, and Fina), Rotarians, Kiwanis, two hotels in Chicago, Hertz-Rentacar, International Air Travel card, driver's licence, insurance identification certificate, and a Book-of-the-Month Club name-tag.
Gerson's snores continued unabated as she went back to the folder of travellers' cheques. It was a thick one; it contained four cheques for five hundred dollars each, eighteen for one hundred, and some smaller ones. The total was considerably more than four thousand dollars.
She weighed them in her hand. Ever since his remark in the night-club: "I never carry any cash around," she had been thinking of this particular problem, and had worked out what seemed the best way of dealing with it. Now she took the bills, and put them in her purse; then she tore off two of the five-hundred-dollar cheques, and laid them on the dressing-table; and then she closed the folder, and opening a drawer stuffed it far out of sight under a thick pile of clothes. That was to be her weapon, her ace-in-the-hole; if it didn't work, it couldn't be helped. At least she was sixty bucks to the good.
After replacing the wallet, and then the coat, she looked at her watch. It was nearly two o'clock; save for the far-off hum of a generator, and the hissing of the ventilator ducts, all sounds had ceased. Ashore, when she drew aside the small curtain and looked out of the porthole, the lights of Fort de France were dim under the strong moonlight. There was a black, tossing crest of a hill against the pale sky, which looked like a huge breaking wave. It was beautiful —but it would still be beautiful tomorrow. She turned away, nervously strained, her heart thudding, and approached the bed. Now.
Gerson lay like a fat and ugly baby, his head turned away from the shaded lamp, his mouth bubbling gently with successive snores. She reached down and shook his arm.
"Hey," she said softly. "Wake up. Time to go."
He was only lightly asleep, and he came to the surface within a few moments. Blinking, he sat up, and put his feet down on the floor; then he grimaced as he tasted his mouth, and took a deep swallow from the glass on the bedside table.
"Hi, baby," he said. "I must have dozed off. What time is it?"
"After two."
"Jesus! My wife will give me hell if she hears me come in."
He dressed in swift plunges; when he came to draw on his coat she watched him warily, but beyond patting his wallet with an automatic gesture he made no further check. Then, when he was ready, and she was wondering what form of words to use to start the pressure, he looked down at her.
"Thanks, honey," he said. It was no more than the set form, but at least he said it. "You were sensational. . . . Look, are you short of money or anything?"
"Well," said Diane.
He gestured, dismissively. "Don't give it a thought. I know the way things are." He put his hand to his inside pocket, and drew out his wallet. Diane looked away, for delicacy's sake. She could guess, to within very narrow limits, what his next words would be.
"Well, hell!" he exclaimed, half-way between puzzlement and anger. "What's gone wrong? I had sixty bucks, and a whole raft of—"
After a long pause, she said: "Travellers' cheques?"
"That's right." He had got nothing from her voice so far. "You saw them, didn't you?"
"I saw them all right," said Diane.
"They're gone!" he exclaimed, now thoroughly roused. "Someone in that lousy clip-joint must have—" He was looking round him excitedly, and his glance happened to fall on the dressing-table.
The two five-hundred-dollar cheques were lying not more than two feet from him. "Well, what the hell!" he said. "Those are mine. Are you trying to be funny?"
She shook her head. "No," she answered. It was easy to harden her voice, now that the moment was here. "No, I'm not trying to do that."
He picked up the two cheques and examined them, more uncomprehendingly than ever. Then he looked across at her, his eyes narrowing. "Did you tear these out?"
"Yes. I thought you'd like to have them ready."
"Ready? What the hell do you mean, ready?"
"They're for me," she said.
"A thousand bucks? You must be nuts! I was going to give you— And where are the others, the rest of the book?"
"I have them safe."
He drew in his breath, and came a step towards her. "What the hell are you talking about? Quit fooling around! Whatis this?"
"If you shout," she said, "someone will hear you." She gestured towards herself, naked under the thin robe. "Bad public relations."
He had caught on now. He looked from her to the two cheques, and back again. Then he nodded, several times.
"I get the picture. This is a straight squeeze."
As she nodded in turn, she wondered if he would lose his head, like Bancroft; or turn rough, and use force; or try to call her bluff; or walk out, and chance the whole thing. But he was tougher than Bancroft, or more resourceful, though he had only the same number of cards in his hands.
He did not waste any time; there was no nonsense about love betrayed, no surprise at the crude trickery.
"A thousand is too much," he said crisply. "I'll make it a hundred, if you're that short."
"I'm that short," she said, "and it's a thousand."
He flicked the cheques with his fingers. "These are no damn' good to you. You know that. They have to be signed. And how would I get the cash at this time of night, anyway?"
"Tomorrow will do," she said indifferently.
His face brightened. "You mean, I take them away?"