“You! Where do you think you’re going?” he snapped, off his guard to see a Jamaican girl face him.
The knife flashed towards him and took him in the throat even as his hand began to move to the gun in his holster. He fell on hands and knees, gurgling. The Jamaican ran swiftly to him and lifting her heavy handbag, slammed it down on his head.
Moe... for it was Moe... stood staring down at the twitching body of the police officer. Then he bent, recovered his knife, wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s coat and returned the knife to the handbag. He then took out the gun and stepping past the dead man, he walked swiftly down the corridor to Hardy’s front door. He rang the doorbell and stood, waiting, his beehive wig slightly askew, his lips drawn back off his teeth.
“You dope! Look what you have done to my drink?” Hardy was saying as the front door bell rang.
Gina stiffened and looked at Hardy. He sat up, then swung his legs off the bed and struggled into his dressing-gown.
“Who’s that?” Gina asked, her eyes growing wide.
“That cop,” Hardy said in disgust. “I bet he’s trying to cadge a drink.” He started towards the bedroom door.
“Lee! Don’t go! Let me go!”
“Oh, relax!” Hardy said irritably. “What are you worrying about? We are surrounded by goddamn cops.”
He went out into the lobby as the bell rang again.
“Lee!” Gina screamed as Hardy unlocked the front door. “Lee!”
The sound of three revolver shots crashed through the penthouse. There was a moment of silence, then the thud of a falling body.
Gina shut her eyes. With an agonised cry, she threw herself face down on the bed.
The two police officers on guard in the lobby were waiting for Moe as he came out of the elevator. It took five bullets to kill him and he died grinning, his beehive wig at the back of his head and his flowered dress rucked up around his black thighs.
A little before eight the following morning, Val surprised the hall-porter at the Spanish Bay hotel by coming on to the terrace, wearing slacks and a halter and carrying a heavy beach bag. He hurried towards her and she gave him a tight, forced smile.
“I thought I’d have an early swim,” she said as he took the bag. “It’s nice to have the beach to one’s self.”
The hall-porter, used to the idiosyncrasies of the rich, agreed. He watched her drive away, then shrugging, he returned to his post at the entrance to the hotel.
Val drove along the deserted beach road until she was out of sight of the hotel. She parked the car off the road, then carrying the beach bag, she walked down to the sea, slithering down the high sand dunes until she reached a secluded spot where no one could possibly see her.
She dumped the bag and walked around collecting dry wood that littered that part of the beach. In a while she had made a big pile of wood. From the beach bag she took a large bottle of lighter fuel and a newspaper. She soaked the paper with the fuel, pushed it under the pile of wood. Then she took from the beach bag, Chris’s blood-stained jacket. This she also soaked with the lighter fuel. She put the jacket on to the wood pile and striking a match, she tossed the match on to the jacket.
She jumped clear as the whole thing went up in a roaring mass of flames. She stood, watching. Within a few minutes the jacket was reduced to grey ashes which the mild wind coming from the sea began to scatter along the beach.
Satisfied that there was nothing left of the jacket, she took off her slacks and ran down, in halter and briefs, to the sea.
She swam for ten minutes, then she came out of the sea and again looked at the funeral pile of the jacket. Again satisfied that there was nothing left of it, she stripped off her bathing things, hurriedly dried herself with a towel, slipped into a light sweater and slacks and fifteen minutes later, she was back in the hotel.
She remained in her suite until eleven o’clock, then wearing a simple white frock and sandals, she drove to the sanatorium.
Dr. Gustave received her in his office.
“I have news for you,” he said. “Dr. Zimmerman will be arriving this afternoon. You may not have heard of him, but he is the best brain specialist in the world. I have been in correspondence with him about your husband. He seems to think he can do a lot more for him than I have been able to do. In actual fact, your husband is much better. He is making steady progress, but Zimmerman thinks a small operation on the brain might very easily complete the cure. He is optimistic, but I would rather you weren’t. One never knows when dealing with a case like this. Anyway, I am satisfied that Zimmerman can’t do any harm: he can only do good.”
Val sat motionless, her hands tight in her lap.
“Am I to give a decision?”
Gustave smiled.
“No, I have talked to your husband. He wants the operation done. Naturally, I am consulting you, but as he wants it, I think you are relieved of any responsibility.”
“I’m not afraid of responsibility,” Val said. “What happens if the operation isn’t successful?”
“According to Zimmerman... nothing. I am ready to accept his opinion. It is not a kill or cure thing. Your husband will either make a complete recovery or else he will continue more or less as he is now.”
“Then of course, he must have it,” Val said. “There would be no danger to him?”
“None at all. Zimmerman has performed the operation successfully a number of times.”
“But you are not optimistic?”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t want you to be optimistic.”
“And when will it be?”
“Dr. Zimmerman arrives here tomorrow afternoon. The operation will take place the following morning.”
Val got to her feet.
“I’ll talk to Chris now. Is he in the garden?”
“You’ll find him there.”
She looked anxiously at him.
“Still guarded?”
Dr. Gustave smiled his professional smile.
“Guarded isn’t the right word, Mrs. Burnett. Shall we say he is still being supervised?”
“If this operation is successful, he won’t have to be supervised?”
“Of course not.”
“But how will you know it is successful?”
“There will be various signs.” Dr. Gustave’s expression became vague. “It may take a few months before we can be absolutely certain of the cure. We can expect to find a marked change once he is up and about again.”
They spent a few more minutes talking, then Val went out into the garden.
Chris Burnett was reading under the big tree. The nurse, sitting a few yards from him, was knitting. She nodded and smiled at Val as she saw her coming along the path. Chris looked up, closed his book, after slipping a paper marker into the place where he had been reading. He put the book down and got to his feet. He didn’t come towards her, but his smile was a little warmer than the last time they had met and he had taken the trouble, Val noted, to get to his feet.
“Did you hear the news?” he asked, pulling a chair nearer his. “About Zimmerman?”
“Yes.” She sat down, longing to touch him. “How do you feel about it, Chris?”
“I’m rather excited.” He slumped down into his chair. “I’m getting pretty bored with myself here. If I could only get back to the office again! It’s dull just sitting here with her watching me all the time.”
“It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?” Val said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “They seem very hopeful. But we mustn’t expect a miracle all at once. They did say...”
“Oh, I know. They told me.” He stared away down the path frowning. “How’s your father?”
“He’s fine. Busy as usual. He is telephoning tonight.”