1975 - The Joker in the Pack (18 page)

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 colored people you might believe in such nonsense as witchcraft, but I don’t and never will!”

Gritten found his pipe had gone out. He relit 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 motorcycle. 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 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 you 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?”

“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 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 ashtray.

“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 and 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 nice bit of fish for supper?”

Helga said she would like dinner. She would be out for lunch.

“What a lovely figure you have, ducks,” Mrs. Joyce said admiringly. “I’ve worked for other ladies. My! They just don’t take care of their figures, but you . . . honest, ducks, you should be proud!”

Slightly bewildered, Helga warmed to this woman. She felt in need of kindness.

“How nice of you to say that, Mrs. Joyce. You are right . . . living alone, I get depressed. I suppose when one reaches forty-three and there is no man around, one does get depressed.”

“Forty-three? You’re making yourself a liar, dear. You don’t look a day older than thirty. My hubby used to say a woman is old as her roll in the hay.” She laughed, slapping her work worn hands together. “My Tom was a proper caution. The things he used to say! But he was right. So long as you miss a man, you’re not old.”

Helga suddenly relaxed, and smiling, said, “Do you ever want a man, Mrs. Joyce?”

The big woman grinned.

“Me? Why, ducks, that’s what life is about, isn’t it? When I get hot, I find a man. Tom would approve. A girl needs a man now and then.”

Helga, suddenly close to tears, turned away.

“Yes . . . a girl needs a man.”

“There it is, dear.” Mrs. Joyce’s voice sank a tone. “That’s life, isn’t it?” She picked up the coffee tray. “You have a lovely morning. I’ll get on. Tom always said I talk too much,” and she bustled into the kitchen.

A lovely morning?

Helga stared out at the sun-soaked beach. What was she going to do? Swim alone? Go to the Ocean Beach club and listen to the yak of those ghastly women in their dreadful flowered hats and to the raddled, fat men who would stare at her, wondering and speculating?

She remembered Herman and with an effort she called the hospital. The receptionist told her gently that there was no change.

Mrs. Joyce came from the kitchen.

“Is the poor dear still bad?” she asked.

“Yes.” Helga got to her feet. “I’ll take a swim.”

“You do that, dear. I had to give up swimming after my miscarriage, but sea water is good for you.”

Helga flinched.

When a middle-aged woman gets hot pants for a boy young enough to be her son, cold water helps
.

She went upstairs, put on a bikini, then walked across the stretch of sand and into the sea. She floated in the blue, warm water, staring up at the sky, looking at the nodding heads of the palm trees, hearing the murmur of motorboats and the distant hum of traffic.

A paradise, she thought, if only she had someone with whom to share it.

A girl needs a man
.

If only Herman would die! As she floated in the warm sea his death seemed to be the only solution. Once free of him, with sixty million dollars, she would be able to make a new life for herself with some virile, attentive man to take care of her.

A new life!

But she had an instinctive feeling that Herman wouldn’t die for years. He would slowly recover. He would regain his speech. He would tell Winborn to cut her out of his will.

Utterly depressed, she swam back to the beach. Half an hour later, leaving Mrs. Joyce busy with the vacuum cleaner, she drove in the Mini to the Ocean Beach club. The secretary, beaming, was there to welcome her. She told him she was in the mood for a game of tennis. Could the pro give her a good game? She was an expert player and the pro, overweight, playing for years with the fat and elderly, didn’t realize what had hit him when Helga, her mood vicious, gave him the game of his life. She finally beat him: 9-7, 6-1, 6-0.

“You are a splendid player, Mrs. Rolfe,” he gasped, toweling himself. “The best game I’ve had since I played Riggs.”

Men!

She smiled at him.

“I was in the mood.”

Leaving him to chew on his defeat, she got in the Mini and drove to a small seafood restaurant. She picked at a tough lobster in a white wine sauce. While she sat alone in the shade of the palm trees watching the young, the middle-aged and the old on the beach, she thought of Dick.

If he hadn’t broken his arm, she thought, he just might have come and just might have lain beside her on the king size bed.

All this stupid talk about voodoo! This was something she just wouldn’t accept! How could a man like Gritten talk such nonsense!

Her mind shifted to Terry Shields. What was she doing? Then she thought of Jackson. Impatiently, she signaled to the waiter for her check.

The time now was 14.20. She had the whole afternoon, the evening and the night to face alone.
A girl needs a man
. How true! And yet, how dangerous! Again she thought of Herman with his twisted mouth forming the word whore. Patience, she told herself. You could be lucky. He could die. Then the magic key would be hers!

Getting into the Mini, she drove back to the villa.

Mrs. Joyce was preparing to leave.

“There you are, ducks,” she said. “Did you have a lovely morning?”

“Yes, thank you.” Helga forced a smile. “And you?”

“Yes . . . I like cleaning. It’s my life, ducks. Tom always said I was a two-legged vacuum cleaner.” She laughed. “Men! They don’t even think of dust.” She closed one eye. “We know what they think on, don’t we, Mrs. Rolfe?”

I know what think of, too, Helga thought.

“Yes. You’re right.”

“The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter, dear,” Mrs. Joyce said. “I’ll be in again at seven. I’ll bring you a nice slice of fish or is there anything else you fancy?”

“No, fish will be fine.”

Helga watched the big woman ride away on her bicycle, then she walked into the living room. She looked around. The emptiness of this luxurious room and its silence weighed down on her. She went upstairs and took a shower, then going to the closet, she reached for her white pajama suit. Taking it off the hangar, she paused to stare at it.

The pocket on the jacket, bearing her initials, had been neatly cut away.

For a long moment she stood staring at the jacket, puzzled. Then for no reason she could explain, she felt a creepy sensation run over her. She dropped the jacket as if it had become some horrible insect. She looked around the room, her heart racing. What did this mean? Who had done this? Mrs. Joyce? Unthinkable!

The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter
.

She crossed the room and examined the two wooden shutters. They were locked in place. She hadn’t bothered to use them the previous night. She unlocked them and swung them to and fro. They worked perfectly. Relocking them, she turned and looked around the bedroom. Her eyes went to the white jacket lying on the floor. She hesitated, then picked it up. She examined the neatly cut stitches. Someone had used a razor blade to remove the pocket. But why? With a little grimace she took the jacket into the bathroom and dropped it into the laundry basket.

She looked at her watch. God! How time crawled! It was 14.50. She went to the closet and examined all her clothes. None had been tampered with. She was aware how fast her heart was beating and she was angry with herself. There must be some reason for whoever it had been to cut off the pocket. This workman who had come to fix the shutter? She had read of perverted men who stole women’s undergarments from laundry lines. Was this workman like that? She was sure Mrs. Joyce wouldn’t have done it.

She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

She would talk to Mrs. Joyce this evening. She felt an odd atmosphere in the villa – a strange feeling – that bothered her. She felt she couldn’t stay here for the rest of the afternoon. She must get out, do something – but what?

She put on a yellow linen dress, selected shoes and a handbag, then went down to the living room. She walked out onto the terrace and looked at her own private beach: a quarter of a mile of lonely, deserted sand and sea and she turned away.

She couldn’t stay here on her own. The Ocean Beach club? Very soon it would be time for tea. She thought of those old freaks eyeing the cake trolley. Goddamn it! she thought to herself, even they are better than this loneliness.

She locked up, then getting into the Mini, she drove to the club. For the next two hours, she sat, listening to the local gossip, watched old fat fingers pointing to cakes as the waiter served, drank two cups of tea, aware the men were preening themselves as they gathered around her. She was asked to make up a fourth at bridge and, as she still had time to kill, she accepted. Her partner, a retired General, was delighted to have her on his side. The other two: a thin, sour faced old lady and her husband who was plump and boisterous, played well, but Helga, as with everything she took up, was in the professional class. Her devastating memory and her ruthless bids completely pulverized the opponents who she later learned were regarded as the club’s best players.