1968 - An Ear to the Ground (15 page)

‘Henry’s keeping it for me.’

‘That wise?’

‘I trust Henry’

‘Good for you.’

There was a long pause, then Gilda said, ‘You should watch out for Martha. She hates you.’

Johnny laughed.

‘That fat old slug? What can she do to me?’

‘Don’t be too sure . . . she’s dangerous.’

Johnny laughed again.

The restaurant Johnny took her to had a jetty out in the sea, and on this jetty, the tables were set. There were coloured lights, a band playing soft swing and the place was crowded.

As Gilda walked to their table, she saw the male diners were looking at her with alert interest. She tilted her chin and swung her hips a little. It pleased her to be looked at and so obviously admired.

The service was quick and smooth and the food excellent. While they were eating lobster cocktails, Gilda became aware of a woman diner alone on the other side of the aisle who continually stared at Johnny. This woman was around thirty— six or possibly thirty-eight: slim, blonde, wearing an expensive but plain white dress. She had classical features, cold, hard and sensual. Her steel blue eyes scarcely left Johnny.

Johnny seemed relaxed and unaware that he was being scrutinised.

‘We do the final job the night after next,’ he said as he finished the cocktail. ‘Hmmm. . . that was good.’

‘It was marvellous. The Crails’ place?’

‘That’s it. Then I’m off.’

Gilda felt a little pang ran through her.

‘You mean you’re leaving?’

He looked up, frowning.

‘Of course. You can’t imagine I’m staying in this plush dump longer than I can help, do you?’

Gilda pressed her hands to her breasts.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! I told you . . . Carmel.’

The sole in lobster sauce with truffles was placed before them. Gilda found she had lost her appetite.

‘Johnny. . .’

He was eating. He glanced up.

‘Huh?’

‘Must you rush off? We have the villa for another two weeks. Won’t you stay until then?’ Gilda moved the food on her plate with her fork. ‘We could get to know each other better.’

Johnny grinned. He forked a piece of lobster meat to his mouth.

‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t get to know each other better after dinner, is there?’

Gilda stiffened, feeling blood rash to her face. She stared at him.

Johnny regarded her, saw her shocked expression, grimaced, then shrugged.

‘Okay, let’s skip it.’

They ate in silence. Gilda felt the food would choke her. Then the woman’s stare finally attracted Johnny’s attention. He had been vaguely aware of being watched and now the feeling had become acute. He turned his head slowly and looked at the woman who stared directly at him as she toyed with her wine glass. The brash, sensual look told him here was a blatant invitation. For two or three seconds they continued to stare at each other, then Gilda, watching, said sharply, ‘Are you dreaming or something, Johnny?’

Johnny dragged his eyes from the woman.

‘A real pair of hot pants over on my right,’ he said, grinning. ‘Is she after a man!’

‘Yes. A horrible woman!’ Gilda said, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice. ‘A whore!’

Johnny smiled cynically.

‘Do you think so? I don’t. She’s honest. She’s telling me that she wants me. I dig for a woman like that. She saves a man time. This no-I-don’t-yes-I-might drag bores me.’

Gilda pushed her plate aside. She felt slightly sick.

‘I see. I’m sorry I’m boring you.’

Johnny shrugged indifferently.

‘Well, if that’s the way you are made, that’s the way you’re made . . . simple as that.’

The night, the moon, the sea, the coloured lights, the music all collapsed on Gilda.

‘Is it?’ Her voice trembled. ‘Isn’t there such a thing as love?’

Johnny leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows lifting.

‘Oh, come on, baby, grow up! What is love but sex?’ He leaned forward, staring at her, his eyes hot and intent. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. Let’s go down to the beach. I have a yen for you and I know you have a yen for me. I can see it. . .it’s there in your eyes. Let’s get laid tonight. Come on, baby, let’s set the night on fire.’

Gilda’s hands gripped her bag, her nails digging into the soft fabric.

‘How can you talk to me this way? Johnny! I love you!’ Her lips trembled and her face was pale.

An expression of disgust and suspicion crossed Johnny’s face.

‘Oh, God! One of those! Listen, baby, I. . .’

Gilda got to her feet.

Speaking softly so no one except Johnny could hear, she said, her voice unsteady, ‘Enjoy yourself. Take that whore. You can walk home. Martha was right. . . you are no good,’ and she moved swiftly from the table and away down the aisle.

Johnny remained motionless. A sudden black rage surged through him. He had to make an effort to restrain himself from sweeping the contents of the table on to the floor.

Love . . . marriage . . . he didn’t want that! A woman could have no permanent place in his life.

He wanted his garage, his fast cars and around him men who knew and talked cars.

Always goddamn complications, he thought savagely. The moment he had seen Gilda he had wanted her physically, but not permanently. He knew he wouldn’t want her when she had to dye her greying hair. He wanted her now! The thought of living permanently with her when the sex thing had gone cold and she ran his home, grumbling about how he dirtied things up, providing him with the deadly, dreary meals for lunch and dinner and dinner and lunch, day after day, nagging him if he were late when he was working on some car. . . hell! No! That he couldn’t take!

A low, musical voice said, ‘Did she walk out on you?’

Johnny stiffened and found the blonde woman had crossed the aisle and was now sitting where Gilda had been sitting.

Looking at her, seeing her heavy breasts under the white frock and the cold, sophisticated beauty, Johnny felt a surge of lust run through him.

‘That’s what she did,’ he said. ‘She’s the virgin type.’

The woman laughed. Her laugh was attractive. She threw her head back, revealing a beautiful throat: her teeth were perfect.

‘I thought so. But I’m not. What’s your name?’

‘Johnny’

‘Johnny. . . I like that. I’m Helene.’ The steel blue eyes hotly devoured him. ‘Why waste time, Johnny? I know what you want. I want what you want. Shall we go?’

Johnny snapped his fingers at a passing waiter for his check.

‘Oh, forget it,’ she said impatiently, getting to her feet. ‘They know me here. The check will be taken care of.’

So what? Johnny thought. I’ll give this bitch value for money.

With the eyes of everyone in the restaurant on him, he followed the woman down the jetty.

Martha had just finished dinner when Gilda came up the terrace steps. Henry, who was pouring himself a brandy, looked up, surprised.

‘Where’s Johnny?’ Martha demanded, seeing Gilda was alone.

Her eyes bright with tears, Gilda didn’t pause. She threw over her shoulder, ‘I don’t know, and who the hell cares?’

Her bedroom door slammed.

Martha was about to select a coffee cream from a large box of chocolates Henry had brought her. She paused and stared at Henry.

‘Now, what’s going on?’

Henry shook his head, his expression a little sad.

‘Young people. . . it’s the salt in their lives to quarrel. Don’t you remember when you were young?’

Martha snorted.

‘He’s no good. I knew it the moment I saw him. He’s a goddamn sonofabitch!’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as saying that,’ Henry said and sipped his brandy. ‘He’s made us a lot of money.’

While Gilda was lying face down on her bed, crying, Johnny was sitting beside the blonde woman as she drove her Mercury Cougar along the beach road. From time to time, she put her hand high up on his thigh, squeezing his muscles.

‘You’re not just all muscle, are you, Johnny?’ she asked.

Johnny laughed.

‘Wait and see.’

She glanced at him, her eyes alight, her lips curved in a sensuous smile.

‘You won’t be disappointed. I’m just wondering if I will be.’

‘Wait and see. Where are we going?’

‘To my place. My dear, aged, impotent husband is in New York.’ Her fingers dug deeply into Johnny’s muscles.

Impatiently, he swept her hand away.

They eventually drove through a high, open gateway and pulled up outside an imposing looking house that was in darkness.

‘The slaves are asleep,’ Helene said as they got out of the car. ‘Don’t make a noise.’

A few seconds later, they were in a big, luxuriously furnished bedroom. Helene walked to the bed, then turned and faced Johnny as he came towards her. She was breathing rapidly and there was a queer, almost insane look in her steel blue eyes. She swung her evening bag and hit Johnny violently across his face. The metal clasp of the bag cut the side of his nose. He started back, staring at her in angry astonishment as he felt blood running down his face and on to his shirt, then as she swung the bag again, he caught her wrist and wrenched the bag out of her hand.

With blood dripping over both of them, Johnny tore the dress off her and flung her on the bed.

***

Around four o’clock the following morning, Martha woke, feeling hungry. She lay in the dark, trying to make up her mind whether to try to sleep or whether to get up and visit the refrigerator. As always, the refrigerator won. She turned on the light, put on a wrap and plodded to the kitchen. There was a mess of cold spaghetti, onions and tomatoes with some minced veal that took her fancy. She was reaching for the bowl when she heard a door open and then shut softly. Frowning, she went into the corridor. Johnny was moving silently to his bedroom. Seeing her, outlined in the kitchen door, he paused.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you stuffing your gut?’

‘Never mind what I’m doing!’ Martha snapped. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you think? I’m going to bed.’

Martha turned on the corridor light. She stared at Johnny, a cold wash of fear running over her.

Dried blood caked his face. He had a cut on the side of his nose. There were big splashes of blood on his white shirt.

‘What have you been doing?’ Martha demanded, her voice quavering.

‘Making love to a buzz saw,’ Johnny said and grinned. ‘Good night,’ and he went into his bedroom and closed the door.

Martha found she had lost her appetite. Turning off the lights, she returned to her bed. Making love to a buzz saw. What did that mean? She had a cold presentiment that Johnny was edging them all into the worst kind of trouble. All that blood! What had he been doing?

***

While this was going on, Harry Lewis lay sleepless in a bedroom at the San Francisco Hilton Hotel.

The annual general meeting had gone off slickly and with no trouble. All the stockholders were happy, but Harry wasn’t. He had been acutely aware that the directors of Cohen’s Self-Service Stores regarded him as a gigolo. The Trustees of the estate scarcely bothered to speak to him. Although he had made notes, asked questions, collected all the papers relating to the meeting for Lisa, he knew these hatchet-faced men regarded him as a poor joke.

The bastards! Harry thought, tossing in his bed. My God! One of these days, if I get the chance, I’ll pay them back!

Then to try to quieten his seething mind, he turned his thoughts to Tania. He thought of her with affection. But what was he to do about seeing her in the future? He dared not sneak out of his room at night again. This would be taking too great a risk. He realised the trap he was in. Sunday morning would be his only chance now, and Lisa might even stop that. Still worrying, still trying to find a solution, he eventually fell asleep.

It was a little after eight o’clock the following morning, when he was awakened by the telephone bell buzzing discreetly. Yawning, he answered.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr. Lewis? This is Dr. Gourley calling from Paradise City.’

Harry came awake with a jerk. He sat up.

‘Yes? What is it?’

He listened to the calm, quiet voice and cold sweat broke out on his face and body.

‘What are you saying?’ His voice shot up. ‘Lisa dead! Murdered! You’re crazy? What are you saying?’

He threw off the sheet and sat now on the edge of the bed.

The quiet, calm voice continued to speak.

Harry shut his eyes. He couldn’t believe what the doctor was telling him.

‘Yes, of course I’ll come. Yes . . . the first available plane. The . . . what was that?’

‘The Esmaldi necklace has been stolen,’ Gourley said. ‘This seems to be the motive for the murder, Mr. Lewis. The police are here. They naturally want to talk to you.’

Harry hung up. He remained motionless.

Lisa dead! Murdered!

He thought of her. . . what she had done for him. . . her tempers . . . her poor pain ridden scraggy body . . . her pitiful hooked nose.

Murdered!

He drew in a long, shuddering breath.

He continued to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to control his emotions.

Lisa dead! It didn’t seem possible. Then it slowly dawned on him that now he was free.

Now he owned everything that she had owned. Now he had no need to plot and plan nor to tell lies . . .

He got unsteadily to his feet and began to pack.

***

Flo wheeled the breakfast trolley into Martha’s room. She smiled happily, showing her enormous white teeth.

‘I have a little change for you, Miss Martha.’

Martha sat up in bed, leaned forward to peer as Flo removed the silver cover. The six lightly poached eggs, lying on beds of foie gras on thin toast and four slices of smoked salmon done in rolls made Martha’s eyes widen with pleasure.

‘That looks like a masterpiece, Flo,’ she said. ‘A very happy idea.’

Flo beamed. She was always thinking up changes for Martha’s breakfast and she could see the fat woman was delighted.

Martha began to eat, then seeing it was approaching nine o’clock, she turned on her transistor radio, permanently tuned to the Paradise City radio station. Martha believed in listening in to all the local news.