1975 - The Joker in the Pack (10 page)

Hinkle regarded her, saw the steel in her eyes, pursed his lips, then inclined his head.

“If that is your wish, madame.”

“No news of Miss Sheila?” She got to her feet.

“No, madame, not yet.” He too stood up.

“Then I will leave you with Mr. Locke.” She smiled. “Dick Jones . . . that’s the boy’s name. Pay him a hundred and all found and see that he earns it, Hinkle. I will tell him to contact you.”

“Very well, madame.”

She returned to the hotel where she found a Mini waiting for her. She thanked the hall porter, then getting into the little car, she drove out of the city and to North Beach Road.

Pulling up outside No. 1150, she got out of the car, opened the rickety gate and walked up the weedy path. She was aware that, opposite, colored people, sitting on their stoops and on broken down verandas, were gaping at her.

Paying no attention, she rapped on the front door. There was a pause, then the big, fat woman stood before her. Her eyes, black and a little bloodshot, widened at the sight of this slim, elegantly dressed white woman standing on her stoop.

“Mrs. Jones?” Helga smiled. “I want to talk to you about Dick.”

The big woman regarded her. Since Helga last had seen her sitting on the stoop reading a magazine, she had changed into a red cotton dress, neat and clean and had wound a red and yellow handkerchief around her head.

“My son?” The voice was soft and rich. Helga could imagine a splendid contralto singing voice coming from this vast frame.

“I am Mrs. Herman Rolfe,” Helga said. “Could we talk?

“Mrs. Rolfe?” The eyes opened wide, then they shifted past Helga to the gaping people from the opposite houses. “Come in, please.”

She led the way into a small, immaculately kept living room. There was a worn settee, two equally worn armchairs, an old TV set, a table on which stood a potted fern. On the wall was a large photograph of a tall, gay looking white man who smiled at Helga from the gilt frame. He wore shabby whites and there was an air of seediness in his jocular pose: a gay failure, Helga thought, probably a sugar planter who hadn’t worked hard enough. Looking more closely at the photograph she saw from whom Dick Jones had got his good looks.

Mrs. Jones closed the door.

“I was reading about Mr. Rolfe this morning,” she said uneasily. “Accept my condolences. It is a terrible thing for so fine a man to be stricken.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause while the two women from utterly different worlds looked at each other, then Mrs. Jones said, “Will you sit down, ma’am? This ain’t much of a place but it is a home.”

“Is that your husband?” Helga asked as she sat down.

“That is Henry Jones . . . a no good man, but he gave me Dick, thank the Lord.”

“I want to talk to you about your son, Mrs. Jones,” Helga said. She felt in need of a cigarette, but had an instinctive feeling that this big colored woman wouldn’t approve and she was anxious to have her approval. “He does my suite at the hotel. He appears to me to nicely mannered, intelligent and willing. I have a staff vacancy in my home in Paradise City . . . it is quite close to Miami. It would be a good opportunity for him, but before I talked to him, I felt I should first ask you.” Again she smiled. “My majordomo would train your son, the pay would be good and there would be opportunities to travel to New York and Europe.”

“The good Lord bless me!” Mrs. Jones threw up her hands. “Why should a grand lady like you, ma’am, be bothered with my son?”

Helga forced a laugh.

“I am like that, Mrs. Jones. With my money, I am able to help people. Watching your son work, I thought I could help him and he could help in my house. I know how mothers feel about their sons. I wouldn’t want to be parted from a good son, but I would tell myself he should have his chance.”

Mrs. Jones looked directly at Helga, her eyes suddenly curious.

“You got kids, ma’am?”

You’re over talking, Helga told herself. Be careful.

“Unhappily no, but I do know how my father felt about me,” she said glibly.

“Dick is a good boy, ma’am,” Mrs. Jones said. “He is an ambitious boy. Let me tell you something. He wanted a motorbike. He was crazy in the head to have this bike and he saved and he saved and he saved. They pay him seventy bucks at the hotel. That’s good money for folk like us. He gives me thirty for his keep and he saves the rest. Then suddenly he comes home on this bike. He has saved a thousand bucks. Imagine that, ma’am! A thousand bucks. And do you know how he did it? No girls, no movies, no drinks, no cigarettes: scraping and saving and finally he has his bike. That’s my son, ma’am, and a good son: couldn’t be better.”

Looking at the proud, beaming face, Helga wondered how this believing mother would react if she knew her son’s motorcycle had cost over four thousand dollars.

“I will pay him a hundred dollars and all found,” Helga said. “He will, of course, have to work for it, but it will give him an opportunity to save.” She smiled. “I would like to know if you have any objections to his working for me, Mrs. Jones.”

“Me?” The big woman shook her head. “Ma’am, I come from Haiti. I worked on a sugar plantation. That’s where I met Henry Jones. When my boy got to twelve years of age, I told myself I had to get out. I saved and I came here. It was hard, but I wanted Dick to have a chance and het got this chance at the hotel. I live for my son, ma’am. You take him. I’ll miss him, but to be able to go to New York, to Europe, to work for such fine people as the Rolfes . . . this is something I couldn’t even dream about.”

Helga got to her feet.

“Then I will arrange it. It is possible my husband and I will return to Paradise City tomorrow. Dick will come with us.”

Mrs. Jones put her big, work worn hands against her floppy bosom.

“So soon, ma’am?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. He’ll be all right.” Helga saw tears in the big, black eyes. “You are an understanding and wonderful mother.”

Mrs. Jones drew herself up.

“I’ve got a wonderful son, ma’am. Nothing is too good for him, and thank you, ma’am and may the good Lord bless you.”

* * *

Returning to her hotel suite, Helga called the housekeeper.

“I want to speak to the man who cleans my suite,” she said. “Dick, I believe his name is. Please send him to me.”

“Is there something wrong, madame?” the housekeeper asked, alarm in her voice.

“Nothing is wrong. I wish to speak to him,” Helga said coldly.

“Certainly madame. I will bring him to you immediately.”

“Send him to me. Your presence is not required,” and Helga hung up.

That will give them something to gossip about, she thought wryly, but she was beyond caring. She lit a cigarette and glanced at her watch. The time was 12.45. She felt in need of a drink, but decided to wait until she went down to the grillroom.

She waited three long minutes, then a soft tap came on the door.

“Come in,” she snapped.

Dick Jones entered slowly. His large dark eyes showed fear. In the hard sunlight flooding the big room his smooth skin sparkled with sweat.

“You wanted me, ma’am?” He could scarcely get the words out.

“Come in and shut the door.”

He moved further into the room, shut the door, then faced her.

“Now, listen to me, Jones. You are in trouble. I have been talking to your mother.” She saw him flinch. “She believes what you told her: that it cost a thousand dollars. I know it cost more than four thousand dollars. I can prove this to her. What do imagine she will say to you when she knows?”

He raised his hands imploringly.

“You wouldn’t tell her, ma’am,” he said huskily. “Please don’t tell her.”

She took the recorder from her bag and set it on the table.

“Listen to this,” she said and switched on the playback.

They remained still as their voices from the tape came distinctly to them both. When the tape finished, she switched off and looked at him.

“That is a confession, Jones, that you stole a valuable document.” She paused, then went on, “The police would act on it. You and your friend Jackson cold go to jail for at least fourteen years.”

He shivered.

“I just wanted the bike, ma’am.”

“To get your bike, you became a thief. Your mother told me you are a wonderful son. Would she call a thief a wonderful son?”

He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, sweating, his face ashen.

She let him sweat, then after a long pause, she said, “You are going to leave her, Jones. You are going to work in my house in Paradise City. I want you away from Jackson. You will be paid, but you will do exactly as you’re told. My majordomo, Mr. Hinkle, will take charge of you. I don’t expect any trouble from you. Your mother has agreed that you should go. You will pack and be ready to leave tomorrow. Do you understand?”

His black eyes widened.

“But ma’am, I don’t want to leave here. I have my home here. I have a good job here. I don’t want to leave!”

“You should have thought of that before you turned thief,” Helga said ruthlessly. “You will do what I say or I will turn you over to Mr. Henessey who will have no mercy on you, understand?”

He wrung his hands.

“What’s to happen to my bike?” he said. “Ma’am.”

“Damn your bloody bike!” Helga said furiously. “Get out! You leave tomorrow!”

Staring at her, horrified, the boy backed to the door.

“Hinkle will send for you. Do exactly what he tells you and keep away from Jackson. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then get out!”

Like a whipped puppy, he slunk out of the room.

She crushed out her cigarette, aware her hand was shaking.
Offense if better than defense
. She hated herself for terrifying this half-caste boy, but she had to do it. She was fighting for her future.

Consulting the telephone book she found the only other inquiry agency was The British Agency: Mr. Frank Gritten. She asked the hotel operator to call the number.

A woman answered, her voice brisk and efficient: “British Agency, can I help you.”

Helga hesitated, then she said, “This is Mrs. Herman Rolfe. I would like to consult Mr. Gritten this afternoon at three o’clock.”

“Mrs. Herman Rolfe?”

Helga could imagine the startled expression on the woman’s face.

“Yes.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe. Mr. Gritten will be happy to see you at three o’clock.”

Helga hung up.

For a long moment, she sat motionless, thinking. She was taking a big risk, but she had everything to gain, also everything to lose.

She left the suite and rode down to the lobby. She told the hall porter she would have lunch in the grillroom and would he reserve a quiet table for her, then she went out on the terrace. There was no sign of Hinkle. She couldn’t imagine him in the sea, but nothing Hinkle might do would surprise her.

Driving the Mini, she went to the Nassau Bank and asked to speak to the manager. She was immediately shown into his office. The plaque on the his desk told her his name was David Freeman: a stout, red-faced breezy Englishman who rose to his feet.

“Happy to see you here, Mrs. Rolfe,” he said offering her a chair. “What may I do for you?”

As Helga sat down, she said, “Yesterday I arranged to be able to cash fifteen thousand dollars with you, Mr. Freeman.”

“That is quite right. It has now been arranged.”

“I want ten thousand dollars in one thousand dollar bills. I want you to make a note of the numbers. I will sign the receipt and I want the numbers of the bills on the receipt.”

Freeman looked sharply at her, but seeing her cold, hard expression decided not to be curious.

“Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe. I will arrange this immediately.” He picked up the telephone receiver, issued instructions, then went on, “I trust Mr. Rolfe is improving.”

“He is better, thank you.” Helga braced herself. “Mr. Freeman, can you tell me the standing of The British Agency: the inquiry agents? Are they reliable?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rolfe.” Freeman’s red face showed his surprise. “You can have every confidence in them. Mr. Gritten, who runs the agency is an ex-Chief Inspector of the Nassau police. He happens to be an old friend of mine. He is utterly reliable, honest and a man of integrity.”

“There is also the Discreet Agency,” Helga said.

Freeman frowned.

“In confidence, that agency should be avoided.”

“Thank you.”

A girl came in with then one-thousand dollar bills and the receipt which Helga signed, making sure the numbers of the bills were on the receipt. She put the bills in her bag.

Looking at Freeman with her cold, hard eyes, she said, “Please keep this receipt safely, Mr. Freeman. It could figure in a criminal charge.”

“I understand, Mrs. Rolfe.”

Freeman’s bewildered expression clearly showed he wished he did understand, but this was Herman Rolfe’s wife and you didn’t ask questions when dealing with the wife of one of the richest men in the world.

Satisfied with her morning’s activities, Helga returned to the hotel. She had a lonely vodka martini on the terrace, then a light lunch in the grillroom. She had an hour before she called on the British Agency. She went to her suite and lying on the bed, rehearsed what she would say to Mr. Gritten.

The telephone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts.

“This is Dr. Bellamy, Mrs. Rolfe. I have consulted with Dr. Levi. He agrees that Mr. Rolfe can be moved. Dr. Levi has spoken to Mr. Winborn. There will be a chartered plane ready to leave tomorrow at 14.00.”

“This is splendid news, doctor, and thank you for all you have done.”

She called the hall porter and asked him to find Hinkle. Ten minutes later Hinkle appeared. She told him what Dr. Bellamy had said.

“Please arrange for someone to pack my things tomorrow morning, Hinkle. Will you also interview this boy, Dick Jones and see he is ready to travel with us?”

Hinkle inclined his head.

“Yes, madame.”

When he had gone, she left the hotel and drove to Ocean Avenue where the British Agency had their offices.

Checking the directory board she saw that the Discreet Inquiry Agency: Mr. Harry Jackson was on the fourth floor. The British Agency: Mr. Frank Gritten was on the fifth floor.