1975 - The Joker in the Pack (17 page)

“I am asking you a question and I want an answer!” she said, her voice strident.

“It’ll be ready in ten minutes, Mrs. Rolfe. Excuse me. I’ll set the table.”

Sidestepping Helga, Terry went into the living room.

Helga stood motionless, her hands clenched into fists. She longed to rush into the living room, grab hold of this insolent little bitch and slap her face. Get hold of yourself. You’re handling this like a moron.

She walked into the living room and not looking at Terry who was laying the table, she turned on the television set. A close-up picture of a girl swam into focus on the screen. She seemed to be trying to swallow a microphone and her mouth was as big as a fire bucket. Her amplified, brash voice exploded into the room. Helga winced and turned down the sound.

Terry returned to the kitchen.

There was a long pause while the girl on the screen fought with the microphone and made noises like a cat in heat.

Terry returned, carrying a dish and a plate.

“It is all ready, Mrs. Rolfe. You haven’t any wine. If you had told me, I would have got you some.”

Helga walked over to the neatly laid table and sat down.

“I’ll get some tomorrow. This looks very good.” She surveyed the scampi, perfectly cooked and the bowl of rice. “You seem to be a very good cook, Terry.”

“Well, if that’s all, Mrs. Rolfe, I’ll run along,” Terry said. “I’ll clear up tomorrow.”

Helga, now calm, now steel hard, began to peel one of the scampi.

“No, it is not all, Terry. Sit down.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe. I am late already.” She reached the door and opened it.

“Sit down!” She ate one of the scampi. “Excellent.”

Terry was moving to the door.

“Terry! Did you hear what I said? Sit down!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Rolfe. I am late already.” She reached the door and opened it.

“Sit down!” Helga screamed at her. “Unless you want to see your fancy boy in jail!”

Terry paused, then shrugging, her face expressionless, she came back into the room and dropped into a lounging chair.

Score one
, Helga said to herself.
So this little bastard does mean something to her
! She ate another scampi, squeezed lemon over her rice, wished there was a glass of Chablis to go with the meal.

“Did Dick tell you he is in trouble?” she asked, selecting another scampi. She forced her voice to sound calm.

“Say what you have to say, Mrs. Rolfe and make it short,” Terry said indifferently. “I have a date.”

“These scampi are very good,” Helga said, thinking.
I’ll give this little bitch a taste of her
own medicine
. “Is your date with Dick?”

“Why should you care, Mrs. Rolfe?”

A point to her
, Helga thought.
Be careful
.

“Yes, Dick is in trouble,” she went on. “Didn’t you wonder how he managed to buy a motorcycle costing over four thousand dollars?”

The girl leaned back in the chair, crossing her long legs.

“That is his business. Only people with little to do stick their noses into other people’s business.”

Another point to her
, Helga thought,
but I hold the trump card
.

“He didn’t tell you he stole a ring from me, sold it and with the proceeds bought the bike?”

She shelled another scampi and squeezed more lemon.

Terry said nothing. She looked at her watch, then recrossed her legs.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. Why should I care?”

“Don’t you?”

“Is there anything else you have to say, Mrs. Rolfe?”

“Yes. Tell Dick that unless he is here by nine o’clock tonight, a police officer will pick him up and I will charge him with stealing my ring.”

Terry nodded and got to her feet.

“At nine o’clock? What would you want him for at that time, Mrs. Rolfe?”

Helga finished the last of the scampi.

“Oh, to clear up, Terry. Just run along and tell him.” She stared at the girl, steel in her eyes. “Unless, of course, you want him to spend the night in jail.”

“Mrs. Rolfe, I will make a suggestion.” Terry groped in the hip pocket of her pants and took out two crumbled fifty-dollar bills which she dropped on the floor. “That’s the money Dick owes you. You won’t be seeing him nor me again. Now for the suggestion: when a middle-aged woman gets hot pants for a boy young enough to be her son, cold water helps. Go sit in a cold bath, Mrs. Rolfe,” and turning, she walked out of the room and out of the villa.

As she listened to the roar of the motorcycle fading into the distance, Helga stared down at the empty scampi shells as empty as she felt at this moment.

chapter seven

T
he palm trees rustled in the slight breeze. Every now and then there came the sound of a soft thud as a coconut dropped. The faint roar of the traffic along the sea road blended with the swish of the sea, breaking on the beach.

Helga lay on the cushioned terrace chair. She had turned on the submerged lights in the big swimming pool, but had left off the terrace lights. The expanse of blue water, lit softly, made a soothing reflection on the terrace.

A middle-aged woman with hot pants . . .

The cruelest and the truest thing that had ever been said of her.

A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. For as long as she could remember, this sexual urge had tormented her; they had a word for it: nymphomania. She had imagined it was her own private and very special secret. Now this girl had ripped away the pretense. Thinking back into her past, Helga forced herself to admit the shaming fact that other people also knew, although they hadn’t said so. The smiling waiters, the young, husky men, even the middle-aged roués with whom she had spent an hour or so were even now probably talking about her.

“Strictly between you and me, old fella,” she imagined them saying, “that Rolfe bitch is really keen. You know . . . Herman Rolfe’s wife. She drops on her back at the drop of a hat.”

Helga felt a cold shudder run through her. She knew men. She knew they couldn’t resist boasting of their conquests. Why had she imagined – as she had done – they didn’t talk and snigger about her?

Well, you have asked for it, she told herself. You have never had the guts to fight this thing. You could have gone to a headshrinker if you had really wanted to make a fight of it. A headshrinker? A crutch! No, that wasn’t the way. She had to cure herself and it still isn’t too late!

This girl had jolted her to face the fact that she just must stop being promiscuous (and even as she told herself this, she remembered the times she had already made this empty promise). If only Herman would die! She would marry again, be free of all these dangerous sexual adventures. Herman’s letter condemning her to the life of a nun was still in the hotel’s safe. She would destroy it if he died, but if he recovered!

She closed her eyes.

If he recovered, her life would become unbearable. She remembered the hate in his eyes, his twisted mouth getting out the word:
Bore
! which she knew meant whore. If he recovered she would have to leave him. She would find a job. She would find a husband with money. She . . .

Goddamn it! she thought. Face up to it! What man with important money would want to marry me at my age? But with sixty million dollars the magic key to the world would be in her hands.

She thought of Dick Jones. She must have been out of her mind even to have thought of taking this callow boy into her bed. But it hurt that he seemed so desperate to keep out of her bed that he had invented the excuse of a broken arm. To hell with him! She had had yet another escape. Forget him! Let him fool around with Terry. But, and again a cold shiver ran through her: they would both be sniggering.

Let them snigger! That girl with her red hair! Admit it, Helga thought, she is impressive. She has character. She is wasted on a little creep like Dick.

She got to her feet and wandered around the swimming pool. Was this going to be her future life as long as Herman lived? Luxury and loneliness? She thought of the Ocean Beach club with all those awful English freaks with their greedy eyes fixed on the trolley of cream cakes and the men with their raddled faces and swollen bodies. If only Herman died! Then she would be free: the mistress of sixty million dollars!

She became aware that the front door bell was ringing. She looked at her watch. The time was 20.40.

Was it Dick?

Had Terry given him her message and, scared of the police, he had come?

Even the thought of taking him into her bed now revolted her, but by God! she would vent her misery and fury on him! She would give him something by which to remember her!

She walked quickly across the living room as the bell rang again. Jerking open the door, her eyes snapping fire, she once again received a shock.

Instead of the fawn-eyed Dick, Frank Gritten stood on the doorstep, pipe in mouth, his grey suit ill fitting, the center button of the jacket straining against a generous paunch.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Rolfe.” He removed his pipe and raised his panama hat. “I was on my way home and saw the lights. I have information for you, but if you would rather I came back tomorrow . . .”

She forced down her fury and managed to smile.

“Come in, Mr. Gritten. I was just going to have a drink. Will you join me?”

“Thank you.”

He followed her into the living room.

“This is comfortable, but lonely.”

“Yes!” She walked over to the cocktail cabinet. “What would you like?”

“You are here alone, Mrs. Rolfe?”

She paused and looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Is that wise? You are very isolated.”

“What would you like to drink?” The snap in her voice told him she wasn’t in the mood for advice.

“We policemen drink whisky, Mrs. Rolfe.”

She forced a laugh.

“I’ve read enough detective stories. I should know that.”

She made him a stiff whisky and soda, then fixed herself a vodka martini.

“It’s cooler outside.”

Carrying his drink, Gritten followed her onto the terrace and when she flopped into her lounging chair, he sat beside her.

“I remember the owner of this villa, Mrs. Rolfe. He was unlucky.”

“So I have been told.” She sipped her drink, thinking it wasn’t as good as the vodka martinis Hinkle made for her. “So you have information for me?”

“Yes. You said you wanted it fast.” Gritten lit his pipe, drank some of the whisky, nodded his approval, then went on, “Dick Jones.” He paused to look at her. His blue eyes had the hard stare of a police officer. “I am not only going to give you information, Mrs. Rolfe, but I am going to offer you advice.”

She met the probing eyes with her steely stare.

“I am interested in facts Mr. Gritten. I don’t need advice!”

“That’s the point.” Gritten puffed at his pipe, apparently unperturbed by the snap in her voice. “I’ll give you the facts, but in your present situation, Mrs. Rolfe, you also need advice.”

“Give me the facts!”

Gritten removed his pipe, regarded it, then tapped the glowing tobacco with his finger.

“You are a newcomer to Nassau and possibly to the West Indies. I have lived here for twenty years. You hired Jones to work for you. You probably thought he was a deserving boy whom you would like to help. You didn’t take the precaution to speak to the police about him, and, Mrs. Rolfe, before you hire anyone here, it is essential either to take up references or consult the police.”

Helga sipped her drink, then set down the glass.

“Are you telling me I made a mistake hiring this boy?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rolfe, that’s what I’m telling you. I told you Jones has been in trouble. He is the last servant you should employ as you live here so alone.”

Helga stiffened.

“For heaven’s sake! A boy like that? Don’t tell me he is a murderer?”

Gritten’s expression remained serious as he shook his head.

“No, he is not that. At the age of twelve, he was sent to reform school for stealing a chicken.”

Thoroughly irritated, Helga sat forward, her eyes snapping.

“Are you telling me that a twelve-year old boy can be sent to reform school for stealing one goddamn chicken? I’ve never heard of such a disgraceful thing! He was probably desperately hungry!”

Gritten removed his pipe, rubbed the bowl and then replaced it in his mouth.

“I was rather expecting you to say just that, Mrs. Rolfe, but then you don’t know the West Indians. This is my point. The chicken wasn’t eaten. It was used for a blood sacrifice.”

“A blood sacrifice? Is that a crime?”

“Not to you perhaps, but let me explain. Some seven years ago, a voodoo doctor came here from Haiti. You probably don’t know what a voodoo doctor is, Mrs. Rolfe. He is a man who has remarkable talents to make witchcraft. If he is a good man, he makes good magic. If he is an evil man he makes bad magic. This man – his name was Mala Mu – made bad magic. He started an extortion racket here. ‘You pay me so much or your husband, your wife or child will fall ill.’ That kind of thing. Few British residents here bother about the native quarter. The police have to. Voodoo is something they are very aware of and can’t afford to ignore. Mala Mu employed Jones to steal chickens, dogs, cats and even a goat or two for his blood rituals. Finally the police arrested Mala Mu and also Jones.”

Helga finished her drink.

“I’ve never heard of such rubbish,” she said. “Witchcraft . . . magic . . . blood rituals!” She made an impatient movement with her hands. “I can understand ignorant natives believing such nonsense, but you? Surely you of all people cannot believe such ignorant rubbish.”

Gritten regarded her calmly.

“I understand your reaction, Mrs. Rolfe. When I first came here, I thought like you . . . that voodoo was nonsense. I also believed that no man would walk on the moon. Now, being here for twenty years, I have a much broader outlook. I am satisfied that voodoo not only exists, but is an extremely dangerous force. I can assure you that Jones is just as dangerous as Mala Mu was. He, by the way, died in jail. The police suspect that Jones learned a lot from Mala Mu and he is now practicing witchcraft although they have no proof.”