AFTER DINNER, JENCKS EXCUSED himself, pleading fatigue, and left Jenny in the reading room, thumbing through French fashion magazines. He went out to the lobby.
“Enjoy your swim, Mr. Jencks?” It was the receptionist. She was looking quite radiant. Something going on with that girl, he thought.
He stepped into the elevator, and pushed the fourth floor button. Fortunately, there was no elevator boy on duty. As he was carried up, he withdrew a key from his pocket and inserted it in the elevator lock. When the box stopped at the fourth floor, he opened the door and looked into the hallway. Nobody in sight. He turned the key in the lock, shutting off the elevator. Then he bent the tab of the key, breaking it off and leaving the tongue in the lock. Removing a small, battery-powered heating coil from his pocket, he pressed it to the lock. When he withdrew it, he could see the metal of the key, melted inside the mechanism. The key had been made of wood’s metal, an alloy of tin and lead with an extremely low melting point. It was the same metal the French used to cap their wine bottles.
Satisfied that the elevator would remain inoperable for at least two days, he walked quickly down the stairs to the second floor and entered his room to change clothes. The elevator jamming was not an essential part of the scheme; he had thought of it as a sort of petty annoyance which he knew would add greatly to the confusion later that night.
It was now 9:30.
He dressed slowly, giving meticulous attention to details. The tuxedo he put on would not have surprised anyone who did not know Jencks well. It was black, not blue, of custom tailoring, with a slight, almost indiscernible looseness around the left shoulder, and pointed lapels which were rather broader than was the current fashion. Behind one lapel, if anyone cared to check, was a small safety pin. His shoes were not pumps but black wing tips, highly polished, and undistinguished except for their soles, which were rubber, not leather.
Into his hip pocket he stuffed a pair of thin black nylon gloves, and a rather unusual black hood, also of nylon, with two holes for the eyes. Together, they made a small bundle no larger than a pocket handkerchief. He went to his suitcase, and found his pen-light flashlight, which he placed inside his breast pocket. He had no handkerchief.
He surveyed himself in the mirror and was satisfied with the result. He adjusted his bow tie and looked quickly around the room, making a final check.
His eyes stopped at the desk. Lying alongside the Reina engraved stationery and the blotter was a blasting cap, dull black with a silver tip. Damn! How long had that been lying there? How could he have forgotten it? He had taken along enough caps for his explosives.
He sat on the bed to think things out, and finally remembered that Miguel had brought an extra cap, “just in case.” That explained it, but he was still unhappy. Jenny had spent nearly three hours in the room with him. Had she noticed it? It seemed unlikely—she would have said something, made some comment, asked a question.
He let out a long sigh, and cursed his own stupidity. That little slip could have been disastrous, and there was too much at stake to make an error now. He looked at his watch again—9:50. In three hours, it would all be over.
Bryan sat in a booth in the men’s room which adjoined the nightclub. Carefully, he set the time mechanism in the pack of Chesterfields. It was the work of a few moments, then he dropped it in his pocket, flushed the toilet, and went out to wash his hands. He gave the attendant, an old man who appeared supported by his starched uniform, five pesetas.
He went outside and returned to his corner table. A flamenco guitarist was seated on the low stage, fingers flying and face dripping sweat in the glare of the spotlight. Bryan ignored the show; his attention was held by the woman who was coming over to his table.
“Hello,” Annette said. “I hope you don’t mind my crashing your party.”
“I’m pleased,” he said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t a very lively party. But aren’t you worried about being seen with a guest?” He kept his voice light, hiding his concern. Sometime soon he would have to get rid of her, at least for a few minutes. He checked his watch—10:30. He didn’t want to keep the incendiary in his pocket more than an hour. It was not that he didn’t trust the timer, exactly; he just had a vision of it going off with an explosive whump!, and turning him into a human torch.
“I’m feeling indiscreet tonight,” Annette said, “and anyway, it’s a very dark table.”
“What will you drink?”
“Anything,” she said, lighting a cigarette. The sight of the flame made him nervous.
“Champagne,” he decided. He would give her lots of champagne, and pray her bladder was small.
She smiled. “It is a party.”
He called for the wine list, and ordered a good Spanish vintage.
“Isn’t that rather expensive?”
“I’m in a mood to celebrate.”
She shifted in her chair, and he heard her cross her nylon-sheathed legs. Annette was wearing a chiffon print blouse, with ruffles at the neck and cuff, and a black silk skirt. Looking at her, he felt a momentary pang of desire. It was the tension and excitement, he knew, of the robbery. He was keyed up, full of nervous energy, almost drowned in his own adrenalin. It wasn’t like the old days, when he could have worked his way through a job like this with scarcely a quick heartbeat. He sighed.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No. Flamenco music always makes me sad.”
She looked across to the guitarist, as if seeing him for the first time. “It’s terribly difficult, I’m told. There are only a few remaining masters, and the art is dying out. An apprenticeship takes years, and when you’re finally through, you’re still nothing but a cheap performer in a nightclub.”
The waiter brought the champagne, and uncorked it with a satisfying pop. They sipped it. “Dry enough for you?”
“Fine.”
“Who’s minding the store?”
“The desk? One of the girls. Normally Mr. Bonnard would do it, but he’s working in his office.”
“Not a very pleasant way to spend Saturday night.” Bryan was not worried; the fire would draw him out.
“You said you were in a mood to celebrate,” Annette said.
“I am,” Bryan said. “This is a special day for me.”
“Oh?”
“My birthday.”
“Congratulations.” She raised her glass in a toast, and drained it. He refilled it.
That’s a good girl, he thought, as he watched her bring the glass to her lips again. Drink up, drink up.
Looking elegant and unconcerned, Jencks stepped outside into the damp night air and surveyed the pool. It was lighted, and looked inviting, but he was alone; thunder rolled, and he saw the first brief slash of lightning flicker across the sky. He walked to the seaward side of the hotel, to the saltwater pool. There he stopped, took out a cigarette, and flicked his lighter. The flame shot up; startled, he shut it again. He tried a second time, but once again the flame leapt alarmingly high. On the third attempt, he lit the cigarette, and puffed for a moment, looking out at the sea. A careful observer would have noticed that he was not inhaling.
Offshore, in a boat that rocked and tossed in the rising wind, a man known only as Barry observed the Reina through binoculars. He was accustomed to the ocean, and so was able to compensate for the movements of his ship and keep his eyes trained on the hotel. He saw the three brief flares, and checked his watch—11:30. That was the final signal, the last contact he would have before he drew close to the pier at 12:50 to receive the package.
As Barry watched, the first heavy drops of water splattered down. It was going to be a hell of a storm, he thought. He went forward to get his slicker. It was a black slicker; Jencks had specified that. He seemed to think of everything.
Feeling tired and depressed, Miguel closed the door softly behind him. He immediately recognized the occupant of this room by its contents—five suitcases, all large, all partially unpacked, an immense heap of bananas, and a vast shelf of cosmetics and powders along one dresser. Must be the little English lady with the nice smile and the hash for sale. Sweet old crook—she’d wanted a fortune for the stuff.
He smiled and went to work. She was bound to have jewels here somewhere.
Annette giggled foolishly as the waiter brought the fourth bottle of champagne. “You’re trying to get me drunk,” she said, in a voice so slurred he could barely understand it
“Not true,” he said. He tried to estimate the volume she had drunk in the last hour. At the very least, it was approaching two and a half liters. What was the matter with her? She was like a veteran pub crawler, totally hardened to the call of nature.
The cork popped, interrupting the song of a mediocre singer who was pressing her breasts into the microphone on stage.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.
Annette raised hers and gulped it down greedily. “Ummmm,” she said, closing her eyes. “Ummmm.”
He refilled her glass. It seemed he had spent the whole evening refilling her glass.
“Again?” She regarded the bubbles thoughtfully, and bent down to listen to them. “They’re saying something,” she said.
“What are they saying?”
“That you’re a wicked man who wants to get little girls drunk.”
“Never. Cheers.”
Again, they raised their glasses; again, she downed hers in a series of noisy swallows.
“I’ve had a lot,” she said.
“Yes?” he asked, hopefully.
“So you better give me more.”
He smiled weakly. “With pleasure.” Bryan was acutely aware of the Chesterfields in his pocket. It was now almost midnight. He had to get rid of the thing, and soon.
“Nice champagne,” Annette said, “very very nice. But I have something to tell you.”
He looked over at her. She was swaying back and forth on her chair.
“It’s time,” she said. “Where is it?”
“To the left, through the red door.”
Without another word, she got up and walked off. He heaved a sigh of relief, reached into his pocket and tossed the Chesterfields into the corner. It landed next to the draperies with a dull thud. Nobody looked over; nobody heard. The singer was singing something about wet Paris streets. She seemed sad.
Bryan hoped Miguel would get to Jencks with the news; it was distressing, something he was not sure about. Well, no matter. The operation would be completed now, no matter what. He couldn’t worry about little things.
He checked his watch again. It was midnight. In less than an hour, it would be all over.