THE DOORMAN HAD SEEN it happen. Right before his very eyes, the far end of the bridge had bucked up, twisted, and plunged down out of sight. His status as the only eyewitness made him the center of attention of a large crowd which had gathered in the rain and howling wind to look at the wreckage of girders and struts. The people were soaked and dripping, hair plastered to their faces, but they talked with excitement and nervous animation. It was like a lawn party, the doorman thought with mild amusement. He had expected something like this to happen before long. The whole hotel was so shoddily built. He had a brother who worked construction in Zaragoza, and his brother had pronounced the Reina badly built. That was enough for the doorman.
Mr. Bonnard was questioning him, shaking his finger at him in the rain. Mr. Bonnard looked ridiculous, with his thin wispy hair hanging down into his eyes. The doorman suppressed a smile.
“And that’s all you saw?”
“That’s all,” the doorman said.
Mr. Bonnard nodded, shivered, and went inside. Slowly, the crowd became bored with the wrecked bridge, and began to feel the downpour and the chilly wind. People turned into the lobby in groups of two and three. It was then that the doorman remembered the taxicab; the doors slamming in the rain, the car roaring across the bridge shortly before it collapsed.
But he forgot it a moment later, when Mr. Bonnard called him in to help set candles around the hotel. As the manager said, they would not be needing a doorman that night.
Annette was at the desk, talking to the worried guests. The entire lobby was illuminated by candles, which gave it a strangely funereal aspect. The clients were unhappy. They wanted to know why—why the elevator didn’t work, why the lights had gone out, why the bridge had collapsed. What did the hotel intend to do about it? Annette assured them that adequate compensation would be made, that they would be ferried to the mainland by boat in the morning, that there was nothing to fear, that everything was under control. She announced that the hotel’s auxiliary generator would soon begin supplying electricity, and that yes, they would be able to have their boiled eggs and toast in the morning. Yes, madam. Certainly. Yes sir, sorry sir, of course, sir. The questions continued, the complaints were endless. It was a nightmare.
She had lost track of Bryan at the nightclub, in the confusion of the fire. The fire seemed manageable when she left, but the lobby was filled with smoke, and she wondered. A little lady with quivering jowls was asking her about bananas—bananas! She answered politely, muttering to herself. Another man pushed to the front; Annette informed him that every effort would be made to see that he made his air connection at Barcelona in the morning. Now a woman, who wanted to see the manager. That was not possible. Yes, of course she could have more blankets for her bed. The chambermaid would see to it.
And so it went, on into the morning until she lost her ability to smile, and her voice grew hoarse.
Peter stared drunkenly at his glass window-wall, streaked with water which lashed it and drenched the balcony. It was a miserable night and a miserable life. He had taken the washed-out bridge as the final omen that everything was wrong, that everything was conspiring against him.
He picked up the empty shell of his suitcase and tossed it on the bed. He would leave her, God damn her. That’s all, just leave. He staggered into the bathroom to collect his shaving gear. He paused as he picked up his razor blades, briefly composing a suicide note in his mind. But no, it wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t worth it. She would just shrug it off.
He threw the shaving kit into the suitcase. Another thought occurred to him—he couldn’t get his XKE off the island, with the bridge blown. And he certainly couldn’t go without it. He would have to wait until the bridge was rebuilt.
How long would that take? He went to the closet and brought out his clothes, throwing them haphazardly on the bed.
Maybe not so long. They could throw up a temporary affair, just to get the cars off. Then he would drive back to the Riviera, and stay in St. Tropez. Hot girls were a dime a dozen, wandering around the port, lying on the beaches. He’d show up in the Jag and knock them dead. He’d make four girls a night—five, even. Jenny could go to hell. There were other girls in the world.
He would have a good time, eating bouillabaisse and fingering chicks under the table with his free hand. He needed a little action. Spain was the wrong country—too reserved, too formal, and inhibited. He’d go back to France, where the girls knew what it was all about.
Feeling slightly better, he undressed and climbed into bed.
Miss Shaw fretted. This was all most inconvenient, it really was. Completely unexpected and possibly quite serious. There was bound to be a lot of official rigmarole, and if it made the papers in Brighton—and she was sure it would—her sister would be terribly upset. And there was no way to communicate, to send a telegram, to reassure her. They were stranded, for God only knew how long.
And, of course, the police. They must be taken into account. She got up and took the rest of the stuff from her purse, and meticulously flushed it down the toilet. It made her feel a little more peaceful. She wouldn’t look well in jail; her health would suffer terribly.
That dreadful bridge. There was no getting around it; it was a damnable nuisance. She raised her small fist and shook it at the storm beating against her window. Thunder, rumbling and imperturbable, replied.
The bedroom was dark.
“Oh,” Cynthia said. “That’s good.”
Jean-Paul, still smelling of the smoky fire, was reaching into her, tickling her, probing her, heating her. He was good, but she admitted slight disappointment. It had been better with kef. Next time, they’d do it with kef again, and they would really have a session. The storm and the wind howled outside. She began to feel deep stirrings. This wasn’t going to be so disappointing, after all.
Jencks sat at his desk, his room lit by flickering candlelight, and struggled to understand. For the last hour, he had been in a state of shock; all his plans, his careful preparations, had been foiled. It was not easy to accept, to admit, and he considered every other possibility first.
The computer had been wrong. But no, that was ridiculous. Perhaps it was capable of a minor error, the result of mis-programming, but a major catastrophe of this magnitude was unthinkable.
Bryan and Miguel were holding out on him. That, too, was ridiculous. Only Jencks knew how to unload the stuff quickly and safely enough to make it worth their while. He was in sole possession of that information, and without it, the robbery was pointless. Besides, the safe had been empty. Neither of them could have robbed the safe.
Who had? The whole thing sounded to Jencks like an inside job. Maybe it was Bonnard himself—he had been acting pretty nervous lately. Maybe that girl at the desk. Maybe an enterprising and quick-witted member of the staff.
He dismissed each of these possibilities in turn. The planning and timing required for an operation of this size made any amateur effort unlikely. This was a professional piece of work, and he would have to approach it in that light.
Miguel burst into the room. He said one word: “Brady.”
“Perhaps,” Jencks said.
“What do you mean, ‘perhaps’? Who else could it be?”
“That’s the question,” Jencks said, shaking his head. He had a headache; he went to the bathroom and groped for aspirins in the dark. When he came out, he found Bryan sitting on the bed, looking very tired.
“I dumped the gear,” Jencks said. “The flashlight, the rubber sacs, the gloves—everything. By now it’s washed out to sea. We’re clear.”
“So’s that bastard Brady,” Miguel said. “I could kill him. I’d snap his fat neck like—”
“Just a minute,” Jencks said. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“For Christ’s sake—”
“Quiet,” Jencks said. “Suck your thumb.”
Miguel lapsed into wounded silence. Jencks stood and paced up and down the room, forcing his mind to work logically.
“Brady didn’t do it,” Bryan said quietly.
“How do you know?”
“I ran into Mrs. Cleeves in the middle of the afternoon. She told me she was feeling much better—she had just deposited her jewels in the hotel safe.”
That meant the safe had been opened after Brady had gone. In a way, it didn’t matter—Brady couldn’t have pulled the job alone. He wasn’t necessarily in the clear, but he wasn’t directly implicated.
“What time did you see Mrs. Cleeves?”
Bryan shrugged. “Tea time. Around four, I’d say.”
It was unlikely that anyone would check out of the hotel after four on a Saturday afternoon. Which meant the robbers were still here. He turned to Bryan.
“Describe a room. Any room, just a typical room you searched today.”
“Well, there isn’t much to say. I’d go in, memorize things, and begin to look for—”
“Did the rooms have anything in common?”
Bryan looked helpless. He couldn’t explain it to Jencks. Only a man who has examined one hotel room after another could understand it—the way each room reflected the personality of its occupants, despite the uniformity of furniture and decor. Some rooms were messy, some neat; some smelled of sweat, some perfume, some were antiseptic and neutral; some had the unmistakable stamp of French fastidiousness, some of Italian flair. But each room, in its own way, was unique.
“They weren’t disordered, ruffled?”
“Didn’t seem to be.”
“No signs of a search at all?”
“None.”
Jencks stopped pacing and sat down again. He irritably rapped a pencil against the arm of his chair. He was nervous, damned nervous; usually, he would fight to control his tension, to hide it. Tonight he couldn’t care less.
“Are you sure you searched thoroughly?”
“Son of a bitch,” Miguel exploded. “Of course we’re sure. The first few rooms, maybe, I was a little casual. I expected it to be easy. Later on, when I still wasn’t coming up with anything, I gave them a real once-over. Everything but pulling out the drawers to see if money was taped to the back. There just wasn’t anything to find.”
“All right,” Jencks said. “Don’t take it personally.”
“How the hell am I supposed to take it?”
“We’ve had a big day,” Jencks said. “I’m sorry.
Miguel laughed bitterly, and pulled a flask out of his hip pocket. He downed a swig and passed it to Bryan, who gulped noisily and held it out to Jencks.
“What is it?”
“Tequila,” Miguel said. “Imported.”
Jencks took the flask and knocked back a mouthful. It burned harshly and warmed his stomach.
“Better with lemon and salt,” Miguel said, “but we gotta improvise.”
Once again, Jencks thought over the events of the day. He was beginning to feel groggy from the effort, like a man viewing the same film over and over. He forced himself to concentrate. He saw himself jam the elevator, talk to the doorman, light his cigarette three times, enter the phone booth, cross the lobby in darkness, open the safe.…
“Dinner time,” Jencks said. “They must have done it at dinner time, around seven or eight. I considered doing it that way myself. It would have saved using all the explosives and bothering with the lights and fires. It’s a much more elegant solution, but risky. It means you have to get into the office in full view of anyone who might be in the corridors and out again without being seen. It means you had to take a great chance, because Bonnard often has dinner in his office.”
“Somebody obviously took the chance,” Miguel said.
There was a long, depressed silence.
“Look,” Jencks said. “It seems clear that this robbery was almost a mirror image of the one we planned. Did you see anyone unusual in the halls while you were searching the rooms? Somebody else who might be searching, too?”
“Hell no,” Bryan said. “I never went into a room if there was a soul in sight.” Miguel nodded.
Dead end, Jencks thought. Right smack up against a dead end. No clues, no leads. How had they done it? Who could have gotten into Bonnard’s office during dinner? Who could have searched the rooms? Chambermaids? Repairmen? He shook his head. It must have been done by some group of guests like themselves.
“I’m sure they’re still here,” Jencks said.
Bryan nodded. “I think so, too.”
“They’re still here, and they can’t get away—because we blew up the bridge.” Jencks laughed. “They’re trapped here, just like everybody else. And I’ll give you odds the stuff is still here with them.”
He tapped his chair again with the pencil.
“For Christ’s sake,” Miguel said. “I’m tired.”
Jencks put the pencil down.
“Nobody knows,” Bryan said, “that there’s been a robbery. Not yet. The management thinks the bridge was destroyed by the storm. That means we are the only ones who know that a robbery has been committed.”
“Let’s try to build up a composite picture of the thieves,” Jencks said, “Try to figure out what they must be like.”
He frowned, thinking that if he could feed facts into the computer, the machine would come up with a composite picture of the criminals. How fast? Forty seconds, maybe.
“We’ve been calling them them,” Bryan said, “and I think that’s probably true.”
“They can’t be too old,” Miguel said. “It’s hard work, searching all those rooms.”
“That’s a start,” Jencks said. “More than one, and not too old. Let’s say there are three, just like us.”
“I don’t think there are any groups of three at the hotel,” Bryan said, “Except for a few families with kids.”
“Nobody would ever think of us as a group of three, either,” Jencks pointed out, but he could already see Bryan’s point. The idea of building up a picture of the robbers was doomed.
“Let’s try something else,” he said. “Three people. What do they do?”
“Just what we did,” Miguel said. “Nose around and talk to people. Pry.”
“And whom do you remember doing that?”
“Brady,” Miguel said.
It all seemed to come back to Brady, Jencks had to admit. And there it ended. Brady was gone, neat as a whistle. He couldn’t have pulled the robbery.
“Who else?”
Bryan shrugged. “Nobody. Everybody. You know how it is—when you’re talking to someone, you’re so busy thinking ahead, trying to figure out how to slip in the next question, you don’t pay much attention to what they’re saying to you. And you prime the pump with some information about yourself. I’ve probably told a dozen people my room number.”
Jencks knew he had done the same. One of those dozen people now held the answer—and the money. He thought about the people he had met and came up with nothing. He glanced at his watch.
“It’s nearly four,” he said. “I think we’d better break for the night and meet tomorrow morning. At the pool, around ten. We might as well forget about appearances; there isn’t time to be fancy. Okay?”
The two men stood. They were exhausted and trying to smile. They left, leaving Jencks to stare alone into the rumbling night. Lightning crackled briefly. Otherwise it was dark.
After breakfast, Peter went to the underground garage, which was cut into the rock beneath the hotel. It was a cheerless, vast cavern of gray concrete, smelling of oil and exhaust fumes. The cars were parked in neat rows, illuminated by overhead fluorescent lights. Thank God, he thought, they had gotten the electricity going. This place would be a dungeon without it.
To one side was a glass-walled attendant’s booth and a gasoline pump. The attendant, wearing spotless white coveralls, came up to Peter.
“Senor?”
“I want to see my car.”
The attendant shook his head, not understanding. Idiot Spaniard. Peter dangled the keys to his Jaguar in front of the man’s face. Recognition flickered across the dark features. Then the man shook his head again and motioned outside.
“Why not? You can’t just throw me out.”
“Puenta, puenta,” the man said. He made a motion with his hand to indicate that the bridge had collapsed.
“I know, I know. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to see my car, to look at it. It’s right over there. Okay?”
Confused by the babble of words, the man shrugged and walked off. Peter squeezed past the other cars until he came to his own. It was beautiful, he thought, running his fingers over the sleek curve of the front bumper. Beautiful and graceful and sexy. It made him feel sexy, just to drive it. He had been worried about it, absurdly fearful that it would be damaged during the storm.
He walked around and slipped behind the wheel. The attendant paid no attention to him as he held the polished wood rim in his fingers. He turned the wheel and heard the squeak of rubber on the concrete. The car responded so eagerly. Like a perfect woman, an ideal mistress. And it was his, all his.
Whistling, he climbed out and returned to the hotel.
Mr. Bonnard stood with Annette at the edge of the island, looking down at the collapsed bridge. The storm had blown out to sea in the early hours of the morning and now, in the clear light of day, the bridge looked, if possible, worse than it had the night before. Partially submerged, it was a tangled gray mass of bent girders and twisted struts; it looked as if it had been wrenched from its foundations by the hand of a giant.
“What do you think?” Annette asked, lighting a cigarette.
“I don’t know what to think. We were assured that there wasn’t a storm in the world that could do this, but I’m not an engineer. I just don’t know.”
“Can we ferry people across by boat?”
“I think so. I sent Juan over in the boat two hours ago. He’s going to walk to Playa del Rio and call the police from there.” Playa del Rio was a little town on the coast, at the mouth of a river. It was the nearest town to the Reina, but it was still four kilometers away over very rough terrain.
“How soon can we get cars to the mainland?”
“It looks too far for a temporary bridge,” Mr. Bonnard said, squinting at the gap. “Maybe the police will have an idea—a derrick or some such. In any event, it will be expensive. We’ll have insurance people around our necks for the next three months.” Mr. Bonnard shuddered at the thought of Cranz, the dapper and obnoxious little investigator from Bern who had visited the hotel when it had first opened. Cranz and his associates would make life miserable for Mr. Bonnard.
Annette took a deep breath. “I’d better get back to the desk and face the angry hordes. What can I tell them?”
“Help is on the way,” he said, brisk and businesslike. “We expect to begin ferrying people to the mainland shortly after lunch. Damage claims can be forwarded to Hotelsa, Madrid. I suppose we may have a few lawsuits as well.” He sighed. “Such a difficult thing.”
Jenny Cameron, looking fresh and youthful in a navy-blue jumper, came up just as they were turning back to the hotel. Her eyes widened when she saw the wreckage of the bridge.
“How did it happen?”
Mr. Bonnard, not wanting to give the impression of uncertainty, said, “Blew down in the storm. We suspect wave action weakened the concrete supports.”
“It’s really a shame,” Jenny said, trying to sound concerned.
“We are doing everything possible to restore a normal situation, I assure you,” he said, a trifle pompously. Mr. Bonnard always retreated into stuffy formality when he felt he had no other alternatives.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Jenny said.
Annette and the manager left her looking down at the bridge. She had a faint and enigmatic smile on her face. She seemed almost pleased about the wreckage.
Irritably, Jencks looked at his watch. It was after ten, and neither of the others had showed up yet. Discipline was shot to hell, he thought. It would never have happened the day before. Across the pool, he saw Jenny, who waved and seemed about to come over. He shook his head and frowned; she shrugged and walked off. It was a remarkably docile display, he thought. He must have trained her better than he had thought.
It gave him little comfort. Jencks had slept the sleep of a tormented man, and he felt grumpy and miserable this morning. The clear, bright sunshine only seemed to accentuate and underline his state of mind, which was black and gloomy. He could think of only one good thing—from his point of view—which had happened the day before, and that was the storm. From snatches of conversation he’d overheard at breakfast, it appeared that most people, including the hotel staff, believed the bridge had collapsed as a result of the storm. An expert, Jencks knew, would see in a minute that this was not so, but experts would not arrive for a day or two. Until then, nobody was suspicious, including the real robbers.
That was their only advantage.
He examined the other people sitting around the pool. Some he had never seen before—the weekend visitors from Barcelona, he guessed. Any of them might have pulled the robbery, particularly that grim-looking couple several yards away. He looked mean, darkly handsome and somewhat crude; she had a highly polished, glossy elegance which Jencks guessed disguised an ignoble background. But it was impossible to say, to be sure, to find even a foundation for suspicion. Just because a man looked like a thief didn’t mean anything; Jencks prided himself on the fact that he looked like anything but a thief.
Who else didn’t look like a thief? The Warrens, from someplace in Ohio. Their brat was screaming and splashing in the water now, attracting as much attention as he could. Mrs. Warren had a pasty face and a skinny, birdlike body. Her voice was shrill with displeasure as she cawed at little Herbie. Little Herbie pointedly spit a mouthful of water in her direction. Mr. Warren, who was plump and rumpled looking in his baggy business suits, shook a warning finger at Herbie and said something about paying attention to your mother. Herbie laughed and splashed more water.
Then there was Miss Shaw, sitting in a canvas chair, a pile of bananas at her side, a book in her lap. Jencks could not imagine a more eccentric old woman, but she was charming in her nineteenth-century way. She looked up at Herbie and wrinkled her nose in disapproval. Jencks felt the same way. Little Herbie ought to be strangled.
The Italian architect appeared. He was accompanied by the dark-haired girl with the hourglass body and the beautiful eyes. Jencks had liked the couple instinctively, though rumor was that they were having their troubles. “Not married, you know,” Mrs. Aldrich had hissed into his ear, her voice sounding like seltzer water jetting from a bottle. Jencks didn’t care. He thought they were an attractive pair.
Could they have done it? It seemed unlikely, but that in itself was a reason for suspicion.
“Morning,” Miguel said, dropping into a chair.
“Well, at least you didn’t say good morning. Where’s Bryan?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him. Sorry I’m late, but I overslept. I heard some funny things this morning. You know, nobody thinks the bridge was blown up—they blame it on the storm.” He chuckled. “That’s our luck. We don’t even get credit for anything.”
Jencks let the remark drop. “Any ideas?”
“Not one. I’ve been hashing it over all morning, and nothing’s turned up. And I’m getting tired of giving sneaky looks to everyone around me. There are more people than I have sneaky looks for.”
“I admire your talent for levity.”
“Christ, there are times when all you can do is laugh.”
Bryan came up.
“You’re late,” Jencks snapped. “Nearly half an hour.”
“It was worth it,” Bryan said, sitting down.
“What was?” Jencks said, forgetting his anger, not daring to hope.
“Have you observed the hotel routine?” Bryan asked. “I have, I suppose because I’ve talked so much with the girl. They do things very smoothly here, mostly because they can hire all the staff they need at low Spanish wages. In the mornings, the maids come in to clean out the rooms, stripping the linen from the beds of people that are leaving, and—”
“Get to the point.”
Bryan smiled, obviously unwilling to relinquish a moment of triumph.
“And tidying up in rooms where guests are staying another night. They arrange things on the dressers, change towels in the bathrooms, and empty the wastebaskets. They empty them into large canvas bags, like mailbags, that the boys later come around to collect. Have you seen them?”
“Yes,” Miguel said. “They’re green. Light green.”
“That’s it,” Bryan said. “I was walking along, on my way down here, and I noticed something in one of them. It was in the middle, buried among a heap of discarded letters, cigarette butts, and empty bottles. This.” He reached into his pocket for a crumpled photograph of the interior of a hotel room.
“Polaroid,” Jencks said, looking at the serrated edge of the print. “A Polaroid picture of a hotel room.”
“Sixty seconds,” Bryan said, beaming.
“The picture was taken from a position just inside the door,” Jencks said, examining it again. “And then discarded. Why?”
“You can ask the same question about all these.”
Bryan produced three more pictures from his pocket. Each showed a different hotel room; each had been crumpled and thrown away. “I was thinking of what you said last night, about the operation being a mirror image of our own. Well, these are—”
“Flash cards!” Jencks said, “They didn’t use flash cards. They didn’t rely on memory. The came into a room, photographed it, and searched while the picture was developing. Later, they could compare the room to the picture and see if anything was out of place. That’s brilliant.”
“Know anybody with a Polaroid camera?” Bryan asked.
Miguel, who had listened in silence, now said, “I do.”
The others looked at him expectantly.
“A nympho on the third floor who calls herself Cynthia.”
“Cynthia?” Bryan asked. “You know her?”
“Yes,” Miguel said. “I slept with her.”
“It figures,” Bryan said. “As exclusive as a swinging door.”
“How do you know her?” Jencks asked Bryan, fighting to control the excitement in his voice.
“She came up to me a couple of days ago. Made a little play, wiggled her hips. We talked a bit; I wasn’t interested. Do you know her, Steve?”
“She pulled the same thing with me,” Jencks said.
“Nympho,” Miguel pronounced, as if it were a medical opinion.
Jencks’ eyes narrowed. “What did you talk about?”
“We didn’t talk,” Miguel said. “We just—”
“Not you. Bryan.”
Bryan shrugged. “All sort of minor things. I don’t really remember; she was swinging that body back and forth under my nose.”
“She pumped me,” Jencks said. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it all comes back now.”
“She pumped me, too,” Miguel said, laughing coarsely.
Jencks had a strong urge to punch Miguel in the face, but said only, “I think we’d better visit Cynthia, as a group of mutual friends.”
Together, they got up and went into the Reina.
Cynthia looked up, startled, as the key was inserted into the lock, and the door swung open. Three men walked into the room.
She had been caught dressing and wore only a cashmere sweater which reached her waist. Instinctively, she pulled it down so it covered her crotch, but her buttocks were bare behind.
“Nice legs,” Miguel snickered, shutting the door. “You should see what she can do with them, too.”
Jencks sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
Miguel recognized it “Kef,” he said, looking at Cynthia with new interest
“What?”
“Kef. Marijuana. She’s been smoking it.”
Cynthia drew back, still holding her sweater down with one hand. “No.”
“They get very suspicious when they’re high,” Miguel explained. “What shall we do with her?”
“You may think,” Cynthia purred, “that the three of you are too much. You’re not. I can take you on, you’ll see.” The hand holding her sweater began to caress her loins.
“She’s high, all right,” Miguel said. “Let me handle this.”
There was an edge to his voice which disturbed Jencks. “I’ll take care of it,” Jencks said.
“Let me,” Miguel insisted softly. “It will be my pleasure.” He walked up to Cynthia and held her face in his hands.
Jencks was about to step forward, but Bryan caught him and shook his head. Jencks hesitated, then relaxed against a wall.
“Cynthia,” Miguel said softly, stroking her cheek. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice dreamy.
“Cynthia, we want to take some pictures. Where is your camera?”
“I don’t have any camera.” She pouted and shook her head in an exaggerated, almost drunken way.
“Cynthia.”
She stopped shaking her head and looked at him.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Her laugh, high and lilting, broke the stillness of the room. “You can’t. I can take all of you, I told you before.”
“I’m not talking about that, Cynthia.” The threat was very clear in his voice now, but she did not respond to it.
“No camera.”
“Where is it?”
“I never had any camera.”
“I saw it, a Polaroid camera. In your room, remember, Cynthia?”
“No camera.”
She felt his hand stroking her cheek. It felt good, but his voice was funny. It was alternately loud and soft, like a radio being turned high and low in succession. If he wanted sex, it was all right with her, but he didn’t seem interested. All this talk about the camera, with his voice shouting, then soft, shouting, then soft.
“Cynthia, I’m going to hurt you.”
She laughed again and released her sweater which snuggled back up around her waist. She could feel it clinging around her, like hands.
A tingle ran through her. A small brush fire was burning, in a deserted field, an abandoned wheat field, a field of olive trees, a grove of bright red cherries.…
Miguel was leaning over her, his breath smelling of tobacco and coffee. It washed over her face like a wave.
“Cynthia. If it hurts too much, tell me, and I’ll stop.”
His voice came from an echo chamber, a large dark room where sound returned to haunt you. “Tell me and I’ll stop,” she heard again. “Tell me and I’ll stop … tell me and stop … tell me and I’ll stop …”
“Do you think this is wise?” one of the men said. “Think this is wise … this is wise … this is wise.…”
“Let me handle it,” Miguel said. She felt his hand lift her sweater. Cold air touched her stomach and breasts. Miguel was panting. His fingers ran over her body, comforting her. It was going to be sex. Everything was sex in the end. In the end. She laughed.
He slapped her, each finger stinging her check. Her eyes closed. Fear grabbed her as an eagle plucks up a lamb, carrying it into the air, away from the ground, far from safety.
His hands caressed her kneecap, then pinched. It was not a hard pinch, but gentle, almost loving. He began to pinch more, moving his hand up her leg. The pinches were harder. His hand moved to the inside of her thigh. It was tender there, and the pinches hurt, little pricks of pain that rippled like a stone falling into water. His hand moved up. He was hurting her more. Soon it would hurt very much.
“The camera, where is it?”
The voice was dead. She hardly heard him. She was concentrating on the pain, which nipped at her. It was an animal, biting her and growling as it moved up her body. It had no right to be there. It was obscene, it was terrible, it was terrifying.
His hands no longer caused distinct moments of hurt. It was all blended now. each new pinch inseparable from the last. The pain spiraled. And suddenly, it died. Things were gentle, peaceful, and relaxed; his hand was tender as it stroked her legs and lips. She was ready for him. His fingers were drowning in her. They were feeling her small spots, searching for the little place. She could tell it was there, a little hill in the golden wheat field. He could find it, and she would enjoy his discovery.
A streak of pleasure shot past her eyeballs, like a comet. Sparks of desire scattered. He had found the place and was teasing it. The backs of her knees were wobbly and loose. She wanted him. He was being so exquisite, she had to have him. She felt helpless, held down like a butterfly waiting for the shock of ether to knock it out. Another lash of excitement, then another. She moaned.
And suddenly she felt pain that was excruciating. He was pinching her again, and it was unbelievable. Nothing could hurt so much. Another hand was at her breasts, pinching there, too. Two centers of pain radiated in her, each agonizing, but one dominated, sending out pulses of pent-up screams.
“The camera,” his voice said, panting in her face. “Where is the camera?”
Her neck tensed with a new jolt of pain. “No camera,” she said. Didn’t he know she didn’t want to talk about a camera? Cameras didn’t interest her.
The hand was gentle again. Gasping for breath, her bruised nipples heaving, she received the new wave of pleasure. It was incredible, the combination. The pleasure was less bearable than the pain. She almost longed to be hurt again. She saw a house flooded, then pounded by rain, then flooded again by warm, swirling waters. It was in a steaming jungle. Vines hung from the trees, and there were many slim saplings standing straight and resilient.
“Please take me,” she said. Her mouth was dry. She was having trouble breathing.
“The camera. Just tell us about the camera.”
His voice was dry, too, flaking and cracking like an old painted sign.
“Take me.”
“You must learn to answer the question.” Though he was panting loudly, like a steam engine chugging, she heard his words. And suddenly, pain shot through her, from far away to up close, bursting inside her. She bit her lips. She could not take much more of it. The pain stopped, and she bathed in pleasure, but it was not a restful thing. This time he was building her, preparing her for the heights of love. It was wonderful, what he was doing.
He stopped. She moaned.
She had to have a man, she had to take it in her, to be able to press herself down on it, to scratch the maddening itch.
“Please. Oh, please.” She was writhing, gasping.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me, or I’ll leave.”
She hesitated. To convince her, to tip the balance, he touched her again with the delicate stroke, the brush, the delicate brush on the painter’s canvas. “Jean-Paul has it,” she said, still gasping.
“Jean-Paul?”
“Jean-Paul Morand,” said one of the men. His voice was gruff, like gravel being dumped from a truck. “I know who he is. A tough-looking customer.”
Miguel said, “It was you and Jean-Paul?”
“You and Jean-Paul … you and Jean-Paul …” The voice reverberated, repeated, asked again.
“Yes. We did it. Now please.”
“Where is the stuff?” Miguel asked.
“Jean-Paul,” she repeated. “Jean-Paul.”
She opened her eyes, saw light and three faces. Two were calm; one was sweating. She reached for Miguel.
“Don’t leave me, not now.”
He turned to the others. The ugly man jerked his thumb toward the door. He looked disgusted.
“I don’t really believe in torture,” Miguel said to her. “But I’m afraid this time is an exception. Later.”
He got up. He was leaving. She wanted to scream. Panic. What were they going to do? She was so hot, so wet. She was still trembling from him. He was leaving her, they were all leaving. Footsteps moved to the door, and then she heard it slam.
She was alone. She burst into hysterical tears.
Bryan stopped at the desk, carrying one of his own sweaters in his hand. “Sorry,” he said to Annette. “One of the guests left this at the pool a few minutes ago. Fellow named Morand. I thought I’d drop it by his room.”
“We can send it up with the boy,” Annette said.
“No bother,” Bryan replied smoothly. “I’m on my way upstairs anyway. What’s his room?”
“214,” Annette said, consulting her chart.
“Thanks very much,” Bryan smiled.
He met Jencks on the first floor. “214,” he said. The two men went up one flight and turned down the corridor. The maids were just finishing with the last of the rooms.
“Where’s Miguel?”
“He went to get his gun.”
“His gun! I told him specifically—”
“I know, I know. But perhaps it’s just as well.”
They stopped at Jean-Paul’s door.
“Wait for Miguel?” Bryan asked.
Jencks shook his head. He didn’t like guns and would use one only as a last resort. He knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice asked. It did not sound fearful, or even interested, just preoccupied.
“Femme de chambre,” Jencks said, in a high voice.
“Un moment,” came the reply. Footsteps approached.
The door opened and they had a glimpse of Jean-Paul’s face, covered with shaving lather. With brutal force, Jencks slammed the door wide, pinning Jean-Paul’s arm against the wall. They entered and threw him down on the bed. He sat there, astonished, and looked at them.
“The cameras,” Jencks said.
Jean-Paul stood threateningly, and Bryan hit him once in the stomach, quite hard. The Frenchman crumpled, holding his gut. He got lather on his knees.
“No games,” Jencks said. “We’re not in the mood. Where are the cameras?”
“Je ne parte pas Anglais,” Jean-Paul muttered.
Bryan grabbed him by the wrist and elbow, straightened his arm and flung Jean-Paul against the wall. He slapped hard against the plaster, face first. Bryan caught him as he fell, and turned him to face Jencks. There was a little U of lather on the wall.
“Be careful,” Jencks said to Jean-Paul. “You can get killed, if you’re not careful.”
Jean-Paul was barely conscious. Bryan had to prop him up against the wall.
Without another word, Jencks turned and began to search the room. He flung open the closet doors and rummaged among the clothing. Then he checked all the dresser drawers. Behind him, he heard a sigh and looked over to see Bryan dropping Jean-Paul to the bed.
“Out like a light,” Bryan said.
“You weren’t exactly gentle.”
“I’m crying.”
Bryan joined the search. Together, they looked under the beds, behind the furniture, in the bathroom. Jencks found Jean-Paul’s suitcase locked; he spent several minutes jimmying it open with a pocketknife. It was empty.
“Son of a bitch,” Bryan said.
Jencks looked up to see Jean-Paul standing by the door. Neither of them had noticed him get up; they had been absorbed in their inspection. Jean-Paul opened the door, and Bryan dived for him. Jean-Paul kicked; the Englishman grunted and fell to his knees. By then Jencks was on his feet, but Jean-Paul was outside, slamming the door behind him. Jencks heard running feet in the corridor. Roughly he pushed Bryan out of his way and went out into the hall. It was empty, but at the far end, around the corner, he heard running, and saw a passing shadow.
He sprinted down the hall. Behind him, Bryan staggered to his feet and called, “I’m coming.”
Jencks rounded the corner and followed the sound of footsteps up the broad, circular stair. Up to the third floor, then the fourth. Above him, he continued to hear running feet. The fifth floor. Still the feet. Jean-Paul was going to the roof.
As he reached the top floor. Jencks heard a door slam. Jean-Paul would be outside now, hiding somewhere on the flat, broad roof of the hotel, a surface which was unbroken except for a half-dozen chimneys and ventilator shafts. He came to the door and looked through the small square window.
The roof was covered in black tar paper and gravel; heat waves shimmered up, blurring the shapes of the white rectangles that pierced the roof at various places. He did not see his man.
Jencks hesitated. Was Jean-Paul armed? It seemed unlikely, but you could never be sure. Jencks himself had only a penknife, and it was hardly a serviceable weapon. One flight below, he heard Bryan approaching. He looked down the stairwell, and saw the black-and-white checked floor of the lobby, five floors down. Nobody in sight; apparently running men did not attract much attention. Perhaps the staff had too many other things to worry about.
Bryan arrived puffing. “Is he out there?”
“Yes. There’s no other way for him to get down. This is the only door.”
“Then we’ve got him,” Bryan said. He looked out the window. “Any idea where he is?”
“No. I’m going out there, to see if I can flush him out. You stay here—he isn’t expecting you—and make sure he doesn’t get by.” Jencks frowned. “Be as rough as you want. He won’t be holding back any punches.”
Bryan nodded. Jencks opened the door and walked out to the roof. He shut the door behind him.
The first thing he noticed was the wind, which was strong and gusty, blowing over his face, rippling his clothes. Then he felt the noonday sun, hot on the back of his neck. Except for the wind and the dim whirr of a generator, it was very quiet. His feet crunched on the gravel. He bent down and slipped off his shoes. When he stepped forward on stocking feet, he made less noise but his footsteps were still far from silent. He moved toward the first chimney.
It was a broad, white rectangle, larger than a home refrigerator, and afforded plenty of protection for a man. He moved close and worked his way around to the far side.
Nobody there.
Breathing a deep sigh, fought back his tension. He had to stay cool. He went to the next chimney. This one was silently belching black smoke. Half-crouched, he walked around it
Nobody there.
He was going for the third chimney when he heard a grunt behind him. Looking back, he saw Jean-Paul struggling with Bryan at the door. He ran to them just as the Frenchman delivered a telling blow to Bryan’s jaw. For a moment, Jencks feared Jean-Paul would escape again. But then Miguel was blocking the passage, throwing two quick jabs at Jean-Paul’s nose. Jean-Paul’s head jerked back twice.
Jean-Paul toppled, rolled onto his stomach, and scrambled to his feet He ran straight into Jencks, who hit him very hard. Jean-Paul sank to the ground, gasping. Blood ran from his nose and mouth; one eye was already swollen and closed. Jencks grabbed his hair, hauled his head up, and looked into the exhausted face.
“It’s a long drop off this roof,” Jencks said conversationally. “Come and see.”
He dragged Jean-Paul by the collar to the edge of the tar paper and held his head over the side. Together, they stared down one hundred feet to the blue, clear rectangle of the pool. It said “Hotel Reina” on the bottom, in black tile. Nobody was swimming; various people were seated around the water, just as they had been when Jencks, Bryan, and Miguel had gone to Cynthia’s room.
“Care to take a plunge? You’re all hot and sweaty.” Jencks pushed the limp body forward. “Do you a world of good.”
Jean-Paul, still gasping for breath, looked down, then up at Jencks. He hesitated. Jencks pushed him further.
“All right,” Jean-Paul said. “I’ll tell you. Get me back.”
Jencks did not move. “I don’t believe you, and I find you tiresome.”
Closer to the edge.
“Jesus! I’ll tell you. You’ve got to believe me.” The face was now white, the eyes wide with fear.
With apparent reluctance, Jencks hauled him away from the edge.
“The man is named Brady. He has the money. He—”
Roughly, Jencks dragged him back to the edge of the roof. “Not very good,” he said. “You’ll have to do much better than that.” He slammed Jean-Paul’s chin down on the concrete lip, then pulled it back. “Try again.”
“Miss Shaw,” Jean-Paul said, blood running down his chin. “It was Miss Shaw. She planned the whole thing.”
In sudden anger, Jencks punched him again and shoved him aside. He looked down at the pool. Of course! It was brilliant, truly inspired! Brady and Cynthia scouted, Jean-Paul did the dirty work, and the mastermind sat quietly by, selling dope and eating bananas.
As he watched, he picked out the little bundle that was Miss Shaw, seated next to a table strewn with banana peels. A waiter came up to her bearing a message on a silver tray. Miss Shaw took the message, read it, and looked quickly around. Then she got out of her chair and bustled inside.
It was time to get moving.
He ran back to the door, grabbing his shoes as he went. The gravel cut into his feet, but he didn’t care.
Miguel was helping Bryan up. “Find out?”
“I’ll say. You won’t believe it. The person who planned it all was Miss Shaw.”
“Miss Shaw!”
Jencks nodded. “Take care of Bryan. I’ll handle grandma myself.”
“Want the gun?” Miguel held it out.
“No. I won’t need it.”
He ran downstairs.
It made sense, he thought, at least in retrospect. This project required brains, the kind of brains that Brady didn’t have and Jean-Paul could never aspire to. It required planning and coolness that had to come from someone else. Miss Shaw was perfect. He remembered how cunningly she had delved into his background, as she played the amusing, eccentric English maiden aunt. He should have suspected at the time. No characterization that perfect could be genuine.
She was a fox.
He reached the third floor and ran to her room. He inserted the correct key into the lock and flung the door wide. Miss Shaw was standing in front of him, relaxed and calm. In one hand, she held a small suitcase.
In the other hand, she held a gun.