“YOUNG MAN, I MUST tell you that you are very impertinent.”
“Cut it out,” Jencks said.
“Are you a policeman?”
“No.” He looked at the gun. Somehow, he had to distract her, to make her look away. But the gun was fixed on him; her grip was steady. There were no tremors, no quaverings of age. Miss Shaw was in her element now, with a silver-plated pistol in her dainty, wrinkled fingers.
“One of us, are you?” Her eyebrows went up. “Fancy that. I would never have expected it, here of all places. The hotel clientele is usually so reliable. This really is quite a surprise. Would you be terribly hurt if I asked you to step into the bathroom?”
Silently, he did as he was told.
“That’s my man. It was so sweet of Cynthia to send a message down to me, after you and your friends … visited her. She’s a loyal girl, a real dear. I’m going to leave you now and lock the hall door behind me. I really would rather you didn’t come bursting out of the bath while I’m locking up. I’m not young and I’m easily startled. Do we understand each other?”
“Perfectly.” Jencks suppressed a smile. Here, at last, was one place where his superior preparation and planning paid off. Obviously Miss Shaw did not know that doors locked from the outside could be opened from the inside merely by turning the knob.
“I’ll just trot downstairs to the desk and announce that I found a man in my room, searching it. Soon enough, the guests will all discover that they’ve been robbed—and who’s to blame? That villainous fellow they caught in Miss Shaw’s room. You’ll have a devil of a time with the police, I can tell you. They’re downright nasty, I hear.”
Jencks tried to look furious.
“Do shut the door, like a decent chap. Very nice of you. Good day, Mr. Jencks.”
He waited until he heard the key turn in the lock and then stepped out into the bedroom. She had rumpled the room, leaving clothes scattered and drawers ajar before going. That was a nice touch; Jencks felt a certain kinship with this woman. He would have done the same, in her place. He frowned—he would also have left the gun as incriminating evidence. Looking across the room, he saw it placed discreetly on the dresser. Tricky old fox! He listened at the door to her retreating footsteps, then opened it.
She was heading for the stairs. He chased after her and caught up with her halfway between the second and third floor. She seemed surprised but not at all upset; she raised the umbrella she was carrying like a rapier and jabbed at him with it.
The tip, silver and sharp, glinted in the sun which streamed down from the skylight. He edged forward; she drove him back with darting lunges, always keeping her umbrella between himself and her suitcase full of jewels. Her jowls quivered with exertion, but she did not drop her guard. Once she hissed, “You really are an impossible man,” but otherwise their struggle was conducted in silence.
Up and down the broad marble stairs they moved, he attacking, she repelling him. His eyes remained fixed on the point of the umbrella. It was sharp enough to go right through his stomach. She moved it expertly, flicking back and forth, always controlled, always balanced. Soon he was sweating, tired; at length he stopped and leaned against the bannister.
“I suppose you have that tipped with some South American poison?”
“Dear boy, your imagination is simply incredible.”
The battle was resumed. She forced him back by slow degrees; he recovered and began to drive her back. They seesawed back and forth for several more minutes, until finally he caught her off guard. He slapped the umbrella aside and threw himself on her. She really was a light and wispy thing, despite her dumpling appearance, and she fell easily. As she did, she flung the suitcase over the stair-rail.
Horrified, Jencks released her and looked down.
She scrambled to her feet and watched alongside him.
The suitcase fell.
It seemed to move slowly at first, gathering speed as it went.
“Oh dear,” she said.
It hit the marble floor with a crash and sprang open, its collection of necklaces, rings, cash, traveler’s checks and watches spilling out. They rolled, clattered and bounced across the black-and-white surface.
Jencks stepped back from the railing, unable to look any longer.
“You’re white as a ghost, young man,” Miss Shaw said.
“How could you do it?”
“Oh, nonsense. I won’t listen to such rot. Come along with me, and we’ll have a nice spot of banana liqueur.”
“I would have split it with you, divided it in some way.…”
“Be careful,” she said, slipping her arm in his. “You’ll become overexcited.”
Together, they descended to the bar. Jencks went along unsteady and silent; he no longer knew where he was or what he was doing.
“Cheer up,” Miss Shaw said, patting, his arm in a motherly way. “You’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all. When one gets to be my age, one learns to take these things with aplomb—and a glass or two. You’ll feel better in a jiffy, I assure you.”
Annette stared dumbfounded at the floor. It made no sense at all; it was beyond comprehension. People were gathering to see what the noise had been; she heard a crunch and looked over to see an embarrassed man remove his foot from what had once been a watch. Now there was shouting. The house detectives arrived, pushing people back, clearing away the space beneath the stairs. Several guests who were trying to pocket diamond rings had their hands slapped.
Slowly, it came to her. The hotel had been robbed. It didn’t seem possible—there had been no complaints, not even a rumor—and yet there was the evidence, all over the floor.
Mr. Bonnard hurried up, in great agitation. His eyes were bulging, his lips trembled. “There’s been a robbery!” he said. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
Annette ignored the question. “Have you checked the hotel safe?”
“Oh my God. Oh. The safe. No.” He scurried off again, back to his office. She came around the desk and tiptoed among the jewels to the guests and began asking them to please return to the dining room, that everything was under control, that there was no problem at all. With her back to the glittering mass, she felt ridiculous.
“That’s my ring,” shrieked a woman. “I know it. My ring! I’ve been robbed. Give me my ring back. Give it back.”
The hotel detectives pushed, firmly. The crowd did not yield.
“Robbery! Robbery!” The shout was now nearly a chant.
Mr. Bonnard came up again. “Robbed,” he said, in an awed voice. “Cleaned out. We’ve been robbed!”
“Better make a speech,” Annette advised. “You’re the manager.”
Mr. Bonnard nodded, swallowed, and stepped back. He clapped his hands for silence.
“My friends, please—”
“Robbery! Thieves!”
A man’s voice said, not loud but very distinctly, “I knew we shouldn’t have come to Spain, Harriet.”
“Please, please,” Mr. Bonnard begged, holding up his hands.
A resentful silence fell over the crowd.
“I must beg you to return to the dining room. There has been a robbery of the hotel, but the material has apparently been—ah—returned. These gentlemen restraining you are the house detectives, and I can assure you that we of the staff have this situation firmly in hand.” His face, he knew, betrayed him, but he continued on. “The police are due to arrive at any minute. They will deal with the recovery of this material, upon suitable identification of ownership. In the meantime, I must ask you to please step back! Otherwise, the police will have no choice but to proceed with the unpleasant business of searching every guest as he leaves the hotel.”
The crowd faltered, grumbled, and receded.
“When are the police coming?” Annette whispered.
“Who knows?” Mr. Bonnard said, miserably. “Soon, I hope.” He noted with satisfaction that the crowd was breaking up, dissolving into little knots of discussion. A few more words should return things to normal. Feeling more confident, Mr. Bonnard cleared his throat.
It was half an hour later and the bar was quiet. Jencks was drinking his third glass of banana liqueur and smoking his tenth straight cigarette.
“This really is a coincidence,” Miss Shaw said happily, as if they were old friends who had just run into each other again.
Jencks nodded glumly and puffed at the cigarette. It wasn’t very strong. He looked at the pack—Camels. He sighed, called the waiter over.
“Which are strong cigarettes?” he asked Miss Shaw.
“Try Gitanes,” she advised. “I understand they will grow hair on your lungs.”
The waiter brought a pack, and Jencks gulped the searing smoke hungrily.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said.
“I’m just beginning,” Jencks said. “It seems like an appropriate time to take up a new vice.” He looked at her curiously. “Did you use a computer, too?”
“Gracious no,” she said. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing. But you did? How clever of you. I knew you were clever the minute I set eyes on you. But no, I don’t have much faith in these new things—computers and jets and such. Cars are a different matter; I’m dreadfully fond of cars. But not much else. I prefer to work things out for myself.
Jencks nodded automatically. He would have nodded, in precisely the same numb way, had she announced that she was the reincarnation of Queen Victoria.
“I suppose you blew up the bridge, fixed the elevator, and did all those other atrocious things.”
He nodded.
“And the fire in the nightclub?”
He nodded.
“Such a lot of trouble,” Miss Shaw said, “for a simple little robbery. I suppose that’s why you Americans are preeminent in the business world. You bludgeon everyone. Really a tactless plan, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“It would have worked,” Jencks said sadly.
“Of course it would have worked. There’s no denying that. But it does seem a bit much, all those diversions. And besides, it’s terribly inconvenient for the guests. We have to think of them too, don’t we?”
He sipped his liqueur.
“You seem to like it,” Miss Shaw said. “That’s nice. But you must remember always to specify Bols banana liqueur. The Dutch make the finest by far. It’s much superior to Marie Brizard and all the others.”
Jencks nodded, set down his empty glass, and motioned to the waiter for another.
“Tell me,” he said. “Is this kind of thing just a hobby, or are you in the business?”
“Well, I’ll be perfectly frank, Mr. Jencks.”
“Call me Steve. You might as well.”
“I’ll be perfectly frank, Steve. When one gets to be my age, the little comforts of life are very important—much more important than they are when you’re younger. So periodically, I … contrive to keep my bank balance healthy. Generally, I make my forays into the exciting life twice a year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Depending.”
“Be my partner,” he said, on an impulse.
She smiled, genuinely amused. “That’s very kind of you. I should be delighted, should our paths cross in the future.”
“Let’s see that they do.”
Miss Shaw considered him for a moment, then dug into her purse and produced an engraved card.
“My address,” she said. “I’m away from Brighton a good deal of the time—for my health—but I have excellent forwarding arrangements, and letters never fail to reach me. Will I hear from you?”
“You will,” Jencks said, pocketing the card.
“Delightful,” she said. “And now I’d like one more glass before lunch.”
As the crème caramel arrived, Peter said, “I’m serious. This is absolutely your last chance.”
Jenny finished her wine and looked at him steadily. “I know that.”
“And you have nothing more to say?”
“No.”
“May I ask,” Peter said, “how you intend to get around for the rest of the summer, when my car and I are gone?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“It’s that man, isn’t it?” he said accusingly. “That boxer. You’re going off with him.”
“Yes,” Jenny said, taking a bite of the crème and thinking of St. Peter’s. It would be hot in Rome, but she wouldn’t mind. They’d find an air-conditioned hotel.
“Well, I have news for you,” Peter said. “When he leaves here, he’ll go alone. He won’t give you the time of day.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I know his type, that’s all.”
“Peter, you’re so astute. It constantly amazes me.”
“Go on, laugh. Just wait and see if I’m right. You’ll find it isn’t so funny.” He stood up from the table, not touching his dessert. “But if you ever want to look me up. I’ll be in St. Tropez. It’s a small town, and—”
“I’ve been in St. Tropez before, Peter.”
He looked at her, puzzled and annoyed. “You really think he’s going to take you with him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, “I really do.” She reached over, and took his dessert. Very slowly, she began to eat it. In her mind, she clearly saw the high skeleton of an oil rig, and she heard the clatter and shouts of the drilling team.
“How do you feel?” Jencks asked.
“Like I’ve fallen down an elevator shaft. But I’ll live.” Bryan shifted in his bed and winced. There was a large bruise on his forehead, and one eye was a puffed, purple-red.
“Steak’s good for it,” Jencks said.
“I asked, and they brought me a little thing so thin you could almost see through it. I’m afraid I’ll just have to make do.”
“Are you going back to London?”
“Not immediately.”
Jencks’ eyebrows went up.
“It’s a pleasant place,” Bryan said. “I think I may stay on for a while.” He paused. “Well, what’s the odd look for?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“I have a friend,” Bryan said slowly, “in Lyons. He’s been after me for years to join his export firm. He does most of his business in southern France, and I spent a lot of time there, during the war.”
“You’re not going back to London?”
“I don’t know. It depends.”
Jencks did not ask on what it depended. He held out his hand. “She’s a nice girl.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Nothing, nothing.” They shook hands. “Let me know how it turns out.”
“I will. Cheers, Steve.”
“Good luck, Bryan.”
As Jencks went out, the receptionist came up and knocked on Bryan’s door.
She came very quietly inside. “Well, you look a sight.”
“I fell down the stairs,” Bryan said.
“Right on your eye, I suppose.”
“Point of honor, you see.”
“Whose honor?”
Bryan shrugged. “Mine. Yours.”
“You ought to stay on a few extra days until you look more presentable.”
“I intend to.” He smiled.
“Very long?” She smiled back.
He shrugged. He did not know what he felt about this girl; as he looked at her he thought again of Jane, but she was a faded image, like a movie he had seen in his youth. He was tired of his old life; there was no more kick in the suspense, only nagging fear. Somehow, Jane belonged to an existence he was shedding—she was a part of it, integral to it, cold and hard in her own way, part of the total pattern.
“Tell me,” he said. “Have you spent much time in southern France?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Cynthia said, painting Jean-Paul’s cheeks with Merthiolate. She smiled to herself. It made him look like a clown, those two pink circles. Jean-Paul winced. “Does it hurt very much?”
“No,” he said, “only when I—”
“Never mind,” she said smoothly. “You’ll feel better in a day or two. Would you like a cold compress for your head?”
He nodded weakly. She brought one to him and placed it over his forehead. He really did look terrible; he had ugly marks and scrapes all over his body and a nasty gash on his chin. Too bad, she thought, but then Miguel was better in bed anyway. Miguel had that little extra something.
“Aunt Elizabeth will be here to see you soon,” she said.
He watched her go to the door. “Leaving?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to—pack.”
“A bientôt.”
“A bientôt, Jean-Paul.”
She walked quickly down the hall to her own room.
“Baby,” Miguel said, as she entered. “Where have you been?” What a body, he thought, what a body this chick had. It was like a rock-and-roll song, whenever she took a step. It pounded in your head, each little movement, every tiny twitch.
“Nursing,” Cynthia said. She stretched. The kef had worn off days ago, it seemed. She was down, way down, and she wanted to get high again.
“I’ll bet you’re a good nurse.”
“It’s not really my line.”
“What’s your line?”
“Pleasure, pure pleasure.” She looked around the room for her cigarettes. “Let’s get blocked.”
“You got the stuff?”
“More than enough.” She passed him a cigarette, which looked ordinary enough except that the end had been twisted shut. “I want to get very, very high. And then I want to make obscene love.”
“I’m with you,” he said, lighting the cigarettes. He drew the smoke into his lungs and held it as long as he could. He disliked the smell of kef, and always had. But after all, the smell wasn’t the important thing.
“We should start some kind of regular arrangement together,” he suggested, grinning broadly.
“Maybe. You’ll have to prove yourself first.”
“Give me half a chance.”
“I’ll give you half a dozen chances,” she said, inhaling deeply.
Later, when they had each smoked two cigarettes, and time jerked and flowed in strange patterns, she began to undress.
“Chance number one?” he asked.
“Coming up,” she said.
After leaving Bryan, Jencks looked for Miguel, but didn’t find him. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why, and so he had gone down to the bar for another banana liqueur. He was developing quite a taste for them. He ordered this one on the rocks, just to see how it would go down. The bartender looked at him as if he were crazy. Well, Jencks thought, lighting a cigarette, perhaps he was.
“Steve,” Jenny said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
She was wearing her navy-blue jumper, which softened the outlines of her body, making her appear younger, more girlish.
“Drink?” he asked, indicating his own.
“What is it?”
“Banana liqueur on the rocks. An experiment, in its own little way.”
“Better get me a bourbon and water.”
He did, and they moved from the bar to a table.
“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, “about Rome.”
“I wanted to talk to you, too,” he said, slowly. He wondered how to put it. She was obviously counting on the trip, if only to escape from the pimple-faced kid. But she was looking at him with an expression of such open innocence that words didn’t come. Finally, he said, “I’m not going to Rome.”
“I expected that.”
He was surprised. “You did? Why?”
“Because it all fell through.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Her voice had been calm, but it sent shivers down his spine.
“All your plans.”
“Jenny,” he said, “say what you mean.”
“Out of curiosity, where are you going now?”
“I haven’t decided,” he said.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well actually,” he admitted, “I was thinking of the Canary Islands. Las Palmas, maybe.”
“Just a vacation?” Her voice had a slight, insinuating edge which he caught. Again, shivers.
“Yes, of course. I need a rest.”
“I know you do.”
“Jenny, stop talking in riddles.”
“I don’t know exactly how to explain it,” she said. “Did I ever tell you what business my father was in?”
“Yes. Oil, if I remember.”
“That’s right. Ever since I was a kid,” she ignored his smile, “I’ve been hanging around rigs and drilling operations. I’ve seen all phases of it and seen all the tools of the trade.”
“What you mean,” he said dryly, “is that you know a blasting cap when you see it.”
“Nice job on the bridge,” Jenny said. “It was very professional. How did you detonate it? Radio?”
“As a matter of fact, I considered that, but rejected it in favor of—” He stopped himself. What was he saying?
She smiled. “Take me with you, please.”
“It’s blackmail!”
“That’s the wrong way to look at it. I’d be a perfect companion, attractive, pleasant, undemanding—except in certain areas—and agreeable. And I would never tell.”
“Tell what?”
“It was wonderful of you to give it all back, Steve. I don’t know why you did it in the first place, but I’m glad you have a conscience.”
He put his head in his hands and groaned.
“Take me with you.”
“And where would it all end?” he asked. “I think you’re being foolish not to consider that.”
“I have, and I don’t care where it ends. Just so it doesn’t end now.”
He looked into her soft blue eyes, saw the long lashes, the blond hair, the dimples, and the full lips. Her face was innocent, but she hadn’t lost an exciting touch of fire. She was the girl for him; she knew it. They both knew it. For the time being, it was perfect. And she was right—it didn’t matter where it ended. That was one thing he had learned during the past week—you could never be sure of the finish. Despite the best of preparations, the conclusion always remained in doubt.
“All right,” he said. “Las Palmas it is. We leave tomorrow at nine o’clock.”
She smiled—a happy, radiant smile. “I’ve already packed.”