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  She sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her thick wavy hair. She must do something now. She couldn’t stay in bed nursing her cold hatred.

  Reaching out, she rang the bell at her side violently.

  2

  It was hot. Too hot to stay in bed Quentin thought, pushing the sheet from him and sliding on to the coconut matting.

  The sunlight came through the slots in the shutter and burnt his feet. He scratched his head, yawning, then reached under the bed for his heelless slippers. He sat there, staring at the wall, feeling lousy. It must have been the rum he’d belted the previous night. That guy Morecombre certainly could shift liquor. He might have known what kind of a party he was sitting down to. These press photographers spent most of their time on the booze. He pressed fingers tenderly to his head and then wandered over to the chest of drawers and found a bottle of Scotch. He put a little ice water in a glass and three fingers of Scotch to colour it, then he went back and sat on his bed.

  The drink was swell, and he dawdled over it while he considered what he had to do that day. There wasn’t much he could do, he decided, except just sit around and wait. Well, he was used to that. He could do that fine.

  He reached out with his foot and kicked the shutter open. From where he sat he could see the harbour and a little of the bay. By leaning forward he could see the old Morro Castle. He drew a deep breath. The place was pretty good, he decided. Very, very nice to look at. He got up and wandered to the open window. Below him the hotel grounds stretched away to the waterfront—flowers, trees, palms, everything that grew so richly in the tropical heat spread out before him. He hunched his muscles and yawned. Not bad, he thought, not bad at all. The Foreign Correspondent of the New York Post staying in the dump that millionaires condescend to be seen in. He finished the Scotch. All the same, he wouldn’t mind betting there was no one in the hotel except Morecombre and himself and the General. He grinned a little sourly. From where he stood he could see the waterfront, which looked ominously deserted. The hotel grounds were deserted too. “The word’s got round all right,” he thought; “rats leaving the sinking ship.”

  He wandered over and rang the bell, then went on into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stood watching the water hiss down, still holding the empty glass in his hand. He eyed it thoughtfully, decided he wouldn’t have any more, put the glass down and slid out of his pyjamas.

  The shower was fine. The water pricked and tingled on his skin. Raising his head, he began to sing, very low and rather mournfully.

  When he came back to the bedroom he found Anita standing looking out of the window.

  Anita was the maid in charge of the third floor. She was very dark, small, very well built. Her breasts rode high, firm… audacious breasts. They looked like they were proud of themselves, and Quentin himself thought they were pretty good.

  “Hello,” he said, wrapping a towel round his waist, “don’t you ever knock?”

  She smiled at him. She had a nice smile, glistening white teeth and sparkling eyes. “The water,” she said, lifting her hands, “it makes so much noise. You did not hear me knock, so I come in.”

  “One of these days,” Quentin said, pulling on a silk dressing-gown and sliding the towel off, “you’re going to get an unpleasant shock when you walk in like that.”

  She shook her head. “This morning I had it—it was not so bad.”

  Quentin looked at her severely. “You’re not such a nice little girl as you look. You know too much.”

  “It was Mr. Morecombre,” she said, her eyes opening. “He is a beautiful man—yes?”

  “Suppose you get me some breakfast, and stop chattering,” Quentin said. “Get me a lotta food, I’m hungry.”

  She made a little face. “There is nothing,” she said. “Coffee… yes, but the food … it is all gone.”

  Quentin paused, his shaving-brush suspended halfway to his face. “I don’t get it, baby,” he said. “This is a hotel, ain’t it? This is the hotel, ain’t it?”

  She smiled again. That smile certainly had a load of come-hither hanging to it. “But the strike,” she explained, “it is the strike. No food for four days. All out of the icebox. Now the ice-box is empty.”

  Quentin resumed his shaving. “So I’m going to pay a small fortune to stay in this joint and starve—is that it?”

  “But, senor, everyone has gone away. There is only you and Senor Morecombre left.”

  “And the General,” Quentin reminded her. “Don’t forget the General.”

  Anita pulled a face. “I don’t forget him,” she said, “he is a bad man. He has everything; he has food. He knew what was going to happen.”

  “Maybe he’ll consider sharing his breakfast with me,” Quentin said. “Suppose you run along and ask him. Tell him George Quentin of the New York Post would like to breakfast with him. See what happens.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I do not ask favours from such a man; he is bad. Soon someone will kill him, you see.

  Quentin put down his shaving-brush. “Then get me some coffee. Now beat it, baby; you’re in the way. I want to dress.” He put his hand under her elbow and took her to the door. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Senor is a very fine man, yes?” she said. She offered him her lips, but Quentin shook his head. “Go on, dust,” he said a little irritably, and drove her out with a smack on her behind.

  When he was half dressed, Bill Morecombre came in. He was a tall, loosely built guy, a soft hat worn carelessly at the back of his head, and a cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He draped himself up against the door-post and waved a languid hand. “Hyah, pal,” he said, “anythin’ happenin’?”

  Quentin shook his head. “Not a thing except there’s no breakfast.”

  Morecombre shrugged. “I expected that, didn’t you? Hell, the strike’s been on a week now. This joint’s going to be plenty tough before it gets better. I brought some stuff along with me. When you’re ready come on over. I guess the manager will be up too. I got plenty.”

  “You guys certainly look after yourselves,” Quentin said, fixing his tie. “Sure I’ll be over.”

  Morecombre was in no hurry to leave. “See Anita this morning?” he asked, flicking ash on the floor.

  “I have,” Quentin returned grimly. “That baby’s wearing a pair of very hot pants.”

  “You’re right, but what else has she got to do? I’m sorry for that judy.”

  Quentin slipped on his jacket. “The trouble with you,” he said dryly, “is that you’re always sorry for dames. Then, eventually, they get sorry for themselves.”

  They crossed the corridor into Morecombre’s room. “Do you seriously think anything’s going to happen?” Morecombre asked, diving under his bed and dragging out a large suit-case. “I mean big enough to justify all this fuss and expense?”

  Quentin sat on the bed and eyed the suit-case with interest. “I don’t know,” he said, “but when you get into a country as hot as this, packed with people who’ve been pushed around and treated as these people have been, it’s a safe bet that the lid will come off sometime. And when it comes off a lotta guys are going to be hurt.”

  Morecombre opened the suitcase and sat back on his heels. “Looks good,” he said, examining a big array of brightly labelled tins. “What shall we have?”

  A discreet knock sounded. Morecombre looked at Quentin with a grin. “Vulture number one,” he said, going across and opening the door.

  The hotel manager was a short, rather pathetic-looking little Cuban. He bowed very stiffly at the waist. “I’ve come to present my apologies—” he began, looking at the tinned food with a sparkle in his eye.

  “Forget it,” Morecombre said, stepping to one side. “Come on in and have a spot of something. You can take it off the bill.”

  The manager came into the room very quickly, a smile lighting his face. “That is generous,” he said. “American gentlemen are always very generous.”

  Quentin looked up
. He was busy opening a tin. “You know why we are here, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.

  The manager looked confused. “You come to see our beautiful city… yes?” he said, fidgeting with his small white hands.

  “We are here to report and obtain photographs of a coming revolution,” Quentin said impressively. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait before it begins?”

  The manager looked helplessly at the tin in Quentin’s hands. “I could not say,” he said. “I know nothing about a revolution.”

  Quentin glanced across at Morecombre and shrugged. “They’re all alike,” he said a little bitterly. “I guess we’ve just got to be patient and wait.”

  Another knock sounded on the door and Anita came in with a tray. She, too, regarded the tins with interest.

  “Coffee, senor,” she said.

  Morecombre took the tray from her. “Come on in and join us,” he said. “This is no time to stand on ceremony.”

  The manager scowled at her, but she sat down close to Morecombre, taking no notice of him.

  Suddenly the manager clapped his hands to his head. “I forget,” he said, “the senorita who came last night. What has become of her?”

  Anita frowned. “I gave her coffee,” she said. “She wishes to sleep again.”

  “Who’s that?” Quentin asked. “What senorita?”

  “Beautiful American lady lost the boat last night. She come to this hotel. I am very worried, but I give her a room. I only just remember.”

  “You let her stay here?” Morecombre exclaimed angrily. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  The manager looked distressed. “I was not thinking. I was very worried.” He broke off and looked pathetic again.

  “I guess you were tight,” Quentin said angrily, getting to his feet. He turned to Anita. “Go and wake her at once. Tell her she had better pack and clear out of this joint. Explain that trouble is likely to happen here.”

  The manager started up. “No, no!” he said. “Nothing is going to happen to my beautiful hotel. You must not say such things.”

  Quentin looked at him grimly. “That’s what you say. If a revolution does start, this is one of the first places they’re coming to. You don’t think they’ll let General Fuentes get away after what he’s done to them, do you?”

  The manager looked as if he were going to faint. “You must not say such things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “It is very dangerous to talk like that.”

  Quentin jerked his head at Anita. “Go and tell her,” he said, “this is no place for American women.”

  Anita scowled at him. “It is all right for me… yes?” she said. “It doesn’t matter about me … no?”

  Quentin climbed out of his chair. “Go and tell her,” he said. “Never mind about yourself. You’ll be all right.”

  She went out, closing the door sharply behind her. Quentin glanced at Morecombre, who was setting the table. “Rather complicated if we’ve got to look after some American girl, huh?” he said. “If things do start happening, I want to be free to move from here quickly.”

  Morecombre grinned. “No woman has ever complicated my life,” he said. “If she’s a looker, you don’t have to worry. I’ll look after her.”

  The manager wrung his hands. “This is a terrible thing that you do, senor,” he said, “turning my guests from my hotel.”

  Quentin poured out some coffee. “Don’t talk a lotta bull,” he said. “You know as well as I do that all your guests have gone. If anything happens to this girl, I’m going to report the matter to the consul.”

  The manager looked at him sulkily, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. “Nothing will happen,” he said; “I assure you that nothing will happen.”

  Just then Anita came back. Her black eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “The senorita says she stays,” she said. “She has no place else to go, so she stays.”

  Quentin groaned. “As if I haven’t got enough to worry about,” he said. “You gotta go and see her,” he went on, turning to the manager, “tell her that there is likely to be a disturbance in the town and she had better go.”

  The manager shook his head. “I cannot say such a thing. It is not true.”

  Quentin got to his feet. “Then I’ll see her,” he said. “I’m not taking the responsibility of her being here if things get hot. She can take a car out of town and the sooner she’s out the better.” He went to the door. “What room is she in?”

  Anita’s eyes opened. “But, senor, she is in bed. You cannot go to her.”

  Morecombre got to his feet hurriedly. “Just a minute, pal,” he said. “This sounds like a job for a man of the world. Just step on one side and let me handle it.”

  Quentin eyed him coldly. “Sit down and shut up! What room is she in?”

  Anita told him, looking furiously at Morecombre, and Quentin went out, crossed the corridor and knocked sharply on the door indicated. He heard someone say something inaudible, so he turned the handle and went in.

  Standing by the open windows, looking on to the hotel grounds, was a tall girl, dressed in a white silk evening wrap. She turned sharply as Quentin entered. “What do you want?” she asked.

  Quentin regarded her with interest. He was more interested in her expression than her actual beauty. He was curious about the hurt, sullen look in her eyes and the little frown that increased as their eyes met.

  “I’m sorry to come barging in like this,” he said, standing just inside the room, holding the door handle, “but I thought you ought to be told that this hotel is not the place for any unattached girl. There is going to be a bad disturbance—”

  She interrupted him. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, “but the maid has already told me that I ought to go. This is a hotel, and I intend to stay. Anyway, for the time being.” She turned back to the window, dismissing him.

  Quentin felt a strong desire to reach out and turn her over his knee. He came further into the room and shut the door. “Maybe I had better introduce myself. I’m Quentin of the New York Post.”

  He saw her suddenly stiffen, but she didn’t turn from the window.

  He went on: “I’m down here because my paper expects trouble. All Americans, except the residents, have cleared out. The residents have gone over to the consul’s house under guard. I guess you’re about the only white woman foot-loose around this town. If you’ll pack, I’ll take you over to the consul myself.”

  For a moment she hesitated, then she turned and faced him. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” she said sharply. “What trouble? What can happen here?”

  Quentin grinned sourly. “Plenty,” he said. “Maybe you don’t know anything about Cuban politics?” He came and joined her at the window. “A grand-looking joint, ain’t it?” he said, looking across the flaming flower-beds, the green lawns and across the bay. “Sure, it looks all right, but underneath it is a mass of seething misery. The graft that goes on here would make Chicago look like a virgin’s tea-party. The President in power right now is one of the meanest guys alive. All the punks who work under him run their own little graft on the side. This has been going on some time, and I guess the natives are getting tired of it. The trouble came to a head last week over transport dues. The guy who handles that has put a tax on every truck, pushing up the freight rate. Everyone knows that it will go into his own pocket, so they’ve got wise to him. They’ve come out on strike. These higher-up guys are crafty, and they guessed what would happen, so they’ve laid in a good stock of food and are sitting pretty. The rest of Havana is going without. No boats bring stuff in, no trains, no lorries, no nothing. Food is running short. It won’t be long now before the natives get mad. When those guys get mad, they’re likely to cause a heap of trouble. Now that’s why you ought to get out or at least go over to the consul’s place.”

  The girl had stood very still while he was talking, watching him closely. When he had finished speaking, she seemed to relax and the frown disappeared. “I’m
afraid you must have thought I was very rude,” she said, “but I’m in rather a difficult position.” She paused, looked at him rather helplessly, and then turned to the window again.

  Quentin felt her embarrassment. “I heard you missed the ship,” he said casually. “I suppose you left all your things on board—clothes, money and so on, huh?”

  She turned eagerly. “Yes, I did. I’ve got nothing to wear except this. I’ve got no money—what—what do you think I can do?”

  “You’ll be all right. I’ll get a car and drive you over to the consul. I guess the manager of this joint has got a car. The consul’ll fix you up for dough. It’s his job.”

  She looked relieved. “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Quentin,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m afraid I was very rude just now.”

  Quentin gave her a lazy grin. “That’s all right,” he said, “you ain’t got anything to worry about. All the same, I’d like to see you out of here. Just to get the records straight, will you tell me your name?”

  She reacted immediately to his question by stiffening once more and regarding him suspiciously.

  Quentin was in no mood for mysteries. Far more important things were about to happen. He said rather sharply: “Listen; I know what you’re thinking. I’m a newspaper man. The fact that you’re in this hotel, without an escort, in evening dress, in the middle of a coming revolution, is news. So it is, but not now. A nice-looking dame who for some reason or other gets herself mislaid ain’t the kind of news my chief is expecting me to turn in. He wants a full-blooded revolution, so relax. I ain’t printing anything about you, but if you want me to help you you gotta give me your name. What is it?”

  She said a little sulkily, “Myra Arnold.”

  Quentin nodded. The name meant nothing to him. “O.K., Miss Arnold, if you’ll wait here, I’ll arrange to get a car for you—unless you’d like to come over to my friend’s room and have some breakfast.”