1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 15

  Men!

  She smiled at him.

  “I was in the mood.”

  Leaving him to chew on his defeat, she got in the Mini and drove to a small seafood restaurant. She picked at a tough lobster in a white wine sauce. While she sat alone in the shade of the palm trees watching the young, the middle-aged and the old on the beach, she thought of Dick.

  If he hadn’t broken his arm, she thought, he just might have come and just might have lain beside her on the king size bed.

  All this stupid talk about voodoo! This was something she just wouldn’t accept! How could a man like Gritten talk such nonsense!

  Her mind shifted to Terry Shields. What was she doing? Then she thought of Jackson. Impatiently, she signaled to the waiter for her check.

  The time now was 14.20. She had the whole afternoon, the evening and the night to face alone. A girl needs a man. How true! And yet, how dangerous! Again she thought of Herman with his twisted mouth forming the word whore. Patience, she told herself. You could be lucky. He could die. Then the magic key would be hers!

  Getting into the Mini, she drove back to the villa.

  Mrs. Joyce was preparing to leave.

  “There you are, ducks,” she said. “Did you have a lovely morning?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Helga forced a smile. “And you?”

  “Yes . . . I like cleaning. It’s my life, ducks. Tom always said I was a two-legged vacuum cleaner.” She laughed. “Men! They don’t even think of dust.” She closed one eye. “We know what they think on, don’t we, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  I know what think of, too, Helga thought.

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  “The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter, dear,” Mrs. Joyce said. “I’ll be in again at seven. I’ll bring you a nice slice of fish or is there anything else you fancy?”

  “No, fish will be fine.”

  Helga watched the big woman ride away on her bicycle, then she walked into the living room. She looked around. The emptiness of this luxurious room and its silence weighed down on her. She went upstairs and took a shower, then going to the closet, she reached for her white pajama suit. Taking it off the hangar, she paused to stare at it.

  The pocket on the jacket, bearing her initials, had been neatly cut away.

  For a long moment she stood staring at the jacket, puzzled. Then for no reason she could explain, she felt a creepy sensation run over her. She dropped the jacket as if it had become some horrible insect. She looked around the room, her heart racing. What did this mean? Who had done this? Mrs. Joyce? Unthinkable!

  The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter.

  She crossed the room and examined the two wooden shutters. They were locked in place. She hadn’t bothered to use them the previous night. She unlocked them and swung them to and fro. They worked perfectly. Relocking them, she turned and looked around the bedroom. Her eyes went to the white jacket lying on the floor. She hesitated, then picked it up. She examined the neatly cut stitches. Someone had used a razor blade to remove the pocket. But why? With a little grimace she took the jacket into the bathroom and dropped it into the laundry basket.

  She looked at her watch. God! How time crawled! It was 14.50. She went to the closet and examined all her clothes. None had been tampered with. She was aware how fast her heart was beating and she was angry with herself. There must be some reason for whoever it had been to cut off the pocket. This workman who had come to fix the shutter? She had read of perverted men who stole women’s undergarments from laundry lines. Was this workman like that? She was sure Mrs. Joyce wouldn’t have done it.

  She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

  She would talk to Mrs. Joyce this evening. She felt an odd atmosphere in the villa – a strange feeling – that bothered her. She felt she couldn’t stay here for the rest of the afternoon. She must get out, do something – but what?

  She put on a yellow linen dress, selected shoes and a handbag, then went down to the living room. She walked out onto the terrace and looked at her own private beach: a quarter of a mile of lonely, deserted sand and sea and she turned away.

  She couldn’t stay here on her own. The Ocean Beach club? Very soon it would be time for tea. She thought of those old freaks eyeing the cake trolley. Goddamn it! she thought to herself, even they are better than this loneliness.

  She locked up, then getting into the Mini, she drove to the club. For the next two hours, she sat, listening to the local gossip, watched old fat fingers pointing to cakes as the waiter served, drank two cups of tea, aware the men were preening themselves as they gathered around her. She was asked to make up a fourth at bridge and, as she still had time to kill, she accepted. Her partner, a retired General, was delighted to have her on his side. The other two: a thin, sour faced old lady and her husband who was plump and boisterous, played well, but Helga, as with everything she took up, was in the professional class. Her devastating memory and her ruthless bids completely pulverized the opponents who she later learned were regarded as the club’s best players.

  She quickly became bored with this feeble opposition and at the end of the second game she excused herself saying she had an urgent appointment. The General who had scarcely contributed to the score was wreathed with smiles while the other two immediately began a fierce postmortem.

  Helga returned to the villa at 18.50. She was mixing herself a vodka martini when she heard Mrs. Joyce arrive.

  As the big woman bustled into the kitchen, carrying a shopping bag, Helga said, “Join me in a drink, Mrs. Joyce.”

  “Not for me, ducks. If I smell a cork, I get tiddly. My Tom never touched a drop.” She put the shopping bag down. “I’ve got you a lovely fillet of kingfish. I miss the English fish, like turbot, but this is really nice. Have it grilled, dear, with peas and rice. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “It sounds wonderful. I wish I could cook. May I watch you, Mrs. Joyce?”

  “I’m sure you do many things, dear. Cooking isn’t difficult. So many women make a commotion about it. I say, if you like eating, cooking is a pleasure.”

  Resting her hips against the kitchen table, Helga lit a cigarette. She watched Mrs. Joyce prepare the fish.

  “About my bedroom shutter, Mrs. Joyce. Who was this workman?”

  Having washed the fish fillet, Mrs. Joyce wiped her hands.

  “Who was he, dear?” She looked sharply at Helga. “He told me you had asked him to come.”

  “It must have been the estate agent, Mr. Mason. I didn’t know the shutter was out of order.”

  “The boy said it needed oiling.” Mrs. Joyce put a saucepan of water on to boil. “He was a nicely mannered boy. I felt sorry for him with his arm in plaster.”

  Helga slopped her drink. Somehow she kept her face expressionless.

  Dick!

  “Did you leave him alone at all, Mrs. Joyce?”

  The big woman stared at Helga.

  “Did he steal something?”

  “No, but did you leave him alone in my bedroom?”

  “He came at wrong moment, dear. I was cleaning the bath. I left him alone for no more than a couple of minutes. Is there something wrong?”

  “I found some of my clothes disturbed.”

  “You clothes? A boy like that wouldn’t touch your clothes.”

  “No. Well it doesn’t matter.”

  “There is something wrong, isn’t there?” Mrs. Joyce looked distressed. “If he took anything, I’d tell the police, dear. The police here are ever so helpful.”

  “He didn’t take anything.” Helga looked at her watch. “It’s all right. I’ll catch the news.”

  “News!” Mrs. Joyce snorted. “You can do without the news, ducks. You turn on the telly and all you get is misery.”

  Helga walked into the living room.

  So Dick had been here. Dick had taken the pocket of her pajama suit. Why?

  She remembered what Gritten had said: I can assure you that Jones is just as dangerous as Mala Mu was. The
police suspect that Jones learned a lot from Mala Mu and he is not practicing witchcraft.

  Utter rubbish, she told herself, and yet, there was this creepy atmosphere in the villa.

  She forced herself to listen to the news: hijacking, two murders, industrial strife and five hostages held for ransom. How right Mrs. Joyce was: all you get is misery.

  Mrs. Joyce came in and began to set the table.

  “Just ready, ducks,” she said. “Sit you down.”

  Still thinking of Dick, Helga moved to the table and sat down. She was surprised and pleased to see a half-bottle of Chablis waiting.

  Mrs. Joyce served the meal.

  “I thought you’d like a glass of wine, dear,” she said. “You pour it. I’m not good at that kind of thing.”

  “You are very thoughtful, Mrs. Joyce.”

  “I know a lady of quality when I see one, dear. Now go ahead and tuck in.”

  “This looks delicious.”

  “I’m sure you will like it. Now tomorrow, I thought you might like to try the conch chowder. Being a fisherman’s wife, I specialize in seafood and without making myself a liar, my conch chowder is the best on the island.”

  “I would love that.” Helga found the kingfish excellent. Seeing Mrs. Joyce was prepared to gossip, she said, “I spent the afternoon at the Ocean Beach club.”

  “You did? Well, I never! That surprises me, dear. That club is only fit for old fuddy-duddies . . . not for a girl like you.”

  Helga warmed to this woman.

  “While I am waiting for Mr. Rolfe to recover, I have to do something.”

  “You’re right. Waiting is always bad. What a pity there isn’t some nice man to take you around. Nassau is full of interest.”

  “At the club, we got talking. Do you believe in voodoo?”

  Helga looked sharply at Mrs. Joyce who abruptly lost her happy expression.

  “Voodoo? You’ve been talking about that evil thing?”

  “There were a couple of old people who seem to think it exists. What do you think?”

  “Mrs. Rolfe.” The big woman was suddenly serious. “I am, I hope, a good Christian. I don’t believe in meddling with what the black people do. You ask if voodoo exists. It does. A lot of nasty things go on in the native quarter. My Tom told me to have nothing to do with it and he knew.”

  “Nasty things? What kind of things, Mrs. Joyce?”

  “Magic . . . some of the black people make magic.”

  Helga ate for a moment, then asked, “Magic? What sort of magic?”

  “Mrs. Rolfe, there are things best not talked about. You eat up your dinner and don’t let it get cold.”

  “But it interests me. Please tell me.”

  Mrs. Joyce hesitated, then leaning her bulk against the kitchen doorway, she said, “Well dear, these black people can do things. I don’t listen to the tales that go on here, but I do know there was a little boy living next door to me. His father was a fisherman like my Tom. One day a black man came and asked for money. The fisherman hit him and threw him out. A day later, the little boy fell ill and went into a coma. The doctors could do nothing for him. Then finally the fisherman went to see this black man and gave him all his savings and the little boy recovered the next day. I saw all this with my own eyes. There are so many other tales. There was a dog who barked and barked and a neighbor just couldn’t stand it. He went to the black man and paid him money. The next day the dog stopped barking and never barked again. I could go on and on, Mrs. Rolfe, but you finish your supper. I’ll wash up.”

  Mrs. Joyce went into the kitchen.

  Helga finished the fish, drank some of the wine, then lit a cigarette. She was frowning, her mind busy.

  This is ridiculous, she told herself. Witchcraft! Magic! No, she would not accept this old wives tale. Mrs. Joyce was as bad as Gritten. They had lived too long in the sun.

  Mrs. Joyce reappeared and began clearing the table.

  “Did you like it, dear?” I’ve got coffee ready. Would you like it on the terrace?”

  “That would be nice. The fish was wonderful.”

  Helga went out onto the terrace and sat down. After a few minutes, Mrs. Joyce brought the coffee tray.

  “There’s a lovely Western on the telly, dear. Nothing like a good Western,” she said as she poured the coffee. “If you’ll be all right, I’ll get off.”

  “Yes, of course. Then I’ll see you tomorrow and thank you for everything.”

  “I’ll be in at eight. Have a nice evening, dear.”

  “And you too.”

  It was only when Helga watched Mrs. Joyce ride away that she realized how lonely and empty this villa was. Impatiently, she got up and turned on the submerged lights in the pool. She wasn’t in the mood to watch television. Sitting down again, she drank the coffee. She was now beginning to wish she had remained at the Diamond Beach hotel. At least there would be people in the lounge to watch. If it hadn’t been for Dick she would have Hinkle to keep her company.

  She stared at the moonlit beach. The silences, except for the gentle murmur of the sea, was oppressive. Could she spend the next three hours like this, staring at the empty sea, before going to bed? It was so lonely. She felt completely cut off. She could, of course, drive to the club and play more bridge, but that would be even worse than sitting here on her own.

  While at the club that afternoon she had bought three paperbacks. She decided to settle here and read. She went into the living room and looked at the books she had bought. Deciding on a historical novel (even greater than Gone With the Wind) she started back to the terrace, then paused.

  She had a sudden instinctive feeling that she was being watched. She stood motionless in the middle of the big room, listening. Only the sound of the sea came to her. Then the thud of a falling coconut.

  Again she experienced the creepy feeling she had already experienced when she had found the pocket of her pajama suit had been removed. She had always prided herself on her strong nerves, but it came to her with an unpleasant impact that if an intruder arrived, apart from the telephone, she was completely unprotected.

  But who would come here, she asked herself, irritated with her sudden uneasiness. She was imagining things!

  Bracing herself, aware her heart was beating too quickly, she walked out onto the terrace. The soft light from the swimming pool seemed to her now to produce an eerie effect. Even the moon now seemed to cast a sinister light.

  She paused still conscious that she was not alone, that someone was watching her.

  But who?

  Some black man? He could sneak up on her. Her screams would be lost in this lonely place.

  Forcing steel into her voice, she called out, “Is someone here?”

  There was a long pause while she stood there, now frightened, then she heard a rustle from a big clump of shrubs close by and her heart skipped a beat.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Rolfe, it’s only me.”

  Out of the darkness, into the dim light, the figure of a man appeared.

  Helga caught her breath sharply.

  “It’s me . . . Harry Jackson.”

  She stared for a long moment at the shadowy figure, then her alarm turned to fury.

  “How dare you come here! You will leave at once or I will call the police!”

  Jackson moved further into the light. She saw he was carrying a small cardboard box and he was wearing his best suit.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe.” His voice was husky. “I need your help and you need my help. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You heard what I said! Leave at once or I’ll call the police!”

  He moved to the terrace table and put down the cardboard box.

  “Please look at this, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  He took off the lid and pushed the open box towards her.

  Her heart hammering, Helga stared down at the small wooden doll lying in the box: a make doll with a balding head, miniature dark glasses, dressed in whi
te silk pajamas.

  The likeness to Herman was so shocking, she only just suppressed a scream.

  Embedded in the doll’s head was a long, glittering needle.

  * * *

  A small black cloud drifted across the face of the moon. A sudden breeze rustled the palm trees.

  Jackson said in a quivering voice, “I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve got to leave here. Only you can help me.”

  “What is this? She pointed to the doll.

  He dropped into a chair and hiding his face in his hands, be began to cry: the sniveling noise a small boy makes when he has hurt himself.

  Helga stared at him, then at the obscene doll. She realized she had nothing to fear from Jackson. He was a weak, slobbering maleless thing worthy only of contempt, but the doll scared her.

  For a moment she stood thinking, aware she was feeling cold. Then she went quickly into the living room to the cocktail cabinet and poured two stiff brandies. She carried the glasses back to the terrace.

  “Drink this and stop sniveling!”

  The snap in her voice reacted on Jackson who grabbed the glass and drained it.

  “I must have money, Mrs. Rolfe! I must get away from here! I have information to sell.”

  “You have?” She was now in command of herself. She sat down and lit a cigarette. “You’re getting nothing from me, but you will explain about this doll or I will call the police!”

  “I have information to sell,” Jackson whined. “I swear you will get value for your money, Mrs. Rolfe. I’ve got to leave here! That little half-caste bastard is going to get me killed!”

  Helga forced herself to look again at the doll. It was unmistakably an effigy of Herman Rolfe. Around the doll’s neck hung a tiny plastic bag which had something in it.

  “Who made this?”

  “He did . . . Jones. He said he could stop you from leaving Nassau by putting Mr. Rolfe into a coma! He said that by putting a needle in the doll’s head Mr. Rolfe would go into the coma!”

  Helga felt a shiver run through her. She remembered what Mrs. Joyce had said about the little boy living next door to her. She also recalled the puzzled, worried expressions on the faces of Dr. Bernstein, Dr. Levi and Dr. Bellamy. Was this possible? Could a needle driven into the head of a doll sent Herman into this mysterious coma? She remembered what Gritten had said: When I first came here, I thought like you that voodoo was nonsense. I also didn’t believe a man could walk on the moon.