That would take care of Jackson for a while. She was confident he wouldn’t take action until he was sure she wasn’t going to pay. The delay would give her a breathing space.
The telephone bell rang. She smiled. No, Mr. Jackson, you must learn to wait, she thought. Picking up the envelope, leaving the bell ringing, she went down to the lobby. The assistant manager was behind the reception desk.
‘Please put this in your safe.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘I will be keeping all four recorders. They will make amusing presents. Please bill me.’
‘Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe.’
He gave her a receipt which she put in her bag, then crossing to the Hall porter, she said, ‘I want a small car, please. U-drive.’
‘Certainly, madame. The new Buick, perhaps?’
‘No... a Mini will do.’
He lifted his eyebrows and bowed.
‘In ten minutes, madame.’
‘Would you know where Hinkle is?’
‘On the second terrace, madame. Should I have him called?’
‘No, thank you.’
She walked along the wide terrace, down the marble steps to the second terrace. She saw Hinkle sitting in a canvas chair, reading a book. He was wearing a white suit, a floppy bow tie and a large panama hat that rested on the back of his head. He looked like a bishop enjoying a well deserved vacation.
‘What are you reading, Hinkle?’ she asked.
He glanced up, then rose to his feet, removing his hat.
‘An essay by John Locke, madame.’
‘John Locke?’
‘Yes, madame. A seventeenth-century English philosopher. In this essay he makes a case against the dogma of innate ideas and successfully proves that experience is the key of knowledge. It is remarkably interesting.’
Helga blinked.
‘Why, Hinkle, I had no idea you were so learned.’
‘I endeavour to improve my mind, madame. Was there something I can do for you?’
‘Please sit down.’ She sat in a chair near his. After hesitating, Hinkle lowered his portly frame into his chair, resting his hat on his knees. ‘Dr. Bellamy tells me that Mr. Rolfe could be moved tomorrow to the Paradise City hospital providing Dr. Levi approves.’
Hinkle’s face brightened.
‘That is indeed good news.’
‘Yes. It is very possible that you will have to attend Mr. Rolfe at the hospital. I want to engage extra staff to take over some of your less exacting duties at home, Hinkle.’
‘Indeed, madame?’ His voice turned chilly. ‘I assure you I can manage perfectly well without additional staff.’
She expected opposition and was prepared to over-ride him. She was determined to have her way.
‘There is a young boy working at the hotel,’ she said curtly. ‘He appears intelligent and a deserving case. When I can assist young people I like to do so. I am engaging him and I would like you to give him minor duties, Hinkle. Will you do that for me, please?’
Hinkle regarded her, saw the steel in her eyes, pursed his lips, then inclined his head.
‘If that is your wish, madame.’
‘No news of Miss Sheila?’ She got to her feet.
‘No, madame, not yet.’ He too stood up.
‘Then I will leave you with Mr. Locke.’ She smiled. ‘Dick Jones... that’s the boy’s name. Pay him a hundred and all found and see he earns it, Hinkle. I will tell him to contact you.’
‘Very well, madame.’
She returned to the hotel where she found a Mini-minor waiting. She thanked the Hall porter, then getting into the little car, she drove out of the city and to North Beach road.
Pulling up outside No. 1150, she got out of the car, opened the rickety gate and walked up the weedy path. She was aware that, opposite, coloured people, sitting on their stoops and on broken down verandas, were gaping at her.
Paying no attention, she rapped on the front door. There was a pause, then the big, fat woman stood before her. Her eyes, black and a little bloodshot, widened at the sight of this slim, elegantly dressed white woman standing on her stoop.
‘Mrs. Jones?’ Helga smiled. ‘I want to talk to you about Dick.’
The big woman regarded her. Since Helga last had seen her sitting on the stoop reading a magazine, she had changed into a red cotton dress, neat and clean and had wound a red and yellow handkerchief around her head.
‘My son?’ The voice was soft and rich. Helga could imagine a splendid contralto singing voice coming from this vast frame.
‘I am Mrs. Herman Rolfe,’ Helga said. ‘Could we talk?’
‘Mrs. Rolfe?’ The eyes opened wide, then they shifted past Helga to the gaping people from the opposite houses. ‘Come in, please.’
She led the way into a small, immaculately kept living room. There was a worn settee, two equally worn armchairs, an old T.V. set, a table on which stood a potted fern. On the wall was a large photograph of a tall, gay looking white man who smiled at Helga from the gilt frame. He wore shabby whites and there was an air of seediness in his jocular pose: a gay failure, Helga thought, probably a sugar planter who hadn’t worked hard enough. Looking more closely at the photograph she saw from whom Dick Jones had got his good looks.
Mrs. Jones closed the door.
‘I was reading about Mr. Rolfe this morning,’ she said uneasily. ‘Accept my condolences. It is a terrible thing for so fine a man to be stricken.’
‘Thank you.’
There was a pause while the two women from utterly different worlds looked at each other, then Mrs. Jones said, ‘Will you sit down, ma’am? This ain’t much of a place but it is a home.’
‘Is that your husband?’ Helga asked as she sat down.
‘That is Henry Jones... a no good man, but he gave me Dick, thank the Lord.’
‘I want to talk to you about your son, Mrs. Jones,’ Helga said. She felt in need of a cigarette, but had an instinctive feeling that this big coloured woman wouldn’t approve and she was anxious to have her approval. ‘He does my suite at the hotel. He appears to me to be nicely mannered, intelligent and willing. I have a staff vacancy in my home in Paradise City... it is quite close to Miami. It would be a good opportunity for him, but before I talked to him, I felt I should first ask you.’ Again she smiled. ‘My majordomo would train your son, the pay would be good and there would be opportunities to travel to New York and Europe.’
‘The good Lord bless me!’ Mrs. Jones threw up her hands. ‘Why should a grand lady like you, ma’am, be bothered with my son?’
Helga forced a laugh.
‘I am like that, Mrs. Jones. With my money, I am able to help people. Watching your son work, I thought I could help him and he could help in my house. I know how mothers feel about their sons. I wouldn’t want to be parted from a good son, but I would tell myself he should have his chance.’
Mrs. Jones looked directly at Helga, her eyes suddenly curious.
‘You got kids, ma’am?’
You’re over-talking, Helga told herself. Be careful.
‘Unhappily no, but I do know how my father felt about me,’ she said glibly.
‘Dick is a good boy, ma’am,’ Mrs. Jones said. ‘He is an ambitious boy. Let me tell you something. He wanted a motorbike. He was crazy in the head to have this bike and he saved and he saved and he saved. They pay him seventy bucks at the hotel. That’s good money for folk like us. He gives me thirty for his keep and he saves the rest. Then suddenly he comes home on this bike. He has saved a thousand bucks. Imagine that, ma’am! A thousand bucks! And do you know how he did it? No girls, no movies, no drinks, no cigarettes: scraping and saving and finally he has his bike. That’s my son, ma’am, and a good son: couldn’t be better.’
Looking at the proud, beaming face, Helga wondered how this believing mother would react if she knew her son’s motorcycle had cost over four thousand dollars.