Not My Thing

Two nights later, Kling was drinking a brandy after an excellent meal of steak in a cream and pepper sauce, when the telephone bell rang.

He reached out a long arm and picked up the receiver.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘Is that you, Ernie?’ A man’s voice.

‘Well, if it isn’t some sonofabitch is wearing my shirt.’

A laugh.

‘This is Lucky Lucan.’

Kling grimaced.

‘Oh, yeah? You’re the guy who makes suckers out of old, rich women… right?’

There was another laugh at the other end of the line: rather a forced laugh.

‘Well, each to his trade, Ernie.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘You still in business?’

‘Sure.’

‘What looks like a job has come up, Ernie. It needs looking at in depth. Would you be interested?’

‘I’m always interested in making money.’

‘What’s your going rate now? It’s got to be a perfect job, Ernie. Absolutely no blow-back.’

Kling puffed at his cigar. He had little faith in a gigolo like Lucan.

‘For that kind of job, three hundred thousand and expenses.’

‘Jesus, Ernie! That’s high!’

‘Sure, but it’d be a perfect job, and that kind of job needs working on. Take it or leave it, Lucky. I’ve plenty of money, and I don’t need the job. Please yourself.’

There was a pause, then Lucan said, ‘Okay. I’ll talk around. Would you be prepared to fly down to Paradise City in a couple of days, and meet me?’

‘Paradise City, huh? That’s south of Miami. Sure: all expenses paid, I’ll come.’

‘I’ll see what I can fix. If I get the green light, I’ll book you in at the Star Motel where I’m staying. Okay?’

‘Sure, but make it for two, Lucky. I have a partner now,’ and as Lucan began to protest, Kling, with a jeering smile, hung up.

***

Charles Smyth was the Jamisons’ butler and major-domo. He had been with them since they had married.

Smyth, in his late fifties, was a bean-pole of a man, with balding head, hollow cheeks and a large nose that dominated his features. He adored Shannon and disliked Jamison, who usually ignored him, issuing curt orders from time to time, leaving Shannon and Smyth to run the two homes with the complete efficiency that Jamison expected.

Every morning at exactly 08.00, Jamison came down for breakfast with Smyth waiting. Jamison’s breakfast consisted always of orange juice, grilled ham, toast, marmalade and coffee.

‘Good-morning, sir,’ Smyth said as Jamison came into the breakfast-room. A quick look at the hard face warned him that Jamison was in a bad mood.

Jamison grunted, sat down and began to look at the financial newspapers that Smyth always placed where Jamison could reach them.

Smyth served the grilled ham and poured the coffee. He had watched the gradual deterioration of Jamison’s marriage, and it saddened him.

Shannon had left some minutes ago to attend Mass. When she returned, Smyth would consult her about lunch and dinner. He had heard the previous night Jamison’s barking voice and, a little alarmed, he had left his sitting-room and listened. He had heard Shannon say: If you want a legal separation, tell me, but there can be no divorce. He had hurriedly returned to his room. He believed eavesdropping was an unforgivable sin.

He understood his master wanted an heir. He further understood his mistress had done everything possible. It was a sad and dreadful problem, and Smyth grieved for both of them.

‘Smyth!’ Jamison snapped as he began to cut up the ham. ‘I want a Hertz rental car here at 10.15. Arrange it!’

Startled, Smyth bowed.

‘Certainly, sir. Is there anything else you require?’

‘No! Arrange about the car,’ Jamison snapped and went on eating.

Breakfast finished, he went into his study, carrying the newspapers. Smyth, slightly bewildered, arranged with the Hertz rental service for a Mercedes to be brought to the villa at exactly ten fifteen.

Jamison settled in his desk chair and nodded to himself. This morning, he would meet again this man, Lucan. He was certainly not going to drive up to this man’s motel in his Rolls, with the give-away number plates SJ1. He wanted to remain anonymous. He had no idea, of course, that Lucan had made inquiries about him, and now knew who he was. If Lucan didn’t come up with a serious proposition, then Jamison told himself, he would shop elsewhere.

As Smyth was clearing the breakfast-table, he saw Shannon’s car arrive. He hastily went into the kitchen and prepared Shannon’s simple breakfast of orange juice, two slices of toast and cherry jam. He waited a few minutes, then getting in the elevator, went to Shannon’s living-quarters that consisted of a large sitting-room, a bedroom, bathroom and a wide veranda, looking onto the sea.

‘Good-morning, madam,’ Smyth said as he entered the living-room. ‘I trust you had a good night.’

Shannon was staring out of the open French windows. She turned, and he was shocked to see how ravaged she looked. He could see she had been weeping. Her face was pale and her eyes dark rimmed.

‘Thank you, Smyth,’ she said listlessly, and moved to the small table. ‘Punctual as ever.’

Smyth set down the tray.