Not My Thing

‘Mrs J. is a devout Catholic. He’ll have to take no for an answer,’ Smyth said uneasily. ‘I think it would be best for her to pack up and leave him. Get a legal separation, and let him get on with it.’

Conklin scratched his head.

‘Can’t see Mr J. standing for that.’

‘Look, Ted, you and I have been good friends for eight years. If Mrs J. leaves, I’m going with her. I wouldn’t want to stay here with Mr J. Would you?’

Conklin stared at him.

‘Go with her? Now, come on, Charlie, you’re not thinking straight. What would she need with a goddamn butler? She will move to some small place and play her cello. She won’t want you nor me.’

‘She’ll need me,’ Smyth said quietly. ‘She’ll have plenty of money if that’s bothering you, Ted. She’ll need someone like you to look after her car and do the garden. I want you to come with me.’

‘And leave this beauty?’ Conklin turned to stare at the Rolls. ‘I couldn’t, Charlie. I just couldn’t. Anyway, let’s wait and see. There could be some other way out which we haven’t thought of. Let’s wait and see.’

3

At 10.15, Sherman Jamison, a briefcase under his arm, came down the steps of the villa where the rented SE 350 Mercedes was parked.

Smyth was waiting and opened the door of the driver’s seat.

‘I understand, sir,’ he said, as Jamison settled himself behind the driving-wheel, ‘that you will not be back for lunch nor for dinner.’

Jamison scowled at him.

‘Then you understand wrong!’ he snapped. ‘Will Mrs Jamison be in for dinner?’

‘No, sir. She is playing at a concert.’

‘I won’t be back for lunch. I’ll be back for dinner. Bring me a tray of cold cuts to my study at eight o’clock, and tell Conklin to return this car to the Hertz people on my return.’

Smyth concealed his dismay. He would now be unable to attend the concert, nor would Conklin have a night off.

With a stiff little bow, he closed the car door.

‘Very well, sir,’ he said.

Jamison drove to his bank.

The teller behind the counter inclined his head as Jamison put the briefcase in front of him.

‘Good-morning, sir,’ he said. ‘What may I do for you?’

Jamison was the Bank’s richest and most important client. He always received the red-carpet treatment.

‘Put five thousand in one-hundred-dollar bills in the case,’ Jamison snapped, ‘and be quick about it!’

The teller took the briefcase.

‘Certainly, sir.’

He filled out a withdrawal form and gave it to Jamison to sign, then he quickly put the money in the case.

Minutes later, with the briefcase locked in the car’s trunk, Jamison drove along Sea Boulevard, turning onto the highway, and at exactly 11.00 he pulled up outside the Star Motel which was the most de luxe of the number of motels built along the beach road, facing the sea.

For the past half hour, Lucky Lucan had been standing outside his motel cabin, anxiously wondering if Jamison had changed his mind. He had taken precautions that he considered necessary should Jamison appear. Hidden, in the motel’s living-room, was a tape recorder which was activated at the sound of voices. Lucan told himself that if he was going to get involved in a murder, he must be able to prove that he was only the go-between if the operation turned sour. With a tape of the conversation, Jamison would be as deeply involved as Kling.

He was relieved, although still uneasy, when he saw Jamison pull up outside the motel.

So Jamison was playing crafty, he thought. A hired car. He still imagines I don’t know who he is.

He hurried to the car.

‘Good-morning, sir,’ he said, opening the driver’s door. ‘Please come in. We can talk quietly, and without interruption in my cabin.’

‘We will talk on the ground of my choosing!’ Jamison said, his voice harsh. ‘Get in the car!’

‘But…’

‘You heard what I said!’

Lucan walked around the car to the passenger’s door and sat by Jamison’s side. He slammed the door, venting his well concealed frustration that there would be no tape recording.

Jamison set the car in motion.

‘Well, sir, I…’

‘Be quiet!’ Jamison barked. ‘We’ll talk later.’

Man! Lucan thought, this sonofabitch is a real tough cookie. He recalled what Sydney Drysdale had said: He’s VIP and goddamn dangerous. He found the palms of his hands were damp and he wiped them on the knees of his trousers.

Jamison, his hard, rock-like face expressionless, drove along the beach road, then turned down a narrow lane, leading directly to a vast stretch of sand, sand dunes and the sea.

At the end of the lane there was a turn-around. He pulled up and got out of the car. He surveyed the deserted beach. About a quarter of a mile away where the sand was firm, there were sun-bathers and people swimming in the sea. Their distant shouts faintly reached the two men.

Jamison nodded and got back into the car.

‘Now we talk. What have you arranged, Lucan?’

Lucan again wiped his hands on the knees of his trousers.

‘I’ve found the man who will do the job, sir,’ he said.

‘Who and what is he?’ Jamison demanded, turning to stare at Lucan with his cold, hard eyes.