Not My Thing

What was happening? Where had Tarnia gone? Then he remembered that this bloody couturier had told her he would lend her an apartment. She must have moved there!

He finished the martini and poured himself another from the big cocktail shaker. He looked at his watch again. The time was 19.00. In less than fourteen hours, Shannon would be dead and he would be free!

Then he remembered that as soon as the bomb had exploded, the police, Smyth, his friends, would want to contact him. It would take a little time before the news hit the headlines of the newspapers.

He snatched up the telephone receiver and told the operator to connect him with his villa in Paradise City. After some minutes’ delay, he heard Smyth’s voice: ‘This is Mr Jamison’s residence.’

‘Any messages for me?’ Jamison barked.

‘No, sir.’

‘I am staying at the Waldorf-Astoria for the night,’ Jamison said. ‘I will be returning on the four o’clock flight. Tell Conklin to meet me at the airport.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘We will be dining in, Smyth. Prepare a decent dinner. Is Mrs Jamison there?’

‘No, sir. Mrs Jamison left half an hour ago. I believe she is attending a concert.’

Thank God for that! Jamison thought. To have to talk to Shannon would, he felt, be too much for his jumping nerves.

‘If anything important turns up, you can reach me at the hotel until 09.30. Then at my office.’

‘I understand, sir.’

Jamison hung up.

That takes care of that! he thought. Now what was he going to do? He thought of those bleak hours ahead of him. The club? The thought of talking to his various friends with this thing hanging over him was impossible. A movie? A woman? Impossible!

If he could only talk to Tarnia, he felt sure he would be able to relax. Tomorrow, he must find out the telephone number where she was staying.

Getting to his feet, he began to pace around the room. Tomorrow at eight thirty! Another twelve hours!

He remembered he hadn’t had lunch and although not feeling hungry, he rang room service and ordered a plate of chicken sandwiches and another shaker of martinis. He continued to pace, thinking of Tarnia until the waiter brought the sandwiches and shaker. He poured himself another drink and ate two of the sandwiches. As he continued to pace up and down, a thought dropped into his mind that made him pause.

Just suppose Tarnia changed her mind about giving up her career and marrying him. Just suppose this couturier had persuaded her to remain in Rome. The thought brought him out in a clammy sweat. He remembered Tarnia’s lack of enthusiasm when he had said, as soon as the divorce went through, she would become his wife. Had he imagined this? No! This was dangerous and stupid thinking! He was sure she loved him, sure that she wanted to give him children.

If I’m going to spend the night in this state, I’ll go out of my mind, he told himself.

Sleeping-pills!

That was the answer! Oblivion until the morning when Smyth or the police would tell him Shannon was no more and he was free.

Forcing his mind to remain blank, he undressed, took a hot shower, then four sleeping-pills which he always travelled with. His usual dose was one pill, but he wanted to be sure that he would sleep through the night. Getting into bed, he turned off the light.

In the dark, his mind came alive again. Suppose the temptation of continuing her brilliant career would prove too much for Tarnia. He was so much older than she was. Suppose she met a man of her own age, and he interested her, sharing the same talents. Suppose… suppose…

The sleeping-pills took charge of him and he drifted off into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The persistent ring of the telephone bell by his bedside brought him awake. For a few seconds, he didn’t know where he was, then his razor-sharp mind clicked into action. He looked at the bedside clock. The time was 08.55.

This was it! Here was the news that he was longing to hear! Shannon was dead and he was free!

He threw off the bedclothes, swung his feet to the floor and snatched up the receiver.

The hotel operator said, ‘Your butler, Mr Jamison, is asking to speak to you. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

God! The way these creeps sucked up when you had money! Jamison thought, then snapped, ‘Put him through!’

There was a click, then Smyth said, ‘Mr Jamison?’

‘Yes… yes! What is it?’

‘Mr Jamison, I have very bad news for you,’ Smyth said, and Jamison could hear Smyth’s voice was shaking.

‘What is it?’ he barked, thinking, so at last I am free to marry Tarnia!

‘I fear Mrs Jamison has been kidnapped,’ Smyth said. ‘It would certainly appear so.’

Jamison’s heart skipped a beat, then began to pound. Kidnapped! What was this old fool drivelling about? Maybe he was trying to break the news that Shannon had been blown to pieces by a bomb.

‘Kidnapped?’ he shouted. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Perhaps, sir, I should tell you what has happened.’

‘For Christ’s sake, tell me!’