Well Now My Pretty

She unscrewed the cap and regarded the white cream ointment that smelt faintly of crushed orchids. With infinite care and with pleasure she spread the deadly cream over her hands. But she found herself a little depressed that this luxury treatment didn't give her the pleasure she hoped it would. Her mind was too occupied. She put the cap back on the jar and the jar back on the bedside table. She began again to concentrate on the problem of how to convince Terry that there was no man involved in her sudden wealth.

Later, still worrying, she shut her eyes and dozed. She kept telling herself that it would work out all right and she would convince Terry. Sometime this afternoon, she would go to an Estate Agent and inquire about a one-room apartment.

An hour later, not aware that she had fallen asleep, she woke with a sudden start, feeling surprisingly cold. Puzzled, she looked at the bedside clock to see it was now twenty minutes to eleven. She thought of a cup of coffee, but she now had no inclination to get out of bed. She not only felt chilly, but lazy and torpid. This growing feeling of chill alerted her . . . was she becoming ill? Then suddenly, without warning, bile rushed into her mouth and, before she could control the spasm, she vomited over the bedclothes. She felt her hands had turned to fire.

Alarmed, she tried to throw off the bedclothes and get out of bed, but the effort was too much for her.

Her body was now icy cold and clammy and yet her hands burned, and there was a terrible burning sensation in her throat.

What is happening to me? she thought, terrified. Her heart was racing and she had difficulty in breathing.

She forced herself out of bed, but her legs wouldn't support her. She folded up on the floor, her hand vainly reaching towards the telephone that stood on a near-by table.

She opened her mouth to scream for help, but a disgusting, evilsmelling bile choked her, rising into her mouth, down her nostrils and on to her pink, shortie nightdress.

The black, sleek Persian cat who she fed as a routine of love every morning came to the open window thirty minutes later. The cat paused expectantly, regarded the still body lying in a patch of sunlight, twitched its whiskers, then dropped from the window into the room with a solid plop of paws.

With the selfish indifference that is natural to a cat, it walked purposefully to the refrigerator in the kitchen. It sat before the refrigerator, waiting with anxious impatience.

* * *

At eight-thirty p.m. Harry Lewis left his office, took the red velvet-lined elevator down to the second floor, nodding to the boy who ran the elevator.

The boy, immaculate in the bottle-green and cream uniform of the Casino, his hands in white cotton gloves, his tanned face shiny, ducked his head, gratified to be recognised.

This was Lewis's favourite hour when the Casino began to come alive. He liked nothing better than to go out on to the big, overhanging balcony and look down on the terrace below, where his clients were drinking, talking and relaxing before going to the restaurant and then into the gambling rooms.

The full moon made the sea a glittering, still lake of silver. It was a warm night with a slight breeze that moved the palm trees, surrounding the terrace.

He stood for a long moment, his hands resting on the balustrade, as he looked down at the crowded tables below. He saw Fred, the head barman, moving from table to table, taking orders, passing them to his various waiters, pausing to make a discreet joke or to exchange a word with an habitué, but always efficient, seeing that no guest had to wait for a drink.

"Mr. Lewis . . ."

Lewis turned, raising his eyebrows. This was his ritual moment when he disliked being disturbed, but seeing the pretty, dark girl at his side, he smiled. Rita Wallace was in charge of the vault. She had worked now for Lewis for five years, and he had found her completely dependable, supervising the work of the vault with a calm, efficient manner that make the exacting work easy for the other girls.

"Why, Rita . . . good evening." Lewis regarded her. "Something wrong?" He asked the question automatically. He never saw Rita unless there was some problem she couldn't solve, and that was seldom.

"I'm a girl short, Mr. Lewis," she said. He regarded her neat, black dress and wondered how much she had paid for it. Lewis had that kind of mind. He was curious about everything. "Lana Evans hasn't come in."

"Oh? Is she ill?"

"I don't know, Mr. Lewis. I called her apartment an hour ago, but there was no answer. I must have another girl. Could I have Maria Wells from the general office?"

"Yes, of course. Tell her I hope she will help us out." Lewis smiled. "I think she will." Then he thought, looking at Rita inquiringly, "Odd about Lana. I can't remember her taking a night off without letting us know. You say she doesn't answer her phone?"

"That's right, Mr. Lewis."

Lewis shrugged.