reel of black cotton He snapped off a length of cotton, left the cabin, closed the door, then fixed the cotton across the bottom of the door so that if someone entered the cabin, the cotton would snap.
Then he walked down to the beach.
He saw Charlie and Mike, the two coloured helps, carrying trays of drinks to the people lounging under the sun umbrellas.
He paused to look at the fourth umbrella under which Carlos and his wife had been lying. The man had gone, but the woman was still there, reading a magazine.
He felt an urge of curiosity to see her at close quarters. He walked over to where she was lying and paused by her.
‘Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Carlos?’ he asked, the woman put down her magazine and looked up at him.
Her big sun goggles partially hid her face, but he saw her nose was short, her mouth small; her lips, carefully painted, were thin. He guessed she would be closer to forty than thirty: a woman who took care of herself with a long history of massage, sauna baths, daily visits to the hairdresser: a contestant in the battle most women make to look younger than they are. He felt the hidden eyes behind the sun goggles quizzing him.
‘No, thank you.’ Her voice carried a faint accent that Harry thought he recognised. He was now almost certain this was the woman who had been driving the Mustang. ‘Who are you?’
‘Harry Mitchell, the new lifeguard around here.’
‘Hello, Harry.’ She smiled. ‘Solo will tell you we - my husband and I - are often here. Can you swim? The last boy Solo hired . . .’ She lifted her hands and laughed.
‘Do you swim, Mrs. Carlos?’
She looked at him.
‘Probably better than you.’
‘Is that right? I’m going in now. Do you bet, Mrs. Carlos?’
She shook her head.
‘Not on a dark horse.’
‘If you’re so good, how about a fifty yard start to that raft and ten dollars to one?’
‘My! My! You must think you are good. Can you afford to lose ten dollars?’
‘That’s my business, isn’t it, Mrs. Carlos?’
‘Excuse me.’ She stared up at him, then shook her head. ‘No. I am good, but now I can see you would be better. I’ll have a gin and tonic instead.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Carlos.’ His tone was curt. That she had thought he couldn’t cover a bet angered him. He turned abruptly and headed for Charlie who had distributed his last drink. Seeing him coming, Charlie ran to him, grinning widely. Harry told him to take Mrs. Carlos a gin and tonic, then he walked away until he reached a pedal boat. He sat on it, his anger still gnawing at him.
Had she recognized him as he had recognized her? He wondered.
She had given no sign that she might have recognized him, but that didn’t mean anything. She was very sophisticated and cool: not a woman to be fazed easily. He frowned down at the sand. Was he mistaken? He thought again of the woman in the Mustang: the same build: the same accent, but, of course, he could be mistaken. What would the wife of a man as wealthy as Carlos be doing with a dead body? It didn’t make sense.
He stroked his nose and looked across the hot sand to where the woman was lying. She had picked up her magazine and was reading again.
Irritated that it was now a problem he couldn’t immediately solve, he shrugged, pushed himself off the pedal boat and walked down to the sea. He stood watching the bathers, thinking of the woman and thinking of the white plastic suitcase.
It wasn’t until just before dinner that Harry was able to return to his cabin. A blonde, plump teenager had come up to him, flushed and giggling, and had asked him for a swimming lesson.
At the end of half an hour, there was another giggling girl waiting.
By their prowess, Harry knew both of them could swim and they were making this an excuse to fool around with him. This was part of the job, and he went through the motions.
There was then a constant demand for drinks and he had to help Charlie and Mike to handle the rush. It wasn’t until 19.00 hrs.
Then he walked down to the beach.
He saw Charlie and Mike, the two coloured helps, carrying trays of drinks to the people lounging under the sun umbrellas.
He paused to look at the fourth umbrella under which Carlos and his wife had been lying. The man had gone, but the woman was still there, reading a magazine.
He felt an urge of curiosity to see her at close quarters. He walked over to where she was lying and paused by her.
‘Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Carlos?’ he asked, the woman put down her magazine and looked up at him.
Her big sun goggles partially hid her face, but he saw her nose was short, her mouth small; her lips, carefully painted, were thin. He guessed she would be closer to forty than thirty: a woman who took care of herself with a long history of massage, sauna baths, daily visits to the hairdresser: a contestant in the battle most women make to look younger than they are. He felt the hidden eyes behind the sun goggles quizzing him.
‘No, thank you.’ Her voice carried a faint accent that Harry thought he recognised. He was now almost certain this was the woman who had been driving the Mustang. ‘Who are you?’
‘Harry Mitchell, the new lifeguard around here.’
‘Hello, Harry.’ She smiled. ‘Solo will tell you we - my husband and I - are often here. Can you swim? The last boy Solo hired . . .’ She lifted her hands and laughed.
‘Do you swim, Mrs. Carlos?’
She looked at him.
‘Probably better than you.’
‘Is that right? I’m going in now. Do you bet, Mrs. Carlos?’
She shook her head.
‘Not on a dark horse.’
‘If you’re so good, how about a fifty yard start to that raft and ten dollars to one?’
‘My! My! You must think you are good. Can you afford to lose ten dollars?’
‘That’s my business, isn’t it, Mrs. Carlos?’
‘Excuse me.’ She stared up at him, then shook her head. ‘No. I am good, but now I can see you would be better. I’ll have a gin and tonic instead.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Carlos.’ His tone was curt. That she had thought he couldn’t cover a bet angered him. He turned abruptly and headed for Charlie who had distributed his last drink. Seeing him coming, Charlie ran to him, grinning widely. Harry told him to take Mrs. Carlos a gin and tonic, then he walked away until he reached a pedal boat. He sat on it, his anger still gnawing at him.
Had she recognized him as he had recognized her? He wondered.
She had given no sign that she might have recognized him, but that didn’t mean anything. She was very sophisticated and cool: not a woman to be fazed easily. He frowned down at the sand. Was he mistaken? He thought again of the woman in the Mustang: the same build: the same accent, but, of course, he could be mistaken. What would the wife of a man as wealthy as Carlos be doing with a dead body? It didn’t make sense.
He stroked his nose and looked across the hot sand to where the woman was lying. She had picked up her magazine and was reading again.
Irritated that it was now a problem he couldn’t immediately solve, he shrugged, pushed himself off the pedal boat and walked down to the sea. He stood watching the bathers, thinking of the woman and thinking of the white plastic suitcase.
It wasn’t until just before dinner that Harry was able to return to his cabin. A blonde, plump teenager had come up to him, flushed and giggling, and had asked him for a swimming lesson.
At the end of half an hour, there was another giggling girl waiting.
By their prowess, Harry knew both of them could swim and they were making this an excuse to fool around with him. This was part of the job, and he went through the motions.
There was then a constant demand for drinks and he had to help Charlie and Mike to handle the rush. It wasn’t until 19.00 hrs.
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