CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN – DOROTHY HANSON
O’Hara accompanied Lindsay to the Pan American check-in desk at JFK, and stayed with him until he was safely through to the first-class departure lounge. They talked in a desultory way – O’Hara was strangely taciturn for an Irish-American, a stern man with clear eyes, percing eyes, and a little too much flesh under his chin. But perhaps he was quiet because he was watchful, and his right hand never strayed far from the gun on his hip. The airport was virtually empty: there was one more flight to Nassau, a late night 707, and the few stray passengers and airline staff stared at Lindsay curiously. A well-dressed man with a police escort was not a common sight.
They shook hands at parting, and O’Hara lifted an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t try and be a big boy again, Richard. Guys like Valucetti play hardball. Next time, you may not be so lucky.’
Lindsay smiled ruefully to himself as he watched the policeman walk off, wondering whether the 707 would have single malts. He was already a big boy: he had outfaced Wotan, helped hi-jack a couple of CIA teams, been tempted by a woman in a German forest, mousetrapped a couple of villains in his flat, kidnapped a plane, and survived a mafia death sentence. He was grateful, because O’Hara and his men had saved his life. But he was past needing lectures. He began to drift towards the departure gate, wondering, in passing, what became of Donna. Perhaps she had played some part in his rescue. He sighed. It was a thing he would probably never know, because he had no intention of returning to New York for a long, long while.
Then he slowed. An elderly woman seated at a table near the gate was trying to hoist herself to her feet, struggling with a stick, but making no progress. Perhaps he should help her.
The woman waved her stick imperiously. “Young man.” Lindsay stopped, and glanced around. They seem to be the only first-class passengers.
The elderly woman waved again. She was shapeless in a pale pink shell suit that hung like a tent around her, an old woman with faded red-rimmed blue eyes and silver hair piled on top of her head in a bun. “I can’t get up, young man.”
Lindsay walked over to her. She held out a thin scrawny hand, trying to force herself up against her stick, and her jaw was set in determination. But her eyes clouded with a looked of defeat. She stared at him, and her mouth trembled a little. ‘I’ll give you ten dollars to help me.’
Lindsay stretched out his hand, but the woman was already fumbling with a purse, scrabbling at a wad of banknotes. She stuffed one into his hand as he bent to slide his hand under her forearm. She was awkward, with no agility or litheness left in her, and it was like lifting a dead weight. Her voice rose on a note of desperation. “I just need your arm.”
He struggled, they both struggled, and for a moment it was as though they were fighting some silent combat. Then she was suddenly upright, hanging onto his arm as though to a liferaft.
She cackled triumphantly. ‘I made it.’ She waved her stick in a triumphant victory gesture, and for a moment it was all he could do to prevent her falling back.
They struggled again, and then he had the measure of her, and he was steering her towards the departure gate. After a little she shook his arm impatiently. ‘All right, young man. Now I’m fine.’
Linday watched her doubtfully as she tottered ahead of him, shadowing her to the aircraft,. He stayed close to her shoulder, until they could see a stewardess waiting at the 707’s door, and the girl came out to take the woman’s arm. She was very Pan-Am, very brisk and efficient. But the elderly woman would have none of it, waving her stick in front of her like a lance.
‘No, it’s all right, young woman. I’ve got a young man.’ Her stick flailed from side to side and the stewardess retreated hurriedly. Lindsay rolled his eyes wearily, and the girl smiled. He could see that she was trying to work out whether they were together, or if the old woman had merely collected him on the way.
The woman lowered herself slowly into a first class seat, and Lindsay prepared to make himself comfortable in a seat on the other side of the central aisle. But her stick waved again, and now it was a commander’s baton. ‘No, young man. You come here.’ Her voice was a screech rising above the sound of the 707’s engines. ‘I gave you ten dollars. For that you can sit with me for a while.’
Lindsay levered himself to his feet to change seats. Courtesy was a strange thing. He was a freelance, and nobody told him what to do. But an old woman only had to wave her stick, and he was a lamb. He fastened his seat belt, and closed his eyes, hoping that the woman would be fooled into thinking that he had gone to sleep.
But hope proved a vulnerable emotion.
A sharp elbow dug into his side. ‘Where are you going, young man?’
Lindsay grumbled a reply. He was not a porter, and he was not an entertainer, and he had not slept properly, in a bed, since leaving Berlin, and he had suffered severely from the effects of alcohol for the two nights before that.
‘Nassau, huh?’ The woman’s questioning was implacable. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The British Colonial.’ He mumbled the name. The plane was now climbing steeply away from the ground, and it was long past his bedtime. He might have wished to talk, had Donna been in the seat at his side. But this old woman was a pain.
‘What are you doing there?’ The woman’s voice cut through his gathering drowsiness, and he tried his best to ignore it. But she elbowed him again, right in his ribs, and it was a very painful attack. Lindsay explained reluctantly that he was a journalist, flying to the Bahamas for Collier’s opening party.
The old woman pursed her lips in disbelief. ‘He paid for you to fly first-class?’
Lindsay shrugged. He was fed up with being questioned.
‘You must be something pretty big for him to fly you in first class.’ Her voice was a buzzsaw, nasal with a high New England twang. Another prod. ‘You should be sociable with me, if you’re going to King Cay. My son-in-law is Collier’s partner, he owned the whole island at one time. He still has a chunk of it.’
Lindsay opened one eye wearily.
‘Wilhelm Altenburg, he settled in the Islands after World War II, bought King Cay when it were none but an itty-bitty hunk of scrub.’ The woman’s voice was filled with the pride of being mother-in-law to a successful man of property. ‘His family are old world aristocrats, real classy people. They got castles in Europe, land all over the place.’
Lindsay nodded wearily. He remembered bits of Bailey’s briefing. But New York had cured his interest.
The stewardess looked down at him, and he ordered coffee. It was plain that he would not be allowed to sleep, at least for a while. The old woman asked for orange juice, and the stewardess still hovered, because they were the only two first-class passengers on the plane, so he added a request for a large brandy. Perhaps it would help him stay awake, or perhaps help him sleep. Either way it might act as something of a shield. He also manoeuvred his wallet and passport inside his jacket to cover the place in his ribs where the old woman’s elbow had impacted. For an old woman she delivered a remarkably powerful blow.
He sipped at his brandy, and it was a comfort. An elbow came in from the side, and he moved quickly to deflect it.
‘Are you a drinking man?’ The old woman’s voice was dark with suspicion.
Lindsay sipped some more brandy, and then a mouthful of coffee, and looked at her and grinned. He had tried to sleep, but now he was coming back to life. He would talk, if the woman wanted to talk. Maybe he would learn some more about King Cay. ‘I’m a freelance journalist.’
‘Are you married?’ The old woman’s voice was sharp.
He frowned. She had begun to get personal. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
She cackled. ‘Young man, I’m getting my ten dollars’ worth.’
Lindsay thought of handing her money back, and changed his mind. He had crumpled her ten dollar bill to stuff it into one of his trouser pockets, and would have to stand up to recover it. He sighed. ‘No, ma’am, I’m single, and I own my own apartment, and I have money in the bank.’
He thought of his thick wad of dollars, courtesy of Delahaye and Wotan and Delahaye again, and smiled to himself. He was really quite prosperous, all in all. But questions begged questions. He twinkled. ‘Why, are you looking for a younger man?’
The woman’s faded blue eyes suddenly widened, and her mouth gaped, and her teeth were a perfect set of dentures. Then she cackled again, and it was a high-pitched sound of delight. ‘No, young man, but I like your spirit.’
A probing elbow tried to nudge in under his defending arm, but he manage to deflect it skilfully. ‘I like your spirit.’ She repeated her words as though enjoying the sound of them. ‘Delia might find you interesting.’
Lindsay raised an eyebrow. Delia was a girl’s name, and he was always awake when girls were around. He wondered whether she might be the billion dollar heiress.
‘Delia’s my grand-daughter.’ The old woman held out a scrawny hand, in an affirmation of friendship. ‘I’m Dorothy Hanson, we’re big in real estate, transportation, and finance all the way down the East Coast. Delia’s just turned twenty, and she stands to collect thirtyfive million when she comes of age. I’d like to find a nice man for her – the world is full of sharks.’
Here Dorothy paused, because she had a very particular shark in mind, a greasy Cuban called Vitoria, who had managed to finagle his way into Altenburg’s good graces, and was now setting his sights on Delia. She mistrusted him most totally, but Willie seemed to think him a good guy, because he had helped save King Cay from a fat New Yorker called Bailey with links to the mob.
Lindsay sat up in his seat. He liked the idea of an heiress. But not if pointed elbows were hereditary.
‘No, young man, she don’t look like me.’ Dorothy Hanson struggled with her handbag. ‘Here, take a look.’
She held out a coloured photograph of a raven-haired girl with a long El Greco face and an enigmatic smile. She had green eyes, like Bailey, but these were emerald eyes, jewel eyes. ‘How about her?’
Lindsay swallowed. Delia was beautiful, and she stood to both to collect thirtyfive million in the nearby, and a billion further down the line.
‘You ain’t Jewish, are you?’
He looked up quickly.
‘Her pa was a soldier during the war. He ain’t got a lot of time for Jews.’
Lindsay shrugged. He had been circumcised, for it had been the fashion. But he was not Jewish.
‘I didn’t think so.’ The faded blue eyes held his. ‘I just got to ask. It’s like Nigras, he don’t have much time for them either, but they run the Islands now, so he don’t make so much of it. He wouldn’t like to have one as a son-in-law. But he can’t abide Jews.’
Now Dorothy Hanson was into her stride, and she began to tell Lindsay about her hopes and fears for her grand-daughter. ‘Delia’s the only one. Alice, her mother, died nine years ago, and Altenburg ain’t married again. She’s been studying in Spain, and she’s back here on vacation. I’d like her to have a good clean American boy, maybe a banker, they’re good with money.’ She had a scrawny hand hooked into Lindsay’s sleeve. ‘But Delia likes swanky Latins, and now she’s got a greasy Cuban sniffing her tracks. He’s trying to cut a deal with Willie, and wants to take her into the bargain. But she don’t care for him much, and I don’t trust him either, and I couldn’t bide to see her married to a man speaking another language to his children.’ She pauses, and stares at Lindsay sharply. ‘How are you with money, young man? You ever thought of living in the US?’
Lindsay grinned. This old woman was trying to scan him, in almost x-ray fashion, but none of it was important. They were playing a game, and they were both enjoying themselves. He shrugged, he was a freelance journalist, but he had worked for a couple of firms of stockbrokers, at an earlier age, and could manage money as well as any man.
‘And the US?’ She was insistent.
He grinned again. He had a flat in London, with Aileen waiting. But Delia was a wild card, and unknown, and being a freelance was nothing if not a commitment to adventure. ‘I’ll live anywhere I can feel comfortable.’
‘I like you, young man.’ Perfect dentures gleamed, and Dorothy Hanson yawned. ‘I guess you’ve given me my ten bucks’ worth, so I think I’ll sleep now a bit. We can talk again when we reach Nassau.’ She beamed at Lindsay contentedly, her faded eyelids drooping, and then her eyes closed, her head lolled to one side, and suddenly she was asleep.
Lindsay leaned back in his seat, closing his own eyes. He liked the idea of meeting a billion dollar heiress. Particularly a beautiful billion dollar heiress.
Waking uncomfortably, after too little sleep, is always unpleasant. Lindsay felt someone shaking his shoulder, but he was in a dream, fighting off a horde of pursuing girls, and waking was the last thing he wanted to do. He struggled reluctantly to the surface, to see the Pan Am girl smiling down at him. She was holding a cup of coffee.
A bony elbow caught him unawares. ‘Good morning, young man.’ Dorothy Hanson was a picture of brightness – her dentures were perfect, her eyes shining. ‘You want to come to the island? Altenburg promised to send a plane to collect me. I guess there’d be room for two.’
Lindsay shook his head firmly. He wanted a nice big comfortable bed, all to himself, and a long, long sleep, and then a chance to wake slowly, clean his teeth, have a shower, and shave carefully, before engaging a leisurely breakfast, maybe griddle cakes with bacon and butter and maple syrup, and coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice on the side. He did not feel the least bit sociable. He looked out of the plane’s window. Dawn was breaking, and the aircraft had begun to circle above a runway picked out in lights. He just wanted to stagger to the British Colonial and sleep.
“Hmmph.” Dorothy Hanson was scornful. “We’ll be there inside an hour, maybe less.”
Lindsay shook his head wearily. “I’m going to bed.”
Later, he dozed in the back of a taxi, heading for Nassau, with his case safely in the boot. The taxi driver had a Bob Marley eight-track running, and it was quite loud. But Lindsay did not hear it. He was asleep again, back with his gaggle of teenage girls. But now they were girls with raven hair and emerald eyes.