1975 - The Joker in the Pack by James Hadley Chase

but we will have another within a few months.”
    “How disappointing. I wanted to see it,” Helga smiled. “Perhaps the buyer would show it to me. Have you his name and address?”
    “A moment, madame.” The salesman went away. He returned after a few minutes and handed her a card on which was written: Mr. Richard Jones, 1150 North Beach Road, Nassau.
    He then gave her an illustrated folder.
    “You will find all the details here, madame. I would advise you to place an order with us without delay. There is considerable demand for this machine.”
    Returning to the taxi, she told the driver to take her to North Beach Road. It took ten minutes of driving out of the city before they reached the long, shabby street.
    The driver, a West Indian, slowed and looked over his shoulder at her.
    “You want some special number, missus?”
    “Just drive along slowly,” she said.
    Looking out of the window, she finally spotted No. 1150: a broken down bungalow with an iron-corrugated rood, weeds in the garden, grey sheets hanging out to dry and a big, gat West Indian woman with grey in her hair, sitting on the stoop, reading a magazine.
    Helga told the driver to take her back to the hotel. She had been absent half an hour. As she crossed to the elevator, the hall porter materialized by her side.
    “Excuse me, madame, but your room is being serviced. It won’t be ready for you for another twenty minutes.”
    “That’s all right. I only want to pick up something. Thank you.” Giving him a smile, she entered the elevator and was whisked to the top floor.
    There was a big service trolley outside her open door. Silently, she entered her suite. She heard movements in the bathroom. Shutting the door, she crossed to the desk on which lay the three recorders the assistant manager had left with her the previous evening. She switched one one, adjusted the volume control, then she walked silently into the bedroom. The bed had been stripped, a pile of towels lay outside the bathroom door. She could hear the sound of the spry swishing around in the bath.
    She looked into the bathroom. A slim figure in white drill was bending over the batch, his head out of sight.
    “Are you Jones?” she asked, pitching her voice high to get above the sound of the spray.
    The figure startled, dropped the spray, straightened and spun around.
    She was confronted by a beautiful looking nineteen-year old boy with thick black silky hair, big, fawn like eyes and perfectly molded features.
    They stared at each other.
    A blackmailer? Helga thought. This she found hard to believe.
    “Are you Jones?” she repeated.
    The boy turned of the shower, licked his lips and nodded.
    “All right, Jones, I want to talk to you.” She put steel in her voice. Turning, she walked into the sitting room.
    There was a long pause while she stood with her back to the window, then he came out of the bedroom, his hands moving like agitated butterflies up and down his white jacket.
    “Stand over there,” she said, pointing to the desk, then she sat down, opened her handbag and took out her cigarette case.
    He moved to the desk and stood staring at her. His olive skin glistened with sweat. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his tight jacket as he breathed.
    “You own one of these?” She tossed the folder of the Harley-Davidson at his feet.
    He stiffened and stared down at the colored illustrations.
    “Do you or don’t you own one of these motorcycles?” she demanded, determined to give him no time to think.
    In a small, low voice, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
    “How did you pay for it?” The steel in her voice was like the lash of a whip.
    His eyes widened and he took a step back.
    “I – I saved for it, ma’am.”
    “You saved for it?” She gave a scornful laugh. “You . . . living in a slum: your home with a tin roof. You saved more than four thousand dollars! I wonder what Mr. Henessey would say to that!”
    His face turned grey.
    “I saved for it, ma’am. I