Just Another Sucker

She turned and walked out of the bar. I watched the heavy, sensual roll of her hips as she crossed the street. I went to the door and watched her walk leisurely to the car park. She got in a silver and grey Rolls Royce and she drove away, leaving me staring after her, but not so startled as to forget to memorise her car number.

I went back to the table and sat down. My knees felt weak. I drank a little of the highball, then I lit a cigarette.

The barman came over and collected the five-dollar bill.

‘Some dish,’ he said. ‘Looks loaded with dough. How did you make out with her? Did she give you a reward?’

I stared at him for a long moment, then I got up and walked out. Just for the record, that was the last time I ever went in there. Even when I had to pass it, the sight of the place gave me a cold, sick feeling.

Across the way was the branch office of the A.A.A. The clerk in charge was a guy I had known well while I had worked for the Herald. His name was Ed Marshall. I crossed the road and went into the office.

Marshall was sitting at a desk, reading a magazine.

‘Why, for the love of Mike!’ he exclaimed, starting to his feet. ‘How are you, Harry?’

I said I was fine and shook hands with him. I was pleased to get such a welcome: most of my so-called friends had given me the brush off when I had looked them up, but Marshall was a decent little guy: we had always got along together.

I sat on the edge of his desk and offered him a cigarette.

‘I’ve given them up,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This lung cancer has me scared. How’s it feel to be out?’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You can get used to anything, even living out of jail.’

We talked of this and that for ten minutes or so, then I got around to the real reason why I had called on him.

‘Tell me, Ed, who owns a grey and black Rolls. The number is SAX1?’

‘You mean Mr. Malroux’s car.’

‘Do I? Is that his number?’

‘That’s right: a honey of a car.’

Then the nickel dropped like a chunk of lead.

‘You don’t mean Felix Malroux?’ I said, staring at him.

‘That’s him.’

‘You mean he lives in Palm Bay? I thought he lived in Paris.’

‘He bought a place here about two years ago. He came here for his health.’

I was now aware that my heart was thumping, and I had trouble in keeping and looking calm.

‘We are talking about the same man? Malroux: the zinc and copper millionaire? He must be one of the richest men in the world.’

Marshall nodded.

‘He is. He’s a pretty sick man from what I hear. I wouldn’t swop places with him for all his dough.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

Marshall grimaced.

‘He’s a lung cancer case. There’s nothing anyone can do for him.’

I looked at my cigarette, then stubbed it out.

‘That’s tough. So he’s bought a place here?’

‘Yep. He’s bought East Shore: Ira Cranleigh’s place. He’s had it practically rebuilt. It’s a wonderful situation: own harbour, own beach, own bathing pool, own everything.’

I well remembered Ira Cranleigh’s house. He had been a big oil operator and had built the house at the far end of the bay. He had got into a financial mess and had had to sell. The sale was being negotiated at the time of my trial. I never had heard who had bought it.

I lit another cigarette while my brain jumped over hurdles and darted through hoops.

‘So the Rolls is his?’

‘Just one of about ten cars he owns.’

‘It’s a beaut. I’d like to own it myself.’

Marshall nodded his balding head.

‘Me too.’

‘Who would be the woman, driving it? I couldn’t see much of her. She was a blonde, wearing big sun goggles.’

‘That’d be Mrs. Malroux.’

‘His wife? She didn’t look old… I’d say she was around thirty-two or three. Malroux must be getting on. I seem