“Good night, Lew.”
“Good night, beautiful.”
I waited until I heard her hang up before I replaced the receiver.
III
I awoke around ten o’clock the following morning. For some minutes I lay in the big double bed, staring up at the patterns made by the sun on the ceiling. Then I ran my fingers through my hair, yawned, threw off the sheet and got out of bed.
A long, cold shower brought me fully awake. Wearing only my pyjamas, I went into the kitchen and made some coffee. When it was made, I carried it out and drank it on the terrace.
From where I sat I could see the building that housed the School of Ceramics perched on its rocky peninsula: a low rambling building that had a blue-tiled roof and white walls.
I decided as soon as I was dressed I’d go out there and mix with the tourists and see what there was to see.
When I had finished the coffee, I returned to my bedroom, put on a pair of swimming trunks and then went down to the sea. I spent half an hour proving to myself that I was still as husky and athletic as I liked to think I was. After I had swum out about a quarter of a mile, I found myself getting slightly short of breath, so I turned around and made for the shore, with a longer stroke and at a slower speed.
I went back to the bungalow, dried off, put on a pair of slacks and an open-neck shirt, then, locking up the bungalow, I got in the Buick and set course for Arrow Point.
By then the time was twenty minutes past eleven. If there were going to be tourists, this was the time when they would begin their visit.
I had to get back on to the promenade, and after a five-minute drive, I came upon a branch road which had a sign that said: This way for the School of Ceramics: the Treasure House of Original Design.
As I turned on to the road I saw in my driving mirror a big blue and white rubberneck bus loaded with eager beavers with the usual brick-red faces and awful hats and making the usual over-happy noises.
I pulled to one side and let the rubberneck get ahead of me. It went past with a roar and a stream of dust that kept with me all the way up the long road and through the double gates leading to the blue-tiled building. There were already six cars in the parking lot as I pulled up. An elderly man wearing a white coat, the pocket of which had a design of two fishes floating in a wine-red sea on it, came over and gave me a parking ticket.
“One dollar,” he said with an apologetic smirk as if he knew it was robbery, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“I bet they hate anyone who has the strength to walk,” I said, giving him the dollar.
He said no one ever walked.
I was killing time by talking to him. I wanted the bunch from the bus to get themselves sorted out. I planned to walk in with them.
By the time I had crossed the parking lot, they had got out of the bus and were moving towards the entrance to the building. I tagged along with them.
The courier, a busy, worried little man, bought tickets at the door and shepherded his flock through a turnstile into a big hall. I paid out another dollar, was given a ticket by a hard-eyed man in a white coat with the fish symbol showing on his pocket.
He told me if I bought anything I’d get a refund on my ticket.
“Heads you win, tails I lose,” I said.
He lifted his shoulders.
“If you knew the number of jerks that come in here out of the sun before we began to charge them entrance and never bought a damn thing, you’d be surprised.”
I could see his point.
I went through the turnstile, and was in time to join up with the last straggler as he moved after his party into a big room crammed with pottery of all shapes, sizes, colours and designs. The overall effect was pretty horrible.
The room was around fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. On each side were long low counters which held more specimens of pottery. Girls, wearing white coats with the fish symbols on the pockets, stood behind the counters. They watched the bunch come in with bored eyes. I found myself thinking that Thelma Cousins had probably stood behind one of these counters and had probably watched a similar bunch of tourists with the same bored look only a few days ago.
There were about twenty girls in the big room, all dressed alike, all shapes and sizes, all ready to sell something the moment anyone paused or was unwise enough to handle the ugly specimens of pottery on show.
At the far end of the room was an open doorway across which hung a wine-red curtain. A hard-faced blonde sat on the chair by the curtain, her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked as if she had been sitting like that for a long time.
I tagged along in the rear of the tourists, pausing when they paused, shuffling on when they shuffled on. It surprised me the amount of stuff they bought: the prices were high and the stuff was pure junk.
I kept my eye on the curtained doorway. I had an idea that it was beyond that curtain the real business was done. A fat old woman, her wrinkled fingers loaded with diamond rings, carrying a wheezing Pekinese, suddenly came out from behind the curtain. She nodded to the hard-faced blonde, who gave her an indifferent stare. The old woman walked down the centre aisle and went out. Through one of the big windows I saw her heading for a Cadillac where a chauffeur was waiting.
I caught the eye of one of the girls behind one of the long counters: a pretty little thing with a pert nose and a cheeky expression.
“Haven’t you anything better than this junk?” I asked.
“I’m looking for a wedding present.”
“Isn’t there anything you like here?” she asked, and tried to look surprised.
“Take a look yourself,” I said. “Is there anything here you’d want as a wedding present?”
She cast her eye around the room, then she pulled a little face.
“You could be right. Will you wait a moment?”
She left the counter and went over to the hard-faced blonde and spoke to her. The blonde looked me over. She didn’t appear to be impressed. I had no diamond rings, nor a Pekinese. I was just another jerk on vacation.
The girl I had spoken to came over to me.
“Miss Maddox will look after you,” she said, and indicated the hard-faced blonde.
As I moved over to her, she stood up. She had one of those hippy, bosomy figures you see in the nylon ads, but rarely in real life.
“Was there something?” she asked in a bored voice, her eyes running over me and not thinking much of what they saw.
“I’m looking for a wedding present,” I said. “You don’t call this muck a treasure house of original design, do you?”
She lifted her plucked eyebrows.
“We have other designs, but they come a little pricey.”
“They do? Well, you only get married once in a while. Let me see them.”
She drew aside the curtain.
“Please go in.”
I moved past her, through the doorway into a slightly smaller room. There were only about sixty specimens of Mr. Hahn’s art on show there; each had its own stand and was shown off to its best advantage. A quick look told me that this must be the stuff Margot had raved about. It was unlike the junk in the other room as crystal is unlike a diamond.
Miss Maddox flicked long fingers at the exhibits.
“Perhaps something like these?”
