Jets of cold water quickly brought him back to life, and helped him to move into second gear as he went over a tentative plan in his mind. By the time he’d stepped out of the shower and dried himself, he was in third gear, but still no nearer to working out how he could arrange to bump into Mrs Amy Pugh without her husband realizing what he was up to.
If he did manage to spend even a few minutes with her, his story was well prepared. He was an insurance broker, and felt he should warn her that her husband had taken out a policy on her life for one million pounds. He would then ask her if she was aware of the circumstances of his first wife’s death. He had his next question ready if she replied yes, and a short well-prepared speech if she said no.
He put on a clean white shirt, a golf club tie and a suit that made him look like someone who was at home in a five-star hotel rather than a deserted back alley. He picked up his room key and moved into top gear as he left for the dining room.
The hotel might well have had a folksy charm about it, what Jo would have described as quaint, but when he entered the Nelson Room it only took one look at the ma?tre d’ for Ross to know he was dealing with a pro.
‘May I ask for your room number, sir?’ enquired the tall, thin man dressed in a long morning coat and pinstriped trousers.
‘Thirty-three,’ said Ross. He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on a couple seated in a small alcove on the far side of the restaurant. He noticed that, although the banquette on their left was occupied, the one on the right was empty.
The ma?tre d’ interrupted his thoughts. ‘Are you dining alone this evening, sir, or will someone be joining you?’
‘I’ll be on my own for the next two days. I wonder if I could have that alcove seat by the window.’
The ma?tre d’ checked his table list. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s already booked for this evening.’
Ross took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-rand note and placed it on top of the reservation list.
‘Please follow me, sir,’ said the ma?tre d’， giving Ross a warm smile. Nothing folksy or quaint about the ma?tre d’， thought Ross, as he watched him pocket the note like Jimmy the dip.
Ross picked up a copy of the New York Times from a side table as he followed the head waiter across the room to his alcove seat. He sat down with his back to the Pughs, opened the newspaper and began to read. If they were even to glance in his direction, they would assume he was an American. He leant slightly back, and although he could catch only the occasional word from Mrs Pugh, he could hear almost everything her husband was saying.
A wine waiter appeared. ‘Can I get you something to drink, sir, while you’re deciding what to order?’
Ross studied the long wine list. He remembered that Jo had once told him the South African vineyards were now producing wines that were second only to the French, not that the French would ever admit it. The list confirmed another of Jo’s nuggets, that the local wines would be far cheaper than the French imports. He selected a half bottle of Malbec from the Western Cape, and after the wine waiter had left he took a cigarette case out of an inside pocket and placed it on the table.
Ross glanced at the headline in his newspaper: Peace talks to begin in Geneva between Iraq and Iran. He would have read the article if he hadn’t been trying to concentrate on the conversation taking place behind him.
‘Have you decided what you’ll have, sir?’ asked his table waiter, notepad open, pen poised.
‘The vegetable soup, followed by a rump steak, medium rare.’ He looked across at the empty seat on the other side of the table, but no one was sitting there.
He waited for the waiter to leave before opening the cigarette case and adjusting the mirror inside to an angle that allowed him a perfect view of Pugh, although he could see only the back of his wife’s head. NP had been happy to supply the silver cigarette case, originally commissioned by a customer for a sum of money that would have impressed Cartier.
It was clear that Pugh was taking pains to appear solicitous towards his new spouse, while giving the impression he was listening attentively to a story he must have heard several times before, keeping a fixed smile on his face the whole time.
The wine waiter returned, and Ross flicked the cigarette case shut, but continued to listen to what was being said on the next table as the sommelier uncorked the half bottle of Malbec and poured him a small amount to sample.
‘Excellent,’ Ross said, and the wine waiter filled his glass.
Ross reached the sports pages to discover that the Yankees had beaten the Oakland Athletics. He looked into the mirror to see the Pughs had finished their meal. The only important piece of information he’d picked up was that Clive Pugh would be visiting his bank in the morning, having suggested to his wife they should open a joint account. It was clear from her body language that she wasn’t at all enthusiastic about the idea. Ross recalled that at the last team meeting he’d attended, Jackie had told them Pugh must be fast running out of money if several unpaid bills were anything to go by.