2
It was hot. Too hot to stay in bed Quentin thought, pushing the sheet from him and sliding on to the coconut matting.
The sunlight came through the slots in the shutter and burnt his feet. He scratched his head, yawning, then reached under the bed for his heelless slippers. He sat there, staring at the wall, feeling lousy. It must have been the rum he’d belted the previous night. That guy Morecombre certainly could shift liquor. He might have known what kind of a party he was sitting down to. These press photographers spent most of their time on the booze. He pressed fingers tenderly to his head and then wandered over to the chest of drawers and found a bottle of Scotch. He put a little ice water in a glass and three fingers of Scotch to colour it, then he went back and sat on his bed.
The drink was swell, and he dawdled over it while he considered what he had to do that day. There wasn’t much he could do, he decided, except just sit around and wait. Well, he was used to that. He could do that fine.
He reached out with his foot and kicked the shutter open. From where he sat he could see the harbour and a little of the bay. By leaning forward he could see the old Morro Castle. He drew a deep breath. The place was pretty good, he decided. Very, very nice to look at. He got up and wandered to the open window. Below him the hotel grounds stretched away to the waterfront—flowers, trees, palms, everything that grew so richly in the tropical heat spread out before him. He hunched his muscles and yawned. Not bad, he thought, not bad at all. The Foreign Correspondent of the New York Post staying in the dump that millionaires condescend to be seen in. He finished the Scotch. All the same, he wouldn’t mind betting there was no one in the hotel except Morecombre and himself and the General. He grinned a little sourly. From where he stood he could see the waterfront, which looked ominously deserted. The hotel grounds were deserted too. “The word’s got round all right,” he thought; “rats leaving the sinking ship.”
He wandered over and rang the bell, then went on into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stood watching the water hiss down, still holding the empty glass in his hand. He eyed it thoughtfully, decided he wouldn’t have any more, put the glass down and slid out of his pyjamas.
The shower was fine. The water pricked and tingled on his skin. Raising his head, he began to sing, very low and rather mournfully.
When he came back to the bedroom he found Anita standing looking out of the window.
Anita was the maid in charge of the third floor. She was very dark, small, very well built. Her breasts rode high, firm… audacious breasts. They looked like they were proud of themselves, and Quentin himself thought they were pretty good.
“Hello,” he said, wrapping a towel round his waist, “don’t you ever knock?”