Was it true what The Big Man had said, that she would have nothing to do with men? He doubted it. She seemed open to love and to desire. At any rate he knew she was not closed to him. He wanted her to come back and sit down opposite him again so that he could look at her and play with her and slowly discover her. Solitaire. It was an attractive name. No wonder they had christened her that in the sleazy nightclubs of Port au Prince. Even in her present promise of warmth towards him there was much that was withdrawn and mysterious. He sensed a lonely childhood on some great decaying plantation, an echoing ‘Great House’ slowly falling into disrepair and being encroached on by the luxuriance of the tropics. The parents dying, and the property being sold. The companionship of a servant or two and an equivocal life in lodgings in the capital. The beauty which was her only asset and the struggle against the shady propositions to be a ‘governess’, a ‘companion’, a’secretary’, all of which meant respectable prostitution. Then the dubious, unknown steps into the world of entertainment. The evening stint at the nightclub with the mysterious act which, among people dominated by magic, must have kept many away from her and made her a person to be feared. And then, one evening, the huge man with the grey face sitting at a table by himself. The promise that he would put her on Broadway. The chance of a new life, of an escape from the heat and the dirt and the solitude.
Bond turned brusquely away from the window. A romantic picture, perhaps. But it must have been something like that.
He heard the door unlock. The girl came back and slid into the seat opposite him. She looked fresh and gay. She examined him carefully.
‘You have been wondering about me,’ she said. ‘I felt it. Don’t worry. There is nothing very bad to know. I will tell you all about it some day. When we have time. Now I want to forget about the past. I will just tell you my real name. It is Simone Latrelle, but you can call me what you like. I am twenty-five. And now I am happy. I like this little room. But I am hungry and sleepy. Which bed will you have?’
Bond smiled at the question. He reflected.
‘It’s not very gallant,’ he said, ‘but I think I’d better have the bottom one. I’d rather be close to the floor – just in case. Not that there’s anything to worry about,’ he added, seeing her frown, ‘but Mr. Big seems to have a pretty long arm, particularly in the negro world. And that includes the railroads. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I was going to suggest it. And you couldn’t climb into the top one with your poor hand.’
Their lunch arrived, brought from the diner by a preoccupied negro waiter. He seemed anxious to be paid and get back to his work.
When they had finished and Bond rang for the Pullman porter, he also seemed distrait and avoided looking at Bond. He took his time getting the beds made up. He made much show of not having enough room to move around in.
Finally, he seemed to pluck up courage.
‘Praps Mistress Bryce like set down nex’ door while Ah git the room fixed,’ he said, looking over Bond’s head. ‘Nex’ room goin’ to be empty all way to St. Pete.’ He took out a key and unlocked the communicating door without waiting for Bond’s reply.
At a gesture from Bond, Solitaire took the hint. He heard her lock the door into the corridor. The negro bumped the communicating door shut.
Bond waited for a moment. He remembered the negro’s name.
‘Got something on your mind, Baldwin?’ he asked.
Relieved, the attendant turned and looked straight at him.
‘Sho’ have, Mister Bryce. Yassuh.’ Once started, the words came in a torrent. ‘Shouldn be tellin’ yuh this, Mister Bryce, but dere’s plenty trouble ‘n this train this trip. Yuh gotten yoself a henemy ‘n dis train, Mister Bryce. Yassuh. Ah hears tings which Ah don’ like at all. Cain’t say much. Get mahself ‘n plenty trouble. But yuh all want to watch yo step plenty good. Yassuh. Certain party got da finger ‘n yuh, Mister Bryce, ‘n dat man is bad news. Better take dese hyah,’ he reached in ‘his pocket and brought out two wooden window wedges. ‘Push dem under the doors,’ he said. ‘Ah cain’t do nuthen else. Git mah throat cut. But Ah don’ like any foolin’ aroun’ wid da customers ‘n my cyar. Nossuh.’