The Sanchez Tradition. Anne Mather
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to use any other name. She had no intention of giving him the advantage of being forewarned of her presence in Nassau. Maybe that was a foolish and prideful thing to do, but she couldn’t help it.
And then, after spending hours in the Tourist Information Office, reading lists of hotels and night clubs, she had happened upon this place. It was the location that had done it. Years ago, he had told her that St. Auguste’s Point would make a marvellous site for a night club, and although then he had made no enquiries into its ownership, it was something he might have done in later years. Further enquiries had produced definite proof of ownership, and the head of the syndicate was the man she wanted to see.
She stubbed out her cigarette in the conch shell that served as an ashtray, and swallowed the remainder of her drink. It seemed obvious that it would take more than someone’s minor eruption at the tables to attract the attention of the club’s management. She frowned. There was nothing for it. She would have to go to the manager’s office and ask the whereabouts of the man she wanted to see. It was now or never. She might not get another opportunity. After all, it cost money just sitting here, drinking ginger sodas. And already the waiter was watching her with a speculative gaze. Maybe he thought she was some kind of confidence trickster, or possibly simply a thief. And if she were, there was certainly plenty of game here tonight. The ear-rings the girl was wearing on the adjoining table must be worth somewhere in the region of five thousand pounds, and the necklace that matched them was incalculable. She glanced down at the only ornamentation she wore, a broad gold band on her forearm. It was plain, but at least it was real, the only piece of jewellery she had retained. Her gown, however, could not compare with any of the creations worn here tonight. It was no Paris model, nor was it richly encrusted with jewels, but its plainness gave it an attraction she was unaware of amongst so many peacock plumes. And the smooth sweep of light chestnut hair was thick and shining, and she looked very young to be in such an adult place.
A man who had been watching her for several minutes unbeknown to her from the vantage point behind a trellis-work of climbing plants nodded decisively to the waiter who had drawn his attention to her and advanced towards her table. Reaching her side, he said in a low voice: ‘Are you waiting for someone, madam?’
Rachel looked up, and her eyes darkened with slight impatience. The man’s face reflected his absolute astonishment, and he drew out the chair opposite and sat down almost compulsively.
‘Rachel!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
Rachel linked and unlinked her fingers. At last a familiar face, she thought with relief, and yet also with a feeling of disappointment, for now he would learn of her presence with or without her volition.
‘Hello, Ramon,’ she said, managing a smile. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, fine!’ Ramon Sanchez was impatient. ‘I asked—what are you doing here? Does André know you are here?’ Then he smote a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Of course he does not, or I should have known!’
Rachel waited for the brilliance to die out of his eyes, and shrugged her shoulders slowly. ‘Your brother doesn’t know everything, Ramon.’
Ramon leaned forward. ‘Obviously not, but he has only yesterday returned from New York. How long are you here?’
Rachel managed to maintain a cool front. ‘Do you mean how long have I been here, or how long am I staying?’ she queried calmly.
Ramon chewed his lower lip. ‘Both.’
Rachel smiled. ‘You’re as impulsive as ever, Ramon. Tell me, is it by chance you’re here, or do you work here?’
‘The casino is my concern,’ replied Ramon reluctantly. ‘I am here most nights. I will be honest. My man, Arnoux, he noticed you here earlier, and he has been keeping an eye on you.’
Rachel gave a short laugh. ‘A suspicious character, is that it?’
‘Something like that,’ Ramon admitted. ‘But necessary, you must agree. One cannot be too careful.’
‘No, one cannot,’ she agreed, rather dryly.
Ramon rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We cannot talk here. We will go to my suite.’
Rachel looked up at him lazily. ‘What have we to talk about?’
‘André.’
Rachel’s cheeks coloured slightly. ‘It’s André I wish to see.’
‘I know that.’
Rachel frowned. ‘Is it inconceivable to a member of the Sanchez family that I should be in New Providence for any other reason than to see your brother?’ Her tone was harsh.
Ramon bent, resting his hands on the table. ‘Yes,’ he said bleakly. ‘At this time—yes.’
‘At this time?’ Rachel’s frown deepened. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Do not pretend to be naïve with me, Rachel. Come: I insist. We cannot talk here.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then you will never see André!’
Rachel compressed her lips. She knew better than to doubt his word, and this might be her last chance to achieve what she came for. With a resigned sigh, she rose to her feet, gathering her gloves and purse. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I’ll come with you.’
Ramon’s eyes narrowed. ‘I rather thought you might,’ he remarked.
They descended the steps into the casino, the brilliance of its lights contrasting sharply with the intimate lighting of the restaurant. The noise was terrific, and Rachel wondered how the players managed to hear what was going on. Trays of champagne cocktails and heavier spirits were being carried about, and the atmosphere was filled with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. The thick carpet underfoot was embedded with stubs of cigarettes and cigars, and she wondered how often new carpets were laid. From the opulent appearance of the place it must be redecorated every couple of months or so.
At the far side of the hall was a door marked ‘Private’ and Ramon unlocked it with some keys from his pocket, nodding casually to the two men who stood, one to either side like bodyguards. Rachel shivered. She rememberd the bars of this gold cage so well.
Inside the office the furnishings were equally as opulent. There was a plentiful supply of drinks on a cabinet, and a positive network of telephones on the wide desk. Ramon crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured her a drink, but she shook her head when he offered her the glass and accepted a cigarette instead. Ramon poured himself a drink, and then walked behind the desk and stood, regarding her intently.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ he requested, nodding to a comfortable chair, and as her legs felt slightly shaky, she did as he suggested. When he was seated too, he said: ‘You’re looking very beautiful, Rachel. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’
Rachel bent her head. ‘Where is André?’ she asked blankly.
Ramon shrugged, and lay back in his chair. ‘What have you been doing with yourself—all these years?’
Rachel compressed her lips. ‘Where is André?’ she repeated quietly.
Ramon swallowed half his drink and looked deep into his glass. ‘He won’t see you, you know,’ he said chillingly.
Rachel looked up. ‘Shall we let him decide?’ she asked shortly.
Ramon finished his drink, and getting to his feet walked over to the cabinet again. Rachel’s eyes followed him. He was so calm, so aloof, so different from the exuberant young man she remembered. He wasn’t much like André really. He was shorter, broader, and younger, of course. During the past five years he had shed that air of youthfulness, and now, at thirty, he was poised and assured. But then all the Sanchez family were poised and assured. It was a family resemblance, and en masse it could be destructive.
‘Tell me, Ramon,’ she said