Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [57]
At last, the passport was ready. She got the forger to give her a lift into the centre of town, where she bought some clothes and a suitcase before catching a cab to the airport.
Despite the air-conditioning in the airport, she was sweating profusely with nerves as she approached passport control. When her passport was finally stamped after what seemed a terrifying age, she felt limp with relief. She had bought a ticket to Sao Paulo. She studied the destination boards at the airport and then bought a ticket to Santiago in Chile. When she arrived at Santiago airport, she went to a tourist desk and booked a hotel in the city, then picked up a cab.
The hotel was old-fashioned and somehow very dark. The furnishings were old-fashioned Spanish, and in her room the windows were covered with lace under heavy velvet curtains. She stripped off and laid the notes on the bed. She decided she had to find some other way of carrying them because if she sweated any more, the notes might be damaged. Several packets had actually become detached from the Sellotape and fallen inside her blouse.
She went out for a walk on O’Higgins Boulevard, feeling lonely and threatened by the crowds. She planned to keep moving from place to place until she felt safe. She bought a small travel bag in a shop and then realised she was hungry.
Sandra went into a restaurant on the boulevard. There was a list of dishes all in Spanish. A waiter approached her table but did not speak English. Sandra’s stomach rumbled. She had been too nervous to eat anything since she began her flight. A handsome young man at the next table stood up and said in perfect English, “May I help you?”
Sandra smiled at him. “I can’t read the menu.”
“They serve very good roast pork here.”
“I’ll have that, and some wine.” Loneliness bit at Sandra again. “Why don’t you join me?”
He sat down, and soon they were laughing and talking. He said he was a student, studying medicine. His name was Jaime. He had curly black hair, large brown eyes fringed with black lashes, and a slim figure.
Sandra said grandly that she was travelling the world. He suggested afterwards that they go on to a bar but Sandra wanted to change into something attractive and repair her make-up. She loved the way he smiled into her eyes, banishing her fears of the police, making her feel young again. He escorted her back to her hotel, a supportive hand under her arm, and said he would wait for her in reception.
In her room, Sandra washed her face and carefully applied make-up. She studied herself critically in the bathroom mirror. Her figure was still good, and her siliconed breasts were holding up. She thought the dark hair suited her. Out of her meagre supply of clothes, she picked out a blue cotton shift dress and slipped on a pair of high-heeled sandals. She had hidden the money under the mattress. She took it out and stuffed it into the travel bag. It was then Sandra hesitated. She really should put it in the hotel safe, but she did not trust the staff.
She put it on top of the huge old-fashioned wardrobe and went down to meet her date.
She spent a drunken riotous evening and ended up in bed with Jaime.
Jaime lay awake while Sandra snored beside him. He planned to ask her for money. He wasn’t a student but worked as a waiter in the evenings and as a deliveryman for a clothing factory during the day. On his odd evenings off, he searched for rich tourists, sometimes being successful enough to get money for his services in bed.
They had left the lights on. Sandra’s suitcase was lying open. He slid quietly out of bed. It contained very little. He wondered whether to take money from her handbag