Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,79
role in Scarface and a string of subsequent movies he’d made with Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, and Marlene Dietrich. Incongruously, she remembered reading somewhere that George Raft had turned down the lead role in Casablanca because he didn’t want to work with “some unknown Swedish broad named Ingrid Bergman.”
Humphrey Bogart must be forever in your debt, Jackie said to herself as George Raft nodded a polite smile at her and continued on his way, and Mrs. Mitchell led her to the next guest.
“Arthur, I’d like you to meet Jacqueline Bouvier,” she said, tugging on the sleeve of an impeccably dressed man who was standing by himself and seemed deep in thought. When the man turned to look at Jackie, she immediately recognized him as Arthur Phillips, the same gentleman who had given her an impromptu lesson on the mojito when she was seated next to him at the bar in La Europa.
“I believe we’ve met before,” Jackie said. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Yes, and you as well,” he said, giving Jackie a bland smile.
“I’ll leave you two to chat,” Mrs. Mitchell said, seizing this opportunity to circulate among her other guests now that Jackie had found someone she knew.
Jackie smiled at Arthur Phillips as she recalled the business card that he had given her. “You’re with the Thorndyke Fund, aren’t you?” she asked, spouting a name that had stuck in her mind because she had also seen it in Robert Maheu’s notebook.
“I am indeed,” Arthur Phillips said. He looked pleased that she had remembered. “Did I tell you that I’m seeking business opportunities in Cuba?”
That sounded familiar. “Yes, I believe you did.”
“Well, I suppose that’s why I was invited to this event,” he said as though he knew Jackie was wondering what he was doing here. “Mr. Mitchell is a friend, but he’s also a big proponent of economic development in this country. He thought it would be a good idea for me to meet Ambassador Beaulac and make some other contacts that could prove very profitable for everyone involved.” He chuckled as if at a private joke. “It’s always good to be well connected, you know.”
“That’s true,” Jackie said, glancing around at the moneyed crowd of distinguished-looking men in European-tailored suits and bejeweled women in fashionable designer gowns. “What kind of business opportunities are you seeking?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, you know, the usual kind. Everything and anything, really. The field is wide open.”
It struck Jackie that Arthur Phillips was being purposely vague and evasive in a way that suggested duplicity. Something seemed off-kilter, and she wondered what he was really doing in Havana and why she kept bumping into him in places as wildly different as La Europa and the Mitchell estate.
At that moment, the lights dimmed, signaling that dinner was about to be served, and Jackie bade Arthur Phillips good-bye and went off to find Emiliano. She spotted him standing near the entrance to the dining room, waving to her and looking heart-throbbingly dashing in Ricky’s tuxedo.
“Dewar’s White Label scotch is our official whiskey,” she heard a man say as she made her way toward Emiliano. “A man by the name of Joseph Kennedy runs the Dewar’s franchise in the States, and he’s a good friend of mine.”
That caught Jackie’s attention. It seemed that no matter where she went in Havana, she couldn’t escape the Kennedys. First the son, and now the father in absentia. When she looked back, she found that the speaker was the strapping, ruddy-faced host of the event himself, Walter Mitchell, who had met her earlier that day and welcomed her into his home as gregariously as his wife had.
“What took you so long?” she asked Emiliano when she caught up with him.
“The door was locked,” he said in a low voice. “I had to get a housekeeper to open it for me so I could leave a present for the Mitchells there. She wouldn’t go away until I gave her back the key.”
“Did she lock the door again?”
He nodded, looking crestfallen.
“No problem,” Jackie said. She patted her upswept hair. “That’s what bobby pins are for.”
When they entered the dining room, Jackie was awestruck. The crystal chandeliers that sparkled like mammoth nests of diamonds, the luxurious drapes, and a massive table with carved cabriole legs seemed like something out of Versailles. At the head of the table, flanked on either side by the Mitchells, sat Ambassador Beaulac. Although suave and statesmanlike, His Excellency reminded Jackie of Basil Rathbone’s Sherlock Holmes.