10
THE small ivory clock on the mantelpiece in Guelvada's apartment struck one as he entered the room. He switched on the lights; put his hat on a chair; went out on to the veranda. He stood looking over the moonlit waters of the quiet sea, wondering exactly where Mervyn Jacques was at the moment; what his eventual destination was to be. He shrugged his shoulders. Not far away, the dance orchestra at the Leonard Hotel was playing. The throbbing metre of the rumba music entranced Guelvada.
Guelvada thought he liked music a great deal because there was something in it akin to life. Goddam it, he thought, music is exactly like life. It can be quiet or solemn, or gay and amusing or, in the hands of the right composer, it can embrace all the attributes of life.
The orchestra stopped; then be
