SOCIETY HOSTESS DEATH RIDDLE “It’s silly, I know,” said Jerry as he and Una lay close together, knee to knee in the massive and uncomfortable bed, listening to the waves and the wildlife of the Sandakan dawn, “but I do miss America. I have ancestors there, you know.” “You’re obsessed with your relatives.” She reached for the silver filigree thermos jug and poured herself an inch or so of iced lime juice. She lifted the jade beaker to her lips. Already their affair had taken one or two turns for the worse. He shrugged his blue silk shoulders. He flashed her a grin, his teeth unnaturally white against his unnaturally dark skin. “I have so many, Una.” The electrics were working unexpectedly well. As the dawn continued to bloom the four-bladed fan overhead hummed in sympathy with the voices of a thousand waking insects. Jerry pulled back the netting and walked in bare feet to his dressing room next door and from there to the toilet. The suite was almost all polished mahogany, Victorian, designed, it appeared, to resist the Orient.
