Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

Archer was not only a brilliant international lawyer and a top-class tax consultant, he also had a smooth bedside manner, and spoke French, German and Italian fluently. But for one greedy, stupid slip-up which had turned him into an embezzler and a forger, he would have had a spectacular future. But he had slipped-up, and now, he was desperately trying to earn something: not even a living, just eating-money.

He had been approached by a South American, Edmondo (call me Ed) Shappilo, who had suggested Archer might be interested to do some legal work for an important promotion company. Archer, with no more than his copper handshake behind him, could scarcely conceal his eagerness, although he was astute enough to guess this legal work could once again fizzle out as other legal work he had done for the shifty had fizzled out. Shappilo, suave and thin, with long black hair, said the company would be prepared to pay Archer a weekly retainer of one hundred dollars and a one and a half per cent cut on the deal when it jelled. Shappilo talked airily of ten million dollars, and Archer had pricked up his ears. Shappilo went on to say he was representing a wealthy American who had promoted a number of successful property deals, but this particular promotion under discussion was his biggest.

‘Mr. Patterson has a genius for supplying a demand and for financing that demand,’ Shappilo said, smiling at Archer. ‘At this very moment he is negotiating with the Shah of Iran, and the Shah is very, very interested. We would want you to tie up the legal ends and to handle the contracts. We understand this is your kind of work.’

Archer said it was.

Shappilo then gave him a couple of highly coloured brochures and the details of the proposition, immaculately typed. If, after studying the papers, Shappilo went on, Archer felt he could be helpful, Mr. Patterson, who was staying at the Plaza Athénée Hotel, would like to meet him.

The company to be promoted was to be called ‘The Blue Sky Holiday Camps.’ The camps were to be built in various sunspots in Europe. One of the brochures showed individual cabins with thatched roofs, cunningly drawn by an expert artist, showing every kind of playtime facility, a restaurant, a vast swimming pool, and so on and so on. Reading the print, then studying the small print, Archer decided this was nothing new. There were already many such camps dotted around Europe, and he knew, because of the exchange rates, a lot of these camps were in financial trouble, but he was being offered $100 a week and that was eating-money.

Who knows? he thought as he changed trains, heading for Franklin Roosevelt Station, the Shah just might be stupid enough to invest his petrol dollars in a scheme like this, but he doubted it.

He walked into the lobby of the Plaza Athénée Hotel three minutes before 11.00 to find Ed Shappilo waiting for him.

Shappilo didn’t smile as he shook hands, and Archer’s heart sank. Usually, Shappilo had greeted him with a flashing smile, but today, he appeared to be plunged into gloom.

‘Something wrong, Ed?’ Archer asked uneasily.

‘Let us say a set-back,’ Shappilo returned, and still grasping Archer’s hand, he led him to two chairs in a corner, ‘but nothing that can’t be rectified. Sit down.’ He released Archer’s hand and sank into one of the chairs. ‘The Shah has turned our promotion down... most unexpected. It is ridiculous, of course, since he could have made a handsome profit, but he has decided to withdraw.’

Although Archer had expected this, it came as a shock because he saw the $100 a week retainer vanishing before he had received the first payment.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said.

‘Yes, but it is not the end of the world. There are other sources to be tapped. Mr. Patterson would still like to meet you.’ Shappilo made a grimace. ‘He is not in the best of moods. Just go along with him, Jack. There are times when he can be extremely pleasant, but not this morning.’

Archer regarded Shappilo for a long moment.

‘Am I still going to be employed by him, Ed?’ he asked.

‘I would say yes. After all a hundred dollars a week isn’t much.’ Shappilo smiled. ‘He seems impressed by your qualifications.’ He got to his feet. ‘Come along. I’m sure you could do with a drink.’

That, Archer thought, as he followed Shappilo along the corridor, was the understatement of the week. He yearned for a drink!

In one of the discreet alcoves, Joe Patterson was drinking his fourth double whisky of the morning.

Patterson was short, bulky with a red face, pitted with old acne scars. His dyed black hair was thinning, his nose bulbous, his eyes small and mean.

Archer saw at once he was slightly drunk. He was one of those Americans Archer detested: loud-voiced, vulgar, loud clothes, and of course the inevitable cigar.

Patterson stared blearily at him, then waved him to a chair by his side.

‘So you’re Archer, huh?’ he said. ‘What’ll you drink?’

‘A gin martini, thank you,’ Archer said and sat down. Shappilo snapped his fingers and gave the order while Archer placed his briefcase between his feet and looked at Patterson.

‘Ed tells me you’ve looked at our promotion, Archer,’ Patterson said. ‘What did you think?’

‘I think it would supply a very necessary and popular demand,’ Archer said carefully.

‘You’re goddamn right.’ Patterson screwed up his eyes. ‘Yeah, that’s talking. Then why the hell have these niggers turned it down?’

‘There could be several reasons,’ Archer said smoothly. ‘I wouldn’t care to express an opinion, since I wasn’t in on the original negotiations.’

Patterson grinned.

‘You goddamn lawyers.’ He pulled at his cigar and released a cloud of smoke. ‘Never get a straight answer.’ He leaned forward, poking his cigar at Archer. ‘Now, I’ll tell you something. Ed is going to Saudi Arabia tomorrow afternoon. Those finks out there are stinking with money. Never mind Iran. We’ll get the money from these other finks. How’s about you going with Ed and fixing the legal end?’

The idea of Shappilo getting near a minister of importance in Saudi Arabia to promote such an obvious lemon as the Blue Sky Holiday Camps was so ludicrous that Archer nearly laughed, but he kept thinking of the $100 a week, so he pretended to think, then nodded.

‘Yes. I would be prepared to accompany Mr. Shappilo.’ He paused, then went on, without much confidence, ‘But not at $100 a week retainer, Mr. Patterson.’

Patterson squinted at him.

‘Who said you would? You take this trip, and I’ll pay your expenses. You get a two per cent cut when you two bring back the contract. That’s worth real money, Archer.’

How many times, Archer thought, had he heard this kind of talk? Always in millions: always so much percentage.

‘Have you any introductions out there?’ he asked.

Patterson finished his drink, then looked at Shappilo.

‘You fixed any introductions, Ed?’

Shappilo examined his fingernails.

‘Well, no. The Paris finks are difficult. I think we will make real progress on the spot, rather than fool around with the Embassy here.’

Patterson nodded.

‘Yeah. Go out there and fix something.’ He lifted his empty glass. ‘Get me a refill, Ed.’

While Shappilo was snapping his fingers, Archer had a moment to think. At least he would get a free trip to the Middle East. This cheered him a little. Who knows? He might pick up some lucrative work out there, drop Shappilo and settle in Saudi Arabia for a while. Who knows?

As the waiter brought Patterson’s drink, there was a slight commotion along the corridor that led to the elevators.

A woman and two men, accompanied by the assistant manager of the hotel, followed by two porters wheeling hand-trucks piled high with expensive-looking luggage, came down the corridor.