Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

I am Helga Rolfe, she told herself. I am in love! Chris will come back to me. I am one of the richest women in the world! I hold Herman Rolfe’s magic key! I will buy Chris back no matter what it costs!

She walked out onto the terrace where Hinkle was watering the flowers. He regarded her and nodded his approval.

‘If I may take the liberty, madame, you are very beautiful,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Hinkle, and you are so very kind.’

‘There are a number of dead blossoms that need attention, madame,’ Hinkle said. ‘If I may suggest, you might care to attend to them. I find gardening very soothing, and we may have some time to wait.’ He indicated secateurs and a basket near her and obediently, knowing he was trying to be helpful, Helga began to cut the dead flowers: something she had never done before. And, of course, Hinkle was right again. The task was soothing, but she continually thought of Grenville.

At 11.15, Hinkle appeared with a shaker and glass.

‘I suggest a little refreshment, madame,’ he said.

She nodded and went indoors, washed her hands, then returned to the terrace.

‘Aren’t they going to phone, Hinkle?’

‘Yes, madame,’ Hinkle said, as he poured the drink. ‘You could call it a war of nerves, and I am confident that your nerves will remain steady.’

She sat down.

‘It’s only that I keep thinking they will hurt him. I can’t bear the thought!’

‘Why should they, madame?’

‘They sounded so vicious.’

‘It may be some time before they telephone. I suggest an omelette for lunch. You must keep up your strength.’

Then they heard the front door bell ring. Helga slopped her drink and turned white.

‘Please, madame,’ Hinkle said, completely unperturbed. ‘It is probably the postman. I will see,’ and he walked sedately across the terrace to the front door.

Opening it, he found himself face to face with Archer. The two men looked at each other, then Archer said jovially, ‘How are you, Hinkle? You remember me?’

It said much for Hinkle’s steel control that his expression didn’t change. He lifted his eyebrows as he said, ‘Mr. Archer, I believe.’

‘That’s right. I want to talk to Madame Rolfe.’

‘Madame Rolfe is not at home,’ Hinkle said stiffly.

‘She’ll see me. Tell her I am representing Mr. Grenville’s interests.’

Hinkle stared for a long moment at Archer who continued to smile.

‘If you will wait.’ He paused to look Archer up and down, surveying his shabbiness, then he closed the front door, shooting the bolt.

Helga, tense, turned around, as Hinkle came onto the terrace.

She stiffened.

‘Madame, Mr. Archer is calling,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Mr. Jack Archer.’

Helga’s eyes lit up with anger.

‘Archer! How dare he come here! Get rid of him! I would never have that man in my house!’

‘I suggest, madame, you should see him,’ Hinkle said quietly. ‘He said he was representing Mr. Grenville’s interests.’

The shock made Helga close her eyes. The she pulled herself together.

‘Is he behind this?’

‘I don’t know, madame, but it would appear so.’

The steel in Helga asserted itself. She stood up and walked into the living-room. Her mind flashed back to these few, but dreadful days, when Archer had been locked up in the cellar and had broken out, but she also remembered that she had beaten him, just when he had thought he had triumphed. She had known Archer for some twenty years. When she and he had worked in her father’s firm, they had been lovers. It had been Archer who had persuaded her to marry Rolfe so that he could handle Rolfe’s affairs in Switzerland. He had stolen two million dollars of Rolfe’s money and had lost the money in a stupid speculation. He had tried to blackmail her not to tell Rolfe, but she had refused. She had beaten him that time: she could do it again, she told herself.

‘Send him in, Hinkle. I will see him alone.’

‘Very well, madame.’

As Hinkle passed the hi-fi set, he pressed a switch and a button.

Archer came bouncing in, smiling broadly.

‘My dear Helga, how good to see you again!’ he said in his booming voice. ‘It is such a long time, isn’t it?’

Hinkle quietly closed the door on them.

Helga, standing motionless, her head slightly back, gave him a steely stare. She looked him up and down, and then her lip curled.

‘Ah! You see a change in me,’ Archer said, still smiling. ‘At the moment I am at low ebb, but the tide is rising.’ He sat down, uninvited, and crossed one fat leg over the other. ‘You still look most impressive, Helga. I really don’t know how you do it at your age. But then, I suppose, money does make all the difference. Beauticians, hairdressers, massage, and of course, clothes.’ He laughed. ‘Even I could look impressive if I had some money, but you really did put me in a hole, Helga. You really did.’

‘What do you want?’ she said, steel in her voice.

‘What do I want? Shall we say revenge? I remember so well — when was it? Ten months ago? When you said you held the four aces. Now it is my turn to hold four aces.’ As she said nothing, but stood, waiting, he went on, ‘I have often dreamed of this moment, Helga, when I would make you drink gall as you made me drink gall. Perhaps I should say vinegar,’ and he laughed.

Although a brilliant international lawyer, Helga’s father was given to old-fashioned clichés. So often he had said to her: What you put in, you take out. Offence is better than defence. They were clichés that remained in her mind. Once, when she had a difficult problem, he had said to her: If you are in a tight corner, let the other man talk. Know your enemy. Listen hard enough, and you will find a weak spot.

Know your enemy!

It was the soundest advice he had ever given her, and Helga remembered.

After a pause, Archer, smiling, said, ‘Nothing to say?’

‘I’m listening,’ Helga said.

‘Yes, you were always a good listener. You were always a good bluffer too, but this time, Helga, I hold the four aces.’

‘Will you come to the point?’ she said. ‘I suppose it is money. You look shabby enough to need money.’

Archer flushed slightly. Before his theft, he had always prided himself on his appearance. He used to change his shirt twice a day, was always immaculate and paid a visit to the barber once a week. His enforced shabbiness was like a nagging toothache.

‘Since you refused to help me in my trouble, life has been a little tiresome,’ he said.

‘Your trouble was that you became an embezzler, a forger and a blackmailer,’ Helga said. ‘You have only yourself to blame.’

‘Not quite the way to talk to me,’ Archer said, a sudden snarl in his voice. ‘I...’

‘But it is true, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you will deny that you are an embezzler, a forger and a blackmailer?’ Helga said, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Don’t let me add liar as well.’

Feeling she was taking the initiative, Archer decided it was time to assert himself.

‘I told your servant I was representing Mr. Grenville’s interests.’

He saw her stiffen at the mention of Grenville’s name, but she still was upright, and still had that steely look in her eyes.

‘Well?’

‘It is rather an odd story, Helga,’ Archer said. ‘Do sit down. It will take a little time, and I find it disturbing, seeing you standing there like the wrath of a goddess.’

Helga moved to a chair and sat down.

Archer glanced out on to the terrace.

‘Ah, how nice! A shaker and a glass. Your usual vodka martini, I suspect. Actually Helga, I haven’t had a vodka martini for many months. Excuse me.’ He got up, crossed the terrace and poured the drink into Helga’s unfinished glass. He drank, refilled the glass and carrying it back, settled in his chair again.