Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

Archer’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the woman.

Helga Rolfe for God’s sake!

He hadn’t seen Helga since they had parted after his abortive attempt to blackmail her to conceal his embezzlement from her husband. Hurriedly, he raised his hand to shield his face. He didn’t want her to see him.

He felt a pang of frustrated envy as he watched her stride down the corridor. She looked wonderful! Wearing a pale beige suède coat, her blonde hair silky and glittering, her head held high, she conveyed a picture of confident wealth.

Her two companions kept pace with her. The taller of the two bent a little to talk, while the shorter man seemed to be having trouble in keeping up.

The little procession disappeared into the waiting elevator and was whisked out of sight.

‘That’s some doll,’ Patterson said. ‘Who could she be?’

Here was the opportunity to impress this vulgar American, Archer thought.

‘That was Madame Helga Rolfe,’ he said.

Patterson squinted at him.

‘Rolfe? You mean the Rolfe? The electronics man?’

‘Yes, but Rolfe died a few months ago.’ Archer sipped his martini. ‘Helga is now in charge of the corporation, and appears to be handling it well.’ He said this carelessly as a throwaway.

Patterson’s mean little eyes opened wide.

‘Is that right? Who were the two finks with her?’

Archer leaned back and took out his pack of Gauloises.

‘Here, have a man’s smoke, for God’s sake.’ Patterson produced a cigar in a metal container.

‘Thanks, I will.’ While Archer removed the cigar from the container, he went on, ‘The taller man is Stanley Winborn, head of Rolfe’s legal department. The short, fat man is the Vice-president, Frederick Loman.’ He lit the cigar and puffed smoke. ‘I suppose the corporation now is worth over a billion dollars. I know for a fact, Helga’s personal fortune is worth at least a hundred million.’

Patterson sucked in his breath.

‘Hell! That’s real money!’

‘You could say that.’ Archer smiled. He finished his drink and set down his empty glass.

‘Get him another drink, Ed,’ Patterson said.

While Shappilo was snapping his fingers at a waiter, Patterson went on, ‘Sounds as if you know the doll.’

This was the moment when Archer should have kept his mouth shut, but the martini, after a miserable dinner the previous night, and a still more miserable breakfast, had made him slightly drunk.

‘Know her? Not so long ago, she and I handled Rolfe’s Swiss business, and not so long ago we were intimate friends,’ and he winked.

‘For Pete’s sake!’ Patterson was obviously impressed. ‘You mean you screwed her?’

Archer accepted the martini the waiter offered him.

‘Let us say we were intimate,’ he said.

‘Yeah. I get the photo.’ Patterson pulled at his cigar. ‘Well, what do you know?’ He scratched his bulbous nose, then went on, ‘So she’s worth a hundred million?’

‘About that.’ Archer drank half his martini. He was now feeling very relaxed.

‘But you’re not working with her anymore?’ The small eyes probed.

Careful, Archer told himself, you’re letting your tongue run away.

‘We had a falling-out. She’s very difficult. I found I couldn’t work with her anymore.’ He sipped his drink. ‘I take it, Ed will arrange the air tickets to Saudi Arabia? I just wait for instructions?’

Patterson thought for a long moment, finished his drink, then shook his head.

‘Why the hell should we go to these Arab finks for money when it is sitting right here in this goddamn hotel?’

Archer stared at him.

‘I don’t follow you, Mr. Patterson. In this hotel?’

Patterson leaned forward and tapped Archer on his knee.

‘Use your head, Archer. With your contact with this Rolfe doll, it will be a cinch for you to sell our promotion to her. We want a couple of million. That’s chickfeed to her. Put it to her. Okay?’

Archer’s hands turned clammy.

‘I assure you, Mr. Patterson, Madame Rolfe wouldn’t think of investing money in holiday camps. I know her too well. No... it just wouldn’t work.’

Patterson stared at him for a long moment, his mean little eyes probing, then he looked at Shappilo.

‘Where’s the goddamn grillroom? I want to put on the feed-bag.’ He got to his feet as Shappilo pointed down the long corridor. Looking at Archer, Patterson went on, ‘Now listen: talk to this Rolfe doll and set her up for me. All I want from you is to set up a meeting. I’ll do the selling. And listen, Archer, I hire successful men. You fix it for me to meet her or you don’t come on my pay roll.’ He walked off down the corridor.

Shappilo got to his feet.

‘You heard what the man said, Jack. It shouldn’t be all that tricky, you knowing her so well. Well, let’s hope we meet again,’ and he followed Patterson to the grillroom leaving Archer staring bleakly after him.

Back in his hotel bedroom, after a sandwich lunch, Archer cursed himself for boasting to Patterson about his association with Helga. He must be getting old! he thought. A year ago, he would never have done such a thing. What to do now?

He had checked through his remaining traveller’s cheques. His money was running out. There were no other irons in the fire: no other promotions, no other offers for legal work. And yet, he knew it would be impossible to approach Helga.

The last time they had been together, she had threatened him with a ten-year jail sentence! He imagined how she would react if he suggested she should meet a man like Joe Patterson... It was unthinkable!

So what to do?

He took off his jacket, hung it in the closet, then stretched out on the lumpy bed. He did his best thinking when completely relaxed. The martinis he had drunk now had their effect and he drifted off into a heavy sleep. He woke to find the room in semi-darkness. He must have slept for more than three hours, he thought, then he became aware that someone was knocking on his door.

Looking at his watch, he saw the time was 18.20. Probably the maid, he thought irritably, and called to come in, at the same time switching on the light.

The door opened and Christopher Grenville, in all his finery, stood in the doorway.

Startled, Archer gaped at him, then hastily swung his feet to the floor.

‘I am afraid I have disturbed you,’ Grenville said in his deep, musical voice. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Not at all... not at all.’ Archer smoothed down his ruffled, thinning hair.

‘Stupid of me, but I’ve run out of cigarettes,’ Grenville went on. ‘I wonder if I could cadge a couple from you... such a bore to have to walk all the way to the tabac.’

Archer was staring at this Adonis, and an idea suddenly dropped into his fertile mind. He got to his feet, picked up his pack of Gauloises and offered it.

‘I am always doing the same thing,’ he said, and smiled pleasantly. ‘My name’s Jack Archer. You’re English, I believe?’

‘Terribly English. Christopher Grenville. Can I take two? I see you haven’t many left.’

Archer’s eyes went over the immaculate clothes, the shoes, the platinum and gold bracelet.

‘Go ahead. I was just taking a rest. I’ve had a trying morning. If you have nothing better to do... why not sit down?’

‘I don’t want to be in the way.’ Grenville sank into the creaky armchair. ‘Quaint little hotel, isn’t it?’

‘You could say that, but it’s convenient.’

Grenville laughed: an easy, musical laugh.

‘Let us say it is cheap.’

Archer eyed him. Grenville appeared to be completely relaxed and friendly.

‘Without doubt this is the cheapest hotel in Paris,’ Archer said.