Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

Shaken, his mouth dry, sweat on his face, Grenville followed Belmont down the path to the parked VW. Segetti, pointing the gun at him, slid into the back seat, motioning Grenville to get in the front seat. Belmont slid under the driving wheel.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Grenville asked huskily. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘Just keep your trap shut, Mr. Grenville, and you’ll be fine.’

They drove along the lake road, passed a policeman who was directing a pedestrian, asking the way, and Grenville looked longingly at the policeman, but Segetti said softly, ‘No foolish ideas, Mr. Grenville.’

Entering the Piazza Grande, they turned up a side street, and Belmont pulled up.

‘Be careful how you get out, Mr. Grenville,’ Segetti said, ‘I am a very good shot.’

For a moment, Grenville, who was now in a panic, asked himself whether, as soon as he was out of the car, he should make a dash to escape, but the street was deserted, and he hadn’t the nerve. He got out, followed by Segetti.

Belmont pushed open a high wooden gate and jerked his head at Grenville, who followed him through the gateway into the untidy yard. Segetti followed.

Ahead of him, Grenville saw a big building, like a barn, and he followed Belmont into the semi-darkness of the place which smelt strongly of cheeses, olive oil and anchovies. Belmont climbed steep stairs. Segetti prodded Grenville up the stairs and into a big room in which stood a bed, a table, several battered armchairs and a radio. Sitting in one of the chairs was Bernie.

‘Ah, Mr. Grenville,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘We haven’t met before, but we have a mutual friend — Mr. Archer.’

Grenville regarded this short, squat, bearded Italian the way he would have regarded a big, hairy-legged spider that had dropped into his bath. In spite of Bernie’s smile, his small eyes, like two sea-washed pebbles, chilled Grenville.

‘You know Archer?’ Grenville’s voice was husky.

‘Of course. Come in, Mr. Grenville, and sit down. I want to talk to you.’

Moving shakily, Grenville sank into an armchair, aware that Segetti was just behind him, and Belmont was leaning against the door.

‘I don’t understand,’ Grenville said. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘Let me explain,’ Bernie said, resuming his chair. ‘Mr. Archer came to me, saying he wanted to hire two reliable men for a faked kidnapping. Mr. Archer explained the kidnapping was a joke, and, frankly Mr. Grenville, I didn’t believe this. It seemed to me that his offer to me of five hundred francs to find two men, and his offer to pay these two men eight thousand francs for a job that could get us all into police trouble was inadequate.’ He smiled. ‘Now I discover that he and you intend to get two million dollars from this woman, so naturally, since, without my help, this kidnapping couldn’t have been accomplished, I feel our share should be considerably increased.’

‘You should have discussed this with Archer,’ Grenville said, trying to steady his voice. ‘Why bring me here by force?’

‘That is a good point,’ Bernie said. ‘Why bring you here by force? Because you have now been kidnapped, and this kidnapping is no fake.’

Grenville drew in a sharp breath.

‘I still don’t understand,’ he managed to say.

‘Mr. Grenville, you and Mr. Archer are amateurs. Here you have a situation involving a woman worth about eighty million dollars. You have said that you have a harpoon in her.’ Bernie looked at Belmont. ‘That was what he said, Jacques?’

Belmont nodded.

‘So...’ Bernie lifted his hands ‘The woman is obviously besotted with you. Accept my congratulations, but when a woman is worth some eighty million dollars, no one, but an amateur, would ask two million to get her stud back. Do you see my point?’

Grenville ran his tongue over his dry lips.

‘She — she’s difficult,’ he said huskily. ‘I think two million is enough.’

‘But then you and Mr. Archer are amateurs. From now on, Mr. Grenville, I intend to handle this affair. Only the other week, an industrialist was kidnapped in Rome by a good friend of mine, and the ransom demand was seven million dollars, and this industrialist wasn’t nearly as rich as this woman, and yet to save his skin, he paid up.’ Bernie leaned forward, pointing a stubby finger at Grenville. ‘I will ask ten million dollars for your return, Mr. Grenville. For your co-operation, I will give you five hundred thousand dollars, and I will give Mr. Archer the same amount.’

Grenville stared at him.

‘Cooperation? What does that mean?’

‘You might be asked to lose an ear or a finger, Mr. Grenville, but for five hundred thousand dollars, that isn’t much to ask.’

Grenville’s face expressed horror.

‘You can’t do that to me!’

‘Mr. Grenville, you haven’t as yet realized you have been kidnapped, and this time, it is no fake. Jacques can slice off your ear and heal the wound with a hot iron without any trouble. He can also remove one of your fingers without you suffering too much. That is no problem, and from what I hear about your relations with this woman, she will pay.’

Grenville felt faint. He leaned back in the chair, sweat running down his face.

Bernie got to his feet.

‘I am now going to talk to Mr. Archer. I shall want him to act as my go-between. It is safer that way. Just relax, Mr. Grenville. It is very possible you won’t lose an ear or a finger. Max and Jacques will look after you.’ He turned to Segetti. ‘In half an hour, Max... as we arranged,’ and leaving Grenville, shuddering, his face in his hands, Bernie left the room.

Helga paced up and down in her bedroom. She was distraught. Chris! Kidnapped! In the hands of Mafia thugs! All she could think of was to get him back unharmed. What he must be suffering! She must get the money as quickly as possible! There must be no hitch! When that swine Archer came, she must have the money ready to give him!

She would drive to Bern immediately and see her Swiss banker. He must arrange to have the money transferred to the Mafia immediately!

Then realizing she was in an utter panic, she pulled herself together, and some of her steel asserted itself. She sat down, her fists clenched between her knees.

Hinkle!

He had actually dared to insinuate that Chris had engineered his own kidnapping! Hinkle was a jealous old fool! The moment she had told him she was in love with Chris, he hadn’t been able to conceal his disapproval. When she had told him that she and Chris were going to be married, his congratulations and best wishes had been sour, and she knew why: he hated the idea of having a master again as well as a mistress. He was so goddamn selfish he didn’t want her to be happy, because it didn’t suit him! He wanted her to live her lonely, loverless life, so he could fuss over her, providing her with his goddamn omelettes, while she ached and ached for a lover like Chris!

Tomato ketchup!

That had been a vicious lie! She was sure Grenville had been struck down! Hadn’t that swine Archer said that Grenville had tried to be brave? She could imagine Chris in the hands of those thugs. He could have found an opportunity to attack them. Yes! She could imagine him — her splendid Chris — making a fight of it. She shuddered, thinking again of those pictures, showing him lying on the floor, blood on his face.

Tomato ketchup!

That proved the extent of Hinkle’s possessive jealousy.

The unlocked front door?

Of course there was an explanation for that! Again, Hinkle had tried to undermine her faith in Chris.

What was more natural for Chris to unlock the door to stand for a moment on the doorstep to look at the night sky and the stars and to breathe the night air? Why should he have bothered to relock the door?