Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

‘I know. I make a study of hotels: that’s why I am here.’

Archer raised his eyebrows.

‘Then your appearance is extremely deceptive, Mr. Grenville.’

Grenville laughed again.

‘Appearances generally are. For all I know, you are an eccentric millionaire.’

‘I wish I was.’ Archer sighed. ‘I am an international lawyer. If I may ask, what is your line?’

Grenville stretched out his long legs and regarded his glittering Gucci shoes.

‘You could say I am an opportunist. Right at this moment I am looking for an opportunity. The world is my oyster.’

An opportunist? Archer thought as he tapped ash off his cigarette. That was an admirable description of himself.

A little tartly, he said, ‘You appear well-equipped. Have you any irons in the fire?’

‘You mean my trappings?’ Grenville fingered his gold and platinum bracelet. ‘Every successful opportunist must have trappings. Once he becomes shabby, there is little hope for him.’

Archer accepted the truth, but it hurt. He winced.

‘I agree, but you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Irons in the fire? Not right now, but who knows? Tomorrow is another day. An opportunist has to live on hope.’

Archer regarded the handsome face, the immaculate clothes, the easy, friendly smile. Handled right, he told himself, this man could solve his problem with Patterson.

‘I might be able to put something interesting your way,’ he said cautiously.

‘I am always interested in anything interesting,’ Grenville said. ‘Suppose we leave this dismal room and share a plate of spaghetti together?’ His smile broadened. ‘I haven’t eaten all day, and the thing I call my brain doesn’t function too well on an empty stomach.’

Archer was almost sure this was his man. He got to his feet.

‘We’ll do better than that. I’ll buy you a steak dinner. Let’s go.’

An hour later, the two men pushed aside their plates and sat back in the shabby bistro, after eating two tough steaks with french fries and canned peas. Archer noticed Grenville had eaten as if he hadn’t had a meal for some days. Grenville had kept up a monologue in his musical baritone voice, expressing his opinions about the world’s politics, art in Paris, and books. His voice had a hypnotic effect on Archer who was content to listen, surprised by Grenville’s wide range of knowledge.

‘That was very acceptable,’ Grenville said, laying down his knife and fork. ‘Now to business. What is this something interesting you spoke about?’

Archer sat back and reached for a toothpick.

‘I think it is possible that you and I could work profitably together, but first, I would like to know more about you. You call yourself an opportunist. Just what does that mean?’

‘I wonder if your budget would run to some cheese?’ Grenville asked. ‘It seems a pity not to finish with cheese.’

‘The budget does not run to anything except coffee,’ Archer said firmly.

‘Then let us settle for coffee.’ Grenville smiled. ‘Suppose you give me some idea what is in your mind before I lay my soul bare?’

‘Yes... fair enough.’ Archer ordered two coffees. ‘I am handling the legal end of an important promotion. The promoter is an American who is trying to raise money to finance a number of holiday camps in the sunspots of Europe. He needs around two million dollars. He is a rough diamond, but I think I could persuade him to employ you as his front man. The idea has only just occurred to me so I must talk to him. I have a feeling he would be interested. I am sure your appearance would impress him... but I must have some information about you before I approach him... so over to you.’

Grenville sipped his coffee and grimaced.

‘I can now imagine what acorn coffee was like during the war,’ he said, then looking at Archer, his dark eyes thoughtful, he went on, ‘Aren’t holiday camps rather old hat these days with the currency rates as they are?’

Archer nodded approval. This man was nobody’s fool.

‘We’ll go into that later. Suppose you tell me about yourself.’

Grenville opened his gold cigarette case, found it empty, frowned, then looked inquiringly at Archer.

‘Have you any cigarettes left or are we to be smokeless?’

Archer signalled to the waiter and asked for a pack of Gauloises. When they had lit up, Archer said, ‘The ball is now in your court, Grenville.’

Grenville gave his charming smile.

‘I’m Chris to my friends... so call me Chris. Yes... the ball. Frankly, I am what is known as a gigolo: a male escort. It is a despised profession, but make no mistake about it, it is a profession. It is despised by those who don’t understand the very urgent need elderly women have for male company. Go to any good hotel and you will find elderly women boring barmen, boring waiters, looking hopefully for an unattached male. There are thousands of rich, fat or scraggy, unattractive, dull, neurotic, lonely women who crave to have a last fling, to be taken around and be pampered and who pay good money for the attention. I am one of those who supply this demand. These trappings you have remarked on are gifts from old, frustrated women. This bracelet was given to me by a poor old thing who imagined I was in love with her. The cigarette case came from a fat Austrian countess who insisted that I should dance with her every night for three dreadful weeks. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for her, she suffered a minor stroke or else, I suppose, I would be dancing with her now. I am thirty-nine years of age. For the past twenty years I have been making the lives of elderly women happy.’ He finished his coffee and smiled at Archer. ‘There, Jack, you have it in a nutshell.’

A surge of triumph ran through Archer. He hadn’t mistaken his man!

‘I think we will have some cheese,’ he said.

The hands of the clock above the concierge’s desk moved to midnight as Joe Patterson entered the lobby of the Plaza Athénée Hotel. He paused at the desk to pick up his key as Archer approached.

‘Good evening, Mr. Patterson.’

Scowling, Patterson turned, then seeing Archer, who had been waiting in the lobby for the past two hours, he snapped, ‘What do you want?’

‘I have something important to discuss with you, Mr. Patterson,’ Archer said smoothly, ‘but if it’s the wrong time...’

‘Okay, okay. I’ve just been with a chick, and boy! did she give out! Come on, let’s get a goddamn drink.’

Archer followed Patterson to an alcove, waited until the waiter had served the drinks and while Patterson lit a cigar.

‘You been busy, Archer? How’s about the Rolfe doll?’

‘It is more than possible,’ Archer said, ‘that Madame Rolfe can be persuaded to finance Blue Sky.’

Patterson squinted at him.

‘Have you talked to her? You said this morning she wouldn’t touch it.’

‘That was first droughts, Mr. Patterson. Since then, I have had second thoughts. I now believe she could be persuaded.’

Patterson grinned.

‘Yeah. Nothing like second thoughts. Have you contacted her?’

‘The setup is complex, Mr. Patterson. No, I haven’t contacted her and I don’t intend to, but nevertheless, I am satisfied she can be persuaded to invest two million dollars in your promotion.’

Patterson scowled at him.

‘Cut the double-talk, Archer! What the hell do you mean?’

‘For you to understand the situation, Mr. Patterson, it is necessary for you to know that Helga Rolfe is a nymphomaniac,’ Archer said.

Patterson gaped at him.

‘A nympho... what?’

‘A woman who has a compulsive need for a man.’

Patterson’s little eyes opened wide.

‘You mean she has hot pants?’