Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

Patterson’s little eyes shifted.

‘Okay, okay. You don’t have to blow your cork. Yeah, I understand. Sure... forget what I said.’

Archer, who had come out in a cold sweat, relaxed.

‘Then please arrange the financial details with Jack. I expect to have five thousand francs by the time I move into the Plaza,’ Grenville said. ‘I now have an appointment.’ He rose to his feet as a waiter snatched away his chair. ‘Thank you for the lunch, Mr. Patterson, and good day to you.’

The maître d’hôtel came hurrying up.

‘I trust you were pleased, Monsieur Grenville.’

‘A perfect meal, Jacques.’ Grenville shook hands, then accompanied by the maître d’hôtel, he walked out of the grillroom.

‘Jesus!’ Patterson exclaimed. ‘That guy really has class.’

‘If anyone can produce two million dollars for you, Mr. Patterson, he will,’ Archer said.

‘Yeah.’ Patterson called for the check. ‘He’s got real style. Yeah. I don’t think this guy can miss.’

As Patterson stared with unbelieving eyes at the amount the lunch had cost, Archer thought: ‘I hope to God he doesn’t.’

Helga Rolfe, one of the richest women in the world, lay in a hot, scented bath in her Plaza Athénée Hotel suite. Her long legs stirred the water and her hands cupped her firm breasts.

Even though she had always travelled V.I.P., and was cosseted by the air hostesses, Helga detested long-distance flights, more particularly when she had to fly in the company of Stanley Winborn whom she disliked and Frederick Loman whom she considered an old bore, but both these men were essential to the smooth running of the Rolfe Electronic Corporation.

There had been a time, when she had become President of the corporation, when she had played with the idea of getting rid of both men, but after considerable thought, she had been forced to accept the fact that these two men were too efficient to lose.

It had been Loman’s idea to set up a branch of the Electronic Corporation in France. He had had talks with the French Prime Minister who had been encouraging. The advantages were many, and Helga had agreed. Loman had said he and Winborn would fly over and have further talks.

Springtime in Paris! Helga thought.

To the surprise of the two men, she said she would go with them.

But now, lying in the bath, relaxing after the seven dreary hours of flight, Helga wondered if this had been such a good idea.

Paris in the spring had sounded wonderful, but when you were on your own; when you only had two hardheaded, dreary businessmen to escort you around, and when you knew the French press was watching, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

She moved her long, beautiful legs, stirring the water. She had been a widow now for five months.

The magic key of Herman Rolfe’s millions was hers. She was now worth a hundred million dollars in her own right. She owned a deluxe house in Paradise City, a deluxe penthouse in New York and a deluxe villa in Switzerland. But freedom? Whatever she did was reported in the press. God! How she hated newspapers!

Sex to her was as compulsive as drink to an alcoholic. When Rolfe had died, she had imagined she would be free to have any man who appealed to her, but she quickly discovered that if she wished to avoid newspaper headlines, she still had to be as furtive in her love affairs as she had been when Rolfe had been alive.

During the five months of her so-called freedom, she had had three lovers: a waiter in a New York hotel, an old roué who no one would have suspected was still potent, and a young, smelly hippy to whom she had given a lift, and who had taken her violently in the back of her car.

This can’t go on, she told herself. I have all the money in the world. I have everything, but sex. I must find a husband: some wonderful man who will love me, who will be on hand when I get this desperate sex urge so I don’t have to be furtive ever again. This is the solution: the only solution.

She got out of the bath and stood before the long mirror and looked at herself. She was now forty-four years of age. Age had been kind to her: expert handling by beauticians and a strict diet. She saw a woman with cone-shaped breasts, a slim body, rounded hips; blonde, with big blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips and a perfect complexion. She looked ten years younger than she was.

But what was the good of that? she thought bitterly as she began to dry herself. To look like this, to have a body like this without a man to appreciate what she had to offer.

Returning to her suite, she found the maid had unpacked her clothes and everything was in order. She had agreed (God! What a bore!) to dine with Loman and Winborn in the grillroom. She put on a black silk jersey dress, snatched up a black ostrich feather stole and took the elevator to the ground floor where she found Loman and Winborn waiting.

The two men converged on her. It was now 21.30 and Winborn suggested they had their cocktails at the table. Helga was aware that people were staring as she made her entrance. There was a fat, acne-scarred man, obviously a brash American, who was eating alone, and who stared more than the others.

Patterson watched her as she sat at a table across from him and he nodded to himself. Archer was right! This doll really needed special handling. While he ate yet another steak, he kept watching Helga as she talked to her two companions, and he told himself that Grenville was the right man to cope with this woman.

His meal finished, Patterson toyed with a double whisky on the rocks until Helga and her two escorts left the grillroom. The time now was 22.15, then he wandered into the lobby in time to see Winborn and Loman escorting Helga to the elevator.

As Helga was whisked up to her suite, she thought: Once again! Two sleeping pills! Will I ever be free to do what I want?

Entering her suite, she went to the window and drew aside the heavy drapes. She stared down at the fast-moving traffic. There below her was the excitement of Paris: movement, lights, noise, people. But what can a woman do on her own?

She jerked the drapes together, then turned and looked around the large, lonely suite.

A husband!

That was her solution!

A husband!

She stripped off her clothes and walked naked into the bathroom. She opened the cabinet door and found her sleeping pills. She swallowed two, then paused to look at herself in the mirror.

So this was to be her first night in Paris in the spring!

Going to her bedroom, she put on a shortie nightdress, then flopped into bed. How many times had she done this? Sleeping pills instead of a lover?

A husband, she thought, as the pills began to work. Yes, that was the solution: a kind, marvellous lover!

She drifted away into a drugged sleep.

There was a press photographer lurking outside the hotel as Helga walked into the mid-morning sunshine. Although she hated this ratty-looking little man, she gave him a flashing smile and a wave of her hand as he took her photograph. She had long learned always to be friendly with the press.

She walked up avenue Marceau, crossed to rue Quentin and taking her time, savouring the atmosphere of Paris, arrived at Fouquet’s bar and restaurant on avenue Champs-Elysées.

Yes, she thought, this is really Paris in the spring. The chestnut trees were in blossom, crowds of tourists moved up and down the broad sidewalk, the sun shone and the tables of the many cafés were crowded.

She sat down at an unoccupied table and a waiter arrived. She decided to have a late lunch, so she asked for a vodka martini. The waiter, impressed by her champagne-coloured fine wool coat with fur cuffs, came back quickly with the drink.

She sat relaxing, watching the various freaks, the dull-looking tourists, the aged American women in their awful hats and their bejewelled spectacles. It was a panorama that amused her.