Джеймс Чейз - I Hold the Four Aces

Winborn had suggested they should have lunch together, but Helga, rather than share his company again, had said she had shopping to do. She told herself even a meal on her own would be preferable to listening to Winborn’s dull utterances.

But a meal on her own in Paris in springtime!

She opened her handbag and took out her cigarette case. As she put the cigarette between her lips, she heard a little click and saw the flame from a diamond-encrusted gold cigarette lighter being offered. She dipped the cigarette into the flame, and then looked up.

She wasn’t to know that Grenville had been waiting outside her hotel for nearly an hour, that he had followed her up avenue Marceau and had watched her sit at the table, and then had moved unobtrusively to a table next to hers.

Helga looked into the brown eyes of a man who sent an immediate hot wave of desire through her. This was a man! Everything about him was immaculate: his cream-coloured suit, the black-and-blue tie, the gold and platinum bracelet on his powerful, hairy wrist, and the smile, showing white, perfect teeth.

They looked at each other.

‘Springtime in Paris,’ Grenville said in his deep; musical voice. ‘Everyone raves about it, but when one is alone, it can be a bore.’

‘But surely you are not alone?’ Helga asked.

‘May I put the same question to you?’

She smiled.

‘You can, and I am.’

‘That’s perfect. So we are no longer alone.’

She laughed. For years now she had picked up interesting men and had often regretted it, but the drink, the sunshine, the atmosphere of Paris made her reckless.

‘I haven’t been to Paris for a year. It doesn’t seem to have changed,’ she said.

‘Can time stand still?’ Grenville shrugged. ‘Paris has changed. Everything changes. Look at these people.’ He waved to the continuous stream of tourists. ‘I now have the feeling that people like you and me are fast becoming anachronistic. It is these people, parading before us in their shabby clothes, their long, dirty hair, their guitars, who will eventually take over the world. People like us with taste, who know the difference between good and bad food, good and bad wine, are on the way out and perhaps it is a good thing. If the young generation don’t appreciate the value of the good things in life as you and I know them, they not only deserve what they get, but also, of course, they don’t know what they are missing.’

Not bothering to pay attention to what he was saying, Helga regarded this man. She let him talk, and he could talk! she thought. His voice had a lulling effect on her.

He talked for about ten minutes non-stop, then said abruptly, ‘But I am boring you.’

Helga shook her head.

‘Not at all. What you say is most interesting.’

He smiled at her. What a man! she thought.

‘You may have a date, but if you haven’t, suppose we lunch together? There is an excellent little restaurant not far from here.’

She thought: here is a real fast worker, but she was flattered. He must be several years younger than she was, and he kept looking at her with open admiration. Why not?

‘That would be nice. First, we should introduce ourselves. I am Helga Rolfe.’ She looked sharply at him to see if there was any reaction. More often than not when she mentioned her name she got a double take, but not this time.

‘Christopher Grenville.’ Grenville signalled to the waiter and paid for his coffee and Helga’s martini. ‘Please wait a moment. I’ll get my car.’

She watched him walk away: tall, beautifully built, immaculate. She drew in a quick breath. She had made so many mistakes in the past when she had picked up men. She thought of the boy she had befriended in Bonn who had turned out to be a homo. She thought of the half-caste boy in Nassau who had turned out to be a witch doctor of all things! She thought of that wonderful-looking hunk of beef who turned out to be a blackmailing detective. [2] See The Joker in the Pack . And many other mistakes, but this time, maybe she was going to be lucky.

She saw him waving to her as he forced his way against the traffic in a sleek, dark-blue Maserati. She jumped to her feet and ran across the sidewalk as he held open the off-side door for her. Horns blew, drivers shouted, but Grenville ignored them.

‘Parisians have the worst driving manners except, of course, the Belgians,’ he said and sent the car forward.

‘Driving in Paris is a nightmare to me,’ Helga said.

‘Beautiful women should never drive in Paris,’ Grenville said. ‘They should always have an escort.’

She warmed to him.

At the end of avenue Champs-Elysées, Grenville crossed to the Left Bank. The traffic was heavy, but he handled the powerful car with expert ease. Helga was thrilled with the car.

‘A Maserati?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never driven in one before.’

Grenville, thinking of what it was going to cost Patterson to hire this car, smiled.

‘It’s wonderful on the open road, but town work...’

In a few minutes, he turned off Blvd Saint Germain into a tiny side street.

‘Now the problem of parking,’ he said. ‘Parking is a matter of patience.’

He drove around the block, then as he re-entered the narrow street, a car pulled out and Grenville, with cars behind him hooting, manoeuvred the big car into the vacant space. He was out of the car and had the off-side door open before Helga could do it herself.

‘That was well done,’ she said.

‘When one lives in cities, one has to do this kind of thing or cease to exist.’ Grenville took her arm.

‘Just a short walk. You’ll be amused. I hope you are hungry.’

Helga, used to the deluxe restaurants of Paris, wasn’t sure that she was going to be amused when she saw the dowdy entrance of this bistro with dirty curtains, dull brass work on the door, and when Grenville opened the door, to find a long narrow room crowded with heavy, ageing Frenchmen, eating ferociously.

An enormous man, bald, with a belly like a beer barrel, came from behind the bar, his fat face, with many chins, wreathed in smiles.

‘Monsieur Grenville! Impossible! How long it has been!’ he grasped Grenville’s hand, pumping it up and down.

‘Claude!’ Grenville said, smiling. ‘I have brought a very special friend... Madame Rolfe.’ He turned to Helga, ‘This is Claude who once was the head chef at le Tour d’Argent. He and I have known each other for years.’

A little dazed, Helga shook hands with the enormous man as Grenville went on, ‘Something special, Claude. Nothing too heavy. You understand?’

‘Of course, Monsieur Grenville. Come this way,’ and under the staring eyes of the eaters, Claude, panting a little, led Helga and Grenville through a doorway to a small dining-room with four tables, comfortable, intimate and immaculate.

‘But this is nice,’ Helga exclaimed, surprised as Grenville pulled out a chair for her. ‘I didn’t know such places existed in Paris.’

Grenville and Claude exchanged smiles.

‘They do, and this is one of my favourites,’ Grenville said as he sat down. ‘Now tell me, would you like a fish lunch?’

‘Yes.’

Grenville turned to Claude.

‘Then six Belons each and the sole cardinal . Let us have a Muscadet.’

‘Certainly, Monsieur Grenville. Perhaps an aperitif?’

Grenville looked at Helga who shook her head.

‘In a few minutes, Monsieur Grenville.’ Claude went away.

‘You won’t be disappointed. The sole cardinal is the best in Paris. The sauce is made with double cream and Danish shrimps and lobster shells ground minutely.’ He offered her his cigarette case.

As Helga took a cigarette, she said, ‘This is a beautiful case.’