Джеймс Чейз: I Hold the Four Aces

Before pushing his breakfast tray aside, Jack Archer made sure there was nothing more to eat. He peered into the minute coffee pot, grimaced, then sighing, he lit a Gauloise, and then looked around the sleazy, little hotel bedroom.

He reminded himself that he had been in worse hotels than the Saint Sabin, but not much worse. At least it was clean, and more important, the cheapest hotel in Paris. He checked his wristwatch. It was time he left for his appointment with Joe Patterson. Again he grimaced, thinking of the dreary, complicated journey by Metro to the Plaza Athénée Hotel: Duroc — Invalides — Concorde — Franklin Roosevelt, and finally Alma Marceau. His mind shifted into the past when he would have done this journey in comfort in a Hertz chauffeur-driven car, but that was in the past.

He put on his jacket, then regarded himself in the flyblown mirror. He saw reflected, a tall, heavily-built man, fifty years old, with thinning straw-coloured hair, fleshy jowls, a florid complexion and washed-out blue eyes. He was depressingly aware that his paunch made his jacket hang badly. He was also depressingly aware that his suit, made by one of the best English tailors, was now shapeless and threadbare. All the same, he told himself, as he looked at himself in the mirror, he still made a reasonably impressive figure: shabby, yes, but that air of authority that had served him so well in the past remained.

He looked out of the window. The sun was shining. The narrow street, off Rue de Sevres, was jammed with slow-moving traffic. The noise of grinding gears and revving engines came through the closed window. He decided not to wear a topcoat which was even shabbier than his suit. He hesitated about taking his hat. Experience had taught him that a hat cost money. He was sure the hatcheck girl at the Plaza Athénée Hotel would expect at least a three francs tip. So leaving his hat and picking up his well-worn briefcase, he moved into the long corridor, locked his bedroom door, then began to walk towards the ancient elevator.

A man came from a room by the elevator, locked his door, then thumbed the elevator button.

Looking at him, Archer slowed his stride. This man was at least six foot three inches tall. He was the most impressive male Archer had ever seen: slim, but powerfully built, with dark brown swept-back hair, a long face, an eagle-like nose and dark penetrating eyes. All this Archer took in at a glance. Apart from this man’s impressive handsomeness, and Archer thought he must be a movie star to be this handsome, his clothes made a tremendous impact on Archer. This man’s clothes, Archer thought, must have cost a fortune. Although they were casual, they had the cut, that excellence that revealed impeccable style. The Gucci belt and the Gucci shoes, and the whiter-than-white shirt, gave the impression of wealth, but what really impressed Archer was the unmistakable old Etonian tie. Archer had spent many months in England, and had come to recognize this snob status symbol which he had always envied.

The man entered the elevator cage and was waiting for Archer to join him.

As Archer entered, he caught the smell of an expensive after-shave as the man nodded to him and smiled.

God! Archer thought, what a man! Envy stabbed him. This Adonis, probably in his late thirties, was deeply sun-tanned, and his smile revealed glittering white teeth. Archer was quick to see he was wearing a gold Omega wristwatch and a gold signet ring. On his left wrist he wore a gold and platinum chain bracelet.

‘A lovely day,’ the man said as Archer closed the elevator door. His voice was low-pitched, deep, musical and sensual. ‘Paris in the spring.’

‘Yes,’ Archer said. He was so off-balance to find a man of this obvious wealth in this sleazy hotel, he could think of nothing else to say.

His companion produced from his pocket a gold cigarette case with initials set in diamonds.

‘I see you are smoking,’ he said, and took a cigarette from the case. He then produced a Dunhill gold lighter, also decorated with diamonds. ‘It is a terrible habit... so they say.’ He lit the cigarette as the cage descended to the hotel lobby, then nodding to Archer, he crossed to the reception desk, left his key, and walked out into the narrow, busy street.

Archer had been staying at the hotel for the past three weeks and had become friendly with Monsieur Cavelle who acted as reception clerk and concierge. He placed his key on the counter, then asked, ‘Who was that gentleman?’

Cavelle, a small, shabby, unhappy-looking man, peered at Archer.

‘That was Monsieur Christopher Grenville. He arrived from Germany last night.’

‘From Germany? Surely he is English?’

‘Yes, Monsieur Archer, he is English.’

‘Is he staying here long?’

‘He has reserved a room for a week, monsieur.’

Archer switched on his smooth smile.

‘He has come at the right time... spring in Paris,’ and nodding, he walked out onto the street.

What in the world, he thought, could a man of Grenville’s obvious wealth be doing staying in the cheapest hotel in Paris? That gold cigarette case must be worth at least twenty thousand francs. Most odd! But as soon as he entered the Metro station, he dismissed Grenville and began to think about Joe Patterson and this absurd proposition Patterson was trying to promote.

Eighteen months ago, Archer wouldn’t have considered for one moment working for a man like Patterson, but now, as he continually reminded himself, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Sitting in the smelly, jogging second-class compartment of the Metro train, Archer’s mind went into the past. Eighteen months ago, he had been a senior partner of a highly reputable firm of international lawyers in Lausanne, Switzerland. He had had Herman Rolfe’s Swiss account, and Rolfe had been one of the richest men in the world, nudging shoulders with Getty and the late Onassis. Archer and Rolfe’s wife, Helga, had looked after Rolfe’s Swiss investments which amounted to some twenty million dollars.

You were too ambitious, Archer told himself, as he let his heavy body roll with the motion of the train, and you were unlucky. His chance to make real money had come from inside information that there was a mine in Australia that was about to strike nickel. He hadn’t hesitated. The tip had come from a good friend. The shares were ridiculously low, so he had bought heavily, using Rolfe’s money, embezzling over two million dollars with every intention of repaying when the shares jumped, but they didn’t jump for there was no nickel. If Helga, Rolfe’s wife, had been cooperative, maybe the cards would have fallen right for him, but she hadn’t been cooperative. [1] See An Ace Up My Sleeve . Archer had expected Rolfe to prosecute, but he hadn’t. Archer eventually had realized that Rolfe had discovered that he (Archer) had been Helga’s lover. Rolfe had been a man who couldn’t face scandal, so he hadn’t prosecuted, being shrewd enough to know Archer would have told the court of his relations with Helga, but Rolfe had had his revenge. He had blackballed Archer. The word had gone out: don’t use this man: a deadly thing.

When Rolfe had withdrawn his account, the firm Archer worked with had folded. The other two partners were elderly and happy to retire. They had given Archer a copper handshake of fifty thousand francs, and Archer had found himself unemployed. At first, he was confident he could carve a new career for himself, but he quickly discovered the power of Rolfe’s blackball, even though Rolfe had been dead for the past five months.

No reputable firm wanted him and gradually he had been forced to become a member of the fringe people: the exploiters, the shifty, the money-hunters, the promotion men who tried to sell what they didn’t own.