James Chase - An Ace up my Sleeve

How many more were going to know what a reckless, mad fool she had been? she thought. This boy, that awful little queer, Archer and now this man, Ron.

She went over to the bar, poured a large slug of vodka into a glass and without bothering to add ice, she gulped it down. The neat spirit made her eyes water, but it knitted her together so she ceased to tremble. She sat down, opened her bag and took out her cigarettes. She lit one, then she pointed to a chair away from her.

“Sit down!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Awkwardly and sheepishly, he sat on the edge of the chair and looked down at his hands.

“Ron was real wild with me, ma’am,” he said. “He said a blackmailer is the dirtiest thing on earth. He said I was a stinking creep to have done such a thing. I - I told him I wasn’t a blackmailer. I was paid to do a job and I did it. I wouldn’t blackmail anyone.” He looked up, staring miserably at her. “He said what I had done was blackmail and he’d never speak to me again unless I came to you and explained.”

“Did you tell him who I was?” Helga asked.

He nodded.

“I guess I did. I told him everything: how you got my passport for me and about this fat guy. He said I had to help you… so I’m here, ma’am. I’ve been waiting for hours here hoping you would come. I’m going to help you, ma’am.”

Helga made an impatient movement, sending her cigarette ash on the carpet.

“Help me? You? What do you think you can do? It’s now much too late for anyone to help me! Now, get out! The sight of you sickens me!”

“He’s got photos of us, hasn’t he?”

“You know he has and he’s now blackmailing me!”

“I’ll get them from him, ma’am, and I’ll give them to you!”

“You’re talking like the fool you are! They are now out of reach. He’s mailed them to his bank!”

There was a pause, then Larry said quietly, “Is he out of reach, ma’am?”

There was this deadly note in his voice she had heard before when he had said to Friedlander: What would it cost you if you got your hands crushed in a door?

She regarded him, her body suddenly tense.

“What do you mean?”

He put his cap down on the floor beside him and took out a pack of chewing gum. As he stripped off the wrapper, he said, “If I could get hold of him, ma’am, I could persuade him to get the photos from the bank and then you could have them.”

She pressed her hands to her face.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. These photos are far too important for him to be persuaded to part with them. Just go away and leave this to me… you’re talking nonsense.”

He fed a strip of gum in his mouth and began to chew.

“Ma’am… do you want me to help you?” There was an edge to his voice: a male edge which told her he was getting bored with her hysterics.

“How can you help me?” She was shrewd enough to soften her voice. “Nothing would persuade him to part with those photographs.”

He regarded her, his Slav features without expression.

“I don’t know about nothing, ma’am… but I could.”

Again there was this note in his voice and she looked closely at him and she felt as if an icy draught had brushed over her, leaving her cold.

“But how?”

“With these.” And he held up his huge hands. “He’s soft and fat… there would be no trouble.”

Her eyes opened wide as a flicker of hope came to her. Her heart began to pound.

“But the photos are in the bank by now.”

He shrugged.

“All he has to do is to write to the bank and tell them to send the photos here… they’d do that, wouldn’t they?”

She got up, her legs unsteady, and went to the bar.

“You’d better have a drink, Larry.”

“Not for me, ma’am… unless you have a beer.”

She took a beer out of the refrigerator, poured it, then gave herself another vodka, adding ice and martini. While she was preparing the drinks, she was thinking.

Could this boy force Archer to sign a letter to the bank? She thought of Archer, massive, but soft and fat. She looked at Larry: built like a fighter and she could see his lumpy muscles straining against his jacket.

She handed him the beer and sat down.

“If the bank got a letter from him, they would act on his instructions,” she said, “but he wouldn’t sign.”

“He’ll sign, ma’am. That’s no problem.”

The way he spoke gave her hope and suddenly she felt as if a burdensome, crushing weight had been lifted off her.

“You mink you can make him sign?

He nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sipped her drink, put down the glass and lit another cigarette.

“Let me mink about this, Larry.”

After a long pause, she asked, “How long will it take you to make him sign?”

Larry considered this question as he chewed, then he shrugged.

“That’s hard to say, ma’am. It depends on how stubborn he is. If he was younger, it wouldn’t take long: a couple of hours, but he’s getting old and he’s fat and soft. I’d have to handle him carefully.” He looked up, his eyes remote. “I’d say twenty-four hours: that’s the outside limit. He’ll sign before then I reckon, but let’s say twenty-four hours to be on the safe side.”

She shuddered. There was something so clinical and cold about this boy now that he was beginning to frighten her, and yet, here was the solution: a solution she couldn’t afford not to accept. She had to have those photographs. She had an instinctive feeling that Archer would again dip into the account once he was sure he had her where he wanted her and she would have to lie again and again to Herman.

I can’t wait that long, Larry. My husband is arriving here the day after tomorrow. The bank will take at least a day to return the photographs. Archer will have to stay here until they arrive. We’ve left it too late.”

“Archer… is that his name, ma’am?”

“Yes. We’ve left it too late.”

“A problem is a challenge… that’s what Ron always says. Can’t you mink of some way around this one?”

She was in the mood to face a challenge. Her mind worked swiftly and she came up with a possible solution. She looked at her watch. Her husband would be in his New York apartment clearing up final business before flying to Geneva the day after tomorrow. She got up and crossed to the telephone and dialled his New York number. There was a long pause, then she heard the ringing tone.

“This is Mr. Rolfe’s residence.”

She recognized Hinkle’s fruity voice.

“Oh, Hinkle, this is Mrs. Rolfe. Is my husband available?”

“No, madame. He is in conference. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes… the wretched central heating system has broken down at the villa. I’m calling from the Eden hotel. There is a spare part broken and the engineer tells me the heating won’t be working for at least four days. I think Mr. Rolfe should cancel his flight. He can’t possibly stay in the villa… it’s like an ice box, and you know how he detests staying at an hotel.”

“Yes, indeed, madame. You say four days? Mr. Rolfe will be disappointed.” 105

“As soon as the heating is working, I will telephone.” She hesitated, then went on, “If he decides to come in spite of this will you send me a telex at the Eden?”

“I assure you, madame, he will postpone the flight,” Hinkle said, and she drew in a quick breath of relief. She remembered Hinkle detested staying at an hotel even more than Herman did and from the tone of his voice, she was sure he would persuade Herman not to come.

“How is Mr. Rolfe?”

“Very fair, madame.”

This was Hinkle’s stock answer which could mean anything.

“Then I won’t expect him?