1977 - I Hold the Four Aces Page 2

  This was the moment when Archer should have kept his mouth shut, but the martini, after a miserable dinner the previous night, and a still more miserable breakfast, had made him slightly drunk.

  “Know her? Not so long ago, she and I handled Rolfe’s Swiss business, and not so long ago we were intimate friends,” and he winked.

  “For Pete’s sake!” Patterson was obviously impressed. “You mean you screwed her?”

  Archer accepted the martini the waiter offered him.

  “Let us say we were intimate,” he said.

  “Yeah. I get the photo.” Patterson pulled at his cigar. “Well, what do you know?” He scratched his bulbous nose, then went on, “So she’s worth a hundred million?”

  “About that.” Archer drank half his martini. He was now feeling very relaxed.

  “But you’re not working with her anymore?” The small eyes probed.

  Careful, Archer told himself, you’re letting your tongue run away.

  “We had a falling-out. She’s very difficult. I found I couldn’t work with her anymore.” He sipped his drink. “I take it, Ed will arrange the air tickets to Saudi Arabia? I just wait for instructions?”

  Patterson thought for a long moment, finished his drink, then shook his head.

  “Why the hell should we go to these Arab finks for money when it is sitting right here in this goddamn hotel?”

  Archer stared at him.

  “I don’t follow you, Mr. Patterson. In this hotel?”

  Patterson leaned forward and tapped Archer on his knee.

  “Use your head, Archer. With your contact with this Rolfe doll, it will be a cinch for you to sell our promotion to her. We want a couple of million. That’s chickfeed to her. Put it to her. Okay?”

  Archer’s hands turned clammy.

  “I assure you, Mr. Patterson, Madame Rolfe wouldn’t think of investing money in holiday camps. I know her too well. No it just wouldn’t work.”

  Patterson stared at him for a long moment, his mean little eyes probing, then he looked at Shappilo.

  “Where’s the goddamn grillroom? I want to put on the feed-bag.” He got to his feet as Shappilo pointed down the long corridor. Looking at Archer, Patterson went on, “Now listen: talk to this Rolfe doll and set her up for me. All I want from you is to set up a meeting. I’ll do the selling. And listen, Archer, I hire successful men. You fix it for me to meet her or you don’t come on my pay roll.” He walked off down the corridor.

  Shappilo got to his feet.

  “You heard what the man said, Jack. It shouldn’t be all that tricky, you knowing her so well. Well, let’s hope we meet again,” and he followed Patterson to the grillroom leaving Archer staring bleakly after him.

  * * *

  Back in his hotel bedroom, after a sandwich lunch, Archer cursed himself for boasting to Patterson about his association with Helga. He must be getting old! he thought. A year ago, he would never have done such a thing. What to do now?

  He had checked through his remaining traveller's cheques. His money was running out. There were no other irons in the fire: no other promotions, no other offers for legal work. And yet, he knew it would be impossible to approach Helga.

  The last time they had been together, she had threatened him with a ten-year jail sentence! He imagined how she would react if he suggested she should meet a man like Joe Patterson. It was unthinkable!

  So what to do?

  He took off his jacket, hung it in the closet, then stretched out on the lumpy bed. He did his best thinking when completely relaxed. The martinis he had drunk now had their effect and he drifted off into a heavy sleep. He woke to find the room in semi-darkness. He must have slept for more than three hours, he thought, then he became aware that someone was knocking on his door.

  Looking at his watch, he saw the time was 18.20. Probably the maid, he thought irritably, and called to come in, at the same time switching on the light.

  The door opened and Christopher Grenville, in all his finery, stood in the doorway.

  Startled, Archer gaped at him, then hastily swung his feet to the floor.

  “I am afraid I have disturbed you,” Grenville said in his deep, musical voice. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Archer smoothed down his ruffled, thinning hair.

  “Stupid of me, but I’ve run out of cigarettes,” Grenville went on. “I wonder if I could cadge a couple from you, such a bore to have to walk all the way to the tabac.”

  Archer was staring at this Adonis, and an idea suddenly dropped into his fertile mind. He got to his feet, picked up his pack of Gauloises and offered it.

  “I am always doing the same thing,” he said, and smiled pleasantly. “My name’s Jack Archer. You’re English, I believe?”

  “Terribly English. Christopher Grenville. Can I take two? I see you haven’t many left.”

  Archer’s eyes went over the immaculate clothes, the shoes, the platinum and gold bracelet.

  “Go ahead. I was just taking a rest. I’ve had a trying morning. If you have nothing better to do, why not sit down?”

  “I don’t want to be in the way.” Grenville sank into the creaky armchair. “Quaint little hotel, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that, but it’s convenient.”

  Grenville laughed: an easy, musical laugh.

  “Let us say it is cheap.”

  Archer eyed him. Grenville appeared to be completely relaxed and friendly.

  “Without doubt this is the cheapest hotel in Paris,” Archer said.

  “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 Athenee 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?”

  “A little more than that, Mr. Patterson. I have known Helga for the past twenty years. Sex is as necessary to her as food is to you.”

  Patterson was intrigued. He took a pull at his drink, knocked cigar ash on the floor and leered at Archer.

  “Well! She’s a doll too! You think she and I could get together in bed? If I gave it to her, she would part with the dough?”

  Archer regarded the pockmarked, sweaty, coarse face. If only we could see ourselves as others see us, he thought.

  “I think not, Mr. Patterson,” he said, picking his words carefully. “Helga seems only interested in rather special, unusual men. She likes them tall, younger than herself, extremely handsome, witty, preferably with a knowledge of the arts, and of course, since she speaks German, French and Italian fluently, she would expect the man to do the same.”

  Patterson chewed his cigar.

  “Jesus! For a doll with hot pants she sounds hard to please.”

  “She is worth a hundred million,” Archer said, and smiled. “She can afford to be difficult.”

  “Yeah.” Patterson began to pick his nose. “How’s about Ed Shappilo? He looks good and he speaks Spanish. How’s about him?”

  Archer sadly shook his head.

  “I don’t think Ed is quite in the same bracket as Helga Rolfe, Mr. Patterson. My idea is this: let us suppose we find the ideal man. He meets Helga who falls in love with him. I know Helga. Once she falls for a man, she will do anything for him. After a week or so, this man explains the Blue Sky promotion to her, asking her advice. He tells her he is acting for you. What does she think? Helga, in love, can be very generous. As you have so rightly said, two million is chickfeed to her. This man then tells her unless he can raise the money, he will be out of a job. All this will have to be done very subtly. I will handle it, as I know Helga. She will produce the money. I can practically guarantee it.”

  Patterson left his nose alone and sat back, screwing up his eyes while Archer watched him anxiously.

  Had he handled this right? he asked himself. Everything depended now on how this fat, sweaty man would react.

  The long pause while Patterson brooded made Archer sweat. Finally, Patterson nodded.

  “Sounds okay. Yeah, I get the photo. You’ve come up with a smart idea, Archer. I guess I’ll have to look around for some stooge to go after her. That ain't going to be easy.”

  Archer relaxed. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped off his hands.

  “I wouldn’t be here at this hour, Mr. Patterson, with this idea, unless I had already found the right man,” he said. “After all, that is what you are paying me for - to give
you advice and service.”

  Patterson sat upright.

  “You’ve found him?”

  “The perfect man for Helga,” Archer said. “She will find him irresistible.”

  “For Pete’s sake! How did you find him?”

  Archer was prepared for this question and had discussed it with Grenville.

  “He is a professional gigolo, Mr. Patterson: very high-class and he is used to dealing with middle-aged and elderly, rich women. Some years ago, he looked after an old client of mine and I got to know him. We met by chance this afternoon. As soon as I saw him, I knew I had the solution to our problem. I would like you to meet him, and see for yourself.”

  Patterson, scowling, began to pick his nose again.

  “A gigolo? Hell! I hate those finks.” Releasing his nose, he rubbed his hand over his sweaty face, then went on, “You think he can handle the Rolfe doll?”

  “I know he can. I wouldn’t be here wasting your time unless I was sure,” Archer said.

  Patterson thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Yeah. This could be a smart idea. Okay, tell him to be here tomorrow at eleven.”

  Grenville had been very emphatic when and where he was to meet Patterson.

  “Even if this man doesn’t want me, let us, at least, get a decent lunch out of him,” he had said to Archer. “Tell him the Ritz grill at one or I don’t play.”

  “I think it would be unwise, Mr. Patterson, for him to be seen here with you,” Archer said. “Madame Rolfe might see you two together. My man appears to be occupied, but he could meet us at the Ritz grillroom at one o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Who the hell cares if he is occupied or not?” Patterson snarled. “I’m hiring him, ain’t I?”

  “That we don’t know as yet. This man is very high-class, Mr. Patterson. He has many irons in the fire. If you could make an exception, I suggest it would be profitable for you to meet him as arranged.”

  “A goddamn gigolo!”

  “They have their uses, Mr. Patterson,” Archer said mildly. “When he has persuaded Madame Rolfe to part with two million dollars, I think you will agree.”