1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 2

  Sitting on the terrace, staring out at the beach, Helga heard again Archer’s persuasive words: “Look Helga, Herman needn’t know about this. You know he never checks anything. He is far too busy. You initial all this stuff and he accepts it. I’m asking you to help me out of a hole. After all he’s worth around sixty million, he will never miss two will he?”

  Although she was sure Herman wouldn’t miss two million, she had refused to be Archer’s accomplice. How right she had been! For Herman knew that Archer had turned embezzler before she could tell him! She drew in a long, deep breath. Thank God, she hadn’t submitted to Archer’s attempted blackmail!

  So . . .

  It is better, under the circumstances, to relieve you of further responsibilities.

  The crippled bastard! After all she had done for him! After all the money she had made for him by shrewd and careful investing! To be tossed aside like this!

  I now only expect you to be my hostess; continue to enjoy my money and remain a faithful wife.

  No longer would she have the excuse to fly to Lausanne, Paris, Bonn, representing him. No longer would she receive the V.I.P. treatment at the airports and the luxury hotels. A hostess! A smiling face, the right words to fat, old men who wanted favors from her husband, who fawned over her, hoping she might advance their interests. No more freedom! No more waiters who came to her room, serviced her and went away with money in their experienced hands. No more young, well-built men, ready and willing. It was only on her travels that she looked for lovers: never in Miami, Paradise City, New York: Herman’s neck of the woods. She was now condemned to sit in this kind of hotel or in the luxury of the Paradise City villa or in the New York penthouse with her crippled husband always nearby, staring at her behind black sun goggles.

  Then she thought of what Dr. Levi had said.

  He could die tomorrow. He could die next year. Give and take, I would say perhaps six months unless he gives up this rat race and relaxes.

  That Herman would never do. So . . . six months! She was prepared to wait six months. And then . . . Sixty million dollars! Rolfe’s magic key her own!

  She put on a bikini swimsuit. Still not entirely sure of herself, she again surveyed herself in the mirror. The Swiss winter tan was becoming but paling a little. Her figure was provocative. She knew this. Pulling on a beach wrap, she took the elevator to the lobby.

  The reception manager was immediately at her side.

  “Is there anything, madame?”

  “Yes, please . . . a beach buggy.”

  “Of course.”

  No more than a three-minute wait and the beach buggy was pulling up at the hotel entrance. The smiling attendant offered to show her the controls, but she was familiar with the controls of machines on wheels.

  A smiling traffic cop, obviously alerted, stopped the traffic and gave her a salute as she drove across the main road and on to the beach. She waved to him, smiling. A beautiful man, she thought. God! How I would like him in my bed!

  Driving fast, she soon put the crowds behind her and headed for the sand dunes, the deserted beach and the sea. When she was sure she was on her own, she left the beach buggy and throwing off her wrap, she ran into the sea. She swam furiously, getting rid of all that irked her: Herman, Archer, her boxed-in future. She was an excellent swimmer, and by swimming fast, she came out of the water feeling cleansed both in mind and body.

  As she walked back to the beach buggy, her step faltered. A man in swim trunks was standing by the vehicle, examining it: a big man with muscular shoulders, deeply tanned body, black, overlong hair and green sun goggles.

  He looked towards her and grinned, showing big white teeth, teeth good enough to feature on a TV commercial in spite of the sun goggles which hid his eyes: the rest of his face was friendly, pleasant without being handsome.

  “Hi there,” he said, “I was admiring this thing. Is it yours?”

  “It belongs to the hotel,” Helga said and reached for her wrap. He got it before she did and with just the right movements, nothing familiar, nothing servile, he helped her on with it. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Harry Jackson,” he told her. “Down here on vacation. I saw you swimming. Olympic style,” and he grinned.

  She looked sharply at him, but he wasn’t putting her on. He had said what he meant.

  “Well,” she shrugged, pleased, “I swim a bit. Are you enjoying your vacation, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I sure am. This is the first time I have visited this neck of the woods. It’s something isn’t it?”

  “It would seem so. I have only just arrived.”

  “I want to do some skin diving. Do you skin dive?”

  “Yes.” What didn’t she do? she wondered.

  “Would you know the best place? No, I guess that’s a stupid question with you just arriving.”

  She had been studying him, his beautiful muscles, his frank smile, his sexuality and that crucifying sex urge boiled up in her. If he had grabbed and raped her, it would have been the moment of her life. She looked up and down the deserted beach. The were utterly alone.

  There was a pause, then she said. “How did you get here?”

  “Oh, I walked. I like walking.” He smiled. “I got tired of all the noise. People sure know how to enjoy themselves here but they kick up a hell of a racket.”

  “Yes.” She moved to the beach buggy and got in. “Do you want a ride back?”

  “Thanks. I’ve had all the walking I want for today.”

  He climbed in beside her.

  As she started the engine, she looked more closely at him. He was probably thirty-three, not more: ten years her junior, she thought. She wished he would take off the sun goggles. A man’s eyes, to her, were important.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Jackson?” she asked. She wanted to know into what class category she would place him.

  “I’m a salesman,” Jackson said. “I travel around. I like the life. I’m free, on my own. That’s important to me.”

  And to me too, Helga thought as she set the buggy in motion.

  “What do you sell?”

  “Kitchen equipment.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? Everyone needs kitchen equipment.” She was thinking: small fry, not dangerous, no connections with any of Herman’s awful people . . . he could be safe.

  “Right. I enjoy it. As you say, people always need something for the kitchen.”

  “Where are you staying, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I’ve rented a beach hut. I look after myself. I like it that way. Hotels give me a pain.”

  “Yes. Does your wife like that way of life?”

  He laughed: an easy lilting laugh.

  “I haven’t a wife, I like my freedom. I haven’t even a girlfriend here, but I’ll find someone. I believe in ships that pass in the night . . . no complications,” and he laughed again.

  She very nearly stopped the buggy and told him to take her, but she controlled herself.

  “I’m Helga,” she said. “I’m on my own tonight. Should we do something about it?”

  Was he going to duck out? Was he going to tell her by a look, not in words that she was too old for him? Her fingers turned white on the driving wheel.

  “Wonderful!” He sounded enthusiastic. “Let’s do that. Where and when do I pick you up?”

  “Have you a car?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then why not outside the Ocean Beach club at nine o’clock?”

  She had seen the club some hundred yards down the road from her hotel. At nine o’clock, Herman would be in bed.

  “It’s a date. I look forward to it.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a seafood restaurant I know. Do you like seafood?

  “Of course.”

  “Fine. It’s okay, you don’t have to dress. Anything goes. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  They drove for some minutes in silence, then he said, “Helga, that’s an unusual name.” He suddenly took off his sun goggles and smiled at h
er. His big, friendly eyes gave her confidence. He was all right, she told herself. No problem with him. “You’re unusual too.”

  She laughed, delighted.

  “We will talk about that tonight?”

  “That’s my beach hut.” He pointed. They were about half a mile from her hotel.

  She slowed the buggy, looked at the line of huts standing a hundred yards or so from the sea, half hidden by palm trees. She stopped the buggy.

  “Well, then tonight at nine,” she said.

  “Right.” He put his hand lightly but possessively on her arm for a brief moment. His touch sent a shock through her. He knew what she wanted, she told herself. “See you and thanks for the ride.”

  In an excited daze, she drove back to the hotel.

  * * *

  The time was 19.15. Alex, the amiable hotel hairdresser had done her hair: his assistant had given her a facial. A waiter had brought her a shaker of vodka martinis. She had had a nap and was now refreshed and thinking of her date at 21.00 at the Ocean Beach club.

  She had put on a simple white dress: white was becoming. It showed off her tan and looking at herself in the mirror, she was satisfied. She would have one more drink, then she would go along to say good night to Herman, telling him she intended to take a walk, needing to stretch her legs after the journey. He wouldn’t be interested, but she would tell him.

  As she poured the drink, the telephone bell buzzed. Frowning, she lifted the receiver.

  “Do I disturb you, madame?”

  She recognized Hinkle’s fruity voice.

  Surprised, she said, “Why no Hinkle. What is it?”

  “If you could spare me a few minutes, madame?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you, madame,” and he hung up.

  Puzzled, Helga sat down, sipped her drink and waited. She couldn’t imagine what Hinkle wanted to see her about unless it was about Herman. She had known Hinkle now for some three years. He had never approached her in this way before and she had seldom asked him to do anything for her. She had her own personal maid and she regarded Hinkle strictly as Herman’s property.

  A light tap came on the door and Hinkle entered. He was wearing a white jacket, a black bow tie and black trousers. In spite of the servant’s uniform, he still looked like a benign bishop. He shut the door, moved further into the room, then paused.

  She looked inquiringly at him.

  “Yes, Hinkle?”

  “I would like, madame, if you would permit, to speak frankly with you.”

  “Is it about Mr. Rolfe?”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you, madame. I would rather not.” A pause, then he went on, “I have worked for Mr. Rolfe for some fifteen years. He is not an easy gentleman to work for but I believe I have given him acceptable service.”

  “I know you have, Hinkle,” Helga said quickly. Was he breaking the news that he had had enough of Herman and was leaving? She shrank from the thought. “No one could have done more for him.”

  “I believe that is so, madame. I now find myself in a distressing position. Naturally, after all these years, I have a feeling of loyalty to Mr. Rolfe. As you know, I look after Mr. Rolfe’s papers when he is traveling. Mr. Rolfe has come to regard me as a background figure: someone who is always at hand, someone who is neuter if you follow my meaning. While filing some papers I came across a draft letter to Mr. Winborn. In order to place it where Mr. Rolfe could find it again, I read it. I now find myself in a dilemma. However, there was a subsequent happening and I decided I must speak to you.”

  Helga stiffened.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said sharply.

  “If you will bear with me, madame, I will explain as you have given me permission to speak frankly.”

  “Well?”

  “I have to admit, to my regret, that I did not approve of you when you married Mr. Rolfe. Since I have gotten to know you, madame, I have come to realize your worth, what you have done for Mr. Rolfe, the burden you have accepted to make his home life easy, your constant journeys on his behalf. If I may say so, madame, I am impressed by our industry, your unfailing willingness, your financial abilities and the sacrifices you have made.”

  Helga sat back, staring.

  “Well, Hinkle, that is quite a testimonial. Thank you.”

  “I don’t speak lightly on such matters, madame,” Hinkle said, looking directly at her. “Mr. Rolfe is far from well. I realize this more than Dr. Levi does since I am in such close contact with Mr. Rolfe. I have discerned a distressing mental weakness in Mr. Rolfe which Dr. Levi, so far, has failed to observe.”

  “You mean my husband’s mind is deteriorating?” This was the last thing Helga expected to hear.

  “Not quite that, madame. Mr. Rolfe suffers a great deal. Probably due to the drugs that Dr. Levi prescribes he appears now to be developing an odd persecution mania.”

  Helga experienced a little jolt.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I find this difficult to tell you, madame.” Hinkle looked distressed. “For some time, Mr. Rolfe has spoken to me of you with kindness, respect and even admiration. His attitude, recently, appears to have changed.”

  Startled, Helga said, “It has?”

  “Yes, madame. He also appears to be taking a sudden interest in his daughter, Miss Sheila. You may perhaps know that Mr. Rolfe and she quarreled. She left home and for the past three years has not communicated with him.”

  “I heard something about it,” Helga said tensely.

  “This draft letter to Mr. Winborn, madame, gives Mr. Winborn instructions about a new will. What Mr. Rolfe does with his money is no concern of mine. However, in view of your constant attention to Mr. Rolfe and in view of a subsequent happening, I felt you should be forewarned.”

  “What subsequent happening?” Helga was unaware that her voice had turned husky.

  “I regret to tell you, madame, that I overheard Mr. Rolfe on the telephone yesterday giving instructions to a private inquiry agency to have you watched. Knowing you are deserving of Mr. Rolfe’s trust, I consider this so disgraceful I can only assume that Mr. Rolfe has become mentally ill.”

  A private inquiry agency! Helga turned cold. She stared down at her hands while she struggled to absorb the shock.

  “Mr. Rolfe is now in bed,” Hinkle said, slightly lowering his voice. “I have given him a sedative. The draft letter to Mr. Winborn which I think you should see is in the lower right hand drawer of his desk. It has yet to be initialed.”

  She looked up.

  “Thank you, Hinkle.”

  He moved towards the door.

  “There is such a thing as justice, madame,” and he left the room.

  After some fifteen years of the ruthless cut-and-thrust of modern business, Helga had acquired the capacity of weathering shocks, disasters and even catastrophes, and she had experienced a few. She now absorbed this shock quickly. Cold fury gripped her as her shrewd brain went into action. How had Herman become suspicious? She didn’t believe for a moment Hinkle’s theory that Herman was mentally ill. Had he heard some gossip? Had he received an anonymous letter? She had been so careful in her sexual adventures. She thought of Hinkle. Knowing you are deserving of Mr. Rolfe’s trust. Kind, nice minded Hinkle! She finished her drink, then lit a cigarette. To be watched by some sleazy investigator! But that wasn’t the immediate problem. Herman had written a letter, changing his will, to Stanley Winborn, the head of his legal department: a tall, forbidding stick of a man whom she hated, who she knew strongly disapproved of her marriage and who had been nearly ill with jealousy when Rolfe had given Archer his Swiss portfolio.

  She must know what she was facing. She must see this letter. Forewarned and forearmed. She recalled her father’s cliché. Without hesitating, she stubbed out her cigarette and made her way to Herman’s suite. Entering the living room, she moved silently to the bedroom. The door stood ajar. She looked in.
Herman lay motionless. A soft light cast a glimmer on the worn, hard face. The eyes, usually hidden behind the big black goggles were closed. She felt a tremor run through her. Except for the slight rise and fall of the sheets covering him, he could have been dead.

  Softly, she said, “Herman?”

  He didn’t move.

  Turning, she went silently to the big desk that stood in the bay window. Opening the lower right hand drawer, she found a red leather folder. Placing it on the desk, she switched on the shaded lamp.

  Her heart was beating unevenly as she opened the folder. There was the letter:

  My dear Winborn.

  The writing was small, neat and easy to read. Her eyes raced along the lines.

  Re: my will.

  I have reason to believe that Helga is no longer fit nor deserving to inherit my fortune nor to handle my Swiss portfolio. In spite of your advice which I now regret ignoring, I made a will (in your keeping and which must be destroyed on receipt of this letter) giving her complete control of some sixty million dollars. When I made this will Helga had so impressed me with her honesty and financial acumen that I had complete confidence in her to continue to administer my money as I have administered it. However, I now learn that she has allowed Archer to swindle me out of two million dollars and even worse, have evidence, admittedly flimsy, that she has been misbehaving herself while in Europe. When I married her, I warned her I would not tolerate any scandal. So disturbing is this evidence, I have arranged to have her watched by a competent inquiry agency. Should ‘hard’ evidence be obtained, I will immediately divorce her.