1977 - I Hold the Four Aces Read online

  Yes, she thought, this is really Paris in the spring. The chestnut trees were in blossom, crowds of tourists moved up and down the broad sidewalk, the sun shone and the tables of the many cafes were crowded.

  She sat down at an unoccupied table and a waiter arrived. She decided to have a late lunch, so she asked for a vodka martini. The waiter, impressed by her champagne-coloured fine wool coat with fur cuffs, came back quickly with the drink.

  She sat relaxing, watching the various freaks, the dull-looking tourists, the aged American women in their awful hats and their bejewelled spectacles. It was a panorama that amused her.

  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. 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-Elysees, 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.”

  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.”

  “Yes a present from an Austrian count. I did him a minor service.” Grenville thought of the dreadful hours he had spent, pushing the fat woman around the ballroom.

  Helga looked sharply at him. Was there a mocking expression in the dark brown eyes?

  “And what are you doing in Paris?” she asked.

  “Business and pleasure.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I take it you are here to buy clothes. Will you be staying long?”

  “I am also here on business, but I shall also be buying clothes.”

  Grenville appeared to be surprised.

  “I can’t believe a woman as beautiful as you, can be in Paris on business. Surely not!” Then he clapped his hand to his forehead. “Rolfe? Of course! The Madame Rolfe! How stupid can I be!”

  The oysters arrived in a bed of crushed ice and Claude hovered.

  “They are truly splendid, Monsieur Grenville. I have fed them myself.”

  They were splendid.

  Grenville nodded his approval, and Claude went back to the kitchen.

  Smiling, Grenville said, “So you are the fabulous Madame Rolfe. I can’t pick up a newspaper without reading about you. I am flattered. And you are staying at the same hotel as I am, what a coincidence!”

  Helga looked straight at him.

  “I happen to be an extremely wealthy woman who finds life often excessively boring, being in my position,” she said quietly.

  Grenville regarded her, then nodded sympathetically.

  “Yes. I can imagine: the prying eyes of the press, no real freedom, gossip and great responsibility.” He shook his head as he speared an oyster. “Yes, I understand.”

  “What is your business?” Helga asked abruptly. She now wanted information about this exciting man.

  “This and that. Don’t let us spoil a meal with sordid things like business. You have Paris at your feet, and Paris is one of the most exciting cities in the world.” Grenville then moved into one of his monologues about Paris that was so enchanting, Helga listened, spellbound. He was still talking as the sole cardinal was served and he was still talking without a moment of dullness when coffee was served.

  “I haven’t enjoyed a meal so much nor have been so educated in years,” Helga said, smiling at him.

  Grenville returned her smile, shrugging.

  “Yes, the meal was good. I talk.” He shook his head. “It is when I have a perfect companion that I talk too much. Now, alas, I have to return to business. I have a dreary appointment. Let me drive you back to the hotel.”

  He left her for a few moments while he settled the check and had a word with Claude. After handshaking and smiles, they left the bistro and got in the Maserati.

  As he started the engine, he said, “I wonder if you would feel like repeating this. I’ll try not to talk so much.” He gave her his flashing smile. “There is a little restaurant at Fontainebleau. Would it amuse you to dine with me tomorrow night?”

  Helga didn’t hesitate. This man really intrigued her.

  “That would be wonderful.”

  He drove her back to the Plaza Athenee Hotel and escorted her to the elevator. As they waited for the cage to descend, they regarded each other.

  “May I call you Helga? It’s a beautiful name,” Grenville said.

  “Of course, Chris.”

  “Then tomorrow night at eight here in the lobby?”

  She nodded, touched his wrist and entered the elevator.

  Joe Patterson, sitting in one of the alcoves, watched with astonishment. When Helga was whisked out of sight, Grenville strolled over to Patterson.

  “There is no problem, Mr. Patterson, just a few more days,” then leaving Patterson gaping, he walked over to the concierge’s desk.

  “A card and an envelope, please,” he said.

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  Grenville wrote on the card: Thank you for your beauty, and your company. Chris.

  He put the card in the envelope, sealed it and put Helga’s name on the envelope.

  “Send twelve red roses to Madame Rolfe and charge me,” he said, then leaving the hotel, he walked to where he had parked the Maserati.

  * * *

  That evening, Archer and Grenville met Patterson in the grillroom of George V Hotel. Patterson was in a good mood and slightly drunk.

  “You’ve picked the right man, Archer,” he said, after they had ordered. He grinned at Grenville.

  “You’re a real fast operator. You really turned the doll on. She was all over you.”

  Grenville raised his eyebrows.

  “It is my profession, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Yeah. Well, you’re a slick operator.”

  They waited until the smoked salmon was served, then Patterson went on, “I want you to understand this project, Grenville. It can’t miss,” and he went on to explain about the siting of the holiday camps.

  Grenville listened politely while Archer, who had heard it all before, attacked his food. “Land isn’t easy to come by these days,” Patterson waved his fork, “but I’ve got an option on a slice of land down in the South of France: a very fine position. I reckon I could get it and put a deluxe camp on it for around two million bucks. Your job now is to convince her to put up the money. I’ve got all the papers here and a beautiful brochure for her to see. You study them, and if there is anything you’re not sure about, talk to Archer. He knows.”

  Grenville said he would do that.

  “Once you’ve got her on the hook,” Patterson went on, “there are other sites. I’ve got my eyes on a beauty in Corsica. You could mention that to her.”

  Archer decided it was time to bring Patterson down to earth.

  “I must remind you, Mr. Patterson, that Helga is a tough business woman. She won’t be content to act as a sleeping partner if she does put money into this project. She is likely to want part control.”

  Patterson scowled.

  “I won’t have some goddamn woman messing around with my project.” He looked at Grenville. “Tell her she’ll get twenty-five per cent on her money, but no control!”

  Rather to Archer’s surprise, Grenville said smoothly, “There should be no problem. I have every confidence I can arrange this to your satisfaction.”

  Beaming, Patterson patted his arm.

  “That’s talking. You study all this stuff, and get it set up. How long do you reckon it’ll take to get her money?”

  Grenville shrugged. There was a pause while the steaks were served, then he said, “Most unwise to rush it, Mr. Patterson. I would say at least ten days.” He gave his flashing smile. “I have still to get her to bed.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s okay, but I want you to keep the cost down.”

  “One shouldn’t cut corners when going after two million dollars,” Grenville said as he cut into his steak. “Madame Rolfe has the impression that I am wealthy. I must keep up appearances.”

  “Sure, but watch it, I’m not made of money.”

  “Who is these days?” Grenville said airily, and then launched into one of his monologues concerning the night life of Paris. He was so well-informed that Patterson became interested.

  The meal over, Patterson asked Grenville to write down the address of a high-class brothel he had mentioned.

  “I guess I’ll take a look,” Patterson said and winked. He called for the check.

  “Ask for Claudette,” Grenville said gravely. “She has just that little extra.”

  “Claudette, huh? Well, fine. Okay, you two. Keep in touch. Go easy on the spending,” and slightly unsteady, Patterson left the grillroom.

  “What a ghastly little man,”
Grenville said and waved to a waiter. “Some brandy and more coffee, please.”

  “Ghastly, yes,” Archer said, “but he provides me with a living for the moment.”

  “You don’t believe for one moment that Helga would fall for this ridiculous project?” Grenville asked, lifting his eyebrows.

  Archer shook his head.

  “Of course not, but as long as Patterson thinks she will, then I get a hundred dollars a week and you get fun and luxury.”

  “And when she turns it down? What then?”

  Archer lifted his heavy shoulders.

  “Then I suppose you look for a rich old woman to fleece, and I look for yet another promoter.”

  Grenville dropped sugar into his coffee.

  “You are not serious, are you?”

  Archer looked sharply at him.

  “One must face facts.”

  “My dear Jack, surely that is being defeatist. Let us look at this situation. In a few hours, I have captivated one of the richest women in the world. She is longing to drag me into her bed. Once we become lovers - and that will be soon - worked carefully, thought out carefully, I shall have access to her millions. I have to admit plotting and planning has never been my forte. I was under the impression it was your department. Correct me if I am wrong, and then there is nothing more to be said.”

  “Go on,” Archer said, now very alert. “You have more to say.”

  “I suggest we drop Patterson, and you and I work together, and get as much money as we can from Helga.”

  Archer considered this for a long moment, then shook his head.

  “Not good thinking, Chris. Without Patterson’s financial backing, neither you nor I will get very far. You won’t be driving around in a Maserati or staying at the Plaza Athenee, and I shall be in financial trouble. I agree it would be an excellent idea to get rid of Patterson, but what do we do for money? And another thing, so far you have only seen the best side of Helga. I know her. Her other side is toughness, shrewdness and an excellent financial brain. Let me tell you something about her. She was the daughter of a brilliant international lawyer, and she has impressive degrees in law and economics. She worked with her father in Lausanne where I was a partner, so I know her capabilities. Don’t ever take her lightly. She is very quick to smell a con. I would say she is mentally as brilliant as the best, and that is saying a lot. Her weakness, of course, is sex, but I believe that sex would take second place if she suspected she was being taken for a ride.”