1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 5

  Winborn arrived at 17.45.

  “The situation,” he began, once he had settled himself, “is a little complicated. May I ask if you have a power of attorney on your husband’s banking account?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nor have I nor Loman. This unexpected happening ties up Mr. Rolfe’s personal account. There will be considerable expenses. How are you off for money, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  “I have my own account but it is running low. I have access to the Swiss account. Dividends are continually coming in. I can transfer money from Switzerland to my account.”

  Winborn lifted his eyebrows.

  “With the regulations as they are, Mrs. Rolfe, I suggest that would be most unwise.”

  She hadn’t considered this and she was annoyed at her sloppy thinking.

  “Yes, stupid of me.” She saw her opening. “I could get to Lausanne and get traveler’s checks.”

  He nodded.

  “That would be the wisest thing to do. The Corporation will take care of Mr. Rolfe.” He looked at her. “An you too, of course.”

  “I prefer to have my own money,” Helga said curtly. “When Herman is safely back home and out of danger, I will take a quick trip.”

  Winborn turned a heavy gold signet ring on his little finger as he said, “Dr. Levi appears to be more optimistic, but these next days will be anxious ones. Have you any idea how I can get in touch with his daughter, Sheila?”

  Startled, Helga looked at him.

  “None at all: I have never met her. Have you?”

  “Yes, indeed: a remarkable young woman, one might even say extraordinary.”

  “Oh? In what way?” Helga was suddenly curious, knowing that this girl would inherit a million dollars.

  Winborn continued to fidget with his ring.

  “She took a first in History at Oxford. I understand she was the youngest ever to graduate. She took a brilliant degree in economics later. Both your husband and I expected her to do great things and there was an important position waiting for her in the Corporation.” He lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Unfortunately, she became involved in these tiresome anti-movements that seem to be the disease of the young. Your husband always kept her well supplied with money and she used this money to further the cause of minority groups until she was finally arrested with others involved in gun smuggling. It cost a lot of money and trouble to keep her out of prison. Your husband and she quarreled over this. He warned her that if she didn’t conform to his plans for her he would cut her off. It was not the way to handle her. She walked out and I’ve heard nothing of her since.”

  “Good for her,” Helga said and meant it.

  “Yes, she has a lot of character, like her father. It does occur to me at this distressing time, Sheila, who was and I hope still is fond of her father, might want to see him and he her. That’s why I am asking if you knew where she was.”

  “I don’t, but the news of his stroke must reach her. Every newspaper in the world will report it.”

  “Yes. Well, we must wait and see.” He paused, then went on, “I have a little puzzle you might help me to solve, Mrs. Rolfe. Nurse Fairely tells me that your husband is apparently trying to convey a message to her.”

  Helga stiffened.

  “Oh?”

  “Nurse Fairely has considerable experience with patients suffering a stroke. She is used to their inarticulate sounds. She believes your husband is repeating continually the odd phrases: ‘Sin on. Better law,’ and she tells me he points to the bedroom door. These words convey nothing to me. Do they to you?”

  Helga relaxed.

  “Sin on. Better law?” She frowned. “How odd. No, they mean nothing to me.”

  “Well, perhaps Nurse Fairely will be able to enlighten us later.” Winborn glanced at his watch. “I must go, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  He spent a few more minutes assuring her the Corporation was in excellent hands, that she had only to telephone him if she were in need of assistance and that Dr. Levi had promised to keep in touch with him. All this was said in a cold, polite voice while he stood gazing down at her with his steely grey eyes.

  When he had gone, Hinkle appeared with a shaker and a glass on a tray.

  “I trust you had a pleasant swim, madame,” he said as he poured the drink.

  “Yes, thank you Hinkle.” She took the glass. “Mr. Winborn has gone.”

  A slight frown appeared on Hinkle’s face, but it immediately disappeared.

  “So I observed, madame.”

  “He was asking if I knew where Sheila could be found. He thought she should be told. You wouldn’t know by any chance?”

  Hinkle inclined his head.

  “Yes, I know, madame, Miss Sheila writes to me from time to time. She and I, I am happy to say, have never lost contact. Miss Sheila is good enough, so she tells me, to be fond of me.”

  Helga smiled at him.

  “That I can understand. Where is she?”

  “In Paris, madame. Excuse me if I don’t give you the address. She gave it to me in confidence.”

  “Of course. Do you think she would want to see her father?”

  “I trust so, madame. I have already written to her, explaining Mr. Rolfe’s condition. It is for her to decide. I would like to think she will come, but there could be financial difficulties. Miss Sheila appears to be living rough.” Hinkle looked disapproving. “That, I believe, is the phrase. She may not be able to raise the money for the fare.”

  “I could send her the money.”

  Hinkle shook his head.

  “I feel that would be unwise. If I may suggest, madame, it is better to wait and see if she replies to my letter. If she does and needs money, may I approach you?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded, his face showing relief and satisfaction.

  “Will you be dining in, madame?”

  She thought of the long, lonely hours ahead of her, but why go out and risk male temptation? It would be much safer to eat a solitary meal on the terrace and then go to bed with a book.

  “Yes. I feel like an early night.”

  “Then I suggest something light: perhaps an omelet with truffles and a little lobster meat. I will cook it myself.”

  “I’m dying to have one of your omelets again, Hinkle!”

  She couldn’t have said anything nicer to him. When he had gone, she thought of Sheila who didn’t know she was going to inherit a million dollars. Suddenly Helga frowned. The girl wouldn’t get her money if Herman died speechless, unless his letter reached Winborn, and if it reached Winborn, she (Helga) would be condemned to the life of a nun. For some minutes, she considered this, then she decided that she herself could give the girl the money once she inherited the sixty million dollars . . . no problem.

  Her mind switched to what Winborn had said. What could this odd message mean that Herman was trying to convey to the nurse?

  Sin on. Better law.

  She repeated it several times aloud, then she started to her feet.

  Of course!

  He was trying to say: Winborn. Letter. Drawer.

  He had pointed not to the bedroom door as the nurse had thought, but to the living room!

  She must give the red folder to the manager to keep in the hotel safe. She should have done this before.

  Putting down her drink, she went into her bedroom, opened the closet and took out the suitcase. She lifted the lid.

  She stood motionless, staring into the empty suitcase, her heart racing.

  The red folder had gone!

  chapter three

  It took Helga less than five minutes of feverish searching to convince herself that the folder containing Herman’s letter to Winborn had been stolen.

  Feeling cold, her fists clenched, her face a hard mask, she walked back into the living room and sat down.

  Who could have stolen it?

  Winborn?

  Unthinkable.

  Hinkle?

  Her eyes narrowed as she thought. He knew the contents of the letter. Had he discovered she taken it and had decided to put it out of her reach should she be tempted to destroy it? She considered this, but she couldn’t imagine Hinkle searching her bedroom before coming on the apparently empty suitcase. No . . . she refused to believe Hinkle would do such a thing.

  Then who?

  She then remembered the hotel manager had seen her take the folder from the desk and take it to her suite, but she couldn’t believe the manager of a hotel of this standing . . . no, that was ridiculous. Then she recalled the two security guards who had been guarding the corridor had been withdrawn. So while she had been swimming, anyone could have come to the top floor and entered her suite.

  She lit a cigarette and forced away the teeth of panic that threatened to nibble. She had to face the fact that the letter had gone, that she had lost one of her trump cards. Now what was going to happen? Would the thief send the letter to Winborn? She was far too cynical to believe that. Once again the stage was set for blackmail. Her lips twisted into a hard, little smile.

  The discreet buzz of the telephone made her stiffen. She hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

  “Winborn is calling, Mrs. Rolfe,” the operator told her. “Should I put him through?”

  Winborn?

  Helga frowned. Winborn should be winging his way back to Miami by now.

  “Are you sure there isn’t a mistake? Mr. Winborn has left for Miami.”

  “The gentleman says he is Mr. Stanley Winborn and it is urgent.”

  “Put him on.”

  There was a pause, then she heard the operator say, “Go ahead, Mr. Winborn.”

  Helga said, “Hello?”

  “Hi! Don’t hang up. I’ve got something you want.” She recognized Harry Jackson’s breezy voice.

  Here it is, she thought and the steel in her hardened. She should have thought of him, the harmless black mamba.

  “You don’t waste much time, do you, Mr. Jackson?” she said, her voice steady while her eyes snapped fire.

  He laughed his casual laugh.

  “You can say that again, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  She heard a tap on the door, then the door opened and Hinkle came in pushing the service trolley.

  “I can’t talk now,” she said curtly. “Call me back in an hour,” and she hung up.

  “The omelet should be eaten immediately, madame,” Hinkle said as he fussed with a chair. “To allow it to cool will spoil it.”

  She braced herself, got up and walked to the chair he had placed before the table. As she sat down, he spread the serviette across her lap.

  “And you spoil me too,” she said. Was it her voice saying this?

  “It is my pleasure, madame,” Hinkle said.

  He lifted the silver cover and with loving hands served the omelet. He poured wine, then stood back, his pudgy hands clasped in front of him.

  It said a lot for Helga’s iron control that she was able to eat the omelet and chat with Hinkle.

  When she had finally forced down the last mouthful, she praised his cooking, refused coffee and thankfully wished him good night.

  I’ve got something you want.

  It could only be Herman’s letter to Winborn. How had he obtained it? There would be a blackmail demand . . .that was for sure. What was she going to do? If he sent the letter to Winborn, her life, as she knew it, would come to a grinding halt. The Swiss portfolio would be taken from her. The trip to Lausanne that she was now longing for would be off. She would have to ask Winborn to finance her until Herman recovered sufficiently to take over. Don’t panic, she told herself. The letter hadn’t yet reached Winborn. First, she must listen to Jackson’s terms. Was an ex-salesman of kitchen equipment going to dictate the kind of life she would lead? Getting up, she moved around the big terrace, thinking. She now had to control herself and her active mind probed for a way out. Making a decision, she went into the living room and called the head porter.

  “Yes, Mrs. Rolfe?” The bow was in the voice.

  “I want a pocket-sized tape recorder with a microphone,” she said. “The microphone must be very sensitive. I want it within an hour.”

  There was a slight pause, then the gears slipped into mesh.

  “It will be arranged immediately, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  “Thank you,” and she hung up.

  She went to her closet and selected a white linen handbag. With a pair of scissors, she cut away the lining. If the microphone was sensitive enough the recorder could record while out of sight in the bag.

  For the moment, there was nothing else she could do. If Jackson sent the letter to Winborn, she could nail him as a blackmailer. She would have to be careful how she handled the transaction he would propose. She would have to direct the conversation so that he incriminated himself. She knew about voiceprints. The police would be able to identify him as the blackmailer.

  Forty minutes crawled by, then the assistant manager, a tall, willowy, blond man tapped on the door.

  “I understand, Mrs. Rolfe, you require a tape recorder. I have a selection,” and he set four tiny recorders down on the table.

  “Which is the most sensitive?” she asked.

  “I believe this one.” He pointed to a recorder slightly larger than the other three.

  “Thank you . . . leave them.” She smiled at him. “I will play with them.”

  “You understand how they operate, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  “I am familiar with recorders.”

  When he had gone, she experimented with the recorders, putting each in turn in her handbag and talking. It was while she was testing the last recorder that the telephone bell buzzed.

  “Mr. Winborn calling, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  She glanced at her watch: exactly one hour.

  “I will speak to him.”

  Jackson came on the line.

  “Listen, baby, I don’t like being told to wait.” His voice sounded hard. “Is that understood?”

  “I was under the impression, Mr. Jackson,” Helga said, “that salesmen, no matter how inefficient, are trained at least, to be courteous. You seem to have lost your manners . . . if you ever had any. You will not call me baby. Is that understood?”

  A pause, then Jackson laughed.

  “Beautiful, brainy and tough. Okay, Mrs. Rolfe, forget it. Do you feel like a swim tonight? The same place?”

  Her mind worked swiftly. It would be too dangerous to meet him n that lonely spot. No, she would face him on ground of her own choosing.

  “Come to my suite, Mr. Jackson. We can talk on the terrace.”

  He laughed again.

  “Not such a hot idea. I have your reputation to think of and mine too. How’s about the Pearl in the Oyster restaurant? We could have coffee?”

  “In half an hour,” Helga said and hung up.

  She played back the recordings. The recorder the assistant manager had recommended gave a remarkably clear playback. She put it in her bag, added cigarettes, a lighter, her purse, her compact and a handkerchief, then slipping on a light wrap, she went down to the lobby.

  She intended to be the first to arrive at the restaurant. The Cadillac taxi pulled up outside the Pearl in the Oyster, one of Nassau’s popular nightspots. The Maître d’hôtel immediately recognized her.

  “Why, Mrs. Rolfe, this is a great pleasure,” he said, his black face lighting up.

  “I am meeting a Mr. Jackson,” Helga said. “We will only have coffee. Could you let me have a quiet table please?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Rolfe, if you wouldn’t mind being upstairs. We have alcoves there.” The Maître hotel’s face went blank telling Helga how startled he was.

  He led the way up the stairs and to an alcove that overlooked the main dining room.

  “Would this do?”

  She paused to survey the crowd below, aware of the noise of voices, the clatter of plates and cutlery. The noise could wreck the recording.

  “I would prefer somewhere quieter,” she said.

  “Then may I suggest the after-casino balcony? No one is there at present, Mrs. Rolfe. Perhaps you would prefer that?”

  “Let me see it.”

  He took her along a corridor to a broad balcony overlooking the beach and sea. Apart from four or five colored waiters, the place was deserted.

  “This will do, and thank you.” She slid a ten-dollar bill into his hand. “Will you please bring Mr. Jackson to me when he arrives? The coffee and brandy of course.”

  Jackson arrived ten minutes later. She had put her handbag on the table and as she saw him coming along the corridor, she quickly switched on the recorder. It would run for thirty minutes and that, she thought, would be long enough to incriminate him.

  Jackson was wearing a freshly pressed white suit, a blue and white checkered shirt and a red tie. He looked handsome and presentable. At any other time, he would have set Helga’s blood on fire.

  “Hi there,” he said, waving away the Maître d’hôtel. “Have I kept you waiting?” The wide, friendly smile was in evidence as he sat down.

  She looked beyond him at the Maître d’hôtel.

  “We will have coffee now, please.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  When he had gone, Helga looked directly at Jackson. He was completely relaxed, his big hands on the table, very confident. Her eyes swept over him. How deceptive men could be, she thought. Who would imagine this frame of muscle and flesh and good looks housed the mind of a blackmailer?

  “How’s Mr. Rolfe?” Jackson asked. “Any improvement?”

  “How is the peeping Tom agency, Mr. Jackson?” Helga asked politely. “Better prospects?”

  He gave her a sharp look, then laughed.

  “I’ll say!”

  A waiter brought coffee and two brandies in balloon glasses.

  They waited until he had gone, then Helga said, “It is just possible you might imagine that this meeting is distasteful to me. Would you please tell me why you arranged it?”

  “I was under the impression, Mrs. Rolfe, that you set it up,” Jackson said, smiling at her. “You need not have come.”

  A point to him, Helga thought. She mustn’t waste time.

  “You said you have something I wanted, what is it?” She dropped sugar into her coffee.

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