1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 6

  “A good question.” He sipped his coffee, crossed one long leg over the other and continued to smile at her. She longed to slap his handsome face. “When you gave me the brushoff this afternoon, Mrs. Rolfe, I was ready to call it quits. You were in an ironclad position. I had nothing in writing from Mr. Rolfe. I wasn’t going to tangle with Winborn, I steer clear of tough cookies. So I was all set to kiss my retainer goodbye.” He picked up his glass of brandy and sniffed it. “So you have the complete photo, Mrs. Rolfe, let me tell you how I operate. I don’t have a regular staff. I have contacts. As an investigator it is a must to have a contact in every luxury hotel. I regard these contacts as invisible people . . . the staff. People who can go in and out of rooms, walk down corridors, clean the baths and still remain invisible to the guests. It costs me five hundred dollars and that’s money to me, Mrs. Rolfe, to buy the services of the fink who cleans your room, cleans your bath and makes your bed. Now this fink is a half-caste West Indian who wants nothing in life except a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide motorcycle. These bikes cost. He has been saving and saving, but he was well short of the target. Then this week a model arrived out here: just one, you understand, Mrs. Rolfe. He knew if he didn’t grab it, he would have to wait maybe another six months. Well, you know how it is . . . people these days can’t wait, so I gave him the money and he bought the bike. In return, he did this favor. You know, you do something nice, the other guy repays you . . . quid pro quo . . . does that surprise you . . . me talking like this . . . quid pro quo? I’ve had some kind of education: not much more than quid quid prod quo, but some.” He sipped the brandy, then held up the glass to stare at it. “Pretty good, but then that’s how the cards fall for you, Mrs. Rolfe. You say brandy and you get the best. I say brandy and I get hogwash.”

  Helga wanted a cigarette, but she couldn’t touch her bag while the recorder was working. She controlled the urge and looked out at the deserted beach, at the moonlit sea and she listened.

  “So this fink who cleans your room took a look around. The system is, Mrs. Rolfe, that as soon as a guest leaves the room, the fink moves in and puts it straight. He is an intelligent fink and he is anxious to please. I tell him: ‘Look around. If there is anything that looks important, I want it.’ So he stared at me with his intelligent black eyes and asks: ‘What’s important?” I tell him: ‘I want to nail this baby. Love letters would fine.’” Jackson laughed. “You know Mrs. Rolfe, this was a shot at the moon. I hadn’t any hope he would land a fish, but he did. When he gave me this letter from your husband to Winborn, I hit the roof.” He paused to sip more brandy. “Am I reaching you, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  So that was how it was done, Helga thought. Go on talking, snake, you’re cutting your own throat.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “I bet you are.” Jackson laughed. “So I have the letter. Pretty strong stuff, isn’t it? If this Winborn character gets it, it seems to me you will be out in the cold.”

  Thinking of the revolving tape, Helga hurried the conversation along.

  “You could be right,” she said. “This is blackmail, of course. How much, Mr. Jackson?”

  “But didn’t you tell me you never paid blackmail?” Jackson asked, his smiling jeering.

  “There are times when even the best generals lose a battle,” Helga said. “How much?”

  “You surprise me.” Jackson studied her thoughtfully. “I thought you would try to wriggle.”

  “I am not interested in your thinking,” Helga said, her voice steely. “How much?”

  The jeering smile slipped a little.

  “Frankly, if it was only between you and me, Mrs. Rolfe, I would give you this letter for nothing. I would expect you to give me my retainer of ten thousand dollars . . . my out of pocket expenses. That would be fair, wouldn’t it?”

  Helga said nothing. She sipped her brandy, longed for a cigarette, her face wooden.

  “But this fink has ambitions,” Jackson went on. “Can you imagine what he did? He took two photocopies of the letter, gave me one and here’s one for you.” He took from his wallet a folded paper and pushed it across the table to Helga who took it, glanced at it and saw it was a copy of Herman’s letter. “Frankly, Mrs. Rolfe, I didn’t imagine a half-caste fink would have had the brains to set up a thing like this. He is more ambitious than I am. As I’ve said, I’d be happy to get my retainer, but he has other ideas.”

  Helga turned her cold look on him.

  “So?”

  “This fink tells me that the letter is a gold mine. Now when a half-caste boy talks about a gold mine, I don’t pay a lot of attention, but when he started to elaborate, I took notice.” Jackson shook his head, finished his brandy and smiled at her. “I guess he has bigger ideas than I have.”

  This almost too good to be true, Helga thought. As he sits there, shooting off his mouth, he is cutting his throat.

  She could imagine the police descending on him. She imagined them picking up this hotel servant. To hell with Herman’s money! To see this smart alec snake and his fink in court would repay even the loss of sixty million dollars . . . stupid, angry thinking, but that was how she felt at this moment.

  “He has?” she said quietly. “How bit? Couldn’t you stop this yakking, Mr. Jackson and tell me what it will cost to get this letter back?”

  Just for a moment, Jackson looked uneasy, then the confident grin returned.

  “Yeah, I do run on. Well, for me, I want ten thousand dollars by tomorrow, not later than midday. I want it in cash. That will take care of my expenses which will be fine with me. Leave the money in an envelope with the hall porter.” He looked at her. “Okay?”

  Helga inclined her head.

  “Now the fink, this is more tricky. As I’ve explained, Mrs. Rolfe, I hadn’t an idea how his mind would work. Anyway, he has talked around and he’s learned what a big shot you have married. He knows now that your husband is loaded. He won’t part with the letter for less than five hundred thousand. Could anything be more crazy? I tried to talk sense into him, but he won’t listen. I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe, but that’s the way it is. If you want the letter, it’ll cost you five hundred thousand, plus my ten thousand.”

  Helga kept her face expressionless, but the shock was severe.

  After a pause, she said, “I find it hard to believe a colored servant should think in such big terms.”

  Jackson nodded.

  “That makes two of us, Mrs. Rolfe. I was knocked for a loop, but that’s how the cookie crumbles.”

  “And this colored boy gets all this money? Aren’t you being very modest, Mr. Jackson?”

  He laughed.

  “Yeah: you could say that, but I only want my expenses. I like my job. I’m not ambitious. Frankly, I’m sorry I’ve got snarled up with this fink. Between us we could have settled this thing for ten thousand. If you had agreed last night instead of getting on your high horse, I wouldn’t have told him to search your room.”

  Helga regarded him.

  “Aren’t you talking too much, Mr. Jackson? You are letting your tongue run away. It was while we were talking on the beach that this fink, as you call him, was searching my room. That tells me you and he were working together and I am quite sure you and he will share whatever I pay.”

  Again the confident smile slipped. He looked away from her, thought for a long moment, then the smile switched on again.

  “As I’ve already said, Mrs. Rolfe, you have brains. Okay, I’ll put it on the line. It was the fink’s idea. I wouldn’t have thought of it, but when he said you would pay, I did think about it. With all this money coming to you when your husband kicks off, I saw the fink had an idea. He couldn’t handle you. I saw that, so after thinking, I told him I would set up the deal and he and I would go fifty-fifty. So, Mrs. Rolfe, if you want the letter you give us ten thousand tomorrow and five hundred thousand in bearer bonds in ten days’ time.”

  “And I get the letter?”

  “Sure . . . no fooling. You get the letter
.”

  Helga drew in a deep breath.

  She had him now! If she had to lose Herman’s money, at least this snake would land in jail!

  “All right. The money will be with the hall porter by twelve o’clock tomorrow.” She got to her feet.

  “So it’s a deal?” Jackson asked her, smiling at her.

  “It’s a deal.”

  As she reached for her handbag, he beat her to it. His big hand dropped on the bag as he continued to smile at her.

  “No, Mrs. Rolfe. Not as easy as that,” he said. “You are way out of your league. You caused a lot of uproar in the the hotel when you asked for a sensitive recorder. The fink telephoned me.”

  He took the recorder from her handbag, slipped out the tape, put the recorder back into her bag and the tape into his pocket.

  Then he leaned forward, his handsome face a sudden snarling mask that chilled her.

  “You are dealing with a professional, you stupid bitch!” he said softly. “Don’t ever try tricks with me. Ten thousand tomorrow or you’ll be out in the cold.” As he got to his feet, he suddenly grinned, his friendly grin. “Good night, baby, sleep alone now,” and he left her, staring after him.

  * * *

  As Helga walked into the hotel lobby, the hall porter came from behind his desk. Seeing he wanted to speak to her, she paused.

  “There is an urgent call from Mr. Winborn, madame. He is staying the night at the Sonesta Beach hotel, Miami. He asks if you would please call him back.”

  “Thank you.” She moved to the elevator.

  In her apartment she walked out onto the terrace. She sat down, half-aware of the big floating moon, its reflection on the sea and the strident shouts of the night bathers.

  Ten thousand dollars presented no problem, but five hundred thousand dollars!

  Was she going to submit to blackmail?

  She lit a cigarette. She never felt so alone. She thought bitterly that she had always been alone. The only child, her brilliance had cut her off from other children, her father had been interested only in his business; her mother only interested in the church. Always loneliness, plus this damnable sexual urge that had tormented her into dangerous adventures.

  Face it, she said to herself, you are on your own: there is no one to help you: you are in a hell of a spot, so what are you going to do about it?

  Thinking, she realized that even if Herman died this night, she would have Jackson and this half-caste on her back for life. They would give her the original letter but keep a photocopy. If she refused further demands and they sent Winborn the photocopy, he would take action. With his legal proceedings, especially if the hotel manager confirmed that she had taken the letter, Winborn could block her from the sixty million dollars!

  She sat still, thinking, gathering her strength and her confidence in herself. This was going to be a lonely battle, she told herself. She had said to Jackson, “The best of generals lose battles.” But now she was determined this was the one battle she would not lose.

  She returned to the living room and asked the telephone operator to connect her with the Sonesta Beach hotel.

  “I want to speak with Mr. Stanley Winborn.”

  There was a delay. Calm, she smoked and stared out at the moonlit sea. She told herself: “I have so much to lose. I can afford to take risks. If I do lose, I’ll make sure no one gains.”

  When Winborn came on the line, she said, “This is Mrs. Rolfe.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Rolfe.” The cold voice came clearly over the line. She could imagine the steely grey eyes and the aloof, unfriendly expression. “Could I ask you to do something for me?”

  Surprised, she said, “Of course.”

  “While flying to Miami, I got thinking about what your husband was trying to say. That odd phrase: ‘Sin on. Better law.’ After repeating it several times, it occurred to me he was trying to say, ‘Winborn. Letter. Drawer.’”

  You smart sonofabitch, Helga thought.

  Forcing her voice to sound casual, she said, “I would never have thought of that, Mr. Winborn.”

  “I called Nurse Fairely. She asked Mr. Rolfe if that was what he was trying to say. By his reaction, it was. Nurse Fairely is sure that there is a letter for me in one of Mr. Rolfe’s drawers.” A pause. “May I ask you to check, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  Not so smart, Helga thought. What you should do is to come back here and check yourself.

  “We looked through all the drawers together, Mr. Winborn,” she said. “There was no letter.”

  “But there could be. We were looking for the Japanese contract.” A sharp note crept into Winborn’s voice. “Would you look more thoroughly?”

  “Of course. If I find a letter for you, I will call you back.”

  “I am sorry to bother you with this, but Nurse Fairely tells me Mr. Rolfe keeps on about this letter.”

  “If I don’t call back within an hour, you will know I haven’t found it,” Helga said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  “How is he?”

  “There is no change.”

  She hung up and sat still for some moments. Winborn was no fool, but the immediate present was more important. She had sensed the suspicion in his voice. If he really became suspicious, he could make inquiries. The hotel manager, innocently, would tell him that she had taken the red folder from Mr. Rolfe’s desk.

  She hunched her shoulders. In spite of the hot, humid air, she felt cold. But this was no time to worry about Winborn. First, she had to deal with Jackson . . . but how?

  Suddenly, she felt exhausted. She remembered her father had often said to her, “When you have a serious problem, don’t make a quick decision . . . always sleep on it.”

  She got to her feet and walked into the bedroom.

  “Sleep alone now,” Jackson had said with a jeering grin.

  If only there was a man here, she thought: a muscular, tall and virile man who would take her and send her on a sensational trip of relief, who would wash away the memory of Jackson’s confident, jeering smile, her half-dead husband and this threat to her freedom.

  She went into the bathroom, opened the mirror cabinet, took out a bottle of sleeping pills and shook two into her palm. She tossed the pills into her mouth and swallowed them. Stripping off her clothes, she took a shower, then went into the bedroom and dropped on to the bed.

  The sounds of people enjoying themselves floated up through the open window. She could hear the roar of the passing traffic. Faintly, came the sound of the restaurant orchestra. It was playing I Follow My Secret Heart.

  Secret heart?

  Yes, her heart was secret but also lonely.

  She fought back tears. She despised self-pity. Impatient with herself, she reached out and turned off the light.

  For some minutes, she lay in the dim light of the moon coming through the slots of the sunblinds, then the two pills mercifully took hold of her and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  It was when the effect of the pills was wearing off that she began to dream. She dreamed that she was in her father’s office in Lausanne. He was sitting behind his big desk, tall, thin, upright, his face sternly handsome while she stood before him and told him about Jackson.

  Although a brilliantly clever international lawyer, her father was given to old-fashioned clichés. In this dream he talked to her but his words didn’t register. All she could hear were the clichés: What you put in, you take out. What you lose on the swings, you gain on the roundabouts. Then leaning forward, he said distinctly, “Offense is better than defense.” She was waking as she heard his voice saying, “Always know your enemy.”

  She came awake with a start. The dream had been very real and she looked around the luxurious bedroom, not knowing where she was, then remembering. The sun was coming through the slots of the blinds. She looked at the clock on the bedside table: the time was 08.13.

  She lay still, thinking about her dream.

  Know your enemy.

  The d
rugged sleep had restored her energy. Her mind was clear. She lay thinking until 09.00, then she ordered coffee.

  She was in the bathroom when she heard a tap on her door.

  “Come in.”

  She slipped on a wrap and came into the living room as Hinkle wheeled in a service trolley.

  “Good morning, Hinkle,” she said. “What is new?”

  “Mr. Rolfe has passed a fair night,” Hinkle said as he poured the coffee. “Dr. Bellamy will be seeing him this morning.”

  She took the cup of coffee he handed her.

  “Could you find out two things for me, Hinkle?” she asked.

  “Certainly, madame.”

  “I want the name of the hotel detective and the name of the man who cleans this suite.”

  Hinkle lifted his eyebrows: his way of expressing astonishment, but he said impassively, “The hotel detective is Tom Henessey, madame. The cleaner is a young half-caste whom they call Dick.”

  “What a mine of information you are, Hinkle.”

  He regarded her.

  “Is there something wrong, madame?”

  “Not at all. I believe in knowing the people who look after me.” She smiled at him.

  “Yes, madame.” She could see she hadn’t convinced him, but she was beyond caring. “Will you be in for lunch?”

  “No, I don’t think I will. I’ll either lunch in the grillroom or out.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, madame?”

  How she longed to tell this solid, kindly man about Jackson. She shook her head.

  “Give me one of your beautiful cocktails at six this evening,” she said. “Nothing more. Do go out and enjoy yourself, Hinkle.”

  “Thank you, madame. If there is nothing then I will take advantage of the sun.”

  When he had gone, she finished her coffee and then went along to Herman’s suite.

  Nurse Fairely, smiling, let her into the big living room.

  “I’ve come to see if I can find this letter that is worrying my husband,” Helga said. “How is he?”

  “He is gaining strength, Mrs. Rolfe. He had a good night.”

  “Can I see him?”