1971 - An Ace Up My Sleeve Page 9

  Helga stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. She remembered Larry's exuberant cry: "Boy! Am I lucky! Boy! Boy! Boy!" She remembered she had wondered about that: so this was the explanation.

  "Of course it was still a gamble," Archer went on. "You could have raped him in the sitting–room, but I know your style. When there is a bed handy, you use a bed. Anyway, I have a photograph and so we are partners." "You certainly value your skin, don't you?" she said.

  "I told you: I'm not the sinking type. Well, Helga, you now know the situation. Are you running to Herman?"

  "I get nothing in return?"

  "If you mean you don't get the negatives ... you don't. But you can forget them. They'll be completely safe. After all, Helga, if you fall, I fall too: we're partners for as long as Herman lives."

  "Where are the negatives?"

  He smiled.

  "Winging their way safely to my bank in an envelope marked to be opened only in the event of my death. You are a dangerous woman, Helga. I'm taking no chances. I don't say you would try to murder me, but I don't want you to have the slightest temptation to do so. I must admit you nearly gave me a heart attack when you let off that gun." Her eyes narrowed. "So it was you I heard?"

  "That's right. While you were hunting for Larry I was getting the camera. You very nearly caught me at it. Incidentally, you had better get an electrician to re–fix the sun ray lamp if you intend to use it."

  "So the negatives will be lodged in your bank," Helga said. "The envelope is to be opened in the event of your death. If you die what do you imagine the manager of the bank will do when he sees the contents?" She was probing for information and she regarded him with a contemptuous smile. "He will destroy the photographs."

  "No, he won't. When he opens the envelope he will find inside another sealed envelope with instructions to send this envelope to Herman. I don't trust you, Helga. I repeat you are a dangerous woman."

  "You're not being fair to me, are you? You live too well. You have become fat and soft. You could drop dead: men of your age are continually dropping dead through overindulgence. You fly a lot in these little planes. They are not oversafe. You could he killed in a crash. You could have a motoring accident. You could cease to live any time from tonight. You are striking a hard bargain."

  "Put like that I suppose I am, but I would rather be safe than murdered, Helga. You must hope that I keep alive." He looked at his watch. "I have a busy day tomorrow. It's my bedtime. Will you please initial the stock list?" "When are you leaving?"

  "Sometime tomorrow afternoon ... why the interest?"

  "I want to think about all this," she said and got to her feet "I'll give you my decision at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

  He sat upright and his heavy face became set. For the first time since she had known him she saw him without his smooth charm.

  "Decision?" There was a harsh note in his voice she had never heard before.

  "What do you mean? You have no choice! I have you where I want you! Initial those pages at once!"

  Her lips moved into a stiff smile.

  "I agree, Jack ... you have me where you want me, but I too have you where I want you. I am facing the loss of sixty million dollars: you are facing at least ten years in a Swiss prison. From what I hear the Establissement de l'Orbe isn't a convalescent home." His eyes turned vicious.

  "You are in no position to threaten me! I know what money means to you! Now, cut this out! Initial those pages!"

  She shook her head.

  "I have a decision to make. I have to convince myself that all that money is worth being landed with a partner who is a thief, a forger and a blackmailer. I'm not convinced. If I give up sixty million dollars, I will still have my freedom, but you won't. You'll be in jail ... and God! how you will hate that." She picked up the stock list. "I'll let you know my decision at three o'clock tomorrow. Give me a telephone call at the villa," and she went out of the room.

  Back in her bedroom, Helga walked over to the window and drew back the drapes. She stood for several minutes looking at the lights of Cassarate, the red sign that spelt out B–R–E, the outline of the mountain and the headlights of the cars coming down from Castagnola. Snow was beginning to fall: something unusual in Lugano. The lake, glittering in the moonlight, looked like a black mirror.

  She was surprised at her calmness and how evenly her heart was beating. She had absorbed the shock. She had been manoeuvred into a trap, and now, she had to consider what she was to do.

  Turning away from the window, she undressed and put on pale blue pyjamas. With a pack of cigarettes and her lighter in her hand, she got into bed. She settled herself, turned on the reading light and the room lights off. She lit a cigarette, then relaxed. It was in bed with a cigarette that she always did her best thinking.

  First, she asked herself how important was it to her to remain the wife of one of the richest men in the world? To make a comparison, she thought back and considered how she had lived while acting as her father's personal assistant and then later, as Archer's. She had earned reasonable money; she had had a lot of fun, freedom and sex. Against this, she had lived in a tiny, rather dreary apartment She had always had snatched meals and no car of her own. She liked clothes but could never afford the clothes she wanted. When on vacation she had to stay at the less grand hotels and she remembered envying those who could afford the best hotels. She had to queue for a cinema or a theatre seat, not being able to afford the best seats. She ate at a good restaurant only when dated. She never had any jewellery until she married and she liked top class jewellery: especially diamonds. She didn't know until she married the joys of skiing, of tearing through the water in her own high speed motorboat nor owning a Mercedes 300SEL. She thought of her various homes and the servants who gave her constant attention. She thought of the flattering V.I.P. treatment she received at the airports, hotels and luxury restaurants of the world as soon as the name of Rolfe was mentioned.

  She finally came to the conclusion that she must cling to her position even if it meant accepting Archer as a partner.

  But did she have to accept him?

  I would rather be safe than murdered, he had said.

  She shook her head.

  No! This was stupid and untidy thinking. She knew she could never take a life: even the life of a creature like Archer.

  So what was the solution ... if any?

  She thought about this for some time. For her, she finally decided, the ideal solution would be if her husband dropped dead. Men of his age – he must be nearly seventy – were always dropping dead. What a marvellous and fantastic solution to her problem it would be if the telephone bell rang at this moment and Hinkle broke the news to her that Herman had suffered a heart attack. By dying, Herman would free her from this blackmail threat. She would automatically inherit the estate: no doubt, he would leave his daughter something, but if he didn't, she could afford to be generous with all that money. But that wasn't the real magic of Herman's death. The magic of his death would mean she would have Archer in her power as he now had her in his power. She imagined letting him wait until three o'clock the following day, then she would ask him to come to the villa. "Something I want to discuss with you, Jack," she would say. "No, not over an open line. Besides, you want the stock sheets, don't you?" He would come, cautiously perhaps, but triumphant, knowing she had surrendered. She would play with him as a cat plays with a mouse until it would dawn on him he was not going to get the stock list. Then she would listen to his threats and bluster and she would laugh at him.

  She paused in her thinking, her eyes narrowing. I would rather be safe than murdered.

  Archer had said that and Archer was also dangerous.

  No, before she had her showdown with him, she would have to alert Spencer, Grove & Manly. She had already met Edwin Grove, a tall, dried up looking man at a cocktail party in Lausanne. She would telephone him before Archer arrived, telling him the facts and asking him to take all the necessary action; that Arch
er would be at her villa in two or three hours, and would he alert the police?

  Then when she had finished her tongue-lashing, the police would arrive and take him away.

  All this ... but only if Herman dropped dead.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and stared up at the ceiling. She knew instinctively that Herman was going to live for at least another ten years. He had a daily visit from his doctor. He took the greatest care of himself. She remembered the doctor telling her that Herman had a heart of a young man. She moved restlessly under the sheet. Dreams!

  She forced her mind to become realistic. She was trapped and she might as well admit it. At any rate she would make that fat swine sweat until three o'clock tomorrow, then she would tell him to come to the villa and she would hand him the initialled stock list.

  She had been asking for trouble these past four years and now it had arrived. Accept the inevitable, the Dean of the School of Law had once said in one of his dry lectures.

  She would have to do that, but that wouldn't stop her hating Archer and hoping something horrible would happen to him ... but he mustn't the. She reached for her sleeping pills, took three of them, swallowing them without water with practised ease, then with a little shiver of self-disgust, she reached up and turned off the light.

  At 10.00 the following morning, Helga telephoned down to the concierge's desk.

  "Is Mr. Archer still in the hotel?"

  "No, Madame: he left about twenty minutes ago."

  "Thank you ... it's not important."

  She felt sure Archer would have gone out by now, but she wanted to check. She couldn't have borne running into him in the lobby to see his smirking, fat face and his questioning eyes.

  She slipped on her mink coat, glanced in the mirror, adjusted her hat, then picking up the briefcase holding the stock list, she left her suite.

  She had the stock lists for the previous month at the villa and she wanted to check the prices against the prices Archer had given her. She wanted to be certain just how much money he had stolen. He had said glibly two million dollars, but she wanted to know the exact sum.

  The doorman opened her car door with a flourish. She nodded to him, started the engine, then joined the traffic crawl along the lake.

  Drugged by the pills, she had slept heavily and she still felt heavy headed and irritable. The day after tomorrow, she thought, she would have to drive to Agno to meet Herman's plane. She wondered in what mood she would find him. Usually, after a plane trip, he was testy and difficult. She would have to get something out of the deep freeze ready for Hinkle to cook. Herman was faddy about his food. One of his favourite dishes was breaded veal with spaghetti: this Helga never ate. She had the middle-aged woman's horror of getting fat. There would be filets of veal in the freezer. She would get them out tomorrow.

  She stopped at the Migros store at Cassarate and bought onions, a tin of peeled tomatoes and a tin of tomato puree. She knew there would be packets of spaghetti in the store cupboard. She bought a dozen eggs and a litre of milk. Hinkle was a genius at making an omelette which she could always eat. She paused for a moment thinking, but could think of nothing else to buy. With her purchases in a paper bag, she got into the car and drove up the twisting road to Castagnola. She stopped at the Post Office and collected some dozen letters. The girl behind the counter gave her a friendly smile. "Will you be staying long, Madame?"

  "Till the end of the month. Please have the letters delivered tomorrow."

  She drove up to the villa. The snow plough had been at work and the road was clear but there were high banks of snow either side of the road and once when she pressed too hard on the gas pedal, the back wheels of the car slipped, a slip she quickly corrected. The private drive to the villa had also been cleared and the roadman had put down grit. The fifty francs she gave him each February was an investment that produced dividends when snow and ice made the drive difficult.

  The garage doors, controlled by an electronic beam swung up and she drove in, parking beside Hinkle's 1500 Volkswagen. Collecting the mail, her briefcase and the paper bag, she walked along the underground passage to the villa. She remembered she had left the door from the cellar to the villa unlocked and she frowned at her carelessness. Shrugging, she opened the door, shut and locked it, then walked up the stairs and into the big entrance hall. She put the mail on the table and took off her coat and hat which she left in a recess. She carried her purchases to the kitchen, then she looked at her watch. The time was now 12.15. Time for a drink, she told herself, then she must get down to work. It would take her an hour or more to check through all the stock lists ... but first a drink.

  She walked briskly into the big living-room and then came to an abrupt standstill, her heart missing a beat.

  Standing awkwardly by the big picture window, his peak cap in his hand, was Larry.

  chapter five

  For a long moment, she stood staring at this big, blond boy aware only of the faint sound of the central heating motor below and the violent beating of her heart.

  During that moment, her mind was paralysed by shock, then her resilience absorbed the shock and fury gripped her, sending blood to her face, making the veins in her neck throb and giving her face an expression of vicious rage. "How dare you come back!" she screamed at him. "Get out! Do you hear me! Get out!"

  He flinched, then rubbed the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Excuse me, ma'am ... I had to see you."

  She strode to the door and threw it open. "Get out or I'll call the police!"

  The moment she had said it, she knew she had lost control of herself. Police? The last thing she would want was a curious Swiss policeman here. She forced down her rage and her mind began to function. What was he doing here ... more blackmail! He wouldn't dare! He was an Army deserter ... and yet Archer was a thief and a forger and he hadn't hesitated to blackmail her. Could this lout of a boy realize what she stood to lose if he gave her away? But she was determined to intimidate him. "Get out!" she screamed at him.

  "Ma'am ... please ... won't you listen to me? I want to say I'm sorry." He twisted his cap, his face in despair. "Honestly, ma'am ... I want you to believe me ... I'm sorry."

  She drew in a deep breath, controlling her fury.

  "Rather late, isn't it?" she said bitterly. "Sorry? After what you have done? After the way I treated you? You have the impudence to come here and tell me you're sorry. Oh, go away! The sight of you sickens me!"

  "Yeah ... I guess you have reason." He shuffled his feet. "Ma'am, I want to help you. When I told Ron, he said I was a dirty sonofabitch. He said if I didn't do something about this, he'd never speak to me again." Helga stiffened. "You told Ron?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I told him last night on the phone. You see, ma'am, I owe him money. This fat guy gave me fifteen hundred dollars. I guess I was a little excited. I haven't had so much money in one lump before. I told Ron I was buying a second-hand car and then he wanted to know how I got the money ... so I told him."

  How many more were going to know what a reckless, mad fool she had been? she thought. This boy, that awful little queer, Archer and now this man, Ron.

  She went over to the bar, poured a large slug of vodka into a glass and without bothering to add ice, she gulped it down. The neat spirit made her eyes water, but it knitted her together so she ceased to tremble. She sat down, opened her bag and took out her cigarettes. She lit one, then she pointed to a chair away from her. "Sit down!" "Yes, ma'am."

  Awkwardly and sheepishly, he sat on the edge of the chair and looked down at his hands.

  "Ron was real wild with me, ma'am," he said. "He said a blackmailer is the dirtiest thing on earth. He said I was a stinking creep to have done such a thing. I – I told him I wasn't a blackmailer. I was paid to do a job and I did it. I wouldn't blackmail anyone." He looked up, staring miserably at her. "He said what I had done was blackmail and he'd never speak to me again unless I came to you and explained."

  "Did you tell him who I was?" Helga a
sked.

  He nodded.

  "I guess I did. I told him everything: how you got my passport for me and about this fat guy. He said I had to help you ... so I'm here, ma'am. I've been waiting for hours here hoping you would come. I'm going to help you, ma'am."

  Helga made an impatient movement, sending her cigarette ash on the carpet.

  "Help me? You? What do you think you can do? It's now much too late for anyone to help me! Now, get out! The sight of you sickens me!" "He's got photos of us, hasn't he?" "You know he has and he's now blackmailing me!"

  "I'll get them from him, ma'am, and I'll give them to you!"

  "You're talking like the fool you are! They are now out of reach. He's mailed them to his bank!"

  There was a pause, then Larry said quietly, "Is he out of reach, ma'am?"

  There was this deadly note in his voice she had heard before when he had said to Friedlander: What would it cost you if you got your hands crushed in a door?

  She regarded him, her body suddenly tense. "What do you mean?"

  He put his cap down on the floor beside him and took out a pack of chewing gum. As he stripped off the wrapper, he said, "If I could get hold of him, ma'am, I could persuade him to get the photos from the bank and then you could have them."

  She pressed her hands to her face.

  "You don't know what you're talking about. These photos are far too important for him to be persuaded to part with them. Just go away and leave this to me ... you're talking nonsense."

  He fed a strip of gum in his mouth and began to chew.

  "Ma'am ... do you want me to help you?" There was an edge to his voice: a male edge which told her he was getting bored with her hysterics.

  "How can you help me?" She was shrewd enough to soften her voice. "Nothing would persuade him to part with those photographs."

  He regarded her, his Slav features without expression. "I don't know about nothing, ma'am ... but I could."