1975 - The Joker in the Pack (3 page)

“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 her. 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.

As my executor, I want you, together with Frederick Loman, to take over control of my Swiss portfolio. I attach a revised list of bequests. As I am satisfied that Helga has betrayed my trust and that she has been associating with various men without, so far, giving me tangible proof, I have decided, at my death, that she is only to receive a tax free income of one hundred thousand dollars a year subject to the following conditions: she is to create no scandal, she is not to marry again and she is to be subjected to a snap check from time to time by a competent inquiry agency that she is behaving herself. She is to have no access to capital: she is only to receive income. She may have the use of all my houses, villas and apartments and you will supervise the accounts. She is to lose these privileges and her income if she contravenes the above conditions.

I often wonder about my daughter, Sheila. She has been a great worry to me but she did have the integrity to assume another name (which I do not know) so that her radical political interests and her distressing way of life have never sullied the Rolfe name. As a reward for this, I wish to leave her one million dollars.

Please put all these points in legal shape and send me the draft at your earliest.

Regards, Herman Rolfe.

For some moments, Helga sat staring at the letter. Her first reaction was bitter despair: not to marry again! No more affairs! The old devil was condemning her to the life of a nun! How Winborn would grin when read this letter. Evidence? Who had talked? She was sure Winborn would have her watched after Herman died. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than to see her without a nickel! After having free run of Herman’s money, spending without thinking for the past years, such an income was a pittance! And this daughter of his to get a million!

A sound made her spin around.

Rolfe stood in the bedroom doorway, supporting himself on two heavy canes. In his white silk pajamas with his skull-like head and his glaring eyes, he looked like a terrifying, revenging spirit.

“How dare you pry into my private papers!” he exclaimed harshly.

Fury, shame, fear and hatred exploded inside Helga as she jumped to her feet.

“And how dare you have me watched! Sully your name? Who cares a damn about your name? You are not even a man, you heartless computer! That’s all you are, a moneymaking computer! You haven’t shred of kindness nor understanding in you!”

Rolfe made an unsteady move forward, his eyes blazing.

“You whore!”

“I would rather be a whore than a crippled joke!” she screamed at him.

Then it happened.

Blood rushed to his face, his mouth twisted, the canes slipped out of his hands and clattered on the floor. He clutched at his chest. The agony that swept through his thin body made her close her eyes. Then he toppled forward, suddenly boneless and fell at her feet.

chapter two

W
ould he die?

Helga looked at her gold and platinum diamond studded watch that Herman had given her: one of his many wedding presents. The time was 23.58.

Through the open window she could hear the murmur of voices. The arc lights for the television cameras made a pattern on the ceiling. The news had leaked: the jackal press had arrived, but the hotel manager had sealed off the top floor and all telephone calls were being screened.

Would he die?

This continual query hammered inside Helga’s head.

Hinkle had been marvelously efficient. He had come within seconds, taken in in the scene: Rolfe on the floor, she backed against the far wall. He had gone immediately to Rolfe, knelt, his fat fingers finding the pulse.

“Is he dead?” Helga had asked.

A brief shake of the head, then Hinkle had picked up the thin body as if it were weightless and had disappeared into the bedroom. She had braced herself, going to the telephone, she had asked the hall porter to send a doctor immediately to Mr. Rolfe’s suite. The sharp intake of breath told her how startled the hall porter was. She had given him no time to ask questions. She had hung up.

Hinkle had appeared from the bedroom, unflustered grave looking. She had told him she had called a doctor.

“May I suggest you return to your apartment, madame?” he said. “Could you call Dr. Levi?”