1975 - The Joker in the Pack (4 page)

“Is it a stroke?”

“I fear so, madame. Mr. Winborn and Mr. Loman should be informed.”

She had returned to her suite and had spoken to Dr. Levi.

Back in Paradise City, Dr. Levi had just finished dinner and had guests, but he had said he would charter an air taxi and would be with her in two hours. Winborn had been at the theater and she had left a message for him to call her. Loman, his voice quivering with shock, had said he would take the executive jet and would arrive sometime early tomorrow. He had asked anxiously if the press knew. She had said not to her knowledge. “This will shoot the market to hell,” he had moaned. Impatiently, she had hung up.

She had returned to Rolfe’s suite. There had been a big colored man wearing a peak cap, a gun on his hip, standing at the top of the stairs: another by the elevator. Both of them saluted her.

The manager of the hotel had been in the living room. He had said that the doctor who had been called was with Mr. Rolfe. He had murmured sympathy, obviously worried. Helga paid no attention.

When Rolfe had surprised her, she had slammed the red folder shut. It was still on the desk like a red warning light. She had put it back in the drawer.

A heavily built youngish colored man, sweating profusely, had come from the bedroom. He had introduced himself as Dr. Bellamy. She had seen he was in awe of her, nervous and worried. He had said her husband had suffered a massive stroke, everything that could be done would be done and he had hurried to the telephone.

She had gone to the bedroom door but Hinkle had appeared and had blocked her view.

“It would be better, madame, for you not to be here,” he said gently. “Please rely on me.”

She had nodded.

“Dr. Levi is coming.” She had hesitated. “Is he suffering?”

“No, madame.”

Listening, the manager had come to her.

“Let me take you back to your suite, Mrs. Rolfe.”

As she had moved across the room, Hinkle had closed the bedroom door. She had paused, then going to the desk, she had taken out the red folder and accompanied by the manager, she returned to her suite.

At the door, the manager had said, “I will see you are not disturbed. Mr. Rolfe’s man will take all telephone calls. You have had no dinner. May I suggest . . .”

“No, nothing and thank you.”

She had gone into her suite and had closed the door. I t was then she had remembered her date with Harry Jackson and she felt a pang of frustrated disappointment. She had found there was a little vodka martini left in the shaker. She had drunk it, lit a cigarette and had sat down.

She had been sitting like that for the past two hours, nursing the red folder, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Would he die?

Dr. Levi had arrived. He had seen her for only a few minutes. Her husband, he told her, had had a massive stroke. As soon as he considered it safe, he would be removed to the hospital. It was unfortunate the news had been leaked. Now that the press had arrived, it would be wise for her to remain in her apartment. The hotel management understood the situation. Security precautions would remain in operation. Would she like a tranquillizer? He would have news for her later that night.

At 21.00 when she should have been meeting Harry Jackson, the telephone bell had startled her. The operator, speaking in a hushed voice, asked her if she wanted to speak to Mr. Stanley Winborn.

Winborn had been alerted during the first act of the play. He had immediately returned home. She had told him what Dr. Levi had said.

“I have contacted Loman.” Winborn’s voice was cold. “We will be with you as soon as possible.”

The gathering of the vultures, she thought.

The hotel manager had arrived, carrying a plate of tiny sandwiches and a cocktail shaker on a tray.

“You need strength, Mrs. Rolfe,” he had said putting down the tray. “Please eat something,” and he left.

She found she was ravenous and was irritated that the sandwiches were so small, but after drinking three vodka martinis and eating all the sandwiches, she was relaxed enough to open the red folder and to reread Rolfe’s letter to Winborn.

Would he die? she asked herself as she returned the letter to the folder. If he did, her problems would be solved. Only Hinkle knew of the the letter to Winborn. Hinkle? She thought about him. Could she rely on him to keep silent? Her mind went to Archer who had been the last person she imagined could or would turn to blackmail, yet he had. Hinkle? But it would be his word against hers and if she destroyed the letter surely that would be that. Winborn, of course, would believe Hinkle if Hinkle told him about the letter, but there would be nothing Winborn could do about it. He had Herman’s original will. He would have to act on it. Sixty million dollars, but only if Herman died! Would he die? She beat her clenched fists together. What if he didn’t die? He had seen the hatred in her eyes. The realization of her contempt and hatred of him had produced this stroke. She was sure of that. So if he recovered he would condemn her to the life of a nun. He could even make life so impossible she would have no alternative – as his daughter had had no alternative – but to leave him.

She looked around the big, luxurious room. She thought of many other similar rooms in similar hotels. She thought of the magnificent villa on its private island off Paradise City, the villa in Castagnola, the gracious penthouse in New York. She thought of the bows, the salutes, the smiles from headwaiters, hall porters and even police: all attentive to her slightest whim. All that would go. She would have to being life again and at forty-three, she shrank from the prospect. Not that she couldn’t earn a good living. She had saved some money, she had something like three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of personal jewelry. Daunting though it was to contemplate returning to the life of cutthroat business, it wasn’t that that made her flinch. It was the realization that she would no longer be pampered, fawned over Mrs. Herman Rolfe, the wife of one of the richest and most powerful men in the world.

But if he died!

She would have complete freedom and sixty million dollars! With her flair, her training in law and her drive she might even become as powerful as Rolfe. There were many opportunities when you had a capital of sixty million dollars!

If he died!

She looked at the red folder. Should she destroy the letter? Not yet, she told herself. If he recovered, she would have to return the folder to his desk, but if he died, then she wouldn’t hesitate to destroy it.

She looked around the room for a safe hiding place, then going to the closet, she took from it one of her suitcases which was now empty. She put the folder in the suitcase and put the suitcase under another empty suitcase. It would be safe there.

The time now was 23.40. How much longer would she have to wait? She began to pace up and down the big room, keeping away from the open window. She didn’t want any of the waiting reporters to spot her. She was still pacing and thinking half an hour later when Dr. Levi tapped on the door.

“How is he?”

“It is too early yet to say.” Levi shut the door. “I am sorry, Mrs. Rolfe, but it is serious. It depends on what happens during the next two or three days. Everything is being done. If there is progress after tomorrow, there is hope. I will remain here. Dr. Bellamy is most competent. You must be patient, Mrs. Rolfe. You will be kept informed.”

“Two or three days?”

“It is possible that by tomorrow we will know.”

“I must be told!” she said. “Serious? What does that mean?”

Dr. Levi took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Without looking at her, he said, “Complete paralysis of the right arm, certainly brain damage and possibly the loss of speech.” He then replaced his glasses, but still didn’t look at her.

Helga felt a cold chill fun through her. This was something she wouldn’t wish on anyone, even Herman.

“But he has already almost lost the use of his legs,” she said, half to herself.

Dr. Levi said gently, “It is a tragic thing, but I did warn him.”

“You mean he won’t be able to speak again?”

“That remains to be seen. I fear not. I suggest you rest now, Mrs. Rolfe. There is nothing you can do. I have here something to make you sleep.”

“It would be kinder if he died,” she said and shivered. “No legs, no speech, no right hand.”

Dr. Levi put a capsule on the table.

“Please take this, Mrs. Rolfe and go to bed.”

When he had gone, she sat down, ignoring the capsule. As she sat there, her fists clenched in her lap, she willed him to die, not now for her sake, but for his.

* * *

Stanley Winborn told Helga that at the last moment it had been decided that Loman, as vice president of the Rolfe Electronic Corporation, would serve a more useful purpose by remaining in New York. Now that the news had leaded, the shares of the Corporation would come under pressure. That was inevitable, but it meant little: you had only to sneeze these days for the Dow Jones index to slide, but Loman should remain at the helm: Winborn used phrases like that.

He had arrived at the Diamond Beach hotel at 11.15. Looking through the slots of the sunblinds, keeping out of sight, Helga watched him get out of the Silver Shadow, pause to talk to the reporters who had been there now for the past fourteen hours.

Although she hated him, she had to admit that Stanley Winborn was a distinguished, handsome looking man with the touch of the elder statesman about him. He was tall and thin with thick dark hair with white wings, a cool aloof expression, always immaculately dressed and a razor sharp legal brain. He treated everyone, including Helga, with cold distant politeness. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile, let alone laugh.

Having spent a few minutes with the reporters, allowing photographers to set off their flashlights, he disappeared into the hotel.

It was almost an hour before he came to her suite. No doubt, she thought, he had been consulting Dr. Levi. Winborn always obtained facts and information before he moved into action. While she waited, she glanced at the newspapers. The majority of them carried banner headlines:
Herman Rolfe Suffers Stroke
.

She thought of the avalanche of inquiries, condolences, telegrams, cables this line of print would cause. She hoped they would be directed to the New York office and not here.

“A sorry affair,” Winborn said as he entered the suite and he murmured sympathy which irritated Helga. “It appears to be serious”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Rolfe?” The steel grey eyes ran over her. “I am of course at your disposal.”

“There is nothing, thank you.”

A pause, then Winborn said, “Mr. Rolfe has just concluded an important contract with the Japanese government. He was about to send me the draft contract when this dreadful thing happened. The matter is urgent. Would you know where the draft is?”

Without thinking, Helga said, “Hinkle will know.”

As soon as she had said this, she realized the danger. If Winborn got talking to Hinkle about Herman’s papers, there was a possibility that Hinkle might mention the damning letter, but she need not have worried.

Winborn lifted an eyebrow.

“I would prefer not to discuss Mr. Rolfe’s affairs with a servant,” he said.

You goddamn snob! Helga thought, but thank God you are a snob!

“May I trouble you to come with me, Mrs. Rolfe,” Winborn went on, “so that we can go through his papers? This draft needs my immediate attention.”

Another escape! If she hadn’t had the foresight to remove the red folder, Winborn would have pounced on it.

“Yes, of course.”

They went into Rolfe’s suite. The two uniformed guards were still at the head of the stairs and by the elevator. They saluted and Winborn, who loved recognition, inclined his head. The door was opened by a fat, kindly faced nurse who let them in.

“Please be as quiet as you can,” she said softly and returned to the bedroom, shutting the door.

Winborn stood by her side as Helga went through the contents of the drawers. The folder containing the Japanese contract was quickly found. Another folder lay beneath it with Swiss Portfolio printed on it.

“That reminds me,” Winborn said, his voice low. “Loman tells me there is a two million loss on the Swiss account. Mr. Rolfe told him the loss was due to reckless speculation.”

She steadied her jumping nerves. At least Rolfe hadn’t told the truth. Neither Loman nor Winborn knew of Archer’s embezzlement.

She looked up.

“The Swiss portfolio is my affair, Mr. Winborn. I am aware what has been lost. I have already discussed this with my husband. This is my problem, not yours.”

A slight tightening of his lips, but nothing more. He inclined his head.

“Then I will leave you, Mrs. Rolfe.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Not immediately. Dr. Levi thinks that if there is any sign of improvement, Mr. Rolfe should be moved back to Paradise City where he can receive even better attention than here. A decision may be made in a couple of days. I must fly back to Miami this evening. I can, of course, rely on you to keep me informed. Then will you excuse me . . . I have a number of telephone calls to make. I am in suite 14 should you want me.” He began to move to the door, then paused. “As Mr. Rolfe’s executor and legal advisor I think I should know if you are continuing to follow Mr. Archer’s advice. Two million dollars is a heavy loss.”

She looked directly at him.

“You have no need as yet to act as an executor, Mr. Winborn and I trust it will be many years to come before you have to,” she said quietly.

Again the tightening of the lips, then he said, “I hope so too, Mrs. Rolfe. Please excuse me,” and he left the room.

Helga relaxed back in the chair, drawing in a long, deep breath. She had acquitted herself well, she thought. If the letter had been found, this dangerous man would have unsheathed his claws.

Returning to her suite, she found Hinkle waiting. He looked tired and his usual benign expression was less in evidence.

“How are you, madame?” he asked, coming forward.