1975 - The Joker in the Pack (8 page)

“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 drugged 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?”

“I am sure he would be pleased to see you.”

Helga felt a little chill crawl up her spine. She braced herself as she crossed to the bedroom. Nurse Fairely tactfully went into the kitchenette.

Helga stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at her husband as he lay in the bed. She felt her heart contract. Could this ruin of a man be the mighty Herman Rolfe with all his millions, who with a flick of his fingers commanded attention, who held the magic key that unlocked the doors of the world? The skull-like face was now like a face modeled in wax and that had been exposed to a flame and had melted. The right side of his mouth was flaccid and hung open, showing his teeth and saliva dripped onto a towel on his white silk pajamas. The useless right hand and arm lay on a pillow. The eyes that had always been cold, hard and forbidding were now like liquid pools of stagnant water without life.

They stared at each other. Helga shivered, then pity for him rushed through her and she moved forward, but she stopped abruptly as his eyes lit up. His left hand moved and a bony finger pointed accusingly at her. The slack lips twisted and a sound came: “
Bore!”
Which she knew meant whore.

“I am sorry, Herman,” she said, her voice husky. “Really and truly, I am sorry. God help us both.”

His fingers flicked her away. The eyes expressed his dumb hatred. Shuddering, she stepped back and closed the door. For a long moment, she stood motionless, then controlling herself, she walked to the desk.

Nurse Fairely came from the kitchenette.

“It must be a shock to you, Mrs. Rolfe. So very sad . . . such a fine man.”

“Yes.”

Helga made a show of looking through the papers in the drawers while the fact, amiable nurse stood watching her.

“There is no letter here. Please tell Mr. Rolfe.”

“Perhaps you would tell him, Mrs. Rolfe. It is odd. He is so insistent.”

“I can’t face him again for the moment.” Helga’s voice broke. “You are at liberty to look through all these papers, nurse. Ask him if he would like you to do that.”

She was close to tears and turning away, she walked quickly back to her suite. It took her several minutes to recover, then with her capacity to absorb a shock, she switched her mind from her husband to Jackson.

Know your enemy
.

That was to be her first move. Picking up the ‘Room vacant: please service’ card, she left the suite, hung the card on the door handle and rode down in the elevator to the lobby. She asked for a taxi and was driven to the Nassau National Bank. She told the taxi driver to wait. She entered the bank and arranged for fifteen thousand dollars to be available to her for the following day. As she left the bank, she saw across the road an automobile showroom. Above the door was a banner:
The Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Motorcycle
.

Telling the taxi driver to wait, she crossed the road and entered the showroom.

A young colored salesman approached.

“I am interested in this motorcycle,” she said. “May I see it?”

“The Electra Glide?” The salesman spread his hand in an exaggerated gesture of despair. “We sold our only model, madame, but we will have another within a few months.”

“How disappointing. I wanted to see it,” Helga smiled. “Perhaps the buyer would show it to me. Have you his name and address?”

“A moment, madame.” The salesman went away. He returned after a few minutes and handed her a card on which was written: Mr. Richard Jones, 1150 North Beach Road, Nassau.

He then gave her an illustrated folder.

“You will find all the details here, madame. I would advise you to place an order with us without delay. There is considerable demand for this machine.”

Returning to the taxi, she told the driver to take her to North Beach Road. It took ten minutes of driving out of the city before they reached the long, shabby street.

The driver, a West Indian, slowed and looked over his shoulder at her.

“You want some special number, missus?”

“Just drive along slowly,” she said.

Looking out of the window, she finally spotted No. 1150: a broken down bungalow with an iron-corrugated rood, weeds in the garden, grey sheets hanging out to dry and a big, gat West Indian woman with grey in her hair, sitting on the stoop, reading a magazine.

Helga told the driver to take her back to the hotel. She had been absent half an hour. As she crossed to the elevator, the hall porter materialized by her side.