1977 - I Hold the Four Aces (17 page)

Helga regarded him with loathing.

“So you are not only an embezzler, a forger and a blackmailer, you are now a creature of the Mafia!”

Again Archer flushed.

“I will remind you, you are not in a position to be abusive,” he said, a snarl in his voice. “You will pay two million dollars if you want Grenville back. My client is prepared to give you three days to collect the money which is to be paid into a Swiss bank. So, at this time in three days” time, I will call on you. It is up to you.” He finished his drink, set down the glass, then got to his feet. “I need not remind you, when dealing with the Mafia you should be very, very careful. It would be quite lethal for Grenville, so my client tells me, if you contact the police.” He smiled. “My client also said that if the money isn’t paid within three days, you will receive one of Grenville’s ears.”

Helga lost colour, but not her steel.

“It is a savage thing,” Archer went on, “and it shocks me, but that is the way the Mafia works. They are utterly ruthless people. Don’t think this is an idle threat. It has been done before, if you recall the Getty affair. So I would advise you to look through your stock holdings and sell to your advantage - that is, of course, if you want Grenville back. I haven’t met him, but if you have taken a fancy to him, knowing your taste, I assume he must be handsome. With an ear less, he could be less handsome.” As he made for the door, he paused. “I was almost forgetting. My client gave me this sealed envelope. It is for you.” He put the envelope on the table. “I hear Grenville tried to be brave: a mistake, when in the hands of the Mafia.” He paused, then went on, “Well then, Helga, expect me in three days” time. “Bye for now.”

Leaving the villa, he got into the Mercedes and drove away.

Her heart hammering, Helga snatched up the envelope, tore it open, and took out three polaroid coloured prints. She took one horrified look at them, stifled a scream and dropped them on the floor as Hinkle came quietly into the room.

As Archer had anticipated, the photographs completely shattered Helga. She loathed violence. She could never watch any violent movie. Time and again, she had snapped off the TV set when someone was about to be shot or hurt. All the steel in her evaporated. She buried her head in her hands and began to sob wildly.

“They’ve hurt him! I knew they would! They’ve hurt him!” she moaned.

Hinkle gave her a disapproving look and picked up the photographs. He regarded them, pursed his lips, then putting them on the table, he touched her lightly on her shoulder.

“I suggest, madame, you should control yourself,” he said severely.

She stared up at him, her eyes wild.

“Look what they have done to him! They are fiends! I must get the money at once! I…” and she began to sob again.

Hinkle went over to the hi-fi set and snapped down the switch. Then he went to a drawer, and from it, took a powerful magnifying glass. Picking up the photographs, he examined them carefully. At first glance, they were impressive, showing Grenville lying on the floor, blood on his face, his eyes closed.

After studying the photographs under the magnifying glass for some moments, Hinkle nodded, and put them down on the table.

“Madame, if you can cease being hysterical,” he said, a snap in his voice, “I wish to tell you something.”

Her face tear-stained, her body shaking, Helga looked up at him.

“Leave me alone! Go away!”

“Madame, I wish to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

Picking up one of the photographs, he waved it at her.

“This looks to me remarkably like tomato ketchup,” he said.

Helga was so astonished, she stopped crying.

“Tomato ketchup?” Her voice was husky and unsteady. “Have you gone mad? What are you saying?”

“Before I entered Mr. Rolfe’s service, madame, I had the misfortune to look after a gentleman in the movie business,” Hinkle said. “From him, I learned the art of make-up. Apparently, tomato ketchup is used to simulate blood.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” The steel came back and her voice snapped.

Hinkle nodded his approval.

“I am suggesting, madame, that Mr. Grenville is not hurt. It would appear these photographs are fakes.”

Helga stiffened.

“You really think so, Hinkle? You don’t think they have hurt him?”

“I think it is most unlikely, madame.”

“The devils!” she clenched her fists. “But I must get him out of their hands. I…”

“Madame, I would like to ask you a question.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so pompous!” she shrilled at him. “I’m going out of my mind. What is it?”

Again Hinkle nodded his approval. This was Helga Rolfe as he knew her, not an hysterical weakling.

“How do you imagine these two men, who took Mr. Grenville away, got into the villa?” he asked.

“What the hell has that to do with it?” Helga snapped. “They rushed in here and took him away!”

“But how did they get in?” Hinkle persisted.

She stared at him, then drew in a deep breath.

“Through the front door, of course.”

“I locked and bolted the front door, madame, before retiring.”

“You must have forgotten,” Helga said impatiently.

“Before retiring, madame,” Hinkle said quietly, “I locked and bolted the front door.”

Helga looked at him, then nodded.

“I apologize. I’m worried out of my mind.”

“That is understandable. Nevertheless, these two men must have come in by way of the front door. Did Mr. Grenville leave you to go to the lobby toilet?”

Helga’s eyes opened wide.

“Yes, but…”

“Then I suggest Mr. Grenville unlocked and unbolted the front door. There could be no one else.”

“Are you daring to suggest that Mr. Grenville engineered his own kidnapping?” Helga shrilled.

“These photographs are fakes, madame. Mr. Grenville was the only one here who could unlock the front door,” Hinkle said. “The conclusion is obvious.”

“No! He loves me! He would never, never do such a thing!” Helga began to beat her fists together. “I won’t listen to you! I know you hate him, but I love him! I won’t listen to you!”

“Before leaving you with Mr. Archer, I took the liberty of turning on the tape recorder,” Hinkle said, unperturbed. “We have a recording of the conversation between you and Mr. Archer. I have also the number of his car. I suggest, madame, we should now seek the help of the police.”

“The police? No! Chris is in the hands of the Mafia! They are threatening to cut off his ear unless I pay.” Jumping to her feet, she stared wildly at him. “What is money? I don’t give a damn as long as I get him back! I’ll pay! I’m not listening to your insinuations! You are suggesting hateful things because you hate him! Keep out of this! I am going to get him back, no matter what it costs!” She ran from the room and into her bedroom, slamming the door.

For a long moment, Hinkle stood still, his face clouded, then he moved out onto the terrace. He stood by the terrace rail, staring out across the lake, his mind busy.

* * *

Archer eased his heavy body in the driving seat of the Mercedes as he drove through Cassarate and headed towards the lake road to Paradiso.

He was feeling relaxed and satisfied. He had certainly dug the knife into that bitch and had turned the blade. He chuckled. It was a pity he hadn’t seen her reaction when she had looked at those photographs, but he could well imagine how she would have gone to pieces. To see her darling lover with blood on his face would utterly demoralize her. He was sure he would have no trouble with her. She would pay up.

A million dollars! he thought. In three days” time, he would be able to buy himself as many suits as he wanted. He could go to the barber once a week instead of cutting his own hair. He could once again eat at the best restaurants; stay at the best hotels! She deserved no pity. She had given him none in the past. This was sweet revenge!

It had been a brilliant idea of his to let her imagine Grenville was in the hands of the Mafia. How Grenville would laugh. Damn it! They must celebrate. Then he frowned. Grenville must keep out of sight until the money was paid, but at least they could have a bottle of champagne. Archer nodded. Yes, he thought, splendid idea - an idea Grenville would appreciate.

After some difficulty, he found parking in Lugano, and went to the Inno store. There, he bought two bottles of good champagne, then selected a variety of hors d'oeuvres with several cheeses. They would have a little feast, while he told Grenville how clever he had been.

Carrying his purchases, he returned to the Mercedes and headed back to his rented villa. By now, he thought, Helga would be busy examining her list of stock holdings, trying to make up her mind which to sell. Whatever stock she did sell to make up two million dollars, she would be the loser. The Dow Jones index was flat on its back. Serve the bitch right! That was her funeral, and Archer laughed. He could imagine her driving her fancy Rolls to Bern to consult her banker, panic gnawing at her. Sweet revenge!

The four aces, he thought. I hold them all, and this time, she can’t bluff her way out! I have her exactly where I want her!

He pulled up outside the rented villa, collected his purchases and hurried up the path. He opened the front door.

“Chris! It worked!” he shouted.

Silence greeted him.

Frowning, he walked into the empty living-room, then into the bedroom, then into the second bedroom. There was no sign of Grenville. Suddenly uneasy, Archer looked into the kitchen, hurried to the bathroom and threw open the door to the toilet.

Grenville was not in the villa.

chapter seven

G
renville had watched Archer drive away, then he had returned to the shabby little living-room and had sat down. He would probably have an hour to wait before Archer returned. He didn’t envy Archer.

He had now learned that Helga could be all steel, but Archer had seemed very confident. Grenville had no doubts that she was madly in love with him. He just hoped that Archer would handle her carefully.

He was now satisfied that he could trust Archer. All the same, he told himself, he would keep close to Archer, once the money was paid. When such a sum was involved, one couldn’t be too careful.

He lit a cigarette, as he followed in his mind Archer’s progress through Cassarate and up to Castagnola. He looked at his watch. In another ten minutes, he thought, Archer would be arriving at Helga’s villa. It was a bore that they had to stay in this miserable little villa for three days, but he bowed to Archer’s warning that he must not show himself on the streets. It would be a complete give-away if he were spotted. The Swiss police were busy-bodies, Archer had said, and they always looked twice at foreigners. He remembered the policeman who had threatened to give him a parking ticket. He frowned.

He had behaved stupidly. That policeman had his name and address and would recognize him again.

Thinking about the incident, Grenville shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t matter, he told himself. In three days” time, he would be at the Geneva airport, waiting to take-off for New York, then from New York, he would fly down to Miami, spend a couple of days there, and then on to the West Indies.

He wondered what Archer would do with his share of the money. Thinking about Archer, Grenville decided he wasn’t a bad fellow, and, there was no doubt, he had brains. Given decent clothes, Grenville thought, and a respectable haircut, he could look quite impressive. Thank God, he told himself, that he had never got so financially low as Archer had. There had always been some stupid woman to finance him, but with a million dollars, he would be free of all that, and he would be independent!

A slight sound behind him made him look around.

Standing in the doorway was Segetti, and just behind him, Belmont. Startled, Grenville jumped to his feet.

“What are you two doing here?” he demanded sharply. “I thought you were on your way to Geneva.”

“We changed our minds,” Segetti said, and moved into the room. “Didn’t we, Jacques?”

Belmont didn’t say anything. He leaned against the doorpost and stared bleakly at Grenville.

“So what do you want?” These two looked unpleasantly menacing and Grenville had a presentiment of danger. He moved away from the armchair in which he had been sitting.

“What do we want?” Segetti smiled. “We want you, Mr. Grenville.”

“What do you mean?” Grenville’s heart began to thump.

“You understand English? We want you to come with us.”

“That’s the last thing I’ll do,” Grenville blustered. “Now stop this nonsense. You have been well paid. Get out!”

“This time, Mr. Grenville, it won’t be tomato ketchup, it will be for real,” and Segetti produced a vicious-looking Luger automatic, fitted with a silencer. He pointed the gun at Grenville.

Grenville felt a rush of cold blood up his spine. Never before in his life had anyone threatened him with a gun. The sight of that evil-looking little hole in the silencer directed at him, brought him out in a sweat of fear.

“Don’t point that thing at me!” he quavered. “Don’t - don’t shoot!”

“Come along, Mr. Grenville,” Segetti said. “We are going for a little drive. You will sit in the front seat. I shall be in the back seat. If you attempt to do anything foolish, you will get a silent bullet through your spine.” He smiled. “I don’t make idle threats. Let’s go.”

Shaken, his mouth dry, sweat on his face, Grenville followed Belmont down the path to the parked VW. Segetti, pointing the gun at him, slid into the back seat, motioning Grenville to get in the front seat.

Belmont slid under the driving wheel.

“Where are you taking me?” Grenville asked huskily. “What do you want with me?”

“Just keep your trap shut, Mr. Grenville, and you’ll be fine.”

They drove along the lake road, passed a policeman who was directing a pedestrian, asking the way, and Grenville looked longingly at the policeman, but Segetti said softly, “No foolish ideas, Mr. Grenville.”

Entering the Piazza Grande, they turned up a side street, and Belmont pulled up.