1975 - The Joker in the Pack (2 page)

“Well,” she sat down fairly close to him but in the shade of an umbrella. She found the Nassau sun, after the Swiss sun, a little overpowering.

They spoke trivialities: she inquiring about his health, he inquiring, without interest, about her flight. He told her he wasn’t feeling too well, but that fool Levi always made a mountain out of a molehill. Neither of them believed what he said.

After this empty skirmishing, he said abruptly, “You have something else to tell me?”

“Yes.” She braced herself. “Jack Archer has turned out to be an embezzler and a forger.”

She looked directly at him, expecting an explosion, but there was no change of expression. How she wished there had been! If he had even stiffened, changed color, she would feel he was human, the skull-like face remained skull-like.

“I know that.” His voice was harsh. “Two million.”

A chill crept up her spine.

“How can you possibly know?”

“Know? It is my business to know! Have you imagined that I don’t check on everything that concerns my money?” He raised a thin hand. “Archer stole intelligently. Mobile. Transalpine. Nacional Financial. Chevron. Calcomp. Hobart and General Motors. At least, thief as he is, he showed intelligence.”

When he had tried to blackmail her, Archer had assured her that Rolfe wouldn’t know what bonds, what shares he had stolen. He had told her that Rolfe’s portfolio was so vast he wouldn’t miss the certificates and she had believed him. Crushed, she sat silent, looking down at the leather portfolio that now contained no secrets.

“So Archer is a forger and an embezzler,” Rolfe went on. “It happens. I misjudged the man. I take it he forged your signature?”

Feeling utterly defeated, Helga said, “Yes.”

“I should have thought of that possibility. There should have been a third signature. We will write this off as an experience.”

She stared at him bewildered.

“But you will prosecute him?”

His head turned. The black goggles were directed at her.

“Fortunately, I can afford not to prosecute. Two million? To many it is a large sum but fortunately to me, it isn’t. Of course, I have already arranged that Archer will never ever get a responsible job again. He will find life much harder and more depressing than serving a term in jail. From now on, no one will touch Archer. He will join the ranks of the shifty, the shoddy and fringe people.”

Helga sat motionless, her heart beating unevenly, sure that there was more behind this act of so-called mercy not . . . not to prosecute.

Finally, she said, “I was sure you would prosecute.”

He nodded.

“I would have prosecuted but for one thing.” His head turned, the goggles pointed away from her. “I have been informed that before our marriage you were Archer’s mistress. I have been advised that if I prosecute Archer, this sordid fact will become public. Archer could sully you in court. I am prepared to forgo the satisfaction of jailing him to protect you and myself from scandal.”

Her mind went back to that moment when he had asked her to marry him.

He had asked, “Does sex mean a lot to you?” Then he had gone on, “I am a cripple. I am asking you if you are prepared to give up a normal sex life to become my wife. When we marry, there must never be any other man, never a breath of scandal. That is something I will not tolerate. If you cheat, Helga, I will divorce you and you will be left with nothing. Remember that. If you remain faithful to me, I will give you a fulfilled life. There are many compensations which I have discovered that can replace sex. If you are prepared to accept this condition then we can be married as soon as I can make the arrangements.”

She had agreed to his terms, believing then that sex could be replaces by the advantages and the glamour of being the wife of one of the world’s richest men, but it hadn’t worked out like that. To her, she had to accept the fact that sex was life.

“I am sorry,” was all she could find to say.

He shrugged.

“That is all right. The past is the past.” Rolfe moved restlessly. “I am relieving you of the burden of handling my money, Helga. I now only expect you to act as my hostess; continue to enjoy my money and remain a faithful wife. Winborn will take over the Swiss portfolio.” He dug a thin finger into the bell push at his side.

Shocked, suddenly furious, Helga said, “So you no longer trust me?”

“It is not a matter of trust,” Rolfe said, his voice hard and cold. “Of course you are not to blame. Rather I am to blame for choosing Archer. You have done very well. I have been satisfied, but it is better, under the circumstances, to relieve you of further responsibilities.”

Hinkle came out on to the terrace in answer to the bell. Seeing them, he paused discreetly, out of hearing.

Helga said angrily, “So I am to be downgraded, punished because of your own stupid judgment!”

The black goggles swung in her direction. The skull-like face remained impassive.

“Enjoy the beach, Helga.” Rolfe’s voice revealed his complete indifference. “And behave yourself. Remember this. I seldom make a mistake, but when I do, I never repeat it.”

He snapped his thin fingers at Hinkle who came forward.

Leaving the portfolio on the chair, Helga, flushed and furious, left the terrace and returned to her apartment.

* * *

The only child of a brilliant international lawyer, Helga had had a continental education. She had had training in law and secretarial practice. Her father had joined a firm in Lausanne, Switzerland, specializing in tax problems. When she was twenty-four and fully qualified, her father had brought her into the firm as his personal assistant. She had a flair for finance and quickly made herself indispensable. The heart attack that killed her father some six years later made no difference to her position with the firm. Jack Archer, one of the junior partners, grabbed her as his personal secretary. He was handsome, dynamic and magnificently sexy. She had always been oversexed. Men were necessary in her life and she had so many lovers she had lost count of them. She became Archer’s mistress an hour or so after she had agreed to work with him. Somehow, no one seemed to know quite how, Archer got hold of the Herman Role’s account and by doing so became a senior partner. Helga had helped him to handle the massive portfolio. Rolfe had been impressed by her financial flair, her looks and her personality. He had offered marriage. Urged on by Archer, she had accepted. All had gone well until Archer had been tempted to make himself a quick million dollars by investing in Australian nickel where there was no nickel. To save himself, he had forged Helga’s signature and had taken over two million dollars of Rolfe’s money.

Sitting on the terrace, staring out at the beach, Helga heard again Archer’s persuasive words: “Look Helga, Herman needn’t know about this. You know he never checks anything. He is far too busy. You initial all this stuff and he accepts it. I’m asking you to help me out of a hole. After all he’s worth around sixty million, he will never miss two will he?”

Although she was sure Herman wouldn’t miss two million, she had refused to be Archer’s accomplice. How right she had been! For Herman knew that Archer had turned embezzler before she could tell him! She drew in a long, deep breath. Thank God, she hadn’t submitted to Archer’s attempted blackmail!

So . . .

It is better, under the circumstances, to relieve you of further responsibilities
.

The crippled bastard! After all she had done for him! After all the money she had made for him by shrewd and careful investing! To be tossed aside like this!

I now only expect you to be my hostess; continue to enjoy my money and remain a faithful wife
.

No longer would she have the excuse to fly to Lausanne, Paris, Bonn, representing him. No longer would she receive the V.I.P. treatment at the airports and the luxury hotels. A hostess! A smiling face, the right words to fat, old men who wanted favors from her husband, who fawned over her, hoping she might advance their interests. No more freedom! No more waiters who came to her room, serviced her and went away with money in their experienced hands. No more young, well-built men, ready and willing. It was only on her travels that she looked for lovers: never in Miami, Paradise City, New York: Herman’s neck of the woods. She was now condemned to sit in this kind of hotel or in the luxury of the Paradise City villa or in the New York penthouse with her crippled husband always nearby, staring at her behind black sun goggles.

Then she thought of what Dr. Levi had said.

He could die tomorrow. He could die next year. Give and take, I would say perhaps six months unless he gives up this rat race and relaxes
.

That Herman would never do. So . . . six months! She was prepared to wait six months. And then . . . Sixty million dollars! Rolfe’s magic key her own!

She put on a bikini swimsuit. Still not entirely sure of herself, she again surveyed herself in the mirror. The Swiss winter tan was becoming but paling a little. Her figure was provocative. She knew this. Pulling on a beach wrap, she took the elevator to the lobby.

The reception manager was immediately at her side.

“Is there anything, madame?”

“Yes, please . . . a beach buggy.”

“Of course.”

No more than a three-minute wait and the beach buggy was pulling up at the hotel entrance. The smiling attendant offered to show her the controls, but she was familiar with the controls of machines on wheels.

A smiling traffic cop, obviously alerted, stopped the traffic and gave her a salute as she drove across the main road and on to the beach. She waved to him, smiling. A beautiful man, she thought. God! How I would like him in my bed!

Driving fast, she soon put the crowds behind her and headed for the sand dunes, the deserted beach and the sea. When she was sure she was on her own, she left the beach buggy and throwing off her wrap, she ran into the sea. She swam furiously, getting rid of all that irked her: Herman, Archer, her boxed-in future. She was an excellent swimmer, and by swimming fast, she came out of the water feeling cleansed both in mind and body.

As she walked back to the beach buggy, her step faltered. A man in swim trunks was standing by the vehicle, examining it: a big man with muscular shoulders, deeply tanned body, black, overlong hair and green sun goggles.

He looked towards her and grinned, showing big white teeth, teeth good enough to feature on a TV commercial in spite of the sun goggles which hid his eyes: the rest of his face was friendly, pleasant without being handsome.

“Hi there,” he said, “I was admiring this thing. Is it yours?”

“It belongs to the hotel,” Helga said and reached for her wrap. He got it before she did and with just the right movements, nothing familiar, nothing servile, he helped her on with it. “Thank you.”

“I’m Harry Jackson,” he told her. “Down here on vacation. I saw you swimming. Olympic style,” and he grinned.

She looked sharply at him, but he wasn’t putting her on. He had said what he meant.

“Well,” she shrugged, pleased, “I swim a bit. Are you enjoying your vacation, Mr. Jackson?”

“I sure am. This is the first time I have visited this neck of the woods. It’s something isn’t it?”

“It would seem so. I have only just arrived.”

“I want to do some skin diving. Do you skin dive?”

“Yes.” What didn’t she do? she wondered.

“Would you know the best place? No, I guess that’s a stupid question with you just arriving.”

She had been studying him, his beautiful muscles, his frank smile, his sexuality and that crucifying sex urge boiled up in her. If he had grabbed and raped her, it would have been the moment of her life. She looked up and down the deserted beach. The were utterly alone.

There was a pause, then she said. “How did you get here?”

“Oh, I walked. I like walking.” He smiled. “I got tired of all the noise. People sure know how to enjoy themselves here but they kick up a hell of a racket.”

“Yes.” She moved to the beach buggy and got in. “Do you want a ride back?”

“Thanks. I’ve had all the walking I want for today.”

He climbed in beside her.

As she started the engine, she looked more closely at him. He was probably thirty-three, not more: ten years her junior, she thought. She wished he would take off the sun goggles. A man’s eyes, to her, were important.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Jackson?” she asked. She wanted to know into what class category she would place him.

“I’m a salesman,” Jackson said. “I travel around. I like the life. I’m free, on my own. That’s important to me.”

And to me too, Helga thought as she set the buggy in motion.

“What do you sell?”

“Kitchen equipment.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? Everyone needs kitchen equipment.” She was thinking: small fry, not dangerous, no connections with any of Herman’s awful people . . . he could be safe.

“Right. I enjoy it. As you say, people always need something for the kitchen.”

“Where are you staying, Mr. Jackson?”

“I’ve rented a beach hut. I look after myself. I like it that way. Hotels give me a pain.”

“Yes. Does your wife like that way of life?”

He laughed: an easy lilting laugh.

“I haven’t a wife, I like my freedom. I haven’t even a girlfriend here, but I’ll find someone. I believe in ships that pass in the night . . . no complications,” and he laughed again.

She very nearly stopped the buggy and told him to take her, but she controlled herself.

“I’m Helga,” she said. “I’m on my own tonight. Should we do something about it?”

Was he going to duck out? Was he going to tell her by a look, not in words that she was too old for him? Her fingers turned white on the driving wheel.

“Wonderful!” He sounded enthusiastic. “Let’s do that. Where and when do I pick you up?”

“Have you a car?”

“Sure.”

“Then why not outside the Ocean Beach club at nine o’clock?”

She had seen the club some hundred yards down the road from her hotel. At nine o’clock, Herman would be in bed.

“It’s a date. I look forward to it.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a seafood restaurant I know. Do you like seafood?