1975 - The Joker in the Pack (5 page)

“All right. And you, Hinkle?”

“It has been an anxious night, but now Mr. Rolfe appears less poorly, madame. We must not give up hope.”

“Did Dr. Levi tell you . . . paralysis?”

“Yes, madame. Quite shocking, but we mustn’t dwell on it. May I suggest lunch on the terrace? The press people have gone. You won’t be disturbed and the sun is good for you.”

“All right. Oddly enough, Hinkle, I feel hungry.”

“It is the strain, madame. It is understandable.”

Dear, kind Hinkle, she thought. If Herman died, she did hope Hinkle would stay with her.

“I suggest a little quail pate, madame, then a steak au poivre en chemise. I will supervise the chef.” Hinkle’s face darkened. “He has little talent. Then a champagne sorbet. The wine here, I fear, is not to be trusted, but the Bollinger is acceptable.”

“It sounds wonderful, Hinkle.”

He turned to the table where a shaker and a glass stood on a silver tray. He poured a drink.

She studied his movements, looked searchingly at his fat, pink and white face. No, she thought, no blackmailer. No, this time I can be sure.

“You think of everything, Hinkle,” she said as he handed the glass to her.

“I like to think I do, madame.” A pause, then he went on, “At the moment I am unable to help Mr. Rolfe. Regrettably he is out of my hands. I would be happy if you would call on my services, madame. It would give me considerable pleasure.”

“Thank you, Hinkle. I will.” Her quick active brain saw her chance. She must get Hinkle firmly on her side. “Mr. Winborn asked for some papers to do with a deal. I told him you were familiar with Mr. Rolfe’s affairs but Mr. Winborn . . .” She stopped, seeing a faint blush come to Hinkle’s face. Looking away, she said, “Mr. Winborn is a snob.”

She then looked at Hinkle and their eyes met.

“So I believe, madame,” he said, gave a little bow and moved to the door. “Then lunch in half an hour.”

When he had gone, she went out on to the terrace and surveyed the beach, the crowds and the traffic.

“I think Hinkle is mine,” she said to herself.

* * *

After lunch, Dr. Levi came to see her. He told her the hemorrhage in the brain hadn’t increased. This was an encouraging sign. He took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. But the hemiplegia was severe. However, in time some sort of recovery was possible.

“Two or three months could see a marked change,” he went on. “I have asked Professor Bernstein to make himself available. He is the best man in Europe. The condition of Mr. Rolfe’s heart, however, is not satisfactory so I don’t want to raise hopes. All the same, under the intensive care treatment he is receiving, I am satisfied that he should be able to be moved within three days. Unfortunately I am unable to remain here any longer and I am anxious to get him to our hospital, but Dr. Bellamy is most competent and you can have complete confidence in him.”

Helga’s mind worked swiftly.

“A marked change? What does that mean?”

“If his heart continues to withstand the shock he has had, I feel confident that he will regain his speech and the paralysis that has attacked his right side will be less severe.”

“Two or three months?”

“It could take longer but certainly not less.”

“You mean that for two or three months he will be unable to speak?”

“It is most unlikely: mumbling, of course, but nothing that could be understood. I mention this because Mr. Winborn is most anxious to consult him. I have warned Mr. Winborn not to attempt to persuade Mr. Rolfe to make any effort.”

Two or three months if his heart held out, Helga thought.

“Could I see him?” she asked, not wanting to but knowing it was the right thing to say.

“Unwise, Mrs. Rolfe. There is no need to distress yourself unnecessarily.” Dr. Levi replaced his glasses. “You have no need to worry. Dr. Bellamy will be in constant touch with me. I will make a decision by Friday whether he can be moved or not.” He regarded her. “Now, Mrs. Rolfe, you must not sit around in this room. You must get out and enjoy the beach and the sunshine.” He smiled. “I don’t want another important patient on my hands: one is quite enough. So attempt to enjoy yourself. Mr. Rolfe is not going to die.” He paused, realizing he was committing himself. “Let me say he will certainly survive for a number of days and I have every hope to say he will live at least to the end of the year What I am trying to say is you may leave the hotel, try to live normally knowing Mr. Rolfe is in expert hands.”

“You are most understanding and kind,” Helga said.

When he had gone, she went out on to the terrace, feeling the hot sun like a sensual caress.

If a heart attack doesn’t kill him, she thought, then in two or three months’ time he would tell Winborn about his letter.

Well, a lot could happen in two or three months. She still had control of the Swiss portfolio: the stocks and bonds amounted to some fifteen million dollars. This was something she had to think about. She did her best thinking at night. So tonight, in bed, she would review her future. At the moment, it seemed to her she was holding trump cards: Herman unable to speak for say two months, the damning letter in her possession and the control of fifteen million dollars: all trump cards.

She went into her bedroom and changed into a bikini. She put on her beach wrap, then called the hall porter.

“A beach buggy, please.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Rolfe: three minutes.”

If ever Herman regained his speech, this V.I.P. treatment would abruptly end. If she had asked for a sixty-ton motor yacht there would have been no problem, but the magic key was trembling in balance.

When she left her suite she noticed the two security guards had gone. This gave her a feeling of relief. Until Herman died, he and she were no longer news.

She drove on to the beach, waving to the saluting policeman who had stopped the traffic for her, then she headed away from the crowd towards the deserted, distant dunes.

As she drove by the row of huts, she remembered Harry Jackson. Up to this moment he had gone completely out of her mind, but seeing the huts, remembering he had told her he had rented one of them, made her think of him with regret.

The morning’s newspapers had carried photographs of her. By now Harry Jackson would know she Mrs. Herman Rolfe. He was no longer safe to have an affair with. In spite of his frank, friendly face, she knew now she could take no risks and also there could now be no affairs in Nassau. She remembered she was being watched. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was following her. The empty beach stretched behind her, but that didn’t mean someone with powerful field glasses wasn’t keeping track of her. She felt a little spurt of fury. It was only in Europe that she really could be safe. Certainly not in Paradise City: that was the last place in which to misbehave.

She must find some excuse for a quick return to Switzerland as soon as she could. It would be difficult, but no impossible.

Leaving the beach buggy in the shade of a palm tree, she ran into the sea and swam vigorously, then turning on her back, she floated, letting the gentle swell rock her until, feeling the bite of the sun, she walked across the sand and sat down in the shade of the palm.

“Hi!” Harry Jackson, smiling, sun goggles in hand, wearing only swim trunks, came across the sand and joined her. “Do you always stand up your dates?”

She looked up at him, her eyes taking in the tanned muscular body and fierce desire stabbed through her like the cruel thrust of a knife. She was glad she had put on her sun goggles for she was sure he would have seen the naked desire in her eyes.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“I was kidding.” Jackson dropped down by her side, stretched out his long legs and rested himself on his elbows. “I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Rolfe.”

Another escape, she thought. If I had gone out with this man last night we would have been lovers by now and that would have been very dangerous, he knowing who I am.

“You have been reading the newspapers?” she said, staring across the beach wondering if anyone was watching.

“Sure. I keep up-to-date.” He smiled at her. “The most beautiful woman in the millionaire stakes: that’s how they described you and I guess they’re right.”

“There are other more beautiful women. Liz Taylor . . .”

“I haven’t met her so I wouldn’t know.” Jackson dug up a handful of dry sand and let it run through his fingers. “How is your husband, Mrs. Rolfe? From the papers, he sounds real bad.”

She was certainly not going to discuss Herman’s health with a kitchen equipment salesman.

“Are you enjoying your vacation, Mr. Jackson?” she asked. When the need arose she could put steel into her voice. She did so now.

“Excuse me, but I’m not just being curious. It’s important to me to know.”

She looked swiftly at him. He was staring out to sea, relaxed, smiling: a good-looking specimen of male flesh.

“Why should it be important to you?”

“A good question. You see, Mrs. Rolfe, I have a problem.”

Instinctively a red light began to flash in her mind.

“Should I be interested in your problems, Mr. Jackson?”

“Problem, not problems.” He dug more sand and allowed it to trickle between his fingers. “I don’t know. I’m wondering, you could be . . .”

“I don’t think so. I have many problems of my own.” She abruptly stood up. “Have a happy vacation. I must get back to my hotel.”

He looked up at her. The smile was a shade less friendly.

“Sure. I was just trying to decide whether to talk to you about my problem or to Mr. Stanley Winborn.”

She felt a little jolt that set her heart racing, but she was touch enough to keep her face expressionless. She reached for her wrap and put it on.

“Do you know Mr. Winborn?” she asked.

“I don’t and between you and me, Mrs. Rolfe, I’m not crazy to get to know him. He looks a pretty tough character. He doesn’t look a helpful guy. Would you say that’s right?” He smiled at her.

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” she said curtly. “Well, I must be going.”

“Please yourself, Mrs. Rolfe. I can’t stop you. I just thought you could be more helpful about my problem than Mr. Winborn, but if you’re in a hurry, then I guess I’ll have to take my chances with your attorney, that’s who he is, isn’t he?”

Helga leaned against the fender of the beach buggy. She opened her bag, took out her gold cigarette case, took out a cigarette and lit it.

“Go ahead, Mr. Jackson: tell me about your problem.”

Jackson smiled up at her.

“You haven’t only beauty, Mrs. Rolfe, you have brains: a very rare combination.”

She waited while he dug more sand.

“A couple of days ago, Mrs. Rolfe, your husband telephoned me and hired me to put you under surveillance,” Jackson said.

This time Helga couldn’t quite conceal the shock. She dropped her cigarette, but she quickly recovered. With steady hands, aware Jackson was watching her admiringly, she found and lit another cigarette.

“Are you telling me you are the peeping Tom my husband hired?”

“Well, I’m called an inquiry agent,” Jackson said and chuckled. “peeping Tom is all right though: not a bad description.”

“I was under the impression you were a kitchen equipment salesman,” Helga said contemptuously, “a considerable cut above a spy.”

Jackson laughed.

“You have a point there. Actually I was a kitchen equipment salesman but it was rough going. Agency work pays a lot better.”

“Spying on people doesn’t bother you?” Helga asked, flicking ash on the sand.

“No more than you cheating on your husband, Mrs. Rolfe,” Jackson returned, smiling at her. “It’s a job, although cheating isn’t.”

She decided she was wasting time. This man, with his deceptively friendly smile had the skin of an alligator.

“What is your problem, Mr. Jackson?”

“Yeah, my problem. When Mr. Rolfe telephoned me I was pretty shaken. I am associated with Lawson’s, the New York inquiry agency, and they recommended Mr. Rolfe to call me. You know, Mrs. Rolfe, big names awe me. I don’t know why it is, but they do. Maybe, I’m a hick . . . could be the answer. Anyway, when Mr. Rolfe dropped this assignment into my lap I kind of flipped my lid. All I could say was ‘Yes, Mr. Rolfe, sure Mr. Rolfe . . . you can rely on me, Mr. Rolfe.” You know . . . like a hick.” He shook his head frowning. “Well, he so flustered me with his grand manner, his curt voice – looking at me, Mrs. Rolfe, do you believe I could get flustered? That was what Mr. Rolfe did . . . he flustered me.” He began to dig more sand. “Anyway, I accepted the assignment, but there was no talk about a retainer or a fee . . . are you getting the drift now, Mrs. Rolfe? I decided that I hadn’t a thing to worry about. All I had to do was to put a tail on you and after a week, shoot in an account for daily expenses along with my report. I told myself when dealing with a man of Mr. Rolfe’s stature you don’t ask for spot cash.”

Helga said nothing. She dropped the stub of her cigarette in the sand, aware of fury rising in her.

“Well, now Mr. Rolfe is laid low,” Jackson continued. “You see my problem? From what I read, he is to be carted off before long to Paradise City. Now I have a living to make. I have hired a couple of guys to watch you and they have to be paid.” He smiled at her. “I run the office, you understand. I don’t do the legwork. Now these guys cost. I should have asked Mr. Rolfe for a retainer, but as I explained I was flustered. So there it is. I’ve got two guys to pay and Mr. Rolfe ill. See my problem?”

Still Helga said nothing. This time her silence seemed to irritate Jackson. He shifted restlessly and dug more sand, more violently.

“I’ve been trying to make up my mind whether to ask you for the retainer or Mr. Winborn,” he said after a long pause.

Helga flicked more ash and waited.

“Am I getting to you, Mrs. Rolfe?” His voice hardened and the smile had gone.

“Let us say, Mr. Jackson, that I am listening,” Helga said quietly.

“Yeah, beauty, brains and toughness. That’s fine with me, Mrs. Rolfe. Let me lay it on the line: ten thousand dollars, I call off my watchdogs, you can have fun and when Mr. Rolfe is well again, I send him a negative report. Fair enough?”