1977 - I Hold the Four Aces (22 page)

Bernie grinned at her. He switched on the drill and leaning forward, bored a hole in the antique coffee table by him. Having made the hole, he levered out the drill and then bored another hole. Then he switched off the drill.

“Handy tool, isn’t it, lady?” he said.

Helga drew in a shuddering breath.

“What do you want?” she asked, not moving.

“I thought it was time, lady, to talk to you,” Bernie said. “That fink Archer didn’t seem able to convince you that we mean business. From what he tells me, your lover boy now doesn’t mean a thing to you. I was going to cut off his ears, but he sold me another idea.” He leaned forward and bored another hole in the table.

So Archer hadn’t been bluffing! This terrifying creature must be a Mafioso, Helga thought. Looking at him, she realized he was far too vicious and ruthless for her to attempt to handle.

“What do you want?” This time her voice was unsteady.

He levered the drill bit free.

“Fifteen million dollars, lady, in bearer bonds.” Then he leaned forward, and with a snarl in his voice, he went on, “I have your servant, Hinkle. Grenville said Hinkle was important to you. Is he?”

Helga felt faint. Moving unsteadily, she dropped into a chair.

“Where is he?”

“You’ll see. You and I are going to him now.” Bernie bored yet another hole in the table. “You will see how useful this tool is, lady. Unless you pay up, I’ll give you a little exhibition that will make you change your mind.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not going with you!”

Bernie regarded her evilly.

“I said let’s go, and listen, lady, have you ever thought what happens when a fink gets a drill bit like this through both his kneecaps? You play along with me, lady, or your fink servant won’t walk again.”

Helga felt the blood drain from her face. She had always had a horror of violence, and this obscene threat nearly turned her sick…and to Hinkle!

“I’ll pay.” She got unsteadily to her feet. “I’ll call my bank now.”

Bernie studied her, nodded and grinned.

“That’s being sensible, but no tricks. Go ahead and fix it. I want the bonds here by tomorrow morning or else this drill goes into action.”

Shaking, Helga went to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

“That will be quite unnecessary, madame,” Hinkle said in his fruity, bishop’s voice.

Helga spun around.

Standing in the french windows, flanked on either side by two tall, heavily-built men, both with automatic pistols in their hands, was Hinkle: admittedly an unshaven, crumpled-looking Hinkle, but still, Hinkle.

Bernie started to his feet, dropping the drill, as one of the big men moved over to him.

“Hello, Bernie,” the man said. “You have had a long run, now it’s our turn. Come on.”

Bernie eyed the gun, then shrugged.

“You can’t pin anything on me, Bazzi,” he snarled, “and you know it.”

The big man smiled.

“We can always try, Bernie. Let’s go.”

Bernie glared at Hinkle, then moved across the living-room. The two police officers followed. The front door slammed. A car started up and drove away.

Hinkle said, “I must ask you to excuse me, madame. I am looking dishevelled. If you would be kind enough to give me a few moments, I will get you some coffee.”

Tears began to run down Helga’s face. She went to him, and putting her arms around him, she hugged him.

“Oh, Hinkle! I was so frightened! If they had done anything dreadful to you…”

“Madame!” Hinkle’s voice was sharp. “You must excuse me for a few minutes,” and giving her a fatherly pat on her shoulder, he disengaged himself and walked fast to his quarters.

Helga dropped into a chair and continued to cry.

She had stopped crying, and was in control of herself, when Hinkle, immaculate, pushed in the coffee trolley.

“I suggest a little cognac mixed with the coffee, madame,” he said. “It is good for the nerves.”

Her lips trembling, she forced a smile.

“You think of everything, Hinkle, but I don’t drink a thing unless you join me, and please sit down.”

Hinkle raised his eyebrows.

“I mean it!” Helga said sharply.

“Very well, madame. I will get a second cup.”

There was a pause, then Hinkle returned, carrying a cup and saucer. He poured coffee into the two cups, added the cognac, then sat down, opposite Helga.

“Madame, I have to apologize,” he said. “I have exposed you to a terrible experience, but I assure you, the police insisted it was the only way to trap these ruffians.”

Helga sipped her coffee. Hinkle’s quiet presence had a soothing effect on her.

“Tell me, Hinkle. I want to know what happened.”

“Of course, madame. As you are aware, I telephoned my nephew-in-law, Jean Faucon, about Mr. Grenville. What you didn’t know is that I told Faucon about the whole situation, and that Mr. Grenville had been supposedly kidnapped and that Mr. Archer was demanding a two million dollar ransom. Faucon alerted the Swiss police. Inspector Bazzi had had this villa watched now for the past two days. He wanted to find out where Mr. Grenville and Mr. Archer were hiding. When I got rid of Mr. Archer, a police officer followed him to a rented villa in Paradiso, and this man Bernie appeared. Apparently, Bernie is well-known to the police, but he has been astute enough not to give them any evidence to arrest him. The police followed Mr. Archer and Bernie to a small shop in Lugano and a watch was kept. The Swiss police are patient. They waited. Apparently, Bernie decided, as you appeared to have lost interest in Mr. Grenville, to kidnap me. This move was unforeseen by the police, but as our villa was under guard, there was no reason for alarm.

“This morning, I opened the front door, as is my custom, and was seized by two ruffians who forced me into a car, and drove me to this shop which has a barn at the back. There, I found Mr. Grenville and Mr. Archer, and this evil man, Bernie. Still the police waited. Bernie left and came here to threaten you. As soon as he had gone, the police, under the direction of Inspector Bazzi, arrested Mr. Grenville and Mr. Archer and the two ruffians. Inspector Bazzi and I then drove here and were in time to hear Bernie threatening you.” Hinkle paused, then went on, “That is the story, madame. I regret that you have been subjected to such an alarming experience, and that this evil man should have ruined such a nice table.”

“I don’t give a damn about the table,” Helga said. “I’m only so thankful I have you back.”

“Thank you, madame.” Hinkle finished his coffee. “The whole affair will be handled with the utmost discretion. Inspector Bazzi tells me that Mr. Grenville will be sent back to Germany to face bigamy charges. Bernie, and his two ruffians will be charged with receiving stolen property. The police searched Bernie’s apartment, and it contains a considerable amount of stolen property. Inspector Bazzi understands that it would be better to drop the kidnapping charge, so you will not be involved.”

“And Archer?” Helga asked.

“Mr. Archer, of course, presents a problem. I found Inspector Bazzi most understanding. I felt sure you would not wish to prosecute Mr. Archer as Mr. Rolfe refrained from prosecuting him. If he were prosecuted, he could make difficulties.” Hinkle’s voice went down a tone to show his disapproval. “It has been arranged that Mr. Archer should be deported from Switzerland, and not allowed to return. In the circumstances, and to avoid charging him, it seems the best course.”

Helga looked at him. She told herself this kindly man must have known for some time that at one time she had been Archer’s mistress. Probably, her husband had told him. How wise Hinkle was! She was sure that if Archer were charged, he would try, and probably succeed, in telling the world, through the press, that in the past, the fabulous, wealthy Mrs. Rolfe use to lie on his office floor, while he serviced her.

“Yes,” she said, and looked away. “So it is over.”

“Yes, madame. Now, there are things to do. You will be catching the three o’clock flight to New York.” He got to his feet. “I have to complete the packing.” As he picked up the tray, he paused, then said, “May I suggest, madame, in the future, you should get your values right. I am certainly not worth fifteen million dollars.” His kindly, fat face lit up with a warm smile. “But I thank you.”

Leaving her, he walked into the kitchen.

* * *

To Archer’s surprise, Inspector Bazzi of the Ticino police turned out to be genial and talkative, in spite of his heavy features, his thin mouth and his small cop’s eyes.

Smiling affably, he told Archer he was going to escort him personally to the Geneva airport, and to see him safely on the London flight. While driving Archer to the airport, he talked of his wife and son, and the holiday he was taking in Nice at the end of the month. Unless one had known, Archer thought, one would never guess this massively-built man at his side, was a police officer.

Utterly relieved that he wasn’t to be arrested, but merely deported, Archer regained some of his bounce. He gave Bazzi the names of several cheap, but good restaurants in the Nice neighbourhood, and also recommended two modest, but good hotels. Bazzi thanked him, and said he would remember Archer’s suggestions.

Together, they walked into the airport lobby, and Archer parted with his shabby suitcase and had his flight ticket checked. The formalities over, the two men passed through the customs. The two customs officers eyed Archer, shook hands with Bazzi and waved them through. Bazzi then went with Archer into the flight take-off lounge.

“There will be a delay,” Bazzi said. “The London flight will be late.”

“Everything to do with England is late these days,” Archer said sourly.

The two men settled themselves on one of the benches that overlooked the tarmac where several aircraft were lined up.

“Just an official word, Mr. Archer,” Bazzi said with his genial smile. “Please don’t attempt to return to Switzerland. That is understood, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Bazzi regarded him. “I must say, Mr. Archer, you are a very fortunate man. Had Madame Rolfe brought charges against you, you would have spent many disagreeable years in one of our jails.”

Archer nodded.

“She had her reasons,” he said.

“The very rich always have reasons.” Bazzi shrugged. “So, you are going to London. Would it be inquisitive to ask what you will do there, Mr. Archer?”

The question was put in a most friendly way, and Archer wished he could answer truthfully.

“What shall I do?” he repeated, thinking, “What shall I do? How I wish I knew!” He had several contacts in London, but they were all, more or less, in the same depressing boat as himself: fringe people, feverishly hunting for quick money. Perhaps, if he were lucky, one of them could use his services and his brains for a small fee: if he were lucky, but he wasn’t going to tell Bazzi this. “You have no idea, Inspector, of the opportunities there are in England. There are interesting loans to be floated, Arab money anxious to be invested, property developers looking for new outlets. many, many opportunities for a man of my experience.”

Bazzi eyed him thoughtfully, then smiled.

“I was under the impression, Mr. Archer, that England, at this moment, is suffering from some kind of depression.”

Archer waved his hand airily.

“That is mere newspaper talk. You should never believe what you read in the papers. You would be surprised how much hidden wealth still remains in England.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite right. Oh, I know there is a lot of talk about England’s troubles. What country doesn’t have troubles, and strikes?” Archer wagged his head. “But I assure you, I shall have no difficulty.”

There was a slight commotion which caused both men to look up. Two press photographers were hovering, then Helga, looking radiant, carrying a small bag and her coat, swept through the lounge and into the V.I.P. room.

“Ah, Mrs. Rolfe herself!” Bazzi said. “A fine-looking woman.”

Archer became deflated. So, Helga had already forgotten Grenville, he thought. She couldn’t look so radiant, so happy if she were grieving. What a bitch!

If his kidnap plan had succeeded, he too would have been able to walk into the V.I.P. lounge, and be fawned over by stewards. Now, here he was, under police escort, flying tourist-class to London, not knowing how long his money would last before he found some shady promoter with a proposition.

“A fine-looking woman,” Bazzi repeated. “At one time, I understand, Mr. Archer, you had the privilege of working with her.”

Archer wasn’t listening. He was regarding a tall, well-built man in his early fifties who had just entered the lounge. This man was immaculately dressed, and exuded money and power. His lean, strong face with a cleft chin, china blue eyes, and a grey clipped moustache gave him an impressive, eye-catching appearance.

Bazzi, following Archer’s glance, said, “Ah! That is Monsieur Henri de Villiers: one of the richest and most important industrialists of France. There are rumours that he will be the next French Ambassador to the United States.”

Already, the two photographers were letting off their flashbulbs. De Villiers paused, gave a charming smile, before an air hostess ushered him into the V.I.P. lounge.

Archer heaved a sigh.

With a million dollars, he too could have been as impressive as this man, he thought.

The New York flight was announced.

“There they go,” Bazzi said, turning to look down on the tarmac.

Archer saw Helga moving towards the aircraft. Behind her was de Villiers, followed by two other people. Archer watched Helga’s easy stride; then half-way to the aircraft, she dropped something white which could have been a handkerchief, but Archer was too far away to be sure. De Villiers picked it up, and lengthening his stride, gave it to Helga. Archer watched her pause and look up at this imposing man, and then give him a flashing smile. They exchanged words, then de Villiers took her small bag, and together, they walked to the aircraft.

Bazzi chuckled.

“That, I think, was fast work,” he said.

“She has always worked fast, and always will,” Archer said sourly, then hearing his London flight called, he got to his feet.