1977 - I Hold the Four Aces (3 page)

“We’ll go into that later. Suppose you tell me about yourself.”

Grenville opened his gold cigarette case, found it empty, frowned, then looked inquiringly at Archer.

“Have you any cigarettes left or are we to be smokeless?”

Archer signalled to the waiter and asked for a pack of Gauloises. When they had lit up, Archer said, “The ball is now in your court, Grenville.”

Grenville gave his charming smile.

“I’m Chris to my friends. so call me Chris. Yes the ball. Frankly, I am what is known as a gigolo: a male escort. It is a despised profession, but make no mistake about it, it is a profession. It is despised by those who don’t understand the very urgent need elderly women have for male company. Go to any good hotel and you will find elderly women boring barmen, boring waiters, looking hopefully for an unattached male. There are thousands of rich, fat or scraggy, unattractive, dull, neurotic, lonely women who crave to have a last fling, to be taken around and be pampered and who pay good money for the attention. I am one of those who supply this demand. These trappings you have remarked on are gifts from old, frustrated women. This bracelet was given to me by a poor old thing who imagined I was in love with her. The cigarette case came from a fat Austrian countess who insisted that I should dance with her every night for three dreadful weeks. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for her, she suffered a minor stroke or else, I suppose, I would be dancing with her now. I am thirty-nine years of age. For the past twenty years I have been making the lives of elderly women happy.” He finished his coffee and smiled at Archer. “There, Jack, you have it in a nutshell.”

A surge of triumph ran through Archer. He hadn’t mistaken his man!

“I think we will have some cheese,” he said.

* * *

The hands of the clock above the concierge’s desk moved to midnight as Joe Patterson entered the lobby of the Plaza Athenee Hotel. He paused at the desk to pick up his key as Archer approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Patterson.”

Scowling, Patterson turned, then seeing Archer, who had been waiting in the lobby for the past two hours, he snapped, “What do you want?”

“I have something important to discuss with you, Mr. Patterson,” Archer said smoothly, “but if it’s the wrong time.”

“Okay, okay. I’ve just been with a chick, and boy! did she give out! Come on, let’s get a goddamn drink.”

Archer followed Patterson to an alcove, waited until the waiter had served the drinks and while Patterson lit a cigar.

“You been busy, Archer? How’s about the Rolfe doll?”

“It is more than possible,” Archer said, “that Madame Rolfe can be persuaded to finance Blue Sky.”

Patterson squinted at him.

“Have you talked to her? You said this morning she wouldn’t touch it.”

“That was first droughts, Mr. Patterson. Since then, I have had second thoughts. I now believe she could be persuaded.”

Patterson grinned.

“Yeah. Nothing like second thoughts. Have you contacted her?”

“The setup is complex, Mr. Patterson. No, I haven’t contacted her and I don’t intend to, but nevertheless, I am satisfied she can be persuaded to invest two million dollars in your promotion.”

Patterson scowled at him.

“Cut the double-talk, Archer! What the hell do you mean?”

“For you to understand the situation, Mr. Patterson, it is necessary for you to know that Helga Rolfe is a nymphomaniac,” Archer said.

Patterson gaped at him.

“A nympho what?”

“A woman who has a compulsive need for a man.”

Patterson’s little eyes opened wide.

“You mean she has hot pants?”

“A little more than that, Mr. Patterson. I have known Helga for the past twenty years. Sex is as necessary to her as food is to you.”

Patterson was intrigued. He took a pull at his drink, knocked cigar ash on the floor and leered at Archer.

“Well! She’s a doll too! You think she and I could get together in bed? If I gave it to her, she would part with the dough?”

Archer regarded the pockmarked, sweaty, coarse face. If only we could see ourselves as others see us, he thought.

“I think not, Mr. Patterson,” he said, picking his words carefully. “Helga seems only interested in rather special, unusual men. She likes them tall, younger than herself, extremely handsome, witty, preferably with a knowledge of the arts, and of course, since she speaks German, French and Italian fluently, she would expect the man to do the same.”

Patterson chewed his cigar.

“Jesus! For a doll with hot pants she sounds hard to please.”

“She is worth a hundred million,” Archer said, and smiled. “She can afford to be difficult.”

“Yeah.” Patterson began to pick his nose. “How’s about Ed Shappilo? He looks good and he speaks Spanish. How’s about him?”

Archer sadly shook his head.

“I don’t think Ed is quite in the same bracket as Helga Rolfe, Mr. Patterson. My idea is this: let us suppose we find the ideal man. He meets Helga who falls in love with him. I know Helga. Once she falls for a man, she will do anything for him. After a week or so, this man explains the Blue Sky promotion to her, asking her advice. He tells her he is acting for you. What does she think? Helga, in love, can be very generous. As you have so rightly said, two million is chickfeed to her. This man then tells her unless he can raise the money, he will be out of a job. All this will have to be done very subtly. I will handle it, as I know Helga. She will produce the money. I can practically guarantee it.”

Patterson left his nose alone and sat back, screwing up his eyes while Archer watched him anxiously.

Had he handled this right? he asked himself. Everything depended now on how this fat, sweaty man would react.

The long pause while Patterson brooded made Archer sweat. Finally, Patterson nodded.

“Sounds okay. Yeah, I get the photo. You’ve come up with a smart idea, Archer. I guess I’ll have to look around for some stooge to go after her. That ain't going to be easy.”

Archer relaxed. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped off his hands.

“I wouldn’t be here at this hour, Mr. Patterson, with this idea, unless I had already found the right man,” he said. “After all, that is what you are paying me for - to give you advice and service.”

Patterson sat upright.

“You’ve found him?”

“The perfect man for Helga,” Archer said. “She will find him irresistible.”

“For Pete’s sake! How did you find him?”

Archer was prepared for this question and had discussed it with Grenville.

“He is a professional gigolo, Mr. Patterson: very high-class and he is used to dealing with middle-aged and elderly, rich women. Some years ago, he looked after an old client of mine and I got to know him. We met by chance this afternoon. As soon as I saw him, I knew I had the solution to our problem. I would like you to meet him, and see for yourself.”

Patterson, scowling, began to pick his nose again.

“A gigolo? Hell! I hate those finks.” Releasing his nose, he rubbed his hand over his sweaty face, then went on, “You think he can handle the Rolfe doll?”

“I know he can. I wouldn’t be here wasting your time unless I was sure,” Archer said.

Patterson thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“Yeah. This could be a smart idea. Okay, tell him to be here tomorrow at eleven.”

Grenville had been very emphatic when and where he was to meet Patterson.

“Even if this man doesn’t want me, let us, at least, get a decent lunch out of him,” he had said to Archer. “Tell him the Ritz grill at one or I don’t play.”

“I think it would be unwise, Mr. Patterson, for him to be seen here with you,” Archer said. “Madame Rolfe might see you two together. My man appears to be occupied, but he could meet us at the Ritz grillroom at one o’clock tomorrow.”

“Who the hell cares if he is occupied or not?” Patterson snarled. “I’m hiring him, ain’t I?”

“That we don’t know as yet. This man is very high-class, Mr. Patterson. He has many irons in the fire. If you could make an exception, I suggest it would be profitable for you to meet him as arranged.”

“A goddamn gigolo!”

“They have their uses, Mr. Patterson,” Archer said mildly. “When he has persuaded Madame Rolfe to part with two million dollars, I think you will agree.”

Patterson stubbed out his cigar, then got to his feet.

“Okay, the Ritz grill.” He patted Archer on his shoulder. “You’re doing all right, Archer.” He took out his wallet and produced a hundred-dollar bill. “Here, go buy yourself a drink.”

As Archer’s fingers closed over the bill, Patterson, slightly unsteady, stumped off down the corridor to the elevator.

* * *

Seated at a corner table in l'Espadon grillroom of the Ritz Hotel, with Patterson at his side, Archer watched Grenville make his entrance.

“Here he is, Mr. Patterson,” Archer said.

Grenville had kept them waiting a quarter of an hour, and Patterson was now in an ugly mood.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” he kept muttering as the minutes ticked away. “A goddamn gigolo!”

But Grenville’s entrance impressed him. Wearing an immaculate beige-coloured suit, Grenville paused at the entrance: nonchalant, confident, and imposingly handsome.

The maître d’hôtel hurried towards him.

“Monsieur Grenville! This is a pleasure! You have been deserting us!”

As this was in French, Patterson squinted at Archer.

“What’s he say?”

“The maître d’hôtel says it is a pleasure to see Mr. Grenville again,” Archer told him.

“Is that right? The fink didn’t say that to me!”

Patterson watched Grenville shake hands with the maître d’hôtel, and then talk briefly; then the maître d’hôtel conducted him towards Patterson’s table. On the way Grenville paused as an elderly waiter, fat, balding, bowed to him.

“Why, Henri, I thought you had retired,” he said and shook hands.

“Hell!” Patterson muttered, obviously impressed. “This guy seems to be known here.”

“And is known at all the most important restaurants in Paris,” Archer said, delighted by the way Grenville was making his entrance. “I told you, Mr. Patterson, he is very high-class.”

Grenville reached their table.

“Hello, Jack,” he said, smiling at Archer, then he turned to Patterson. “You will be Mr. Patterson. I am Grenville.”

Patterson stared up at him, his mean little eyes probing. Archer was scared that Patterson was going to be difficult, but obviously, Grenville’s smooth, forcible personality had made an impact.

“Yeah. Archer has been telling me about you.”

There was a waiter to pull out Grenville’s chair and he settled at the table.

“It is over a year since I have been here,” Grenville said. “I have many happy memories of this great hotel.”

The wine waiter was at his elbow.

“Your usual, Mr. Grenville?”

Grenville nodded as Patterson gaped. The wine waiter went away and the maître d’hôtel arrived with the menus.

Grenville waved to Patterson.

“Mr. Patterson is our host, Jacques,” he said. “Remember him. He is influential and important.”

“Certainly, Mr. Grenville,” and the maître d’hôtel darted around the table and handed Patterson the menu. Thrown off his stride, Patterson stared at the menu which, being in French, he couldn’t read, then growled, “I’ll take onion soup and a rare steak.”

Grenville’s martini arrived. He sipped and nodded his approval.

“Absolutely right, Charles.”

“And what would you like, Monsieur Grenville?” the maître d’hôtel asked, hovering over Grenville like a mother hen over her chick.

Grenville didn’t consult the menu.

“The langoustine, Louis?”

“Impeccable, monsieur.”

“Then why not the gratin de langoustine and the cane ton en cocotte?”

“An excellent choice, Monsieur Grenville.”

Grenville looked at Archer.

“I suggest you take the same, Jack. It is extremely good.”

Archer, who was famished, nodded eagerly.

The maître d’hôtel left them.

Grenville turned his flashing smile on Patterson.

“Jack has explained the situation, Mr. Patterson, and I find it interesting. I suggest we go into details after lunch. It would be a pity to discuss business while we eat.” He gave his baritone, musical laugh. “Pleasure before work.” Then, without giving Patterson a chance to say anything, he launched into a steady monologue about the history of the Ritz Hotel, mentioning great names as if he knew the people and adding two amusing anecdotes about eccentric visitors while Patterson, bewildered, could only sit and stare.

The onion soup and the gratin de langoustine arrived and the wine waiter appeared at Grenville’s elbow.

“Mr. Patterson is the host, Charles,” Grenville said. “The cellar here, Mr. Patterson, is still remarkable. If you haven’t tried the Muscadet 1929, you should, and I believe they still have a few bottles of Margaux “59.” He looked at the wine waiter. “Do you, Charles?”

The wine waiter beamed.

“For you, Monsieur Grenville.”

Patterson, who knew nothing about wine, was overawed. He nodded.

“Okay, so we have that,” he said.

During the impeccable meal, Grenville talked. He began by advising Patterson to see a new collection of modern paintings at a little gallery on the Left Bank.

“There are two moderns that will be worth money in a couple of years,” he said. “Cracinella: unknown at the moment, but could be as great as Picasso. You could triple your money.” From art, he shifted to music, asking the bewildered Patterson if he had heard of a young pianist, Skalinski, who was quite remarkable.

Patterson ate, grunted and remained bewildered while Archer ate with enjoyment and was delighted with Grenville’s performance.

From modern art and music, Grenville went on to talk about films.

“Paris is the showcase of modern movies,” he said as he finished the duck. “I suppose you don’t have time to go to the movies. A man of your stature should take a look at this modern stuff.”

Archer could see that Patterson now was reacting to Grenville’s smooth and continuous talk.