1977 - I Hold the Four Aces (7 page)

“Hey, wait!”

Grenville paused and lifted his eyebrows.

“Here’s your goddamn five thousand! But you deliver!”

As Patterson added two more one thousand francs to the money on the table, Grenville walked back, picked up the money and stared at Patterson.

“I think I mentioned this before, Mr. Patterson: never threaten me. It is my habit to deliver,” and using this as his exit line, he left the suite.

chapter three

A
little after 09.00, a waiter brought Helga her breakfast, and on the tray was a sealed envelope.

Scarcely waiting for the waiter to leave, she tore open the envelope to find the following message:
Unless I hear from you, may I knock on your door at 20.30? I have missed your beauty and your company. Chris.

Helga was ecstatic. As she drank her coffee, her mind became busy.

Tonight! she thought.

This time she would take control. No more driving to some little bistro. They would eat here in her suite and then…

She had the whole day to make preparations. A splendid dinner served in her suite, no waiters, to hell with gossip, then Chris in her bed!

The telephone bell rang. It was Winborn, saying he and Loman were going to Versailles again. When would she be ready to go with them?

Who cared about a site in Versailles? This was Paris in the spring!

“I have a headache. You and Fred handle it,” she said curtly and hung up.

She called the Plaza Athenee hairdresser and told him to come at 15.00.

“I want your beautician too,” she said.

“Certainly, Madame Rolfe.”

She took a bath, and as she lay in the scented water, she kept thinking of Grenville. Tonight! She closed her eyes, imagining him taking her gently, his lips against hers and she released a little moan of ecstasy.

Later, dressed in a pale-blue trouser suit, she telephoned the concierge and asked for the maître d’hôtel to come up.

When he arrived, she said, “I want dinner here for two. This must be something special. What do you suggest?”

“It depends on your taste, madame,” the maître d’hôtel returned. “Would you give me an indication: fish, meat, poultry?”

“I want something special,” Helga repeated impatiently. “I don’t want waiters here. I want a serve-it-yourself dinner, but it must be impeccable.”

“Certainly, madame. Then I suggest lobster mousse and noisette de veau au morilles, cheese naturally, and perhaps a champagne sorbet. The noisette de veau is one of our specialities and can be left on a hot plate. There will be no need for a waiter, madame.”

Helga nodded.

“If that is the best you can suggest.”

“I assure you, madame, you will not be disappointed. Champagne, and no other wines.”

“Then at eight o’clock.”

“It will be arranged, madame.”

At a bistro on the Left Bank, Archer and Grenville conferred.

“This is D-day,” Grenville said. “I take her to bed tonight. I managed to squeeze another five thousand out of that horrible little man. You had better have a cut,” and he offered Archer a thousand franc note.

Archer, who was getting worried by the way his money was disappearing in expensive Paris, eagerly took the money.

“I’ve read through all this junk Patterson gave me,” Grenville went on. “Surely no one in their right mind would invest money in such a scheme?”

“It is possible, but extremely unlikely,” Archer said. “It is a gamble, but I am quite sure Helga won’t be interested. She is far too shrewd to put her money in such a project. Now, here is what you tell her…”

For the next half hour, Grenville listened, then finally, when Archer had finished his coaching, Grenville nodded.

“Yes. I go along with all that, but after? When she turns me down? What do we do? Have you thought up an idea, Jack?”

“I have the germ of an idea, but it is too early yet to discuss it. Get her to bed. This is the important thing. Once in bed, she is yours.” Archer smiled. “And mine.”

At 20.00, two waiters arrived at Helga’s suite and set up a table, placed a hot plate on a trolley and two ice buckets, containing bottles of champagne. While they worked, Helga, burning with impatience, kept looking at her watch. She had on a Dior fine wool suit in apricot. Her jewellery was simple: gold ear-rings and gold bracelets. She was looking her magnificent best.

The maître d’hôtel arrived and supervised the final touches to the table.

“All is now ready, madame,” he said. “Nothing will spoil. I am sure you will be satisfied.”

Helga nodded.

“Thank you.” She gave him a hundred-franc note, and he left, bowing.

She paced around the suite, continually looking at her watch. As the minute hand moved to 20.30, there came a tap on the door. She had to restrain herself from running. She opened the door.

Grenville, in a dark immaculately cut suit, wearing the Old Etonian tie, took her hand and brushed it with his lips.

“How beautiful you look!” he exclaimed. “It seems a century since I last saw you.” As he entered the suite, he saw the laid table. “But Helga! I was going to take you…”

“Not tonight,” she said, a little breathlessly. “This is my turn. Let’s have a drink.” She waved to the bottles on a separate table. “I’ll have a vodka martini.”

“My drink too,” Grenville said, and putting a briefcase he was carrying on a chair, he began to mix the drink. “Have you been shopping?” He smiled at her. “Buying up Balmain?”

“No. I’ve been walking over a dreary building site with two very dreary colleagues. And you?”

Grenville laughed.

“I was doing exactly the same.” He carried the drinks to a table, and as Helga sat down, he pulled up a chair near her. “What are we going to eat?”

She sipped her drink and nodded her approval.

“This is as good as Hinkle makes.”

“Hinkle?”

“My old and faithful major-domo whom I have left in my Florida home. He makes the most divine omelettes.”

Grenville wasn’t interested in old and faithful major-domos.

“But you haven’t told me what we are going to eat?”

“You sound hungry.”

He gave her his flashing smile.

“I am. I am only just back from Nice. I couldn’t face that awful stuff they serve on the plane, so I haven’t eaten all day.”

He had, in fact, paused on the way back to Paris in the Maserati to have a light lunch, but Grenville could never resist gaining sympathy from women.

“Nice? I love the south of France. Drink up then, and let’s eat.”

While Grenville served the lobster mousse, Helga kept looking at him. She kept thinking: he really is marvellous! There is that wonderful thing about him no other man I’ve ever known has had.

“Tell me about Nice,” she said, as they began to eat.

“Actually, Helga, I want your advice. I may have to go to Saudi Arabia in a couple of days’ time and, frankly, I don’t want to go.”

This was a shock to Helga. She looked at him, stiffening.

“Saudi Arabia? But why?”

She thought: Dear God! Am I going to lose him?

“It is rather a long story, but if you can bear with it, I’ll tell you.” He took another helping of the mousse. “This is quite excellent. Won’t you have more?”

Helga shook her head.

“Tell me about Saudi Arabia.”

“It’s this stupid project,” Grenville said. “For you to understand, let me lightly sketch in the background. I have an income from England, left me by my father (a lie). At one time, it was acceptable, but no longer. When the pound sterling was strong, I was very comfortably off, but now, with the present currency exchange, I am, frankly, having a struggle to live the way I wish to live, so I have accepted this stupid job which was offered me by an American property promoter. He is the world’s worst bore. He has a pipe dream of promoting holiday camps in the sunspots of Europe. He wants money. He decided I could raise the money. I’ve talked to a number of wealthy business men, but they aren’t interested. Now he imagines there is so much money in Saudi Arabia they will fall over themselves to give him the money. I am sure this is sheer nonsense, but he wants me to go. He offers to pay my expenses, and also, quite a handsome retainer.” He pushed his plate aside, then shrugged. “I think I’ll have to go.” Getting up, he took away their plates and served the noisette de veau. “This looks marvellous,” he said, as he carried the plates to the table. “I love this serve-yourself idea of yours.”

But Helga’s mind was busy. She had only five more days in France, then she would be returning to Paradise City. She couldn’t bear the thought of Grenville going off to Saudi Arabia and leaving her on her own.

She forced a smile.

“I thought it would please you. Tell me about this project, Chris.”

She’s biting, he thought, but waved his hand deprecatingly.

“It just wouldn’t be interesting to you or to anyone,” he said as he began to eat. “Hmmm, this is really good!”

“I want to know about it!” The sudden snap in her voice startled him.

“All right, but later. Actually, I have all the papers here.” He nodded to the briefcase, lying on the chair, and that was his false move.

Archer had warned him to be very careful how he handled Helga, but seeing her determined interest, he had allowed himself to be just too confident.

Seeing his confident smile, Helga regarded him. A red light flashed up in her mind. Archer had told Grenville that she was shrewd and quick to smell a con and he knew Helga: this warning was meant to be taken seriously, but Grenville, so used to dealing with rich, stupid women, hadn’t taken the warning seriously enough.

Helga was now asking herself if this was an opening gambit for some swindle. Now, looking at Grenville, who was happily eating, she told herself not to be so suspicious, but the red light was up. She wanted this man. She wanted him in her bed. But suppose this was a setup?

Probing, she said casually, “Is this site in Nice?”

“No. It is in Vallauris. It is quite an impressive piece of land with marvellous views.”

“How many hectares?”

Grenville had no idea. He shrugged.

“It’s all in the plan, but let’s enjoy this, Helga. I had no idea they could cook so well here. Wouldn’t you like a little more?” He poured more champagne.

“No more for me, thank you.”

He was aware that she was studying him, her blue eyes uncomfortably direct.

“Don’t look so serious, Helga,” he said. “I’ve told you this project couldn’t possibly interest you, and I am also certain that the new Arabian king wouldn’t part with a dollar.”

“Who is this American you are working for? What is his name?”

Grenville hesitated.

“His name? Joe Patterson. Actually, he is staying in this hotel.”

“Short, fat and pockmarked?”

Grenville almost gaped at her.

“That’s right, and the world’s worst bore.”

“I have seen him. How much does he want to promote this holiday camp?”

Grenville had an uneasy feeling that the initiative was slipping away from him. This woman, looking directly at him, began to worry him.

“Two million dollars.” He laughed. “According to him, that takes care of buying the site and putting up the camp, but who in their right mind, these days, would put up two million?” He grimaced. “Not that it wouldn’t be a marvellous deal for me. I get a two per cent cut, and that would be nice money.”

Again the red light flashed up in Helga’s mind.

“Yes, I can understand why you are interested, Chris.” She sipped her champagne.

“Well, I’m sure it won’t come off, but it might be amusing to go to Saudi Arabia. I’ve never been there.”

“Have you any introductions?” The probing note in her voice again worried Grenville.

“I believe Mr. Patterson is arranging that.”

Helga nodded, then laid down her knife and fork.

“Do help yourself, Chris. I’m sure you must still be starving.”

“Well, it’s so good.”

While he was helping himself at the trolley, Helga lit a cigarette.

“A holiday camp?” she said. “That might not be a bad investment. Two million? Vallauris? What would Mr. Patterson’s terms be if someone advanced the money?”

Grenville stared, then returned to the table, his plate loaded, and sat down.

“He is offering twenty-five per cent on the money.”

“That seems excessively generous. The banks would accept a lot less.”

Grenville shrugged. He wished she would stop talking. He was thoroughly enjoying the meal.

“I wouldn’t know about that, Helga.”

“And how about control?”

“From what I understand, he wants to keep control, but why bother? Surely you wouldn’t be remotely interested?”

There was a long pause which made him uneasy. As he ate, he looked from time to time at her. She sat still, her blue eyes cloudy, her face expressionless.

“Look, Helga…”

She lifted her hand in an impatient gesture.

“Enjoy it Chris, I’m thinking,” and the steely note in her voice made Grenville suddenly lose his appetite. He pushed aside his plate.

“I’ve had more than enough.”

“There is cheese and a sorbet,” Helga said. “Do help yourself.”

“What about you?”

“Coffee, please.”

He got up, reluctantly deciding to pass up the cheese, and poured two cups of coffee and sat at the table again. He could sense a change had come over her, but he couldn’t define the change. She now seemed remote and her expression had hardened.

“Let me see these papers, Chris.”

Some forty minutes ago, her body had been yearning to be taken. All day long, she had thought of this man, but now, with a growing conviction that she was being set up for a con, her desire for him faded.

As Archer, who knew her so well, had warned Grenville: “I believe that sex would take second place, if she suspected she was being taken for a ride.”

Sex was now taking second place.

“Are you sure you want to be bothered?” Grenville had an uneasy feeling that she was beginning to dominate him, and this worried him. Always, he had been able to control the women who had fallen for him.

“I asked you to show me these papers, Chris!” There was sudden steel in her voice.