An Ace Up My Sleeve (20 page)

She lay still, wishing he hadn't gone. She now wanted him with a sexual ache that tormented her. She could hear him in the kitchen, whistling softly as he began to prepare a meal for himself. She wanted to call to him. She wanted him to strip off her clothes and take her with this sudden gentleness he had revealed and which she hadn't believed possible in him. But she didn't call him.

She lay in the semi-darkness, shivering a little. She felt drained and exhausted. She thought of the hours ahead of her before the photographs arrived.

She had to be patient, she told herself and closed her eyes. She gave herself up to the long wait.

When the Grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven, she roused herself. She felt rested and in control of herself. She got off the bed, stripped off her sweater and slacks and then went into the bathroom.

She could hear the television going in the sitting-room.

Her shoulder ached where Archer had hit her and when she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she grimaced. There was a black, spreading bruise from her shoulder to her breast. Lifting her eyes to her face, reflected in the mirror, she saw how tired, white and gaunt she looked.

She drew a bath and lay in the comforting hot water for more than half an hour. As she was drying herself, she heard the television set being turned off, then a tapping on her bedroom door.

"Do you feel like something to eat, ma'am?" Larry called.

"Anything ... something light."

"Okay, ma'am ... I'll fix it."

She worked on her face, spent ten minutes fixing her hair, then she returned to the bedroom. She put on fresh pants, bra and stockings. She stood before her open wardrobe and surveyed the many dresses, costumes and suits. Finally, she selected a simple white silk dress and slipped it on. She put a gold chain around her slim waist and surveyed herself.

Not bad, she thought: tired, but interestingly tired and no longer looking like a hag.

She left her bedroom and went into the sitting-room. She could hear Larry in the kitchen, but she now badly wanted a drink. She made a stiff vodka and martini, then lighting a cigarette and carrying her drink, she went into the kitchen.

Larry was standing by the glowing grill. His jaw was moving as he chewed. At her entrance, he turned around and his ryes widened a little at the sight of her. "Gee, ma'am . . . you look beautiful!"

She couldn't remember when a man had said that to her: a long time ago, she thought and she smiled. 'Thank you, Larry. Won't you have a drink?"

"No, thank you, ma'am. Drink doesn't get along with me. I got drunk once and I got into a lot of trouble so I keep away from it." "You're wise. What are you cooking?"

"You said you wanted something light. I dug out a couple of soles. I guess this freezer has all the food in the world."

"I think it has. A sole sounds wonderful."

She sat on a kitchen chair and sipped her drink. "Is he all right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I guess. I went down to take a look at him. He's not all that happy. I guess I dug a few into him he didn't like." Larry pulled the tray from under the grill and expertly turned the soles, then pushed the tray back. "He's sorry for himself."

"Perhaps I'd better go down and see him," Helga said, suddenly worried.

"I wouldn't do that, ma'am. He'll be all right. I made him some soup. You don't have to bother about him."

"Are you sure he's all right?"

"Yeah . . . he'll survive."

His indifference alarmed her.

""I'll better see him."

"No, ma'am. You keep away from him. He's in a nasty mood. There's no point in yon seeing him. He'll only call you names." Larry grinned. "He called me plenty ... but tomorrow, he'll be fine."

She decided to take his advise.

"What have you been doing with yourself all this time?"

"Oh, taking it easy. There was a good football match on the telly." "I must have slept. No one telephoned or called?"

"No, ma'am." He peered into the grill. "If you feel like it, we can eat."

She watched while he quickly laid the kitchen table and then served the soles. She was astonished by his quick efficiency and suddenly ashamed of her own inadequacy. She had no idea how to prepare any meal except a hamburger or possibly to fry an egg which she generally broke when serving it. She realized, as he deftly filleted the soles, how badly she had eaten when she had been without much money: sandwiches, hamburgers and meals from a slot chine.

"I should be doing this, Larry," she said as he set her plate before her. "That's what a woman is supposed to do."

"I guess lots of girls don't know how to cook," he said and sat down. "But they can do other things."

Again she felt hot blood move through her.

"Yes ... that's right."

They ate in silence. When they had finished, she said, "It was wonderful, Larry ... you really are a great cook."

"I'm glad it pleased you, ma'am. You take it easy. I'll clear up." He collected the plates and moved to the sink.

"I must help you."

He grinned at her. "I'll manage. You go ahead and take it easy. Coffee?"

"That would be nice."

She went into the sitting-room, crossed to the bar and poured a small brandy. Then she sat down. As she swirled the brandy around in the balloon glass, she thought of Herman; querulous, selfish, demanding and expecting every attention. This boy was really wonderful! What a marvellous husband he would make for some lucky girl!

She heard him washing up, whistling to himself, then after a while he came in with two cups of coffee.

"Have you given him anything to eat, Larry?" she asked. Archer was preying on her mind. She took the cup of coffee he handed her.

"Don't worry about him, ma'am. He's had soup ... he's okay."

"Perhaps I'd better see him. He's not young, Larry, and you hit him terribly hard."

Larry sat down. He held the cup and saucer awkwardly.

"You leave him alone, ma'am. There's no point in you getting upset. He used some pretty strong language."

"But you're sure he's all right?"

"Sure ... sure ... sure."

She gave up. After a pause while they sipped the steaming coffee, she said, "I'll call the American Express tomorrow and book your seat."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She looked at him and smiled. "I'll miss you, Larry."

"Yeah ... I guess I'll miss you, too."

"It's been a fantastic adventure, hasn't it?"

"It has that."

Not one of the world's most brilliant conversationalists, she thought with regret, but he is magnificent to look at.

"It's nearly over," she said. "The day after tomorrow the photos will come.Then we say goodbye."

"I guess that's right."

Watching him, looking at the breadth of his shoulders, his huge hands and his masculinity, she again felt the tormenting sexual urge go through her. She remembered she had told herself: no more men, but just this once, she thought. We have tonight, all tomorrow and tomorrow night together. She knew she couldn't sit around in the villa, waiting for the hours to pass while she had him with her. Surely, he would feel the same way. She would have to give him a little encouragement: just a hint and he would take her. Tonight: more love during the following day and more love the next night, then she would be satisfied. She would say goodbye and have a memory to live with, and then positively no more men! "Excuse me, ma'am ..."

She looked up, jerked away from her thoughts and she smiled at him. "Yes, Larry?"

"There's an ice hockey match on at nine on the telly. Would it bother you if I watched it?"

She felt as if she had received a slap in the face. She looked down at her hands. "Of course not ... if you want to."

"Yeah ... I dig for ice hockey. Do you like, it ma'am?"

She contained herself with an effort.

"No ... it doesn't interest me." She looked at the clock on the overmantel. It showed 20.55. "The programme will in five minute."

"Yes, ma'am." "I'll go to bed. I'll find something to read."

He went over to the television set and turned it on. She had an idea he hadn't heard what she had said.

She stood up and looked at herself in the wall mirror. Why hadn't she lit a flame in him? she wondered. Ice hockey, for God's sake! She regarded the slim, blonde woman reflected in the glass. She looked pale and perhaps a little tired, but she didn't look anything like her real age. Suppose she went to him and put her arms around him and arched her body hard against his? Would that light the flame? She looked at his broad back as he bent over the set. The announcer was introducing the players as they skated around the rink. He was saying the Swiss side had a hard struggle ahead of them. The Canadian Eagles hadn't been defeated this season.

"Hotdamn!" Larry muttered to himself and sat down before the screen.

She lifted her shoulders helplessly, then she went to the bookcase and took the first book to hand.

The skaters were charging down the rink and she could hear Larry muttering to himself. She went to the door and opened it.

"I'll read, Larry. I won't be asleep when the games over. Look in and say goodnight."

He was leaning forward as three skaters collided and started a punch–up. "Larry?"

He didn't look around. She was sure he had forgotten her existence. Irritated, she raised her voice, "Larry!"

He looked over his shoulder, frowning. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Look in and see me when it's over … I won't be asleep." "Sure . . . sure," and he turned back to the screen. She went out and into her bedroom.

She stood in the middle of the elegant room, feeling utterly depressed. She supposed she had no sex appeal for him.

She tossed the book on the bed, then began to undress. Going to her closet, she selected a flimsy, see-through nightdress and put it on. Taking the gold clips from her hair, she shook it loose so it cascaded to her shoulders. Then she went into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she came out and paused to look at herself in the full-length mirror. Surely any man with normal instincts would desire her ... or was she deceiving herself?

She got into bed, picked up the book and glanced at the title. It was Galsworthy's
Forsyte Saga
. Irene and Soames: a woman's indifference to a man, and with her, the situation was reversed: a man's indifference to a woman. She put the book down. She could hear faintly the exited voice of the commentator, speaking in Italian. She wished Larry would turn off the sound: it was not as if he could understand what the man was saying. She lay back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. Then she heard the telephone bell ring.

Not Herman again? she thought. She was in no mood to listen to his querulous complaints. She picked up the extension receiver by her bed. "Yes?" "Is that Mrs. Rolfe?" A harsh male American voice. She stiffened.

Who on earth could this be? she wondered and said a little hesitantly, "Yes... who is it?"

"You don't know me, but you've heard of me. I'm Smith ... Ron Smith."

She sat bolt upright, aware her heart was beginning to thump. What was coming? More blackmail?"

"Do you want to speak to Larry?" she asked.

"Is he there?"

"Yes."

"Can he hear you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm asking you if he is in the same room with you." There was an important note in the harsh voice now.

"No ... he's watching television. Do you want to talk to him?" "I want to talk to you."

She felt her mouth turn dry. She was sure now he was going to blackmail her.

"I don't think I want to talk to you, Mr. Smith," she said trying to keep her voice steady. "I …"

"Cut it out! This is urgent and important to you! I've had a hell of a time getting your phone number. I don't know why I should have bothered. Rich women like you aren't worth bothering about, but a life is a life, even if it is worthless."

He's mad, she was thinking and she was tempted to replace the receiver, but before she could make up her mind, he went on. "Mrs. Rolfe, you are in deadly danger. Don't talk ... listen. I've just got out of jail. I've been locked up for a week. I've been pretty busy but this afternoon I've been going through the newspapers for the past week to check on the political scene."

"I really can't see what this has to do with me," Helga said sharply. "What do you mean ... deadly danger?"

"Stop yacking! I'm wasting good money on this phone talking to you! In six German newspapers, published the day after I went to jail, there are photographs of Larry!" "Why tell me? I know he's an Army deserter. I . . ."

"Can't you stop yacking and listen? He's not an A deserter! He's an escapee from a Military prison where lie was being held, waiting to be flown back to the States and to be put away for life in an asylum for the criminal insane!" A wave of ice water seemed to run down Helga's spin. "I – I don't believe it!"

"Why should I care? Don't believe it!" The voice was now a snarl of impatience. "I'm telling you! The papers call him the Hamburg Strangler. He'd strangled five tarts before the cops caught up with him. He was tried and found guilty. It's all here in the papers. He escaped while waiting transport back to the States."

She lay back on the pillow. Her heart was now beating sluggishly and she
felt dreadfully cold.
"Oh, God!" she whispered.

"They say no one should go near him," the voice went on. "He's dangerous." She took hold of herself.

"But it was you who told him where to get the passport."

"Sure ... he seemed a nice kid to me. I've only just read this goddamn thing! When he phoned me and told me about blackmail stunt I used my influence to help you ... and I don't want your goddamn thanks. But when I read this in the papers, although I think you're worse than nothing, I had to warn you." Helga shivered. "I'm alone here ... he's in the next room!"