The door opened, startling her and Friedlander came in. He looked around, his cunning little eyes puzzled.
“Where’s Larry?”
“He’ll be back. Have you got it?”
“Of course.” He edged into the room, closing the door. “It’s a beautiful job.”
“Let me see it.”
He hesitated, then coming over to her, he handed her the passport. It looked genuine enough and was just worn enough to be acceptable. The name on the passport was Larry Sinclair. Profession: Student. Larry a student? She shrugged. The word Student meant nothing these days: a smoke screen behind which so many young people hid as the word Model was used as often as a smoke screen for a whore.
The photograph was poor, but the stamp looked authentic.
“Yes… it is good.”
“It is a work of art,” Friedlander said peevishly. “It is worth more than three thousand. Be fair, dear… give me another five hundred. That’s not being unreasonable.”
She opened her bag and without taking the roll of money from the bag, she stripped off three one thousand franc bills and dropped them on to the table. Then she put the passport in her bag and closed it.
“If you want more, talk to Larry,” she said.
He picked up the bills and put them in his pocket.
“Don’t make mistakes, dear… so easy to make mistakes.” He stared at her. “Meanness always comes home to roost.”
She eyed him with contempt.
“Go away! You and your filthy breed bore me!”
His small eyes turned baleful.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He backed to the door. “I’d rather be what I am than what you are/ and he flounced out of the room.
She sat still, furious, and men after thinking, she suddenly became sick of herself. His parting shot had hurt.
Twenty minutes later, Larry returned. She heard him tap on the front door and she went to open it. He came in out of the falling snow and into the light of the shabby room. She scarcely recognized him. Cone was the gum chewing hick American. The black tie and the white collar completely changed his appearance. The black trench coat was as formal as a uniform. He looked like tfie chauffeur of the wealthy owner of a Mercedes 300SEL. He was carrying a cheap plastic suitcase and he looked anxiously at her, seeking her approval.
“Wonderful, Larry,” she said, smiling at him. “You look splendid.”
He grinned boyishly.
“I got what you told me, ma’am.”
“Yes… I have your passport… let’s go.”
“I picked up the car, ma’am.” He eyed her a little doubtfully. “It’s right outside. Excuse me for the liberty… I didn’t think you would want to walk all that way to the parking lot.”
She stared at him.
“But how could you? I have the ignition key!”
He automatically reached for the peak of his cap, then finding he wasn’t wearing the cap, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I’m used to cars, ma’am. I don’t need ignition keys. Excuse me if I did wrong.”
“But the car was locked!”
“Yes… that’s right. I just thought I’d save you the walk. It’s snowing pretty hard out there.”
A feeling of fear ran through her. It passed in a moment as she realized how she would have hated to have trudged through the thick snow to the car. He’s clever! she thought. Not only clever, but considerate!
“Thank you for being so thoughtful,” she said and smiled at him. She opened her bag and handed him the ignition key. “In spite of your cleverness, perhaps you better have this.”
He opened the front door and together they went to where he had parked the car. He opened the off-side door and she slid in. Then he went around to the driver’s seat, paused to shake the snow off his new black shoes, then dropped into the driver’s seat.
She told him how to get to the Adlon hotel.
“You gave me too much money, ma’am,” he said as he edged the car out of the courtyard. “I have the change.”
“That’s all right, Larry. You’ll need some spending money… keep it.”
He shook his head.
“No, ma’am, thank you. I explained before… I don’t accept money.”
She smiled at him.
“All right, Larry… I understand. We’ll settle up when we get to the hotel.”
She relaxed back, thinking: He is really rather sweet.
As he drove with the traffic, the wipers swishing away the snow, she looked searchingly at his profile, lit by the passing street lamps, and again she felt a rush of hot blood go through her.
When Helga, followed by Larry, followed by a porter carrying her bags, entered the reception lobby of the Adlon hotel, Karl Fock, the owner of the hotel, happened to be making one of his rare appearances. He immediately recognized her as one of the hotel’s most valued guests.
Karl Fock was built in a generous style. He reminded Helga of the late, unlamented Herman Goering. Fock believed that by snapping his fingers, the world instantly became his oyster, and within his limited sphere, the world did become his oyster. His welcome was warm and slightly overpowering. He bowed over Helga’s hand, brushing her glove with his thick,, moist lips. In a loud guttural voice that carried across the lobby, he declared his happiness to see her again. He had the best suite ready for her. He would conduct her there in person.
The lobby was full of American and Japanaese tourists who stopped their chatter to stare. Helga became the centre of attraction. She was flattered as she became engulfed by Fock’s warm welcome. She was also flattered to see the three reception clerks were bowing to her, ignoring all other guests.
She looked behind her and caught Larry’s eyes. He looked completely bewildered, but Fock snatched her attention away.
“What a wonderful welcome,” she said, her smile stiff. “I have a chauffeur… er… what…?”
A chauffeur?
Fock’s heavy black eyebrows climbed. His expression conveyed that a chauffeur was something of no importance, but seeing her concern, he spun around and snapped his fingers. In dismay, Helga saw the bewildered looking Larry whisked out of sight by a bowing lackey.
Tired, bemused and a little overwhelmed, Helga allowed herself to be escorted to the elevator.
The suite into which she was bowed was the best in the hotel.
“Madame Rolfe, you are exhausted,” Fock said, standing just inside the room. “A maid will unpack for you. Please rest. I would so much like to hear news of Mr. Rolfe. Would you give me the pleasure of dining with me? Please don’t disappoint me.”
Helga hesitated, then she forced a smile. It was impossible to refuse, although dinner with Karl Fock was the last thing she wanted.
“I shall be delighted. You are very kind.”
A fat, comfortable looking maid appeared in the doorway.
“It will be my pleasure,” Fock said, bowing. Then at eight-thirty?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “My chauffeur?”
Fock waved his fat hands.
“Madame… don’t worry about anything.” He showed his white teeth that resembled the keys of a piano and was gone.
But she did worry, wondering what was happening to Larry. The maid, fat, slow and kind, irritated her. She wanted to telephone down to the reception desk and find out just what they were doing with Larry, but with the maid in the room, she felt it would be indiscreet. She was sure Larry was being taken care of, but she did want to know how he was reacting.
The maid made a great fuss about drawing the bath, but eventually she left.
Helga longed to get into the bath, but she hesitated by the telephone. Would it cause the hotel’s eyebrows to lift if she inquired after her chauffeur? Because she had an uneasy conscience, she moved away from the telephone. She had to be careful, she told herself, and yet, she longed to know what was happening to Larry.
After lying in the hot, scented bath for some twenty minutes, she dried hers
elf, put on a black chiffon wrap and lay on the vast bed. She looked at the wall clock. The time was 18.10. She stretched herself like a relaxing cat, spreading her beautiful legs and then cupping her heavy, firm breasts in her hands. If only Larry would walk into the room and take her, she thought. She closed her eyes, releasing her mind into an erotic dream.
She came awake by a gentle tapping on the door. Startled, she looked at the wall clock. The time now was 19.30. pulling her wrap around her, she called to come in. Could it be Larry? Her heart beat quickened.
The sight of the waiter who came in, carrying a frosted cocktail shaker and a glass which he placed on the table with a flourish sent her heart beat practically down to zero.
“With Herr Director’s compliments, madame,” he said and poured from the shaker.
When he had gone, she drank the vodka martini gratefully, then, seeing the time was slipping by, she began to dress. While she slapped lotion on her face, then arranged her eyelashes, she thought of Larry. After the second vodka martini which was very strong, she was sufficiently nerved to telephone the reception desk.
“This is Madame Rolfe… what have you done with my chauffeur?”
“Madame Rolfe?” The voice became servile. “Your chauffeur? A moment, please.”
There was a pause and she could hear whispering voices and she regretted asking. This was a stupid, dangerous thing to have done. Why should a woman in her position ask after her chauffeur? Well, she had done it, now she would have to carry it off.
“Madame Rolfe?” A new voice, even more ingratiating.
“Yes.”
“Your chauffeur is in room 556. He will have dinner with the staff. Is that satisfactory?”
Staff? What did that mean? But she didn’t have the courage to ask.
“Yes… thank you,” and she hung up.
Because she was ashamed of her cowardice, she had a third vodka martini and by the time she had finished dressing, she was slightly drunk. She paused before the mirror at the door of the suite and surveyed herself. She was pleased with her reflection. She was really remarkable, she told herself. At the age of forty (forty-three?) she was slim and lovely to look at and immaculately dressed. She knew, as most women know who accept the truth, that she was still attractive to any man.
Karl Fock was waiting for her in the cocktail bar. In the haze of two more vodka martinis and rather overpowered by his guttural voice, Larry slipped from her mind. She remembered him as Fock escorted her into the restaurant but forgot him again when she was enveloped by the Maitre d’hotel and three of his satellites and then the Chef, in his white cap and coverall, who bowed, beamed and shook hands with her while the rest of the guests in the restaurant stared, whispered and envied.
The dinner was impeccable: Belon oysters and a Chablis: a plump partridge and a 1959 Petur.
She heard herself talking. No, her husband wasn’t too well, but he planned to be in Basle next year (A lie). Yes, the drive from Bonn had been bad, but there had been no ice on the autobahn. Yes, of course, she was delighted to be back in her favourite City (A lie). Her chauffeur? This question was unexpected and for a moment she lost her poise, then she smiled, shrugged her beautiful shoulders. Yes… something new, but her husband wanted someone to drive her. She looked into Fock’s moist, admiring eyes and she pulled a comic grimace. Husbands get fussy. She preferred to drive herself. But husbands! She laughed, and Fock was enchanted. Yes, this new chauffeur seemed very capable. He had been recommended… an American student… very serious.
Tired of being questioned, she switched the conversation to Fock’s wife (a gruesome bore) and to his children (monsters).
Fock insisted on champagne with the sorbet and Helga was pretty drunk by the time coffee and brandy were served.
She made a charming little speech of thanks at the end of the meal, and then allowed herself to be escorted to her room.
Thankfully, she got rid of Fock at her bedroom door, then she walked a little unsteadily to her bed and dropped on to it.
She had been spoilt. It had been a wonderful reception. It had been a wonderful meal. Bore though he was, Fock had been kind to her. Now, to complete a perfect evening, she wanted Larry. She wanted this primitive boy to use her as he must have used the stupid, giggling girls on his farm. She wanted to be bruised, violently used, even beaten if that was what he liked, but she wanted him… how she wanted him!
Getting off the bed, she threw off her clothes, tossing her dress, her bra, her pants, her stockings from her until she was naked.
Drunk, excited, she stood in the middle of the bedroom, her hands cupping her breasts, feeling the stabbing need for a man tormenting her. She imagined the scene in another few minutes. She had to be careful not to be too blatant… not to shock him. She would have on her chiffon wrap. When he came into the room, she would look at him… a long pause… then a smile. Then, when he had closed the. door, she would go to him. She was sure he would read from her smile the green light to go ahead and he would take her. She hoped he wouldn’t turn shy. It was possible he might be too scared of her to take what she was offering, but she thought that couldn’t be possible.
With her heart beating fast, she picked up the telephone receiver.
“Give me room 556, please.”
“Certainly madame… a moment, please.”
Helga grimaced. Of course the girl knew who she was speaking to. The slight flustered note in her voice told her that
There was a long pause, then the girl said, “I’m sorry, madame, there is no reply.”
No reply! Helga’s fingers tightened on the receiver. Surely he couldn’t be asleep already? She looked at the wall clock. It was 22.35.
“Try again!” she was immediately sorry for allowing her voice to sound so harsh.
“Yes, madame.” Again a long pause, then the girl said, “I’m very sorry, madame, but there is still no reply.”
Helga drew in a long, slow breath. Only with an effort, she kept control of her temper.
“Give me the reception desk!”
There was another infuriating delay, then the Reception Manager came on the line. During the wait, Helga guessed the girl had alerted him. When he answered, there was a bow in his voice.
“Madame Rolfe? Is there anything I can do?”
“I want to speak to my chauffeur.”
“Your chauffeur?” There was a slight lift in his voice of surprise. She thought bitterly, if she had asked to be connected to God he might have been less surprised. “Of course, madame… please, a moment.”
She sat on the bed, feeling the sensual warmth of her body evaporating.
“Madame?” The voice came back on the line.
“Well?” She knew the snap in her voice was unfortunate, but she couldn’t control it.
“Your chauffeur has gone out. He left an hour ago. Is there anything I can do?”
“He has gone out?” A mistake, Helga thought, but she couldn’t keep the words back.
“Did you want him, madame?” The bowing voice took on a worried note.
Do you want him? Helga’s body ached. How I want him!
“No… it isn’t important.” Slowly she replaced the receiver.
She got off the bed and walked to the window. She pulled aside the drapes and looked down at the busy street. The snow had stopped falling. The trams clanged and sparks flew from the overhead cables. People, in furs, walked carefully over the frozen snow. She let the drapes drop and went over to the bed and slipped on the chiffon wrap. She felt cold and now she wished she hadn’t drunk so much.
It was her own fault, she told herself. She hadn’t given him the slightest hint that she wanted him to come to her room. But where had he gone?
She dropped on to the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Had he got this urge he had told her about… the urge that was now crucifying her? Had he gone out into the cold and the snow in search of some cheap little whore when she was here, in luxury and warmth, longing for him?
CHAPTER THREE
From a drugged sleep, Helga came awake at 08.00. She turned on the bedside lamp and then lay still, staring up at the ceiling. Thank God, she thought, for sleeping pills!
Making the effort, she picked up the telephone receiver.
“Coffee, please. Please tell my chauffeur I will be leaving at nine o’clock. Have my account ready,” and she replaced the receiver.
As she got out of bed she thought what a fool she would look if they called back to tell her her chauffeur was missing. It was possible Larry had walked out on her… he might even have taken her car! Then she told herself to be realistic. She had his passport. Anyway, why should she doubt him? Last night had been her fault. She hadn’t given him the slightest hint she wanted him to make love to her.
She hated the sight of herself as she looked in the bathroom mirror, but she wasn’t dismayed. She was an expert at repairing damage.
After drinking two cups of coffee and after using every guile in her make-up box, she again looked in the mirror and this time she nodded her approval.
There came a tap on the door. She slipped on her mink coat, picked up her hat and opened the door.
The manager of the hotel, behind him a porter, bowed with a smile.
“Your car is waiting, madame.”
Together they went in the elevator to the reception lobby. Because she knew it was expected of her, she said how well she had slept and how pleased she had been with the room.
Beaming his pleasure, the manager escorted her to the desk and a bowing clerk slid the account across the polished wood. After glancing at the total, she paid. As the clerk was changing her Travellers’ cheques she looked more closely at the bill.
An item caught her eye.
“What is this? A call to Hamburg?”
The clerk looked at the account, then at her and his expression became worried.
“Yes, madame. Your chauffeur made the call.”
Fifteen francs! It must have been a long call, she thought.
“Of course… I was forgetting.”
She picked up her change, shook hands with the clerk, saying she would see him next year, then, escorted by the manager, watched by a group of tourists, waiting for their bus, she went out into the cold where the Mercedes was parked.
An Ace up my Sleeve Page 5
