1977 - I Hold the Four Aces

by James Hadley Chase

  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.

  Grenville never gave Patterson a chance to make any comment. His steady monologue continued while he was served a champagne sorbet which both Patterson and Archer refused. The meal finished, and coffee served, Grenville beckoned to the wine waiter.

  “Have you still that favourite of mine, Charles?”

  “Certainly, Monsieur Grenville.”

  Smiling, Grenville looked at Patterson.

  “This is a must, Mr. Patterson: a 1906 cognac. Quite remarkable.”

  “I’ll take a double whisky,” Patterson grunted, asserting himself.

  Grenville looked at Archer who said he would like the cognac. He realized these were the first words he had uttered since Grenville had arrived.

  The whisky and the two cognacs were served, then Grenville lit a cigarette, letting Patterson have a good view of the diamond-encrusted gold cigarette case.

  “I won’t offer you one of these, Mr. Patterson,” he said as he produced his gold lighter. “I am sure you are a cigar man.”

  “You’re goddamn right,” Patterson said and lit a cigar.

  Archer accepted a cigarette that Grenville offered. He was happily aware that Grenville had Patterson mesmerized the way a skilful matador, with a flick of his cape, mesmerizes a bull. Grenville, with his know-how, his monologue, his influence with the maître d’hôtel and the waiters, had struck at Patterson’s hidden inferiority complex: a complex many Americans suffer from when in Europe.

  “Now, Mr. Patterson, let us talk business,” Grenville said, relaxing back in his chair. “You will, of course, want to know what you are buying. Let me tell you briefly about myself. I am thirty-nine years of age. English, educated at Eton and Cambridge. I speak German, French and Italian fluently. I have played tennis with Rod Laver, and I have played golf in the Amateur Open Golf championship. I ski and water-ski, and I fence. I play the piano rather well and I sing;
I have had minor roles at the Scala. I ride and play polo. I understand modern art which interests me. When I left Cambridge, my father wished me to become a very junior partner in his business. This didn’t appeal to me.” Grenville smiled. “I found I could have much more fun looking after elderly rich women. I have this talent for making women happy. I have been a professional gigolo for the past twenty years, and with considerable success. Jack tells me you are looking for an expert like myself to take care of Helga Rolfe. I haven’t met the lady, but I am confident I can handle her. You want two million dollars from her to promote a property deal. If you and I can come to an arrangement, I can assure you, I can get this money for you.”

  Patterson pulled at his cigar as he stared at Grenville.

  “Maybe. Yeah you just might.”

  Grenville signalled to the waiter to refill his coffee cup.

  “There is no just might, Mr. Patterson, I deliver.”

  Patterson brooded for a long minute while Archer watched him anxiously, then Patterson nodded.

  “Yeah. Okay. How do you set about it?”

  “That you must leave to me,” Grenville said. “It will take a couple of weeks, but you will get the money.”

  Patterson looked questioningly at Archer who nodded.

  “I assure you, Mr. Patterson, Chris is as good as his word,” he said.

  Patterson grunted.

  “Well, okay go ahead.”

  Grenville sipped his coffee, then said, “Naturally, there are conditions on my side. I take it you are prepared to finance me while I take care of Madame Rolfe?”

  Patterson stiffened.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “To meet Madame Rolfe on equal terms, I intend to take a suite at the Plaza Athenee. I need to hire an impressive car. I will need five thousand francs for spending money.” Grenville smiled at Patterson. “I take it you will take care of the bills?”

  Giving Patterson no time to think, Archer said smoothly, “That won’t be an excessive outlay for two million dollars, Mr. Patterson. After all, you were prepared to pay the air fare for Ed and myself to Saudi Arabia and all expenses.”

  Patterson rolled his cigar around in his mouth while he thought.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “Okay, but now listen, Grenville, you produce or you’re in trouble. I’ll stake you, but you deliver!”

  Grenville’s handsome face turned to stone.

  “Mr. Patterson!” There was a bite in his voice. “Let me remind you that you are not dealing with one of your fellow-countrymen. I understand that you businessmen like to act tough, now and then. It is part of your business facade, but I will not tolerate anyone threatening me as you have just threatened me. Let that be understood. I have told you I will get two million dollars from Madame Rolfe for your promotion, but on my terms. If you have no confidence in me, now is the time to say so, but never, never threaten me, Mr. Patterson.” He leaned forward and stared directly at Patterson. “Is that understood?”

  Patterson’s little eyes shifted.

  “Okay, okay. You don’t have to blow your cork. Yeah, I understand. Sure, forget what I said.”

  Archer, who had come out in a cold sweat, relaxed.

  “Then please arrange the financial details with Jack. I expect to have five thousand francs by the time I move into the Plaza,” Grenville said. “I now have an appointment.” He rose to his feet as a waiter snatched away his chair. “Thank you for the lunch, Mr. Patterson, and good day to you.”

  The maître d’hôtel came hurrying up.

  “I trust you were pleased, Monsieur Grenville.”

  “A perfect meal, Jacques.” Grenville shook hands, then accompanied by the maître d’hôtel, he walked out of the grillroom.

  “Jesus!” Patterson exclaimed. “That guy really has class.”

  “If anyone can produce two million dollars for you, Mr. Patterson, he will,” Archer said.

  “Yeah.” Patterson called for the check. “He’s got real style. Yeah. I don’t think this guy can miss.”

  As Patterson stared with unbelieving eyes at the amount the lunch had cost, Archer thought: I hope to God he doesn’t.

  chapter two

  Helga Rolfe, one of the richest women in the world, lay in a hot, scented bath in her Plaza Athenee Hotel suite. Her long legs stirred the water and her hands cupped her firm breasts.

  Even though she had always travelled V.I.P., and was cosseted by the airhostesses, Helga detested long-distance flights, more particularly when she had to fly in the company of Stanley Winborn whom she disliked and Frederick Loman whom she considered an old bore, but both these men were essential to the smooth running of the Rolfe Electronic Corporation.

  There had been a time, when she had become President of the corporation, when she had played with the idea of getting rid of both men, but after considerable thought, she had been forced to accept the fact that these two men were too efficient to lose.

  It had been Loman's idea to set up a branch of the Electronic Corporation in France. He had had talks with the French Prime Minister who had been encouraging. The advantages were many, and Helga had agreed. Loman had said he and Winborn would fly over and have further talks.

  Springtime in Paris! Helga thought.

  To the surprise of the two men, she said she would go with them.

  But now, lying in the bath, relaxing after the seven dreary hours of flight, Helga wondered if this had been such a good idea.

  Paris in the spring had sounded wonderful, but when you were on your own; when you only had two hardheaded, dreary businessmen to escort you around, and when you knew the French press was watching, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

  She moved her long, beautiful legs, stirring the water. She had been a widow now for five months.

  The magic key of Herman Rolfe’s millions was hers. She was now worth a hundred million dollars in her own right. She owned a deluxe house in Paradise City, a deluxe penthouse in New York and a deluxe villa in Switzerland. But freedom? Whatever she did was reported in the press. God! How she hated newspapers!

  Sex to her was as compulsive as drink to an alcoholic. When Rolfe had died, she had imagined she would be free to have any man who appealed to her, but she quickly discovered that if she wished to avoid newspaper headlines, she still had to be as furtive in her love affairs as she had been when Rolfe had been alive.

  During the five months of her so-called freedom, she had had three lovers: a waiter in a New York hotel, an old roué who no one would have suspected was still potent, and a young, smelly hippy to whom she had given a lift, and who had taken her violently in the back of her car.

  This can’t go on, she told herself. I have all the money in the world. I have everything, but sex. I must find a husband: some wonderful man who will love me, who will be on hand when I get this desperate sex urge so I don’t have to be furtive ever again. This is the solution: the only solution.

  She got out of the bath and stood before the long mirror and looked at herself. She was now forty-four years of age. Age had been kind to her: expert handling by beauticians and a strict diet. She saw a woman with cone-shaped breasts, a slim body, rounded hips; blonde, with big blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips and a perfect complexion. She looked ten years younger than she was.

  But what was the good of that? she thought bitterly as she began to dry herself. To look like this, to have a body like this without a man to appreciate what she had to offer.

  Returning to her suite, she found the maid had unpacked her clothes and everything was in order. She had agreed (God! What a bore!) to dine with Loman and Winborn in the grillroom. She put on a black silk jersey dress, snatched up a black ostrich feather stole and took the elevator to the ground floor where she found Loman and Winborn waiting.

  The two men converged on her. It was now 21.30 and Winborn suggested they had their cocktails at the table. Helga was aware that people were staring as she made her entrance. There was a fat, acne-scarred man, obviously a
brash American, who was eating alone, and who stared more than the others.

  Patterson watched her as she sat at a table across from him and he nodded to himself. Archer was right! This doll really needed special handling. While he ate yet another steak, he kept watching Helga as she talked to her two companions, and he told himself that Grenville was the right man to cope with this woman.

  His meal finished, Patterson toyed with a double whisky on the rocks until Helga and her two escorts left the grillroom. The time now was 22.15, then he wandered into the lobby in time to see Winborn and Loman escorting Helga to the elevator.

  As Helga was whisked up to her suite, she thought: Once again! Two sleeping pills! Will I ever be free to do what I want?

  Entering her suite, she went to the window and drew aside the heavy drapes. She stared down at the fast-moving traffic. There below her was the excitement of Paris: movement, lights, noise, people. But what can a woman do on her own?

  She jerked the drapes together, then turned and looked around the large, lonely suite.

  A husband!

  That was her solution!

  A husband!

  She stripped off her clothes and walked naked into the bathroom. She opened the cabinet door and found her sleeping pills. She swallowed two, then paused to look at herself in the mirror.

  So this was to be her first night in Paris in the spring!

  Going to her bedroom, she put on a shortie nightdress, then flopped into bed. How many times had she done this? Sleeping pills instead of a lover?

  A husband, she thought, as the pills began to work. Yes, that was the solution: a kind, marvellous lover!

  She drifted away into a drugged sleep.

  * * *

  There was a press photographer lurking outside the hotel as Helga walked into the mid-morning sunshine. Although she hated this ratty-looking little man, she gave him a flashing smile and a wave of her hand as he took her photograph. She had long learned always to be friendly with the press.

  She walked up avenue Marceau, crossed to rue Quentin and taking her time, savouring the atmosphere of Paris, arrived at Fouquet’s bar and restaurant on avenue Champs-Elysees.