1977 - I Hold the Four Aces (2 page)

“I think it would supply a very necessary and popular demand,” Archer said carefully.

“You’re goddamn right.” Patterson screwed up his eyes. “Yeah, that’s talking. Then why the hell have these niggers turned it down?”

“There could be several reasons,” Archer said smoothly. “I wouldn’t care to express an opinion, since I wasn’t in on the original negotiations.”

Patterson grinned.

“You goddamn lawyers.” He pulled at his cigar and released a cloud of smoke. “Never get a straight answer.” He leaned forward, poking his cigar at Archer. “Now, I’ll tell you something. Ed is going to Saudi Arabia tomorrow afternoon. Those finks out there are stinking with money. Never mind Iran. We’ll get the money from these other finks. How’s about you going with Ed and fixing the legal end?”

The idea of Shappilo getting near a minister of importance in Saudi Arabia to promote such an obvious lemon as the Blue Sky Holiday Camps was so ludicrous that Archer nearly laughed, but he kept thinking of the $100 a week, so he pretended to think, then nodded.

“Yes. I would be prepared to accompany Mr. Shappilo.” He paused, then went on, without much confidence, “But not at $100 a week retainer, Mr. Patterson.”

Patterson squinted at him.

“Who said you would? You take this trip, and I’ll pay your expenses. You get a two per cent cut when you two bring back the contract. That’s worth real money, Archer.”

How many times, Archer thought, had he heard this kind of talk? Always in millions: always so much percentage.

“Have you any introductions out there?” he asked.

Patterson finished his drink, then looked at Shappilo.

“You fixed any introductions, Ed?”

Shappilo examined his fingernails.

“Well, no. The Paris finks are difficult. I think we will make real progress on the spot, rather than fool around with the Embassy here.”

Patterson nodded.

“Yeah. Go out there and fix something.” He lifted his empty glass. “Get me a refill, Ed.”

While Shappilo was snapping his fingers, Archer had a moment to think. At least he would get a free trip to the Middle East. This cheered him a little. Who knows? He might pick up some lucrative work out there, drop Shappilo and settle in Saudi Arabia for a while. Who knows?

As the waiter brought Patterson’s drink, there was a slight commotion along the corridor that led to the elevators.

A woman and two men, accompanied by the assistant manager of the hotel, followed by two porters wheeling hand-trucks piled high with expensive-looking luggage, came down the corridor.

Archer’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the woman.

Helga Rolfe for God’s sake!

He hadn’t seen Helga since they had parted after his abortive attempt to blackmail her to conceal his embezzlement from her husband. Hurriedly, he raised his hand to shield his face. He didn’t want her to see him.

He felt a pang of frustrated envy as he watched her stride down the corridor. She looked wonderful!

Wearing a pale beige suede coat, her blonde hair silky and glittering, her head held high, she conveyed a picture of confident wealth.

Her two companions kept pace with her. The taller of the two bent a little to talk, while the shorter man seemed to be having trouble in keeping up.

The little procession disappeared into the waiting elevator and was whisked out of sight.

“That’s some doll,” Patterson said. “Who could she be?”

Here was the opportunity to impress this vulgar American, Archer thought.

“That was Madame Helga Rolfe,” he said.

Patterson squinted at him.

“Rolfe? You mean the Rolfe? The electronics man?”

“Yes, but Rolfe died a few months ago.” Archer sipped his martini. “Helga is now in charge of the corporation, and appears to be handling it well.” He said this carelessly as a throwaway.

Patterson’s mean little eyes opened wide.

“Is that right? Who were the two finks with her?”

Archer leaned back and took out his pack of Gauloises.

“Here, have a man’s smoke, for God’s sake.” Patterson produced a cigar in a metal container.

“Thanks, I will.” While Archer removed the cigar from the container, he went on, “The taller man is Stanley Winborn, head of Rolfe’s legal department. The short, fat man is the Vice-president, Frederick Loman.” He lit the cigar and puffed smoke. “I suppose the corporation now is worth over a billion dollars. I know for a fact, Helga’s personal fortune is worth at least a hundred million.”

Patterson sucked in his breath.

“Hell! That’s real money!”

“You could say that.” Archer smiled. He finished his drink and set down his empty glass.

“Get him another drink, Ed,” Patterson said.

While Shappilo was snapping his fingers at a waiter, Patterson went on, “Sounds as if you know the doll.”

This was the moment when Archer should have kept his mouth shut, but the martini, after a miserable dinner the previous night, and a still more miserable breakfast, had made him slightly drunk.

“Know her? Not so long ago, she and I handled Rolfe’s Swiss business, and not so long ago we were intimate friends,” and he winked.

“For Pete’s sake!” Patterson was obviously impressed. “You mean you screwed her?”

Archer accepted the martini the waiter offered him.

“Let us say we were intimate,” he said.

“Yeah. I get the photo.” Patterson pulled at his cigar. “Well, what do you know?” He scratched his bulbous nose, then went on, “So she’s worth a hundred million?”

“About that.” Archer drank half his martini. He was now feeling very relaxed.

“But you’re not working with her anymore?” The small eyes probed.

Careful, Archer told himself, you’re letting your tongue run away.

“We had a falling-out. She’s very difficult. I found I couldn’t work with her anymore.” He sipped his drink. “I take it, Ed will arrange the air tickets to Saudi Arabia? I just wait for instructions?”

Patterson thought for a long moment, finished his drink, then shook his head.

“Why the hell should we go to these Arab finks for money when it is sitting right here in this goddamn hotel?”

Archer stared at him.

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Patterson. In this hotel?”

Patterson leaned forward and tapped Archer on his knee.

“Use your head, Archer. With your contact with this Rolfe doll, it will be a cinch for you to sell our promotion to her. We want a couple of million. That’s chickfeed to her. Put it to her. Okay?”

Archer’s hands turned clammy.

“I assure you, Mr. Patterson, Madame Rolfe wouldn’t think of investing money in holiday camps. I know her too well. No it just wouldn’t work.”

Patterson stared at him for a long moment, his mean little eyes probing, then he looked at Shappilo.

“Where’s the goddamn grillroom? I want to put on the feed-bag.” He got to his feet as Shappilo pointed down the long corridor. Looking at Archer, Patterson went on, “Now listen: talk to this Rolfe doll and set her up for me. All I want from you is to set up a meeting. I’ll do the selling. And listen, Archer, I hire successful men. You fix it for me to meet her or you don’t come on my pay roll.” He walked off down the corridor.

Shappilo got to his feet.

“You heard what the man said, Jack. It shouldn’t be all that tricky, you knowing her so well. Well, let’s hope we meet again,” and he followed Patterson to the grillroom leaving Archer staring bleakly after him.

* * *

Back in his hotel bedroom, after a sandwich lunch, Archer cursed himself for boasting to Patterson about his association with Helga. He must be getting old! he thought. A year ago, he would never have done such a thing. What to do now?

He had checked through his remaining traveller's cheques. His money was running out. There were no other irons in the fire: no other promotions, no other offers for legal work. And yet, he knew it would be impossible to approach Helga.

The last time they had been together, she had threatened him with a ten-year jail sentence! He imagined how she would react if he suggested she should meet a man like Joe Patterson. It was unthinkable!

So what to do?

He took off his jacket, hung it in the closet, then stretched out on the lumpy bed. He did his best thinking when completely relaxed. The martinis he had drunk now had their effect and he drifted off into a heavy sleep. He woke to find the room in semi-darkness. He must have slept for more than three hours, he thought, then he became aware that someone was knocking on his door.

Looking at his watch, he saw the time was 18.20. Probably the maid, he thought irritably, and called to come in, at the same time switching on the light.

The door opened and Christopher Grenville, in all his finery, stood in the doorway.

Startled, Archer gaped at him, then hastily swung his feet to the floor.

“I am afraid I have disturbed you,” Grenville said in his deep, musical voice. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Archer smoothed down his ruffled, thinning hair.

“Stupid of me, but I’ve run out of cigarettes,” Grenville went on. “I wonder if I could cadge a couple from you, such a bore to have to walk all the way to the tabac.”

Archer was staring at this Adonis, and an idea suddenly dropped into his fertile mind. He got to his feet, picked up his pack of Gauloises and offered it.

“I am always doing the same thing,” he said, and smiled pleasantly. “My name’s Jack Archer. You’re English, I believe?”

“Terribly English. Christopher Grenville. Can I take two? I see you haven’t many left.”

Archer’s eyes went over the immaculate clothes, the shoes, the platinum and gold bracelet.

“Go ahead. I was just taking a rest. I’ve had a trying morning. If you have nothing better to do, why not sit down?”

“I don’t want to be in the way.” Grenville sank into the creaky armchair. “Quaint little hotel, isn’t it?”

“You could say that, but it’s convenient.”

Grenville laughed: an easy, musical laugh.

“Let us say it is cheap.”

Archer eyed him. Grenville appeared to be completely relaxed and friendly.

“Without doubt this is the cheapest hotel in Paris,” Archer said.

“I know. I make a study of hotels: that’s why I am here.”

Archer raised his eyebrows.

“Then your appearance is extremely deceptive, Mr. Grenville.”

Grenville laughed again.

“Appearances generally are. For all I know, you are an eccentric millionaire.”

“I wish I was.” Archer sighed. “I am an international lawyer. If I may ask, what is your line?”

Grenville stretched out his long legs and regarded his glittering Gucci shoes.

“You could say I am an opportunist. Right at this moment I am looking for an opportunity. The world is my oyster.”

An opportunist? Archer thought as he tapped ash off his cigarette. That was an admirable description of himself.

A little tartly, he said, “You appear well-equipped. Have you any irons in the fire?”

“You mean my trappings?” Grenville fingered his gold and platinum bracelet. “Every successful opportunist must have trappings. Once he becomes shabby, there is little hope for him.”

Archer accepted the truth, but it hurt. He winced.

“I agree, but you haven’t answered my question.”

“Irons in the fire? Not right now, but who knows? Tomorrow is another day. An opportunist has to live on hope.”

Archer regarded the handsome face, the immaculate clothes, the easy, friendly smile. Handled right, he told himself, this man could solve his problem with Patterson.

“I might be able to put something interesting your way,” he said cautiously.

“I am always interested in anything interesting,” Grenville said. “Suppose we leave this dismal room and share a plate of spaghetti together?” His smile broadened. “I haven’t eaten all day, and the thing I call my brain doesn’t function too well on an empty stomach.”

Archer was almost sure this was his man. He got to his feet.

“We’ll do better than that. I’ll buy you a steak dinner. Let’s go.”

An hour later, the two men pushed aside their plates and sat back in the shabby bistro, after eating two tough steaks with french fries and canned peas. Archer noticed Grenville had eaten as if he hadn’t had a meal for some days. Grenville had kept up a monologue in his musical baritone voice, expressing his opinions about the world’s politics, art in Paris, and books. His voice had a hypnotic effect on Archer who was content to listen, surprised by Grenville’s wide range of knowledge.

“That was very acceptable,” Grenville said, laying down his knife and fork. “Now to business. What is this something interesting you spoke about?”

Archer sat back and reached for a toothpick.

“I think it is possible that you and I could work profitably together, but first, I would like to know more about you. You call yourself an opportunist. Just what does that mean?”

“I wonder if your budget would run to some cheese?” Grenville asked. “It seems a pity not to finish with cheese.”

“The budget does not run to anything except coffee,” Archer said firmly.

“Then let us settle for coffee.” Grenville smiled. “Suppose you give me some idea what is in your mind before I lay my soul bare?”

“Yes, fair enough.” Archer ordered two coffees. “I am handling the legal end of an important promotion. The promoter is an American who is trying to raise money to finance a number of holiday camps in the sunspots of Europe. He needs around two million dollars. He is a rough diamond, but I think I could persuade him to employ you as his front man. The idea has only just occurred to me so I must talk to him. I have a feeling he would be interested. I am sure your appearance would impress him, but I must have some information about you before I approach him, so over to you.”

Grenville sipped his coffee and grimaced.

“I can now imagine what acorn coffee was like during the war,” he said, then looking at Archer, his dark eyes thoughtful, he went on, “Aren’t holiday camps rather old hat these days with the currency rates as they are?”

Archer nodded approval. This man was nobody’s fool.