Table of Contents
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter one
The Zurich-Miami Jumbo touched down at the Miami International Airport at 10.35, according to schedule.
Usually Helga Rolfe enjoyed traveling V.I.P., cosseted and pampered as the wife of one of the world’s richest men, fawned over by young airhostesses, receiving a visit from the flight captain, but this time the flight had been irksome and the V.I.P. treatment irritating, for Helga had a problem on her mind, such a problem she would have welcomed solitude, welcomed not having to make brittle conversation with the flight captain who was very aware of his sexuality and who leaned over her, touching his massive moustache while he oozed charm.
It was a relief to leave the plane, to be conveyed in a Cadillac across the runway to the Miami-Nassau plane, knowing her luggage would follow, that she would be taken care of by a young, eager airhostess who would guide her to her seat for the last leg of the journey where her crippled husband, Herman Rolfe, would be waiting.
Because of the power and the magic of Rolfe’s name, she was first on board with the adjacent seat vacant. Already the steward was at her side, minutes before the other passengers were finding their seats, with a bottle of champagne which Helga did not refuse. She asked for a dash of cognac. She felt in need of a stimulant after the wearingly long flight across the Atlantic.
As the plane took off, she leaned her head back against the rest, her active mind busy. During the long flight from Zurich, she had gone through the accounts and had satisfied herself there were two million dollars missing. Archer had admitted this. Actually, it was $2,150,000, but near enough. She wondered how Herman would react when she told him he had been swindled. Certainly, he would alert his New York lawyers who would descend on Archer like a wolf pack. That was inevitable, but how would Herman react to her involvement? This worried her. Would he regard here as a dupe or an innocent or a fool – even worse, someone he could no longer trust?
She allowed the steward to refill her glass. The champagne and brandy, well mixed, was relaxing. She thought of those nightmare days and nights in the Swiss villa at Castagnola with Archer, held prisoner, and that stupid but well-meaning homosexual who she had hoped would have been a lover. Thinking of him, the sexual urge that always tormented her, swept through her body. There was a youngish man, handsome and well built, sitting across the aisle, reading Time magazine. She looked swiftly at him, then away. A man, she told herself, who would be interesting in bed. She closed her eyes. These thoughts, she warned herself, must be banished. She was returning to her husband, crippled, sexually useless, but dangerously suspicious.
“Mrs. Rolfe . . .”
The young airhostess was beside her, blue shaded eyelids, long eyelashes fluttering.
Helga glanced up frowning.
These young girls, she told herself bitterly, had no problems. When the sex urge hit them, they surrendered to it. They had nothing to conceal as she had: nothing to fear. They went to some motel or hotel – anywhere. For them sex presented no complications.
“Yes?”
“We land in ten minutes Mrs. Rolfe. Please fasten your safety belt.”
As a V.I.P. she was first off the plane to find Hinkle waiting on the tarmac with the two toned Silver Shadow Rolls Royce.
Hinkle, looking like a well-fed, benign English bishop and who acted as Rolfe’s nurse, valet and chef, had at first frightened Helga. He was and always would be perfectionist. Rotund, bald, with white wisps of hair to soften his florid complexion, Hinkle, although looking older than his fifty years, was surprisingly athletic and strong. When she had married Herman, Hinkle seemed to disapprove but after some six months, after watching her closely, he seemed to accept that she was also a perfectionist, clever, nimble minded and a professional. Although he remained aloof, the perfect servant, she now had the feeling that he not only approved of her, but even admired her.
“I trust you had a good journey, madame,” he said in his fruity, clerical voice.
“It was all right.” She walked towards the Rolls with quick, graceful strides. Hinkle kept pace with her, slightly behind her. “How is Mr. Rolfe?”
“You will see, madame.” Hinkle was now ahead of her to open the offside door. She paused to look back. The man who had been reading Time magazine was walking towards the arrival gate. Again she became aware of this wearisome but compelling sexual urge. She sank into the leather upholstery while Hinkle slid under the driving wheel.
The Silver Cloud made its silent way from the airport. Officials saluted her. Her reception would have pleased the wife of the President she thought. Rolfe’s power and magic at times could be burdensome, but at other times, a magic key that unlocked the doors of the world.
“Isn’t he well?” she asked.
“No madame. The journey seems to have been a strain. He has been working extremely hard. Dr. Levi flew in this morning. He is with him now.”
She stiffened.
“Is he bad?”
“Let us say poorly,” Hinkle returned. He never committed himself to outright statements. ‘Poorly’ could even mean that Herman was dying.
Knowing Hinkle, Helga shifted ground.
“And the hotel?”
“You will see, madame. It is most unfortunate that there are no suitable villas to hire. Mr. Rolfe made an impulsive decision to come here. He was disappointed not to go to Switzerland. Had he given me a week’s notice, I could have arranged something.” Hinkle’s fruity voice lowered a tone: his way of conveying his vexation. She knew how he hated hotel life where he couldn’t cook, fuss nor supervise.
“Isn’t there anywhere?”
“Apparently not, madame.”
“Does Rolfe intend to stay long at the hotel?”
Hinkle drove along the wide road which ran by the magnificent beach with its palms, its bathers, and its emerald green sea.
“That, I think madame, will depend on Dr. Levi.”
They arrived at the opulent Diamond Beach hotel with its championship tennis courts, its pitch and putt golf, its vast pool and its private beach.
Two flunkeys were waiting. Helga walked into the ornate lobby to be met by the manager who bowed as he shook hands. She was hot and tired, wearing the wrong clothes, coming straight from Zurich, snow bound and icy. She was whisked to the top floor and after polite inquiries about a drink, a suggestion of lunch served on the terrace, much bowing, she was left alone.
She threw off her clothes and went into the bathroom. A tepid, scented bath had already been drawn. Naked, she paused in front of the ceiling to floor mirror.
She was wearing well, she told herself, in spite of her forty-three years. She was slim, flat bellied, heavy breasted, rounded hips. Her face? She examined it, leaning forward, frowning. Tired, of course. Who wouldn’t be tired after that goddam flight? Tired, but interesting. High cheekbones, large violet eyes, a short beautifully shaped nose, full lips and a perfect complexion. Yes . . . the glamour remained in spite of the years.
When she had bathed, she put on a cotton trouser suit. Her personal maid, Maria, had sent her all the necessary Nassau clothes. Feeling more relaxed, she called room service.
“A double vodka martini and smoked salmon sandwiches,” she ordered.
She went out on to the terrace and looked down at the distant beach. Men, women, boys and girls, all shapes and sizes were baking themselves in the brilliant sun. The sea lapped the sand. Girls squealed. Boys chased. Again Helga felt this frustrating sexual urge. S
he went back into the cool of the living room and picking up the telephone receiver asked if Dr. Levi was in the hotel. An anonymous, servile voice said he was and please hold a moment, Mrs. Rolfe.
Dr. Levi came on the line after a brief delay. He had a soft, soothing voice and was always deferential as if addressing royalty when he spoke to her.
“So happy to hear you arrived safely, Mrs. Rolfe,” he said. “You must be exhausted. Can I do anything? A tranquillizer perhaps?”
She knew him to be the most expensive and most brilliant doctor in Paradise City and she knew he was enormously rich and his deference to the name of Rolfe irritated her.
“Could you come up, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
He arrived soon after the waiter had brought the smoked salmon sandwiches and a shaker of vodka martinis.
“A drink, Doctor?”
“Thank you, no. But sit down, Mrs. Rolfe. You have had . . .”
“Yes, yes.” As she sat down, she looked at him: a tiny, bird-like man with a hooked nose, rimless glasses, and a dome of a forehead. “Tell me about my husband.”
Dr. Levi sat down. He, like her, was a professional. He, like her, spoke directly.
“Mr. Rolfe is sixty-eight,” he said quietly. “he insists on working at a tremendous pressure. At his age and in his condition, it is time to call a halt: for him to relax and to give what remains of his body a chance to recuperate, but Mr. Rolfe continues to drive himself. For the past three weeks he has been setting up a deal that would test the fittest of men, let alone an elderly cripple. Now he flies from New York to here,” Dr. Levi paused and shrugged. “The fact is, Mrs. Rolfe, your husband is in very poor shape but refuses to admit it. My advice to him is to return to the comforts of his home and cut off all work and do nothing except laze in the sun for at least three months.”
Helga reached for another sandwich.
“No one has ever been able to stop him working.”
Dr. Levi nodded.
“Yes. That is why I am leaving this afternoon. I have less important patients to look after, but more deserving. They will accept my advice whereas your husband won’t. I am speaking in strict confidence. If your husband continues to work as he is doing, he will die.”
“So long as he is happy, does it really matter?” Helga asked.
Dr. Levi stared at her, then nodded.
“There is that. Yes, when one reaches his age, is in continual pain and crippled, then I suppose . . .” He spread his hands.
“As his wife I am concerned. Will you please be frank with me? Can he last long?”
She realized as soon as she had said this that she had been voicing her secret thoughts and regretted what she had said, but Dr. Levi appeared to understand.
“He could die tomorrow. He could die next year. Give and take, I would say perhaps he has six months in which to live unless he gives up working and completely relaxes.”
“But he is relaxing now, Doctor.”
“No. he is constantly on the the telephone. He is constantly getting telegrams, cables, telex messages and so on. Even here, he is directing his empire.”
“This is something neither you nor I can do anything about.”
“That is correct. I have warned him. He brushes my advice aside, so, this afternoon I am returning to Paradise City.”
When he had gone, she thoughtfully finished the sandwiches. She drank another vodka martini. When Herman dies, she thought, I will inherit sixty million dollars and I will be free to do just what I like. I can have any man I want when he dies!
Slightly drunk, feeling confident, she telephoned Hinkle.
“Does Mr. Rolfe know I have arrived?”
“Yes, madame. He is expecting you. It is the third door on the left as you leave your apartment.”
She went to the mirror and regarded herself. Herman was very critical about a woman’s appearance. Satisfied, she picked up the leather portfolio containing the damning accounts and bracing herself, she left the room.
She found her husband in his wheelchair, in the full glare of the sun. The vast terrace, its view, the sun umbrellas, the boxes of gay flowers and the bar were all symbols of his power and wealth.
As she crossed the terrace, she looked at him: an alarmingly thin body, balding head, thin pinched nostrils, lipless mouth. The black sun goggles made her think of a dressed up skull.
“Ah, Helga.” His usual cold greeting.
“Well,” she sat down fairly close to him but in the shade of an umbrella. She found the Nassau sun, after the Swiss sun, a little overpowering.
They spoke trivialities: she inquiring about his health, he inquiring, without interest, about her flight. He told her he wasn’t feeling too well, but that fool Levi always made a mountain out of a molehill. Neither of them believed what he said.
After this empty skirmishing, he said abruptly, “You have something else to tell me?”
“Yes.” She braced herself. “Jack Archer has turned out to be an embezzler and a forger.”
She looked directly at him, expecting an explosion, but there was no change of expression. How she wished there had been! If he had even stiffened, changed color, she would feel he was human, the skull-like face remained skull-like.
“I know that.” His voice was harsh. “Two million.”
A chill crept up her spine.
“How can you possibly know?”
“Know? It is my business to know! Have you imagined that I don’t check on everything that concerns my money?” He raised a thin hand. “Archer stole intelligently. Mobile. Transalpine. Nacional Financial. Chevron. Calcomp. Hobart and General Motors. At least, thief as he is, he showed intelligence.”
When he had tried to blackmail her, Archer had assured her that Rolfe wouldn’t know what bonds, what shares he had stolen. He had told her that Rolfe’s portfolio was so vast he wouldn’t miss the certificates and she had believed him. Crushed, she sat silent, looking down at the leather portfolio that now contained no secrets.
“So Archer is a forger and an embezzler,” Rolfe went on. “It happens. I misjudged the man. I take it he forged your signature?”
Feeling utterly defeated, Helga said, “Yes.”
“I should have thought of that possibility. There should have been a third signature. We will write this off as an experience.”
She stared at him bewildered.
“But you will prosecute him?”
His head turned. The black goggles were directed at her.
“Fortunately, I can afford not to prosecute. Two million? To many it is a large sum but fortunately to me, it isn’t. Of course, I have already arranged that Archer will never ever get a responsible job again. He will find life much harder and more depressing than serving a term in jail. From now on, no one will touch Archer. He will join the ranks of the shifty, the shoddy and fringe people.”
Helga sat motionless, her heart beating unevenly, sure that there was more behind this act of so-called mercy not . . . not to prosecute.
Finally, she said, “I was sure you would prosecute.”
He nodded.
“I would have prosecuted but for one thing.” His head turned, the goggles pointed away from her. “I have been informed that before our marriage you were Archer’s mistress. I have been advised that if I prosecute Archer, this sordid fact will become public. Archer could sully you in court. I am prepared to forgo the satisfaction of jailing him to protect you and myself from scandal.”
Her mind went back to that moment when he had asked her to marry him.
He had asked, “Does sex mean a lot to you?” Then he had gone on, “I am a cripple. I am asking you if you are prepared to give up a normal sex life to become my wife. When we marry, there must never be any other man, never a breath of scandal. That is something I will not tolerate. If you cheat, Helga, I will divorce you and you will be left with nothing. Remember that. If you remain faithful to me, I will give you a fulfilled life. There are many compensations which I have
discovered that can replace sex. If you are prepared to accept this condition then we can be married as soon as I can make the arrangements.”
She had agreed to his terms, believing then that sex could be replaces by the advantages and the glamour of being the wife of one of the world’s richest men, but it hadn’t worked out like that. To her, she had to accept the fact that sex was life.
“I am sorry,” was all she could find to say.
He shrugged.
“That is all right. The past is the past.” Rolfe moved restlessly. “I am relieving you of the burden of handling my money, Helga. I now only expect you to act as my hostess; continue to enjoy my money and remain a faithful wife. Winborn will take over the Swiss portfolio.” He dug a thin finger into the bell push at his side.
Shocked, suddenly furious, Helga said, “So you no longer trust me?”
“It is not a matter of trust,” Rolfe said, his voice hard and cold. “Of course you are not to blame. Rather I am to blame for choosing Archer. You have done very well. I have been satisfied, but it is better, under the circumstances, to relieve you of further responsibilities.”
Hinkle came out on to the terrace in answer to the bell. Seeing them, he paused discreetly, out of hearing.
Helga said angrily, “So I am to be downgraded, punished because of your own stupid judgment!”
The black goggles swung in her direction. The skull-like face remained impassive.
“Enjoy the beach, Helga.” Rolfe’s voice revealed his complete indifference. “And behave yourself. Remember this. I seldom make a mistake, but when I do, I never repeat it.”
He snapped his thin fingers at Hinkle who came forward.
Leaving the portfolio on the chair, Helga, flushed and furious, left the terrace and returned to her apartment.
* * *
The only child of a brilliant international lawyer, Helga had had a continental education. She had had training in law and secretarial practice. Her father had joined a firm in Lausanne, Switzerland, specializing in tax problems. When she was twenty-four and fully qualified, her father had brought her into the firm as his personal assistant. She had a flair for finance and quickly made herself indispensable. The heart attack that killed her father some six years later made no difference to her position with the firm. Jack Archer, one of the junior partners, grabbed her as his personal secretary. He was handsome, dynamic and magnificently sexy. She had always been oversexed. Men were necessary in her life and she had so many lovers she had lost count of them. She became Archer’s mistress an hour or so after she had agreed to work with him. Somehow, no one seemed to know quite how, Archer got hold of the Herman Role’s account and by doing so became a senior partner. Helga had helped him to handle the massive portfolio. Rolfe had been impressed by her financial flair, her looks and her personality. He had offered marriage. Urged on by Archer, she had accepted. All had gone well until Archer had been tempted to make himself a quick million dollars by investing in Australian nickel where there was no nickel. To save himself, he had forged Helga’s signature and had taken over two million dollars of Rolfe’s money.
1975 - The Joker in the Pack Page 1