1975 - The Joker in the Pack

by James Hadley Chase

  “I have friends who visit me,” Helga said. “Dick will be helpful.”

  “That I can see, ma’am.” Mrs. Jones nodded. “It’s a fine chance for him.”

  Helga’s face was expressionless as she said, “I would like your advice, Mrs. Jones. Dick did mention a girlfriend . . . Terry Shields. He suggested she might also help in the villa.”

  For a brief moment, she took her eyes off the traffic and looked searchingly at the big, fat woman at her side. She saw the dark face become set and a heavy frown creased her forehead.

  “That girl? A no-good white trash!” Mrs. Jones snapped. “You have nothing to do with her, ma’am. Dick’s a good boy, but he’s sort of crazy in the head about this no-good girl. You keep him working, ma’am. You see he doesn’t have too much free time. If he does, he’ll go running after this no-good girl.”

  “What makes you think she is no-good, Mrs. Jones?”

  “If you had kids, ma’am, if you were a mother, ma’am, you would know what is a good girl and what is a no-good girl. I know. I’ve seen her. She’s no-good.”

  “You saw Dick last night?”

  “Saw him? Why sure, ma’am. I helped him pack so he could move into your fine house.” Mrs. Jones turned and looked sharply at Helga. “He did arrive last night, didn’t he?”

  Helga hesitated, then said, “Yes, he arrived.”

  Mrs. Jones beamed.

  “That’s it, ma’am . . . like I say, he is a good boy.”

  Helga pulled up outside the broken down bungalow.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Mrs. Jones said. “You’re real nice and kind. You make my boy work, ma’am. He is willing but he needs telling.”

  Helga watched the big woman stump up to her front door, weighed down by her two shopping bags, then she did a U-turn and headed back towards the Blue Heron villa.

  As she drove, her mind was busy. This meeting with Dick’s mother had been fortuitous. The cards were continuing to fall her way. So she was being taken for a sucker. Her lips moved into a hard smile. As Dick wasn’t living at home, where was he living? She guessed he had moved in with Terry. The story of the broken arm was a lie. Helga put herself in Terry’s place. Dick would have told Terry he had been forced to work for her (Helga). Terry probably realized that she (Helga) had designs on Dick. The broken arm was a way out. Again Helga smiled. Don’t rush this, she told herself. She needed a lot of information before she could fix these two. No one played her for a sucker. In her past a number of people had tried and later, were sorry.

  She found she was driving along Ocean Avenue and on impulse, she slowed and drove into a parking lot.

  She walked to Frank Gritten’s office block. As she waited for the elevator, she opened her bag and took out her cigarette case. The descending cage reached the ground floor, the doors swished open and she found herself confronted by Harry Jackson, wearing his glamour suit.

  He started and lost color when he saw her.

  “Hello, Mr. Jackson, how smart you look,” she said.

  He moved by her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Rolfe.” His voice was husky. “How’s things?”

  She stepped into the elevator, still staring at him.

  “Thank you . . . fine. I hope you and Mrs. Lopez are still happy.”

  She thumbed the fifth floor button and as Jackson rubbed the back of his hand across his lips, the elevator doors closed.

  Frank Gritten was sitting at his desk, puffing at his pipe. He got to his feet as Helga was ushered in by his elderly secretary.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rolfe. Take a chair. Nice morning, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She lit her cigarette, sat down and went on, “I want to use your service, Mr. Gritten. I suggest a thousand dollar retainer.”

  Gritten nodded.

  “That’s what I am here for, Mrs. Rolfe. What do you want me to do?”

  “I have hired Dick Jones who I have already spoken to you about to keep my rented villa in order. The Blue Heron villa,” Helga said, crossing her shapely legs. “He should have arrived this morning, but instead, his girlfriend, Terry Shields turned up, riding his motorcycle. She tells me Jones has had an accident and has broken his arm. As I have already paid him a hundred dollars, he asked this girl to act as his standin. I have talked to Jones’ mother and she believes her son is not only living at my villa, but is working for me. I find all this odd and I admit it intrigues me. I don’t like people lying to me. I want you to find out what Jones is doing, whether he did break his arm, where he is living and who this girl is. I want it all in depth, Mr. Gritten.”

  Gritten looked thoughtfully at her, then nodded.

  “Should be no problem, Mrs. Rolfe.”

  “I will be interested to know why Jones went to reform school. I also want to know all about Terry Shields. In fact, Mr. Gritten, I want all this in depth.”

  Gritten nodded, then smiled.

  “You will have it in depth.”

  Helga dropped a one thousand dollar bill on his desk, then got to her feet.

  “And I want it fast, Mr. Gritten.”

  “You will have it fast,” Gritten said and escorted her to the elevator.

  * * *

  When Helga got back to the Blue Heron villa she saw the Electra Glide motorcycle had gone. She drove into the garage and lugged out her three suitcases, unlocked the front door and carried the cases, one at a time into the living room. It irritated her that there was no servant to do this chore for her, but she shrugged this off.

  She inspected the villa and found it was immaculate. The kitchen was spick and span. Dragging a suitcase up the stairs, she found the bedroom and the bathroom also immaculate.

  She spent the next hour unpacking and putting her clothes away. By the time she had finished it was 13.10 and she was hungry.

  Should she go out? She went down to the kitchen and inspected the ‘heat and eat’ packs. The chili con carne pack carried an appetizing photo in color of the finished dish. She decided to eat her instead of the bore of finding a small restaurant. This time the potatoes were a success and she enjoyed the meal. She was about to leave the cleaning up, decided not to let Terry know she had eaten ‘junk.’ It took her a while to wash up and this irritated her, but she took care to restore the stove and the sink as she had found them.

  She then went into the living room, stretched out on the big settee and did some thinking. Dick would have to be punished, she told herself. She must wait for Gritten’s report. If the boy really imagined he could fool her, he was in for a shock.

  Around 15.00, she left the villa and drove to the Ocean Beach club. The magic name of Rolfe swept away any sponsors or the entrance fee.

  The secretary of the club, a fat little man with a beaming smile, said the club would be honored to have her as a temporary member. He was sure she would find everything to her liking and he extolled the club’s facilities.

  “You will want to meet people, Mrs. Rolfe. I assure you you will be welcomed by everyone.”

  He took her around the club, introducing her to the English members: the old and the over-fat, the men with veins from drinking raddling their faces the women in odd hats who smiled suspiciously, but all anxious to welcome the wife of one of the world’s richest men.

  Helga hated them all, but she knew she just couldn’t go on living alone in the villa and had to have contacts . . . but what contacts!

  She endured an English tea with sandwiches and plum cake, surrounded by kindly, yakking people who kept looking with greedy eyes at the trolley loaded with cream cakes.

  She thought of Dick. If the little bastard had kept faith, she and he would be in the king size bed right at this moment. She refused another cucumber sandwich.

  “But they are so good, Mrs. Rolfe. With your beautiful figure, you don’t have to worry about dieting.”

  Stifled and utterly bored, she finally broke away. She noticed the men were looking with astonishment at her modest car. Rolls, Bentleys, Cadillacs surrounded the Mini.

>   She drove back to the villa. Remembering Herman, she called the hospital to be told there was still no change in his condition. The time was 18.15. She went up to her bedroom and put on a white pajama suit, then going down to the living room, she mixed herself a vodka martini. She listened to the TV news. The fluctuation of the dollar worried her. She thought of all the dollars she had in the Swiss account. She should have converted them into Swiss francs.

  A few minutes before 19.00, she heard the roar of the approaching Electra Glide. The engine cut, then the front door opened.

  Terry Shields came into the living room, carrying a paper sack.

  “There you are, Terry,” Helga said, smiling. “Thank you for cleaning up so well.”

  The girl was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and dark blue stretch pants. Her hair looked damp as if she had been swimming.

  “I got scampi,” she said. “That okay for you?”

  Helga regarded her. Again she was impressed by the strength of character that showed in her face. A no-good girl? She certainly didn’t look no-good.

  “Scampi? Yes . . . fine.” A pause, then she asked, “How is Dick’s arm?”

  As Terry moved towards the kitchen, she said, “I didn’t ask him.”

  Helga’s mouth tightened. She finished her drink, then getting to her feet, she went to the kitchen door. Terry was unpacking the paper sack.

  “How long have you known Dick?” she asked, leaning against the doorway.

  “Long enough,” Terry said curtly. “Do you like these grilled in the shells or in a sauce?”

  “Whichever is the easiest,” Helga said impatiently.

  The girl turned and looked at her, her face wooden.

  “No good cooking is easy, Mrs. Rolfe,” she said. “Say what you want and you’ll get it.”

  “Oh, in their shells. I’m not hungry.”

  Terry dropped the scampi into a sieve and ran cold water over them.

  “Is Dick your boyfriend, Terry?” Helga asked.

  Terry shook the scampi, then turned them out on to a cloth.

  “You could say that.”

  “And you? Where do you live?”

  “I have a pad.”

  “I am sure you have, but where?”

  “North side.”

  A long pause while Terry blotted the scampi dry. Helga was determined to persist.

  “I was talking to Dick’s mother this morning. She tells me he isn’t living at home. Is he staying with you?”

  Terry turned on the grill.

  “Does it matter?” She picked up a pack of rice. “Rice, okay? You can have dehydrated potatoes if you want them.”

  “I’ll have rice.” A pause. “I am asking you: is he staying with you?”

  Terry poured rice into a cup.

  “Are you that interested, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  Helga controlled her rising temper.

  “Oddly enough, Terry, I am. Is he living with you?”

  Terry poured hot water into a saucepan and set it on a burner.

  “Yes, he is staying with me and he screws me.”

  Shocked, for a moment Helga was speechless. She abruptly realized, by questioning this girl, she was inviting insolence.

  “I am not interested in your relations with him,” she said, her voice cold. “I want to know where he is.”

  Terry added salt to the water. She began to wash the rice.

  “His mother said nothing about his breaking his arm,” Helga said through the silence.

  Terry tipped the rice into the boiling water.

  “Do you mind eating early, Mrs. Rolfe?” she said without looking at Helga. “I have a date.”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Helga snapped. “I don’t believe he has a broken arm!”

  Terry began to lay the scampi on the grill.

  “Do you like lemon juice, Mrs. Rolfe? Some people are allergic to lemon. If you don’t dig lemon, there’s tabasco.”

  “Terry! Has he or has he not broken his arm?”

  “If you want dinner, Mrs. Rolfe, could you let me get on with it? All this talk holds me up.”

  Helga controlled herself with an effort. The calm, cold effrontery of this girl was something she had never before experienced.

  “I am asking you a question and I want an answer!” she said, her voice strident.

  “It’ll be ready in ten minutes, Mrs. Rolfe. Excuse me. I’ll set the table.”

  Sidestepping Helga, Terry went into the living room.

  Helga stood motionless, her hands clenched into fists. She longed to rush into the living room, grab hold of this insolent little bitch and slap her face. Get hold of yourself. You’re handling this like a moron.

  She walked into the living room and not looking at Terry who was laying the table, she turned on the television set. A close-up picture of a girl swam into focus on the screen. She seemed to be trying to swallow a microphone and her mouth was as big as a fire bucket. Her amplified, brash voice exploded into the room. Helga winced and turned down the sound.

  Terry returned to the kitchen.

  There was a long pause while the girl on the screen fought with the microphone and made noises like a cat in heat.

  Terry returned, carrying a dish and a plate.

  “It is all ready, Mrs. Rolfe. You haven’t any wine. If you had told me, I would have got you some.”

  Helga walked over to the neatly laid table and sat down.

  “I’ll get some tomorrow. This looks very good.” She surveyed the scampi, perfectly cooked and the bowl of rice. “You seem to be a very good cook, Terry.”

  “Well, if that’s all, Mrs. Rolfe, I’ll run along,” Terry said. “I’ll clear up tomorrow.”

  Helga, now calm, now steel hard, began to peel one of the scampi.

  “No, it is not all, Terry. Sit down.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe. I am late already.” She reached the door and opened it.

  “Sit down!” She ate one of the scampi. “Excellent.”

  Terry was moving to the door.

  “Terry! Did you hear what I said? Sit down!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Rolfe. I am late already.” She reached the door and opened it.

  “Sit down!” Helga screamed at her. “Unless you want to see your fancy boy in jail!”

  Terry paused, then shrugging, her face expressionless, she came back into the room and dropped into a lounging chair.

  Score one, Helga said to herself. So this little bastard does mean something to her! She ate another scampi, squeezed lemon over her rice, wished there was a glass of Chablis to go with the meal.

  “Did Dick tell you he is in trouble?” she asked, selecting another scampi. She forced her voice to sound calm.

  “Say what you have to say, Mrs. Rolfe and make it short,” Terry said indifferently. “I have a date.”

  “These scampi are very good,” Helga said, thinking. I’ll give this little bitch a taste of her own medicine. “Is your date with Dick?”

  “Why should you care, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  A point to her, Helga thought. Be careful.

  “Yes, Dick is in trouble,” she went on. “Didn’t you wonder how he managed to buy a motorcycle costing over four thousand dollars?”

  The girl leaned back in the chair, crossing her long legs.

  “That is his business. Only people with little to do stick their noses into other people’s business.”

  Another point to her, Helga thought, but I hold the trump card.

  “He didn’t tell you he stole a ring from me, sold it and with the proceeds bought the bike?”

  She shelled another scampi and squeezed more lemon.

  Terry said nothing. She looked at her watch, then recrossed her legs.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes. Why should I care?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Is there anything else you have to say, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  “Yes. Tell Dick that unless he is here by nine o’clock tonight, a police o
fficer will pick him up and I will charge him with stealing my ring.”

  Terry nodded and got to her feet.

  “At nine o’clock? What would you want him for at that time, Mrs. Rolfe?”

  Helga finished the last of the scampi.

  “Oh, to clear up, Terry. Just run along and tell him.” She stared at the girl, steel in her eyes. “Unless, of course, you want him to spend the night in jail.”

  “Mrs. Rolfe, I will make a suggestion.” Terry groped in the hip pocket of her pants and took out two crumbled fifty-dollar bills which she dropped on the floor. “That’s the money Dick owes you. You won’t be seeing him nor me again. Now for the suggestion: when a middle-aged woman gets hot pants for a boy young enough to be her son, cold water helps. Go sit in a cold bath, Mrs. Rolfe,” and turning, she walked out of the room and out of the villa.

  As she listened to the roar of the motorcycle fading into the distance, Helga stared down at the empty scampi shells as empty as she felt at this moment.

  chapter seven

  The palm trees rustled in the slight breeze. Every now and then there came the sound of a soft thud as a coconut dropped. The faint roar of the traffic along the sea road blended with the swish of the sea, breaking on the beach.

  Helga lay on the cushioned terrace chair. She had turned on the submerged lights in the big swimming pool, but had left off the terrace lights. The expanse of blue water, lit softly, made a soothing reflection on the terrace.

  A middle-aged woman with hot pants . . .

  The cruelest and the truest thing that had ever been said of her.

  A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. For as long as she could remember, this sexual urge had tormented her; they had a word for it: nymphomania. She had imagined it was her own private and very special secret. Now this girl had ripped away the pretense. Thinking back into her past, Helga forced herself to admit the shaming fact that other people also knew, although they hadn’t said so. The smiling waiters, the young, husky men, even the middle-aged roués with whom she had spent an hour or so were even now probably talking about her.

  “Strictly between you and me, old fella,” she imagined them saying, “that Rolfe bitch is really keen. You know . . . Herman Rolfe’s wife. She drops on her back at the drop of a hat.”