1977 - I Hold the Four Aces

by James Hadley Chase

  Grenville drew in a deep breath.

  “All right. When will it be?”

  “Three days after you have settled in at the villa, but we will meet again before then. I will let you know what I have arranged.” Archer paused, his eyes turning bleak. “She outsmarted me once, now it is my turn.”

  chapter four

  Some two years ago, when Jack Archer had been a senior partner of a reputable firm of international lawyers in Lausanne, he had received a telephone call.

  A harsh American voice said, “This is Moses Seigal talking. You know me?”

  Archer always read the Herald Tribune, so he knew Moses Seigal was one of the important Mafia men, and was being hunted by the F.B.I. for tax evasion.

  “Yes, Mr. Seigal,” he said cautiously. “I have read about you.”

  “Yeah. Now listen, I want your advice and I’ll pay. A guy who gives advice to a guy as big as Herman Rolfe is my idea of a guy. I’ll be at Bernie’s restaurant, Geneva, at eight o’clock tomorrow night. You be there, and you’ll pick up some dough,” and he hung up.

  For some minutes Archer hesitated. He knew Seigal was on the run, but he also knew the Mafia people were dangerous to refuse. So, without telling his partners, who would have been dismayed, he decided it might be profitable to himself personally, to talk to this man.

  Bernie’s restaurant was on a side street off Quai Gustave. It looked unimpressive, dark and shabby.

  Entering, Archer had been greeted by a short, thickset, swarthy-looking man with a beard, who had told him Mr. Seigal was waiting.

  The bearded man, introducing himself as Bernie, had taken Archer through the crowded restaurant to a room at the back where a fat, beetle-browed Italian was drinking Campari soda.

  “Okay, Bernie,” the man growled. “Get us some of your swill. I’m in a hurry.”

  He waved Archer to a chair.

  “I ain’t got long,” he said as Archer settled himself. “I’ve got a load of hot money. I want to stash it. What do I do?”

  Bernie came in with two plates of spaghetti, drenched in tomato sauce, plonked them down and went away.

  A little shaken, Archer said, “In cash or bonds?”

  “In cash.”

  Seigal began to attack the spaghetti, eating like an animal.

  “I could arrange for you to have a numbered account in a reliable private bank,” Archer said.

  “Yeah. That’s what I heard. Okay, you fix it. I got the money right here.” Seigal nodded to a battered suitcase by his side. “Two and a half million bucks.”

  Archer flinched.

  “Yes, Mr. Seigal, I can arrange that”

  “You get fifty thousand Swiss francs. Okay?”

  This would go straight into Archer’s pocket. He had no intention of sharing it with his partners.

  “That is perfectly okay with me, Mr. Seigal.”

  “So it’s fixed, huh?” Seigal was eating as he talked. Spaghetti fell from his mouth, and Archer thought he was utterly revolting. “You take the dough, huh?” He belched, then again crammed spaghetti into his mouth. “I had you investigated, Archer. You’re an all right guy, but if you think you can walk off with my dough, think again. My boys would take care of you.”

  “There’s no question of that,” Archer said stiffly. “Leave the money with me, and I will arrange it. Give me an address where I can send the account number.”

  Seigal nodded.

  “To my wife. Here.” He took out his billfold and produced a stack of Swiss francs and a card.

  “That’s the address, and there’s your pay-off.” By now, he had almost demolished the spaghetti which Archer hadn’t touched. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get moving.”

  Bernie came in.

  “Want some more, Moses?”

  “Haven’t the time. My goddamn plane is about to take off. Hey, Bernie, look at this guy. His name is Jack Archer. He’s taking care of my money. He does me a favour: you do him a favour, huh?” Turning to Archer, he went on. “Bernie is Mr. Fix-it in this town. Anything you want done, talk to him: he’ll fix it. Right, Bernie?”

  “If you say so, Moses, it is so,” Bernie said.

  And Archer remembered.

  Leaving Geneva airport, he told the taxi driver to take him to Bernie’s restaurant. As he sat in the taxi, he remembered how he had taken the two and a half million dollars to a bank and had deposited them.

  The director of the bank knew him, so there was no problem. He had sent the number of the account to Seigal's wife. Two months later, he read in the Herald Tribune that Moses Seigal had been shot to death.

  Paying off the taxi, Archer walked into the shabby restaurant. There was Bernie, standing behind the bar, slightly older, slightly heavier, who recognized him and came to him, offering a hard, sweaty hand.

  “Mr. Archer!”

  “Hello, Bernie.”

  “Come and have some spaghetti.” Bernie led Archer into the back room. “And a bottle of Valpolicella,” and he went away.

  The wine and the spaghetti arrived.

  “Bernie, sit down. I want to talk to you,” Archer said, and began to eat the spaghetti, for he was hungry.

  “Why else should you come?” Bernie laughed. “You heard about Moses? He had it coming: if not his enemies, then the cops.”

  “I read about it.”

  Bernie went over to close the door, then sat opposite Archer.

  “It is good?”

  Archer stirred the sauce into the spaghetti.

  “Very good. Bernie, I have a small problem. You could help.”

  “If I can, I will.”

  “I want to hire two reliable men. When I say reliable, I mean two men who will be paid to do a job, and then forget they have done it.”

  Bernie nodded.

  “What’s the job, Mr. Archer?”

  “I want these two men to fake - and I repeat fake - a kidnapping. The man, who is to be kidnapped, has asked me to arrange this. Between you and me, he wants to frighten the woman he is living with. All these two men have to do is to arrive at the home of this woman, look menacing, hustle the man out, and drive him away. The police won’t come into it. It is really a joke on the woman.”

  Bernie reached for a wooden toothpick and began to explore his teeth.

  “So what happens then?” he asked.

  “That’s it. The woman will believe her boyfriend has been kidnapped. He will keep away from her for a couple of days, then return.” Archer shrugged. “He thinks he will bring her to heel.”

  Bernie nodded.

  “How about money, Mr. Archer?”

  “For finding two reliable men, I will pay you five hundred francs. I will arrange payment with the two men when I have met them.”

  Bernie continued to dig into his teeth for a long moment, then he shook his head.

  “No, Mr. Archer, it will cost a little more. For one thousand francs, I can find two reliable men.”

  Archer was in no position to bargain.

  “Very well: a thousand francs.”

  Bernie smiled.

  “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Archer. I’ll fix it,” and getting up, he left Archer alone.

  By the time Archer had finished the spaghetti and the bottle of wine, Bernie returned.

  “It is fixed, Mr. Archer,” he said as he dropped his bulk into the chair opposite Archer. “These two men: I know them. They hang out here in the evenings. They are most reliable. Their work isn’t much.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They work together on the tourist steamers, and they speak English. Naturally, they are eager for money. The young one is Jacques Belmont. The older one is Max Segetti. There is a homo relationship between them.” Bernie smiled. “I assure you, Mr. Archer, if you are willing to pay, they can be relied on.”

  Archer nodded.

  “I want to see and talk to them.”

  “Of course, Mr. Archer. You talk to them, and if they aren’t satisfactory, tell me, and I will look for two other men.”

&n
bsp; “They are here now?”

  “Sure. In the evening, this is their home.” Bernie regarded Archer, and Archer, taking the hint, produced a thousand franc bill. “A friend of Moses,” Bernie went on, slipping the bill into his pocket, “is a friend of mine.”

  He went to the door and jerked his thumb.

  Two men came into the room. One was tall, thin, with hair down to his shoulders. His white face was narrow, his eyes close-set. His companion was bulky, older than the other by ten years. His dyed, straw-coloured hair looked like a disturbed bird’s nest. His fat face was featureless, but the small, black eyes were probing.

  They were both wearing shabby jeans and dirty sweat shirts. They came to the table and stood looking at Archer. He didn’t like the look of either of them, but Moses Seigal had said Bernie was to be relied on. One had, he told himself, to make do with the tools one was given.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  They sat down.

  “I’m Segetti,” the fat man said. “He’s Belmont.”

  “Bernie tells me you two are reliable.” Archer put on his tough expression. “You had better be! A friend of mine wants to be kidnapped to frighten some sense into his girlfriend. There is no question of the police coming into this. It is a joke against his girlfriend, but it has to look convincing. Your job will be to rush into the villa, take the man - he will put up no resistance - then drive him to another villa and leave him there. That’s all you have to do. You will forget the whole thing, and return to Geneva. The villa is outside Lugano.”

  Segetti nodded.

  “Bernie told us it would be all right. It’s fine with us.” He leaned forward, his little black eyes glistening. “How much?”

  “Shall we say two thousand francs each?” Archer said.

  Segetti looked sad.

  “Not quite enough, Mr. Archer. We will lose work, leaving Geneva. We could lose our jobs. I think five thousand each would be better.”

  “Four thousand each, and not a franc more,” Archer said curtly.

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Right,” Segetti said, “but all expenses?”

  “Yes.”

  “And half now?”

  “No. A thousand francs each now, the rest when you have done the job.” Archer produced two one-thousand franc bills and put them on the table. Segetti picked up the bills and put them in his pocket.

  “I want you to wear hoods. You must look frightening,” Archer went on. “And guns, of course. Is that a problem?”

  Segetti smiled.

  “Hoods and guns are no problem. I understand what you want.”

  “The kidnapping will be in three days” time: that is on the evening of the 18th. I want you two to be at the Hotel de Suisse, Lugano at 14.00 on the 18th. I’ll be staying there. We will finalize all the details when we meet. Bring the guns and the hoods with you. Is that understood?”

  Segetti nodded.

  “You have a car?”

  Segetti nodded again.

  Archer produced a five-hundred franc bill.

  “This will take care of your expenses. So it is agreed: we meet at the Hotel de Suisse, Lugano at 14.00 on the 18th.”

  “It is agreed,” Segetti said, pocketing the five-hundred franc bill.

  While they had been talking, Archer had become more and more aware that Segetti's companion had said nothing, but had sat, staring down at his hands.

  “And you, Belmont? Is it agreed?” Archer asked, a snap in his voice.

  “Jacques always agrees when I agree,” Segetti said quickly. Both men got to their feet. “Then we see you later, Mr. Archer.” With a little wave of his hand, he walked from the room, followed by Belmont.

  Bernie came into the room.

  “Is it satisfactory, Mr. Archer?”

  “I think so. Look, Bernie, I did a good job for Seigal,” Archer said. “He assured me you fixed things. I’m relying on you. Are you absolutely sure these two men can be relied on?”

  “Cross my heart and cut my throat. Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Archer. You pay them fair, and they will deliver.”

  Archer, still uneasy, got to his feet.

  “They are getting eight thousand francs for less than an hour’s work. Do you call that fair?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “That’s big money for them. Yes, Mr. Archer, you have no problems.”

  Archer shook hands.

  “Could you get me a taxi?”

  “There’s one right outside, Mr. Archer. I hope to see you again.”

  When Archer had driven away, Segetti and Belmont came out of the toilet where they had been waiting for Archer to go.

  “What goes on?” Segetti asked, joining Bernie at the bar.

  “This could be an interesting and very profitable setup,” Bernie said. “This fat fink, Archer, once worked for Herman Rolfe who was loaded with the stuff. Keep in touch with me, Max. I want to know who this guy is who wants to be kidnapped, and I want to know who his girlfriend is. As soon as you know where the kidnapping is to take place, telephone me. Understand?”

  Segetti nodded.

  “We’ll want hoods and guns.”

  “Is that so terrible?” Bernie grinned. “I’ve got hoods and guns. What I want is information.”

  * * *

  As Helga, followed by Grenville, walked through the Geneva customs, she saw Hinkle waiting at the barrier.

  Although only fifty-two years of age, Hinkle looked considerably older. He was short, rotund and balding. White wisps of hair softened his florid complexion. He had had the thankless task of nursing Herman Rolfe, a polio victim, for fifteen years. When Rolfe had died, Hinkle had transferred his loyalty to Helga, whom he admired.

  The news she had told him that she was in love disturbed him. He was well aware of her weakness for men, but seeing her approach, looking radiant, he thought hopefully this could be, at last, the real thing, but then, looking beyond her at Grenville, he had immediate doubts. This tall, too handsome, too suave man sent up a red light in Hinkle’s mind.

  “Dear Hinkle!” Helga said, grasping his hand. “How I have missed you!” Turning to Grenville, she went on, “Chris, this is Hinkle whom I have told you about.”

  Grenville had no time for servants. He nodded distantly, then said, “The luggage, Helga. Perhaps he will take care of it,” and gave Hinkle the luggage stubs as if conveying a favour.

  “Yes, sir,” Hinkle said.

  From that moment, they were enemies.

  Hinkle turned to Helga.

  “The new Rolls is just outside, madame. If you will give me a few minutes,” then snapping his fingers at a waiting porter, he walked away.

  “Chris, darling,” Helga said. “Please, Hinkle is very special. Do be nice to him.”

  Realizing he had made a faux pas, Grenville said hurriedly, “Sorry. Of course.”

  They went together from the airport lobby to where the Camargue Rolls stood waiting.

  “Some car,” Grenville said, impressed.

  Helga walked around the Rolls and then clapped her hands.

  “It’s really marvellous!” She got in the rear seat and as Grenville joined her, she took his hand. “Oh, Chris! This is rally when I appreciate the power of money! I’m so lucky! And now, you and I. I know you will love the villa.”

  Within a few minutes, Hinkle slid under the driving wheel, the luggage in the boot.

  “Is all well at Paradise City, Hinkle?” Helga asked.

  “Yes, madame. The garden is looking very well.”

  “I told Transel to prepare the villa.”

  “So I understand, madame. Whilst waiting for your arrival, I telephoned him. All is in order.”

  Helga patted Grenville’s hand.

  “You see how Hinkle takes care of me.”

  “And madame,” Hinkle went on, “as it is so late, I have booked rooms at the Trois Couronnes Hotel at Vevey for tonight.”

  “Thank you.” Helga turned to Grenville. “It is a five hour
drive from Vevey to Castagnola. We shall arrive tomorrow in time for lunch. Hinkle, what about food?”

  “I have given Transel instructions, madame. He will stock the deep freeze.”

  Helga sighed and rested her head on Grenville’s shoulder. She relaxed as the Rolls took them along the lakeside and towards Vevey.

  At the Trois Couronnes, Helga said good night to Grenville, pressed his hand, her eyes alight with promises, and then was escorted to her room. As soon as he was in his room, Grenville put through a call to Archer at the Hotel de Suisse in Lugano.

  “It’s all arranged,” Archer told him. “There is nothing for you to worry about. In three days, the operation will begin.”

  “I’m not so sure there is nothing to worry about,” Grenville said, uneasily. “This man of hers, Hinkle, worries me.

  “Hinkle?” Archer’s voice shot up. “Is he here?”

  “He’s very much here, and very much in charge. He took one look at me and hated me. I know the signs. These ghastly old family retainers can be deadly.”

  “Yes.” Archer, in his turn, became worried. “Hinkle, like Helga, is nobody’s fool.”

  “Well, it’s your funeral. You work it out.”

  “It’ll work out. Love her, Chris. That’s your job. She will override Hinkle once she is sure you want to marry her. I’ll look after the rest.”

  “Just as long as you do,” said Grenville, who was now in a surly mood.

  “Be careful how you handle Hinkle,” Archer went on. “Be nice to him: flatter him. Don’t overdo it, Chris, but pour oil.”

  So the following morning, Grenville came from the hotel to where Hinkle was dusting the Rolls.

  “Hello, Hinkle,” Grenville said in his smoothest manner. “That’s really a beautiful car. Tell me about it.”

  “I would say, sir, it is the best car in the world,” Hinkle said coldly. “An entirely new line. The Silver Shadow doesn’t compare with it. I always prefer a two-door job.”

  “The body work is of the master stylist, Pininfarina. This model is the first to use the latest Lucas Opus electronic ignition.”

  Not knowing what Hinkle was talking about, Grenville wandered around the car.