The Joker in the Pack

Chapter one

The Zurich-Miami Jumbo touched down at the Miami International airport at 10.35, according to schedule.

Usually Helga Rolfe enjoyed travelling V.I.P., cosseted and pampered as the wife of one of the world’s richest men, fawned over by young air hostesses, 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 air hostess 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 didn’t 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’d 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 her 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. 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 air hostess was beside her, blue shaded eyelids, long eye lashes 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.

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 a 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 ready 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 off-side 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 Mr. 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, 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 cheek bones, large violet coloured 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. She 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 martini.

‘A drink, doctor?’ she asked.

‘Thank you, no. But sit down, Mrs. Rolfe. You have had...’

‘Yes.’ As she sat down, she looked at him: a tiny, bird-like man with a hooked nose, rimless glasses, 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 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 wheel chair, 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 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 colour, she would feel he was human, but 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 cheque 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 the fringe people.’

Helga sat motionless, her heart beating unevenly, sure that there was more behind this act of so-called mercy... 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 replaced 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 judgement!’

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.

Sitting on the terrace, staring out at the beach, Helga heard again Archer’s persuasive words: ‘Look Helga, Herman needn’t know about this. You know he never cheques anything. He is far too busy. You initial all this stuff and he accepts it. I’m asking you to help me out of a hole. After all he’s worth around sixty million... he will never miss two will he?’

Although she was sure Herman wouldn’t miss two million, she had refused to be Archer’s accomplice. How right she had been! For Herman knew that Archer had turned embezzler before she could tell him! She drew in a long, deep breath. Thank God, she hadn’t submitted to Archer’s attempted blackmail!

So...

It is better, under the circumstances, to relieve you of further responsibilities.

The crippled bastard! After all she had done for him! After all the money she had made for him by shrewd and careful investing! To be tossed aside like this!

I now only expect you to be my hostess; continue to enjoy my money and remain a faithful wife.

No longer would she have the excuse to fly to Lausanne, Paris, Bonn, representing him. No longer would she receive the V.I.P. treatment at the airports and the luxury hotels. A hostess! A smiling face, the right words to fat, old men who wanted favours from her husband, who fawned over her, hoping she might advance their interests. No more freedom! No more waiters who came to her room, serviced her and went away with money in their experienced hands. No more young, well-built men, ready and willing. It was only on her travels that she looked for lovers: never in Miami, Paradise City, New York: Herman’s neck of the woods. She was now condemned to sit in this kind of hotel or in the luxury of the Paradise City villa or in the New York penthouse with her crippled husband always nearby, staring at her behind black sun goggles.

Then she thought of what Dr. Levi had said.

He could die tomorrow. He could die next year. Give and take, I would say perhaps six months unless he gives up this rat race and relaxes.

That Herman would never do. So... six months! She was prepared to wait six months. And then... Sixty million dollars! Rolfe’s magic key her own!

She put on a bikini swim suit. Still not entirely sure of herself, she again surveyed herself in the mirror. The Swiss winter tan was becoming but paling a little. Her figure was provocative. She knew this. Pulling on a beach wrap, she took the elevator to the lobby.

The reception manager was immediately at her side.

‘Is there anything, madame?’

‘Yes, please... a beach buggy.’

‘Of course.’

No more than a three minute wait and the beach buggy was pulling up at the hotel entrance. The smiling attendant offered to show her the controls, but she was familiar with the controls of machines on wheels.

A smiling traffic cop, obviously alerted, stopped the traffic and gave her a salute as she drove across the main road and on to the beach. She waved to him, smiling. A beautiful man, she thought. God! How I would like him in my bed!

Driving fast, she soon put the crowds behind her and headed for the sand dunes, the deserted beach and the sea. When she was sure she was on her own, she left the beach buggy and throwing off her wrap, she ran into the sea. She swam furiously, getting rid of all that irked her: Herman, Archer, her boxed-in future. She was an excellent swimmer, and by swimming fast, she came out of the water feeling cleansed both in mind and body.

As she walked back to the beach buggy, her step faltered. A man in swim trunks was standing by the vehicle, examining it: a big man with muscular shoulders, deeply tanned body, black, over-long hair and green sun goggles.

He looked towards her and grinned, showing big white teeth, teeth good enough to feature on a T.V. commercial in spite of the sun goggles which hid his eyes; the rest of his face was friendly, pleasant without being handsome.

‘Hi, there,’ he said, ‘I was admiring this thing. Is it yours?’

‘It belongs to the hotel,’ Helga said and reached for her wrap. He got it before she did and with just the right movements, nothing familiar, nothing servile, he helped her on with it. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m Harry Jackson,’ he told her. ‘Down here on vacation. I saw you swimming. Olympic style,’ and he grinned.

She looked sharply at him, but he wasn’t putting her on. He had said what he meant.

‘Well.’ She shrugged, pleased. ‘I swim a bit. Are you enjoying your vacation, Mr. Jackson?’

‘I sure am. This is the first time I have visited this neck of the woods. It’s something, isn’t it?’

‘It would seem so. I have only just arrived.’

‘I want to do some skin diving. Do you skin dive?’

‘Yes.’ What didn’t she do? she wondered.

‘Would you know the best place... no, I guess that’s a stupid question... you just arriving.’

She had been studying him, his beautiful muscles, his frank smile, his sexuality and that crucifying sex urge boiled up in her. If he had grabbed and raped her, it would have been the moment of her life. She looked up and down the deserted beach. They were utterly alone.

There was a pause, then she said, ‘How did you get here?’

‘Oh, I walked. I like walking.’ He smiled. ‘I got tired of all the noise. People sure know how to enjoy themselves here but they kick up a hell of a racket.’

‘Yes.’ She moved to the beach buggy and got in. ‘Do you want a ride back?’

‘Thanks. I’ve had all the walking I want for today.’

He climbed in beside her.

As she started the engine, she looked more closely at him. He was probably thirty-three, not more: ten years her junior, she thought. She wished he would take off the sun goggles. A man’s eyes, to her, were important.

‘What do you do for a living, Mr. Jackson?’ she asked. She wanted to know into what class category she would place him.

‘I’m a salesman,’ Jackson said. ‘I travel around. I like the life. I’m free... on my own. That’s important to me.’

And to me too, Helga thought as she set the buggy in motion.

‘What do you sell?’

‘Kitchen equipment.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? Everyone needs kitchen equipment.’ She was thinking: small fry, not dangerous, no connections with any of Herman’s awful people... he could be safe.

‘Right. I enjoy it. As you say, people always need something for the kitchen.’

‘Where are you staying, Mr. Jackson?’

‘I’ve rented a beach hut. I look after myself. I like it that way. Hotels give me a pain.’

‘Yes. Does your wife like that way of life?’

He laughed: an easy lilting laugh.

‘I haven’t a wife, I like my freedom. I haven’t even a girl friend here, but I’ll find someone. I believe in ships that pass in the night... no complications,’ and he laughed again.

She very nearly stopped the buggy and told him to take her, but she controlled herself.

‘I’m Helga,’ she said. ‘I’m on my own tonight. Should we do something about it?’

Was he going to duck out? Was he going to tell her by a look, not in words that she was too old for him? Her fingers turned white on the driving wheel.

‘Wonderful!’ He sounded enthusiastic. ‘Let’s do that. Where and when do I pick you up?’

‘Have you a car?’

‘Sure.’

‘Then why not outside the Ocean Beach club at nine o’clock?’

She had seen the club some hundred yards down the road from her hotel. At nine o’clock, Herman would be in bed.

‘It’s a date. I look forward to it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s a sea food restaurant I know. Do you like sea food?’

‘Of course.’

‘Fine. It’s okay... you don’t have to dress. Anything goes. Right?’

‘Yes.’

They drove for some minutes in silence, then he said, ‘Helga... that’s an unusual name.’ He suddenly took off his sun goggles and smiled at her. His big, friendly eyes gave her confidence. He was all right, she told herself. No problem with him. ‘You’re unusual too.’

She laughed, delighted.

‘We will talk about that tonight?’

‘That’s my beach hut.’ He pointed. They were about half a mile from her hotel.

She slowed the buggy, looked at the line of huts standing a hundred yards or so from the sea, half hidden by palm trees. She stopped the buggy.

‘Well, then tonight at nine,’ she said.

‘Right.’ He put his hand lightly but possessively on her arm for a brief moment. His touch sent a shock through her. He knew what she wanted, she told herself. ‘See you and thanks for the ride.’

In an excited daze, she drove back to the hotel.

The time was 19.15. Alex, the amiable hotel hairdresser had done her hair: his assistant had given her a facial. A waiter had brought her a shaker of vodka martinis. She had had a nap and was now refreshed and thinking of her date at 21.00 at the Ocean Beach club.

She had put on a simple white dress: white was becoming. It showed up her tan and, looking at herself in the mirror, she was satisfied. She would have one more drink, then she would go along to say good night to Herman, telling him she intended to take a walk, needing to stretch her legs after the journey. He wouldn’t be interested, but she would tell him.

As she poured the drink, the telephone bell buzzed. Frowning, she lifted the receiver.

‘Do I disturb you, madame?’

She recognized Hinkle’s fruity voice.

Surprised, she said, ‘Why, no, Hinkle. What is it?’

‘If you could spare me a few minutes, madame?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you, madame,’ and he hung up.

Puzzled, Helga sat down, sipped her drink and waited. She couldn’t imagine what Hinkle wanted to see her about unless it was about Herman. She had known Hinkle now for some three years. He had never approached her in this way before and she had seldom asked him to do anything for her. She had her own personal maid, and she regarded Hinkle strictly as Herman’s property.

A light tap came on the door and Hinkle entered. He was wearing a white jacket, a black bow tie and black trousers. In spite of the servant’s uniform, he still looked like a benign bishop. He shut the door, moved further into the room, then paused.

She looked inquiringly at him.

‘Yes, Hinkle?’

‘I would like, madame, if you would permit, to speak frankly with you.’

‘Is it about Mr. Rolfe?’

‘Yes, madame.’

‘Won’t you sit down?’

‘Thank you, madame. I would rather not.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘I have worked for Mr. Rolfe for some fifteen years. He is not an easy gentleman to work for but I believe I have given him acceptable service.’

‘I know you have, Hinkle,’ Helga said quickly. Was he breaking the news that he had had enough of Herman and was leaving? She shrank from the thought. ‘No one could have done more for him.’

‘I believe that is so, madame. I now find myself in a distressing position. Naturally, after all these years, I have a feeling of loyalty to Mr. Rolfe. As you know, I look after Mr. Rolfe’s papers when he is travelling. Mr. Rolfe has come to regard me as a background figure: someone who is always at hand, someone who is neuter if you follow my meaning. While filing some papers I came across a draft letter to Mr. Winborn. In order to place it where Mr. Rolfe could find it again, I read it. I now find myself in a dilemma. However, there was a subsequent happening and I decided I must speak to you.’

Helga stiffened.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said sharply.

‘If you will bear with me, madame, I will explain as you have given me permission to speak frankly.’

‘Well?’

‘I have to admit, to my regret, that I did not approve of you when you married Mr. Rolfe. Since I have got to know you, madame, I have come to realize your worth, what you have done for Mr. Rolfe, the burden you have accepted to make his home life easy, your constant journeys on his behalf. If I may say so, madame, I am impressed by your industry, your unfailing willingness, your financial abilities and the sacrifices you have made.’

Helga sat back, staring.

‘Well, Hinkle, that is quite a testimonial. Thank you.’

‘I don’t speak lightly on such matters, madame,’ Hinkle said, looking directly at her. ‘Mr. Rolfe is far from well. I realize this more than Dr. Levi does since I am in such close contact with Mr. Rolfe. I have discerned a distressing mental weakness in Mr. Rolfe which Dr. Levi, so far, has failed to observe.’

‘You mean my husband’s mind is deteriorating?’ This was the last thing Helga expected to hear.

‘Not quite that, madame. Mr. Rolfe suffers a great deal. Probably due to the drugs that Dr. Levi prescribes he appears now to be developing an odd persecution mania.’

Helga experienced a little jolt.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I find this difficult to tell you, madame.’ Hinkle looked distressed. ‘For some time, Mr. Rolfe has spoken to me of you with kindness, respect and even admiration. His attitude, recently, appears to have changed.’

Startled, Helga said, ‘It has?’

‘Yes, madame. He also appears to be taking a sudden interest in his daughter, Miss Sheila. You may perhaps know that Mr. Rolfe and she quarrelled. She left home, and for the past three years, has not communicated with him.’

‘I heard something about it,’ Helga said tensely.

‘This draft letter to Mr. Winborn, madame, gives Mr. Winborn instructions about a new will. What Mr. Rolfe does with his money is no concern of mine. However, in view of your constant attention to Mr. Rolfe and in view of a subsequent happening, I felt you should be forewarned.’

‘What subsequent happening?’ Helga was aware that her voice had turned husky.

‘I regret to tell you, madame, that I overheard Mr. Rolfe on the telephone yesterday giving instructions to a private inquiry agency to have you watched. Knowing you are deserving of Mr. Rolfe’s trust, I consider this so disgraceful I can only assume that Mr. Rolfe has become mentally ill.’

A private inquiry agency! Helga turned cold. She stared down at her hands while she struggled to absorb the shock.

‘Mr. Rolfe is now in bed,’ Hinkle said, slightly lowering his voice. ‘I have given him a sedative. The draft letter to Mr. Winborn which I think you should see is in the lower right hand drawer of his desk. It has yet to be mailed.’

She looked up.

‘Thank you, Hinkle.’

He moved towards the door.

‘There is such a thing as justice, madame,’ and he left the room.

After some fifteen years of the ruthless cut-and-thrust of modern business, Helga had acquired the capacity of weathering shocks, disasters, and even catastrophes, and she had experienced a few. She now absorbed this shock quickly. Cold fury gripped her as her shrewd brain went into action. How had Herman become suspicious? She didn’t believe for a moment Hinkle’s theory that Herman was mentally ill. Had he heard some gossip? Had he received an anonymous letter? She had been so careful in her sexual adventures. She thought of Hinkle. Knowing you are deserving of Mr. Rolfe’s trust. Kind, nice minded Hinkle! She finished her drink, then lit a cigarette. To be watched by some sleazy investigator! But that wasn’t the immediate problem. Herman had written a letter, changing his will, to Stanley Winborn, the head of his legal department: a tall, forbidding stick of a man whom she hated, who she knew strongly disapproved of her marriage and who had been nearly ill with jealousy when Rolfe had given Archer his Swiss portfolio.

She must know what she was facing. She must see this letter. Forewarned was forearmed. She recalled her father’s cliché. Without hesitating, she stubbed out her cigarette and made her way to Herman’s suite. Entering the living room, she moved silently to the bedroom. The door stood ajar. She looked in. Herman lay motionless. A soft light cast a glimmer on the worn, hard face. The eyes, usually hidden behind the big black goggles were closed. She felt a tremor run through her. Except for the slight rise and fall of the sheets covering him, he could have been dead.

Softly, she said, ‘Herman?’

He didn’t move.

Turning, she went silently to the big desk that stood in the bay window. Opening the lower right hand drawer, she found a red leather folder. Placing it on the desk, she switched on the shaded lamp.

Her heart was beating unevenly as she opened the folder. There was the letter:

The writing was small, neat and easy to read. Her eyes raced along the lines.

For some moments, Helga sat staring at the letter. Her first reaction was bitter despair: not to marry again! No more affairs! The old devil was condemning her to the life of a nun! How Winborn would grin when he read this letter. Evidence? Who had talked? She was sure Winborn would have her watched after Herman died. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than to see her without a nickel! After having free run of Herman’s money, spending without thinking for the past years, such an income was a pittance! And this daughter of his to get a million!

A sound made her spin around.

Rolfe stood in the bedroom doorway, supporting himself on two heavy canes. In his white silk pyjamas with his skull-like head and his glaring eyes, he looked like a terrifying, revenging spirit.

‘How dare you pry into my private papers!’ he exclaimed harshly.

Fury, shame, fear and hatred exploded inside Helga as she jumped to her feet.

‘And how dare you have me watched! Sully your name? Who cares a damn about your name? You are not even a man, you heartless computer! That’s all you are... a money making computer! You haven’t a shred of kindness nor understanding in you!’

Rolfe made an unsteady move forward, his eyes blazing.

‘You whore!’

‘I would rather be a whore than a crippled joke!’ she screamed at him.

Then it happened.

Blood rushed to his face, his mouth twisted, the canes slipped out of his hands and clattered on the floor. He clutched at his chest. The agony that swept through his thin body made her close her eyes. Then he toppled forward, suddenly boneless and fell at her feet.