James Hadley Chase
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.