‘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.
Chapter two
‘Would he die?’
Helga looked at her gold and platinum, diamond studded watch Herman had given her: one of his many wedding presents. The time was 23.58.
Through the open window she could hear the murmur of voices. The arc lights for the television cameras made a pattern on the ceiling. The news had leaked: the jackal press had arrived, but the hotel manager had sealed off the top floor and all telephone calls were being screened.
‘Would he die?’
This continual query hammered inside Helga’s head.
Hinkle had been marvellously efficient. He had come within seconds, taken in the scene: Rolfe on the floor, she backed against the far wall. He had gone immediately to Rolfe, knelt, his fat fingers finding the pulse.
‘Is he dead?’ Helga had asked.
A brief shake of the head, then Hinkle had picked up the thin body as if it were weightless and had disappeared into the bedroom. She had braced herself, going to the telephone, she had asked the hall porter to send a doctor immediately to Mr. Rolfe’s suite. The sharp intake of breath told her how startled the hall porter was. She had given him no time to ask questions. She had hung up.
Hinkle had appeared from the bedroom, unflustered, grave looking. She had told him she had called a doctor.
‘May I suggest you return to your apartment, madame?’ he said. ‘Could you call Dr. Levi?’
‘Is it a stroke?’
‘I fear so, madame. Mr. Winborn and Mr. Loman should be informed.’
She had returned to her suite and had spoken to Dr. Levi.
Back in Paradise City, Dr. Levi had just finished dinner and had guests, but he had said he would charter an air taxi and would be with her in two hours. Winborn had been at the theatre and she had left a message for him to call her. Loman, his voice quivering with shock, had said he would take the executive jet and would arrive sometime early tomorrow. He had asked anxiously if the press knew. She had said not to her knowledge. ‘This will shoot the market to hell,’ he had moaned. Impatiently, she had hung up.
She had returned to Rolfe’s suite. There had been a big coloured man wearing a peak cap, a gun on his hip, standing at the top of the stairs: another by the elevator. Both of them saluted her.
The manager of the hotel had been in the living room. He had said that the doctor who had been called was with Mr. Rolfe. He had murmured sympathy, obviously worried. Helga paid no attention.
When Rolfe had surprised her, she had slammed the red folder shut. It was still on the desk like a red warning light. She had put it back in the drawer.
A heavily-built, youngish coloured man, sweating profusely, had come from the bedroom. He had introduced himself as Dr. Bellamy. She had seen he was in awe of her, nervous and worried. He had said her husband had suffered a massive stroke, everything that could be done would be done and he had hurried to the telephone.
She had gone to the bedroom door but Hinkle had appeared and had blocked her view.
‘It would be better, madame, for you not to be here,’ he said gently. ‘Please rely on me.’
She had nodded.
‘Dr. Levi is coming.’ She had hesitated. ‘Is he suffering?’
‘No, madame.’
Listening, the manager had come to her.
‘Let me take you back to your suite, Mrs. Rolfe.’
As she had moved across the room, Hinkle had closed the bedroom door. She had paused, then going to the desk, she had taken out the red folder and accompanied by the manager, she had returned to her suite.
At the door, the manager had said, ‘I will see you are not disturbed. Mr. Rolfe’s man will take all telephone calls. You have had no dinner. May I suggest...?’
‘No, nothing and thank you.’
She had gone into her suite and had closed the door. It was then she had remembered her date with Harry Jackson and she felt a pang of frustrated disappointment. She had found there was a little vodka martini left in the shaker. She had drunk it, lit a cigarette and had sat down.
She had been sitting like that for the past two hours, nursing the red folder, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Would he die?
Dr. Levi had arrived. He had seen her for only a few minutes. Her husband, he told her, had had a massive stroke. As soon as he considered it safe, he would be removed to the hospital. It was unfortunate the news had been leaked. Now that the press had arrived, it would be wise for her to remain in her apartment. The hotel management understood the situation. Security precautions would remain in operation. Would she like a tranquillizer? He would have news for her later that night.
At 21.00 when she should have been meeting Harry Jackson, the telephone bell had startled her. The operator, speaking in a hushed voice, asked her if she wanted to speak to Mr. Stanley Winborn.
Winborn had been alerted during the first act of the play. He had immediately returned home. She had told him what Dr. Levi had said.
‘I have contacted Loman.’ Winborn’s voice was cold. ‘We will be with you as soon as possible.’
The gathering of the vultures, she thought.
The hotel manager had arrived, carrying a plate of tiny sandwiches and a cocktail shaker on a tray.
‘You need strength, Mrs. Rolfe,’ he had said, putting down the tray. ‘Please eat something,’ and he had left.
She found she was ravenous and was irritated that the sandwiches were so small, but after drinking three vodka martinis and eating all the sandwiches, she was relaxed enough to open the red folder and to re-read Rolfe’s letter to Winborn.
Would he die? she asked herself as she returned the letter to the folder. If he did, her problems would be solved. Only Hinkle knew of the letter to Winborn. Hinkle? She thought about him. Could she rely on him to keep silent? Her mind went to Archer who had been the last person she imagined could or would turn to blackmail... yet he had. Hinkle? But it would be his word against hers and if she destroyed the letter surely that would be that. Winborn, of course, would believe Hinkle if Hinkle told him about the letter, but there would be nothing Winborn could do about it. He had Herman’s original will. He would have to act on it. Sixty million dollars... but only if Herman died! Would he die? She beat her clenched fists together. What if he didn’t die? He had seen the hatred in her eyes. The realization of her contempt and hatred of him had produced this stroke. She was sure of that. So if he recovered he would condemn her to the life of a nun. He could even make life so impossible she would have no alternative — as his daughter had had no alternative — but to leave him.
She looked around the big, luxurious room. She thought of many other similar rooms in similar hotels. She thought of the magnificent villa on its private island off Paradise City, the villa in Castagnola, the gracious penthouse in New York. She thought of the bows, the salutes, the smiles from head waiters, hall porters and even police: all attentive to her slightest whim. All that would go. She would have to begin life again and at forty-three, she shrank from the prospect. Not that she couldn’t earn a good living. She had saved some money, she had something like three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of personal jewellery. Daunting though it was to contemplate returning to the life of cutthroat business, it wasn’t that that made her flinch. It was the realization that she would no longer be pampered, fawned over Mrs. Herman Rolfe, the wife of one of the richest and most powerful men in the world.