An Ace Up My Sleeve (3 page)

"He is anti–rich, of course?"

Larry frowned.

"Yeah ... you could say that."

"Are you anti–rich?"

"Maybe. I haven't thought about it much."

"But you listen to Ron?"

"Sure ... you can't help listening to him! This Hamburg shindig was a ball! He got a bunch of guys together. I was one of them. It was raining fit to drown a duck. I wanted to stay under cover, but Ron wanted me out in front, so that's where I was.

"We were all standing there like corpses ... wet, hungry and cold. Then Ron started shooting the breeze. In five minutes he had us exploding like fire crackers. Man! That was something! We had a ball. We yelled, smashed shop windows, turned cars over and set fire to them. We threw bricks at the cops...we had a real ball!"

"But why, Larry?"

He looked at her, his eyes suddenly hostile.

"It had to be done ... Ron said so."

"Then what happened?"

"Well the cops got tough. They used these water cannons and Man! was it cold!" He laughed. She was relieved that his hostility had been just a brief passing thing. "Then they used tear gas. It really got tough. Ron reached me. We were ankle deep in broken glass and there were five cars exploding ... it was like a battlefield. Everyone was yelling and fighting. He said for me to get out of Hamburg fast ... so I got out."

It was now light enough to turn off the headlights and the snow had stopped. She increased the speed of the car. 

"How long will he be in jail?" she asked.

"I don't know ... maybe a week."

"Do you plan to see him again?"

"Sure, I'll see him again. I have his address. You don't find a guy like Ron and then lose him. I'll send him a card." He nodded to himself as if a postcard solved all problems. "I sure hope to see him again ... he's something special." His vagueness, Helga thought, could mean he wouldn't see this man again, and she felt relieved.

"You worry me," she said. "You have no luggage, no clothes, no money. I can't see how you are going to exist."

"You don't have to worry about me, ma'am. I'll get by. I'll find a job." He smiled confidently at her. "It's nice of you to worry. I'll get a job in a hotel or a garage. I don't need much money."

Ahead of her she saw a parking sign and she slowed the car.

"Would you like to drive?"

"I'd be glad to."

She drove into the parking bay and stopped the car. He got out, walked around to the on side door as she slid over to the passenger's seat.

By the way he drove on to the autobahn, she knew immediately he was an expert driver. He had the car moving at 170 k.p.h. in a few minutes, and she felt not only slightly ashamed, but also elderly that she had been driving so cautiously.

"We'll be in Basle in a couple of hours at this rate," she said. "Am I driving too fast, ma'am?"

He was driving too fast, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it.

"No... I like it. You drive very well."

"Thank you, ma'am."

By the slight frown on his face, she realized he didn't want to talk. He wanted to concentrate on his driving, enjoying the power of the car and showing her his expertise. She relaxed, and after watching the monotonous road racing towards her for some time, her mind drifted back into her past: something she caught herself doing as she grew older.

The only child of a brilliant international lawyer, Helga had received a continental education. She had had training in law and top class secretarial work. Her father had joined a firm in Lausanne, Switzerland, which specialized in tax problems. When she was twenty–four and fully qualified, he brought her into the firm as his personal assistant. She quickly made herself indispensable. The heart attack that killed her father some years later made no difference to her position with the firm. Jack Archer, one of the junior partners, grabbed her for his personal secretary before any of the senior partners thought of doing so. She knew she could have had her choice, but Archer appealed to her: he was handsome, dynamic and magnificently sexy. She had always been over–sexed. Men were necessary in her life, and she had had so many lovers she had lost count of their faces. When Archer had asked her to work with him and when she had nodded, he had locked his office door and by way of celebration they had had what she called a "quickie' on the floor and which had proved satisfactory to both of them.

Somehow Jack Archer had got hold of Herman Rolfe's Swiss account. No one knew quite how he had done it: even he, himself, was unsure. Herman Rolfe had come to Lausanne in search of a top class lawyer and income tax consultant and somehow Archer had got himself noticed and got the job. This was a killing that promoted Archer to senior partner. The Rolfe account was as important to the firm as the White House is to a future President.

Herman Rolfe, tall, lean, balding, the wrong side of sixty–five, tough and ruthless, had built an empire around electronics that had made him one of the richest men in the world. Long ago he had seen the red light of pending currency restrictions and had, at first legally, then illegally, siphoned off the bulk of his money to a numbered account in Switzerland. He needed a good man on the spot to handle his instructions and chose Jack Archer. As Helga was Archer's personal assistant, she too became involved.

Every three months, Rolf flew into Geneva where Archer met him to discuss investments. On one pending visit, Archer broke a leg while skiing and asked Helga to take his place.

"You have all the know–how. Here are my recommendations. Watch him ... he's very tricky," was his advice before she left for Geneva.

Helga had heard a lot about Herman Rolfe as a man and as a tycoon, but she had no idea he was a cripple. She was a little shocked to find him walking with the aid of sticks and his skull–like face set in a sour grimace of pain. They had spent three hours together in Rolfe's luxury suite at the Bergues Hotel. At this meeting, Helga had been thirty–six years of age and outstandingly beautiful. She had poise and she understood men. She had brains and her added suggestions to the suggestions made by Archer impressed Rolfe.

Later, Archer had told her: You've made a hit with the old man ... he wants to see you again."

Rolfe came to Switzerland a month later and to the office in Lausanne – something he hadn't done before. He had paused at Helga's desk and had shaken hands with her. "Your suggestions were excellent," he said, in his dry, harsh voice. "Accept this as an appreciation." He had given her a small package which contained a platinum and diamond wristwatch. When he had gone, Archer called her into his office.

"The old man wants you to be his secretary. It's up to you, but I don't advise it." He looked at her, smiling. "Play your cards right and I have an idea you could become his wife. He's lonely, he wants someone to run his various homes, wants someone with brains, someone he can show off. You qualify. Want me to handle it?"

She stared at him. It took her several seconds to realize fully what he was
saying, then she didn't hesitate.
"Do you think you can?"

"I'll bet on it." He was excited. "We've always got along together, darling. It would be a big thing for me to have you as his wife. We could work together. If you will marry him, I'll fix it."

The wife of one of the richest men in the world! It was an irresistible thought at her age!

"Fix it, but I bet you don't!"

But Archer did.

Three months later, she had a letter from Rolfe asking her to meet him at the Montreux Palace hotel in Montreux and would she have dinner with him? "This is it," Archer told her. "I've handed him to you on a plate. Lock the door, darling and get your pants off. I deserve a reward!"

Rolfe had been brisk and business–like. He explained he needed a wife. He had a number of homes dotted around Europe. He wanted someone to look after his place in Florida. He considered himself fortunate to have found her as she not only had looks, charm, poise but excellent brains. She was ideally fitted to become his wife. Would she accept him?

Helga knew coyness or hesitation would be the wrong approach. She looked straight at him.

"Yes. I hope I can give you as much as you are offering me." It was a reply that pleased him.

For a long uncomfortable minute, he stuthed her. His penetrating stare always made her feel uneasy, but now it really bothered her.

"I want to ask you a personal question before we make a final decision," he said quietly. "Does sex mean a lot to you?"

She had been shrewd enough to be expecting something like this and she was ready for it.

"Why do you ask?"

"I am a cripple," Rolfe said. "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."

"I am thirty–six," she replied. "I have had all the sex I need." At that moment, she believed what she was saying. "I accept the condition." Of course it hadn't worked out like that. The first year was all right. The splendid Florida house, the excitement of being the wife of such a rich man, having everything she asked for, the people who swarmed around her made the sublimation of her sex urge comparatively easy. Then later when Helga got in with the clique of women who did nothing but talk about what their husbands did the previous night to them and the boy friends they had had on the sly, looking at her expectantly for her contribution, she began to suffer. It was while driving to Milan on business for her husband, stopping at a small restaurant just outside the City that she made her first slip. There was a young Italian waiter, charming and sensual who seemed to know her need. When she went into the primitive toilet, he had followed her and had taken her, standing up and pressed against the none too clean wall. It had been dreadful and sordid that even now, four years in the past, she cringed to think of it.

This began a series of sexual adventures with strange men when the urge became unbearable. She was very careful. There were no affairs in Florida which was her husband's permanent home. It was only when she went to Europe on some mission to see Archer at her husband's request that she looked around for a likely male.

Apart from this occasional cheating, Helga gave Rolfe good service. He was busy planning new electronic marvels that would add to the progress of the world, add to his Empire and add to his fortune. He had told her he wanted her to work closely with Jack Archer. There were twenty million dollars invested in Switzerland.

"Keep the money turning over, Helga," Rolfe said. "You can do it. Let me have a six monthly report on what you and Archer are doing. This is your responsibility now ... don't forget, it is your money as much as mine." Archer's foresight was working out and Rolfe was delighted. The Rolfe fortune in Switzerland increased under their joint care. Her husband trusted her. He was thirty years older than she. She knew, eventually, she would inherit the bulk of his fortune. There was only a daughter from Rolfe's first marriage, but she presented no serious opposition. Rolfe never spoke of her. Helga got the idea that the girl had gone Hippy or something Anti and Rolfe had dismissed her from his mind. So eventually, she would inherit an enormous fortune and the world would be at her feet. But it depended on her discretion.
If you cheat, Helga, I divorce you.
If ever he found out that she was cheating, she would lose everything he showered on her, but when the sexual urge seized her she couldn't resist it. She was like a demented woman playing Russian roulette.

She had this nagging desire to tell this boy, driving at her side, something about herself. It was just possible he might be interested ... might even be sympathetic. Not quite sure of him, glancing at his profile from time to time, she held back. Then after they had been driving for some time, she said abruptly, "Because I have money and his car, you may think I have no problems."

He started a little as if her voice surprised him. He was probably miles away in his thoughts, she thought bitterly. He had forgotten she was at his side.

"What was that, ma'am?"

She repeated what she had said.

"Yeah ... everyone has problems." He nodded. "Ron says problems are sent to us as a challenge." She thought: God! How bored I'm getting with Ron!

"It's not always easy to take up a challenge. I have a husband problem."

He moved the Mercedes past a Fiat 125 with a gentle touch on the steering wheel, then he said, "Is that right?"

There was no interest in his voice and she felt deflated and defeated.

"He is a cripple."

"That's bad, ma'am." Still no interest in his voice.

"It's hard on me."

This time he turned to look at her, then switched his eyes back to the road.

"Yeah ... I can see that."

"It can be lonely."

"Sure." He moved the car into the fast lane, overtaking three cars with a rush of speed that set her heart thumping. "But I guess with your looks, ma'am, you needn't be all that lonely."

She forced a laugh. "I'm not lonely now, Larry."

"Yeah." He nodded frowning. "Still a guy like me can't be much company for someone like you. I guess you're used to better talk. I don't reckon to be much of a talker."

"I wouldn't have asked you along if I hadn't liked you." She paused, then trying to take the pleading out of her voice, she asked, "I hope you like me too."

"Who wouldn't?" The conviction in his voice made her heart–beat quicken. "Sure, I like you."