dangers of blackmail.
She felt her hands turn moist as she sat, thinking.
But after a little thought, stamping down on her panic, she began to relax. No, he wouldn’t dare blackmail her. He couldn’t! She knew his passport was faked. Of course she had more to lose than he, but in a showdown, she had a weapon she could and would use.
She finished her drink.
Fortified now by two cocktails, she felt much more relaxed. She remembered his warm, friendly smile. A boy who could smile like that couldn’t be a blackmailer nor could he have anything bad in him. Then she remembered his quiet words to that little pansy: What would it cost you if you got your hands crushed in a door? She felt a chill run up her spine. But he was bluffing, she assured herself. He had told her he fed on the violence of television. That had been the threat of a small boy… no, it was all right: he was a hick, and that was that. She could put him out of her mind.
It had been a moment of madness… now she must forget it.
She went across the room and telephoned the Eden hotel.
The Reception manager’s welcome flattered, soothed and pleased her.
“Yes, of course, Madame Rolfe. I have your usual suite. Only too delighted. And how is Mr. Rolfe?”
She said her husband was fairly well, that she would be arriving in about half an hour and would he reserve a table for her in the grill room?
She hung up and went to her bedroom. Taking a small suitcase from one of the many closets, she packed what she would need for the night. As she was closing the lid of the suitcase, she paused and stiffened.
Had she heard something? She listened again, hearing only the beating of her heart. Moving silently, she went to the bedroom door and opened it. She stood in the open doorway, looking along the lighted corridor, tense, her ears straining. She now could only hear the muffled roar of the motor, driving the central heating and then the slight whirr from the deep freeze cabinet in the kitchen. She frowned, annoyed with herself for imagining odd sounds, then as she was about to turn back to her room, she again paused and stiffened.
She was sure now she had heard a sound. A footfall? A door shutting? A door opening? Some sound that didn’t blend in with the expected sounds of the villa.
She listened but could hear nothing now.
Had Larry come back?
She moved into the corridor, her heart thumping, her breathing a little laboured. She waited, listening, then she heard the sound again: a door closing softly. There could be no mistaking that sound. All the doors in the villa were of heavy oak. It was impossible to close them silently. Every one of them gave out a little clicking sound no matter how carefully they were shut.
There was someone in the villa!
Was it Larry?
Panic surged through her until she got hold of herself. She turned swiftly back into her bedroom, ran across to one of the closets, opened the door, slid open a drawer and her hand dropped on a.22 automatic pistol: a tiny, but vicious weapon she had often carried in the streets of New York when a woman with her looks had to have protection after dark. The gun gave her a feeling of security, and with this feeling of security, she began also to feel angry.
She went to the open door of the bedroom.
“Who’s there?” she called, pitching her voice high.
Silence greeted her. She hesitated only for a moment, then lifting the gun, she aimed it at the door at the far end of the corridor and squeezed the trigger.
The bang of the gun sounded very loud in the stillness of the villa. A tiny hole appeared in the woodwork of the door and splinters flew.
At least, she thought, whoever it was in the villa now knew she had a gun. Bracing herself, she went down the corridor and threw the door open. There was nothing to see: only the lights, the thick royal blue carpet and the corridor leading to the front door. Again she paused to listen, but although she remained motionless for several nerve-racking minutes, she heard nothing to alarm her further.
Still holding the gun, she went back to the bedroom. She put on her coat, her hat and gloves. She was fighting off a growing panic as she paused to look at her pale, drawn face in the mirror. Then holding the gun in her right hand and the suitcase in her left hand, leaving all the lights on, she walked warily down the corridor, opened the front door, hesitated for a moment, then switched on the lights to the garage. She put down her suitcase and locked the front door. Turning, she walked swiftly to the security of the Mercedes.
CHAPTER FOUR
In her luxury suite at the Eden hotel, Helga had just finished dressing for dinner when the telephone bell buzzed.
She looked at the telephone for a brief moment, frowning. She wasn’t expecting any calls. With Larry still on her mind, anything unexpected made her uneasy. As the buzzer sounded again, she crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
“Is that you, Helga?”
Her eyebrows lifted. She would know that booming voice anywhere. There was a time when Jack Archer went in for amateur theatricals. He had often said that only two men in the world had real actor’s voices: Sir Laurence Olivier and himself.
“Why, Jack… this is a surprise. I’ve only been here an hour.”
“How are you? Did you have a good run from Bonn?”
“Not bad… a lot of snow. Where are you, Jack?”
“I’ve just blown in. I’m in the bar.”
“You mean you’re in the hotel?”
“That’s it. I flew in from Lausanne yesterday. You said you would be arriving today… remember?”
She now did remember she had written to him from Paradise City giving the date of her arrival, but she had forgotten. She stiffened, thinking what an escape she had had. Suppose he had come to the villa in search of her and had walked in when she and Larry were there!
“I was planning to drive over to Lausanne tomorrow and see you,” she said, forcing her voice to sound casual.
“I have other business here, Helga, so I thought I’d save you the trip. Are you alone?”
“Of course.”
“Well, how about dinner together?”
“Yes… lovely.” She looked at her watch, noticing her hand was a little unsteady. The time was 20.35. “I’ll come right down.”
“In the bar.”
She hung up and stood motionless for some moments. Every six months she went to Lausanne and she and Archer checked through Rolfe’s investments. Their intimacy had died abruptly on the day Helga had married. Neither of them ever referred to it. They had now an easy friendship and a good business relationship. Archer had a flair for investment Sometimes he was a little reckless, and it was then that Helga put the brakes on, but this seldom happened, and when she refused one of his more reckless suggestions, he would grin at her, shrug and say, “Well, eventually it’ll be your money. If you don’t want to speculate that’s okay with me.”
She found him sitting at a corner table, away from the sprinkling of people in the bar. He stood up and waved to her as she came in.
She thought a little sadly that age never helps anyone. Five year ago, Archer had been one of the handsomest men she had seen off the movies. Now his straw-coloured hair was thinking and receding. He had put on too much weight. Standing over six feet, powerfully and heavily built, he still made an impressive figure, but she could no longer call him handsome. He must be five years older than herself, she thought as she smiled at him, taking his hand.
