Read 1977 - I Hold the Four Aces for Free Online Page A

am.”
    “That’s perfect. So we are no longer alone.”
    She laughed. For years now she had picked up interesting men and had often regretted it, but the drink, the sunshine, the atmosphere of Paris made her reckless.
    “I haven’t been to Paris for a year. It doesn’t seem to have changed,” she said.
    “Can time stand still?” Grenville shrugged. “Paris has changed. Everything changes. Look at these people.” He waved to the continuous stream of tourists. “I now have the feeling that people like you and me are fast becoming anachronistic. It is these people, parading before us in their shabby clothes, their long, dirty hair, their guitars, who will eventually take over the world. People like us with taste, who know the difference between good and bad food, good and bad wine, are on the way out and perhaps it is a good thing. If the young generation don’t appreciate the value of the good things in life as you and I know them, they not only deserve what they get, but also, of course, they don’t know what they are missing.”
    Not bothering to pay attention to what he was saying, Helga regarded this man. She let him talk, and he could talk! she thought. His voice had a lulling effect on her.
    He talked for about ten minutes non-stop, then said abruptly, “But I am boring you.”
    Helga shook her head.
    “Not at all. What you say is most interesting.”
    He smiled at her. What a man! she thought.
    “You may have a date, but if you haven’t, suppose we lunch together? There is an excellent little restaurant not far from here.”
    She thought: here is a real fast worker, but she was flattered. He must be several years younger than she was, and he kept looking at her with open admiration. Why not?
    “That would be nice. First, we should introduce ourselves. I am Helga Rolfe.” She looked sharply at him to see if there was any reaction. More often than not when she mentioned her name she got a double take, but not this time.
    “Christopher Grenville.” Grenville signalled to the waiter and paid for his coffee and Helga’s martini.
    “Please wait a moment. I’ll get my car.”
    She watched him walk away: tall, beautifully built, immaculate. She drew in a quick breath. She had made so many mistakes in the past when she had picked up men. She thought of the boy she had befriended in Bonn who had turned out to be a homo. She thought of the half-caste boy in Nassau who had turned out to be a witch doctor of all things! She thought of that wonderful-looking hunk of beef who turned out to be a blackmailing detective. And many other mistakes, but this time, maybe she was going to be lucky.
    She saw him waving to her as he forced his way against the traffic in a sleek, dark-blue Maserati. She jumped to her feet and ran across the sidewalk as he held open the off-side door for her. Horns blew, drivers shouted, but Grenville ignored them.
    “Parisians have the worst driving manners except, of course, the Belgians,” he said and sent the car forward.
    “Driving in Paris is a nightmare to me,” Helga said.
    “Beautiful women should never drive in Paris,” Grenville said. “They should always have an escort.”
    She warmed to him.
    At the end of avenue Champs-Elysees, Grenville crossed to the Left Bank. The traffic was heavy, but he handled the powerful car with expert ease. Helga was thrilled with the car.
    “A Maserati?” she asked. “I’ve never driven in one before.”
    Grenville, thinking of what it was going to cost Patterson to hire this car, smiled.
    “It’s wonderful on the open road.”
    In a few minutes, he turned off Blvd Saint Germain into a tiny side street.
    “Now the problem of parking,” he said. “Parking is a matter of patience.”
    He drove around the block, then as he re-entered the narrow street, a car pulled out and Grenville, with cars behind him hooting, manoeuvred the big car into the vacant space. He was out of the car and had the off-side door open before Helga could do it