Tycoon

by Harold Robbins

  “Really, Jack!”

  “And on you, too, Curt. Don’t doubt it. You better put together a box of Willard’s stuff to go with him. Durenberger will pick it up. I suppose you’ll have to send some money with him. Do you have some?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t give a damn about you, Curt. What I give a damn about is Betsy. If you hurt Betsy, I’ll have you killed. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t understand, but I believe you.”

  “Let me explain it this way: I’m a son of Erich Lear.”

  FOURTEEN

  One

  1944

  GENERAL DWIGHT EISENHOWER HAD ARRIVED IN BRITAIN TO take command of the operation code-named Overlord. He worked long, hard hours. In the little time he had for relaxation he loved to play bridge and arranged for challenging players to be available. Someone told him there was a colonel in charge of the American Information Service who played a tough game and was welcome at the best tables in London. The general had Colonel Jack Lear included on the list of players who would be welcome at his table. In fact, Jack played with General Eisenhower only once, but his standing invitation brought him often to the general’s headquarters, where he played bridge with a number of distinguished officers, British as well as American.

  In January Jack received word that he had been promoted to the rank of brigadier general. A few evenings later, General Eisenhower grinned at him and congratulated him. Later, other officers saluted his promotion with a champagne toast served at the bridge table.

  In bed later, Cecily said to him, “I never thought I’d someday open my mouth to the privy member of a bleedin’ general!”

  To have found Cecily was great good fortune for Jack. She satisfied his manly needs with enthusiasm and without making many demands. She was an engaging companion as well, ready to do whatever he wanted to do. And she never spoke a critical word.

  Letters from Kimberly were not so agreeable:

  A Boston man returning from a short visit to London says you have a reputation there for drinking a good deal of Scotch. If there is anyplace in the world where a man can enhance his status as a gentleman, that place is London. If you take every advantage of that opportunity, make the right kind of friends, and don’t sit around sucking on a bottle at night, you will return to Boston with a new polish that everyone will envy . . .

  Two handsome suits arrived from your London tailor. I cannot overlook the fact that you have gained an inch around the waist. Really, Jack!

  TWO

  IN JANUARY 1944, CURTIS FREDERICK, WHO HAD NOT BEEN home since 1940, asked for a leave of absence. Jack refused and told him to take vacation time, since he would be paid for that.

  When Curt arrived at home, Betsy greeted him with all the enthusiasm she could command. She had not changed; she was his wife in every sense, as she had always been.

  A few days after his return, Curt confessed the September incident.

  “It wouldn’t have happened if I had been with you,” Betsy said with quiet simplicity.

  “It might have. I’m going to be entirely honest. You see, Willard—”

  “I always knew what Willard was,” she interrupted.“Al ways. I knew your . . . predilection, too. I knew about it before we were married.”

  “Betsy . . .” he whispered.

  “I tolerated it. I figured you were worth it. When Willard left here and went to London, I knew why. You were afraid to risk my life in the Blitz, but you were willing to risk his. I liked that.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t a choice between—You are absolutely right. I was not willing to risk your life.” He stopped. His eyes filled with tears. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Betsy. I’ve always thought so, but I didn’t until this moment realize how much you knew and tolerated.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to London with you if you go back.”

  Curt drew a deep breath. “I’m not in Jack’s good graces.”

  “Saint Jack? If he wants to moralize, let him moralize with somebody else. Jack and I committed adultery before you came along. He’s done it with Connie, too.”

  “Well, between us, he has a live-in girlfriend in London. I feel sorry for Kimberly.”

  “Don’t. She sleeps with Dodge Hallowell. She thinks nobody knows it, but in fact everybody knows it.”

  Curt managed a weak smile. “I’ll say this much for Jack. What he really resented was that I might hurt you—that is, that you might find out. He told me if I ever hurt you, he’d kill me.

  Betsy looked amused, then turned serious again. “Okay, and let’s say something for you. You’ve made a fine nationwide reputation for Jack’s broadcasting company. It’s quid pro quo on all points.”

  Three

  HAVING BEEN OUT OF THE COUNTRY SINCE 1940, CURT HAD no American ration books. Without his red points and blue points, Betsy could not buy the extra meat and other food she needed for the two of them. What was more, he needed shoes but could not buy them without a shoe coupon. So on a Tuesday afternoon he appeared at the office of the War Ration Board to request a temporary supply of ration books and coupons. The staff at the office knew who he was and issued to him what he needed.

  He stepped out onto the street afterward, wearing the rumpled raincoat and battered hat he’d worn in London. He didn’t see a cab and decided to walk home.

  “Curt!”

  He turned around. It was Willard.

  “Been a long time, my friend,” Willard said almost tearfully.

  “Yes. A long time.”

  “But you’re home now!”

  “Briefly.”

  “Well . . . uh, can we . . . ?”

  “No, Willard, we can’t.”

  The smaller man drew a deep breath. “I guessed we couldn’t . . . when you didn’t write. So . . . just one thing, Curt. They let you leave that wretched jail. Couldn’t you have gotten me out, too?”

  Curt shook his head. “I couldn’t do a damned thing about anything.”

  “They kept me in that cold little cell. Then they took me to the airport in handcuffs!”

  “I’m sorry. I would have helped you if I could have.”

  “I’ve missed you,” Willard said sorrowfully.

  “Are you with someone else?”

  “Well, yes! You can’t expect me to pine awaay!”

  “No. You take care of yourself, Willard.”

  He reached for Curt’s hand again. “Still friends?”

  Curt smiled and nodded. “Still friends.”

  “Could you let me have a little money, for old times’ sake? I’m shabby. Don’t you see?”

  Curt gave him fifty dollars and told him to write his address on a piece of paper so he could send him more later.

  Four

  ONCE DODGE HALLOWELL UNDERSTOOD WHAT KIMBERLY wanted, he got into the spirit of things beautifully.

  They made a love nest in the attic of the house on Louisburg Square. The third floor had unfinished walls and sloping rafters and was furnished with quaint pieces that had been banished by former owners of the house. Kimberly and Dodge worked together up there, vacuuming up the accumulated dust of decades, going over the furniture with damp cloths, then with oiled cloths, until, in the light of two Tiffany bridge lamps, the old sofa and chairs gleamed in a simulacrum of past luxury. They rolled out a threadbare Oriental rug to cover the unfinished wood floor.

  The Victorian settee was upholstered with red velvet and looked, Dodge said, as if it had come from an elegant whorehouse. Two graceful chairs, one with arms, one without, were covered with black horsehair. They tacked up old velvet drapes to enclose a dormer, making a dressing room out of it. They tacked up another drape over the window in the dormer to ensure privacy there, and they furnished the dormer with two wooden chairs.

  The entrance to the attic was through a door in the second-floor hallway. It could be secured by a primitive lock, but Dodge drilled holes in the door and the frame and in
stalled a heavy bolt to ensure their privacy. He also changed the lockset, so no key in the house, except his and Kimberly’s, could open the door.

  No one but the maid guessed that they had set up a love nest in the attic. If the governess, Mrs. Gimbel, suspected anything, she was circumspect and gave no indication that she knew what was going on.

  The attic, which was not insulated, could become cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but for most of the year it was ideal for its purpose.

  One day in March, when it was still a bit cold, Dodge warmed Kimberly up with a bit of exercise. She was naked except for the steel handcuffs that held her hands behind her back. A loop of rope circled her neck. Dodge stood in the center of their room, holding the end of the rope in his left hand. In his right he held a riding crop. Kimberly trotted in a circle around him.

  She did not just trot. She trotted as he required, raising her knees as high as she could. Her breasts flopped, which was what he wanted. If she did not raise her knees high enough, or if she slowed down, he stung her backside with the crop.

  Around and around she went until she was panting and her body gleamed with sweat.

  She had stopped smoking. No matter how much she washed, she could not entirely remove the stench of tobacco smoke from her body, and Dodge had a preternatural sense of smell. He whipped her when he detected tobacco smoke on her breath, and the pain was real.

  She had lost seventeen pounds and had promised Dodge that she’d lose more. To do it, she’d had to cut down on eating and drinking. He took her for long, vigorous walks and for rides on horseback. He had lugged a scale up the stairs, and each time they visited their attic room she stripped to be weighed, knowing he would use the crop on her backside if she had regained a pound. They had also cleaned off a tall mirror and set it up so she could look at what she had achieved. She had almost reacquired the sleek figure she had gloried in until recent years.

  “Okay,” he said, unlocking the handcuffs and putting them aside. “Get a towel and rub yourself down.”

  Five

  AS SPRING CAME AND WARMED ENGLAND, THE BUZZ BOMBS began to fall. They were a terror weapon. The German bombers had had targets, but the buzz bombs had none; they could fall anywhere in London. They flew faster than any fighter aircraft, but the RAF had developed a technique for tipping them over in flight and sending them down in rural fields. Antiaircraft fire got many others, but still too many reached the city.

  One night as Jack and Cecily lay in bed a buzz bomb exploded near enough to their hotel to shatter the glass in their bedroom windows. Cecily shuddered and snuggled closer to Jack.

  At first he thought she clung closer to him because she was afraid. Then she began to whisper to him, and he realized there was a different reason. “Our time is running out, Jack. The war will be over soon, and you’ll go home.”

  He’d thought about that. What if he went back to Boston, ended his marriage to Kimberly with some kind of generous settlement, and imported Cecily as his second wife?

  He knew he couldn’t. First, there would be the matter of custody of the children. Kimberly would win it. Besides, when he reviewed the situation in the cold, hard glare of daylight, he saw that Cecily was just a plump, pleasant English girl. She would give him a second family of children, no doubt—she was just thirty-four—and would be a supportive, admiring wife. But she would contribute nothing to the plans he had for his life in the postwar world. In fact, she would be an impediment.

  Some nights, when Cecily was asleep, he thought about the nights he’d spent in bed with Kimberly. She had become very adventuresome in the last few months before he left for London. He couldn’t help but compare her to the accommodating creature who currently warmed his bed and snored gently be side him. He’d told Connie he was capable of loving more than one person at the same time. Well, he couldn’t help but love Cecily. But he loved Kimberly, too.

  She was a nag and worse. But he had not stopped loving her.

  Oh, what a gorgeous war! he thought darkly. But it would end, and he would have to go home.

  FIFTEEN

  One

  MAY 1944

  DURING THE FINAL STAGES OF PREPARATION FOR OPERATION Overlord, General Eisenhower moved his headquarters to Southwick House, some sixty miles southwest of London. There he worked eighteen-hour days, but when he did find time to relax briefly he still liked to play bridge with players who could challenge him. Jack Lear was called to Southwick House four times, but on none of those occasions did the general find time to play bridge.

  It was at Southwick House that Jack met Anne, Countess of Weldon.

  She was the widow of a British officer General Eisenhower had known and respected. She played bridge aggressively and, like Jack, was occasionally invited to the general’s table.

  Jack was smitten with her from the moment he saw her.

  Even in the baggy uniform of the Auxilliary Territorial Service, a women’s service organization for the armed forces, she looked every inch the aristocrat. Nobility was in her mien and bearing. Quite obviously she entertained no doubt that she was an exceptional person. Yet she didn’t flaunt it. She didn’t have to.

  She was a tall, slender blond with prominent cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin. She wore her hair in a casual style that required little attention, and she wore almost no makeup.

  Naturally, she and Jack played bridge on the evening they met. The games were kept going so that General Eisenhower could appear and sit in when he had half an hour to spare. As the date of the invasion approached, he had fewer opportunities to play. Sometimes he just stood behind someone, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette and watching how that man or woman played the hand. The guests enjoyed these evenings. They sipped whisky and nibbled on light snacks and played for fun, never for money.

  At midnight General Eisenhower appeared for a moment and said he was sorry he hadn’t been able to join the game that evening. Kay Summersby asked if everyone had transportation back to London. When the Countess said she did not, Kay Summersby suggested that she go with General Lear, whose car was waiting.

  On the way back to London, with Cecily driving, Jack’s fascination with Anne, Countess of Weldon increased. From their conversation he learned something about her but not nearly as much as he wanted to know. He did not learn that she was widowed and assumed she had a husband somewhere in the forces. When he took her to the door of her flat at York Terrace, a very distinguished address, he saw that she was not just an aristocrat but quite well off, too.

  Jack could not get her out of his mind. Two weeks later he ran into Captain Harvey, the British naval officer who had arranged to spring Curt Frederick from jail, and he mentioned the countess to him. The captain knew of her. She was a widow, he said. Her husband, the Earl of Weldon, had been killed about six months ago.

  TWO

  JACK ASSIGNED HIS SCROUNGER, CAPTAIN DURENBERGER, THE task of learning all he could about Anne, Countess of Weldon. As always, Durenberger was resourceful but probably not subtle. His report was more detailed than Jack could have expected.

  Brigadier Sir Basil Fleming, Ninth Earl of Weldon, had been killed in Italy in January 1944. He was thirty-nine years old. His widow, Sarah Anne Helen, Countess of Weldon, was thirty-one. She called herself, and was called, Anne.

  Though Anne’s father was not titled, he was descended in one of the several junior lines from the Sackvilles, Earls De La Warr; she was remotely related to Vita Sackville-West and many blue bloods considered her lineage superior to that of Sir Basil. Besides, she was brilliantly beautiful and had been courted by a dozen distinguished men.

  Anne had married Basil in 1935. Their wedding had been the social event of the year, eclipsing everything else. At that time, Basil had not yet inherited his title and had been a member of the House of Commons. The marriage ceremony took place in St. Margaret’s Church, the small church adjacent to Westminster Abbey—the church of the House of Commons, where Winston Churchill had been married in 1908. Churchill was
, in fact, present for the ceremony, as were David Lloyd George, Anthony Eden, Duff Cooper, and many others.

  When the Eighth Earl of Weldon died in 1938, Basil inherited the title and could no longer serve in the House of Commons. Though they kept their London town house and Basil took his place in the House of Lords from time to time, he and Anne began to spend much of their time at their country place in Bedfordshire, where Basil studied agricultural management and determined to make the old estate a profitable enterprise. His efforts were interrupted in September of 1939.

  No one asked, though many wondered, why Anne did not become pregnant. When Basil died, the earldom passed to his brother, though of course Anne remained Countess of Weldon—Countess Dowager, a title she hated.

  Three

  JACK TELEPHONED ANNE AND ASKED IF SHE WOULD HAVE dinner with him. She agreed to meet him on the evening of Monday, June 5.

  They met in the dining room of the Ritz. Jack came in his tux. Anne wore a pale green silk-satin gown, that suited her aristocratic mien far better than her awful uniform had.

  “I am pleased you came in mufti, General.”

  He grinned. “I am pleased that you did, too,” he said.

  Anne laughed.

  “And please, don’t call me ‘general.’ The rank is temporary at best.”

  “Mr. Lear?”

  “No. Jack. And that’s my name. For me, Jack is not a nickname for John.”

  “Well, then. I am Anne.”

  “You will perhaps forgive me. I am by profession a journalist, and I did a bit of checking into your name and background. That was terribly unfair of me, but I did it.”

  “Not unfair at all. I have resources, too. You are Jack Lear, the son of the American salvage operator Erich Lear and the brother of the film producer Robert Lear. You own a string of broadcasting stations in America, and you have been married since 1931 and have two children.”