Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  She shook her head. “It’s not that, Brad,” she said earnestly. “I just think it would be better for both of us, that’s all.”

  The ache inside me that had vanished all the day she had been with me came back. “What harm can it do?” I asked angrily. “You were with me all day and nothing happened.”

  Her eyes met mine. Those crazy shadows were dancing deep inside them. “That was different, Brad. It was business. We have no excuse now.”

  “Since when do we need excuses?” I demanded.

  She evaded the question. “Please, Brad,” she said in a low voice. “Let’s not quarrel. Besides, I’m very tired.”

  I didn’t say another word. I flagged down a cab, dropped her off at her hotel, went on to my garage and then drove home….

  I walked into the house near ten. Marge was reading a paper. I knew she was angry from the way she looked up at me. I bent over the chair to kiss her cheek but she turned her face away.

  “Hey!” I protested, a forced levity in my voice. “Is this the way to greet a weary soldier home from the wars?”

  “Wars!” she asked coldly. I didn’t like the play she made on the word. It sounded too much like whores. I decided to let it pass.

  I mixed myself a little Scotch and water. “I was working. I think we got an outside chance.”

  “We?” she asked sarcastically. “Who do you mean? Mrs. Schuyler and yourself?”

  “Wait a minute, Marge,” I said, staring down at her. “What’s eating you anyway?”

  “You were too busy, I suppose, making plans with Mrs. Schuyler, to call and let me know you weren’t coming home for dinner?”

  I clapped a hand to my head. “My God! I forgot.” I smiled down at her. “Baby, I’m sorry. It’s just that I had so many things on my mind—”

  “You weren’t too busy for her. You didn’t have too many things on your—”

  “Lay off, Marge,” I said angrily. “Yesterday you were willing for me to ask her help. Today, when she offers it, you’re angry. Make up your mind what you want.”

  “I don’t want anything!” she flared. “I just don’t like the way you’re acting.”

  I spread my hands helplessly. “How do you want me to act?” I asked. “I’m getting my head kicked in and you’re hollering about a lousy phone call!”

  She got out of the chair. “If it’s not important to you, then I’m wasting my time,” she said coldly.

  This time the fuse really blew. “What the hell am I?” I yelled. “A child, that I have to report to you every ten minutes? Leave me alone! I got enough troubles!”

  She stood there a moment, the color draining from her face. Then she turned and went up the stairs to our room without a word.

  I puttered around in the living room a while, had me another drink, then followed her up the stairs. I put my hand on the door to our room and pushed. It didn’t move. I turned the knob. It was locked.

  I knocked at the door. “Hey!” I said.

  She didn’t answer.

  I knocked again. Still no sound came from inside the room. I stared at the door helplessly, not knowing what to do. It was the first time she had ever locked the door on me.

  After a few minutes, during which I began to feel like a fool, I stamped angrily down the hall to the guest room. I spent the night sleeping uncomfortably in my underwear.

  23

  The razor in the guest room was dull; the water pressure in the shower was uneven and I couldn’t get the hot and cold mixed right. I had to dry myself with a small guest towel. There was no Wildroot in the medicine cabinet and toothpaste instead of toothpowder and not enough Listerine left in the bottle to fill an eyedropper.

  I sucked in my belly and tying the little towel around my waist the best I could, I stalked barefooted through the hall to our bedroom. The room was empty and my clothes weren’t laid out on the bed as usual.

  I searched through the drawers and closets until I found a combination of clothing I thought would go well. I dressed quickly and headed down the stairs.

  I came into the breakfast nook. My orange juice wasn’t on the table and my paper was lying all messed up in front of Marge’s chair. I picked up the paper and sat down. I was about to turn to the financial page when my eye caught an item in the society column.

  Mrs. Hortense (Elaine) Schuyler, niece of Matthew Brady, steel magnate, and prominent in Washington society, has finally crept from her shell after the terrible tragedy of last year. You may remember the tragic loss of her husband and twin children to polio, all within a few weeks. We caught a glimpse of her lunching at The Colony with an attractively rugged man. We checked, and his name is Brad Rowan, prominent public relations counselor, who is rumored to be helping with her infantile drive. If the life and smile on Elaine’s face means anything, we can be sure that work is not the only interest they have in common….

  The paper had been folded right along that column so I could be sure not to miss it. Annoyed, I turned to the financial page. I could just as well have thrown the paper into the trash, it had no good for me that day. There was a small headline:

  CHRISTOPHER PROCTOR APPOINTED SPECIAL ADVISOR ON PUBLIC RELATIONS TO MATTHEW BRADY AT CONSOLIDATED STEEL CORP.

  I tossed the paper on the floor. Where the hell was my orange juice? “Marge!” I called.

  The kitchen door opened. Sally’s dark face peered through it. “I didn’t hear you come down, Mr. Rowan.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Rowan?” I asked.

  “She went out,” Sally answered. “I’ll get your juice.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  While I was waiting for the juice, Jeanie came in. There was a mischievous smile on her face. “If you hurry, Dad,” she said, “I’ll let you drop me off at school.”

  I had no patience left. “Why in hell can’t you ride the bus like other kids?” I snapped. “You too good for them?”

  The smile fled from her face. She stared at me for a moment, a hurt expression creeping into her face. There was something there that reminded me of when she was a baby. Without a word, she spun on her heel and left the room.

  A second later, I was on my feet and after her. I heard the front door slam. I went to it and opened it. She was hurrying down the driveway.

  “Jeanie!” I called after her.

  She didn’t look back, but hurried out of the driveway and was hidden by the big privet hedges around the lawn.

  I closed the door and walked slowly back to the breakfast nook. My orange juice was on the table. Absently, I picked it up and sipped it. It didn’t taste so good this morning. Nothing was any good this morning.

  Sally came in, the eggs steaming golden-yellow, the butter melting on the toast, the bacon crisp and brown. She placed it in front of me and poured some coffee into my cup.

  I stared down at it. I remember what I used to say—eggs for breakfast made every day like Sunday. What had gone wrong with me, anyway? I pushed my chair back from the table and got up.

  Sally was looking at me, a puzzled expression on her face. “Don’t you feel well, Mr. Rowan?” Her voice was concerned.

  I looked at her for a moment before I answered. The house seemed curiously cold and empty. As if all love had gone from it. “I’m not hungry,” I said, walking out of the room.

  The morning dragged by. The office was quiet; I didn’t have more than four telephone calls all morning. It was almost time for lunch when Elaine called.

  Her voice was husky. “You don’t sound right,” she replied. “Didn’t you sleep?”

  “I slept,” I answered. I didn’t want her to hang up. “You?”

  “I was exhausted,” she said. “Did you see that item in Nan Page’s column this morning?”

  “I saw it.”

  “Did your wife see it?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” I said. I laughed harshly. “I didn’t see her this morning.”

  “Uncle Matt saw it too,” she said. “He called me. He was very angry. He told me not to see you, tha
t you were nothing but an adventurer.”

  I was interested. “What did you say?”

  “I told him I would see whom I pleased,” she said quickly. “What did you think I would say?”

  I ignored the challenge in her voice. I had an idea. “He was sore, huh?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I never heard him so angry.”

  “Good.” I laughed. “I’ll give him a chance to get even angrier. We’re going to have an affair.”

  Her voice dropped. “Brad, please. I said it was over. I can’t live like that.”

  “This is for the newspapers,” I said. “I want your uncle to get so mad at me that he opens up. He might make a mistake.”

  I could hear her draw in her breath. “I couldn’t do that,” she said. “He’s always been so good to me.”

  “Okay,” I said, making my voice flat and harsh.

  “Brad, please try to understand—”

  I cut her off. “The only thing I know is that you’re quitting on me too.” I put a false understanding in my voice. “But it’s all right, baby. I don’t blame you.”

  I could almost feel her wavering over the phone. I kept silent. After a second, she spoke. “All right, Brad. What do you want me to do?”

  I held the feeling of triumph out of my voice while I spoke. “Get out your prettiest dress. You’re giving a cocktail party for the press this afternoon to inform them about your charity drive.”

  Her voice was dismayed. “That too? It’s such a cheap thing to do. To take advantage of all that horrible—”

  I wouldn’t let her finish. “It won’t hurt the charity and it will help me. I’ll call you back when I’ve made arrangements.”

  I slammed down the phone and waited a moment, then picked it up again. “Mrs. Schuyler is giving a cocktail party at the Stork at five this afternoon, for the press, in connection with the infantile drive,” I told Mickey. “See that all arrangements are made and have the staff get out every columnist in town with photographers.”

  I started to put down the phone, then changed my mind. “Have our own photographer on hand to cover,” I said. “And keep the swing shift. I want to make the morning papers with this as well as the news services.”

  “Okay, boss,” Mickey’s voice was crackling. I heard a buzz through the phone. Then she came back on again. “Paul’s on the wire.”

  I hit the button on the phone. “Paul?” I asked. “You get that dope?”

  “Yes,” he said. “A young chap name of Levi.”

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “No,” Paul answered. “He resigned to go into private practice in Wappinger Falls, New York.”

  “Wappinger Falls?” I asked. Something about that didn’t hit me right. “Isn’t that funny?” Usually when these guys get a taste of something big they don’t go back to the farm. They generally wind up in a cushy job with some big company.

  “Nobody seems to know much about him now,” Paul answered. “But at one time he was considered one of the department’s really bright boys. Honor student at Harvard Law and so on. Specialized in corporate anti-trust. This was his first big case.”

  “How come he didn’t prosecute it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably department politics.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Robert M. Levi.” His voice was curious. “You on to something?”

  “I’m spitting in the wind,” I said, “and I hope it blows in Matt Brady’s face.”

  I put down the phone and hit the buzzer again. Mickey came on. I looked at the clock on my desk. A quarter after one. “Find out where Wappinger Falls, New York, is and how I get there,” I said. “And call the garage and tell them to have my car ready. Then call home and tell Marge to send my dark blue suit and a complete change, down to the office. Tell her I’ll explain later.”

  I bolted a sandwich before I picked up the car. I don’t know whether it was the excitement or the sandwich that was tying my stomach into knots, but whatever the reason it was better than the sinking feeling I had had the last few days.

  24

  I hit Wappinger Falls at two-thirty. It wasn’t a very big town; I almost left it at two-thirty-one, but I was lucky. I put on the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of a row of stores.

  I got out of the car and looked down the street. There were a few office buildings there, two-story taxpayers. I quickly checked the directory in each. There was no Robert M. Levi listed.

  I went back out into the street and scratched my head. This was the last place in the world I would ever expect a promising young corporation lawyer to settle down to practice. I saw a cop walking down the street. I went to meet him.

  “Officer,” I said, “can you help me out? I’m looking for someone.”

  Long ago I had found out that upstate New Yorkers were even more taciturn than New Englanders. This cop wasn’t going to prove me wrong. He pushed his cap back on his head and surveyed me slowly from head to foot. Then he spoke, or rather grunted. “Hmmm?”

  “I’m looking for a lawyer, Robert M. Levi.”

  He stood there silently for a minute while he thought it over. “There’s no lawyer aroun’ here by that name.”

  “There must be,” I said. “I was told in Washington that he was here. I drove up from New York to see him.”

  “You mean the city,” he said.

  “Yes,” I answered. “New York City.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Nice day for a drive.” He shifted a wad of tobacco around in his mouth and spit carefully into the gutter. “What you lookin’ for this fellow for?” he asked.

  I had a hunch he knew where Levi was, so I told him the best thing that could come to my mind. “I got a job for him. A good one.”

  His eyes looked out at me shrewdly. “There’s a lawyer shortage in the city?”

  “No,” I answered, “but Levi’s got the reputation of being one of the best young men in his line.”

  He glanced down the street at my car, and then back at me. “There’s no lawyer by that name practicin’ here, but there’s a Bob Levi aroun’. He was a flyer durin’ the war. An Ace—got eleven Jap planes. Heard he spent some time in Washington after the war. Might he be the one?”

  That was good enough for me. “Yes,” I said quickly, “he’s the one.” I lit a cigarette. This Levi must be quite a guy. The more I heard about him, the less I could believe that he would settle down here. “Where can I find him?”

  The cop raised his arm and pointed up the street. “See that corner there?” I nodded and he continued. “Well, you turn there an’ follow it to the end of the road an’ that’s it. You’ll see a sign there, Krystal Kennels. He’ll be there.”

  I thanked him and got back into my car. I turned at the corner he had pointed out. It was a dirt road. I followed it for a mile and a half. At last when I was beginning to think I was the victim of a practical joke, the breeze brought the sound of barking dogs to my ear and just around a turn the road came abruptly to an end.

  There was the white sign. Krystal Kennels. Underneath it were the words: “Wire Fox Terriers—Welsh Terriers. Puppies available. Mr. and Mrs. Bob Levi, Props.”

  I got out of the car and walked up to the small white cottage, set back from the road. Around behind the house I could see the wire fences of the kennels and hear the happy yapping of the dogs. A Ford station wagon stood beside the house. It was a forty-nine car. I pressed the bell.

  I could hear it ring in the house and at the same time I heard a bell ring out in the kennels. It seemed to be a signal that set all the dogs to barking. Through the din I could hear a man’s voice.

  “Out in the back here,” it called.

  I came down off the steps and walked around the house toward the kennels. The walk was neatly kept, the grass freshly cut, the flower beds trimmed and the earth beneath them just turned.

  “Over here,” the voice called.

  I peered through the wire fence. A man was sitting on
the ground tending to a small dog that a woman was holding. “Be with you in a minute,” he said in a pleasant voice, without looking up. The woman smiled at me without speaking.

  I leaned on the fence and watched them. He was cleaning the dog’s ears with a long swab. His eyes squinted in concentration. After a minute, he grunted and got to his feet. The woman let the dog go and he scampered happily off in the direction of his playmates.

  “Had a bug in his ear,” the man explained, looking at me. “Gotta keep ’em clean or there’s no telling what might happen.”

  I smiled at him. “People get bugs in their ear too,” I said. “But when they do, it generally does no good to clean their ears. It’s their mouths that need washing.”

  A quick light of caution jumped into the man’s eyes. He cast a side glance at the woman. She didn’t speak. I looked at her. For the first time I noticed a certain Oriental cast to her features.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked. I noticed his voice had gone flat and expressionless. “Looking for a puppy?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m looking for a Robert M. Levi. He was an attorney for the Department of Justice in Washington. You’re the only one by that name out here. Are you the man?”

  Again that glance flashed between them. The woman spoke. “I’d better get up to the house. I’ve work to do.”

  I stepped aside and let her through the gate. I watched her go up the walk. There was a certain Oriental manner about the way she walked, too—short, careful steps. I turned back to the man and waited for him to speak.

  His eyes were on her until she disappeared into the house. There was a look of pain in them that was strange to see. He turned back to me, a veil dropping over them, hiding whatever he felt. “Why do you ask, mister?”

  I didn’t know what was torturing this guy, but I didn’t want any part in prolonging it. There was something about him that I liked. “I’m looking for some information and advice,” I said.

  He looked around me at my car and then back at me. “I gave up the practice of law several years ago, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you.”