Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

“Just fine,” I said.

  “Thank you, sir. Please come again.”

  Tony started the engine as I got into the car. I looked at the digital clock on the dash. Twelve-ten. I knew exactly where to find Lonergan at this time of the night.

  52

  The Silver Stud was crowded and as noisy as it had always been. Everything seemed the same. Only the chick banging away at the piano was different.

  But a few minutes later I noticed that there was something else that was different. I made it all the way across the room and not once did anyone make a grab at me. Now I knew I was getting older.

  I stopped in front of the Collector. As usual, there was a bottle of scotch on the table in front of him. He looked at me with a smile. “Hey, man, it’s been a long time.” We slapped hands. “Sit down an’ have a drink,” he invited. “We been expectin’ you.”

  He poured me a drink. “Lonergan in?” I asked.

  He nodded. “He’s finishin’ a meeting. He’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  I had a taste. The liquor helped.

  “What do you think of that chick at the piano?” he asked enthusiastically.

  “It seems to me I’ve heard that song before.”

  He laughed, showing all his teeth and slapping his thigh. “Can I he’p it if I’m a freak for chick piano players?” A buzzer sounded under the table. “You can go up now.”

  Lonergan, seated behind his desk, regarded me with cool eyes. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

  “All day.”

  “Any special reason?” he asked mildly.

  “I think you know.”

  “You tell me.”

  “You set me up. You killed Julio and Verita and God only knows how many others.”

  His voice was calm. “You can’t prove that.”

  “That’s right. I just wanted you to know.”

  “I saved your ass. I gave you a perfect setup. Now you can get up in front of your analysts’ lunch on Wall Street and lay everything out for them. In a few days everything opens up again and you’re home free.”

  “Is that all there is to it?”

  “What more do you want?”

  “I want Verita back. Alive and well and happy. The way she was the last time I saw her.”

  “Only God can do that. Ask me for something I can do.”

  “Shit. You and I will never understand each other.”

  “I think I understand you. You’re like your father. You think tough, but inside you’re all mush. Neither of you was strong enough to be real men.”

  “But you are?”

  He nodded. “Nobody takes anything from me.”

  “You mean you give nothing to nobody.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Love,” I said.

  His voice was cool. “What’s that?”

  “If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”

  “Do you have anything more to say?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you’d better go. It’s twenty-four hundred miles to New York and if you don’t make your luncheon on time, you’re finished.”

  I started for the door. A picture of the grubby faces and three pairs of staring eyes flashed through my mind and I had a sudden jolt of memory. I stopped. “There is one thing you can tell me, Uncle John,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You were sucking my baby prick that day my father found us on the beach, weren’t you?”

  He didn’t blink, but I saw him turn pale. It was enough. I went out of his office and down the stairs without looking back.

  I fought back the tears that burned my eyes. I had really wanted to love him.

  The Collector had enticed the piano player to his table. He gave me a wave as I went by. I pushed my way through the crowded bar. There was a gang of leather boys standing near the door. The tears blurred my vision and I stumbled into one of them.

  I stepped back. “Pardon me,” I said.

  “De nada,” he said, averting his face quickly. But not before I recognized him. I saw the shining stud lettering over his breast pocket. J. V. KINGS. It was the same boy who had picked me up near Verita’s apartment a thousand years ago. I hesitated for a moment, thinking of going back and warning Lonergan. But it was his war, not mine. And I’d had enough of fighting other people’s wars.

  I went outside and got into the car. “Okay, Tony,” I said. “The airport.”

  I called Eileen from a pay station in the terminal. “I’m on my way to New York. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  “Good luck,” she said. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” I said and put the phone back on the hook.

  The advantage of a charter plane was that it had a beautiful comfortable bed. I slept all the way to New York and when I got off the plane, I saw the headline in the New York Daily News. Lonergan was dead. I didn’t even buy the newspaper to read the story.

  I arrived at the luncheon just as they were serving dessert. I heard the surprised buzz as I came into the room. I kept my eyes straight ahead, and went directly to the dais. There was an empty seat with my name on a place card near the center of the long table.

  A moment later the man next to me rose to his feet and rapped the gavel for attention. The room grew quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said tersely, “Mr. Gareth Brendan.”

  There was no polite applause. A sea of faces stared at me in deadly silence as I made my way to the microphone.

  “Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, I will be brief. As you know, Gareth Brendan Publications Limited’s first public stock offering is a tremendous success. And I wish to express my appreciation to all of you who worked so hard to make that success. Thank you.”

  I paused. The silence was deafening.

  “But unfortunately, certain factors have arisen which becloud the value of that offering. I am a naïve man in many ways. I like to feel that there are those among you who care even more for your clients’ welfare than for your own commissions.

  “I was told by Mr. Courtland that the offering is irrevocable and can only be canceled by one man. Me. As of this moment, it is still my stock and my company. So I take this opportunity to inform you that this offering is hereby officially withdrawn from sale.”

  A hum spread through the room, forcing me to raise my voice to be heard over it. “So that no one suffers any financial losses in connection with this offering I also offer to reimburse any and all legitimate expenses incurred by the underwriters in connection with it. Thank you.”

  I turned from the dais and started to make my way to the exit. The hum rose to a roar. I caught a glimpse of Courtland. He was stunned; a seventeen-million-dollar pallor suffused his face.

  Reporters crowded around, grabbing at my coat and shouting questions. I pushed through them and made my way out the door without comment.

  The telephone was ringing when I got to the hotel. It was Eileen. “I heard some of your speech on the newscast,” she said. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m stupid.”

  “No. You’re beautiful.” Her voice changed. “You heard about your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s terrible.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said and meant it. “Lonergan screwed up enough lives, including mine. But no more.”

  She was silent.

  “I’ll be leaving in about an hour. How about meeting in Vegas and we’ll have a little fun?”

  “Haven’t you lost enough money for one day?”

  “That’s not the kind of fun I’m talking about. I mean like getting married.”

  There was a moment of startled silence. “You mean it?” she asked incredulously.

  “Of course I mean it. I love you.”

  III

  Goodbye, Janette

  Contents

  III. Book One: Tanya

  Untitled

  IV. Book Two: Janette

  Untitled


  V. Book Three: Lauren

  Untitled

  VI. Book Four: Madame

  Untitled

  Many thanks to the man who wears the hat, Bradley Yonover.

  THIS NOVEL IS DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO

  Zelda Gitlin

  WITH GRATITUDE FOR THE FAITH, LOVE AND SUPPORT SHE HAS SO FREELY GIVEN TO ME, BOTH AS A NOVELIST AND AS A HUMAN BEING THROUGHOUT THE YEARS

  III

  Book One: Tanya

  He was nervous. She could see that in the way he paced around the room, occasionally going to the window and lifting the lace curtain to look out at the rain-swept Geneva street. He turned to look at her. “The Frenchman isn’t here yet,” he said in his harsh Bavarian German.

  She did not look up from her knitting. “He will come,” she answered.

  He walked back to the sideboard and poured himself a schnapps, swallowing it in one gulp. “It wasn’t like this in Paris. Then he would come running whenever I snapped my fingers.”

  “That was three years ago,” she said calmly. “The Germans were winning.”

  “We were never winning,” he cried. “We only thought we were. The minute America came into it, we all knew in our hearts it was over.” The faint sound of the doorbell came from downstairs. “He’s here now,” he said.

  She rose to her feet, laying the knitting on the table next to her chair. “I’ll bring him right up.”

  She went down the staircase to the foyer. He was already in the house, the maid taking his coat. He turned, hearing her footsteps, his small white even teeth showing in a smile when he saw her.

  He advanced toward her and took her hand, raising it to his lips. She felt his thick moustache prickling the back of her fingers. “Bon soir, Anna,” he said. “You are as beautiful as ever.”

  She returned his smile and answered in the same language. “And you are as gallant as ever, Maurice.”

  He laughed. “And the little one?”

  “Janette is five. You would not know her now, she is so big.”

  “And beautiful, like her mother.”

  “She will have a beauty all her own,” Anna said.

  “Good,” Maurice said. “Then since I cannot have you, I will wait for her.”

  Anna laughed. “You might have to wait for a long time.”

  He looked at her strangely. “Until then I shall have to content myself with what is available.”

  “Wolfgang is waiting in the library,” she said. “Follow me.”

  He waited until she had gone up a few steps before following her. And all the way to the top of the stairs he was aware of the sensuous movements of her body delineated by the clinging silk of her dress.

  The two men shook hands, Wolfgang clicking his heels, with a nod of his head. Maurice, very French, with a slight bow. They spoke in English, a neutral language that each thought he spoke better than the other, since neither would give the other the advantage of speaking his own language.

  “How is Paris?” Wolfgang asked.

  “Very American,” Maurice answered. “Chocolate bars, cigarettes, chewing gum. Not the same.”

  Wolfgang was silent for a moment. “At least the Russians are not there. Germany is finished.”

  Maurice nodded sympathetically without answering.

  Anna, who had been watching, turned toward the door. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  They waited until the door closed behind her. Wolfgang went to the sideboard. “Schnapps? Cognac?”

  “Cognac.”

  Wolfgang poured Courvoisier into a snifter and handed it to him, then took the schnapps for himself. He gestured to a chair and they sat down opposite each other, the small coffee table between them. “You brought the papers?” he asked.

  Maurice nodded and opened the small leather briefcase he carried with him. “They’re all here.” He placed the blue paper documents with the official notary’s seal in three stacks on the coffee table. “I think you will find everything in order. All the companies have been placed in Anna’s name, as you requested.”

  Wolfgang picked up one of the papers and looked at it. It was the usual legal gibberish which rarely made sense, whatever language it was written in.

  Maurice looked at him. “Still sure you want to do it? We can burn the papers and it will be as if it was never done.”

  Wolfgang drew a deep breath. “I have no choice,” he said. “There is no way the French will allow me to keep those companies, even though I acquired them legitimately during the occupation. The Jews will come back, screaming that I forced them to sell.”

  Maurice nodded in agreement. “Ungrateful bastards. It would have been better if you were not so honest. There were others who not only took the companies but sent them to the camps as well. At least you let them get away with their lives.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  Maurice looked at him. “What are your plans now?”

  “South America,” Wolfgang said. “My wife and children are already there. I can’t stay here much longer. It’s only a matter of time before my name comes up, then they’ll want me back for trial in Germany. And the Swiss will suddenly find me persona non grata.”

  “Does Anna already know?”

  “I told her. She understands. Besides, she is grateful to me for saving her life and the life of the child. When I found her in Poland, she was already on the way to the camps, her husband, the young count, was dead on the battlefield, the rest of her family gone in the blitz.”

  He paused, remembering the day he first saw her, almost five years ago.

  It was a small house in the fashionable residential area on the outskirts of Warsaw. Small in comparison to the houses that most of the other high-ranking German officers chose to occupy during their stay, but Wolfgang was another breed. He had no reason to display himself or assert his importance, coming as he did from an old, impeccably aristocratic industrial family. His basic concern was not military or political; it was his job to see that local industry was absorbed into the Reich war industry. The job, here in Warsaw, was mainly a cleanup operation, the preliminary studies and work already done. It would be up to him to make the final decision on the disposal and integration of the various companies and industries. He estimated that it would take him between a month and six weeks to complete his assignment, then back to Berlin to await a new assignment. Only thirty-four, he had already been given the temporary rank of General Major to enable him to deal with his Wehrmacht counterparts on an equal level. His personal secretary, Johann Schwebel, was made a sergeant so that he could accompany him.

  It was Schwebel who saw her first. He was standing in the doorway of the small house when the truck pulled up in front and the women began to climb down from it. He stood there, marveling at the efficiency of the S.S. It had been just yesterday that they asked procurement to locate a housekeeper for them, one who spoke German as well as Polish so that there would be no language difficulty in running the house; and now six women were getting out of the truck for him to make a choice. They stood nervously in the yard as the guard with a machine pistol on a sling over his shoulder came up to the doorway.

  The guard stopped in front of Schwebel. “I’ve got the women here for you to make your pick,” he said flatly.

  “Do you have their papers?” Schwebel asked.

  The guard nodded and took them from a pouch. “Here they are.” He noticed Schwebel looking over his shoulder and turned.

  A seventh girl was getting out of the truck. There was something different about her. Certainly it wasn’t the clothing. They all wore the same drab gray prison dress. But it was something that she did with it. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Straight and tall. With an air of indifference, of pride. Her hair, long and chestnut brown, brushed neatly, fell just below her shoulders with not a strand out of place. She glanced around coolly, then stood there next to the truck, waiting. She made no move to join the other women, who had begun to chatter nervously among themselves.

 
“That’s the princess,” the guard said.

  “The princess?”

  “That’s the name they gave her in the camp. She came there ten days ago and I don’t think she’s spoken a word to any of the other girls in the whole time. She keeps to herself. And you know how Polish girls love to fuck. The minute you take it out they start coming and when you stick it to them they go crazy. This one, zero. After fifteen of us fucked her already and it was the same with every one of them. She laid there without a moment until it was over. Then it was as if nothing had happened. She would wipe her cunt without saying a word and go about her business.”

  “Which paper is hers?” Schwebel asked. “I’d like to see her first.”

  “The one with the red band on the corner and the A in a circle. She’s already scheduled for Auschwitz next week. We don’t need girls like her around.” The guard laughed coarsely. “My advice is not to bother with her. She pisses ice water.”

  Schwebel sat at the small table in the foyer which served as his desk, the files in front of him. He opened the folder with the red band.

  Tanya Anna Pojarska b. Kosciusko, 7 Nov. ’18, Warsaw. Widow, husband ded. Count Peter Pojarska, Capt. Polish Army in Jan. 1940. One child, daughter, Janette Marie, b. Paris, France, 10 Sept. ’39. Rel. Catholic. Father, Professor of Modern Languages, Univ. Warsaw, ded. All known family, ded. Educ. B.A. Univ. Warsaw, Mod. Lang. ’37, M.A. Sorbonne, Paris, Mod. Lang. ’39. Fluent Pol. Fre. Eng. Ger. Rus. Ita. Spa. All family assets and properties forfeited to State, 12 Oct. ’39. Guilty treason, subversion. Gestapo file Warsaw—72943/029. Sentenced labor camp #12. Perm. gtd. for daughter to accompany.

  Schwebel finished leafing through the other folders. He had already come to the conclusion that she was the only one qualified for the job. The others were ordinary. Despite the fact that they had some knowledge of German, they had very little in the way of educational background to offer. When he looked up, she was standing in front of his desk.