Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  Fairchild laughed. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Jacques said. Quickly he left the table and went backstage before any other members of the press could stop him. He stepped carefully over the cables lying on the floor just inside the door and made his way to the rear of the giant stage, which had been set up as a temporary dressing room for the models. It had been decided not to use any of the regular dressing rooms because they were located on various floors above the stage and too far away to allow the models time enough to make all the dress changes. In addition, Janette didn’t want to take any chances that a model might fall or even catch her heel in her dress and tear it as she ran down the narrow staircase.

  A black curtain had been hung completely around the dressing area. Jacques pulled the curtain and looked in. For the moment it was calm enough. The girls sat in front of their makeup tables, the lights on around the mirror, casually applying their makeup, still in their loose, casual kimono-like wraps. Tacked to a small corkboard in an upper corner of each mirror were small notes of paper, each with swatches of material stapled to it, each note containing all the information necessary to complete each model’s costume down even to the color of her panty hose and jeweled accessories. Next to each girl was a rolling clothes rack on which the costumes were hanging in the order they were to be worn. The hairdresser and two makeup artists who would do the final touchup on the models for each change of costume were sitting at the end of the dressing room, looking somewhat bored and vaguely out of it, while Mme. St. Cloud and her assistants anxiously checked every costume on every rack to make sure that they were all in order. Later, just before the show would begin, Philippe would come and make a personal check of each girl and each costume, and once again, after the show had started, each girl would have to pass Mme. St. Cloud and him before she went out on the stage. But at that moment, neither he nor Janette was there.

  Jacques let the curtain drop and continued on behind the stage, the faint sounds of the orchestra drifting back to the stage manager’s office that Janette had taken over for the night. He opened the door and went in without knocking.

  Philippe was seated on the couch, nervously smoking a cigarette, Marlon, as usual, deadpan and unconcerned. Jacques was seated behind the desk, staring down at the typewritten list of the costume presentation order. She glanced up. Her voice was calm. “How is it out there?”

  “It’s everything you want,” Jacques said. “You couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Good.” She glanced down at the list again, then turned to Philippe. “I think it might be a good idea if we show Twenty-five before Seventeen. It’s a mid-length gown and would be better before we go into the full-length gowns. Right now it’s in the middle of all of them and would stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Philippe rose from the couch and stood behind her. He opened his folder and flipped through the sheets of designs. “You have an idea,” he said. “I’ll tell St. Cloud to change the order. Time I went in there to check anyway.”

  He left the room, Marlon followed him. Jacques slipped into the chair in front of her. “I think we can use some help,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  “You have to be a mind reader,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, passing the vial and gold spoon to her. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” she said with a half smile as she carefully spooned two snorts. “I’m just trying to figure a way to stay alive through the night. I’m beat.”

  “Do it again,” he urged. “Then you’ll have enough energy to live forever.”

  She took his advice, then handed the vial back to him and took a deep breath. He could see the color coming back into her cheeks and the brightness into her eyes. “That was good,” she said. “You know, you may be right.”

  He just had time enough to do two snorts and put the vial away before Philippe came back into the room.

  “Have either of you seen Lauren?” Philippe asked.

  “No,” Janette said. “Isn’t she out there?”

  “Madame St. Cloud hasn’t seen her. She’s getting worried.”

  “She must be somewhere around,” Janette said. “She came here with me.”

  Jacques rose from the chair. “I’ll check with the concierge at the stage door. No one can make a move in this place without him seeing it.”

  Philippe sank back on the couch as Jacques left. “All I need is for your stupid sister to fuck up on me,” he grumbled.

  “You wanted her,” Janette said flatly. She lit a cigarette and they sat there in silence until there was a knock at the door and Jacques returned with Lauren behind him.

  “Where were you?” Philippe asked, leaping to his feet. “I almost had a heart attack.”

  “I was getting nervous,” Lauren said. “So I went out in the alley behind the theater and had myself a few tokes.”

  “Jesus! Next time at least let us know where you are,” Philippe said. “Come, it’s time we got you ready.”

  Lauren smiled. She looked at Janette. “You weren’t worried, were you?”

  Janette shook her head.

  Lauren laughed. “I feel good now.” She turned and followed Philippe through the door.

  Janette looked up at Jacques, who was still standing there. “Oh, shit,” she said.

  Jacques smiled. “Merde to you too.”

  Despite the late start, dinner was finished at ten to midnight and the tables were cleared. The orchestra began to mute and the dancers returned to their tables as the theater gradually darkened. There was a rustle of chairs as the audience made themselves comfortable, and an air of hushed expectancy began to be felt as the theater went to black.

  Softly from somewhere behind the stage the overture to Faust was heard. It was an almost eerie sound in the blackness. Then, suddenly, there was an explosion, almost like a thunderclap, an invisible spotlight picked up a plume of smoke in center stage before the closed scrim, and out of the puff of smoke came the devil.

  He leaped high into the air, his red metallic Lurex body tights like a second skin reflecting tiny sparkling lights around him. Holding his jewel-tipped trident in one hand, he danced toward the center stage as the runway moved out into the audience on giant silent rollers, then he was out on the runway in leaps and bounds, fixing the audience with a baleful gaze and thrusting, threatening gestures of the trident. When he reached the end of the runway, he turned suddenly, knelt and aimed his trident at the curtain of the stage behind him.

  A thunderous roll of drums shattered the air, then all was silent as from the projection booth high at the back of the theater came the image reflected on the translucent scrim.

  Janette de la Beauville

  présente

  La Collection de l’Enfer

  When the lights came up again the devil was gone and the curtain was rolling back to reveal a giant diorama the whole length of the stage on which had been painted in red and black an impressionistic view of Inferno as Dante might have seen it. A moving backlight gave it a strange feeling of life and reality and in the center of the diorama was an archway over two giant doors. As the doors began to open, the music softened, and the number 1 began to glow as if on fire on top of the arch.

  The mannequin stood motionless for a moment, revealed by the opening doors, then stepped slowly forward, down stage toward the runway, as a voice echoed in the sound system around the theater: “Costume en laine, rouge de sang.”

  A polite wave of applause went through the auditorium as the model walked down the runway, paused, took off her jacket to show the blouse, turned in model’s stylized fashion and began making her way back up the runway as the glowing number over the arch changed to 2.

  Jacques, standing at the back of the theater, nodded to himself. He was pleased. The claque he had hired was also professional. He had told them to begin softly and not to really turn loose except for certain numbers and the finale.

  He glanced down at the stage.
The second mannequin was already on the runway and the first girl was making her exit. He looked around the audience. They watched attentively. But then, they too were professional. A great deal more would have to be seen before they would pass judgment.

  He lit a cigarette. So far, so good. All had been done that could be done. The rest was in the hands of the gods. Then he looked at the stage and smiled to himself. Or the devil.

  By the time they were two thirds through the collection a strange, controlled pandemonium had taken over the dressing rooms. Discarded costumes were being picked up from the floor where the models in their frantic need to change threw them and the dressers and makeup girls were frantically trying to maintain the image the mannequins had at the beginning of the show.

  Philippe was white, nervous and perspiring as he checked a mannequin and sent her out on stage to wait her turn. “I’m going to be sick,” he said dramatically. “I’m going to faint.”

  “You’re okay,” Janette said. “Everything’s going well.”

  “You should never have permitted them to come,” he said. “They all want to destroy me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Janette said. “It’s really a tribute. You don’t see them turning out for each other.”

  “They’re going to walk out on me,” he said. “I feel it. That way they will show everyone how little they care about me.”

  “They’re all still there,” Janette said. “St. Laurent and Berge have not budged since the show began. The same with Bohan and Boussac. Givenchy, Cardin, they’re all still there.”

  “They’re planning something,” Philippe said. “I feel it.” He threw his hand to his forehead. “I feel faint.”

  Janette glanced at Marlon, then back at Philippe. “Come into my office for a moment.”

  “I don’t dare leave,” Philippe said. “Something will go wrong. I know it.”

  “Nothing will go wrong,” she said soothingly. “We’re five numbers ready. You can take a few-minute break.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But I want them to start Lauren’s body makeup first. It will take a good fifteen minutes.”

  Janette watched him as he went to Lauren, who was seated at her dressing table, calmly smoking a cigarette, seemingly unaware of the panic and tension around her. He whispered something in her ear and Lauren nodded casually and, rising to her feet, dropped her dressing gown around her and stood nude in the center of the floor. The makeup girl came up quickly and began to spray a base body makeup on her. Philippe said something to the girl, who nodded and continued walking around Lauren with the spray can in her hand.

  Philippe came back to Janette. “Okay. I can take five minutes. But I must be back when she applies the gold flecks. I don’t want too much, just enough to hint at the life beneath the sheer dress.”

  They went down to the room that Janette used as an office and Philippe threw himself on the couch. “Never again,” he swore. “Never again.”

  Janette gestured to Marlon to close the door. She opened the desk drawer and came out with a small vial of cocaine. Quickly she spilled some on the glass desk top, then separated it into lines. She picked up the straw and turned to them. “Allons, mes enfants,” she said. “We all need the strength.”

  Philippe was the first at the desk. Expertly he went through four lines before she could stop him. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

  She did two lines, then Marlon did the rest as Philippe went back to the couch. This time Philippe did not sprawl out. The color came back into his face. He stared at her for a moment, then smiled suddenly. “Mother,” he said.

  Janette laughed. “My baby.”

  He came from the couch and kissed her cheek. “I should have known not to worry. I feel better now.” He looked at Marlon. “They can go fuck themselves. All of them. Who cares what they think?”

  “Right on,” Marlon said.

  Philippe turned back to Janette. “Another hit for the show.”

  “You got it,” Janette said, emptying the rest of the vial on the glass-topped desk.

  Jacques checked his watch. Five minutes to one. It was almost over. He took a deep breath of relief. It had worked. No one had left. They all stayed through to the end. Press and trade alike, all fascinated by something they had never seen before. Slowly he made his way down from the back of the theater to the table near the head of the runway at which Carroll, Maurice, Patrick, Stéphane and Martine were seated. He slipped into the empty chair.

  Carroll leaned toward him. “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “We made it,” he answered. “Eugenia Sheppard and Fairchild both told their papers to hold for the story. Even Bernadine Morris sent a cable that she would file late. And none of the couturiers walked. They’re all still here.”

  “I wonder what they’ll say,” Carroll said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jacques answered. “This will be the most talked-about collection of the season.”

  “This could be twenty million dollars in the next three years,” Carroll said. “It does matter.”

  Jacques held up a hand. “Watch. We’ll talk later.”

  The mannequin above them was leaving the runway and the glowing number over the archway began to fade. The number was gone by the time she left the stage and over the archway this time appeared the letters glowing as if in fire. Robe de Mariage.

  There was a momentary rustle of papers, then silence as the doors under the arch slowly opened. A single baby spot hit the bride standing there, tall, regal, hidden completely by a veil falling from a crown on her head, spilling down to the tips of her slim red shoes as she moved forward and trailing the ground behind her in a train that almost seemed to go on forever. Slowly, to the sound of Mendelsohn, she moved to the center of the runway and stopped.

  For a moment she was completely still, then with her free hand, the other still holding the tiny spray of blood-red baccarat roses, she began to raise her veil. It seemed to take almost forever until finally, quickly, she tossed the veil back over her head and it fell to the floor, revealing the translucent rose-colored gown through which shimmered her pale white body sparkling with flecks of gold. She moved her head and her long blond hair fell to her shoulders beneath the rubied tiara as she began once again to move down the runway. Now the light hit her from the stage as well as from the theater. She was naked but not nude, a bride in a gown, moving toward the altar.

  “It’s Lauren!” Carroll whispered. “I thought Janette was—”

  “Janette thought Lauren would be better,” Jacques replied.

  Now Lauren was turning slowly in the model’s turn at the end of the runway. Slowly the applause began to come. Jacques looked around. It wasn’t the claque. They were still waiting for his signal. This was the audience.

  Lauren turned and started back up the runway, again the model’s turn, showing the gown, her body gleaming like ivory under the silk. She started toward the archway and stopped as if in fear, as suddenly the devil came through it.

  He stood there, then gestured to her with the trident As if hypnotized, she moved toward him. Now, they were together and he laced his arms on her shoulders and began to slip the gown down from her body. She stood as if frozen, then as her gold-flecked breasts sprang free of the gown, she flung herself into his arms. With a smile of diabolical triumph, he began to lead her back into the archway. Then, a sudden explosion, a thunderclap, a puff of smoke, and the stage went to black. They were gone.

  And the audience went wild.

  The houselights came up as the mannequins, each in the last costume she had worn, began coming through the archway onto the stage and down the runway. Lauren was the last to come through, once again in the bridal gown, on the arm of the devil now sporting a rakish top hat in fireman’s red.

  The applause kept on and photographers were now climbing on the runway, flashbulbs popping as they sought to get their pictures. Suddenly Lauren turned, ran back through the archway, then came out again, this time holding on to a seemingl
y reluctant Philippe, who was pale and nervous but smiling and pleased all at the same time The applause grew louder.

  Jacques caught the eye of the claque leader, who had been waiting for his signal, and nodded imperceptibly. Almost immediately, the chant began.

  “Janette… Janette… Janette…”

  Cries of bravo began to rend the air and the clapping settled into a steady rhythm. “Janette… Janette… Janette…”

  This time it was Philippe who turned to the archway. He held out his hand and Janette came through to the stage. The glowing light over the archway began to flash her name. She stood there for a moment, smiling as a battery of flashbulbs went off in her eyes. Slim, tall and beautiful, she had dressed in anti-fashion. Red denim jeans and work shirt, calf-length red cowboy boots and a red denim locomotive engineer’s work cap. Then she embraced Philippe and together they went down the runway.

  More and more photographers and reporters climbed beside them. Soon they were engulfed in a press of people and they began their retreat backstage.

  Jacques rose and began to make his way to the theater exit. He wanted to gauge the audience reaction if he could. Once again he stood in the arcade, this time watching them leave the theater, hearing the excited hum of voices.

  But it was Fairchild who made the night for him. He took Jacques by the arm and pulled him to one side. “I don’t know who’s going to buy or even wear the clothes, but this is the most exciting collection in years. She’ll have the front page in the paper tomorrow and I would like to talk to her for just ten minutes if you can arrange it.”

  “When?” Jacques asked.

  “Right now,” Fairchild said. “I want the first interview with her, exclusive, for the States.”

  “Let’s go,” Jacques said, beginning to push his way into the crowd. “Just hang on to my arm.”