“I’m sorry,” he said, without really knowing why he was, except that for the moment she seemed as alone as the horses or himself.
The horses whinnied again. He held out some lumps of sugar to her. “They want you to feed them.”
She took the sugar and crawled between the bars. The horses nuzzled against her, each greedy for his ration. She laughed as one of them pushed her with his nose and she stumbled back against Dax. Involuntarily his arms went around her.
For a moment she stared up into his face, her eyes on his, then abruptly he let her go. There was a hard, tight, almost painful knot in his stomach. His voice sounded harsh even to himself. “I guess they’ve had enough.”
“Yes.” She seemed to be waiting.
He felt the tightening in his groin, the pounding at his temples. He turned and started through the bars. Her voice brought him back.
“Dax!”
He looked at her, one foot still half through the bars. “I’m lonely too.”
He still did not move. She came toward him and laid her hand lightly on the hardness at his groin. With an almost frenzied moan of pain he pulled her toward him and all the tensions of his youth and loneliness burst into a shattering crescendo of flame.
Later he lay quietly in his room listening to the soft sounds of Fat Cat’s breathing in the other bed. The pain inside him was dissolved now. Suddenly Fat Cat’s voice came out of the darkness. “Did you fuck her?”
He was so surprised that he did not even try to evade the question. “How did you know?”
“We could tell.”
“You mean her father—”
Fat Cat laughed. “Of course. Do you think he is blind?”
Dax thought for a moment. “Was he angry?”
Fat Cat chuckled. “Why should he be? Her fiancé has been away for almost a year. He is aware that a filly in season needs servicing. Besides, she’s old enough.”
“Old enough? She must be about my age.”
“She’s twenty-two. Her father told me so himself.”
Twenty-two, Dax thought, almost seven years older. No wonder she had made the first move. She must have thought him a stupid boy to wait this long. He felt the tightness begin again at his loins as he remembered how they had lain together. Abruptly he got out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
He turned in the open doorway. Suddenly he laughed. This was a new escape, a new kind of freedom. He should have discovered this long before. “Wasn’t it you who told me that once wasn’t ever enough?”
82
Robert came into the room just in time to hear his father say, “What do you need a swimming pool for? You have the whole Mediterranean.”
His sister Caroline pouted. And when she twisted her pretty little face into a pout everyone, including the baron, was affected. “It’s so gauche.” Her lower lip was quivering tremulously. “Everyone goes to the beach.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Papa!” Caroline sounded on the verge of tears.
The baron looked at her, then at his son. Robert smiled. He knew better than to take sides. His little sister had a way all her own.
“All right, all right,” his father said finally. “You will have your swimming pool.”
Caroline burst into a smile, kissed her father, and ran gaily from the room, almost knocking over the butler, who was on his way in. “Monsieur Christopoulos to see you, sir.”
“Excuse me, Father. I didn’t realize you were busy.”
The baron smiled. “No, Robert, don’t go. I shan’t be long.”
Robert settled himself into a chair in a corner across the library from his father’s desk. He watched the visitor settle himself. The man’s name had sounded vaguely familiar but he wasn’t much interested. He picked up a magazine and began leafing through it idly when something his father said caught his attention.
“Have you considered Corteguay?”
Robert looked up.
“Registering your ships there would be of more value than Panamanian registry.”
“I can’t see how,” the visitor answered in a thick Greek accent.
Robert worried his memory until the name came suddenly clear. Christopoulos. Of course; the gambler who along with Zographos and Andre controlled the syndicate that ran the tout va at all the casinos from Monte Carlo to Biarritz. He wondered what a gambler had to do with ships.
“In the event of war,” his father said, “Panama would be forced to declare herself on the side of the United States. Corteguay has no such ties. Not to Britain, not to the States, not to anyone. She alone of all the South American countries could maintain neutrality. She would run no danger of the loss of outside aid or financial support. These have already been denied her.”
“But in case of war the United States surely would make overtures to Corteguay. How can one be sure that such blandishments would be resisted?”
The baron smiled. “A clearly neutral fleet of ships based in the Americas, with the right to sail the seas free from attack by either side, would be more than worth its tonnage in gold. The beginning should be made now to ensure that neutrality.”
The Greek nodded thoughtfully. “It will be most expensive.” He looked down at his carefully manicured nails. “It is not easy to support an entire country.”
“True,” the baron replied quietly, “but that is exactly what must be done.” He got to his feet. The meeting was over. “My participation in such a project must be contingent on that.”
Christopoulos rose also. “I will inform my associates. Thank you for these moments of your valuable time.”
The baron smiled. “Not at all. It was my pleasure to sit across a table from you without a deck of cards between us.”
The Greek smiled also. “I have the feeling that without the cards I am rather a child in your hands.”
The baron laughed aloud. Christopoulos. The greatest tailleur in all the world was seldom given to flattery. “I shall be at the casino tonight to give you a chance to recover your confidence.”
“A bien tot.” Christopoulos shook hands with the baron and left.
The door closed behind him and the baron looked over at his son. Robert got to his feet. “Do you really think there will be a war?”
The baron’s face tightened imperceptibly. “I’m afraid so, though not right away. Five or six years, perhaps. But it must come. Germany is burning for revenge, and Hitler can only survive if he offers it to them.”
“But surely it can be stopped. If you see it this far in advance—”
The baron interrupted. “Not everyone agrees with me.” He looked at his son. “Why do you think you’ve been enrolled at Harvard, and your sister at Vassar?”
Robert did not answer.
“How is your polo-playing friend?”
“Dax?”
The baron nodded. “According to the papers his playing has swept the Continent this year.”
“Dax is fine.” Robert looked at his father. “Did you know he had been invited to play for France in the international matches?”
“Yes, but only as an alternate. He still is rather young, you know.”
“He’s seventeen. They’re just using his age as an excuse. They’re afraid of him.”
“Perhaps,” his father admitted. “They haven’t nicknamed him ‘Le Sauvage’ without reason. Costa is still in the hospital since your friend deliberately drove his horse into his to prevent his scoring.”
“Dax plays to win. He says there is no other reason for the game,” Robert said defensively.
“There is such a thing as gentlemanly sport.”
“Not for Dax. The polo field for him is like the jungles of his homeland. He says to lose there is to die. Did you know his father is the consul from Corteguay?”
“I had heard it. What is he like?”
“Very different from Dax, gentle and much darker. He has only one arm. Dax says the other was blown off by a bomb during an attempt on their pr
esident’s life.”
“Someday we’ll have to invite them both down,” the baron said casually. “I’d like to learn more about their country.”
Madame Blanchette herself opened the door. “Monsieur Christopoulos is expecting you.”
Marcel nodded. This merely confirmed what he had already guessed, that the syndicate was mixed up in more than gambling houses in France. He followed her through the small foyer into a small salon. The slim dark tailleur rose to his feet. “Monsieur Campion, thank you for coming. Please, sit down.”
He did not offer to shake hands, nor did Marcel press it. Marcel knew his place. He slipped into an easy chair, curious why the gambler had summoned him. He did not have long to wait.
“We understand that gambling in Florida is about to be abolished. We also have interests in Cuba and Panama but we were thinking, perhaps, of going into Corteguay. Under the right conditions, of course.”
Marcel nodded. He didn’t speak. On the surface it sounded legitimate but actually it didn’t make much sense. Corteguay was too far from the States to attract tourists. Cuba, just ninety miles off the coast of Florida, was all they really needed. But if that was what Christopoulos wished him to believe he would go along with it.
As if sensing this weakness, the other continued. “We realize, of course, that the United States and Corteguay are not on the best of relationships. But we are thinking of the future. Time has a way of altering circumstances. Ten years from now it could be another story.”
“True,” Marcel admitted.
“We have to take a long-term view in our business. Do you think that perhaps the Corteguayan government might be receptive?”
Marcel hesitated. “It is difficult to say.”
“The country is poor. Surely they would welcome the opportunity of sharing in the benefits we could provide?”
Marcel allowed himself a slight smile. “That is the crux of the matter. Corteguay needs assistance now, not promises in the future.”
“Perhaps certain officials could be influential,” the gambler suggested. “I remember once having a discussion with the former consul, Ramirez. He seemed most interested.”
Marcel knew very well that Ramirez had accepted a hundred thousand francs from the syndicate on just such an assumption. Now he was convinced that this was all Christopoulos was interested in. There was no other reason for this meeting.
“Monsieur Xenos is not at all like the former consul.”
“Surely he would appreciate financial assistance. I understand he is still paying off certain large debts.”
Again Marcel nodded. “True. But Monsieur Xenos is that rarest of beings, an honest man, an idealist. The very thought of self-gain from representing his country would be repugnant to him.” He was silent for a moment. “Besides, he would be against any project which siphoned off even a fraction of the income of his impoverished countrymen.”
“We might forbid his countrymen entry as we do in some areas.”
“Then the benefits from your project would seem extremely dubious,” Marcel replied. “The consul would be well aware that there is no other possible source of return for your tables.”
The tailleur fell silent. After a moment he asked, “What sort of proposition do you think might interest the consul?”
The answers came readily. “Industry. Trade. Investment. Anything that would help Corteguay export its crops. Their economy is geared to their agriculture.”
“Might a shipping line prove of interest to them?”
Marcel nodded. “Very much so. Low-rate transportation for their exports would have great appeal.”
“I have a nephew in Macao,” the gambler continued. “He operates the casinos there. However, he also owns a shipping line, four freighters of Japanese origin. They are too often idle to suit him, and he has been looking for new markets. Perhaps I could interest him in the idea.”
“That might prove to be a solution. It would most certainly get your foot in the door. The consul should seriously consider your other proposition once that had been accomplished.”
The gambler looked at him. “You realize, of course, that should anything develop from this conversation you would be provided for?”
“Thank you. That is most generous of you.”
“You say that Christopoulos is willing to put in a shipping line in exchange for gambling privileges?” the baron asked later in his office.
Marcel nodded.
“Have you mentioned the idea to the consul yet?”
Marcel shook his head. “No, your excellency. I thought first I should talk with you.”
“Bien. You did exactly right I think perhaps it is time I met the consul.”
“Oui, monsieur. Shall I speak to him about an appointment?”
“No, he already has an appointment with one of my branch banks. I think it best that our meeting come about under such circumstances.”
“As you wish, your excellency.”
83
“Caroline is a bitch!” Sylvie rolled out of the bed, her slim boyish figure taut with anger. She pulled a cigarette from the package on the dresser and lit it.
Lazily Dax propped the pillow under his head. “You sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous!” Sylvie shouted. “I don’t like the bitch, that’s all.”
“Why not?”
Sylvie dragged savagely on the cigarette. “She thinks her father’s money can buy anything she wants. I saw the way she looked at you after the game last week. Like a cat over a bowl of cream.”
“You are jealous,” Dax said. “Why? I’m not jealous of Henri.”
“He isn’t home enough for you to be jealous of him!”
“But when he is. Remember I was in the next room. I heard everything that went on, yet I wasn’t jealous.”
“No, damn you!” She remembered the night. Deliberately she had made as much noise as she dared without waking the entire house. And Dax had not given her a sign that it had mattered one way or the other. “You don’t care about me at all. I might as well be a stone wall for all I matter to you. And now you’re going to spend a week’s holiday at their villa in Cannes. I know what will happen.”
“You do?” He smiled. “Tell me. I’d like to know.”
“She’ll drive you out of your mind. I know the type, all promises.”
“Don’t I have anything to say about that? After all, I don’t have to respond.”
Sylvie looked at him. “You can’t help yourself. Even now. Look at yourself. Just talking about it has got you a hard on. You’re an animal.”
Dax grinned. “It isn’t that. What do you expect when you’re standing around naked and smelling like cunt?”
She stared at him for a moment then squashed her cigarette in a plate and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Tenderly she touched his tumescence. “Quelle armure magnifique,” she whispered. “So quick, so strong. Already he is too large for both my hands to hold.”
She buried her face against him. He felt the warmth of the tiny edges of her tongue tingling his flesh. He crushed her head against him.
Dax felt the throbbing stab of pain race through his groin. Angrily he turned over on his stomach so that his anguish would not be visible to them all. Sylvie was right. The bitch! The cock-teasing little cunt!
He preferred English for cursing. There was something harshly forthright about Anglo-Saxon obscenities. They expressed exactly what you meant. French was too evasive. Spanish was too long-winded; you found yourself short of breath before you had said what you intended. English was a most economical language. It said so many things with so few words.
The sound of Caroline’s laughter turned him around again on the chaise. She was standing at the edge of the pool talking to Sergei and her brother Robert. The damp silk of her brief one-piece suit clung to petite breasts and small rounded belly with a kind of insouciance. She laughed again and he caught her glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
He turned his back agai
n angrily. Damn her! She knew exactly what she was doing to him. He looked out over the rolling green lawn to where his father, the baron and his English cousin were seated in the shade of the large wisteria.
Strange how different the baron and his English cousin were. It was hard to believe they shared the same ancestor, the frightened little Polish merchant who had fled from the pogroms of the Warsaw ghetto. He had traveled by night across snow-covered Europe afoot, with a fortune in diamonds sewn into his clothing. And the foresight of the man was equally amazing. More than a hundred years ago he had sent his eldest son across the channel to England, while he and his youngest remained in France where they had set themselves up as moneylenders and pawnbrokers. Quietly they had gone about their business despite the wars that rolled over Europe, and they had prospered until the De Coyne banks in France, and Coyne’s Bank Ltd. in London, were among the most powerful in Europe, rivaling even Rothschild’s.
Both branches of the family had been accorded honors in their adopted countries. The baron’s grandfather had been awarded his baronage by Napoleon, and Sir Robert Coyne, after whom Dax’s friend had been named, had been knighted by the King of England for his services during the World War.
The baron had finished speaking, and now Sir Robert was answering. He was tall and blond and his blue eyes were cool as he spoke slowly to his short, dark, brown-eyed cousin. Only his father seemed reflective and thoughtful. Dax wondered how it was going.
Everything seemed to have been marking time until this meeting. The urgent pressures from home were nearly at their peak. Unless new financing could be obtained quickly it appeared extremely doubtful whether el Presidente could maintain his control over the country in the face of the rising hungers of the populace.
Harold Robbins Thriller Collection Page 107