Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

Sergei’s voice interrupted. “You are suggesting I become a gigolo?”

  The bell captain held up a protesting hand. “Heaven forbid! These ladies would never entertain a gigolo; they are of impeccable social standing. They would never consider going out with anyone who was not their equal—or better.”

  “Then what is it you are suggesting?”

  “Some of these ladies are interested in meeting the right people. They would be most generous toward anyone who could introduce them into the correct circles.”

  Sergei stared at him. “Is that all?”

  The other shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Anything more would be up to you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sergei said. “Where do you come in?”

  “I will arrange the introductions between the lady and yourself. For this I will get fifty percent of what you receive.”

  Sergei took another sip of his cognac. The bell captain would certainly get a fee from the ladies for the introduction. “Twenty-five percent.”

  “Agreed.”

  Immediately Sergei regretted his generosity. The bell captain probably would have accepted ten.

  “There is one in particular,” the bell captain continued. “She has been in the hotel almost a week. This morning when I brought her the American papers she spoke to me again about such a possibility. If you are interested, she is in the lobby now.”

  Sergei hesitated. It was probably the other way around. He was to be brought around for her approval. His lips tightened. For a moment he was tempted to tell this pimp of a peasant to go to hell. Yet the screams of his landlord still echoed in his ears. He got to his feet and unconsciously straightened his tie. “Perhaps. But only if she appeals to me.”

  “There she is,” the bell captain whispered as they entered the lobby, “the red wing chair in the corner.”

  The woman looked up just as Sergei turned, and a feeling of surprise ran through him. She was not old at all, in her late twenties or early thirties. He had always thought it was only older women who required the attentions of a gigolo. Her eyes were a very dark blue and they looked at him steadily. He felt his face flushing as he turned his eyes away.

  “What do you think?”

  “Does it matter?” Sergei asked. Then he saw the puzzled look on the man’s face. “All right. It might turn out to be amusing.”

  “Bon. She is very nice. You will like her.”

  “Is she married?”

  The bell captain looked at him indignantly. “What kind of a man do you think I am? Would I be fool enough to have you waste your time with a single woman?”

  89

  Mrs. Harvey Lakow had two children in boarding school, four million dollars left her by her parents, and a husband who was convinced that if he left the country that summer Roosevelt would find a way to ruin his business.

  “I can’t go this year,” he had said. “Nobody knows what idiotic thing that man in the White House might do next.”

  “What can he do? And even if he should, we’d still have enough money.”

  “You don’t seem to realize there’s a depression,” he had replied irritably. “He wants to turn everything over to those damn unions.”

  “And you’re going to stop him?”

  He got to his feet angrily. “Yes, by God! At least he’s not going to get my business!”

  She was silent. It wasn’t his business. Not really. Her father had founded the company many years ago and had taken Harvey into it when they were married. When her father had died she had inherited the stock and automatically Harvey had become president. But somehow all that had conveniently been forgotten.

  “I’m going down to the office.”

  “And I’m going to Paris. Alone if you won’t come with me,” she had said, suddenly making up her mind.

  “You won’t enjoy yourself, you don’t know a soul there.”

  She had waited silently for him to offer to go with her. But he never had and after one week alone in the Paris hotel she thought about what he had said. She was not enjoying herself. She was alone in a city where a single woman was nothing.

  She looked at herself in the full-length mirror as she stepped out of her bath. She was thirty-eight years old and though her figure did not have the firmness of her youth she did not look her age. Her breasts were still firm, thank goodness. They had never been overly large so they did not droop from their own weight, and her tummy was almost flat.

  But it was her eyes that were her best feature. They were large and a dark blue that shone with a luminosity of its own, an inner fire that time had not wholly dimmed. Suddenly, and without reason, they filled with tears. Angry at herself, she snatched up her robe and wrapped it around her, walked into the living room just as a knock came at the door.

  “Entrez,” she called, reaching for a cigarette.

  It was the bell captain. “Your papers, madame.” And seeing her struggling to light her cigarette, he quickly struck a match.

  “Merci,” she said, blinking her eyes rapidly.

  But he had already seen the tears. “Will madame require the car for this evening?”

  She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. There was no place a woman could go alone. It would be another lonely dinner in her suite. She did not even enjoy eating in the large dining room by herself. The bell captain looked at her shrewdly. “Perhaps madame would be interested in an escort for the evening?”

  She stared at him, ashamed of her thoughts. “A gigolo?”

  He caught the faint look of distaste on her face. “Of course not, madame.”

  She thought of the gigolos she had seen and of the women they accompanied. Somehow you always knew. She could never bear to have people looking at her like that. “I will not have a gigolo.”

  “I would not dream of such a thing, madame. But there is a young man in the hotel who has seen madame. He is most interested in meeting her.”

  “A young man?” In spite of herself she felt flattered. “Not a gigolo?”

  “Not a gigolo, madame.” His voice lowered to a confidential tone. “He is of royal blood.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  The bell captain spoke quickly to take advantage of her indecision. “If madame happened to be in the lobby I could arrange to be talking to the young man. If madame approves, I could then arrange the introduction. If not”—he shrugged his shoulders—“the young man will respect madame’s wishes despite his disappointment. He will trouble you no further.”

  Although she had already made up her mind that she would not go down to the lobby to see the young man, she found herself taking extra special care with her makeup. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were large and darkly blue and shining with a light that had not been there for a long time. She felt young and excited. I’ll be just looking, she told herself as she closed the door behind her; I’ll look and then go away. Surely there’s no harm in that.

  She began to feel the fool sitting there in the lobby. She was certain everyone knew exactly why she was there. She looked at her watch and decided to wait ten more minutes. She was just on the verge of getting up and returning to her suite when the two of them came in.

  He is young, was her first startled impression. But then she remembered having read somewhere that Frenchmen preferred women older than themselves. He’s very tall, was her second. His six foot three seemed even taller standing beside the short bell captain, and his broad shoulders and dark unruly hair did give him a regal look. She guessed his age at about twenty-four. But it was partly her own age that caused her to overestimate. Sergei was actually not quite twenty.

  His dark eyes swept the lobby looking for her. Suddenly their eyes met and she saw him flush. The bell captain wasn’t lying, she thought in surprise; only a man who really wanted to meet someone would blush like that.

  When he turned his eyes away, without thinking, she nodded to the bell captain. In the same moment, overcome at her audacity, she fled to the elevator.
>
  She had never had an affair during all her marriage and it was because of this that there was an air of unreality surrounding them. Time had been suspended, and if it was not love at least there was romance. Now, three weeks later, she met Sergei at the door with a letter in her hand.

  Sergei realized it was over and he felt a regret because he had come to like this quiet, intelligent woman very much. “It is time for you to go?” he asked, accepting a drink.

  She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tonight then we will have to see all of Paris which you have not yet seen. We will be out all night.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I have seen enough of Paris.”

  He put down his drink and held out his arms. She came into them quietly, and he found her cheeks were wet with tears. For a long time they sat silently. The day faded and night came and street by street the lights came on all over the city.

  After a while she stirred. “I’d better order something. You must be starved.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Silence fell again and they looked out at the twinkling lights. “Paris is lovely at night.” He didn’t answer.

  She stirred in his arms. “I was never young,” she said. “I know that now.”

  “You will always be young.”

  “Now I will, thanks to you.”

  “I will take you to the boat,” he said suddenly.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It is better to get used to being alone on the boat train.”

  “I shall miss you.”

  Her eyes were dark. “I’ll miss you, too.”

  “But at least you are going home to your family, to those you love.”

  “And you?” she asked. “What about you?”

  “I don’t know. My father wishes me to join him in Germany. I don’t want to go but—”

  “You mustn’t go!”

  He shrugged. “It is something to do. It is better than hanging around Paris doing nothing.”

  “No, it’s wrong. What the Nazis are doing is dreadful. You must not become a part of it. President Roosevelt says—”

  “Your President is Jewish,” he said, interrupting. “My father writes that his name is really Rosenfeld, and that he is allied with the Communists.”

  She began to laugh, and then saw the puzzled look on his face. “You remind me of my husband. He goes around repeating stupid things like that.” Then she saw the hurt expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, instantly contrite, “but you know it’s not true. I mean about the President being Jewish.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You must find a job.”

  “Where? Who would hire me? There is nothing I can do.”

  She sensed the peculiar desperation in him and drew him down to her. The quick male warmth of him reached out and engulfed her. Later, much later, she whispered to him shyly, “It was me you wanted to meet that day in the lobby? Not just anyone?”

  He sensed her need. “Yes, it was you. From the moment I first saw you.”

  It was five o’clock in the morning but the bell captain was waiting as Sergei came out of the hotel. “Well? How much did she give you?”

  Sergei stared at him a moment, then negligently, almost carelessly, took the check from his pocket. The other grabbed it and gave a loud whistle. “Do you know how much it is for?”

  Sergei shook his head. He hadn’t even looked. “Five thousand dollars!”

  Sergei didn’t answer. He was still thinking of the woman he had left in the room.

  “You must have a cock of steel.” The bell captain laughed vulgarly. “You must have screwed her out of her mind.”

  Sergei looked at him. It wasn’t that at all. He knew why the check had been so large. It was so that he could remain in Paris and not have to join his father.

  The bell captain drew closer to him. “Was she any good? Some of these Americans are made for it.”

  Sergei looked at him coldly.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, tomorrow she will be gone. There is another woman in the hotel who has seen you in the lobby. When she asked I told her you would be free after today. She would like you to join her for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Abruptly Sergei walked away. The bell captain looked after him, still holding the check in his hand, and called, “She wants you to wear your dinner jacket because afterward you are to escort her to a soiree at a friend’s house.”

  90

  Dax looked up from the letter. “It seems we are not to go home after all.”

  “Then we are to stay here?” Fat Cat asked.

  Dax shook his head. “No. El Presidente has decided that I should follow Father’s wishes and go to college. But not to Sandhurst, to Harvard.”

  Fat Cat’s face was puzzled.

  “In the United States.”

  “Los Estados Unidos!” Fat Cat exploded. “Has el Presidente gone out of his mind? They hate us! They will kill us!”

  “El Presidente knows what he is doing. It is one of the best universities in the world.”

  Marcel, who was also standing by the desk, said, “Isn’t that where your friend Robert is going?”

  Dax nodded.

  Fat Cat got to his feet. “I don’t like it. It is a land filled with gangsters and Indians. We will all be murdered in our sleep. I have seen their films.”

  Dax laughed. “Can it be that the fat one is afraid?”

  Fat Cat drew himself up proudly. “Never!” He started toward the door, then paused. “But I shall never sleep without my knife under my pillow!”

  Marcel waited until the door closed behind him, then turned to Dax. “I have been meaning to speak with you for some time,” he said hesitantly.

  “About what?”

  “I am planning to leave the consulate.”

  “I see.”

  In a way it did not come as a surprise. Dax had wondered how much longer Marcel would stay for the sort of wages paid by Corteguay. In a way it was lucky for them he had remained as long as he had.

  “Naturally I will stay long enough to help the new consul to become acquainted with the routine.”

  “My country will be most grateful. Have you any plans?”

  Marcel shook his head. “I’m almost thirty; it is time I tried something new. Exactly what I do not know. But if I do not go now, I never shall.”

  Actually, that wasn’t exactly the truth. The deal had already been made with the baron and Christopoulos. The gambler’s nephew wasn’t happy with the shipping lines; he wanted to return to the excitement of the gambling rooms. The tailleur had decided to bring him back to France but not until he had spent one more year with the shipping lines. Marcel was going to Macao ostensibly to run the casino, but actually he was going to China to learn the business. He was also supposed to buy as many freighters as he could lay his hands upon.

  Marcel had accumulated quite a bit of money of his own that they knew nothing about, and he planned to use this as a down payment. Only after he had secured title would he pass a ship along to the syndicate, and even then it would not be sold to them outright. Only leased on a long term. The rentals would be enough to cover the payments as they came due, and eventually the ships would belong to him. He was certain he would have no trouble convincing the syndicate of the advantages of this. It would reduce their initial investment; they might even be grateful to him for discovering this way of conserving their capital.

  Dax’s voice brought him out of his momentary reverie. “We will have to find someone to replace you.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Perhaps my friend Sergei would be interested. He was talking to me only last month about needing a job.”

  But Sergei was nowhere to be found. The concierge at his apartment said that one day during that week he had packed up all his things and moved out without leaving a forwarding address. The only conclusion that Dax could come to was that his friend had gone to join his father in Germany.

  Sergei was bored. Nothing bored
him more than gambling. Whether it was cards or roulette, the mere fact that one had to sit and wait was intolerable to him. Already the old woman had forgotten him in her absorption.

  This one was not like the American. This was a very wise, very old, very rich Frenchwoman who knew exactly what she wanted. She simply wanted the company of a handsome young man, and Sergei filled the bill. The moment she had seen him in the hotel lobby she had been certain he would.

  It was a simple and straightforward arrangement. Sergei was to be her companion. His salary was two thousand francs a day, and she was to pay all his expenses including clothing. Two days later they had left for Monte Carlo.

  The casino held two sessions a day and she attended both. Sometimes Sergei would wonder at her grim determination to throw away her money but after a while he no longer thought about it. There seemed to be a never-ending fount. Two weeks had gone by and she hadn’t once stopped. Now they were beginning their third at another matinee session.

  Idly Sergei drifted away from the table and out onto the terrace. He looked down into the harbor. The white yachts sparkled on the clear blue water, and the palace gleamed pink on the hill beyond. Slowly he walked down the steps into the garden.

  The fragrance of the flowers was strong in his nostrils after the thin, aseptic air of the casino. He walked to the edge of the garden and stood, his hands in his pockets, looking glumly out over the water.

  “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

  The voice came from behind him. Sergei turned in surprise. It was an almost unwritten rule that one never spoke to strangers on the grounds of the casino. An old man was sitting there on a bench, his hands neatly folded over the gold knob of a walking stick, his white hair and neatly trimmed beard blending almost invisibly into the off white of his silk suit. Sergei did not have to be told who the old man was, though he had never seen him before.

  The old man, rumor had it, was the world’s largest munitions dealer, and it was also said that he owned the casino in whose gardens he now sat. His yacht was the largest and whitest in the harbor.