Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  Automatically Sergei answered in Russian. “It is very beautiful, Sir Peter.”

  “You’re Sergei Nikovitch?”

  “Da.”

  “What do you hear from your father, Count Ivan?”

  “Nothing, Sir Peter. I have received only one letter, shortly after he left for Berlin.’*

  The old man’s eyes went past him to the harbor. He nodded gently and his eyes seemed to look into the distance. “I don’t see why those fools waste their time gambling in there when there is so much beauty out here.”

  Sergei did not answer.

  Sir Peter’s eyes came back to him. “Your father, too, is wasting his time,” he said, in that same soft voice. “The Mother Russia we loved is lost and gone forever, and we shall never get her back.”

  Sergei remained silent.

  “But then your father is a Cossack,” Sir Peter continued, “and what else is a Cossack to do but fight? Even when the battle is already lost he must continue to do so.”

  The old man’s voice suddenly lost its philosophical tone, the blue eyes became sharp and piercing, and the gentle voice hardened. “But at least your father has his reasons for what he is doing. What are yours?”

  Sergei was too surprised by this sudden change to answer. He merely gawked.

  “You’re here with that stupid old biddy who has so much money she does not know what to do with it. So she wastes her days in places like these. And for two thousand francs a day you dance attendance on her like a puppet.”

  There was nothing the old man did not seem to know. Sergei could only stare at him.

  “I am ashamed of you, Sergei Nikovitch!” the old man said indignantly, rising to his feet. “Ashamed!”

  Sergei found his voice. “But what else was I to do?”

  “You could have gone to work as your father did. He was not ashamed of honest labor.”

  As the old man turned and started off, two men mysteriously appeared and placed themselves on either side of him. Sergei stared at them in surprise. But Sir Peter was not surprised. His bodyguards were always near him.

  “I’ll expect you at dinner tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “Seven o’clock. Be on time; I’m an old man and I eat early.”

  The white house with its columns of marble and marbled floors was perched at the very crest of the highest mountain in Monaco. It stood higher even than the pink palace of the Grimaldis, who were the titular rulers of the little country, for even they accepted the fact that Sir Peter was entitled to look down on them. It was his tax money that paid all the bills.

  Sergei looked across the huge mahogany table at the old man, then down the shining expanse at Sir Peter’s young French wife. She sat there quietly, her diamonds and pearls glowing in the light of the candles. All through the meal she had scarcely spoken three words.

  “My sons are dead,” the old man said suddenly, “and I need a young man I can trust. Someone whose legs are stronger than mine and can go where I no longer can. The hours will be long, the work often dreary and exhausting, the pay little. But I offer the opportunity of learning. Would you be interested?”

  Sergei turned back to the old man. “Yes. Very much.”

  “Good,” the old man answered, satisfaction in his voice. “Now go back and tell Madame Goyen you will not be returning to Paris with her.”

  “She has already returned, Sir Peter,” Sergei answered, relishing the faint look of surprise that appeared on the old man’s face.

  There had been a scene that afternoon. It had erupted because madame had felt that she should not be left to dine alone. To appear in the hotel dining room by herself, or even to be served alone in her suite, would be too humiliating. Everyone knew that Sergei was with her. What would they say about her when she appeared alone? But he had been adamant and in a huff she had had her bags packed and left.

  Sergei had not actually known of her departure until he came down to leave for Sir Peter’s and an obsequious assistant manager had called him quietly to a corner and presented him with a bill. Sergei’s mouth had twisted into a wry grin; why, the old bitch had left him with the chits and his room rent. “I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

  The assistant manager was polite but firm. “I’m sorry, sir, we must have the money tonight.”

  The bill came to almost every franc he had, so now he was about back to where he had started. Tomorrow he would have to leave the hotel and find a cheaper room. He had already made up his mind that he would not return to Paris.

  “Good,” Sir Peter said. “Tomorrow you will bring your things here from the hotel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir Peter got to his feet. “I am tired. I’m going to bed.”

  Sergei rose but Sir Peter waved him back into his chair.

  “Don’t get up,” he said sharply. “If you are to stay here you might as well get used to it. I retire immediately after dinner every night.” He turned to his wife, his voice softening. “Stay here with our guest my dear. There is no reason for you to come up early tonight.”

  There was silence at the table after the old man left. Sergei lifted his demitasse and studied her, wondering what kind of a life she could have with such an old man. But she was not thinking about him. She was thinking about Sir Peter. What a kind and wise old man he was.

  Sir Peter glanced back down at them from the balustrade at the top of the grand staircase and nodded. He was eighty years old and his wife twenty-eight and he had lived long enough to know that a young woman required more than jewels and riches and quiet affection. He saw them get up from the table and go out onto the terrasse. He went on to his room.

  He closed the door behind him. He had done the right thing. Better that she reassure herself with a fine young man like Sergei than with one of those slimy characters who went always around the casino. Besides, with Sergei, he could always keep an eye on things. If at any time it looked as if it might become too serious he could always send the boy away.

  91

  It did not take Sergei long to discover that he was nothing but a glorified errand boy. Sometimes, during these first few months, he wondered why Sir Peter had even bothered to hire him. And then one day it all became clear.

  He had returned that morning from the bank in Monte Carlo with several papers that required the old man’s immediate signature. He went directly into the library that served the old man for an office, and found Madame Vorilov there alone. She looked up from the newspaper she was reading.

  Sergei hesitated in the doorway. “I did not mean to disturb you, madame,” he said respectfully. “I have some papers that require Sir Peter’s signature.”

  “Come in.” She smiled. “Sir Peter has gone to Paris.”

  A puzzled expression came over Sergei’s face. Usually he knew when Sir Peter planned to go away. It did not happen often. “Perhaps I’d better go there too. The papers are important.”

  The smile vanished from her face. “They can wait until tomorrow. He’ll be back by then.”

  Sergei still stood in the doorway. “Very well, madame. I’ll run down to the bank and inform them.”

  “You do take your job seriously, don’t you?” A faint smile returned to her face.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She pointed to the telephone. “That would inform them much more quickly that the papers can’t be signed today.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Call them, then take the rest of the day off. You haven’t had a holiday since you came here.”

  A smile came to his lips. “That’s very kind of you, madame.” He came into the room. “But I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

  She got to her feet and crossed to the window. She looked down toward the harbor with its white yachts and sails. “Sir Peter doesn’t give you much time for fun.”

  He placed the papers on the desk in a folder. He picked up the telephone. “I didn’t think he was supposed to.”

 
; She turned to him suddenly. “Do you know why he really hired you?”

  He stared at her, the telephone forgotten in his hand. “Sometimes I wonder. It seems as if I’m the last person he needs.”

  She laughed. “He hired you for me. He thought I needed you.”

  Slowly he put down the telephone.

  “He loves me,” she continued, “and he wants me to have everything. So he brought you home.”

  “Did he tell you this?”

  “Of course not; do you think he would be that much a fool? Look, I’ve brought you home a lover?”

  He stared at her, then his eyes fell. “I’m sorry. I did not know.”

  She turned and looked out the window again. “Of course you didn’t, that was what I liked about you. You were too much a gentleman to even think such a thing.”

  “Tomorrow when Sir Peter returns I’ll hand in my notice.”

  She looked at him. “You are a gentleman. Where will you go, what will you do? Do you have any money?”

  He thought of the hundred francs a week that Sir Peter paid him and shook his head.

  “Then don’t be a fool,” she said sharply. “You are not to leave here until you have money.”

  “At one hundred francs a week?”

  “That’s something Sir Peter taught me,” she said. “There is always an opportunity to make money when there is a lot of money around.” She came back into the room. “Look for it, you’ll find it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I have no talent for making money.”

  She looked at him curiously. “You don’t like to work, do you?”

  He grinned at her. “I guess that’s it. Work is boring. There is never any fun. I’ve had enough of it.”

  “How do you expect to get money then?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I’ll find a rich American girl to marry.”

  She nodded seriously. “That would be preferable to playing the gigolo to Madame Goyen.”

  He stared at her. He had not thought she would take him seriously. “But it takes money to make money.”

  “Perhaps I can help you,” she said. “Now go. You have the rest of the afternoon off.”

  He nodded and left the library, though he did not leave the house. Instead he went to his room and got out of his warm sticky clothing and took a shower. Then he stretched out on the bed and lit a cigarette. Before it was finished the expected knock came at the door.

  He smiled to himself and, stamping out the cigarette, shrugged into a robe as he opened the door. “Come in.”

  “I have an idea that may help you.”

  “Yes?” He saw her eyes fall to the front of his half-open robe. A faint flush began to rise over her face.

  She made an effort to look away but in spite of herself her eyes could not leave the fascination of his rapidly increasing tumescence. Her lips parted. “I—”

  “I have a better idea,” he interrupted, drawing her toward the bed. “I think it’s about time I began to earn all of my salary.”

  “I have to see you,” she whispered as he came into the dining room. “Don’t go upstairs after dinner.”

  He nodded to show that he understood and went to his accustomed place at the table. He remained standing until Sir Peter came in, and then the two of them sat down.

  After dinner, as usual, Sir Peter retired. Sergei went out onto the terrasse and waited. A few minutes later she appeared. They stood at the railing and looked out at the flaming sun going down behind the mountains.

  “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

  He stared at her in surprise. “With twenty-two bidets in the house you—” He caught himself. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded silently. Her face was pale.

  He whistled softly. “I wonder if Sir Peter ever considered this one?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Have you told him?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get rid of it. I have asked my doctor to make the arrangements.”

  “You’ll never get away with it. He’ll find out.”

  “I have to take that chance,” she said desperately. “What else can I do?”

  He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He stared at her thoughtfully. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. He has to attend the board meeting at the bank all afternoon. You’ll have to drive me to the clinique and back; I don’t dare trust the servants. I’ll make up some excuse so I can stay in bed for a few days.”

  Abruptly he flipped his cigarette over the railing. He watched it tumble end over end into the garden below. “What time?”

  “I won’t come down for lunch. I’ll pretend to be sick in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  “After lunch, as soon as he leaves for the bank.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked down at her. “I am too.”

  She started to speak, then changed her mind. She turned and went into the house. He watched her walk up the grand staircase and then turned back toward the harbor. Slowly the sun disappeared behind the mountain and it was night. And still he stood there.

  She looked at her watch. It was almost two thirty. She had heard the big limousine go down the driveway over half an hour ago. Why hadn’t Sergei come for her yet? Then there was a soft knock at the door. Quickly she moved toward it.

  “What took you so long?” she asked, then the words stopped in her throat.

  It wasn’t Sergei who stood there.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” she said. She moved back from the door to the center of the room. “Sergei told you?”

  He closed the door behind him. “Yes.”

  He saw the tears in her eyes when he turned. “I suppose there’s no use in my telling you that I’m sorry.”

  His eyes met hers steadily. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. We will have a beautiful son.”

  Sergei sat in the train later that afternoon looking out the window at the countryside rolling past. There were times when he could see far out into the Mediterranean from the corniche along which the tracks were laid. At other times the mountains hovered over the train like twin guardians.

  He looked down at the newspaper on his lap without really seeing it. He had done the right thing. He knew that. And it wasn’t only the hundred thousand francs that Sir Peter had given him which made him feel that way. It was the look in the old man’s eye when he had told him.

  It wasn’t that he had been brought to have an affair with her. It was more than that. He had been brought to do what the old man could never do, and now it was done.

  A wry grin crossed his lips. Not bad. A hundred thousand francs in stud fees wasn’t bad at all. That was the way to do it.

  It was better than working for a living.

  92

  “The first thing we have to do is buy you a few Chinese girls.” The language was French, but with a heavily guttural Greek accent.

  Christopoulos’ nephew was nothing like Marcel had imagined him to be. He was short but slim, and darkly good looking. His suits were immaculately tailored, in many ways superior to anything Marcel had seen in Europe.

  “Stay away from the refugees,” Eli continued, “the white women will only get you into trouble. If you don’t wind up with a clap, you’ll end up in a worse mess with the police. They’re always involved in one sort of plot or another.”

  Marcel found his voice. “What do I need any woman for? I can get along without them.”

  The dark eyes considered him shrewdly. “That’s what you think. You haven’t met the sort of women we have out here. They keep grabbing for your cock until they get it.” He lit a cigarette. “Besides, the Chinese are a strange race. They won’t accept you until they see you have accepted them.”

  “And buying Chinese girls will indicate this?”

  Eli nodded. “Yes, and even more. It will sho
w that you intend to stay here. Whether you do or not is immaterial. Once you buy a girl you are always responsible for her; therefore, even if you should go away you will still be here. Understand?”

  Marcel nodded. It was odd but he understood.

  “The next thing is to get you some decent clothes.”

  “What’s the matter with my clothes? I had them all made just before I left Paris.”

  “They’re too European,” Eli said. “Only the refugees here wear European clothing. Besides, the French are the worst men’s tailors in the world. There are proper tailors in Hong Kong.”

  “Oh, no!” Marcel groaned. The overnight trip on the ancient rolling ship from Hong Kong had been the worst part of the journey out from Paris. “I won’t go back there.”

  Eli grinned. “You won’t have to. My tailor will come here for the fittings.”

  “But what will I do with all the clothes I already bought?”

  “Give them away,” the young Greek replied negligently. “Perhaps some Chinese will accept them in trade, possibly for a house girl. But you won’t get anything much for them.” He got to his feet. “Come. My apartment is in the building behind the casino.”

  “I’d like to take a look around first if I may.”

  “Not until you have the proper clothing,” Eli replied firmly. “God alone knows how much face you have already lost walking through the casino carrying your own luggage!”

  He clapped his hands sharply and a servant came in for Marcel’s bags. “We can’t even go shopping for girls until after you get your clothing. No respectable Chinese would sell his daughter to a man dressed like you!”

  Her name was Jade Lotus. She was fourteen years old and delicately made. Her skin was the color of rose ivory, her eyes large and dark, and her face delicately oval, not round like most Chinese girls. And she walked as gracefully and lightly on her feet as if they had not been bound at all. Marcel could tell with one glance that she was not like the others.