Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  Dax felt the soldiers seize him and roughly pull him back. He twisted, trying to pull himself free, but they held him tightly.

  “Let him go!” El Presidente’s voice rang out sharply from the doorway.

  He strode past them without a second glance at the men lying on the floor. He knelt down to his daughter. A whisper passed between them too quickly for Dax to hear. Then el Presidente slowly got to his feet turning back to him.

  “You have done well, my son,” he said, his pale-gray eyes expressionless. “I, myself, was coming to kill Guiterrez for violating the amnesty!”

  108

  The New York offices of the Hadley Shipping Company were located on the edge of the financial district overlooking Battery Park. They were in an old building, on the nineteenth floor, the penthouse of which had been converted into the personal offices of Mr. Hadley. It was a large five-room suite consisting of an office facing west, surrounded by glass, which gave a clear view in all directions. To the south lay the Statue of Liberty and harbor, to the north and east the towering spires of the Empire State Building, the Rockefeller Center complex, and the needle of the newly completed Chrysler Building. The other rooms were a board room, which also served as a private dining room, a completely equipped kitchen, a large bedroom and a bath.

  Marcel turned from the window as Hadley came into the office.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” the older man apologized. “The directors’ meeting took rather longer than I had expected.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Hadley. It gave me a chance to admire the view.”

  “It is nice,” Hadley replied without feeling, as he went behind the desk and sat down.

  The way he said it made Marcel wonder if the old man had ever really looked out of the windows. He went over to a chair opposite the desk and sat down.

  Hadley didn’t waste a minute. “My information from Europe is that war is a matter of months, possibly even weeks, away.”

  Marcel nodded. There was nothing, as yet, for him to say.

  “American representation in Europe will become difficult,” Hadley continued. “Especially since the President is avowedly prejudiced toward Britain and France. He has promised them every assistance short of war. It will make it equally difficult in America for certain European interests.”

  Marcel nodded again. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.

  “How many ships have we still committed to the sugar trade?” Hadley asked abruptly.

  Marcel thought for a moment. There were nine of them at sea but four were carrying cargoes destined for his own personal warehouses in Brooklyn. “Five. And they will all be in New York by the end of the month.”

  “Good. As soon as they’re unloaded, every ship we have must be sent to Corteguay. If war breaks out any shipping from here bound for Europe will become fair game for German submarines.” He picked up a paper from his desk and looked at it. “Have you had any recent word about Dax?”

  “El Presidente informs me that he is still in Spain. The agreements with Franco are almost complete.”

  “We must get word to him that the agreements are to be concluded as soon as possible. I’ve decided that he should be our representative in Europe when war comes.”

  Marcel looked at him. “How do you know Dax will do it? After all, he is not working for us.”

  A look of annoyance crossed Hadley’s face. “I know that; that’s what makes it practical. Dax represents a completely neutral country. He will have the freedom of Europe no matter how the war goes.”

  Marcel was silent. He was beginning to understand Americans. Now he knew how the great fortunes were built. War or no, the business of making money brooked no interference. “Have you spoken to el Presidente about it?”

  “Not yet. I’m leaving that to you. After all, he’s your partner, not mine.”

  It was still early when Marcel left Hadley’s office. He checked his watch. There was still time to go out to Brooklyn before his luncheon appointment at one o’clock. He stood on the sidewalk and flagged a taxi. “Bush Terminal in Brooklyn.”

  Idly he looked out the window as the taxi made its way toward the Brooklyn Bridge. How different the Americans were than the Europeans. They were complacent, safe behind their oceans. If war came it could not touch them.

  It would merely be something to read about in the newspapers, to listen to on their radio between “Amos ‘n’ Andy” and the “Fleischmann Variety Hour,” or to watch in a news-reel before the latest Clark Gable movie came on. The threats, rantings and ravings of Hitler could never really reach them. Europe was on the other side of the world.

  The humid heat of early August poured in through the cab windows. Even the breeze brought no relief from the pounding heat of the pavements. Slowly the taxi fought its way through the traffic in downtown Brooklyn after coming off the bridge. Up Flatbush Avenue, past Fulton Street with its crowds of shoppers and elevated trains, and then turning into Fourth Avenue toward Bay Ridge. It didn’t cool off until they were near the bay.

  Marcel told the cabdriver to wait. The cabby mumbled something about losing money while waiting, but Marcel ignored him. A man was seated inside behind an old desk reading a newspaper. He looked up as Marcel came in, and put down the paper. “Good morning, Mr. Campion.”

  “Good morning, Frank. Everything all right?”

  “Right as rain, Mr. Campion,” the watchman replied, getting to his feet. He was used to these visits by now. Marcel had a habit of appearing at odd times. There was no telling when, sometimes even in the middle of the night. As usual he followed Marcel through the door into the warehouse proper.

  Marcel stood just outside the doorway and looked across the warehouse. The building covered a complete city block and row after row of burlap bags filled with sugar reached almost to the fire-sprinkler line under the high-girdered roof.

  Marcel felt satisfaction surge through him. More than a year had passed since he first thought of the idea. By the third of September, when the four ships he expected tied up at the dock outside the warehouses, it would all be over. The last warehouse would be filled and then all he would have to do was wait. The coming war in Europe would take care of everything.

  He remembered when he had been a small boy during the last war. There were two things his family could never get enough of—sugar and soap. He remembered once hearing his father complain that he had had to pay twenty francs for a few hundred grams of coarse brown sugar. They had hoarded it and used it carefully for more than a week. That was where the idea originated.

  Sugar. Everything in America was sweet. Soda pop, chocolates, buns and cakes, even their bread. Everyone consumed sugar in copious quantities, everyone took sugar for granted. There had always been enough of it. War or no war, they would still expect it. And they would willingly pay for it.

  Now there were four buildings like this one, all filled with sugar. He was perhaps the only man who could have done it. He controlled the ships. It was he who could supply falsified bills of lading that diverted the attention of the customs officials who screened every ship that entered the harbor.

  But it took money. A great deal of money. More than Marcel had. It was almost as if the sugar producers were aware of what he was up to. He had to pay a bonus of twenty cents on every hundred-pound bag to ensure that they would sell only to turn. Additional money went to key officers on his ships who were aware of the real nature of the cargoes. Even the leasing of the warehouses through a blind cost him thousands of dollars over the market.

  Quickly the figures flashed through Marcel’s mind. There was almost eight million dollars tied up in this project most of it borrowed. He had never had that much money, and if it hadn’t been for Amos Abidijan he never would have had.

  Marcel was under no illusions as to why Abidijan had lent him the money. It wasn’t because he had been willing to put up his share of the ships as collateral; Abidijan had more ships than he needed. It wasn’t even that Abidijan was partici
pating in the profits that might accrue from the project. Abidijan couldn’t care less; he hadn’t even asked what Marcel wanted the money for. Amos was interested in only one thing. Marrying off his eldest daughter.

  In all there were five of them, and until the eldest was married none of the others could marry. It was beginning to seem as if they would never marry, because no one appeared anxious for Anna’s hand, despite the dowry that was certain to come with it. It was genuinely unfortunate that of all the daughters Anna most favored her father. She was short and dark, with the slightest hint of a mustache over her upper lip, which no amount of electrolysis had been able to eliminate satisfactorily. And no couturier, no matter how expensive, could hide the square peasant lines of her body.

  It seemed as if she had collected all the bad points in the family; the other girls were slim and taller, almost average American in complexion and appearance. Only poor Anna looked and acted like her father. Deciding that men were not for her, she became interested in her father’s business and began to work in his office. It was there that Marcel had met her.

  He had come in to see her father by appointment but had had to wait. The receptionist had ushered him into Abidijan’s outer office, which had been empty. He had just sat down when Anna came in.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Campion,” she said, in her husky, almost manlike voice, “my father will be a little late.”

  By the time the English “my father” had reached Marcel’s brain and had been translated into mon pére, she had already gone behind her desk. Marcel got to his feet. This was a time for true Gallic courtesy.

  But to poor inexperienced Anna, who was not used to any attention from the opposite sex, mere Gallic courtesy seemed like romance and before Marcel knew it he was involved. Lunch, then dinners, finally evenings at Amos’ home. And ending with weekends at their country place. It was almost two years now, and it had become more or less accepted that they were going together, though Marcel had never said a word to her.

  That was the way it had been when Marcel had gone to her father for the loan a little over a year ago. He had thought about asking Hadley for the money, then decided against it. James Hadley had a curious kind of morality. There was practically nothing in business he would not do but this was something else. The ugly words “hoarding” and “black marketing” were anathema to him. Whatever he did had to be justified somehow by overall civic benefit. If he should happen to profit by it so much the better. And he usually did.

  “I need four million dollars,” Marcel said to Amos. “I can raise perhaps two on my own—”

  “Say no more,” Amos had replied, holding up a hand and reaching for his checkbook.

  Marcel stared at him in amazement. “But don’t you want to know what the money is for?”

  Amos shook his head, smiling. “I don’t have to. After all, it’s all in the family, isn’t it?”

  Marcel’s mouth hung open. Then he caught himself. “But I may need more in a short time.”

  Amos tore the check out with a flourish and held it out toward Marcel. “When you need more just come in and ask.”

  Twice more Marcel had asked. Each time the check was tendered and there were never any questions. But it was almost over now.

  A little while longer and Marcel would be able to repay the loans. Just as soon as he had he would then make his position clear to all of them. It was only a question of time.

  109

  Dinner at Abidjan’s was long and dull and as boring as usual. After dinner they went into the library for coffee and cognac. Silently Marcel took the cigar proffered by the butler and, carefully clipping the end, lit it with a sigh of satisfaction. One thing Amos did do right. He smoked good cigars. The Havanas were always in perfect condition. Not too moist, not too dry, and with a flavor that seemed to caress the palate.

  Amos slipped into his favorite leather chair and looked over at Marcel. “You are acquainted with the Baron de Coyne?” he asked in his peculiar-sounding English.

  Marcel nodded. “I worked with him,” he said, twisting the truth a necessary fraction. His curiosity was piqued but he knew better than to ask questions.

  Amos thought for a moment before continuing. “Perhaps you can help me. There are certain companies in which he and I are mutually interested. We have both submitted offers and now they are playing us off one against the other, forcing up the price.”

  Marcel shook his head. “Always there are greedy ones.” He had heard that De Coyne was transferring most of his assets to the States but he hadn’t realized that the baron planned also to become active in American business. “What can I do to help? It will be my privilege.”

  “Perhaps De Coyne and I could make a mutual agreement. Before the price gets so high it will not be profitable for either of us.”

  “That sounds reasonable. I’m sure the baron would not be averse to that.”

  “That was my thought also. But there seems to be no way I can contact him. The lawyers representing him here refuse to talk.”

  “Let me think about it,” Marcel said. “I’ll see if I can come up with something.”

  “Good.” Amos got out of his chair and went to the window of the apartment and looked out at the East River. He stared for a moment, then looked at his watch. “She’s late.”

  Marcel was puzzled. “Who’s late?”

  “The Shooting Star. She was due to pass here at nine-twenty.”

  Marcel stared at him in surprise. Abidijan owned or controlled one of the largest fleets in the world and yet he knew when an individual tanker was due. Marcel looked at his watch. “Give her a few minutes. It’s just nine thirty now.”

  Amos came back from the window and sank back into the chair. “Sometimes I think of retiring,” he said, “and then I think of all the people depending on me and wonder how I can. I am not growing any younger.”

  “You’re a long way from being old. I only wish I had your energy.”

  “No, no,” Amos replied quickly, “you are a young man. That’s why you can say such things. But me—I know better.” He puffed at his cigar and sighed. “If only I had sons, even one son, I wouldn’t worry.” He peered at Marcel shrewdly. “Not that there is anything wrong with the girls. But girls—well, they are girls. If I had a son I could turn the business over to him, then I could take it easy.”

  Marcel smiled. “With five girls you will have many grandsons.”

  “Now if I had a son like you,” Amos said, ignoring what Marcel had said, “I could leave the business in his hands.”

  Marcel refused to bite. He knew better. Amos would give away nothing. He would always remain in control. Until he was dead. And even after, if Marcel knew him at all. He was saved the bother of answering by Anna.

  “Father,” she called excitedly from the living room, “the Shooting Star is coming up the river!”

  Marcel looked at her standing in the doorway and something inside him shivered. For a moment she had sounded exactly like the old man.

  Abidijan got up and went to the window. “It’s the Shooting Star,” he said, looking at his watch, “and fifteen minutes late, too.” He looked at Anna. “Remind me to send a note to her captain in the morning. The reason we publish schedules is because they are to be kept!”

  Marcel left a little after ten o’clock, pleading a headache. Anna saw him to the door. “Get some rest,” she said, a worried expression on her face. “You look very tired.”

  He resisted the impulse to tell her that he wasn’t tired. He was merely bored. Instead he replied, “A good night’s sleep will set me right.”

  She nodded. “Go right to bed.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  The door of the Sutton Place town house closed behind him. He stood in the night and breathed deeply. After the heat of the day the breeze coming from the river seemed almost cool and fresh, though as soon as he started across town the heat returned. After walking a block he could feel the perspiration start trickling down his chest.


  He stood on the corner of First Avenue looking for a taxi. As usual when one wanted a cab there were never any around. He looked down the street. Only the lights of some cheap saloons beckoned. He looked at his watch. There were only two places to go at this hour. El Morocco or the Stork. He decided on the first; it was nearer. Only a short walk.

  The maitre d’ bowed. “Monsieur Campion, good evening. Alone?”

  Marcel nodded, his eyes flicking around the room to see who was there. “A small table in a corner if you have one.”

  “Of course, Monsieur Campion.” The maitre d’ led Marcel to a table in the corner of the small outer room. It was a good table and he slipped the bill Marcel gave him discreetly into his pocket.

  Marcel ordered a small bottle of champagne. He sat there sipping the wine slowly, feeling the air-cooled room erase the torture of the humidity outside. Several people he knew came by, and he nodded politely. Little by little the restaurant began to fill up. Still he sat there, dreading the thought of returning to the heat.

  A young woman’s voice came from behind him. “Marcel?”

  Automatically he rose before turning around. “Mademoiselle de Coyne!”

  She held out her hand and he kissed it. “I was hoping I would run into you.”

  “I’m so glad you did.” It was a moment before he realized they were speaking French. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Only for a moment,” she replied. “I’m with some people.”

  He pulled out a chair and a waiter hurried over with another glass. “Á votre santé. And how is your father?”

  “He is well. But things do not go well at home.”

  “I know.”

  She glanced around the restaurant. “But here it does not seem to matter.”