Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  “She’s really a very good baby,” the nurse said.

  Sergei walked over to the crib and bent over it. “Good morning, Anastasia.”

  The baby stared up at him for a moment, then her face lit up and her eyes and lips crinkled into a smile.

  “She’s smiling at me!” Sergei said, looking over at the nurse. “See, she’s beginning to recognize me.”

  The nurse smiled back sympathetically. “I told you she was improving. In another few months you won’t know her.”

  Sergei turned back to the crib. “It’s your daddy, Anastasia,” he said happily. “It’s your daddy, who loves you.”

  But the smile was gone now and once more the baby looked up at him with lackadaisical eyes.

  112

  Suddenly Sue Ann began to feel sorry, as sorry for Sergei as for herself. It was over between them. In a way it had been over a long time. If only she hadn’t become pregnant. Or if she hadn’t been afraid to have an abortion. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to the calendar and not let it get so far. If—But there were so many ifs and none of them was of any help now.

  But most of all she felt sorry for the baby.

  She had wanted to love the baby. She had wanted to care for her and cuddle her and play with her but somehow once she saw her, her empty expression, she couldn’t. She had tried at first. But when she had looked at her still discolored face, at the screwed-up, almost strangled expression, she had gone sick inside. Silently she had pushed the baby away, and the nurse had taken her back to the incubator.

  Sue Ann leaned her head back against the couch and closed her eyes. It went a long way back. A long, long way to when she was a little girl.

  Her father was never home. Perhaps at Christmas and on other holidays, but at other times he always seemed to be away on business. It was always the stores. She could see the yellow and blue signs against her closed eyelids, DALEY PENNY SAVERS. The stores were Daddy’s life, just as they had been his father’s before him.

  Her mother had been one of the beauties of Atlanta. Many times Sue Ann had heard her expressions of disappointment because her daughter took after her father, who was big and heavy, and had none of the beauty that all the girls in her mother’s family had possessed.

  By the time she was fourteen Sue Ann was taller than most of the boys in her class at high school. She was already fighting a weight problem unsuccessfully, because the more nervous she became about her weight the greater was her compulsion to eat. And with the onset of the menses she developed a chronic adolescent acne.

  She remembered the tears of frustration she had shed in front of the mirror, and how she had not wanted to appear in public or go to school. But her mother had forced her and she remembered how most of the boys had laughed when they saw her pimpled face, usually covered with the remains of the latest healing ointment. After a while she began to hate boys because of this cruelty, yet in spite of this she always felt an inner excitement whenever they spoke to her or even noticed her. Her sexual responses even then were so great that no matter how hard she tried to control them she would soon be soaking wet. And she was always desperately afraid that they would notice.

  She didn’t remember exactly when or how she came to masturbation but she could remember the relief she got from it and the quiet and lassitude that would steal over her afterward. It was only then that she no longer felt the tensions or the desire to stuff herself. She remembered how pleasant it was just to lie in bed in the morning after she had done it, to close her eyes and dream of how beautiful she had become. And then her mother had come into the room and caught her.

  She could still see the startled, angry expression on her mother’s face as she stood in the doorway staring at her lying naked on the bed, her legs drawn up, her fingers busy. Almost before she could stop, her mother had slammed the door and snatched a leather belt from the dresser and begun to beat her.

  The first lash across her naked flesh burned into her with an almost exquisite pain. She screamed, then rolled over on her stomach trying to escape the furious slashes. She could feel the burning welts rising on the flesh of her back and buttocks and legs. A fiery heat ran through her and suddenly she was screaming and writhing in the throes of the first real orgasm she ever experienced.

  But in spite of it she could still hear the angry shouting of her mother as she belabored her with the leather belt, “You dirty child! Do you want your children to be idiots? Do you want your children to be idiots?” Again and again, over and over, until it melded with her pain and tears. Idiots idiots idiots…

  About the only thing she learned from that experience was always to lock her bedroom door. Nothing more interfered with her preoccupation with her own physique. It kept on like that until her first real sexual experience, which happened when she was sixteen. Actually it would have happened sooner had the choice been hers. But at first she could not attract boys. And then when she finally managed to they were afraid; her family’s reputation was too awesome, or perhaps the local boys still had some vestiges of Southern gentlemen.

  It finally happened in the back seat of a convertible parked in the dark of a local lovers’ lane after a high-school dance. Almost before the boy realized it, things had gone so far that it was impossible for him to back out. Yet at the final moment he hesitated.

  “What are you stoppin’ for?” she demanded angrily.

  “I don’t know, Sue Ann. Do you really think we should?”

  She exploded in a burst of pragmatic practicality. “Are you never goin’ to get tired of me jackin’ you off?”

  And in the end it was almost as if she had to do it herself. She guided him inside her. But when he came up against the obstruction of her hymen he stopped again. “Ah cain go no fuhther,” he whispered.

  By then she was half out of her mind. The thought that she was this close and it might come to nothing was too much for her. She dug her nails into his buttocks. “Push harder, goddam it!”

  The boy gave one last convulsive shove, and the deed was done. A moment later he had his orgasm and started to withdraw.

  “Where you think you’re goin’?” she asked.

  “You’re bleedin’,” he said. “I doan want to hurt you.”

  “You’re not hurtin” me.”

  “You sure?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Of course I’m sure. Come on, do it to me again. Hurry, I want it. Do it to me, goddam it. Hurry!”

  Almost overnight her acne went away and no more did she have to lock her bedroom door. There were lots of boys and lots of automobiles and when she went away to school for the first time, a brand-new wonderful world opened up for her. And the beating her mother had given her and the things her mother had said were forgotten. Or so she thought. Until the night the baby was born.

  She seemed to be fighting her way up out of a fog. She opened her eyes. The bright light was still shining into her eyes. She was lying on the table in the delivery room. She blinked her eyes to clear them. Her vision was still fuzzy.

  The doctor and two nurses were bending over a table in the corner. Vaguely she wondered what they were doing. After a moment it came to her. “My baby!” she cried, trying to get up, but the straps held her down.

  The doctor looked back over his shoulder and said something to one of the nurses. The nurse came over to her. “Lie back and rest.”

  “What’s the matter with my baby?”

  “Nothing. Just rest. Everything will be all right.”

  “Doctor,” she screamed, “what’s the matter with my baby?” When she tried to get up this time, the nurse held her down. A moment later the doctor came over. “My baby’s dead!”

  “No, the baby’s all right. We just had a little trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s head.”

  The nurse in front of the table moved and she could see the baby’s face covered with an oxygen mask. “What are they doing?”

  �
��Giving the baby oxygen. Now try to rest.”

  She pushed away his hand. “Why?”

  “In case the baby was damaged. Oxygen helps in cases like that. We don’t want to take any chances, do we?”

  Suddenly she knew. “She was deformed, wasn’t she? Or the brain. That’s the first thing that’s damaged, isn’t it?”

  The doctor looked at her. “One never knows in cases like these,” he answered reluctantly.

  She stared up at him. Maybe they weren’t sure but she was. From deep within came the memory of her mother’s words. “Do you want your children to be idiots?”

  She closed her eyes in sudden pain. Mother was right, she thought. Her mother was always right. “Doctor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Doctor, can you fix it so I won’t have any more babies?” He looked down at her. “I can. But don’t you think you ought to talk to your husband first?”

  “No!”

  “This was an accident,” he said, “it probably would never happen again. It’s one chance in a thousand. But once your tubes are tied it can’t ever be undone. What if you want another baby?”

  “I’ll adopt one. That’s the one way I can be sure of what I’m getting!”

  The doctor studied her for a moment then gestured to the nurse. The cone came down over her face and she gulped deeply. She felt the tears come into her eyes as she closed them, then the room began to recede. There was a curious pain and she felt that all her insides were crying, and that if she were awake she would be crying too.

  Why? Why did her mother always have to be right?

  113

  Sue Ann turned to him suddenly while they were taking the first of her valises and trunks out to the limousine. “I don’t want a divorce.” Sergei didn’t answer.

  “The bank will send your regular check every month, and of course they’ll pay for the baby’s care.”

  “You don’t have to,” Sergei said tightly. “I can take care of her.”

  “I want to.”

  Again he didn’t answer.

  “I’ll come back,” she said. “I just want to go home for a while. Until I feel better.”

  “Sure.” But they both knew she would never come back. That was the way it had to be.

  “Everything’s so different here. The language, the people. I never really felt right.”

  “I know. That’s normal enough, I guess. Everyone feels better at home.”

  The last of her bags were on the way out. She looked up into his face. “Well,” she said awkwardly, “good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Sue Ann.” Sergei bent and kissed her, French style, on both cheeks.

  She looked up at him for a moment. Suddenly the tears came into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then turned and ran out leaving the door open behind her.

  Slowly Sergei closed it and went into the living room. He poured himself a small whiskey and drank it neat. He felt weariness course through him and sank into a chair. There had been other good-byes with other women but this one was different. None of them had been Sue Ann. None of them had been his wife.

  Still he could not say that he had not expected it. Ever since she had come out of the hospital and told him what she had done.

  “You must have been crazy,” he’d shouted. “Only an idiot would do a thing like that!”

  Her face had gone pale and stubborn. “No more children. One like her is enough.”

  “The others did not have to be like her!”

  “Would not have to be.” She corrected his English. “But I’m not taking any chances; I’ve heard about you old European families.”

  He stared at her. “There’s never been anything like that in my family. It was merely an accident.”

  “Not in my family either,” she replied with finality. “Anyway, I don’t want any more children.”

  An awkward silence came down over them. He stood in front of the fire looking down at it. She came over and stood at his side. “We really fucked it up, didn’t we?”

  He didn’t answer.

  After a moment she spoke again. “I think I’ll go up to bed.”

  He still did not say anything.

  She walked over to the foot of the stairs and turned. “Coming up?”

  “In a little while.”

  She went silently up the steps. He stood there until the logs burned down. When he came into the bedroom she was in his bed waiting for him. But it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same between them. Too many walls had suddenly sprung up.

  She had realized it almost as quickly as he. Suddenly all her desire to get back to normal vanished. She went off her diet and gave up her exercises. She grew careless about her appearance and weight seemed to cling to her. Once he suggested that it wouldn’t hurt if she had her hair done and bought a few new dresses.

  “What for?” she asked. “We don’t ever go anywhere.”

  That was true enough; the war had limited their movements. Travel in Europe was a thing of the past. No longer could they run down to the Riviera for the swimming or dash up to Paris for amusement. It was like being locked on an island.

  Bit by bit, one by one, people seemed to be disappearing. They became caught up in the vortex of the conflict and returned to their own country. Soon there was nobody left but the Swiss. And they were very dull. All they seemed to be really interested in was money, and the principal topic of conversation seemed always to be which of the current crop of leaders was salting away the most money in Switzerland.

  From the proprietary manner in which they spoke about it one gathered that the Swiss had no intention of ever having to return it. When the war was over, most of the deposits would remain there because a great percentage of the depositors would not have survived, and they would have died without making adequate provision for the transfer of their funds. Thus they would properly become Swiss property. When the Germans outflanked the Maginot Line and overran France, it looked as if the Swiss were right. It was as if a curtain had suddenly been drawn across western Europe.

  It had been less than a month after that that Sergei happened to be in the bankers’ offices. Bernstein had looked at him and said, “Your father is a colonel in the German army?”

  Sergei was curious. They knew it as well as he. “Why?”

  “We should get in touch with certain of our clients,” the banker had answered, “and now there is no way we can do this.”

  “Why don’t you just go to them?” Sergei suggested. “You’re both Swiss. You should have no trouble.”

  “We couldn’t do that,” Kastele replied quickly. “The Swiss government would not permit it. It might be viewed as a hostile act by the Germans.”

  Sergei stared at them, then suddenly he realized the answers. Their clients were Jews. He didn’t speak.

  “If your father got you a permit,” Kastele said, “I’m sure we could arrange for a Swiss passport.”

  Sergei was intrigued. “You mean I would become a Swiss citizen?”

  The bankers exchanged glances. “That, too, could be arranged.”

  Sergei was thoughtful. As it stood he was neither French nor Russian. He was merely one of the many people who drifted around Europe after the last war. Stateless persons they were called. But it had been recognized that they were entitled to settle down somewhere, and most of the White Russians had done so in France. A Swiss citizenship might be very useful to him one day.

  “What would you want me to do?”

  “Merely try to locate our clients and obtain instructions about their holdings.”

  “And if they can’t be found?”

  “Try to determine if they are still alive. We will need that information to settle their accounts.”

  Sergei wondered if what he had heard was true, that the unclaimed balances were divided equally between the banks and the Swiss government. If it was true, then he could see why the bankers had a big stake in what happened. “And what would I get out of it?”

  “I’m sure
we could work out an equitable arrangement,” Bernstein said. “We haven’t been such bad fellows to get along with, have we?”

  By the time Sergei left their office, he had agreed to write his father and find out what could be arranged. That had been several months ago. The reply from his father had finally arrived that morning. The day Sue Ann left.

  His father was in Paris, quartered in a suite at the same hotel at which he had been employed as doorman. Something could be done. His father would be very glad to see him once again.

  Sergei put down the empty whiskey glass. He had made up his mind to accept the offer of the bankers. Later that afternoon he would go to their offices and inform them of his decision. But first there was something else he had to attend to. He picked up the telephone and gave the operator a number.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  “Peggy,” he said quickly, “this is Sergei.”

  “Yes,” the brisk English voice replied.

  “Sue Ann is gone. How long will it take you to get the baby ready?”

  A faint note of happiness came into the voice. “The baby’s been ready all morning. I’ve been awaiting your call.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  114

  The only sound on the Avenue George V was the sound of his own footsteps on the sidewalk. Dax looked up the street toward the Champs Elysees. It was a feeling he could never quite get used to. Paris at midnight, deserted.

  The streets were empty. All the French at home in their flats behind locked doors. Fouquet’s on the corner closed, and the cafes with their deserted tables and chairs still outside. The shops, their windows usually filled with bright-colored goodies to attract the ladies, were shuttered. Paris in the summer of 1940, with no lovers strolling arm in arm pausing to kiss beneath the heavy-leafed chestnut trees.

  He pulled a thin cigar from his pocket and lit it. As he struck the match be heard footsteps and turned. A girl came out from the shadow of a doorway. In the glow of the match he could see her face. Sharp, thin, hungry.