Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  116

  The woman’s voice over the telephone was hushed and guarded. “Monsieur Xenos, this is Madame Blanchette. Do you remember?”

  “But of course.” From the first night Dax had spent in Paris, he had passed her house almost every day. “How are you, Madame Blanchette?”

  “I am fine. But I am so disappointed. You have not come to visit us since your return.”

  For a moment Dax was puzzled. He had never been a client of her establishment. Then he remembered. The baron had. “I am sorry, madame. I have been too busy.”

  “A man must never allow himself to be so busy he cannot relax once in a while,” Madame Blanchette said reproachfully. “It is only by the leisure time spent away from his work that a man can maintain his peak.”

  Dax laughed. “I apologize again, madame.”

  “I took the liberty of calling in the hopes that you could visit us this evening. I am giving a very special soirie. It might be quite amusing. I think you will find it most novel.”

  Dax looked down at his desk calendar. “I have another appointment—”

  “We should be most disappointed if you did not come, Monsieur Xenos,” she interrupted. “In a way the entire soiree is planned around you.”

  There seemed to be a strange insistence in her voice. “All right, I’ll come. But it will have to be late.”

  “How late?”

  “One in the morning?”

  He sensed the note of relief in her voice. “That will be quite satisfactory. Nothing much will happen before then.”

  As Dax put down the telephone, Fat Cat came into the room. “Well, what did you find out?”

  “She’s gone all right. None of the servants will talk. There are two Germans hanging around the house.”

  “Did you check the neighborhood?”

  Fat Cat nodded. “The same everywhere. Nobody knows. Or dares talk.”

  Dax thought for a moment. “I just had a curious phone call from Madame Blanchette down the street. She was a friend of the baron’s. Could Caroline be hiding there?” He reached for one of his thin cigars. “Madame Blanchette seemed very set on my coming there tonight.”

  The telephone began to ring again, and when Dax picked it up, a familiar voice greeted him. “Good morning, darling.” Giselle’s voice was still fuzzy with sleep. “Why did you go off and leave me at that horrible party last night?”

  Dax glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon. “You were enjoying yourself.”

  “But darling, that was because I was with you.”

  “And six other men. I couldn’t even get close to you.”

  “But I’m alone now. You could come over for lunch?”

  Dax could almost see her sprawled across the huge bed, her breasts pushing up against the décolletage of her nightdress as she lay on her stomach talking into the telephone.

  “I’d like to, but I can’t.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so disappointed!”

  He laughed at the patent fakery in her voice. She was a good enough actress to make her voice do exactly what she wanted it to do. “No, you’re not. You’re going right back to sleep again, which is what you planned to do all along.”

  She laughed and the sound was warm in his ear. “Then dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, but I shall have to leave by midnight. I have another appointment.”

  “At midnight?”

  “Yes.”

  A jealous note crept into her voice, and now she was no longer acting. “There’s another woman.”

  “No. How could there be? You have never given me enough time to find one.”

  “You won’t have strength for another woman when you leave me tonight!”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Don’t joke with me,” she said. “I am a very jealous woman.”

  “Good. That is the best kind.”

  Sergei stood in front of the Hotel Royale Palace. There was a curiously faded air about it since the Germans had taken it over. He went through the doors into the lobby. He noticed that the paint was peeling from the walls behind the front desk as he stepped up to it.

  The German corporal looked at Sergei’s expensive clothing respectfully. “Ja, mein Herr?”

  “Colonel Count Nikovitch.”

  “Do you have an appointment? The colonel is extremely busy.”

  “He’ll see me. Just tell him his son is here.”

  The soldier picked up the telephone, and a moment later Sergei was escorted to an office on the second floor. He paused for a moment at the door bearing his father’s name, and then opened it. He stopped momentarily, as he always did when he saw his father, realizing once again the tremendous stature of the man. Then he was caught in a powerful bear hug as his father came around the desk and almost crushed him against his breast.

  “Sergei, Sergei,” he said over and over, and tears flowed freely from his eyes. “Sergei!”

  Sergei looked up into his father’s face. There were lines there that were new, and the once jet-black hair was now shot through with gray. “How are you, Papa?”

  “I’m fine now,” the count replied in his gruff hearty voice. He went back behind his desk and lit a long Russian cigarette. “You look well. How is your wife?”

  “She’s gone back to America.”

  The old man looked at him shrewdly. “She’s taken Anastasia with her?”

  Sergei shook his head. “No, Anastasia is with me.”

  Count Nikovitch slipped down into his chair. “How is the child?”

  “She’s improving. But it will take time.”

  “Is your wife coming back?” the count asked bluntly.

  “I don’t think so.”

  A momentary uncomfortable silence fell between them. Sergei looked around. “It’s a nice office.”

  “I don’t belong here,” his father replied tersely, “but the General Staff considers me an expert on Paris, so here I am.”

  Sergei laughed. “And you left Paris because you thought the Germans would send you into Russia!”

  His father didn’t smile. “All armies are the same. But we shall invade Russia yet.”

  “But they have a nonaggression pact with Stalin.”

  The count’s voice lowered. “Der Fuhrer has made many pacts. He hasn’t kept one of them. He’s too smart to open up another front and fight a war on two fronts. After we get through with the English, then you’ll see.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  His father looked at him steadily. “A man has to believe in something.” He ground his cigarette out in an ash tray. “After I left Russia there was nothing to believe in. Our whole world vanished overnight, ground into the dirt by the stinking feet of the Bolsheviki.”

  “What makes you think Hitler will permit that world to rise again? Why should he want any other world than his own?” Sergei walked over to the window and looked down into the street. “I don’t think he will, Papa. He already has more power than any czar. Why should he let any of it go?”

  His father didn’t answer. After a moment he got up and came over to the window beside Sergei. They stood there looking out silently.

  “When I was just a boy, once a year your grandfather used to bring me to Paris. It was essential for every young nobleman, he used to say. Paris was where one learned to live. I remember how we used to stand together in a window of this very hotel and look down at the streets and the pretty cocottes and the beautiful horses and carriages. And at nights, the grand parties!” He fell silent for a moment then began again.

  “Then when I came here after the Revolution the owner, who had liked my father, was kind enough to give me a job as doorman. He would stop by every once in a while and we would talk about the good old days. Sometimes I would look up at the windows and wonder if I would ever be on the inside again, instead of outside in the cold and snow and rain. Now everything has turned around again and once more I am.”

  “But the whole thing’s different.”<
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  “What do you mean?”

  “Where are the people? The pretty cocottes, and the laughter and the gaiety? It’s not Paris anymore.” Sergei turned back into the room. “Even up here it’s not the same. This used to be a fine suite, now look at it. And the owner? What happened to him—was he a Jew?”

  His father didn’t answer. He went back to the desk and sat down heavily. “I don’t know. I am a soldier, not a politician. I do not involve myself with things which do not concern me.”

  “But the man was kind enough to help you when you needed help. You said so yourself.”

  His father looked at him. “Since when have you become so concerned about Jews?”

  “I’m not. I’m only concerned about Paris. Somehow, somewhere, all the laughter has gone. Perhaps the Jews took it with them.”

  His father stared at him. “Why did you come here?”

  “On business. I represent the Credit Suisse. I’m trying to contact certain of their clients.”

  “Jews?”

  “Some of them, yes.”

  The count was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. “I might have guessed. The first time in your life you have a decent job, and you get yourself involved with the wrong kinds of people.”

  Caroline was cold. She had never been so cold in her life. She went over to the door of the little cell and banged on the bars. The matron sitting across the hall looked up.

  “When will they return my clothes? I’m freezing.”

  The matron stared at her blankly, and Caroline realized that she must not understand French. Haltingly she repeated her question in German.

  “Ich weiss nicht.”

  The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, and the matron suddenly snapped to attention. A man’s voice spoke but the man himself was just out of the range of Caroline’s vision.

  “Das Fraulein Caroline de Coyne?”

  “Dreiundzwanzig.”

  “Offnen Sie die Tur.”

  The matron came toward the cell, turning the ring of keys. Finally she found the right one, and opened the steel door. Caroline shrank back into the corner of the tiny cubicle as the matron stepped back to allow a man to enter.

  He had to duck his head to get through the small door. Slowly he straightened up, kicking the door shut with his foot. A faint smile crossed his lips as he saw Caroline trying to cover herself with her hands. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said in French. “Think of me as you would your doctor.”

  “Who are you?”

  He smiled again, seemingly enjoying the hint of fear in Caroline’s voice. “Or perhaps it would be better if you thought of me as your priest,” he continued softly. “You see, in a way I am your confessor. It is to me you will confide all your secrets, all those little things you never tell anyone else.”

  She felt herself begin to shiver. But this time it wasn’t the cold. It was the fear running through her. “I haven’t any secrets,” she whispered. “I told only the truth. I know nothing about my brother.”

  He shook his head slowly, disbelieving.

  “Please, please. You must believe me.” She looked down at herself and suddenly the humiliation of her nakedness got through to her and she began to cry. She sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, God! What must I do to make you believe me?”

  Through her fingers she saw the shining brown shoes come nearer. The voice came from directly above her now. “Tell me the truth.”

  “But I am telling the—” The words stuck in her throat as she looked up. His fly was open and the erect phallus and testicles hung obscenely over her. She froze for a moment, then his hand brutally gripped her by the hair and pulled her face against him.

  “Kiss it,” he said, in a cold, quiet, almost disinterested voice, “kiss it and swear you are not lying to me. Go ahead, bitch Jew. Kiss it. It will not choke you. It is not pork.”

  117

  “You’re being most mysterious,” Giselle said as Dax got up from the table. “Where are you going?”

  He turned from the mirror, where he had been straightening his tie, and a smile crossed his lips. “You won’t believe it, but I’m going to meet an old friend.”

  “An old friend?” she repeated skeptically. “At this hour of the night? Where? The only places that are open are the brothels.”

  “You guessed it.”

  “In a bordello?” She was beginning to get angry. “And you expect me to believe that?”

  “I told you you wouldn’t.”

  “And you’re going to meet an old friend and just talk to him? That’s all?”

  “It’s not a him, it’s a her.”

  “If I thought you were telling me the truth,” she said, glaring at him, “I’d kill you!”

  He went back to the table and kissed her upturned cheek. He tried to capture her lips but she turned away. He laughed. “You know, jealousy becomes you. It makes you even more beautiful.”

  “Go!” she said angrily. “Go to your whorehouse. I hope you get a clap.”

  He went to the door and opened it. Her voice stopped him. “After your business is finished, will you come back?”

  “It may be late; I might even be all night.”

  “I don’t care. Whatever the time, don’t go home, come here.”

  He looked at her for a moment then nodded. “And, Dax, you will be careful, won’t you?”

  He smiled. “I will.”

  He went downstairs, and the sleepy night concierge let him out. Fat Cat was waiting in the street. “What are you doing here?”

  Fat Cat grinned. “You don’t think I’m going to let you go to Madame Blanchette’s alone? She always had the most beautiful girls in Paris, and usually I can’t afford them!”

  Madame Blanchette herself greeted them after the maid had opened the outer door and taken their hats and coats. “Monsieur Xenos, how good of you to come. It has been a long time.”

  “It has been a long time.”

  “Come with me into the grande salle,” she said, taking his arm. “We have a very special entertainment tonight. You will see what you have been missing by not paying us a visit.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “After the entertainment you will go with the Eurasian girl. No other.” Then her voice returned to its normal level. “You look very well.”

  Dax smiled. “And you, madame, are even more beautiful than I remember from my first night in Paris.”

  “La,” Madame Blanchette replied, “you have grown into a galant as well.”

  They entered the grande salle, where a small trio was playing in the corner. Ringed around the room were small conversational groupings of couches, tables, and chairs. Each formed a small nucleus of its own, giving an impression of intimacy.

  The conversation stopped for a moment and Dax felt many eyes turn to him. He glanced around the room. Of the twenty-odd men in the room Dax guessed that fifteen were German, despite the fact that not one of them was in uniform. The hum began again as Madame Blanchette led him to a small sofa near the center of the room. As they sat down, a waiter hurried to fill their glasses with champagne. Dax raised his to her. “A votre sante, madame.”

  “Merci, monsieur. A la votre.”

  They drank. “There are many Germans here,” Dax said in a low voice, “but no uniforms.”

  “I do not permit uniforms. C’est une maison du plaisir. The war must remain outside.”

  The conversation faded as the girls began to drift in. There was much heel-clicking and bowing and hand-kissing as the Germans endeavored to be polite and Continental, but they were too stiff, too military. They were much too preoccupied with their roles as conquerors to successfully play the galant.

  Dax got to his feet as a girl approached the table. She was small with startling tawny green eyes in a faintly Javanese face. Long black hair framed the golden ivory of her face.

  “Mademoiselle Denisonde, Monsieur Xenos.”

  The girl held out her hand. “Enchante, m’sieur.�
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  Dax kissed her hand. “Mademoiselle Denisonde.”

  The girl sat down next to him on the couch. Madame Blanchette clapped her hands sharply and the lights suddenly dimmed, then went completely out. For a moment everything was in darkness but in a moment the great chandelier in the center of the room began to glow.

  Revealed in the center of the parquet dance floor were two men and three girls—nude and frozen in a tableau of bizarre intertwining arms and legs. For a moment Dax was conscious only of the beauty of the slim lithe bodies, then suddenly he became aware that all were coupled together in sexual embrace. None of them was without a partner. From the corner came the slow persistent beat of a drum, then gradually the throb of a plucked bass amplified the pulsing sound as slowly the tableau began to come to life.

  Despite himself Dax stared in fascination. Whether the passion displayed was real or simulated did not matter. The pure sexuality of the act was one of the most exciting things he had ever witnessed. He felt the pain rise unbearably in his loins. The girl’s hand searched him out but he was almost unaware of her touch; his only involvement was with the actors playing out their little tableau in the center of the floor.

  Almost when the agony had become exquisitely unbearable, the room plunged once again into darkness. There was a moment of complete silence. Abruptly the girl withdrew her hand as the lights came back on. Dax blinked his eyes.

  All over the room, men were doing the same thing. They were returning from a secret world of their own. They avoided each other’s glances until they were once more in control of themselves.

  Madame Blanchette rose to her feet. “Gentlemen,” she said with a faint smile, “I trust you have enjoyed our little performance.” She waited, still smiling, until the applause died down. “Now I leave you to your own pleasures.”

  Regally, like a queen taking leave of her subjects, she left the room. The door closed behind her and the hum of conversation began again.