Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  The baron looked down at Robert’s arm. “I don’t understand.”

  “Then let me explain. See those tiny punctures? They’re needle marks, and you can thank your Nazi friends for them. They couldn’t get information out of me any other way, so they turned me into a drug addict. Day after day they shot me full of heroin. Then one morning they stopped. Do you have any idea what that is like, Father? You still say the war is over for me?”

  “Robert.” The baron’s voice trembled. “I didn’t know. We’ll get doctors. You can be cured.”

  Robert’s voice suddenly broke. “I tried, Papa. It’s no use; I live with enough pain as it is, I can’t take any more.”

  “You must go away and rest. We’ll find a way to help you. I’ll figure out another way to handle Kuppen Farben.”

  “Let it go, Papa, we don’t need it! Let them break it up!”

  His father looked at him. “I can’t. There are others, our cousins in England and America. I’m responsible to all of them.”

  “Tell them how we feel then. I’m certain they’ll agree with us.” His father was silent.

  Slowly Robert rolled down his sleeve and picked up his jacket. He walked toward the door. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  The baron looked at him. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going away,” Robert said. “That’s what you said I should do, didn’t you?”

  121

  Denisonde got up from the table in answer to the knock on the door. “Monsieur le baron!”

  Baron de Coyne looked at her hesitantly. “Is my son here?”

  She nodded. “But he’s asleep, m’sieur.”

  “Oh.” The baron stood outside the door awkwardly.

  “Excuse me, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.” The baron followed her into the apartment. She closed the door and studied him. The baron had grown old. His face was lean and lined, his hair thinned, gray. “You don’t remember me, m’sieur?”

  The baron shook his head.

  “We met once, before the war. At Madame Blanchette’s.”

  “Oh, yes.” But looking at him, she realized that he did not. “You must have been just a child then.”

  She smiled. “Let me get you a coffee. Then I will go and see if Robert is awake.”

  As she placed the cup before him he said, “If he is asleep, don’t disturb him. I can wait.”

  “Oui, m’sieur.”

  Robert was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Who’s out there?” he asked suspiciously. “I told you not to make any dates until I had gone for the day.”

  “It’s your father.”

  He was silent for a moment, staring at her. “Tell him to go away, I don’t want to see him.”

  She stood there without moving.

  “You heard me!” he shouted, suddenly angry.

  She still did not move.

  He glared at her angrily but at last it was he who had to give in. “Oh, all right.” He swung a leg off the bed. “I’ll see him. Help me to dress.”

  Left alone, the baron took a cigarette from the long, thin gold case and lit it. Delicately he sipped at the coffee and glanced around the meagerly furnished apartment. Nothing was right anymore. Not since the war. All the old standards seemed to have vanished.

  When he was a young man, new to his father’s office, he had been content to spend the long years necessary to gain the experience which would earn the confidence of his elders. The young people of today were in too much of a hurry. He could sense it in almost every department of the bank. He could feel it as he walked through the offices. It was apparent in the almost diffident manner in which the juniors regarded their superiors. It was as if they knew the answers before the questions were even asked.

  More than once he had become aware of the skeptical, challenging look on their faces at his own orders. What makes you think you’re right? they seemed to be asking. What makes you think you know so much? He should have recognized it long ago. He had seen it on the faces of his own children when war broke out and he had wanted them to come to America. They chose to remain, like the run-of-the-mill man in the street who had no choice. They had no conception of their position in society, or that it raised them above the vulgarity of the conflict.

  It was a malaise de societe. Liberte, egalite, fraternite. Even revolutionists recognized the differences within their own society and that such slogans must apply differently to each level.

  The sound of voices came through the thin wall from the bedroom and he twisted his cigarette nervously. It scattered shreds of tobacco in his hand and he looked around for an ash tray. Almost furtively he stubbed the cigarette out in the saucer under the coffee cup. He got up from his chair and went to the window. The narrow street off the Pigalle seemed even more squalid than by night. The electric signs over the nightclubs, which seemed so bright and colorful in darkness, appeared drab and dingy now. The gutters were filled with the litter of the night before.

  As he watched, a woman and a man came out of a doorway opposite. The woman smiled and opened her purse. Handing him a few bills, she kissed him on the cheek and left him, walking down the street toward the Pigalle with an unmistakable walk.

  A sudden feeling of shame ran through the baron. That man might be his own son. Robert was no better. What personal demons had driven him to such depths? If it had been pride that had sent him away, how could one reconcile that with the squalid way in which he now lived? He remembered how he had learned about it.

  A phone call had come from Madame Blanchette. “Your son, m’sieur, has taken up with one of my girls.”

  The baron had laughed. “Ah, the hot-blooded young! Don’t worry about it, madame. I shall reimburse you for the time she is away.”

  “No, m’sieur, you don’t understand. She has left with him. They have taken an apartment off the Pigalle. She is going into business on her own.”

  He still hadn’t understood. “But what will Robert do?”

  Madame Blanchette did not answer.

  Suddenly the baron was angry. “The fool! Doesn’t the girl understand? She won’t see a sou from me!”

  “She knows that, m’sieur.”

  “Then why did she go with him?” he had asked, bewildered.

  “I think she’s in love with him.”

  “Whores don’t fall in love,” he had replied brutally.

  Madame Blanchette’s voice changed subtly. “She’s also a woman, m’sieur, and women do.”

  The telephone had gone dead in his hand and he had replaced it in its cradle angrily. There was much to do and he erased the conversation from his mind. The boy would come back, he thought. Wait until he found out there would be no money.

  But the weeks had gone by and still no word had come from Robert. Then one day his secretary came in with a curious expression on her face. “A gentleman from the police wishes to see you. An Inspector Leboq.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He says the matter is personal.”

  The baron had hesitated a moment. “Show him in.”

  The detective was a short man in a gray suit, with a manner that was almost fawning.

  “You wished to see me?” the baron asked brusquely. He knew how to deal with presumptuous public servants.

  “Oui, monsieur.” Inspector Leboq’s voice was almost apologetic. “In a raid last night we picked up a few girls and their macs. One of them identified himself as your son, this one.” He handed a photograph to the baron.

  The baron looked down at the uncompromising police mug shot. Robert stared back at him with harsh, defiant eyes. His face is thin and drawn, was the baron’s first thought, he can’t be eating enough. Then he turned back to the policeman.

  “Is that your son?”

  “Yes.” The baron glanced down at the picture again. “What is the charge against him?”

  The policeman sounded embarrassed. “Living off the proceeds of prostitution.”

&
nbsp; The baron was silent for a moment. Suddenly he felt very old. “What will happen to him?”

  “He will go to jail, that is, unless he pays the fine. He says he has no money.”

  “He sent you to me?”

  The detective shook his head. “No, monsieur. He did not mention you at all. I merely came to verify his identity.” He got to his feet and picked up the photograph from the baron’s desk. “Thank you for your assistance, monsieur.”

  The baron looked up at him. “How much is the fine? I will pay it.”

  The policeman shook his head. “I am not permitted to interfere in these matters, monsieur.” He studied the baron. “But my brother is a private detective, also an avocat, and very discreet. I am certain that he could handle the matter for you, and there would be no publicity.”

  “If you will be kind enough to have him call on me, I shall be most grateful.”

  “It will be necessary also to pay the fine of the girl. They are charged jointly.”

  “I understand.”

  That very same afternoon the policeman’s brother came to the baron’s office, almost a carbon copy of the inspector. By the time he had left, everything had been arranged. There would be no further trouble for Robert or the girl. After all, his brother was in charge of the vice squad in that arrondissement.

  That had been almost two years ago. And ever since then the little private detective came to the baron’s office each week with a report about Robert, then left with a pocketful of banknotes. Three weeks ago the baron learned that Robert had been taken ill and sent to the clinique public. But before he could act, Robert had left the hospital of his own volition. When the medical report came to the baron’s desk it seemed clear that Robert was slowly but surely destroying himself. It was then that he had decided to act.

  And now the door from the bedroom was opening. The baron felt the nervousness in his stomach but forced himself to look up. Robert stood in the doorway, silently.

  The baron felt a sadness almost choke him. It was Robert, and yet it was not. The unfamiliar gauntness, the thinness of the pale flesh stretched tightly across his cheekbones, the dark eyes in deep sunken hollows—could this be his son? “Robert!”

  Robert didn’t move from the doorway. His voice was strange, harsh, not the voice his father remembered. “Didn’t you get the message? I told them I didn’t want to see you.”

  “But I wanted to see you.”

  “Why?” Robert asked bitterly. “Are there other Nazis you wish me to save?”

  “Robert, I want you to come home.”

  Robert smiled. At least it was supposed to be a smile, though it was nearer a grimace. “I am home.”

  “I mean—” The baron felt helpless. “You’re ill, Robert, you need care. You’ll die if you keep on going the way you are.”

  “It’s my life,” Robert replied almost carelessly. “It doesn’t matter, I should have died during the war.”

  The baron became angry. “But you didn’t! And to kill yourself this way is a sheer waste. It’s a child’s notion. Is this how you hope to punish me? With a childlike fantasy of my weeping at your grave?”

  Robert started to speak but the baron wouldn’t let him. “I will weep, but not for you. For my son. For what he could have been. With so much to do in this world, with so much that you profess to believe in, with so many things you still could do if you really cared, you wish to throw your life away? No, you’re a spoiled little child who’s on a hunger strike because his daddy won’t play the way he wants.”

  He met Robert’s eye. “You may not agree with what I do, but at least I do what I believe in. I work. I don’t run away and hide when things don’t work out the way I want them to.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. “I was worried about my son,” he said coldly. “I’m not anymore; I have no son. No son of mine could be a coward!”

  He started to close the door. “Papa!”

  He turned back into the room.

  “Close the door,” Robert said. “There is something I would like to do.”

  The baron leaned against the doorjamb, a curiously weak feeling in his legs. He looked at Robert silently.

  “I would like to go to Israel, Papa. There, I feel I could find a purpose. I could feel useful again.”

  The baron nodded without speaking.

  “But first there is something I would do.” Robert turned to the girl. “Denisonde, will you marry me?”

  The girl looked at him steadily. After a moment her answer came in a clear, steady voice. “No.”

  It was then that the baron smiled; his son had come home. “Nonsense,” he said, feeling the strength come back into him. “She will marry you, my son.”

  122

  Dax came out of the surf and walked up the beach toward the cabana. The sand was already warm to his naked feet, and the hot Florida sun sparkled in the drops of water still clinging to his body. He glanced down the beach, then up beyond the pool to the big white winter home of the Hadleys.

  Nothing stirred this early in the morning. He picked up his watch from the table near the cabana. Nine o’clock. He sighed with a curious pleasure. He could look forward to almost two hours of solitude. No one at the Hadleys’ ever came outdoors before eleven. He went into the cabana for a towel.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment to let his eyes get used to the dim light, then he noticed her lying on the couch. At first all he could see was the pale-blond hair, but then she suddenly sat up and he saw that she was completely nude.

  “I thought you’d never come out of the water, Dax.”

  He pulled a towel down from the rack and threw it at her. “Sue Ann, you’re an idiot!”

  She made no move for the towel. It slid to the floor beside the couch. “Everyone’s still asleep.”

  He pulled another towel from the rack and turned and went outside. He spread the towel on the sand and dropped on it, rolling over on his stomach so he could rest his face on his arms. A moment later he felt the sand move near him and he opened his eyes. Slowly he turned his head to look up at her.

  She had put on a white bathing suit that did very little to conceal her lush body. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked in an annoyed voice. “And don’t give me that shit about Caroline. I know better. All New York was talking about you and Mady Schneider.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he reached out a hand, grabbing her by the ankle and tumbling her into the sand.

  “What’s the idea?” she asked angrily. Then she saw the white teeth against his dark face. “Oh, Dax!”

  He rolled away slightly, still smiling. “Without making a thing of it, look up at the house. The big windows near the corner on the second floor.”

  She rolled over on her stomach and lay there for a moment, her face against the sand. Then she raised her head casually. There was a flash of light just behind the window. She continued raising her head until she was looking at Dax. “That’s James Hadley’s room. He’s watching us.”

  Dax smiled. “And with a pair of binoculars too.” He rolled over on his back and stared up at the sky. “So you see we’re not the only ones awake.”

  “The old goat!” She giggled. “So that’s how he gets his kicks.”

  “He’s got more than that going for him. He just likes to know what’s going on.”

  “No wonder all those boys are so horny. They get it from the old man.”

  Dax laughed, getting to his feet. “It’s getting too hot. I’m going back into the water and cool off.”

  He came up out of the light surf just in time to catch a glimpse of Sue Ann flying through the air at him. She crashed into him and he went over backward into the waves. He came up sputtering, but by this time she was swimming away with clean long strokes. He set out after her.

  “You want to play rough!” he yelled, grabbing her with one hand.

  Without a word she grabbed a mouthful of air and let herself sink into the water. He felt her slipping from his grip and turne
d after her, but already she was back at him under the water. He felt her hands grabbing for his trunks, pulling at them, and then one hand was inside holding him.

  Her head came out of the water in front of him. “Surrender?”

  He felt the heat rushing into his loins. He looked back over his shoulder. The flash of light glinted at the window. Hadley was still watching them. Well, to hell with him, he thought, they hadn’t yet invented binoculars that could see into water. He turned to Sue Ann. “A Corteguayan never surrenders!”

  “No?” She tightened her grip.

  He laughed, tensing himself against her fingers. Then he put his hands under the water behind her and found the seam in the crotch of the silk bathing suit. With a quick motion he ripped the light fabric then, reversing the grip, thrust two fingers inside her.

  He laughed at the sudden surprise on her face. She squirmed, trying to push him away, but he held her easily. Then his feet found the bottom and she couldn’t move at all. “Best you get is a draw.”

  “Let go,” she said, pushing at him. “The old man is watching!”

  “Let him. He can’t see what’s happening under the water.”

  Suddenly she was soft against him. “Oh, God. Oh, God!” Frantically she climbed on him. “Put it in me,” she cried wildly, “get it in there!”

  He braced his legs and pushed himself into her. He felt the heat of her body close him off from the water. “Put your arms out straight and keep your upper body away from me,” he said harshly. “That way it won’t even look as if our bodies are touching.”

  She leaned back in the water, her arms straight out, her legs around his hips, almost as if she were floating. “Oh, God,” she moaned, already in a paroxysm of delight. Suddenly her blue eyes were on his face. “I can’t hold it, Dax! I can’t!”

  “You’ll hold it,” he replied grimly, his fingers tightening unmercifully into the flesh of her buttocks. She started to scream. Violently he thrust her head under the water. She came up sputtering and coughing, then went limp in his arms as she climaxed.