Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  “No, thank you. You have done more than enough. Good night.”

  “Good night, your excellency.”

  I put the sheet of paper on my dresser and read it as I undressed.

  Alberto Mendoza: age 34, born 28 July, 1921, Curatu.

  Parents: Pedro Mendoza, merchant; Dolores, née García.

  Education: Jesuit School, Curatu. Grad. Honors 1939, University of Mexico. Majored Economics and Political Science; Honors, 1943, Colombia University, Bogotá. Master in Political Science, 1944.

  Career: Appointed lieutenant to army, 1944, in July. Court-martial 10 Nov., 1945; charge: distributing Communist literature and attempting to organize Communist cadres among the troops. Verdict: guilty. Sentenced to ten years’ hard labor; pardoned in general political amnesty, 1950.

  Other: Left Corteguay for Europe, 1950. Actions and movements unaccounted for until September, 1954, when became associated with Guayanos. Of his personal life nothing is known.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and took off my shoes. That seemed to clinch it. El Presidente had been right. He had said all along that Guayanos was Communist-sponsored. I thought of Beatriz, and I felt sick. With so much against us we had never had a chance. No wonder she had thought I had something to do with the death of her father.

  I cursed aloud and suddenly I was wide awake. I couldn’t go back to sleep now. I glanced at the clock again. Marcel would still be awake; he never went to bed before three in the morning. It still wasn’t too late to do what I had to do.

  188

  Marcel was already half drunk when he opened the door. He stood in the foyer of his apartment, weaving slightly and smiling. He half fell against me, his hands clutching at my lapels. “Dax, you dog. I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers.”

  I gripped his elbow to keep him from falling. “I’ve been doing some reading, too.”

  The sarcasm was lost on Marcel. “You know,” he said, peering into my face owlishly, “for a while I’d about given you up. I thought you’d turned square. Now I know better.”

  “Sure,” I said soothingly.

  “You came just in time. I was having a little party but it was getting dull. Come.”

  Grabbing me by the arm, he half pulled me into the living room. The room was in semidarkness. The overhead lights were off, and only the side lamps glowed dimly in the corners. Two women were seated on the couch, their faces half hidden in the shadows.

  There was a curiously vicious edge to Marcel’s voice as he said, “I think you know the girls. Beth, say hello to Dax.”

  The nearest girl looked up. “Hello.”

  I recognized the big-breasted blond. I had met her there before. “Hello, Beth.”

  “Don’t just sit there like a stupid idiot,” Marcel said sharply, “fix Dax a drink.”

  Silently Beth got up and walked over to the bar. The other girl sat without moving, her face partly averted.

  “You know Dax,” Marcel said to her sarcastically. “Is that the kind of greeting you usually give an old friend?”

  The woman looked up at me, her long dark hair falling away from her face.

  “Dania!”

  “Yes, Dania,” Marcel mimicked nastily. “You never expected to find her here, did you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Not Dania Farkas,” Marcel continued, slurring his words slightly, “she’s too independent and important.”

  I still remained silent.

  “Bullshit!” Marcel suddenly exploded. “She’s as big a cunt as the others!”

  Beth came back from the bar with a drink in each hand. Marcel took one and handed me the other. Beth went back to the bar and returned with drinks for Dania and herself. “Come on, Marcel,” she said, “the party’s getting to be a drag. Put on some music. Let’s ball a little.”

  “No, I don’t feel like it!” Marcel swallowed half his drink and sprawled onto the couch beside Dania. “Don’t be so formal,” he said, “you’re among friends.” He fumbled at the top of her dress and silently she pushed his hand away.

  Beth hit the button on the record player and music swelled through the room. She leaned over Marcel, her breasts half pushing their way out of her dress. “Come on, let’s ball.”

  Even I could see that she felt sorry for Dania.

  Viciously Marcel knocked the drink from her hand. It flew across the room, shattering against the wall. “Turn off that goddam machine,” he shouted. “I told you I didn’t feel like it!”

  For a moment hatred flashed from Beth’s eyes. She would have killed him if she’d dared. But a moment later the music stopped.

  “You’re not on a stage in front of an audience now,” Marcel said in a cold voice, turning back to Dania. “You don’t have to playact. Not for me, or for Dax either. We both know what you’re like, we’ve both slept with you. You didn’t think I knew?” He began to laugh. “I know everything. That night at El Morocco when he took you home. He didn’t leave your apartment until five in the morning.”

  Without speaking Dania got to her feet. “Dax, would you please take me home?”

  “Dax, would you please take me home?” Marcel mimicked.

  “Do that!” he suddenly shouted. “They say you’ve got a great cock. Maybe she wants you to fuck her again. But it’s a waste of time, Dax, you might as well be sticking your prick into a marble statue. She does nothing but lie there!”

  Marcel looked at her, then at me. “She’s a whore just like the others. You know why she came up here?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because she still thinks she can get me to marry her. She’s getting old and her voice is going and she’s afraid she’ll have nothing once that’s gone!”

  Marcel began to laugh, turning back to her, his voice sly and baiting. “But I’m not that much of a fool, am I? Why should I, when I’ve got my pick of all the cunts in the world? Dania will always be around as long as I have any money.”

  Dania’s face was pale. “Dax, please—”

  I’d had enough myself. “Come on, Dania.”

  “Go ahead,” Marcel shouted. “Do you think I don’t know what you were doing in Switzerland? A big man with the ladies, the world’s number-one lover! Bah!” He spit on the floor at my feet. “The only brains you ever had were in your prick!”

  My temper burst. I grabbed Marcel by the armpits and hauled him up from the couch. “You slimy little bastard, I ought to kill you!”

  Marcel stared into my eyes balefully. “You haven’t got the guts!”

  I began to shake him as I would an animal, then I felt Dania’s hand on my arm. “Dax! Dax! Please, stop!”

  Angrily I threw Marcel back on the couch. He lay there slumped against the back. “See, I was right! You’re still only a ladies’ man. You haven’t got the balls to do what you want!” Marcel caught his breath; his voice was quieter now. “Years ago I thought you had it, Dax. But whatever you had is gone now. You’ve lost it.”

  I glared at him, my contempt showing plainly.

  Marcel laughed. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve seen it before. It means you’re feeling quite righteous and holy. Well, don’t be; you always took the easy way out. You followed your cock and pretended that what you did not want to see never existed. All your life you’ve been playing at things but never really doing any of them. You’ve been kept, Dax—by el Presidente, by your wives, even by me. It’s about time you really saw yourself for what you are. You’re nothing but a stupid parasite, Dax, a well-dressed gigolo.”

  Marcel took a deep breath. “You think you found out something in Switzerland? Well, what are you going to do about it? Nothing. Because there’s nothing you can do without destroying yourself and all your friends.”

  I looked at Marcel. For the first time I felt a chill of fear run through me. The man was deranged, mad.

  Marcel picked up his drink, and suddenly his voice was calmer. “You think you could stop the guns, Dax? Do you know who else owns a piece of the company? El Presidente. Do you think I co
uld have succeeded without his help? He wanted the money and he was not afraid of a little disturbance. It would help unite the country, he said, only now it’s gotten a little bigger than he bargained for. Well, I’m not worrying, Dax. I’m in, no matter which side wins!”

  I felt sick because I knew he was speaking the truth. I turned to Dania. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Marcel called, “I’m not through with you yet.” He fished in his pocket and came out with a key. “Come back after you’re through fucking her.” He threw the key at me. “We still have things to settle.”

  I caught the key and put it in my pocket.

  “You leave, too!” Marcel suddenly screamed at Beth. “I’m getting sick and tired of you, too!”

  Marcel followed us, drink in hand, to the elevator. The last words he said were, “You come back, Dax, and if I’m asleep wait until I wake up!”

  Then the elevator came. As the butler let us out into the street I said, “I’ll be back.” And I meant it. The only way you could look at a man like Marcel was the way a surgeon considered a cancer. Left alone it would destroy everything around it; the only way was to cut it out. My mind was made up. Marcel had to die.

  There was no other way.

  189

  “I won’t need a taxi,” Beth said as we came out onto the street. “I only live across the way. Marcel likes to have me close by. Well, good night.”

  We watched Beth run across the street into the lobby of an apartment house on the other side. A taxi pulled up and I opened the door. Dania got in. She leaned against me, and I could feel the trembling of her body through the mink coat. She began to cry silently. There was no sound at all, only weird racking sobs.

  “Take it easy,” I said, “you don’t ever have to go back.”

  Dania looked at me. I could not make out the expression in her eyes; it was too dark. “If that were only true.”

  I stared at her. “Not you too?”

  She nodded.

  “But what could he do to you?”

  “Everything,” she said. “The only really big thing I have is my recording contract. Now he owns the record company.”

  “When did you find that out?”

  “Tonight; that’s why I was there. Marcel called me just before I went on and told me that he wanted me to come up there and talk about it. He flew into a rage when I said I was too tired. He told me that if I didn’t show up right after the performance I’d never cut another record as long as he held my contract.”

  “How long does it have to run?”

  “Long enough,” she said. “Seven years.”

  “But he’d still have to pay you.”

  “Only the minimum. Most of my money comes from earnings in excess of guarantees. Besides, Marcel could virtually keep me out of every opera house in the world. Even if they wanted to use me they couldn’t.”

  “What has a recording contract to do with your working?”

  “A great deal,” she said. “Most opera companies help make up their deficits by recording complete opera performances. The sale of such records and the broadcast rights run into a great deal of money. The recording companies who hold our contracts generally agree to it, even when they don’t happen to be the company involved. It makes good sense for everyone. But Marcel could withhold such approval, and then what opera company would hire me?”

  “Seven years isn’t that long a time,” I said.

  Dania looked at me. “It is for me. I’m not a child any more, I’m over thirty. My voice will be gone by then. And even if it isn’t, who would give me a job? There will be younger, newer singers. No one will even remember Dania Farkas.”

  When the taxi stopped in front of her house she was still shivering. “Would you come up with me, please? I can’t bear to be alone.”

  I looked at her silently for a moment, then paid the driver. At the door to her apartment she turned to me. Her eyes were still red rimmed. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  I nodded.

  I walked into the living room, and she went on into the kitchen to make the coffee. Her record player was open and I looked down at the record on the turntable. It was her latest. I read the label: DANIA FARKAS SINGS CARMEN!

  I pushed the button and a moment later that glorious rich voice filled the room. For a moment I closed my eyes. If ever an opera was written for a Latin American this one was, and if ever a singer had been born to sing Carmen she was that singer. For those brief moments of song Dania was Carmen.

  She came back into the room carrying a tray. “I hope you won’t mind; it’s instant coffee.”

  I shrugged. “So long as it’s hot.”

  “It’s hot.” Dania put the tray down on a small table. “Help yourself, I’ll be right back.”

  I was on my second cup and the other side of the LP by the time Dania came back. She had changed into a long hostess gown. Silently she poured coffee for herself. She took a long sip and some color seemed to come back into her face.

  “Marcel said it had taken him a long time to get control of the company.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Once I cared about Marcel, I really cared. But he doesn’t love anybody, only himself. To him we only exist to serve him.”

  The record came to a finish. I sat there for a moment, the music still echoing in my ears, then got to my feet. “I must go.”

  “Are you going back to his house?”

  I nodded.

  Dania got up and came over to me, resting her head against my chest. “Poor Dax,” she whispered, “he has you just as he has all of us.”

  “He has nothing,” I answered harshly, “nothing! No one! He’ll find that out soon enough.”

  Dania’s eyes searched mine for a moment. I think she intuitively knew what I was planning. “Don’t do it, Dax,” she said in a low voice, “he’s not worth it!”

  I didn’t answer. I started to the door. As I opened it, Dania stopped me. “I’m not like that, Dax, am I? Like he said, a stick of wood?”

  The bastard really knew how to stick it in where it hurt. Unerringly he had discovered Dania’s area of greatest doubts. I shook my head and bent to kiss her cheek.

  “No, you’re not like that at all,” I said. “Besides, what would a man like that know about women? If he didn’t have all that money he’d be going steady with his fist!”

  Fat Cat came into my room as I was loading the small revolver. He blinked his eyes rapidly and the sleep disappeared. “What are you planning to do?”

  I snapped the barrel into place and spun the chamber. It clicked softly and rhythmically in my ears. “I’m going to do something I should have done a long time ago.”

  “Campion?”

  I nodded.

  Fat Cat hesitated a moment, then came toward me. “Better let me do it. I have had more experience.”

  “No,” I said, slipping the gun into my jacket pocket.

  “It will not look good, for you or for Corteguay. There is enough talk already about Guayanos.”

  “So there will be more talk,” I said. “Besides, I have a better chance of convincing the police it was an accident than you. Who is there who will doubt it when I say we were examining the gun and it went off?”

  Fat Cat looked at me skeptically.

  “After all,” I said, “I am an ambassador, am I not?”

  After a moment, Fat Cat shrugged his shoulders. “Sí, excelencia.” A faintly mocking glint came into his eyes but I could tell he was satisfied with me. “But, excellency, are you sure you remember how to work that thing?”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Be careful, then.” He opened the door for me. “Don’t shoot yourself.”

  Almost three hours after I had left Marcel’s, the taciturn Oriental butler let me in again. It was a few minutes after four in the morning, but he looked as if he never slept.

  “I have the key to the elevator,” I said.

  The butler nodded. “Mr. Campion told me. Don’t forget to tur
n the key again when you get off.”

  I nodded. The door to Marcel’s living room was open. I turned and locked the elevator door behind me and walked in. The lights were still on but the room was empty.

  The door to Marcel’s bedroom was ajar, so I walked over and looked in, restraining an impulse to shout at him. It made no sense to be polite to a man you had already made up your mind to kill. The room was dark. I switched on the lights. The bed was empty. It had not been slept in. I walked through to the dressing room, and then into the bathroom. Each was empty.

  I came back into the living room and tried the door of the guest room. It was locked from the inside. Marcel had either called up another girl and gone in there with her or was asleep and with his usual paranoia had locked the door behind him. Either way, I wasn’t about to wait to find out. I knocked loudly on the door and shouted. “Marcel!”

  I waited a moment, then repeated my call. There was still no answer. I walked slowly back to the bar and poured myself a drink. At least I was sure he was alone. If anyone had been with him there would have been an answer. Probably he had gone in there and passed out.

  I took a sip of my drink and glanced up at the paneling behind the bar. Then I remembered the closed-circuit television. I walked around behind the bar, found the button, and pressed it.

  Silently the panel rolled back. It took a moment for the set to warm up. The first place I looked was on the bed. It was empty. Then I saw Marcel. Slowly I let the breath escape from my mouth. Someone had beat me to it; Marcel was already dead.

  He was lying on his stomach on the floor beside the bed. His head was arched peculiarly, his eyes protruding from their sockets, his thick swollen tongue sticking out from his mouth. He was in his shirt sleeves, his collar open, and a black silken cord had been wound around his neck, then back to the hands tied behind his back, and from there to his ankles. It was pulled so tightly behind him that it made of his body a taut bow.

  I stared at him for a moment, my drink forgotten. It was as viciously simple and neatly executed as anything I had ever seen. Whoever had done it had been a true professional, and there was no doubt in my mind that Marcel had been alive when the murderer left the room. But only for a few moments. Then he had killed himself by struggling to free himself, which only tightened the black silk cord around his miserable neck.