Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  I took another sip of the drink, then reached for the telephone on the bar. I pressed the button marked butler.

  “Yes, Mr. Campion?” The Oriental voice had a peculiar sibilance over the telephone.

  “This isn’t Mr. Campion, it’s Mr. Xenos. Did anyone come to see Mr. Campion while I was away?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “No, sir, not to my knowledge. I didn’t let anyone in the front door since you left with the ladies.”

  I looked at the television screen. “Then I suggest you call the police. Mr. Campion appears to be dead.”

  Slowly I put down the telephone and lit a cigarette. I sat there smoking and sipping my drink as I waited for the police to arrive. I remembered the words of a bank robber I had once met named Willie Sutton. He had written a book about himself and for a while he was sort of a party pet.

  “There isn’t a safe, a vault, a bank or a prison made by man that another man could not find a way to break into or out of, if he wanted to badly enough.”

  I wondered grimly what Mr. Campion would have said had he heard those words. Probably nothing. He thought he was the only one who had everything figured out. I smiled grimly to myself.

  I wondered how much good all his money and his schemes were doing him now.

  190

  The murder of Marcel had all the classic elements the newspapers love, and they made the most of it. The well-guarded house, the impenetrable apartment, the locked room, and one of the richest, most hated men in the world as the victim. Added too were hints of international financial intrigue, and hundreds of photographs of beautiful women and expensive call girls. It was like Christmas for them every day. They had everything they needed except one thing. The murderer.

  A captain of homicide put it very well late one afternoon about a week later in my office. By this time we had begun to feel as if we knew each other quite well. There had not been one day since the murder we had not seen each other. “Mr. Xenos,” he said, knocking out his pipe in the ash tray on my desk, “it will take years to complete this investigation. And when we’re finished we’ll be no closer to who the murderer is than we are right now. It’s not because we lack suspects. I could name at least fifty people who had good reason to kill him.”

  I smiled to myself. This cop was not stupid, just too polite to say that I was included.

  “Each time we come back to his apartment. We’ve checked it thoroughly, over and over, backward and forward. And there is no possible way a murderer could get into the house without being noticed, much less upstairs.”

  “But one did,” I said.

  The policeman nodded. “Yes, one did. And it wasn’t the servants either. The old joke about the butler won’t work this time. They all have airtight alibis.”

  The captain got to his feet. “Well, I’ve taken as much of your time as I intend to.” He held out his hand, a faint smile on his lips. “I’ll be retiring at the end of the year, Mr. Xenos. Here’s hoping I won’t be seeing you again.”

  I took his hand, looking at him quizzically.

  “I mean at least not under circumstances like these. Twice we’ve met in the last two months and each time a man had been killed.”

  Then I remembered. Of course. He had questioned me after the Guayanos killing. I shook his hand and laughed. “Wait a minute, Captain. You’re making it sound as if it were dangerous for me to know anyone?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he added hastily. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “Don’t explain, Captain,” I said, “I understand. By the way, would you do me a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “I would like to get in touch with the Guayanos girl. Would you know where I could reach her?”

  A look of surprise came over his face. “Don’t you know?”

  I shook my head.

  “The day after we released the body she and her uncle took it home for burial.”

  “To Corteguay?”

  The captain nodded. “Yes, that was why I thought you knew. Your embassy cleared the papers.”

  That explained it; I had been in Europe. “Did a man named Mendoza go with them?”

  “I think so. At least he got on the plane with them, but there was one stop in Miami and he may have gotten off there. I can check it if you like.”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks, Captain. It’s not that important.”

  The captain left the office and I sat brooding about it. Strange that I had heard nothing. There should have been word from Corteguay. Mendoza was not the sort of man Hoyos was likely to overlook. I called for our copies of the daily arrival and departure lists at the Curatu airport for that week.

  Beatriz’s name was recorded and so was her uncle’s, but there was no name resembling Mendoza. I folded the sheets slowly. On the list or not, I was certain Mendoza was in Corteguay. A sense of foreboding came over me. For a moment I thought of sending a cable. But then I decided against it. I was not the secret police. Let Hoyos and Prieto do their own dirty work.

  The revolution did not come until almost two months later. The first I heard about the uprising was on Easter Sunday morning, that same day originally planned for the election. I was in Dania’s apartment. We were sitting up in bed having breakfast when she picked up the remote-control gadget that operated the television set at the foot of the bed. “Do you mind if I turn on the twelve-o’clock news?”

  “Do I have to get dressed for it?” I asked.

  Dania laughed, and pressed the button. A moment later the picture came on. As usual it was a soap commercial. Then one of those good-looking nothing types standard to television came on. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, from the CBS newsroom in New York—the news!”

  The scene dissolved to the face of a serious man seated behind a desk. His somewhat pudgy face, rather prominent nose, bushy mustache, and slightly protruding eyes induced an immediate sense of confidence. This man knew what he was talking about, even if you were aware that he was reading what others had written for him.

  I bit into a piece of toast and watched.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” The big smooth voice flowed out into the room. “This is Walter Johnson, CBS News. Now for the first item.

  “We have another bulletin on the fighting in Corteguay.”

  I just had time to glance at Dania before he continued. There was a wide, startled look in her eyes.

  “Battles in the mountains between the government troops and the guerrilleros continued throughout the night. The rebels have captured two more villages and say that they have inflicted heavy casualties upon the government forces. According to their statements, picked up from their own radio station broadcasting in the field, they appear to be but sixty miles from the capital city of Curatu. They are in complete control of all the country to the north.

  “Meanwhile to the south other rebel forces have been swelled by the mass defection of regular army troops joining them in their march north to link forces with the strong rebel concentration of troops on the other side of Curatu.

  “In Curatu itself a military curfew has been established. The streets are empty but occasional bursts of gunfire are heard, especially in the port area, where soldiers are stationed to protect the sea approaches to the city. Almost anything seen moving is fired upon.

  “Meanwhile, several times this morning, President de Cordoba took to the radio to make an impassioned plea to the populace to stay calm in the midst of this crisis. He implored responsible officials and the army to remain loyal to the government and steadfast and determined in what—and I quote—he called their ‘opposition to the seductions and promises of the Communists to the south and the lawlessness and violence of the bandoleros to the north.’ President de Cordoba termed the growing war not a revolution but the first overt invasion of Latin America by the Communists. He claimed—and again I quote—that it was ‘planned, conceived, led, and supplied by men and forces from outside the country.’ He further stated that he personally intends to
take charge of the army tomorrow after he has made certain provisions for the orderly continuation of government. He promises—and again a quote—not to rest until he has ‘driven the bandits over the borders and into the seas over which they came.’”

  The camera switched to another angle, and the commentator picked up a sheet of paper. “The State Department in Washington has announced plans for the immediate safety and evacuation of any Americans in Corteguay should this become necessary.”

  He put that sheet down and picked up another. “Pan American Airlines has announced the temporary suspension of flights to Curatu until the situation has clarified. The daily flight schedules which have read New York, Miami, Curatu, Bogota, will now read New York, Miami, Bogota.”

  The camera angle again switched and this time the news analyst spoke without notes. “Attempts to reach the Corteguayan ambassador at the embassy here in New York have been without success. The doors of the Corteguayan consulate have been barred to the press since the early hours of the morning. It is not known whether Señor Xenos, who has been in the news himself lately, is in the city or not.

  “And now to other news. Here in New York, the Easter parade is—”

  There was a click and the picture faded from the screen. I was out of the bed and half dressed when Dania turned to look at me.

  “What does it all mean?” she asked.

  I paused in the midst of buttoning my shirt and stared at her. What did it mean? A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind. Marcel could have been right. What right had I to spend nights away from the consulate when deep inside I had always known that at any moment the explosion might come? I didn’t have to ask myself where my brains were; Marcel had told me very explicitly.

  I felt a strange guilt, a personal sense of tragedy and loss that I had not known since the death of my father. I felt the sudden pressure and warmth of tears pressing against my eyes.

  “What does it mean?” Dania repeated.

  “It means,” I replied dully, “that in everything I have ever done—everything I have tried—I have failed.”

  191

  By the time I reached the consulate there was no time for self-reproach. I pushed my way through the throng of reporters with a curt “No comment,” and managed finally to get inside. Fat Cat and one of the clerks had to lean against the door again until it was securely locked.

  “Call the police,” I ordered. “Ask their assistance in keeping the entrance clear.” I turned to Fat Cat. “Come with me.”

  My secretary looked up from her desk, an expression of relief on her face. “There are many telephone calls,” she said. “El Presidente has been trying to reach you. So has the State Department in Washington—”

  “Bring the list into my office,” I said tersely. I shut my office door behind Fat Cat and myself, and turned. “Is it as bad as the television says?”

  Fat Cat shrugged, his face impassive. “Quién sabe? No one is telling the truth at a time like this. But it is not good, that is for sure.”

  I nodded. “Is Giraldo still around?”

  “Yes, he’s upstairs monitoring the radio.”

  “Get him down here.”

  Fat Cat left the room without a word and I took the list of calls from my secretary. “Get el Presidente,” I said before I even looked at the list.

  “Yes, excellency.”

  I sat down and studied the messages. It looked like for the first time the world was suddenly aware of Corteguay. There were calls from everyone—from the UN, from consulates of various countries, and from the newspapers. Not only had the State Department called but there had also been calls from the senator and the two other congressmen who had been at the dinner in Washington.

  The telephone buzzed and I picked it up.

  El Presidente’s voice was harsh and angry. “Where in hell were you?” he demanded. “I have been trying to get you all night!”

  I had no excuse to offer. I remained silent.

  “If you were here I’d have had you shot!” he shouted.

  I’d had enough. This kind of talk was leading nowhere. “Shoot me next week,” I said grimly. “If we’re still in business, that is. Meanwhile, exactly what is the situation?”

  El Presidente was silent for a moment, then what I had said got through to him. His voice became calmer. “It is rough but I think we can hold out if the rest of the army remains loyal.”

  “Will they?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and for the first time I heard the weariness in his voice. “Some of those I thought would be with me to the death—Vasquez, Pardo, Mosquera—have already taken their regiments over to the rebels. Others, who I had thought would be the first to go, like Zaluaga and Tulia, are still with me. It all depends now on how long I can keep them convinced that we will win.”

  “Will we?” I asked.

  “If we get help, and if we can hold out long enough. I have a feeling the rebels decided to attack now because they knew the guns had been stopped. If they had waited longer their supplies would have dwindled away. For them it was now or never.”

  How exquisite an irony, I thought. The very thing I had hoped to accomplish on Marcel’s death had resulted in the exact opposite of what I had planned. “What kind of help do you need?”

  “Any kind I can get. Ask everyone—the United Nations, the United States, anyone who will listen. We need men, arms, money, anything they will give. They should realize by now that if they don’t uphold us the Communists will take over.”

  “They might want to know who the Communists are,” I said. “They are suspicious of name-calling.”

  “There will be a list on your telex within the hour. El Condor, Mendoza—”

  “Mendoza got through?”

  “Yes, he shaved off his mustache and walked past our police as if he were invisible. They were too busy staring at your girl.”

  “The girl is all right?”

  “She is safe,” he replied tersely. “What is the reaction up there? Do you think we can count on any support?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too early to tell. I’ve had more telephone calls than I could answer.”

  “Then get on with it!”

  “The newspapers are yelling for a statement,” I said.

  “Have they printed my speeches?”

  “Yes. I have also heard excerpts on television.”

  “Then that’s all they need know at the moment,” el Presidente said, a pleased note in his voice. “I’ll let you know when other statements are to be made.”

  I put down the telephone, and a moment later Fat Cat and Giraldo entered my office.

  “How goes it?” Fat Cat asked.

  “Under control, so far.”

  “Bueno.”

  “You wanted to see me, excelencia?” Giraldo asked.

  “Yes. You said you were checked out in small aircraft. Can you fly a twin-engine Beechcraft?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” I said. I looked at Fat Cat. “Take him out to the airport and have him checked out in my plane. If he can fly it I want you both to take it to Florida.”

  “I can fly it, sir.”

  “O.K. I want you to take it into Broward Airport in Fort Lauderdale, just outside Miami. If you went into Miami you’d attract too much attention. When you get there call me. I may want to get to Corteguay in a hurry. Pan American has shut down its flight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Giraldo said. He turned and left the office.

  “You’re a fool if you go now,” Fat Cat said bluntly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I’m not planning to go now. I merely want the plane there in case I have to go.”

  “Then you’d be even more of a fool. The best thing you can do is stay here. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

  Probably he was right. But there was nothing else I could do. For too long I had held myself aloof from things. “My father would have gone,” I said.

  Fat Cat looked at me silently for a mo
ment. There were times when I could never be sure what he was thinking, and this was one of them. Finally he shrugged, his face still impassive. “If it is what you wish.”

  I watched the door close behind Fat Cat and looked down at the list of telephone messages on my desk. I picked up the phone and told my secretary to begin returning the calls. Everyone I spoke to sympathized with the situation but no one was willing to offer any concrete help. They were all watching and waiting.

  The Secretary of the UN was most polite but also quite definite; it was not a matter for the Security Council. As far as the UN was concerned it was an internal matter and they had no right to interfere in the internal affairs of any country. But he thought it might be possible for me to address the General Assembly if the necessary waivers could be secured from members whose speeches were already scheduled for tomorrow’s meeting. However, that was all he could do; he could promise nothing more.

  The State Department merely wanted to talk about what provisions had been made for the safety of Americans in Corteguay. They had a destroyer standing off the coast ready to take out such Americans if necessary, and I assured them that all possible precautions were being taken, and that they would be advised if any further action was necessary.

  The Latin American countries were all sympathetic but had similar problems. And Europe was only curious to the extent that they would be in any power play; they regarded it simply as a struggle between Western and Eastern spheres of influence. While I sensed they favored us, I felt they were willing to go along with the rebels should it become necessary. The only thing that was certain was that they did not want to become involved in any conflict. And to the emerging nations of Africa and Asia ours was a familiar story, and reminiscent of the very same problems they themselves were facing.