Gilded Nightmare

by Hugh Pentecost

  “Mr. Amato, our banquet manager, is your man. He will jump up and down with pleasure at the prospect of planning a dinner on which there is no cost limit. I assume there is no limit.”

  “None.”

  “Let me talk to him. When he’s had a chance to formulate some suggestions I’ll arrange for him to come to see you. How soon do you want to give this dinner?”

  Her eyes were very bright. “I’m like a child giving a first birthday party. I wish it could be tomorrow. But I know it’s impossible. I want it as soon as your Mr. Amato can arrange for all the things I’ve requested.”

  “It shouldn’t take too much time,” I said. “Amato knows exactly where to go for the most unusual rarities.”

  “There is one other thing,” she said. “The guest list.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have been what you might call a recluse all these years. I have very few friends.”

  “Fifty to seventy-five are more than most people have,” I said.

  “Oh, but I haven’t anything like that number of friends,” she said. “Three or four at the outside that I know are in New York. I particularly want to have a man named Samuel Culver. He is the only must.”

  “Sam may not be very pleased with you at the moment,” I said. “You cut him dead in the lobby a little while back.”

  The blue eyes widened, and I thought I saw a slight nerve-twitch high up on a lacquered cheek. “He was there?”

  “Inches away from you,” I said.

  “Oh, my God!” she said. Then: “It must have been the excitement. I was so eager to get away from the trouble Masters had caused—if you see Sam, will you explain?”

  “Sure,” I said. “He probably understood. He’s an understanding-type guy.”

  “Don’t I know it?” she said.

  “Does Stephen Wood go on your guest list?”

  “Who is Stephen Wood?”

  “The man your Masters slugged in the lobby.”

  “Of course not. He’s a complete stranger.”

  “So let’s get back to the guest list,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “You are to supply the guests,” she said.

  I just stared at her.

  “Surely there must be hundreds of fascinating people in the worlds of art, music, science, politics, theatre, who would be intrigued at the prospect of a fabulous dinner and an opportunity to meet the much-talked-about and mysterious Baroness Zetterstrom.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I leave the guest list to you, Mr. Haskell.”

  I felt tongue-tied. “Shall I convey an invitation to Sam Culver?”

  “Please, no,” she said. “I’d like to do that myself. But if you will explain to him how I happened not to see him in the lobby, and ask him if he’d come to see me, I’d be grateful.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  A relaxed smile lit up her strangely lovely face. “Since we will be involved closely with the details for the party, Mr. Haskell, can we stop being formal? What is your first name?”

  “Mark.”

  “May I call you Mark? And you will call me Charmian. So that’s settled.” She sounded as though she’d just decided on the precise hour for D day. “You may tell Mr. Chambrun that I am altogether delighted with his emissary, and that he needn’t make the effort to apportion any of his valuable time to me.”

  She held out her hand, and I think I was expected to kiss it, Continental fashion. I wasn’t up to that. I just touched her fingers with mine and gave her a half-comic little bow. At the same moment I felt as if a mild charge of electricity had gone through me. …

  Sam Culver lives at the Beaumont. He owns one of the smallest cooperative units in the upper regions of the hotel, a comfortable living room, small bedroom and bath, and a tiny kitchenette. The living room, except for casement windows looking out over the East River and the 59th Street bridge, is walled-in by books. The furniture is heavy and comfortable. Sam does quite a bit of traveling and often the small apartment stands empty. Maintaining this pied-à-terre is the only indication in Sam’s way of life that he is anything more than very modestly well-off.

  When Sam was reached with the message that Chambrun wanted to see him in his office, he called Chambrun on the house phone and suggested that they get together in Sam’s apartment.

  “I think I know what you want to see me about, Pierre. Wouldn’t there be less chance of interruption up here? It’s not a simple story.”

  And so, while I was being subjected to the special charms of the Baroness Zetterstrom, the mountain went to Mohammed.

  When Chambrun was settled comfortably in a deep armchair, a Dubonnet on the rocks—the strongest drink he ever takes during working hours—on a side table by the chair, Sam began to talk, filling a pipe from a variety of tobacco tins on his desk.

  “Mark has told you, Pierre, that I said Stephen Wood might turn Charmian Zetterstrom’s blood cold when he confronted her. It didn’t happen. Either she didn’t know him or she has at last become the greatest actress in the world.”

  Chambrun flicked the ash from his Egyptian cigarette into a silver ashtray next to his drink. Sam was holding a lighter to his pipe.

  “You know Wood and some history that connects him with the Baroness?” Chambrun asked. “She ignored him, says he is a complete stranger; he says he made a mistake. She is not, he says, the woman he thought she was.”

  Sam puffed blue clouds. “You know me, Pierre, on the subject of surface facts versus subsurface truths. The surface facts may be a little puzzling to you. I think it’s true that Charmian never laid eyes on Stephen Wood before. I think it may also be truth of a sort when Wood says Charmian isn’t the woman he thought she was.” Sam grinned at Chambrun. “You think of me, I imagine, as a reasonably sober, well-oriented, unneurotic, fundamentally moral person. If you were to discover that I was, in fact, the Boston Strangler, you might say, ‘He’s not the man I thought he was.’ Wood was speaking that way, I think. He wasn’t mistaken in thinking she was Charmian Zetterstrom. But when she didn’t react at the sight of him he concluded she was not the woman he’d thought she was.”

  “Which in plain English means—?”

  “Stephen Wood is a German Jew by birth,” Sam said. “His name originally was Wald, German for ‘wood.’ Ten years ago his twin brother, Bruno Wald, was perhaps the top romantic leading man in German films. You have to realize, Pierre, that over here the Zetterstroms and Zetterstrom Island had never been heard of by more than a couple of dozen people. In Europe they were famous. There was endless talk about the wild parties, the incredible luxury, the debaucheries. Everybody and his brother in the upper echelons of society and the arts, and the simply rich, tried to wangle invitations to the Island. They were few and far between, and the people who did get there came back curiously silent about what had actually gone on. Perhaps because they hoped to be reinvited; perhaps because they couldn’t risk talking lest they themselves be talked about. This enhanced the mystery of the place, and made the uninvited all the more eager.

  “If you can imagine Stephen Wood with more flesh and muscle on his bones, his dark eyes laughing and not tortured, the grim lines of personal agony erased from his face, you might have a picture of his brother, Bruno Wald. The Wald brothers were identical twins at birth. But they became easily identifiable as they grew to manhood. Bruno was bold, dashing, high-spirited; Stephen was dark, brooding, almost satanic. Well, ten years ago Bruno found himself the recipient of an invitation to Zetterstrom Island. He accepted with delight. He was flown from Athens to the Island in Zetterstrom’s private plane. A week or so later Stephen received a telephone call from Marcus Helwig, the Zetterstroms’ steward, or manager, or whatever he calls himself. He was sorry to report that Bruno Wald had been lost at sea in a yachting accident. He had drowned. His body had not been recovered.

  “There was a three-day excitement in the German press. Bruno was, after all, a popular matinee idol. There was also an opportunity for much goss
ip about the notorious Zetterstroms. But the Greek authorities who investigated as a routine matter found no reason to doubt the story. There had been a storm at sea—I suspect a small hurricane. Several fishing boats had been lost on the same day.

  “I should say here that Stephen had no reason to doubt the story either. He attended a memorial service for his brother in West Berlin and then he came to the United States. He’s an electronics engineer and he had been offered a very good job with a firm here in New York. Whenever he was introduced as Stephen Wald he was suddenly recognized as a sort of double of his late brother. To avoid the endless talk and gossip about Bruno he changed his name to Wood.

  “The tragedy of Bruno Wald’s death was long forgotten by the public. Stephen, I think, despite the close tie with a twin, had managed to throw it off and involve himself totally in a new life. Then one evening, ten years after Bruno’s death, Stephen came home to find the wreckage of what had once been Bruno, waiting for him on his doorstep. Bruno was very much not dead.”

  “You’re going a little fast for me,” Chambrun said. “Bruno was not dead. Why hadn’t he communicated with Stephen?”

  “That is the nub of the story,” Sam said. He looked at his pipe, which had gone out. He hesitated and then put it down, regretfully, on his desk. “It was almost simply instinct that made Bruno recognizable to Stephen. He was skin and bones. His face was lined, the color of ashes. He wore old, stained clothes that looked as though they’d come out of a rummage sale. Bruno had always been a great dandy. When Stephen spoke to him, recognized him, Bruno burst into tears, like a frightened child. He needed Stephen’s help to struggle down the inner hall to Stephen’s apartment. Inside, he collapsed on a sofa, weeping.

  “You can imagine the questions that poured out of Stephen. What in God’s name had happened to him? Why hadn’t he been in touch? The answers finally came choking out of Bruno. There had been no yachting accident. He had arrived at Zetterstrom Island that day ten years ago for his long weekend visit. He didn’t take time to describe the old Baron’s Shangri-La, but his shaken voice implied that everything about it was now loathsome to him. He had been there only a few hours when the beautiful and glamorous Charmian made it quite clear to him that she was his for the asking. Bruno had, quite frankly, gone there anticipating some sort of exotic experience. Charmian, evidently, was to be it.

  “Bruno was incapable of describing to his brother that experience as it must have been. But making love to Charmian had evidently surpassed anything he had ever thought of in erotic imaginings. There were no other guests on the Island that weekend. For three or four days Bruno was totally involved with the lady. He was young in those days and he could satisfy all her requirements. But presently, despite the wild excitement of this love affair, carried on quite openly under the eyes of the old Baron and the elaborate staff of people, the time came when Bruno had to get back to West Berlin to meet a film commitment. It was then that the old Baron called him into his study. He asked Bruno how much money he was making in films, and then offered to double it if Bruno would stay on the Island. Charmian wanted him as a permanent possession.

  “Bruno thought the old man was kidding, but he wasn’t. The whole situation was suddenly revolting to Bruno. He refused, politely, and asked when he could be flown back to Athens. The Baron then made the position quite clear. Bruno was not going to be flown back to Athens. If Charmian wanted him, Charmian was going to have him. He was a prisoner. Bruno thought it was a miserable joke, and then he found out it was very much not a joke. Charmian had been prepared to buy him, and if he couldn’t be bought she would keep him anyway.

  “A few days later there was actually a storm at sea. That was when word was sent back to the mainland that Bruno had died in a yachting accident. The whole situation was unbelievable. There were no telephones to the mainland, no way Bruno could manage to communicate. He told himself that if he continued his relationship with Charmian for a few days she would tire of him and the whole ghastly situation would resolve itself. But presently he realized that it didn’t matter whether she tired of him or not. He became aware of other people on the island for the first time. He recognized some of them. The Baron’s island was being used as a haven for some of the most wanted German war criminals. Knowing this he was lost. He realized they would never let him go back to the world again. But she didn’t tire of him. He began to be torn to pieces by a terrible panic. It was for real. He began to try to plan some sort of escape. There was the plane, and Bruno was a licensed pilot. There were half a dozen powerboats. He was very cagey about it. He watched the comings and goings carefully. His idea was that he would steal one of the powerboats. He decided he would select one that had been recently used, so there’d be no question of a cold motor. He picked his moment, after dark, and raced for the boathouse. He chose the launch he’d been watching, its engine still warm to the touch. His finger was on the starter button when John Masters, the lady’s bodyguard, whom you saw in the lobby, rose up out of the cockpit, grinning.

  “ ‘We’ll always be miles ahead of you, Mr. Wald,’ Masters said. ‘So go back to the house and tend to your knitting.’

  “That’s the way it was, not for a few days or weeks but year after year. He could no longer make love to the lady. The sight of her made him retch. But in spite of this he was kept there, brought into her presence every day, pawed, insulted, on occasion actually stripped and flogged in her presence by one of the menservants. This seemed to provide her with some sort of erotic excitement.”

  “Ten years of this?” Chambrun asked, in a low, hard voice.

  “So Bruno told Stephen that day in New York. Toward the end Bruno came down with some illness. Dr. Malinkov took care of him, but was noncommittal. Whatever it was, Bruno began to waste away physically. The lady seemed to lose interest in torturing him. The guard against escape seemed to relax a little. Bruno wasn’t capable of any great physical effort. But one night he made it, in, of all things, a rowboat. There was no moon and the sea was angry. Still, he struggled away from the Island, pulling on the oars with hands that began to bleed. He knew they would come after him. They wouldn’t dare let him get back to the mainland to tell his story. He knew what he would do if he heard one of the powerboats coming toward him through the night. There was a fisherman’s knife on the rear seat of the rowboat. He would take it, systematically cut his throat with it, and slip over the side into the cool death of the sea. He was dizzy with exhaustion when a big wave hit the little boat broadside and capsized it. Bruno managed to cling to the overturned boat, consciousness slowly slipping away from him. He blacked out.

  “When he came to, he was lying in a bunk in the hold of an evil-smelling ship of some sort. He’d been picked up by a Greek freighter which was on its way to the United States. Bruno thought they must be carrying narcotics of some sort, because they were making no interim stops before New York. They refused to let him use the ship’s radio. They didn’t treat him badly, fed him whatever there was to eat. Bruno lay for days on his bunk in the hold, alternately sweating and freezing. There was no ship’s doctor, and whatever his illness was it was slowly destroying him.

  “Then, that afternoon, the ship docked in New York and no one stopped Bruno from going ashore. He called an old family friend and asked for Stephen’s whereabouts. He didn’t identify himself because the one thing in the world he wanted was to keep word from getting back to the Zetterstroms. They would certainly come after him. He knew too much about them and their wanted friends. That was Bruno’s story.”

  “Not pretty,” Chambrun said.

  Sam picked up his pipe and relit it. “Stephen’s first thought was to get a doctor for Bruno. He was suddenly seized with melodramatic panics of his own. Bruno’s story, his presence here, must be kept secret. A doctor he knew had an office down the block—a very busy office. The doctor would take forever if Stephen tried to impress him with the urgency of the situation on the phone. The doctor’s nurse might listen to the story on an extens
ion. So Stephen made his brother comfortable and set off on foot, running for the doctor’s office. It took, at the most, fifteen minutes for Stephen to get in to see the doctor, explain, and bring him back, both running to the apartment.

  “Bruno was in the bathroom. He was dead. He had apparently cut his throat with one of Stephen’s razor blades.”

  Chambrun’s eyes widened. “Apparently?”

  “The apartment door was open when Stephen and the doctor came back. Stephen was almost sure he’d locked it when he went out. He convinced himself that someone from the Zetterstroms had been that close on Bruno’s heels.”

  “And the police?”

  “They listened, politely, to what was obviously an Arabian Nights’ nightmare. An autopsy showed that Bruno had a malignant tumor, very close to the brain. It could have affected his rationality. There was no Greek freighter moored at a North River pier. There had been one, to be sure, but it had docked only long enough to unload a very small cargo. Radio communication with the captain had negative results. They had picked no one up in the Mediterranean; they had brought no passenger to New York. Stephen found a reasonably patient Homicide detective, who admitted that it was odd there were no fingerprints on the razor blade, Bruno’s or any other’s. He started a laborious inquiry with the Greek authorities, reopening the story of the yachting accident, then ten years back. There seemed to be no question about it. There were half a dozen witnesses to Bruno’s having been swept overboard in the storm. Zetterstrom people, of course. The equivalent of our Coast Guard had searched for the body for many days. They had gone pretty thoroughly over the battered yacht and Zetterstrom Island itself. Naturally there had been ample time for them to get their wanted war criminals to another place of safety. The police were convinced.

  “But Bruno was dead in Stephen’s bathroom and he had certainly been alive all those years. But where? There was finally a large, official shrug in both New York and Athens. Obviously Bruno had survived the storm. Probably he’d been badly injured. They suggested a blow on the head which had finally led to the growth of the tumor, which would certainly have been fatal in a few weeks, had Bruno lived. The suggestion was a prolonged amnesia. He could have been wandering all those years somewhere in Africa or the Middle East, a man without identity. Stephen kept insisting that even if Bruno had lost his memory, there were thousands of people who would instantly have recognized him as a famous movie star. True, the authorities admitted, but it hadn’t happened. War criminals? They were constantly being reported seen all over the world—South America, Asia, Africa. They were certainly not on Zetterstrom Island. The case was closed.”