In the adjoining room, Alice tossed and occasionally whimpered. Outside it was dark and cool. Most of the city which never altogether sleeps was aslumber.
CHAPTER 6
In the city which never altogether sleeps Jacques was one of those awake. He was rereading a most explicit letter from his father:
My dear son,
It is somehow strange that in your personal letters to me you have never mentioned girls except in the most general of terms. I do not mind this in the least. I am not a prude and I believe in a young man’s sowing his wild oats—with care, that is. It makes for a reasonable marriage later on and for a contented old age. Youth, my son, is a great happiness, but never forget that it is nothing more than a preparation for old age. I prepared wisely and, although I am a widower, I am a contented man, not without companionship, and I am rich. I need not tell you that that is what I wish for you.
I am prompted to write you this letter because I understand that lately instead of admiring all the blossoms in the garden you have been concentrating on a single rose. She is a Navy nurse, I understand. Do they have compulsory military service for women in America? I did not know.
First, I want to tell you, my son, that I do not spy upon you. But you know I have friends in the United States, many of whom you see, and of course they write and tell me news of you.
I wish you would tell me about this nurse of yours, for from what I hear I do not think this will make a good union for you if you should be serious.
I am, as you may well understand, opposed to your marrying anyone but a French girl. You are not in America to form romantic attachments; you are there to learn the American business so that you may intelligently guide your representative there when you take over here from me. It is an opportunity I, alas, did not have. But I am glad to make it possible for my son.
If this girl was an heiress, one of those real rich American heiresses, that might make a difference, but from what I hear she is not that at all. And have you thought: would she live in France where your wife must?
I am not saying anything against this girl who I am sure is altogether admirable, for I know my son’s taste. But I do feel and I am certain that upon reflection you will agree that this is not the proper match for you.
Perhaps my friends have misinformed me about this matter or exaggerated your interest in the young lady. But this is in any case a letter I wanted to write to you.
I am sure you remember Marie Rose de Jacqueslan. She is of the minor nobility, but noble nonetheless. Her father, Raoul, is a vice-president of the Credit Lyonnais. I need not tell you how important this position is, how advantageous would be a union between our two families, nor indeed need I stress the fact that Marie Rose will bring with her a most desirable dot. She is not a beauty, I agree, but she is a good, strong girl who would bear you the many children which God, alas, denied me when He saw fit that your sainted mother could give birth only to you. I have sounded out M. de Jacqueslan on the possibility of a marriage between the two of you and I have found him receptive. Marie Rose seems, inexplicably to me, to be without serious suitors. This very fact plus the fact that she is, well, homely should make her an excellent, obedient, and faithful wife. Please remember that these are the qualities one wants in a wife. Beauty fades quickly and a beautiful woman is a fickle one always. Obedience, humility, faithfulness—these qualities increase in a wife as the years go by. A match between you and Marie Rose is a thing greatly to be desired from all points of view. You would never regret it and, if I may speak to you as a man of the world, you would upon marriage and inheritance from me be rich and important enough to gratify any personal desires you might experience. And since wealth comes to wealth, you would be in a position to have the supreme pleasure of perhaps doubling or tripling the assets of the House of Stern for which I have labored so much.
In fact, dear son, aside from you, the House of Stern is my sole posterity. I do not want it jeopardized by a foolish marriage of yours. I have founded the House of Stern and I want it to last many hundreds of years, as it will unless the despicable Communists have their way, which I believe is unthinkable. Therefore, you must realize the House of Stern is dearer to me than even you, my beloved son.
Thus, although you will agree I have never been a stern parent—indeed I have been a conspicuously generous one—I will not have you marry without my consent. Surely you understand my feelings and surely you owe me this filial debt.
If my informants are correct and you are seriously considering an alliance with a nobody from America, you leave me no alternative: I will settle a small annuity upon you, but I shall leave the bulk of my fortune to your cousin, René, and entrust to him the future management of the company after I die or retire.
Personally, I think René is a fool, but he is careful and has a good business head—though not so good as yours. I could probably make him acceptable to M. de Jacqueslan. Please, dear son, do not force me to make this painful decision.
Please immediately write me your sentiments in this matter. It may, of course, be that my friends have not properly represented your intentions toward the American girl and certainly I hope so. But, as I said before, this is anyhow a letter I had to write to you.
I am profoundly sure you will agree with everything I have said. It comes from the wisdom of years which you have not yet had the privilege of experiencing. I am simply trying to ensure a good life for yourself and assure the continuing prosperity of the House of Stern.
I shall then expect you home some time this fall, at which time we shall arrange affairs with M. de Jacqueslan. And we shall also have discussions about your successor in the United States. I have several candidates in mind here—your cousin, René, is one—but if you have found in New York someone you can recommend I shall give him every consideration.
You will, I trust, give me a quick and comforting reply to assure me that all goes well in these matters that are so justifiably dear to your father’s heart.
Go in good health, my son
P.S. I have ordered a draft of $2,500 deposited to your personal account in your New York bank.
The fraud, the old fraud, Jacques thought, the old stingy fraud. If he could take it with him, boy, would he not! But since even he knows he cannot, he tries to do the next best thing. Assure himself that his money will grow and grow. When the priest gives him absolution on his deathbed he will not be thinking of his Maker but of francs and dollars and the rate of exchange. He hopes for an afterlife so he can keep an eye on his business. What a man…
And he even includes the cute little bribe in the postscript. No, not a bribe—a not-so-gentle reminder that this is the kind of check that will not be coming my way if I don’t comply.
Marie Rose de Jacqueslan! Ugh! “I am sure you remember her…” I forget if she has warts. She had everything else to make a girl unattractive!
Yes, this is the devil and the deep blue sea. Marry Alice and get disinherited. Marry Marie Rose and the cherished schemes of the Big One go out the window.
What to do? If I must marry one or the other, Alice is of course the more desirable, but Marie Rose is the more practical. “…Rich…enough to gratify any personal desires you might experience.” Ah! the old rogue…
But this may not be bad. It gets me out of marrying Alice. This Communist thing is getting to be a bore. If I were able to repay the money they have given me, they’d let me off the hook and forget me. It isn’t as if I know any secrets and could be dangerous. I don’t. St. Georges is an adaptable man. If one scheme doesn’t work, he finds another. He won’t mind…
Or, perhaps, when I get home I can talk the old man out of Marie Rose. We could find another heiress, one who is less hideous. After all, I’m not unattractive myself. I have been told so often enough. I should be able to find a good-looking wife in France, one who would please me and have enough money to satisfy the old man…
; And so on far into the night, in his small elegant apartment which contained but one picture—a Picasso drawing, but a real one—did Jacques bat ideas back and forth, back and forth, till he became almost hypnotized as one can become watching a tennis ball crossing and recrossing the net in an interminable rally. Finally he fell asleep in his chair.
* * * *
He awoke, rumpled and unrefreshed, at six o’clock, undressed, took a two-hour nap and, after a shave and a shower, felt confident and sure. His father’s letter, which had irritated him at first, now seemed a good sign. Through a circuitous series of telephone messages he let St. Georges know that he had to see him urgently, and St. Georges told him to meet him at five o’clock at the cocktail lounge near the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station.
St. Georges looked like a typical commuter. He had a briefcase (which contained nothing but a chocolate bar) and he actually had a commutation ticket to White Plains, where he occasionally went to call on a girlfriend. Jacques wordlessly handed him the letter and sipped his drink while Henri read.
“This is annoying,” he said as he returned the letter to Jacques, “but it is nothing that cannot be handled.”
“What do you mean?” Jacques felt a chill of fear.
“Well, for one thing, Alice Smith has money. Will that not satisfy your father?”
“No. She hasn’t the kind of money that would satisfy him.” And then Jacques went on with his thought of pulling out of his underground activities, repaying the monies given him, at interest, if necessary, and calling the whole thing off. “It is an impasse,” he said.
“You are naive,” Henri St. Georges said. “Nothing is an impasse.”
“But surely if I marry Alice…and, by the way, has it ever occurred to you that she might not accept?”
Henri was so cold, so distant, that again Jacques felt afraid. “We have discussed this before. We do not expect you to fail. Nor to pull out.”
“But if Papa disinherits me, that will not look well, will it? These things get around.”
“We will find a way of persuading him. Do not worry. After all, he is not disinheriting you tomorrow. You haven’t even answered his letter. Write him and tell him you would never do anything that did not have his full approval.” Henri looked at his watch, and said, “Pay for the drinks, Jacques. I must catch my train.” And grabbing his briefcase, he ran with others for the 6:03.
The conductor punched his White Plains ticket, but as the train approached 125th Street, Henri snapped his fingers like a man who has forgotten something and got off at that station.
* * * *
At nine o’clock the next morning Henri St. Georges telephoned Jan Van der Meer, jeweler. “I have come across a couple of precious stones,” he said, “which I should like to sell right away. May I make an appointment to show them to you?”
Mr. Van der Meer said, “If you will call me every half hour or so, I think I can arrange it.”
The appointment was made for six o’clock that evening.
Mr. Van der Meer was not the Big One, but it was through him that appointments were made, summonses issued. Mr. Van der Meer did not know who the Big One was, but he was working on it. His was a natural curiosity.
Henri St. Georges did not know either, but he had seen him. Knowing the risk he was taking, he had managed to get a glimpse of him leaving the back door of an apartment house in the West Fifties. But aside from that, Henri knew no more than Mr. Van der Meer. Still any information, any knowledge was of value. St. Georges, himself, would some day be a Big One (a ridiculous title, but you had to call somebody something) and anything he could learn on his way was useful. Big Ones had power and that was what St. Georges liked. It was why he enjoyed manipulating Jacques Stern, who was as captured as any butterfly in a net, but did not seemingly know it yet.
Promptly at six o’clock he was admitted into the Big One’s apartment by Antoinette. She was sheathed in a Nile green evening dress, her hair a cascade of night over her shoulders, and a single square emerald hung by a thread of gold from her ivory throat. Mutely she smiled and led him into the dining room.
It was a large room that easily seated twelve. Its dominant feature was a huge Louis XIV mirror which, as almost everyone who came there knew, was a trick mirror. That is, whoever was behind it could see out, whereas whoever was in front of it had only the satisfaction of seeing his own reflection. It was a useful device much favored by the proprietors of speakeasies in Prohibition days.
And now, sitting in the dining room looking directly at the Louis XIV mirror, Henri St. Georges explained about the letter from Jacques’ father.
“Yes, it is annoying,” said the voice behind the mirror. “You did well in coming to me right away, though the old man will not act precipitately. I shall deal with it personally. We shall see to it that the old man gives his blessing to the marriage of his son to Alice Smith.
“By the way, what is Stern’s reluctance to marry the girl? You say he hasn’t yet proposed. Tell him to get on with it. Why, there are hundreds of young men who would give anything for such an assignment. Marriage to an attractive American girl. Money. A house in Georgetown. Delicious parties where an admiral might get a little tipsy from those delicious vodka cocktails. I wish I had the assignment myself.”
“I think he dislikes giving up his freedom,” said St. Georges.
“Please remind him he gave up his freedom when he agreed to join us. I am getting impatient. The whole project is taking too long. Let’s, as the saying goes, get the show on the road. I want action from Stern. And obedience. We have been too soft with him. Show him we are hard. Scare him. Any other business?”
St. Georges said “No,” and was dismissed.
Antoinette was standing by the mantel in the living room and he whispered something to her in the French she could lip-read. She slapped his face.
Four days later, M. Stern, the French industrialist, died of what was diagnosed as angina pectoris while on a business trip to Marseilles. He had no previous record of a heart ailment.
Now Jacques knew they weren’t kidding.
He was a practical man and when he received the news he reasoned out his future course of action very methodically. Good or bad, he had made a bargain. And, as the Big One had told St. Georges, it was by no means a bad deal.
Jacques was too selfish to have loved his father very much. His father was a cold man at best who had lived for his business and little else. What impressed Jacques most about his father’s death, then, was that the same sort of innocent death could just as swiftly come to him.
Jacques, as had been desired by his bosses, was scared.
He wired Alice, because she could not take personal telephone calls during her working hours:
SUDDEN DEATH FATHER MAKES IT NECESSARY FLY IMMEDIATELY FRANCE. PLEASE WAIT FOR ME AS SHALL RETURN SOONEST. LOVE.
It was not the way he had envisaged the manner of his declaration. But it was advisable, so to speak, to get the proposal under the wire.
* * * *
Funeral services were held in a little church at Issy, the Paris suburb where Jacques’ father had been born and where he had always lived. Not many came, but there were enough neighbors and business associates to make a respectable showing. M. de Jacqueslan was there and he gazed at Jacques with a cold, calculating scrutiny. Marie Rose was with him and when her eyes met Jacques’ she lowered hers and blushed. Even blushing, the poor girl looked unattractive.
The will was read in the musty office of an avocat in the Rue Godot de Mauroy. Aside from minor bequests to various relatives and to his church, M. Stern left the entire estate to his beloved and only son, Jacques.
It was not, as the saying goes, an inconsiderable estate. Even Jacques was surprised at the way his father had ramified his business, which had started as a minor enterprise in copper. The old man had been moving into heavy industries an
d a secret contract with the government was in negotiation.
Jacques realized with a new confidence that instead of being a pawn in the hands of his true employers, he might become of real importance. In time, it might be he who ordered Henri St. Georges around instead of the way it was now. The prospect did not displease him. But the Big One—and how he detested that silly name—had a one-track mind and for the time being at least Jacques would have to go through with that Washington plan.
René, his cousin, of course was the man to be put in charge of the French operations. The skies of the future were speckless. There was no danger. And he might grow to be really fond of Alice. He was lighthearted as he flew back on Air France to New York. He had bought himself three new suits through the Paris branch of Antonelli’s, the London tailors from Italy, a half dozen hats from Gelot, and two dozen monogrammed shirts from Tremlett’s. And a diamond necklace from Cartier’s on the Rue de la Paix. He had not forgotten. And he had sent a radiogram to Alice asking her to meet him for dinner at the Pantheon.
* * * *
Alice loved the hospital. It represented a double dedication—not only nursing but her own country, her own Navy, as well. She liked the uncompromising austerity of the building, its scrupulous cleanliness, even the dreary olive-drab filing cabinets where she kept her records. She was specializing in cancer.
She stood by while innumerable X rays were taken. “Breathe, do not breathe, breathe,” she would intone resonantly as the pictures were taken. And she learned how to study and to an extent interpret the dark negatives that stripped a man of his flesh and showed only his pitiful ribs and his heart and perhaps a spot that might be suspect. And she stood by when surgery was required, a minor but useful assistant, and never did she cease to marvel at the delicate, swift skill of the surgeon’s fingers.
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