The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  It was Pavan himself who led her down. He threw a cloth around her as she started to walk toward the bathroom. One of the models handed her her torn clothing. Rina took it and closed the door behind her. A moment later, she reappeared.

  Peggy was waiting for her. She half led, half dragged Rina toward the door. The door slammed behind them.

  Suddenly, one of the curtains in the mind of Amru Singh lifted. Through the thin wooden partition behind his head, he could hear dim voices.

  "Are you crazy?"

  "It wasn't that important, Peggy."

  "What if it gets into the papers? The next thing you know, it will be picked up and spread all over the front pages in Boston!"

  Rina's laughter echoed gaily. "I can just see the headline now," she said. "Boston girl chosen as most beautiful cunt in Paris!"

  "You sound as if you're proud of it."

  "Why shouldn't I be? It's the only thing I've ever done for myself."

  "Once it gets around, every man in Paris will be after you. I suppose you'd like that."

  "Maybe I would. It's time I began to grow up, stopped taking your word for everything."

  There was the sound of a vicious slap, then an angry voice. "You're a whore, a cheap whore, and that's how a whore should be treated!"

  There was a moment's silence. "I told you never to do that again!"

  He heard the sound of another slap. "Whore, bitch! That's the only language you understand!" There was a pause, then "Rina!" The hidden sound of fear was in the voice. Amru Singh thought it sounded much like the trainer of the tiger who steps into the cage only to find his kitten has become a full-grown cat. "What are you doing? Put down that shoe!"

  Then there was a half-pitched scream and the sound of a body falling, tumbling erratically down the long, steep stair well. And for the first time in the memory of anyone there, Amru Singh left a party before the last guest had departed.

  Rina was standing at the railing, her face ashen, looking down the stair well. Her sharp-pointed high-heeled shoe was still in her hand. He took the shoe from her fingers and bending down, slipped it on her foot.

  "I never even touched her!"

  "I know," Amru Singh said quietly.

  She collapsed suddenly against him. He could feel the wild, frightened beating of her heart against his chest. "She slipped and fell over the railing!"

  "Don't say anything to anyone!" he whispered commandingly. "Leave the talking to me!"

  Then the door behind them opened and two departing guests came out into the hall. Amru Singh turned toward them, his hand pressing Rina's face against his chest so that she could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. "There's been an accident," he said calmly. "Call a doctor."

  He felt Rina begin to cry against his shoulder. He looked down at the shining blond head. A strange satisfied look came into his dark, deep-set eyes.

  His portent had come true. The evil goddess, Kali, had struck. But this time, she was not to receive the innocent as a further sacrifice to her power, no matter how carefully she had contrived to plant the guilt.

  12

  Rina was standing on her head, the length of her body against the wall, when Jacques entered the apartment. He stood there for a moment, looking at her slim body, sheathed in the tight black leotard, her hair shining as it spilled over on the floor.

  "What are you doing?" he asked politely.

  She smiled an upside-down smile at him. "Standing on my head."

  "I can see that," he answered. "But why?"

  "Amru Singh says it is very good for the brain. The blood washes the brain and a new perspective is given to the world. He is right, too. You just don't know how different everything looks upside down."

  "Did Amru Singh also tell you how one goes about kissing a girl who is standing on her head?" he asked with a smile.

  "No," she answered. A mischievous smile came over her face. "I thought of that myself!" She arched her back quickly and moved her legs.

  He laughed aloud. There was no mistaking the invitation of the Y she made against the wall. He bent forward quickly, placing his head between her outstretched legs, and kissed her.

  She collapsed on the floor in laughter. "It is good to hear you laugh," he said. "You did not laugh much at first."

  "I wasn't happy at first."

  "And you are happy now?" he asked.

  The laughter was still in her eyes as she looked up at him. "Very happy." She was a very different person from the dazed girl he had seen that night several months ago. He remembered the telephone ringing beside his bed.

  "Monsieur Deschamps?" a deep, quiet voice had asked.

  "Oui?" he replied, still half asleep.

  "My apologies for disturbing your rest," the voice continued, in French with a peculiar British and yet not quite British accent. "My name is Amru Singh. I am with a friend of yours, Mademoiselle Rina Marlowe. She needs your help."

  He was awake now. "Is it serious?"

  "Quite serious," Amru Singh replied. "Mademoiselle Bradley had an accident. She was killed in a fall and the police are being very difficult."

  "Let me speak with Mademoiselle Marlowe."

  "Unfortunately, she is in no position to come to the telephone. She is in a state of complete shock."

  "Where are you?"

  "At the studio of Monsieur Pavan, the sculptor. You know the place?"

  "Yes," Jacques answered quickly. "I will be there in half an hour. In the meanwhile, do not let her talk to anyone."

  "I have already seen to that," Amru Singh said. "She will not speak with anyone until you arrive."

  Jacques did not quite understand what Amru Singh had meant until he saw Rina's ashen face and the blank look in her eyes. The police had efficiently isolated her in the small dressing room of the studio.

  "Your friend seems to be in a very bad state of shock, monsieur," the Inspector said when Jacques introduced himself. "I have sent for a doctor."

  Jacques bowed. "You are very kind, Inspector. Perhaps you can tell me what happened? I just arrived, in response to a telephone call from a mutual friend."

  The Inspector gestured broadly. "It is nothing but routine, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Bradley fell down the stairs. We require only a statement from Mademoiselle Marlowe, who was the only person with her at the time."

  Jacques nodded. There must be more to it than that, he thought. Or why would Amru Singh have sent for him? "May I go into the dressing room?"

  The Inspector bowed. "Of course, monsieur."

  Jacques entered the small room. Rina was seated on a small chair, half hidden behind a tall man wearing a turban.

  "Monsieur Deschamps?"

  Jacques bowed. "At your service, Monsieur Singh." He glanced at Rina. She didn't seem to see him.

  When Amru Singh spoke, his voice was soft, as if he were speaking to a child. "Your friend Monsieur Deschamps is here, mademoiselle."

  Rina looked up, her eyes blank, unrecognizing.

  Jacques looked at Amru Singh questioningly. The man's dark eyes were inscrutable. "I was at the scene of the accident, Monsieur Deschamps. She was very upset and seemed under a compulsion to accept blame for her friend's accident."

  "Did she have anything to do with it?" Jacques asked.

  "As I already explained to the police," Amru Singh said blandly, "nothing I saw led me to think so."

  "What did she say to them?"

  "I thought it best that she not speak with them," Amru Singh replied.

  "Are you a doctor?"

  "I am a student, monsieur," Amru Singh replied.

  Jacques looked up at him. "Then how were you able to keep her from speaking to the police?"

  Amru Singh's face was impassive. "I told her not to."

  "And she obeyed?" Jacques asked.

  Amru Singh nodded. "There was little else she could do."

  "May I speak to her?"

  "If you wish," Amru Singh answered. "But I suggest someplace other than here. They would perhaps misconstrue what sh
e might say."

  "But the police have already sent for a doctor," Jacques said. "Will he not- "

  Amru Singh smiled. "The doctor will merely confirm that she is in shock."

  Which was exactly what the doctor did. Jacques turned to the Inspector. "If you will permit me, Inspector, I shall escort Mademoiselle Marlowe to her home. I will bring her down to your office tomorrow afternoon, after her own physician has attended her, to make a statement."

  The Inspector bowed.

  In the taxi, Jacques leaned forward and gave the driver Rina's address.

  "I think it would be better if Mademoiselle Marlowe were not to go to her own apartment," Amru Singh said quickly. "There is much there to remind her of her late friend."

  Jacques thought for a moment, then gave the driver his other address.

  Amru Singh walked into the apartment and Rina followed him docilely. Jacques closed the door behind them. Amru Singh led her to a chair. He gestured and she sat down. "I have taken away my shoulder," he said quietly. "I can no longer speak for you. You must speak now for yourself."

  Rina raised her head slowly. Her eyes were blinking as if she were awakening from a deep sleep. Then she saw him.

  Instantly, the tears rushed to her eyes. She flung herself into his arms. "Jacques! Jacques!" she cried. "I knew you would come!"

  She began to sob, her body trembling against him. The words kept tumbling from her lips in wild, disjointed sentences.

  "Shh," he whispered soothingly, holding her. "Don't be afraid. Everything will be all right."

  He heard the door open and close behind him. He turned his head slightly. Amru Singh was gone.

  The following day, they went to the Inspector's office. From there, they went to her flat and moved her things to his apartment. Two nights later, when he had come into the apartment unexpectedly, Amru Singh rose from a chair.

  "Amru Singh is my friend," Rina said hesitantly.

  Jacques looked at her, then at the Indian. He stepped forward quickly, his hand outstretched. "If he is your friend," he said, "then he is my friend, also."

  The Indian's white teeth flashed in a smile as their hands met in a warm clasp. From that time until now, the three of them had dinner together at least once a week.

  Jacques turned the key in the door. He stepped aside to let Rina enter, then followed her into the bedroom. As soon as she entered, she kicked off her shoes. She sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing her feet. "Ah, that feels good."

  He knelt in front of her and massaged her foot. He smiled up at her. "You were very beautiful tonight."

  She looked at him mischievously. "Monsieur le Ministre thought so," she teased. "He said if I should ever consider another liaison, to keep him in mind."

  "The old lecher!" Jacques swore. "He must be all of eighty years old – and at the Opera, too!"

  She got up from the bed and took her dress off, then seated herself, yoga fashion, on the floor. Her legs were crossed under her, her arms formed a square in front of her chest.

  "What are you doing?" he asked in surprise.

  "Preparing for meditation," she answered. "Amru Singh says that five minutes' meditation before going to sleep relieves the mind and the body of all its tensions."

  He removed the studs from his shirt and placed them on the dresser. He watched her in the mirror. "It would be very easy for me to become jealous of Amru Singh."

  "That would make me very unhappy," she said seriously. "For then I would have to stop seeing Amru."

  "You would do that for me?"

  "Of course," she said. "I love you. He is only my friend, my teacher."

  "He is my friend, too," he said, as seriously. "I would be very unhappy if you let a jesting remark disturb that relationship."

  She smiled. He smiled back at her and turned back to the dresser. He began to take off his shirt. "And what have you learned from our friend today?"

  "There is a good possibility that I may soon be free of the death wish that has governed many of my actions since I was a child," she answered.

  "Good," Jacques said. "And how is this to come about?"

  "He is teaching me the yoga exercises for childbearing. It will give me control over my entire body."

  "I don't see how that will help. The exercises are important only when having a child."

  "I know," she said.

  Something in her voice made him look at her in the mirror. Her face was impassive as she held the position of meditation. "What brought that subject up?" he asked.

  Her eyes flicked up at him. "You," she said. "Doctor Fornay says that you have made me enceinte."

  Suddenly, he was on the floor beside her, holding her in his arms and kissing her, talking of divorcing his wife so that the child would be born at the family villa in the south of France.

  She placed a finger on his lips. It seemed to him as if she had suddenly become older than he. "Come, now," she said gently. "You are acting like an American, with stupid, provincial ideas. We both know that a divorce would ruin your career, so speak no more about it. I will have the child and we will go on as we are."

  "But what if your father finds out?"

  She smiled. "There is no need for him to know. When I go home for a visit, I will merely say I made an unfortunate marriage and no one will be the wiser."

  She laughed and pushed him toward the bathroom. "Now go. Take your bath. You have had enough excitement for one day. Did you get the Boston papers for me?"

  "They're in my brief case."

  He sank into the tub. The water was warm and relaxing and gradually he could feel the excited tempo of his heart return to something that approximated normal. Slowly and with a feeling of great strength and luxury, he began to lather himself.

  He came out of the bathroom, tying his robe. Rina wasn't in the bedroom and he walked through into the living room. Something in the way she was sitting at the table, staring down at the newspaper, sent a frightened chill racing through his body. "Rina!"

  She turned toward him. Slowly her eyes lifted. He had never seen such depths of torture in his life. It was as if she had lost all hope of redemption. "I can't have the baby, Jacques," she whispered in an empty voice.

  His voice grated in his throat. "What?"

  The tears were beginning to well into her eyes. "I must go home," she whispered.

  "Why?" he cried, the hurt already beginning.

  She gestured to the paper, and he walked over and looked down over her shoulder.

  A banner headline streamed across the entire page:

  HARRISON MARLOWE INDICTED

  FIFTH-GENERATION BOSTON BANKER

  CRIMINALLY IMPLICATED IN FAILURE

  OF FAMILY BANK

  Below was a three-column picture of Harrison Marlowe.

  He caught her shoulders. "Oh, my darling!" he said.

  He could barely hear her whispered, "And I wanted this baby so."

  He knew better than to argue with her. One thing he understood as a Frenchman – filial duty. "We'll have another baby," he said. "When this is over, you'll return to France."

  He could feel her move within the circle of his arms. "No," she cried, "Doctor Fornay told me there will never be another child!"

  13

  The large overhead fan droned on and the August heat lay heavy and humid in the Governor's office. The slightly built, nervous male secretary showed Rina to a chair in front of the massive desk.

  She sat down and watched the young man, standing nervously next to the Governor, pick up sheet after sheet of paper as the Governor signed each one. At last he was finished and the secretary picked up the last sheet of paper and hurried out, closing the door behind him.

  She looked at the Governor as he reached across the desk and took a cigar from a humidor. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of piercing dark eyes, set deep in a handsome face. His voice was slightly husky. "Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Marlowe?"

  She shook her head.

  He smiled, taking a small kni
fe and carefully trimming the end of the cigar. He placed it in his mouth and struck a match. The flame burned brightly yellow, large and small, with his breath as he drew on the cigar. She was conscious of the faintly pleasant smell of Havana leaf as he dropped the match into an ash tray.

  He smiled again. "One of the few pleasures my physician still allows me," he said. He had a simple yet extraordinary clear voice that easily filled the room, though he spoke quietly, like an actor trained to have his whispers heard in the far reaches of the second balcony. He leaned across the desk, his voice lowering to a confidential whisper. "You know, I expect to live to be a hundred and twenty-five and even my physician thinks I might make it if I cut down on my smoking."

  She felt the convincing warmth and intensity flow toward her and for the moment, she believed it, too. "I’m sure you will, Governor."

  He leaned back in his chair, a faintly pleased look on his face. "Just between us, I don't really care whether I live that long or not," he said. "It's just that when I die, I don't want to leave any enemies, and I figure the only way I’ll ever do that is to outlive them all."

  He laughed and she joined him, for the moment forgetting her reason for being there. There was something incredibly young and vital about him that belied the already liberal sprinkling of gray in his thick, lustrous black hair.

  He looked across the massive desk at her, feeling once again the rushing of time against him. He drew on his cigar and let the smoke out slowly. He liked what he saw. None of this modern nonsense about dieting and boyish bobs for her. Her hair fell long and full to her shoulders.

  He looked up and suddenly met her eyes. Almost instantly, he knew that she had been aware that he was studying her. He smiled without embarrassment. "You were a child when I approved your adoption papers."

  Her words put him at ease. "My mother and father often told me how kind you were and how you made it possible for them to adopt me."

  He nodded slowly. It was smart of them to tell her the truth. Sooner or later, she'd have found out, anyway. "You're eighteen now?"