The creditors turned and filed silently past Marcel. When the last of them was gone, he heard the boy’s voice. “Close the door, Marcel.”
This was no longer a boy’s voice; it was the voice of a warrior accustomed to having his orders obeyed. Silently Marcel closed the door. When he turned back into the room the knives were gone, and the boy was behind the table, next to his father.
“Are you all right, Father?” he asked in a voice full of love and affection. In some way that Marcel did not wholly understand it was almost as if the boy were the father, the father the son.
3
In the wood-paneled office with the heavy leather furniture, the baron listened attentively from across a massive carved desk. Even with the background of the familiar sounds of the traffic outside coming from the Place Vendôme Marcel could not bring himself to believe in the reality of all that had happened in the week since he had gone back to work. But the baron’s voice dragged him back from his moment of unreality. “What is the total of the unpaid bills Ramírez left behind?”
“Almost ten million francs,” Marcel answered. “Eighty millions of their pesos.”
As was his custom the baron automatically converted the sums into dollars and sterling. One hundred sixty thousand dollars. Forty thousand pounds sterling. He shook his head. “And the consul paid all this himself out of his personal funds?”
Marcel nodded. “He felt it was his duty. Ramírez had been his own recommendation and he felt the government was too poor to have an additional drain placed upon it.”
“Where did he get the money?”
“Money changers. He paid a premium of twenty percent.”
“It was after this that the consul decided to go to Ventimiglia to see if Ramírez would make some sort of restitution?”
Marcel nodded. “But by then it was too late. The five days of working in that dank, unheated house and sleeping on the cold floor with nothing but a thin blanket had taken their toll. Señor Xenos woke that morning with a bad fever. By afternoon I called the doctor and after one look he insisted that the consul go immediately to the hospital. Señor Xenos protested but in the middle of it he fainted. We carried him out to the doctor’s car and off to the hospital he went.”
The baron shook his head. “A man’s honor is at the same time his most valuable asset and his most expensive luxury.”
“I can understand the consul,” Marcel said quickly. “He is one of the most honorable and idealistic men I have ever met. It is the boy who puzzles me. He is nothing like the father. Where his father is reflective, he is reflexive; where the man is emotional, the boy is controlled. He is like a young jungle animal, completely physical. In the way he moves, thinks, and acts. He has but one loyalty. To his father.”
“And they went to Ventimiglia—the boy and the aide?”
Marcel nodded. He remembered when they had come back to the chilly consulate from the hospital. He had looked at the boy as the door closed behind them. Dax’s face was an unreadable mask.
“I think I’d better return for credit the tickets to Ventimiglia issued to your father and myself,” Marcel said.
“No.” Dax’s voice was sharp. He glanced at Fat Cat. Marcel suspected an invisible communication had passed between them because Fat Cat was nodding in agreement almost before Dax spoke again. “Get one more ticket. I think the three of us should pay our friend Ramírez a little visit. It is long past due.”
Later they had sat on the side of the hill in the fading Riviera sunlight, looking down into the villa. There were three men seated at a table in the patio, a bottle of wine before them. In the quiet country air the faint sounds of their voices had carried to the hillside.
“Which one is Ramírez?”
“The thin wiry one in the middle,” Marcel answered.
“Who are the other two?”
“Bodyguards. He is never without them.”
Fat Cat cursed. “I know the big one, Sánchez. He was in el Presidente’s personal guard.” He spat on the ground. “I always thought him a traitor!”
Some women came out into the patio bringing food. Ramírez laughed and slapped one of them on the behind as she passed.
“Who are they?” Dax asked.
Marcel shrugged. “I do not know. Ramírez always had several mistresses.”
Dax smiled. Marcel could feel no warmth in it. “At least we know that he does not sleep with his bodyguards.” The boy got to his feet. “We must discover which bedroom is his before we go there tonight.”
“But how will you get in?” Marcel asked. “The gate will be locked.”
Fat Cat chuckled. “That will be no problem; we’ll go over the wall.”
“But that’s burglary,” Marcel said, shocked. “We could all be sent to prison.”
“And Ramírez stole the money legally?” Dax’s voice was dry and filled with contempt.
Marcel did not answer.
Fat Cat leaned his back against a tree and chuckled contentedly. He reached out a hand and affectionately rumpled Dax’s hair. “It is like the old days back home, eh, jefecito?”
“It is probably the corner room, the one with the balcony,” the boy said.
As he spoke the French doors on the balcony opened and Ramírez came out. He stood there leaning against the railing, his cigarette glowing. He seemed to be looking out at the sea beyond the house. Soon a woman came out and joined him. He threw the cigarette over the side of the balcony, and they heard faintly the woman’s laugh. Then Ramírez went back into the house with her. The balcony doors remained open.
“Very hospitable of the traitor,” Fat Cat said. “Now we won’t have to go searching through the house.”
Presently the lights went out, and the house became dark. Fat Cat started to move but Dax’s hand stopped him. “Give him ten minutes. By then he will be too busy to hear the sound of a thousand horses.”
The boy was first on the top of the stone wall; a moment later Fat Cat was beside him. They turned to help Marcel up. Awkwardly he scrambled up beside them. They dropped silently to the ground inside. He took a deep breath and dropped beside them. His knees buckled with the contact and he sprawled, but quickly got to his feet. Dax and Fat Cat were already running toward the house on silent feet. Quickly he followed.
They went around the side of the building and before Marcel had caught up with them they were already on the roof of the veranda. First up the stone balustrade, then hoisting himself on his belly, Marcel gained the roof. Dax had already gone from there to the balcony.
Fat Cat went up alongside him without a sound, then turned and helped Marcel up. His breath sounded like thunder in his ears. It was a miracle that they could not hear him inside the house.
Dax put his mouth next to Marcel’s ear. “Wait here until we signal. If you see anyone, warn us.”
Marcel nodded. The sick cold feeling of fear spread in the pit of his belly. He swallowed quickly. Dax had already turned away to join Fat Cat. They flattened themselves on either side of the balcony door, their eyes tightly shut, and for a moment Marcel thought they were praying. Then he realized what they were doing; they were accustoming their eyes to the darkness they would find in Ramírez’ room. Almost as one their hands moved, and Marcel saw the cold steel of their knives. He closed his eyes. Was he going to be sick? Somehow he fought the nausea down.
When he opened his eyes they were both gone, though he had not heard a sound. He listened intently, his heart beating heavily. There was a faint grunt from inside the room, a squeal from the bed, and a bump as if something had fallen to the floor. After that, nothing.
Marcel felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had an impulse to flee, but his terror over what they might do if he did was greater than his fear of what might happen if he didn’t.
Dax’s voice was a hoarse whisper from the room. “Marcel!”
He paused in horror in the doorway. Ramírez and the woman, both naked, were lying on the floor. “Are they dead?” he asked in a s
hocked whisper.
“No,” Dax answered contemptuously, “the traitor fainted. We had to knock out the woman. Get me something to tie them up with.”
“What?”
“Go through the dresser!” Fat Cat hissed. “The woman will have silk stockings.”
Frantically Marcel opened the drawers. In a second he found what he was looking for. He turned. Fat Cat was stuffing one of Ramírez’ socks into the traitor’s mouth. “Let him taste his own stink,” he said with satisfaction.
Marcel held out the stockings wordlessly. Quickly and expertly Fat Cat trussed and gagged them. At last he finished and got to his feet. “That ought to hold them for awhile.” He turned to Dax. “Now what?”
“We wait until the traitor comes to,” Dax said quietly, “then we find out where the money is. It won’t be far off.”
Dax looked at Marcel. “How much was it my father said he stole?”
“Six million francs over the last two years.”
Dax looked down at Ramírez again. “Most of it should still be here. He hasn’t had time to spend much of it.”
Ramírez was the first to recover. He opened his eyes and saw Dax bending over him, a knife at his throat. His eyes widened in horror. For a moment it looked as if he might faint again, then he steadied and stared up at Dax.
“Traitor, can you hear me?”
Ramírez nodded. A muffled sound came from behind the gag.
“Then listen carefully,” Dax continued. “We have come for the money. If we get it no harm will come to you or the woman. If not, you will spend a long time dying.”
Another stifled sound came from behind the gag.
Dax raised the knife so that Ramírez could see it. “I’m going to loosen your gag. One move out of you and you will die with the blood pouring from the hole between your legs where your genitals used to be.”
Marcel held his breath as Dax loosened the gag. Fortunately Ramírez was no hero.
“Now,” Dax whispered, “the money?”
“It’s gone!” Ramírez whispered back huskily. “The gaming tables got it all!”
Dax laughed silently. The knife moved swiftly and a thin line of blood traced a path down Ramírez’ belly. There was a look of horror on the man’s face at the sight of his own blood. His eyes rolled upward into his head and he slumped.
“The coward has fainted again.” Fat Cat looked at Dax. “We could be at this all night.”
Dax went over to the washstand and picked up the pitcher. He came back to Ramírez and emptied it. Ramírez came up sputtering.
At the same time the woman began to roll around, bumping the floor. “Hold her still!” Dax ordered. “She’ll have the whole house down on us!”
Fat Cat leaned over the woman and slapped her face. Despite her trussing she tried to kick him. Fat Cat grinned. “At least she has the courage the traitor lacks.” He sat down heavily, straddling her hips, and with one large hand spanned her throat, effectively pinning her to the floor.
“Where is the money?” Dax asked again.
Ramírez didn’t answer. He was staring at Fat Cat and the woman. His head spun around as Dax swiped at him with the butt of the knife. “It’s gone, I tell you!”
Fat Cat looked over at the traitor. “She seems like a nice little piece even though she’s a bit small in the tetas.”
Ramírez remained silent.
Fat Cat looked over at Dax. “It’s been a long time. I’m a three-day virgin.”
Dax didn’t take his eyes from Ramírez’ face. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Fuck her. And when you’re finished, let Marcel fuck her too.”
The protest rising in Marcel’s throat was never uttered. He saw the tawny jungle look in Dax’s eyes. The woman began to struggle as Fat Cat forced her legs apart with one knee. He opened his fly. “Be happy, little one,” he murmured. “Now you will see what a real man is like. Mine is not a miserable worm like that one’s.”
The words burst out of Ramírez’ throat. “There! The safe in the wall behind the bed!”
“That’s better.” Dax laughed. “Now, how is it opened?”
“The key is in my pants pocket.”
Dax already had the trousers off the chair over which they had been carelessly thrown. He held up a key ring. “Is this the one?”
Ramírez nodded. “Behind the picture on the wall.”
Quickly Dax crossed the room. He moved the picture, and inserted the key in the black metal safe. “It does not work!” he said angrily, coming back to Ramírez.
Ramírez tore his eyes away from Fat Cat. “That is the car key. There is another.”
Marcel couldn’t keep himself from staring. Until now rape had been only a word he had seen in the newspapers. He felt dizzy with a strange excitement. It was nothing like the fornication he had experienced. It was cold and savage and brutal. Fat Cat had already entered the woman. Marcel saw her entire body shuddering under the impact.
“Marcel!”
He tore his eyes away from the two of them and walked over to Dax. The safe was filled with stacks of neatly packaged banknotes. “My God!” he whispered.
“Don’t stand there gawking! Get a pillowcase and help me pack this money.”
Marcel couldn’t keep from glancing back over his shoulder as he held the pillowcase for Dax. He looked at Ramírez. The traitor was staring at Fat Cat and the woman. It wasn’t until he ran his tongue over his lips that Marcel realized what he was thinking. The money had been forgotten.
The whole world had gone mad. Nothing in it made sense anymore. Dax, after one perfunctory glance at the writhing pair, paid them no further attention. It was as if what was happening was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Marcel was in the throes of a private sexual excitement all his own; his legs felt weak and they trembled, as they hadn’t since the first time he had been with a woman.
“Bueno!” Dax’s voice was filled with satisfaction. The pillowcase was almost full. Quickly he secured the open end with a silk stocking. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Fat Cat. “Don’t take all night,” he said casually. “We still have to get out of here.”
He looked at the other key on the ring and was about to throw it away. “Do you drive?” he suddenly asked Marcel.
Silently Marcel nodded.
“Bueno. There’s nothing like a pleasant drive in the cool of the night.”
***
The baron leaned across his desk. “How much did they recover?”
“Almost four and a half million francs,” Marcel replied, coming back to the present again.
“I’m glad,” the baron said quietly. He stared down thoughtfully at his desk. “That’s quite a lad. Has there been any discussion about which school he will attend?”
“I heard the consul mention the public schools. But that was before the money was recovered.”
“Unfortunately it won’t be of much help,” the baron said. “It will hardly cover the personal loans the consul made in order to pay the bills.” He tapped the pencil on his desk. “I want you to suggest that the boy attend De Roqueville.”
“But that is the most expensive school in Paris!”
“It is also the best. My own son goes there. I will pay the tuition, make all the arrangements. The boy will be offered a scholarship.”
The feel of the ten-thousand-franc note in his pocket was very reassuring to Marcel as he left the baron’s office. His finances were looking up. The grocer had not been the only one to make a deal with him for the collection of bills.
But there was still one unanswered question plaguing him. He still knew no more about why the Baron de Coyne was interested in the consul and his son than he had the morning of that first telephone call.
4
The buzzer on his father’s desk sounded harshly. Dax came back from the window and picked up the intercom. “Oui, Marcel?”
“Your friend Robert is here.”
“Merci. Ask him to come in.” Dax put down the receiver and turned towar
d the door.
Robert entered and crossed the room, his hand outstretched. “I came as soon as I heard the news.”
They shook hands European fashion, just as they always did on meeting or parting, even if they had seen each other earlier that morning on the polo practice field. “Thank you. How did you find out?”
“The steward at the clubhouse,” Robert said. “He told me about the phone call.”
Dax’s lips twisted wryly. Paris was no different from a small town at home. By now the news would be everywhere, and soon the newspapers would have their reporters at the door.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Dax shook his head. “There is nothing anyone can do. All we can do is wait.”
“Was he ill this morning when you left the house?”
“No. Had he been, I would not have come to practice.”
“Of course.”
“Father was not very strong, as you know. Ever since we came to Europe he has been subject to very severe colds. It seemed that no sooner was he over one than he contracted another. It appeared that he had no resistance. Marcel found him slumped over the desk. He and Fat Cat carried him upstairs and called the doctor. The doctor said it was his heart, then they called me.”
Robert shook his head. “This is no climate for your father. He should have lived on the Riviera.”
“My father never should have come here at all. The strains and tensions were too much for him. He never really got his strength back after the loss of his arm.”
“Why didn’t he go back then?”
“He had a strong sense of duty. He remained because he was needed. The first credits he worked out with your father’s bank saved our country from bankruptcy.”
“He could have gone home after that.”
“You don’t know my father.” Dax grimaced. “That was only the beginning. He knocked at every door in Europe to get help for our country. The snubs and rebuffs turned him into an old man. But he kept on trying.”
The Adventurers Page 17