Marcel slipped into French and Dax followed automatically.
“You know what he said?” Marcel leaned forward confidentially. “That their Mayor Curley could have been President of the United States, only he came thirty years too soon. Someday he claims they will have a Catholic as President.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“En vérité,” Marcel continued. “I think that is what he plans for his eldest son.”
“Jim?”
Marcel nodded. “The man plans ahead many years. Even now he is entrenching himself deeply in the Democratic party. That is why he is so insistent on the boy entering politics.”
Dax stared at Marcel thoughtfully. After the other things he had heard at this luncheon he could believe almost anything. “How did you come to him?”
“It was simple. He had ships for sale, and I wanted them.”
“But how did you get interested in the ships? I thought you went to Macao to run the casino.”
“I did. But it wasn’t long before I found out that ships were available.”
“How was it that you were able to get them when the De Coynes couldn’t?”
“De Coyne is a fool,” Marcel said emphatically. “He leaves everything to that English cousin, whose only purpose seems to be to hinder the growth of any line that threatens his own. It is my belief that he joined the deal only to sabotage it.”
Marcel leaned toward Dax, his voice lowering. “When I learned this I remembered the need your father expressed for ships. I borrowed money from some Chinese friends and so was able to get twenty. Then I looked about for more, and there was Hadley with fifty to sell. Naturally I went to him. But that one is no fool either. He guessed my intentions immediately. My impression is that by then he had regretted his hasty decision to join the British in a boycott of your country.”
“You mean he regretted the loss of money.”
“In the end it is the same thing. Anyway, he was willing to sell me the ships, but only under the condition that his company would remain their worldwide freight agents. Before I could undertake such a thing I realized immediately that I would have to get a firm commitment from Corteguay. Without that I should have no use for the ships.”
Dax looked at him. “I don’t know how el Presidente would feel about doing business with an American.”
“Your president is a practical man,” Marcel said. “By now he must realize he can expect no more from De Coyne.”
“But there is still the five million dollars that was paid for the franchise,” Dax pointed out, “and it runs for twenty years.”
Marcel took a thin cigar from his pocket and lit it. The clouds of blue smoke rose slowly around him as he stared at Dax. He did not speak until the cigar was glowing evenly. “Don’t make the same mistake that your father did,” he said quietly. “Your president is not a man of integrity like your father. Do you know what happened to that five million dollars? Do you really think it went into the treasury of your country?”
Dax did not answer.
“I can tell out what happened to it. It is in a bank account in Switzerland in el Presidente’s own name.”
Dax was shocked. If Marcel knew, then surely his father must also have known. “Did my father…”
“Your father knew.”
“Then why didn’t he—”
Marcel didn’t let him finish the question. “What could he have done? Forsake his post? That would not have helped Corteguay. And getting more ships would have. So he kept his mouth shut though in a way I think it hastened his death.”
Dax shook his head. He felt a tightening in his throat. His poor father. If he had only known! But then, what could he have done? Nothing.
Marcel took advantage of his continued silence. “Why else do you think we are willing to pay another five million for a franchise? Because we are sure el Presidente will accept it. Dax, it is time for you to grow up and become a realist. If the deal is made, you will be taken care of most handsomely. It is time for you to begin to think about yourself. Unless you also intend to bankrupt yourself paying the bills of thieves.”
“I don’t know,” Dax said hesitantly. “It’s hard for me to believe—”
Again Marcel interrupted. “What is hard to believe? Can’t you see that is exactly why your president sent you here? Just for something like this, to make it easier for the United States to return to Corteguay? Don’t you think he already is aware that he has received all the aid he can get from Europe?”
Dax was silent.
“If I were not so positive would I offer to become a citizen of Corteguay?”
Dax stared at Marcel. “You mean you would live in Corteguay and give up your French nationality?”
Marcel laughed. “Who said anything about living in Corteguay? I merely said I would become a citizen.” He glanced around the room, which was almost empty now. “I like the United States, especially New York. That’s where the business is and that’s where I intend to live.”
Later that night as el Presidente’s voice crackled metallically over the long-distance wires, Dax knew that whether Marcel had told him the truth or not did not matter. The only objection to the proposition that el Presidente offered was that he thought the amount to be paid, really an indemnity to Corteguay for the misery caused by the boycott, should be ten million dollars instead of five. And when he finally put down the receiver he knew that his job here was done. It was time for him to return home.
***
Dax looked around the table. Robert and Caroline, Jim and Jeremy Hadley and two of their sisters. It was good of them to give this little dinner for him at the Ritz Carlton on his last night in the States. He felt a wry grin twist his lips. What would people say, he wondered, if they knew that Dax Xenos, the modern Casanova, sat alone, the odd man at a dinner celebrating his leaving them.
The coffee came and Jim cleared his throat, looking around at the others. They nodded and he got to his feet. An expectant silence fell across the table.
“Dax,” Jim said in his easy voice, the hint of a Boston accent scarcely noticeable. “We, your friends, though we regret that you must leave us, respect the fact that you feel you can serve your own country best by going home.
“But we did not want you to go without some small remembrance of us, something that would always remind you, no matter how far away you might be, that you are still with us, still one of us. So, bearing in mind that once a Harvard man always a Harvard man, we decided that the small memento we give you will always serve that purpose.”
With unexpectedly clumsy fingers Dax opened the small leather box. The gold ring and the crimson stone flashed up at him. Dax recognized it immediately; it was his class ring, class of ’39. He looked around at them, aware of the trouble they must have gone to to have it made. Ordinarily such a ring would not be available to any of them until their final year. And that was still more than two years away.
Quickly he slipped the ring on his finger. It was a perfect fit. He looked around at them. “Thank you,” he said simply, “I shall always wear it. And I shall always remember.”
Then Caroline was at his side and when he rose to kiss her cheek, much to his surprise he saw that she was crying.
***
He stood at the rail with Fat Cat as the mountains of Corteguay, behind the city of Curatu, appeared through the mists of the morning.
“Home!” Fat Cat said excitedly, his hand suddenly on Dax’s shoulders. “Look, Dax, home!”
The mountains loomed larger as they looked, the motion of the ship steady beneath them. Now they could see the green, the beautiful dark green of winter, which was really summer in Corteguay.
Suddenly Dax heard his father’s voice in his ear, just as if he were standing beside him. “For when you return you will no longer be a boy. You will be a man.”
Dax felt his eyes blur and the tears begin to roll down his cheeks. “Yes, Father,” he whispered.
But what neither of them had known was that grow
ing up would prove to be such a painful and lonely process.
BOOK 3
MONEY and MARRIAGE
1
Bankers’ offices all over the world smelled the same, Sergei thought, settling himself into a leather chair. Only Swiss banks smelled more so. Older and mustier. Perhaps it was because of their reverence for money. Somehow he got the impression that their money was older and mustier too.
The two bankers behind the great double desk stared at him. Casually Sergei stared back. He was quite content to let them speak first. He didn’t have very much to say anyway. He remained silent.
The small bald one spoke first. “I am Monsieur Bernstein,” he said in a tight Germanically accented French. “This is my associate, Monsieur Kastele.”
Since they made no gesture to shake hands, Sergei remained in his chair. He nodded without speaking.
Bernstein leaped immediately to the attack. “You’re not a prince,” he said, his eyes accusing behind the gold-rimmed spectacles.
Sergei smiled and shrugged. “So what?” he replied agreeably. “She knows that.”
Bernstein’s eyes, behind the glasses, went suddenly blank. “She already knows?” he echoed in a puzzled voice.
Kastele quickly joined his partner in the fray. “You’re not even a count,” he said in a voice thick with disapproval. “Only your father is a count. He’s in the German army.”
Suddenly Sergei was annoyed. “I wasn’t aware we were meeting to discuss my family.” He got to his feet. “I don’t particularly care whether I marry the girl or not. It’s really her idea.” As he turned and started for the door, Bernstein, with surprising agility for so small a man, came out from behind the large desk. He reached Sergei before he opened the door. “Un moment, Monsieur Nikovitch!”
Sergei noticed the thin beads of perspiration on the little man’s bald head. “There was no offense intended, Count Nikovitch.”
Sergei gazed at Bernstein contemptuously. Silently he reached for the doorknob.
Kastele now joined the surrender. He rose, tall and cadaverously thin, behind his desk. “That’s quite right, your highness,” he added in an unctuous voice. “No offense was meant. Please sit down, Prince Nikovitch. I’m sure we can discuss the matter of a marriage contract like gentlemen.”
Reluctantly Sergei allowed himself to be led back to his chair. He had the upper hand and he knew it. One word from Sue Ann to her father would immediately cut the bankers off from all future contact with the Daley fortune.
Bernstein walked around the desk and sat down. There was an obvious relief in the look he exchanged with his partner. He imposed a smile over his face as he turned to Sergei. “We have been in touch with Monsieur Daley,” he said, “and we are pleased to inform you that he has no objections to your marriage to his daughter.”
Sergei nodded silently. This was more like it.
“However, we are instructed to make certain that Miss Daley’s interests are protected. You are aware, of course, that she is heiress to a large fortune which is irrevocably bound to the future of the family business. It is up to us to work out an agreement which will act as protection for all parties concerned.”
Sergei still remained silent.
“Yourself included,” Kastele added hastily.
Now Sergei allowed himself the luxury of a reply. “Of course.”
Bernstein’s voice was smoother now. “In return for the customary waiver of rights of inheritance and all other claims upon your future wife’s estate, Monsieur Daley has authorized us to offer a dowry of twenty-five thousand dollars and an allowance of five hundred dollars per month after the ceremony. Of course all your living expenses, everything, will be borne by Monsieur Daley. You will have to pay for absolutely nothing. He desires for you to be happy, feeling that if you are, his daughter will be.”
Sergei stared at the banker thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m afraid I couldn’t make his daughter very happy on a miserly arrangement like that. I’m sure Mr. Daley must be aware of that.”
Kastele looked at him shrewdly. “What do you think you should have?”
Sergei shrugged. “Who knows? When a man’s wife is heiress to fifty million dollars he cannot walk around with only pennies jingling in his pockets. What kind of impression would that make?”
“Would fifty thousand and a thousand a month make a better impression?”
“Slightly.” Sergei took out the gold cigarette case that Sue Ann had given him and took a cigarette from it. He lit it from the matching gold lighter. “But still not good enough.”
Kastele’s eyes remained on the gold case and lighter that Sergei carelessly left on the desk in front of him. “What makes you think you’re entitled to make a better impression?”
Sergei drew on the cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. “I’ll make it as simple as I can, gentlemen. It’s not what I think, it’s what Miss Daley thinks.”
“We have only your word for what Miss Daley thinks,” Bernstein said quickly.
“No, you have Miss Daley’s word also.” Sergei pressed the catch on the cigarette case and it opened. He pushed it toward the bankers. “Read the inscription.”
Bernstein picked up the cigarette case and Kastele leaned over his shoulder. Sergei did not have to see the expression of surrender on their faces to know he had them.
To my Sergei—
An engagement present
to the world’s greatest swordsman
from his most grateful scabbard.
Forever yours,
Sue Ann
The terms finally agreed on were a dowry of one hundred thousand dollars and an allowance of twenty-five hundred per month. And there was one additional clause added by mutual agreement. In the event that Sue Ann should ever desire a divorce Sergei would be entitled to a settlement of fifty thousand dollars for each year of their marriage up to five—two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
It had begun a little more than three months ago, toward the end of January, in Saint Moritz. It was one of those gray days when the clouds and the falling snow obscured the crisp mountains and kept everyone at the resort indoors. It was about four in the afternoon and Sergei lay stretched out on the couch in front of a roaring fire in the small chalet he had rented for the season. Suddenly he had heard a knock at the front door.
Who the hell could be out in this stupid weather? he thought as he rolled over and yelled for the maid to answer the door. There was no answer, and he remembered that this was her afternoon off. She would not return until six o’clock.
Sluggishly he got up from the couch and, adjusting his trousers, walked into the foyer as the knocker sounded again.
“I’m coming.” He opened the door grumpily. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, recognizing the snow-covered man standing outside. “I might have known only an idiot would come up the mountain in weather like this.”
Kurt Wilhelma, the skimeister at the Suvretta, brushed the snow from his clothes and boots and followed him into the house. “Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m alone. Whom did you expect to find here, Greta Garbo?”
“Nothing would surprise me,” Kurt replied. “Christ, it’s bitter outside. Have you got anything to drink?”
“There’s a bottle of vodka on the sideboard.” Sergei threw himself down on the couch again. He watched as Kurt poured himself a drink.
“I think I’ve got a live one for you this time.”
“Sure,” Sergei replied skeptically, “like the last one. She turned out to be a British showgirl looking for a sure thing herself. We both felt like bloody damn fools after fucking each other half to death and then finding out we were both working the same side of the street.”
“Anyone can make a mistake. But this one is legitimate. I checked.”
“How?”
“Well, she’s up here with two girls as her guests and she has the royal suite, the big one with the three bedrooms. Lastly, her reservation was arranged by the Credit Suisse and the bill
is to be paid by them.” Kurt swallowed his drink neatly. “And you know the Credit Suisse. They won’t do anything for anyone who doesn’t have a lot of money.”
Sergei nodded. He thought for a moment. “Maybe they’re a trio of lovers.”
“No,” Kurt replied quickly, “they weren’t in the hotel more than ten minutes before they began making a play for some of my boys. I told them to go ahead with the two others but to leave the blond one alone until I cleared it with you.”
“Blond, eh? What does she look like?”
“Pretty good. Long legs. Big knockers. Too much makeup, like most Americans, but not bad. The kind of eyes that always look ready. Crotch gazer. You can almost see her measuring it.”
“American, you say?” Sergei looked up at him. “The others?”
“American also.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sue Ann Daley.”
“Sue Ann Daley?” There was a faint trace of recognition in Sergei’s voice. “Let me think.”
Kurt went back to the sideboard and poured himself another vodka. Sergei’s brow was furrowed as he tried to remember. Suddenly he got to his feet and went over to the escritoire and pulled out a drawer. Quickly he went through a bundle of letters and pulled one out. He glanced at it briefly. “I knew I’d heard that name.”
“What do you mean?” Kurt asked curiously.
Sergei walked over to the skimeister, smiling. “You know, old man, I think this time you really do have a live one.”
Kurt smiled. “You know of her?”
Sergei nodded. “A friend of mine wrote me about her about a year ago when she first came to Switzerland. I was too busy to look her up.”
Sergei went back to the escritoire and sat down. He pulled a sheet of notepaper toward him. The kind that bore the crest and Prince Sergei Nikovitch. He scribbled quickly across the page, then folded it and put it in an envelope. He wrote her name across the front in bold script. He turned to Kurt.
“Here. Send this up to her room with a dozen roses. I’ll come by at nine to take her and her two friends to dinner. And tell Emile that I want my special table in the corner, with flowers and candles, a corsage at each place setting, and a magnum of Piper ’21.”
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