Sins

by Gould, Judith

  'Thank you,' Edmond said. He touched Hélène's sable sleeve and guided her down the blue-carpeted corridor. Framed color renderings of worldwide ManhattanBank branches hung on the white walls.

  At room 2107 they found a young man sliding a brass nameplate into the metal slot on the door. Hélène looked at it curiously: 'R. ROWEN, Vice- President.' When the man finished, he noticed them and stepped aside. 'I'm sorry,' he apologized quickly. 'I didn't realize. . .'

  Hélène smiled automatically. 'That's all right,' she said. But her smile faded when she saw the old brass sign in his hand. It was engraved: 'J. C. GORE III, Vice-President.'

  She shivered. How quickly the new replaces the old, she thought. Only a single day had passed since Gore's death, and already all evidence of his tenure was being obliterated. Suddenly the hallway was oppressive, stifling. She was glad when Edmond opened the door and they entered the office. A dead man's office.

  Alice, Gore's middle-aged secretary, looked up from her desk. Her eyes were red and she looked like she'd been crying.

  'Hello, Alice,' Hélène said softly.

  'Good morning, Miss Junot.' Alice sniffed and wiped her nose with a Kleenex. 'Mr. R-Rowan is expecting you.'

  'I'm sorry about Mr. Gore,' Hélène said.

  'Thank you, Miss Junot.' Alice composed herself, rose to her feet, and walked with dignity toward the veneered door of the inner office. She knocked twice and opened it. 'Miss Junot and Mr. Junot are here to see you, Mr. Rowan.'

  Alice stepped aside, waited for Hélène and Edmond to enter the office, and quietly closed the door behind them. Hélène started. The office seemed strangely dim: a huge plywood board covered one of the big expanses of window, blocking out some of the light and most of the view. She shuddered.

  Mr. Rowan got to his feet and came around from behind the desk. He shook hands firmly with Hélène and Edmond. 'I'm Robert Rowan,' he said in a friendly, reassuring voice. He gestured for them to take a seat.

  Hélène unbuttoned the sable and let it slip back on the chair as she sat down. Edmond took a seat beside her, and Rowan went back behind the desk. Hélène couldn't help noticing that with the plywood over the window, she could see Rowen's face clearly. It used to be difficult for her to read Gore's expressions with all the light coming in from behind him. She also found it a bit disconcerting that Gore's successor was so unlike his predecessor. She hadn't realized that she'd gotten quite used to Gore's obesity and wheezy self-importance. This man was in his mid-thirties, slim, and dark- haired. He was part of the new breed, one of the Bright Young Men who'd made it. For his age, he was somberly dressed. He wore the traditional pinstriped suit and Turnbull-and-Asser shirt indigenous to the banking profession.

  Rowan pushed a stack of computer printout aside and cleared his throat. He chose his words carefully. 'For the time being, I have been designated to act as Mr. Gore's replacement. I have no idea whether this is a permanent position. However, I will try to handle everything to your satisfaction.' He looked at Hélène. 'Hélène Junot International, Incorporated, seems to do the bulk of its American banking with ManhattanBank. I cannot pretend that you are anything but a highly valued client.' He smiled, showing straight white teeth. 'As well as my wife's favorite publisher, I might add.'

  Graciously Hélène smiled back. It was expected of her.

  'At any rate,' Rowan continued, 'our only immediate concerns are to ensure a continued smooth relationship between yourself and Manhattan- Bank, and to come to a mutually satisfactory decision regarding your ten- million-dollar loan.' He looked at Hélène. She nodded slowly. 'In order to acquaint myself more fully with the circumstances involved, I do not want to make any decision concerning the loan until Monday.'

  Hélène nodded again, but she remained silent. Edmond had told her to let him do the talking. Now he spoke up.

  'Mr. Rowan, I fully understand ManhattanBank's position. But as the head of HJII's international legal department, as well as Miss Junot's personal adviser and brother, I have requested this meeting in order to familiarize you with the urgent need for an extension.

  'As you may know, HJII is the world's largest and most powerful fashion instrument. We have subscribers on six continents. One word in our magazines can make or break a major designer or manufacturer. We have helped push many of today's most successful couturiers into the forefront— Halston. d'Itri, Armani, Geoffrey Beene, to mention a few. Our faithful readers—we have a monthly circulation of over twenty-eight million copies— trust us implicitly and spend almost six hundred million dollars a year buying our magazines. Our advertising revenues—'

  'You don't need to acquaint me with Hélène Junot International's success, Mr. Junot,' Rowan said quietly. 'The fact of the matter is, the ten- million-dollar loan was not made to the corporation but to Miss Junot.'

  Edmond shook his head. 'Miss Junot is HJII.' he said smoothly. 'And since she used a portion of her HJII shares as collateral, you must admit that the loan does indeed affect the corporation. Especially since her control over the corporation hinges on your decision.'

  Rowan steepled his fingers. 'I can appreciate that,' he said carefully. 'But I do not quite understand what it is you're trying to get at.'

  Edmond reached for his cigarettes. 'May I?' he asked, holding up the flat eighteen-karat-gold Tiffany case.

  'Certainly.'

  Edmond selected a cigarette, tapped it on the case, and slowly lit it. It was a device he had invented long ago in order to stall for time to think. Rowan was sharp, he realized. He would not be as easy to handle as Gore had been.

  Edmond blew the smoke out through his nostrils. 'All I'm trying to get at, Mr. Rowan, is that without Miss Junot's leadership, taste, and expertise, the corporation would be in extreme danger of losing its appeal. Without her, HJII would probably close its doors and go bankrupt within five years. Maybe less. It is therefore vital that the collateral shares held by ManhattanBank are not sold.

  'Like any big institution or wealthy person, Miss Junot occasionally has cash-flow problems. I am sure that you can appreciate that. Much of her money is tied up in investments. You can be assured that her cash-flow problems are very temporary.

  'Also, I would like to reiterate what you yourself have stated—that the bulk of HJII's banking is done with ManhattanBank. That is due entirely to Miss Junot's discretion. Should her collateral shares be sold, she would lose control over HJII and you would have no guarantee that ManhattanBank would continue getting HJII's business. I don't think I need to tell you that more than one hundred and sixty million dollars a year flow through our ManhattanBank accounts. I'm sure you already know that.'

  Rowan nodded. 'I do. And as I said to you over the telephone yesterday, I shall consider all these factors before coming to a decision.'

  Nonchalantly Edmond leaned forward and stabbed out his cigarette in the big ashtray. His eyes met Rowen's. 'Mr. Gore. . .he was mainly in charge of our accounts, wasn't he?' he asked lightly.

  'Yours and several others,' Rowen replied carefully.

  Edmond sat back. 'I take it, though, that HJII was his single largest account?'

  'I'm not certain. I would have to check that out. I can only presume so.'

  Edmond smiled agreeably. 'Which means, of course, that if Mr. Gore did indeed 'borrow' money from various accounts, more money would be missing from HJII's accounts than any of the others?'

  'Mr. Junot, let me assure you that this institution is fully insured and if-—and I stress the word "if"—this turns out to be the case, we would immediately be able to cover your losses.'

  'I understand that,' Edmond said easily. 'And I'll try to make Miss Junot understand that, too. But you must agree that it would be rather. . .unfair if we were the victims of having our accounts fraudulently mishandled, and at the same time be doing business with an unresponsive bank?'

  'What exactly do you mean?'

  'I'm certain most corporations would not look lightly upon their bankers 'borrowing' money from their acc
ounts. But Miss Junot fully understands the problems of having many employees. She has hundreds of them herself, all around the world. Any corporation—even a bank—can have one rotten apple in a barrel of good ones.'

  Rowen leaned across the desk. 'Mr. Junot,' he said quietly, 'you wouldn't by any chance be trying to blackmail ManhattanBank into giving Miss Junot an extension, would you?'

  Edmond grinned suddenly. 'Not at all, sir. I'm only saying that as far as HJII and ManhattanBank are concerned, we hope that our mutually successful business relationships in the past can be smoothly continued in the future. Miss Junot would hate having to take one hundred and sixty million dollars' worth of annual business elsewhere.' Edmond rose to his feet and looked down at Hélène. She got up, and he helped her into the sable. Then he turned back to Rowen. 'It was very kind of you to see us, Mr. Rowen. We know that you must be extremely busy, and we don't want to take up any more of your time.'

  Then they left the office. Only after they had gone did Rowen realize that Hélène had not spoken one word.

  2

  The snow was coming down in flurries when Robert Rowen climbed into the back of the Checker cab. He let out a sigh of relief. At last he was on his way home. He rubbed his eyes. They hurt fiercely. He had been straining them all day and far into the night going over the Junot accounts. Finally he had called it quits and telephoned for a cab. Then he waited in the lobby of the ManhattanBank Building for it to arrive. After business hours, Wall Street became a morgue and you couldn't find a cab if your life depended on it. Every time it snowed, it was the same old story.

  Finally, after he'd waited more than forty-five minutes, the cab had pulled up in front of the building. He hurried out through the swirling flakes. 'Park Avenue and Seventy-second,' he told the driver.

  During the ride uptown, he kept thinking about the Junot accounts. He hadn't realized just how mind-boggling they were until he'd really started going over them. There was no end to the number of accounts. There were some into which bank drafts and letters of credit were paid, there were separate accounts for each of the advertising agencies (twenty-seven in all), several for payroll, a few for taxes, one for the shareholders' dividends, one for billing, one for receiving, one for receiving funds from each overseas branch, one for each New York department, another for travel expenses, a miscellaneous account, a slush fund, a petty-cash fund, and no less than seven personal accounts for Hélène Junot. The list was endless.

  His mind was still on the accounts when the cab pulled up in front of the prewar Park Avenue building. 'Good evening, Mr. Rowen,' the doorman said as he held the door of the cab open.

  Rowen paid the driver through the little slot in the scratched-up Plexiglas divider and climbed out of the cab. 'Good evening, Pedro,' he said in an annoyed voice. He fished in his pocket for a quarter and silently cursed the doorman for running out and making a tip necessary.

  Pedro held the lobby door open and Rowen hurried out of the cold and into the warmth. He crossed the lobby to the old elevator, punched the button, and waited an eternity for it to arrive. When it did, he stepped inside the varnished wooden cage and pressed the button marked 12.

  When the elevator door slid open, he turned right, walked down the tiled hall, fished for his keys, and began to unlock the door of apartment 12C. It opened just as he was turning the key.

  'Hi, honey,' Jennifer said softly. She wrapped her arms around him, stood on tiptoe, and gave him a long, hard kiss. Then she drew back, smiling up at him. Her brown hair, with its preppy cut, shone softly in the light. 'Have a tough day?'

  He shrugged and nuzzled her ear. 'How's my baby?'

  She giggled. Then her face turned serious. 'Honey, I missed you.'

  'I missed you, too.'

  'Martini?'

  'You said it.' He followed her into the living room. It was furnished with the heavy mahogany pieces she'd inherited from her mother. He watched as she took two glasses from the sideboard, then disappeared into the kitchen. She opened the freezer and reached for the martinis they kept on ice in a glass shaker.

  'Honey? Are you hungry?' she called out.

  'I can wait,' he called back.

  She tossed an olive into her glass, gently lowered a grape into his, and poured the martinis. Carefully she carried them out to the living room.

  He was loosening his tie. Wearily he sank onto the camelback sofa. She handed him his drink and sat down beside him, curling her legs under her torso in that peculiar manner of hers. She watched him take a swallow of his martini.

  'So tell me,' she said finally. 'How did your day go?'

  'Well, come to think of it, I met a rather interesting person. A woman.'

  Her eyes narrowed teasingly. 'Was she beautiful?'

  He looked suddenly thoughtful. 'Yes.'

  'More beautiful than me?'

  He looked at Jennifer. This was an old game between them. Whenever he met a woman, she would always ask that. He would invariably hesitate, she would pretend to be cross, and finally he would say, 'No, honey, you're the most beautiful woman in the world.' Then she would be content and they would kiss happily.

  'Well?' Jennifer demanded with mock petulance.

  'She was. . .very beautiful,' he said slowly.

  She sat bolt upright. She looked suddenly cross. 'You're serious, aren't you?'

  He nodded.

  'So she's that special,' she said bitterly. She shook her head angrily, but her eyes were frozen.

  Now he knew she was really upset. He sighed helplessly. He should have known better and stuck to the rules of the game.

  'Well?' she demanded. 'Who was this. . .this Helen of Troy?'

  He couldn't help but smile at her unintentionally appropriate metaphor. 'Hélène Junot,' he said. 'The publisher.'

  She tried to laugh lightly, but it came out sounding very ugly. He looked at her with surprise.

  'So she got to you, too,' she said accusingly.

  He looked at her blankly. 'What do you mean?'

  'What do I mean! Really, Robert! Don't you know anything about her? According to the columnists, she leaves a path of destruction wherever she goes.'

  He looked at her angrily. 'Come off it, Jennie. It's nothing personal. Hey. . .' He reached out to stroke her cheek, but she drew back coldly. 'I didn't even speak to her. Her brother did all the talking.' Once again he looked thoughtful. 'You know what?' he said, thinking aloud. 'They're a very slick pair of operators.'

  Despite her anger, she looked at him with deepening interest. 'What do you mean?'

  'Well . . .' He took another swallow of his drink. 'It was strange. I got the idea she was there just as window dressing. You know what I mean?' She nodded. 'He did all the talking. Come to think of it, she never even said 'hello' or 'good-bye.'' He shook his head. 'Her brother's real sharp. Almost too sharp. And yet. . .she's the power behind it all. You can almost feel it. It's sort of. . .' He paused, searching for the right word.

  'Scary?' she offered.

  'Hmmm. . .I guess you could call it that.'

  Suddenly the telephone rang. They glanced across the room at it.

  'I'll get it,' Jennifer said quickly. She uncurled her legs, got up, and crossed over to the round mahogany fern table that they used as a telephone stand. 'Hello?' A moment later she put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Rowen. There was a peculiar look on her face. 'Honey . . .'

  'Who is it?'

  'I don't know. A man, I think. He says he wants to talk to you.'

  'Well, find out who he is.'

  'Honey, he sounds kind of creepy. He's whispering.'

  Rowen saw the expression on her face. He sighed, got up, and crossed the room. She handed him the receiver and then put her ear close to his, trying to eavesdrop.

  'Robert Rowen here,' he said.

  For a moment there was silence. Then a whispering voice echoed in the telephone. 'Mr. Rowen,' it said, 'how would you like to make a million dollars?'

  YESTERDAY

  IV Abor
tion

  1

  Paris, 1955

  The snow had stopped falling but the air was like a breath of ice as Hélène hesitated on the doorstep of the old building. For a moment, she couldn't move. It was as if the snow had frozen her feet to the sidewalk. She glanced up. The building looked like any of the countless ugly gray buildings which the tourists found so picturesque. Only there was nothing picturesque about what went on in this one.

  Determinedly she bit down on her lip. It was a moment before she realized the force of the bite. Then she could taste the thick warm sweetness of her blood. Slowly she opened the door and began to climb the dark, steep flights of stairs which were illuminated by a single naked bulb. There was trash piled high on the landings, and the stench of urine and cat feces hung foul in the air. Halfway up, she stopped suddenly and gripped the banister. She could feel the fear in her heart hammering against her ribs. She closed her eyes. She was frightened and depressed and alone. She had been feeling like that ever since she had come to a decision and gone to see Angelique.

  She hadn't known whether Angelique still danced in the revue at the Folies de Babylon, but she had hoped so. She had never forgotten her first day there. Angelique had been testy because she was pregnant and had to pay for her abortion herself. She smiled grimly. Angelique was the only person she had ever known who had gotten an abortion.

  At six in the morning Hélène had waited outside the employee door of the Folies de Babylon. She had stayed awake all night long, and her exhaustion showed. Her eyelids were red and puffy from lack of sleep, and she had to wait in the snowy darkness for almost an hour; inside the nightclub, closing and cleanup were running late. Finally the door had opened and the girls poured out into the narrow street. She drew deeper into the shadows so that she would not need to speak to anyone she knew.

  She recognized Angelique immediately, and a lump rose up in her throat.