Jeanne glanced questioningly at Edmond. He nodded.
Hélène looked from one of them to the other. 'Well?' she demanded finally. 'What's the matter now?'
'I'm pregnant again!'
'Pregnant!' For a moment Hélène stared at her with big eyes. Then her face broke into a huge smile. 'Oh, Jeanne!' she cried. 'That's wonderful!' She jumped to her feet and crossed over to her. Then she bent down and her arms went around her sister-in-law's neck as she hugged her happily.
Edmond lifted his feet off the hassock. 'What about me?' he asked with mock hurt in his voice. 'Doesn't the father get any credit?'
5
Luba Tcherina flung open the door to Hélène's office and marched in, her pomegranate-lacquered fingernails sweeping through the air. Jacques was at her heels. He closed the door softly behind him.
Hélène was perched on her desk, one delicate shoe resting on a chair, the telephone receiver tucked between her ear and her shoulder as she consulted a sheaf of papers on her lap. She glanced up, motioned for them to wait. The Czarina sighed impatiently, her elongated fingers tapping her folded arms. Jacques just nodded. Quickly Hélène finished her conversation and replaced the receiver. Today the Czarina was dressed in elegant head-to- toe black. 'Tartar black,' she would have called it. Black breeches, black high-heeled silver-trimmed boots, and a beautiful black wool tunic embroidered with silver thread that had an enormous monk's cowl framing her face. On this occasion, to match her outfit, Luba wore black-framed glasses; legend had it she collected drawers full of different colored glasses to match her wardrobe. Her cheeks, like her nails, were pomegranate: two big circles liberally smeared into the wrinkled skin. Hélène couldn't help wondering if the Czarina had her own cosmetics lab at home. How else could she manage to get hold of all the long-out-of-date colors? Not only that, but make them appear the height of fashion.
The Czarina's dark eyes flashed. 'I think,' she exclaimed, 'I've gone blind! I never want to see snow again for as long as I live! And I never, ever want to set foot in a darkroom again! You know, don't you, that the red light in there only makes it look like a cheap whore's bedroom?' She shivered with revulsion and slumped into one of the chairs, the back of one elegant hand dramatically resting across her brow.
Hélène hopped off the desk. Jacques stepped forward, gave a sweeping bow, and handed her the manila envelope he was carrying.
She looked at it curiously. 'What's this?'
'Proof sheets, princess.'
'Proof sheets!' Hélène parroted. Her voice was incredulous. 'Already! But you must have gotten back from Chamonix in the wee hours!'
'That we did.' The Czarina heaved a weary sigh, her gaunt bosom rising and falling beneath the voluminous folds of her tunic. 'As soon as we got back, Jacques simply insisted that we lock ourselves in the darkroom and work all night through!'
Jacques grinned at Hélène. 'I figured you'd want to see the results right away.'
Luba's black eyes flashed with mischief. 'The results are that when this issue comes out, the editors-in-chief at Vogue, Harper's, and L'Officiel are going to tear their hair out!'
Quickly Hélène began to unravel the figure-8 string that held the envelope shut. She slid out the proof sheets and lined them up neatly, sat down, and took her tortoiseshell magnifying glass out of the top drawer. Silently she gave each print a cursory first glance. She nodded to herself. She had been right in allowing Luba and Jacques to go to Chamonix. Even on these miniature prints, Jacques' genius came through, as did the Czarina's dramatic posing of the models. They were a good team, Jacques and Luba.
When she finished scanning the shots, she went over them again, this time scrutinizing each one closely. She was pleased. There was something about the juxtaposing of summer couture and winter backgrounds that gave the photos the elusive 'something special' she'd been after all this time. Up to now, everything Les Modes had done had been superb. But these? These were sublime.
She picked up a black grease pencil and began circling the ones that most appealed to her. Like the one with the giant yellow snow remover. The plow was raised high in the air and the models were posed in the giant scoop as if they'd just been bulldozed off the snow and trapped there. Or the ones where the models, in their delicate print dresses, were standing knee-deep in snow, their beautiful long legs red with cold. And. . . .She felt a sudden chill and closed her eyes for a moment. There it was. The unmistakable Jacques Renault daredevil trademark. The cable car.
It was not far off the ground as far as cable cars went; it had obviously been stopped just after leaving the ground station. But still it must have been at least fifteen meters up. And any way you looked at it, a four-story drop was a long way. But it was a spectacular shot. All that could be seen was the shiny red car and the athletic models clinging to its sides for dear life. The backdrop was a pristine blue sky cut in half by thick cables.
Hélène chose the shot she'd use for the cover without hesitation. Even in its tiny state, she could see that it was perfection itself. And blown up and cropped, it would be a sensation. It showed the typical Les Modes cover girl, tawny and leonine, stretched out on a carpet of crystallized snow. In front of her, delicate snowdrops, like miniature lilies, had pushed their way up through the snow, each hardy bloom bowed over its pale waxy leaves like miniature bells. The model had her nose poked right in them, her chin aggressively thrust in the snow and her Cleopatra-like eyes glaring up into the camera. Her glossy red lips were barely visible behind the flowers.
'They're fantastic!' Hélène said finally. She looked up at Jacques and Luba. 'Just make certain the competition doesn't hear about them until we're on the stands.'
'Have no fear,' Jacques said. 'We went so far as to have the models sign agreements that if they shoot their mouths off, they'll be docked and held legally liable.'
'Good.' Hélène looked at Luba. 'Why don't you go home now and get some shut eye? You look like you could use it.'
'I do, do I? Well, just this once, I'll let that slide.' The Czarina of haut gout rose haughtily to her feet.
'Oh, and one more thing,' Hélène said quickly. 'Have you gone through the American Harper's recently?'
The Czarina nodded. Part of any editor-in-chief s job was to keep a keen eye on the competition.
Hélène picked up a sheaf of papers. 'I've just gotten a translation of some of the columns. I like Diana Vreeland's column, 'Why Don't You. . .' Have you read it?'
The Czarina's eyes narrowed. She didn't favor any comparisons, no matter how exalted. 'No. Is there any reason why I should?'
'I think so,' Hélène said. 'It's very funny and positively chic. You know, like: 'Why don't you turn your old ermine coat into a bathrobe?' That kind of thing. There are no end of possibilities with something like that.'
'Indeed not.' The Czarina's nostrils flared distastefully as she ticked off some quick titles on her fingers. 'Why don't you. . .let's see. . .turn your old Porthault sheets into new terrace awnings? Why don't you . . .use your old diamonds to stud your bolero jacket? Why don't you turn your old gold bracelets into napkin rings? Why don't—'
'All right,' Hélène said testily, 'I get the idea. You don't like it.'
'On the contrary,' the Czarina said. 'I like it. Only it's been done. We'll have to be more original than that.'
'I agree. But let's try to think up a column along those lines. It's got to be something terribly useless, though, otherwise it won't be chic. When you come up with some ideas, we'll have a powwow. Now, off you go.'
The Czarina rose, offered her cheek for Jacques to kiss, and then swept out of the office. When she was gone, Jacques started to gather up the proof sheets. 'I'll blow up the ones you've marked after I've gotten my forty winks.'
'Fine,' Hélène said. 'But I'd like you to do something for me first.'
'Sure. What is it?'
Hélène went over to the big floor safe, knelt down, and spun the combination. After a moment of fiddling, she swung the heavy door open
and took out a manila envelope. She snapped the safe shut again and spun the dial around for good measure. 'Let's go to the lab,' she said. 'I need you to take some pictures right away.'
It took two hours for Jacques to finish. He snapped all the von Eiderfeld documents, developed the film, blew it up to eight-by-tens, and printed one copy of each. While it was being done, Hélène stayed in the darkroom. She wasn't about to let those precious documents out of her sight. Not after all the trouble she'd gone through to get them.
When everything was finished, they went back to her office. She studied the prints. Jacques had done a fine job. He had photographed each document carefully and they were eminently readable. Even the photos of von Eiderfeld looked better than the originals had, since he had played around some with the lighting.
She put the copies in one envelope, the originals in another, and both of them in her attaché case. She placed the negatives separately in her purse. Later, she would destroy them. There was no point in having too many copies of something this volatile floating around.
'Thanks, Jacques,' she said. 'I really do appreciate it. I know you're overworked and tired.'
He grinned. 'Anytime, princess.' He paused. His voice was suddenly very serious. 'That's heavy stuff.' He gestured at her attaché case.
'I know that.' She forced her voice to remain light. 'Now, you'd better go home and get your forty winks.'
'I'll do that.' He started for the door. When he reached it, he turned around. 'See you tomorrow. I'll be in the darkroom all morning. By afternoon, you'll have the Chamonix blowups.'
She smiled. 'Tomorrow, then.'
As soon as he was gone, she drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the attaché case. She hadn't wanted to get Jacques involved in this. There was no need for him to know anything about it. But she needed a set of copies, and he was the only person she could trust to make them. She shrugged. Some things just couldn't be helped.
Quickly she made three telephone calls. The first was to her personal lawyer, Emile Mauriac. It was he who had the original of the Clytemnestra tape locked away in his vault. She would put the von Eiderfeld originals in there along with it. And the same instructions would apply: if she didn't contact him regularly, he was to go promptly to the police. She smiled grimly to herself. She wondered what Hubert and von Eiderfeld would think if they knew what dangerous ground they were treading upon. If one of them succeeded in harming her, the other would suffer the consequences as well. She thought it rather poetic.
She had made an appointment to drop by Monsieur Mauriac's office at eleven o'clock. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was after ten already. She'd have to hurry.
Next she called Paul Clermont. He was the lawyer whose offices handled all the legal ends for Les Editions Hélène Junot. She would meet with him after lunch. He would help her gain entrance to see the reclusive Karl von Eiderfeld. She had mapped out her strategy very carefully. She would have him send the von Eiderfeld lawyers in Dusseldorf a tiny portion of one of the documents. A cryptic portion only von Eiderfeld himself would be able to recognize. That should flush the fox out of hiding, she thought. And to keep him dangling, she would use the name Madame Kowalsky. That wouldn't set off any warning bells. And using the Clermont offices to make contact was a good idea. She'd done the same thing when she'd gone to see the Comte. This way, neither of them had any idea where the documents were.
Finally she called Edmond.
'Hey, Little French Girl,' he said in surprise. 'What's up?'
'Not much. Are you doing anything exciting?'
His laugh was warm. 'I'm afraid not. Just cramming for exams, as usual.'
'Oh, I should have known better.' She hesitated, then decided that she was being a fool. Family was family. When something important came up, you just had to drop what you were doing. 'Listen, would it be a great inconvenience if you took a break and met me for lunch?'
'That's no inconvenience.' Then a note of worry crept into his voice. 'Is anything the matter?'
'No,' she assured him hastily. 'It's just that I need your opinion on something. It's. . .well, it's rather important.'
Hélène hung up thoughtfully after they arranged to meet. She had never meant to discuss von Eiderfeld's 'punishment' with Edmond. But he had a right to know. He had been victimized by that horrid albino as much as she had. And sooner or later, when he finished school and joined Les Modes, he was bound to find out. Better that he knew now.
After leaving Monsieur Mauriac's office, Hélène walked to Fouquet's. It was only a few blocks down the Champs-Elysees. The attaché case in her left hand felt much lighter now; the originals of the von Eiderfeld documents were safely locked away. No matter what von Eiderfeld threatened, he wouldn't dare lift a finger against her. Not now. She had all the bases covered.
She would talk it over with Edmond and ask his advice. The only trouble was, she thought she knew what he would say. That since it was she who had set the wheels in motion, it was up to her, and her alone, to decide von Eiderfeld's fate.
She crossed the rue de Bassano and passed the TWA office without giving it as much as a glance, At the Avenue Georges V she stopped for the red light. She waved to Edmond. He was standing on the far corner, waiting for her outside the cafe's glass-enclosed terrace. He smiled and waved back.
The light changed and the automobiles stopped behind the zebra-striped crosswalk. As she stepped off the curb, she heard the high-pitched, clucking whine of a moped. Instinctively she stopped in her tracks and whirled around. The moped was shooting recklessly forward from the narrow space between two cars, the driver and passenger both wearing bowl-like white helmets with big gray goggles. Her heart gave a leap. For a moment she was certain they were going to run her down. Then she let out a slow sigh of relief. The driver had swerved to a sudden halt. She shook her head angrily. Just as she started walking again, the passenger's leather-jacketed arm shot out, a gloved hand grabbed her purse, and the moped went roaring off in a blue cloud of exhaust.
It took a second for what had happened to register. Then Hélène let out a scream and frantically began chasing after the bike. 'Thief! Stop him, somebody!' she cried. 'My purse! My purse!'
But she wasn't fast enough. They burned the red light, made a sharp right turn onto the Champs-Elysees, and swiftly merged into the heavy traffic. For a moment she could see the passenger twisting around to look back at her. But all she could see was a pair of goggles.
Hélène stopped running and slowed to a halt. It was useless. She would never catch up with them. Not on foot, nor in a car. Besides, one of the heels of her shoes was coming loose.
The last thing she saw was the moped weaving in and out of the traffic. A few seconds later, it disappeared out of sight. She made an angry, futile gesture with her arm. Then Edmond was beside her and held her tightly. He, too, was out of breath. Like her, he had started to give chase on foot. Silently she let him lead her up onto the sidewalk and into Fouquet's. They were quickly shown to a sidewalk table and she sank down into a chair. She sat there motionless for a moment. Blankly she stared out the glassed-in terrace. Then she covered her face with her hands as the enormity of the situation hit her. She had not yet had a chance to destroy the negatives. They were still in her purse. Her stolen purse.
Edmond twisted around and motioned for a waiter. 'Quick—a glass of brandy!'
'Oui, monsieur.' The waiter hurried off.
Edmond leaned solicitously across the table. 'Do you think you can remember anything about either one of those punks?'
She shook her head dumbly.
'Did you catch the license plate?'
'No,' she whispered. She still stared out the window. 'It . . .it all happened so fast.'
He sighed and slumped back wearily. 'I didn't either.' Then he started to get up. 'I'll be back in a moment.'
She looked up suddenly. 'Where are you going?'
'To call the gendarmes. It won't hurt to report this.'
'No!' She gripped his arm so fier
cely that he looked at her in surprise. For a brief moment he half-sat, half-stood.
'But. . .your money .. . your ID papers?'
'I don't want to go to the police,' she said flatly.
He stared at her. 'But. . .you can't allow them to get away with it!'
'They already have,' she pointed out. Her usual practicality was quickly returning. 'Besides, it's not the money that worries me.' She leaned across the table and clenched her fists. 'It's the film.'
'The film?' He looked at her blankly and settled back in his seat. 'What are you talking about?'
Her brandy arrived and she took a quick swallow. Her hands were still shaking, but not as badly as they had been. She was starting to regain her calm. She set the glass down and looked around quickly to make certain she couldn't be overheard. 'Just hear me out, Edmond,' she said in a low voice. 'Then you'll understand.'
She cleared her throat and started telling him about her search for von Eiderfeld. While she talked, she couldn't help wondering about the coincidence of her purse being snatched while the negatives were in it. She'd never had anything stolen before. She'd read of women's purses being snatched by thieves on mopeds. The papers were full of such stories. But that it should happen now? And to her? Long ago, she had stopped believing in coincidences. They were too pat an answer. And. . . She paled suddenly. If it was really more than just a coincidence, then who could it have been? The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Only one person knew that she'd put the negatives in her purse.
She tried to push the creeping thoughts out of her mind. No, she thought quickly. She was overdramatizing things. He would never do anything to hurt her. Jacques was a friend.
6
Hélène looked out the round porthole of the Lufthansa DC-7 as it neared its destination. Outside, on the starboard wing, she could see the twin propellers spinning in a silver blur. She could hear a muffled roar as the motors changed pitch.
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