Sins

by Gould, Judith

  She was shaking like a leaf. How dare Hubert come in that getup! Didn't he know that nothing repulsed her more? That nothing repulsed any of the people gathered here more? It was clear that he was trying to ruin the ball. Ruin her.

  But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst were the memories that suddenly sprang up in front of her. The terrible things she'd suffered as a child at the hands of the Nazis.

  Suddenly a set of footsteps rang out clearly. She lifted her head and turned slightly to the right. Luba was marching up to Hubert, the midgets holding up her heavy train hurrying bowleggedly to keep up.

  Luba came to a stop in front of Hubert. For a long tense moment she stared daggers through him. Then wordlessly she flung one arm backward and brought it forward so fast that at first no one even realized what was happening. Only when the sound of flesh slapping against flesh rang out clearly was it obvious.

  She hit him again with her open hand. This time Hubert anticipated her move and tried to duck. It was a mistake. Luba's hand missed his cheek and hit him squarely on the nose. Blood began to drip from it, and the monkey on Luba's shoulder screeched shrilly, clapping its tiny black hands together in delight.

  Quickly recovering, Hélène signaled for two of the gold-painted bodyguards. Silently they approached the unsuspecting Hubert from behind, grabbed hold of him under the armpits, and effortlessly lifted him up and carried him outside.

  Hubert's legs futilely kicked the air. He glanced back over his shoulder, the sweat suddenly pouring down his face as he realized what they were going to do. Indignantly he shouted protests. 'No! Somebody make them stop it!' he cried. 'Put me down!'

  At the entrance to the palazzo, the bodyguards paused. They looked out at the canal, then faced each other. Their eyes gleamed inside the narrow slits of their masks. They nodded and counted aloud.

  Hubert started to scream as they grabbed his feet and swung him through the air in an arc. Once. Twice. On the count of three they let go and tossed him far out into the cold, black waters of the Grand Canal.

  Hubert hit the water like a cannonball. The paparazzi in their boats quickly snapped pictures and then turned away, protecting their cameras from the sudden splash of water. When Hubert surfaced, he screamed in terror, his arms flailing the water. 'I can't swim!' he screeched. 'Help me! I'm drowning!'

  The Grand Canal closed in over him as he submerged again.

  'For God's sake!' Z.Z. screamed from the stoop. 'Help him, somebody!' She turned to the two bodyguards who had tossed him in. 'Help him!' She clenched her fists and beat one of them uselessly on the chest.

  Then flashbulbs popped like lightning and the paparazzi went wild as Z.Z. dived in after Hubert.

  Their pictures would make all the papers.

  It was dawn by the time the last of the guests departed. Wearily Hélène sat down in the chair next to Nigel's and let out a deep breath. Besides them, only Luba was still there. For a long time Hélène surveyed the chaotic mess with a stern eye. There was nothing more dismal than the remains of a party.

  She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. 'I'm exhausted!'

  The Czarina smiled. She could move about unimpeded now. The midgets and the monkey had long since been sent home; the train had been unhooked from her gown and was folded neatly over the back of a chair. She sat down opposite Hélène. 'But was it worth it! You mark my words,' she prophesied. 'Within a week, not an ounce of d'Or will be left in any of our outlets.' Her coal-black eyes glittered. 'We'd better step up production right away.'

  'Tomorrow,' Hélène said weakly, waving away the business talk. 'All I want to do right now is to go to bed.' She stiffened and clenched her fists angrily. 'Hubert de Léger! How dared he crash the ball in a costume like that!'

  The Czarina sniffed. 'The blood of the de Légers has run bad. Too much intermarriage through the centuries, if you ask me. But don't worry.' She leaned forward, patted Hélène's hand, and smiled, her pomegranate lips wide and knowing. 'He may not realize it yet, but he's done you an enormous favor.'

  'Favor!' Hélène looked at her wide-eyed.

  'The publicity, of course! You can't buy publicity like that.'

  Hélène shook her head. 'Really, Luba,' she said reproachfully, 'is that all you can think of? Sales?'

  Three days later the telephones in the d'Itri offices were ringing off the hook and the telex kept up a constant chatter day and night. The Czarina's prediction had been correct. The newspapers had been full of Hubert's rescue by Z.Z. from the Grand Canal. There was no way d'Or could not be mentioned, since everything had occurred at the Golden Ball.

  As a result, d'Or had taken off, selling out instantly. Hélène quickly called up the factory in Grasse to speed up production tenfold. And as soon as the shelves were restocked, they emptied again. D'Or was the hottest-selling fragrance ever.

  To Hélène, it suddenly seemed as if the world was paved with gold. It was difficult for her to imagine that she had ever been poor. Even the newspapers began referring to her as 'Mademoiselle Midas.'

  She had laughed at the articles, but deep down inside, she was secretly pleased. She had always been well-known, even before she started Les Modes. Her fame and social position had been assured when she had become Madame Kowalsky. But now she suddenly found herself as famous as only a handful of women in the world. She couldn't believe it. Never had anything gone so right.

  But things weren't quite as good as she thought. She realized that the instant she got the call from New York in the middle of the night. Once again it was Edmond, with bad news.

  'Come back immediately!' he told her. 'De Léger and the others have stirred up trouble!'

  'What kind of trouble?' she asked. She couldn't seriously believe they could do anything that warranted a call at this hour.

  But they had. Z.Z. and Hubert were taking her to court. They claimed she had misappropriated HJII funds for personal use. A subpoena would be awaiting her the moment she set foot in the United States.

  Worse, in the morning the IRS was going to descend upon HJII.

  15

  The warrant was served on her the moment she came through customs. Even while she had been on the plane, IRS agents were already at the accounting department of HJII, throwing everything into chaos. Hélène wanted to drop by and see if there was anything she could do, but Edmond advised against it.

  'There isn't enough time, Little French Girl. We have to be at the courthouse within the hour.'

  The case of Z. Z. Bavier v. Hélène Junot was due to begin.

  Hélène nodded and stared out the window of the sleek limousine. In less than an hour, and for perhaps as long as the next few weeks, she would be faced with nothing but unpleasantness. She had never been taken to court before, and the prospect of being trapped in a courtroom was highly distasteful. Her only consolation was that she was innocent. There had been no misuse of funds.

  By the time a week passed, the accountants, investigators, and lawyers realized it too. Everything began to fizzle out.

  To their chagrin, the IRS men discovered that not only was everything tip-top in accounting, and all the taxes owed the government paid, but that the taxes had actually been overpaid. By nearly seven thousand dollars. HJII's account would be credited.

  Not to be outdone by the IRS, Z.Z. and Hubert's accountants and lawyers had gone at it even more doggedly, but they, too, finally left with their tails tucked shamefully between their legs. Sheepishly they had to acknowledge that not a penny was unaccounted for or misused.

  To top it off, the judge took Z.Z., Hubert, and their lawyers into her chambers and gave them a stern tongue-lashing on wasting the court's precious time and threatened them with contempt.

  All charges were instantly dropped.

  Instead of feeling elated, Hélène seethed with anger. The IRS and the accountants crawling all over the place had set work back by weeks. There hadn't been a single department of HJII that hadn't come under scrutiny. When it was over, she and Edmond met together in her
lavishly appointed office high in the RCA Building.

  'They're going to pay for this,' she said, stalking restlessly back and forth. 'But how? What can I legally do to get back at Z.Z. and Hubert?' Her face was flushed with anger and her violet eyes burned dangerously. She stopped at one of the windows, stuck her fingers between two slats of the Venetian blinds, and looked down at Rockefeller Plaza. It was curiously empty. It was that in-between time when the Promenade Cafe cleared its outdoor tables away and the ice-skating rink was yet to be set up.

  'You're looking for revenge?' Edmond asked cautiously.

  She let the blinds snap back into place. Then she turned her back to the window, crossed over to him, and dropped into a chair. 'I'm looking for legal options.'

  He lit a cigarette, sat back thoughtfully, and crossed his legs. 'You could always countersue. For defamation or something along those lines.'

  'No,' Hélène said firmly. 'The judge was right. Enough of the court's time has already been wasted. I don't believe in making a mockery of justice. . .' Her voice trailed off as a sudden glint came into her eyes.

  He caught her expression. 'All right,' he demanded shrewdly, 'I can feel your gears turning. Care to share your thoughts?'

  She smiled. He could read her like a book.

  'I think,' she said slowly, 'that I have come up with a way to get back at them. It won't make much of a difference to Hubert, of course. He's too rich. But Z.Z. . ..' She smiled. 'Z.Z.'s life-style demands money. I happen to know that she overinvested in HJII.'

  'Oh? And pray tell, how did you happen to come across that information?'

  She waved her hand deprecatingly. 'I have ways. The important thing is, she's counting on her dividends. Do you think it would be legal if we shrank them?'

  'Shrank them!'

  'Yes.'

  'How?'

  She leaned forward, the words tumbling from her mouth. 'By expanding HJII, Edmond! I've wanted to do that for a while now anyway. This is the perfect opportunity. Let's see. . .' She was beginning to get caught up in her self-induced excitement. 'We could start a British edition of Les Modes. Perhaps even a German one.' She jumped to her feet. 'And we could buy a piece of property right here in New York and erect our very own building. The Junot Building! God knows, the way we bounce back and forth across the Atlantic, the company could use a corporate jet, too. We could even get a few cars for the major executives, a Rolls for me. . .'

  Edmond smiled suddenly, his teeth flashing. 'Little French Girl, you're a blooming genius. Not only will you get what you want, but we'll be cutting our taxes way down in the process.'

  'It's legal, then?' she asked carefully.

  'It's legal. Just don't go overboard,' he cautioned. 'Cutting the others' profits will cut yours in the process. Make sure you leave yourself enough so that you won't be caught short.'

  'I'll make do,' she said with determination.

  Once Hélène's mind was made up about something, she didn't waver. She put her plan into action immediately. She started by purchasing the property on Fifth Avenue and Twelfth Street. She liked the location. Lower Fifth Avenue appealed to her. It was quiet and sedate. The Washington Square arch a few blocks down reminded her of Paris. Also, the property was already commercially zoned. But best of all, she liked it because she rubbed shoulders with that other fashion giant, Fairchild Publications. They were right next door.

  Instead of simply razing the building, Hélène's architects suggested they gut it until it was just a shell. It was a sturdy building and would make a desirable framework for hers. Hélène hesitated, but once the firm came up with the plans for the renderings, she immediately saw their point and agreed.

  When first the destruction and then the construction began, she watched over the process with an eagle eye. Not the smallest, most inconsequential detail escaped her. Every day she made it a point to drop by and watch the progress. She roamed endlessly through the shell of the empty building, poking into corners and asking countless questions. She even went so far as to don a hard hat and bravely walk the scaffolding that jutted out over the avenue. She supervised and suggested and egged on the workers so that, miraculously, the Junot Building was completed two months ahead of schedule.

  As the inside was totally rebuilt, so the outside was slipcovered with a shell of crystalline mirror. It was one of the first truly face-lifted buildings in the city, and she had to admit that the architects had worked wonders. They had even angled the corners until the original shape of the building was no longer in evidence. It caught all the reflections of the traffic and the neighborhood and the pedestrians. It reflected all the life that went on around it and froze it for a fraction of a second. It mirrored everything, but nothing as gloriously as the changing moods of the weather.

  The Grumman Gulfstream II luxury jet she had ordered was completed the same week as the building, and it was flown directly to Italy, whose coachwork is the finest in the world. The interior was being lavishly appointed under the supervision of an internationally renowned interior-design team. And at the Rolls-Royce factory in England, her specially designed Silver Cloud was undergoing the long process of receiving layer upon layer of lacquer.

  Hélène should have been content. HJII had gotten its own headquarters—a building named after her—and its own corporate jet. Now she could wing around the world in total privacy without having to be inconvenienced by airline schedules. But much more important, both England and Germany had their own editions of Les Modes.

  The empire had expanded some more.

  But Hélène was not satisfied. All her successes so far had been a product of HJII's natural momentum. What she hungered for now was a new success. One which did not involve HJII. One which did not involve Z.Z., d'Itri, von Eiderfeld, or Hubert de Léger.

  One which was totally separate from all the others.

  A new magazine.

  Her own.

  Her very own.

  16

  'Why go out on a limb if you don't have to?' Edmond asked after the Sphinx left the office.

  He and Hélène were sitting at the floor-to-ceiling windows where Julie had set up a folding table. It was draped with a crisp white cloth. The flaky croissants and brioches on the paper-thin white bone china were untouched. Far below their feet, the morning traffic on Fifth Avenue was picking up.

  Hélène sipped her coffee slowly. 'I'm restless, Edmond. I feel like everything's at a standstill.'

  He laughed. 'Far from it. You're busier than ever.'

  Abruptly she set her cup down in her saucer and got to her feet, restlessly prowling back and forth. 'Dammit!' She clenched her index finger and sucked on it. Suddenly she whirled around accusingly, her eyes flashing. 'I want a success that's mine. That's mine alone!'

  He looked surprised. 'Little French Girl. You don't think HJII is yours? Or the d'Itri boutiques, for that matter? Your name is practically a household word. On two continents.'

  'Sure it is. Maybe that's the trouble. Any magazine I add to HJII's roster is almost certain to be a hit. Not because of me. Because of Luba and the whole staff. Because of HJII.'

  'Everybody should be so lucky. You have everything you've ever wanted.'

  She vented a deep sigh and slipped into her chair. She reached out and covered his hands with hers, her violet eyes shining earnestly across the table. 'I want another success, Edmond. Everything's running fairly smoothly, sure. But I want a new magazine! One that's a challenge. One that's all mine!'

  He let out a low whistle. 'You're asking for a lot. A whole new publishing company—'

  'Damn right. With no one sitting on the board but me.' She gave a tentative smile and with a mango-lacquered fingernail toyed with the rim of her cup. 'You know, it's funny. There was a time when I would have given anything—anything—to be where I am today. And now?' She gave a low husky laugh. 'Now it seems like . . . like it was too easy.' She frowned suddenly. 'Like I've cut too many corners to get where I am.'

  He looked at her steadi
ly. 'Are you sure that's it? That that's what your restlessness is really all about?'

  She eyed him sharply. 'What do you mean?'

  'Little French Girl,' he said with patent patience, 'Remember, it's me you're talking to. Edmond.'

  She gave him a little smile.

  'You're sure you're not restless because of. . .' He paused, choosing his words carefully. '. . . because of personal reasons?'

  She placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin heavily in her cupped hands, and stared down at the Forbes Building. 'I take it you're referring to my love life.'

  'What else is there?'

  'What indeed,' she murmured.

  'Work is no substitute,' he warned with reproval in his voice.

  'Edmond, Edmond, Edmond,' she said flatly, turning to face him. 'God knows I'm no virgin. Oh, don't look at me like that! I'm no nymphomaniac, either. But if I go to bed with a man, I have to feel something for him. And it just so happens that the only man I love is Nigel.' She smiled sadly. 'Fate's played a cruel trick on both of us. We can't help it if we've got to meet discreetly and snatch a few precious hours or nights every now and then. But in his position, a divorce is out of the question. There just isn't any other way. Nor is there anyone else for me. Between our meetings, what else can I do but keep busy?'

  'All right. Enough said.' He cleared his throat, clearly relieved to be able to change the subject. 'The meeting you wanted scheduled with Gore is at ten-thirty. You're sure you want to go ahead with it?'

  'Absolutely. I intend to borrow ten million dollars.'

  'Ten million!' He was shocked. 'Why, you started HJII with only—'

  'Times have changed, Edmond. Money is no longer worth what it used to be. You should know that better than anyone. Plus nowadays there isn't any room for failure or flukes. I intend to do a heavy TV advertising blitz. Things like that. It'll take a lot of money.'