Episode on the Riviera

by Mack Reynolds

  The other grinned at him, his teeth large and white. “Man, you look beat.”

  “I am,” Steve grumbled. “Is that an American cigarette? Let me bum one, will you?”

  Payant shook out a Camel for him, and lit if off his own. They’d been friends for several years now, Steve being a folk song buff.

  “Look,” Steve said, “I must have a king-size bill with you by now. I haven’t paid up for my tours for the past three weeks.”

  Payant shrugged carelessly. “You’re good for it, Steve. I’ll look it up in a day or so and send the tab to Elaine. You going to be at Carla’s party?”

  “Going to be?” Steve muttered. “I was at Carla’s party, Thursday night.”

  Payant chuckled. “This is evidently a new one. Dave Shepherd was in earlier. He invited me. Late Tuesday afternoon.”

  “I know,” Steve said. “Supposedly a cocktail party, but it usually goes on until morning, and nobody gets anything to eat except hors d’oeuvres.”

  “After a few of those drinks Shepherd mixes, nobody wants to eat,” Payant said. He scowled at his friend. “What’s the matter, Steve?”

  Steve Cogswell’s face had gone suddenly ashen. He put his hand on Gordon Payant’s arm. “Look, that couple just leaving. Going out the door.”

  Payant squinted his eyes against the gloom of the smoke-filled room, tried to make out the two at the far end of the bar. “What’s the matter with them?”

  They were gone. Steve knew that he’d never be able to squeeze through the crowded tables in time to find them before they disappeared on the streets outside.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m just tired. It couldn’t be.”

  “Couldn’t be who?” Payant demanded. “Man, you sound like you been blasting pot.”

  “My former wife, Fay. And Mart Gunther.”

  Chapter Four

  Monday, August 8th

  Fay and Mart Gunther didn’t show up at the office until early afternoon.

  Steve had slept late himself, knowing that Elaine would be able to hold down the fort until it was time for her to take over the tour to Grasse at about eleven o’clock. He had slept until ten and then taken a quick dip with the contessa and Dave Shepherd.

  That pair of perpetual partygoers were, as Gordon Payant had reported, planning a cocktail affair for the following day. Dave, who was splitting the expenses with Carla, was all for making it a theme party, with Morocco as the theme. Moroccan decorations, Moroccan hors d’oeuvres, Moroccan drinks.

  “That’s all I need,” Steve told him. “Moroccan drinks. That hangover I got from your absinthe frappés is hardly over. My friends, please count me out.”

  “Ha!” the contessa, whose figure was never better to be appreciated than in a bikini, told him. “Carla has heard this many times. Count me out, this loup-garou of the Côte d’Azur says, but when the party begins, with the drinks and the girls, who is always flittering around?”

  “Flittering around,” Dave had giggled. “Now that’s an apt way of putting it. What is a loup-garou? It sounds frightfully appealing.”

  Steve was scowling at Carla, whose face was impishly innocent.

  “It means werewolf,” he said. “I don’t get the application to me.”

  “But Carla thinks it is perfectly obvious,” the contessa said. “All day long our hard-working Mr. Cogswell dashes about chaperoning his tourists, a perfectly respectable man. But when night comes he turns into a wolf. And what does he do to all the pretty girls? He lays them.”

  Dave fluttered his hands to his ears. “Please,” he said. “I just can’t stand to hear women using four-letter words.”

  Steve was laughing.

  Carla said seriously, “You know, this is a very strange thing. I could never say, in Hungarian, the equivalent of your four-letter words. Never in the world in my own language. But in English, or French, it means nothing to me. Nothing at all.”

  Steve said, “Well, believe me, it can come as a shock, when an attractive, cultivated woman meets you and out come terms usually associated with the poetry on rest room walls.” He laughed again.

  Dave went back to the party. “I could whip up a batch of El Majoun, and then we could fake some dancing boys.”

  “El Majoun?” Carla said suspiciously.

  “Dancing boys?” Steve said.

  “What is this El Majoun?” Carla said. “Already Carla suspects she doesn’t like it.”

  “What’s wrong with dancing girls?” Steve demanded.

  “Well, my dears,” Dave fluttered. “We do want to be authentic, you know, if we have a Moroccan motif. El Majoun is hashish fudge. You take almonds, walnuts, raisins, and honey, and butter, and — ”

  “Hashish fudge!” Carla said accusingly. “Oh, no, you don’t. I can see just how long Carla would remain in business when the word got to the police that she served hashish fudge at Pavilion Budapest parties.”

  Dave shrugged his shoulders prettily, as though there were no pleasing some people, and turned to Steve. “Hollywood to the contrary, dear boy, you don’t have dancing girls in Moroccan night clubs, or anywhere else that they might be seen by Christian men. It would cause riots. Instead, they have the cutest boys ever, all done up in Moroccan women’s clothing. My dears, it’s quite a sight. The boys are trained from childhood. They’re specially, ah, prepared.” Dave giggled again. “You know, emasculated.”

  “Hell!” Steve said. “I can see I’m going to stay away from this party in droves.”

  The contessa said indignantly, “Ha, no dancing boys in my villa, Dave Shepherd. If we are that short of dancers, Carla will dance herself.”

  “Oh, you people have no real imagination,” Dave said, in a huff.

  Steve leered heavily at Carla Rossi, letting his eyes sweep up and down her figure. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, his voice low with pretended sexiness. “How about the dance of the seven veils?”

  She swatted him across his buttocks, jumped to her feet and headed for the water. “Loup-garou,” she said over her shoulder.

  After his swim, Steve had driven into Monte Carlo in the Citroën station wagon, arriving in time to relieve Elaine at the office. Her tourist group consisted of only fifteen persons, and she was taking them in a small Fiat bus.

  There was the usual mail, none of it important except one from the Far Away Holidays office in London. The extra number of tourists was to be eight, not ten. Steve grunted something under his breath about giving thanks for all small favors and thumbed his way through the balance of the morning’s offerings.

  There was a cable for Nadine Whiteley from New York. He remembered her saying something about taking a drive up into the mountain villages of Provence in her rented Simca, so there was no way of contacting her before evening. He put the cable into his inner jacket pocket.

  He kept himself busy at paper work until lunch, then ate over at the grill in the Hotel de Paris. One of the advantages of this job, Steve was of the opinion, was the fact that his duties including eating at least once a week in each of the hotels where the Far Away Holidays vacationists were staying — on the house, of course. Supposedly he was keeping tabs on the quality of the food. It couldn’t be better than at the grill.

  Back in the office again, he took up where he had left off. Thank goodness, at least, that he was getting neither phoned complaints nor enraged tourists calling at the office today.

  It was then that the door opened, and there were Fay and Martin Gunther.

  “Hello, Steven,” Fay said.

  “Hi, Stevie,” Mart said.

  In five years, Mart Gunther had gone a bit more to weight. His jowls were heavier, his movements on the sluggish side.

  But the years had done little to Fay — little more than to realize the promise of the less mature beauty of her youth. The soft mouth perhaps was a trace less delicate than in yesteryear, the breasts a trifle less arrogant, but ah, the long legs, the striking body, the grooming and easy grace of Fay. It was
all there. She was still all Fay.

  Steve said, heavily, “Then it was you last night. Yes, of course.” He pushed back his chair and came to his feet and motioned to the customers’ chairs. “Sit down, Fay, Gunther.”

  For a brief moment, Martin Gunther looked as though he were going to step forward to shake hands, but then the automatic gesture of the hand checked itself and after he had seated Fay he took the other chair, sinking into it with a sigh.

  He’s beginning to be a fat man, Steve thought dully. He’s only a couple of years or so older than I am. He sat down again himself.

  Fay leaned forward. “Oh, Steven, how are you?”

  He looked at her. Her lips were slightly parted. When he was a young man, he remembered, they had all but driven him crazy with passion. He hadn’t been very experienced when he’d married Fay. Lord knows, he hadn’t.

  He said evenly, “I’m fine, Fay. How have you been?”

  She looked around the office and gestured. “But this place. Why, you were the third man in your class at M.I.T., Steven.”

  “I like it,” he said flatly. “What a coincidence, our meeting here. Vacation?”

  Mart Gunther cleared his throat. “It’s not exactly a coincidence that we’re here, Stevie …”

  “The name is Mr. Cogswell,” Steve said flatly.

  “Oh, Steven,” Fay said.

  His eyes left the face of Mart Gunther, a face that was beginning to darken, and returned to her.

  She leaned forward again. Her voice was artificial. “Steven, haven’t five years healed the wounds? They tell us that time heals everything.”

  “Yes, so they tell us,” Steve said.

  “Steven, can’t you see that it was the only thing that could happen? We weren’t happy. We could never have been happy. We just … we just weren’t meant for each other.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Her words came faster. She said earnestly, “Steven, listen to me. Martin and I are happy.”

  “You’re married, eh? I wasn’t even sure we were divorced.”

  Martin Gunther said, “We couldn’t get in touch with you. Nobody knew where you’d gone.”

  “You said it was no coincidence, your being here,” Steve said.

  Gunther said, “Look, we might as well lay it on the table. Stevie — ” he twisted his mouth — ”Mr. Cogswell, if you want it that way. We located you through a private detective.”

  Steve scowled at him. “Why go to the bother?”

  Fay gushed, “Steve, I had to apologize to you.”

  “All right, Fay, you have.” Steve looked back to Mart Gunther. “And is that what motivates you? Is that why you hired a detective agency to locate me?”

  Gunther said doggedly, “Look, it’s been five years and you haven’t even dropped us a postcard.”

  Steve suddenly laughed. “What did you expect? Something with the Eiffel Tower on it and me writing having a wonderful time? Somehow I had gained the impression that we weren’t exactly friends any longer.”

  Gunther said, impatience in his voice, “I was talking about the firm, not Fay and me as individuals.”

  “The firm! You mean Gunther & Cogswell is still in existence?” Steve laughed again. He was getting the damnedest feeling of a lack of reality in this whole thing.

  Gunther said, “It hasn’t been easy. But one way or the other, I’ve kept things going.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I won’t bore you with the details. Among other things, Fay had to take a job.”

  Steve said, “Well, evidently the Horatio Alger bit came true. You’ve finally got to the point of doing well enough that here you are, taking a holiday on the Riviera.”

  Gunther’s voice was still dogged. “This isn’t a vacation trip, Stevie. I keep telling you that. I’ve got a couple of new partners. Good men who want to come into the firm. But it’s not fair to them, or to Fay and me, for you to be a fifty per cent partner. They’re going to put up not only their own training and abilities, but some money as well.” Mart Gunther pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped moisture from his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly hot day.

  Steve said, “So you want me to bow out.”

  “It’s only fair. You haven’t even been in the States for five years.”

  Steve didn’t get part of this. He frowned and said, “Why didn’t you just dissolve Gunther & Cogswell and start off all fresh with these new men?”

  Gunther made a gesture with his two hands, palm upward. “For one thing, the firm has been going for almost seven years. It’s established, no matter how poorly it’s been going. We’re known in the field. Our publicity and advertising has had some effect on potential customers.”

  “It would be so much easier for us, Steven,” Fay injected.

  Steve came suddenly to his feet. “Look,” he said, “where are you staying?”

  “At the Negresco, in Nice.”

  “Okay. Let me think about it. I don’t mind telling you both that I’m confused. Besides that, this is the height of my busy season and I’ve got a lot on my mind. Let me think about it and I’ll check back with you shortly.”

  “I don’t know what there is to think about,” Mart Gunther protested, lumbering to his own feet. “I’m not asking you to give anything away. We’ll offer you a nominal sum for your interest.”

  “I still want to think about it,” Steve said impatiently. “Frankly, this has come as a shock to me. I never expected to see either of you again.”

  He ushered them to the door, taking Fay’s arm as he guided her.

  His hand tingled with the contact.

  Fay!

  • • •

  They were gone.

  Steve Cogswell locked the office and walked over to the little bistro on the corner at Avenue Saint Michel.

  The fille de comptoir nodded to him. “Monsieur Cogswell.”

  He took a stool. “Une fine, Bette, s’il vous plaît,” he said brusquely. “Armagnac.”

  The barmaid’s eyebrows went up. Monsieur Cogswell, the American who worked with tourists from England, was usually on the pleasant and smiling side. In fact, Bette had long been of the opinion that she held a certain interest for him and that it was just a matter of time before he attempted to develop a relationship.

  It was all right with Bette, she was available. In fact, she was anticipating. Now she shrugged and poured the brandy. Evidently, even Monsieur Cogswell had his bad days.

  He knocked the brandy back, stiff-wristed.

  “Encore, Bette,” he told her.

  At this time of day? Bette shrugged again and refilled the glass. As she turned to replace the bottle on the counter behind the bar, he reached out and stayed her.

  Monsieur Cogswell was evidently really in a bad way today. She left the bottle before him, as he desired, and went off to fill an order for one of the garçons who were waiting tables out in front on the sidewalk.

  Steve knocked back the second drink, waited only momentarily before pouring still another.

  He was shocked to realize the extent to which Fay was still able to affect him. Five years! Five years and a hundred women ago. How many women had he bedded since last he had seen Fay? He had no idea. Women in France and women in Spain, brunettes in Italy and blondes in Denmark, prim girls in England and lusty wenches in Germany. A compulsion, he sourly admitted to himself. This continual need to prove wrong the things of which Fay had accused him.

  He poured another drink, downed it, then suddenly got down from his stool, tossed a bill on the bar and turned away, striding quickly from the place.

  Bette picked up the money and looked after him. At least Monsieur Cogswell had left a tip large enough to double the cost of the Armagnac.

  He went back to the office, got the station wagon and drove to the Place du Casino, where he parked and headed on foot for the Hotel de Paris. He had in mind putting a little pressure on René to get reservations for the eight extra tourists that were turning up this coming Friday, but the hotel mana
ger wasn’t there.

  Steve went into the hotel bar and had another double cognac.

  He couldn’t understand what the hell Fay saw in Mart Gunther. She was at the height of her feminine beauty. Gunther had let himself become a slob. If it was simply a matter of sex — and that had obviously been their original attraction — surely she could do better now. Steve had another double.

  René still wasn’t around. Steve walked back to his car and then stared across the street at the Casino. He brought out his wallet and considered the sheaf of bills there.

  What the hell. Easy come, easy go. Unlucky in love, lucky in finance. He counted off the equivalent in francs of five thousand dollars and tucked that amount into a compartment of his large, French-style wallet and then made his way to the ornate entrance.

  One of the housemen at the inner door smiled archly at him. “We have been expecting you back, Mr. Cogswell. Do you think your luck still holds tonight?”

  Steve growled something at him and went on past to the bar. He was feeling the quickly consumed spirits now. What the hell, it’s not every day your past comes back and confronts you — and you find it’s not past at all.

  What the hell, let’s face it. He was still in love with Fay.

  He ordered another double and a moment later stared down into the empty glass. He couldn’t remember drinking it. He looked at the bartender suspiciously.

  “Another one, sir?” that worthy said in English.

  “Yeah, damn it,” Steve said accusingly. He’d never noticed before, but Edouard was obviously a bastard. Well, the bastard could just see how much of a tip he’d get. What was the big idea?

  He was at the roulette table.

  The hell with this system stuff. If the number was going to come up, it’d come up. It was all luck. No system was any better than any other. The fact that this damn Casino was still here and in business after a century of wise guys figuring out systems showed that nothing worked. If anything worked, the Casino would be broke, wouldn’t it?

  The croupier said, anxiously, “Ca va, Monsieur Cogswell?”

  “I’m all right, Henri,” Steve slurred. “Spin her.” The fog rolled in.

  When it rolled out, he was back at the bar. He hadn’t remembered leaving the wheel. He felt in his pockets. There didn’t seem to be any chips. He couldn’t remember if he’d lost them all, or cashed them in, or what.