Episode on the Riviera

by Mack Reynolds

  Steve said nothing, frowning.

  “I suppose the money was gone, eh? At any rate, the old Steve began to change. He secured a job, began to dress more carefully, was never seen any more reeling along the streets, unshaven. After a time the job became better — because he worked at it — and it became necessary for him to open a little office. And then hire that nice Marimbert girl, Elaine, for an assistant. And then he acquired a station wagon to help the work, and after a while a very pleasant little — what do you call them — caravan — ”

  “House trailer,” Steve grunted, wondering what she was building up to, and impatient with it.

  “Yes. So the new Steve has his nice little bachelor’s trailer and his car and his office, and things go much better for him. Carla likes this new Steve better than she likes the old one.” For a moment, the pixie quality that was Carla showed through again. “And she liked the old Steve fairly well.”

  “What are you getting at, Carla?” Steve said, self-conscious.

  “I would not like to see the old Steve return,” the contessa said. “Now listen to me, Steve Cogswell, Carla has in this house many paintings. Conte Rossi loved them. My husband loved them very much, but they are only paintings.”

  “Well?” Steve said.

  She shrugged, “Only one of those gaudy-looking Matisse paintings, Steve, would bring much more than five thousand dollars. You could repay me any time. And then Conny would not have you — how do you say it? — over a barrel.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. “You aren’t the worst guy in the world, Carla.”

  “Ha! You wolf, only answer my question. This is no time for flattery.”

  Steve shook his head. “I’ve known you, Carla, when there wasn’t too much food in this overgrown villa of yours. But it was the old count’s love of his final years, and practically the only property left when he died. You didn’t sell it, and you didn’t sell a single one of his Picassos or Matisses. You’re not going to do it now just to bail me out of a silly situation I brought on myself.”

  “But, Steve, Carla thinks …”

  He chucked her under the chin, then bent down quickly and kissed her on the lips. Thanks just the same.”

  Carla stepped back, her hands on her hips and a skeptical look on her elfin face. “Ha,” she said, “that is the first time you have every kissed Carla, Monsieur Loup-garou, and your breath smells like the bottom of a sour wine vat. However, the offer still stands and a painting is only a painting.”

  “And a principle is a principle,” Steve said. “You’ve held onto those works through thick and thin, and I’m in favor of your continuing to hang on.”

  He left and went on down to the trailer.

  As he started coffee on the buta gas stove, he went back over his scene with the contessa. It had never occurred to him before that Carla Rossi might be in love with him. Their relationship had always been on the lightest of levels. But now he had to consider whether or not that was other than Carla might have liked it.

  She was still an attractive woman, one of the most attractive women he had ever known. And she was a good woman, in all connotations of that word. Any man who took up with Carla Rossi, either as his mistress or his wife, would get full measure. However, Steve grimaced, this was a complication he didn’t want to face, at least for the moment.

  While the coffee cooked, he stripped and got into bathing trunks. He made a dash for the beach and plunged into the warmness of the Mediterranean. He swam briskly until he was sure the coffee would be done, then hustled back. He still felt lousy, but at least better than before.

  He poured a cup of coffee, leaving it black, and sipped away at it while cooking half a dozen strips of bacon in the electric skillet. When they were nearly done, he dropped two eggs into the pan, swearing as he managed to break both yolks. Okay, so he’d have scrambled eggs. He stirred them up, adding salt and pepper.

  The sight of the food nauseated him, but he knew he was going to have to eat it. He had a lot to do today. Thank heavens there weren’t any tours that he’d have to go on personally.

  Steve got the hot food down, one way or the other, and three cups of coffee. Then he washed his face again, noting the bruises and swollen areas and the still evident cut, and dressed himself.

  By the time he had returned to the villa, Nadine Whiteley was seated in the breakfast room. Her face looked almost as drawn as his own, he decided. What kind of a wringer did this girl put herself through?

  He stood above her at the table and said, “Mind if I sit down?”

  She looked up at him, quickly. “Oh, Steve … I …”

  “Please, not again,” he said gruffly. “I don’t need an apology. You already went through that routine. If I was foolish enough to get myself into the same position all over again, it’s my own fault.”

  She flushed and looked into her plate.

  He took the chair across the small table. “It was something else I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Something else?” She took up her coffee cup, but held it without sipping, as though trying to find occupation for her hands.

  “This Gerald Silletoe, your former fiancé.”

  Her face stiffened and her voice went strained. “Gerald Silletoe, as I’ve told you before, was never my fiancé. But what — what can your possible interest …?” She broke it off and then said, with some dignity, “You read my cable.”

  He didn’t understand. “I haven’t the slightest interest in your cable, Miss Whiteley. All I want to know is something about this Silletoe guy. I have reason to believe that he might have attacked and robbed me last night.”

  Now her eyes were wide. She stared at him for a long moment. Finally, she took up her bag from the chair next to her, opened it and brought forth the cable in question. She handed it to him, wordlessly.

  He looked at her for a questioning minute, not getting it, and then looked down at the message.

  GERALD SILLETOE ALIAS JERRY SILL HAS EVIDENTLY FOLLOWED YOU TO EUROPE STOP I PERSONALLY TOOK RESPONSIBILITY OF INVESTIGATING STOP POLICE RECORD VERY BAD STOP YOUR FRIENDS HERE ARE WORRIED STOP PLEASE RETURN SOONEST

  WILLIAM UPDEGRAFF

  Nadine said tightly, “Bill Updegraff is my plant manager and one of my family’s oldest and closest friends. The town from which I come is small and close-knit. From the first, Bill and various others were opposed to my going with Jerry. But, of course, they couldn’t say anything. I’m of age and I’m a Whiteley. Whiteleys can do no wrong in Samara.”

  “You knew this guy was a grifter?”

  “Grifter?”

  “A crook, a gangster,” Steve said impatiently.

  She shook her head. “No. I just knew him as — well, to me, as a rather thrilling man from New York, so different from the local boys.”

  “I’ll bet,” Steve said wryly.

  Nadine flushed again. She stirred her egg with a fork. “I don’t know a great deal about men,” she admitted, defensively.

  “So I’ve discovered,” Steve said.

  She tightened her mouth as though holding back tears. “I … I’m sorry Steve. It’s all my fault. I can’t tell you about it.”

  “We’ve been through all that,” Steve said brusquely. “This is something else. Sunday morning this Silletoe character came to the office and warned me to stay away from you. Then, before I had the slightest indication that he was doing any more than shooting off his mouth he slugged me — expertly, I might say — leaving a cut on my face very similar to this one now.” Steve touched the nick with his forefinger. “The Sunday morning one healed, but I acquired this last night while being robbed of five thousand dollars. I didn’t see my assailant, but, particularly in view of that cable, I have a sneaking suspicion who it was.”

  “Good heavens!” Nadine exclaimed. “But how would Jerry know you had the money, or where he could find you, or …”

  He explained, impatiently again. “If he knew Sunday morning that I’d been spend
ing time with you, it means that either he or an accomplice has been following either you or me, or both of us. So he would probably know about my winnings at the Casino. If they followed me around last night, they probably would have seen me flashing my bankroll as I pub-crawled the Riviera, making a fool of myself. Look, Nadine, are you very wealthy?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose I am.”

  “Then that gives us his motivation for following you here. Evidently you led this Silletoe guy on far enough that he thought he had a chance of marrying you.”

  Nadine had a beautiful ability to flush in embarrassment, a characteristic rapidly disappearing in American womanhood. She said, her voice so low as to be hardly heard, “Well, yes …”

  He stared at her for a moment, comprehension just beginning to dawn. “You mean, he went through that same fantastic experience I have on two occasions now?”

  Her blush was furious, but she tightened her lips and nodded.

  “No wonder he’s sore.”

  Nadine said, “He attempted to get in touch with me yesterday, but I was gone. Then, last night, he phoned. He was very urgent, very demanding. I told him I didn’t want to see him, but he insisted. He said he was coming here this afternoon and I’d have to talk to him. He — he frightens me now, Steve.”

  “Well,” Steve said, “at least you’ll have plenty of help if you need it. Carla’s giving a party this afternoon. And I’ll be able to talk to him too. I can use a little conversation with that laddy-buck.” Steve stood up. “I’ve got to get into town. I’ll see you later, Miss Whiteley.”

  “Nadine,” she said.

  “Of course,” Steve said. He turned and left.

  • • •

  Exhaustion was beginning to catch up with Steve Cogswell, but there were things he had to do. From Carla’s little office on the ground floor near the villa’s main entrance, he called a cab and had it drive him to where he’d left the Citroën the night before. Then he drove into Monaco and to the Far Away Holidays offices.

  Elaine looked up at his entry and winced.

  Steve growled impatiently, “No cracks, please, Miss Marimbert.”

  But she ignored him to chirp, “More of the wages of Casanova, Monsieur Cogswell?”

  This time he was more definite. “Shut up,” he growled. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  She checked the desk calendar. “The boat trip out to the Iles de Lérins to see the nudist colony, and to Sainte Marguérite to see where the Man in the Iron Mask was imprisoned. We have twenty-five signed up for that this week.”

  Steve said, “Not important, anyway. We shop those tours out. We don’t get enough to hire boats of our own. What else today, Elaine?”

  “No crises. Nothing except routine, Monsieur Cogswell. You’re a bit behind in your paper work. And here’s a cable from London. Two of the regular flight have canceled their reservations. That means that the number of new reservations we have to find is only six extra instead of eight.”

  “That’s good,” Steve grunted. “Look, Elaine, you hold down the fort for the rest of today. I’ve got something to do.”

  She said, her voice minus its usual pert quality, “I saw Monsieur Kamiros walking along the street as I came to work this morning. He has evidently returned from Switzerland.”

  He closed his eyes, in pain. “Oh, great,” he said. “What day is it, Elaine?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Another three or four days to go,” he muttered. “Oh, great.”

  She looked after him when he had left, and then twisted her shoulders in Gallic fashion. Never a dull moment when you worked for an American. But at least he didn’t pinch a girl’s behind every time she walked past. In the back of her mind, Elaine added to that, unfortunately.

  Steve Cogswell drove back to the Pavilion Budapest but instead of leaving his car in the regular parking area, he drove down to the gardner’s cottage and the trailer nearby.

  He didn’t take the time to undress. He blacked out on the living room’s couch and sleep reached up and engulfed him.

  • • •

  In his dream, a hulking man the size of Buddy Baer but with the face of Jerry Silletoe was cutting him to ribbons. The other wore on his right hand an enormous set of brass knucks. He would grasp Steve Cogswell by the lapels of his sport coat with his left hand and then crash the brass knucks into his face, repeating endlessly, “Take that, Buster. Take that, Buster.”

  Steve could neither break away nor accumulate enough strength to mount a counterattack. He became aware that the vicious weapon on the other’s fist was so constructed that each time he was hit, a new triangular scar was cut into his face. The thought came to his mind, I’ll look like hamburger before he’s satisfied.

  The blows became less vicious and his attacker stopped saying, “Take that, Buster,” and said instead, “Hey, Steve, wake up. Wake up, Steve, old boy. The party can’t do without you.”

  Sleep rolled back. Steve said, “Ugh?”

  “I brought you a drink, old boy.”

  “Go away,” Steve said. “I’ve had a drink.”

  “This is another one. Dave Shepherd says it’s a drink the Riffs make from raisins up in Atlas Mountains. Tastes like a mixture of port and glue.”

  “Well, tell Dave where he can squirt it. I’ve had the last of his concoctions ever.” Steve Cogswell looked through the screen door at his visitor. “Hello, Bob, haven’t seen you around lately.”

  It was only afternoon, but Bob Blakewell had an alcoholic slur. Come to think of it, Steve couldn’t remember Blakewell at any time of day or night when he didn’t have an alcoholic slur.

  Bob said, “Oh, I’ve been here and there, old chap. Having a few drinks between drinks. Listen, do you know a Miss Whiteley? American girl. How do you Americans say it? Built like a brick outbuilding.”

  “That’s not exactly how we say it,” Steve said, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “Come on in, Bob. What about Miss Whiteley?”

  The other entered, and slumped into one of the two armchairs. He was a man of possibly forty, his hair going quickly, his face red with the broken veins of the alcoholic. His face held a pallor seldom seen on the Côte d’Azur. He carried two glasses, one of them full, one nearly empty. He put the full one on the cocktail table next to Steve’s couch.

  “This one Dave sent down to you,” he said. Then: “I thought I was doing all right with Miss Whiteley, plying her with strong spirits and all that sort of thing, but then some new bloke came in and she asked me to find you if I could and ask you to come up. Then she took off, like the devil was after her.”

  Steve swung his legs quickly to the floor and came erect. “Be right with you,” he said, heading for the shower. He still felt shaky.

  “It’s a long time between drinks,” Bob said accusingly.

  “Drink that one Dave sent me,” Steve said over his shoulder. “I don’t want it.”

  Bob shuddered. “Neither do I,” he said plaintively, “but any port in a storm.” He brightened. “Did you hear that, old boy? Any port in a storm. I made a joke. You know, port, port wine.”

  “I heard it,” Steve said grimly. He threw off his clothes, showered quickly, and dressed in fresh clothes, making a mental note to take some of his things to the laundry and cleaners. Then together they returned to the Pavilion Budapest, where the party was in full swing.

  A cocktail party is a cocktail party whether it be in Far Cry, Nebraska, Sydney, Australia, or Beaulieu on the French Riviera. Guests stood about, glasses in hand, and chattered banalities at each other. Smoke eddied. Servants slipped around with trays of delicately flavored, expensive food, offering the hors d’oeuvres to palates so sandpapered with gin and smoke that such items as caviar and paté de foie gras became tasteless.

  The contessa, being the contessa, had once revolted against this state of affairs and had offered her guests, along with the usual tasties, a plate of salted orange pits. Somewhat taken aback when they were accepted without commen
t, she had cut up a desk blotter into small squares and covered them each attractively with mayonnaise. They, too, went into the bottomless pit of the cocktail party appetite, without causing a stir.

  There seemed to be about sixty persons present, about par for the course at one of the contessa’s shindigs. The usual crowd of the French wealthy, American and British expatriates, a dozen assorted homosexuals, a writer or two, an artist or two, several of the highest-paid courtesans on the Riviera, several titled refugees of the type that spent most of their time going from party to party in order to eat. Steve saw no signs of Nadine.

  Just so as not to be conspicuous, he went over to the bar and said, “Un verre de Coca-Cola, Jean, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Coca-Cola? Pour vous, Monsieur Cogswell?”

  “No comments, damn it! Just give me the Coca-Cola.”

  He took the drink and stopped a moment at a group where Dick MacFarlane, the well-known British artist, was telling one of his inevitable jokes. He listened for a moment, caught the drift of the story, which was familiar to him, and moved on.

  He stopped long enough to say hello to one of his Far Away Holidays clients whom he vaguely remembered as being a Mr. Kovac. He asked the usual questions about accommodations and whether or not the vacation was going along all right.

  Mr. Kovac said it was going fine. They sure did things different here, didn’t they?

  “How do you mean?” Steve said vaguely. He was looking about the crowded room, still trying to search out Nadine. He hoped she hadn’t gone off somewhere alone with Silletoe.

  “Well, for instance, who’s that big buck nigger over there?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Over there, the one talking to that Rumanian princess or whatever she’s supposed to be.”

  Steve said stiffly, “That’s Gordan Payant. He has a night club nearby. Gordon’s probably the outstanding folk singer in Europe.”

  “Well, if he’s got so much on the ball why isn’t he back in the States making important money?”

  Steve said, very evenly, “Probably one reason is because Gordon’s got two children and he wants them to be able to get a decent schooling. He happens to be a very good friend of mine.”