The Other Side of Midnight

by Sidney Sheldon

  He was smiling at her again, a teasing grin that lit up his face. "Do you know your problem?" he asked.

  "I'll say!"

  "You've been worrying too much about it."

  "I'll say!"

  "The trick is to relax."

  She shook her head gently.

  "No, darling. The trick is to be in love."

  Half an hour later the car pulled up in front of his house. Fraser led Catherine inside to the library.

  "Would you like a drink?"

  She looked at him. "Let's go upstairs."

  He took her in his arms and kissed her hard. She held him fiercely, wanting to draw him into her. If anything goes wrong tonight, Catherine thought, I'll kill myself. I really will kill myself.

  "Come on," he said. He took Catherine's hand.

  Bill Fraser's bedroom was a large masculine-looking room with a Spanish highboy against one wall. At the far end of the room was an alcove with a fireplace and in front of it, a breakfast table. Against one wall was a large double bed. To the left was a dressing room and off that, a bathroom.

  "Are you sure you wouldn't care for that drink?" Fraser asked.

  "I don't need it."

  He took her in his arms again and kissed her. She felt the male hardness of him, and a delicious warmth coursed through her body.

  "I'll be back," he said.

  Catherine watched him disappear into the dressing room. This was the nicest, most wonderful man she had ever known. She stood there thinking about him, then suddenly realized why he had left the room. He wanted to give her a chance to undress alone, so that she would not be embarrassed. Quickly Catherine began taking off her clothes. She stood there a minute later nude and looked down at her body and thought, Good-bye, Saint Catherine. She went over to the bed, pulled back the spread and crawled between the sheets.

  Fraser walked in, wearing a cranberry moire silk dressing gown. He came over to the bed and stared at her. Her black hair was fanned out against the white pillow, framing her beautiful face. It was all the more stirring because he knew that it was totally unplanned.

  He slipped the robe off and moved into the bed beside her. She suddenly remembered.

  "I'm not wearing anything," Catherine said. "Do you think I'll get pregnant?"

  "Let's hope so."

  She looked at him, puzzled, and opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, but he put his lips on hers and his hands began to move down her body, gently exploring, and she forgot everything except what was happening to her, her whole consciousness concentrated on one part of her body, feeling him try to enter her, hard and pulsing, forcing, an instant of sharp, unexpected pain, then sliding in, moving faster and faster, an alien body in her body, plunging deep inside her, moving with a rhythm that grew more and more frantic, and he said, "Are you ready?" She was not sure what she was supposed to be ready for, but she said, "Yes," and suddenly he cried, "Oh, Cathy!" and made one last sporadic thrust and lay still on top of her.

  And it was all over, and he was saying, "Was it wonderful for you?" and she said, "Yes, it was wonderful," and he said, "It gets better as it goes along," and she was filled with joy that she was able to bring him this happiness, and she tried not to worry about what a disappointment it had been. Perhaps it was like olives. You had to acquire a taste for it. She lay in his arms, letting the sound of his voice wash over her, comforting her, and she thought This is what is important, being together as two human beings, loving and sharing each other. She had read too many lurid novels, heard too many promising love songs. She had been expecting too much. Or perhaps--and if this were true, she must face it--she was frigid. As though reading her thoughts, Fraser pulled her closer and said, "Don't worry if you're disappointed, darling. The first time is always traumatic."

  When Catherine did not answer, Fraser raised himself up on an elbow and looked at her, concerned, and said, "How do you feel?"

  "Fine," she said quickly. She smiled. "You're the best lover I ever had."

  She kissed him and held him close, feeling warm and safe until finally the hard knot inside her began to dissolve, and a feeling of relaxation filled her, and she was content.

  "Would you like a brandy?" he asked.

  "No, thanks."

  "I think I'll fix myself one. It isn't every night a man beds a virgin."

  "Did you mind that?" she asked.

  He looked at her with that strange, knowing look, started to say something and changed his mind. "No," he said. There was a note in his voice that she did not understand.

  "Was I--?" she swallowed. "You know--all right?"

  "You were lovely," he said.

  "Truth?"

  "Truth."

  "Do you know why I almost didn't go to bed with you?" she asked.

  "Why?"

  "I was afraid that you wouldn't want to see me again."

  He laughed aloud. "That's an old wives' tale fostered by nervous mothers who want to keep their daughters pure. Sex doesn't drive people apart, Catherine. It brings them closer together." And it was true. She had never felt so close to anyone. Outwardly she might look the same, but Catherine knew that she had changed.

  The young girl who had come to this house earlier in the evening had vanished forever and in her place was a woman. William Fraser's woman. She had finally found the mysterious Holy Grail that she had been searching for. The quest was over.

  Now even the FBI would be satisfied.

  NOELLE

  Paris: 1941

  6

  To some the Paris of 1941 was a cornucopia of riches and opportunity; to others it was a living hell. Gestapo had become a word of dread, and tales of their activities became a chief--if whispered--topic of conversation. The offenses against the French Jews, which had begun as almost a prankish breaking of a few shop windows, had been organized by the efficient Gestapo into a system of confiscation, segregation and extermination.

  On May 29, a new ordinance had been issued. "...a six-pointed star with the dimensions of the palm of a hand and a black edge. It is to be made of yellow cloth and bear in black lettering the inscription JUDEN. It must be worn from the age of six visibly on the left side of the chest solidly sewn to the clothing."

  Not all Frenchmen were willing to be stepped on by the German boot. The Maquis, the French underground resistance, fought cleverly and hard and when caught were put to death in ingenious ways.

  A young Countess whose family owned a chateau outside Chartres was forced to quarter the officers of the local German Command in her downstairs rooms for six months, during which time she had five wanted members of the Maquis hidden on the upper floors of the chateau.

  The two groups never met, but in three months the Countess' hair had turned completely white.

  The Germans lived as befit the status of conquerors, but for the average Frenchman there was a shortage of everything except cold and misery. Cooking gas was rationed, and there was no heat. Parisians survived the winters by buying sawdust by the ton, storing it in one-half of their apartments and keeping the other half warm by means of special sawdust-burning stoves.

  Everything was ersatz, from cigarettes and coffee to leather. The French joked that it did not matter what you ate; the taste was all the same. The French women--traditionally the most smartly dressed women in the world--wore shabby coats of sheepskin instead of wool and platform shoes of wood, so that the sound of women walking the streets of Paris resembled the clip-clop of horses' hooves.

  Even baptisms were affected, for there was a shortage of sugar almonds, the traditional sweet for the baptismal ceremony, and candy shops displayed invitations to come in and register for sugar almonds. There were a few Renault taxis on the street, but the most popular form of transportation was the two-seater cabs with tandem bikes.

  The theater, as always in times of prolonged crisis, flourished. People found escape from the crushing realities of everyday life in the movie houses and on the stages.

  Overnight, Noelle Page had become a star. J
ealous associates in the theater said that it was due solely to the power and talent of Armand Gautier, and while it was true that Gautier had launched her career, it is axiomatic among those who work in the theater that no one can make a star except the public, that faceless, fickle, adoring, mercurial arbiter of a performer's destiny. The public adored Noelle.

  As for Armand Gautier, he bitterly regretted the part he had played in starting Noelle's career. Her need of him was now gone; all that held her to him was a whim, and he lived in constant dread of the day she would leave him. Gautier had worked in the theater most of his life, but he had never met anyone like Noelle. She was an insatiable sponge, learning everything he had to teach her and demanding more. It had been fantastic to watch the metamorphosis in her as she went from the halting, external beginnings of grasping a part to the self-assured inner mastery of the character. Gautier had known from the very beginning that Noelle was going to be a star--there was never any question about it--but what astonished him as he learned to know her better was that stardom was not her goal. The truth was that Noelle was not even interested in acting.

  At first, Gautier simply could not believe it. Being a star was the top of the ladder, the sine qua non. But to Noelle acting was simply a stepping stone, and Gautier had not the faintest clue as to what her real goal was. She was a mystery, an enigma, and the deeper Gautier probed, the more the riddle grew, like the Chinese boxes that opened and revealed further boxes inside. Gautier prided himself on understanding people, particularly women, and the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about the woman he lived with and loved drove him frantic. He asked Noelle to marry him, and she said, "Yes, Armand," and he knew that she meant nothing by it, that it meant no more to her than her engagement to Philippe Sorel or God alone knew how many other men in her past life. He realized that the marriage would never take place. When Noelle was ready, she would move on.

  Gautier was sure that every man who met her tried to persuade her to go to bed with him. He also knew from his envious friends that none of them had succeeded.

  "You lucky son of a bitch," one of his friends had said, "You must be hung like un taureau. I offered her a yacht, her own chateau and a staff of servants in Cap d'Antibes, and she laughed at me."

  Another friend, a banker, told him, "I have finally found the first thing money cannot buy."

  "Noelle?"

  The banker nodded. "That's right. I told her to name her price. She was not interested. What is it you have for her, my friend?"

  Armand Gautier wished he knew.

  Gautier remembered when he had found the first play for her. He had read no more than a dozen pages when he knew it was exactly what he was looking for. It was a tour de force, a drama about a woman whose husband had gone to war. A soldier appeared at her home one day telling her that he was a comrade of her husband with whom he had served on the Russian Front. As the play developed, the woman fell in love with the soldier, unaware that he was a psychopathic killer and that her life was in danger. It was a great acting role for the wife, and Gautier agreed to direct it immediately, on condition that Noelle Page play the lead. The backers were reluctant to star an unknown but agreed to have her audition for them. Gautier hurried home to bring the news to Noelle. She had come to him because she wanted to be a star and now he was going to give her her wish. He told himself this would bring them closer together, would make her really love him. They would get married and he would possess her, always.

  But when Gautier had told her the news, Noelle had merely looked up at him and said, "That is wonderful, Armand, thank you." In exactly the same tone of voice in which she might have thanked him for telling her the correct time or lighting her cigarette.

  Gautier watched her for a long moment, knowing that in some strange way Noelle was sick, that some emotion in her had either died, or had never been alive and that no one would ever possess her. He knew this and yet he could not really believe it, because what he saw was a beautiful, affectionate girl who happily catered to his every whim and asked for nothing in return. Because he loved her, Gautier put his doubts aside, and they went to work on the play.

  Noelle was brilliant at the audition and got the part without question, as Gautier had known she would. When the play opened in Paris two months later, Noelle became, overnight, the biggest star in France. The critics had been prepared to attack the play and Noelle because they were aware that Gautier had put his mistress, an inexperienced actress, in the lead, and it was a situation too delicious for them to pass up. But she had completely captivated them. They searched for new superlatives to describe her performance and her beauty. The play was a complete sellout.

  Every night after the performance, Noelle's dressing room was filled with visitors. She saw everyone: shoe clerks, soldiers, millionaires, shop girls, treating them all with the same patient courtesy. Gautier would watch in amazement. It is almost as though she were a Princess receiving her subjects, he thought.

  Over a period of a year Noelle received three letters from Marseille. She tore them up, unopened, and finally they stopped coming.

  In the spring, Noelle starred in a motion picture that Armand Gautier directed, and when it was released, her fame spread. Gautier marveled at Noelle's patience in giving interviews and being photographed. Most stars hated it and did it either to help increase their box office value or for reasons of ego. In Noelle's case, she was indifferent to both motivations. She would change the subject when Gautier questioned her about why she was willing to pass up a chance to rest in the South of France in order to stay in a cold, rainy Paris to do tiresome poses for Le Matin, La Petite Parisienne or L'll-lustration. It was just as well, for Gautier would have been stunned if he had known her real reason. Noelle's motivation was very simple.

  Everything she did was for Larry Douglas.

  When Noelle posed for photographs, she visualized her former lover picking up a magazine and recognizing her picture. When she played a scene in a movie, she saw Larry Douglas sitting in a theater one night in some far-off country, watching her. Her work was a reminder to him, a message from the past, a signal that would one day bring him back to her; and that was all Noelle wanted, for him to come back to her, so that she could destroy him.

  Thanks to Christian Barbet, Noelle had an evergrowing scrapbook on Larry Douglas. The little detective had moved from his shabby offices to a large, luxurious suite on the rue Richer, near the Folies-Bergere. The first time Noelle had gone to see him in his new offices, Barbet had grinned at her surprised expression and said, "I got it cheap. These offices were occupied by a Jew."

  "You said you had some news for me," Noelle said curtly.

  The smirk left Barbet's face. "Ah yes." He did have news. It was difficult getting information from England under the very nose of the Nazis, but Barbet had found ways. He bribed sailors on neutral ships to smuggle in letters from an agency in London. But that was only one of his sources. He appealed to the patriotism of the French underground, the humanity of the International Red Cross and the cupidity of black marketeers with overseas connections. To each of them he told a different story, and the flow of information kept coming in.

  He picked up a report on his desk. "Your friend was shot down over the English Channel," he said without preamble. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Noelle's face, waiting for her aloof facade to crumble, taking enjoyment in the pain he was inflicting. But Noelle's expression never changed. She looked at him and said confidently, "He was rescued." Barbet stared at her and swallowed and answered reluctantly, "Well, yes. He was picked up by a British Rescue boat." And wondered how the devil she could have known.

  Everything about this woman baffled him, and he hated her as a client and was tempted to drop her, but Barbet knew that that would have been stupid.

  He had attempted once to make a pass at her, hinting that his services would be less expensive, but Noelle had rebuffed him in a manner that made him feel like a clumsy lout, and he would never forgive her for that. One
day, Barbet promised himself quietly, one day this tight-assed bitch would pay.

  Now, as Noelle stood in his office, a look of distaste on her beautiful face, Barbet hurriedly went on with the report, eager to get rid of her.

  "His squadron has moved to Kirton, in Lincolnshire. They're flying Hurricanes and--" Noelle was interested in something else.

  "His engagement to the Admiral's daughter," she said, "it's off, isn't it?"

  Barbet looked up in surprise and mumbled, "Yes. She found out about some of his other women." It was almost as though Noelle had already seen the report. She had not, of course, but it did not matter. The bond of hatred that tied Noelle to Larry Douglas was so strong it seemed that nothing important could ever happen to him without her knowing it. Noelle took the report and left. When she returned home she read it over slowly, then carefully filed it among the other reports and locked it up where it could not be found.

  One Friday night after a performance, Noelle was in her dressing room at the theater creaming off her makeup, when there was a knock at the door, and Marius, the elderly, crippled stage doorman, entered.

  "Pardon, Miss Page, a gentleman asked me to bring these to you."

  Noelle glanced up in the mirror and saw that he was carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses in an exquisite vase.

  "Set it down there, Marius," Noelle said, and she watched as he carefully placed the vase of roses on a table.

  It was late November and no one in Paris had seen roses for more than three months. There must have been four dozen of them, ruby red, long-stemmed, wet with dew. Curious, Noelle walked over and picked up the card. It read: "To the lovely Fraulein Page. Would you have supper with me? General Hans Scheider."

  The vase that the flowers rested in was delft, intricately patterned and very expensive. General Scheider had gone to a great deal of trouble.

  "He would like an answer," the stage doorman said.

  "Tell him I never eat supper and take these home to your wife."

  He stared at her in surprise. "But the General..."

  "That is all."

  Marius nodded his head, picked up the vase and hurried out. Noelle knew that he would rush to spread the story of how she had defied a German general. It had happened before with other German officials, and the French people regarded her as some kind of heroine. It was ridiculous. The truth of the matter was that Noelle had nothing against the Nazis, she was merely indifferent to them. They were not a part of her life or her plans, and she simply tolerated them, awaiting the day when they would return home. She knew that if she became involved with any Germans it would hurt her. Not now, perhaps, but it was not the present Noelle was concerned about; it was the future. She thought that the idea of the Third Reich ruling for one thousand years was merde. Any student of history knew that eventually all conquerors were conquered. In the meantime she would do nothing that would allow her fellow Frenchmen to turn on her when the Germans were finally ousted. She was totally untouched by the Nazi occupation and when the subject came up--as it constantly did--Noelle avoided any discussion about it.