The Adventurers

by Robbins, Harold

  "He's not prime minister yet! The girls are going, there will be no further discussion about it."

  Sir Robert got to his feet abruptly and walked from the room, leaving his wife staring bewilderedly after him. As he walked down the driveway to the car that would take him to his offices in the city he decided that was only part of the answer. The other part was that Corteguay would get her four ships.

  Because now it wasn't the threat of scandal or exposure or even for that matter the possible besmirching of his honor if his cousin learned of his betrayal. It was much simpler and more basic than that. For the first time in his life Sir Robert no longer felt protected by his position and his money. They were scarcely the armor that would deflect the thrust of a savage's knife. The ice-cold fear of death danced on his spine.

  The sound of the muffled drums echoed hollowly on the dock behind him as Dax followed the flag-covered coffin up the gangplank. The sailors snapped awkwardly to attention in their new and unaccustomed uniforms of the Corteguayan merchant marine. Silently Dax watched as the coffin passed into their hands from the honor guard of French soldiers who had carried it aboard.

  Then the soldiers stood at attention as the sailors moved down the deck with the coffin. Slowly he followed them, moving stiffly in his stiff new morning suit and holding his shiny top hat awkwardly. He closed his eyes as the sailors tilted the coffin in order to get it through the narrow doorway of the stateroom.

  How ironic, he thought, that his father would never know he was returning in a ship bearing his name. That was the first thing Dax had noticed when the cortege stopped dock-side. jaime xenos. The white lettering on the black paint was still fresh enough to allow one to discern the former name beneath. Shoshika Maru. It was the first voyage between France and Corteguay for the newly created merchant marine.

  It was only a little over a month since the day he had sat in his father's office and Marcel had brought in the cable from England. He still remembered the smile on his father's face when he looked up after reading it.

  "Our friend Sir Robert has managed to get the ships for us!"

  Dax had smiled at the happiness in his father's eyes.

  "Now perhaps when the time comes we shall return home aboard our own ship."

  The time had come, Dax thought, but in a way neither of them had foreseen. His father was returning home. But not he. He was to remain. The cable from el Presidente had been explicit:

  "My condolences over the death of your father, who was a true patriot. You are hereby appointed consul, and will remain at your post until further notice."

  He watched while they tightened the straps around the coffin to secure it against the turbulence of the sea. Then, one by one, the sailors left, saluting as they passed, until only he and Fat Cat remained in the cabin.

  He turned to his friend. Fat Cat said in a quick whisper, "I will wait outside."

  Dax looked down at the coffin, still covered by the green and blue flag with the soaring white eagle of Cortez, from whom the country had taken its name. Then he quietly walked over and rested his hand lightly on the lid of the casket.

  "Good-bye, Father," he said softly. "I wonder if you were ever aware how much I loved you?"

  CHAPTER 13

  It was near eleven when Sergei awoke and stumbled blindly from his room into the kitchen. His father was seated at the table. "Why aren't you at work?" Sergei asked in surprise.

  The count looked at him. "I am not working there any longer. We are going to Germany."

  "What on earth for? Everyone knows that Paris hotels are the best paying in all Europe."

  "I am no longer going to do such menial work," his father answered quietly. "I am a soldier. I am returning to my profession."

  "In what army?" Sergei asked sarcastically. Ever since he had been a child he had heard about the White Russians forming an army to return in triumph to the motherland. But nothing ever came of it. They all knew it would never happen.

  "The German army. They have offered me a commission, and I have accepted."

  Sergei laughed as he poured himself a cup of steaming black tea from the samovar on the sideboard. "The German army, eh? A bunch of idiots training with wooden guns and gliders."

  "They will not always have wooden guns and gliders. Their factories are not idle."

  Sergei looked at his father shrewdly. "Why should you fight for them?"

  "I will help lead them into Russia."

  "You would lead an army of foreigners against Russians?" Sergei's voice was incredulous.

  "The Communists are not Russians!" The count's voice was angry. "They are Georgians, Ukrainians, Tartars, banded together by Jews using them for their own purposes!"

  Sergei was silent. He knew better than to argue with his father on this one subject. He sipped at his tea.

  "Hitler has the right idea," his father went on. "The world will never be safe until the Jews are exterminated! Besides, Von Sadow tells us that Hitler wishes Russia returned to her rightful rulers."

  "There are others going with you?"

  "Not at first." His father hesitated. "But they will join us. You had better start packing."

  Sergei looked at the count. Long ago he had come to the conclusion that his father wasn't the brightest of men. Somehow he was always in the forefront of every harebrained scheme to restore the monarchy, and somehow he was always the one who lost his money and was made to look the fool. This time would be no different. The others would wait, watching as his father took all the risks, then commiserate with him over his failure. But there would never be any talk of compensating him for his efforts on their behalf.

  He sighed. There was no use in trying to talk his father out of it. Once Count Ivan made up his mind, that was the end of it. There was no turning back. The words came to his lips almost before he knew he had spoken them. "I am not going with you."

  Now it was his father's turn to be surprised.

  Later that week Sergei sat uncomfortably on the edge of the chair across from the desk in the room that used to be the office of Dax's father. In a way it was hard for him to realize that less than a year ago he and Dax had gone to classes together. In the months since his father's death, Dax seemed older, somehow matured.

  "So you see," Sergei said, "I've got to find a job."

  Dax nodded.

  "And there's really nothing I can do. That's why I came to see you. Perhaps you could think of something I could do. I know how busy you are; that's why I hesitated."

  "You shouldn't have." Dax did not tell his friend that actually there wasn't that much to do. There still weren't many people interested in Corteguay. The only thing that had really changed was his social life; suddenly he was in great demand for parties. There was something attractive to the French about a young man whose only qualification for the job as consul was an international rating in polo.

  "We'll have to find something for you," he said. He smiled at Sergei. "I'd give you a temporary position in the consulate but I'm going home next month. El Presidente has decided on the new consul."

  "I thought—"

  Dax smiled. "It was only temporary. Until el Presidente could find the right man."

  "What are you going to do?" Sergei was more interested in his friend than in himself.

  Dax shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. El Presidente has written that he has plans for me but I don't know what they are. Perhaps go to Sandhurst as he had planned. I'll find out once I get home."

  The two young men were silent for a moment. "Perhaps you'd like to come to Corteguay with me?"

  Sergei shook his head. "Thank you, no. I would not feel right in a strange land. I wish to stay in Paris."

  Dax did not press it. "I understand. I will keep my eyes open. Should I hear of anything I'll get in touch with you right away."

  Sergei got to his feet. "Thank you."

  Dax looked over at him. "I have some money I can spare if you need it."

  Sergei looked down. Five thousand francs. Hi
s hand itched to pick it up but he was too embarrassed. "No. Thanks," he said awkwardly, "I have enough to manage."

  But he was angry with himself as he left the consulate. The ten francs he had in his pocket would barely last him until tomorrow. And already the landlord was screaming for his rent. Without thinking, he walked all the way to the hotel where his father used to work. Then he suddenly realized, and stared up at the familiar building. Why had he come here? His father no longer guarded the door, he could no longer give him the money he used to ask for.

  He walked across the street to a cafe and sat down in the back row under the awning. He ordered a coffee. He nursed it while he considered which of his friends might be most likely to have something on, a party or even cocktails, where he could unobtrusively get something to eat.

  A voice interrupted his reverie. "Sergei Nikovitch?"

  He looked up. The man standing by the table was familiar. Then he realized that it was the bell captain from the hotel across the street.

  "Hello," he said, unable to remember the other's name.

  Without ceremony the man sat down. "What do you hear from your father?"

  Sergei considered him coldly. For a moment he was tempted to get up and leave. The fellow was too damned presumptuous. Then curiosity got the better of him. He would not have had the nerve to sit down unless there was something definite on his mind. "Nothing."

  The bell captain shook his head. "I do not trust the Germans. I told your father not to go."

  Sergei did not answer. He knew very well that the bell captain had done nothing of the sort. He wouldn't have dared. His father would have squashed him like the insect he was.

  A waiter came by. "Two cognacs," the bell captain ordered grandiosely, then turned back to Sergei. "And how is it with you?" "Alright." "Have you found anything yet?"

  Damn him, Sergei thought, there are no secrets in this town. "There are several propositions I am considering."

  "I was thinking about you only today." The bell captain was silent while the waiter put down their cognacs. "I was wondering if Sergei Nikovitch was doing anything."

  Sergei looked at him silently.

  "If he isn't, I thought, there is perhaps something that I can arrange. If only while you are making up your mind about the many offers."

  Sergei picked up his drink. "Na zdorovie." At least the worm had the manners not to say what he must obviously know to be a fact. That Sergei had nothing at all to consider.

  "A votre sante."

  It was Sergei's turn now to express an interest. If he did not, that would be the end of it. He felt a little better with the warmth of the brandy in his stomach. "What was it you had in mind?"

  The other lowered his voice. "As you know there are numerous tourists in the hotel. Among them many rich ladies alone. They are embarrassed to go out at night without escorts."

  Sergei's voice interrupted. "You are suggesting I become a gigolo?"

  The bell captain held up a protesting hand. "Heaven forbid! These ladies would never entertain a gigolo; they are of impeccable social standing. They would never consider going out with anyone who was not their equal—-or better."

  "Then what is it you are suggesting?"

  "Some of these ladies are interested in meeting the right people. They would be most generous toward anyone who could introduce them into the correct circles."

  Sergei stared at him. "Is that all?"

  The other shrugged his shoulders expressively. "Anything more would be up to you."

  "I don't understand," Sergei said. "Where do you come in?"

  "I will arrange the introductions between the lady and yourself. For this I will get fifty percent of what you receive."

  Sergei took another sip of his cognac. The bell captain would certainly get a fee from the ladies for the introduction. "Twenty-five percent."

  "Agreed."

  Immediately Sergei regretted his generosity. The bell captain probably would have accepted ten.

  "There is one in particular," the bell captain continued. "She has been in the hotel almost a week. This morning when I brought her the American papers she spoke to me again about such a possibility. If you are interested, she is in the lobby now."

  Sergei hesitated. It was probably the other way around. He was to be brought around for her approval. His lips tightened. For a moment he was tempted to tell this pimp of a peasant to go to hell. Yet the screams of his landlord still echoed in his ears. He got to his feet and unconsciously straightened his tie. "Perhaps. But only if she appeals to me.

  "There she is," the bell captain whispered as they entered the lobby, "the red wing chair in the corner."

  The woman looked up just as Sergei turned, and a feeling of surprise ran through him. She was not old at all, in her late twenties or early thirties. He had always thought it was only older women who required the attentions of a gigolo. Her eyes were a very dark blue and they looked at him steadily. He felt his face flushing as he turned his eyes away.

  "What do you think?"

  "Does it matter?" Sergei asked. Then he saw the puzzled look on {he man's face. "All right. It might turn out to be amusing."

  "Bon. She is very nice. You will like her."

  "Is she married?"

  The bell captain looked at him indignantly. "What kind of a man do you think I am? Would I be fool enough to have you waste your time with a single woman?"

  CHAPTER 14

  Mrs. Harvey Lakow had two children in boarding school, four million dollars left her by her parents, and a husband who was convinced that if he left the country that summer Roosevelt would find a way to ruin his business.

  "I can't go this year," he had said. "Nobody knows what idiotic thing that man in the White House might do next."

  "What can he do? And even if he should, we'd still have enough money."

  "You don't seem to realize there's a depression," he had replied irritably. "He wants to turn everything over to those damn unions."

  "And you're going to stop him?"

  He got to his feet angrily. "Yes, by God! At least he's not going to get my business!"

  She was silent. It wasn't his business. Not really. Her father had founded the company many years ago and had taken Harvey into it when they were married. When her father had died she had inherited the stock and automatically Harvey had become president. But somehow all that had conveniently been forgotten.

  "I'm going down to the office."

  "And I'm going to Paris. Alone if you won't come with me," she had said, suddenly making up her mind.

  "You won't enjoy yourself, you don't know a soul there."

  She had waited silently for him to offer to go with her. But he never had and after one week alone in the Paris hotel she thought about what he had said. She was not enjoying herself. She was alone in a city where a single woman was nothing.

  She looked at herself in the full-length mirror as she stepped out of her bath. She was thirty-eight years old and though her figure did not have the firmness of her youth she did not look her age Her breasts were still firm, thank goodness. They had never been overly large so they did not droop from their own weight, and her tummy was almost flat.

  But it was her eyes that were her best feature. They were large and a dark blue that shone with a luminosity of its own, an inner fire that time had not wholly dimmed. Suddenly, and without reason, they filled with tears. Angry at herself, she snatched up her robe and, wrapped it around her, walked into the living room just as a knock came at the door.

  "Entrez," she called, reaching for a cigarette.

  It was the bell captain. "Your papers, madame." And seeing her struggling to light her cigarette, he quickly struck a match.

  "Merci," she said, blinking her eyes rapidly.

  But he had already seen the tears. "Will madame require the car for this evening?"

  She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. There was no place a woman could go alone. It would be another lonely dinner in her suite. She did not
even enjoy eating in the large dining room by herself . The bell captain looked at her shrewdly. "Perhaps madame would be interested in an escort for the evening?"

  She stared at him, ashamed of her thoughts. "A gigolo?"

  He caught the faint look of distaste on her face. "Of course not, madame."

  She thought of the gigolos she had seen and of the women they accompanied Somehow you always knew. She could never bear to have people looking at her like that. "I will not have a gigolo."

  "I would not dream of such a thing, madame. But there is a young man in the hotel who has seen madame. He is most interested in meeting her."

  "A young man?" In spite of herself she felt flattered. "Not a gigolo?"

  "Not a gigolo, madame." His voice lowered to a confidential tone. "He is of royal blood."

  She hesitated. "1 don't know."

  The bell captain spoke quickly to take advantage of her indecision. "If madam happened to be in the lobby I could arrange to be talking to the young man. If madame approves, I could then arrange the introduction. If not"—he shrugged his shoulders—"the young man will respect madame's wishes despite his disappointment. He will trouble you no further."

  Although she had already made up her mind that she would not go down to the lobby to see the young man, she found herself taking extra special care with her makeup. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were large and darkly blue and shining with a light that had not been there for a long time. She felt young and excited. I'll be just looking, she told herself as she closed the door behind her; I'll look and then go away. Surely there's no harm in that.

  She began to feel the fool sitting there in the lobby. She was certain everyone knew exactly why she was there. She looked at her watch and decided to wait ten more minutes. She was just on the verge of getting up and returning to her suite when the two of them came in.

  He is young, was her first startled impression. But then she remembered having read somewhere that Frenchmen preferred women older than themselves. He's very tall, was her second. His six foot three seemed even taller standing beside the short bell captain, and his broad shoulders and dark unruly hair did give him a regal look. She guessed his age at about twenty-four. But it was partly her own age that caused her to overestimate. Sergei was actually not quite twenty.