Arriz was there, wearing the same old red-and-silver smoking jacket he had worn for years. He looked calmly at Raynaud as he sat on the couch and smoked a thin cigarette.
“Now look what you’ve done. You’ve hurt André.”
“André was being obnoxious,” Raynaud said.
“Help the poor child to his feet,” Arriz said.
Raynaud did not move. “Help him yourself.”
Silently Arriz stood and walked over to leather-boy, bending over him and making small, soothing noises. Presently leather-boy seemed to recover, and staggered to his feet. He glared hatefully at Raynaud.
Arriz said, “You should apologize to André.”
“I’d rather not.”
“He’d feel much better if you explained it was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t,” Raynaud said.
Inwardly, watching Arriz, he felt sad. The Spaniard was once proud and strong and fiercely intelligent; he had worked as a loyalist during the Civil War and then afterward; later he had slipped into smuggling.
Now this.
Arriz stuck his hands in his pockets and said, “I will tolerate your outrages only because—”
“I saved your skin.”
“Not delicately said,” Arriz nodded, “but accurate. Why are you here?”
“Information.”
Arriz smiled blandly. “No,” he said.
Raynaud looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “The police will be glad to know where you are.”
“By the time the police arrive, we would be gone.”
“Not if you were unconscious.” Raynaud shrugged.
Arriz moved his hand in his pocket. “Before you could reach me, I would have shot you twice through the chest.”
“Perhaps not.”
“You wish to try?” Arriz said.
“Not particularly.”
Arriz smiled. “I am glad. Frankly I have no quarrel with you, Foxwell. And you are right, I owe you my, ah, skin.”
He walked across the room and sat down again. To André he said, “Bring us two brandies.”
André disappeared into another room, still rubbing his neck and glaring at Raynaud. When they were alone, Arriz said, “I am grateful for what you did.”
“You should be.”
“Were you in trouble for it?”
“Only a little.”
“You thought very quickly,” Arriz said. “But then, you always do.”
“Information,” Raynaud said, bringing him back.
“Yes, of course. It is always information. So many people seek information these days. I rarely smuggle anymore. How did you find me?”
“My mother told your mother,” Raynaud said.
Arriz shrugged. “As you will. And the information you wish?”
“Richard Pierce,” Raynaud said.
Arriz closed his eyes and leaned back. He gave a long sigh. “Richard Pierce,” he said. “Richard Pierce. English. Thirty-four. Father a man of the old empire-building era. Mother a Parisian singer. Scandals about her, many, many scandals. She wears them like halos. Met her?”
“No. Go on.”
“He is engaged to be married to some Italian starlet. Hasn’t received his inheritance yet; he will, soon. The will is complicated. More?”
“More. Who wants to kill him?”
Arriz opened his eyes. “Kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Has someone tried to kill him, Foxwell?”
Raynaud smiled. “You have the information, not me.”
“Most interesting, if there has been an attempt,” Arriz said. “Richard is in business now. Shore Industries, Limited, based in London. He is President, or Board Chairman, or whatever.”
“And?”
“And his company is engaged in drilling operations in the North Sea. Searching for oil. It was recently started and is losing fabulous sums of money.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I heard nearly half a million pounds last year. No one can explain it adequately. But apparently it is not the consequence of poor business sense, as you might expect.”
“Then what?”
“The company,” Arriz said, “is only a front. Many people are convinced of this. It was formed to search for oil, and that is what it is presently doing, but that does not really justify its existence. Many believe it was formed for some other purpose. The precise purpose is unclear.”
“But you have heard something,” Raynaud said.
“Oh, yes. Rumors. Wild stories. You may believe them or not, as it suits you.” Arriz took a deep breath. “The stories say that Shore Industries is bidding as prime contractor on the Channel Tunnel project, and that it expects to place the lowest bid, and thus get the contract for the major work. It will claim experience as a contractor for offshore operations, and it will claim experience in dealing with subcontractors who will do the actual dredging, drilling, and laying of the tunnel. The stories also say that Pierce expects to lose money on the contract bid, but that he will bargain for a high percentage of profits.”
“So he’ll make it back?”
“And more. That, at least, is the story.”
“And how does Pierce know he’ll place the lowest bid?”
“Because of his connections. You remember, half a million pounds last year. That is a great deal of money. It must have gone somewhere.”
Raynaud said, “And you think it went into bribes?”
“Money well placed is money well spent,” Arriz said.
“Who did he bribe?”
Arriz shook his head. “No idea.”
“Who’s paying the bill for the company?”
“His father’s empire. Indirectly, through his mother, Lucienne. She is quite unhappy about the whole situation, as you might imagine. Strictly speaking, she doesn’t have to support Shore Industries and allow Richard to spend all the money. There is speculation why she has done so.”
“Yes?”
“The speculation suggests that she plans to humor Richard until she can get a large annual stipend guaranteed from him. And she plans to do this by putting Shore Industries into great jeopardy in the near future, just as Richard’s plans begin to jell.”
“How?”
“By putting the entire Pierce empire into jeopardy.”
Raynaud said again, “How?”
“It is complicated. I do not have all the details. But apparently the Pierce empire is overextended. It is too widely diversified into new industries which have not yet paid off. Much of the collateral, and the working capital, comes from an Australian copper mine which the Pierce group now owns. But ownership could be lost if an American company that has seventeen percent of the stock sold out to the right party.”
“Will the American company sell?”
“There are rumors.”
“So Pierce will lose control of the mine?”
“That,” Arriz said, “is what the rumors say.”
“What is the American company?”
“It is called Mitchell Mining.”
“Who owns it?”
“Formerly, an American named Mitchell. But he died last year. Now, it is in the hands of his daughter.”
“What’s she like?”
“Young. A fun-loving sort, from all accounts. Several scandals in New York.”
“Her name?”
“Jane Mitchell,” Arriz said. He looked up as André entered with the brandies. “Ah,” he said, “here we are. Have one, Foxwell, and sit down. Let us talk over old times. Do you have more questions?”
“Just one. Who would want to kill Pierce?”
“Practically anybody who knows him well,” Arriz said, and raised the brandy snifter in his hand. “Salud.”
“The inner muscles of the thighs,” Pierce said. “That is the key to everything.”
Raynaud watched the girl on the stage, a slim, full-chested blonde who was removing her clothes in the manner that only French girls seem to learn.
They were sitti
ng at the Crazy Horse, at a very good table, just a few feet from the girl. They could see the fine sheen of sweat on her body.
“A bit thin for my taste,” Pierce went on, “but she has slim ankles. And such exquisite thigh muscles…” He laughed and poured more champagne. “What did you do today?”
“Business,” Raynaud said.
“You make it sound very mysterious.”
“I went to the bank.”
“And afterward?”
Raynaud glanced quickly away from the girl to Pierce. For a moment he wondered if Pierce had had him followed. Raynaud had not checked, at the time, for a tail: that was an oversight. He cursed himself.
“Afterward, I did some checking up.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Checked up on me, did you?”
“Yes,” Raynaud said.
“Why?”
The girl on stage was now completely naked, shaking her body in blue and green spotlights.
“I was returning a favor.”
Pierce lit a cigarette. He did not take his eyes off the naked girl. “You were annoyed I had found out so much about you?”
“Let’s say I was surprised.”
“And you wanted to know why I had gone to the trouble.”
“More or less.”
“It’s quite simple,” Pierce said. “A few months ago, I was a little paranoid. Convinced they were out to get me.”
“They?”
“Some business associates. I’m involved in some rather complex transactions at the moment”
“What sort of transactions?”
Pierce laughed. “Complex ones,” he said.
Raynaud watched as the girl finished her dance and slipped away behind the curtains. He sipped his champagne and waited as Richard filled the glass again.
“You were afraid of being killed?”
“I was afraid someone would try.”
“Business associates?”
“Possibly. In any case, that’s all over now. And I’d rather not talk about it. It was all a bloody farce, from start to end.” He glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me,” he said. “We mustn’t be late.”
“Late for what?”
“Some people we have to meet. I think you’ll like them. Gorgeous, both of them.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s so,” Pierce grinned.
They left just as the comic came on, and went outside to catch a cab. They stood by the curb, watching the traffic. A dark blue Mercedes sedan pulled over toward them, very fast. Raynaud watched it come, expecting the driver to slow, but he did not. The car continued at full speed.
When it happened, it happened fast Raynaud swung his arm around Pierce and threw him back, toward the club, onto the pavement. He let himself fall back just as the car rushed past them, tires squealing, and roared off down the street
The doorman helped them up and brushed them off. He was talking very rapidly in French. “Drunkards! Fools! It is always the way. Do you know last year a man was killed? Here? Right at this club?”
Pierce straightened, tugged at his tie, and said to Raynaud, “Thanks for that”
“Any time.”
“Maniacs! Sometimes I think that the world is crazy. Crazy. It is impossible—”
“Our thanks,” Pierce said, and gave the man a hundred francs.
The doorman was silent, his stream of chatter interrupted by the money. “Monsieur, many—”
“That’s all right.”
“Did you get the license?” Raynaud asked him.
“No, monsieur, I am sorry.”
“Was it a French license?”
The man shrugged and pocketed the money at the same time. “I am sorry. In the confusion…”
“Never mind,” Pierce said. A cab had pulled up; he got in and beckoned to Raynaud. “Come on.”
Astonished, Raynaud got in. “Never mind? When you nearly got—”
“Forget it.”
“But—”
“I said, forget it. It was a mistake, that’s all.”
“Mistake, hell.”
“Look,” Pierce said, “let’s just forget it.”
Raynaud stopped, lit a cigarette, and glanced over at Pierce. Raynaud noticed that his own fingers were trembling slightly, but Pierce was quite calm.
“You’re taking it well.”
“Why not? It was just a mistake, a bloody mistake.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I am, that’s all,” Pierce said. “I just am.”
He stared out the window.
“Why are you so certain?” Raynaud said.
“Because I am,” Pierce said. “I nearly got hit by a drunk. Plain and simple: no significance whatever. I refuse to let it ruin my evening.”
“That was no drunk. The driver was in perfect control of his car. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
“For Christ’s sake, Charles.”
The taxi pulled up in front of the Montaigne bar, near the Plaza-Athénée. Pierce got out and Raynaud followed him.
“Now look,” Pierce said, paying the driver, “I want you to forget this. Just forget it. We’re going to have a good time tonight and we’re not going to think about this.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
Pierce grinned. “Yes,” he said, “I am.”
“Ah, Caroline. You’ve come.” Pierce kissed the dark girl on the cheek. “Meet Charles. Charles Raynaud, Caroline Versin.”
Caroline took Raynaud’s hand and smiled almost shyly, but her eyes were blatantly inquisitive.
They all sat down again to the drinks.
“Caroline,” said Pierce, “is an actress. She played a pervert for Godard, didn’t you, my dear?” He patted her hand.
She shrugged, and said to Raynaud, “You’re French?”
“No,” he said, speaking French. “American.”
“You have a French name.”
“My parents were French.”
“Ah.”
“Caroline was superb as a pervert,” Pierce said. “You should tell Charles about it.”
She shrugged. “There is nothing to tell. It was in the script. Jean-Luc—”
“Oh, it’s Jean-Luc, is it?”
“Everyone calls him Jean-Luc,” she said.
“What are you doing now?” Raynaud said. He thought to himself that she was very beautiful. Large eyes. He liked large eyes.
“Another film.” She shrugged. “And after that, another for Roger and his fat wife. Ugh.”
Raynaud smiled, thinking that all this might be amusing after all. Under the table, the girl’s knees touched his. They ordered another round of drinks; he was feeling slightly high and very good.
It was the last coherent feeling he had.
Raynaud awoke with the sun on his face. He rolled over, squinted, and opened-his eyes. He was in his bed, in his room at the hotel. Soft sheets. Fleur-de-lis wallpaper in blue and silver.
He yawned and stretched. His foot touched something warm. He explored it tentatively with his toes. Another leg.
He looked over, and saw a girl lying next to him. She had red hair.
Red hair?
Surprised, he peered over her shoulder at her face. It was Vivienne, the girl he had ordered out of his room the first night.
What was she doing here?
Quietly, he got out of bed and walked around the room. It was a wreck: the mattress half off the bed, two empty champagne bottles on the floor, an unfinished bottle of scotch on the mantel. Clothes strewn everywhere. Bra and panties hanging from the chandelier.
He went to the windows, feeling dizzy, and looked down on the Avenue George V. It was midday; elegant men and women hurried along, barely glancing at the shop windows.
He thought about the evening and slowly it began to come back to him. He glanced back at the redhead, Vivienne, curled up on the bed.
Then he heard a metallic clink from the other room.
Walking ou
t of the bedroom, he saw a table with breakfast laid out on it. A girl was sitting at one chair reading the newspaper, legs crossed. She was naked. She put the paper down and smiled as he entered: Dominique, the girl he had met with Richard on the first night.
“Hello,” she said. She seemed quite fresh and bright.
“Hello,” he said.
“You look awful. How do you feel?”
“Awful,” he said, sitting down at the breakfast table. As he did, he noticed the green alligator tattoo on Dominique’s abdomen. He remembered what Richard had called her: the snapper.
There was coffee and orange juice and a small glass of clear liquid. He held it up. “What’s this?”
“Martini. I thought it might help.”
Quickly he poured it into the orange juice, and drank it down. It might not help, but it couldn’t hurt. Dominique watched him in silence and scratched one breast absently.
“Tell me,” Raynaud said. “There was a dark girl, named uh…”
“Caroline? She left”
“Why?”
Dominique smiled. “You don’t remember?”
Raynaud frowned and poured coffee. “Not at the moment.”
“She left, very angry, because you wanted to do this thing.”
“What thing?”
“This sex thing. I don’t know the English word.”
“Then tell me in French.”
She told him.
“Oh, yes,” he said, slowly recalling.
“You wanted to do it, very much.”
“So you arrived.”
“Yes,” Dominique said. “We like it, you see.”
“Yes.”
“You were wonderful,” Dominique said. “Very wonderful. I hope we did not hurt you.”
“I doubt it,” he said, pouring sugar into the coffee.
“We probably did,” Dominique said. “We usually do, when they are good ones. Turn around.”
Dutifully, he twisted in his chair. She made sighing noises. “Does it hurt very much?”
“It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“I should cut them. My nails. They are too dangerous. But some of that is Vivienne. I always tell her, cut the nails, men do not appreciate it. But she never listens.”
She sighed and rubbed her breasts again. “They are sore,” she said. “Richard was biting them again. Such a beast.”
She stood, the alligator on her abdomen wiggling as she moved. “It was much better,” she said, “when he liked my backside. More padding.”
Venom Business Page 8
