The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  They could hear him stumbling about in the darkness and the sound of muffled curses, then his voice came to them almost as the lights went on. “There is nobody here.”

  They stood there blinking. It was as if a tornado had ripped through the rooms. There was litter everywhere, papers scattered over the floor, remnants of broken chairs piled in the middle of the room. A table in the kitchen proved to be the only furniture left in the house.

  “Looters have been here,” Fat Cat said.

  Dax’s father looked at him. There was a strange expression of hurt in the older man’s eyes. As if he still could not believe what he saw. Finally he spoke. “Not looters,” he said sadly. “Traitors.”

  Silently Fat Cat rolled a cigarette as he watched Dax’s father pick up a piece of paper from the floor and study it. He lit the cigarette. “Maybe we broke into the wrong house,” he offered consolingly.

  Dax’s father shook his head. “No, we’re in the right house.” He held up the paper so they could both see. It was a sheet of the official stationery of Corteguay.

  Dax looked at his father. “I’m tired.”

  The older man reached his arm out and drew his son close. He glanced around the room for a moment, then back at Dax. “We can’t stay here, we’ll go to a hotel for the night. I noticed a pensión at the foot of the hill as we came up. Come along. I doubt they can feed us but at least we’ll get a decent night’s rest.”

  The neatly dressed maid had curtsied as she opened the door. “Bon soir, messieurs.”

  Dax’s father wiped his feet carefully on the doormat before entering. He took off his hat. “Do you have three rooms for the night?”

  A bewildered look came over the maid’s face. She glanced at Fat Cat, standing just behind the consul, his arms filled with luggage. Then she looked down at Dax. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked politely.

  Now it was their turn to be confused. “Rendez-vous? You mean a reservation?” Dax’s father searched his limited French for the right words. “C’est nécessaire?”

  This had proved too much for the maid. She opened a door off the small foyer. “If you will be kind enough to wait in here, I shall call Madame Blanchette.”

  “Merci.” Dax’s father led the way in, and the maid closed the door behind them. From somewhere in the house they heard a faint sound of a woman’s laughter. The room was elaborately furnished, with rich deep carpeting and soft upholstered couches and chairs. A fire glowed warmly, and on the sideboard there was a decanter of brandy and glasses.

  A happy sound came deep from Fat Cat’s throat. “This is more like it,” he said, walking over to the sideboard. He looked back at the consul. “Excellency, may I pour you a brandy?”

  “I don’t know whether we should. After all, we don’t know whom the brandy is set out for.”

  “For the guests.” Fat Cat’s logic was irrefutable. “Otherwise why would it be here?”

  He poured the older man a glass and drank his own in one gulp. “Ahh, that’s good.” Quickly he poured himself another.

  Dax sank into a chair in front of the fire. The warmth of the flames reached out and licked his face. He felt his eyes grow heavy with drowsiness.

  The door opened and the maid ushered a handsome middle-aged woman into the room. She was faultlessly dressed in a dark velvet gown, a double strand of rose pearls around her throat and a large diamond in a gold setting sparkling on her finger.

  Dax’s father bowed. “Jaime Xenos.”

  “Monsieur Xenos.” She glanced at Fat Cat, then at Dax. If she objected to Fat Cat’s helping himself to the brandy she gave no hint of it. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We need lodging for the night,” Dax’s father said. “We’re from the Corteguayan consulate up the street, but something seems to have gone wrong. There is nobody there.”

  The woman’s voice was extremely polite. “May I see your passports, monsieur? It is a regulation.”

  “Of course.” Dax’s father handed her the red leather-covered passports.

  Madame Blanchette studied them for a moment, the nodded toward Dax. “Your son?”

  “Oui. And my attaché militaire.”

  Fat Cat looked pleased at his elevation, and quickly poured himself another brandy.

  “You’re the new consul?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  Madame Blanchette returned the passports. She hesitated a moment, then spoke. “If your excellency will excuse me for a moment I shall go and see if there are any rooms available. It is late and we are rather heavily booked.”

  The consul bowed again. “Merci, madame. I am grateful for your kindness.”

  Madame Blanchette closed the door behind her and stood in the foyer for a moment. Then she shrugged her shoulders and went down the hall and opened a door into a room furnished even more richly than the one she had just left.

  In the center of it was a gaming table, and at the table five men sat playing cards. Behind them stood several beautiful young women, dressed in the latest fashion. Two other girls sat conversing on a couch near the fire.

  “Banco,” one of the players called.

  “Damn!” answered another, throwing down his cards. He looked up at Madame Blanchette. “Was it anyone interesting?”

  “I don’t know, Baron,” she replied. “It was the new Corteguayan consul.”

  “What did he want? Information about that rascal Ramírez?”

  “No,” she replied, “he wanted rooms for the night.”

  The player who had just bought the bank chuckled. “The poor man probably saw your sign. I told you it would happen sooner or later.”

  “Why didn’t you just send him away?” the baron asked.

  “I don’t know,” Madame Blanchette answered in a puzzled voice. “That was what I intended to do. But when I saw the little boy—”

  “He has his son with him?” the baron asked.

  “Oui.” She hesitated a moment, then turned to the door. “I guess there is nothing I can do.”

  “Un moment.” Baron de Coyne was on his feet. “I would like to see them myself.”

  “What’s the matter, Baron?” the player on his left asked. “Hasn’t Ramírez stuck you for enough at this very table? He owed you more than any of us—at least one hundred thousand francs.”

  “Yes,” agreed the banker. “Do you think you can get it back from the new consul? We all know that Corteguay is broke.”

  Baron de Coyne looked down at his friends. “You are a bunch of cynics,” he said. “I’m merely curious to see what kind of a man they have sent us this time.”

  “What difference does it make? They are all the same. All they really want is our money.”

  “Do you wish to meet him, your excellency?” Madame Blanchette asked.

  The baron shook his head. “No, just to look at them.”

  He followed her to the adjoining wall, and she drew back a drape. There was a small glass in the wall. “You can see them from here,” she said, “but they cannot see us. There is a mirror on their side.”

  The baron nodded and looked into the room. The first thing that he saw was the boy asleep on the couch, his child’s face drawn and tired.

  “He’s just about my own son’s age,” he said to Madame Blanchette in surprise. “The child’s mother must be dead or he would not be with his father like this. Does anyone know where Ramírez has gone?”

  Madame Blanchette shrugged. “There’s been some talk that he has a place on the Italian Riviera, though no one knows for sure. One night last week a truck removed everything from the embassy.”

  The baron’s mouth tightened. So that was why they had come looking for a room. If he knew Ramírez, there wouldn’t be even a stick of firewood left. As he watched, the tall man walked over to the couch and put a pillow under the boy’s head. There was a curiously gentle expression on his dark face.

  The baron dropped the drape and turned back to Madame Blanchette. He had seen as much as he wanted. The poor
man would have enough troubles once the word got around that a new Corteguayan consul was in Paris. Everyone of Ramírez’ creditors would be clamoring at his door. “Give them my suite on the third floor. I’m sure Zizi won’t mind if I spent the night in her room.”

  2

  It seemed like the middle of the night but it was actually ten o’clock in the morning when Marcel Campion heard the knock at his door. He rolled over and put the pillow over his head. But even through that he could hear the shrill voice of his landlady.

  “All right, all right!” he shouted, sitting up. “Come back later. I’ll have the rent then, I promise you!”

  “There’s a telephone call for you, monsieur.”

  “For me?” Marcel’s brow knitted as he tried to think who might be calling him. He got out of the bed. “Tell them to hold on, I’ll be right down.”

  Sleepily he staggered over to the washstand and poured water into the basin and splashed its coldness over his face. His bloodshot eyes stared balefully back at him from the tiny mirror. Vaguely he tried to remember what kind of wine he had been drinking last night. Whatever it was, it must have been awful, but at least it had been very cheap.

  He patted his face dry with a rough towel and, slipping into his robe, went down the stairs. The concierge was behind her desk as he picked up the telephone. She tried to pretend she was not listening but he knew she was.

  “Allô?”

  “Monsieur Campion?” asked a bright fresh female voice.

  “Oui.”

  “Hold on a moment, the Baron de Coyne is calling.”

  The baron’s voice came on before Marcel had an opportunity to be surprised. “Are you the Campion employed at the Corteguayan consulate?”

  “Yes, your excellency.” Marcel’s voice was very respectful. “But I no longer work there. The consulate is closed.”

  “I know that. But a new consul has just arrived. I think you should return.” The baron’s voice was clipped.

  “But, your excellency, the previous consul still owes me three months’ back salary!”

  The baron was obviously not used to having his suggestions questioned. “Return to work. I shall guarantee your salary.”

  He rang off, leaving Marcel staring at the dead telephone. Slowly he put it down. The concierge came toward him smiling. “Monsieur is going back to work?”

  Marcel stared at her. She knew as well as he; she had heard every word. He started for the staircase, still puzzled. The Baron de Coyne was one of the richest men in all France. Why should he be interested in a tiny country like Corteguay? Most people didn’t even know where it was.

  The telephone shrilled again and the concierge answered. She held the receiver out toward Marcel. “For you.”

  “Allô?”

  “Campion,” said the now almost familiar clipped voice, “I want you to go there immediately!”

  Marcel glanced at his watch as he turned into the Rue Pelier and started up the hill. Eleven o’clock. That should be fast enough. Even for the baron.

  The grocer sweeping the sidewalk in front of his stall greeted him. “Bonjour, Marcel,” he called jovially, “what are you doing back in the neighborhood?”

  “Bonjour. I am going to the consulate.”

  “Going back to work?” The grocer looked at him shrewdly. “Has that merde Ramírez returned? He still owes me more than seven thousand francs.”

  “Three thousand francs,” Marcel repeated automatically. He remembered things like that.

  “Three thousand, seven thousand, what’s the difference? Ramírez is gone, and so is my money.” The grocer leaned on the broom. “What’s up?” he asked confidentially. “You can tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” Marcel answered honestly. “I just heard that a new consul had arrived. I thought I might get my old job back.”

  The grocer was thoughtful. “Perhaps my money is not gone after all.” He looked at Marcel. “There’s fifty percent in it for you if you collect for me. Fifteen hundred francs.”

  “Thirty-five hundred,” Marcel replied automatically.

  The grocer stared at him for a moment, then a broad smile cracked his face. Playfully he punched Marcel on the arm. “Ah, Marcel, Marcel. I always said they would have to get up early in the morning to beat you. Thirty-five hundred francs it is!”

  Marcel continued on up the hill. He could see the consulate now. On an impulse he crossed the street before he came abreast of it. The first thing he noticed was that the gate hung open, and even from across the street he could see that the lock had been smashed. He nodded to himself. They probably had to break it to get in. He wondered what the landlord would have to say about that.

  The second thing he noticed was the boy in the front garden cutting the weeds. Though it was cool he had already stripped to his undershirt, and the fine muscles in his arms rippled as he swung the broad flat blade. There was a look of grim concentration on his face.

  Marcel stared at the blade in the boy’s hand. He had never seen anything like it before. Then he remembered that he had, in some picture that Ramírez had shown him. It was a machete. Marcel shivered. The savages used them as weapons.

  His eyes turned back to the boy’s face. He couldn’t be French, that much was obvious. Not the expert way he handled the machete. Whoever he was he had come with the new consul. Suddenly the boy looked up and caught him staring.

  The eyes were dark and challenging. Slowly the boy straightened up. The machete was still held lightly in his hand but now Marcel felt as if it were aimed right at his throat. The boy’s lips tightened savagely, revealing even white teeth.

  Involuntarily Marcel shivered again. Then, without even understanding why, he turned and started back down the street. He was willing to swear that he felt the boy’s eyes boring into his back until he had turned the corner.

  He ducked into the brasserie. “Cognac.” He drank it quickly, then ordered a coffee. He felt the warmth of the liquor as he sipped at the coffee. If it weren’t for the fact that the Baron de Coyne had personally asked him, he would never consider going back to work there. Not among such savages.

  From his table Marcel saw the boy entering the grocery store across the street. Impulsively he called for his check, paid it, and crossed over. Through the open doorway he saw the boy select two loaves of bread, a piece of cheese, and a hunk of sausage. Marcel hesitated a moment, then went inside.

  The boy did not look around as he came in; he was too intent on watching the grocer wrap his order.

  “Three hundred francs,” the grocer said.

  The boy looked down at the bills in his hand. Marcel could see that he had only two hundred francs. “You’ll have to take something back,” he said in halting French.

  As the grocer reached for the sausage, Marcel said, “Don’t be such a crook. Is this the way you plan to get money from the Corteguayan consulate?”

  The boy seemed to understand the reference to the consulate, but the rest of it came too fast for him. He looked at Marcel, then recognized him.

  “I don’t see what it matters to you, Marcel,” the grocer grumbled. But he pushed the sack back across the counter and pocketed the two hundred francs.

  “Merci,” the boy said and started out of the store.

  Marcel followed him onto the sidewalk. “You have to watch them all the time,” he said in Spanish. “They’ll steal your eyeteeth if they think you’re a foreigner.”

  The boy’s eyes were dark and unfathomable. In a way they reminded Marcel of the eyes of a tiger he had once seen in the zoo. The same wild tawny lights glinted there. “You’re with the new Corteguayan consul?”

  The boy’s eyes did not waver. “I am his son. Who are you?”

  “Marcel Campion. I used to work at the consulate as secretary and translator.”

  Dax’s expression did not change but Marcel sensed rather than saw the slight movement of his hand. The outline of a knife showed briefly beneath his coat. “Why were you watching me?”

  �
��I thought perhaps the new consul could use my services. If not—” He didn’t finish. The knowledge of the hidden knife was making him nervous.

  “If not—what?”

  “There is the matter of the three months’ salary the former consul owes me,” Marcel replied quickly.

  “Ramírez?”

  “Ramírez.” Marcel nodded. “He kept promising the money would arrive next week. And then one morning I came to work and the consulate was closed.”

  The boy thought for a moment. “I think you’d better come and talk to my father.”

  Marcel glanced at the boy’s hand nervously out of the corner of his eye. But the hand was empty. Something of the breath that he had withheld escaped. He relaxed. “I shall be honored.”

  Together they started up the street.

  When they arrived at the consulate the new consul was sitting behind a spindly wooden table in the large empty front room, an angry group of men shouting and gesticulating in front of him.

  “Gato Gordo!” the boy shouted, plunging through them toward his father.

  A moment later Marcel felt himself flung out of the way as a large fat man hurtled through the doorway. He was spun halfway to the floor before he regained his balance, and when he straightened up he saw that the fat man and the boy faced the crowd together, knives in their hands.

  The crowd fell back. A sudden silence came into the room. Marcel saw the pallor of fear enter their faces, and he realized suddenly how afraid he himself was. For a moment they were all in another world. A world of death and violence. Paris had vanished.

  And he knew somehow that this was not the first time the fat man and the boy had faced danger together. There had been many moments like this. He knew from the almost unspoken communication that seemed to flow between them. They reacted with almost one mind.

  Finally one of the men spoke. “But all we wanted was our money.”

  In spite of himself Marcel began to smile. This was a method of refusing payment that they had never experienced before. And very effective too. He wished he could do the same with his own creditors.

  The consul rose slowly to his feet. Marcel was surprised. The man was taller than he had seemed while seated. But the face was drawn and weary, a weariness more of the spirit than physical. “If you will wait outside,” he said in a tired voice, “I will discuss your bills with each of you. One at a time.”