“Then we are to stay here?” Fat Cat asked.
Dax shook his head. “No. El Presidente has decided that I should follow Father’s wishes and go to college. But not to Sandhurst, to Harvard.”
Fat Cat’s face was puzzled.
“In the United States.”
“Los Estados Unidos!” Fat Cat exploded. “Has el Presidente gone out of his mind? They hate us! They will kill us!”
“El Presidente knows what he is doing. It is one of the best universities in the world.”
Marcel, who was also standing by the desk, said, “Isn’t that where your friend Robert is going?”
Dax nodded.
Fat Cat got to his feet. “I don’t like it. It is a land filled with gangsters and Indians. We will all be murdered in our sleep. I have seen their films.”
Dax laughed. “Can it be that the fat one is afraid?”
Fat Cat drew himself up proudly. “Never!” He started toward the door, then paused. “But I shall never sleep without my knife under my pillow!”
Marcel waited until the door closed behind him, then turned to Dax. “I have been meaning to speak with you for some time,” he said hesitantly.
“About what?”
“I am planning to leave the consulate.”
“I see.”
In a way it did not come as a surprise. Dax had wondered how much longer Marcel would stay for the sort of wages paid by Corteguay. In a way it was lucky for them he had remained as long as he had.
“Naturally I will stay long enough to help the new consul to become acquainted with the routine.”
“My country will be most grateful. Have you any plans?”
Marcel shook his head. “I’m almost thirty; it is time I tried something new. Exactly what I do not know. But if I do not go now, I never shall.”
Actually, that wasn’t exactly the truth. The deal had already been made with the baron and Christopoulos. The gambler’s nephew wasn’t happy with the shipping lines; he wanted to return to the excitement of the gambling rooms. The tailleur had decided to bring him back to France but not until he had spent one more year with the shipping lines. Marcel was going to Macao ostensibly to run the casino, but actually he was going to China to learn the business. He was also supposed to buy as many freighters as he could lay his hands upon.
Marcel had accumulated quite a bit of money of his own that they knew nothing about, and he planned to use this as a down payment. Only after he had secured title would he pass a ship along to the syndicate, and even then it would not be sold to them outright. Only leased on a long term. The rentals would be enough to cover the payments as they came due, and eventually the ships would belong to him. He was certain he would have no trouble convincing the syndicate of the advantages of this. It would reduce their initial investment; they might even be grateful to him for discovering this way of conserving their capital.
Dax’s voice brought him out of his momentary reverie. “We will have to find someone to replace you.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Perhaps my friend Sergei would be interested. He was talking to me only last month about needing a job.”
But Sergei was nowhere to be found. The concierge at his apartment said that one day during that week he had packed up all his things and moved out without leaving a forwarding address. The only conclusion that Dax could come to was that his friend had gone to join his father in Germany.
***
Sergei was bored. Nothing bored him more than gambling. Whether it was cards or roulette, the mere fact that one had to sit and wait was intolerable to him. Already the old woman had forgotten him in her absorption.
This one was not like the American. This was a very wise, very old, very rich Frenchwoman who knew exactly what she wanted. She simply wanted the company of a handsome young man, and Sergei filled the bill. The moment she had seen him in the hotel lobby she had been certain he would.
It was a simple and straightforward arrangement. Sergei was to be her companion. His salary was two thousand francs a day, and she was to pay all his expenses including clothing. Two days later they had left for Monte Carlo.
The casino held two sessions a day and she attended both. Sometimes Sergei would wonder at her grim determination to throw away her money but after a while he no longer thought about it. There seemed to be a never-ending fount. Two weeks had gone by and she hadn’t once stopped. Now they were beginning their third at another matinee session.
Idly Sergei drifted away from the table and out onto the terrace. He looked down into the harbor. The white yachts sparkled on the clear blue water, and the palace gleamed pink on the hill beyond. Slowly he walked down the steps into the garden.
The fragrance of the flowers was strong in his nostrils after the thin, aseptic air of the casino. He walked to the edge of the garden and stood, his hands in his pockets, looking glumly out over the water.
“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice came from behind him. Sergei turned in surprise. It was an almost unwritten rule that one never spoke to strangers on the grounds of the casino. An old man was sitting there on a bench, his hands neatly folded over the gold knob of a walking stick, his white hair and neatly trimmed beard blending almost invisibly into the off white of his silk suit. Sergei did not have to be told who the old man was, though he had never seen him before.
The old man, rumor had it, was the world’s largest munitions dealer, and it was also said that he owned the casino in whose gardens he now sat. His yacht was the largest and whitest in the harbor.
Automatically Sergei answered in Russian. “It is very beautiful, Sir Peter.”
“You’re Sergei Nikovitch?”
“Da.”
“What do you hear from your father, Count Ivan?”
“Nothing, Sir Peter. I have received only one letter, shortly after he left for Berlin.’*
The old man’s eyes went past him to the harbor. He nodded gently and his eyes seemed to look into the distance. “I don’t see why those fools waste their time gambling in there when there is so much beauty out here.”
Sergei did not answer.
Sir Peter’s eyes came back to him. “Your father, too, is wasting his time,” he said, in that same soft voice. “The Mother Russia we loved is lost and gone forever, and we shall never get her back.”
Sergei remained silent.
“But then your father is a Cossack,” Sir Peter continued, “and what else is a Cossack to do but fight? Even when the battle is already lost he must continue to do so.”
The old man’s voice suddenly lost its philosophical tone, the blue eyes became sharp and piercing, and the gentle voice hardened. “But at least your father has his reasons for what he is doing. What are yours?”
Sergei was too surprised by this sudden change to answer. He merely gawked.
“You’re here with that stupid old biddy who has so much money she does not know what to do with it. So she wastes her days in places like these. And for two thousand francs a day you dance attendance on her like a puppet.”
There was nothing the old man did not seem to know. Sergei could only stare at him.
“I am ashamed of you, Sergei Nikovitch!” the old man said indignantly, rising to his feet. “Ashamed!”
Sergei found his voice. “But what else was I to do?”
“You could have gone to work as your father did. He was not ashamed of honest labor.”
As the old man turned and started off, two men mysteriously appeared and placed themselves on either side of him. Sergei stared at them in surprise. But Sir Peter was not surprised. His bodyguards were always near him.
“I’ll expect you at dinner tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “Seven o’clock. Be on time; I’m an old man and I eat early.”
***
The white house with its columns of marble and marbled floors was perched at the very crest of the highest mountain in Monaco. It stood higher even than the pink palace of the Grimaldis, who were the titular
rulers of the little country, for even they accepted the fact that Sir Peter was entitled to look down on them. It was his tax money that paid all the bills.
Sergei looked across the huge mahogany table at the old man, then down the shining expanse at Sir Peter’s young French wife. She sat there quietly, her diamonds and pearls glowing in the light of the candles. All through the meal she had scarcely spoken three words.
“My sons are dead,” the old man said suddenly, “and I need a young man I can trust. Someone whose legs are stronger than mine and can go where I no longer can. The hours will be long, the work often dreary and exhausting, the pay little. But I offer the opportunity of learning. Would you be interested?”
Sergei turned back to the old man. “Yes. Very much.”
“Good,” the old man answered, satisfaction in his voice. “Now go back and tell Madame Goyen you will not be returning to Paris with her.”
“She has already returned, Sir Peter,” Sergei answered, relishing the faint look of surprise that appeared on the old man’s face.
There had been a scene that afternoon. It had erupted because madame had felt that she should not be left to dine alone. To appear in the hotel dining room by herself, or even to be served alone in her suite, would be too humiliating. Everyone knew that Sergei was with her. What would they say about her when she appeared alone? But he had been adamant and in a huff she had had her bags packed and left.
Sergei had not actually known of her departure until he came down to leave for Sir Peter’s and an obsequious assistant manager had called him quietly to a corner and presented him with a bill. Sergei’s mouth had twisted into a wry grin; why, the old bitch had left him with the chits and his room rent. “I’ll see to it tomorrow.”
The assistant manager was polite but firm. “I’m sorry, sir, we must have the money tonight.”
The bill came to almost every franc he had, so now he was about back to where he had started. Tomorrow he would have to leave the hotel and find a cheaper room. He had already made up his mind that he would not return to Paris.
“Good,” Sir Peter said. “Tomorrow you will bring your things here from the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sir Peter got to his feet. “I am tired. I’m going to bed.”
Sergei rose but Sir Peter waved him back into his chair.
“Don’t get up,” he said sharply. “If you are to stay here you might as well get used to it. I retire immediately after dinner every night.” He turned to his wife, his voice softening. “Stay here with our guest my dear. There is no reason for you to come up early tonight.”
There was silence at the table after the old man left. Sergei lifted his demitasse and studied her, wondering what kind of a life she could have with such an old man. But she was not thinking about him. She was thinking about Sir Peter. What a kind and wise old man he was.
Sir Peter glanced back down at them from the balustrade at the top of the grand staircase and nodded. He was eighty years old and his wife twenty-eight and he had lived long enough to know that a young woman required more than jewels and riches and quiet affection. He saw them get up from the table and go out onto the terrasse. He went on to his room.
He closed the door behind him. He had done the right thing. Better that she reassure herself with a fine young man like Sergei than with one of those slimy characters who went always around the casino. Besides, with Sergei, he could always keep an eye on things. If at any time it looked as if it might become too serious he could always send the boy away.
16
It did not take Sergei long to discover that he was nothing but a glorified errand boy. Sometimes, during these first few months, he wondered why Sir Peter had even bothered to hire him. And then one day it all became clear.
He had returned that morning from the bank in Monte Carlo with several papers that required the old man’s immediate signature. He went directly into the library that served the old man for an office, and found Madame Vorilov there alone. She looked up from the newspaper she was reading.
Sergei hesitated in the doorway. “I did not mean to disturb you, madame,” he said respectfully. “I have some papers that require Sir Peter’s signature.”
“Come in.” She smiled. “Sir Peter has gone to Paris.”
A puzzled expression came over Sergei’s face. Usually he knew when Sir Peter planned to go away. It did not happen often. “Perhaps I’d better go there too. The papers are important.”
The smile vanished from her face. “They can wait until tomorrow. He’ll be back by then.”
Sergei still stood in the doorway. “Very well, madame. I’ll run down to the bank and inform them.”
“You do take your job seriously, don’t you?” A faint smile returned to her face.
“I don’t understand.”
She pointed to the telephone. “That would inform them much more quickly that the papers can’t be signed today.”
“But—”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Call them, then take the rest of the day off. You haven’t had a holiday since you came here.”
A smile came to his lips. “That’s very kind of you, madame.” He came into the room. “But I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”
She got to her feet and crossed to the window. She looked down toward the harbor with its white yachts and sails. “Sir Peter doesn’t give you much time for fun.”
He placed the papers on the desk in a folder. He picked up the telephone. “I didn’t think he was supposed to.”
She turned to him suddenly. “Do you know why he really hired you?”
He stared at her, the telephone forgotten in his hand. “Sometimes I wonder. It seems as if I’m the last person he needs.”
She laughed. “He hired you for me. He thought I needed you.”
Slowly he put down the telephone.
“He loves me,” she continued, “and he wants me to have everything. So he brought you home.”
“Did he tell you this?”
“Of course not; do you think he would be that much a fool? Look, I’ve brought you home a lover?”
He stared at her, then his eyes fell. “I’m sorry. I did not know.”
She turned and looked out the window again. “Of course you didn’t, that was what I liked about you. You were too much a gentleman to even think such a thing.”
“Tomorrow when Sir Peter returns I’ll hand in my notice.”
She looked at him. “You are a gentleman. Where will you go, what will you do? Do you have any money?”
He thought of the hundred francs a week that Sir Peter paid him and shook his head.
“Then don’t be a fool,” she said sharply. “You are not to leave here until you have money.”
“At one hundred francs a week?”
“That’s something Sir Peter taught me,” she said. “There is always an opportunity to make money when there is a lot of money around.” She came back into the room. “Look for it, you’ll find it.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I have no talent for making money.”
She looked at him curiously. “You don’t like to work, do you?”
He grinned at her. “I guess that’s it. Work is boring. There is never any fun. I’ve had enough of it.”
“How do you expect to get money then?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I’ll find a rich American girl to marry.”
She nodded seriously. “That would be preferable to playing the gigolo to Madame Goyen.”
He stared at her. He had not thought she would take him seriously. “But it takes money to make money.”
“Perhaps I can help you,” she said. “Now go. You have the rest of the afternoon off.”
He nodded and left the library, though he did not leave the house. Instead he went to his room and got out of his warm sticky clothing and took a shower. Then he stretched out on the bed and lit a cigarette. Before it was finished the expected knock
came at the door.
He smiled to himself and, stamping out the cigarette, shrugged into a robe as he opened the door. “Come in.”
“I have an idea that may help you.”
“Yes?” He saw her eyes fall to the front of his half-open robe. A faint flush began to rise over her face.
She made an effort to look away but in spite of herself her eyes could not leave the fascination of his rapidly increasing tumescence. Her lips parted. “I—”
“I have a better idea,” he interrupted, drawing her toward the bed. “I think it’s about time I began to earn all of my salary.”
***
“I have to see you,” she whispered as he came into the dining room. “Don’t go upstairs after dinner.”
He nodded to show that he understood and went to his accustomed place at the table. He remained standing until Sir Peter came in, and then the two of them sat down.
After dinner, as usual, Sir Peter retired. Sergei went out onto the terrasse and waited. A few minutes later she appeared. They stood at the railing and looked out at the flaming sun going down behind the mountains.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.
He stared at her in surprise. “With twenty-two bidets in the house you—” He caught himself. “Are you sure?”
She nodded silently. Her face was pale.
He whistled softly. “I wonder if Sir Peter ever considered this one?”
She didn’t answer.
“Have you told him?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get rid of it. I have asked my doctor to make the arrangements.”
“You’ll never get away with it. He’ll find out.”
“I have to take that chance,” she said desperately. “What else can I do?”
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He stared at her thoughtfully. “When?”
“Tomorrow. He has to attend the board meeting at the bank all afternoon. You’ll have to drive me to the clinique and back; I don’t dare trust the servants. I’ll make up some excuse so I can stay in bed for a few days.”
Abruptly he flipped his cigarette over the railing. He watched it tumble end over end into the garden below. “What time?”
The Adventurers Page 24
