The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  “Let me think about it,” Marcel said. “I’ll see if I can come up with something.”

  “Good.” Amos got out of his chair and went to the window of the apartment and looked out at the East River. He stared for a moment, then looked at his watch. “She’s late.”

  Marcel was puzzled. “Who’s late?”

  “The Shooting Star. She was due to pass here at nine-twenty.”

  Marcel stared at him in surprise. Abidijan owned or controlled one of the largest fleets in the world and yet he knew when an individual tanker was due. Marcel looked at his watch. “Give her a few minutes. It’s just nine thirty now.”

  Amos came back from the window and sank back into the chair. “Sometimes I think of retiring,” he said, “and then I think of all the people depending on me and wonder how I can. I am not growing any younger.”

  “You’re a long way from being old. I only wish I had your energy.”

  “No, no,” Amos replied quickly, “you are a young man. That’s why you can say such things. But me—I know better.” He puffed at his cigar and sighed. “If only I had sons, even one son, I wouldn’t worry.” He peered at Marcel shrewdly. “Not that there is anything wrong with the girls. But girls—well, they are girls. If I had a son I could turn the business over to him, then I could take it easy.”

  Marcel smiled. “With five girls you will have many grandsons.”

  “Now if I had a son like you,” Amos said, ignoring what Marcel had said, “I could leave the business in his hands.”

  Marcel refused to bite. He knew better. Amos would give away nothing. He would always remain in control. Until he was dead. And even after, if Marcel knew him at all. He was saved the bother of answering by Anna.

  “Father,” she called excitedly from the living room, “the Shooting Star is coming up the river!”

  Marcel looked at her standing in the doorway and something inside him shivered. For a moment she had sounded exactly like the old man.

  Abidijan got up and went to the window. “It’s the Shooting Star,” he said, looking at his watch, “and fifteen minutes late, too.” He looked at Anna. “Remind me to send a note to her captain in the morning. The reason we publish schedules is because they are to be kept!”

  Marcel left a little after ten o’clock, pleading a headache. Anna saw him to the door. “Get some rest,” she said, a worried expression on her face. “You look very tired.”

  He resisted the impulse to tell her that he wasn’t tired. He was merely bored. Instead he replied, “A good night’s sleep will set me right.”

  She nodded. “Go right to bed.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  The door of the Sutton Place town house closed behind him. He stood in the night and breathed deeply. After the heat of the day the breeze coming from the river seemed almost cool and fresh, though as soon as he started across town the heat returned. After walking a block he could feel the perspiration start trickling down his chest.

  He stood on the corner of First Avenue looking for a taxi. As usual when one wanted a cab there were never any around. He looked down the street. Only the lights of some cheap saloons beckoned. He looked at his watch. There were only two places to go at this hour. El Morocco or the Stork. He decided on the first; it was nearer. Only a short walk.

  The maitre d’ bowed. “Monsieur Campion, good evening. Alone?”

  Marcel nodded, his eyes flicking around the room to see who was there. “A small table in a corner if you have one.”

  “Of course, Monsieur Campion.” The maitre d’ led Marcel to a table in the corner of the small outer room. It was a good table and he slipped the bill Marcel gave him discreetly into his pocket.

  Marcel ordered a small bottle of champagne. He sat there sipping the wine slowly, feeling the air-cooled room erase the torture of the humidity outside. Several people he knew came by, and he nodded politely. Little by little the restaurant began to fill up. Still he sat there, dreading the thought of returning to the heat.

  A young woman’s voice came from behind him. “Marcel?”

  Automatically he rose before turning around. “Mademoiselle de Coyne!”

  She held out her hand and he kissed it. “I was hoping I would run into you.”

  “I’m so glad you did.” It was a moment before he realized they were speaking French. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Only for a moment,” she replied. “I’m with some people.”

  He pulled out a chair and a waiter hurried over with another glass. “Á votre santé. And how is your father?”

  “He is well. But things do not go well at home.”

  “I know.”

  She glanced around the restaurant. “But here it does not seem to matter.”

  “They are fortunate; they don’t realize how lucky they are.” Marcel put down his glass. “I have heard that your father is planning to come here.”

  “I don’t know,” Caroline replied. “At the moment everything is so upset. I am returning on the Normandie tomorrow.”

  “Give your father my regards. And please inform him that if there is anything I can do for him here he has only to command me.”

  “Thank you.” Suddenly she was looking directly into his eyes. “I have inquired everywhere but without success. Would you know where Dax is?”

  He might have known that she hadn’t stopped merely to see him. There had to be another reason. To her he would always be merely a clerk. His impassive face hid his disappointment. “Of course. Dax is in Europe. Didn’t you know?”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

  “He’s been there almost a year.”

  Her disappointment was almost visible. “We never heard from him. He never called.”

  Suddenly he felt sorry for her. “He’s been in Spain on a mission for his government.”

  “Oh?” A look of concern crossed her face. “Is he safe? He might have been hurt.”

  “No,” he replied reassuringly, “I’m sure he’s quite safe. As a matter of fact I have heard that he will soon be in France. Perhaps he will look you up then.”

  “Can you get word to him? It’s very important. My father would like very much to talk to him.”

  “I will try.” Now things were beginning to make sense. That was why Hadley had wanted Dax to go to France. Not just for the vague reason he gave. He had probably heard directly from De Coyne. Another piece fell into place.

  It was Hadley he should speak to about Abidijan’s problem. The lawyers were just a blind. He made up his mind to check them out in the morning.

  “Please try to reach him.” Caroline got up from the table and held out her hand. “I will be extremely grateful.”

  He kissed her hand. “It will be my greatest pleasure to be of help to you.”

  He stood watching her make her way back to her table. He saw her speak to the man on her right and averted his eyes just in time to avoid theirs. Still, he managed to catch a glimpse of the smiles on the faces of the other two at her table, and he felt a tightness inside him.

  It was the old story. He had almost forgotten. Europe was still Europe. For a moment a curious kind of hatred boiled up within him. The mere fact that she hadn’t offered to introduce them was sign enough that he was not their equal. It would serve the Old World right if they destroyed themselves in their own holocaust.

  Now the wine was bitter in his mouth, and he called for his check. He paid it and went out into the night.

  12

  When Robert de Coyne came down to breakfast his father was already at table. An opened cablegram lay beside his plate. Silently his father picked it up and handed it to him.

  ABIDIJAN BIDDING TWELVE MILLION UP MASTER PRODUCTS STOP HOW HIGH SHALL I GO STOP HADLEY.

  Robert threw the cable down on the table, a look of disgust on his face. “I don’t like it. They’re holding us up.”

  “What can we do about it?” The baron shrugged. “That company is the key to our American operation.”

/>   “I thought Hadley was a better trader than that. How did Abidijan hear about it?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” the baron replied. “We’ll have to go to fifteen million.”

  “That’s three times its worth!”

  The baron smiled. “Beggars can’t be choosers. And in the American market that’s just what we are.”

  Robert picked up his coffee cup just as the butler came into the room. “There’s a Monsieur Campion to see your excellency.”

  “Marcel Campion?” Robert’s voice reflected his surprise.

  “I believe that was the name, sir.”

  Robert looked at his father. “I thought Marcel was still in New York.”

  The baron looked up at the butler. “Have him wait in the library. I shall be in as soon as I finish breakfast.”

  Marcel was dozing in a chair when they entered the room a half hour later. He got to his feet apologizing. “I beg your pardon, but I just arrived from Lisbon, after flying over from New York.”

  “Quite all right,” the baron answered, but he didn’t offer to shake hands. He walked around behind his desk and sat down. “You know my son, Robert?”

  Marcel bowed. “Monsieur Robert.”

  Robert nodded casually. “Marcel.”

  Marcel waited for them to ask him to sit. Instead the baron asked casually, in an almost patronizing voice, “What is the occasion for this extraordinary visit?”

  Marcel felt the weariness of the long trip seeping through him. Suddenly he seemed to have lost his voice. He stood there gawking.

  An annoyed look crossed the baron’s face. “Come, speak up. What’s on your mind? I have a very busy day before me.”

  A surge of resentment flooded through Marcel. Nothing had changed, nothing ever would. These people had too long been used to having people crawl to them. It wasn’t that way in America. There it was what you were that counted, not who your family had been.

  What was he doing here? He no longer needed the baron. Or his money. Or even the association. In America they were beginning to accept him for himself. To hell with the old man. Let him find his own way in America. The whole elaborate scheme he had developed went out the window. Why should he let the De Coynes ride in on his back?

  But quickly he found his voice. “My good friend Amos Abidijan suggested I see you in connection with certain companies you both are interested in.”

  The baron flashed a look at Robert. “Yes?”

  “Perhaps there could be a merger of your interests,” Marcel continued. “It could possibly result in substantial savings to you both.”

  The baron looked up at him shrewdly. “And how do you figure in this?”

  Suddenly Marcel began to laugh. For the first time he found himself thinking and speaking in English. “Not one fucking bit. I just came for the ride!”

  He never regretted that outburst. Never. Not even when he stood in Amos’ office two days after Hitler had marched his troops into Poland, and asked for four million dollars to keep from going bankrupt.

  It was the sugar that did it. The scheme that was going to make him rich beyond all his wildest dreams. The day after war had been declared in Europe, Roosevelt had put a ceiling on the price of sugar. Four dollars and sixty-five cents per hundred pounds. Marcel had paid $4.85. That was twenty cents per hundred pounds he was out. Four million dollars. And the processors were in no mood to wait for their money. They had him where it hurt and they knew it.

  Silently the Armenian wrote the check and handed it to him. He closed the checkbook and looked up.

  “Thank you,” Marcel said humbly.

  “Speculation is a dangerous business. I got very badly hurt during the last war.”

  Marcel looked at Amos in surprise. So he had known about the sugar. “It’s still a good idea,” he said defensively.

  “Yes, if you get the sugar out before the government requisitions the warehouses.”

  “Do you think they’ll do that?”

  Abidijan nodded. “They’ll have to. Roosevelt promised to supply the allies. Every warehouse along the waterfront will be requisitioned.”

  “Where will I ever find a place big enough for all that sugar?”

  Amos laughed. “You’re a bright young man. But you still have a lot to learn. You don’t want it all in one place; that would make it too noticeable. What you must do is scatter it around. Hide it. In obscure places where they will never look. A little at a time like the bootleggers used to do with whiskey.”

  “I’ll never find enough places in time.”

  “I know how you can,” Amos said, “I have a friend. He used to be a bootlegger and he still has many of his old hiding places. I have already spoken to him. He’ll take care of you.”

  Marcel stared at him. “You’ve saved my life.”

  Amos laughed. “I do no more than you did for me.”

  “Did for you?”

  “I have had a letter almost two weeks. From Baron de Coyne. He told me you went there to see him about my proposition.”

  “Oh, that. It was nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Amos cried. “You fly to Europe in one of those crazy machines just because I ask you a favor and you say it is nothing? I wouldn’t go up in one of them for my own father.” He got to his feet and walked around the desk. “The baron and I just bought the Master Products Company for three million dollars less than my own offer.”

  Marcel stared at him. So the baron wasn’t that proud after all. Money was the great equalizer.

  Amos put his hand on Marcel’s shoulder. “Now, that’s enough talk about business. Let’s talk about more important things. I think October is a very good month for a wedding, don’t you?”

  13

  Sue Ann put down the telephone. “Father wants us to come home.”

  Sergei raised his head from the newspaper. “You know the baby can’t be moved from the clinique.”

  Sue Ann got to her feet angrily. When she moved quickly she appeared even heavier. After the baby she had made no attempt to get back her figure. Instead it seemed as if she had welcomed the excuse to stop caring about her appearance. Now she could eat all the cakes and chocolates she wanted, drink and stuff herself with all the delicacies she had formerly denied herself. The only thing that hadn’t changed was her insatiable appetite for sex.

  “I know that. But if we go home it won’t matter to her. We’re not doing anything for her by being here. The only people she really knows are the sisters at the clinique.”

  “She’s still our baby. We can’t just go off and leave her.”

  Sue Ann looked at him, her full face settling into grim lines. “You won’t give up, will you? You won’t admit she’s beyond hope, that she’ll always be like she is?”

  “The doctors say there’s a chance.”

  “The doctors?” She snorted contemptuously. “They’ll say anything. They like the money they’re getting.”

  Sergei didn’t answer. Instead he got to his feet and started for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  He looked back at her. “To the clinique. Want to come along?”

  “What for? Just to stand there and look at her?” He shrugged.

  She crossed the room to the liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of Scotch. “I’m booking passage to the States for next week.”

  “If you do,” he said quietly, “you’ll go alone.”

  Sue Ann put some ice in her glass and poured whiskey over it. For a moment she sloshed it around in the tumbler, then turned to face him. “There’s someone else. That nurse at the hospital. The English one.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “My friends saw her in your car.”

  “I was only dropping her off on my way home.”

  “Yeah?” Sue Ann said skeptically. “My friends say different.”

  “What do your friends say?”

  “They saw you drive by from their balcony. They could look right down into your car. Your fly was open and s
he had your cock out.”

  “In broad daylight?” he asked derisively. “You believe that?”

  “I know you,” she said, finishing the whiskey in her glass and adding some more. “You can’t drive a car without having someone to shift your gears. Someday you’ll kill yourself doing that.”

  Sergei laughed harshly. “It’s as good a way to die as any. At least I won’t expire from stuffing myself like a pig.”

  Her face clouded. “Don’t try to change the subject. I’m not the same girl I was when we got married. I’m wise to you.”

  “You’re very wise,” he replied sarcastically, “and do you want to know something? You were much more attractive when you were stupid!”

  The door slammed behind him. For a moment Sue Ann stood there, then angrily flung the glass at the closed door. It shattered, the pieces scattered over the rug. “Screw you!”

  Suddenly she ran to the window and flung it open. She looked down into the courtyard. He was just getting into the car. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” she screamed out the open window like a fishwife. She was still screaming as the car roared out of the courtyard into the street.

  Sergei’s hands gripped the wheel tensely. He could feel the throb of the big engine under the hood of the Mercedes responding. It had been a mistake, just as he had known it would be. But that was no consolation to him now. Having been right didn’t make him feel any better. Only worse.

  It was just as he had said. They were too much alike. And much too different. Now it was over, only in one way it would never be over. Not for him. There was the baby. There would always be the baby. No matter how old she would become, Anastasia would always be a baby.

  “Bile est retarde.” He could still hear the voice of the specialist. Flat, trying to be unemotionally professional but still filled with a world of sympathy for the pain of the parents.

  He had looked across the room at Sue Ann. There was no expression on her face. At first he had thought she did not understand because the doctor had been speaking in French. “He says she is retarded.”

  Her eyes looked at him coldly. “I heard him,” she answered in an emotionless voice. “I thought something was wrong when she was born. She never cried.”